The little flames began to peer up between the big logs atop of the brushwood. “The Government should teach us to pull the triggers with our toes,” said Suket Singh grimly to the moon. That was the last public observation of Sepoy Suket Singh.
Upon a day, early in the morning, Madu came to the pyre and shrieked very grievously, and ran away to catch the Policeman who was on tour in the district.
“The base-born has ruined four rupees’ worth of charcoal wood,” Madu gasped. “He has also killed my wife, and he has left a letter which I cannot read, tied to a pine bough.”
In the stiff, formal hand taught in the regimental school, Sepoy Suket Singh had written—
“Let us be burned together, if anything remain over, for we have made the necessary prayers. We have also cursed Madu, and Malak the brother of Athira—both evil men. Send my service to the Colonel Sahib Bahadur.”
The Policeman looked long and curiously at the marriage-bed of red and white ashes on which lay, dull black, the barrel of the Ranger’s gun. He drove his spurred heel absently into a half-charred log, and the chattering sparks flew upwards. “Most extraordinary people,” said the Policeman.
“Whe-w, whew, ouiou,” said the little flames.
The Policeman entered the dry bones of the case, for the Punjab Government does not approve of romancing, in his Diary.
“But who will pay me those four rupees?” said Madu.