Two hundred-and-three-and-thirty of us all told, including Ranjoor Singh, lined up on the station platform--fit and well and perhaps a little fatter than was seemly.
Having no belongings other than the rifles and knapsacks and what we stood in it took us but a few moments to entrain.

Almost at once the engine whistled and we were gone, wondering whither.

Some of the troopers shouted to Ranjoor Singh to ask our destination, but he affected not to hear.

The German staff officer rode in the front compartment alone, and Ranjoor Singh rode alone in the next behind him; but they conversed often through the window, and at stations where the two of them got out to stretch their legs along the platform they might have been brothers-in-blood relating love-affairs.
Our troopers wondered.
"Our fox grows gray," said they, "and his impudence increases." "Would it help us out of this predicament," said I, "if he smote that German in the teeth and spat on him ?" They laughed at that and passed the remark along from window to window, until I roared at them to keep their heads in.

There were seven of us non-commissioned officers, and we rode in one compartment behind the officers' carriage, Gooja Singh making much unpleasantness because there was not enough room for us all to lie full length at once.