'It doesn't take Grigson long to figure out that something isn't quite kosher about this Lutchman kid; something doesn't fit, he doesn't know what. All they've said to each other is stuff like, "Like some tea, sir?" and, "Right on, Lutch, start pouring," but Grigson doesn't miss a trick. Something about the way Lutchman speaks makes him curious: he begins to wonder about this guy.

'He tries a little experiment: instead of calling him "bearer" or "boy" or "hey you" or whatever, he suddenly calls out "Lutchman".

'He notes in his diary that there's just this instant's delay before Lutchman responds: just that additional nanosecond it takes when someone responds to a name that's not really their own. Now Grigson's sure his name's not really Lutchman: he's changed it to make it look like he's from the area. Grigson's got it figured that this is one of the commonest names there is, except that what's "Lutchman" in one place is Laakhan somewhere else and Lokhkhon in another place, and Lakshman in still another: depending on which part of the country you're from.

'That evening he asks Ron, "What's the story on this Lutchman? Is he from around here?" Ron's just got in from eight straight hours staring at the lining of mosquitoes' stomachs. He's not in the mood for small talk. He says: "Never asked. Guess he is from around here."

"Is that right?" says Grigson. "But the way he says his unvoiced labials and retroflex dentals, he sounds like he's from much further north."

"You don't say," yawns Ron: he's asking himself where this nerd blew in from. "Golly gee! Think I'll go and see if I can get a game of tennis." He goes off into the wings yelling, "Tennis anyone?"

'By this time its not just Lutchman's retroflex dentals that Grigson's interested in: he's developing a personal interest in getting behind his labials. Next morning Lutchman brings him his morning cup of tea while he's still in bed. Grigson sees his chance: OK, he says to himself, go for it. He lets his hand linger on Lutchman's arm as he takes his cup of tea; a moment later he's holding Lutchman's hand. And now he notices a cute little detail about Lutchman: his left hand's only got four fingers and no thumb. But it's like he doesn't need one either: he's got his index finger curled around so it functions like a thumb.

'Grigson gets a real rush from the thumb-that-wasn't.

He gives it a rub. "Hey there, Lutch," he says, patting his bed. "What's the hurry, sit yourself down here and let's visit for a while." All this time Grigson's making like he can only speak pidgin Hindustani, like every other Englishman in India.

'Lutchman gives him this searching look, like he's trying to suss him out. That's OK with Grigson: he's going wow, this new deodorant really works. Then they hear Ron, shouting from his room: "Hey you, bearer, where's my tea?"

'Lutchman jumps up and sprints off. Grigson decides he'll try again later. He keeps an eye on Lutchman and gets a fix on where he lives: he notes he's got a big metal lantern hanging in his window, back in the servants' quarters.

'That night there's a party at the Secunderabad Club. Grigson goes, but he sneaks away early; says he has a headache; he wants to go back to the bungalow. They arrange a ride for him; he goes back; he stuffs a couple of pillows under his mosquito net and sneaks out.

'It's dark, there's no moon. It's the monsoon: the yard's turned to mud. Grigson sloshes on, towards the servants' quarters. All he can see of the outbuildings is a long, looming shape in the darkness. He curses under his breath but when he's a little closer he sees a light in a window, a small, bright circle, glowing red. He hitches up his pyjamas and tiptoes over to the window and knocks. Lutchman's face appears; he does a double take and his eyes bug out.

"It's me!" says Grigson. "Just dropped by to see your art collection." Lutchman opens his door and Grigson steps into the room. It's tiny, it smells of clothes and sweat and mustard oil. There's a string bed in a corner, and some clothes hanging from a line. It's very dark. The only light in the room comes from the lamp in the window. Now that he's made it all the way here he wants to get a real eyeful of this dude. But this is no ordinary lamp. It's big, it's strong, it's sturdy, it's got a long handle, and it's got a small circular pane of red glass. Grigson does a double take and then he figures out what it is: it's a standard-issue railway signal lamp. The kind that's used to stop trains at stations. It's not the sort of lamp you can buy at a neighbourhood store: come to think of it, it's probably a federal offence to have one hanging in your window.

'By now Grigson's seriously turned on; he's popping his buttons. But at the same time he's also bursting with curiosity. In fact he's not sure which is the bigger turn-on: making out or finding out.

'He says, in pidgin Hindustani, pointing at the lamp: "What's that?"

'Lutchman plays possum. "What's what?"

"That lamp up there."

"'Oh, that: you know what that is."

"Yeah, but what do you call it?" says Grigson.

"What's with these questions?" says Lutchman. He's speaking pidgin Hindustani too, so Grigson's having trouble drawing a bead on it.

"'I'm just curious," says Grigson.

"Why?" says Lutchman. "Did you come all the way out here to ask me these dumb questions?"

'"No," says Grigson. "I'm just curious, that's all."

'''Curious about what?"

'"About words."

'"You mean you want to know what it's called?"

'"Yeah," says Grigson. "That's right."

'''Why didn't you say so?" says Lutchman. "It's called a lantern."

'And that was when Grigson knew. He knew because Lutchman didn't pronounce the word as he should have if he really was from where he said he was. What he said was "lalten".

'So Grigson gives him a smile, and says, speaking to him in his own dialect: "So your name is really Laakhan, isn't it? Isn't that how they say it where you're from?"

'The minute he says that word, Lutchman's face goes into rigor mortis. But Grigson doesn't notice; he's busy congratulating himself on his infallible ear. He wags a finger at Lutchman: "Can't fool me," he says. "I've got you natives figured: I know exactly where every single one of you belongs. Those loan words will give you away every time."

'Now, suddenly, Lutchman makes his move. He snatches up his lantern and says, "Come on, follow me."

'''Where to?" says Grigson, but Lutchman's already out the door. Grigson starts running too.

'Happens that Secunderabad, like many British cantonment towns, is a big railway hub. The station's not far from Ross's bungalow: in fact the shunting yard is just a couple of hundred feet from the bottom of the garden. But Grigson's new in town and he's not wise to this. He's running real hard, chasing after Lutchman's red light. He's panting; endorphins are popping in his head like champagne bubbles. He's not in good shape; he gets more and more disoriented the harder he runs.

'He's giving it everything he's got, but the lantern's always just a little bit ahead, bobbing, turning, twisting: it seems to be leading him somewhere. It's very dark; the glow of the lantern is the only thing Grigson can see. He's not sure where he is, but he knows he's not running on grass any more: this is gravel under his feet. He can hear something ringing on metal. But he can't trust what he hears; he's exhausted, his ears are pounding.

'Then he hears a sound that nearly splits his eardrums: it's a whistle. He looks back and suddenly it's like the movies were just invented and he's sitting in the front row: a locomotive is bearing down on him, snorting clouds of steam. He panics and starts running between the tracks; he's set to become roadkill. But in the last half second he manages to jump: the fenders miss him by a fraction of an inch.