Chapter Forty.
“The tent is cut, my lord,” cried Salaman, as I awoke the next morning.
“Fasten it up,” I said sharply. “No, no, not close it. Open it so that I can get air. The tent is too hot.”
He looked at me searchingly, and I made an effort to throw him off the scent by effrontery.
“Well,” I said, “do you hear me? Quick, or get somebody else.”
He turned sharply and went for help while I congratulated myself on my power there. For it seemed that in most things I really only had to order to be implicitly obeyed.
Then, as the tent was pinned open, I wondered whether they would suspect me, and whether the rajah would come that day, not fearing his coming much, for I felt that I had help now at hand.
The doctor came, and looked quite pleased at my condition. He said it was a sign that his management of my “terrible” wound, as he called it now, had been excellent. He little thought of how great an impetus to my recovery the coming of the dirty old fakir had been. For as soon as the learned doctor had gone, I went back into my tent, so that I might indulge in something that had now grown quite strange—that is to say, as soon as I was quite out of sight, I indulged in a good hearty laugh, and then revelled in the thought that however bad some of the Hindus might be, here was one as faithful to his master as man could wish, and risking his life to come to my help.