Dismiss," and they went their
appointed ways. The Indian cooks were boiling _dhal_ and rice in the
galley; the bakers were squatting on their haunches on the lower deck,
making _chupattis_--they were screened against the inclemency of the
weather by a tarpaulin--and they patted the leathery cakes with
persuasive slaps as a dairymaid pats butter. Low-caste sweepers glided
like shadows to and fro. Suddenly some one crossed the gangway and the
sentry stiffened and presented arms. The O.C. looked down from the upper
deck and saw a lithe, sinewy little figure with white moustaches and
"imperial"; the eyes were of a piercing steel-blue. The figure was clad
in a general's field-service uniform, and on his shoulder-straps were
the insignia of a field-marshal. The colonel stared for a moment, then
ran hastily down the ladder and saluted.

* * * * *

Together they passed down the companion-ladder. At the foot of it they
encountered a Bengali orderly, who made a profound obeisance.

"Shiva Lal," said the O.C., "I ordered the portholes to be kept
unfastened and the doors in the bulkheads left open. This morning I
found them shut. Why was this?"

"Sahib, at eight o'clock I found them open."

"It was at eight o'clock," said the colonel sternly, "that I found them
shut."

The Bengali spread out his hands in deprecation. "If the sahib says so
it must be so," he pleaded, adding with truly Oriental irrelevancy, "I
am a poor man and have many children." It is as useless to argue with
an Indian orderly as it is to try conclusions with a woman.

"Let it not occur again," said the colonel shortly, and with an apology
to his guest they passed on.

They paused in front of a cabin. Over the door was the legend "Pathans,
No. 1." The door was shut fast. The colonel was annoyed. He opened the
door, and four tall figures, with strongly Semitic features and bearded
like the pard, stood up and saluted. The colonel made a mental note of
the closed door; he looked at the porthole--it was also closed. The
Pathan loves a good "fug," especially in a European winter, and the
colonel had had trouble with his patients about ventilation. A kind of
guerilla warfare, conducted with much plausibility and perfect
politeness, had been going on for some days between him and the Pathans.
The Pathans complained of the cold, the colonel of the atmosphere. At
last he had met them halfway, or, to be precise, he had met them with a