"True, sahib," said Sherdil quickly, "and there is yet another: 'If you are not a good judge of beasts, choose a young one.'"
At this, and Sherdil's sententious look, as of one who says "That's a clincher," Lumsden laughed outright.
"'The child is father of the man,'" said Battye, with whom quoting was a habit. "Give the boy a trial; we'll soon see whether this man's talk is all froth."
And so Ahmed was admitted to the competition. The spectators had been growing restless and restive during the colloquy, but now that the first man took post opposite the target, and lay flat on the ground, they hushed their noise and awaited the issue breathlessly. The range was three hundred yards; the marksman was a tall, grave-looking Sikh, and as his musket flashed and the marker signalled a bull's-eye, a great shout arose from his compatriots.
"Shahbash! Bravo! That's a fine shot. Thou'lt surely win, Faiz."
And then the partisans of the other men tried to shout the Sikh's friends down.
"Bah! what is that? A bull's-eye, you say. But it was an accident; the wind carried the bullet. Allah willing, he will miss next time. Courage, Sula; look not at the cock on his dunghill."
Similar cries, varying as the result of the shots, greeted the Sikh's succeeding attempts. Then came Sula's turn.
"Hai! Now he shoots!" cried his friends. "What is the marker about? A miss? Truly the jins are spiteful, the musket is bewitched. Do not lose heart, O Sula, the sahib will give thee another musket, and then wilt thou show thyself more than a match for that son of a pig."
And Sula, having taken another musket, fired off his six shots and retired.