'I expect they know,' he replied briefly, 'and they are not often wrong.'
The Thakoor of Dhurmkote, at any rate, had no doubts; for an hour after, Jerry--under responsible escort--had been sent home across the Garden to bed, Jack Raymond, having strolled beyond the line of lights and light feet to enjoy a quiet cigar, found the two of them, with an admiring tail--composed of the responsible escort and the old nobleman's retinue--going the round of the batteries, while Jerry explained them solemnly to the old warrior in English.
'And we beat 'em here too, sir; boys like me beat all their biggest men, right here.'
'Wah! wah!' chorussed the tail approvingly, while the stern old face melted into smiles, with a 'Suchch mera beta suchch!' (Truth, my son, truth!)
'Hullo! you young scamp!' said Jack Raymond, coming up; 'not gone to bed yet?--be off with you at once.'
But the Thakoor laid a hand on the arm of authority, not in petition, rather in blame.
'Lo! friend of mine,' he said chidingly, 'why is there no son of thine to match this son of heroes?' What hast thou been doing all these years?'
The Eastern reproof of the old for those who leave their duty to the race undone, fell on Jack Raymond's Western ears and held them unexpectedly.
Why had he no son, in whom to live again? The answer could not be avoided--because the woman he loved had jilted him, and he had not chosen----
Not chosen what? To do his duty?