# Benefit of Doubt/Chapter 3
### CHAPTER III.
#### “I'll prove to you there's not much wrong with Mahommed Babar.”

Ommony being official overlord of half-a-million acres of forest and stream, he and King travelled in a compartment all to themselves. Characteristically Ommony asked no questions. Their car was cut off, bunted and shunted from one track to another. They smoked, said little and were fed from lukewarm tin cans at intervals by servants who climbed monkey-fashion along the foot-board for two long days and three longer nights. And at last they left the train at dawn at a station kept by one lone babu, who was station master, telegrapher, freight agent, porter and every other thing. He looked glad to see Ommony and told him the gossip of the line, which was mainly about sudden death, that being Moplah country.
A decrepit tonga waited, drawn by two nags not yet quite old enough for pension, and driven by a man, most of whose property was on his back (three yards of cotton cloth less wear and tear) and he contented. That tonga was the last link for a while with the life that is smothered under stiff shirts.
“Feels good here,” said King, with his knees nearly up to his chin on the back seat, and the early morning flies making patterns on his sleeves and helmet.
“This is home,” Ommony answered, lighting a cigar beside him, with his heels on piled-up luggage on a level with his head. “I hope to die here, if there's anything in death. Heaven 'll be a forest. Lots to do; lots of time to do it. By George, it's going to be hot among the trees!”
A rut-worn red earth track began to ribbon out behind them. The forest closed in on either hand, and with it the stifling breath of trees with interwoven smells that are an open book to all the animals and some men. Ommony brushed the flies away with a horsetail switch and wallowed in contentment, while the driver tossed back for his consumption snatches of fact—true journalism—a bulletin of forest happenings since Ommony went away.
“There was a little fire near the place where Govind's pony broke a leg two seasons back. Dhyan Singh took a gang from the village and put it out.”
“That shall be remembered.”
“Govind has offended all the gods. It is true that his pony's leg mended, which was wonderful. But the beast was lame, nevertheless, and three days back a panther sprang at twilight.”
“Which panther?” demanded Ommony.
“The black one, sahib, who slew the old boar in the millet patch beyond the charcoal burner's. He slew the pony and ate the throat part——”
“That one always did begin at the throat.”
“As the sahib says. Govind went to see what might yet be recovered. While he was gone Govind's wife ran away with Hir Lal, son of the blacksmith.”
“I warned Govind he would beat that woman once too often.”
“True. I heard the furious names the sahib called him. Mahommed Babar, seeing the sahib was absent, went after Hir Lal and made him give the woman back. Hir Lal recovers, but there is no skin or comfort on the backs of his thighs and loins.”
“Did Mahommed Babar use my riding whip?”
“Surely, sahib. How else should he have authority? He took it from its nail in the sahib's bedroom, daring greatly lest a greater evil happen. And now Mahommed Babar knows not how to mend the broken whip. Nevertheless, Govind has his woman back.”
“What else?”
“Govind beat her. She is as weary of blows as Hir Lal, who is a great rascal.”
“There are others! What else has happened?”
“Shere Ali has changed his hunting ground. He hunts now near the village and the people fear he will kill cattle. So they send six men when the cows go grazing, and work which needs doing is not done, because, though they bring the cows home too early, the six men say they are weary, which is a lie, but who shall prove it?”
“I'll interview Shere Ali!”
“Soon, sahib! Soon! That tiger grows too bold. The wolves have been hunting over Guznee way of late.”
So it went, detail by detail the account of all the little things that, multiplied ad infinitum by the little things of elsewhere, make a world of news.
King screwed himself back into his corner and reveled in the only genuine rest, which is anticipation of the good time coming. Every great natural gift includes the consciousness of spaces in between events. The music of the spheres is not all noise. There are interludes. Only the men who understand true time can leap into action at exactly the right moment.
The forest closed in, and in, until they drove in a golden shaft between walls of darkness. The rank, lush after-monsoon smell had begun to yield to the hot-weather tang that gives birth to fire without rhyme or reason and keeps the naked gangs alert. Suddenly the drive curved and opened into a wide clearing with Ommony's house in the midst and all the evidences of a white man's twenty-year-long vigil in a dark man's country. An obvious bachelor's house. The flowers and vegetables stood in straight, alternate rows. Saddles and such things, polished to perfection, rested on brackets on the front veranda, where three dogs were chained. A boy loosed the dogs as soon as the tonga came in sight, and the next few minutes were a tumult punctuated by shouts of: “Down, sir! Down! Get off my chest!”
There was the first so-called police dog ever imported into India, an Irish wolf-hound nearly as high at the shoulder as a native pony, and the inevitable, quite iniquitous wire-haired terrier.
Then came the servants, observing precedence—butler, hamal, dog-boy, dhobie, sweeper, three gardeners—all salaaming with both hands, and Mahommed Babar standing straight as a ramrod ever to the right because he was of the north and a Moslem and would not submit to comparison with Hindus. He gave the military salute, although he was not in any kind of uniform; and in his left hand, that the world might see he was not afraid, he held the broken riding-whip. Having saluted his master he came to pay homage to King, who promptly shook hands with him.
“Are you satisfied?” King asked him.
“Surely. There is no such sahib as Ommony bahadur. But for these Hindus——”
“But for the night it would be all daytime, wouldn't it!” King answered laughing.
“Sahib, speak a word for me.”
“Are you out of favor?” King answered. “What have you done?”
“Sahib, I am a Moslem of the North, and these——”
“You must face your own music,” King. answered. “I'm your friend to the gallows' side, if need be. I can't save you from yourself.”
“The sahib is still my friend?”
King nodded.
“Enough. I am the sahib's friend.”
King and Ommony went into the shuttered sitting-room, where several thousand faded books in glass cases provided most of the furniture. But there was a tiger-skin on one wall, three deep wicker armchairs, and a desk crowded with papers under lead weights. Through an open door was a view of Ommony's iron bed with its legs set in jam-pots filled with insect-poison. The dogs came and flopped down on the floor with their legs out straight, panting. In his own house at last Ommony opened up.
“Here I am,” he said. “Now. Tell me first why you left the army.”
“Too many things a soldier can't do. Too many over you. They spoil every game by wanting to know at the wrong moment,” King answered.
“How did you solve the money problem?”
“Found an American millionaire, whose passion is pulling plugs. To use his own term, he hired me. I've a free hand.”
“You didn't come all this way just to tell me that,” said Ommony. “Do you want some good advice? There isn't any! I can show you what I consider a good example, but you'll have to be the judge of it.”
“I want information.”
“Ask and it shall be lied unto you. I can give you my opinions about alleged facts. I believe 'em, but I may be as wide of the mark as the pigs that perish.”
“Who's running the ructions here in Moplah country?” King asked. “Who is at the bottom of the chimney, making smoke?”
“Whoever it is has made fire,” Ommony answered. “Moplahs are fanatics. Fire's under 'em. I turned in report a year ago, and was told to mind my forest. I hate to be obedient as much as any man, but I like the forest and don't like politics. Besides, I had broken my own rule, which is never to offer advice. I lay down. If a man comes all this way and asks, he either wants to hear me talk or has something of his own to say; that's different. There's fire under the Moplahs. They'll cut loose soon.”
“Did you go to Poonah to say that?”
“I went on leave because short leave was due. Chose Poonah, although I hate the place, because I knew Fludd would be there. He could do more than any one else to remedy this situation. Accepted dinner at the brute's house. Talked with his wife and daughter, who belong to all the societies for restricting other people. Hoping of course that he would ask for my opinion. He didn't. Here I am again, minus my leave and eight hundred rupees for expenses. All he said on the subject of the Moplahs was that they're sending Judge Wilmshurst to investigate the rumored persecution of Hindus. He thought I'd be pleased to hear it. I didn't try to look pleased, so he changed the subject.”
“And Wilmshurst will bring his wife,” King suggested.
“Undoubtedly. Daren't leave her!”
“D'you care if I use this as head-quarters?” King asked. “Wilmshurst will be intensely legal. He'll hang so many, and imprison so many, adjusting the proportions nicely——”
“And brother Moplah will do the rest!” Ommony agreed. “Headquarters what for? Reception committee? I forbid Mrs. Wilmshurst the house!”
“Plug-pulling campaign. I want to keep the peace in spite of Wilmshurst.”
Ommony laughed, genuinely, making almost no noise but throwing his head back.
“All right. What else?”
“What is the matter with Mahommed Babar?”
“Nothing. He's a first-class man. Between the devil and the deep sea. As the son of his father he wants to stand with us. As a pious Moslem owing money to a Hindu shroff he naturally believes death is the dose for Hindus and now's the time. Why? Has he said anything?”
King repeated what the northerner had said when they arrived. Ommony nodde1.
“He's all right. He's being tempted almost beyond endurance, but I'd rather trust him than Wilmshurst. Have you seen him out with tiger?”
The nearest to tiger-hunting that King had done for years was stalking greased Afridis in the northern mist.
“All right,” said Ommony, “I'll prove to you there's not much wrong with Mahommed Babar. Do us all good. You and I need exercise. Mahommed's nerve may be going if he thinks he needs speaking for—moral nerve. Physically he's harder than either of us. Have to interview Shere Ali anyhow. Fancy any gun from that rack?”
That is as exciting as being invited to choose your own horse out of a bunch. There followed five minutes of absolute delight, Ommony remarking on the virtues of each weapon as King lifted them down in turn. He selected an express.
“Good,” said Ommony with one of his curt nods. “I'd sooner you'd take that than any. Precaution—self-defense; that's all. Stop him if you have to. Shere Ali's in his prime. Preserves the jungle balance. Be a shame to kill him. Are you ready? No, no dogs this trip. No, no shikarris. No, no bearers. Only Mahommed Babar and the jungli.”
The jungli needed no summons. Naked except for a leather belt, he lived, moved and had his being within earshot in hope of a command from Ommony, and, like the dog, followed unless forbidden.