Sher Singh smiled. He tossed his revolver in the air and caught it by the handle. He took careful aim at an empty sardine can and fired another six shots. The bullets went through into the earth kicking up whiffs of dust. His Alsatian dog, Dyer, began to whine with excitement. He leapt up with a growl and ran down the canal embankment. He sniffed at the tin and pawed it gingerly to make sure that it was dead, then picked it up in his mouth and shook it from side to side. He ran back with it and laid it at his master’s feet.

‘Why waste good bullets on tin cans and trees? What have they done to us?’ asked another member of the party.

‘That is why I say we should have a baptism in blood,’ repeated the little boy.

‘We will have our blood baptism when the time comes,’ replied Sher Singh pompously. ‘Let us be prepared for action. When duty calls, we will not be found wanting.’

‘Brother, it is an old Hindu custom to baptize weapons before using them. Our ancient warriors used to dip their swords in a tray of goat’s blood and lay them before Durga, Kali or Bhavani or whatever name the goddess of destruction was known by. We should keep up the tradition.’

Sher Singh could not make up his mind. He had never killed anything before. Even the sight of a headless chicken spouting blood as it fluttered about had made him turn cold with horror. He had been full of loathing for the cook who had wrenched off the fowl’s head, and had given up eating meat of any kind for some months. But this was different. They were training to become terrorists. They had to learn how to take life—to become tough. He more than the others, because he was their leader.

‘My gun is thirsty,’ went on the little boy. ‘If it can’t get the blood of an Englishman or a toady it must drink that of some animal or bird.’

There was a general murmur of assent. Only Sher Singh was reluctant. ‘You don’t want to smear the blood of a jackal or a crow on your guns, do you? What else can you find this time of the year? The shooting season closed two months ago.’

‘We will find something or other round about the swamp,’ assured Madan. ‘There may be deer coming to drink. Perhaps a duck or two which could not migrate.’

That decided him finally. Madan was the strong man of the University. He had won his colours in many games and had played cricket for his province. His performance against a visiting English side—he had carried his bat after scoring a century—had made him a local hero. He had brought the other boys with him and would have been the leader of the band except that he knew little of politics. And it was Sher Singh, and not he, who had arranged the smuggling of rifles and hand grenades from across the frontier. Although Sher Singh had assumed the leadership of the group, Madan was its backbone. He was both Sher Singh’s chief supporter and rival: one whose presence was an encouragement and a challenge at the same time.