He was wise, and did not speak; but he irritated me with his nervous servility. One would think that I was violent--I am not. I never kicked him, nor threatened to shoot him, or anything. Moreover, I even went so far as to tell the Armenian to explain to him, for he could not speak English, that I should _not_ tear him into small pieces and grind his bones to powder, unless he tried to cheat me again. He pretended to smile, but I do not think he believed me. The roast fowl was tough: but, no, I did not tell him. What was the good? There is no satisfaction in saying: “In murgh bisyar sakht ast.” But if I had flung down my knife and fork with much noise on to my plate, turned round on him suddenly--how he would have jumped--and said, “Behold! Oh thing, born in iniquity; this fowl is as tough as leather.” There would have been something satisfying in that; but I did not. He would not have understood, and would have said, “Bôt achcha, Sahib.” So I breathed a sigh through my clenched teeth, and ate a macaroon. [Sidenote: Effect of a Cold in the Head.] I thought I would have a cigarette after tiffin, and I reached to the fireplace for a piece of charcoal: of course, I picked it up by the hot end, that is just what anyone would do when he had a cold. Then the Armenian came back from his ride, and, because it was an impossibility for me to get any more revolver cartridges, he had been firing off my revolver. But that was not all; he must needs add insult to injury. “This revolver is not good,” he said. I asked, with deadly calm, “Perhaps you would be kind enough to explain _why_ this revolver is not good?” “It does not make noise enough,” he said. “If you expect a revolver to make as much noise as a home-made rifle that nearly kicks its owner off into space, all I can say is, your expectation exceeds your intellect.” But I don’t think he followed me in this line of delicate sarcasm, because he merely said, “I shot at a crow.” “_Did_ you?” I said; “I hope you apologised.” Then that cook brought some wood for the fire; but he crept cautiously to look through the doorway and see if I was quiet before he ventured in. I saw him, the villain. I am not a wild beast. Am I a wild beast? He came in again, and he tried English this time. “Sahib, I want tea?” he said, in a trembling voice. The maniac wished to inquire whether _I_ wanted tea. I thought, “Shall I?--shall I chill his marrow, and make his flesh creep?” but I didn’t. I merely said “Yes.”