The mess sergeant fled out into the darkness and returned with two troopers and a corporal, all very much perplexed.
‘Caught a man stealin’ carbines, sir,’ said the corporal. ‘Leastways ‘e was crawlin’ towards the barricks, sir, past the main road sentries, an’ the sentry ‘e sez, sir—’
The limp heap of rags upheld by the three men groaned. Never was seen so destitute and demoralised an Afghan. He was turbanless, shoeless, caked with dirt, and all but dead with rough handling. Hira Singh started slightly at the sound of the man’s pain. Dirkovitch took another glass of brandy.
‘WHAT does the sentry say?’ said the colonel.
‘Sez ‘e speaks English, sir,’ said the corporal.
‘So you brought him into mess instead of handing him over to the sergeant! If he spoke all the Tongues of the Pentecost you’ve no business—’
Again the bundle groaned and muttered. Little Mildred had risen from his place to inspect. He jumped back as though he had been shot.
‘Perhaps it would be better, sir, to send the men away,’ said he to the colonel, for he was a much privileged subaltern. He put his arms round the ragbound horror as he spoke, and dropped him into a chair. It may not have been explained that the littleness of Mildred lay in his being six feet four and big in proportion. The corporal seeing that an officer was disposed to look after the capture, and that the colonel’s eye was beginning to blaze, promptly removed himself and his men. The mess was left alone with the carbine-thief, who laid his head on the table and wept bitterly, hopelessly, and inconsolably, as little children weep.
Hira Singh leapt to his feet. ‘Colonel Sahib,’ said he, ‘that man is no Afghan, for they weep Ai! Ai! Nor is he of Hindustan, for they weep Oh! Ho! He weeps after the fashion of the white men, who say Ow! Ow!’
‘Now where the dickens did you get that knowledge, Hira Singh?’ said the captain of the Lushkar team.