I At Once Pulled On My Boots, Got
Some Brandy And Ran Down To The Camp, Where
To My Surprise And Amusement I Found That It Was
My Friend Karim Bux Who Was At Death's Door.
It
was perfectly evident to me that he was only
"foxing," but when he asked for dawa (medicine),
I told him gravely that I would give him some
very good dawa in the morning.
Next day at noon - when it was my custom
to have evil-doers brought up for judgment - I
asked for Karim Bux, but was told that he was too
ill to walk. I accordingly ordered him to be
carried to my boma, and in a few moments he
arrived in his charpoy, which was shouldered by
four coolies who, I could see, knew quite well
that he was only shamming. There were also
a score or so of his friends hanging around,
doubtless waiting in the expectation of seeing the
"Sahib" hoodwinked. When the bed was placed
on the ground near me, I lifted the blanket with
which he had covered himself and thoroughly
examined him, at the same time feeling him to
make sure that he had no fever. He pretended
to be desperately ill and again asked for dawa;
but having finally satisfied myself that it was as
the jemadar had said - pure budmashi (devilment)
- I told him that I was going to give him some
very effective dawa, and carefully covered him up
again, pulling the blanket over his head. I then
got a big armful of shavings from a carpenter's
bench which was close by, put them under the
bed and set fire to them. As soon as the sham
invalid felt the heat, he peeped over the edge of
the blanket; and when he saw the smoke and
flame leaping up round him, he threw the blanket
from him, sprang from the bed exclaiming
"Beiman shaitan!" ("Unbelieving devil!"), and
fled like a deer to the entrance of my boma,
pursued by a Sikh sepoy, who got in a couple
of good whacks on his shoulders with a stout
stick before he effected his escape. His amused
comrades greeted me with shouts of "Shabash,
Sahib!" ("Well done, sir"), and I never had
any further trouble with Karim Bux. He came
back later in the day, with clasped hands imploring
forgiveness, which I readily granted, as he was a
clever workman.
A few days after this incident I was returning
home one morning from a tree in which I had
been keeping watch for the man-eaters during
the previous night. Coming unexpectedly on the
quarry, I was amazed to find dead silence reigning
and my rascals of workmen all stretched out in
the shade under the trees taking it very easy
- some sleeping, some playing cards. I watched
their proceedings through the bushes for a little
while, and then it occurred to me to give them
a fright by firing my rifle over their heads.
On the report being heard, the scene changed
like magic:
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