“You are not going to fight him,” cried Singh hotly.
“Yes, I am.”
“You are not. He insulted my dead father. A mahout indeed!”
“So he did mine,” said Glyn. “A shabby half-pay military officer indeed! I’ll make him look shabby before I have done.”
“Now, look here,” cried Singh, “don’t be a beast, Glynny, and make me more angry than I am. I am bad enough as it is.”
“So am I, so don’t you get putting on the Indian tyrant. Recollect you are in England now. This is my job, and I know if father were here he’d say I was to have the first go in. He’s such a big fellow that I believe he’ll lick me easily. But, as I said before, I shall pretty well tire him out, and then you being the reserve, he’ll come at you, and then he’ll find out his mistake. And I say, Singhy, old chap, I do hope that my eyes won’t be so closed that I can’t see. Now then, come up to our room. It’s a holiday, and the rules won’t count to-day. Come on, and we’ll talk it over.”
“But—” began Singh.
“Now, don’t be obstinate. You promised father you’d try and give way to me over English matters. Now, didn’t you?”
“Well,” said the lad hesitatingly, “I suppose I did.”
“Come on, then. You see war’s begun, and we have got to settle our plan of campaign.”