"What are you driving at?" asked Bob in bewilderment.
"Why, sir, that interludium, denominated half-time, has parallel here and now. We are at half-time in this fateful strife. Three days and half of allotted span have expired; and I make bold to suggestion that, for refreshment and buck-up of general company, you issue orders for tamasha."
"What's that?"
"Tamasha, sir, is jollification, kick-up, regular beano--song and dance, et cetera. With your permission, I will undertake herculean labour of organization."
"My good man, you know our proverbs: 'Don't hallo till you're out of the wood'--'Don't count your chickens before they are hatched.' It's true the men have done very well so far, but the stiffest fight often comes in the second half, you know. Possess your soul in patience, Babu. If we come through safely I promise you shall have your tamasha, or whatever you call it, and I tell you what: as you seem to be a bit of a poet, why not spend your time in writing a ballad or something of the sort in anticipation?"
"Happy thought, sir. I have not hitherto built rhyme, lofty or otherwise, but I will do my level best to rise to height of great argument; I will set my eye in fine frenzy rolling, and body forth forms of things unknown at present, but justified by event. I will strike my lyre while it is hot. Good-night, sir, and sweet repose."
He waddled off, bent on a passionate quest for inspiration. Bob looked after him with a tolerant smile.
"Poor chap!" he thought. "Much learning has made him pretty mad. I wonder if we Britishers, when we pick up a smattering of their lore, strike the Hindus in the same way? I only hope his pæan will be justified by the event."
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH
THE FIGHT AT THE BEND