CHAPTER XIX 



RAM SHEIK, THE COOK. 



PAUL stands at the door of my tent. " Does the 

 Count Sahib wish for tea ? It is nearly five 

 o'clock." 



" Bring it at once." 



" The cook has baked some maize cakes." 

 " Botheration take the maize cakes ! " 

 I always get into a rage when I think of my faute 

 de mieux. Begging your pardon, Madame di 

 Philippi ! 



And yet he has never done me any harm on the 

 contrary, he is only too anxious to please me. Is it 

 his face that aggravates me, or his nose, or his two 

 thumbs on the right hand with which he kneads the 

 dough ? or what is it ? None of my men like him 

 either ; they call him " Pakka," the Indian equiva- 

 lent for "first-class," because he boasts of being 

 the best cook in Srinagar. He calls himself Ram 

 Sheik when he is cooking for Indians, and Anton 

 when he is cooking for Europeans. On the latter 

 occasions he makes a fine show of having been con- 



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