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Then, with the trembling Beluchi walking on ahead with the lantern, and Brown and the sentry urging from behind, the fakir jumped and squirmed and wabbled on his all but useless feet toward the guardroom. When they reached the tree where the goat had bleated, the Punjabi skin-buyer rose up, took one long look at the fakir and ran. "Well, I'll be!" exclaimed the sentry.
"Ask him, where is the Punjabi skin-buyer?" The fakir chuckled at that question, and let out suddenly a long, low, hollow-sounding howl, like a she-wolf's just at sundown. He was answered by another howl from near the guardroom, and every soldier faced about as though a wasp had stung him. "Front!" commanded Brown. "Now, one of you, about turn! Keep watch that way! Is that the Punjabi? ask him."
Sahib! Remember what the fakir said. You will be pegged out on an anthill, sahib, when you have been beaten. Run, while there is yet time!" "Did you see them kill my men?" "Nay, sahib!" "How was that?" "I ran away and hid, sahib." "How many were there?" "Very many. The Punjabi skin-buyer brought them." "He did, did he? Very well! Did he go off with the fakir?" "I think he did. I did not see."