“You haven't lost any of your old skill,” said Mr Dawes, involuntarily glancing at his own cigar to make sure that he had it firmly gripped in his stubby fingers. “You ought to be in a sideshow, Ranjab.”
Ranjab paused, before responding, to extract a couple of billiard balls and a small paper-knife from the lapel of Dawes's coat.
“I am to perform to-night, sahib, for the mistress's guests. It is to be—what you call him? A side-show? Ranjab is to do his tricks for her, as the dog performs for his master.”
The smile had disappeared. His face was an impenetrable mask once more. Had their eyes been young and keen, however, they might have caught the flash of anger in his.
“Going to do all the old tricks?” cried Mr Riggs eagerly. “By George, I'd like to see 'em again; wouldn't you, Dan? I'm glad we've got our good clothes on. Now you see what comes of always being prepared for——”
“Sorry, sahib, but the master has request me to entertain you before the guests come up. Coffee is to be served here.”
“That means we'll have to clear out?” said Riggs slowly.
“But see!” cried Ranjab, genuinely sorry for them. He became enthusiastic once more. “See! I shall do them all—and better, too, for you.”
For ten minutes he astonished the old men with the mysterious feats of the Indian fakir. They waxed enthusiastic. He grinned over the pleasure he was giving them. Suddenly he whipped out a short, thin sword from its scabbard in his sash. The amazing, incomprehensible sword-swallowing act followed.
“You see, Ranjab has not forgot,” he cried in triumph. “He have not lost the touch of the wizard, aih.”