and laughing. It is a bad sign when a Sikh does that.
“Hold your tongue,” Catesby ordered him.
Having to control the other did him good. He realized almost for the first time how the court martial hanging over his head had lowered his own opinion of himself to a degree that the Sikh’s more subtly receptive mind had found contagious. He braced himself deliberately.
Hitherto he had almost unconsciously admitted to the rule that, being technically under arrest, he was technically void of the right to command. Now he fell back on the racial issue. Right or wrong, the white man has his place above the black, and above all the grades of color whether ebony or yellow, Aryan, Mongol or Ethiopian.
Narayan Singh recognized the change. The world being what it is, a product of history, improving only gradually, men still like leaders; and the braver and more self-disciplined the man the less he appreciates a leader in whose face he may sneer with impunity.
There was absolutely nothing menial about Narayan Singh; he was a high- chinned man, who would polish his officer’s boots for pride in the well-groomed officer. But the officer good enough to have his harness cleaned by him and lead him must know his own mind. He would rather be told to hold his tongue by a mistaken strong man than be allowed his own way by a weakling. If it were not so, there would be no leaders and no led.
Having made up his mind to await the event and shoulder the full responsibility, Catesby scratched himself philosophically. He was no longer a victim, nor could the fact that he was lousy lower his self-respect. Whatever he had done rightly hitherto that night was due to intuition and old habits of thinking that survive under imposed disgrace, making it impossible for a true man to become untrue, or a leader incapable of leading, except gradually, step by step.
Now it was as if a cloud of depression vanished. He did thenceforward what he consciously chose to do, captain of his own soul and master of his destiny. Even Suliman, waking drowsily, sensed the difference.
They did not wait very long. The door opened again and the donkey came forth first, loaded so heavily that it could barely stagger and showing its teeth because of the biting tightness of the cords that kept the load in place.
Over it all like a Joseph’s coat of many colors they had tied the patchwork quilt, knotting it under the animal’s belly; the suggestion that conveyed, whether it was intentional or not—you can’t ever gage the fellaheen’s simplicity or artfulness—was that they were honest villagers removing their household goods. Only a very suspicious observer would have balked at their having no women with them to carry the heaviest burdens.
The men filed out one by one after the donkey, each with a heavier load than he took in with him, but using what he had brought to cover or contain what he had come for—sacks—baskets—mats and an old tarpaulin knotted by the corners and carried between two men. The only remarkable difference was that whereas twelve men had entered, thirteen now came out, and there remained at least one inside to lock the door after them.
The thirteenth man looked cleaner than the rest, and carried no bundle. Also his right wrist was raw and seemed painful; and when he rubbed it with the other hand a bright red weal became visible on the left wrist too.
Suddenly Suliman leaped to his feet. Catesby clapped a hand on his mouth and dragged him down again only in the nick of time.
“Keep quiet, you little—!” he whispered. “Yes, I know it’s Jimgrim.”
He knew exactly what to do now; needed no advice or urging from Narayan Singh. He waiting only until he could speak without risk of the twelve men hearing him. There was not the slightest need to hurry. He let them go a hundred yards and disappear beyond the ruined village wall before he gave an order. Then:
“Narayan Singh, you wait here and watch the door. If anyone comes out, arrest him. If anyone else goes in, all right; wait and watch. But in that case don’t let anyone out on any terms; drive ’em back with your pistol; shoot if you must, but hold ’em in there somehow until help comes. If nothing happens don’t show yourself. Do you understand?”
“Malum, sahib.”
“Now Suliman—how long is it since you begged? Have you forgotten? Off with your boots—socks too—leave ’em here. You’re dirty enough, Lord knows. Better leave your head-gear too. Tear your pants a bit; you’re too well cared for to look plausible. Now some more dust in your hair. You’ll do.
“Follow now, and beg from Jimgrim. Don’t look back at me, and don’t take no for an answer. If they turn and beat you, stick to them. Pretend you’re so hungry that you don’t mind being hurt. Cut along.”
He lifted the youngster out of the dark hole and pitched him on to his feet outside. A moment later he followed as far as the gap in the wall. From that point he could watch what happened without any risk of being seen.
* * * * *
The missionaries and police know best what perfectly consummate actors Arab children are. Their elders have grown set in the accepted ways, so that a grown man or woman seldom varies from a given method; usually the people of one village thieve and lie to a pattern, and are all at sea when anyone gets acquainted with their habit.
But the children are less conservative, until the years bring on that eastern intellectual inertia that is partly due to Koran teaching and partly to polygamy. Suliman had lost none of his natural alertness yet, and he had not been long enough in Jim’s control to lose delight in mischief for the sake of lawlessness.
So he accepted that part perfectly. Running until he was breathless—fingering the sweat into the corners of his eyes until it looked like tears—plucking grass as he ran, to chew and make the corners of his mouth filthy with green slime, he overtook the procession and begged alms in the name of Allah.
Nor did he go to Jim first, but singled out the owner of the donkey; for the beggar’s principle is to flatter with first attention whoever had most in view of this world’s goods, thus sometimes stirring a ridiculous unconscious sense of rivalry. Human nature is absurd stuff, or the beggars would all be at work producing.
Clearly those twelve men were in no mood to be generous. They cursed the boy as he approached them one by one; and when he would not go, but clung to them like one of those persistent Palestinian flies, bleating his parrot-cry of hunger with the same indifference to “imshi!” (“Clear out!”) that the flies show to an angry hand, they picked up clods to heave at him. But he dodged those, cursed the throwers as a matter or etiquette, and came back with the same persistence.
If the thirteenth man recognized him he gave no sign of it; and Suliman seemed to consider him not worth an effort, judging him with the beggar’s rule in mind as a maskin (poor man) because he walked last. It would have been an insult to the rest and rank bad form, clods notwithstanding, to have begged from him before giving the men ahead first chance to show their quality.
So when he did at last approach Jim and cling to the skirt of his abyi nobody suspected old acquaintance. Jim told him gruffly to “imshi,” like the rest of them, although one corner of his mouth quivered slightly in the faint beginnings of a smile. He might as well have tried to “imshi” the weather. Suliman clung on, and begged like an old hand at the game. The East believes in importunity and sets as high a value on reiteration as do the advertisers of the West.
The clod-throwing ceased because, unlike the curses that did not cease, one could not throw them any longer without hitting Jim. So Jim had to pause a minute to shake the persistent little nuisance
