He found a man soon who was not interested in the dancing, but who had eyes and ears apparently for everything and everybody else. He watched him for ten minutes, until at last their eyes met. Then he sat down and kicked the box back to its owners.
He looked again at Ismail. With teeth clenched and eyes ablaze, the Afridi was smashing his knuckles together and rocking to and fro. There was no need to fear him. He turned and touched the Pathan's broad shoulder. The man smiled and bent his turbaned head to listen.
“Opposite,” said King, “nearly exactly opposite--three rows back from the front, counting the front row as one--there sits a man with his arm in a sling and a bandage over his eye.”
The Pathan nodded and touched his knife-hilt.
“One-and-twenty men from him, counting him as one, sits a man with a big black beard, whose shoulders are like a bull's. As he sits he hangs his head between them--thus.”
“And you want him killed? Nay, I think you mean Muhammad Anim. His time is not yet.”
The suggestion was as good-naturedly prompt as if the hakim's need had been water, and the other's flask were empty. He was sorry he could not offer to oblige.
“Who am I that I should want him killed?” King answered with mild reproof. “My trade is to heal, not slay. I am a hakim.”
The other nodded.
“Yet, to enter Khinjan Caves you had to slay a man, hakim or no!”