‘If Sahib assigns me this duty, I will carry it out. I should have thought this sort of job is more for a policeman than for a magistrate.’

Taylor relit his pipe; it did not need relighting. Could he make the suggestion directly or would Buta Singh take offence? ‘Buta Singh, I wasn’t thinking of official action. These chaps are obviously some young hotheads who have got a little worked up. If we knew who they were, we could keep an eye on them and save them from their own acts. Even talk to them in a friendly way.’

Buta Singh realized what Taylor was driving at; he kept his eyes fixed on his feet.

‘Don’t misunderstand me, Buta Singh,’ said Taylor quickly. ‘I am not suggesting anything dishonourable. Your son could do a good service to his friends and his country. You know we are anxious to get out of India and hand over the reins of power to you people as soon as the war is won. But we will not leave the country to the Japanese or the Germans. And these acts are calculated to do just that—hand over India on a silver platter to the Fascist powers.’

Buta Singh did not look up.

‘I seem to have upset you, Buta Singh; I am sorry. Let’s forget about it. I’ll let the Police Commissioner handle it in his own way.’

‘I will speak to my son, sir,’ answered Buta Singh at last.

‘No, no, don’t. Just forget about the whole affair.’ Taylor got up abruptly and shook hands. Just as Buta Singh was going out of the room, he called him back. ‘Oh, I almost forgot. Last time your son came to see me, he asked for a licence for a rifle. I have made one out for him. Give this to him with my compliments. Goodbye. And don’t bother about what I said.’

Chapter VIII