A CUT-THROAT AT PLAY

Hokitika Guardian, 19 March 1928, Page 1

A CUT-THROAT AT PLAY

(By the special correspondent, Sir Percivtil Phillips, in the “Daily Mail.”) PESHAWAR. (North-West Frontier). Meet a Patlian in the high and mournful hills beyond the Khyber and the elinnc.es are he will cut your throat as cheerfully as pass the time of day. Aat the best he will weigh professionally tlfe pros and cons of highway robbery—a natural instinct—and regard murder as a mere incident in the proceedings. But see him at tlie Posh aval" ••.res or amusing himself in what is the Ratlin u equivalent to a week-end at Brighton, and he is a harmless and rather attractive ruffian. His vices sit lightly on him and he confronts the West with a fine swagger in which tolerance and defiance are about equally mixed. Beyond everything he is a man. It is a relief to "the traveller who has come up from the plains of India, where the sun saps the vitality of her children, to leave behind the spineless, fawning creatures one finds in Bengal and to encounter these fine, tall hillnten, with tlieir damn-your-eyes stare of inspection and tlie bearing of a king among his subjects. They are incredibly dirty and unpleasant at close range, but they wear their ragged garments with a sat age dignity that demands respect. Even a cut-throat lias his time for play. At such a time he can be detected if you are a close observer — gazing with undisguised longing at a native bookmaker who fondles his open satchel of rupee notes on the other side of a very necessary barrier. I have even seen him give what is known in some circles as “the onceover” to a payer-out of sweepstake prize money, much as the head man in an abattoir might survey his next batch of unwilling clients. At such a moment his traditional devotion to the business of loot and his indifference to the human element involved are really sinister. But nothing ever happens. He cuts his losses like any gentleman at Rempton Park, and the unconscious objects ol his regard never know that the shadow of death has hovered over themHe lends picturesque novelty to the races. These gymkhanas help break tlie monotony of garrison life o® the

unliospitable North-West Frontier. They bring together the little European colony, with its assorted horses and gentlemen riders, in a. cheerfully informal atmosphere which \s lacking at race meetings nearer home. On one side of a somewhat ragged course is a little bit of England; tweeds, gloves-in-hand. a scattering of monocles, silk stockings, smart frocks, and easy gossip. Across the way, watching it all with a gleam of satirical amusement in bis glowing eyes, lounges vonr Patlian. He leans carelessly on tlie decrepit railing, commenting to lii< hairy neighbour on the smart Indian pipers in green tunics that play themselves briskly up and down between the races or the scarlet band of brass that awaits its turn before the tea tables. He misses nothing of the shifting scene, yet seems carelessly aloof—until he sees a horse. Then the arguments over form would do credit to any gang of professional backers on an English course. Your Patlian likes a flutter—and he likes to win. He follows the horses with his hawk’s eyes as thy come home, perhaps tugging excitedly at his henna-red heard, and if his favourite is first he scrambles towards the paying-out window, waving his ticket triumphantly in the air. His sense of humour is keen but grim. Like the Chinese, misfortune makes him laugh—when it is the otlici man’s. I saw a group of these hairy highwaymen enjoy what to them was an exquisite joke at the Afghan frontier. The solitary sentry on the Afghan side of the barrier baited himself into blind fury because some amateur photographers in India wanted him in their snapshots.

The Afghan was a dusty youth in ill-fitting drab uniform and a comic little grey felt hat, the brim of which was pulled over his receding forehead. He looked more like an over-grown Boy Scout than a real soldier. The Pathans for whom he provided a Roman holiday were on the Indian side of the barrier. As tile photographers stalked him with tlieir cameras the sentry tried to take cover behind his Indian comrade. But he had to walk his post, and whenever he emerged—elicit went the shutters. His eyes blazed with anger and he screamed protests to the sympathetic but amused sentry in India, two feet away. How the Pathans laughed! They dislike being photographed themselves, but the discomfiture of someone else was another matter.