“Will you be kind enough to feed him, Alwa-sahib?”
Alwa resented the imputation against his hospitality instantly.
“Nay, I was waiting for his money in advance!” he laughed. “Food waits, thou. Thou art a Sikh—thou eatest meat—meat, then, is ready.”
The Sikh, or at least the true Sikh, is not hampered by a list of caste restrictions. All of his precepts, taken singly or collectively, bid him be nothing but a man, and no law forbids him accept the hospitality of soldiers of another creed. So Jaidev Singh walked off to feed on curried beef that would have made a Hindoo know himself for damned. Cunningham then turned on Alwa.
“Now is the time, Alwa-sahib,” he said in a level voice. “My party can start off with this man and our answer, if your answer is no. If your answer is yes, then the Sikh can bear that answer for us.”
“You would none of you ride half a mile alive!” laughed Alwa.
“I none the less require an answer, Alwa-sahib.”
Alwa stared hard at him. That was the kind of talk that went straight to his soldier heart. He loved a man who held to his point in the teeth of odds. The odds, it seemed to him, were awfully against Cunningham.
“So was thy father,” he said slowly. “My cousin said thou wast thy father's son!”
“I require an answer by the time that the Sikh has finished eating,” said Cunningham. “Otherwise, Alwa-sabib, I shall regret the necessity of foregoing further hospitality at your hands.”