"And you, baboo?" Perreira questioned. "Major sahib——"
"I am not a major," Swinton corrected; "we are just two Englishmen who have come out here for some shooting."
This statement had a curious effect on Mohun Dass. All his class stood in awe of the military, but toward the globe-trotting, sporting Englishman they could hardly conceal their natural arrogance. A look of assured familiarity crept into his fat countenance; he showed his white teeth with the little, reddish lines between them, due to pan chewing. "You are globe-trotter gentlemans—I know. Will you writing book, too?"
The captain nodded.
"You will get Forbes Hindustani dictionary and spell bungalow 'bangla,' and the book will stink like the lamp because of academic propensity. Never mind, kind gentleman, the publics will think you know about India and caste, too."
The captain noting Perreira's eyes devouring the bottle shoved it toward the half-caste. Gilfain, with a sigh of not understanding, rose, went along to their rooms, and returned with slippers and some cheroots.
Perreira had helped himself and the baboo to another generous drink, the latter protesting weakly.
"I see you know about guns, Perreira," Swinton said, lifting the rifle to his knee. "How do you happen to know this is a Cordite?"
"Cordite? Ha, ha!" And the half-caste's cackle was a triumphant note. He put a pair of attenuated fingers into the top pocket of his jaran coat and drew from beneath a very dirty handkerchief a lump of something that resembled an unbaked biscuit. He flipped it to the table as though he were tossing a box of cigarettes. "Yes, sars, that is cordite—dynamite, whatever you like to call him."
"Good God! I say, you silly ass!" And Lord Victor, pushing back his chair, stood up.