Then there was a scuffle and a yell of
pain.
"Carbine-stealing again!" said the adjutant, calmly sinking back
in his chair. "This comes of reducing the guards. I hope the
sentries have killed him."
The feet of armed men pounded on the verandah flags, and it was as
though something was being dragged.
"Why don't they put him in the cells till the morning?" said the
colonel testily. "See if they've damaged him, sergeant."
The mess sergeant fled out into the darkness and returned with two
troopers and a corporal, all very much perplexed.
"Caught a man stealin' carbines, sir," said the corporal.
"Leastways 'e was crawlin' towards the barricks, sir, past the
main road sentries, an' the sentry 'e sez, sir -"
The limp heap of rags upheld by the three men groaned. Never was
seen so destitute and demoralised an Afghan. He was turbanless,
shoeless, caked with dirt, and all but dead with rough handling.
Hira Singh started slightly at the sound of the man's pain.
Dirkovitch took another glass of brandy.
"What does the sentry say?" said the colonel.
"Sez 'e speaks English, sir," said the corporal.
"So you brought him into mess instead of handing him over to the
sergeant! If he spoke all the Tongues of the Pentecost you've no
business -"
Again the bundle groaned and muttered.
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