The Beluchi struggled and held back, almost breaking
loose, and actually tearing his loin-cloth.
"Sahib!" he whispered hoarsely. "Sahib!"
"What is it?" demanded Brown, scarcely waiting for an answer, though.
Something told him what it was that moved, and his own skin felt
goose-fleshy from neck to heel.
"The fakir, sahib!"
There was a murmur through the ranks, a sibilant indrawing of the breath.
"Did I hear anybody swear?" asked Brown.
Nobody answered him. All nine men stood stock-still, leaning on
their rifles, their heads craned forward and their eyes strained
in the direction of the gloomy baobab.
"Form single rank!" commanded Brown.
There was no response. They stood there fixed like a row of chickens
staring at a snake!
"Form single rank!"
He leaped at them, and broke the first rule of the service--as a man
may when he is man enough, and the alternative would be black shame.
His fist was a hard one and heavy, and they felt the weight of it.
"Form single rank! Take one pace open order! Extend! Now, forward--
by the right! Right dress, there!"
He marched in front of them, and they followed him for very shame,
now that he had broken their paralysis.
Pages:
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86