“Nay, everything is gone. My yak-hair cloak is gone, and my good blankets. Those Tibetans—”
That looked as if the Lama intended to await them somewhere. Ommony interrupted with another question:
“How did that sirdar manage you so easily?”
Dawa Tsering looked sulky. “I will lay him belly-upward one of these days!”
“How did you come to let him lead you by the ear then?”
“Huh! He lives at Tilgaun.”
“What of it?”
“He is the friend of Missish-Anbun at the Mission.”
“What of that?”
“He is also the friend of the Rajah of Tilgaun; and of the monks in the hills around Tilgaun; and of all the rascals who make Tilgaun a byword all the way from Lhassa to Darjiling. He has a servant with him, who would have seen, and would have told tales, if I had done more than draw my knife; and I tell you, Ommonee, that dog of a sirdar’s influence reaches all the way to Spiti. I don’t want too many enemies; I have enough of them in Spiti as it is.”