“In your fight,” said Mir Jelalludin.
“He’d have finished me,” said Peter.
“I finished him,” said the Indian, laughing with sheer happiness, and showing his beautiful teeth.
Peter contemplated the situation. He made a movement and was reminded of his bandages.
“I wish I could shake hands,” he said.
The Indian smiled with a phantom malice in his smile.
Peter went bluntly to a question that had arisen in his mind. “Why aren’t you in khaki?” he asked.
“The Brish’ Gu’ment objects to Indian flyers,” said Mir Jelalludin. “I tried. But Brish’ Gu’ment thinks flying beyond us. And bad for Prestige. Prestige very important thing to Brish’ Gu’ment. So I came to France.”
Peter continued to digest the situation.
“Of course,” said Jelalludin, “no commissions given in regular army to Indians. Brish’ soldiers not allowed to s’lute Indian officers. Not part of the Great White Race. Otherwise hundreds of flyers could come from India, hundreds and hundreds. We play cricket—good horsemen. Many Indian gentlemen must be first-rate flying stuff. But Gu’ment says ’No.’”