"Let that fakir feel a bayonet-point, somebody!"
The fakir cursed between his teeth, in proof of prompt obedience
by one of the men who held him.
"Tell him to order his crowd to cease fire!"
The Beluchi translated, and the fakir howled again. The flames leaped
through the thatch, and in a minute more the countryside was lit
for half a mile or more by the glare of the burning guardroom.
The flames betrayed more than a hundred turbaned men, who hugged the
shadows.
"Keep that bayonet-point against his ribs. See? That comes o' moving
instead o' sitting still! If we'd shut ourselves in the guardroom
there, we'd have been merrily roasting in there now! We stole a march
on them. Beauty here was sitting on his throne to see the fun. Didn't
expect us. Thought we'd be all hiding under the beds, like Sidiki
here! Goes to prove the worst thing that a soldier can do is to sit
still when there's trouble. We're better off than ever. We're free
and they won't dare do much to us as long as we've got Sacred-Smells-
and-Stinks in charge.
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