It was strong and fierce, thin and clean-cut--marred only, in his estimation, by the funny little tuft of hair on the lower lip.

He liked the wavy, rough, up-turned moustache, but not that silly tuft.

How nice he would look with his hair cut, his lower lip shaved, and his ridiculous silks, velvet, and lace exchanged for a tweed shooting-suit or cricketing-flannels! How Grumper, Father, Major Decies, and even Khodadad Khan and the sepoys would have laughed at the get-up.

Nay, they would have blushed for the fellow--a Sahib, a gentleman--to tog himself up so! The boy also liked the man's voice when he turned towards the tent and called:-- "Lubin, you drunken dog, come hither," a call which brought forth a servant-like person, who, by reason of his clean-shaven face and red nose, reminded the boy of Pattern the coachman.
He wore a dark cloth suit, cotton stockings, shoes that had neither laces nor buttons, but fastened with a kind of strap and buckle, and, queer creature, a big Eton collar! "Sword and horse, rascal," said the gentleman, "and warn Digby for duty.

Bring me wine and a manchet of bread." The man bowed and re-entered the tent, to emerge a moment later bearing _the Sword_.
How the cut-steel hilt sparkled and shone! How bright and red the leather scabbard--now black, dull, cracked and crumbling.