“They grew, then?”
“As a tale grows in telling. Alas! I am a very bad man!” and he blinked his one eye dolefully.
“Now four men are held at my Police station on thy account, and God knows how many more at Peshawur, besides the questions at Multan, and my honour is lost, and my mare has been pack-pony to a woodcutter. Son of Devils, what canst thou do to make amends?”
There was just a little break in Strickland’s voice, and the man caught it. Bending low, he answered, in the abject fawning whine that confounds right and wrong more surely than most modern creeds, “Protector of the Poor, is the Police service shut to—an honest man?”
“Out!” cried Strickland, and swiftly as the groom departed he must have heard our shouts of laughter behind him.
“If you dismiss that man, Strick, I shall engage him. He’s a genius,” said I. “It will take you months to put this mess right, and Billy Watson won’t give you a minute’s peace.”
“You aren’t going to tell him?” said Strickland appealingly.
“I couldn’t keep this to myself if you were my own brother. Four men arrested with you—four or forty at Peshawur—and what was that you said about Multan?”
“Oh, nothing. Only some camel-men there have been——”
“And a tribe of camel-men at Multan! All on account of a lost curb-chain. Oh, my Aunt!”