Montgomery District Headquarters was built for routine authority—tax rolls, police complaints, irrigation quarrels, and the kind of paperwork that kept a province quiet enough to extract revenue from it.
It was not built for a month like this.
The corridors still smelled of ink and dust, but the air carried an additional tension now: the feeling that decisions made in Montgomery were being read, weighed, and judged in Lahore. A ceiling fan turned above Deputy Commissioner Harrington's desk with a steady, exhausted rhythm, pushing warm air around files stacked like small barricades.
Harrington had not asked Mr. Jinnah to come to the Lodge by the lake—because the Lodge was Jinnah's private property and Harrington knew his place in matters of rank and optics. This conversation was administrative; it belonged in the district office, under the Crown's paperwork, where any observer could later say, the district acted under authority.
Even so, Harrington felt the familiar tightening in his chest as the clerk announced him.
"Mr. Jinnah is here, sir."
Harrington rose immediately.
"Send him in," he said—and checked himself, then added, "Please."
Jinnah entered without hurry.
He carried himself like a man who did not have to prove authority, because authority followed him into rooms. His Privy Council membership was not something he wore on his sleeve, but it shaped the posture of every official who faced him. Harrington had dealt with generals, politicians, and Unionist landlords; Jinnah was different. He did not threaten. He simply made foolishness look expensive.
Harrington gestured to the chair opposite with a measured courtesy.
"Thank you for coming, Mr. Jinnah."
Jinnah sat. "Of course."
Harrington waited until the door was shut. Then he reached into a file and pulled out a telegram—folded, creased, and handled as if it were both praise and trap. He placed it on the desk, not shoved, but offered, like a document for counsel's review.
"Lahore has sent their view," Harrington said.
Jinnah did not touch the telegram. "Go on."
Harrington's voice remained careful—professional, respectful.
"The Governor's observers report the distribution was… exemplary," he said. "Strictly Crown. Apolitical. No banners. No speeches. Village-by-village, controlled numbers, verified lists, thumb impressions where needed. Chain-of-custody maintained at the police station."
Jinnah's expression did not change, but his eyes sharpened slightly.
"And?"
"And they noted the order," Harrington continued. "They noted your men—your Farabis—maintained it with minimal force. No abuse. No shouting. Local youth were used as helpers. Political interference was neutralized verbally before it became a rally."
Jinnah's gaze stayed steady. "They approved, then."
"They approved," Harrington confirmed. "The Governor is treating it as a test case. He has sent me a commendation and… guidance for replication."
He hesitated a fraction before adding, "He also sent a warning. Any hint of political theatre and Lahore will shut it down."
Jinnah gave a small, almost imperceptible nod—as if he had expected nothing else.
Harrington exhaled quietly, then leaned forward a little.
"Mr. Jinnah," he said, "this is the reason I asked to see you. Lahore is satisfied with the first demonstration. Now they are asking a question that, in practice, lands in my lap."
Jinnah waited.
"Can the same order be maintained," Harrington asked, "across all ten villages—consistently—without incident?"
His tone was polite. The question itself was not.
Jinnah answered with equal calm.
"Not with the manpower we currently have."
Harrington's shoulders settled, as if he had been bracing for that exact response.
"How much do you require?" he asked.
Jinnah replied like a man stating the minimum staffing for a system to function.
"Minimum. Thirty additional men," he said.
Harrington's mouth tightened—not disapproval, but the instinctive discomfort of an administrator hearing the word increase.
"I understand," Harrington said carefully. "My concern is entirely the optics and the limits Lahore has made explicit."
"Then keep it within those limits," Jinnah said. "Personnel, not weapons. Discipline, not display."
Harrington nodded once. "Yes. That is precisely my question. You are asking for more personnel—correct?"
"Correct."
Harrington's voice softened slightly—less formal, more candid.
"I must be explicit, Mr. Jinnah. I cannot authorize anything that resembles a private armed force."
Jinnah's tone remained controlled. "I am not asking for that."
Harrington allowed himself a fraction of relief.
"Then let me state the conditions as clearly as I can," Harrington said. He did not bark them; he laid them out as a man protecting both the district and his career.
"First: no weapons issued," Harrington said. "No additional rifles, no ammunition stocks, no new arms under any pretext."
Jinnah nodded. "Agreed."
"Second: they operate as auxiliary personnel supporting Crown operations," Harrington continued. "Queue control, escort duties, perimeter observation, clerical protection, offender restraint—only to hand over to police. No punishments. No 'justice.'"
"Understood."
"Third: no insignia that looks like a party or a militia," Harrington said. "Plain uniform, plain conduct. Lahore must see order, not symbolism."
"Agreed," Jinnah repeated.
Harrington paused, then added the real point:
"And if this expansion produces a single scandal—one incident that the press can twist, one political man who can claim we staged a spectacle—I will have no choice but to reduce the program immediately."
Jinnah's gaze remained steady.
"That is reasonable," he said. "A disciplined system does not fear oversight."
Harrington picked up his pen and wrote slowly, deliberately, as if every word needed to survive inquiry. When he finished, he slid the authorization across the desk.
"I will approve twenty," Harrington said. "Temporary. Paid through the restoration fund. Under district oversight. No weapons."
Jinnah took the paper without triumph, only acceptance.
Harrington's posture remained respectful, but his tone carried a trace of practical anxiety.
"Mr. Jinnah," he said, "you must understand—Lahore's approval is conditional, and the Governor's observers will return."
Jinnah stood and adjusted his gloves.
"They can watch," he said. "Watching keeps people honest."
Harrington hesitated, then spoke more personally—still deferential, but direct.
"I will admit something," he said. "The observers' notes emphasized that your men speak the villagers' language and still believe in Crown authority. That combination is not common."
Jinnah's reply was quiet.
"Then cultivate it," he said.
Harrington nodded, then added—careful, almost reluctant, but also respectful of the truth.
"The Governor asked me to tell you this," Harrington said. "In private, he was… pleased."
Jinnah's eyes narrowed slightly. "He said that."
Harrington allowed himself a small, controlled smile.
"In private correspondence," he said, "he called you 'Muhammad.'"
Jinnah's expression softened by a fraction—an indication of an existing familiarity that Harrington could sense but never claim.
"And he signed," Harrington continued, "as 'George.'"
Jinnah gave the faintest nod, acknowledging the private naming without indulging it.
Harrington rose again as Jinnah moved toward the door.
"Mr. Jinnah," Harrington said, "thank you—for your counsel."
Jinnah paused, then looked back.
"You are welcome," he replied. "And Harrington—keep it clean. The method works only if it remains boring."
Harrington's smile was thin. "I've built my career on boring."
"Good," Jinnah said, and left.
When the door closed, Harrington returned to his desk and stared at the authorization's duplicate copy. Outside the window, Montgomery continued to look like a normal district town.
But in the ledgers, and in Lahore's telegrams, it was becoming something else: a test case.
And Harrington knew the rule of test cases.
If it succeeded, the Crown would claim it as its own invention.
If it failed, the district office would absorb the blame.
He reached for the bell.