“Well, we haven’t got any budmashes in England,” said Glyn merrily, as he began to inspect the emeralds again and took out his handkerchief to rub off a finger-mark or two and make the gems send off scintillations of sunlight which formed jack-o’-lanterns on the ceiling. “But we have plenty of blackguards who would like to get a chance to carry it off.”
“What, among our schoolfellows?” cried Singh hastily.
“Bah! No! There, put it away. But I should like to know what that writing means.”
“It’s out of the Koran,” said the boy as he took the jewelled belt back reverently and held it up to the light in turn. “It’s very, very old, and means greatness to my family. It is a holy relic, and the Maharajahs of Dour have worn that in turn for hundreds of years.”
“Well, you put it away,” said Glyn; “and I wouldn’t show it to anybody again, nor yet talk about it. I wonder the dad let you have it.”
“Why?” said Singh proudly. “It is mine.”
“Yes, of course; but it is not suited for a boy like you.”
“A boy like me!” cried Singh half—angrily. “Why, I am as old as you.”
“Well, I know that; but my father doesn’t give me emeralds and diamonds to take with me to school. He could, though, if he liked, for he’s got all those beautiful Indian jewels the Maharajah gave him.”
“Yes,” said Singh, “and that diamond—hilted tulwar.”