The Pathan grinned, and undid the button. There was a second shirt underneath, and to that on the left breast were pinned two British medals.
“Oh, yes!” he laughed. “I served the raj! I was in the army eleven years.”
“Why did you leave it?” King asked, remembering that this man loved to hear his own voice.
“Oh, I had furlough, and the bastard who stood next me in the ranks was the son of a dog with whom my father had a blood-feud. The blind fool did not know me. He received his furlough on the same day as I. I would not lay finger on him that side of the border, for we ate the same salt. I knifed him this side the border. It was no affair of the British. But I was seen, and I fled. And having slain a man, and having no doubt a report had gone back to the regiment, I entered this place. Except for a raid now and then to cool my blood I have been here ever since. It is a devil of a place.”
Now the art of ruling India consists not in treading barefooted on scorpions--not in virtuous indignation at men who know no better--but in seeking for and making much of the gold that lies ever amid the dross. There is gold in the character of any man who once passed the grilling tests before enlistment in a British-Indian regiment. It may need experience to lay a finger on it, but it is surely there.
“I heard,” said King, “as I came toward the Khyber in great haste (for the police were at my heels)--”
“Ah, the police!” the Pathan grinned pleasantly.
The inference was that at some time or other he had left his mark on the police.
“I heard,” said King, “that men are flocking back to their old regiments.”
“Aye, but not men with a price on their heads, little hakim!”