ndly but always firmly, he would
have surrendered his life cheerfully at the beck of the white man.

Warrington was an American. He was also one of those men who never
held misfortune in contempt, whose outlook wherever it roamed was
tolerant. He had patience for the weak, resolution for the strong, and
a fearless amiability toward all. He was like the St. Bernard dog,
very difficult to arouse. It is rather the way with all men who are
strong mentally and physically. He was tall and broad and deep. Under
the battered pith-helmet his face was as dark as the Eurasian's; but
the eyes were blue, bright and small-pupiled, as they are with men who
live out-of-doors, who are compelled of necessity to note things moving
in the distances. The nose was large and well-defined. All framed in
a tangle of blond beard and mustache which, if anything, added to the
general manliness of his appearance. He, too, wore khaki, but with the
addition of tan riding-leggings, which had seen anything but
rocking-horse service. The man was yellow from the top of his helmet
to the soles of his shoes--outside. For the rest, he was a mystery, to
James, to all who thought they knew him, and most of all to himself. A
pariah, an outcast, a fugitive from the bloodless hand of the law; a
gentleman born, once upon a time a clubman, college-bred; a
contradiction, a puzzle for which there was not any solution, not even
in the hidden corners of the man's heart. His name wasn't Warrington;
and he had rubbed elbows with the dregs of humanity, and still looked
you straight in the eye because he had come through inferno without
bringing any of the defiling pitch.

From time to time he paused to relight his crumbling cheroot. The
tobacco was strong and bitter, and stung his parched lips; but the
craving for the tang of the smoke on his tongue was not to be denied.

Under his arm he carried a small iron-cage, patterned something like a
rat-trap. It contained a Rajputana parrakeet, not much larger than a
robin, but possessor of a soul as fierce as that of Palladia, minus,
however, the smoothing influence of chivalry. He had been born under
the eaves of the scarlet palace in Jaipur (so his history ran); but the
proximity of Indian princes had left him untouched: he had neither
chivalry, politeness, nor diplomacy. He was, in fact, thoroughly and
consistently bad. Round and round he went, over and over, top-side,
down-side, restlessly. For at this