Perhaps the District Officer judged the worth of the others by the measure of his own testimonial, wherein, being then a "griff" of six months' standing, he had recorded Shunker's name opposite a list of the cardinal virtues, for he set the book aside with a sad smile. Most likely he was thinking that in those days his ambition had been a reality, and his liver an idea, and that now they had changed places. "I am glad to see your son looking so well," he remarked with pointed irrelevance. "I hear you are to marry him next month, and that everything is to be on a magnificent scale. Tôta Mull will be quite eclipsed; though his boy's wedding cost him sixty-five thousand,--he told me so himself. Accept my best wishes on the occasion." "_Huzoor!_ I will give fifteen thou--" British majesty rose gravely with the usual intimation of dismissal, and a remark that it was always gratified at liberality. Shunker Dâs left the presence with his smile thoroughly replaced by a scowl, though his going there had simply been an attempt to save his pocket; for he knew right well that he had not yet filled up the measure of qualification for a _Rai Bâhâdur_-ship. While this interview had been going on, another of a very different nature was taking place outside a bungalow on the other side of the road, where Philip Marsden stood holding the rein of his charger and talking to Mahomed Lateef, whose pink-nosed pony was tied to a neighbouring tree. The old man, in faded green turban and shawl, showed straight and tall even beside the younger man's height and soldierly carriage. "_Sahib_," he said, "I am no beggar to whine at the feet of a stranger for alms. I don't know the _sahib_ over yonder whose verandah, as you see, is crowded with such folk. They come and go too fast these _sahibs_, nowadays; and I am too old to tell the story of my birth. If it is forgotten, it is forgotten. But you know me, Allah be praised! You feel my son's blood there on your heart where he fell fighting beside you! Which of the three was it? What matter? They all died fighting. And this one is Benjamin; I cannot let him go. He is a bright boy, and will give brains, not blood, to the Sirkar, if I can only get employment for him. So I come to you, who know me and mine." Philip Marsden laid his hand on the old man's shoulder. "That is true. Khân _sahib_. What is it I can do for you?" "There is a post vacant in the office, _Huzoor!_ It is not much, but a small thing is a great gain in our poor house. The boy could stay at home, and not see the women starve. It is only writing-work, and thanks to the old mullah, Murghub Admed is a real _khush nawis_ (penman). Persian and Arabic, too, and Euclidus, and Algebra; all a true man should know. If you would ask the _sahib_." "I'll go over now. No, no, _Khân sahib!_ I am too young, and you are too old."