Boy as he
was, there flashed through his easy-going brain some vague unformed
recognition of the unshifting national responsibility which weighs
upon the shoulders of the greatest and the least. He understood,
though not clearly, that he and his three comrades had dragged
themselves and their race in the mud at the feet of a foreigner, and
with that shock of understanding came the desire to vindicate himself
and the uncounted millions who were linked to him.
"You think badly of us, Rajah Sahib," he said fiercely. "Perhaps you
have a right to do so from what you have seen; but you have not seen
all--no, not nearly all. You've seen us in the soft days when we've
nothing to do but drill recruits and while away the time as best we
can. Think what the monotony means--day after day the same work, the
same faces. Who can blame us if we get slack and ready to do anything
for a change? I know some of us are rotters--especially here in Marut.
Most of us belong to the British Regiment, and are accustomed to
luxury and ease in the old country. I haven't got that excuse--I'm in
the Gurkhas--and what I do I do because I _am_ a rotter. But there are
men who are not. There are men, Rajah Sahib, right up there by the
northern provinces, who are made of steel and iron, real men,
heroes--"
Nehal Singh leaned forward and caught his companion by the arm.
"Heroes?" he said with passionate earnestness. "Heroes?"
Geoffries nodded.
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