Brown spat again, as he drew away a step. He could contrive to express
more disgust and more grim determination in that one rudimentary act
than even a Stamboul Softa can.
"So he's holy, is he?"
"Very, very holy, sahib!"
Again the fakir chuckled, and again Brown held his breath and pushed
the lantern closer to him.
"I believe the brute understands the Queen's English!"
"He understanding all things, sahib! He knowing all things what
will happen! Mind, sahib! He may curse you!"
But Brown appeared indifferent to the danger that he ran. To the
fakir's unconcealed discomfort, he proceeded to examine him minutely,
going over him with the aid of the lantern inch by inch, from the
toe-nails upward.
"Well," he commented aloud, "if the army's got an opposite, here's
it! I'd give a month's pay for the privilege of washing this brute,
just as a beginning!"
The man's toe-nails--for he really was a man!--were at least two inches
long. They were twisted spirally, and some of them were curled back
on themselves into disgusting-looking knots.
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