It is notable that Dirkovitch "reached back," after the
American fashion--a gesture that set the captain of the Lushkar team
wondering how Cossack officers were armed at mess. Then there was a
scuffle, and a yell of pain.
"Carbine stealing again!" said the adjutant, calmly sinking back in
his chair. "This comes of reducing the guards. I hope the sentries
have killed him."
The feet of armed men pounded on the veranda flags, and it sounded as
though something was being dragged.
"Why don't they put him in the cells till the morning?" said the
colonel, testily. "See if they've damaged him, sergeant."
The mess-sergeant fled out into the darkness, and returned with two
troopers and a corporal, all very much perplexed.
"Caught a man stealin' carbines, sir," said the corporal.
"Leastways 'e was crawling toward the barricks, sir, past the
main-road sentries; an' the sentry 'e says, sir--"
The limp heap of rags upheld by the three men groaned. Never was seen
so destitute and demoralized an Afghan. He was turbanless, shoeless,
caked with dirt, and all but dead with rough handling. Hira Singh
started slightly at the sound of the man's pain. Dirkovitch took
another liqueur glass of brandy.
"_What_ does the sentry say?" said the colonel.
"Sez he speaks English, sir," said the corporal.
"So you brought him into mess instead of handing him over to the
sergeant! If he spoke all the tongues of the Pentecost you've no
business--"
Again the bundle groaned and muttered.
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