Ahmed repeated, as nearly as he could remember them, the actual words used by the fakir, and then described how he had been seized and carried, bound, into the tent, and lay gagged while his captors discussed how they should dispose of him. When he had related the manner in which he had set the hut on fire, Lumsden looked pleased.
"It was a good thought, and cleverly done, my lad. That's the kind of thing I like to see in my Guides—quickness, decision, willingness to take risks. I shall keep my eye on you. But now, you fellows," he added in English, the other officers having entered the room, "what are we to do about an explanation? The men will be desperately excited, you may be sure; those three scoundrels must be marked off as deserters, and Ahmed must have some tale for the rest of the men."
"Say they were in a funk at burning down the hut," suggested Lieutenant Battye.
"Won't wash, Quintin. The punishment would only be stopping of leave or something of that kind: none of the men would run away from that."
"Ask the youngster," said the adjutant. "These Pathans are good at fairy tales."
The question was put to Ahmed.
"It might be done thus, sahib," said the boy. "The fakir was not a true fakir. He is one Minghal, once chief of Mandan, and we blew up his tower and captured his village."
"I remember. Sherdil told me of that little piece of trickery—a box of porcelain from Delhi, eh? Well?"
"He is my enemy, sahib. We could say that he came to kill me, and indeed he tried to stick his knife into me just before Hawes Sahib came, but I kicked him down. The rest might be told even as it happened, except for what the fakir said."
"Very good. An excellent notion: you others agree? You shall tell them that. Now get to your hut: you have done very well."