Thus he spoke in the vernacular:--
"Colonel Sahib and officers of this regiment, much honor have you done
me. This will I remember. We came down from afar to play you; but we
were beaten." ("No fault of yours, Ressaidar Sahib. Played on our own
ground, y' know. Your ponies were cramped from the railway. Don't
apologize.") "Therefore perhaps we will come again if it be so
ordained." ("Hear! Hear, hear, indeed! Bravo! Hsh!") "Then we will
play you afresh" ("Happy to meet you"), "till there are left no feet
upon our ponies. Thus far for sport." He dropped one hand on his sword
hilt and his eye wandered to Dirkovitch lolling back in his chair.
"But if by the will of God there arises any other game which is not
the polo game, then be assured, Colonel Sahib and officers, that we
shall play it out side by side, though _they_"--again his eye sought
Dirkovitch--"though _they_, I say, have fifty ponies to our one
horse." And with a deep-mouthed _Rung ho_! that rang like a musket
butt on flagstones, he sat down amid shoutings.
Dirkovitch, who had devoted himself steadily to the brandy--the
terrible brandy aforementioned--did not understand, nor did the
expurgated[14] translations offered to him at all convey the point.
Decidedly the native officer's was the speech of the evening, and the
clamor might have continued to the dawn had it not been broken by the
noise of a shot without that sent every man feeling at his defenseless
left side.
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