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So there we had to camp, just over the Afghan border, but farther apart from the Germans than ever two, three miles apart, for now it became Ranjoor Singh's policy to know nothing whatever about them.
"You shall have all the gold of this next convoy, if you will ride back to Wassmuss and agree that you and your men shall be the escort to Afghanistan." "Who shall guard this pass if I ride back?" the Kurd asked. "I!" said Ranjoor Singh. "I and my men will wait here for the gold. Leave me a few of your men to be guides and to keep peace between us and other Kurds among these mountains.
Great contentment grew among us, none caring after that for rain and mud. That was the nearest we had been to friends in oh how many months if it truly were a British submarine! We reached the water-front presently and were brought to a halt in exactly the place where Ranjoor Singh had halted us those five times on the day we tramped the streets.
"Then, if you fail to fulfill your part," said Ranjoor Singh grimly, "I shall lock you in the cellar of this house, where Yasmini keeps her cobras!" "Vorwarts!" laughed the German, for there was conviction in every word the Sikh had said. "I will show you how a German keeps his bargain!" "A German?" growled Ranjoor Singh. "A German Germany is nothing to me!
That very evening, as I watched from between two great boulders, I beheld a Turkish convoy of about six hundred infantry, led by a bimbashi on a gray horse, with a string of pack-mules trailing out behind them, and five loaded donkeys led by soldiers in the midst. They were heading toward the hills, and I sent a man running to bring Ranjoor Singh to watch them.
Curse you, and curse this train, and curse all Asia!" Then he thrust me in the ribs again, as if that were a method of setting aside formality. "You know Cawnpore?" said he, and I nodded. "You know the Kaiser-i-hind Saddle Factory?" I nodded again, being minded to waste no words because of Ranjoor Singh's warning. "I took a job as foreman there twenty years ago because the pay was good.
There Ranjoor Singh made quite a little play of making sure they were not overheard, while the German studied his own Mohammedan disguise from twenty different angles. "Too much finery!" growled Ranjoor Singh. "I will attend to that. First, listen! Other than your talk, I have had no proof at all of you! You are a spy!" "I am a " "You are a spy!
Yet I believe there was not one man in all D Squadron but thought of Ranjoor Singh all the time. He who has honor most at heart speaks least about it. In one way shame on Ranjoor Singh's account was a good thing, for it made the whole regiment watchful against treachery. Treachery, sahib we had yet to learn what treachery could be! Marseilles is a half-breed of a place, part Italian, part French.
We had all heard tales of how the British soldiers in South Africa made short work of the officers they did not love, and it would have been easy to make an end of Ranjoor Singh on any dark night. But he led too well; men were afraid to take the responsibility lest the others turn on them. One night I overheard two troopers considering the thought, and they suspected I had overheard.
"How did you get them through the Customs?" wondered Ranjoor Singh. "Did you ever see a rabbit go into his hole?" the German asked. "They were very small consignments, obviously of blankets. The duty was paid without demur, and the price paid the Customs men was worth their while. That part was easy!" "Of what size are the bombs?" asked Ranjoor Singh. "About the size of an orange.
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