forests, vaulting crumbling basalt ridges and twisted mountain peaks, until, finally overtaking the princess cavalcade and traveling well ahead of it, it reached the ear of Babu Bansi who, just then, was on the point of leaving Tamerlanistan and going to Bokhara to meet his eccentric employer, Mr. Preserved Higgins.
Bansi winked a large wink at nothing in particular.
“Al Nakia”—he said—“'The Expected' Says 'Damn!' Is strong and quick and courageous! By Kartikeya Chaurya-Vidya, God of the Golden Spears! But this is jolly rippin' interesting!”
Whereupon he sent a cabalistic telegram to a mysterious address in Bokhara—a telegram which was opened by a Cockney millionaire who turned to the young, nervous Englishman with him with the words: “Theres a whole lot o blinkin' trouble in the wind; we got to go South straight orf!” a telegram which caused the local manager of the Cable Company a fruitless and head-splitting searching through half-a-dozen cable code books—and told his body servant that he had changed his mind.
He was not going North, to Bokhara, but West, toward the Persian border.
“But, Babu-jee! expostulated the servant, “the raiders are out in force, cutting purses—also throats; and the governor of the western marches is said to be in league with them, and …”
“Peace, O son of loathly begetting!” purred Bansi. “I was not born yesterday. I can hear the grass grow and the fleas cough!”
And he mounted his horse and, followed by the trembling servant, was off at a spanking pace and,
