“Certainly not,” replied the latter gravely. “They are decidedly a brave, bold, fighting race. Tall, dark, big-bearded, just such fellows as hill-tribes are; restless, pugnacious fighting-men, always engaged in petty warfare with the neighbouring chiefs, and making plundering expeditions.”
“I see, sir,” said the Captain; “like our old Border chieftains used to be at home.”
“Exactly,” said the Colonel; “and each chief thinks he is one of the greatest monarchs under the sun. England is to them, in their ignorance, only a similar nation to their own, and the Empress a lady-chief.”
“We shall have to teach them better,” said the Major, a gentleman with an eyeglass and a disposition to become stout. “We shall soon do it. A good sharp lesson is all that’s wanted. The only difficulty is that, though they are as a rule always busy cutting one another’s throats, as soon as one of the tribes is attacked they all become friends and help one another.”
“Save us trouble.”
“What’s that, Bracy?” said the Colonel.
“Save us trouble, sir,” said the young man, laughing; “we can thrash half-a-dozen of the tribes together.”
“With a regiment of raw boys?” said the Major, frowning so fiercely that he shot his glass out of his eye and replaced it angrily.
“Look here, Graham, you and I are going to quarrel.”
“What about, sir?”