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to his feet. He was badly bruised, but no bones were broken. The Indians brought him his hat and
stick, but they did not apologise for their carelessness. They looked faintly contemptuous, as though
thinking that he had only got what he deserved. It was conceivable that they had loosened the girth on
purpose.
‘The saddle slipped,’ said Flory in the weak, stupid way that one does at such moments.
‘Why the devil couldn’t you look at it before you got up?’ said Verrall briefly. ‘You ought to know
diese beggars aren’t to be trusted.’
Having said which he twitched his bridle and rode away, feeling the incident closed. The sepoys
followed him without saluting Flory. When Flory reached his gate he looked back and saw that the
chestnut pony had already been caught and re-saddled, and Verrall was tent-pegging upon it.
The fall had so shaken him that even now he could hardly collect his thoughts. What could have
made her behave like that? She had seen him lying bloody and in pain, and she had walked past him
as though he had been a dead dog. How could it have happened? Had it happened? It was incredible.
Could she be angry with him? Could he have offended her in any way? All the servants were waiting
at the compound fence. They had come out to watch the tent-pegging, and every one of them had seen
his bitter humiliation. Ko S’la ran part of the way down the hill to meet him, with concerned face.
‘The god has hurt himself? Shall I carry the god back to the house?’
‘No,’ said the god. ‘Go and get me some whisky and a clean shirt.’
When they got back to the house Ko S’la made Flory sit down on the bed and peeled off his torn
shirt, which the blood had stuck to his body. Ko S’la clicked his tongue.
‘Ah ma lay! These cuts are full of dirt. You ought not to play these children’s games on strange
ponies, thakin. Not at your age. It is too dangerous.’
‘The saddle slipped,’ Flory said.
‘Such games,’ pursued Ko S’la, ‘are all very well for the young police officer. But you are no
longer young, thakin. A fall hurts at your age. You should take more care of yourself.’
‘Do you take me for an old man?’ said Flory angrily. His shoulder was smarting abominably.
‘You are thirty-five, thakin,’ said Ko S’la politely but firmly.
It was all very humiliating. Ma Pu and Ma Yi, temporarily at peace, had brought a pot of some
dreadful mess which they declared was good for cuts. Flory told Ko S’la privately to throw it out of
the window and substitute boracic ointment. Then, while he sat in a tepid bath and Ko S’la sponged
the dirt out of his grazes, he puzzled helplessly, and, as his head grew clearer, with a deeper and
deeper dismay, over what had happened. He had offended her bitterly, that was clear. But, when he
had not even seen her since last night, how could he have offended her? And there was no even
plausible answer.
He explained to Ko S’la several times over that his fall was due to the saddle slipping. But Ko
S’la, though sympathetic, clearly did not believe him. To the end of his days, Flory perceived, the fall
would be attributed to his own bad horsemanship. On the other hand, a fortnight ago, he had won
undeserved renown by putting to flight the harmless buffalo. Fate is even-handed, after a fashion.