Afzul Khân frowned. "These are my enemies," he went on. "But for the Sirkar,--chk!" He gave a curious sound, half click, half gurgle, and drew an illustrative finger across his throat. It was rather a ghastly performance.
"Then why stop?"
Afzul Khân plucked at the withered bents carelessly. "Because--because it suits this slave; because the merciful Presence is my master; because I may as well wait here as anywhere else."
"What are you waiting for?"
He showed all his long white teeth in a grin. "Promotion, Huzoor. It should come speedily, since but yesterday the sahib said I was worth all the rest of the gang."
"I must be more careful. Where the dickens did you pick up English, Afzul?"
"From you, Huzoor." A statement so irredeemably fictitious that it made Dick thoughtful.
"You're sharp enough, Heaven knows; but I don't understand why you wanted to learn signalling. Are you going to give up your jezail and become a bâbu?"
Afzul Khân fingered the matchlock which lay beside him. "I have changed my mind," he said shortly. "I will leave it to the Presence to bring down fire from Heaven; I bring it from this flash-in-the-pan."
"Now what can you know about Prometheus?"