So did his father
before him, who was Deputy-Commissioner of Jullundur in my father's time
when I rode with the Gurgaon Rissala. _My_ father? Jwala Singh. A Sikh of
Sikhs--he fought against the English at Sobraon and carried the mark to
his death. So we were knit as it were by a blood-tie, I and my Kurban
Sahib. Yes, I was a trooper first--nay, I had risen to a Lance-Duffadar, I
remember--and my father gave me a dun stallion of his own breeding on that
day; and _he_ was a little baba, sitting upon a wall by the parade-ground
with his ayah--all in white, Sahib--laughing at the end of our drill. And
his father and mine talked together, and mine beckoned to me, and I
dismounted, and the baba put his hand into mine--eighteen--twenty-five--
twenty-seven years gone now--Kurban Sahib--my Kurban Sahib! Oh, we were
great friends after that! He cut his teeth on my sword-hilt, as the saying
is. He called me Big Umr Singh--Buwwa Umwa Singh, for he could not speak
plain. He stood only this high, Sahib, from the bottom of this truck, but
he knew all our troopers by name--every one.... And he went to England,
and he became a young man, and back he came, lilting a little in his walk,
and cracking his finger-joints--back to his own regiment and to me. He had
not forgotten either our speech or our customs. He was a Sikh at heart,
Sahib. He was rich, open-handed, just, a friend of poor troopers, keen-
eyed, jestful, and careless.
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