The Hillman’s hand crept instinctively toward his knife, and the policeman made ready to swing for the back of his head with a hard-wood club.
“Are you a fool, that you don’t know a friend when you meet one?” asked Ommony.
“I have met enemies, and women, and one or two whom I called master, and many whom I have mastered—but never a friend yet!” the Hillman answered. “Who art thou?”
“Come with me and learn,” said Ommony.
The Hillman hesitated, but the crowd was distinctly beginning to gather now—a little way off, not sure yet but alert for the first hint of happenings. It grew clear to the Hillman that escape might not be easy.
“I fear no man!” he said, turning his head and recognizing the policeman, who was hardly two-thirds his size. He spat eloquently for the policeman’s benefit, missing him neatly by about the thickness of a knife-blade. “Whither?” he asked then, looking straight into Ommony’s eyes.
Ommony led the way across the street into Chutter Chand’s shop, where he halted to let the Hillman go in first.
“Nay, lead on!” said the Hillman, stepping aside.
“No. For you have a weapon and I have none. Moreover, I have said I am a friend, and I prefer to be a living friend rather than a dead one! Go in first,” laughed Ommony.
The Hillman laughed back. There was none of the solemnity about him that enshrouds the men from the Northwest frontier. Eastward along the Himalayas, where the smell of sweat leaves off and the smell of rancid butter begins, laughter becomes part of life and not an insult or indignity. He swaggered into the shop with no more argument and at a nod from Ommony walked straight through to the office at the rear.