Such then was the situation on Lambert’s roof when he returned from his unsatisfactory interview with the King’s minister. At the door he encountered his landlord, Firoz Khan, seated cross-legged and polishing a wonderfully supple blade. As Lambert approached, Firoz Khan looked up gravely, swept Lambert’s face with a keen glance, and seemed to divine the thoughts in his tenant’s mind.
“The Huzoor has not found the King’s pig easy to catch by the tail,” he grunted. “Ohe, sahib! Be careful, sir, that when hunting a pig for the first time you avoid the tusk.”
“I guess you refer to that——well——to Dunkar Rao?” suggested Lambert, checking an impulse to be more emphatic.
“Sir,” replied Firoz Khan, “I only say that he is a fool who expects to get else than an ass for a camel from Dunkar Rao. The English bunyas (merchants) know him well. That is why they do not come any more to Aurungnugar.”
Lambert whistled softly. So that was the reason why there were no other bids apparently for the state automobile. As he had begun to suspect, Dunkar Rao had a bad financial reputation.
“Well,” he said, “but the King is all right. Hasn’t the King got piles of money?”
“The King, sahib, is Dunkar Rao, and Dunkar Rao is a pig of a Hindu idol worshipper who skins the people like sheep.”
Firoz Khan’s eyes gleamed as he bent the blade of his sword double and let it fly backward into position. With a grip on the hilt which made the sinews on his bronze forearm start forth like whipcords of metal, he
