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 got a horse for you. Oh, I 'm so glad you 've come, dear. You 're a Punjabi, too, you know."

"Steady, Lizzie," said Hawkins, over his shoulder. "We 'll look after you, Miss Martyn. 'Sorry I can't ask you to breakfast, Martyn. You '11 have to eat as you go. Leave two of your men to help Scott. These poor devils can't stand up to load carts. Saunders" (this to the engine-driver, who was half asleep in the cab), "back down and get those empties away. You 've 'line clear' to Anundrapillay; they 'll give you orders north of that. Scott, load up your carts from that B. P. P. truck, and be off as soon as you can. The Eurasian in the pink shirt is your interpreter and guide. You 'll find an apothecary of sorts tied to the yoke of the second wagon. He 's been trying to bolt; you 'll have to look after him. Lizzie, drive Miss Martyn to camp, and tell them to send the red horse down here for me."

Scott, with Faiz Ullah and two policemen, was already busied with the carts, backing them up to the truck and unbolting the sideboards quietly, while the others pitched in the bags of millet and wheat. Hawkins watched him for as long as it took to fill one cart. "That 's a good man," he said. "If all goes well I shall work him hard." This was Jim Hawkins's notion of the highest compliment one human being could pay another.

An hour later Scott was under way; the apothecary threatening him with the penalties of the law for that he, a member of the Subordinate Medical Department, had been coerced and bound against his will and all