“Here, hi! Hilton! Wake up, old man!” cried Chumbley; and his fellow-prisoner leaped up, looking vacantly before him for a moment or two, and then growing angry as he realised where they were.
The Malay retired at once, and a couple of fresh men entered, bringing brass basins with water, cloths, and English-made hair brushes, and soap. These the two officers gladly used, Chumbley uttering grunts of satisfaction as he indulged in a good wash, and ended by carefully adjusting his short crisp hair.
“That’s better, lad,” he said. “One feels more like a human being now.”
“Yes,” replied Hilton, smiling. “It is surprising what a degraded creature a man feels when he has not made acquaintance for some hours with soap and water.”
“Come, that’s more cheery, my noble. Why, I believe, old fellow, that this affair is doing you good!”
“I suppose I am a little rested,” said Hilton, quietly. “Take away those things,” he said to the Malays, who both bowed respectfully and withdrew.
“I say, Hilton,” said Chumbley, “I suppose this really is Murad’s game, isn’t it?”
“No doubt. Of course it is!”
“Well, he is doing the thing civilly. I wonder whether he treats all his prisoners like this? Hallo! what’s this mean—an execution sheet or a tablecloth?”
“The latter,” said Hilton, quickly.