moved his feet one over the other like a bear.
I could hardly see whether he walked or
crawled—this rag-wrapped, whining cripple
who addressed me by name, crying that he
was come back. “Can you give me a
drink?” he whimpered. “For the Lord’s
sake, give me a drink!”

I went back to the office, the man following
with groans of pain, and I turned up the
lamp.

“Don’t you know me?” he gasped, dropping
into a chair, and he turned his drawn
face, surmounted by a shock of gray hair, to
the light.

I looked at him intently. Once before had
I seen eyebrows that met over the nose in an
inch-broad black band, but for the life of me
I could not tell where.

“I don’t know you,” I said, handing him
the whiskey. “What can I do for you?”

He took a gulp of the spirit raw, and shivered
in spite of the suffocating heat.

“I’ve come back,” he repeated; “and I
was the King of Kafiristan—me and Dravot