“Aim!” said Bhakdi with a flick of the handkerchief toward the slim figure framed in the doorway.
“You ought to be jolly grateful to me for teaching you all those nice words,” remarked the figure reproachfully. “They sound simply corking when you snap ’em out like that.”
“I count,” said Bhakdi. “One.”
“I wish you could see yourselves,” said the Honourable Tony admiringly. “For all the world like a lot of comic-opera pirates panting to get into the chorus when the tenor says ‘go.’ ‘For-I’m-the-big-bad-black-faced-chief’—you know the kind of thing.”
“Two,” said Bhakdi.
“I say, you are going it!” cried the British Adviser. In the gleam from the lanterns his hair was ruffled gold and his eyes black mischief. “Aren’t you afraid of its being a bit of a let-down to the Imperial Guard after all this?”
“Three!” said Bhakdi, and he flicked the handkerchief again. “Fire!”
There was a rip and a rattle of sound along the green line—from the other side of the bolted door there came a faint reply, precise and sharp as an echo. The Honourable Tony sagged forward to his knees, still clutching at the handle, his face lit with an immense, an incredulous amazement.
“By God!” he whispered. “By God, you’ve done it!”
And suddenly in the lean curve of his cheek the dimples danced once more, riotous and unconquered.