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Updated: May 22, 2025
From his cheery, honest face to the firm set of his feet upon the floor, he was typical of his class and race. "Oh, I hope he'll be beaten!" Shere Ali found himself repeating the words in a whisper. The wish had suddenly sprung up within him, but it grew in intensity; it became a great longing. He looked anxiously for the appearance of the Jew from Singapore.
Unrest was evident, the cause of it quite obscure. But what was hidden from Government House in Peshawur and the Old Mission House at Kohara was already whispered in the bazaars. There among the thatched booths which have their backs upon the brink of the water-channel in the great square, men knew very well that Shere Ali was the cause, though Shere Ali knew nothing of it himself.
Envy of the white people might have cradled it, desire for the white woman might have nursed it into strength. But it was alive now. That was all of which Shere Ali was conscious. The knowledge filled all his thoughts. He had his place in the world. Greatly he rejoiced. There were times when Ralston held aloft his hands and cursed the Indian administration by all his gods.
He had been sent to Eton and to Oxford, and had been filled with longings and desires which could have no fruition; he had been trained to delicate thoughts and habits which must daily be offended and daily be a cause of offence to his countrymen. But what did the tall stooping man care? Shere Ali now knew that the English had something in the way of an army.
When a leader of the Pack has missed his kill, he is called the Dead Wolf as long as he lives, which is not long. Akela raised his old head wearily: "Free People, and ye too, jackals of Shere Khan, for twelve seasons I have led ye to and from the kill, and in all that time not one has been trapped or maimed. Now I have missed my kill. Ye know how that plot was made.
Tabaqui sat still, rejoicing in the mischief that he had made, and then he said spitefully: 'Shere Khan, the Big One, has shifted his hunting-grounds. He will hunt among these hills for the next moon, so he has told me. Shere Khan was the tiger who lived near the Waingunga River, twenty miles away.
You can find your own way back, no doubt"; and the unobservant Commissioner rode away at a trot. Shere Ali went forward alone down the narrowing street towards the Gate. He was aflame with indignation. So he was to be nothing, he was to do nothing, except to practice economy and marry a nigger. The contemptuous word rose to his mind.
"Were they wrong?" and since Shere Ali paused before he answered, Ahmed repeated the question, holding the while the key of his door between his fingers. "Were they wrong, your Highness?" "No," said Shere Ali firmly. "They were right." Ahmed Ismail put the key into the lock. The bolt shot back with a grating sound, the door opened upon blackness.
She saw the lamp upon the table and the gloves in parallel lines beneath it. Now Shere was so far right in that the gloves were intended as a signal for Esteban; only owing to that complete revulsion of which the padre had seen the possibility, Shere had mistaken the signal. The passionate believer had again become the passionate cynic.
Violet Oliver faltered out some beginnings of an excuse. She did not want to bring him away from his work in Chiltistan. But Shere Ali was not listening to the excuses. "I must see you again," he said. "I must." "No doubt we shall meet," replied Violet Oliver. "To-morrow," continued Shere Ali. "To-morrow evening. You will be going to the Fort."
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