Five minutes later, after a rousing stiff night-cap, Tom took his leave.
They heard his voice outside the window:
"Trotters!"
The dog's tail beat three times on the veranda.
"Take a smell o' this!"
There was silence, followed by a growl.
"If he comes,—kill him! D'ye understand? Kill him! There—there's the turban for you to lie on an' memorize the smell! Kill him! Ye understand?"
A deep growl was the answer, and Tom Tripe marched off toward the stables for his horse, whistling Annie Rooney, lest some too enthusiastic watcher knife him out of a shadow.
"When I am maharanee," said Yasmini, "Tom Tripe shall have the title of sirdar, whether the English approve of it or not!"
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Creator caused flowers to bloom in the desert and buried jewels in the bosom of the earth. That is lest men should grow idle, wallowing in delights they have, instead of acquiring merit in the search for beauty that is out of reach. —Eastern Proverb