Often we had to pull up to let the Indian Pack-mule Corps pass, and it was at one of these halts that I happened to come close to one of these dusky soldiers waiting calmly by the side of his mules.
I wished I had some knowledge of Hindustani, and began to think over any words he might recognize.
"You ever hear of Rabindranarth Tagore, Johnnie?" I asked him. The name of the great writer came to mind.
He shook his head. "No, sergeant," he answered.
"Buddha, Johnnie?" His face gleamed and he showed his great white teeth.
"No, Buddie."
"Mahomet, Johnnie?"
"Yes—me, Mahommedie," he said proudly.
"Gunga, Johnnie?" I asked, remembering the name of the sacred river Ganges from Kipling's Kim.
"No Gunga, sa'b—Mahommedie, me."