“The pony is made—finished—mouthed and paced, Sahib! From now on, day by day, he will lose his manners if he is kept at tricks. Drop the rein on his back and let go,” said the horse-dealer. “We need him.”
“But he is so young, Mahbub—not more than sixteen—is he?”
“When I was fifteen, I had shot my man and begot my man, Sahib.”
“You impenitent old heathen!” Creighton turned to Lurgan. The black beard nodded assent to the wisdom of the Afghan’s dyed scarlet.
“ I should have used him long ago,” said Lurgan. “The younger the better. That is why I always have my really valuable jewels watched by a child. You sent him to me to try. I tried him in every way: he is the only boy I could not make to see things.”
“In the crystal—in the ink-pool?” demanded Mahbub.
“No. Under my hand, as I told you. That has never happened before. It means that he is strong enough—but you think it skittles, Colonel Creighton—to make anyone do anything he wants. And that is three years ago. I have taught him a good deal since, Colonel Creighton. I think you waste him now.”
“Hmm! Maybe you’re right. But, as you know, there is no Survey work for him at present.”
“Let him out—let him go,” Mahbub interrupted. “Who expects any colt to carry heavy weight at first? Let him run with the caravans—like our white camel-colts—for luck. I would take him myself, but—”
“There is a little business where he would be most useful—in the South,” said Lurgan, with peculiar suavity, dropping his heavy blued eyelids.