“Arrest this fakir. Cram him in the clink.”
“Very good, sir!”
The sentry took one step forward, with his fixed bayonet at the “charge,” and the fakir sat still and eyed him.
“Oh, have a care, sahib!” wailed the Beluchi. “This is very holy man!”
“Silence!” ordered Brown. “Here. Hold the lamp.”
The bayonet-point pressed against the fakir's ribs, and he drew back an inch or two to get away from it. He was evidently able to feel pain when it was inflicted by any other than himself.
“Come on,” growled the sentry. “Forward. Quick march. If you don't want two inches in you!”
“Don't use the point!” commanded Brown. “You might do him an injury. Treat him to a sample of the butt!”
The sentry swung his rifle round with an under-handed motion that all riflemen used to practise in the short-range-rifle days. The fakir winced, and gabbled something in a hurry to the man who held the lamp.
“He says that he will speak, sahib!”