Of all the Pip-squeaks!
And yet the big man’s face was not that of a Pip-squeak—far from it. It was very like Grumper’s in fact.
The boy liked the face. It was strong and fierce, thin and clean-cut—marred only, in his estimation, by the funny little tuft of hair on the lower lip. He liked the wavy, rough, up-turned moustache, but not that silly tuft. How nice he would look with his hair cut, his lower lip shaved, and his ridiculous silks, velvet, and lace exchanged for a tweed shooting-suit or cricketing-flannels! How Grumper, Father, Major Decies, and even Khodadad Khan and the sepoys would have laughed at the get-up. Nay, they would have blushed for the fellow—a Sahib, a gentleman—to tog himself up so!
The boy also liked the man’s voice when he turned towards the tent and called:—
“Lubin, you drunken dog, come hither,” a call which brought forth a servant-like person, who, by reason of his clean-shaven face and red nose, reminded the boy of Pattern the coachman.
He wore a dark cloth suit, cotton stockings, shoes that had neither laces nor buttons, but fastened with a kind of strap and buckle, and, queer creature, a big Eton collar!
“Sword and horse, rascal,” said the gentleman, “and warn Digby for duty. Bring me wine and a manchet of bread.”
The man bowed and re-entered the tent, to emerge a moment later bearing the Sword.
How the cut-steel hilt sparkled and shone! How bright and red the leather scabbard—now black, dull, cracked and crumbling. But it was unmistakeably the Sword.
It hung from a kind of broad cross-belt and was attached to it by several parallel buckled straps—not like Father’s Sam Browne belt at all.