An almost invisible wisp of bluish smoke whiffed out of a cranny among the rocks of the spur opposite to the spot whence the mule had jumped. An Afridi sniper, who possessed the treasure of a Martini Henry rife, had got the range of the rock against which had clicked the bullet that had disturbed the Syed’s reveries. Two astounded mule-drivers halted and peered over the precipice at the huddle form of Wazir Ali. One of them shrieked in agony. The sniper’s second bullet had ploughed through his shoulder. Oaths and orders rang along the narrow defile as the luckless mule drivers held up the following half of the column. A red-tabbed captain of transport shoved his way up through the ruckus. “Push on!” he ordered and the column gradually picked up pace but every so often, a man or an animal got nicked – at the precise spot whence Wazir Ali’s mule had plunged to its death. A messenger, sprinting back through the crawling train of transport, took a request for a mountain gun to dislodge the snipers. Meanwhile, a score of soldiers did their best as they shot at the crannies and the whiffs or smoke. All this time Wazir Ali lay senseless and motionless on the projecting boulder. The Captain took a couple of steps forward and peered down over the ledge at Wazir Ali. “Who is that man?” he asked. “Is he dead?” Burke, the staff sergeant looked over the precipice, shook his head and turned to the men who lay firing at the smoke wreaths. “Any of you men know who that native is?” he called to them. Barney Corcoran pushed his huge shoulders over the ledge, and peered down at the huddled wisp of white and khaki. Then he sprang to his feet. “Why, sergeant!” said he. “It’s Wazir Ali-the coffee shop wallah.” Sergeant Burke turned to the captain. “Wazir Ali of Peshawar, sir. Good sort, if you don’t mind my saying it, sir – good to the men —.” Corcoran and five of the other soldiers who clustered behind the sergeant, sprang to attention.

“Ould Wazir Ali sir,” blurted out Corcoran apologetically. “If you’d let us be fetching him up, sir, the men’s willing …….” Captain Blake thought for a moment. Wazir Ali though only a native and a shop keeper at that, was, nevertheless, Wazir Ali the coffee shop wallah, the man who left his big comfortable home and stores at Peshawar whenever the Frontier tribes started a war, and followed the troops through thick and thin over every trail in the Frontier, selling English pickles and sardines and jams and all the other succulent delights of a soldier’s mess, from tinned milk to pink sausages. “All right, men,” said Blake, looking down the face of the precipice. “Which of you can fly?” “Not me, sor!” chuckled Corcoran. But it was Corcoran with his huge bulk who squatted as anchor; Dunne, who was a light weight, went over the ledge to rescue Wazir Ali. Mooney, Jackson, Boyle, and Heffernan stood by to slack and haul; Mooney was the only one hit during the five minutes the recue lasted. Nicked on the ear he swore loudly and profanely till he was menaced and upbraided by Sergeant Burke for using “language” in the presence of his superior officer.