No soldier, and particularly no irregular, likes to consider himself a pipe-clayed ornament; but Cunningham would have "gone sick" had he had the least idea of what was in store for him.
It was bad enough to be obliged to act as body-guard to men who had jockeyed him away because they were jealous of him.

The white scar that ran now like a chin-strap mark from the corner of his eye to the angle of his jaw would blaze red often at some deliberately thought-out, not fancied, insult from men who should have been too big to more than notice him.

And that, again, was nothing to the climax.
Mahommed Gunga chose to polish up his silver spurs and ride in from his "estates" on a protracted visit to Peshawur, and with an escort that must have included half the zemindars on the countryside as well as his own small retinue.

Glittering on his own account like a regiment of horse, and with all but a regiment clattering behind him, he chose the occasion to meet Cunningham when the youngster was fuming with impatience opposite the club veranda, waiting to escort a general.
On the veranda sat a dozen men who had been at considerable pains to put and keep the officer of the escort in his place.

If the jingle and glitter of the approaching cavalcade had not been sufficient to attract their notice, they could have stopped their cars and yet have been forced to hear the greeting.
"Aha! Salaam sahib! Chota-Cunnigan-bahadur, bohut salaam! Thy father's son! Sahib, I am much honored!" The white scar blazed, but Mahommed Gunga affected not to notice the discomfort of his victim.