That sort of special providence which seems to shelter the unworthy, gave India and the Berkshires honour that hour when the barometer registered shame; for never was mercury more stormy than shot up in the artery of two men’s wills when that song rose over the zeriba at Tofrik. They were not fifty feet apart at the time, and at the lilt of that chorus they swung towards each other like two horses to the bugle on parade.
“A guinea to a brown but Janders goes large!” said Billy Bagshot under his breath, his eye on the Subadar and repenting him of the song.
But Janders did not go large; for at that very moment there came the bugle-call for the working parties to get into the zeriba, as from the mimosa scrub came hundreds upon hundreds of “Osnum Digners” hard upon the heels of the vedettes.
“The Hadendowas ‘as the privilege,” said Billy Bagshot, as the Berkshires and the Sikhs swung round and made for the zeriba.
“What’s that ye say?” cried Connor, as the men stood to their arms.
“Looked as if the bloomin’ hontray was with the Subadar, but the Hadendowas ‘as the honour to hinvite sweet William!”
“Murther uv man—look—look, ye Berkshire boar! The Bengals is breakin’ line!”
“Oscillations ‘as begun!” said Bagshot, as, disorganised by the vedettes riding through their flank into the zeriba, the Bengalese wavered.
“‘Tis your turn now—go an to y’r gruel!” said Connor, as Bagshot with his company and others were ordered to move over to the Bengalese and steady them.
“An’ no bloomin’ sugar either,” Bagshot called back as he ran.