THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS
had been caught by a split-reed screen that hung on a slew between the verandah pillars, and, mechanically, he had tweaked the edge to set it level. Old Chinn had sworn three times a day at that screen for many years; he could never get it to his satisfaction. His son entered the anteroom in the middle of a fivefold silence. They made him welcome for his father's sake and, as they took stock of him, for his own. He was ridiculously like the portrait of the Colonel on the wall, and when he had washed a little of the dust from his throat he went to his quarters with the old man's short, noiseless jungle-step.
"So much for heredity," said the Major. "That comes of four generations among the Bhils."
"And the men know it," said a Wing officer. "They 've been waiting for this youth with their tongues hanging out. I am persuaded that, unless he absolutely beats 'em over the head, they 'll lie down by companies and worship him."
"Nothin' like havin' a father before you," said the Major. "I 'm a parvenu with my chaps. I 've only been twenty years in the regiment, and my revered parent he was a simple squire. There 's no getting at the bottom of a Bhil's mind. Now, why is the superior bearer that young Chinn brought with him fleeing across country with his bundle?" He stepped into the verandah, and shouted after the man—a typical new-joined subaltern's servant who speaks English and cheats in proportion.
"What is it?" he called.
"Plenty bad man here. I going, sar," was the
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