“Be seated, gentlemen,” he said. “Unless you have urgent business you may as well rest a bit.”
“Gee!” puffed my companion, leaning back on his elbows; “I’m glad a Mohammedan’s superstitions don’t make him believe all this tommy-rot about pollution.”
Marten of Tacoma was not distinguished for tact.
“We try, at any rate,” smiled the officer, “to be sane in our beliefs.”
“Of course,” went on my mate, “you have plenty of fool superstitions, too; and you put rings in your wives’ noses, to lead ’em around by, I suppose?”
A flash of fire kindled the eye of our host, but he smiled again as he replied:
“We try, though, sir, to be sparing of unnecessary insults.”
“Gee!” murmured Marten, without looking up; “This is a good cigarette.”
“Is this an encampment?” I put in, feeling it my duty to lead the conversation into other channels. “I don’t see any sepoys about.”
“Oh, by no means,” said the Mohammedan; “this is police headquarters. The smaller tents house the men.”