Dressed as an ordinary Pathan, with great flowing white garments, a
slatey blue puggery, and with a dagger or two stuck in his cummerband,
he sallied forth one dark night, and laid up not far from camp. This
precaution was taken so that not one of the hundreds of pairs of sharp
eyes in our own camp should see him depart.
Next day he strolled on leisurely, and in the course of the afternoon
arrived at the chief village of the tribe in question. In every Afghan
village there is a rest-house, or _serai_, for strangers, and thither as
a rule towards evening the village gossips also find their way; the
hospitable _hookah_ is passed from mouth to mouth, and in grave Oriental
fashion they set about picking each other's gossip-pockets. "And you,
brave stranger, who are you?" asked a grey-bearded, sharp-eyed old man
of Duffadar Faiz Talab.
"I?" he answered readily; "why, I have just left those dogs of Feringhis
(may God burn them in hell!), where I took service for a short time, so
as to learn their ways, and their tricks of fighting."
"_Shahbash_ (bravo)!" exclaimed the company; "and what are you
going to do now?"
"What am I going to do now? Why, fight the accursed infidels, of
course!" replied the duffadar.
"That is indeed fortunate," said the headman of the village, "for our
spies tell us that the Feringhis intend attacking us. We shall now be
able to make you the general of our forces, and since you have been so
wise as to learn the cunning strategy of the infidels we shall of a
surety kill them all, and send their souls to hell.
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