The boys were overwhelmed with their good luck, and their uncle's generosity. They stammered out their thanks; then, desiring to talk things over quietly between themselves, they got up and went out.
They strolled up and down the compound, looking with the mind's eye into the vista opening so brightly before them, discussing plans with youthful eagerness and optimism, voting their uncle a "trump," a "brick," a "ripping old boy," and employing the hundred and one meaningless phrases with which Englishmen are wont to dissemble their feelings. It is only the bare truth to say that their deepest satisfaction and thankfulness sprang from reunion with their uncle.
Presently Bob noticed, in the gloom, Ditta Lal pacing slowly along by the cliff wall.
"Hallo, Babu!" he called. "Come here. I want to speak to you."
The Bengali drew near, and as he came within the candlelight beaming through the open doorway of the shed, they noticed that he wore a very dejected look.
"I want to thank you," continued Bob. "Chunda Beg told me that while the fight was going on you were heaping up that rampart yonder. It was well thought of; we're indebted to you."
The Babu's face lit up for a moment as he bowed his acknowledgments; but it instantly clouded over again.
"You don't look very happy," said Lawrence. "What's the matter?"
"It is a complicated case, sir," said the Babu mournfully. "Diagnosis easy, but as for remedies that touch the spot, alas! non est, or more correctly, non sunt."
"What's wrong? Out with it, man," said Bob.