King of the Khyber Rifles | Page 9

laughed aloud then, for the thief knew English, and was listening with all his ears, "--may I be damned if I wouldn't get off at this station and wait to see that scoundrel brought to justice!"
The train jerked itself to a standstill, and a man with a lantern began to chant the station's name. "Damn it!--I'm going to Bombay to act censor. I can't wait--they want me there."
The instant the train's motion altogether ceased the heat shut in on them as if the lid of Tophet had been slammed. The prickly beat burst out all over Hyde's skin and King's too.
"Almighty God!" gasped Hyde, beginning to fan himself.
There was plenty of excuse for relaxing hold still further, and King made full use of it. A second later be gave a very good pretense of pain in his finger-ends as the thief burst free. The native made a dive at his bosom for the knife, but he frustrated that. Then he made a prodigious effort, just too late, to clutch the man again, and he did succeed in tearing loose a piece of shirt; but the fleeing robber must have wondered, as he bolted into the blacker shadows of the station building, why such an iron-fingered, wide-awake sahib should have made such a truly feeble showing at the end.
"Damn it!--couldn't you hold him? Were you afraid of him, or what?" demanded Hyde, beginning to dress himself. Instead of answering, King leaned out into the lamp-lit gloom, and in a minute he caught sight of a sergeant of native infantry passing down the train. He made a sign that brought the man to him on the run.
"Did you see that runaway?" he asked.
"Ha, sahib. I saw one running. Shall I follow?"
"No. This piece of his shirt will identify him. Take it. Hide it! When a man with a torn shirt, into which that piece fits, makes for the telegraph office after this train has gone on, see that he is allowed to send any telegrams he wants to! Only, have copies of every one of them wired to Captain King, care of the station-master, Delhi. Have you understood?"
"Ha, sahib."
"Grab him, and lock him up tight afterward--but not until he has sent his telegrams!'
"Atcha, sahib."
"Make yourself scarce, then!"
Major Hyde was dressed, having performed that military evolution in something less than record time.
"Who was that you were talking to?" he demanded. But King continued to look out the door.
Hyde came and tapped on his shoulder impatiently, but King did not seem to understand until the native sergeant had quite vanished into the shadows.
"Let me pass, will you!" Hyde demanded. "I'll have that thief caught if the train has to wait a week while they do it!"
He pushed past, but he was scarcely on the step when the station- master blew his whistle, and his colored minion waved a lantern back and forth. The engine shrieked forthwith of death and torment; carriage doors slammed shut in staccato series; the heat relaxed as the engine moved--loosened--let go--lifted at last, and a trainload of hot passengers sighed thanks to an unresponsive sky as the train gained speed and wind crept in through the thermantidotes.
Only through the broken thermantidote in King's compartment no wet air came. Hyde knelt on King's berth and wrestled with it like a caged animal, but with no result except that the sweat poured out all over him and he was more uncomfortable than before. "What are you looking at?" he demanded at last, sitting on King's berth. His head swam. He had to wait a few seconds before he could step across to his own side.
"Only a knife," said King. He was standing under the dim gas lamp that helped make the darkness more unbearable.
"Not that robber's knife? Did he drop it?"
"It's my knife," said King.
"Strange time to stand staring at it, if it's yours! Didn't you ever see it before?"
King stowed the knife away in his bosom, and the major crossed to his own side.
"I'm thinking I'll know it again, at all events!" King answered, sitting down. "Good night, sir."
"Good night."
Within ten minutes Hyde was asleep, snoring prodigiously. Then King pulled out the knife again and studied it for half an hour. The blade was of bronze, with an edge hammered to the keenness of a razor. The hilt was of nearly pure gold, in the form of a woman dancing.
The whole thing was so exquisitely wrought that age had only softened the lines, without in the least impairing them. It looked like one of those Grecian toys with which Roman women of Nero's day stabbed their lovers. But that was not why he began to whistle very softly to himself.
Presently he drew out the general's package of papers, with the photograph on the top. He stood up, to hold both knife