“Will the sahib tell Dondy Lal?” whispered the syce cautiously, after a glance round to see whether the other grooms could hear.
“I’m never going to let him come into the stable again,” said Dick between his teeth. “Now tell me.”
The man nodded.
“Yes—long time. Hate Burnouse. Make him fight with stick.”
“That will do. Now you go on, and mind you never strike that horse, for I should be sure to know.”
Dick went back to pat the Arab, and then hurried away for his lesson.
Chapter XI.
Black Bob.
In the intervals of the riding, Dick told the sergeant what he had seen.
“The black, niggerly scoundrel!” growled the old soldier. “We’re not supposed to strike the natives, sir, but if I’d been you I should have knocked the blackguard down—or tried to.”