I did not say anything, but thought that the black servants were always ready and eager to attend to him, and I never had any difficulty in getting things done; and often after that I used to wonder that a man like Ny Deen should patiently put up with the brutal insult and ill-usage he met with from Barton, who treated him like a dog, while like a dog the Indian used to patiently bear all his abuse and blows.
“Does him good,” Barton said to me one day, with an ugly grin, because it annoyed me. “See what a good servant it makes him. You’re jealous, Vincent. You want him yourself.”
“Yes,” I said, “I should like to have him, and show him that all English officers are not alike.”
“Do you mean that as an insult, sir?” he cried.
“I meant it more as a reproach,” I replied coolly.
“Look here, Vincent,” he said hotly, “I have put up with a good deal from you since you have been in the troop, and I don’t mean to stand much more from such a boy.”
“Really, Barton—” I began.
“Stop, sir, please, and hear me out. Ever since I joined, and as far back as I can hear of, it has been considered a feather in a man’s cap to belong to the horse artillery. Many a fine fellow has put down his name and wanted to be transferred from the foot, and want has been his master. But nowadays the service is going to the dogs.”
“I don’t want to—”
“Stop! you are going to hear me out,” he cried, interposing between me and the door. “I’ve long wanted to come to an understanding with you, but you have always sneaked behind your nurse.”