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+The Project Gutenberg eBook of Snake and Sword, by Percival Christopher Wren
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
+of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
+www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
+will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
+using this eBook.
+
+Title: Snake and Sword
+       A Novel
+
+Author: Percival Christopher Wren
+
+Release Date: January 10, 2004 [eBook #10667]
+[Most recently updated: June 30, 2021]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+Produced by: Ted Garvin, Wilelmina Malliere and PG Distributed Proofreaders
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SNAKE AND SWORD ***
+
+
+
+
+Snake and Sword
+
+A Novel
+
+by Percival Christopher Wren
+
+
+
+
+DEDICATED
+TO
+MY WIFE
+ALICE LUCILLE WREN
+
+
+ CONTENTS
+
+ PART I. THE WELDING OF A SOUL
+ CHAPTER I. The Snake and the Soul
+
+ PART II. THE SEARING OF A SOUL
+ CHAPTER II. The Sword and the Snake
+ CHAPTER III. The Snake Appears
+ CHAPTER IV. The Sword and the Soul
+ CHAPTER V. Lucille
+ CHAPTER VI. The Snake’s “Myrmidon”
+ CHAPTER VII. Love—and the Snake
+ CHAPTER VIII. Troopers of the Queen
+ CHAPTER IX. A Snake avenges a Haddock and Lucille behaves in an un-Smelliean Manner
+ CHAPTER X. Much Ado about Almost Nothing—A Mere Trooper
+ CHAPTER XI. More Myrmidons
+
+ PART III. THE SAVING OF A SOUL
+ CHAPTER XII. Vultures and Luck—Good and Bad
+ CHAPTER XIII. Found
+ CHAPTER XIV. The Snake and the Sword
+ Seven Years After
+ EPILOGUE
+
+
+
+
+PART I.
+THE WELDING OF A SOUL.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I.
+THE SNAKE AND THE SOUL.
+
+
+When Colonel Matthew Devon de Warrenne, V.C., D.S.O., of the Queen’s
+Own (118th) Bombay Lancers, pinned his Victoria Cross to the bosom of
+his dying wife’s night-dress, in token of his recognition that she was
+the braver of the twain, he was not himself.
+
+He was beside himself with grief.
+
+Afterwards he adjured the sole witness of this impulsive and emotional
+act, Major John Decies, never to mention his “damned theatrical folly”
+to any living soul, and to excuse him on the score of an ancient
+sword-cut on the head and two bad sun-strokes.
+
+For the one thing in heaven above, on the earth beneath, or in the
+waters under the earth, that Colonel de Warrenne feared, was breach of
+good form and stereotyped convention.
+
+And the one thing he loved was the dying woman.
+
+This last statement applies also to Major John Decies, of the Indian
+Medical Service, Civil Surgeon of Bimariabad, and may even be expanded,
+for the one thing he ever _had_ loved was the dying woman….
+
+Colonel Matthew Devon de Warrenne did the deed that won him his
+Victoria Cross, in the open, in the hot sunlight and in hot blood,
+sword in hand and with hot blood on the sword-hand—fighting for his
+life.
+
+His wife did the deed that moved him to transfer the Cross to her, in
+darkness, in cold blood, in loneliness, sickness and silence—fighting
+for the life of her unborn child against an unseen foe.
+
+Colonel de Warrenne’s type of brave deed has been performed thousands
+of times and wherever brave men have fought.
+
+His wife’s deed of endurance, presence of mind, self-control and cool
+courage is rarer, if not unique.
+
+To appreciate this fully, it must be known that she had a horror of
+snakes, so terrible as to amount to an obsession, a mental deformity,
+due, doubtless, to the fact that her father (Colonel Mortimer Seymour
+Stukeley) died of snake-bite before her mother’s eyes, a few hours
+before she herself was born.
+
+Bearing this in mind, judge of the conduct that led Colonel de
+Warrenne, distraught, to award her his Cross “For Valour”.
+
+One oppressive June evening, Lenore de Warrenne returned from church
+(where she had, as usual, prayed fervently that her soon-expected
+first-born might be a daughter), and entered her dressing-room. Here
+her Ayah divested her of hat, dress, and boots, and helped her into the
+more easeful tea-gown and satin slippers.
+
+“Bootlair wanting ishweets for dinner-table from go-down,[1] please,
+Mem-Sahib,” observed Ayah, the change of garb accomplished.
+
+ [1] Store-room.
+
+
+“The butler wants sweets, does he? Give me my keys, then,” replied Mrs.
+de Warrenne, and, rising with a sigh, she left the dressing-room and
+proceeded, _via_ the dining-room (where she procured some small silver
+bowls, sweet-dishes, and trays), to the go-down or store-room, situate
+at the back of the bungalow and adjoining the “dispense-khana”—the room
+in which assemble the materials and ministrants of meals from the
+extra-mural “bowachi-khana” or kitchen. Unlocking the door of the
+go-down, Mrs. de Warrenne entered the small shelf-encircled room, and,
+stepping on to a low stool proceeded to fill the sweet-trays from
+divers jars, tins and boxes, with guava-cheese, crystallized ginger,
+_kulwa_, preserved mango and certain of the more sophisticated
+sweetmeats of the West.
+
+It was after sunset and the _hamal_ had not yet lit the lamps, so that
+this pantry, a dark room at mid-day, was far from light at that time.
+But for the fact that she knew exactly where everything was, and could
+put her hand on what she wanted, she would not have entered without a
+light.
+
+For some minutes the unfortunate lady stood on the stool.
+
+Having completed her task she stepped down backwards and, as her foot
+touched the ground, she knew _that she had trodden upon a snake._
+
+Even as she stood poised, one foot on the ground, the other on the
+stool, both hands gripping the high shelf, she felt the reptile
+whipping, writhing, jerking, lashing, flogging at her ankle and instep,
+coiling round her leg…. And in the fraction of a second the thought
+flashed through her mind: “If its head is under my foot, or too close
+to my foot for its fangs to reach me, I am safe while I remain as I am.
+If its head is free I am doomed—and matters cannot be any the worse for
+my keeping as I am.”
+
+_And she kept as she was,_ with one foot on the stool, out of reach,
+and one foot on the snake.
+
+And screamed?
+
+No, called quietly and coolly for the butler, remembering that she had
+sent Nurse Beaton out, that her husband was at polo, that there were
+none but native servants in the house, and that if she raised an alarm
+they would take it, and with single heart consider each the safety of
+Number One.
+
+“Boy!” she called calmly, though the room swam round her and a deadly
+faintness began to paralyse her limbs and loosen her hold upon the
+shelf—“Boy! Come here.”
+
+Antonio Ferdinand Xavier D’Souza, Goanese butler, heard and came.
+
+“Mem-Sahib?” quoth he, at the door of the go-down.
+
+“Bring a lamp quickly,” said Lenore de Warrenne in a level voice.
+
+The worthy Antonio, fat, spectacled, bald and wheezy, hurried away and
+peremptorily bade the _hamal_[2], son of a jungle-pig, to light and
+bring a lamp quickly.
+
+ [2] Footman and male “housemaid”.
+
+
+The _hamal_, respectfully pointing out to the Bootlair Sahib that the
+daylight was yet strong and lusty enough to shame and smother any lamp,
+complied with deliberation and care, polishing the chimney, trimming
+the wick, pouring in oil and generally making a satisfactory and
+commendable job of it.
+
+Lenore de Warrenne, sick, faint, sinking, waited … waited … waited …
+gripping the shelf and fighting against her over-mastering weakness for
+the life of the unborn child that, even in that awful moment, she
+prayed might be a daughter.
+
+After many cruelly long centuries, and as she swayed to fall, the good
+Antonio entered with the lamp. Her will triumphed over her falling
+body.
+
+“Boy, I am standing on a snake!” said she coolly. “Put the lamp—”
+
+But Antonio did not stay to “put” the lamp; incontinent he dropped it
+on the floor and fled yelling “Sap! Sap!” and that the Mem-Sahib was
+bitten, dying, dead—certainly dead; dead for hours.
+
+And the brave soul in the little room waited … waited … waited …
+gripping the shelf, and thinking of the coming daughter, and wondering
+whether she must die by snake-bite or fire—unborn—with her unhappy
+mother. For the fallen lamp had burst, the oil had caught fire, and the
+fire gave no light by which she could see what was beneath her
+foot—head, body, or tail of the lashing, squirming snake—as the flame
+flickered, rose and fell, burnt blue, swayed, roared in the draught of
+the door—did anything but give a light by which she could see as she
+bent over awkwardly, still gripping the shelf, one foot on the stool,
+further prevented from seeing by her loose draperies.
+
+Soon she realized that in any case she could not see her foot without
+changing her position—a thing she would _not_ do while there was
+hope—and strength to hold on. For hope there was, inasmuch as _she had
+not yet felt the stroke of the reptile’s fangs_.
+
+Again she reasoned calmly, though strength was ebbing fast; she must
+remain as she was till death by fire or suffocation was the alternative
+to flight—flight which was synonymous with death, for, as her other
+foot came down and she stepped off the snake, in that instant it would
+strike—if it had not struck already.
+
+Meantime—to call steadily and coolly again.
+
+This time she called to the _hamal_, a Bhil, engaged out of compassion,
+and likely, as a son of the jungle’s sons, to be of more courage than
+the stall-fed butler in presence of dangerous beast or reptile.
+
+“_Hamal_: I want you,” she called coolly.
+
+“Mem-Sahib?” came the reply from the lamp-room near by, and the man
+approached.
+
+“That stupid butler has dropped a lamp and run away. Bring a pail of
+water quickly and call to the _malli_[3] to bring a pail of earth as
+you get it. Hasten!—and there is baksheesh,” said Mrs. de Warrenne
+quietly in the vernacular.
+
+ [3] Gardener.
+
+
+Tap and pail were by the door of the back verandah. In a minute the
+_hamal_ entered and flung a pail of water on the burning pool of oil,
+reducing the mass of blue lambent flames considerably.
+
+“Now _hamal_,” said the fainting woman, the more immediate danger
+confronted, “bring another lamp very quickly and put it on the shelf.
+Quick! don’t stop to fill or to clean it.”
+
+Was the pricking, shooting pain the repeated stabbing of the snake’s
+fangs or was it “pins and needles”? Was this deadly faintness death
+indeed, or was it only weakness?
+
+In what seemed but a few more years the man reappeared carrying a
+lighted lamp, the which he placed upon a shelf.
+
+“Listen,” said Mrs. de Warrenne, “and have no fear, brave Bhil. I have
+_caught_ a snake. Get a knife quickly and cut off its head while I hold
+it.”
+
+The man glancing up, appeared to suppose that his mistress held the
+snake on the shelf, hurried away, and rushed back with the cook’s big
+kitchen-knife gripped dagger-wise in his right hand.
+
+“Do you see the snake?” she managed to whisper. “Under my foot! Quick!
+It is moving … moving … moving _out_.”
+
+With a wild Bhil cry the man flung himself down upon his hereditary
+dread foe and slashed with the knife.
+
+Mrs. de Warrenne heard it scratch along the floor, grate on a nail, and
+crush through the snake.
+
+“Aré!! Dead, Mem-Sahib!! Dead!! See, I have cut off its head! Aré!!!!
+Wah!! The brave mistress!——”
+
+As she collapsed, Mrs. de Warrenne saw the twitching body of a large
+cobra with its head severed close to its neck. Its head had just
+protruded from under her foot and she had saved the unborn life for
+which she had fought so bravely by just keeping still…. She had won her
+brief decoration with the Cross by—keeping still. (Her husband had won
+his permanent right to it by extreme activity.) … Had she moved she
+would have been struck instantly, for the reptile was, by her,
+uninjured, merely nipped between instep and floor.
+
+Having realized this, Lenore de Warrenne fainted and then passed from
+fit to fit, and her child—a boy—was born that night. Hundreds of times
+during the next few days the same terrible cry rang from the sick-room
+through the hushed bungalow: “It is under my foot! It is moving …
+moving … moving … _out!_”
+
+
+“If I had to make a prophecy concerning this young fella,” observed the
+broken-hearted Major John Decies, I.M.S., Civil Surgeon of Bimariabad,
+as he watched old Nurse Beaton performing the baby’s elaborate
+ablutions and toilet, “I should say that he will _not_ grow up fond of
+snakes—not if there is anything in the ‘pre-natal influence’ theory.”
+
+
+
+
+PART II.
+THE SEARING OF A SOUL.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+THE SWORD AND THE SNAKE.
+
+
+Colonel Matthew Devon De Warrenne, commanding the Queen’s Own (118th)
+Bombay Lancers, was in good time, in his best review-order uniform, and
+in a terrible state of mind.
+
+He strode from end to end of the long verandah of his bungalow with
+clank of steel, creak of leather, and groan of travailing soul. As the
+top of his scarlet, blue and gold turban touched the lamp that hung a
+good seven feet above his spurred heels he swore viciously.
+
+Almost for the first time in his hard-lived, selfish life he had been
+thwarted, flouted, cruelly and evilly entreated, and the worst of it
+was that his enemy was—not a man whom he could take by the throat,
+but—Fate.
+
+Fate had dealt him a cruel blow, and he felt as he would have done had
+he, impotent, seen one steal the great charger that champed and pawed
+there at the door, and replace it by a potter’s donkey. Nay, worse—for
+he had _loved_ Lenore, his wife, and Fate had stolen her away and
+replaced her by a squealing brat.
+
+Within a year of his marriage his wife was dead and buried, and his son
+alive and—howling. He could hear him (curse him!).
+
+The Colonel glanced at his watch, producing it from some mysterious
+recess beneath his belted golden sash and within his pale blue tunic.
+
+Not yet time to ride to the regimental parade-ground and lead his
+famous corps to its place on the brigade parade-ground for the New Year
+Review and march-past.
+
+As he held the watch at the length of its chain and stared,
+half-comprehending, his hand—the hand of the finest swordsman in the
+Indian Army—shook.
+
+Lenore gone: a puling, yelping whelp in her place…. A tall,
+severe-looking elderly woman entered the verandah by a distant door and
+approached the savage, miserable soldier. Nurse Beaton.
+
+“_Will_ you give your son a name, Sir?” she said, and it was evident in
+voice and manner that the question had been asked before and had
+received an unsatisfactory, if not unprintable; reply. Every line of
+feature and form seemed to express indignant resentment. She had nursed
+and foster-mothered the child’s mother, and—unlike the man—had found
+the baby the chiefest consolation of her cruel grief, and already loved
+it not only for its idolized mother’s sake, but with the devotion of a
+childless child-lover.
+
+“The christening is fixed for to-day, Sir, as I have kept reminding
+you, Sir,” she added.
+
+She had never liked the Colonel—nor considered him “good enough” for
+her tender, dainty darling, “nearly three times her age and no better
+than he ought to be”.
+
+“Name?” snarled Colonel Matthew Devon de Warrenne. “Name the little
+beast? Call him what you like, and then drown him.” The tight-lipped
+face of the elderly nurse flushed angrily, but before she could make
+the indignant reply that her hurt and scandalized look presaged, the
+Colonel added:—
+
+“No, look here, call him _Damocles_, and done with it. The Sword hangs
+over him too, I suppose, and he’ll die by it, as all his ancestors have
+done. Yes—”
+
+“It’s not a nice name, Sir, to my thinking,” interrupted the woman,
+“not for an only name—and for an only child. Let it be a second or
+third name, Sir, if you want to give him such an outlandish one.”
+
+She fingered her new black dress nervously with twitching hands and the
+tight lips trembled.
+
+“He’s to be named Damocles and nothing else,” replied the Master, and,
+as she turned away with a look of positive hate, he added
+sardonically:—
+
+“And then you can call him ‘Dam’ for short, you know, Nurse.”
+
+Nurse Beaton bridled, clenched her hands, and stiffened visibly. Had
+the man been her social equal or any other than her master, her pent-up
+wrath and indignation would have broken forth in a torrent of scathing
+abuse.
+
+“Never would I call the poor motherless lamb _Dam_, Sir,” she answered
+with restraint.
+
+“Then call him _Dummy!_ Good morning, Nurse,” snapped the Colonel.
+
+As she turned to go, with a bitter sigh, she asked in the hopeless tone
+of one who knows the waste of words:—
+
+“You will not repent—I mean relent—and come to the christening of your
+only son this afternoon, Sir?”
+
+“Good morning, Nurse,” observed Colonel Matthew Devon de Warrenne, and
+resumed his hurried pacing of the verandah.
+
+
+It is not enough that a man love his wife dearly and hold her the
+sweetest, fairest, and best of women—he should tell her so, morning and
+night.
+
+There is a proverb (the unwisdom of many and the poor wit of one) that
+says _Actions speak louder than Words_. Whether this is the most
+untrustworthy of an untrustworthy class of generalizations is
+debateable.
+
+Anyhow, let no husband or lover believe it. Vain are the deeds of dumb
+devotion, the unwearying forethought, the tender care, the gifts of
+price, and the priceless gifts of attentive, watchful guard and guide,
+the labours of Love—all vain. Silent is the speech of Action.
+
+But resonant loud is the speech of Words and profitable their
+investment in the Mutual Alliance Bank.
+
+“_Love me, love my Dog?_” Yes—and look to the dog for a dog’s reward.
+
+“_Do not show me that you love me—tell me so._” Far too true and
+pregnant ever to become a proverb.
+
+Colonel de Warrenne had omitted to tell his wife so—after she had
+accepted him—and she had died thinking herself loveless, unloved, and
+stating the fact.
+
+This was the bitterest drop in the bitter cup of the big, dumb,
+well-meaning man.
+
+And now she would never know….
+
+She had thought herself unloved, and, nerve-shattered by her terrible
+experience with the snake, had made no fight for life when the unwanted
+boy was born. For the sake of a girl she would have striven to live—but
+a boy, a boy can fend for himself (and takes after his father)….
+
+Almost as soon as Lenore Seymour Stukeley had landed in India (on a
+visit with her sister Yvette to friends at Bimariabad), delighted,
+bewildered, depolarized, Colonel Matthew Devon de Warrenne had burst
+with a blaze of glory into her hitherto secluded, narrow life—a great
+pale-blue, white-and-gold wonder, clanking and jingling, resplendent,
+bemedalled, ruling men, charging at the head of thundering squadrons—a
+half-god (and to Yvette he had seemed a whole-god).
+
+He had told her that he loved her, told her once, and had been
+accepted.
+
+_Once_! Only once told her that he loved her, that she was beautiful,
+that he was hers to command to the uttermost. Only once! What could
+_she_ know of the changed life, the absolute renunciation of pleasant
+bachelor vices, the pulling up short, and all those actions that speak
+more softly than words?
+
+What could she know of the strength and depth of the love that could
+keep such a man as the Colonel from the bar, the bridge-table, the
+race-course and the Paphian dame? Of the love that made him walk warily
+lest he offend one for whom his quarter of a century, and more, of
+barrack and bachelor-bungalow life, made him feel so utterly unfit and
+unworthy? What could she know of all that he had given up and delighted
+to give up—now that he truly loved a true woman? The hard-living,
+hard-hearted, hard-spoken man had become a gentle frequenter of his
+wife’s tea-parties, her companion at church, her constant
+attendant—never leaving the bungalow, save for duty, without her.
+
+To those who knew him it was a World’s Marvel; to her, who knew him
+not, it was nothing at all—normal, natural. And being a man who spoke
+only when he must, who dreaded the expression of any emotion, and who
+foolishly thought that actions speak louder than words, he had omitted
+to tell her daily—or even weekly or monthly—that he loved her; and she
+had died pitying herself and reproaching him.
+
+Fate’s old, old game of Cross Purposes. Major John Decies, reserved,
+high-minded gentleman, loving Lenore de Warrenne (and longing to tell
+her so daily), with the one lifelong love of a steadfast nature; Yvette
+Stukeley, reserved, high-minded gentlewoman, loving Colonel de
+Warrenne, and longing to escape from Bimariabad before his wedding to
+her sister, and doing so at the earliest possible date thereafter: each
+woman losing the man who would have been her ideal husband, each man
+losing the woman who would have been his ideal wife.
+
+Yvette Stukeley returned to her uncle and guardian, General Sir Gerald
+Seymour Stukeley, K.C.B., K.C.S.I., at Monksmead, nursing a broken
+heart, and longed for the day when Colonel de Warrenne’s child might be
+sent home to her care.
+
+Major John Decies abode at Bimariabad, also nursing a broken heart
+(though he scarcely realized the fact), watched over the son of Lenore
+de Warrenne, and greatly feared for him.
+
+The Major was an original student of theories and facts of Heredity and
+Pre-natal Influence. Further he was not wholly hopeful as to the effect
+of all the _post_-natal influences likely to be brought to bear upon a
+child who grew up in the bungalow, and the dislike of Colonel Matthew
+Devon de Warrenne.
+
+Upon the infant Damocles, Nurse Beaton, rugged, snow-capped volcano,
+lavished the tender love of a mother; and in him Major John Decies,
+deep-running still water, took the interest of a father. The which was
+the better for the infant Damocles in that his real father had no
+interest to take and no love to lavish. He frankly disliked the
+child—the outward and visible sign, the daily reminder of the cruel
+loss he so deeply felt and fiercely resented.
+
+Yet, strangely enough, he would not send the child home. Relations who
+could receive it he had none, and he declined to be beholden to its
+great-uncle, General Sir Gerald Seymour Stukeley, and its aunt Yvette
+Stukeley, in spite of the warmest invitations from the one and earnest
+entreaties from the other.
+
+Nurse Beaton fed, tended, clothed and nursed the baby by day; a
+worshipping ayah wheeled him abroad, and, by night, slept beside his
+cot; a devoted sepoy-orderly from the regiment guarded his cavalcade,
+and, when permitted, proudly bore him in his arms.
+
+Major John Decies visited him frequently, watched and waited, waited
+and watched, and, though not a youth, “thought long, long thoughts”.
+
+He also frequently laid his views and theories on paternal duties
+before Colonel de Warrenne, until pointedly asked by that officer
+whether he had no duties of his own which might claim his valuable
+time.
+
+Years rolled by, after the incorrigible habit of years, and the infant
+Damocles grew and developed into a remarkably sturdy, healthy,
+intelligent boy, as cheerful, fearless, impudent, and irrepressible as
+the heart of the Major could desire—and with a much larger vocabulary
+than any one could desire, for a baby.
+
+On the fifth anniversary of his birthday he received a matutinal call
+from Major Decies, who was returning from his daily visit to the Civil
+Hospital.
+
+The Major bore a birthday present and a very anxious, undecided mind.
+
+“Good morrow, gentle Damocles,” he remarked, entering the big verandah
+adown which the chubby boy pranced gleefully to meet his beloved
+friend, shouting a welcome, and brandishing a sword designed, and
+largely constructed, by himself from a cleaning-rod, a tobacco-tin lid,
+a piece of wood, card-board and wire.
+
+“Thalaam, Major Thahib,” he said, flinging himself bodily upon that
+gentleman. “I thaw cook cut a fowl’s froat vis morning. It squorked
+boofly.”
+
+“Did it? Alas, that I missed those pleasing-er-squorks,” replied the
+Major, and added: “This is thy natal day, my son. Thou art a man of
+five.”
+
+“I’m a debble. I’m a _norful_ little debble,” corrected Damocles,
+cheerfully and with conviction.
+
+“Incidentally. But you are five also,” persisted the senior man.
+
+“It’s my birfday to-day,” observed the junior.
+
+“I just said so.”
+
+“_That_ you didn’t, Major Thahib. This is a thword. Father’s charger’s
+got an over-weach. Jumping. He says it’s a dam-nuithanth.”
+
+“Oh, that’s a sword, is it? And ‘Fire’ has got an over-reach. And it’s
+a qualified nuisance, is it?”
+
+“Yeth, and the mare is coughing and her _thythe_ is a blathted fool for
+letting her catch cold.”
+
+“The mare has a cold and the _syce_[4] is a qualified fool, is he? H’m!
+I think it’s high time you had a look in at little old England, my son,
+what? And who made you this elegant rapier? Ochterlonie Sahib or—who?”
+(Lieutenant Lord Ochterlonie was the Adjutant of the Queen’s Greys, a
+friend of Colonel de Warrenne, an ex-admirer of his late wife, and a
+great pal of his son.)
+
+ [4] Groom.
+
+
+“’Tithn’t a waper. It’th my thword. I made it mythelf.”
+
+“Who helped?”
+
+“Nobody. At leatht, Khodadad Khan, Orderly, knocked the holes in the
+tin like I showed him—or elthe got the Farrier Thargeant to do it, and
+thaid _he_ had.”
+
+“Yes—but who told you how to make it like this? Where did you see a
+hand-part like this? It isn’t like Daddy’s sword, nor Khodadad Khan’s
+_tulwar_. Where did you copy it?”
+
+“I didn’t copy it…. I shot ten rats wiv a bow-and-arrow last night. At
+leatht—I don’t think I shot ten. Nor one. I don’t think I didn’t,
+pwaps.”
+
+“But hang it all, the thing’s an Italian rapier, by Gad. Some one
+_must_ have shown you how to make the thing, or you’ve got a picture.
+It’s a _pukka_[5] mediaeval rapier.”
+
+ [5] Real, solid, permanent, proper, ripe, genuine.
+
+
+“No it’th not. It’th my thword. I made it…. Have a jolly fight”—and the
+boy struck an extraordinarily correct fencing attitude—left hand raised
+in balance, sword poised, legs and feet well placed, the whole pose
+easy, natural, graceful.
+
+Curiously enough, the sword was held horizontal instead of pointing
+upward, a fact which at once struck the observant and practised eye of
+Major John Decies, sometime champion fencer.
+
+“Who’s been teaching you fencing?” he asked.
+
+“What ith ‘fenthing’? Let’th have a fight,” replied the boy.
+
+“Stick me here, Dam,” invited the Major, seating himself and indicating
+the position of the heart. “Bet you can’t.”
+
+The boy lunged, straight, true, gracefully, straightening all his limbs
+except his right leg, rigidly, strongly, and the “sword” bent upward
+from the spot on which the man’s finger had just rested.
+
+“Gad! Who _has_ taught you to lunge? I shall have a bruise there, and
+perhaps—live. Who’s behind all this, young fella? Who taught you to
+stand so, and to lunge? Ochterlonie Sahib or Daddy?”
+
+“Nobody. What is ‘lunge’? Will you buy me a little baby-camel to play
+with and teach tricks? Perhaps it would sit up and beg. Do camelth lay
+eggth? Chucko does. Millions and lakhs. You get a thword, too, and
+we’ll fight every day. Yeth. All day long——”
+
+“Good morning, Sir,” said Nurse Beaton, bustling into the verandah from
+the nursery. “He’s as mad as ever on swords and fighting, you see. It’s
+a soldier he’ll be, the lamb. He’s taken to making that black orderly
+pull out his sword when he’s in uniform. Makes him wave and jab it
+about. Gives me the creeps—with his black face and white eyes and all.
+You won’t _encourage_ the child at it, will you, Sir? And his poor
+Mother the gentlest soul that ever stepped. Swords! Where he gets his
+notions _I_ can’t think (though I know where he gets his language, poor
+lamb!). Look at _that_ thing, Sir! For all the world like the
+dressed-up folk have on the stage or in pictures.”
+
+“You haven’t let him see any books, I suppose, Nurse?” asked the Major.
+
+“No, Sir. Never a book has the poor lamb seen, except those you’ve
+brought. I’ve always been in terror of his seeing a picture of a
+you-know-what, ever since you told me what the effect _might_ be. Nor
+he hasn’t so much as heard the name of it, so far as I know.”
+
+“Well, he’ll see one to-day. I’ve brought it with me—must see it sooner
+or later. Might see a live one anywhere—in spite of all your care…. But
+about this sword—where _could_ he have got the idea? It’s unlike any
+sword he ever set eyes on. Besides if he ever _did_ see an Italian
+rapier—and there’s scarcely such a thing in India—he’d not get the
+chance to use it as a copy. Fancy his having the desire and the power
+to, anyhow!”
+
+“I give it up, Sir,” said Nurse Beaton.
+
+“I give it upper,” added the Major, taking the object of their wonder
+from the child.
+
+And there was cause for wonder indeed.
+
+A hole had been punched through the centre of the lid of a tobacco tin
+and a number of others round the edge. Through the centre hole the
+steel rod had been passed so that the tin made a “guard”. To the other
+holes wires had been fastened by bending, and their ends gathered,
+twisted, and bound with string to the top of the handle (of bored
+corks) to form an ornamental basket-hilt.
+
+But the most remarkable thing of all was that, before doing this, the
+juvenile designer had passed the rod through a piece of bored stick so
+that the latter formed a _cross-piece_ (neatly bound) within the tin
+guard—the distinctive feature of the ancient and modern Italian
+rapiers!
+
+Round this cross-piece the first two fingers of the boy’s right hand
+were crooked as he held the sword—and this is the one and only correct
+way of holding the Italian weapon, as the Major was well aware!
+
+“I give it most utterly-uppermost,” he murmured. “It’s positively
+uncanny. No _uninitiated_ adult of the utmost intelligence ever held an
+Italian-pattern foil correctly yet—nor until he had been pretty
+carefully shown. Who the devil put him up to the design in the first
+place, and the method of holding, in the second? Explain yourself, you
+two-anna[6] marvel,” he demanded of the child. “It’s _jadu_—black
+magic.”
+
+ [6] Anna = a penny.
+
+
+“Ayah lothted a wupee latht night,” he replied.
+
+“Lost a rupee, did she? Lucky young thing. Wish I had one to lose. Who
+showed you how to hold that sword? Why do you crook your fingers round
+the cross-piece like that?”
+
+“Chucko laid me an egg latht night,” observed Damocles. “He laid it
+with my name on it—so that cook couldn’t steal it.”
+
+“No doubt. Look here, where can I get a sword like yours? Where can I
+copy it? Who makes them? Who knows about them?”
+
+“_I_ don’t know, Major Thahib. Gunnoo sells ‘Fire’s’ gram to the
+_methrani_ for her curry and chuppatties.”
+
+“But how do you know swords are like this? _That_ thing isn’t a _pukka_
+sword.”
+
+“Well, it’th like Thir Theymour Thtukeley’s in my dweam.”
+
+“What dream?”
+
+“The one I’m alwayth dweaming. They have got long hair like Nurse in
+the night, and they fight and fight like anything. Norful good
+fighters! And they wear funny kit. And their thwords are like vis.
+_Egg_zackly. Gunnoo gave me a ride on ‘Fire,’ and he’th a dam-liar. He
+thaid he forgot to put the warm _jhool_ on him when Daddy was going to
+fwash him for being a dam-fool. I thaid I’d tell Daddy how he alwayth
+thleepth in it himthelf, unleth he gave me a ride on ‘Fire’. ‘Fire’
+gave a _norful_ buck and bucked me off. At leatht I think he didn’t.”
+
+Major Decies’ face was curiously intent—as of some midnight worker in
+research who sees a bright near glimpse of the gold his alchemy has so
+long sought to materialize in the alembic of fact.
+
+“Come back to sober truth, young youth. What about the dream? Who are
+they, and what do they say and do?”
+
+“Thir Theymour Thtukeley Thahib tellth Thir Matthew Thahib about the
+hilt-thwust. (What _is_ ‘hilt-thwust’?) And Lubin, the thervant, ith a
+_white_ thervant. Why ith he white if he ith a Thahib’s ‘boy’?”
+
+“Good Gad!” murmured the Major. “I’m favoured of the gods. Tell me all
+about it, Sonny. Then I’ll undo this parcel for you,” he coaxed.
+
+“Oh, I don’t wemember. They buck a lot by the tents and then Thir
+Theymour Thtukeley goes and fights Thir Matthew and kills him, and
+it’th awful lovely, but they dreth up like kids at a party in big
+collars and silly kit.”
+
+“Yes, I know,” murmured the Major. “Tell me what they say when they
+buck to each other by the tents, and when they talk about the
+‘hilt-thrust,’ old chap.”
+
+“Oh, I don’t wemember. I’ll listen next time I dweam it, and tell you.
+Chucko’s egg was all brown—not white like those cook brings from the
+bazaar. He’s a dam-thief. Open the parcel, Major Thabib. What’s in it?”
+
+“A picture-book for you, Sonny. All sorts of jolly beasts that you’ll
+_shikar_ some day. You’ll tell me some more about the dream to-morrow,
+won’t you?”
+
+“Yeth. I’ll wemember and fink, and tell you what I have finked.”
+
+Turning to Nurse Beaton, the Major whispered:—
+
+“Don’t worry him about this dream at all. Leave it to me. It’s
+wonderful. Take him on your lap, Nurse, and—er—be _ready_. It’s a very
+life-like picture, and I’m going to spring it on him without any
+remark—but I’m more than a little anxious, I admit. Still, it’s _got_
+to come, as I say, and better a picture first, with ourselves present.
+If the picture don’t affect him I’ll show him a real one. May be all
+right of course, but I don’t know. I came across a somewhat similar
+case once before—and it was _not_ all right. Not by any means,” and he
+disclosed the brilliantly coloured Animal Picture Book and knelt beside
+the expectant boy.
+
+On the first page was an incredibly leonine lion, who appeared to have
+solved with much satisfaction the problem of aerial flight, so far was
+he from the mountain whence he had sprung and above the back of the
+antelope towards which he had propelled himself. One could almost hear
+him roar. There was menace and fate in eye and tooth and claw, yea, in
+the very kink of the prehensile-seeming tail wherewith he apparently
+steered his course in mid-air. To gaze upon his impressive and
+determined countenance was to sympathize most fully with the sore-tried
+Prophet of old (known to Damocles as Dannle-in-the-lines-den) for ever
+more.
+
+The boy was wholly charmed, stroked the glowing ferocity and observed
+that he was a _pukka Bahadur_.[7]
+
+ [7] Strong, powerful chief.
+
+
+On the next page, burning bright, was a tiger, if possible one degree
+more terrible than the lion. His “fearful cemetery” appeared to be
+full, judging by its burgeoned bulge and the shocking state of
+depletion exhibited by the buffalo on which he fed with barely
+inaudible snarls and grunts of satisfaction. Blood dripped from his
+capacious and over-furnished mouth.
+
+“Booful,” murmured Damocles. “I shall go shooting tigerth to-mowwow.
+Shoot vem in ve mouth, down ve froat, so as not to spoil ve wool.”
+
+Turning over the page, the Major disclosed a most grievous grizzly
+bear, grizzly and bearish beyond conception, heraldic, regardant,
+expectant, not collared, fanged and clawed proper, rampant, erect,
+requiring no supporters.
+
+“You could thtab him wiv a thword if you were quick, while he was doing
+that,” opined Damocles, charmed, enraptured, delighted. One by one,
+other savage, fearsome beasts were disclosed to the increasingly
+delighted boy until, without warning, the Major suddenly turned a page
+and disclosed a brilliant and hungry-looking snake.
+
+With a piercing shriek the boy leapt convulsively from Nurse Beaton’s
+arms, rushed blindly into the wall and endeavoured to butt and bore his
+way through it with his head, screaming like a wounded horse. As the
+man and woman sprang to him he shrieked, “It’th under my foot! It’th
+moving, moving, moving _out_” and fell to the ground in a fit.
+
+Major John Decies arose from his bachelor dinner-table that evening,
+lit his “planter” cheroot, and strolled into the verandah that looked
+across a desert to a mountain range.
+
+Dropping into a long low chair, he raised his feet on to the long
+leg-rest extensions of its arms, and, as he settled down and waited for
+coffee, wondered why no such chairs are known in the West; why the
+trunks of the palms looked less flat in the moonlight than in the
+daylight (in which, from that spot, they always looked exactly as
+though cut out of cardboard); why Providence had not arranged for
+perpetual full-moon; why the world looked such a place of peaceful,
+glorious beauty by moonlight, the bare cruel mountains like diaphanous
+clouds of tenderest soothing mist, the Judge’s hideous bungalow like a
+fairy palace, his own parched compound like a plot of Paradise, when
+all was so abominable by day; and, as ever—why his darling, Lenore
+Stukeley, had had to marry de Warrenne and die in the full flower and
+promise of her beautiful womanhood.
+
+Having finished his coffee and lighted his pipe (_vice_ the over-dry
+friable cheroot, flung into the garden) the Major then turned his mind
+to serious and consecutive thought on the subject of her son, his
+beloved little pal, Dammy de Warrenne.
+
+Poor little beggar! What an eternity it had seemed before he had got
+him to sleep. How the child had suffered. Mad! Absolutely stark,
+staring, raving _mad_ with sheer terror…. Had he acted rightly in
+showing him the picture? He had meant well, anyhow. Cruel phrase, that.
+How cuttingly his friend de Warrenne had observed, “You mean well,
+doubtless,” on more than one occasion. He could make it the most
+stinging of insults…. Surely he had acted rightly…. Poor little
+beggar—but he was bound to see a picture or a real live specimen,
+sooner or later. Perhaps when there was no help at hand…. Would he be
+like it always? _Might_ grow out of it as he grew older and stronger.
+What would have happened if he had encountered a live snake? Lost his
+reason permanently, perhaps…. What would happen when he _did_ see one,
+as sooner or later, he certainly must?
+
+What would be the best plan? To attempt gradually to inure him—or to
+guard him absolutely from contact with picture, stuffed specimen,
+model, toy, and the real thing, wild or captive, as one would guard him
+against a fell disease?
+
+_Could_ he be inured? Could one “break it to him gently” bye and bye,
+by first drawing a wiggly line and then giving it a head? One might
+sketch a suggestion of a snake, make a sort of dissimilar clay model,
+improve it, show him a cast skin, stuff it, make a more life-like
+picture, gradually lead up to a well-stuffed one and then a live one.
+Might work up to having a good big picture of one on the nursery wall;
+one in a glass case; keep a harmless live one and show it him daily.
+Teach him by experience that there’s nothing supernatural about a
+snake—just a nasty reptile that wants exterminating like other
+dangerous creatures—something to _shikar_ with a gun. Nothing at all
+supernatural….
+
+But this was “super”-natural, abnormal, a terrible devastating agony of
+madness, inherited, incurable probably; part of mind and body and soul.
+Inherited, and integrally of him as were the colour of his eyes, his
+intelligence, his physique…. Heredity … pre-natal influence … breed….
+
+Anyhow, nothing must be attempted yet awhile. Let the poor little chap
+get older and stronger, in mind and body, first. Brave as a little
+bull-dog in other directions! Absolutely devoid of fear otherwise, and
+with a natural bent for fighting and adventure. Climb anywhere,
+especially up the hind leg of a camel or a horse, fondle any strange
+dog, clamour to be put on any strange horse, go into any deep water,
+cheek anybody, bear any ordinary pain with a grin, thrill to any story
+of desperate deeds—a fine, brave, manly, hardy little chap, and with
+art extraordinary physique for strength and endurance.
+
+Whatever was to be attempted later, he must be watched, day and night,
+now. No unattended excursions into the compound, no uncensored
+picture-books, no juggling snake-charmers…. Yet it _must_ come, sooner
+or later.
+
+Would it ruin his life?
+
+Anyhow, he must never return to India when he grew up, or go to any
+snake-producing country, unless he could be cured.
+
+Would it make him that awful thing—a coward?
+
+Would it grow and wax till it dominated his mind—drive him mad?
+
+Would succeeding attacks, following encounters with picture or reality,
+progressively increase in severity?
+
+_Her_ boy in an asylum?
+
+No. He was exaggerating an almost expected consequence that might never
+be repeated—especially if the child were most carefully and gradually
+reintroduced to the present terror. Later though—much later on.
+
+Meanwhile, wait and hope: hope and wait….
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+THE SNAKE APPEARS.
+
+
+The European child who grows up in India, if only to the age of six or
+seven years, grows under a severe moral, physical, and mental handicap.
+
+However wise, devoted, and conscientious its parents may be, the evil
+is great, and remains one of the many heavy costs (or punishments) of
+Empire.
+
+When the child has no mother and an indifferent father, life’s handicap
+is even more severe.
+
+By his sixth birthday (the regiment being still in Bimariabad owing to
+the prevalence of drought, famine, and cholera elsewhere) Damocles de
+Warrenne, knowing the Urdu language and _argot_ perfectly, knew, in
+theory also, more of evil, in some directions, than did his own father.
+
+If the child who grows up absolutely straight-forward, honest,
+above-board and pure in thought, word, and deed, in England, deserves
+commendation, what does the child deserve who does so in India?
+
+Understanding every word they spoke to one another, the training he got
+from native servants was one of undiluted evil and a series of
+object-lessons in deceit, petty villainy, chicanery, oppression, lying,
+dishonesty, and all immorality. And yet—thanks to his equal
+understanding of the words and deeds of Nurse Beaton, Major Decies,
+Lieutenant Ochterlonie, his father, the Officers of the Regiment, and
+the Europeans of the station—he had a clear, if unconscious,
+understanding that what was customary for native servants was neither
+customary nor possible for Sahibs….
+
+But he knew too much….
+
+He knew what percentage of his or her pay each servant had to hand to
+the “butler-sahib” monthly—or lose his or her place through false
+accusation.
+
+He knew why the ayah was graciously exempted from financial toll by
+this autocrat. He knew roughly what proportion of the cook’s daily bill
+represented the actual cost of his daily purchases. He knew what the
+door-peon got for consenting to take in the card of the Indian aspirant
+for an interview with Colonel de Warrenne.
+
+He knew the terms of the arrangements between the head-syce and the
+grain-dealer, the lucerne-grass seller, the _ghas-wallah_[8] who
+brought the hay (whereby reduced quantities were accepted in return for
+illegal gratifications). He knew of retail re-sales of these reduced
+supplies.
+
+ [8] Grass-man.
+
+
+He knew of the purchase of oil, rice, condiments, fire-wood and other
+commodities from the cook, of the theft (by arrangement) of the poultry
+and eggs, of the surreptitious milking of the cow, and of the simple
+plan of milking her—under Nurse Beaton’s eye—into a narrow-necked
+vessel already half full of water.
+
+He knew that the ayah’s husband sold the Colonel’s soda-water,
+paraffin, matches, candles, tobacco, cheroots, fruit, sugar, etc., at a
+little portable shop round the corner of the road, and of the terms on
+which the _hamal_ and the butler supplied these commodities to the ayah
+for transfer to her good man.
+
+He knew too much of the philosophy, manners, habits, and morals of the
+dog-boy, of concealed cases of the most infectious diseases in the
+compound, of the sub-letting and over-crowding of the servants’
+quarters, of incredible quarrels, intrigues, jealousies, revenges, base
+villainies and wrongs, superstitions and beliefs.
+
+He would hear the hatching of a plot—an hour’s arrangement and
+wrangle—whereby, through far-sighted activity, perjury, malpractice and
+infinite ingenuity, the ringleader would gain a _pice_ and the follower
+a _pie_ (a farthing and a third of a farthing respectively).
+
+Daily he saw the butler steal milk, sugar, and tea, for his own use;
+the _hamal_ steal oil when he filled the lamps, for sale; the _malli_
+steal flowers, for sale; the coachman steal carriage-candles; the cook
+steal a moiety of everything that passed through his hands—every one in
+that black underworld stealing, lying, back-biting, cheating,
+intriguing (and all meanwhile strictly and stoutly religious, even the
+sweeper-descended Goanese cook, the biggest thief of all, purging his
+Christian soul on Sunday mornings by Confession, and fortifying himself
+against the temptations of the Evil One at early Mass).
+
+Between these _nowker log_, the servant-people, and his own _jat_ or
+class, the _Sahib-log_, the master-people, were the troopers, splendid
+Sikhs, Rajputs, Pathans and Punjabis, men of honour, courage, physique,
+tradition. Grand fighters, loyal as steel while properly understood and
+properly treated—in other words, while properly officered. (Men,
+albeit, with deplorably little understanding of, or regard for, Pagett,
+M.P., and his kind, who yearn to do so much for them.)
+
+These men Damocles admired and loved, though even _they_ were apt to be
+very naughty in the bazaar, to gamble and to toy with opium, bhang, and
+(alleged) brandy, to dally with houris and hearts’-delights, to use
+unkind measures towards the good _bunnia_ and _sowkar_ who had lent
+them monies, and to do things outside the Lines that were not known in
+the Officers’ Mess.
+
+The boy preferred the Rissaldar-Major even to some Sahibs of his
+acquaintance—that wonderful old man-at-arms, horseman, _shikarri_,
+athlete, gentleman. (Yet how strange and sad to see him out of his
+splendid uniform, in sandals, _dhotie_, untrammelled shirt-tails, dingy
+old cotton coat and loose _puggri_, undistinguishable from a
+school-master, clerk, or post-man; so _un_-sahib-like.)
+
+And what a fine riding-master he made for an ambitious, fearless
+boy—though Ochterlonie Sahib said he was too cruel to be a good
+_horse_-master.
+
+How _could_ people be civilians and live away from regiments? Live
+without ever touching swords, lances, carbines, saddles?
+
+What a queer feeling it gave one to see the regiment go past the
+saluting base on review-days, at the gallop, with lances down. One
+wanted to shout, to laugh—to _cry_. (It made one’s mouth twitch and
+chin work.)
+
+Oh, to _lead_ the regiment as Father did—horse and man one welded piece
+of living mechanism.
+
+Father said you couldn’t ride till you had taken a hundred tosses, been
+pipped a hundred times. A hundred falls! Surely Father had _never_ been
+thrown—it must be impossible for such a rider to come off. See him at
+polo.
+
+By his sixth birthday Damocles de Warrenne, stout and sturdy, was an
+accomplished rider and never so happy (save when fencing) as when
+flogging his active and spirited little pony along the “rides” or over
+the dusty _maidans_ and open country of Bimariabad. To receive a
+quarter-mile start on the race-course and ride a mile race against
+Khodadad Khan on his troop-horse, or with one of the syces on one of
+the Colonel’s polo-ponies, or with some obliging male or female early
+morning rider, was the joy of his life. Should he suspect the
+competitor of “pulling” as he came alongside, that the tiny pony might
+win, the boy would lash at both horses impartially.
+
+People who pitied him (and they were many) wondered as to how soon he
+would break his neck, and remonstrated with his father for allowing him
+to ride alone, or in charge of an attendant unable to control him.
+
+In the matter of his curious love of fencing Major John Decies was
+deeply concerned, obtained more and more details of his “dweam,” taught
+him systematically and scientifically to fence, bought him foils and
+got them shortened. He also interested him in a series of
+muscle-developing exercises which the boy called his “dismounted
+squad-dwill wiv’out arms,” and performed frequently daily, and with
+gusto.
+
+Lieutenant Lord Ochterlonie (Officers’ Light-Weight Champion at
+Aldershot) rigged him up a small swinging sand-bag and taught him to
+punch with either hand, and drilled him in foot-work for boxing.
+
+Later he brought the very capable ten-year-old son of a boxing
+Troop-Sergeant and set him to make it worth Dam’s while to guard
+smartly, to learn to keep his temper, and to receive a blow with a
+grin.
+
+(Possibly a better education than learning declensions, conjugations,
+and tables from a Eurasian “governess”.)
+
+He learnt to read unconsciously and automatically by repeating, after
+Nurse Beaton, the jingles and other letter-press beneath the pictures
+in the books obtained for him under Major Decies’ censorship.
+
+On his sixth birthday, Major John Decies had Damocles over to his
+bungalow for the day, gave him a box of lead soldiers and a
+schooner-rigged ship, helped him to embark them and sail them in the
+bath to foreign parts, trapped a squirrel and let it go again, allowed
+him to make havoc of his possessions, fired at bottles with his
+revolver for the boy’s delectation, shot a crow or two with a
+rook-rifle, played an improvised game of fives with a tennis-ball, told
+him tales, and generally gave up the day to his amusement. What he did
+_not_ do was to repeat the experiment of a year ago, or make any kind
+of reference to snakes….
+
+A few days later, on the morning of the New-Year’s-Day Review, Colonel
+Matthew de Warrenne once again strode up and down his verandah, arrayed
+in full review-order, until it should be time to ride to the regimental
+parade-ground.
+
+He had coarsened perceptibly in the six years since he had lost his
+wife, and the lines that had grown deepest on his hard, handsome face
+were those between his eyebrows and beside his mouth—the mouth of an
+unhappy, dissipated, cynical man….
+
+He removed his right-hand gauntlet and consulted his watch…. Quarter of
+an hour yet.
+
+He continued the tramp that always reminded Damocles of the restless,
+angry to-and-fro pacing of the big bear in the gardens. Both father and
+the bear seemed to fret against fate, to suffer under a sense of
+injury; both seemed dangerous, fierce, admirable. Hearing the clink and
+clang and creak of his father’s movement, Damocles scrambled from his
+cot and crept down the stairs, pink-toed, blue-eyed, curly-headed,
+night-gowned, to peep through the crack of the drawing-room door at his
+beautiful father. He loved to see him in review uniform—so much more
+delightful than plain khaki—pale blue, white, and gold, in full panoply
+of accoutrement, jackbooted and spurred, and with the great turban that
+made his English face look more English still.
+
+Yes—he would ensconce himself behind the drawing-room door and watch.
+Perhaps “Fire” would be bobbery when the Colonel mounted him, would get
+“what-for” from whip and spur, and be put over the compound wall
+instead of being allowed to canter down the drive and out at the gate….
+
+Colonel de Warrenne stepped into his office to get a cheroot.
+Re-appearing in the verandah with it in his mouth he halted and thrust
+his hand inside his tunic for his small match-case. Ere he could use
+the match his heart was momentarily chilled by the most blood-curdling
+scream he had ever heard. It appeared to come from the drawing-room.
+(Colonel de Warrenne never lit the cheroot that he had put to his
+lips—nor ever another again.) Springing to the door, one of a dozen
+that opened into the verandah, he saw his son struggling on the ground,
+racked by convulsive spasms, with glazed, sightless eyes and foaming
+mouth, from which issued appalling, blood-curdling shrieks. Just above
+him, on the fat satin cushion in the middle of a low settee, a huge
+half-coiled cobra swayed from side to side in the Dance of Death.
+
+“_It’s under my foot—it’s moving—moving—moving out_,” shrieked the
+child.
+
+Colonel de Warrenne attended to the snake first. He half-drew his sword
+and then slammed it back into the scabbard. No—his sword was not for
+snakes, whatever his son might be. On the wall was a trophy of Afghan
+weapons, one of which was a sword that had played a prominent part on
+the occasion of the Colonel’s winning of the Victoria Cross.
+
+Striding to the wall he tore the sword down, drew it and, with raised
+arm, sprang towards the cobra. A good “Cut Three” across the coils
+would carve it into a dozen pieces. No. Lenore made that cushion—and
+Lenore’s cushion made more appeal to Colonel de Warrenne than did
+Lenore’s son. No. A neat horizontal “Cut Two,” just below the head,
+with the deadly “drawing” motion on it, would meet the case nicely.
+Swinging it to the left, the Colonel subconsciously placed the sword,
+“resting flat on the left shoulder, edge to the left, hand in front of
+the shoulder and square with the elbow, elbow as high as the hand,” as
+per drill-book, and delivered a lightning stroke—thinking as he did so
+that the Afghan _tulwar_ is an uncommonly well-balanced, handy
+cutting-weapon, though infernally small in the hilt.
+
+The snake’s head fell with a thud upon the polished boards between the
+tiger-skins, and the body dropped writhing and twitching on to the
+settee.
+
+Damocles appeared to be dead. Picking him up, the callous-hearted
+father strode out to where Khodadad Khan held “Fire’s” bridle, handed
+him to the orderly, mounted, received him again from the man, and,
+holding him in his strong right arm, cantered to the bungalow of Major
+John Decies—since it lay on the road to the parade-ground.
+
+Would the jerking hurt the little beggar in his present comatose state?
+Well, brats that couldn’t stand a little jerking were better dead,
+especially when they screamed and threw fits at the sight of a common
+snake.
+
+Turning into Major Decies’ compound and riding up to his porch, the
+Colonel saw the object of his search, arrayed in pyjamas, seated in his
+long cane chair beside a tray of tea, toast, and fruit, in the
+verandah.
+
+“Morning, de Warrenne,” he cried cheerily.
+
+“How’s little—” and caught sight of the inanimate child.
+
+“Little coward’s fainted after throwing a fit—over a common snake,”
+observed the Colonel coolly.
+
+“Give him here,” answered the Major, taking the boy tenderly in his
+arms,—“and kindly—er—clear out.”
+
+He did not wish to strike his friend and senior. How the black rage
+welled up in his heart against the callous brute who had dared to marry
+Lenore Seymour Stukeley.
+
+Colonel de Warrenne wheeled his horse without a word, and rode out of
+Major Decies’ life and that of his son.
+
+Galloping to the parade-ground he spoke a few curt words to his
+Adjutant, inspected the _rissala_, and then rode at its head to the
+brigade parade-ground where it took up its position on the left flank
+of the Guns and the Queen’s Greys, “sat at ease,” and awaited the
+arrival of the Chief Commissioner at the saluting-base. A British
+Infantry regiment marched to the left flank of the 118th (Bombay)
+Lancers, left-turned and stood at ease. Another followed and was
+followed in turn by Native Infantry Regiments—grand Sikhs in scarlet
+tunics, baggy black breeches and blue putties; hefty Pathans and
+Baluchis in green tunics, crimson breeches and high white gaiters,
+sturdy little Gurkhas in rifle-green, stalwart Punjabi Mahommedans.
+
+The great double line grew and grew, and stood patiently waiting,
+Horse, Foot, and Guns, facing the sun and a dense crowd of spectators
+ranked behind the rope-encircled, guard-surrounded saluting-base over
+which flew the Flag of England.
+
+The Brigadier and his Staff rode on to the ground, were saluted by the
+mile of troops, and took up their position.
+
+Followed the Chief Commissioner in his state carriage, accompanied by a
+very Distinguished Guest, and surrounded by his escort. The mile of men
+again came to attention and the review began. Guns boomed, massed bands
+played the National Anthem, the crackling rattle of the _feu-de-joie_
+ran up the front rank and down the rear.
+
+After the inspection and the salutes came the march-past by the
+regiments.
+
+Now the Distinguished Visitor’s wife had told the Chief Commissioner
+that she “did not want to see the cavalry go past at the gallop as it
+raised such a dreadful dust”. But her maid bungled, her toilette
+failed, and she decided not to accompany her husband to the Review at
+all. Her husband, the Distinguished Visitor, _did_ desire to see the
+cavalry go past at the gallop, and so the Chief Commissioner’s
+Distinguished Visitor’s wife’s maid’s bungling had a tremendous
+influence upon the fate of Damocles de Warrenne, as will be seen.
+
+Passed the massed Guns at the walk, followed by the Cavalry at the walk
+in column of squadrons and the Infantry in column of companies, each
+unit saluting the Chief Commissioner by turning “eyes right” as it
+passed the spot where he sat on horseback surrounded by the civil and
+military staffs.
+
+Wheeling to the left at the end of the ground the Guns and Cavalry
+again passed, this time at the trot, while the Infantry completed its
+circular march to its original position.
+
+Finally the Cavalry passed for the third time, and now at the gallop,
+an orderly whirlwind, a controlled avalanche of men and horses, with
+levelled lances, and the hearts of all men were stirred at one of the
+most stirring sights and sounds in the world—a cavalry charge.
+
+At the head of the leading squadron galloped Colonel de Warrenne, cool,
+methodical, keeping a distant flag-staff in line with a still more
+distant church spire, that he might lead the regiment in a perfectly
+straight line. (Few who have not tried it realize the difficulty of
+leading a galloping line of men absolutely straight and at true
+right-angles to the line of their ranks.)
+
+On thundered the squadrons unbending of rank, uncrowded, unopened,
+squadron-leaders maintaining distance, the whole mass as ordered,
+shapely, and precisely correct as when at the walk.
+
+Past the saluting-base thundered the squadrons and in full career
+Colonel de Warrenne’s charger put his near fore into ground
+honey-combed by insect, reptile, or burrowing beast, crashed on its
+head, rolled like a shot rabbit, and Colonel Matthew Devon de Warrenne
+lay dead—killed by his own sword.
+
+Like his ancestors of that fated family, he had died by the sword, but
+unlike them, he had died by the _hilt_ of it.
+
+Major John Decies, I.M.S., Civil Surgeon of Bimariabad, executor of the
+will of the late Colonel de Warrenne and guardian of his son, cabled
+the sad news of the Colonel’s untimely death to Sir Gerald Seymour
+Stukeley at Monksmead, he being, so far as Major Decies knew, the boy’s
+only male relative in England—uncle of the late Mrs. de Warrenne.
+
+The reply, which arrived in a day or two, appeared from its redundancy
+and incoherence to be the composition of Miss Yvette Seymour Stukeley,
+and bade Major Decies either send or bring the infant Damocles to
+Monksmead _immediately_.
+
+The Major decided to apply forthwith for such privilege-leave and
+furlough as were due to him, and to proceed to England with the boy. It
+would be as well that his great-uncle should hear from him, personally,
+of the matter of the child’s mental condition resultant upon the
+tragedy of his own birth and his mother’s death. The Major was
+decidedly anxious as to the future in this respect—all might be well in
+time, and all might be very far indeed from well.
+
+Nurse Beaton absolutely and flatly refused to be parted from her
+charge, and the curious party of three set sail for England in due
+course.
+
+“Hm!—He’s every inch a Stukeley,” remarked the General when Damocles de
+Warrenne was ushered into his presence in the great library at
+Monksmead. “Hope he’s Stukeley by nature too. Sturdy young fella!
+’Spose he’s vetted sound in wind and limb?”
+
+The Major replied that the boy was physically rather remarkably strong,
+mentally very sound, and in character all that could be desired. He
+then did his best to convey to the General an understanding of the
+psychic condition that must be a cause of watchfulness and anxiety on
+the part of those who guarded his adolescence.
+
+At dinner, over the General’s wonderful Clos Vougeot, the Major again
+returned to the subject and felt that his words of advice fell upon
+somewhat indifferent and uncomprehending ears.
+
+It was the General’s boast that he had never feed a doctor in his life,
+and his impression that a sound resort for any kind of invalid is a
+lethal chamber….
+
+The seven years since the Major had last seen her, seemed to have dealt
+lightly with the sad-faced, pretty Miss Yvette, gentle, good, and very
+kind. Over the boy she rhapsodized to her own content and his
+embarrassment. Effusive endearments and embraces were new to Dam, and
+he appeared extraordinarily ignorant of the art of kissing.
+
+“Oh, how like his dear Father!” she would exclaim afresh every few
+minutes, to the Major’s slight annoyance and the General’s plain
+disgust.
+
+“Every inch a Stukeley!” he would growl in reply.
+
+But Yvette Seymour Stukeley had prayed for Colonel de Warrenne nightly
+for seven years and had idealized him beyond recognition. Possibly
+Fate’s greatest kindness to her was to ordain that she should not see
+him as he had become in fact, and compare him with her wondrous mental
+image…. The boy was to her, must be, should be, the very image of her
+life’s hero and beloved….
+
+The depolarized and bewildered Damocles found himself in a strange and
+truly foreign land, a queer, cold, dismal country inhabited by vast
+quantities of “second-class sahibs,” as he termed the British lower
+middle-class and poor, a country of a strange greenness and
+orderedness, where there were white servants, strangely conjoined rows
+of houses in the villages, dangerous-looking fires inside the houses, a
+kind of tomb-stones on all house-tops, strange horse-drawn vehicles,
+butlerless and _ghari_[9]-less sahibs, and an utter absence of
+“natives,” sepoys, _byle-gharies_,[10] camels, monkeys, kites,
+squirrels, bulbuls, _minahs_,[11] mongooses, palm-trees, and temples.
+Cattle appeared to have no humps, crows to have black heads, and trees
+to have no fruit. The very monsoon seemed inextricably mixed with the
+cold season. Fancy the rains coming in the cold weather! Perhaps there
+was no hot weather and nobody went to the hills in this strange country
+of strange people, strange food, strange customs. Nobody seemed to have
+any tents when they left the station for the districts, nor to take any
+bedding when they went on tour or up-country. A queer, foreign land.
+
+ [9] Carriage.
+
+
+ [10] Bullock-carts.
+
+
+ [11] A kind of starling.
+
+
+But Monksmead was a most magnificent “bungalow” standing in a truly
+beautiful “compound”—wherein the very _bhistis_[12] and _mallis_ were
+European and appeared to be second-class sahibs.
+
+ [12] Water-carriers.
+
+
+Marvellous was the interior of the bungalow with its countless rooms
+and mountainous stair-cases (on the wall of one of which hung _the
+Sword_ which he had never seen but instantly recognized) and its army
+of white servants headed by the white butler (so like the Chaplain of
+Bimariabad in grave respectability and solemn pompousness) and its
+extraordinary white “ayahs” or maids, and silver-haired Mrs. Pont,
+called the “house-keeper”. Was she a _pukka_ Mem-Sahib or a
+_nowker_[13] or what? And how did she “keep” the house?
+
+ [13] Servant.
+
+
+A wonderful place—but far and away the most thrilling and delightful of
+its wonders was the little white girl, Lucille—Damocles’ first
+experience of the charming genus.
+
+The boy never forgot his first meeting with Lucille.
+
+On his arrival at Monksmead he had been “vetted,” as he expressed it,
+by the Burra-Sahib, the General; and then taken to an attractive place
+called “the school-room” and there had found Lucille….
+
+“Hullo! Boy,” had been her greeting. “What’s your name?” He had
+attentively scrutinized a small white-clad, blue-sashed maiden, with
+curling chestnut hair, well-opened hazel eyes, decided chin, Greek
+mouth and aristocratic cheek-bones. A maiden with a look of blood and
+breed about her. (He did not sum her up in these terms at the time.)
+
+“Can you ride, Boy?”
+
+“A bit.”
+
+“Can you fight?”
+
+“A bit.”
+
+“Can you swim?”
+
+“Not well.”
+
+“_I_ can—ever so farther. D’you know French and German?”
+
+“Not a word.”
+
+“Play the piano?”
+
+“Never heard of it. D’you play it with cards or dice?”
+
+“Lucky dog! It’s music. I have to practise an hour a day.”
+
+“What for?”
+
+“Nothing … it’s lessons. Beastly. How old are you?”
+
+“Seven—er—nearly.”
+
+“So’m I—nearly. I’ve got to be six first though. I shall have a
+birthday next week. A big one. Have you brought any ellyfunts from
+India?”
+
+“I’ve never seen a nellyfunt—only in pictures.”
+
+A shudder shook the boy’s sturdy frame.
+
+“Why do you go like that? Feel sick?”
+
+“No. I don’t know. I seemed to remember something—in a book. I dream
+about it. There’s a nasty blue room with a mud floor. And _Something_.
+Beastly. Makes you yell out and you can’t. You can’t run away either.
+But the Sword dream is lovely.”
+
+Lucille appeared puzzled and put this incoherence aside.
+
+“What a baby never to see ellyfunts! I’ve seen lots. Hundreds. Zoo.
+Circuses. Persessions. Camels, too.”
+
+“Oh, I used to ride a camel every day. There was one in the compound
+with his _oont-wallah_,[14] Abdul Ghaffr; and Khodadad Khan used to
+beat the _oont-wallah_ on cold mornings to warm himself.”
+
+ [14] Camel-man.
+
+
+“What’s an _oont-wallah_?”
+
+“Don’t you _know_? Why, he’s just the _oont-wallah_, of course. Who’d
+graze the camel or load it up if there wasn’t one?”
+
+At tea in the nursery the young lady suddenly remarked:—
+
+“I like you, Boy. You’re worth nine Haddocks.”
+
+This cryptic valuation puzzled Damocles the more in that he had never
+seen or heard of a haddock. Had he been acquainted with the fowl he
+might have been yet more astonished.
+
+Later he discovered that the comparison involved the fat boy who sat
+solemnly stuffing on the other side of the table, his true baptismal
+name being Haddon.
+
+Yes, Lucille was a revelation, a marvel.
+
+Far quicker of mind than he, cleverer at games and inventing “make
+believe,” very strong, active, and sporting, she was the most charming,
+interesting, and attractive experience in his short but eventful life.
+
+How he loved to make her laugh and clap her hands! How he enjoyed her
+quaint remarks, speculations, fairy-tales and jokes. How he yearned to
+win her approval and admiration. How he strove to please her!
+
+In Lucille and his wonderful new surroundings he soon forgot Major
+Decies, who returned to live (and, at a ripe old age, to die) at
+Bimariabad, where had lived and died the woman whom he had so truly and
+purely loved. The place where he had known her was the only place for
+him.
+
+On each of his birthdays Damocles received a long fatherly letter and a
+handsome present from the Major, and by the time he went away to school
+at Wellingborough, he wondered who on earth the Major might be.
+
+To his great delight Damocles found that he was not doomed to
+discontinue his riding, fencing, boxing, and “dismounted drill without
+arms”.
+
+General Seymour Stukeley sent for a certain Sergeant Havlan (once a
+trooper in his own regiment), rough-rider, swordsman, and boxer, now a
+professional trainer, and bade him see that the boy learned all he
+could teach him of arms and horsemanship, boxing, swimming, and general
+physical prowess and skill. Lucille and Haddon Berners were to join in
+to the extent to which their age and sex permitted.
+
+The General intended his great-nephew to be worthy of his Stukeley
+blood, and to enter Sandhurst a finished man-at-arms and horseman, and
+to join his regiment, Cavalry, of course, with nothing much to learn of
+sword, lance, rifle, revolver, and horse.
+
+Sergeant Havlan soon found that he had little need to begin at the
+beginning with Damocles de Warrenne in the matter of riding, fencing or
+boxing, and was unreasonably annoyed thereat.
+
+In time, it became the high ambition and deep desire of Dam to overcome
+Sergeant Havlan’s son in battle with the gloves. As young Havlan was a
+year his senior, a trained infant prodigy, and destined for the Prize
+Ring, there was plenty for him to learn and to do.
+
+With foil or sabre the boy was beneath Dam’s contempt.
+
+Daily the children were in Sergeant Havlan’s charge for riding and
+physical drill, Dam getting an extra hour in the evening for the more
+manly and specialized pursuits suitable to his riper years.
+
+He and Lucille loved it all, and the Haddock bitterly loathed it.
+
+Until Miss Smellie came Dam was a happy boy—but for queer sudden spasms
+of terror of Something unknown; and, after her arrival, he would have
+been well content could he have been assured of an early opportunity of
+attending her obsequies and certain of a long-postponed resurrection;
+well content, and often wildly happy (with Lucille) … but for the
+curious undefinable fear of Something … Something about which he had
+the most awful dreams … Something in a blue room with a mud floor.
+Something that seemed at times to move beneath his foot, making his
+blood freeze, his knees smite together, the sunlight turn to darkness….
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV.
+THE SWORD AND THE SOUL.
+
+
+One of the very earliest of all Dam’s memories in after life—for in a
+few years he forgot India absolutely—was of _the Sword_ (that hung on
+the oak-panelled wall of the staircase by the portrait of a cavalier),
+and of a gentle, sad-eyed lady, Auntie Yvette, who used to say:—
+
+“Yes, sonny darling, it is more than two-hundred-and-fifty years old.
+It belonged to Sir Seymour Stukeley, who carried the King’s Standard at
+Edgehill and died with that sword in his hand … _You_ shall wear a
+sword some day.”
+
+(He did—with a difference.)
+
+The sword grew into the boy’s life and he would rather have owned it
+than the mechanical steamboat with real brass cannon for which he
+prayed to God so often, so earnestly, and with such faith. On his
+seventh birthday he preferred a curious request, which had curious
+consequences.
+
+“Can I take the sword to bed with me to-night, Dearest, as it is my
+birthday?” he begged. “I won’t hurt it.”
+
+And the sword was taken down from the oak-panelled wall, cleaned, and
+laid on the bed in his room.
+
+“Promise you will not try to take it out of the sheath, sonny darling,”
+said the gentle, sad-eyed lady as she kissed him “Good night”.
+
+“I promise, Dearest,” replied the boy, and she knew that she need have
+no fear.
+
+He fell asleep fondling and cuddling the sword that had pierced the
+hearts of many men and defended the honour of many ancestors, and
+dreamed, with far greater vividness and understanding, the dream he had
+so often dreamt before.
+
+Frequently as he dreamed it during his chequered career, it was
+henceforth always most vivid and real. It never never varied in the
+slightest detail, and he generally dreamed it on the night before some
+eventful, dangerful day on which he risked his life or fought for it.
+
+Of the early dreamings, of course, he understood little, but while he
+was still almost a boy he most fully understood the significance of
+every word, act, and detail of the marvellous, realistic dream.
+
+It began with a view of a camp of curious little bell-tents about which
+strode remarkable, big-booted, long-haired, bedizened men—looking
+strangely effeminate and strangely fierce, with their feathered hats,
+curls, silk sashes, velvet coats, and with their long swords, cruel
+faces, and savage oaths.
+
+Some wore steel breastplates, like that of the suit of armour in the
+hall, and steel helmets. The sight of the camp thrilled the boy in his
+dream, and yet he knew that he had seen it all before actually, and in
+real life—in some former life.
+
+Beside one of a small cluster of tents that stood well apart from the
+rest sat a big man who instantly reminded the boy of his dread
+“Grandfather,” whom he would have loved to have loved had he been given
+the chance.
+
+The big man was even more strangely attired than those others who
+clumped and clattered about the lower part of the camp.
+
+Fancy a great big strong man with long curls, a lace collar, and a
+velvet coat—like a kid going to a party!
+
+The velvet coat had the strangest sleeves, too—made to button to the
+elbow and full of slits that seemed to have been mended underneath with
+blue silk. There was a regular pattern of these silk-mended slits about
+the body of the coat, too, and funny silk-covered buttons.
+
+On his head the man had a great floppy felt hat with a huge feather—a
+hat very like one that Dearest wore, only bigger.
+
+One of his long curls was tied with a bow of ribbon—like young Lucille
+wore—and the boy felt quite uncomfortable as he noted it. A grown
+man—the silly ass! And, yes! he had actually got lace round the bottoms
+of his quaint baggy knickerbockers—as well as lace cuffs!
+
+The boy could see it, where one of the great boots had sagged down
+below the knee.
+
+Extraordinary boots they were, too. Nothing like “Grumper’s”
+riding-boots. They were yellowish in colour, and dull, not nicely
+polished, and although the square-toed, ugly foot part looked solid as
+a house, the legs were more like wrinkled leather stockings, and so
+long that the pulled-up one came nearly to the hip.
+
+Spurs had made black marks on the yellow ankles, and saddle and
+stirrup-leather had rubbed the legs….
+
+And a sash! Whoever heard of a grown-up wearing a sash? It was a great
+blue silk thing, wound round once or twice, and tied with a great bow,
+the ends of which hung down in front.
+
+Of all the Pip-squeaks!
+
+And yet the big man’s face was not that of a Pip-squeak—far from it. It
+was very like Grumper’s in fact.
+
+The boy liked the face. It was strong and fierce, thin and
+clean-cut—marred only, in his estimation, by the funny little tuft of
+hair on the lower lip. He liked the wavy, rough, up-turned moustache,
+but not that silly tuft. How nice he would look with his hair cut, his
+lower lip shaved, and his ridiculous silks, velvet, and lace exchanged
+for a tweed shooting-suit or cricketing-flannels! How Grumper, Father,
+Major Decies, and even Khodadad Khan and the sepoys would have laughed
+at the get-up. Nay, they would have blushed for the fellow—a Sahib, a
+gentleman—to tog himself up so!
+
+The boy also liked the man’s voice when he turned towards the tent and
+called:—
+
+“Lubin, you drunken dog, come hither,” a call which brought forth a
+servant-like person, who, by reason of his clean-shaven face and red
+nose, reminded the boy of Pattern the coachman.
+
+He wore a dark cloth suit, cotton stockings, shoes that had neither
+laces nor buttons, but fastened with a kind of strap and buckle, and,
+queer creature, a big Eton collar!
+
+“Sword and horse, rascal,” said the gentleman, “and warn Digby for
+duty. Bring me wine and a manchet of bread.”
+
+The man bowed and re-entered the tent, to emerge a moment later bearing
+_the Sword_.
+
+How the cut-steel hilt sparkled and shone! How bright and red the
+leather scabbard—now black, dull, cracked and crumbling. But it was
+unmistakeably _the_ Sword.
+
+It hung from a kind of broad cross-belt and was attached to it by
+several parallel buckled straps—not like Father’s Sam Browne belt at
+all.
+
+As the gentleman rose from his stool (he must have been over six feet
+in height) Lubin passed the cross-belt over his head and raised left
+arm so that it rested on his right shoulder, and the Sword hung from
+hip to heel.
+
+To the boy it had always seemed such a huge, unwieldy thing. At this
+big man’s side it looked—just right.
+
+Lubin then went off at a trot to where long lines of bay horses pawed
+the ground, swished their tails, tossed their heads, and fidgeted
+generally….
+
+From a neighbouring tent came the sounds of a creaking camp-bed, two
+feet striking the ground with violence, and a prodigious, prolonged
+yawn.
+
+A voice then announced that all parades should be held in Hell, and
+that it was better to be dead than damned. Why should gentlemen drill
+on a fine evening while the world held wine and women?
+
+After a brief space, occupied with another mighty yawn, it loudly and
+tunefully requested some person or persons unknown to superintend its
+owner’s obsequies.
+
+“Lay a garland on my hearse
+Of the dismal yew;
+Maidens, willow branches bear;
+Say I died true.
+My love was false, but I was firm
+From my hour of birth.
+Upon my buried body lie
+Lightly, gentle earth….”
+
+
+“May it do so soon,” observed the tall gentleman distinctly.
+
+“What ho, without there! That you, Seymour, lad?” continued the voice.
+“Tarry a moment. Where’s that cursed …” and sounds of hasty search
+among jingling accoutrements were followed by a snatch of song of which
+the boy instantly recognized the words. He had often heard Dearest sing
+them.
+
+“Drink to me only with thine eyes
+And I will pledge with mine:
+Or leave a kiss within the cup
+And I’ll not look for wine.
+The thirst that from the soul doth rise
+Doth ask a drink divine;
+But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,
+I would not change for thine.”
+
+
+Lubin appeared, bearing a funny, fat, black bottle, a black cup (both
+appeared to be of leather), and a kind of leaden plate on which was a
+small funnily-shaped loaf of bread.
+
+“’Tis well you want none,” observed the tall gentleman, “I had asked
+you to help me crush a flask else,” and on the word the singer emerged
+from the tent.
+
+“Jest not on solemn subjects, Seymour,” he said soberly, “Wine may
+carry me over one more pike-parade…. Good lad…. Here’s to thee…. Why
+should gentlemen drill?… I came to fight for the King, not to … But,
+isn’t this thy day for de Warrenne? Oh, ten million fiends! Plague and
+pest! And I cannot see thee stick him, Seymour …” and the speaker
+dashed the black drinking-vessel violently on the ground, having
+carefully emptied it.
+
+The boy did not much like him.
+
+His lace collar was enormous and his black velvet coat was embroidered
+all over with yellow silk designs, flowers, and patterns. It was like
+the silly mantel-borders and things that Mrs. Pont, the housekeeper,
+did in her leisure time. (“Cruel-work” she called it, and the boy quite
+agreed.)
+
+This man’s face was pink and fair, his hair golden.
+
+“Warn him not of the hilt-thrust, Seymour, lad,” he said suddenly.
+“Give it him first—for a sneering, bullying, taverning, chambering
+knave.”
+
+The tall gentleman glanced at his down-flung cup, raised his eyebrows,
+and drank from the bottle.
+
+“Such _would_ annoy _you_, Hal, of course,” he murmured.
+
+A man dressed in what appeared to be a striped football jersey under a
+leather waistcoat and steel breast-plate, high boots and a steel helmet
+led up a great horse.
+
+The boy loved the horse. It was very like “Fire”.
+
+The gentleman (called Seymour) patted it fondly, stroked his nose, and
+gave it a piece of his bread.
+
+“Well, Crony Long-Face?” he said fondly.
+
+He then put his left foot in the great box-stirrup and swung himself
+into the saddle—a very different kind of saddle from those with which
+the boy was familiar.
+
+It reminded him of Circuses and the Lord Mayor’s Show. It was big
+enough for two and there was a lot of velvet and stuff about it and a
+fine gold _C.R._—whatever that might mean—on a big pretty cloth under
+it (perhaps the gentleman’s initials were C.R. just as his own were D.
+de W. and on some of his things).
+
+The great fat handle of a great fat pistol stuck up on each side of the
+front of the saddle.
+
+“Follow,” said the gentleman to the iron-bound person, and moved off at
+a walk towards a road not far distant.
+
+“Stap him! Spit him, Seymour,” called the pink-faced man, “and warn him
+not of the hilt-thrust.”
+
+As he passed the corner of the camp, two men with great axe-headed
+spear things performed curious evolutions with their cumbersome
+weapons, finally laying the business ends of them on the ground as the
+gentleman rode by.
+
+He touched his hat to them with his switch.
+
+Continuing for a mile or so, at a walk, he entered a dense coppice and
+dismounted.
+
+“Await me,” he said to his follower, gave him the curb-rein, and walked
+on to an open glade a hundred yards away.
+
+(It was a perfect spot for Red Indians, Smugglers, Robin Hood, Robinson
+Crusoe or any such game, the boy noted.)
+
+Almost at the same time, three other men entered the clearing, two
+together, and one from a different quarter.
+
+“For the hundredth time, Seymour, lad, _mention not the hilt-thrust_,
+as you love me and the King,” said this last one quietly as he
+approached the gentleman; and then the two couples behaved in a
+ridiculous manner with their befeathered hats, waving them in great
+circles as they bowed to each other, and finally laying them on their
+hearts before replacing them.
+
+“Mine honour is my guide, Will,” answered the gentleman called Seymour,
+somewhat pompously the boy considered, though he did not know the word.
+
+Sir Seymour then began to remove the slashed coat and other garments
+until he stood in his silk stockings, baggy knickerbockers, and jolly
+cambric shirt—nice and loose and free at the neck as the boy thought.
+
+He rolled up his right sleeve, drew the sword, and made one or two
+passes—like Sergeant Havlan always did before he began fencing.
+
+The other two men, meantime, had been behaving somewhat
+similarly—talking together earnestly and one of them undressing.
+
+The one who did this was a very powerful-looking man and the arm he
+bared reminded the boy of that of a “Strong Man” he had seen recently
+at Monksmead Fair, in a tent, and strangely enough his face reminded
+him of that of his own Father.
+
+He had a nasty face though, the boy considered, and looked like a
+bounder because he had pimples, a swelly nose, a loud voice, and a
+swanky manner. The boy disapproved of him wholly. It was like his cheek
+to resemble Father, as well as to have the same name.
+
+His companion came over to the gentleman called Will, carrying the
+strong man’s bared sword and, bowing ridiculously (with his hat, both
+hands, and his feet) said:—
+
+“Shall we measure, Captain Ormonde Delorme?”
+
+Captain Delorme then took the sword from Sir Seymour, bowed as the
+other had done, and handed him the sword with a mighty flourish, hilt
+first.
+
+It proved to be half an inch shorter than the other, and Captain
+Delorme remarked that his Principal would waive that.
+
+He and the strong man’s companion then chose a spot where the grass was
+very short and smooth, where there were no stones, twigs or
+inequalities, and where the light of the setting sun fell sideways upon
+the combatants—who tip-toed gingerly, and rather ridiculously, in their
+stockinged feet, to their respective positions. Facing each other, they
+saluted with their swords and then stood with the right arm pointing
+downwards and across the body so that the hilt of the sword was against
+the right thigh and the blade directed to the rear.
+
+“One word, Sir Matthew de Warrenne,” said Sir Seymour as they paused in
+this attitude. “If my point rests for a second on your hilt _you are a
+dead man_.”
+
+Sir Matthew laughed in an ugly manner and replied:—
+
+“And what is your knavish design now, Sir Seymour Stukeley?”
+
+“My design _was_ to warn you of an infallible trick of fence, Sir
+Matthew. It _now_ is to kill you—for the insult, and on behalf of …
+your own unhappy daughter.”
+
+The other yawned and remarked to his friend:—
+
+“I have a parade in half an hour.”
+
+“On guard,” cried the person addressed, drawing his sword and striking
+an attitude.
+
+“Play,” cried Captain Delorme, doing similarly.
+
+Both principals crouched somewhat, held their swords horizontal, with
+point to the adversary’s breast and hilt drawn back, arm sharply
+bent—for both, it appeared, had perfected the Art of Arts in Italy.
+
+These niceties escaped the boy in his earlier dreamings of the
+dream—but the time came when he could name every pass, parry,
+invitation, and riposte.
+
+The strong man suddenly threw his sword-hand high and towards his left
+shoulder, keeping his sword horizontal, and exposing the whole of his
+right side.
+
+Sir Seymour lunged hard for his ribs, beneath the right arm-pit and, as
+the other’s sword swooped down to catch his, twist it over, and
+riposte, he feinted, cleared the descending sword, and thrust at the
+throat. A swift ducking crouch let the sword pass over the strong man’s
+head, and only a powerful French circular parry saved the life of Sir
+Seymour Stukeley.
+
+As the boy realized later, he fought Italian in principle, and used the
+best of French parries, ripostes, and tricks, upon occasion—and his own
+perfected combination of the two schools made him, according to Captain
+Delorme, the best fencer in the King’s army. So at least the Captain
+said to the other second, as they amicably chatted while their friends
+sought to slay each other before their hard, indifferent-seeming eyes.
+
+To the boy their talk conveyed little—as yet.
+
+The duellists stepped back as the “phrase” ended, and then Sir Seymour
+gave an “invitation,” holding his sword-arm wide to the right of his
+body. Sir Matthew lunged, his sword was caught, carried out to the
+left, and held there as Sir Seymour’s blade slid inward along it. Just
+in time, Sir Matthew’s inward pressure carried Sir Seymour’s sword
+clear to the right again. Sir Matthew disengaged over, and, as the
+sudden release brought Sir Seymour’s sword springing in, he thrust
+under that gentleman’s right arm and scratched his side.
+
+As he recovered his sword he held it for a moment with the point raised
+toward Sir Seymour’s face. Instantly Sir Seymour’s point tinkled on his
+hilt, and Captain Delorme murmured “Finis” beneath his breath.
+
+Sir Stukeley Seymour’s blade shot in, Sir Matthew’s moved to parry, and
+the point of the advancing sword flickered under his hand, turned
+upward, and pierced his heart.
+
+“Yes,” said Captain Delorme, as the stricken man fell, “if he parries
+outward the point goes under, if he anticipates a feint it comes
+straight in, and if he parries a lunge-and-feint-under, he gets
+feint-over before he can come up. I have never seen Stukeley miss when
+once he rests on the hilt. _Exit_ de Warrenne—and Hell the worse for
+it——” and the boy awoke.
+
+He kissed the sword and fell asleep again.
+
+One day, when receiving his morning fencing and boxing lessons of
+Sergeant Havlan, he astonished that warrior (and made a bitter enemy of
+him) by warning him against allowing his blade to rest on the
+Sergeant’s hilt, and by hitting him clean and fair whenever it was
+allowed to happen. Also, by talking of “the Italian school of fence”
+and of “invitations”—the which were wholly outside the
+fencing-philosophy of the French-trained swordsman. At the age of
+fifteen the boy was too good for the man who had been the best that
+Aldershot had known, who had run a _salle d’armes_ for years, and who
+was much sought by ambitious members of the Sword Club.
+
+The Sword, from the day of that newly vivid dream, became to the boy
+what his Symbol is to the religious fanatic, and he was content to sit
+and stare at it, musing, for hours.
+
+The sad-eyed, sentimental lady encouraged him and spoke of Knights,
+Chivalry, Honour, _Noblesse Oblige_, and Ideals such as the nineteenth
+century knew not and the world will never know again.
+
+“Be a real and true Knight, sonny darling,” she would say, “and live to
+_help_. Help women—God knows they need it. And try to be able to say at
+the end of your life, ‘I have never made a woman weep’. Yes—be a Knight
+and have ‘Live pure, Speak true, Right wrong’ on your shield. Be a
+Round Table Knight and ride through the world bravely. Your dear Father
+was a great swordsman. You may have the sword down and kiss it, the
+first thing every morning—and you must salute it every night as you go
+up to bed. You shall wear a sword some day.”
+
+(Could the poor lady but have foreseen!)
+
+She also gave him over-copiously and over-early of her simple, fervent,
+vague Theology, and much Old and New Testament History, with the
+highest and noblest intentions—and succeeded in implanting a deep
+distrust and dislike of “God” in his acutely intelligent mind.
+
+To a prattling baby, _Mother_ should be God enough—God and all the
+angels and paradise in one … (but he had never known a mother and Nurse
+Beaton had ever been more faithfully conscientious in deed than
+tenderly loving in manner).
+
+She filled his soul with questionings and his mouth with questions
+which she could not answer, and which he answered for himself. The
+questions sometimes appalled her.
+
+If God so loved the world, why did He let the Devil loose in it?
+
+If God could do _anything_, why didn’t He lay the Devil out with one
+hand?
+
+If He always rewarded the Good and punished the Bad, why was Dearest so
+unhappy, and drunken Poacher Iggulsby so very gay and prosperously
+naughty?
+
+He knew too that his dead Father had not been “good,” for he heard
+servant-talk, and terrible old “Grandfather” always forgot that “Little
+Pitchers have Long Ears”.
+
+If God always answered devout and faith-inspired prayer, why did He not
+
+1. Save Caiaphas the cat when earnestly prayed for—having been run over
+by Pattern in the dog-cart, coming out of the stables?
+
+
+2. Send the mechanical steam-boat so long and earnestly prayed for,
+with Faith and Belief?
+
+
+3. Help the boy to lead a higher and a better life, to eat up his
+crusts and fat as directed, to avoid chivvying the hens, inking his
+fingers, haunting the stables, stealing green apples in the orchard,
+tearing his clothes, and generally doing evil with fire, water, mud,
+stones and other tempting and injurious things?
+
+
+And was it entirely decent of God to be eternally spying on a fellow,
+as appeared to be His confirmed habit?
+
+As for that awful heart-rending Crucifixion, was that the sort of thing
+for a Father to look on at…. As bad as that brutal old Abraham with
+Isaac his son … were _all_ “Good” Fathers like that …?
+
+And nightmare dreams of Hell—a Hell in which there was a
+_Snake_—wrought no improvement.
+
+And the Bible! How strangely and dully they talked, and what people!
+That nasty Jacob and Esau business, those horrid Israelites, the
+Unfaithful Steward; the Judge who let himself be pestered into action;
+those poor unfortunate swine that were made to rush violently down the
+steep place into the sea; Ananias and Sapphira. No—not a nice book at
+all.
+
+The truth is that Theology, at the age of seven, is not
+commendable—setting aside the question of whether (at any age) Theology
+is a web of words, ritual, dogma, tradition, invention, shibboleth; a
+web originally spun by interested men to obscure God from their dupes.
+
+So the boy worshipped Dearest and distrusted and disliked the God she
+gave him, a big sinister bearded Man who hung spread-eagled above the
+world, covering the entire roof of the Universe, and watched, watched,
+watched, with unwinking, all-seeing eye, and remembered with
+unforgetting, unrelenting mind. Cruel. Ungentlemanly. _Jealous!_ Cold.
+
+Also the boy fervently hoped it might never be his lot to go to
+Heaven—a shockingly dreary place where it was always Sunday and one
+must, presumably, be very quiet except when singing hymns. A place
+tenanted by white-robed Angels, unsympathetic towards dirty-faced
+little sinners who tore their clothes. Angels, cold, superior,
+unhuggable, haughty, given to ecstatic throes, singers of _Hallelujah_
+and other silly words—always _praising_.
+
+How he loathed and dreaded the idea of Dearest being an Angel! Fancy
+sweet Dearest or his own darling Lucille with silly wings (like a
+beastly goose or turkey in dear old Cook’s larder), with a long
+trumpet, perhaps, in a kind of night-gown, flying about the place, it
+wasn’t decent at all—Dearest and Lucille, whom he adored and
+hugged—unsympathetic, cold, superior, unhuggable, haughty; and the boy
+who was very, _very_ tender-hearted, would throw his arms round
+Dearest’s neck and hug and hug and hug, for he abhorred the thought of
+her becoming a beastly angel.
+
+Surely, if God knew His business, Dearest would be always happy and
+bright and live ever so long, and be ever so old, forty years and more.
+
+And Dearest, fearing that her idolized boy might grow up a man
+like—well, like “Grumper” had been—hard, quarrelsome, adventurous,
+flippant, wicked, pleasure-loving, drunken, Godless … redoubled her
+efforts to Influence-the-child’s-mind-for-good by means of the
+Testaments and Theology, the Covenant, the Deluge, Miracles, the
+Immaculate Conception, the Last Supper, the Resurrection, Pentecost,
+Creeds, Collects, Prayers.
+
+And the boy’s mind weighed these things deliberately, pondered them,
+revolted—and rejected them one and all.
+
+Dearest had been taken in….
+
+He said the prayers she taught him mechanically, and when he felt the
+need of real prayer—(as he did when he had dreamed of the Snake)—he
+always began, “If you _are_ there, God, and _are_ a good, kind God” …
+and concluded, “Yours sincerely, Damocles de Warrenne”.
+
+He got but little comfort, however, for his restless and logical mind
+asked:—
+
+“If God _knows_ best and will surely _do_ what is best, why bother Him?
+And if He does not and will not, why bother yourself?”
+
+But Dearest succeeded, at any rate, in filling his young soul with a
+love of beauty, romance, high adventure, honour, and all physical,
+mental, and moral cleanliness.
+
+She taught him to use his imagination, and she made books a necessity.
+She made him a gentleman in soul—as distinct from a gentleman in
+clothes, pocket, or position.
+
+She gave him a beautiful veneration for woman that no other woman was
+capable of destroying—though one or two did their best. Then the
+sad-eyed lady was superseded and her professional successor, Miss
+Smellie, the governess, finding the boy loved the Sword, asked Grumper
+to lock it away for the boy’s Good.
+
+Also she got Grumper to dismiss Nurse Beaton for impudence and not
+“knowing her place”.
+
+But Damocles entered into an offensive and defensive alliance with
+Lucille, on whom he lavished the whole affection of his deeply, if
+undemonstratively, affectionate nature, and the two “hunted in
+couples,” sinned and suffered together, pooled their resources and
+their wits, found consolation in each other when harried by Miss
+Smellie, spent every available moment in each other’s society and, like
+the Early Christians, had all things in common.
+
+On birthdays, “high days and holidays” he would ask “Grumper” to let
+him have the Sword for an hour or two, and would stand with it in his
+hand, rapt, enthralled, ecstatic. How strange it made one feel! How
+brave, and anxious to do fine deeds. He would picture himself bearing
+an unconscious Lucille in his left arm through hostile crowds, while
+with the Sword he thrust and hewed, parried and guarded…. Who could
+fear _anything_ with the Sword in his hand, the Sword of the Dream! How
+glorious to die wielding it, wielding it in a good cause … preferably
+on behalf of Lucille, his own beloved little pal, staunch, clever, and
+beautiful. And he told Lucille tales of the Sword and of how he loved
+it!
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V.
+LUCILLE.
+
+
+“If you drinks a drop more, Miss Lucy, you’ll just go like my pore
+young sister goed,” observed Cook in a warning voice, as Lucille paused
+to get her second wind for the second draught.
+
+(Lucille had just been tortured at the stake by Sioux and
+Blackfeet—thirsty work on a July afternoon.)
+
+“And how did she go, Cookie-Bird—_Pop?_” inquired Lucille politely,
+with round eyes, considering over the top of the big lemonade-flagon as
+it rose again to her determined little mouth.
+
+“No, Miss Lucy,” replied Cook severely. “Pop she did not. She swole …
+swole and swole.”
+
+“You mean ‘swelled,’ Cookoo,” corrected Lucille, inclined to be a
+little didactic and corrective at the age of ten.
+
+“Well, she were _my_ sister after all, Miss Lucy,” retorted Cook, “and
+perhaps I may, or may not, know what she done. _I_ say she swole—and
+what is more she swole clean into a dropsy. All along of drinking
+water…. _Drops_ of water—_Dropsy_.”
+
+“Never drink water,” murmured Dam, absentmindedly annexing, and
+pocketing, an apple.
+
+“Ah, water, but you see this is lemonade,” countered Lucille.
+“Home-made, too, and not—er—gusty. It doesn’t make you go——” and here
+it is regrettable to have to relate that Lucille made a shockingly
+realistic sound, painfully indicative of the condition of one who has
+imbibed unwisely and too well of a gas-impregnated liquor.
+
+“No more does water in my experiants,” returned Cook, “and I was not
+allooding to wulgarity, Miss Lucy, which you should know better than to
+do such. My pore young sister’s systerm turned watery and they tapped
+her at the last. All through drinking too much water, which lemonade
+ain’t so very different either, be it never so ’ome-made…. Tapped ’er
+they did—like a carksk, an’ ’er a Band of ’Oper, Blue Ribander, an’
+Sunday Schooler from birth, an’ not departin’ from it when she grew up.
+Such be the Ways of Providence,” and Cook sighed with protestive
+respectfulness….
+
+“Tapped ’er systerm, they did,” she added pensively, and with a little
+justifiable pride.
+
+“Were they hard taps?” inquired Lucille, reappearing from behind the
+flagon. “I hate them myself, even on the funny-bone or knuckles—but on
+the _cistern!_ Ugh!”
+
+“_Hard_ taps; they was _silver_ taps,” ejaculated Cook, “and drawed
+gallings and gallings—and nothing to laugh at, Master Dammicles,
+neether…. So don’t you drink no more, Miss Lucy.”
+
+“I can’t,” admitted Lucille—and indeed, to Dam, who regarded his
+“cousin” with considerable concern, it did seem that, even as Cook’s
+poor young sister of unhappy memory, Lucille had “swole”—though only
+locally.
+
+“Does _beer_ make you swell or swole or swellow when you swallow,
+Cooker?” he inquired; “because, if so, _you_ had better be—” but he was
+not allowed to conclude his deduction, for cook, bridling, bristling,
+and incensed, bore down upon the children and swept them from her
+kitchen.
+
+To the boy, even as he fled _via_ a dish of tartlets and cakes, it
+seemed remarkable that a certain uncertainty of temper (and figure)
+should invariably distinguish those who devote their lives to the
+obviously charming and attractive pursuit of the culinary art.
+
+Surely one who, by reason of unfortunate limitations of sex, age,
+ability, or property, could not become a Colonel of Cavalry could still
+find infinite compensation in the career of cook or railway-servant.
+
+Imagine, in the one case, having absolute freedom of action with regard
+to raisins, tarts, cream, candy-peel, jam, plum-puddings and cakes,
+making life one vast hamper, and in the other case, boundless
+opportunity in the matter of leaping on and off moving trains, carrying
+lighted bull’s-eye lanterns, and waving flags.
+
+One of the early lessons that life taught him, without troubling to
+explain them, and she taught him many and cruel, was that Cooks are
+Cross.
+
+“What shall we do now, Dam?” asked Lucille, and added, “Let’s raid the
+rotten nursery and rag the Haddock. Little ass! Nothing else to do. How
+I _hate_ Sunday afternoon…. No work and no play. Rotten.”
+
+The Haddock, it may be stated, owed his fishy title to the fact that he
+once possessed a Wealthy Relative of the name of Haddon. With
+far-sighted reversionary intent his mother, a Mrs. Berners _née_
+Seymour Stukeley, had christened him Haddon.
+
+But the Wealthy Relative, on being informed of his good fortune, had
+bluntly replied that he intended to leave his little all to the
+founding of Night-Schools for illiterate Members of Parliament,
+Travelling-Scholarships for uneducated Cabinet Ministers, and
+Deportment Classes for New Radical Peers. He was a Funny Man as well as
+a Wealthy Relative.
+
+And, thereafter, Haddon Berners’ parents had, as Cook put it, “up and
+died” and “Grandfather” had sent for, and adopted, the orphan Haddock.
+
+Though known to Dam and Lucille as “The Haddock” he was in reality an
+utter Rabbit and esteemed as such. A Rabbit he was born, a Rabbit he
+lived, and a Rabbit he died. Respectable ever. Seen in the Right Place,
+in the Right Clothes, doing the Right Thing with the Right People at
+the Right Time.
+
+Lucille was the daughter of Sylvester Bethune Gavestone, the late and
+lamented Bishop of Minsterbury (once a cavalry subaltern), a school,
+Sandhurst, and life-long friend of “Grandfather,” and husband of
+“Grandfather’s” cousin, Geraldine Seymour Stukeley.
+
+Poor “Grandfather,” known to the children as “Grumper,” the ferocious
+old tyrant who loved all mankind and hated all men, with him adoption
+was a habit, and the inviting of other children to stay as long as they
+liked with the adopted children, a craze.
+
+And yet he rarely saw the children, never played with them, and hated
+to be disturbed.
+
+He had out-lived his soldier-contemporaries, his children, his power to
+ride to hounds, his pretty taste in wine, his fencing, dancing,
+flirting, and all that had made life bearable—everything, as he said,
+but his gout and his liver (and, it may be added, except his ferocious,
+brutal temper).
+
+“Yes…. Let us circumvent, decoy, and utterly destroy the common
+Haddock,” agreed Dam.
+
+The entry into the nursery was an effective night-attack by Blackfeet
+(not to mention hands) but was spoilt by the presence of Miss Smellie
+who was sitting there knitting relentlessly.
+
+“Never burst into rooms, children,” she said coldly. “One expects
+little of a boy, but a _girl_ should try to appear a Young Lady. Come
+and sit by me, Lucille. What did you come in for—or rather for what did
+you burst in?”
+
+“We came to play with the Haddock,” volunteered Dam.
+
+“Very kind and thoughtful of you, I am sure,” commented Miss Smellie
+sourly. “Most obliging and benevolent,” and, with a sudden change to
+righteous anger and bitterness, “Why don’t you speak the truth?”
+
+“I am speaking the truth, Miss—er—Smellie,” replied the boy. “We did
+come to play with the dear little Haddock—like one plays with a
+football or a frog. I didn’t say we came for Haddock’s _good_.”
+
+“We needed the Haddock, you see, Miss Smellie,” confirmed Lucille.
+
+“How many times am I to remind you that Haddon Berners’ name _is_
+Haddon, Lucille,” inquired Miss Smellie. “Why must you always prefer
+vulgarity? One expects vulgarity from a boy—but a girl should try to
+appear a Young Lady.”
+
+With an eye on Dam, Lucille protruded a very red tongue at surprising
+length, turned one eye far inward toward her nose, wrinkled that member
+incredibly, corrugated her forehead grievously, and elongated her mouth
+disastrously. The resultant expression of countenance admirably
+expressed the general juvenile view of Miss Smellie and all her works.
+
+Spurred to honourable emulation, the boy strove to excel. Using both
+hands for the elongation of his eyes, the extension of his mouth, and
+the depression of his ears, he turned upon the Haddock so horrible a
+mask that the stricken child burst into a howl, if not into actual
+tears.
+
+“What’s the matter, Haddon?” demanded Miss Smellie, looking up with
+quick suspicion.
+
+“Dam made a _fathe_ at me,” whimpered the smitten one.
+
+“Say ‘made a grimace’ not ‘made a face,’” corrected Miss Smellie. “Only
+God can make _faces_.”
+
+Dam exploded.
+
+“At what are you laughing, Damocles?” she asked sternly.
+
+“Nothing, Miss Smellie. What you said sounded rather funny and a little
+irrevilent or is it irrembrant?”
+
+“Damocles! Should _I_ be likely to say anything Irreverent? Should _I_
+ever dream of Irreverence? What _can_ you mean? And never let me see
+you make faces again.”
+
+“I didn’t let you see me, Miss Smellie, and only God can make faces—”
+
+“Leave the room at once, Sir, I shall report your impudence to your
+great-uncle,” hissed Miss Smellie, rising in wrath—and the bad
+abandoned boy had attained his object. Detention in the nursery for a
+Sunday afternoon was no part of his programme.
+
+Most unobtrusively Lucille faded away also.
+
+“_Isn’t_ she a hopeless beast,” murmured she as the door closed.
+
+“Utter rotter,” admitted the boy. “Let’s slope out into the garden and
+dig some worms for bait.”
+
+“Yes,” agreed Lucille, and added, “Parse _Smellie,_” whereupon, with
+one voice and heart and purpose the twain broke into a paean, not of
+praise—a kind of tribal lay, and chanted:—
+
+“_Smellie_—Very common noun, absurd person, singular back number, tutor
+gender, objectionable case governed by the word _I_,” and so _da capo_.
+
+And yet the poor lady strove to do her duty in that station of life in
+which it had pleased Providence (or a drunken father) to place her—and
+to make the children “genteel”. Had she striven to win their love
+instead, her ministrations might have had some effect (other than
+infinite irritation and bitter dislike).
+
+She was the Compleat Governess, on paper, and all that a person
+entrusted with the training of young children should not be, in
+reality. She had innumerable and admirable testimonials from various
+employers of what she termed “aristocratic standing”; endless
+certificates that testified unto her successful struggles in Music,
+Drawing, Needlework, German, French, Calisthenics, Caligraphy, and
+other mysteries, including the more decorous Sciences (against
+Physiology, Anatomy, Zoology, Biology, and Hygiene she set her face as
+subjects apt to be, at times, improper), and an appearance and manner
+themselves irrefragible proofs of the highest moral virtue.
+
+She also had the warm and unanimous witness of the children at
+Monksmead that she was a Beast.
+
+To those who frankly realize with open eyes that the student of life
+must occasionally encounter indelicacies upon the pleasant path of
+research, it may be revealed, in confidence, that they alluded to Miss
+Smellie as “Sniffy” when not, under extreme provocation, as “Stinker”.
+
+She taught them many things and, prominently, Deceit, Hate, and an
+utter dislike of her God and her Religion—a most disastrous pair.
+
+Poor old “Grumper”; advertising, he got her, paid her highly, and gave
+her almost absolute control of the minds, souls, and bodies of his
+young wards and “grandchildren”.
+
+“The best of everything” for them—and they, at the average age of
+eight, a band of depressed, resentful babes, had “hanged, drawed, and
+quartered” her in effigy, within a month of coming beneath her stony
+ministrations.
+
+In appearance Miss Smellie was tall, thin, and flat. Most exceedingly
+and incredibly flat. Impossibly flat. Her figure, teeth, voice, hair,
+manner, hats, clothes, and whole life and conduct were flat as Euclid’s
+plane-surface or yesterday’s champagne.
+
+To counter-balance the possession, perhaps, of so many virtues, gifts,
+testimonials, and certificates she had no chin, no eyebrows, and no
+eyelashes. Her eyes were weak and watery; her spectacles strong and
+thick; her nose indeterminate, wavering, erratic; her ears large, her
+teeth irregular and protrusive, her mouth unfortunate and not
+guaranteed to close.
+
+An ugly female face is said to be the index and expression of an ugly
+mind. It certainly was so in the case of Miss Smellie. Not that she had
+an evil or vicious mind in any way—far from it, for she was a narrowly
+pious and dully conscientious woman. Her mind was ugly as a useful
+building may be very ugly—or as a room devoid of beautiful furniture or
+over-crowded with cheap furniture may be ugly.
+
+And her mind was devoid of beautiful thought-furniture, and
+over-crowded with cheap and ugly furniture of text-book facts. She was
+an utterly loveless woman, living unloving, and unloved—a terrible
+condition.
+
+One _could not_ like her.
+
+Deadly dull, narrow, pedantic, petty, uninspiring, Miss Smellie’s
+ideals, standards, and aims were incredibly low.
+
+She lived, and taught others to live, for appearances.
+
+The children were so to behave that they might appear “genteel”. If
+they were to do this or that, no one would think they were young ladies
+or young gentlemen.
+
+“If we were out at tea and you did that, I _should_ be ashamed,” she
+would cry when some healthy little human licked its jarnmy fingers, and
+“_Do_ you wish to be considered vulgar or a little gentleman,
+Damocles?”
+
+Damocles was profoundly indifferent on the point and said so plainly.
+
+They were not to be clean of hand for hygienic reasons—but for fear of
+what people might “think”; they were not to be honourable, gentle,
+brave and truthful because these things are fine—but because of what
+the World might dole out in reward; they were not to eat slowly and
+masticate well for their health’s sake—but by reason of “good manners”;
+they were not to study that they might develop their powers of
+reasoning, store their minds, and enlarge their horizons—but that they
+might pass some infernal examination or other, _ad majorem Smelliae
+gloriam_; they were not to practise the musical art that they might
+have a soul-developing aesthetic training, a means of solace, delight,
+and self-expression—but that they might “play their piece” to the
+casual visitor to the school-room with priggish pride, expectant of
+praise; they were not to be Christian for any other reason than that it
+was the recommended way to Eternal Bliss and a Good Time Hereafter—the
+whole duty of canny and respectable man being to “save his soul”
+therefore.
+
+Her charges were skilfully, if unintentionally, trained in hypocrisy
+and mean motive, to look for low reward and strive for paltry ends—to
+do what looked well, say what sounded well, to be false, veneered,
+ungenuine.
+
+And Miss Smellie was giving them the commonly accepted “education” of
+their class and kind.
+
+The prize product of the Smellie system was the Haddock whose whole
+life was a pose, a lie, a refusal to see the actual. Perhaps she
+influenced him more strongly than the others because he was caught
+younger and was of weaker fibre. Anyhow he grew up the perfect and
+heartless snob, and by the time he left Oxford, he would sooner have
+been seen in a Black Maria with Lord Snooker than in a heavenly chariot
+with a prophet of unmodish garment and vulgar ancestry.
+
+To the finished Haddock, a tie was more than a character, and the cut
+of a coat more than the cutting of a loving heart.
+
+To him a “gentleman” was a person who had the current accent and
+waistcoat, a competence, the entree here and there—a goer unto the
+correct places with the correct people. Manners infinitely more than
+conduct; externals everything; let the whitening be white and the
+sepulchre mattered not.
+
+The Haddock had no bloodful vice, but he was unstable as water and
+could not excel, a moral coward and weakling, a liar, a borrower of
+what he never intended to return, undeniably and incurably mean, the
+complete parasite.
+
+From the first he feared and blindly obeyed Miss Smellie, propitiated
+while loathing her; accepted her statements, standards, and beliefs;
+curried favour and became her spy and informer.
+
+“What’s about the record cricket-ball throw, Dam?” inquired Lucille, as
+they strolled down the path to the orchard and kitchen-garden,
+hot-houses, stream and stables, to seek the coy, reluctant worm.
+
+“Dunno,” replied the boy, “but a hundred yards wants a lot of doing.”
+
+“Wonder if _I_ could do it,” mused Lucille, picking up a tempting
+egg-shaped pebble, nearly as big as her fist, and throwing it with
+remarkably neat action (for a girl) at the first pear-tree over the
+bridge that spanned the trout-stream.
+
+_At_, but not into.
+
+With that extraordinary magnetic attraction which glass has for the
+missile of the juvenile thrower, the orchid-house, on the opposite side
+of the path from the pear-tree, drew the errant stone to its hospitable
+shelter.
+
+Through the biggest pane of glass it crashed, neatly decapitated a
+rare, choice exotic, the pride of Mr. Alastair Kenneth MacIlwraith,
+head gardener, released from its hold a hanging basket, struck a large
+pot (perched high in a state of unstable equilibrium), and passed out
+on the other side with something accomplished, something done, to earn
+a long repose.
+
+So much for the stone.
+
+The descending pot lit upon the edge of one side of the big glass
+aquarium, smashed it, and continued its career, precipitating an
+avalanche of lesser pots and their priceless contents.
+
+The hanging basket, now an unhung and travelling basket, heavy,
+iron-ribbed, anciently mossy, oozy of slime, fell with neat exactitude
+upon the bald, bare cranium of Mr. Alastair Kenneth MacIlwraith, head
+gardener, and dour, irascible child and woman hater.
+
+“Bull’s-eye!” commented Dam—always terse when not composing
+fairy-tales.
+
+“Crikey!” shrieked Lucille. “That’s done it,” and fled straightway to
+her room and violent earnest prayer, not for forgiveness but for
+salvation, from consequences. (What’s the good of Saying your Prayers
+if you can’t look for Help in Time of Trouble such as this?)
+
+The face of Mr. Alastair Kenneth MacIlwraith was not pleasant to see as
+he pranced forth from the orchid-house, brandishing an implement of his
+trade.
+
+“Ye’ll be needing a wash the day, Mon Sandy, and the Sawbath but fower
+days syne,” opined Dam, critically observing the moss-and-mud streaked
+head, face and neck of the raving, incoherent victim of Lucille’s
+effort.
+
+When at all lucid and comprehensible Mr. MacIlwraith was understood to
+say he’d give his place (and he twanty-twa years in it) to have the
+personal trouncing of Dam, that Limb, that Deevil, that predestined and
+fore-doomed Child of Sin, that—
+
+Dam pocketed his hands and said but:—
+
+“_Havers_, Mon Sandy!”
+
+“I’ll tak’ the hide fra y’r bones yet, ye feckless, impident—”
+
+Dam shook a disapproving head and said but:—
+
+“_Clavers_, Mon Sandy!”
+
+“I’ll _see_ ye skelped onny-how—or lose ma job, ye—”
+
+More in sorrow than in anger Dam sighed and said but:—
+
+“_Hoots_, Mon Sandy!”
+
+“I’ll go straight to y’r Grandfer the noo, and if ye’r not flayed
+alive! Aye! I’ll gang the noo to Himself——”
+
+“_Wi’ fower an twanty men, an’ five an’ thairrty pipers_,” suggested
+Dam in tuneful song.
+
+Mr. Alastair Kenneth MacIlwraith did what he rarely did—swore
+violently.
+
+“_Do you think at your age it is right_?” quoted the wicked boy … the
+exceedingly bad and reprehensible boy.
+
+The maddened gardener turned and strode to the house with all his
+imperfections on his head and face and neck.
+
+Taking no denial from Butterson, he forced his way into the presence of
+his master and clamoured for instant retributive justice—or the
+acceptance of his resignation forthwith, and him twanty-twa years in
+the ane place.
+
+“Grandfather,” roused from slumber, gouty, liverish, ferociously angry,
+sent for Dam, Sergeant Havlan, and Sergeant Havlan’s cane.
+
+“What’s the meaning of this, Sir,” he roared as Dam, cool, smiling,
+friendly ever, entered the Sanctum. “What the Devil d’ye mean by it,
+eh? Wreckin’ my orchid-houses, assaultin’ my servants, waking me up,
+annoying ME! Seven days C.B.[15] and bread and water, on each count.
+What d’ye mean by it, ye young hound? Eh? Answer me before I have ye
+flogged to death to teach ye better manners! Guilty or Not Guilty? and
+I’ll take your word for it.”
+
+ [15] Confined to barracks.
+
+
+“The missile, describing a parabola, struck its subjective with fearful
+impact, Sir,” replied the bad boy imperturbably, misquoting from his
+latest fiction (and calling it a “parry-bowler,” to “Grandfather’s”
+considerable and very natural mystification).
+
+“_What?_” roared that gentleman, sitting bolt upright in astonishment
+and wrath.
+
+“No. It’s _ob_jective,” corrected Dam. “Yes. With fearful impact.
+Fearful also were the words of the Mon Sandy.”
+
+“Grandfather” flushed and smiled a little wryly.
+
+“You’d favour _me_ with pleasantries too, would you? I’ll reciprocate
+to the best of my poor ability,” he remarked silkily, and his mouth set
+in the unpleasant Stukeley grimness, while a little muscular pulse beat
+beneath his cheek-bone.
+
+“A dozen of the very best, if you please, Sergeant,” he added, turning
+to Sergeant Havlan.
+
+“Coat off, Sir,” remarked that worthy, nothing loath, to the boy who
+could touch him almost as he would with the foil.
+
+Dam removed his Eton jacket, folded his arms, turned his back to the
+smiter and assumed a scientific arrangement of the shoulders with tense
+muscles and coyly withdrawn bones. He had been there before….
+
+The dozen were indeed of the Sergeant’s best and he was a master. The
+boy turned not a hair, though he turned a little pale…. His mouth grew
+extraordinarily like that of his grandfather and a little muscular
+pulse beat beneath his cheek-bone.
+
+“And what do you think of _my_ pleasantries, my young friend?” inquired
+Grandfather. “Feeling at all witty _now_?”
+
+“Havlan is failing a bit, Sir,” was the cool reply. “I have noticed it
+at fencing too—Getting old—or beer perhaps. I scarcely felt him and so
+did not see or feel the point of your joke.”
+
+“Grandfather’s” flush deepened and his smile broadened crookedly. “Try
+and do yourself justice, Havlan,” he said. “’Nother dozen. ’Tother
+way.”
+
+Sergeant Havlan changed sides and endeavoured to surpass himself. It
+was a remarkably sound dozen.
+
+He mopped his brow.
+
+The bad boy did not move, gave no sign, but retained his rigid,
+slightly hunched attitude, as though he had not counted the second
+dozen and expected another stroke.
+
+“Let that be a lesson to you to curb your damned tongue,” said
+“Grandfather,” his anger evaporating, his pride in the stiff-necked,
+defiant young rogue increasing.
+
+The boy changed not the rigid, slightly hunched attitude.
+
+“Be pleased to wreck no more of my orchid-houses and to exercise your
+great wit on your equals and juniors,” he added.
+
+Dam budged not an inch and relaxed not a muscle.
+
+“You may go,” said “Grandfather”…. “Well—what are you waiting for?”
+
+“I was waiting for Sergeant Havlan to _begin_,” was the reply. “I
+thought I was to have a second dozen.”
+
+With blazing eyes, bristling moustache, swollen veins and bared teeth,
+“Grandfather” rose from his chair. Resting on one stick he struck and
+struck and struck at the boy with the other, passion feeding on its own
+passionate acts, and growing to madness—until, as the head gardener and
+Sergeant rushed forward to intervene, Dam fell to the ground, stunned
+by an unintentional blow on the head.
+
+“Grandfather” stood trembling…. “_Quite_ a Stukeley,” observed he.
+“Oblige me by flinging his carcase down the stairs.”
+
+“‘Angry Stookly’s mad Stookly’ is about right, mate, wot?” observed the
+Sergeant to the gardener, quoting an ancient local saying, as they
+carried Dam to his room after dispatching a groom for Dr. Jones of
+Monksmead.
+
+“Dammy Darling,” whispered a broken and tear-stained voice outside
+Dam’s locked and keyless door the next morning, “are you dead yet?”
+
+“Nit,” was the prompt reply, “but I’m starving to death, fast.”
+
+“I am so glad,” was the sobbed answer, “for I’ve got some flat food to
+push under the door.”
+
+“Shove it under,” said Dam. “Good little beast!”
+
+“I didn’t know anything about the fearful fracass until tea-time,”
+continued Lucille, “and then I went straight to Grumper and confessed,
+and he sent me to bed on an empty stummick and I laid upon it, the bed
+I mean, and howled all night, or part of it anyhow. I howled for your
+sake, not for the empty stummick. I thought my howls would break or at
+least soften his hard heart, but I don’t think he heard them. I’m sure
+he didn’t, in fact, or I should not have been allowed to howl so loud
+and long…. Did he blame you with anger as well as injustice?”
+
+“With a stick,” was the reply. “What about that grub?”
+
+“I told him you were an innocent unborn babe and that Justice had had a
+mis-carriage, but he only grinned and said you had got C.B. and dry
+bread for insilence in the Orderly Room. What is ‘insilence’?”
+
+“Pulling Havlan’s leg, I s’pose,” opined Dam. “What about that _grub_?
+There comes a time when you are too hungry to eat and then you die. I—”
+
+“Here it is,” squealed Lucille, “don’t go and die after all my trouble.
+I’ve got some thin ice-wafer biscuits, sulphur tablets, thin cheese, a
+slit-up apple and three sardines. They’ll all come under the
+door—though the sardines may get a bit out of shape. I’ll come after
+lessons and suck some brandy-balls here and breathe through the
+key-hole to comfort you. I could blow them through the key-hole when
+they are small too.”
+
+“Thanks,” acknowledged Dam gratefully, “and if you could tie some up
+and a sausage and a tart or two and some bread-and-jam and some chicken
+and cake and toffee and things in a handkerchief, and climb on to the
+porch with Grumper’s longest fishing-rod, you might be able to relieve
+the besieged garrison a lot. If the silly Haddock were any good he
+could fire sweets up with a catapult.”
+
+“I’d try that too,” announced Lucille, “but I’d break the windows. I
+feel I shall never have the heart to throw a stone or anything again.
+My heart is broken,” and the penitent sinner groaned in deep travail of
+soul.
+
+“Have you eaten everything, Darling? How do you feel?” she suddenly
+asked.
+
+“Yes. Hungrier than ever,” was the reply. “I like sulphur tablets with
+sardines. Wonder when they’ll bring that beastly dry bread?”
+
+“If there’s a sulphur tablet left I could eat one myself,” said
+Lucille. “They are good for the inside and I have wept mine sore.”
+
+“Too late,” answered Dam. “Pinch some more.”
+
+“They were the last,” was the sad rejoinder. “They were for Rover’s
+coat, I think. Perhaps they will make your coat hairy, Dam. I mean your
+skin.”
+
+“Whiskers to-morrow,” said Dam.
+
+After a pregnant silence the young lady announced:—
+
+“Wish I could hug and kiss you, Darling. Don’t you?… I’ll write a kiss
+on a piece of paper and push it under the door to you. Better than
+spitting it through the key-hole.”
+
+“Put it on a piece of _ham_,—more sense,” answered Dam.
+
+The quarter-inch rasher that, later, made its difficult entry, pulled
+fore and pushed aft, was probably the only one in the whole history of
+Ham that was the medium of a kiss—located and indicated by means of a
+copying-ink pencil and a little saliva.
+
+Before being sent away to school at Wellingborough Dam had a very
+curious illness, one which greatly puzzled Dr. Jones of Monksmead
+village, annoyed Miss Smellie, offended Grumper, and worried Lucille.
+
+Sitting in solitary grandeur at his lunch one Sabbath, sipping his old
+Chambertin, Grumper was vexed and scandalized by a series of
+blood-curdling shrieks from the floor above his breakfast-room.
+Butterson, dispatched in haste to see “who the Devil was being killed
+in that noisy fashion,” returned to state deferentially as how Master
+Damocles was in a sort of heppipletic fit, and foaming at the mouth.
+They had found him in the General’s study where he had been reading a
+book, apparently; a big Natural History book.
+
+A groom was galloping for Dr. Jones and Mrs. Pont was doin’ her
+possible.
+
+No. Nothing appeared to have hurt or frightened the young gentleman—but
+he was distinctly ’eard to shout: “_It is under my foot. It is
+moving—moving—moving out_….” before he became unconscious.
+
+No, Sir. Absolutely nothing under the young gentleman’s foot.
+
+Dr. Jones could shed no light and General Sir Gerald Seymour Stukeley
+hoped to God that the boy was not going to grow up a wretched
+epileptic. Miss Smellie appeared to think the seizure a judgment upon
+an impudent and deceitful boy who stole into his elders’ rooms in their
+absence and looked at their books.
+
+Lucille was troubled in soul for, to her, Damocles confessed the
+ghastly, terrible, damning truth that he was a Coward. He said that he
+had hidden the fearful fact for all these years within his guilty bosom
+and that now it had emerged and convicted him. He lived in subconscious
+terror of the Snake, and in its presence—nay even in that of its
+counterfeit presentment—he was a gibbering, lunatic coward. Such, at
+least, was her dimly realized conception resultant upon the boy’s bald,
+stammering confession.
+
+But how could her dear Dammy be a _coward_—the vilest thing on earth!
+He who was willing to fight anyone, ride anything, go anywhere, act
+anyhow. Dammy the boxer, fencer, rider, swimmer. Absurd! Think of the
+day “the Cads” had tried to steal their boat from them when they were
+sailing it on the pond at Revelmead. There had been five of them, two
+big and three medium. Dam had closed the eye of one of them, cut the
+lip of another, and knocked one of the smaller three weeping into the
+dust.
+
+They had soon cleared off and flung stones until Dam had started
+running for them and then they had fled altogether.
+
+Think of the time when she set fire to the curtains. Why, he feared no
+bull, no dog, no tramp in England.
+
+A coward! Piffle.
+
+And yet he had screamed and kicked and cried—yes _cried_—as he had
+shouted that it was under his foot and moving out. Rum! _Very_ rum!
+
+On the day that Dam left Monksmead for school Lucille wept till she
+could weep no more. Life for the next few years was one of intermittent
+streaks of delirious joy and gloomy grief, vacation time when he was at
+Monksmead and term time when he was at school. All the rest of the
+world weighed as a grain of dust against her hero, Dam.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI.
+THE SNAKE’S “MYRMIDON”.
+
+
+For a couple of years and more, in the lower School at Wellingborough,
+Damocles de Warrenne, like certain States, was happy in that he had no
+history. In games rather above the average, and in lessons rather below
+it, he was very popular among his fellow “squeakers” for his good
+temper, modesty, generous disposition, and prowess at football and
+cricket.
+
+Then, later, dawned the day when from this comfortable high estate a
+common adder, preserved in spirits of wine, was the cause of his
+downfall and Bully Harberth the means of his reinstatement….
+
+One afternoon Mr. Steynker, the Science Master, for some reason and
+without preliminary mention of his intent, produced a bottled specimen
+of a snake. He entered the room with the thing under his arm and partly
+concealed by the sleeve of his gown. Watching him as he approached the
+master’s desk and spoke with Mr. Colfe, the form-master, Dam noted that
+he had what appeared to be a long oblong glass box of which the side
+turned towards him was white and opaque.
+
+When Mr. Steynker stepped on to the dais, as Mr. Colfe took up his
+books and departed, he placed the thing on the desk with the other side
+to the class….
+
+And there before Dam’s starting, staring eyes, fastened to the white
+back of the tall glass box, and immersed in colourless liquid was the
+Terror.
+
+He rose, gibbering, to his feet, pale as the dead, and pointed, mopping
+and mowing like an idiot.
+
+How should a glass box restrain the Fiend that had made his life a Hell
+upon earth? What did Steynker and Colfe and these others—all gaping at
+him open-mouthed—know of the Devil with whom he had wrestled deep
+beneath the Pit itself for ten thousand centuries of horror—centuries
+whose every moment was an aeon?
+
+What could these innocent men and boys know of the living Damnation
+that made him pray to die—provided only that he could be _really_ dead
+and finished, beyond all consciousness and fear. The fools!… to think
+that it was a harmless, concrete thing. It would emerge in a moment
+like the Fisherman’s Geni from the Brass Bottle and grow as big as the
+world. He felt he was going mad again.
+
+“Help!” he suddenly shrieked. “_It is under my foot. It is moving …
+moving … moving out_.” He sprang to his astounded friend, Delorme, and
+screamed to him for help—and then realizing that there was _no_ help,
+that neither man nor God could save him, he fled from the room
+screaming like a wounded horse.
+
+Rushing madly down the corridor, falling head-long down the stone
+stairs, bolting blindly across the entrance-hall, he fled until
+(unaware of his portly presence up to the moment when he rebounded from
+him as a cricket-ball from a net) he violently encountered the Head.
+
+Scrambling beneath his gown the demented boy flung his arms around the
+massy pillar of the Doctor’s leg, and prayed aloud to him for help,
+between heart-rending screams.
+
+Now it is undeniable that no elderly gentleman, of whatsoever position
+or condition, loves to be butted violently upon a generous lunch as he
+makes his placid way to his arm-chair, cigar, book, and ultimate
+pleasant doze. If he be pompous by profession, precise by practice,
+dignified as a duty, a monument of most stately correctness and, to
+small boys and common men, a great and distant, if tiny, God—he may be
+expected to resent it.
+
+The Doctor did. Almost before he knew what he was doing, he struck the
+sobbing, gasping child twice, and then endeavoured to remove him by the
+ungentle application of the untrammelled foot, from the leg to which,
+limpet-like, he clung.
+
+To Dam the blows were welcome, soothing, reassuring. Let a hundred
+Heads flog him with two hundred birch-rods, so they could keep him from
+the Snake. What are mere blows?
+
+Realizing quickly that something very unusual was in the air, the
+worthy Doctor repented him of his haste and, with what dignity he
+might, inquired between a bleat and a bellow:—
+
+“What is the matter, my boy? Hush! Hush!”
+
+“The Snake! The Snake!” shrieked Dam. “Save me! Save me! _It is under
+my foot! It is moving … moving … moving out_,” and clung the tighter.
+
+The good Doctor also moved with alacrity—but saw no snake. He was
+exceedingly perturbed, between a hypothetical snake and an all too
+actual lunatic boy.
+
+Fortunately, “Stout” (so called because he was Porter), passing the big
+doors without, was attracted by the screams.
+
+Entering, he hastened to the side of the agitated Head, and, with some
+difficulty, untied from that gentleman’s leg, a small boy—but not until
+the small boy had fainted….
+
+When Dam regained consciousness he had a fit, recovered, and found
+himself in the Head’s study, and the object of the interested regard of
+the Head, Messrs. Colfe and Steynker, the school medico, and the
+porter.
+
+It was agreed (while the boy fought for his sanity, bit his hand for
+the reassuring pleasure of physical pain, and prayed for help to the
+God in whom he had no reason to believe) that the case was “very
+unusual, very curious, v-e-r-y interesting indeed”. Being healthier and
+stronger than at the time of previous attacks, Dam more or less
+recovered before night and was not sent home. But he had fallen from
+his place, and in the little republics of the dormitory and class-room,
+he was a thing to shun, an outcast, a disgrace to the noble race of
+Boy.
+
+Not a mere liar, a common thief, a paltry murderer or vulgar
+parricide—but a COWARD, a blubberer, a baby. Even Delorme, more in
+sorrow than in anger, shunned his erstwhile bosom-pal, and went about
+as one betrayed.
+
+The name of “Funky Warren” was considered appropriate, and even the
+Haddock, his own flesh and blood, and most junior of “squeakers,” dared
+to apply it!….
+
+The infamy of the Coward spread abroad, was talked of in other Houses,
+and fellows made special excursions to see the cry-baby, who funked a
+dead snake, a blooming bottled, potted, dead snake, and who had blubbed
+aloud in his terror.
+
+And Bully Harberth of the Fifth, learning of these matters, revolved in
+his breast the thought that he who fears dead serpents must, even more,
+fear living bullies, put Dam upon his list as a safe and pliant client,
+and thereby (strange instrument of grace!) gave him the chance to
+rehabilitate himself, clear the cloud of infamy from about his head,
+and live a bearable life for the rest of his school career….
+
+One wet Wednesday afternoon, as Dam, a wretched, forlorn Ishmael, sat
+alone in a noisy crowd, reading a “penny horrible” (admirable,
+stimulating books crammed with brave deeds and noble sentiments if not
+with faultless English) the Haddock entered the form-room, followed by
+Bully Harberth.
+
+“That’s him, Harberth, by the window, reading a penny blood,” said the
+Haddock, and went and stood afar off to see the fun.
+
+Harberth, a big clumsy boy, a little inclined to fat, with small eyes,
+heavy low forehead, thick lips, and amorphous nose, lurched over to
+where Dam endeavoured to read himself into a better and brighter world
+inhabited by Deadwood Dick, Texas Joe, and Red Indians of no manners
+and nasty customs.
+
+“I want you, Funky Warren. I’m going to torture you,” he announced with
+a truculent scowl and a suggestive licking of blubber lips.
+
+Dam surveyed him coolly.
+
+Of thick build, the bully was of thicker wit and certainly of no proven
+courage. Four years older than Dam and quite four inches taller, he had
+never dreamed of molesting him before. Innumerable as were the stories
+of his brutalities to the smallest “squeakers” and of his cruel
+practical jokes on new boys, there were no stories of his fighting,
+such as there were about Ormond Delorme, of Dam’s form, whose habit it
+was to implore bigger boys of their courtesy to fight him, and to trail
+his coat where there were “chaws” about.
+
+“I’m going to torture you, Funky. Every day you must come to me and
+_beg_ me to do it. If you don’t come and pray for it I’ll come to _you_
+and you’ll get it double and treble. If you sneak you’ll get it
+quadru—er—quadrupedal—and also be known as Sneaky as well as Funky.
+See?” he continued.
+
+“How will you torture me, Harberth, please?” asked Dam meekly, as he
+measured the other with his eye, noted his puffiness, short reach, and
+inward tendency of knee.
+
+“Oh! lots of ways,” was the reply. “Dry shaves, tweaks, scalpers,
+twisters, choko, tappers, digs, benders, shinners, windos, all sorts.”
+
+“I don’t even know what they are,” moaned Dam.
+
+“Poor Kid!” sympathized the bully, “you soon will, though. Dry shaves
+are beautiful. You die dotty in about five minutes if I don’t see fit
+to stop. Twisters break your wrists and you yell the roof off—or would
+do if I didn’t gag you first with a cake of soap and a towel. Tappers
+are very amusing, too, for me that is—not for you. They are done on the
+side of your knee with a cricket stump. Wonderful how kids howl when
+you understand knee-treatment. Choko is good too. Makes you black in
+the face and your eyes goggle out awful funny. Done with a silk
+handkerchief and a stick. Windos and benders go together and really
+want two fellows to do it properly. I hit you in the wind and you
+double up, and the other fellow un-doubles you from behind—with a
+cane—so that I can double you up again. Laugh! I nearly died over young
+Berners. Shinners, scalpers, and tweaks are good too—jolly good!… but
+of course all this comes after lamming and tunding…. Come along with
+me….”
+
+“Nit,” was Dam’s firm but gentle reply, and a little pulse began to
+beat beneath his cheek bone.
+
+“Oh! Ho!” smiled Master Harberth, “then I’ll _begin_ here, and when
+you’re broke and blubbing you’ll come with me—and get just double for a
+start.”
+
+Dam’s spirits rose and he felt almost happy—certainly far better than
+he had done since the hapless encounter with the bottled adder and his
+fall from grace. It was a positive, _joy_ to have an enemy he could
+tackle, a real flesh-and-blood foe and tormentor that came upon him in
+broad daylight and in mere human form.
+
+After countless thousands of centuries of awful nightmare struggling—in
+which he was bound hand-and-foot and doomed to failure and torture from
+the outset, the sport, plaything, and victim of a fearful, intangible
+Horror—this would be sheer amusement and recreation. What could mere
+man do to _him_, much less mere boy! Why, the most awful
+torture-chamber of the Holy Inquisition of old was a pleasant
+recreation-room compared with _any_ place where the Snake could enter.
+
+Oh, if the Snake could only be met and fought in the open with free
+hands and untrammelled limbs, as Bully Harberth could!
+
+Oh, if it could only inflict mere physical pain instead of such agonies
+of terror as made the idea of any bodily injury—mere cutting, burning,
+beating, blinding—a trifling nothing-at-all. Anyhow, he could _imagine_
+that Bully Harberth was the Snake or Its emissary and, since he was
+indirectly brought upon him by the Snake, regard him as a myrmidon—and
+deal with him accordingly….
+
+“How do you like this?” inquired that young gentleman as he suddenly
+seized the seated and unsuspecting Dam by the head, crushed him down
+with his superior weight and dug cruelly into the sides of his neck,
+below the ears, with his powerful thumb and fingers. “It is called
+‘grippers’. You’ll begin to enjoy it in a minute.” … In a few seconds
+the pain became acute and after a couple of minutes, excruciating.
+
+Dam kept absolutely still and perfectly silent.
+
+To Harberth this was disappointing and after a time he grew tired.
+Releasing his impassive victim he arose preparatory to introducing the
+next item of his programme of tortures.
+
+“How do you like _this_?” inquired Dam rising also—and he smote his
+tormentor with all his strength beneath the point of his chin. Rage,
+pain, rebellion, and undying hatred (of the Snake) lent such force to
+the skilful blow—behind which was the weight and upward spring of his
+body—that Bully Harberth went down like a nine-pin, his big head
+striking the sharp edge of a desk with great violence.
+
+He lay still and white with closed eyes. “Golly,” shrilled the Haddock,
+“Funky Warren has murdered Bully Harberth. Hooray! Hooray!” and he
+capered with joy.
+
+A small crowd quickly collected, and, it being learned from credible
+eye-witnesses that the smaller boy had neither stabbed the bully in the
+back nor clubbed him from behind, but had well and truly smitten him on
+the jaw with his fist, he went at one bound from despised outcast
+coward to belauded, admired hero.
+
+“You’ll be hung, of course, Warren,” said Delorme.
+
+“And a jolly good job,” replied Dam, fervently and sincerely.
+
+As he spoke, Harberth twitched, moved his arms and legs, and opened his
+eyes.
+
+Sitting up, he blinked owl-like and inquired as to what was up.
+
+“You are down is what’s up,” replied Delorme.
+
+“Oh—he’s not dead,” squeaked the Haddock, and there was a piteous break
+in his voice.
+
+“What’s up?” asked Harberth again.
+
+“Why, Funky—that is to say, Warren—knocked you out, and you’ve got to
+give him best and ask for _pax_, or else fight him,” said Delorme,
+adding hopefully, “but of course you’ll fight him.”
+
+Harberth arose and walked to the nearest seat.
+
+“He hit me a ‘coward’s poke’ when I wasn’t looking,” quoth he. “It’s
+well known he is a coward.”
+
+“You are a liar, Bully Harberth,” observed Delorme. “He hit you fair,
+and anyhow he’s not afraid of _you_. If you don’t fight him you become
+Funky Harberth _vice_. Funky Warren—no longer Funky. So you’d better
+fight. See?” The Harberth bubble was evidently pricked, for the
+sentiment was applauded to the echo.
+
+“I don’t fight cowards,” mumbled Harberth, holding his jaw—and, at this
+meanness, Dam was moved to go up to Harberth and slap him right hard
+upon his plump, inviting cheek, a good resounding blow that made his
+hand tingle with pain and his heart with pleasure.
+
+He still identified him somehow with the Snake, and had a glorious, if
+passing, sensation of successful revolt and some revenge.
+
+He felt as the lashed galley-slave must have felt when, during a
+lower-deck mutiny, he broke from his oar and sprang at the throat of
+the cruel overseer, the embodiment and source of the agony, starvation,
+toil, brutality, and hopeless woe that had thrust him below the level
+of the beasts (fortunate beasts) that perish.
+
+“Now you’ve _got_ to fight him, of course,” said Delorme, and fled to
+spread the glad tidings far and wide.
+
+“I—I—don’t feel well now,” mumbled Harberth. “I’ll fight him when I’m
+better,” and shambled away, outraged, puzzled, disgusted. What was the
+world coming to? The little brute! He had a punch like the kick of a
+horse. The little cad—to _dare_! Well, he’d show him something if he
+had the face to stand up to his betters and olders and biggers in the
+ring….
+
+News of the affair spread like wild-fire, and the incredible conduct of
+the extraordinary Funky Warren—said to be no longer Funky—became the
+topic of the hour.
+
+At tea, Dam was solemnly asked if it were true that he had cast
+Harberth from a lofty window and brought him to death’s door, or that
+of the hospital; whether he had strangled him with the result that he
+had a permanent squint; if he had so kicked him as to break both his
+thigh bones; if he had offered to fight him with one hand.
+
+Even certain more or less grave and reverend seniors of the upper
+school took a well-disguised interest in the matter and pretended that
+the affair should be allowed to go on, as it would do Harberth a lot of
+good if de Warrenne could lick him, and do the latter a lot of good to
+reinstate himself by showing that he was not really a coward in
+essentials. Of course they took no interest in the fight as a fight.
+Certainly not (but it was observed that Flaherty of the Sixth stopped
+the fight most angrily and peremptorily when it was over, and that no
+sign of anger or peremptoriness escaped him until it was over—and he
+happened to pass behind the gymnasium, curiously enough, just as it
+started)….
+
+Good advice was showered upon Dam from all sides. He was counselled to
+live on meat, to be a vegetarian, to rise at 4 a.m. and swim, to avoid
+all brain-fag, to run twenty miles a day, to rest until the fight, to
+get up in the night and swing heavy dumb-bells, to eat no pudding, to
+drink no tea, to give up sugar, avoid ices, and deny himself all “tuck”
+and everything else that makes life worth living.
+
+He did none of these things—but simply went on as usual, save in one
+respect.
+
+For the first time since the adder episode, he was really happy. Why,
+he did not know, save that he was about to “get some of his own back,”
+to strike a blow against the cruel coward Incubus (for he persisted in
+identifying Harberth with the Snake and in regarding him as a
+materialization of the life-long Enemy), and possibly to enjoy a brief
+triumph over what had so long triumphed over him.
+
+If he were at this time a little mad the wonder is that he was still on
+the right side of the Lunatic Asylum gates.
+
+Mad or not, he was happy—and the one thing wanting was the presence of
+Lucille at the fight. How he would have loved to show her that he was
+not really a coward—given a fair chance and a tangible foe.
+
+If only Lucille could be there—dancing from one foot to the other, and
+squealing. (Strictly _between_, and not during, the rounds, of course.)
+
+“Buck up, Dammy! Ginger for pluck! Never say croak!”
+
+A very large and very informal committee took charge of the business of
+the fight, and what was alluded to as “a friendly boxing contest
+between Bully Harberth of the Fifth and de Warrenne—late Funky—” was
+arranged for the following Saturday afternoon. On being asked by a
+delegate of the said large and informal committee as to whether he
+would be trained by then or whether he would prefer a more distant
+date, Dam replied that he would be glad to fight Harberth that very
+moment—and thus gained the reputation of a fierce and determined fellow
+(though erstwhile “funky”—the queer creature).
+
+Those who had been loudest in dubbing him Funky Warrenne were quickest
+in finding explanations of his curious conduct and explained it well
+away.
+
+It was at this time that Dam’s heart went wholly and finally out to
+Ormonde Delorme who roundly stated that his father, a bemedalled heroic
+Colonel of Gurkhas, was “in a blind perishing funk” during a
+thunderstorm and always sought shelter in the wine cellar when one was
+in progress in his vicinity.
+
+Dam presented Delorme with his knife and a tiger’s tooth forthwith.
+Saturday came and Dam almost regretted its advent, for, though a child
+in years, he was sufficiently old, weary, and cynical in spirit to know
+that all life’s fruit contains dust and ashes, that the joys of
+anticipation exceed those of realization, and that with possession dies
+desire.
+
+With the fight would end the glorious feeling of successful revolt, and
+if he overcame one emissary of the Snake there would be a million more
+to take his place.
+
+And if Providence should be, as usual, on the side of the “big
+battalions,” and the older, taller, stronger, heavier boy should win?
+Why—then he would bully the loser to his heart’s content and the limit
+of his ingenuity.
+
+Good! Let him! He would fight him every day with the greatest pleasure.
+A chance to fight the Snake on fair terms was all he asked….
+
+Time and place had been well chosen and there was little likelihood of
+interference.
+
+Some experienced youth, probably Cokeson himself, had made arrangements
+as to seconds, time-keeper, judges, and referee; and, though there was
+no ring of ropes and stakes, a twenty-four-foot square had been marked
+out and inclosed by forms and benches. Seating was provided for the
+“officials” and seniors, and two stools for the principals. A couple of
+bowls of water, sponges, and towels lent a business-like air to the
+scene.
+
+To his delight, Dam discovered that Delorme was to be his second—a
+person of sound advice, useful ministrations, and very present help in
+time of trouble….
+
+Delorme led him to his stool in an angle of the square of benches, bade
+him spread wide his arms and legs and breathe deeply “for all he was
+worth, with his eyes closed and his thoughts fixed on jolly things”.
+
+Feeling himself the cynosure of neighbouring eyes and able to hear the
+comments of the crowd, the last part of his second’s instructions was a
+little difficult of strict observation. However, he continued to think
+of licking Harberth—the “jolliest” thing he could conceive, until his
+mind wandered home to Lucille, and he enhanced the imaginary jollity by
+conceiving her present…. “Sturdy little brute,” observed a big Fifth
+Form boy seated with a couple of friends on the bench beside him, “but
+I’d lay two to one in sovs. (if I had ’em) that he doesn’t last a
+single round with Harberth”.
+
+“Disgrace to Harberth if he doesn’t eat the kid alive,” responded the
+other.
+
+“Got a good jaw and mouth, though,” said the third. “Going to die hard,
+you’ll see. Good little kid.”
+
+“Fancy funking a bottled frog or something and fighting a chap who can
+give him about four years, four inches, and four stone,” observed the
+first speaker.
+
+“Yes. Queer little beast. He knocked Harberth clean out, they say.
+Perhaps his father has had him properly taught and he can really box.
+Ever seen him play footer? Nippiest little devil _I_ ever saw. Staunch
+too. Rum go,” commented his friend.
+
+Dam thought of Sergeant Havlan and his son, the punching-ball, and the
+fighting days at Monksmead. Perhaps he could “really” box, after all.
+Anyhow he knew enough to hit straight and put his weight into it, to
+guard chin and mark, to use his feet, duck, dodge, and side step.
+Suppose Harberth knew as much? Well—since he was far stronger, taller,
+and heavier, the only hope of success lay in the fact that he was
+connected with the Snake—from whom mere blows in the open would be
+welcome.
+
+Anyhow he would die or win.
+
+The positive joy of fighting _It_ in the glorious day and open air,
+instead of in the Bottomless Pit—bound, stifled, mad with Fear—none
+could realize….
+
+Bully Harberth entered the ring accompanied by Shanner, who looked like
+a Sixth Form boy and was in the Shell.
+
+Harberth wore a thick sweater and looked very strong and heavy.
+
+“If the little kid lasts three rounds with _that_” observed Cokeson to
+Coxe Major, “he ought to be chaired.”
+
+Dam was disposed to agree with him in his heart, but he had no fear.
+The feeling that _his_ brief innings had come—after the Snake had had
+Its will of him for a dozen years—swallowed up all other feelings.
+
+Coxe Major stepped into the ring. “I announce a friendly boxing contest
+between Harberth of the Fifth, nine stone seven, and Funky Warren (said
+to be no longer Funky) of Barton’s House, weight not worth mentioning,”
+he declaimed.
+
+“Are the gloves all right,” called Cokeson (whose father owned
+racehorses, was a pillar of the National Sporting Club, and deeply
+interested in the welfare of a certain sporting newspaper).
+
+“No fault can be found with Warren’s gloves,” said Shanner, coming over
+to Dam.
+
+“There’s nothing wrong with the gloves here,” added Delorme, after
+visiting Harberth’s corner.
+
+This was the less remarkable in that there were no gloves whatsoever.
+
+Presumably the fiction of a “friendly boxing contest” was to be stoutly
+maintained. The crowd of delighted boys laughed.
+
+“Then come here, both of you,” said Cokeson.
+
+The combatants complied.
+
+“Don’t hold and hit. Don’t butt nor trip. Don’t clinch. Don’t use knee,
+elbow, nor shoulder. When I call ‘Break away,’ break without hitting.
+If you do any of these things you will be jolly well disqualified.
+Fight fair and God have mercy on your souls.” To Dam it seemed that the
+advice was superfluous—and of God’s mercy on his soul he had had
+experience.
+
+Returning to their corners, the two stripped to the waist and sat
+ready, arrayed in shorts and gymnasium shoes.
+
+Seen thus, they looked most unevenly matched, Harberth looking still
+bigger for undressing and Dam even smaller. But, as the knowing Coxe
+Major observed, what there was of Dam was in the right place—and was
+muscle. Certainly he was finely made.
+
+“Seconds out of the ring. _Time!_” called the time-keeper and Dam
+sprang to his feet and ran at Harberth who swung a mighty round-arm
+blow at his face as Dam ducked and smote him hard and true just below
+the breast-bone and fairly on the “mark “.
+
+The bully’s grunt of anguish was drowned in howls of “Shake hands!”
+“They haven’t shaken hands!”
+
+“Stop! Stop the fight,” shouted Cokeson, and as they backed from each
+other he inquired with anger and reproach in his voice:—
+
+“Is this a friendly boxing-contest or a vulgar fight?” adding, “Get to
+your corners and when _Time_ is called, shake hands and then begin.”
+
+Turning to the audience he continued in a lordly and injured manner:
+“And there is only _one_ Referee, gentlemen, please. Keep silence or I
+shall stop the fight—I mean—the friendly boxing contest.”
+
+As Dam sat down Delorme whispered:—
+
+“Splendid! _In_fighting is your tip. Duck and go for the body every
+time. He knows nothing of boxing I should say. Tire him—and remember
+that if he gets you with a swing like that you’re out.”
+
+“Seconds out of the ring. _Time!_” called the time-keeper and Dam
+walked towards Harberth with outstretched hand, met him in the middle
+of the ring and shook hands with great repugnance. As Harberth’s hand
+left Dam’s it rose swiftly to Dam’s face and knocked him down.
+
+“Shame! Foul poke! Coward,” were some of the indignant cries that arose
+from the spectators.
+
+“Silence,” roared the referee. “_Will_ you shut up and be quiet.
+Perfectly legitimate—if not very sporting.”
+
+Dam sprang to his feet, absolutely unhurt, and, if possible, more
+determined than ever. It was only because he had been standing with
+feet together that he had been knocked down at all. Had he been given
+time to get into sparring position the blow would not have moved him.
+Nor was Harberth himself in an attitude to put much weight behind the
+blow and it was more a cuff than a punch.
+
+Circling round his enemy, Dam sparred for an opening and watched his
+style and methods.
+
+Evidently the bully expected to make short work of him, and he carried
+his right fist as though it were a weapon and not a part of his body.
+
+As he advanced with his right extended, quivering, menacing, and poised
+for a knock-out blow, his left did not appear in the matter at all.
+
+Suddenly he aimed his fist at Dam like a stone and with great force.
+Dam side-stepped and it brushed his ear; with his right he smote with
+all his force upon Harberth’s ribs and with his left he drove at his
+eye as he came up. Both blows were well and truly laid and with good
+sounding thuds that seemed to delight the audience.
+
+Bully Harberth changed his tactics and advanced upon his elusive
+opponent with his left in the position of guard and his right drawn
+back to the arm-pit. Evidently he was going to hold him off with the
+one and smash him with the other. Not waiting for him to develop his
+attack, but striking the bully’s left arm down with his own left, Dam
+hit over it with his right and reached his nose and—so curious are the
+workings of the human mind—thought of Moses striking the rock and
+bringing forth water.
+
+The sight of blood seemed to distress Harberth and, leaping in as the
+latter drew his hand across his mouth, Dam drove with all his strength
+at his mark and with such success that Harberth doubled up and fetched
+his breath with deep groans. Dam stood clear and waited.
+
+Delorme called out, “You’ve a right to finish him,” and was sternly
+reproved by the referee.
+
+As Harberth straightened up, Dam stepped towards him, but the bully
+turned and ran to his stool. As he reached it amid roars of execration
+the time-keeper arose and cried “_Time!_”
+
+“You had him, you little ass,” said Delorme, as he squeezed a sponge of
+water on Dam’s head. “Why on earth didn’t you go in and finish him?”
+
+“It didn’t seem decent when he was doubled up,” replied Dam.
+
+“Did it seem decent his hitting you while you shook hands?” returned
+the other, beginning to fan his principal with a towel.
+
+“Anyhow he’s yours if you go on like this. Keep your head and don’t
+worry about his. Stick to his body till you have a clear chance at the
+point of his jaw.”
+
+“Seconds out of the ring. _Time!_” cried the time-keeper.
+
+This round was less fortunate for the smaller boy. Harberth’s second
+had apparently given him some good advice, for he kept his mark covered
+and used his left both to guard and to hit.
+
+Also he had learned something from Dam, and, on one occasion as the
+latter went at his face with a straight left, he dropped the top of his
+head towards him and made a fierce hooking punch at Dam’s body. Luckily
+it was a little high, but it winded him for a moment, and had his
+opponent rushed him then, Dam could have done nothing at all.
+
+Just as “Time” was called, Harberth swung a great round-arm blow at Dam
+which would have knocked him head over heels had not he let his knees
+go just in time and ducked under it, hitting his foe once again on the
+mark with all his strength.
+
+“How d’you feel?” asked Delorme as Dam went to his stool.
+
+“Happy,” said he.
+
+“Don’t talk piffle,” was the reply. “How do you feel? Wind all right?
+Groggy at all?”
+
+“Not a bit,” said Dam. “I am enjoying it.”
+
+And so he was. Hitherto the Snake had had him bound and helpless. As it
+pursued him in nightmares, his knees had turned to water, great chains
+had bound his arms, devilish gags had throttled him, he could not
+breathe, and he had not had a chance to escape nor to fight. He could
+not even scream for help. He could only cling to a shelf. _Now_ he had
+a chance. His limbs were free, his eyes were open, he could breathe,
+think, act, defend himself and _attack_.
+
+“Seconds out of the ring. _Time!_” called the time-keeper and Delorme
+ceased fanning with the towel, splashed a spongeful of water in Dam’s
+face and backed away with his stool.
+
+Harberth seemed determined to make an end.
+
+He rushed at his opponent whirling his arms, breathing stertorously,
+and scowling savagely.
+
+Guarding hurt Dam’s arms, he had no time to hit, and in ducking he was
+slow and got a blow (aimed at his chin) in the middle of his forehead.
+Down he went like a nine-pin, but was up as quickly, and ready for
+Harberth who had rushed at him in the act of rising, while the referee
+shouted “Stand clear”.
+
+As he came on, Dam fell on one knee and drove at his mark again.
+
+Harberth grunted and placed his hands on the smitten spot.
+
+Judging time and distance well, Dam hit with all his force at the
+bully’s chin and he went down like a log.
+
+Rising majestically, the time-keeper lifted up his voice and counted:
+“_One—two—three—four—five—six”_—and Harberth opened his eyes, sat up,
+“_seven—eight—nine_”—and lay down again; and just as Dam was about to
+leap for joy and the audience to roar their approval—instead of the
+fatal “_OUT_” the time-keeper called “_Time_”.
+
+Had Dam struck the blow a second sooner, the fight would have been over
+and he would have won. As it was, Harberth had the whole interval in
+which to recover. Dam’s own luck! (But Miss Smellie had always said
+there is no such thing as Luck!) Well—so much the better. _Fighting_
+the Snake was the real joy, and victory would end it. So would defeat
+and he must not get cock-a-hoop and careless.
+
+Delorme filled his mouth with water and ejected it in a fine spray over
+Dam’s head and chest. He was very proud of this feat, but, though most
+refreshing, Dam could have preferred that the water had come from a
+sprayer.
+
+“Seconds out of the ring, _Time!_” called the referee.
+
+Harberth appeared quite recovered, but he was of a curious colour and
+seemed tired.
+
+Acting on his second’s advice, Dam gave his whole attention to getting
+at his opponent’s body again, and overdid it. As Harberth struck at him
+with his left, he ducked, and as he was aiming at Harberth’s mark, he
+was suddenly knocked from day into night, from light into darkness,
+from life into death….
+
+Years passed and Dam strove to explain that the mainspring had broken
+and that he had heard it click—when suddenly a great black drop-curtain
+rolled up, while some one snapped back some slides that had covered his
+ears, and had completely deafened him.
+
+Then he saw Harberth and heard the voice of the time-keeper saying:
+“_five—six—seven_”.
+
+He scrambled to his knees, “_eight_” swayed and staggered to his feet,
+collapsed, rose, “_nine_” and was knocked down by Harberth.
+
+The time-keeper again stood up and counted, “_One—two—three_”. But this
+blow actually helped him.
+
+He lay collecting his strength and wits, breathing deeply and taking
+nine seconds’ rest.
+
+On the word _“nine”_ he sprang to his feet and as Harberth rushed in,
+side-stepped, and, as that youth instinctively covered his much-smitten
+“mark,” Dam drove at his chin and sent him staggering. As he went after
+him he saw that Harberth was breathing hard, trembling, and swaying on
+his feet. Springing in, he rained short-arm blows until Harberth fell
+and then he stepped well back.
+
+Harberth sat shaking his head, looking piteous, and, in the middle of
+the time-keeper’s counting, he arose remarking, “I’ve had enough”—and
+walked to his chair.
+
+Bully Harberth was beaten—and Dam felt that the Snake was farther from
+him than ever it had been since he could remember.
+
+“De Warrenne wins,” said Cokeson, and then Flaherty of the Sixth
+stepped into the ring and stopped the fight with much show of wrath and
+indignation.
+
+Dam was wildly cheered and chaired and thence-forth was as popular and
+as admired as he had been shunned and despised.
+
+Nor did he have another Snake seizure by day (though countless terrible
+nightmares in what must be called his sleep) till some time after he
+had left school.
+
+When he did, it had a most momentous influence upon his career.
+
+She is mine! She is mine!
+By her soul divine
+By her heart’s pure guile
+By her lips’ sweet smile
+She is mine! She is mine.
+
+Encapture? Aye
+In dreams as fair
+As angel whispers, low and rare,
+In thoughts as pure
+As childhood’s innocent allure
+In hopes as bright
+In deeds as white
+As altar lilies, bathed in light.
+
+She is mine! She is mine!
+By seal as true
+To spirit view
+As holy scripture writ in dew,
+By bond as fair
+To vision rare
+As holy scripture writ in air,
+By writ as wise to spirit eyes
+As holy scripture in God’s skies v
+She is mine! She is mine!
+
+Elude me? Nay,
+Ere earth reclaimed
+In joy unveils a Heaven regained,
+Ere sea unbound,
+Unfretting, rolls in mist—nor sound,
+Ere sun and star repentent crash
+In scattered ash, across the bar
+She is _mine_ I She is _mine_!
+
+
+A. L. WREN.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII.
+LOVE—AND THE SNAKE.
+
+
+Damocles de Warrenne, gentleman-cadet, on the eve of returning from
+Monksmead to the Military Academy of Sandhurst, appeared to have
+something on his mind as he sat on the broad coping of the terrace
+balustrade and idly kicked his heels. Every time he had returned to
+Monksmead from Wellingborough and Sandhurst, he had found Lucille yet
+more charming, delightful, and lovable. As her skirts and hair
+lengthened she became more and more the real companion, the pal, the
+adviser, without becoming any less the sportsman.
+
+He had always loved her quaint terms of endearment, slang, and
+epithets, but as she grew into a beautiful and refined and dignified
+girl, it was still more piquant to be addressed in the highly
+unladylike (or un-Smelliean) terms that she affected.
+
+Dam never quite knew when she began to make his heart beat quicker, and
+when her presence began to act upon him as sunshine and her absence as
+dull cloud; but there came a time when (whether she were riding to
+hounds in her neat habit, rowing with him in sweater and white skirt,
+swinging along the lanes in thick boots and tailor-made costume,
+sitting at the piano after dinner in simple white dinner-gown, or
+waltzing at some ball—always the belle thereof for him) he _did_ know
+that Lucille was more to him than a jolly pal, a sound adviser, an
+audience, a confidant, and ally. Perhaps the day she put her hair up
+marked an epoch in the tale of his affections. He found that he began
+to hate to see other fellows dancing, skating, or playing golf or
+tennis with her. He did not like to see men speaking to her at meets or
+taking her in to dinner. He wanted the blood of a certain neighbouring
+spring-Captain, a hunter of “flappers” and molester of parlour-maids,
+home on furlough, who made eyes at her at the Hunt Ball and followed
+her about all Cricket Week and said something to her which, as Dam
+heard, provoked her coolly to request him “not to be such a priceless
+ass”. What it was she would not tell Dam, and he, magnifying it,
+called, like the silly raw boy he was, upon the spring-Captain, and
+gently requested him to “let my cousin alone, Sir, if you don’t mind,
+or—er—I’ll jolly well make you”. Dam knew things about the gentleman,
+and considered him wholly unfit to come within a mile of Lucille. The
+spring-Captain was obviously much amused and inwardly much annoyed—but
+he ceased his scarce-begun pursuit of the hoydenish-queenly girl, for
+Damocles de Warrenne had a reputation for the cool prosecution of his
+undertakings and the complete fulfilment of his promises. Likewise he
+had a reputation for Herculean strength and uncanny skill. Yet the gay
+Captain had been strongly attracted by the beauty and grace of the
+unspoilt, unsophisticated, budding woman, with her sweet freshness and
+dignity (so quaintly enhanced by lapses into the slangy, unfettered
+schoolgirl …). Not that he was a marrying man at all, of course….
+Yes—Dam had it weightily on his mind that he might come down from
+Sandhurst at any time and find Lucille engaged to some other fellow.
+Girls did get engaged…. It was the natural and obvious thing for them
+to do. She’d get engaged to some brainy clever chap worth a dozen of
+his own mediocre self…. Of course she liked him dearly as a pal and all
+that, an ancient crony and chum—but how should he hope to compete with
+the brilliant fellers she’d meet as she went about more, and knew them.
+She was going to have a season in London next year. Think of the kind
+of chaps she’d run across in Town in the season. Intellectual birds,
+artists, poets, authors, travellers, distinguished coves, rising
+statesmen, under-secretaries, soldiers, swells, all sorts. Not much
+show for him against that lot!
+
+Gad! What a rotten look-out! What a rotten world to be sure! Fancy
+losing Lucille!… Should he put his fortunes to the touch, risk all, and
+propose to her. Fellows did these things in such circumstances….
+No—hardly fair to try to catch her like that before she had had at
+least one season, and knew what was what and who was who…. Hardly the
+clean potato—to take advantage of their long intimacy and try to trap
+her while she was a country mouse.
+
+It was not as though he were clever and could hope for a great career
+and the power to offer her the position for which she was fitted. Why,
+he was nearly bottom of his year at Sandhurst—not a bit brilliant and
+brainy. Suppose she married him in her inexperience, and then met the
+right sort of intellectual, clever feller too late. No, it wouldn’t be
+the straight thing and decent at all, to propose to her now. How would
+Grumper view such a step? What had he to offer her? What was he? Just a
+penniless orphan. Apart from Grumper’s generosity he owned a single
+five-pound note in money. Never won a scholarship or exam-prize in his
+life. Mere Public Schools boxing and fencing champion, and best
+man-at-arms at Sandhurst, with a score or so of pots for running,
+jumping, sculling, swimming, shooting, boxing, fencing, steeple-chasing
+and so forth. His total patrimony encashed would barely pay for his
+Army outfit. But for Grumper’s kindness he couldn’t go into the Army at
+all. And Grumper, the splendid old chap, couldn’t last very much
+longer. Why—for many a long year he would not earn more than enough to
+pay his mess-bills and feed his horses. Not in England certainly…. Was
+he to ask Lucille to leave her luxurious home in a splendid mansion and
+live in a subaltern’s four-roomed hut in the plains in India? (Even if
+he could scrape into the Indian army so as to live on his pay—more or
+less.) Grumper, her guardian, and executor of the late Bishop’s will,
+might have very different views for her. Why, she might even be his
+heiress—he was very fond of her, the daughter of his lifelong friend
+and kinsman. Fancy a pauper making up to a very rich girl—if it came to
+her being that, which he devoutly hoped it would not. It would remove
+her so hopelessly beyond his reach. By the time he could make a
+position, and an income visible to the naked eye, he would be
+grey-haired. Money was not made in the army. Rather was it becoming no
+place for a poor gentleman but the paradise of rich bounders, brainy
+little squits of swotters, and commission-without-training
+nondescripts—thanks to the growing insecurity of things among the army
+class and gentry generally. If she were really penniless he might—as a
+Captain—ask her to share his poverty—but was it likely shed be a
+spinster ten years hence—even if he were a Captain so soon? Promotion
+is not violently rapid in the Cavalry…. And yet he simply hated the
+bare thought of life without Lucille. Better to be a gardener at
+Monksmead, and see her every day, than be the Colonel of a Cavalry
+Corps and know her to be married to somebody else…. Yes—he would come
+home one of these times from Sandburst or his Regiment and find her
+engaged to some other fellow. And what then? Well—nothing—only life
+would be of no further interest. It was bound to happen. Everybody
+turned to look at her. Even women gave generous praise of her beauty,
+grace, and sweetness. Men raved about her, and every male creature who
+came near her was obviously dpris in five minutes. The curate, plump
+“Holy Bill,” was well known to be fading away, slowly and beautifully,
+but quite surely, on her account. Grumper’s old pal, General
+Harringport, had confided to Dam himself in the smoking-room, one very
+late night, that since he was fifty years too old for hope of success
+in that direction he’d go solitary to his lonely grave (here a very wee
+hiccup), damn his eyes, so he would, unwed, unloved, uneverything. Very
+trag(h)ic, but such was life, the General had declared, the one
+alleviation being the fact that he might die any night now, and ought
+to have done so a decade ago.
+
+Why, even the little useless snob and tuft-hunter, the Haddock, that
+tailor’s dummy and parody of a man, cast sheep’s eyes and made what he
+called “love” to her when down from Oxford (and was duly snubbed for it
+and for his wretched fopperies, snobberies, and folly). He’d have to
+put the Haddock across his knee one of these days.
+
+Then there was his old school pal and Sandhurst senior, Ormonde
+Delorme, who frequently stayed at, and had just left, Monksmead —fairly
+dotty about her. She certainly liked Delorme—and no wonder, so
+handsome, clever, accomplished, and so fine a gentleman. Rich, too.
+Better Ormonde than another—but, God! what pain even to think of it….
+Why had he cleared off so suddenly, by the way, and obviously in
+trouble, though he would not admit it?…
+
+Lucille emerged from a French window and came swinging across the
+terrace. The young man, his face aglow, radiant, rose to meet her. It
+was a fine face—with that look on it. Ordinarily it was somewhat marred
+by a slightly cynical grimness of the mouth and a hint of trouble in
+the eyes—a face a little too old for its age.
+
+“Have a game at tennis before tea, young Piggy-wig?” asked Lucille as
+she linked her arm in his.
+
+“No, young Piggy-wee,” replied Dam. “Gettin’ old an’ fat. Joints
+stiffenin’. Come an’ sit down and hear the words of wisdom of your old
+Uncle Dammiculs, the Wise Man of Monksmead.”
+
+“Come off it, Dammy. Lazy little beast. Fat little brute,” commented
+the lady.
+
+As Damocles de Warrenne was six feet two inches high, and twelve stone
+of iron-hard muscle, the insults fell but lightly upon him.
+
+“I will, though,” she continued. “I shan’t have the opportunity of
+hearing many more of your words of wisdom for a time, as you go back on
+Monday. And you’ll be the panting prey of a gang of giggling girls at
+the garden party and dance to-morrow…. Why on earth must we muck up
+your last week-day with rotten ‘functions’. You don’t want to dance and
+you don’t want to garden-part in the least.”
+
+“Nit,” interrupted Dam.
+
+“ … Grumper means it most kindly but … we want you to ourselves the
+last day or two … anyhow….”
+
+“D’you want me to yourself, Piggy-wee?” asked Dam, trying to speak
+lightly and off-handedly.
+
+“Of course I do, you Ass. Shan’t see you for centuries and months.
+Nothing to do but weep salt tears till Christmas. Go into a decline or
+a red nose very likely. Mind you write to me twice a week at the very
+least,” replied Lucille, and added:—
+
+“Bet you that silly cat Amelia Harringport is in your pocket all
+to-morrow afternoon and evening. _All_ the Harringport crowd are coming
+from Folkestone, you know. If you run the clock-golf she’ll _adore_
+clock-golf, and if you play tennis she’ll _adore_ tennis…. Can’t think
+what she sees in you….”
+
+“Don’t be cattish, Lusilly,” urged the young man. “‘Melier’s all right.
+It’s you she comes to see, of course.”
+
+To which, it is regrettable to have to relate, Lucille replied
+“Rodents”.
+
+Talk languished between the young people. Both seemed unwontedly ill at
+ease and nervous.
+
+“D’you get long between leaving Sandhurst and joining the Corps you’re
+going to distinguish, Dammy?” asked the girl after an uneasy and
+pregnant silence, during which they had furtively watched each other,
+and smiled a little uncomfortably and consciously when they had caught
+each other doing so.
+
+“Dunno. Sure not to. It’s a rotten world,” replied Dam gloomily. “I
+expect I shall come back and find you—”
+
+“Of course you’ll come back and find me! What do you mean, Dam?” said
+the girl. She flushed curiously as she interrupted him. Before he could
+reply she continued:—
+
+“You won’t be likely to have to go abroad directly you join your
+Regiment, will you?”
+
+“I shall try for the Indian Army or else for a British Regiment in
+India,” was the somewhat sullen answer.
+
+“Dam! What ever for?”
+
+“More money and less expenses.”
+
+“Dam! You mercenary little toad! You grasping, greedy hog!… Why! I
+thought….”
+
+Lucille gazed straight and searchingly at her life-long friend for a
+full minute and then rose to her feet.
+
+“Come to tea,” she said quietly, and led the way to the big lawn where,
+beneath an ancient cedar of Lebanon, the pompous Butterton and his
+solemn satellite were setting forth the tea “things”.
+
+Aunt Yvette presided at the tea-table and talked bravely to two
+woolly-witted dames from the Vicarage who had called to consult her
+anent the covering of a foot-stool “that had belonged to their dear
+Grandmamma”.
+
+(“‘Time somebody shot it,” murmured Dam to Lucille as he handed her
+cup.)
+
+Anon Grumper bore down upon the shady spot; queer old Grumper, very
+stiff, red-faced, dapper, and extremely savage.
+
+Having greeted the guests hospitably and kindly he confined his
+subsequent conversation to two grunts and a growl.
+
+Lucille and Damocles could not be said to have left the cane-chaired
+group about the rustic tables and cake-stands at any given moment.
+Independently they evaporated, after the manner of the Cheshire Cat it
+would appear, really getting farther and farther from the circle by
+such infinitely small degrees and imperceptible distances as would have
+appealed to the moral author of “Little by Little”. At length the
+intervening shrubbery seemed to indicate that they were scarcely in the
+intimate bosom of the tea-party, if they had never really left it.
+
+“Come for a long walk, Liggy,” remarked Dam as they met, using an
+ancient pet-name.
+
+“Right-O, my son,” was the reply. “But we must start off mildly. I have
+a lovely feeling of too much cake. Too good to waste. Wait here while I
+put on my clod-hoppers.”
+
+The next hour was _the_ Hour of the lives of Damocles de Warrenne and
+Lucille Gavestone—the great, glorious, and wonderful hour that comes
+but once in a lifetime and is the progenitor of countless happy
+hours—or hours of poignant pain. The Hour that can come only to those
+who are worthy of it, and which, whatever may follow, is an unspeakably
+precious blessing, confuting the cynic, shaming the pessimist,
+confounding the atheist, rewarding the pure in heart, revealing God to
+Man.
+
+Heaven help the poor souls to whom that Hour never comes, with its
+memories that nothing can wholly destroy, its brightness that nothing
+can ever wholly darken. Heaven especially help the poor purblind soul
+that can sneer at it, the greatest and noblest of mankind’s gifts, the
+countervail of all his cruel woes and curses.
+
+As they walked down the long sweep of the elm-avenue, the pair
+encountered the vicar coming to gather up his wife and sister for the
+evening drive, and the sight of the two fine young people gladdened the
+good man’s heart. He beheld a tall, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped
+young man, with a frank handsome face, steady blue eyes, fair hair and
+determined jaw, a picture of the clean-bred, clean-living, out-door
+Englishman, athletic, healthy-minded, straight-dealing; and a slender,
+beautiful girl, with a strong sweet face, hazel-eyed, brown-haired,
+upright and active of carriage, redolent of sanity, directness, and all
+moral and physical health.
+
+“A well-matched pair,” he smiled to himself as they passed him with a
+cheery greeting.
+
+For a mile or two both thought much and spoke little, the man thinking
+of the brilliant, hated Unknown who would steal away his Lucille; the
+woman thinking of the coming separation from the friend, without whom
+life was very empty, dull, and poor. Crossing a field, they reached a
+fence and a beautiful view of half the county. Stopping by mutual
+consent, they gazed at the peaceful, familiar scene, so ennobled and
+etherealized by the moon’s soft radiance.
+
+“I shall think of this walk, somehow, whenever I see the full moon,”
+said Dam, breaking a long silence.
+
+“And I,” replied Lucille.
+
+“I hate going away this time, somehow, more than usual,” he blurted out
+after another spell of silence. “I can’t help wondering whether you’ll
+be—the same—when I come back at Christmas.”
+
+“Why—how should I be different, Dammy?” asked the girl, turning her
+gaze upon his troubled face, which seemed to twitch and work as though
+in pain.
+
+“How?… Why, you might be—”
+
+“Might be what, dear?”
+
+“You might be—engaged.”
+
+The girl saw that in the man’s eyes to which his tongue could not, or
+would not, give utterance. As he spoke the word, with a catch in his
+breath, she suddenly flung her arms round his neck, pressed her lips to
+his white face, and, with a little sob, whispered:—
+
+“Not unless to you, Dam, darling—there is no other man in the world but
+you,” and their lips met in their first lover’s kiss…. Oh, the
+wonderful, glorious world!… The grand, beautiful old world! Place of
+delight, joy, wonder, beauty, gratitude. How the kind little stars sang
+to them and the benign old moon looked down and said: “Never despair,
+never despond, never fear, God has given you Love. What matters else?”
+How the man swore to himself that he would be worthy of her, strive for
+her, live for her; if need be—die for her. How the woman vowed to
+herself that she would be worthy of her splendid, noble lover, help
+him, cheer him, watch over him. Oh, if he might only need her some day
+and depend on her for something in spite of his strength and manhood.
+How she yearned to do something for him, to give, to give, to give.
+Their hour lasted for countless ages, and passed in a flash. The world
+intruded, spoiling itself as always.
+
+“Home to dinner, darling,” said the girl at last. “Hardly time to dress
+if we hurry. Grumper will simply rampage and roar. He gets worse every
+day.” She disengaged herself from the boy’s arms and her terribly
+beautiful, painfully exquisite, trance.
+
+“Give me one more kiss, tell me once more that you love me and only me,
+for ever, and let us go…. God bless this place. I thank God. I love
+God—now …” she said.
+
+Dam could not speak at all.
+
+They walked away, hand in hand, incredulous, tremulous, bewildered by
+the beauty and wonder and glory of Life.
+
+Alas!
+
+As they passed the Lodge and entered the dark avenue, Dam found his
+tongue.
+
+“Must tell Grumper,” he said. Nothing mattered since Lucille loved him
+like that. She’d be happier in the subaltern’s hut in the plains of
+India than in a palace. If Grumper didn’t like it, he must lump it. Her
+happiness was more important than Grumper’s pleasure.
+
+“Yes,” acquiesced Lucille, “but tell him on Monday morning when you go.
+Let’s have this all to ourselves, darling, just for a few hours. I
+believe he’ll be jolly glad. Dear old bear, isn’t he—really.”
+
+In the middle of the avenue Lucille stopped.
+
+“Dammy, my son,” quoth she, “tell me the absolute, bare, bald truth.
+Much depends upon it and it’ll spoil everything if you aren’t
+perfectly, painfully honest.”
+
+“Right-O,” responded Dam. “Go it.”
+
+“Am I the very very loveliest woman that ever lived?”
+
+“No,” replied Dam, “but I wouldn’t have a line of your face changed.”
+
+“Am I the cleverest woman in the world?”
+
+“No. But you’re quite clever enough for me. I wouldn’t have you any
+cleverer. God forbid.”
+
+“Am I absolutely perfect and without flaw—in character.”
+
+“No. But I love your faults.”
+
+“Do you wish to enshrine me in a golden jewel-studded temple and
+worship me night and day?”
+
+“No. I want to put you in a house and live with you.”
+
+“Hurrah,” cried the surprising young woman. “That’s _love_, Dam. It’s
+not rotten idealizing and sentimentalizing that dies away as soon as
+facts are seen as such. You’re a man, Dam, and I’m going to be a woman.
+I loathe that bleating, glorified nonsense that the Reverend Bill and
+Captain Luniac and poor old Ormonde and people talk when they’re ‘in
+love’. _Love!_ It’s just sentimental idealizing and the worship of what
+does not exist and therefore cannot last. You love _me_, don’t you,
+Dammy, not an impossible figment of a heated imagination? This will
+last, dear…. If you’d idealized me into something unearthly and
+impossible you’d have tired of me in six months or less. You’d have
+hated me when you saw the reality, and found yourself tied to it for
+life.”
+
+“Make a speech, Daughter,” replied Damocles. “Get on a stump and make a
+blooming speech.”
+
+Both were a little unstrung.
+
+“I must wire this news to Delorme,” said he suddenly. “He’ll be
+delighted.” Lucillemade no reply.
+
+As they neared the end of the drive and came within sight of the house,
+the girl whispered:—
+
+“My own pal, Dammy, for always. And you thought I could be engaged to
+anyone but _you_. There _is_ no one but you in the world, dear. It
+would be quite empty if you left it. Don’t worry about ways and means
+and things, Dam, I shall enjoy waiting for _you_—twenty years.”
+
+He thought of that, later.
+
+On the morrow of that incredible day, Damocles de Warrenne sprang from
+his bed at sunrise and sought the dew-washed garden below the big south
+terrace.
+
+The world contained no happier man. Sunrise in a glorious English
+summer and a grand old English garden, on the day after the Day of
+Days. He trod on air as he lived over again every second of that
+wonderful over-night scene, and scarcely realized the impossible truth.
+
+Lucille loved him, as a lover! Lucille the _alter ego_, the
+understanding, splendid friend; companion in play and work, in idle
+gaiety and serious consideration; the _bon camarade_, the real chum and
+pal.
+
+Life was a Song, the world a Paradise, the future a long-drawn Glory.
+
+He would like to go and hold the Sword in his hand for a minute,
+and—something seemed to stir beneath his foot, and a shudder ran
+through his powerful frame.
+
+The brightness of the morning was dimmed, and then Lucille came towards
+him blushing, radiant, changed, and all was well with the world, and
+God in high heaven.
+
+
+After breakfast they again walked in the garden, the truly enchanted
+garden, and talked soberly with but few endearments though with
+over-full hearts, and with constant pauses to eye the face of the other
+with wondering rapture. They came of a class and a race not given to
+excessive demonstrativeness, but each knew that the other loved—for
+life.
+
+In the afternoon, guests began to arrive soon after lunch, duties
+usurped the place of pleasures, and the lovers met as mere friends in
+the crowd. There was meaning in the passing glances, however, and an
+occasional hand-touch in the giving of tennis-ball, or tea-cup.
+
+“Half the County” was present, and while the younger fry played tennis,
+croquet, clock-golf, and bowls, indulged in “mixed cricket,” or
+attempted victory at archery or miniature-rifle shooting, the sedate
+elders strolled o’er velvet lawns beneath immemorial elms, sat in
+groups, or took tea by carpet-spread marquees.
+
+Miss Amelia Harringport, seeing Dam with a croquet-mallet in his hand,
+observed that she _adored_ croquet. Dam stated in reply that Haddon
+Berners was a fearful dog at it, considered there should be a croquet
+Blue in fact, and would doubtless be charmed to make up a set with her
+and the curate, the Reverend William Williamson Williams (Holy Bill),
+and Another. Dam himself was cut off from the bliss of being the
+Other—did not know the game at all.
+
+Miss Amelia quickly tired of her croquet with the Haddock, Holy Bill
+and the Vicar’s Wife’s Sister, who looked straitly after Holy Bill on
+this and all other occasions. Seeing Dam shepherding a flock of elders
+to the beautifully-mown putting-tracks radiating from the central
+circle of “holes” for the putting competition, she informed him that
+she _adored_ putting, so much so that she wanted lessons from him, the
+local amateur golf-champion.
+
+“I just want a little _personal tuition_ from the Champion and I shall
+be quite a classy putter,” she gurgled.
+
+“I will personally tuit,” replied Dam, “and when you are tuited we will
+proceed to win the prize.”
+
+Carefully posing the maiden aspirant for putting excellence at the end
+of the yard-wide velvety strip leading to the green and “hole,” Dam
+gave his best advice, bade her smite with restraint, and then proceeded
+to the “hole” to retrieve the ball for his own turn. Other couples did
+“preliminary canters” somewhat similarly on the remaining spokes of the
+great wheel of the putting “clock”.
+
+The canny and practised Amelia, who had designs upon the handsome
+silver prize as well as upon the handsome Damocles, smote straight and
+true with admirable judgment, and the ball sped steadily down the track
+direct for the “hole,” a somewhat large and deep one.
+
+“By Jove! Magnificent!” cried Dam, with quick and generous appreciation
+of the really splendid putt. “You’ll hole out in one this time,
+anyhow.” As the slowing ball approached the “hole” he inserted his hand
+therein, laughing gaily, to anticipate the ball which with its last
+grain of momentum would surely reach it and topple in.
+
+Then the thing happened!
+
+As he put his hand to the grass-encircled goal of the maiden’s hopes
+and ball, its gloomy depths appeared to move, swirl round, rise up, as
+a small green snake uncoiled in haste and darted beneath Dam’s
+approaching upturned hand, and swiftly undulated across the lawn.
+
+With a shriek that momentarily paralysed the gay throng, turned all
+eyes in his direction, and brought the more cool and helpful running to
+the spot, Dam fell writhing, struggling, and screaming to the ground.
+
+“The SNAKE! The SNAKE!” he howled, while tears gushed from his eyes and
+he strove to dig his way into the ground for safety.
+
+“There it goes!” squealed the fair Amelia pointing tragically. Ladies
+duly squeaked, bunched their skirts tightly, jumped on chairs or sought
+protection by the side of stalwart admirers.
+
+Men cried “Where?” and gathered for battle. One sporting character
+emitted an appalling “View Halloo” and there were a few “Yoicks” and
+“Gone Aways” to support his little solecism. Lucille, rushing to Dam,
+encountered the fleeing reptile and with a neat stroke of her putter
+ended its career.
+
+“It’s all right, old chap,” sneered Haddon Berners, as the mad,
+convulsed, and foaming Dam screamed: “_It’s under my foot. It’s moving,
+moving, moving out_,” and doubled up into a knot.
+
+“Oh no, it isn’t,” he continued. “Lucille has killed it. Nothing to be
+terrified about…. Oh, chuck it, man! Get up and blow your nose….” He
+was sent sprawling on his back as Lucille dropped by Dam’s side and
+strove to raise his face from the grass.
+
+“Come off it, Dam! You’re very funny, we know,” adjured the sporting
+character, rather ashamed and discomfortable at seeing a brother man
+behaving so. There are limits to acting the goat—especially with wimmin
+about. Why couldn’t Dam drop it?…
+
+Lucille was shocked and horrified to the innermost fibres of her being.
+Her dignified, splendid Dam rolling on the ground, shrieking, sobbing,
+writhing…. Ill or well, joke or seizure, it was horrible, unseemly….
+Why couldn’t the gaping fools be obliterated?…
+
+“Dam, dear,” she whispered in his ear, as she knelt over the
+shuddering, gasping, sobbing man. “What is it, Dam? Are you ill? Dam,
+it’s Lucille…. The snake is quite dead, dear. I killed it. Are you
+joking? Dam! _Dam_!” …
+
+The stricken wretch screamed like a terrified child.
+
+“Oh, won’t somebody fetch Dr. Jones if he’s not here yet,” she wailed,
+turning to the mystified crowd of guests. “Get some water quickly,
+somebody, salts, brandy, anything! Oh, _do_ go away,” and she deftly
+unfastened the collar of the spasm-wracked sufferer. “Haddon,” she
+cried, looking up and seeing the grinning Haddock, “go straight for Dr.
+Jones. Cycle if you’re afraid of spoiling your clothes by riding.
+Quick!”
+
+“Oh, he’ll be all right in a minute,” drawled the Haddock, who did not
+relish a stiff ride along dusty roads in his choicest confection. “He’s
+playing the fool, I believe—or a bit scared at the ferocious serpent.”
+
+Lucille gave the youth a look that he never forgot, and turned to the
+sporting person.
+
+“You know the stables, Mr. Fellerton,” she said. “Would you tell
+Pattern or somebody to send a man for Dr. Jones? Tell him to beat the
+record.”
+
+The sporting one sprinted toward the shrubbery which lay between the
+grounds and the kitchen-gardens, beyond which were the stables.
+
+Most people, with the better sort of mind, withdrew and made efforts to
+recommence the interrupted games or to group themselves once more about
+the lawns and marquees.
+
+Others remained to make fatuous suggestions, to wonder, or merely to
+look on with feelings approaching awe and fascination. There was
+something uncanny here—a soldier and athlete weeping and screaming and
+going into fits at the sight of a harmless grass-snake, probably a mere
+blind worm! Was he a hysterical, neurotic coward, after all—a wretched
+decadent?
+
+Poor Lucille suffered doubly—every pang, spasm, and contortion that
+shook and wrung the body of her beloved, racked her own frame, and her
+mind was tortured by fear, doubts, and agony. “Oh, please go away, dear
+people,” she moaned. “It is a touch of sun. He is a little subject to
+slight fits—very rarely and at long intervals, you know. He may never
+have another.” A few of the remaining onlookers backed away a little
+shamefacedly. Others offered condolences while inwardly scoffing at the
+“sun” explanation. Did not de Warrenne bowl, bat, or field,
+bare-headed, throughout the summer’s day without thinking of the sun?
+Who had heard of the “fits” before? Why had they not transpired during
+the last dozen years or so? “Help me carry him indoors, somebody,” said
+the miserable, horrified Lucille. That would get rid of the silly
+staring “helpers” anyhow—even if it brought matters to the notice of
+Grumper, who frankly despised and detested any kind of sick person or
+invalid.
+
+What would he say and do? What had happened to the glowing, glorious
+world that five minutes ago was fairy-land and paradise? Was her Dam a
+wretched coward, afraid of things, screaming like a girl at the sight
+of a common snake, actually terrified into a fit? Better be a
+pick-pocket than a…. Into the thinning, whispering circle came General
+Sir Gerald Seymour Stukeley, apoplectically angry. Some silly fool, he
+understood, had fainted or something—probably a puling tight-laced fool
+of a woman who starved herself to keep slim. People who wanted to faint
+should stay and do it at home—not come creating disturbances and
+interruptions at Monksmead garden-parties….
+
+And then he saw a couple of young men and Lucille striving to raise the
+recumbent body of a man. The General snorted as snorts the wart-hog in
+love and war, or the graceful hippopotamus in the river.
+
+“What the Devil’s all this?” he growled. “Some poor fella fainted with
+the exertions of putting?” A most bitter old gentleman.
+
+Lucille turned to him and his fierce gaze fell upon the pale,
+contorted, and tear-stained face of Dam.
+
+The General flushed an even deeper purple, and the stick he held
+perpendicularly slowly rose to horizontal, though he did not raise his
+hand.
+
+He made a loud but wholly inarticulate sound.
+
+Haddon Berners, enjoying himself hugely, volunteered the information.
+
+“He saw a little grass-snake and yelled out. Then he wept and fainted.
+Coming round now. Got the funks, poor chap.”
+
+Lucille’s hands closed (the thumbs correctly on the knuckles of the
+second fingers), and, for a moment, it was in her heart to smite the
+Haddock on the lying mouth with the straight-from-the-shoulder drive
+learned in days of yore from Dam, and practised on the punching-ball
+with great assiduity. Apparently the Haddock realized the fact for he
+skipped backward with agility.
+
+“He is ill, Grumper dear,” she said instead. “He has had a kind of fit.
+Perhaps he had sunstroke in India, and it has just affected him now in
+the sun….”
+
+Grumper achieved the snort of his life.
+
+It may have penetrated Dam’s comatose brain, indeed, for at that
+moment, with a moan and a shudder, he struggled to a sitting posture.
+
+“The Snake,” he groaned, and collapsed again.
+
+“What the Devil!” roared the General. “Get up, you miserable, whining
+cur! Get indoors, you bottle-fed squalling workhouse brat! Get out of
+it, you decayed gentlewoman!” … The General bade fair to have a fit of
+his own.
+
+Lucille flung herself at him.
+
+“Can’t you see he’s very ill, Grumper? Have you no heart at all? Don’t
+be so cruel … and … stupid.”
+
+The General gasped…. Insults!… From a chit of a girl!… “Ill!” he
+roared. “What the Devil does he want to be ill for now, here, to-day? I
+never …”
+
+Dam struggled to his feet with heroic efforts at self-mastery, and
+stood swaying, twitching, trembling in every limb, and obviously in an
+agony of terror.
+
+“The Snake!” he said again.
+
+“Ha!” barked General Stukeley. “Been fighting forty boa-constrictors,
+what? Just had a fearful struggle with five thousand fearful pythons,
+what? There’ll be another Victoria Cross in your family soon, if you’re
+not careful.”
+
+“You are an unjust and cruel old man,” stormed Lucille, stamping her
+foot at the hitherto dread Grumper. “He is ill, I tell you! You’ll be
+ill yourself someday. He had a fit. He’ll be all right in a minute. Let
+him go in and lie down. It wasn’t the snake at all. There wasn’t any
+snake—where he was. He is just ill. He has been working too hard. Let
+him go in and lie down.”
+
+“Let him go to the Devil,” growled the infuriated General, and turned
+to such few of the guests as had not displayed sufficient good sense
+and good taste to go elsewhere and resume their interrupted games, tea,
+or scandal, to remark:—
+
+“I really apologize most sincerely and earnestly for this ridiculous
+scene. The boy should be in petticoats, apparently. I hope he won’t
+encounter a mouse or a beetle to-night. Let’s all—er—come and have a
+drink.”
+
+Lucille led her shaking and incoherent lover indoors and established
+him on a sofa, had a fire lit for him as he appeared to be deathly
+cold, and sat holding his clammy hand until the arrival of Dr. Jones.
+
+As well as his chattering teeth and white frozen lips would allow, he
+begged for forgiveness, for understanding. “He wasn’t really wholly a
+coward in essentials.” …
+
+The girl kissed the contorted face and white lips passionately. Dr.
+Jones prescribed bed and “complete mental and bodily rest”. He said he
+would “send something,” and in a cloud of wise words disguised the fact
+that he did not in the least know what to do. It was not in his
+experience that a healthy young Hercules, sound as a bell, without spot
+or blemish, should behave like an anaemic, neurotic girl….
+
+Dam passed the night in the unnameable, ghastly hell of agony that he
+knew so well and that he wondered to survive.
+
+In the morning he received a note from Sir Gerald Seymour Stukeley. It
+was brief and clear:—“Sandhurst is scarcely the place for a squealing
+coward, still less the Army. Nor is there room for one at Monksmead. I
+shall not have the pleasure of seeing you before you catch the 11.15
+train; I might say things better left unsaid. I thank God you do not
+bear our name though you have some of our blood. This will be the one
+grain of comfort when I think that the whole County is gibing and
+jeering. No—your name is no more Seymour Stukeley than is your nature.
+If you will favour my Solicitors with your address, they will furnish
+you with an account of your patrimony and such balance thereof as may
+remain—if any. But I believe you came to England worth about fifty
+pounds—which you have probably spent as pocket-money. I beg of you to
+communicate with me or my household in no way whatsoever.
+
+“G.S.S.”
+
+
+Hastily dressing, Dam fled from the house on foot, empty handed and
+with no money but a five-pound note legitimately his own private
+property. On his dressing-table he left the cheque given to him by his
+“grandfather” for ensuing Sandhurst expenses. Hiding in the station
+waiting-room, he awaited the next train to London—with thoughts of
+recruiting-sergeants and the Guards. From force of habit he travelled
+first-class, materially lessening his five pounds. In the carriage,
+which he had to himself, he sat stunned. He was rather angry than
+dismayed and appalled. He was like the soldier, cut down by a
+sabre-slash or struck by a bullet, who, for a second, stares dully at
+the red gash or blue hole—waiting for the blood to flow and the pain to
+commence.
+
+He was numbed, emotionally dead, waiting the terrible awakening to the
+realization that he had _lost Lucille_. What mattered the loss of home,
+career, friends, honour—mere anti-climax to glance at it.
+
+Yesterday!… To-day!
+
+What was Lucille thinking? What would she do and say? Would she grow to
+hate the coward who had dared to make love to her, dared to win her
+love!
+
+Would she continue to love him in spite of all?
+
+_I shall enjoy waiting twenty years for you_, she had said yesterday,
+and _The world would be quite empty if you left it_. What would it be
+while he remained in it a publicly disgraced coward? A coward ridiculed
+by the effeminate, degenerate Haddock, who had no soul above
+club-ribbons, and no body above a Piccadilly crawl!
+
+Could she love him in spite of all? She was great-hearted enough for
+anything. Perhaps for anything but that. To her, cowardice must be the
+last lowest depths of degradation. Anyhow he had done the straight
+thing by Grumper, in leaving the house without any attempt to let her
+know, to say farewell, to ask her to believe in him for a while. If
+there had been any question as to the propriety of his trying to become
+engaged to her when he was the penniless gentleman-cadet, was there any
+question about it when he was the disgraced out-cast, the publicly
+exposed coward?
+
+Arrived at the London terminus he sought a recruiting-sergeant and, of
+course, could not find one.
+
+However, Canterbury and Cavalry were indissolubly connected in his
+mind, and it had occurred to him that, in the Guards, he would run more
+risk of coming face to face with people whom he knew than in any other
+corps. He would go for the regiment he had known and loved in India (as
+he had been informed) and about which he had heard much all his life.
+It was due for foreign service in a year or two, and, so far as he
+knew, none of its officers had ever heard of him. Ormonde Delorme was
+mad about it, but could not afford its expensive mess. Dam had himself
+thought how jolly it would be if Grumper “came down” sufficiently
+handsomely for him to be able to join it on leaving Sandhurst. He’d
+join it _now_!
+
+He hailed a hansom and proceeded to Charing Cross, whence he booked for
+the noble and ancient city of Canterbury.
+
+Realizing that only one or two sovereigns would remain to him
+otherwise, he travelled in a third-class carriage for the first time in
+his hitherto luxurious life. Its bare discomfort and unpleasant
+occupants (one was a very malodorous person indeed, and one a smoker of
+what smelt like old hats and chair-stuffing in a rank clay pipe)
+brought home to him more clearly than anything had done, the fact that
+he was a homeless, destitute person about to sell his carcase for a
+shilling, and seek the last refuge of the out-of-work, the
+wanted-by-the-police, the disgraced, and the runaway.
+
+That carriage and its occupants showed him, in a blinding flash, that
+his whole position, condition, outlook, future, and life were utterly
+and completely changed.
+
+He was Going Under. Had anybody else ever done it so quickly?…
+
+He went Under, and his entrance to the Underworld was through the great
+main-gates of the depot of the Queen’s Own (2nd) Regiment of Heavy
+Cavalry, familiarly known as the Queen’s Greys.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII.
+TROOPERS OF THE QUEEN.
+
+
+GLIMPSES OF CERTAIN “POOR DEVILS” AND THE HELL THEY INHABITED.
+
+
+The Queen’s Own (2nd) Regiment of Heavy Cavalry (The Queen’s Greys)
+were under orders for India and the influence of great joy. That some
+of its members were also under the influence of potent waters is
+perhaps a platitudinous corollary.
+
+… “And phwat the Divvle’s begone of me ould pal Patsy Flannigan, at
+all, at all?” inquired Trooper Phelim O’Shaughnessy, entering the
+barrack-room of E Troop of the Queen’s Greys, lying at Shorncliffe
+Camp. “Divvle a shmell of the baste can I see, and me back from
+furlough-leaf for minnuts. Has the schamer done the two-shtep widout
+anny flure, as Oi’ve always foretould? Is ut atin’ his vegetables by
+the roots he now is in the bone-orchard, and me owing the poor bhoy
+foive shillin’? Where is he?”
+
+“In ’orsepittle,” laconically replied Trooper Henry Hawker, late of
+Whitechapel, without looking up from the jack-boot he was polishing.
+
+“Phwat wid?” anxiously inquired the bereaved Phelim.
+
+“Wot wiv’? Wiv’ callin’ ‘Threes abaht’ after one o’ the Young
+Jocks,”[16] was the literal reply.
+
+ [16] A famous Hussar regiment.
+
+
+“Begob that same must be a good hand wid his fisties—or was it a
+shillaleigh?” mused the Irishman.
+
+“’Eld the Helliot belt in Hinjer last year, they say,” continued the
+Cockney. “_Good?_ Not’arf. I wouldn’t go an’ hinsult the bloke for the
+price of a pot. No. ’Erbert ’Awker would not. (Chuck us yore
+button-stick, young ’Enery Bone.) _Good?_ ’E’s a ’Oly Terror—and I
+don’t know as there’s a man in the Queen’s Greys as could put ’im to
+sleep—not unless it’s Matthewson,” and here Trooper Herbert Hawker
+jerked his head in the direction of Trooper Damocles de Warrenne
+(_alias_ D. Matthewson) who, seated on his truckle-bed, was engaged in
+breathing hard, and rubbing harder, upon a brass helmet from which he
+had unscrewed a black horse-hair plume.
+
+Dam, arrayed in hob-nailed boots, turned-up overalls “authorized for
+grooming,” and a “grey-back” shirt, looked indefinably a gentleman.
+
+Trooper Herbert Hawker, in unlaced gymnasium shoes, “leathers,” and a
+brown sweater (warranted not to show the dirt), looked quite definably
+what he was, a Commercial Road ruffian; and his foreheadless face,
+greasy cow-lick “quiff” (or fringe), and truculent expression, inspired
+more disgust than confidence in the beholder.
+
+His reference to Dam as the only likely champion of the Heavy Cavalry
+against the Hussar was a tribute to the tremendous thrashing he had
+received from “Trooper D. Matthewson” when the same had become
+necessary after a long course of unresented petty annoyance. Hawker was
+that very rare creature, a boaster, who made good, a bully of great
+courage and determination, and a loud talker, who was a very active
+doer; and the battle had been a terrible one.
+
+The weary old joke of having a heavy valise pulled down on to one’s
+upturned face from the shelf above, by means of a string, as one
+sleeps, Dam had taken in good part. Being sent to the Rough-Riding
+Sergeant-Major for the “Key of the Half Passage” by this senior
+recruit, he did not mind in the least (though he could have kicked
+himself for his gullibility when he learned that the “Half Passage” is
+not a place, but a Riding-School manoeuvre, and escaped from the bitter
+tongue of the incensed autocrat—called untimely from his tea! How the
+man had _bristled_. Hair, eyebrows, moustache, buttons even—the
+Rough-Riding Sergeant-Major had been rough indeed, and had done his
+riding rough-shod over the wretched lad).
+
+Being instructed to “go and get measured for his hoof-picker” Dam had
+not resented, though he had considered it something of an insult to his
+intelligence that Hawker should expect to “have” him so easily as that.
+He had taken in good part the arrangement of his bed in such a way that
+it collapsed and brought a pannikin of water down with it, and on to
+it, in the middle of a cold night. He had received with good humour,
+and then with silent contempt, the names of “Gussie the Bank Clurk,”
+references to “broken-dahn torfs” and “tailor’s bleedn’ dummies,”
+queries as to the amount of “time” he had got for the offence that made
+him a “Queen’s Hard Bargain,” and various the other pleasantries
+whereby Herbert showed his distaste for people whose accent differed
+from his own, and whose tastes were unaccountable.
+
+Dam had borne these things because he was certain he could thrash the
+silly animal when the time came, and because he had a wholesome dread
+of the all-too-inevitable military “crimes” (one of which fighting
+is—as subversive of good order and military discipline).
+
+It had come, however, and for Dam this exotic of the Ratcliffe Highway
+had thereafter developed a vast admiration and an embarrassing
+affection. It was a most difficult matter to avoid his companionship
+when “walking-out” and also to avoid hurting his feelings.
+
+It was a humiliating and chastening experience to the man, who had
+supported himself by boxing in booths at fairs and show-grounds, to
+find this “bloomin’ dook of a ‘Percy,’” this “lah-de-dar ‘Reggie’” who
+looked askance at good bread-and-dripping, this finnicky “Clarence”
+without a “bloody” to his conversation, this “blasted, up-the-pole[17]
+‘Cecil’”—a man with a quicker guard, a harder punch, a smarter
+ring-craft, a better wind, and a tougher appetite for “gruel” than
+himself.
+
+ [17] Teetotal.
+
+
+The occasion was furnished by a sad little experience.
+
+Poor drunken Trooper Bear (once the Honourable MacMahon FitzUrse),
+kindliest, weakest, gentlest of gentlemen, had lurched one bitter
+soaking night (or early morning) into the barrack-room, singing in a
+beautiful tenor:—
+
+“Menez-moi” dit la belle,
+“A la rive fidèle
+Où l’on aime toujours.”
+…—“Cette rive ma chère
+On ne la connait guère
+Au pays des amours.”….
+
+
+Trooper Herbert Hawker had no appreciation for Theophile Gautier—or
+perhaps none for being awakened from his warm slumbers.
+
+“’Ere! stow that blarsted catawaulin’,” he roared, with a choice
+selection from the Whitechapel tongue, in which he requested the
+adjectived noun to be adverbially “quick about it, too”.
+
+With a beatific smile upon his weak handsome face, Trooper Bear
+staggered toward the speaker, blew him a kiss, and, in a vain endeavour
+to seat himself upon the cot, collapsed upon the ground.
+
+“You’re a….” (adverbially adjectived noun) shouted Hawker. “You ain’t a
+man, you’re a….” “ σκιᾶς ὄναρ ἄνθρωπος” … “Man is the dream of a
+shadow,” suggested Bear dreamily with a hiccup….
+
+“D’yer know where you _are_, you …” roared Hawker.
+
+“Dear Heart, I am in hell,” replied the recumbent one, “but by the
+Mercy of God I’m splendidly drunk. Yes, hell. ‘_Lasciate ogni
+speranza,_’ sweet Amaryllis. I am Morag of the Misty Way. _Mos’_ misty.
+Milky Way. Yesh. Milk Punchy Way.” …
+
+“I’ll give you all the _punch_ you’ll want, in abaht two ticks if you
+don’t chuck it—you blarsted edjucated flea,” warned Hawker, half
+rising.
+
+Dam got up and pulled on his cloak preparatory to helping the
+o’er-taken one to bed, as a well-aimed ammunition boot took the latter
+nearly on the ear.
+
+Struggling to his feet with the announcement that he was “the King’s
+fair daughter, weighed in the balance and found—devilish heavy and very
+drunk,” the unhappy youth lurched and fell upon the outraged Hawker—who
+struck him a cruel blow in the face.
+
+At the sound of the blow and heavy fall, Dam turned, saw the blood—and
+went Stukeley-mad. Springing like a tiger upon Hawker he dragged him
+from his cot and knocked him across it. In less than a minute he had
+twice sent him to the boards, and it took half-a-dozen men on either
+side to separate the combatants and get them to postpone the finish
+till the morning. That night Dam dreamed his dream and, on the morrow,
+behind the Riding-School, and in fifteen rounds, became, by common
+consent, champion bruiser of the Queen’s Greys—by no ambition of his
+own.
+
+And so—as has been said—Trooper Henry Hawker ungrudgingly referred
+Trooper Phelim O’Shaughnessy to him in the matter of reducing the pride
+of the Young Jock who had dared to “desthroy” a dragoon.
+
+Trooper Phelim O’Shaughnessy—in perfect-fitting glove-tight scarlet
+stable-jacket (that never went near a stable, being in fact the smart
+shell-jacket, shaped like an Eton coat, sacred to “walking-out”
+purposes), dark blue overalls with broad white stripe, strapped over
+half-wellington boots adorned with glittering swan-neck spurs, a
+pill-box cap with white band and button, perched jauntily on three
+hairs—also looked what he was, the ideal heavy-cavalry man, the
+swaggering, swashbuckling trooper, _beau sabreur_, good all round and
+all through….
+
+The room in which these worthies and various others (varying also in
+dress, from shirt and shorts to full review-order for Guard) had their
+being, expressed the top note and last cry—or the lowest note and
+deepest groan—of bleak, stark utilitarianism. Nowhere was there hint or
+sign of grace and ornament. Bare deal-plank floor, bare white-washed
+walls, plank and iron truckle beds, rough plank and iron trestle
+tables, rough plank and iron benches, rough plank and iron boxes
+clamped to bedsteads, all bore the same uniform impression of useful
+ugliness, ugly utility. The apologist in search of a solitary encomium
+might have called it clean—save around the hideous closed stove where
+muddy boots, coal-dust, pipe-dottels, and the bitter-end of
+five-a-penny “gaspers”[18] rebuked his rashness.
+
+ [18] Cigarettes.
+
+
+A less inviting, less inspiring, less home-like room for human
+habitation could scarce be found outside a jail. Perhaps this was the
+less inappropriate in that a jail it was, to a small party of its
+occupants—born and bred to better things.
+
+The eye was grateful even for the note of cheer supplied by the red
+cylindrical valise on the shelf above each cot, and by the occasional
+scarlet tunic and stable-jacket. But for these it had been, to the
+educated eye, an even more grim, grey, depressing,
+beauty-and-joy-forsaken place than it was….
+
+Dam (_alias_ Trooper D. Matthewson) placed the gleaming helmet upon his
+callous straw-stuffed pillow, carefully rubbed the place where his hand
+had last touched it, and then took from a peg his scarlet tunic with
+its white collar, shoulder-straps and facings. Having satisfied himself
+that to burnish further its glittering buttons would be to gild refined
+gold, he commenced a vigorous brushing—for it was now his high ambition
+to “get the stick”—in other words to be dismissed from guard-duty as
+reward for being the best-turned-out man on parade…. As he reached up
+to his shelf for his gauntlets and pipe-clay box, Trooper Phelim
+O’Shaughnessy swaggered over with much jingle of spur and playfully
+smote him, netherly, with his cutting whip.
+
+“What-ho, me bhoy,” he roared, “and how’s me natty Matty—the natest
+foightin’ man in E Troop, which is sayin’ in all the Dhraghoons, which
+is sayin’ in all the Arrmy! How’s Matty?”
+
+“Extant,” replied Dam. “How’s Shocky, the biggest liar in the same?”
+
+As he extended his hand it was noticeable that it was much smaller than
+the hand of the smaller man to whom it was offered. “Ye’ll have to plug
+and desthroy the schamin’ divvle that strook poor Patsy Flannigan,
+Matty,” said the Irishman. “Ye must bate the sowl out of the baste
+before we go to furrin’ parts. Loife is uncertain an’ ye moight never
+come back to do ut, which the Holy Saints forbid—an’ the Hussars
+troiumphin’ upon our prosprit coorpses. For the hanner an’ glory av all
+Dhraghoons, of the Ould Seconds, and of me pore bed-ridden frind, Patsy
+Flannigan, ye must go an’ plug the wicked scutt, Matty darlint.”
+
+“It was Flannigan’s fault,” replied Dam, daubing pipe-clay on the huge
+cuff of a gauntlet which he had drawn on to a weird-looking wooden
+hand, sacred to the purposes of glove-drying. “He got beastly drunk and
+insulted a better man than himself by insulting his Corps—or trying to.
+He called a silly lie after a total stranger and got what he deserved.
+He shouldn’t seek sorrow if he doesn’t want to find it, and he
+shouldn’t drink liquor he can’t carry.”
+
+“And the Young Jock beat Patsy when drunk, did he?” murmured
+O’Shaughnessy, in tones of awed wonder. “I riverince the man, for
+there’s few can beat him sober. Knocked Patsy into hospital an’ him
+foightin’ dhrunk! Faith, he must be another Oirish gintleman himself,
+indade.”
+
+“He’s a Scotchman and was middle-weight champion of India last year,”
+rejoined Dam, and moistened his block of pipe-clay again in the most
+obvious, if least genteel, way.
+
+“Annyhow he’s a mere Hussar and must be rimonsthrated wid for darin’ to
+assault and batther a Dhraghoon—an’ him dhrunk, poor bhoy. Say the
+wurrud, Matty. We’ll lay for the spalpeen, the whole of E Troop, at the
+_Ring o’ Bells_, an’ whin he shwaggers in like he was a Dhraghoon an’ a
+sodger, ye’ll up an’ say _‘Threes about’_ an’ act accordin’ subsequint,
+an’ learn the baste not to desthroy an’ insult his betthers of the Ould
+Second. Thread on the tail of his coat, Matty….”
+
+“If I had anything to do with it at all I’d tread on Flannigan’s coat,
+and you can tell him so, for disgracing the Corps…. Take off your
+jacket and help with my boots, Shocky. I’m for Guard.”
+
+“Oi’d clane the boots of no man that ud demane himself to ax it,” was
+the haughty reply of the disappointed warrior. “Not for less than a
+quart at laste,” he amended.
+
+“A quart it is,” answered Dam, and O’Shaughnessy speedily divested
+himself of his stable-jacket, incidentally revealing the fact that he
+had pawned his shirt.
+
+“You have got your teeth ready, then?” observed Dam, noting the
+underlying bareness—and thereby alluded to O’Shaughnessy’s habit of
+pawning his false teeth after medical inspection and redeeming them in
+time for the next, at the cost of his underclothing—itself redeemed in
+turn by means of the teeth. Having been compelled to provide himself
+with a “plate” he invariably removed the detested contrivance and
+placed it beside him when sitting down to meals (on those rare
+occasions when he and not his “uncle” was the arbiter of its
+destinies)….
+
+A young and important Lance-Corporal, a shocking tyrant and bully,
+strode into the room, his sword clanking. O’Shaughnessy arose and
+respectfully drew him aside, offering him a “gasper”. They were joined
+by a lean hawk-faced individual answering to the name of Fish, who said
+he had been in the American navy until buried alive at sea for smiling
+within sight of the quarter-deck.
+
+“Yep,” he was heard to say to some statement of O’Shaughnessy’s. “We’ll
+hatch a five-bunch frame-up to put the eternal kibosh on the tuberous
+spotty—souled skunklet. Some. We’ll make him wise to whether a tippy,
+chew-the-mop, bandy-legged, moke-monkey can come square-pushing, and
+with his legs out, down _this_ side-walk, before we ante out. Some.”
+
+“Ah, Yus,” agreed the Lance-Corporal. “Damned if I wouldn’t chawnce me
+arm[19] and go fer ’im meself before we leave—on’y I’m expectin’ furver
+permotion afore long. But fer that I’d take it up meself”—and he
+glanced at Dam.
+
+ [19] When a non-commissioned officer does anything to risk losing his
+ stripes he says he “chances his arm”.
+
+
+“Ketch the little swine at it,” remarked Trooper Herbert Hawker, as
+loudly as he dared, to his “towny,” Trooper Henry Bone. “’Chawnst ’is
+arm!’ It’s ’is bloomin’ life ’e’d chawnce if that Young Jock got
+settin’ abaht ’im. Not ’arf!” and the exotic of the Ratcliffe Highway
+added most luridly expressed improprieties anent the origins of the
+Lance-Corporal, his erstwhile enemy and, now, superior officer, in
+addition.
+
+“That’s enough,” said Dam shortly.
+
+“Yep. Quit those low-browed sounds, guttermut, or I’ll get mad all
+over,” agreed Fish, whose marvellous vocabulary included no foul words.
+There was no need for them.
+
+“Hi halso was abaht ter request you not to talk beastial, Mr. ’Erbert
+’Awker,” chimed in Trooper “Henery” Bone, anxious to be on the side of
+the saints. “Oo’d taike you to be the Missin’ Hair of a noble ’ouse
+when you do such—‘Missin’ Hair!’ _Missin’ Link_ more like,” he added
+with spurious indignation.
+
+The allusion was to the oft-expressed belief of Trooper Herbert Hawker,
+a belief that became a certainty and subject for bloodshed and battle
+after the third quart or so, that there was a mystery about his birth.
+
+There was, according to his reputed papa….
+
+The plotters plotted, and Dam completed the burnishing of his arms,
+spurs, buckles, and other glittering metal impedimenta (the quantity of
+which earned the Corps its barrack-room soubriquet of “the Polish
+Its”), finished the flicking of spots of pipe-clay from his uniform,
+and dressed for Guard.
+
+Being ready some time before he had to parade, he sat musing on his
+truckle-bed.
+
+What a life! What associates (outside the tiny band of
+gentlemen-rankers). What cruel awful _publicity_ of existence—that was
+the worst of all. Oh, for a private room and a private coat, and a meal
+in solitude! Some place of one’s own, where one could express one’s own
+individuality in the choice and arrangement of property, and impress it
+upon one’s environment.
+
+One could not even think in private here.
+
+And he was called a _private_ soldier! A grim joke indeed, when the
+crying need of one’s soul was a little privacy.
+
+A _private_ soldier!
+
+Well—and what of the theory of Compensations, that all men get the same
+sum-total of good and bad, that position is really immaterial to
+happiness? What of the theory that more honour means also more
+responsibility and worry, that more pay also means more expenses and a
+more difficult position, that more seniority also means less youth and
+joy—that Fate only robs Peter to pay Paul, and, when bestowing a
+blessing with one hand, invariably bestows a curse with the other?
+
+Too thin.
+
+Excellent philosophy for the butterfly upon the road, preaching
+contentment to the toad, who, beneath the harrow, knows exactly where
+each tooth-point goes. Let the butterfly come and try it.
+
+_What_ a life!
+
+Not so bad at first, perhaps, for a stout-hearted, hefty sportsman,
+during recruit days when everything is novel, there is something to
+learn, time is fully occupied, and one is too busy to think, too busy
+evading strange pit-falls, and the just or (more often) unjust wrath of
+the Room Corporal, the Squadron Orderly Sergeant, the Rough-Riding
+Corporal, the Squadron Sergeant-Major, the Rough-Riding Sergeant-Major,
+the Regimental Sergeant-Major, the Riding-Master.
+
+But when, to the passed “dismissed soldier,” everything is familiar and
+easy, weary, flat, stale and unprofitable?
+
+The (to one gently nurtured) ghastly food, companions, environment,
+monotony—the ghastly ambitions!
+
+Fancy an educated gentleman’s ambitions and horizon narrowed to a
+good-conduct “ring,” a stripe in the far future (and to be a
+Lance-Corporal with far more duty and no more pay, in the hope of
+becoming a Corporal—that comfortable rank with the same duty and much
+more pay, and little of the costly gold-lace to mount, and heavy
+expenses to assume that, while putting the gilt on, takes it off, the
+position of Sergeant); and, for the present, to “keep off the peg,” not
+to be “for it,” to “get the stick,” for smartest turn-out, to avoid the
+Red-Caps,[20] to achieve an early place in the scrimmage at the
+corn-bin and to get the correct amount of two-hundred pounds in the
+corn-sack when drawing forage and corn; to placate Troop Sergeants, the
+Troop Sergeant-Major and Squadron Sergeant-Major; to have a suit of
+mufti at some safe place outside and to escape from the branding
+searing scarlet occasionally; possibly even the terrible ambition to
+become an Officer’s servant so as to have a suit of mufti as a right,
+and a chance of becoming Mess-Sergeant and then Quarter-Master, and
+perhaps of getting an Honorary Commission without doing a single parade
+or guard after leaving the troop!…
+
+ [20] Permanent Military Police.
+
+
+What a life for a man of breeding and refinement!… Fancy having to
+remember the sacred and immeasurable superiority of a foul-mouthed
+Lance-Corporal who might well have been your own stable-boy, a being
+who can show you a deeper depth of hell in Hell, wreak his dislike of
+you in unfair “fatigues,” and keep you at the detested job of
+coal-drawing on Wednesdays; who can achieve a “canter past the
+beak”[21] for you on a trumped-up charge and land you in the
+“digger,”[22] who can bring it home to you in a thousand ways that you
+are indeed the toad beneath the harrow. Fancy having to remember, night
+and day, that a Sergeant, who can perhaps just spell and cypher, is a
+monarch to be approached in respectful spirit; that the Regimental
+Sergeant-Major, perhaps coarse, rough, and ignorant, is an emperor to
+be approached with fear and trembling; that a Subaltern, perhaps at
+school with you, is a god not to be approached at all. Fancy looking
+forward to being “branded with a blasted worsted spur,” and, as a
+Rough-Riding Corporal, receiving a forfeit tip from each young officer
+who knocks off his cap with his lance in Riding-School….
+
+ [21] Summons before the Commanding Officer in Orderly Room.
+
+
+ [22] Guard-room.
+
+
+Well! One takes the rough with the smooth—but perceives with great
+clearness that the (very) rough predominates, and that one does not
+recommend a gentleman to enlist, save when a Distinguished Relative
+with Influence has an early Commission ready in his pocket for him.
+
+Lacking the Relative, the gently-nurtured man, whether he win to a
+Commission eventually or not, can only do one thing more rash than
+enlist in the British Army, and that is enlist in the French Foreign
+Legion.
+
+Discipline for soul and body? The finest thing in all the world—in
+reason. But the discipline of the tram-horse, of the blinded bullock at
+the wheel, of the well-camel, of the galley-slave—meticulous, puerile,
+unending, unchanging, impossible …? Necessary perhaps, once upon a
+time—but hard on the man of brains, sensibility, heart, and
+individuality.
+
+Soul and body? Deadly for the soul—and fairly dangerous for the body in
+the Cavalry Regiment whose riding-master prefers the abominable
+stripped-saddle training to the bare-backed….
+
+Dam yawned and looked at the tin clock on the shelf above the cot of
+the Room Corporal. Half an hour yet…. Did time drag more heavily
+anywhere in the world?…
+
+His mind roamed back over his brief, age-long life in the Queen’s Greys
+and passed it in review.
+
+The interview with the Doctor, the Regimental Sergeant-Major, the
+Adjutant, the Colonel—the Oath on the Bible before that dread
+Superman…. How well he remembered his brief exordium—“Obey your
+Superiors blindly; serve your Queen, Country, and Regiment to the best
+of your ability; keep clean, don’t drink, fear God, and—most important
+of all—take care of your horse. _Take care of your horse_, d’ye hear?”
+
+Also the drawled remark of the Adjutant afterwards,
+“Ah—what—ah—University?”—his own prompt reply of “Whitechapel, sir,”
+and the Adjutant’s approving “Exactly…. You’ll get on here by good
+conduct, good riding, and good drill—not by—ah—good accent or anything
+else.”
+
+How well he remembered the strange depolarized feeling consequent upon
+realizing that his whole worldly possessions consisted in three
+“grey-back” shirts, two pairs of cotton pants, two pairs of woollen
+socks, a towel; a hold-all containing razor, shaving-brush, spoon,
+knife and fork, and a button-stick; a cylindrical valise with
+hair-brush, clothes-brush, brass-brush, and boot-brushes; a whip,
+burnisher, and dandy-brush (all three, for some reason, to be paid for
+as part of a “free” kit); jack-boots and jack-spurs, wellington-boots
+and swan-neck box-spurs, ammunition boots; a tin of blacking and
+another of plate powder; blue, white-striped riding-breeches, blue,
+white-striped overalls, drill-suit of blue serge, scarlet tunic,
+scarlet stable-jacket, scarlet drill “frock,” a pair of trousers of
+lamentable cut “authorized for grooming,” brass helmet with black
+horse-hair plume, blue pill-box cap with white stripe and button,
+gauntlets and gloves, sword-belt and pouch-belt, a carbine and a sword.
+Also of a daily income of one loaf, butter, tea, and a pound of meat
+(often uneatable), and the sum of one shilling and twopence subject to
+a deduction of threepence a day “mess-fund,” fourpence a month for
+delft, and divers others for library, washing, hair-cutting,
+barrack-damages, etc.
+
+Yes, it had given one a strange feeling of nakedness, and yet of a
+freedom from the tyranny of things, to find oneself so meagrely and yet
+so sufficiently endowed.
+
+Then, the strange, lost, homeless feeling that Home is nothing but a
+cot and a box in a big bare barrack-room, that the whole of God’s wide
+Universe contains no private and enclosed spot that is one’s own
+peculiar place wherein to be alone—at first a truly terrible feeling.
+
+How one envied the Rough-Riding Sergeant-Major his Staff
+Quarters—without going so far as to envy the great Riding-Master his
+real separate and detached house!
+
+No privacy—and a scarlet coat that encarnadined the world and made its
+wearer feel, as he so often thought, like a live coal glowing bright in
+Hell.
+
+Surely the greatest of all an officer’s privileges was his right of
+mufti, his daily escape from the burning cloth.
+
+“Why does not the British officer wear his uniform always?” writes the
+perennial gratuitous ass to the Press, periodically in the Silly
+Season…. Dam could tell him.
+
+Memories …!
+
+Being jerked violently from uneasy slumber and broken, vivid dreams at
+5 a.m., by the thunderous banging of the Troop Sergeant’s whip on the
+table, and his raucous roar of “Tumble out, you lazy swine, before you
+get sunstroke! Rise and shine! Rise and shine, you tripe-hounds!” …
+Broken dreams on a smelly, straw-stuffed pillow and lumpy straw-stuffed
+pallet, dreams of “_Circle and cha-a-a-a-a-a-a-nge” “On the Fore-hand,
+Right About” “Right Pass, Shoulder Out” “Serpentine” “Order Lance”
+“Trail Lance” “Right Front Thrust”_ (for the front rank of the Queen’s
+Greys carry lances); dreams of riding wild mad horses to unfathomable
+precipices and at unsurmountable barriers….
+
+Memories …!
+
+His first experience of “mucking out” stables at five-thirty on a
+chilly morning—doing horrible work, horribly clad, feeling horribly
+sick. Wheeling away intentionally and maliciously over-piled barrows to
+the muck-pits, upsetting them, and being cursed.
+
+Being set to water a notoriously wild and vicious horse, and being
+pulled about like a little dog at the end of the chain, burning into
+frozen fingers.
+
+Not much of the glamour and glow and glory left!
+
+Better were the interesting and amusing experiences of the
+Riding-School where his trained and perfected hands and seat gave him a
+tremendous advantage, an early dismissal, and some amelioration of the
+roughness of one of the very roughest experiences in a very rough life.
+
+Even he, though, knew what it was to have serge breeches sticking to
+abraided bleeding knees, to grip a stripped saddle with twin
+suppurating sores, and to burrow face-first in filthy tan _via_ the
+back of a stripped-saddled buck-jumper. How he had pitied some of the
+other recruits, making their first acquaintance with the Trooper’s
+“long-faced chum” under the auspices of a pitiless, bitter-tongued
+Rough-Riding Sergeant-Major! _Rough!_ What a character the fellow was!
+Never an oath, never a foul word, but what a vocabulary and gift of
+invective, sarcasm and cruel stinging reproof! A well-educated man if
+not a gentleman. “Don’t dismount again, Muggins—or is it
+Juggins?—without permission” when some poor fellow comes on his head as
+his horse (bare of saddle and bridle) refuses at a jump. “Get up (and
+SIT BACK) you—you—hen, you pierrot, you _Aard Vark,_ you after-thought,
+you refined entertainer, you pimple, you performing water-rat, you
+mistake, you _byle_, you drip, you worm-powder…. What? You think your
+leg’s broken? Well—_you’ve got another_, haven’t you? Get up and break
+that. Keep your neck till you get a stripped saddle and no reins….
+Don’t embrace the horse like that, you pawn-shop, I can hear it
+blushing…. Send for the key and get inside it…. Keep those fine feet
+forward. Keep them _forward_ (and SIT BACK), Juggins or Muggins, or
+else take them into the Infantry—what they were meant for by the look
+of them. Now then—over you go without falling if I have to keep you
+here all night…. Look at _that_” (as the poor fellow is thrown across
+the jump by the cunning brute that knows its rider has neither whip,
+spurs, saddle nor reins). “What? The _horse_ refuse? One of _my_ horses
+_refuse? If the man’ll jump, the horse’ll jump._ (All of you repeat
+that after me and don’t forget it.) No. It’s the _man_ refuses, not the
+poor horse. Don’t you know the ancient proverb ‘Faint heart ne’er took
+fair jump’….? What’s the good of coming here if your heart’s the size
+of your eye-ball instead of being the size of your fist? _Refuse?_ Put
+him over it, man. _Put_ him over—SIT BACK and lift him, and _put_ him
+over. I’ll give you a thousand pounds if he refuses _me_….”
+
+Then the day when poor bullied, baited, nervous Muggins had reached his
+limit and come to the end of his tether—or thought he had. Bumped,
+banged, bucketed, thrown, sore from head to foot, raw-kneed, laughed
+at, lashed by the Rough-Riding Sergeant-Major’s cruel tongue, blind and
+sick with dust and pain and rage, he had at last turned his horse
+inward from his place in the ride to the centre of the School, and
+dismounted.
+
+How quaintly the tyrant’s jaw had dropped in sheer astonishment, and
+how his face had purpled with rage when he realized that his eyes had
+not deceived him and that the worm had literally turned—without orders.
+
+Indian, African, and Egyptian service, disappointment, and a bad wife
+had left Rough-Riding Sergeant-Major Blount with a dangerous temper.
+
+Poor silly Muggins. He had been Juggins indeed on that occasion, and,
+as the “ride” halted of its own accord in awed amazement, Dam had
+longed to tell him so and beg him to return to his place ere worse
+befell….
+
+“I’ve ’ad enough, you bull-’eaded brute,” shouted poor Muggins, leaving
+his horse and advancing menacingly upon his (incalculably) superior
+officer, “an’ fer two damns I’d break yer b—— jaw, I would. You …”
+
+Even as the Rough-Riding Corporal and two other men were dragging the
+struggling, raving recruit to the door, _en route_ for the Guard-room,
+entered the great remote, dread Riding-Master himself.
+
+“What’s this?” inquired Hon. Captain Style, Riding-Master of the
+Queen’s Greys, strict, kind-hearted martinet.
+
+Salute, and explanations from the Rough-Riding Sergeant-Major.
+
+Torrent of accusation and incoherent complaint and threat from the
+baited Muggins.
+
+“Mount that horse,” says the Riding-Master.
+
+“I’ll go to Clink first,” gasps Muggins. “I’ll go to ’Ell first.”
+
+“No. _Afterwards,_” replies the Riding-Master and sends the
+Rough-Riding Corporal for the backboard—dread instrument of equestrian
+persuasion.
+
+Muggins is forcibly mounted, put in the lunging ring and sent round and
+round till he throws himself off at full gallop and lies crying and
+sobbing like a child—utterly broken.
+
+Riding-Master smiles, allows Muggins to grow calmer, accepts his
+apologies and promises, shows him he has had his Hell _after_, as
+promised, and that it is a better punishment than one that leaves him
+with a serious “crime” entry on his Defaulter’s Sheet for life…. That
+vile and damning sheet that records the youthful peccadilloes and keeps
+it a life-long punishment after its own severe punishment…. To the
+Rough-Riding Sergeant-Major he quietly remarks: “No good non-com
+_makes_ crimes … and don’t forget that the day of riding-school
+brutality is passing. You can carry a man further than you can kick
+him.”
+
+And the interrupted lesson continues.
+
+“Sit _back_ and you can’t come off. Nobody falls off backwards.” …
+
+Poor “Old Sit-Back”! (as he was called from his constant cry)—after
+giving that order and guarantee daily for countless days—was killed in
+the riding-school by coming off backwards from the stripped saddle of a
+rearing horse—(which promptly fell upon him and crushed his chest)—that
+had never reared before and would not have reared then, it was said,
+but for the mysterious introduction, under its saddle, of a remarkably
+“foreign” body.
+
+Memories …!
+
+How certain old “Sit-Back” had been that Dam was a worthless
+“back-to-the-Army-again” when he found him a finished horseman, an
+extraordinarily expert swordsman, and a master of the lance.
+
+“You aren’t old enough for a ‘time-expired,’” he mused, “nor for a
+cashiered officer. One of the professional
+‘enlist-desert-and-sell-me-kit,’ I suppose. Anyhow you’ll do time for
+one of the three if _I_ don’t approve of ye…. You’ve been in the
+Cavalry before. Lancer regiment, too. Don’t tell _me_ lies … but see to
+it that I’m satisfied with your conduct. Gentlemen-rankers are better
+in their proper place—_Jail_.” …
+
+None the less it had given Dam a thrill of pride when, on being
+dismissed recruit-drills and drafted from the reserve troop to a
+squadron, the Adjutant had posted him to E Troop, wherein were
+congregated the seven other undoubted gentlemen-rankers of the Queen’s
+Greys (one of whom would one day become a peer of the realm and,
+meantime, followed what he called “the only profession in the world” in
+discomfort for a space, the while his Commission ripened).
+
+To this small band of “rankers” the accession of the finest boxer,
+swordsman, and horseman in the corps, was invaluable, and helped them
+notably in their endeavour to show that there are exceptions to all
+rules, and that a gentleman _can_ make a first-class trooper. At least
+so “Peerson” had said, and Dam had been made almost happy for a day.
+
+Memories …!
+
+His first walk abroad from barracks, clad in the “walking-out” finery
+of shell-jacket and overalls, with the jingle of spurs and effort at
+the true Cavalry swagger, or rather the first attempt at a walk abroad,
+for the expedition had ended disastrously ere well begun. Unable to
+shake off his admirer, Trooper Herbert Hawker, Dam had just passed the
+Main Guard and main gates in the company of Herbert, and the two
+recruits had encountered the Adjutant and saluted with the utmost
+smartness and respect….
+
+“What the Purple Hell’s that thing?” had drawled the Adjutant
+thereupon—pointing his whip at Trooper Henry Hawker, whose trap-like
+mouth incontinent fell open with astonishment. “It’s got up in an
+imitation of the uniform of the Queen’s Greys, I do believe!… It’s not
+a rag doll either…. It’s a God-forsaken undertaker’s mute in a red and
+black shroud with a cake-tin at the back of its turnip head and a pair
+of chemises on its ugly hands…. Sergeant of the Guard!… Here!”
+
+“Sir?” and a salute of incredible precision from the Sergeant of the
+Guard.
+
+“What the name of the Devil’s old Aunt is _this_ thing? What are you on
+Guard for? To write hymns and scare crows—or to allow decayed charwomen
+to stroll out of barracks in a dem parody of your uniform? Look at her!
+Could turn round in the jacket without taking it off. Room for both
+legs in one of the overalls. Cap on his beastly neck. Gloves like a
+pair of … _Get inside you_!… Take the thing in with a pair of tongs and
+bury it where it won’t contaminate the dung-pits. Burn it! Shoot it!
+Drown it! D’ye hear?… And then I’ll put you under arrest for letting it
+pass….”
+
+It had been a wondrously deflated and chapfallen Herbert that had slunk
+back to the room of the reserve troop, and perhaps his reputation as a
+mighty bruiser had never stood him in so good stead as when it
+transpired that an Order had been promulgated that no recruit should
+leave barracks during the first three months of his service, and that
+the names of all such embryos should be posted in the Main Guard for
+the information of the Sergeant….
+
+Memories …!
+
+His first march behind the Band to Church….
+
+The first Review and March Past….
+
+His first introduction to bread-and-lard….
+
+His wicked carelessness in forgetting—or attempting to disregard—the
+law of the drinking-troughs. “So long as one horse has his head down no
+horse is to go.” There had been over a score drinking and he had moved
+off while one dipsomaniac was having a last suck.
+
+His criminal carelessness in not removing his sword and leaving it in
+the Guard-room, when going on sentry after guard-mounting—“getting the
+good Sergeant into trouble, too, and making it appear that _he_ had
+been equally criminally careless “.
+
+The desperate quarrel between Hawker and Bone as to whether the 10th
+Hussars were called the “Shiny Tenth” because of their general material
+and spiritual brilliance, or the “Chainy Tenth” because their Officers
+wore pouch-belts of gold chain-mail…. The similar one between Buttle
+and Smith as to the reason of a brother regiment being known as “The
+Virgin Mary’s Body-guard,” and their reluctant acceptance of Dam’s
+dictum that they were both wrong, it having been earned by them in the
+service of a certain Maria Theresa, a lady unknown to Messrs. Buttle
+and Smith…. Dam had found himself developing into a positive bully in
+his determination to prevent senseless quarrelling, senseless
+misconduct, senseless humourless foulness, senseless humourless
+blasphemy, and all that unnecessary, avoidable ugliness that so richly
+augmented the unavoidable….
+
+Memories …!
+
+Sitting throughout compulsory church, cursing and mutinous of heart,
+because after spending several hours of the Day of Rest in burnishing
+and pipe-claying, blacking and shining (“Sunday spit an’ polish”), he
+was under orders for sharp punishment—because at the last moment his
+tunic had been fouled by a passing pigeon! When would the Authorities
+realize that soldiers are still men, still Englishmen (even if they
+have, by becoming soldiers, lost their birthright of appeal to the Law
+of the Land, though not their amenability to its authority), and cease
+to make the Blessed Sabbath a curse, the worst day of the week, and to
+herd angry, resentful soldiers into church to blaspheme with politely
+pious faces? Oh, British, British, Pharisees and Humbugs—make Sunday a
+curse, and drive the soldier into church to do his cursing—make it the
+chief day of dress “crimes” and punishments, as well as the busiest
+day, and force the soldier into church to Return Thanks….
+
+The only man in the world flung into church as though into jail for
+punishment! Shout it in the Soldier’s ear, “_You are not a Man, you are
+a Slave_,” on Sundays also, on Sundays louder than usual…. And when he
+has spent his Sunday morning in extra hard labour, in suffering the
+indignity of being compulsorily marched to church, and very frequently
+of having been punished because it is a good day on which a Sergeant
+may decide that he is not sufficiently cleanly shaved or his boots of
+minor effulgence—then let him sit and watch his hot Sunday dinner grow
+stone cold before the Colonel stalks through the room, asks a
+perfunctory question, and he is free to fall to.
+
+“O Day of Rest and Gladness,
+ O Day of Joy most Bright….”
+
+
+_Yah!_
+
+A pity some of the energy that went to making the annual 20,000
+military “criminals” out of honest, law-abiding, well-intending men
+could not go to harassing the Canteen instead of the soldier (whom the
+Canteen swindles right and left, and whence _he_ gets salt-watery beer,
+and an “ounce” of tobacco that will go straight into his pipe in one
+“fill”—no need to wrap it up, thank you) and discovering how handsome
+fortunes, as well as substantial “illegal gratifications,” are made out
+of his much-stoppaged one-and-tuppence-a-week.
+
+Did the Authorities really yearn to _dis_courage enlistment and to
+_en_courage desertion and “crime”? When would they realize that making
+“crimes,” and manufacturing “criminals” from honest men, is _not_
+discipline, is _not_ making soldiers, is _not_ improving the Army—is
+_not_ common ordinary sanity and sense? When would they break their
+dull, unimaginative, hide-bound—no, tape-bound—souls from the ideas
+that prevailed before (and murdered) the Crimean Army…. The Army is not
+now the sweepings of the jails, and more in need of the wild-beast
+tamer than of the kind firm teacher, as once it was. How long will they
+continue to suppose that you make a fine fighting-man, and a
+self-reliant, intelligent soldier, by treating him as a depraved child,
+as a rightless slave, as a mindless automaton, and by encouraging the
+public (whom he protects) to regard him as a low criminal ruffian to be
+classed with the broad-arrowed convict, and to be excluded from places
+where any loafing rotten lout may go…. When would a lawyer-ridden Army
+Council realize that there is a trifle of significance in the fact that
+there are four times as many soldier suicides as there are civilian,
+and that the finest advertisement for the dwindling Army _is the
+soldier_. To think that sober men should, with one hand spend vast sums
+in lying advertisements for the Army, and with the other maintain a
+system that makes the soldier on furlough reply to the question “Shall
+I enlist, mate?” with the words “Not while you got a razor to cut yer
+throat”…. Ah, well, common sense would reach even the Army some day,
+and the soldier be treated and disciplined as a man and a citizen—and
+perhaps, when it did, and the soldier gave a better description of his
+life, the other citizen, the smug knave who despises him while he
+shelters behind him, will become less averse from having his own round
+shoulders straightened, his back flattened and his muscles developed as
+he takes his part in the first fundamental elementary duty of a
+citizen—preparation for the defence of hearth and home…. Lucille! Well
+… Thank God she could not see him and know his life. If _she_ had any
+kindness left for him she would suffer to watch him eating well-nigh
+uneatable food, grooming a horse, sweeping a stable, polishing
+trestle-legs with blacklead, scrubbing floors, sleeping on damp straw,
+carrying coals, doing scullion-work for uneducated roughs, being
+brow-beaten, bullied, and cursed by them in tight-lipped silence—not
+that these things troubled him personally—the less idle leisure for
+thought the better, and no real man minds physical hardship—there is no
+indignity in labour _per se_ any more than there is dignity….
+
+“’Ere, Maffewson, you bone-idle, moonin’ waster,” bawled the raucous
+voice of Lance-Corporal Prag, and Dam’s soaring spirit fell to earth.
+
+The first officer to whom Trooper Matthewson gave his smart respectful
+salute as he stood on sentry-duty was the Major, the Second-in-Command
+of the Queen’s Greys, newly rejoined from furlough,—a belted Earl,
+famous for his sporting habit of riding always and everywhere without a
+saddle—who, as a merry subaltern, had been Lieutenant Lord Ochterlonie
+and Adjutant of the Queen’s Greys at Bimariabad in India. There, he
+had, almost daily, taken upon his knee, shoulder, saddle, or dog-cart,
+the chubby son of his polo and pig-sticking exemplar, Colonel Matthew
+Devon de Warrenne.
+
+The sentry had a dim idea that he had seen the Major somewhere before.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX.
+A SNAKE AVENGES A HADDOCK AND LUCILLE BEHAVES IN AN UN-SMELLIEAN
+MANNER.
+
+
+Finding himself free for the afternoon, and the proud possessor of
+several shillings, “Trooper Matthewson” decided to walk to Folkestone,
+attend an attractively advertised concert on the pier, and then indulge
+in an absolutely private meal in some small tea-room or confectioner’s
+shop.
+
+Arrayed in scarlet shell-jacket, white-striped overalls, and pill-box
+cap, he started forth, carrying himself as though exceeding proud to be
+what he was, and wondering whether a swim in the sea, which should end
+somewhere between Shorncliffe and Dieppe (and end his troubles too),
+would not be a better pastime.
+
+Arrived at the Folkestone pier, Dam approached the ticket office at the
+entrance and tendered his shilling to the oily-curled, curly-nosed
+young Jew who sat at the receipt of custom.
+
+“Clear out o’ this,” said Levi Solomonson.
+
+“I want a ticket for the concert,” said Dam, not understanding.
+
+“Would you like a row o’ stalls to sprawl your dirty carcase on?…
+Outside, I tell yer, Tommy Atkins, this ain’t a music-’all nor yet a
+pub. Soldiers _not_ ‘’alf-price to cheap seats’ nor yet full-price—nor
+yet for ten pound a time. Out yer go, lobster.”
+
+The powerful hand of Damocles de Warrenne approached the window and,
+for a second, Mr. Levi Solomonson was in danger—but only for a second.
+Dam was being well-broken-in, and quickly realized that he was no
+longer a free British citizen entitled to the rights of such so long as
+he behaved as a citizen should, but a mere horrible defender of those
+of his countrymen, who were averse from the toils and possible dangers
+of self-defence. It was brought home to him, then and there, with some
+clearness, that the noble Britons who (perhaps) “never never will be
+slaves,” have a fine and high contempt for those whose life-work is to
+save them from that distressing position; that the noble Briton, while
+stoutly (and truly Britishly) refusing to hear of universal service and
+the doing by each man of his first duty to the State, is informed with
+a bitter loathing of those who, for wretched hire and under wretched
+conditions, perform those duties for him. Dam did not mind, though he
+did not enjoy, doing housemaid’s work in the barrack-room, scrubbing
+floors, blackleading iron table-legs and grates, sweeping, dusting, and
+certain other more unpleasant menial tasks; he did not mind, though he
+did not like, “mucking-out” stables and scavenging; he could take at
+their proper value the insults of ignorant boors set in authority over
+him; he could stand, if not enjoy, the hardships of the soldier’s
+life—but he did _not_ see why his doing his duty in that particular
+sphere—an arduous, difficult, and frequently dangerous sphere—should
+earn him the united insult of the united public! Why should an educated
+and cultured man, a gentleman in point of fact, be absolutely
+prohibited from hearing a “classical” concert because he wore the
+Queen’s uniform and did that most important and necessary work which
+the noble Briton is too slack-baked, too hypocritically genteel, too
+degenerate, to perform, each man for himself?
+
+In a somewhat bitter frame of mind the unfortunate young man strolled
+along the Leas and seated himself on a public bench, honestly wondering
+as he did so, whether he were sufficiently a member of the great and
+glorious public to have a right to do it while wearing the disgraceful
+and disgracing garb of a Trooper of the Queen…. Members of that great
+and glorious public passed him by in rapid succession. Narrow-chested
+youths of all classes, and all crying aloud in slack-lipped silence for
+the drill-sergeant to teach them how to stand and walk; for the
+gymnasium-instructor to make them, what they would never be, _men_; for
+some one to give them an aim and an ideal beyond cigarettes, socks, and
+giggling “gels” or “gals” or “garls” or “gyurls” or “gurrls” according
+to their social sphere. Vast-stomached middle-aged men of all classes,
+and all crying aloud in fat-lipped silence of indulgence, physical
+sloth, physical decay before physical prime should have been reached,
+of mental, moral, and physical decadence from the great Past
+incredible, and who would one and all, if asked, congratulate
+themselves on living in these glorious modern times of ’igh
+civilization and not in the dark, ignorant days of old.
+
+(Decidedly a bitter young man, this.)
+
+Place Mister Albert Pringle, Insurance Agent; Mister Peter Snagget,
+Grocer; Mister Alphonso Pumper, Rate Collector; Mister Bill ’Iggins,
+Publican; Mister Walter Weed, Clerk; Mister Jeremiah Ramsmouth, Local
+Preacher; Mr. ’Ookey Snagg, Loafer; Mister William Guppy, Potman—place
+them beside Hybrias, Goat-herd; Damon, Shepherd; Phydias, Writer;
+Nicarchus, Ploughman; Balbus, Bricklayer; Glaucus, Potter; Caius,
+Carter; Marcus, Weaver; Aeneas, Bronze-worker; Antonius, Corn-seller;
+Canidius, Charioteer—and then talk of the glorious modern times of high
+civilization and the dark ignorant days of old!…
+
+And as he sat musing thus foolishly and pessimistically, who should
+loom upon his horizon but—of all people in the world—the Haddock, the
+fishy, flabby, stale, unprofitable Haddock! Most certainly Solomon in
+all his glory was not arrayed like this. A beautiful confection of
+pearly-grey, pearl-buttoned flannel draped his droopy form, a
+pearly-grey silk tie, pearl-pinned, encircled his lofty collar,
+pearly-grey silk socks spanned the divorcing gap ’twixt beautiful grey
+kid shoes and correctest trousers, a pearly-grey silk handkerchief
+peeped knowingly from the cuff of his pearly-grey silk shirt by his
+pearly-grey kid glove, and his little cane was of grey lacquer, and of
+pearl handle. One could almost have sworn that a pearl-grey smile
+adorned the scarce-shut mouth of the beautiful modern product of
+education and civilization, to carry on the so well-devised
+colour-scheme to the pearly-grey grey-ribboned soft hat.
+
+The Haddock’s mind wandered not in empty places, but wrestled sternly
+with the problem—_would_ it not have been better, after all, perhaps,
+to have worn the pearly-grey spats (with the pearl buttons) instead of
+relying on the pearly-grey socks alone? When one sat down and modestly
+protruded an elegant foot as one crossed one’s legs and gently drew up
+one’s trouser (lest a baggy knee bring black shame), one could display
+both—the spat itself, _and_, above it, the sock. Of course! To the
+passer-by, awe-inspired, admiring, stimulated, would then have been
+administered the double shock and edification. While gratefully
+observing the so-harmonizing grey spat and grey shoe he would have
+noted the Ossa of grey silk sock piled upon that Pelion of
+ultra-fashionable foot-joy! Yes. He had acted hastily and had erred and
+strayed from the Perfect Way—and a cloud, at first no bigger than a
+continent or two, arose and darkened his mental sky.
+
+But what of the cloud that settled upon him, black as that of the
+night’s Plutonian shore, a cloud much bigger than the Universe, when a
+beastly, awful, ghastly, common private soldier arose from a seat—a
+common seat for which you do not pay a penny and show your
+selectitude—arose, I say, from a beastly common seat and SEIZED HIM BY
+THE ARM and remarked in horrible, affected, mocking tones:—
+
+“And how’s the charming little Haddock, the fourpenny, common breakfast
+Haddock?”
+
+Yes, in full sight of the Leas of Folkestone, and the nobility, gentry,
+shopmen, nurse-girls, suburban yachtsmen, nuts, noisettes,
+bath-chairmen and all the world of rank and fashion, a common soldier
+took the pearly-grey arm of _the_ Haddon Berners as he took the air and
+walked abroad to give the public a treat. And proved to be his
+shameful, shameless, disgraced, disgraceful, cowardly relative,
+Damocles de Warrenne!
+
+The Haddock reeled, but did not fall.
+
+On catching sight of the beautiful young man, Dam’s first impulse was
+to spring up and flee, his second to complete the work of Mr. Levi
+Solomonson of the pier concert and see for himself, once again, how he
+was regarded by the eyes of all right-minded and respectable members of
+society, including those of a kinsman with whom he had grown up.
+
+Yes, in his bitterness of soul, and foolish youthful revolt against
+Fate, he was attracted by the idea of claiming acquaintance with the
+superb Haddock in his triumphant progress, take him by the arm, and
+solemnly march him the whole length of the Leas! He would, by Jove! _He
+did_.
+
+Confronting the resplendent languid loafer, he silkily observed, as he
+placed his cutting-whip beneath his left arm and extended his white
+cotton-gloved right hand:—
+
+“And how’s the charming little Haddock, the fourpenny, common breakfast
+Haddock?”
+
+Had it been Ormonde Delorme, any friend of Monksmead days, any school
+or Sandhurst acquaintance, had it been any other relative, had it been
+Lucille, he would have fled for his life, he would have seen his hand
+paralysed ere he would have extended it, he would have been struck dumb
+rather than speak, he would have died before he would have inflicted
+upon them the indignity of being seen in the company of a common
+soldier. But the Haddock! ’twould do the Haddock a world of good; the
+Haddock who had mocked him as he fought for sanity and life on the lawn
+at Monksmead—the Haddock who “made love” to Lucille.
+
+The Haddock affected not to see the hand.
+
+“I—er—don’t—ah—know you, surely, do I?” he managed to mumble as he
+backed away and turned to escape.
+
+“Probably not, dear Haddock,” replied the embittered desperate Dam,
+“but you’re going to. We’re going for a walk together.”
+
+“Are you—ah—dwunk, fellow? Do you suppose I walk with—ah—_soldiers_?”
+
+“I don’t, my Fish, but you’re going to now—if I have to carry you. And
+if I have to do that I’ll slap you well, when I put you down!”
+
+“I’ll call a policeman and give you in charge if you dare molest me.
+What do you—ah—desire? Money?… If you come to my hotel this evening—”
+and the hapless young man was swung round, his limp thin arm tucked
+beneath a powerful and mighty one, and he was whirled along at five
+miles an hour in the direction of the pier, gasping, feebly struggling,
+and a sight to move the High Gods to pity.
+
+“To the pier, my Haddock, and then back to the turnpike gate, and if
+you let a yell, or signal a policeman, I’ll twist your little neck.
+Fancy our Haddock in a vulgar street row with a common soldier and in
+the Police Court! Step it out, you worm!”
+
+Then the agonized Haddock dropped pretence.
+
+“Oh, Dam, I’m awf’ly sorry. I apologize, old chap. _Let up_—I say—this
+is _awful_…. Good God, here’s Lady Plonk, the Mayor’s wife!”
+
+“You shall introduce me, Lovely One—but no, we mustn’t annoy ladies.
+You must _not_ go trying to introduce your low companions—nay,
+relations—to Lady Plonkses. Step out—and look happy.”
+
+“Dam—for God’s sake, let me go! I didn’t know you, old chap. I swear I
+didn’t. The disgrace will kill me. I’ll give you—”
+
+“Look here, wee Fish, you offer me money again and I’ll—I’ll undress
+you and run away with your clothes. I will, upon my soul.”
+
+“I shall call to this policeman,” gasped the Haddock.
+
+“And appear with your low-class _relation_ in Court? Not you, Haddock.
+I’d swear you were my twin brother, and that you wouldn’t pay me the
+four pence you borrowed of me last week.”
+
+And the cruel penance was inflicted to the last inch. Near the end the
+Haddock groaned: “Here’s Amelia Harringport—Oh! my God,” and Dam
+quickly turned his face unto the South and gazed at the fair land of
+France. He remembered that General Harringport dwelt in these parts.
+
+At the toll-gate Dam released the perspiration-soaked wretch, who had
+suffered the torments of the damned, and who seemed to have met every
+man and woman whom he knew in the world as he paraded the promenade
+hanging lovingly to the arm of a common soldier! He thought of suicide
+and shuddered at the bare idea.
+
+“Well, I’m awf’ly sorry to have to run away and leave you now, dear
+Haddock. I might have taken you to all the pubs in Folkestone if I’d
+had time. I might have come to your hotel and dined with you. You
+_will_ excuse me, won’t you? I _must_ go now. I’ve got to wash up the
+tea things and clean the Sergeant’s boots,” said Dam, cruelly wringing
+the Haddock’s agonized soft hand, and, with a complete and
+disconcerting change, added, “And if you breathe a word about having
+seen me, at Monksmead, or tell Lucille, _I’ll seek you out, my
+Haddock_, and—we will hold converse with thee”. Then he strode away,
+cursing himself for a fool, a cad, and a deteriorated, demoralized
+ruffian. Anyhow, the Haddock would not mention the appalling incident
+and give him away.
+
+Nemesis followed him.
+
+Seeking a quiet shop in a back street where he could have the
+long-desired meal in private, he came to a small taxidermist’s, glanced
+in as he passed, and beheld the pride and joy of the taxidermist’s
+heart—a magnificent and really well-mounted boa-constrictor, and fell
+shrieking, struggling, and screaming in the gutter.
+
+That night Damocles de Warrenne, ill, incoherent, and delirious, passed
+in a cell, on a charge of drunk and disorderly and disgracing the
+Queen’s uniform.
+
+Mr. Levi Solomonson had not disgraced it, of course.
+
+“If we were not eating this excellent bread-and-dripping and drinking
+this vile tea, what would you like to be eating and drinking,
+Matthewson?” asked Trooper Nemo (formerly Aubrey Roussac d’Aubigny of
+Harrow and Trinity).
+
+“Oh, … a little real turtle,” said Dam, “just a lamina of _sole frite_,
+a trifle of _vol an vent à la financière_, a breast of partridge, a
+mite of _paté de fois gras_, a peach _à la Melba_, the roe of a
+bloater, and a few fat grapes—”
+
+“’Twould do. ’Twould pass,” sighed Trooper Burke, and added, “I would
+suggest a certain Moselle I used to get at the Byculla Club in Bombay,
+and a wondrous fine claret that spread a ruby haze of charm o’er my
+lunch at the Yacht Club of the same fair city. A ‘_Mouton Rothschild_
+something,’ which was cheap at nine rupees a small bottle on the morrow
+of a good day on the Mahaluxmi Racecourse.” (It was strongly suspected
+that Trooper Burke had worn a star on his shoulder-strap in those
+Indian days.)
+
+“It’s an awful shame we can’t all emerge from the depths and run up to
+Town to breathe the sweet original atmosphere for just one night before
+we leave old England,” put in Trooper Punch Peerson (son of a noble
+lord) who would at that moment have been in the Officers’ Mess but for
+a congenital weakness in spelling and a dislike of mathematics. “Pity
+we can’t get ‘leaf,’ and do ourselves glorious at the Carlton, and
+‘afterwards’. We could change at my Governor’s place into borrowed,
+stolen, and hired evening-kit, paint the village as scarlet as Sin or a
+trooper’s jacket, and then come home, like the Blackbird, to tea. I am
+going, and if I can’t get ‘leaf’ I shall return under the bread in the
+rations-cart. Money’s the root of all (successful) evil.”
+
+Trooper Punch Peerson was a born leader of men, a splendid horseman and
+soldier, and he had the Army in his ardent, gallant blood and bones;
+but how shall a man head a cavalry charge or win the love and
+enthusiastic obedience of men and horses when he is weak in spelling
+and has a dislike of mathematics?
+
+However, he was determined to follow in the footsteps of his ancestors,
+to serve his country in spite of her, and his Commission was certain
+and near. Meanwhile he endeavoured to be a first-class trooper, had his
+uniform made of officers’ materials in Bond Street by his father’s
+famous tailor, and “got the stick” with ease and frequency.
+
+“We’re not all gilded popinjays (nor poppin’ bottles),” observed a
+young giant who called himself Adam Goate, and had certainly been one
+in the days when he was Eugene Featherstonthwaite. “All very well for
+you to come to the surface and breathe, seeing that you’ll be out of it
+soon. You’re having nothing but a valuable experience and a hardening.
+You’re going through the mill. We’ve got to _live_ in it. What’s the
+good of our stirring everything up again? Dam-silly of a skinned eel to
+grow another skin, to be skinned again…. No, ‘my co-mates and brothers
+in exile,’ what I say is—you can get just as drunk on ‘four-’arf’ as on
+champagne, and a lot cheaper. Ask my honourable friend, Bear.”
+
+(Trooper Bear gave a realistic, but musical hiccup.)
+
+“Also, to the Philosopher, bread-and-dripping is as interesting and
+desirable prog as the voluble-varied heterogeny of the menu at the
+Carlton or the Ritz—’specially when you’ve no choice.”
+
+“Hear, hear,” put in Dam.
+
+“Goatey ol’ Goate!” said Trooper Bear with impressive solemnity. “Give
+me your hand, Philossiler. I adore dripping. I’ss a (hic) mystery. (No,
+I don’ want both hands,” as Goate offered his right to Bear’s warm
+embrace.) I’m a colliseur of Dripping. I understan’ it. I write odes to
+it. Yesh. A basin of dripping is like a Woman. ’Strornarillily. You
+never know what’s beneath fair surface…. Below a placid, level,
+unrevealing surface there may be—nothing … and there may be a rich
+deposit of glorious, stimulating, piquant _essence_.”
+
+“Oh, shut up, Bear, and don’t be an Ass,” implored Trooper Burke
+(formerly Desmond Villiers FitzGerald) … “but I admit, all the same,
+there’s lots of worse prog in the Officers’ Mess than a crisp crust
+generously bedaubed with the rich jellified gravy that (occasionally)
+lurks like rubies beneath the fatty soil of dripping.”
+
+“Sound plan to think so, anyway,” agreed Trooper Little (_ci devant_
+Man About Town and the Honourable Bertie Le Grand). “Reminds me of a
+proverb I used to hear in Alt Heidelberg, _‘What I have in my hand is
+best’_.”
+
+“Qui’ sho,” murmured Trooper Bear with a seraphic smile, “an’ wha’ I
+have in my ‘place of departed _spirits_,’ my tummy, is better. Glor’us
+mixshure. Earned an honest penny sheven sheparate times cleaning the
+’coutrements of better men … _‘an look at me for shevenpence’_ …” and
+he slept happily on Dam’s shoulder.
+
+In liquor, Trooper Bear was, if possible, gentler, kinder, and of
+sweeter disposition than when sober; wittier, more hopelessly lovable
+and disarming. These eight men—the “gentlemen-rankers” of the Queen’s
+Greys, made it a point of honour to out-Tommy “Tommy” as troopers, and,
+when in his company, to show a heavier cavalry-swagger, a broader
+accent, a quiffier “quiff,” a cuttier cutty-pipe, a smarter smartness;
+to groom a horse better, to muck out a stall better, to scrub a floor
+better, to spring more smartly to attention or to a disagreeable
+“fatigue,” and to set an example of Tomminess from turning out on an
+Inspection Parade to waxing a moustache.
+
+Trooper Bear professed to specialize as a model in the carrying of
+liquor “like a man and a soldier”. When by themselves, they made it a
+point of honour to behave and speak as though in the clubs to which
+they once belonged, to eat with washen hands and ordered attire, to
+behave at table and elsewhere with that truest of consideration that
+offends no man willingly by mannerism, appearance, word or act, and
+which is the whole Art of Gentility.
+
+They carefully avoided any appearance of exclusiveness, but sought
+every legitimate opportunity of united companionship, and formed a
+“mess” of eight at a table which just held that number, and on a couple
+of benches each of which exactly fulfilled the slang expression “room
+for four Dragoons on a form”.
+
+It was their great ambition to avoid the reproach of earning the
+soubriquet “gentleman-ranker,” a term that too often, and too justly,
+stinks in the nostrils of officer, non-commissioned officer, and man
+(for, as a rule, the “gentleman-ranker” is a complete failure as a
+gentleman and a completer one as a ranker).
+
+To prove a rule by a remarkably fine exception, these eight were among
+the very smartest and best troopers of one of the smartest and best
+Corps in the world—and to Damocles de Warrenne, their “Society of the
+Knights of the dirty Square Table” was a Rock and a Salvation in the
+midst of a howling sea of misery—a cool pool in a searing branding
+Hell.
+
+Trooper Bear’s brief nap appeared to have revived him wonderfully.
+
+“Let us, like the Hosts of Midian, prowl around this happy Sabbeth eve,
+my dear,” quoth he to Dam, “and, like wise virgins, up and smite them,
+when we meet the Red-Caps…. No, I’m getting confused. It’s they up and
+smite us, when we’ve nothing to tip them…. I feel I could be virtuous
+in your company—since you never offer beer to the (more or less)
+fatherless and widowed—and since I’m stony. How _did_ you work that
+colossal drunk, Matty, when you came home on a stretcher and the
+Red-Caps said you _‘was the first-classest delirious-trimmings as ever
+was, aseein’ snakes somethink ’orrible,’_ and in no wise to be
+persuaded _‘as ’ow there wasn’t one underyer bloomin’ foot the ’ole
+time’_. Oh you teetotallers!”
+
+Dam shuddered and paled. “Yes, let’s go for as long a walk as we can
+manage, and get as far from this cursed place as time allows,” he
+replied.
+
+His hair was still short and horribly hacked from the prison-crop he
+had had as a preliminary to “168 hours cells,” for “drunk and
+disorderly”.
+
+“I’ll come too,” announced the Honourable Bertie.
+
+“Yes,” chimed in Trooper Adam Goate, “let’s go and gladden the eyes, if
+not the hearts of the nurse-maids of Folkestone.”
+
+“Bless their nurse-maidenly hearts,” murmured Trooper Bear. “One made
+honourable proposals of marriage to me, quite recently, in return for
+my catching the runaway hat of her young charge…. Come on.” And in due
+course the four derelicts set forth with a uniformity of step and
+action that corresponded with their uniformity of dress.
+
+“Let’s take the Lower Road,” said Dam, as they reached the western
+limit of the front at Folkestone. “I fear we rather contaminate the
+pure social air of the Upper Road and the fashionable promenade.”
+
+“Where every prospect pleases and only man, in the Queen’s uniform, is
+vile,” observed Trooper Bear.
+
+Dam remembered afterwards that it was he who sought the quiet Lower
+Road—and he had good reason to remember it. For suddenly, a fashionably
+dressed and beautiful young girl, sitting alone in a passing private
+victoria, stood up, called “Stop! Stop!” to the coachman, and ere the
+carriage well came to a standstill, sprang out, rushed up to the double
+file of soldiers, and flung her arms around the neck of the outside one
+of the front rank.
+
+With a cry of “Oh, _Dam_! Oh, _Dammy_!”—a cry that mightily scandalized
+a serious-minded policeman who stood monumentally at the corner—she
+kissed him again and again!
+
+Troopers Bear, Goate, and Little, halting not in their stride, glancing
+not unto the right hand nor unto the left hand, speaking no word, and
+giving no sign of surprise, marched on in perfect silence, until
+Trooper Bear observed to the world in general “The lady was _not_
+swearing. His _name_ must be Dam—short for Damon or Pythias or
+Iphigenia or something which we may proceed to forget…. Poor old
+chappie—no wonder he’s taking to secret drinking. _I_ should drink,
+myself. _Poor_ chap!” and Trooper Goate, heaving a sympathetic sigh,
+murmured also “Poor chap!”
+
+But Trooper Little, once the Hon. Bertie Le Grand, thought “Poor
+_lady_!”
+
+
+The heart of Damocles de Warrenne bounded within him, stood still, and
+then seemed like to burst.
+
+“Oh, _Lucille_! Oh, darling!” he groaned, as he kissed her fiercely and
+then endeavoured to thrust her from him. “Jump into your carriage
+quickly. _Lucille_—Don’t … _Here_ …! Not _here_…. People are looking …
+_You …!_ A common soldier…. Let me go. Quick…. Your carriage…. Some one
+may—”
+
+“Let you _go_, darling …! Now I have found you…. If you say another
+word I’ll serve you as you served the Haddock. I’ll hang on to your arm
+right along the Leas. I’ll hang round your neck and scream if you try
+to run away. This is poetic justice, darling. Now you know how our
+Haddock felt. _No_—I _won’t_ leave go of your sleeve. Where shall we
+go, dearest darling Dammy. Dare you drive up and down the Front with me
+in Amelia Harringport’s sister’s young man’s mother’s victoria? oh, my
+_darling_ Dam….” and Lucille burst into happy tears.
+
+“Go up that winding path and I’ll follow in a minute. There will be
+secluded seats.”
+
+“And you’ll bolt directly I leave go of you?… I—”
+
+“No, darling, God knows I should if I were a man, but I can’t, _I
+can’t_. Oh, Lucille!”
+
+“Stay here,” cried the utterly fearless, unashamed girl to the
+unspeakably astounded coachman of the mother of the minor Canon who had
+the felicity of being Amelia Harringport’s sister’s young man, and she
+strode up the pathway that wound, tree-shaded, along the front of the
+gently sloping cliff.
+
+In the utter privacy of a small seat-enclosing, bush-hidden half-cave,
+Damocles de Warrenne crushed Lucille to his breast as she again flung
+her arms around his neck.
+
+“Oh, Lucille, how _could_ you expose yourself to scandal like that; I
+ought to be hung for not taking to my heels as you came, but I could
+not believe my eyes, I thought I was going mad again,” and he shivered.
+
+“What should I have cared if every soul in the world who knows me had
+arranged himself and herself in rows and ranks to get a good view? I’d
+have done the same if Grumper had been beside me in the carriage. What
+is the rest of the World to me, beside _you_, darling?… Oh, your _poor_
+hair, and what is that horrid scar, my dearest? And you are a ‘2 Q.G.’
+are you, and how soon may you marry? I’m going to disappear from
+Monksmead, now, just like you did, darling, and I’m coming here and I’m
+going to be a soldier’s wife. Can I live with you in your house in
+barracks, Dammy, or must I live outside, and you come home directly
+your drill and things are finished?”
+
+Dam groaned aloud in hopeless bitterness of soul.
+
+“Lucille—listen,” said he. “I earn one-and tuppence a day. I may not
+marry. If you were a factory-girl or a coster-woman I would not drag
+you down so. Apart from that, I am unfit to marry any decent woman. I
+am—what you know I am…. I have—fits. I am not—sound—normal—I may go
+m….”
+
+“Don’t be a pure priceless Ass, darling. You are my own splendid
+hero—and I am going to marry you, if I have to _be_ a factory-girl or a
+coster-woman, and I am going to live either with you or near you. You
+want looking after, my own boy. I shall have some money, though, when I
+am of age. When may I run away from Monksmead, darling?”
+
+“Lucille,” groaned the miserable man. “Do you think that the sight of
+you in the mire in which I wallow would make me happier? Can’t you
+realize that I’m ruined and done—disgraced and smashed? Lucille, I am
+not sane at times…. The SNAKE … _Do_ you love me, Lucille? Then if so,
+I beg and implore you to forget me, to leave me alone, to wait awhile
+and then marry Delorme or some sane, wholesome _man_—who is neither a
+coward nor a lunatic nor an epileptic. Lucille, you double and treble
+my misery. I _can’t_ bear it if I see you. Oh, why didn’t you forget me
+and do the right and proper thing? I am unfit to touch you! I am a
+damned scoundrel to be here now,” and leaping up he fled like a
+maddened horse, bounded down the slope, sprang into the road, nor
+ceased to run till he fell exhausted, miles away from the spot whereon
+he had suffered as he believed few men had done before.
+
+And thus and thus we women live!
+With none to question, none to give
+The Nay or Aye, the Aye or Nay
+That might smoothe half our cares away.
+O, strange indeed! And sad to know
+We pitch too high and doing so,
+Intent and eager not to fall,
+We miss the low clear note of call.
+Why is it so? Are we indeed
+So like unto the shaken reed?
+Of such poor clay? Such puny strength?
+That e’en throughout the breadth and length
+Of purer vision’s stern domain
+We bend to serve and serve in vain?
+To some, indeed, strange power is lent
+To stand content. Love, heaven-sent,
+(For things or high or pure or rare)
+Shows likest God, makes Life less bare.
+And, ever and anon there stray
+In faint far-reaching virèlay
+The songs of angels, Heav’nward-found,
+Of little children, earthward-bound.
+
+
+A. L. WREN.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X.
+MUCH ADO ABOUT ALMOST NOTHING—A TROOPER.
+
+
+Mr. Ormonde Delorme, Second Lieutenant of the 34th Lancers, sat in his
+quarters at Aldershot, reading and re-reading with mingled feelings a
+letter from the woman he loved.
+
+It is one thing to extract a promise from The Woman that she will turn
+to you for help if ever your help should be needed (knowing that there
+could be no greater joy than to serve her at any cost whatsoever,
+though it led to death or ruin), but it is quite another thing when
+that help is invited for the benefit of the successful rival!
+
+To go to the world’s end for Lucille were a very small matter to
+Ormonde Delorme—but to go across the road for the man who had won her
+away, was not.
+
+For Dam _had_ won her away from him, Delorme considered, inasmuch as he
+had brought him to Monksmead, time after time, had seen him falling in
+love with Lucille, had received his confidences, and spoken no warning
+word. Had he said but “No poaching, Delorme,” nothing more would have
+been necessary; he would have kept away thenceforth, and smothered the
+flame ere it became a raging and consuming fire. No, de Warrenne had
+served him badly in not telling him plainly that there was an
+understanding between him and his cousin, in letting him sink more and
+more deeply over head and ears in love, in letting him go on until he
+proposed to Lucille and learnt from her that while she liked him better
+than any man in the world but one—she did not love him, and that,
+frankly, yes, she _did_ love somebody else, and it was hopeless for him
+to hope….
+
+He read the letter again:—
+
+“MY DEAR ORMONDE,
+
+
+“This is a begging letter, and I should loathe to write it, under the
+circumstances, to any man but such a one as you. For I am going to ask
+a great deal of you and to appeal to that nobleness of character for
+which I have always admired you and which made you poor Dam’s hero from
+Lower School days at Wellingborough until you left Sandhurst (and,
+alas! quarrelled with him—or rather with his memory—about me). That was
+a sad blow to me, and I tell you again as I told you before, Dam had
+not the faintest notion that _I_ cared for _him_ and would not have
+told me that he cared for me had I not shown it. Your belief that he
+didn’t trouble to warn you because he had me safe is utterly wrong,
+absurd, and unjust.
+
+“When you did me the great honour and paid me the undeserved and
+tremendous compliment of asking me to marry you, and I told you that I
+could not, and _why_ I could not, I never dreamed that Dam could care
+for me in that way, and I knew that I should never marry any one at all
+unless he did.
+
+“And on the same occasion, Ormonde, you begged me to promise that if
+ever you could serve me in any way, I would ask for your help. You were
+a dear romantic boy then, Ormonde, and I loved you in a different way,
+and cried all night that you and I could not be friends without thought
+of love, and I most solemnly promised that I would turn to you if I
+ever needed help that you could give. (Alas, I thought to myself then
+that nobody in the world could do anything for me that Dam could not
+do, and that I should never need help from others while he lived.)
+
+“I want your help, Ormonde, and I want it for Dam—and me.
+
+“You have, of course, heard some garbled scandal about his being driven
+away from home and cut off from Sandhurst by grandfather. I need not
+ask if you have believed ill of him and I need not say he is absolutely
+innocent of any wrong or failure whatever. He is _not_ an effeminate
+coward, he is as brave as a lion. He is a splendid hero, Ormonde, and I
+want you to simply strangle and kill any man who says a word to the
+contrary.
+
+“When he left home, he enlisted, and Haddon Berners saw him in uniform
+at Folkestone where he had gone from Canterbury (cricket week) to see
+Amelia Harringport’s gang. Amelia whose sister is to be the Reverend
+Mrs. Canon Mellifle at Folkestone, you know, met the wretched Haddon
+being rushed along the front by a soldier and nearly died at the
+sight—she declares he was weeping!
+
+“Directly she told me I guessed at once that he had met Dam and either
+insulted or cut him, and that poor Dam, in his bitter humour and
+self-loathing had used his own presence as a punishment and had made
+the Haddock walk with him! Imagine the company of Damocles de Warrenne
+being anything but an ennobling condescension! Fancy Dam’s society a
+horrible injury and disgrace! To a thing like Haddon Berners!
+
+“Well, I simply haunted Folkestone after that, and developed a love for
+Amelia Harringport and her brothers that surprised them—hypocrite that
+I am! (but I was punished when they talked slightingly of Dam and she
+sneered at the man whom she had shamelessly pursued when all was well
+with him. She ‘admires’ Haddon now.)
+
+“At last I met him on one of my week-end visits—on a Sunday evening it
+was—and I simply flew at him in the sight of all respectable,
+prayer-book-displaying, before-Church-parading, well-behaved
+Folkestone, and kissed him nearly to death…. And can you believe a
+woman could be such a _fool_, Ormonde—while carefully noting the ‘2
+Q.G.’ on his shoulder-straps, I never thought to find out his
+_alias_—for of course he hides his identity, thinking as he does, poor
+darling boy, that he has brought eternal disgrace on an honoured name—a
+name that appears twice on the rolls of the V.C. records.
+
+“Ormonde, were it not that it would _increase_ his misery and agony of
+mind I would run away from Monksmead, take a room near the Queen’s
+Greys barracks, and haunt the main gates until I saw him again. He
+should then tell me how to communicate with him, or I would hang about
+there till he did. I’d marry him ‘off the strength’ and live (till I am
+‘of age’) by needlework if he would have me. But, of course, he’d
+_never_ understand that I’d be happier, and a better woman, in a
+Shorncliffe lodging, as a soldier’s wife, than ever I shall be here in
+this dreary Monksmead—until he is restored and re-habilitated (is that
+the word? I mean—comes into his own as a brave and noble gentleman who
+never did a mean or cowardly action in his life).
+
+“And he is _so_ thin and unhappy looking, Ormonde, and his poor hands
+are in such a state and his beautiful hair is all hacked about and done
+like a soldier’s, all short except for a long piece brushed down his
+forehead and round to his cap—oh, dreadful … and he has a scar on his
+face! No wonder Amelia never recognized him. Oh, _do_ help me, Ormonde.
+I _must_ find out how to address him. I dare not let them know there is
+a _D. de Warrenne_ in the regiment—and he’d never get it either—he’s
+probably Smith or Jones or Robinson now. If some horrid Sergeant called
+out ‘Trooper D. de Warrenne,’ when distributing letters, Dam would
+never answer to the name he thinks he has eternally disgraced, and
+disgrace it further by dragging it in the mire of the ranks. How _can_
+people be such snobs? Isn’t a good private a better man than a bad
+officer? Why should there be any ‘taint’ about serving your country in
+any capacity?
+
+“How _can_ I find him, Ormonde, unless you help me? I could pay a
+servant to hang about the barracks until he recognized Dam—but that
+would be horrible for the poor boy. He’d deny it and say the man was
+mad, I expect—and it would be most unpleasant and unfair to Dam to set
+some one to find out from his comrades what he calls himself. If he
+chooses to hide from what he thinks is the chance of further disgracing
+his people, and suffers what he does in order to remain hidden, shall
+_I_ be the one to do anything to show him up and cause him worse
+suffering—expose him to a servant?
+
+“How _can_ I get him a letter that shall not have his name on it? If I
+wrote to his Colonel or the Adjutant and enclosed a letter with just
+‘Dam’ on it they’d not know for whom it was meant—and I dare not tell
+them his real name.
+
+“Could you get a letter to him, Ormonde, without letting him know that
+you know he is a private soldier, and without letting a soul know his
+real name?
+
+“I do apologize for the length of this interminable letter, but if you
+only knew the _relief_ it is to me to be doing something that may help
+him, and to be talking, or rather writing about him, you would forgive
+me.
+
+“His name must not be mentioned here. Think of it!
+
+“Oh, if it only would not make him _more_ unhappy, I would go to him
+this minute, and refuse ever to leave him again.
+
+“Does that sound unmaidenly, Ormonde? I don’t care whether it does or
+not, nor whether it _is_ or not. I love him, and he loves me. I am his
+_friend_. Could I stay here in luxury if it would make him happier to
+marry me? Am I a terribly abandoned female? I told Auntie Yvette just
+what I had done, and though it simply saved her life to know he had not
+committed suicide (I believe she _worshipped_ father)—she seemed
+mortally shocked at me for behaving so. I am not a bit ashamed though.
+Dam is more important than good form, and I had to show him in the
+strongest possible way that he was dearer to me than ever. If it _was_
+‘behaving like a servant-girl’—all honour to servant-girls, I think …
+considering the circumstances. You should have seen his face before he
+caught sight of me. Yes—_and_ after, too. Though really I think he
+suffered more from my kissing him—in uniform, in the street—than if I
+had cut him. It would be only for the minute though … it _must_ comfort
+him _now_, and always, to think that I love him so (since he loves
+_me_—and always has done). But what I must know before I can sleep
+peacefully again is the name by which he goes in the ‘2 Q.G’s.,’ so
+that I can write and comfort him regularly, send him things, and make
+him buy himself out when he sees he has been foolish and wicked in
+supposing that he has publicly disgraced himself and his name and us.
+And I’m going to make Grandfather’s life a misery, and go about skinny
+and ragged and weeping, and say: ‘_This_ is how you treat the daughter
+of your dead friend, you wicked, cruel, unjust old man,’ until he
+relents and sends for Dam and gets him into the Army properly…. But I
+am afraid Dam will think it his silly duty to flee from me and all my
+works, and hide himself where the names of de Warrenne and Stukeley are
+unknown and cannot be disgraced.
+
+“I rely on you, Ormonde,
+
+“Your ashamed grateful friend,
+“LUCILLE GAVESTONE.”
+
+
+Second Lieutenant Delorme rang the bell.
+
+“Bradshaw,” he said, as his soldier-servant appeared. “And get me a
+telegraph form.”
+
+“Yussir,” said Private Billings, and marched to the Mess ante-room
+purposefully, with hope in his heart that Mr. Delorme ’ad nothink less
+than a ’alf dollar for the telegram and would forgit to arx for the
+chainge, as was his occasional praiseworthy procedure.
+
+Mr. Delorme, alas, proved to have a mean and vulgar shilling, the which
+he handed to Private Billings with a form containing the message:—
+
+“Can do. So cheer up. Writing his adjutant, pal of mine. Coming over
+Saturday if get leave. Going Shorncliffe if necessary. Leave due. Dam
+all right. Will blow over. Thanks for letting me help.”
+
+“’Fraid they don’ give no tick at the Telegraft Orfis, Sir,” observed
+Private Billings, who, as quondam “trained observer” of his troop, had
+noted the length of the telegram and the shortness of the allowance
+therefor.
+
+“What the deuce…?”
+
+“This is more like a ’alf-dollar job, Sir,” he groaned, waving the
+paper, “wot wiv’ the haddress an’ all.”
+
+“Oh—er—yes, bit thick for a bob, perhaps; here’s half a sov….”
+
+“_That’s_ more like ‘_’Eres to yer_,’ Mr. D——” remarked the good
+man—outside the door. “And don’t yer werry about trifles o’ chainge. Be
+a gent!”
+
+
+Lucille read and re-read the telegram in many ways.
+
+“Can do so. Cheer up. Writing his adjutant. Pal of mine coming over
+Saturday. If get leave going Shorncliffe if necessary leave due Dam.
+All right will blow over thanks.” No, _that_ wouldn’t do.
+
+(What a pity people _would_ not remember when writing telegrams that
+the stops and capitals they put are ignored by the operators.)
+
+At last, the wish being father to the thought, she decided it to be
+“Can do” (she knew that to be a navy expression). “So cheer up.
+Writing. His adjutant a pal of mine. Coming over Saturday if I get
+leave. Going Shorncliffe if necessary. Leave due. Dam all right. Will
+blow over. Thanks for letting me help.” Which was not far wrong.
+
+Dear old Ormonde! She knew he would not fail her—although he had been
+terribly cut up by her rejection of his suit and by his belief that Dam
+had let him haunt her in the knowledge that she was his own private
+property, secured to him.
+
+
+Having dispatched his telegram and interviewed his Adjutant, Captain,
+and Colonel, Mr. Delorme sat him down and wrote to Lieutenant the
+Honourable Reginald Montague Despencer, Adjutant of the Queen’s Greys:—
+
+“MY DEAR MONTY,
+
+
+“At the Rag. the other day, respectfully dining with my respected
+parent, I encountered, respectfully dining with his respected parent,
+your embryo Strawberry Leaf, old ‘Punch Peerson’. (Do you remember his
+standing on his head on the engine at Blackwater Station when he was
+too ‘merry’ to be able to stand steady on his feet?) I learnt that he
+is still with you and I want him to do something for me. He’ll be
+serious about it if _you_ speak to him about it—and I am writing to him
+direct. I’m going to send you a letter (under my cover), and on it will
+be one word ‘Dam’ (on the envelope, of course). I want you to give this
+to Punch and order him to show it privately to the _gentlemen-rankers_
+of the corps till one says he recognizes the force of the word (pretty
+forceful, too, what!) and the writing. To this chap he is to give it.
+Be good to your poor ‘rankers,’ Monty, I know one damned hard case
+among them. No fault of _his_, poor chap. I could say a lot—surprise
+you—but I mustn’t. It’s awfully good of you, old chap. I know you’ll
+see it through. It concerns as fine a gentleman as ever stepped and
+_the_ finest woman!
+
+“Ever thine,
+“O. DELORME.”
+
+
+“Look here, my lambs—or rather, Black Sheep,” quoth Trooper Punch
+Peerson one tea-time to Troopers Bear, Little, Goate, Nemo, Burke,
+Jones, and Matthewson, “I suppose none of you answers to the name of
+‘_Dam_’?”
+
+No man answered, and Trooper Peerson looked at the face of no man, nor
+any one at any other.
+
+“No. I thought not. Well, I have a letter addressed in that objurgatory
+term, and I am going to place it beneath my pillow before I go out
+to-night. If it is there when I come in I’ll destroy it unopened. ‘Nuff
+said,’ as the lady remarked when she put the mop in her husband’s
+mouth. Origin of the phrase ‘don’t chew the mop,’ I should think,” and
+he babbled on, having let his unfortunate friends know that for one of
+them he had a letter which might be received by the addressed without
+the least loss of his anonymity.
+
+Dam’s heart beat hard and seemed to swell to bursting. He felt
+suffocated.
+
+“Quaint superscription,” he managed to observe. “How did you come by
+it?” and then wished he had not spoken…. Who but the recipient could be
+interested in its method of delivery? If anyone suspected him of being
+“Dam” would they not at once connect him with the notorious Damocles de
+Warrenne, ex-Sandhurst cadet, proclaimed coward and wretched neurotic
+decadent before the pained, disgusted eyes of his county, kicked out by
+his guardian … a disgrace to two honoured names. … “The Adjer handed it
+over. Thought _I_ was the biggest Damn here, I suppose,” Trooper
+Peerson replied without looking up from his plate. “Practical silly
+joke I should think. No one here with such a l_oath_some, name as
+_Dam_, of course,” but Trooper Punch Peerson had his philosophic
+“doots”. He, like others of that set, had heard of a big chap who was a
+marvel at Sandhurst with the gloves, sword, horse, and other things,
+and who had suddenly and marvellously disappeared into thin air leaving
+no trace behind him, after some public scandal or other…. But that was
+no concern of Trooper Punch Peerson, gentleman….
+
+With a wary eye on Peerson, Dam lay on his bed, affecting to read a
+stale and dirty news-sheet. He saw him slip something beneath his
+pillow and swagger out of the barrack-room. Anon no member of the
+little band of gentleman-rankers was left. Later, the room was empty,
+save for a heavily snoring drunkard and a busy polisher who, at the
+shelf-table at the far end of the room, laboured on his jack-boots,
+hissing the while, like a groom with a dandy-brush.
+
+Going to Peerson’s bed, Dam snatched the letter, returned to his own,
+and flung himself down again—his heart pumping as though he had just
+finished a mile race. _Lucille had got a letter to him somehow_.
+Lucille was not going to drop him yet—in spite of having seen him a
+red-handed, crop-haired, “quiff”-wearing, coarse-looking soldier…. Was
+there another woman in the world like Lucille? Would any other girl
+have so risen superior to her breeding, and the teachings of Miss
+Smellie, as to do what she thought right, regardless of public
+scandal…? But he must not give her the opportunity of being seen
+talking to a soldier again—much less kissing one. Not that she would
+want to kiss him again like that. That was the kiss of welcome, of
+encouragement, of proof that she was unchanged to him—her first sight
+of him after the _débâcle_. It was the unchecked impulse of a noble
+heart—and the action showed that Miss Smellie had been unable to do it
+much harm with her miserable artificialities and stiflings of all that
+is natural and human and right…. Should he read the letter at once or
+treasure it up and keep it as a treat in store? He would hold it in his
+hand unopened and imagine its contents. He would spin out the glorious
+pleasure of possession of an unopened letter from Lucille. He could, of
+course, read it hundreds of times—but he would then soon know it by
+heart, and although its charm and value would be no less, it would
+merge with his other memories and become a memory itself. He did not
+want it to become a memory too soon.
+
+The longer it remained an anticipation, the more distant the day when
+it became a memory….
+
+With a groan of “Oh, my brain’s softening and I’m becoming a
+sentimentalist,” he opened the letter and read Lucille’s loving,
+cheering—yet agonizing, maddening—words:—
+
+“MY OWN DARLING DAM,
+
+
+“If this letter reaches you safely you are to sit down at once and
+write to me to tell me how to address you by post in the ordinary way.
+If you don’t I shall come and haunt the entrance to the Lines and
+waylay you. People will think I am a poor soul whom you have married
+and deserted, or whom you won’t marry. _I’ll_ show up your wicked
+cruelty to a poor girl! How would you like your comrades to say ‘Look
+out, Bill, your pore wife’s ’anging about the gates’ and to have to lie
+low—and send out scouts to see if the coast was clear later on? Don’t
+you go playing fast and loose with _me_, master Dam, winning my young
+affections, making love to me, kissing me—and then refusing to marry me
+after it all! I don’t want to be too hard on you (and I am reasonable
+enough to admit that one-and-two a day puts things on a smaller scale
+than I have been accustomed to in the home of my fathers—or rather
+uncles, or perhaps uncles-in-law), and like the kind Tailor whom the
+Haddock advertises (and like the unkind Judge before whom he’ll some
+day come for something) I will ‘give you time’. But it’s only a
+respite, Mr. de Warrenne. You are not going to trifle with my young
+feelings and escape altogether. I have my eye on you—and if I respect
+your one-and-twopence a day _now_, it is on the clear understanding
+that you share my Little All on the day I come of age. I will trust you
+once more, although you _have_ treated me so—bolting and hiding from
+your confiding fiancée.
+
+“So write and tell me what you call yourself, so that I can write to
+you regularly and satisfy myself that you are not escaping me again.
+How _could_ you treat a poor trusting female so—and then when she had
+found you again, and was showing her delight and begging to be married
+and settled in life—to rush away from her, leaving her and her modest
+matrimonial proposals scorned and rejected! For shame, Sir! I’ve a good
+mind to come and complain to your Colonel and ask him to make you keep
+your solemn promises and marry me….
+
+“Now look here, darling, nonsense aside—I solemnly swear that if you
+don’t buy yourself out of the army on the day I come of age (or before,
+if you will, and can) I will really come and make you marry me and I
+will live with you as a soldier’s wife. If you persist in your
+wrong-headed notion of being a ‘disgrace’ (_you_!) then we’ll just
+adopt the army as a career, and we’ll go through all the phases till
+you get a Commission. I hope you won’t take this course—but if you do,
+you’ll be a second Hector Macdonald and retire as Lieutenant-General
+Sir Damocles de Warrenne (K.C.B., K.C.M.G., K.C.S.I., D.S.O., and, of
+course, V.C.), having confessed to an _alias_. It will be a long time
+before we should be in really congenial society, that way, darling, but
+I’m sure I should enjoy every hour of it with you, so long as I felt I
+was a comfort and happiness to you. And when you got your Commission I
+should not be a social drag upon you as sometimes happens. Nor before
+it should I be a nuisance and hindrance to you and make you wish you
+were ‘shut of the curse of a soldier’. I could ‘rough it’ as well as
+you and, besides, there would _be_ no ‘roughing it’ where you were, for
+me. It is _here_ that I am ‘roughing it,’ sitting impotent and
+wondering what is happening to you, and whether that terrible illness
+ever seizes you, and whether you are properly looked after when it
+does.
+
+“Now, just realize, dearest Dam—I said I would wait twenty years for
+you, if necessary. I would and I will, but don’t make me do it,
+darling. Realize how happy I should be if I could only come and sew and
+cook and scrub and work for you. Can you understand that life is only
+measurable in terms of happiness and that _my_ happiness can only be
+where _you,_ are? If you weren’t liable to these seizures I could bear
+to wait, but as it is, I can’t. I beg and beseech you not to make me
+wait till I am of age, Dam. There’s no telling what may happen to you
+and I just can’t bear it. _I’m coming_, if I don’t hear from you, and I
+can easily do something to compel you to marry me, if I come. You are
+_not_ going to bear this alone, darling, so don’t imagine it. We’re not
+going to keep separate shops after all these years, just because you’re
+ill with a trouble of some kind that fools can’t understand.
+
+“Now write to me at once and put me in a position to write to you in
+the ordinary way—or look out for me! I’m all ready to run away, all
+sorts of useful things packed—ready to come and be a soldier’s girl.
+
+“You know that I _do_ what I think I’ll do—you spoke of my
+‘steel-straight directness and sweet brave will’ in the poem you were
+making about me, you poor funny old boy, when you vanished, and which I
+found in your room when I went there to cry, (Oh, _how_ I cried when I
+found your odds and ends of verse about me there—I really did think my
+heart was ‘broken’ in actual fact.) Don’t make me suffer any more,
+darling. I’m sure your Colonel will be sweet about it and give us a
+nice little house all to ourselves, now he has seen what a splendid
+soldier you are. If you stick to your folly about ‘disgrace’ I need not
+tell him our names and Grumper couldn’t take me away from you, even if
+he ever found out where we were.
+
+“I could go on writing all night, darling, but I’ll only just say again
+_I am going to marry you and take care of you, Dam, in the army or out
+of it._
+
+“Your fiancee and friend,
+“LUCILLE GAVESTONE.”
+
+
+Dam groaned aloud.
+
+“Four o’ rum ’ot, is wot _you_ want, mate, for that,” said the
+industrious self-improver at the shelf-table. “Got a chill on yer
+stummick on sentry-go in the fog an’ rine las’ night…. I’d give a
+’ogs’ead to see the bloke who wrote in the bloomin’ Reggilashuns _‘nor
+must bloomin’ sentries stand in their blasted sentry-boxes in good or
+even in moderate-weather’_ a doin’ of it ’isself in ’is bloomin’
+‘moderate weather’ with water a runnin’ down ’is back, an’ ’is feet
+froze into a puddle, an’ the fog a chokin’ of ’im, an’ ’is blighted
+carbine feelin’ like a yard o’ bad ice—an’ then find the bloomin’
+winder above ’is bed been opened by some kind bloke an’ ’is bed a
+blasted swamp… Yus—you ’ave four o’ rum ’ot and you’ll feel like the
+bloomin’ ’Ouse o’ Lords. Then ’ave a Livin’stone Rouser.” “Oh, shut
+up,” said Dam, cursing the Bathos of Things and returning to the
+beginning of Lucille’s letter.
+
+
+In his somewhat incoherent reply, Dam assured Lucille that he was in
+the rudest health and spirits, and the particular pet of his Colonel
+who inquired after his health almost daily with tender solicitude; that
+he had exaggerated his feeling on That Evening when he had kissed
+Lucille as a lover, and begged forgiveness; that marriage would
+seriously hamper a most promising military career; that he had had no
+recurrence of the “fit” (a mere touch of sun); that it would be unkind
+and unfair of Lucille to bring scandal and disgrace upon a rising young
+soldier by hanging about the Lines and making inquiries about him with
+a view to forcing him into marriage, making him keep to a bargain made
+in a rash, unguarded moment of sentimentality; that, in any case,
+soldiers could not marry until they had a certain income and status,
+and, if they did so, it was no marriage and they were sent to jail;
+that his worst enemy would not do anything to drag him out once again
+into the light of publicity, and disgrace his family further, now that
+he had effectually disappeared and was being forgotten; and that he
+announced that he was known as Trooper Matthewson (E Troop, The Queen’s
+Greys, Cavalry Lines, Shorncliffe) to prevent Lucille from keeping her
+most unladylike promise of persecuting him.
+
+Lucille’s next letter was shorter than the first.
+
+“MY DARLING DAM,
+
+
+“Don’t be such a _priceless_ Ass. Come off it.
+
+“Your own
+“LUCILLE.
+
+
+“P.S.—Write to me properly at once—or expect me on Monday.”
+
+
+He obeyed, poured out his whole heart in love and thanks and blessings,
+and persuaded her that the one thing that could increase his misery
+would be her presence, and swore that he would strain every nerve to
+appear before her at the earliest possible moment a free man with
+redeemed name—provided he could persuade himself he was not _a
+congenital lunatic, an epileptic, a decadent—could cure himself of his
+mental disease…._
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI.
+MORE MYRMIDONS.
+
+
+The truly busy man cannot be actively and consciously unhappy. The
+truly miserable and despondent person is never continuously and
+actively employed. Fits of deep depression there may be for the worker
+when work is impossible, but, unless there be mental and physical
+illness, sleep is the other anaesthetic, refuge—and reward.
+
+The Wise thank God for Work and for Sleep—and pay large premia of the
+former as Insurance in the latter.
+
+To Damocles de Warrenne—to whom the name “Trooper Matthewson” now
+seemed the only one he had ever had—the craved necessity of life and
+sanity was _work_, occupation, mental and physical labour. He would
+have blessed the man who sentenced him to commence the digging of a
+trench ten miles long and a yard deep for morning and evening labour,
+and to take over all the accounts of each squadron, for employment in
+the heat of the day. There was no man in the regiment so indefatigable,
+so energetic, so persevering, so insatiable of “fatigues,” so willing
+and anxious to do other people’s duty as well as his own, so restless,
+so untiring as Trooper Matthewson of E Troop. For Damocles de Warrenne
+was in the Land of the Serpent and lived in fear. He lived in fear and
+feared to live; he thought of Fear and feared to think. He turned to
+work as, but for the memory of Lucille, he would have turned to drink:
+he laboured to earn deep dreamless sleep and he dreaded sleep. Awake,
+he could drug himself with work; asleep, he was the prey—the bound,
+gagged helpless, abject prey—of the Snake. The greediest glutton for
+work in the best working regiment in the world was Trooper
+Matthewson—but for him was no promotion. He was, alas, “unreliable”—apt
+to be “drunk and disorderly,” drunk to the point of “seeing snakes” and
+becoming a weeping, screaming lunatic—a disgusting spectacle. And, when
+brought up for sentence, would solemnly assure the Colonel that he was
+_a total abstainer_, and stick to it when “told-off” for adding
+impudent lying to shameful indulgence and sickening behaviour. No
+promotion for that type of waster while Colonel the Earl of A——
+commanded the Queen’s Greys, nor while Captain Daunt commanded the
+squadron the trooper occasionally disgraced.
+
+But he had his points, mark you, and it was a thousand pities that so
+fine a soldier was undeniably subject to attacks of _delirium tremens_
+and unmistakeably a secret drinker who might at any time have a violent
+outburst, finishing in screams, sobs, and tears. A _most_ remarkable
+case! Who ever heard of a magnificent athlete—regimental champion boxer
+and swordsman, admittedly as fine and bold a horseman and horse-master
+as the Rough-Riding Sergeant-Major or the Riding-Master himself—being a
+sufficiently industrious secret-drinker to get “goes” of “d.t.,” to
+drink till he behaved like some God-and-man-forsaken wretch that lives
+on cheap gin in a chronic state of alcoholism. He had his points, and
+if the Brigadier had ever happened to say to the Colonel: “Send me your
+smartest, most intelligent, and keenest man to gallop for me at the
+manoeuvres,” or the Inspector of Army Gymnasia had asked for the
+regiment’s finest specimen, or if one representative private soldier
+had to be sent somewhere to uphold the credit and honour of the Queen’s
+Greys, undoubtedly Trooper Matthewson would have been chosen.
+
+What a splendid squadron-sergeant major, regimental sergeant-major,
+yea, what a fine officer he would have made, had he been reliable. But
+there, you can’t have an officer, nor a non-com., either, who lies
+shrieking and blubbering on the floor _coram publico_, and screams to
+God and man to save him from the snakes that exist only in his own
+drink-deranged mind. For of course it can only be Drink that produces
+“Snakes”! Yes, it is only through the ghastly alcohol-tinted glasses
+that you can “see snakes”—any fool knows _that_.
+
+And the fools of the Queen’s Greys knew it, and hoped to God that
+Matthewson would “keep off it” till after the Divisional Boxing
+Tournament and Assault-at-Arms, for, if he did, the Queen’s Greys would
+certainly have the Best Man-at-Arms in the Division and have a mighty
+good shot at having the Heavy-Weight All-India Champion, since
+Matthewson had challenged the Holder and held an absolutely unbroken
+record of victories in the various regimental and inter-regimental
+boxing tournaments in which he had taken part since joining the
+regiment. And he had been “up against some useful lads” as Captain
+Chevalier, the president and Maecenas of the Queen’s Greys’
+boxing-club, expressed it. Yes, Matthewson had his points and the man
+who brought the Regiment the kudos of having best Man-at-Arms and
+Heavy-Weight Champion of India would be forgiven a lot.
+
+And Damocles de Warrenne blessed the Divisional Boxing Tournament,
+Assault-at-Arms, and, particularly, the All-India Heavy-Weight
+Championship.
+
+Occupation, labour, anodyne…. Work and deep Sleep. Fighting to keep the
+Snake at bay. No, fighting to get away from it—there was no keeping it
+at bay—nothing but shrieking collapse when It came….
+
+From parade ground to gymnasium, from gymnasium to swimming-bath, from
+swimming-bath to running-track, from running-track to boxing-ring, from
+boxing-ring to gymnasium again. Work, occupation, forgetfulness. Forget
+the Snake for a little while—even though it is surely lurking
+near—waiting, waiting, waiting; nay, even beneath his very foot and
+_moving_….
+
+Well, a man can struggle with himself until the Thing actually appears
+in the concrete, and he goes mad—but Night! Oh, God grant deep sleep at
+night—or wide wakefulness _and a light_. Neither Nightmare nor
+wakefulness _in the dark_, oh, Merciful God.
+
+Yes, things were getting worse. _He was going mad. MAD_. Desert—and get
+out of India somehow?
+
+Never! No gentleman “deserts” anything or anybody.
+
+Suicide—and face God unafraid and unashamed?
+
+Never! The worst and meanest form of “deserting”.
+
+No. Stick it. And live to work—work to live. And strive and strive and
+strive to obliterate the image of Lucille—that sorrow’s crown of
+sorrow.
+
+And so Trooper Matthewson’s course of training was a severe one and he
+appeared to fear rest and relaxation as some people fear work and
+employment.
+
+His favourite occupation was to get the ten best boxers of the regiment
+to jointly engage in a ten-round contest with him, one round each. He
+would frequently finish fresher than the tenth man. Coming of notedly
+powerful stock on both sides, and having been physically _educated_
+from babyhood, Dam, with clean living and constant training, was a very
+uncommon specimen. There may have been one or two other men in the
+regiment as well developed, or nearly so; but when poise, rapidity, and
+skill were taken into account there was no one near him. Captain
+Chevalier said he was infinitely the quickest heavy-weight boxer he had
+ever seen—and Captain Chevalier was a pillar of the National Sporting
+Club and always knew the current professionals personally when he was
+in England. In fact, with the enormous strength of the best
+heavy-weight, Dam combined the lightning rapidity and mobility of the
+best feather-weight.
+
+His own doubt as to the result of his contest with the heavy-weight
+Champion of India arose from the fact that the latter was a person of
+much lower nervous development, a creature far less sensitive to shock,
+a denser and more elementary organism altogether, and possessed of a
+far thicker skull, shorter jaw, and thicker neck. Dam summed him up
+thus with no sense of contemptuous superiority, but with a plain
+recognition of the facts that the Champion was a fighting machine, a
+dull, foreheadless, brutal gladiator who owed his championship very
+largely to the fact that he was barely sensible to pain, and impervious
+to padded blows. It was said that he had never been knocked out in all
+his boxing-career, that the kick of a horse on his chin would not knock
+him out, that his head was solid bone, and that the shortness of his
+jaw and thickness of his neck absolutely prevented sufficient leverage
+between the point of the jaw and the spinal cord for the administration
+of the shock to the _medulla oblongata_ that causes the necessary
+ten-seconds’ unconsciousness of the “knock-out”.
+
+He was known as the Gorilla by reason of his long arms, incredible
+strength, beauty, and pleasing habits, and he bore the reputation of a
+merciless and unchivalrous opponent and one who needed the strictest
+and most experienced refereeing. It would be a real terrific fight, and
+that was the main thing to Dam, though he would do his very utmost to
+win, for the credit of the Queen’s Greys, and would leave no stone
+unturned to that end. He regretted that he could not get leave and go
+to Pultanpur to see the Champion box, and learn something of his style
+and methods when easily defending his title in the Pultanpur
+tournament. And when the Tournament and Assault-at-Arms were over he
+must find something else to occupy him by day and tire him before
+night. Meanwhile life was bearable, with the fight to come—except for
+sentry-go work. That was awful, unspeakable, and each time was worse
+than the last. Sitting up all night in the guard-room under the big
+lamp, and perhaps with some other wakeful wretch to talk to, was
+nothing. That was well enough—but to be on a lonely post on a dark
+night … well—he couldn’t do it much longer.
+
+Darkness and the Snake that was always coming and never came! To prowl
+round and round some magazine, store, or boundary-stone with his
+carbine at the “support,” or to tramp up and down by the horse-lines,
+armed only with his cutting-whip; to stand in a sentry-box while the
+rain fell in sheets and there was no telling what the next flash of
+lightning might reveal—that was what would send him to a lunatic’s
+padded cell.
+
+To see the Snake by day would give him a cruel, terrible fit—but to be
+aware of it in the dark would be final—and fatal to his reason (which
+was none too firmly enthroned). No, he had the dreadful feeling that
+his reason was none too solidly based and fixed. He had horrible
+experiences, apart from the snake-nightmares, nowadays. One night when
+he awoke and lay staring up at his mosquito-curtain in the blessed
+light of the big room-lamp (always provided in India on account of
+rifle thieves) he had suddenly felt an overwhelming surge of fear. He
+sat up. God!—he was in a marble box! These white walls and roof were
+not mosquito-netting, they were solid marble! He was in a tomb. He was
+buried alive. The air was growing foul. His screams would be absolutely
+inaudible. He screamed, and struck wildly at the cold cruel marble, and
+found it was soft, yielding netting after all. But it was a worse
+horror to find that he had thought it marble than if he had found it to
+be marble. He sprang from his cot.
+
+“I am going mad,” he cried.
+
+“Goin’?… _Gorn_, more like,” observed the disrobing room-corporal. “Why
+donchew keep orf the booze, Maffewson? You silly gapin’ goat. Git inter
+bed and shut yer ’ead—or I’ll get yew a night in clink, me lad—and
+wiv’out a light, see?”
+
+Corporal Prag knew his victim’s little weakness and grinned maliciously
+as Dam sprang into bed without a word.
+
+The Stone Jug without a gleam of light! Could a man choke himself with
+his own fingers if the worst came to the worst? The Digger and Stygian
+darkness—now—_when he was going mad_! Men could not be so cruel…. But
+they’d say he was drunk. He would lie still and cling with all his
+strength and heart and soul to sanity. He would think of That Evening
+with Lucille—and of her kisses. He would recite the Odes of Horace, the
+Aeneid, the Odyssey as far as he could remember them, and then fall
+back on Shakespeare and other English poets. Probably he knew a lot
+more Greek and Latin poetry (little as it was) than he did of English….
+
+Corporal Prag improved the occasion as he unlaced his boots. “Bloomin’
+biby! Afraid o’ the dark! See wot boozin’ brings yer to. Look at yer!
+An’ look at _me_. Non-c’misshn’d orficer in free an’ a ’arf years from
+j’inin’. Never tasted alc’ol in me life, an’ if any man offud me a
+glarse, d’ye know what I’d _dew_?”
+
+“No, Corporal, I’d like to hear,” replied Dam. (Must keep the animal
+talking as long as possible for the sake of human company. He’d go mad
+at once, perhaps, when the Corporal went to bed.)
+
+“I’d frow it strite in ’is faice, I would,” announced the virtuous
+youth. A big boot flopped heavily on the floor.
+
+“I daresay you come of good old teetotal stock,” observed Dam, to make
+conversation. Perhaps the fellow would pause in his assault upon the
+other boot and reply—so lengthening out the precious minutes of
+diversion. Every minute was a minute nearer dawn….
+
+“_Do_ yer? Well, you’re bloomin’ well wrong, Maffewson, me lad. My
+farver ’ad a bout every Saturday arternoon and kep’ it up all day a
+Sund’y, ’e did—an’ in the werry las’ bout ’e ever ’ad ’e bashed ’is ole
+woman’s ’ead in wiv’ a bottle.”
+
+“And was hanged?” inquired Dam politely and innocently, but most
+tactlessly.
+
+“Mind yer own b—— business,” roared Corporal Prag. “Other people’s
+farvers wasn’t gallows-birds if yourn was. ’Ow’d you look if I come and
+punched you on the nose, eh? Wot ’ud you do if I come an’ set abaht
+yer, eh?”
+
+“Break your neck,” replied Dam tersely.
+
+“Ho, yus. _And_ wot ’ud yew say when I calls the guard and they frows
+you into clink? Without no light, Trooper Maffewson!”
+
+Dam shuddered.
+
+Corporal Prag yet further improved the occasion, earning Dam’s
+heartfelt blessing.
+
+“Don’t you fergit it, Trooper Maffewson. I’m yore sooperier orficer.
+You _may_ be better’n me in the Ring, praps, or with the sword (Dam
+could have killed him in five minutes, with or without weapons), but if
+I ’olds up my little finger _you_ comes to ’eel—or other’ow you goes
+ter clink. ’Ung indeed! You look after yer own farver an’ don’ pass
+remarks on yer betters. Why! You boozin’ waster, I shall be Regimental
+Sargen’ Majer when you’re a bloomin’ discharged private wiv an ’undred
+‘_drunks_’ in red on yer Defaulter’s Sheet. Regimental Sarjen’ Majer! I
+shall be an Orficer more like, and walk acrost the crossin’ wot
+_you’re_ asweepin’, to me Club in bloomin’ well Pickerdilly! Yus. This
+is the days o’ _? Demockerycy_, me lad. ‘Good Lloyd George’s golden
+days’ as they sing—and steady fellers like me is goin’ to ave
+C’missh’ns—an’ don’ you fergit it! Farver ’ung indeed!”
+
+“I’m awf’ly sorry, Corporal, really,” apologized Dam. “I didn’t
+think….”
+
+“No, me lad,” returned the unmollified superior, as he stooped to the
+other boot, “if you was to think more an’ booze less you’d do better….
+’Ow an’ where you gets ’old of it, beats me. I’ve seed you in delirium
+trimmings but I ain’t never seed you drinkin’ nor yet smelt it on yer.
+You’re a cunnin’ ’ound in yer way. One o’ them beastly secret-drinkin’
+swine wots never suspected till they falls down ’owlin’ blue ’orrors
+an’ seem’ pink toadses. Leastways it’s snakes _you_ sees. See ’em oncte
+too orfen, you will…. See ’em on p’rade one day in front o’ the
+Colonel. Fall orf yer long-face an get trampled—an’ serve yer glad….
+An’ now shut yer silly ’ed an’ don’t chew the mop so much. Let me get
+some sleep. _I_ ’as respontsibillaties _I_ do….”
+
+A crossing outside a Club! More likely a padded cell in a troopship and
+hospital until an asylum claimed him.
+
+In the finals, “Sword versus Sword Dismounted,” Dam had a foeman worthy
+of his steel.
+
+A glorious chilly morning, sunrise on a wide high open _maidan_, rows
+of tents for the spectators at the great evening final, and crowds of
+officers and men in uniform or gymnasium kit. On a group of chairs sat
+the Divisional General, his Colonel on the Staff, and Aide-de-Camp; the
+Brigadier-General, his Brigade-Major, and a few ladies, wives of
+regimental colonels, officers, and leading Civilians.
+
+Semi-finals of Tent-pegging, Sword v. Sword Mounted, Bayonet-fighting,
+Tug-of-War, Fencing, and other officers’ and men’s events had been, or
+were being, contested.
+
+The finals of the British Troops’ Sword _v._ Sword Dismounted, was
+being reserved for the last, as of supreme interest to the experts
+present, but not sufficiently spectacular to be kept for the evening
+final “show,” when the whole of Society would assemble to be thrilled
+by the final Jumping, Driving, Tent-pegging, Sword _v._ Sword Mounted,
+Bayonet-fighting, Sword _v._ Lance, Tug-of-War, and other events for
+British and Indian officers and men of all arms.
+
+It was rumoured that there was a Sergeant of Hussars who would give
+Trooper Matthewson a warm time with the sabre. As the crowd of
+competitors and spectators gathered round the sabres-ring, and chairs
+were carried up for the Generals, ladies, and staff, to witness the
+last and most exciting contest of the morning’s meeting, a
+Corporal-official of the Assault-at-Arms Executive Committee called
+aloud, “Sergeant O’Malley, 14th Hussars, get ready,” and another
+fastened a red band to the Sergeant’s arm as he stepped forward, clad
+in leather jacket and leg-guards and carrying the heavy
+iron-and-leather head-guard necessary in sabre combats, and the
+blunt-edged, blunt-pointed sabre.
+
+Dam approached him.
+
+“Don’t let my point rest on your hilt, Sergeant,” he said.
+
+“What’s the game?” inquired the surprised and suspicious Sergeant.
+
+“My little trick. I thrust rather than cut, you know,” said Dam.
+
+“I’ll watch it, me lad,” returned Sergeant O’Malley, wondering whether
+Dam were fool or knave.
+
+“Trooper Matthewson, get ready,” called the Corporal, and Dam stepped
+into the ring, saluted, and faced the Sergeant.
+
+A brief direction and caution, the usual preliminary, and the word—
+
+“On guard—_Play_” and Dam was parrying a series of the quickest cuts he
+had ever met. The Sergeant’s sword flickered like the tongue of
+a—_Snake_. Yes—of a _Snake_! and even as Dam’s hand dropped limp and
+nerveless, the Sergeant’s sword fell with a dull heavy thud on his
+head-guard. The stroke would have split Dam’s head right neatly, in
+actual fighting.
+
+“Stop,” shouted the referee. “Point to Red.”
+
+“On guard—_Play_”
+
+But if the Sergeant’s sword flickered like the tongue of a snake—why
+then Dam must be fighting the Snake. _Fighting the Snake_ and in
+another second the referee again cried “Stop!” And added, “Don’t fight
+savage, White, or I’ll disqualify you”.
+
+“I’m awf’ly sorry,” said Dam, “I thought I was fighting the Sn——”
+
+“Hold your tongue, and don’t argue,” replied the referee sternly.
+
+“On Guard—_Play_.”
+
+Ere the Sergeant could move his sword from its upward-inclined position
+Dam’s blade dropped to its hilt, shot in over it, and as the Sergeant
+raised his forearm in guard, flashed beneath it and bent on his breast.
+
+“Stop,” cried the referee. “Point to White. Double”—two marks being
+then awarded for the thrust hit, and one for the cut.
+
+“On guard—_Play_.”
+
+Absolutely the same thing happened again within the next half-second,
+and Dam had won the British Troops’ Sword _v_. Sword Dismounted, in
+addition to being in for the finals in Tent-pegging, Sword _v_. Sword
+Mounted, Jumping (Individual and By Sections), Sword _v_. Lance, and
+Tug-of-War.
+
+“Now jest keep orf it, Matthewson, and sweep the bloomin’ board,” urged
+Troop-Sergeant-Major Scoles as Dam removed his fencing-jacket,
+preparatory to returning to barracks. “You be Best Man-at-arms in the
+Division and win everythink that’s open to British Troops Mounted, and
+git the ’Eavy-Weight Championship from the Gorilla—an’ there’ll be some
+talk about promotion for yer, me lad.”
+
+“Thank you, Sergeant,” replied Dam. “I am a total abstainer.”
+
+“Yah! _Chuck_ it,” observed the Sergeant-Major.
+
+_Of no interest to Women nor modern civilized Men_.
+
+The long-anticipated hour had struck, the great moment had arrived, and
+(literally) thousands of British soldiers sat in a state of expectant
+thrill and excited interest, awaiting the appearance of the Gorilla
+(Corporal Dowdall of the 111th Battery, Royal Garrison
+Artillery—fourteen stone twelve) and Trooper Matthewson (Queen’s
+Greys—fourteen stone) who were to fight for the Elliott Belt, the
+Motipur Cup, and the Heavy-Weight Championship of India.
+
+The Boxing Tournament had lasted for a week and had been a huge
+success. Now came the _pièce de resistance, the_ fight of the Meeting,
+the event for which special trains had brought hundreds of civilians
+and soldiers from neighbouring and distant cantonments. Bombay herself
+sent a crowded train-load, and it was said that a, by no means small,
+contingent had come from Madras. Certainly more than one sporting
+patron of the Great Sport, the Noble Art, the Manly Game, had travelled
+from far Calcutta. So well-established was the fame of the great
+Gorilla, and so widely published the rumour that the Queen’s Greys had
+a prodigy who’d lower his flag in ten rounds—or less.
+
+A great square of the grassy plain above Motipur had been enclosed by a
+high canvas wall, and around a twenty-four foot raised “ring” (which
+was square) seating accommodation for four thousand spectators had been
+provided. The front rows consisted of arm-chairs, sofas, and
+drawing-room settees (from the wonderful stock of Mr. Dadabhoy Pochajee
+Furniturewallah of the Sudder Bazaar) for the officers and leading
+civilians of Motipur, and such other visitors as chose to purchase the
+highly priced reserved-seat tickets.
+
+Not only was every seat in the vast enclosure occupied, but every
+square inch of standing-room, by the time the combatants entered the
+arena.
+
+A few dark faces were to be seen (Native Officers of the pultans[23]
+and rissal[24] of the Motipur Brigade), and the idea occurred to not a
+few that it was a pity the proceedings could not be witnessed by every
+Indian in India. It would do them good in more ways than one.
+
+ [23] Infantry Regiments.
+
+
+ [24] Cavalry Regiment.
+
+
+Although a large number of the enormously preponderating military
+spectators were in the khaki kit so admirable for work (and so
+depressing, unswanksome and anti-enlistment for play, or rather for
+walking-out and leisure), the experienced eye could see that almost
+every corps in India furnished contingents to the gathering. Lancers,
+dragoons, hussars, artillery, riflemen, Highlanders, supply and
+transport, infantry of a score of regiments, and, rare sight away from
+the Ports, a small party of Man-o’-War’s-men in white duck, blue
+collars, and straw hats (huge, solemn-faced men who jested with
+grimmest seriousness of mien and insulted each other outrageously).
+Officers in scarlet, in dark blue, in black and cherry colour, in fawn
+and cherry colour, in pale blue and silver, in almost every combination
+of colours, showed that the commissioned ranks of the British and
+Indian Services were well represented, horse, foot, guns, engineers,
+doctors, and veterinary surgeons—every rank and every branch. On two
+sides of the roped ring, with its padded posts, sat the judges, boxing
+Captains both, who had won distinction at Aldershot and in many a local
+tournament. On another side sat the referee, _ex_-Public-Schools
+Champion, Aldershot Light-Weight Champion, and, admittedly, the best
+boxer of his weight among the officers of the British Army. Beside him
+sat the time-keeper. Overhead a circle of large incandescent lamps made
+the scene as bright as day.
+
+“Well, d’you take it?” asked Seaman Jones of Seaman Smith. “Better
+strike while the grog’s ’ot. A double-prick o’ baccy and a gallon o’
+four-’arf, evens, on the Griller. I ain’t never ’eard o’ the Griller
+till we come ’ere, and I never ’eard o’ t’other bloke neether—but I
+’olds by the Griller, cos of ’is name and I backs me fancy afore I sees
+’em.—Loser to ’elp the winner with the gallon.”
+
+“Done, Bill,” replied the challenged promptly, on hearing the last
+condition. (He could drink as fast as Bill if he lost, and he could
+borrer on the baccy till it was wore out.) “Got that bloomin’
+’igh-falutin’ lar-de-dar giddy baccy-pouch and yaller baccy you
+inwested in at Bombay?” he asked. “Yus, ’Enery,” replied William,
+diving deeply for it.
+
+“Then push it ’ere, an’ likewise them bloomin’ ’igh-falutin’ lar-de-dar
+giddy fag-papers you fumble wiv’. Blimey! ain’t a honest clay good
+enough for yer now? I knows wots the matter wiv _you_, Billy Jones!
+You’ve got a weather-heye on the Quarter Deck you ’ave. You fink you’re
+agoin’ to be a blighted perishin’ orficer you do! Yus, you flat-footed
+matlot—not even a blasted tiffy you ain’t, and you buys a blighted
+baccy-pouch and yaller baccy and fag-pipers, like a Snottie, an’
+reckons you’s on the ’igh road to be a bloomin’ Winnie Lloyd Gorgeous
+Orficer. ’And ’em ’ere—fore I’m sick. Lootenant,—Gunnery Jack,—Number
+One,—Commerdore!”
+
+“Parding me, ’Enery Smiff,” returned William Jones with quiet dignity.
+“In consequents o’ wot you said, an’ more in consequents o’ yore clumsy
+fat fingers not been used to ’andlin’ dellikit objex, and most in
+consequents o’ yore been a most ontrustable thief, I will perceed to
+roll you a fag meself, me been ’ighly competent so fer to do. Not but
+wot a fag’ll look most outer place in _your_ silly great ugly faice.”
+
+The other sailor watched the speaker in cold contempt as he prepared a
+distinctly exiguous, ill-fed cigarette.
+
+“Harthur Handrews,” he said, turning to his other neighbour, “’Ave yew
+’appened to see the Master Sail-maker or any of ’is mermydiuns
+’ere-abahts, by any chawnst?”
+
+“Nope. ’An don’ want. Don’ wan’ see nothink to remind me o’
+
+Ther blue, ther fresh, ther _hever_ free,
+Ther blarsted, beastly, boundin’ sea.
+
+
+Not even your distressin’ face and dirty norticle apparile. Why do you
+arksk sich silly questchings?”
+
+“Willyerm Jones is amakin’ a needle for ’im.”
+
+“As ’ow?”
+
+“Wiv a fag-paper an’ a thread o’ yaller baccy. ’E’s makin’ a bloomin’
+needle,” and with a sudden grab he possessed himself of the pouch,
+papers, and finished product of Seaman Jones’s labours and generosity.
+
+Having pricked himself severely and painfully with the alleged
+cigarette, he howled with pain, cast it from him, proceeded to stick
+two papers together and to make an uncommonly stout, well-nourished,
+and bounteous cigarette.
+
+“I ’fought I offered you to make yourself a cigarette, ’Enery,”
+observed the astounded owner of the _materia nicotina_.
+
+“I grabbed for to make myself a cigarette, Willyerm,” was the
+pedantically correct restatement of Henry.
+
+“Then why go for to try an’ mannyfacter a bloomin’ banana?” asked the
+indignant victim, whose further remarks were drowned in the roars of
+applause which greeted the appearance from the dressing-tents of the
+Champion and the Challenger.
+
+Dam and Corporal Dowdall entered the ring from opposite corners, seated
+themselves in the chairs provided for them, and submitted themselves to
+the ministrations of their respective seconds.
+
+Trooper Herbert Hawker violently chafed Dam’s legs, Trooper Bear his
+arms and chest, while Trooper Goate struggled to force a pair of new
+boxing-gloves upon his hands, which were scientifically bandaged around
+knuckles, back, and wrist, against untimely dislocations and sprains.
+
+Clean water was poured into the bowls which stood behind each chair,
+and fresh resin was sprinkled over the canvas-covered boards of the
+Ring.
+
+Men whose favourite “carried their money” (and each carried a good
+deal) anxiously studied that favourite’s opponent.
+
+The Queen’s Greys beheld a gorilla indeed, a vast, square, long-armed
+hairy monster, with the true pugilist face and head.
+
+“Wot a werry ugly bloke,” observed Seaman Arthur Andrews to Seaman
+Henry Smith. “’E reminds me o’ Hadmiral Sir Percy ’Opkinton, so ’e do.
+P’raps ’e’s a pore relation.”
+
+“Yus,” agreed Seaman Smith. “A crost between our beloved ’Oppy an’ ole
+Bill Jones ’ere. Bill was reported to ’ave ’ad a twin brother—but it
+was allus serposed Bill ate ’im when ’e wasn’ lookin’.”
+
+The backers of Corporal Dowdall were encouraged at seeing a man who
+looked like a gentleman and bore none of the traditional marks of the
+prize-fighter. His head was not cropped to the point of bristly
+baldness, his nose was unbroken, his eyes well opened and unblackened,
+his ears unthickened, his body untattooed. He had the white skin, small
+trim moustache, high-bred features, small extremities, and general
+appearance and bearing of an officer.
+
+Ho, G’rilla Dowdall would make short work of _that_ tippy young toff.
+Why, look at him!
+
+And indeed it made you shudder to think of that enormous ferocity, that
+dynamic truculence, doing its best to destroy you in a space
+twenty-four feet square.
+
+Let the challenger wait till G’rilla put his fighting face on—fair
+terrifyin’.
+
+Not an Artilleryman but felt sure that the garrison-gunner would
+successfully defend the title and “give the swankin’ Queen’s Greys
+something to keep them _choop_[25] for a bit. Gettin’ above ’emselves
+they was, becos’ this bloke of theirs had won Best Man-at-Arms and had
+the nerve to challenge G’rilla Dowdall, R.G.A.”
+
+ [25] Silent.
+
+
+Even the R.H.A. admitted the R.G.A. to terms of perfect equality on
+that great occasion.
+
+But a few observant and experienced officers, gymnasium instructors,
+and ancient followers of the Noble Art were not so sure.
+
+“Put steel-and-whalebone against granite and I back the former,” said
+Major Decoulis to Colonel Hanking; “other things being equal of
+course—skill and ring-craft. And I hear that No. 2—the Queen’s Greys’
+man—is unusually fast for a heavy-weight.”
+
+“I’d like to see him win,” admitted the Colonel. “The man looks a
+gentleman. _Doesn’t_ the other look a Bill Sykes, by Jove!”
+
+The Staff Sergeant Instructor of the Motipur Gymnasium stepped into the
+ring.
+
+“Silence, please,” he bawled. “Fifteen-round contest between Corporal
+Dowdall, 111th Battery, Royal Garrison Artillery, Heavy-Weight Champion
+of Hindia, fourteen twelve (Number 1—on my right ’and) and Trooper
+Matthewson, Queen’s Greys, fourteen stun (Number 2—on my left ’and).
+Please keep silence durin’ the rounds. The winner is Heavy-Weight
+Champion of Hindia, winner of the Motipur Cup and ’older of the Elliott
+Belt. All ready there?”
+
+Both combatants were ready.
+
+“Come here, both of you,” said the referee.
+
+As he arose to obey, Dam was irresistibly reminded of his fight with
+Bully Harberth and smiled.
+
+“Nervous sort o’ grin on the figger-’ead o’ the smaller wessel, don’t
+it,” observed Seaman Smith.
+
+“There wouldn’t be no grin on _your_ fat face at all,” returned Seaman
+Jones. “It wouldn’t be there. You’d be full-steam-ahead, bearings
+’eated, and showin’ no lights, for them tents—when you see wot you was
+up against.”
+
+The referee felt Dam’s gloves to see that they contained no foreign
+bodies in the shape of plummets of lead or other illegal
+gratifications. (He had known a man fill the stuffing-compartments of
+his gloves with plaster of Paris, that by the third or fourth round he
+might be striking with a kind of stone cestus as the plaster moulded
+with sweat and water, and hardened to the shape of the fist.)
+
+As he stepped back, Dam looked for the first time at his opponent,
+conned his bruiser face and Herculean body, and, with a gasp and
+shudder, was aware that a huge tattooed serpent reared its head in the
+centre of his vast chest while smaller ones encircled the mighty biceps
+of his arms. He clutched the rope and leant trembling against the post
+as the referee satisfied himself (with very great care in this case) of
+the innocence of the Gorilla’s gloves.
+
+“I know you of old, Dowdall,” he said, “and I shall only caution you
+once mind. Second offence—and out you go.”
+
+Corporal Dowdall grinned sheepishly. He appeared to think that a
+delicate and gentlemanly compliment had been paid to his general
+downiness, flyness, and ring-craft,—the last of which, for Corporal
+Dowdall, included every form of foul that a weak referee would pass, an
+inexperienced one misunderstand, or a lazy one miss. Major O’Halloran,
+first-class bruiser himself, was in the habit of doing his refereeing
+inside the ring and within a foot or two of the principals, where he
+expected foul play.
+
+As the Major cautioned the Gorilla, Dam passed his hand wearily across
+his face, swallowed once or twice and groaned aloud.
+
+It was _not_ fair. Why should the Snake be allowed to humiliate him
+before thousands of spectators? Why should It be brought here to shame
+him in the utmost publicity, to make him fail his comrades, disgrace
+his regiment, make the Queen’s Greys a laughing-stock?
+
+But—he had fought an emissary of the Snake before—and he had won. This
+villainous-looking pugilist was perhaps _the Snake Itself in human
+form_—and, see, he was free, he was in God’s open air, no chains bound
+him, he was not gagged, this place was not a pit dug beneath the Pit
+itself! This was all tangible and real. He would have fair play and be
+able to defend himself. This was not a blue room with a mud floor. Nay,
+he would be able to attack—to fight, fight like a wounded pantheress
+for her cubs. This accursed Snake in Human Form would only be able to
+use puny fists. Mere trivial human fists and human strength. Everything
+would be on the human plane. It would be unable to wrap him in its
+awful coils and crush and crush the soul and life and manhood out of
+him, as it did at night before burrowing its way ten million miles
+below the floor of Hell with him, and immuring him in a molten
+incandescent tomb where he could not even scream or writhe.
+
+“Get to your corners,” said the referee, and Dam returned to his place
+with a cruel smile upon his compressed lips. By the Merciful Living God
+he had the Snake Itself delivered unto him in human form—to do with as
+he could. Oh, that It might last out the fifteen times of facing him in
+his wrath, his pent-up vengeful wrath at a ruined life, a dishonoured
+name and _a lost Lucille!_
+
+When would they give the word for him to spring upon it and batter it
+lifeless to the ground?
+
+“Don’t grind yer silly teeth like that,” whispered Hawker, his grim
+ugly face white with anxiety and suspense (for he loved Damocles de
+Warrenne as the faithfullest of hounds loves the best of masters).
+“You’re awastin’ henergy all the time.”
+
+“God! if they don’t give the word in a minute I shall be unable to hold
+off It,” replied Dam wildly.
+
+“That’s the sperrit, Cocky,” approved Hawker, “but donchew fergit you
+gotter larst fifteen bloomin’ rahnds. ’Taint no kindergarters. ’_E_’ll
+stick it orlrite, an’ you’ll avter win on _points_——”
+
+“Seconds out of the Ring,” cried the time-keeper, staring at his watch.
+
+“Don’t get knocked out, dear boy,” implored Trooper Bear. “Fight to win
+on points. You _can’t_ knock him out. I’m going to pray like hell
+through the rounds——”
+
+_“Time”_ barked the time-keeper, and, catching up the chair as Dam
+rose, Trooper Bear dropped down from the boards of the ring to the
+turf, where already crouched Hawker and Goate, looking like men about
+to be hanged.
+
+The large assembly drew a deep breath as the combatants approached each
+other with extended right hands—Dam clad in a pair of blue silk shorts,
+silk socks and high, thin, rubber-soled boots, the Gorilla in an
+exiguous bathing-garment and a pair of gymnasium shoes.
+
+Dam a picture of the Perfect Man, was the taller, and the Gorilla, a
+perfect Caliban, was the broader and had the longer reach. Their right
+hands touched in perfunctory shake, Dam drew back to allow the Snake to
+assume sparring attitude, and, as he saw the huge shoulders hunch, the
+great biceps rise, and the clenched gloves come to position, he assumed
+the American “crouch” attitude and sprang like a tiger upon the
+incarnation of the utter Damnation and Ruin that had cursed his life to
+living death.
+
+The Gorilla was shocked and pained! The tippy pink-and-white blasted
+rookie was “all over him” and he was sent staggering with such a rain
+of smashing blows as he had never, never felt, nor seen others receive.
+The whole assembly of soldiers, saving the Garrison Artillerymen,
+raised a wild yell, regardless of the referee’s ferocious
+expostulations (in dumb-show) and even the ranks of the Horse-Gunners
+could scarce forbear to cheer. The Queen’s Greys howled like fiends and
+Hawker, unknown to himself, punched the boards before him with terrific
+violence. Never had anything like it been seen. Matthewson was a human
+whirlwind, and Dowdall had not had a chance to return a blow. More than
+half the tremendous punches, hooks and in-fighting jabs delivered by
+his opponent had got home, and he was “rattled”. A fair hook to the
+chin might send him down and out at any moment.
+
+Surely never had human being aimed such an unceasing, unending, rain of
+blows in the space of two minutes as had Trooper Matthewson. His arms
+had worked like the piston rods of an express engine—as fast and as
+untiringly. He had taken the Gorilla by surprise, had rushed him, and
+had never given him a fraction of time in which to attack. Beneath the
+rain of sledge-hammer blows the Gorilla had shrunk, guarding for dear
+life. Driven into a corner, he cowered down, crouched beneath his
+raised arms, and allowed his face to sink forward. Like a whirling
+piece of machinery Dam’s arm flew round to administer the
+_coup-de-grace_, the upper cut, that would lay the Snake twitching and
+unconscious on the boards.
+
+The Gorilla was expecting it.
+
+As it came, his bullet head was jerked aside, and as the first swung
+harmlessly up, he arose like a flash, and, as he did so, his mighty
+right shot up, took Dam on the chin and laid him flat and senseless in
+the middle of the ring.
+
+The Gorilla breathed heavily and made the most of the respite. He knew
+it must be about “Time,” and that he had not won. If it wasn’t “Time,”
+and the cub arose he’d knock him to glory as he did so. Yes, the moment
+the most liberal-minded critic could say he was just about on his feet,
+he’d give him a finisher that he’d bear the mark of. The bloomin’ young
+swine had nearly “had” him—him, the great G’rilla Dowdall, about to buy
+himself out with his prize-money, and take to pugilism as a profession.
+
+“_One—two—three—four,_” counted the timekeeper amid the most deathly
+silence, and, as he added, _“five—six—Time,”_ a shout arose that was
+heard for miles.
+
+Trooper Matthewson was saved—if his seconds could pull him round in
+time.
+
+At sound of the word “Time,” the seconds leapt into the ring. Hawker
+and Bear rushed to the prostrate Dam, hauled him to his feet, and
+dragged him to the chair which Goate had placed ready. As he was
+dropped into it, a spongeful of icy water from Goate’s big sponge
+brought Dam to consciousness.
+
+“Breave for all y’r worf,” grunted Hawker, as he mightily swung a big
+bath-towel in swift eddies, to drive refreshing air upon the heaving,
+panting body of his principal.
+
+Bear and Goate applied massaging hands with skilled violence.
+
+“By Jove, I thought you had him,” panted Goate as he kneaded triceps
+and biceps. “And then I thought he had you. It’s anybody’s fight,
+Matty—but _don’t_ try and knock him out. You couldn’t do it with an
+axe.”
+
+“No,” agreed Bear. “You’ve got to keep on your feet and win on points.”
+
+“I’ve got to kill _the Snake_,” hissed Dam, and his seconds glanced at
+each other anxiously.
+
+He felt that nothing could keep him from victory. He was regaining his
+faith in a just Heaven, now that the Snake had been compelled to face
+him in the puny form of a wretched pugilist. Some one had said
+something about an axe. It would be but fair if he had an axe, seeing
+that hitherto the Snake had had him utterly defenceless while
+exercising its own immeasurable and supernatural powers, when torturing
+him to its heart’s content for endless aeons. But—no—since it was here
+in human form and without weapons, _he_ would use none, and would
+observe the strictest fairness in fight, just as he would to a real
+human enemy.
+
+“Abaht that there little bet, ’Enery,” observed Seaman Jones, “I fink
+we’ll alter of it. I don’t wish to give no moral support to this ’ere
+Griller. T’other bloke’s only jus’ fresh from the Novice Class, I
+reckon, jedgin’ by ’is innercent young faice, an’ e’s aputtin’ up the
+werry best fight as ever I see. We’ll chainge it like this ’ere. We
+backs the ’orse-soldier to win, and, if he _do_, we drinks a gallon
+between us. If ’e don’t, we drinks _two_ fer to console ’im, an’ drahn
+sorrer, wot?”
+
+“So it are, Will’m,” agreed Henery. “Then we wins _either_ way! _You_
+got a ’ead fer logger-rhythms. Oughter been a bloomin’ bookie. They ’as
+to be big an’ ugly——”
+
+“Seconds out of the Ring,” called the referee, and a hush fell upon the
+excited throng.
+
+Bear and Goate dropped to the ground, Hawker splashed water all over
+Dam’s body and, as he rose on the word “_Time_” snatched away the chair
+and joined his colleagues, who crouched with faces on a level with the
+boards.
+
+“Oh, buck him up, good Lord, and put ginger in his short-arm work, and
+O Lord, take care of his chin and mark,” prayed Trooper Bear, with deep
+and serious devoutness.
+
+No need to shake hands this bout—not again till the fifteenth, noted
+Dam, as he arose and literally leapt at his opponent with a smashing
+drive of his right and a feint of his left which drew the Gorilla’s
+guard and left his face exposed. The Gorilla received Dam’s full weight
+and full strength, and, but for the ropes, would have been knocked
+among the spectators.
+
+A tremendous yell went up, led by the Queen’s Greys.
+
+As the tautening of the ropes swayed the Gorilla inward again, Dam
+delivered a brace of lightning strokes that, though they did not find
+the chin, staggered and partly stunned him, and, ere he could pull
+himself together, Dam was inside his guard, almost breast to breast
+with him, and raining terrific blows, just above the belt. Left, right,
+left, right, and no chance for the Gorilla to get his own hands up for
+a couple of seconds, and, when he could, and drove an appalling blow at
+Dam’s chin, it was dodged and he received a cross-counter that shook
+him. He must sham weariness and demoralization, lead the tippy rookie
+on to over-confidence and then land him clean over the ropes. A sullen
+rage grew in the Gorilla’s heart. He wasn’t doing himself justice. He
+wasn’t having a fair show. This blasted half-set pink and white recruit
+hadn’t given him time to settle down. A fifteen-round contest shouldn’t
+be bustled like _this!_ The bloke was more like a wild-cat than a sober
+heavyweight boxer.
+
+He received a heavy blow in the face and, as he shook his head with an
+evil grin, according to his custom when well struck, he found it
+followed practically instantaneously by another. The swab was about the
+quickest thing that ever got into a ring. He was like one of these
+bloomin’, tricky, jack-in-the-box featherweights, instead of a steady
+lumbering “heavy”. And the Gorilla allowed himself to be driven to a
+corner again, and let his head sink forward, that the incautious youth
+might again put all his strength into an upper-cut, miss as the other
+dodged, and be at the mercy of the Gorilla as the errant fist completed
+its over-driven swing.
+
+But Damocles de Warrenne fought with his brain as well as his strength
+and skill. He had learnt a lesson, and no dull-witted oaf of a Gorilla
+was going to have him like that twice. As the Gorilla cowered and
+crouched in simulated defeat and placed his face to tempt the _coup de
+grace_ which he would see swinging up, and easily dodge, Dam swiftly
+side-stepped and summoning every ounce of strength, rage, and mad
+protesting frenzy against the life-long torturing tyrant, he delivered
+a Homeric blow at the champion’s head, beside and behind the ear.
+(Since he was indestructible by the ordinary point-of-the-chin
+knock-out, let him make the best of that fearful blow upon the base of
+the brain and spinal cord, direct.)
+
+Experienced men said it was the heaviest blow they had ever seen struck
+with the human fist. It was delivered slightly downward, coolly, at
+measured distance, with change from left foot to right in the act of
+delivery, and with the uttermost strength of a most powerful athlete in
+perfect training—and Hate Incarnate lent the strength of madness to the
+strength of training and skill.
+
+THUD!—and the Gorilla dropped like a log.
+
+_“One—two—three—four—five—six—seven—”_ counted the time-keeper, as men
+scarcely breathed in the dead silence into which the voice cut
+sharply—_“eight—”_ and, in perfect silence, every man of those
+thousands slowly rose to his feet—_“nine—OUT!”_ and such a roar arose
+as bade fair to rend the skies. _“Outed” in two rounds!_ Men howled
+like lunatics, and the Queen’s Greys behaved like very dangerous
+lunatics. Hawker flung his arms round Dam and endeavoured to raise him
+on his shoulders and chair him unaided. Bear and Goate got each a hand
+and proceeded to do their best to crush it.
+
+Seamen Jones and Smith exchanged a chaste kiss.
+
+Damocles de Warrenne was the hero of the Queen’s Greys. Best
+Man-at-Arms in the Division, winner in Sword v. Sword Mounted and
+Dismounted, Tent-pegging, Sword v. Lance, and Individual Jumping, and
+in the winning teams for Tug-of-War, Section Jumping, and Section
+Tent-pegging!
+
+“Give him a trial as Corporal then, from the first of next month, sir,
+if there’s no sign of anything wrong during the week,” agreed Captain
+Daunt, talking him over with the Colonel, after receiving through
+Troop-Sergeant-Major Scoles a petition to promote the man.
+
+Within twenty-four hours of his fight with the Gorilla, Dam found
+himself on sentry-go over what was known in the Regiment as “the Dead
+’Ole”—which was the mortuary, situated in a lonely, isolated spot
+beyond a nullah some half-furlong from the Hospital, and cut off from
+view of human habitation by a belt of trees.
+
+On mounting guard that evening, the Sergeant of the Guard had been
+informed that a corpse lay in the mortuary, a young soldier having been
+taken ill and having died within a few hours, of some disease of a
+distinctly choleraic nature.
+
+“I’ll tell _you_ orf for that post, Matthewson,” said the Sergeant.
+“P’raps you’ll see ghosties there, for a change,” for it was customary
+to mount a sentry over “the Dead ’Ole” when it contained an occupant,
+and one of the sentry’s pleasing duties was to rap loudly and
+frequently upon the door throughout the night to scare away those
+vermin which are no respecters of persons when the persons happen to be
+dead and the vermin ravenous.
+
+“I’m not afraid of ghosts, Sergeant,” replied Dam—though his heart sank
+within him at the thought of the long lonely vigil in the dark, when he
+would be so utterly at the mercy of the Snake—the Snake over whom he
+had just won a signal victory, and who would be all the more vindictive
+and terrible in consequence. Could he keep sane through the lonely
+darkness of those dreadful hours? Perhaps—if he kept himself in some
+severe physical agony. He would put a spur beneath his tight-drawn belt
+and next to his skin, he would strike his knee frequently with the “toe
+of the butt” of his carbine, he would put pebbles in his boots, and he
+would cause cramp in his limbs, one after the other. Any kind of pain
+would help.
+
+
+It must be quarter of an hour since he had rapped on the mortuary door
+and sent his messages of prohibition to mouse, rat, bandicoot,
+civet-cat, wild-cat or other vermin intruder through the
+roof-ventilation holes. He would knock again. A strange thing
+this—knocking at a dead man’s door in the middle of the night. Suppose
+the dead man called “Come in!” It would be intensely interesting, but
+in no wise terrifying or horrible. Presumably poor young Trooper
+Priddell was no more dangerous or dreadful in the spirit than he had
+been in the flesh…. Fortunate young man! Were he only on sentry-go
+outside the peaceful mortuary and Damocles de Warrenne stretched on the
+bier within, to await the morrow and its pomp and ceremony, when the
+carcass of the dead soldier would receive honours never paid to the
+living, sentient man, be he never so worthy, heroic, virtuous and
+deserving. Oh, to be lying in there at rest, to be on the other side of
+that closed door at peace!…
+
+To-morrow that poor dead yokel’s body would receive a “Present Arms”
+(as though he were an armed party commanded by an Officer) from the
+Guard, which the sentry would turn out as the coffin passed the
+Guard-room. For the first and last time in his life, he would get a
+“_Present Arms_”. It wouldn’t be in his _life_ though. For the first
+and last time in his death? That didn’t sound right either. Anyhow he
+would get it, and lots of strange, inexplicable, origin-forgotten rites
+would be observed over this piece of clay—hitherto so cheaply held and
+roughly treated.
+
+Queer! As “Trooper Priddell” he was of no account. As a piece of
+fast-decaying carrion he would be the centre of a piece of elaborate
+ceremonial! His troop would parade in full dress and (save for a
+firing-party of twelve who would carry carbines) without arms. A
+special black horse would be decked out with a pall of black velvet and
+black plumes. Across this horse the spurred jackboots of the dead man
+would be slung with toes pointing to the rear. Two men, wearing black
+cloaks, would lead the horse by means of new handkerchiefs passed
+through the bridoon rings of its bridle, handkerchiefs which would
+become their perquisites and _memento mori_.
+
+With crape-draped drums, the band, in silence, would lead the troop to
+the mortuary where would await it a gun-carriage with its six horses
+and coffin-supporting attachment. Here the troop would break ranks,
+file into the mortuary and bare-headed take, each man, his last look at
+the face of the dead as he lay in his coffin. The lid would then be
+screwed on, the troop would form a double line, facing inward, the
+firing-party would “present arms,” and six of the dead man’s more
+particular pals, or of his “townies,” would bear the coffin out and
+place it upon the gun-carriage. It would then be covered with a Union
+Jack and on it would be placed the helmet, sword, and carbine of the
+deceased trooper, the firing-party standing meanwhile, leaning on their
+reversed carbines, with bowed heads.
+
+As the melancholy procession formed up for its march to the graveyard,
+the smallest and junior men would take front place, the bigger and
+senior men behind them, non-commissioned officers would follow, and
+subalterns and captain last of all. In stepping off from the halt, all
+would step off with the right foot instead of with the left. Apparently
+the object was to reverse ordinary procedure to the uttermost—which
+would but be in keeping with the great reversal of showing honour to
+such an unhonoured thing as a private soldier—one of the despised and
+rejected band that enable the respectable, wealthy, and smug to remain
+so; one of the “licentious soldiery” that have made, and that keep, the
+Empire of which the respectable wealthy and smug are so proud.
+
+At the “slow march,” and in perfect silence until beyond hearing by the
+inmates of the Hospital, the cortege would proceed. Anon the band would
+call heaven and earth to mourn with the sonorous dreadful strains of
+the Dead March; whereafter the ordinary “quick march” would bring the
+funeral party to the cemetery, in sight of which the “slow march” would
+be resumed, and the Chaplain, surpliced, book-bearing, come forth to
+put himself at its head, leading the way to the grave-side where, with
+uncovered heads, the mourners would listen to the impressive words with
+feelings varying as their education, religion, temperament,
+and—digestion—impelled.
+
+At the close of the service, the firing-party in their places, six on
+either side of the grave, would fire three volleys into the air, while
+the band breathed a solemn dirge.
+
+And—perhaps most impressively tragic touch of all—the party would march
+briskly off to the strains of the liveliest air in the whole repertoire
+of the band.
+
+_Why_ should John Humphreyville Priddell—doubtless scion of the great
+Norman houses of Humphreyville and Paradelle, who shared much of
+Dorsetshire between them from Domesday Book to Stuart downfall—have
+been born in a tiny village of the Vale of Froom in “Dorset Dear,” to
+die of cholera in vile Motipur? Was some maid, in barton, byre, or
+dairy, thinking of him but now—with an ill-writ letter in her bosom, a
+letter beginning with “_I now take up my pen to right you these few
+lines hopping they find you the same which they now leave me at
+present_” according to right tradition and proper custom, and
+continuing to speak of homesick longings, dreams of furlough,
+promotion, marrying “on the strength,” and retirement to green fair
+Dorset Dear on a Sergeant-Major’s pension?
+
+What was the meaning of it all? Was it pure chance and accident—or had
+a Living, Scheming, Purposeful Deity a great wise object in this that
+John Humphreyville Priddell should have been born and bred and nurtured
+in the Vale of Froom to be struck from lusty life to a death of agony
+in a few hours at Motipur in the cruel accursed blighted land of Ind?
+
+Well, well!—high time to rap again upon the door, the last door, of
+John Humphreyville Priddell, Trooper, ex-dairyhand, decaying
+carrion,—and scare from his carcass such over-early visitants as
+anticipated….
+
+How hollowly the blows re-echoed. Did they strike muffled but murderous
+upon the heart of the thousand-league distant dairymaid, or of the old
+cottage-mother whose evenings were spent in spelling out her boy’s
+loving letters—that so oft covered a portion of his exiguous pay?…
+
+Was that a scuttling within? Quite probably. It might be—rats, it might
+be a bandicoot; it could hardly be a jackal; it might be a SNAKE,—and
+Trooper Matthewson’s carbine clattered to the ground and his knees
+smote together as he thought the word. Pulling himself together he
+hastily snatched up his carbine with a flush of shame at the slovenly
+unsoldierly “crime” of dropping it. He’d be dropping his arms on parade
+next! But it _might be a snake_—for he had certainly heard the sound of
+a movement of some sort. The strong man felt faint and leant against
+the mortuary wall for a moment.
+
+Oh, that the wretched carbine were a sword! A man could feel a _man_
+with a sword in his hand. He could almost face the Snake, even in Snake
+form, if he had a sword … but what is a carbine, even a loaded
+Martini-Henry carbine with its good soft man-stopping slug? There are
+no traditions to a carbine—nothing of the Spirit of one’s Ancestors in
+one—a vile mechanic thing of villainous saltpetre. How should the Snake
+fear that? Now a sword was different. It stood for human war and human
+courage and human deeds from the mistiest past, and behind it must be a
+weight of human wrath, feats, and tradition that must make even the
+Snake pause. Oh, for his sword—if the Snake came upon him when he had
+but this wretched carbine he would probably desert his post, fling the
+useless toy from him, and flee till he fell blind and fainting on the
+ground…. And what would the Trooper of the Queen get who deserted his
+sentry-post, threw away his arms and fled—and explained in defence that
+he had seen a snake? Probably a court-martial would give him a spell of
+Military Prison. Yes—_Jail_…. What proportion of truth could there be
+in the firmly-held belief of the men that “crimes” are made so numerous
+and so inevitable, to the best-meaning and most careful, because there
+exist a great Military Prison System and a great Military Prison
+personnel—and that “criminals” are essential to the respective proper
+inhabitation and _raison d’être_ thereof—that unless a good supply of
+military “criminals” were forthcoming there might have to be reductions
+and curtailments—loss of snug billets…. Certainly soldiers got years of
+imprisonment for “crimes” for which civilians would get reprimands or
+nominal fines, and, moreover, when a man became a soldier he certainly
+lost the elementary fundamental rights guaranteed to Englishmen by
+Magna Charta—among them the right of trial by his peers….
+
+Would poor Priddell mind if he did not knock again? If it were the
+Snake it could do Priddell no harm now—he being happily dead—whereas,
+if disturbed, it might emerge to the utter undoing—mind, body, and
+soul—of Trooper Matthewson. It would certainly send him to Jail or
+Lunatic Asylum—probably to both in due succession, for he was daily
+getting worse in the matter of the Snake.
+
+No—it was part of his orders, on this sentry-post, to knock at the
+door, and he would do his duty, Snake or not. He had always tried to do
+his duty faithfully and he would continue….
+
+Once more to knock at a dead man’s door….
+
+_Bump, Bump: Bump, Bump: Bump, Bump_.
+
+“You’ll soon be at rest, Priddell, old chap—and I wish I could join
+you,” called Dam, and it seemed to his excited brain that _a deep
+hollow groan replied_.
+
+“By Jove! He’s not dead,” coolly remarked the man who would have fled
+shrieking from a harmless blind-worm, and, going round to the back of
+the building, he placed his carbine against the wall and sprang up at a
+kind of window-ledge that formed the base of a grated aperture made for
+purposes of ventilation. Slowly raising his body till his face was
+above the ledge, he peered into the dimly moonlit cell and then dropped
+to the ground and, catching up his carbine, sprinted in the direction
+of the Hospital Guard-room.
+
+There arrived, he shouted for the Corporal of the Guard and was quickly
+confronted by Corporal Prag.
+
+“Wot the devil you deserted yore”…. he began.
+
+“Get the key of the mortuary, send for the Surgeon, and come at once,”
+gasped Dam as soon as he could speak. “_Priddell’s not dead_. Must be
+some kind of catalepsy. Quick, man”….
+
+“Catter wot? You drunken ’og,” drawled the Corporal. “Catter_waulin’_
+more like it. Under arrest you goes, my lad. Now you _’ave_ done it.
+’Ere, ’Awker, run down an’ call up the Sergeant o’ the Guard an’ tell
+’im Maffewson’s left ’is post. ’E’ll ’ave to plant annuvver sentry.
+Maffewson goes ter clink.”
+
+“Yes—but send for the Surgeon and the key of the mortuary too,” begged
+Dam. “I give you fair warning that Priddell is alive and groaning and
+off the bier—”
+
+“Pity _you_ ain’t ‘off the beer’ too,” said the Corporal with a yawn.
+
+“Well—there are witnesses that I brought the report to you. If Priddell
+is found dead on the ground to-morrow you’ll have to answer for
+manslaughter.”
+
+“’Ere, _chuck_ it you snaike-seeing delirying trimmer, _will_ yer! Give
+anyone the ’orrers to listen to yer! When Priddell is wrote off as
+‘Dead’ ’e _is_ dead, whether ’e likes it or no,” and he turned to give
+orders to the listening guard to arrest Trooper Matthewson.
+
+The Sergeant of the Guard arrived at the “double,” followed by Trooper
+Bear carrying a hurricane-lamp.
+
+“What’s the row?” panted the Sergeant. “Matthewson on the booze agin?”
+
+“I report that there is a living man in the mortuary, Sergeant,”
+replied Dam. “Priddell is not dead. I heard him groan, and I scrambled
+up to the grating and saw him lying on the ground by the door.”
+
+“Well, you’ll see yerself groanin’ an’ lyin’ on the ground in the
+Digger, now,” replied the Sergeant, and, as much in sorrow as in anger,
+he added, “An’ _you_’re the bloke I signed a petition for his permotion
+are yer? At it agin a’ready!”
+
+“But, good Heavens, man, can’t you see I’m as sober as you are, and
+much less excited? Can’t you send for the key of the mortuary and call
+the doctor? The poor chap may die for your stupidity.”
+
+“You call _me_ a ‘man’ again, my lad, an’ I’ll show you what a Sergeant
+can do fer them as ’e don’t like! As fer ‘sober’—I’ve ’ad enough o’ you
+‘sober’. W’y, in two ticks you may be on the ground ’owlin’ and
+bellerin’ and squealin’ like a Berkshire pig over the blood-tub.
+_Sober_! Yus—I seen you at it.”
+
+“Why on earth can’t you come and _prove_ I’m drunk or mad,” besought
+Dam. “Open the mortuary and prove I’m wrong—and then put me under
+arrest. Call the Surgeon and say the sentry over the mortuary reports
+the inmate to be alive—_he_ has heard of catalepsy and comatose
+collapse simulating death if _you_ haven’t.”
+
+“Don’ use sech ’orrible languidge,” besought the respectable Corporal
+Prag.
+
+“Ho, yus! _I_’m agoin’ to see meself whipt on the peg fer turnin’ out
+the Surgin from ’is little bed in the middle o’ the night—to come an’
+’ave a look at the dead corpse ’e put in orders fer the Dead ’Ole,
+ain’t I? Jest becos the champion snaike-seer o’ E Troop’s got ’em agin,
+wot?”
+
+Corporal Prag laughed merrily at the wit of his superior.
+
+Turning to Bear, whom he knew to be as well educated as himself, Dam
+remarked:—
+
+“Poor chap has rallied from the cholera collapse and could probably be
+saved by stimulants and warmth. This suspended animation is common
+enough in cholera. Why, the Brahmins have a regular ritual for dealing
+with cases of recovery on the funeral pyre—purification after
+defilement by the corpse-washers or something of the sort. These stupid
+oafs are letting poor Priddell die—”
+
+“What! you drunken talkin’ parrot,” roared the incensed Sergeant.
+“’Ere, sling ’is drunken rotten carkis—”
+
+“What’s the row here?” cut in a quiet curt voice. “Noise enough for a
+gang of crows——”
+
+Surgeon-Captain Blake of the Royal Army Medical Corps had just left the
+Hospital, having been sent for by the night Nursing Sister. The men
+sprang to attention and the Sergeant saluted.
+
+“Drunk sentry left ’is post, Sir,” he gabbled. “’Spose the Dead
+’Ole—er—Morshuerry, that is, Sir, got on ’is nerves. ’E’s given to
+secret boozin’, Sir——”
+
+“Excuse me, Sir,” broke in Dam, daring to address an Officer unbidden,
+since a life was at stake, “I am a total abstainer and Trooper Priddell
+is not dead. It must have been cataleptic trance. I heard him groan and
+I climbed up and saw him lying on the ground.”
+
+“This man’s not drunk,” said Captain Blake, and added to himself, “and
+he’s an educated man, and a cultured, poor devil.”
+
+“Oh, that’s how ’e goes on, Sir, sober as a judge you’d say, an’ then
+nex’ minnit ’e’s on the floor aseein’ blue devils an’ pink serpients——”
+
+“The man’s dying while we talk, Sir,” put in Dam, whose wrath was
+rising. (If these dull-witted ignorant louts could not tell a drunken
+man from a sober, nor realize that a certified dead man may _not_ be
+dead, surely the doctor could.)
+
+The Sergeant and the Corporal ventured on a respectful snigger.
+
+“Bring me that lamp,” said Captain Blake, and Trooper Bear raised it to
+his extended hand. Lifting it so that its light shone straight in Dam’s
+face the doctor scanned the latter and examined his eyes. This was not
+the face of a drunkard nor was the man in any way under the influence
+of liquor now. Absurd! Had he fever? Was he of deranged intellect? But,
+alas, the light that shone upon Dam’s face also shone upon Captain
+Blake’s collar and upon the badge of his Corps which adorned it—and
+that badge is a serpent entwining a rod.
+
+It was the last straw! Dam had passed through a most disturbing night;
+he had kept guard in the lonely Snake-haunted darkness, guard over a
+mortuary in which lay a corpse; he had had to keep knocking at the
+corpse’s door, his mind had run on funerals, he had thought he heard
+the dead man groan, he believed he had seen the dead man moving, he had
+wrestled with thick intelligences who held him drunk or mad while
+precious moments passed, and he had had the Snake before his mental
+vision throughout this terrible time—and here was another of its
+emissaries _wearing its badge_, an emissary of high rank, an
+Officer-Emissary!… Well, he was in the open air, thank God, and could
+put up a fight as before.
+
+Like a panther he sprang upon the unfortunate officer and bore him to
+the ground, with his powerful hands enclosing the astounded gentleman’s
+neck, and upon the couple sprang the Sergeant, the Corporal, and the
+Hospital Guard, all save the sentry, who (disciplined, well-drilled
+man!) brought his carbine to the “order” and stood stiffly at
+“attention” in a position favourable for a good view of the proceedings
+though strictly on his beat.
+
+Trooper Bear, ejaculating “Why do the heathen rage furiously together,”
+took a running jump and landed in sitting posture on the heap, rolled
+off, and proceeded to seize every opportunity of violently smiting his
+superior officers, in his apparent zeal to help to secure the dangerous
+criminal-lunatic. Thoughts of having just _one_ punch at a real Officer
+(if only a non-combatant still a genuine Commissioned Officer) flashed
+across his depraved mind.
+
+It was a Homeric struggle. Captain Blake was himself an old Guy’s
+Rugger three-quarter and no mean boxer, and the Sergeant, Corporal, and
+Guard, were all powerful men, while Dam was a Samson further endowed
+with the strength of undeniable madness. When at length he was dragged
+from Captain Blake’s recumbent form, his hands torn from that officer’s
+throat, and the group stood for a second panting, Dam suddenly felled
+Corporal Prag with such a blow as had been the undoing of the Gorilla,
+sent Sergeant Wotting head over heels and, ere the Guard could again
+close with him, drove his fist into the face of the supposed myrmidon
+of the Snake and sprang upon his body once more….
+
+It was some time before seven strong men could pinion him and carry him
+on a stretcher to the Guard-room, and, of those seven strong men, only
+Trooper Bear bore no mark of serious damage. (Trooper Bear had struck
+two non-commissioned officers with great violence, in his misdirected
+zeal, and one Commissioned Officer—though only playfully and for the
+satisfaction of being able to say that he had done so.) That night,
+half dead, wholly mad, bruised and bleeding, Damocles de Warrenne lay
+in the dark cell awaiting trial on a charge of assaulting an Officer,
+striking his superior officers, resisting the Guard, deserting his
+sentry-post, and being drunk and disorderly.
+
+
+“What’ll he get, d’you think?” sadly asked Trooper Goate of Trooper
+Hawker.
+
+“Two stretch ’ard laiber and discharged from the Army wiv’
+iggernerminny,” groaned Trooper Hawker. “Lucky fer ’im floggin’s
+erbolished in the British Army.”
+
+
+When the mortuary door was unlocked next morning a little force was
+required to open it, some obstacle apparently retarding its inward
+movement. The obstacle proved to be the body, now certainly the dead
+body, of Trooper Priddell who had died with his fingers thrust under
+the said door.[26]
+
+ [26] This actually happened some years ago at Bangalore.—AUTHOR.
+
+
+
+
+PART III.
+THE SAVING OF A SOUL
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII.
+VULTURES AND LUCK—GOOD AND BAD.
+
+
+To the strongest and sanest mind there is something a small trifle
+disturbing, perhaps, in riding silently hour after hour on a
+soft-footed camel over soft sand in a silent empty land through the
+moonlit silent night, beside an overland-telegraph wire on every
+individual post of which sits a huge vulture!… Just as the sun set, a
+fiery red ball, behind the distant mountains, Damocles de Warrenne,
+gentleman-at-large, had caught sight of what he had sought in the
+desert for some days, the said overland telegraph, and thereby saved
+himself from the highly unpleasant death that follows prolonged
+deprivation of water. He had also saved his camel from a little earlier
+death, inasmuch as he had decided to probe for the faithful creature’s
+jugular vein and carotid artery during the torturing heats of the
+morrow and prolong his life at its expense. (Had he not promised
+Lucille to do his best for himself?)
+
+The overland telegraph pointed absolutely straight to the border city
+of Kot Ghazi and, better still, to a river-bed which would contain
+pools of water, thirty miles this side of it, at a spot a few miles
+from which stood a lost lone dak-bungalow on Indian soil—a dak-bungalow
+whereat would be waiting a _shikarri_ retainer, and such things as tea,
+fuel, potted foods, possibly fresh meat, and luxury of luxuries, a hot
+bath….
+
+And, with a sigh of relief, he had wheeled his camel under the
+telegraph wires after a glance at the stars and brief calculation as to
+whether he should turn to left or right. (He did not want to proceed
+until he collapsed under the realization that he was making for the
+troubled land of Persia.)
+
+Anyhow, without knowing where he was, he knew he was on the road to
+water, food, human companionship (imagine Abdul Ghani a human
+companion!—but he had not seen a human face for three weeks, nor heard
+nor uttered a word), and safety, after suffering the unpleasant
+experience of wandering in circles, lost in the most inhospitable
+desert on the earth. Vultures! He had not realized there were so many
+in the world. Hour after hour, a post at every few yards, and on every
+post a vulture—a vulture that opened its eyes as he approached,
+regarded him from its own point of view—that of the Eater whose life is
+an unending search for Meat—calculatingly, and closed them again with a
+sigh at his remaining vigorousness.
+
+He must have passed hundreds, thousands,—had he died of thirst in
+actual fact and was he doomed to follow this line through this desert
+for evermore as a punishment for his sins? No—much too mild a
+punishment for the God of Love to inflict, according to the Chaplain.
+This would be Eternal Bliss compared with the Eternal Fire. He must be
+still alive … Was he mad, then, and _imagining_ these unending
+bird-capped posts? If not mad, he soon would be. Why couldn’t they say
+something—mannerless brutes! Should he swerve off and leave the
+telegraph line? No, he had starved and suffered the agonies of thirst
+for nearly a week—and, if he could hang on all night, he might reach
+water tomorrow and be saved. Food was a minor consideration and if he
+could drink a few gallons of water, soak his clothes in it, lie in
+it,—he could carry on for another day or two. Nearly as easy to sprawl
+face-downward on a camel-saddle as on the ground—and he had tied
+himself on. The camel would rub along all right for days with
+camel-thorn and similar dainties…. No, better not leave the line. Halt
+and camp within sight of it till the morning, when the brutes would fly
+away in search of food? No … might find it impossible to get going
+again, if once man and beast lay down now … Ride as far as possible
+from the line, keeping it in sight? No … if he fell asleep the camel
+would go round in a circle again, and he’d wake up a dozen miles from
+the line, with no idea of direction and position. Best to carry
+straight on. The camel would stick to the line so long as he was left
+exactly on it … think it a road … He could sleep without danger thus.
+He would shut his eyes and not see the vultures, for if he saw a dozen
+more he knew that he would go raving mad, halt the camel and address an
+impassioned appeal to them to _say_ something—for God’s sake to _say
+something_. Didn’t they know that he had been in solitary confinement
+in a desert for three weeks or three centuries (what is time?) without
+hearing a sound or seeing a living thing—expecting the SNAKE night and
+day, and, moreover, that he was starving, dying of thirst, and
+light-headed, and that he was in the awful position of choosing between
+murdering the camel that had stood by him—no, under him—all that
+fearful time, and breaking his word to Lucille—cheating and deceiving
+Lucille. Then why couldn’t they _say_ something instead of sitting
+there in their endless millions, mile after billions of miles, post
+after billions of trillions of posts—menacing, watchful, silent, silent
+as the awful desert, silent as the SNAKE…. This would not do … he must
+think hard of Lucille, of the Sword, of his Dream, his Dream that came
+so seldom now. He would repeat Lucille’s last letter, word for word:—
+
+“MY DARLING,
+
+
+“It is over, thank God—Oh, thank God—and you can leave the army at once
+and become a ‘gentleman’ in position as well as in fact. Poor old
+Grumper died on Saturday (as I cabled) and before he died he became
+quite another man—weak, gentle and anxious to make any amends he could
+to anybody. For nearly a week he was like this, and it was a most
+wonderful and pathetic thing. He spent most of the time in telling me,
+General Harringport, Auntie Yvette or the Vicar, about wicked things he
+had done, cruelties, meannesses, follies—it was most distressing, for
+really he has been simply a strong character with all the faults of
+one—including, as we know too well, lack of sympathy, hardness, and
+sometimes savage cruelty, which, after all, was only the natural result
+of the lack of sympathy and understanding.
+
+“As he grew weaker he grew more sympathetic with illness and suffering,
+I suppose, for he sent for me in the middle of the night to say that he
+had suddenly remembered Major Decies’ story about your probably being
+subject to fits and seizures in certain circumstances, and that he was
+coming to the conclusion that he had been hasty and unjust and had
+unmercifully punished you for no fault whatever. He said ‘I have
+punished him for being punished. I have added my injustice to that of
+Fate. Write to him that I ask his pardon and confess my fault. Tell him
+I’ll make such reparation as I can,’ and oh, Dam—he leaves _you_
+Monksmead, and _me_ his money, on the understanding that we marry as
+soon as any physician, now living in Harley Street, says that you are
+fit to marry (I must write it I suppose) without fear of our children
+being epileptic, insane, or in any way tainted. If none of them will do
+this, I am to inherit Monksmead and part of the money and you are to
+have a part of the money. If we marry _then_, we lose everything and it
+goes to Haddon Berners. Mr. Wyllis, who has been his lawyer and agent
+for thirty years, is to take you to Harley Street (presumably to
+prevent your bribing and corrupting the whole of the profession there
+residing).
+
+“Come at once, Darling. If the silly old physicians won’t certify,
+why—what _does_ it matter? I am going to let lodgings at Monksmead to a
+Respectable Single Man (with board) and Auntie Yvette will see that he
+behaves himself.
+
+“Cable what boat you start by and I’ll meet you at Port Said. I don’t
+know how I keep myself sitting in this chair. I could turn head over
+heels for joy! (And poor Grumper only just buried and his Will read!)
+He didn’t lose quite all his grim humour in that wonderful week of
+softening, relenting and humanizing. What do you think he solemnly gave
+and bequeathed to the poor Haddock? His _wardrobe_!!! And nothing else,
+but if the Haddock wears only Grumper’s clothes, including his boots,
+shirts, ties, collars and everything else, for one full and complete
+year, and wears absolutely nothing else, he is to have five thousand
+pounds at the end of it—and he is to begin on the day after the
+funeral! And even at the last poor Grumper was a foot taller and a foot
+broader (not to mention _thicker_) than the Haddock! It appears that he
+systematically tried to poison Grumper’s mind against you—presumably
+with an eye on this same last Will and Testament. He hasn’t been seen
+since the funeral. I wonder if he is going to try to win the money by
+remaining in bed for a year in Grumper’s pyjamas!
+
+“Am I not developing ‘self-control and balance’? Here I sit writing
+news to you while my heart is screaming aloud with joy, crying ‘Dam is
+coming home. Dam’s troubles are over. Dam is saved!’ Because if you are
+ever so ‘ill,’ Darling, there is nothing on earth to prevent your
+coming to your old home at once—and if we can’t marry we can be pals
+for evermore in the dear old place of our childhood. But of _course_ we
+can marry. Hurry home, and if any Harley Street doctor gives you even a
+doubtful look, throw him up his own stairs to show how feeble you are,
+or tie his poker round his neck in a neat bow, and refuse to undo it
+until he apologizes. I’m sure you could! ‘_Ill_’ indeed! If you can’t
+have a little fit, on the rare occasions when you see a snake, without
+fools saying you are ill or dotty or something, it is a pity! Anyhow
+there is one small woman who understands, and if she can’t marry you
+she can at any rate be your inseparable pal—and if the Piffling Little
+World likes to talk scandal, in spite of Auntie Yvette’s presence—why
+it will be amusing. Cable, Darling! I am just bursting with excitement
+and joy—and fear (that something may go wrong at the last moment). If
+it saved a single day I should start for Motipur myself at once. If we
+passed in mid-ocean I should jump overboard and swim to your ship. Then
+you’d do the same, and we should ‘get left,’ and look silly…. Oh, what
+nonsense I am talking—but I don’t think I shall talk anything else
+again—for sheer joy!
+
+“You can’t write me a lot of bosh _now_ about ‘spoiling my life’ and
+how you’d be ten times more miserable if I were your wife. Fancy—a
+soldier to-day and a ‘landed proprietor’ to-morrow! How I wish you were
+a _landed_ traveller, and were in the train from Plymouth—no, from
+Dover and London, because of course you’d come the quickest way. Did my
+cable surprise you very much?
+
+“I enclose fifty ten-pound notes, as I suppose they will be quicker and
+easier for you to cash than those ‘draft’ things, and they’ll be quite
+safe in the insured packet. Send a cable at once, Darling. If you don’t
+I shall imagine awful things and perhaps die of a broken heart or some
+other silly trifle.
+
+“Mind then:—Cable to-day; Start to-morrow; Get here in a fortnight—and
+keep a beady eye open at Port Said and Brindisi and places—in case
+there has been time for me to get there.
+
+“Au revoir. Darling Dam,
+“Your
+“LUCILLE.
+
+
+“Three cheers! And a million more!”
+
+
+Yes, a long letter, but he could almost say it backwards. He couldn’t
+be anything like mad while he could do that?… How had she received his
+answer—in which he tried to show her the impossibility of any decent
+man compromising a girl in the way she proposed in her sweet innocence
+and ignorance. Of course _he_, a half-mad, epileptic, fiend-ridden
+monomaniac—nay, dangerous lunatic,—could not _marry_. Why, he might
+murder his own wife under some such circumstances as those under which
+he attacked Captain Blake. (Splendid fellow Blake! Not every man after
+such a handling as that would make it his business to prove that his
+assailant was neither drunk, mad, nor criminal—merely under a
+hallucination. But for Blake he would now be in jail, or lunatic
+asylum, to a certainty. The Colonel would have had him court-martialled
+as a criminal, or else have had him out of the regiment as a lunatic.
+Nor, as a dangerous lunatic, would he have been allowed to buy himself
+out when Lucille’s letter and his money arrived. Blake had got him into
+the position of a perfectly sober and sane person whose mind had been
+temporarily upset by a night of horror—in which a coffin-quitting
+corpse had figured, and so he had been able to steer between the cruel
+rocks of Jail and Asylum to the blessed harbour of Freedom.)
+
+Yes—in spite of Blake’s noble goodness and help, Dam knew that he was
+_not_ normal, that he _was_ dangerous, that he spent long periods on
+the very border-line of insanity, that he stood fascinated on that
+border-line and gazed far into the awful country beyond—the Realms of
+the Mad….
+
+Marry! Not Lucille, while he had the sanity left to say “No”!
+
+As for going to live at Monksmead with her and Auntie Yvette—it would
+be an even bigger crime. Was it for _him_ to make _Lucille_ a “problem”
+girl, a girl who was “talked about,” a by-word for those vile old women
+of both sexes whose favourite pastime is the invention and
+dissemination of lies where they dare, and of even more damaging
+head-shakes, lip-pursings, gasps and innuendoes where they do not?
+
+Was it for _him_ to get _Lucille_ called “The Woman Who Did,” by those
+scum of the leisured classes, and “That peculiar young woman,” by the
+better sort of matron, dowager and chaperone,—make her the kind of
+person from whose company careful mothers keep their innocent daughters
+(that their market price may never be in danger of the faintest
+depreciation when they are for sale in the matrimonial market), the
+kind of woman for whom men have a slightly and subtly different manner
+at meet, hunt-ball, dinner or theatre-box? Get Lucille “talked about”?
+
+No—setting aside the question of the possibility of living under the
+same roof with her and conquering the longing to marry.
+
+No—he had some decency left, tainted as he doubtless was by his
+barrack-room life.
+
+Tainted of course…. What was it he had heard the senior
+soldierly-looking man, whom the other addressed as “General,” say
+concerning some mutual acquaintance, at breakfast in the dining-car
+going up to Kot Ghazi?
+
+“Yes, poor chap, was in the ranks—and no man can escape the
+barrack-room taint when he has once lived in it. Take me into any
+Officers’ Mess you like—say ‘There is a promoted gentleman-ranker
+here,’ and I’ll lay a thousand to one I spot him. Don’t care if he’s
+the son of a Dook—nor yet if he’s Royal, you can spot him alright….”
+
+Pleasant hearing for the “landed proprietor,” whom a beautiful, wealthy
+and high-bred girl proposed to marry!
+
+Tainted or not, in that way—he was _mentally_ tainted, a fact beside
+which the other, if as true as Truth, paled into utterest
+insignificance.
+
+No—he had taken the right line in replying to Lucille that he was
+getting worse mentally, that no doctor would dream of “vetting” him
+“sound,” that he was not scoundrel enough to come and cause scandal and
+“talk” at Monksmead, and that he was going to disappear completely from
+the ken of man, wrestle with himself, and come to her and beg her to
+marry him directly he was better—sufficiently better to “pass the
+doctor,” that is. If, meanwhile, she met and loved a man worthy of her,
+such a man as Ormonde Delorme, he implored her to marry him and to
+forget the wholly unworthy and undesirable person who had merely loomed
+large upon her horizon through the accident of propinquity …
+
+(He could always disappear again and blow out such brains as he
+possessed, if that came to pass, he told himself.)
+
+Meanwhile letters to the Bank of Bombay would be sent for, at least
+once a year—but she was not to write—she was to forget him. As to
+searching for him—he had not quite decided whether he would walk from
+Rangoon to Pekin or from Quetta to Constantinople—perhaps neither, but
+from Peshawur to Irkutsk. Anyhow, he was going to hide himself pretty
+effectually, and put himself beyond the temptation of coming and
+spoiling her life. Sooner or later he would be mad, dead, or cured. If
+the last—why he would make for the nearest place where he could get
+news of her—and if she were then happily married to somebody
+else—why—why—she _would_ be happy, and that would make him quite happy
+…
+
+Had the letter been quite sane and coherent—or had he been in a queer
+mental state when he wrote it?…
+
+He opened his eyes, saw a vulture within a few yards of him, closed
+them again, and, soon after, fell into an uneasy slumber as the camel
+padded on at a steady seven miles an hour unurged—save by the _smell_
+of pure clear water which was still a score of miles distant….
+
+When Damocles de Warrenne awoke, he was within a few hundred yards of
+the nearly dry River Helnuddi, where, failing occasional pools, the
+traveller can always procure water by digging and patiently awaiting
+the slow formation of a little puddle at the bottom of the hole.
+
+For a minute he halted. Should he dig while he had strength, or should
+he turn to the left and follow the river-bed until he came to a pool—or
+could go no farther? Perhaps he would be too weak to dig, though, by
+that time…. Remarkable how eager to turn to the left and get on, the
+camel was—considering how tired he must be—perhaps he could smell
+distant water or knew of a permanent pool hereabouts. Well, let that
+decide it….
+
+An hour later, as the camel topped a rise in the river-bank, a
+considerable pool came into view, tree-shaded, heron-haunted, too
+incredibly beautiful and alluring for belief. Was it a mirage?…
+
+A few minutes later, Damocles de Warrenne and his camel were drinking,
+and a few hours later entered the dreary featureless compound of a
+wretched hovel, which, to the man at least, was a palatial and
+magnificent asylum (no, not _asylum_—of all words)—refuge and home—the
+more so that a camel knelt chewing in the shade of the building, and a
+man, Abdul Ghani himself, lay slumbering in the verandah….
+
+“You understand, then,” said Dam in the vernacular, to the malodorous,
+hideous, avaricious Abdul who reappeared from Kot Ghazi a few days
+later, “you return here again, one week from to-day, bringing the
+things written down on this paper, from the shop of Rustomji at Kot
+Ghazi. Here you wait until I come. If I find there is truth in your
+_khubbar_[27] of ibex you will be rewarded … Why don’t I take you?
+Because I want to be alone. Set out now for Kot Ghazi. I may return.” A
+stone fell and clattered. Dam shrank, cringed, and shut his eyes—as one
+expecting a heavy blow. _Ah-h-h-h-h_—had the beast bolted? With the
+slowness of an hour-hand he raised his head above the bank of the
+watercourse until his eye cleared the edge. _No_—still there. After a
+painful crawl that seemed to last for hours, he reached the point where
+the low ridge ran off at right-angles, crept behind it, and lay flat on
+his face, to rest and recover breath. He was soaked in perspiration
+from head to foot, giddy with sun and unnatural posture, very sore as
+to elbows and knees, out of breath, trembling—and entirely happy. The
+half-mile crawl, with the greater part of his body on the burning
+ground, and the rifle to shuffle steadily along without noise or
+damage, was the equivalent of a hard day’s work to a strong man. At the
+end of it he lay gasping and sick, aching in every limb, almost blind
+with glare and over-exertion, weary to death—and entirely happy. Thank
+God he would be able to stand up in a moment and rest behind a big
+cactus. Then he would have a spell of foot-work for a change, and,
+though crouching double, would not be doing any crawling until he had
+crossed the plateau and reached the bushes.
+
+ [27] News, information.
+
+
+The upward climb was successfully accomplished with frequent halts for
+breath, behind boulders. On the plateau all that was required was
+silence. The ibex could not see him up there. In his rubber-soled
+khaki-coloured shoes he could almost run, but it was a question whether
+a drink of cold water would not be worth more than all the ibexes in
+the world.
+
+He tip-toed rapidly across the level hill-top, reached the belt of low
+bushes, dropped, and lay to recover breath before resuming the painful
+and laborious crawling part of his journey. Was it possible to tap
+one’s tongue against one’s teeth and hear the noise of it as though it
+were made of wood? It seemed so. Was this giddiness and dimness of
+vision sunstroke? What would he give to have that fly (that had
+followed him for hundreds of thousands of miles that morning) between
+his fingers?
+
+Last lap! There was the rock, and below it must be the quarry—if it had
+not fled. He must keep that rock between himself and his prey and he
+must get to it without a sound. It would be easy enough without the
+rifle. Could he stick it through his belt and along his back, or trail
+it behind him? What nonsense! He must be getting a touch of sun. Would
+these stones leave marks of burns on his clothes? Surely he could smell
+himself singeing. Enough to explode the rifle … The big rock at last! A
+rest and then a peep, with infinite precaution. Dam held his breath and
+edged his face to the corner of the great boulder. Moving
+imperceptibly, he peeped … _No ibex!_ … He was about to spring up with
+a hearty malediction on his luck when he perceived a peculiar
+projection on a large stone some distance down the hill. It moved—and
+Dam dropped back. It must be the top of the curve of one of the horns
+of the ibex and the animal must be lying down…. What to do? It might
+lie for hours and he himself might go to sleep. It might get up and
+depart at any moment without coming into the line of fire—without being
+seen indeed. Better continue the stalk and hope to get a standing shot,
+or, failing that, a running one.
+
+It looked a nasty descent, since silence was essential—steep, slippery,
+and strewn with round stones. Anyhow, he could go down on his feet,
+which was something to be thankful for, as it was agony to put a knee
+or elbow to the ground. He crept on.
+
+Surely his luck was changing, for here he was, within fifty yards of a
+stone behind which lay an unsuspecting ibex with a world’s-record head.
+Hullo! a nasty little precipice! With a nastily sloping shelf at the
+bottom too, eight feet away—and then another little precipice and
+another sloping shelf at its base.
+
+Better lay the rifle on the edge, slip over, hang by the hands, grab it
+with one, and then drop the intervening few inches. Rubber soles would
+play their part here! Damn this giddiness—touch of sun, no doubt.
+Damocles de Warrenne knelt on the edge of the eight-foot drop, turned
+round, swayed, fell, struck the sloping ledge, rolled off it, fell,
+struck the next sloping ledge, fell thirty feet—arousing an astounded
+ibex _en route_—and landed in a queer heap on a third shelf, with a few
+broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, broken ankles, and a fractured
+thigh.
+
+A vulture, who had been interested in his proceedings for some time,
+dropped a few thousand feet and had a look. What he saw decided him to
+come to earth. He perched on a rock and waited patiently. He knew the
+symptoms and he knew the folly of taking risks. A friend or two joined
+him—each, as he left his place in the sky, being observed and followed
+by a brother who was himself in turn observed and followed by another
+who brought others….
+
+One of the hideous band had drawn quite near and was meditating
+rewarding his own boldness with a succulent eye, when Dam groaned and
+moved. The pretty birds also moved and probably groaned in spirit—but
+they didn’t move far.
+
+What was that Miss Smellie had been so fond of saying? “There is no
+such thing as ‘luck,’ Damocles. All is ordered for the best by an
+all-seeing and merciful Providence.” Yes. No doubt.
+
+What was that remark of his old friend, “Holy Bill”?
+
+“What do you mean by ‘luck,’ Damocles? All that happens is ordained by
+God in His infinite mercy.” Yes.
+
+Holy Bill had never done a day’s work in his life nor missed a
+meal—save when bilious from overeating….
+
+A pity the infinite mercy didn’t run to a little water! It would have
+been easy for the all-seeing and merciful Providence to move him to
+retain his water-bottle when starting the stalk—if it were necessary to
+the schemes of the Deity to have him smashed like a dropped egg…. What
+agony a human being could endure!…
+
+Not even his rifle at hand with its means of speedy death. He might
+live for days and then be torn alive by those accursed vultures. One
+mighty effort to turn on his back and he would breathe easier—but that
+would bring his eyes to the sun—and the vultures…. Had he slept or
+fainted? How long had he lain there?… Chance of being found? Absolutely
+none. Shikarri would have visited the dak-bungalow a week ago. Camel
+left below on the plain—and it would wander miles from where he left it
+when it grew hungry. Even if Abdul and an organized search-party were
+after him _now_ they might as well be searching for a needle in a
+hay-stack. No one knew which of the thousand gullies he had ascended
+and no one could track camel-pads or flat rubber soles over bare solid
+rock, even if given the starting-point. No—he had got to die of thirst,
+starvation, and vultures, barring miracles of luck—and he had _never_
+had any good luck—for luck existed, undoubtedly, in spite of
+mealy-mouthed platitude-makers and twaddle about everything being
+pre-arranged and ordained with care and deliberation by a kind paternal
+Providence.
+
+And what luck he had had—all his life! Born fated!
+
+Had he fainted again or slept? And could he hear the tinkle of ice
+against the sides of a tall thin tumbler of lemonade, or was it the
+sound of a waterfall of clear, cold water close by? Were the servants
+asleep, or was the drink he had ordered being prepared?… No—he was
+dying in agony on a red-hot rock, surrounded by vultures and probably
+watched by foxes, jackals and hyenas. And a few yards away were the
+rifle that would have put him out of his misery, and the water-bottle
+that would have alleviated his pain—to the extent, at any rate, of
+enabling him to think clearly and perhaps scribble a few words in blood
+or something, somehow, for Lucille … Lucille! Would the All-Merciful
+let him see her once again for a moment in return for an extra thousand
+years of Hell or whatever it was that unhappy mortals got as a
+continuation of the joys of this gay world? Could he possibly induce
+the vultures to carry him home—if he pledged himself to feed them and
+support their progeny? They could each have a house in the compound. It
+would pay them far better than eating him now. Did they understand
+Pushtoo or was it Persian? Certainly not Hindustani and Urdu. People
+who came shooting alone in the desert and mountains, where vultures
+abounded, should learn to talk Vulture and pass the Higher Standard in
+that tongue. But even if they understood him they might be unwilling to
+serve a coward. _Was_ he a coward? Anyhow he lay glued with his own
+blood to the spot he would never leave—unless the vultures could be
+bribed. Useless to hope anything of the jackals. He had hunted too many
+foxes to begin now to ask favours. Besides they could only drag, and he
+had been dragged once by a horse. Quite enough for one lifetime. But he
+had never injured a vulture. Pity he had no copy of Grimm or Anderson
+with him—they contained much useful information about talking foxes,
+obliging birds, and other matters germane to the occasion. If he could
+only get them to apply it, a working-party of vultures and jackals
+certainly had the strength to transport him a considerable
+distance—alternately carrying and dragging him. The big bird, stalking
+nearer, was probably the _macuddam_ or foreman. Would it be at all
+possible for vultures to bring water? He would be very willing to offer
+his right hand in return for a little water. The bird would be welcome
+to eat it off his body if it would give him a drink first. Did not
+ravens bring meat to the prophet Elijah? Intelligent and obliging
+birds. Probably cooked it, too. But water was more difficult to carry,
+if easier to procure.
+
+How close they were coming and how they watched with their horrible
+eyes—and pretended not to watch!…
+
+Oh, the awful, unspeakable agony! Why was he alive again? Was his chest
+full of terribly rusty machinery that would go on when it ought to stop
+for want of oil?… If pain is punishment for sin, as placid stall-fed
+Holy Bill held (never having suffered any), then Damocles de Warrenne
+must have been the prince of sinners. Oh God! a little drop of water!
+Rivers of it flowing not many miles away!
+
+Monsoons of it falling recently! A water-bottle full a few yards
+distant—and he must die for want of a drop … What a complete circle the
+vultures made on the rocks and stunted trees of the sloping hill-side.
+Oh, for a revolver! A man ought to carry one on shikar expeditions. One
+would give him a chance of life when under a tiger or panther—and a
+chance of decent death in a position such as this. Where had he read
+that vultures begin on the eyes of their prey? Without awaiting its
+death either, so long as it could not defend itself. There were other
+depraved gustatory preferences, too, if he remembered rightly-He would
+have an opportunity of testing the accuracy of the statement—though not
+of assuring its author as to its correctness.
+
+Water … Water … Water …
+
+Had he fainted again, that the vultures were so much nearer?… Why
+should he be a second Prometheus? Had he not had suffering enough in
+his life, without having more in his death?… If the sending of a little
+water were too obvious a miracle, was it too much to ask that his next
+fainting and collapse might last long enough for the vultures to get to
+work, make a beginning, and an end?
+
+Surely that would not be too great a miracle, since he had lain for
+years on a red-hot rock with blood in his mouth and his body wrecked
+like a smashed egg. He must be practically dead. Perhaps if he held his
+laboured breath and closed his eyes they _would_ begin, and he would
+have the strength to keep still when they did so. That would be the
+quickest way. Once they started, it would not be long before his bones
+were cleaned. No possible ghost of a chance of being saved. Probably no
+human foot had been on these particular rocks since human feet existed.
+Nor would he ever again have the strength to drag his shattered body to
+where the rifle lay. Only a few yards away lay speedy happy release.
+
+“No such thing as luck, Damocles.”
+
+Perhaps the vultures thought otherwise.
+
+Colonel John Decies, still of Bimariabad, but long retired on pension
+from the Indian Medical Service, was showing his mental and physical
+unfitness for the service of the Government that had ordered his
+retirement, by devoting himself at the age of fifty-nine to
+aviation—aviation in the interests of the wounded on the battlefield.
+What he wanted to live to see was a flying stretcher-service of the
+Royal Army Medical Corps that should flash to and fro at the rate of a
+hundred miles an hour between the rear of the firing-line and the field
+hospital and base hospital in aeroplanes built especially for the
+accommodation of wounded men—an officer of the Corps accompanying each
+in the dual capacity of surgeon and potential pilot. When he allowed
+his practical mind to wander among the vast possibilities of the
+distant future, he dreamed of bigger and bigger aeroplanes until they
+became fully equipped flying hospitals themselves, and removed the
+wounded from the danger zone to the nearest salubrious spot for their
+convalescence. Meanwhile, he saw no reason why the more powerful
+biplanes should not carry an operating-table and all surgical
+accessories, a surgeon, and two or three wounded men who could not be
+made sitting-up cases.
+
+To Colonel John Decies it seemed that if soldiers schemed to adapt the
+flying-machine to purposes of death and destruction, doctors might do
+the same to purposes of life and salvation. Think of the difference
+between being jolted for hours in a bullock-cart in the dust and heat
+and being borne through the air without jerk or jar. Think of the
+hundreds of men who, in the course of one campaign, would be saved from
+the ghastly fate of lying unfound, unseen by the stretcher-bearers, to
+starve to death, to lie weltering in their blood, to live through days
+of agony….
+
+He was making quite a name for himself by his experiments at the Kot
+Ghazi flying-school and by his articles and speeches on the formation
+and training of a R.A.M.C. flying branch. Small beginnings would
+content him (provided they were intended to lead to great
+developments)—an aeroplane at first, that could carry one or two
+special cases to which the ordinary means of transport would be fatal,
+and that could scour the ground, especially in the case of very broken
+terrain and hill-country, for overlooked cases, wounded men unable to
+move or call, and undiscovered by the searchers.
+
+He was hard at work on the invention of a strong collapsible
+operating-table (that could readily be brought into use in the field
+and also be used in aerial transport) and a case for the concentration
+of equipment—operation instruments, rubber gloves, surgical gauntlets,
+saline infusion apparatus, sterilizer, aseptic towels, chloroform,
+bandages, gauze, wool, sponges, drainage-tubing, inhaler, silk skeins,
+syringes, field tourniquets, waterproof cloth, stethoscope—everything,
+and the whole outfit, table and all, weighing forty pounds. This would
+be an improvement on the system of having to open half a dozen medical
+and surgical cases when operating on the line of march, cases requiring
+the most expert repacking after use …
+
+
+Perhaps it was a sign of advancing years and weakening mind that this
+fine specimen of a fine service felt that, when flying some thousands
+of feet above the earth, he was nearer to Lenore in Heaven. All his
+science and sad experience had failed to deprive him of a sub-conscious
+belief in an actual place “above,” a material Hereafter beyond the sky,
+and, when clouds cut him off from sight of the earth, he had a quaint,
+half-realized feeling of being in the ante-room of the Great House of
+many mansions, wherein dwelt Lenore.
+
+Yes, when flying, Colonel John Decies felt that he was nearer to the
+woman he had lost nearly a quarter of a century before. In one sense he
+may have been so, for he was a very reckless airman, and never in
+greater danger than when engaged in what he called “ground-scouring”
+among the air-current haunted, mist-haunted mountains of the Border. He
+anticipated an early Border-war and realized that here would be a great
+opportunity for a keen-sighted and iron-nerved medical airman to
+locate, if not to pick up, overlooked wounded. Here, too, would be a
+double need of such service in a country where “the women come out to
+cut up what remains”! Imagine, too, cavalry reconnaissances and bad
+casualties a score of miles from medical help …
+
+Whether it brought him nearer in any sense to Lenore de Warrenne, it
+brought him nearer to her son, on one of those hundred-mile circular
+“scours” which he practised when opportunity offered, generally
+accompanied by a like-minded officer of the R.A.M.C., to which Corps he
+had become a kind of unofficial and honorary instructor in “First- Aid
+Flying” at the Kot Ghazi flying-school, situate in the plains at the
+foot of the “Roof of the World”.
+
+“Hullo!” said Colonel John Decies to himself—“vultures! I suppose they
+might be referred to in my manual as a likely guide to the wounded.
+Good idea. ‘The flying casualty-scout should always take note of the
+conduct of vultures, noting the direction of flight if any are seen
+dropping to earth. These birds may prove invaluable guides. A
+collection of them on the ground may indicate a wounded man who may be
+alive.’ …”
+
+The Colonel was thinking of his _magnum opus_, “The Aeroplane and the
+Surgeon, in War,” wherewith he lived laborious days at Bimariabad in
+the intervals of testing, developing, and demonstrating his theories at
+Kot Ghazi.
+
+Turning his head, he shouted to Surgeon-Captain Digby-Soames, R.A.M.C.,
+his passenger and pupil:—
+
+“Vultures on the left-front or starboard bow. ‘Invariable battle-field
+sign of wounded man. Note spot if unable to land and rescue. Call up
+stretcher-party by signal—_Vide_ page 100 of Decies’ great work,’
+what?”
+
+“By Jove, it is a wounded man,” replied Captain Digby-Soames, who was
+using field-glasses. “Damned if it isn’t a Sahib, too! Out shikarring
+and sprained his ankle, I suppose. Dead, I’m afraid. Poor devil!”
+
+“Vultures aren’t _at work_, anyhow,” commented Colonel Decies. “Can’t
+land anywhere hereabouts, and I’m afraid ‘calling up the stretcher
+party’ isn’t in the game here.”
+
+“Nothing nearer than Kot Ghazi and that’s a good thirty miles,” replied
+Captain Digby-Soames as the aeroplane hovered and slowly sank.
+
+“Let’s see all we can and then find the nearest landing-place. Search
+all round for any sign of a tent or encampment. There may be a
+dak-bungalow somewhere down in the plains, too. The river-bed down on
+the right there, marks the border.”
+
+Captain Digby-Soames “scoured” earnestly with his glasses.
+
+“Camel on the port-bow, at the foot of the hills,” he announced. “What
+may be a dak-bungalow several miles away … a white square dot, anyhow …
+Camel saddled up, kneeling … His, no doubt. Wonder where his shikarri
+is—”
+
+As the aeroplane approached, the disappointed vultures departed,
+misliking the size, shape and sounds of the strange fowl. As it passed
+over him, and the Major shouted, Dam opened his eyes.
+
+This must be pretty well the end—when he heard the voice of some one he
+knew well, and saw a flying-machine just above him. He would see blocks
+of ice and cascades of cold water in a moment, doubtless, and hear
+Lucille calling.
+
+A flying-machine in Ghazistan! The voice of an old, old friend to whom
+he could not, for the moment, give a name … Why couldn’t the cowardly
+brutes of vultures begin their business, and end his? What was that
+familiar voice calling:—
+
+“Hold on a bit, we’ll soon be with you! Don’t give up. We can’t land
+just here. If we drop anything can you crawl and get it?”
+
+“He opened his eyes,” said Captain Digby-Soames, “but I doubt if he’s
+conscious. He must have come a frightful cropper. You can see there’s a
+compound fracture of the right femur from here, and one of his feet is
+fairly pointing backwards. Blood from the mouth, too. Anyhow he’s
+alive. Better shoot him if we can’t shift him——”
+
+“We’ll _get_ him all right. This is a Heaven-sent ‘problem’ and we’ll
+solve it—and I’ll quote it in my ‘manual’. Quite war-conditions. Very
+badly wounded man—inaccessible position—stretcher-parties all out of
+sight—aeroplane can’t land for any first-aid nor to pick up the
+casualty—_excellent_ problem and demonstration. That oont[28] will
+simplify it, though. Look here—I’ll drop down and land you by it, and
+then come here again and hover. You bring the beast up—you’ll be able
+to ride most of the way if you zig-zag, and lead him most of the rest.
+Then you’ll have to carry the casualty to the oont and bring him down.”
+
+ [28] Camel.
+
+
+The aeroplane swooped down and grounded gently within a hundred yards
+of the kneeling camel, who eyed it with the cold and supercilious
+disdain of his kind.
+
+“Tell you what,” said Colonel Decies, “when I get up there again, have
+a good squint and see if you think you can locate the spot for yourself
+from below. If you can, I’ll come down again and we’ll both go up on
+the oont. Bring the poor beggar down much better if one of us can hold
+him while the other drives the camel. It’s no Grand Trunk Road, by
+Jove.”
+
+“Right-O,” acquiesced Captain Digby-Soames. “If I can get a clear
+bearing to a point immediately below where you hover, I’ll lie flat on
+the ground as an affirmative signal. If there’s no good landmark I’ll
+stay perpendicular, what?”
+
+“That’s it,” said Colonel Decies, and, with a swift run and throbbing
+whirr, the aeroplane soared from the ground and rose to where, a
+thousand feet from the plain, lay the mangled “problem”. As it came to
+a halt and hovered[29] (like a gigantic dragon-fly poised on its
+invisibly-rapid wings above a pool), the junior officer’s practised eye
+noted a practicable gully that debouched on a level with, and not far
+from, the ledge over which the aeroplane hung, and that a stunted
+thorn-tree stood below the shelf and two large cactus bushes on its
+immediate left. Having taken careful note of other landmarks and
+glanced at the sun, he lay on the ground at full length for a minute
+and then arose and approached the camel, who greeted him with a
+bubbling snarl. On its great double saddle were a gun-cover and a long
+cane, while from it dangled a haversack, camera, cartridge-case,
+satchel, canvas water-bag, and a cord-net holdall of odds and ends.
+
+ [29] By means of its “Decies Horizontal Screw Stabilizer,” which
+ enabled it to “hover” with only a very slight rise and fall.
+
+
+Obviously the “problem’s” shikar-camel. Apparently he was out without
+any shikarri, orderly, or servant—a foolish thing to do when stalking
+in country in which a sprained ankle is more than a possibility, and a
+long-range bullet in the back a probability anywhere on that side of
+the border.
+
+The aeroplane returned to earth and grounded near by. Stopping the
+engine Colonel Decies climbed out and swung himself into the rear seat
+of the camel saddle. Captain Digby-Soames sprang into the front one and
+the camel lurched to its feet, and was driven to the mouth of the gully
+which the Captain had noted as running up to the scene of the tragedy.
+
+To and fro, in and out of the gully, winding, zig-zagging, often
+travelling a hundred yards to make a dozen, the sure-footed and
+well-trained beast made its way upward.
+
+“Coming down will be joy,” observed the Colonel. “I’d sooner be on a
+broken aeroplane in a cyclone.”
+
+“Better hop off here, I should think,” said Captain Digby-Soames anon.
+“We can lead him a good way yet, though. Case of divided we stand,
+united we fall. Let him fall by himself if he wants to,” and at the
+next reasonably level spot the camel was made to kneel, that his riders
+might descend. Slithering down from a standing camel is not a sport to
+practise on a steep hillside, if indulged in at all.
+
+Another winding, scrambling climb and the head of the nullah was
+reached.
+
+“Have to get the beast kneeling when we climb down to him with the
+casualty,” opined the Colonel. “Better get him down here, I think.
+Doesn’t seem any decent place farther on,” and the camel was brought to
+an anchor and left to his own devices.
+
+“By Jove, the poor beggar _has_ come a purler,” said Captain
+Digby-Soames, as the two bent over the apparently unconscious man.
+
+“Ever seen him at Kot Ghazi or Bimariabad?” inquired Colonel Decies.
+
+“No,” said the Captain, “never seen him anywhere. Why—have you?”
+
+“Certainly seen him somewhere—trying to remember where. I thought
+perhaps it might have been at the flying-school or at one of the
+messes. Can’t place him at all, but I’ll swear I’ve met him.”
+
+“Manoeuvres, perhaps,” suggested the other, “or ’board ship.”
+
+“Extraordinary thing is that I feel I _ought_ to know him well.
+Something most familiar about the face. I’m afraid it’s a bit too late
+to—Broken ribs—fractured thigh—broken ankles—broken arm—perforated
+lungs—not much good trying to get him down, I’m afraid. He might linger
+for days, though, if we decided to stand by, up here. A really
+first-class problem for solution—we’re in luck,” mused Colonel Decies,
+making his rapid and skilful examination. “Yes, we must get him down,
+of course—after a bit of splinting.”
+
+“And then the real ‘problem’ will commence, I suppose,” observed
+Captain Digby-Soames. “You couldn’t put him into my seat and fly him to
+Kot Ghazi while I dossed down with the camel and waited for you to come
+for me. And it wouldn’t do to camel him to that building which looks
+like a dak-bungalow.”
+
+“No. I think you’ll have to stand by while I fly to Kot Ghazi and bring
+the necessary things for a temporary job, and then return and try to
+guide an ambulance waggon here. Oh, for an aeroplane-ambulance! This
+job brings it home to you pretty clearly, doesn’t it? Or I might first
+go and have a look at the alleged dak-bungalow and see if we could
+possibly run him over there on a charpoy[30] or an improvised
+camel-stretcher. It’ll be a ghastly job getting down. I don’t know that
+you hadn’t better stick to him up here while I go straight back for
+proper splints and bandages and so forth, and bring another chap too …
+Where the devil have I seen him before? I shall forget my own name
+next.”
+
+ [30] Native bed-frame.
+
+
+The Colonel pondered a moment.
+
+“Look here,” he decided. “This case is urgent enough to justify a risky
+experiment. He’s been here a devil of a time and if he’s not in a
+_pukka_ hospital within the next few hours it’s all up with him. He’s
+going to have the distinction of being the first casualty removed to
+hospital by flying-machine. I’ll tie him on somewhere. We’ll splint him
+up as well as possible, and then make him into a blooming cocoon with
+the cord, and whisk him away.”
+
+“Pity we haven’t a few planks,” observed Captain Digby-Soames. “We
+could make one big splint of his whole body and sling him, planks and
+all, underneath the aeroplane.”
+
+“Well, you start splinting that right leg on to the left and stiffen
+the knees with something (you’ll probably be able to get a decent stick
+or two off that small tree), and shove the arm inside his leather
+legging. We’ve two pairs of putties you can bandage with, and there are
+_puggries_ on all three _topis_. Probably his gun’s somewhere about,
+for another leg-splint, too. I’ll get down to the machine for the cord
+and then I’ll skirmish around for anything in the nature of poles or
+planks. I can get over to that hut and back before you’ve done. It’ll
+be the camelling that’ll kill him.”
+
+At the distant building the Colonel found an abandoned broken-wheeled
+bullock-cart, from which he looted the bottom-boards, which were planks
+six feet long, laid upon, but not fastened to, the framework of the
+body of the cart. From the compound of the place (an ancient and
+rarely-visited dak-bungalow, probably the most outlying and deserted in
+India) he procured a bamboo pole that had once supported a lamp, the
+long leg-rests of an old chair, and two or three sticks, more or less
+serviceable for his purpose.
+
+Returning to the camel, he ascended to where his passenger and pupil
+awaited him. Over his shoulder he bore the planks, pole and sticks that
+the contemptuous but invaluable camel had borne to a point a few yards
+below the scene of the tragedy.
+
+“Good egg,” observed the younger man. “We’ll do him up in those like a
+mummy.”
+
+“Yes,” returned the Colonel, “then carry him to the oont and bind him
+along one side of the saddle, and then lead the beast down. Easily
+sling him on to the machine, and there we are. Lucky we’ve got the coil
+of cord. Fine demonstration for the Kot Ghazi fellers! Show that the
+thing can be done, even without the proper kind of ’plane and surgical
+outfit. What luck we spotted him—or that he fell just in our return
+track!”
+
+“Doubtless he was born to that end,” observed the Captain, who was apt
+to get a little peevish when hungry and tired.
+
+And when the Army Aeroplane _Hawk_ returned from its “ground-scouring
+for casualties” trip, lo, it bore, beneath and beside the pilot and
+passenger, a real casualty slung in a kind of crude coffin-cradle of
+planks and poles, a casualty in whose recovery the Colonel took the
+very deepest interest, for was he not a heaven-sent case, born to the
+end that he might be smashed to demonstrate the Colonel’s theories? But
+no credit was given to the vultures, without whom the “casualty” would
+never have been found.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII.
+FOUND.
+
+
+Colonel John Decies, I.M.S. (retired), visiting the Kot Ghazi Station
+Hospital, whereof his friend and pupil, Captain Digby-Soames, was
+Commandant, scanned the temperature chart of the unknown, the
+desperately injured “case,” retrieved by his beloved flying-machine,
+who, judging by his utterances in delirium, appeared to be even worse
+damaged in spirit than he was in body.
+
+“Very high again last night,” he observed to Miss Norah O’Neill of the
+Queen Alexandra Military Nursing Sisterhood.
+
+“Yes, and very violent,” replied Miss O’Neill. “I had to call two
+orderlies and they could hardly hold him. He appeared to think he was
+fighting a huge snake or fleeing from one. He also repeatedly screamed:
+‘It is under my foot! It is moving, moving, moving _out_.’”
+
+“_Got it_, by God!” cried the Colonel, suddenly smiting his forehead
+with violence. “_Of course!_ Fool! Fool that I am! Merciful God in
+Heaven—_it’s her boy_—and _I_ have saved him! _Her boy!_ And I’ve been
+cudgelling my failing addled brains for months, wondering where I had
+seen his face before. He’s my godson, Sister, and I haven’t set eyes on
+him for the last—nearly twenty years!”
+
+Miss Norah O’Neill had never before seen an excited doctor in a
+hospital ward, but she now beheld one nearly beside himself with
+excitement, joy, surprise, and incredulity. (It is sad to have to
+relate that she also heard one murmuring over and over again to
+himself, “Well, I am damned”.)
+
+At last Colonel John Decies announced that the world was a tiny, small
+place and a very rum one, that it was just like _The Hawk_ to be the
+means of saving _her_ boy of all people, and then took the patient’s
+hand in his, and sat studying his face, in wondering, pondering
+silence.
+
+To Miss Norah O’Neill this seemed extraordinarily powerful affection
+for a mere _godson_, and one lost to sight for twenty years at that.
+Yet Colonel Decies was a bachelor and, no, the patient certainly
+resembled him in no way whatsoever. The tiny new-born germ of a romance
+died at once in Miss O’Neill’s romantic heart—and yet, had she but
+known, here was a romance such as her soul loved above all things—the
+son of the adored dead mistress discovered _in extremis_, and saved, by
+the devout platonic lover, the life-long lover, and revealed to him by
+the utterance of the pre-natally learnt words of the dead woman
+herself!
+
+Yes—how many times through those awful days had Decies heard that
+heart-rending cry! How cruelly the words had tortured him! And here,
+they were repeated twenty years on—for the identification of the son by
+the friend!
+
+That afternoon Colonel Decies dispatched a cablegram addressed to a
+Miss Gavestone, Monksmead, Southshire, England, and containing the
+words, “Have found him, Kot Ghazi, bad accident, doing well, Decies,”
+and by the next mail Lucille, with Aunt Yvette and a maid, left Port
+Said, having travelled overland to Brindisi and taken passage to Egypt
+by the _Osiris_ to overtake the liner that had left Tilbury several
+days before the cable reached Monksmead. And in Lucille’s largest trunk
+was an article the like of which is rarely to be found in the baggage
+of a young lady—nothing more nor less than an ancient rapier of Italian
+pattern!…
+
+To Lucille, who knew her lover so well, it seemed that the sight and
+feel of the worshipped Sword of his Ancestors must bring him comfort,
+self-respect, memories, thoughts of the joint youth and happiness of
+himself and her.
+
+She knew what the Sword had been to him, how he had felt a different
+person when he held its inspiring hilt, how it had moved him to the
+telling of his wondrous dream and stories of its stirring past, how he
+had revered and loved it …surely it must do him good to have it? If he
+were stretched upon a bed of sickness, and it were hung where he could
+see it, it _must_ help him. It would bring diversion of thought, cheer
+him, suggest bright memories—perhaps give him brave dreams that would
+usurp the place of bad ones.
+
+If he were well or convalescent it might be even more needful as a
+tonic to self-respect, a reminder of high tradition, a message from
+dead sires. Yes, surely it must do him good where she could not. If
+there were any really insurmountable obstacle to their—their —union—the
+Sword could still be with him always, and say unceasingly: “Do not be
+world-beaten, son of the de Warrennes and Stukeleys. Do not despair. Do
+not be fate-conquered. Fight! Fight! Look upon me not as merely the
+symbol of struggle but as the actual Sword of your actual Fathers.
+Fight Fate! Die fighting—but do not live defeated”—but of course her
+hero Dam needed no such exhortations. Still—the Sword must be a
+comfort, a pleasure, a hope, an inspiration, a symbol. When she brought
+it him he would understand. Swords were to sever, but _the_ Sword
+should be a link—a visible bond between them, and between them again
+and their common past.
+
+To her fellow-passengers Lucille was a puzzling enigma. What could be
+the story of the beautiful, and obviously wealthy, girl with the
+anxious, preoccupied look, whose thoughts were always far away, who
+took no interest in the pursuits and pastimes usual to her sex and age
+on a long sea voyage; who gave no glance at the wares of local vendors
+that came aboard at Port Said and Aden; who occupied her leisure with
+no book, no writing, no conversation, no deck-games; and who constantly
+consulted her watch as though impatient of the slow flight of time or
+the slow progress of the ship?
+
+Many leading questions were put to Auntie Yvette, but, dearly as she
+would have liked to talk about her charge’s romantic trouble, her
+tongue was tied and she dreaded to let slip any information that might
+possibly lead to a train of thought connecting Lucille, Dam, and the
+old half-forgotten scandal of the outcast from Monksmead and Sandhurst.
+If her beloved nephew foolishly chose to hide his head in shame when
+there was no shame, it was not for those who loved him best to say
+anything which might possibly lead to his discovery and identification.
+
+While cordially polite to all men (including women) Lucille was found
+to be surrounded by an impenetrable wall of what was either glass or
+ice according to the nature of the investigator. Those who would fain
+extend relationship beyond that of merest ephemeral ship-board
+acquaintanceship (and the inevitabilities of close, though temporary,
+daily contact), while admitting that her manner and manners were
+beautiful, had to admit also that she was an extremely difficult young
+person “to get to know”. A gilt-edged, bumptious young subalternknut,
+who commenced the voyage apoplectically full of self-admiration,
+self-confidence, and admiring wonder at his enormous attractiveness,
+importance, and value, finished the same in a ludicrously deflated
+condition—and a quiet civilian, to whom the cub had been shamefully
+insolent, was moved to present him with a little poem of his
+composition commencing “There was a puppy caught a wasp,” which gave
+him the transient though salutary gift of sight of himself as certain
+others saw him….
+
+Even the Great Mrs. “Justice” Spywell (her husband was a wee meek
+joint-sessions-judge) was foiled in her diligent endeavours, and those
+who know the Great Mrs. “Justice” Spywell will appreciate the defensive
+abilities of Lucille. To those poor souls, throughout the world, who
+stand lorn and cold without the charmed and charming circle of
+Anglo-Indiandom, it may be explained that the Great Mrs. “Justice”
+Spywell was far too Great to be hampered by silly scruples of
+diffidence when on the track of information concerning the private
+affairs of lesser folk—which is to say other folk.
+
+When travelling abroad she is THE Judge’s Wife; when staying at Hill
+Stations she is The JUDGE’S Wife, and when adorning her proper sphere,
+her native heath of Chota Pagalabad, she is The Judge’s WIFE. As she is
+the Senior Lady of all Chota Pagalabad she, of course, always (like
+Mary) Goes In First at the solemn and superior dinner parties of that
+important place, and is feared, flattered, and fawned upon by the other
+ladies of the station, since she can socially put down the mighty from
+their seat and exalt the humble and meek and them of low degree (though
+she would not be likely to touch the last-named with a pair of tongs,
+socially speaking, of course). And yet, such is this queer world, the
+said lesser ladies of the famous mofussil station of Chota Pagalabad
+are, among themselves, agreed _nemine contradicente_ that the Great
+Mrs. “Justice” Spywell is a vulgar old frump (“country-bred to say the
+least of it”), and call her The First Seven Sister. This curious and
+unsyntactically expressed epithet alludes to the fact that she and six
+other “ladies” of like instincts meet daily for tea and scandal at the
+Gymkhana and, for three solid hours, pull to pieces the reputations of
+all and sundry their acquaintances, reminding the amused on-looker, by
+their voices, manner, and appearance, of those strange birds the _Sat
+Bai_ or Seven Sisters, who in gangs of seven make day hideous in their
+neighbourhood …
+
+“Are you going to India to be married, my dear child?” she asked
+Lucille, before she knew her name.
+
+“I really don’t know,” replied Lucille.
+
+“You are not actually engaged, then?”
+
+“I really don’t know.”
+
+“Oh, of course, if you’d rather keep your own counsel, pray do so,”
+snapped the Great Lady, bridling.
+
+“Yes,” replied Lucille, and Mrs. Spywell informed her circle of
+stereotypes that Lucille was a stupid chit without a word to say for
+herself, and an artful designing hussy who was probably an adventuress
+of the “fishing-fleet”.
+
+To Auntie Yvette it appeared matter of marvel that earth and sky and
+sea were much as when she last passed that way. In quarter of a century
+or so there appeared to be but little change in the Egyptian and
+Arabian deserts, in the mountains of the African and Arabian coasts, of
+the Gulf of Suez, in the contours of the islands of the Red Sea, and of
+Aden, whilst, in mid-ocean, there was absolutely no observable
+difference between then and now. Wonderful indeed!
+
+This theme, that of what was going on at Monksmead, and that of what to
+do when Dam was recaptured, formed the bulk of her conversation with
+her young companion.
+
+“What will you _do_, dear, when we _have_ found the poor darling boy?”
+she would ask.
+
+“Take him by the ear to the nearest church and marry him,” Lucille
+would reply; or—“Stick to him like a leech for evermore, Auntie”;
+or—“Marry him when he isn’t looking, or while he’s asleep, if he’s
+ill—or by the scruff of his neck if he’s well….”
+
+(What a pity the Great Mrs. “Justice” Spywell could not hear these
+terrible and unmaidenly sentiments! An adventuress of the
+“fishing-fleet” in very truth!)
+
+And with reproving smile the gentle spinster would reply:—
+
+“My _dear!_ Suppose anyone overheard you, what _would_ they think?”
+Whereunto the naughty girl would answer:—
+
+“The truth, Auntie—that I’m going to pursue some poor young man to his
+doom. If Dam were a leper in the gutter, begging his bread, I would
+marry him in spite of himself—or share the gutter and bread
+in—er—guilty splendour. If he were a criminal in jail I would sit on
+the doorstep till he came out, and do the same dreadful thing. I’m just
+going to marry Dam at the first possible moment—like the Wild West
+‘shoot on sight’ idea. I’m going to seize him and marry him and take
+care of him for the rest of his life. If he never had another grief,
+ache, or pain in the whole of his life, he must have had more than ten
+times his share already. Anyhow whether he’ll marry me or whether he
+won’t—in his stupid quixotic ideas of his ‘fitness’ to do so—I’m never
+going to part from him again.”
+
+And Auntie Yvette would endeavour to be less shocked than a
+right-minded spinster aunt should be at such wild un-Early-Victorian
+sentiments.
+
+
+Come, this was a better sort of dream! This was better than dreaming of
+prison-cells, lunatic asylums, tortures by the Snake, lying smashed on
+rocks, being eaten alive by vultures, wandering for aeons in red- hot
+waterless deserts, and other horrors. However illusory and tantalizing,
+this was at least a glorious dream, a delirium to welcome, a wondrous
+change indeed—to seem to be holding the hand of Lucille while she gazed
+into his eyes and, from time to time, pressed her lips to his forehead.
+A good job most of the bandages were gone or she could hardly have done
+that, even in a dream. And how wondrously _real!_ Her hand felt quite
+solid, there were tears trickling down her cheeks, tears that sometimes
+dropped on to his own hand with an incredible effect of actuality. It
+was even more vivid than his Sword-dream which was always so
+extraordinarily realistic and clear. And there, yes, by Jove, was dear
+old Auntie Yvette, smiling and weeping simultaneously. Such a dream was
+the next best thing to reality—save that it brought home to one too
+vividly what one had lost. Pain of that kind was nevertheless a
+magnificent change from the other ghastly nightmares, of the wholly
+maleficent kind. This was a kindly, helpful pain….It is so rare to see
+the faces of our best-beloved in dreams … Sleep was going to be
+something other than a procession of hideous nightmares then …
+
+“I believe he knew me, Auntie,” whispered Lucille. “Oh, when will
+Colonel Decies come back. I want him to be here when he opens his eyes
+again. He would know at a glance whether he were in his right mind and
+knew me.”
+
+“I am certain he did, dear,” replied Auntie Yvette. “I am positive he
+smiled at you, and I believe he knew me too.”
+
+“I _won’t_ believe I have found him too late. It _couldn’t_ be true,”
+wept the girl, overstrained and unstrung by long vigils, heart-sick
+with hope deferred, as she turned to her companion.
+
+“Lucille! Is it real?” came a feeble whisper from the bed—and Lucille,
+in the next moments, wondered if it be true that joy cannot kill …
+
+
+A few weeks later, Damocles de Warrenne sat on the verandah of the
+Grand Imperial Hotel Royal of Kot Ghazi, which has five rooms and five
+million cockroaches, and stared blankly into the moonlit compound,
+beyond which stretched the bare rocky plain that was bounded on the
+north and west by mighty mountains, on the east by a mighty river, and
+on the south by the more mighty ocean, many hundreds of miles away.
+
+He had just parted from Auntie Yvette and Lucille—Lucille whose last
+words as she turned to go to her room had been:—
+
+“Now, understand, Dammy, what you want now is a sea-voyage, a
+sea-voyage to England and Monksmead. When we have got you absolutely
+right, Mr. Wyllis shall show you as a specimen of the Perfect Man in
+Harley Street—and _then_, Dammy …” and his burning kisses had closed
+her mouth.
+
+Was he scoundrel enough to do it? Had he deteriorated to such a depth
+of villainy? Could he let that noblest and finest flower of womanhood
+marry a—dangerous lunatic, a homicidal maniac who had nearly killed the
+man who proved to be almost his greatest benefactor? Could he? Would
+the noble-hearted Decies frankly say that he was normal and had a right
+to marry? He would not, and no living man was better qualified to give
+an opinion on the case of Damocles de Warrenne than the man who was a
+foster-father to him in childhood, and who brought him into the world
+in such tragic circumstances. Decies had loved his mother, Lenore de
+Warrenne. Would he have married _her_ in such circumstances? Would he
+have lived under the same roof with her permanently—knowing how
+overpowering would be the temptation to give way and marry her, knowing
+how scandal would inevitably arise? A thousand times No. Was there _no_
+gentlemanliness left in Damocles de Warrenne that he should even
+contemplate the doing of a deed at which his old comrades-in-arms,
+Bear, Burke, Jones, Little, Goate, Nemo and Peerson would stand aghast,
+would be ready to kick him out of a decent barrack-room—and the poor
+demented creature called for a “boy,” and ordered him to send, at once,
+for one Abdul Ghani who would, as usual, be found sleeping beside his
+camels in the market-place …
+
+Anon the gentle Abdul came, received certain instructions, and departed
+smiling till his great yellow fangs gleamed in the moonlight beneath
+the bristling moustache, cut back from the lips as that of a righteous
+Mussulman _shikarri_ and _oont-wallah_ should be.
+
+Damocles de Warrenne’s brain became active with plots and plans for
+escape—escape from himself and the temptation which he must avoid by
+flight, since he felt he could not conquer it in fight.
+
+He must disappear. He must die—die in such a way that Lucille would
+never suppose he had committed suicide. It was the only way to save
+himself from so awful a crime and to save her from himself.
+
+He would start just before dawn on Abdul’s shikar camel, be well away
+from Kot Ghazi by daylight and reach the old deserted dak-bungalow,
+that no one ever used, by evening. There Abdul would come to him with
+his _bhoja-oont_[31] bringing the usual supplies, and on receipt of
+them he would dismiss Abdul altogether and disappear again into the
+desert, this time for good. Criminal lunatics and homicidal maniacs are
+better dead, especially when they are tempted beyond their strength to
+marry innocent, beautiful girls who do not understand the position.
+
+ [31] Baggage-camel.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV.
+THE SNAKE AND THE SWORD.
+
+
+The dak-bungalow again at last! But how terribly dreary, depressing,
+and horrible it looked _now_—the hut that had once seemed a kind of
+heaven on earth to the starving wanderer. Then, Lucille was thousands
+of miles away (geographically, and millions of miles away in
+imagination). Now, she was but thirty miles away—and it was almost more
+than human endurance could bear…. Should he turn back even now, ride
+straight to Kot Ghazi, fall at her feet and say: “I can struggle no
+longer. Come back to Monksmead—and let what will be, be. I have no more
+courage.”
+
+And go mad, one day, and kill her? Keep sane, and sully her fair name?
+On to the hovel. Rest for the night, and, at dawn, strike into the
+desert and there let what will be, be.
+
+Making the camel kneel, Damocles de Warrenne removed its saddle,
+fastened its rein-cord tightly to a post, fed it, and then detached the
+saddle-bags that hung flatly on either side of the saddle frame, as
+well as a patent-leather sword-cover which contained a sword of very
+different pattern from that for which it had been made.
+
+Entering the hut, of which the doors and windows were bolted on the
+outside, he flung open the shutters of the glassless windows, lit a
+candle, and prepared to eat a frugal meal. From the saddlebags he took
+bread, eggs, chocolate, sardines, biscuits and apples. With a mixture
+of permanganate of potash, tea and cold water from the well, if the
+puddle at the bottom of a deep hole could be so termed, he made a drink
+that, while drinkable by one who has known worse, was unlikely to cause
+an attack upon an enfeebled constitution, of cholera, enteric,
+dysentery or any other of India’s specialities. What would he not have
+given for a clean whisky-and-soda in the place of the nauseating
+muck—but what should be the end of a man who, in his position, turned
+to _alcohol_ for help and comfort? “The last state of that man …”
+
+After striking a judicious balance between what he should eat for
+dinner and what he should reserve for breakfast, he fell to, ate
+sparingly, lit his pipe, and gazed around the wretched room, of which
+the walls were blue-washed with a most offensive shade of blue, the
+bare floor was frankly dry mud and dust, the roof was bare cob-webbed
+thatch and rafter, and the furniture a rickety table, a
+dangerous-looking cane-bottomed settee and a leg-rest arm-chair from
+which some one had removed the leg-rests. Had some scoundrelly
+_oont-wallah_ pinched them for fuel? (No, Damocles, an ex-Colonel of
+the Indian Medical Service “pinched” them for splints.) A most
+depressing human habitation even for the most cheerful and care-free of
+souls, a terrible place for a man in a dangerous mental state of
+unstable equilibrium and cruel agony…. Only thirty miles away—and a
+camel at the door. _Lucille_ still within a night’s ride. Lucille and
+absolute joy…. The desert and certain death—a death of which she must
+be assured, that in time she might marry Ormonde Delorme or some such
+sound, fine man. Abdul must find his body—and it must be the body not
+of an obvious suicide, but of a man who, lost in the desert, had
+evidently travelled in circles, trying to find his way to the hut he
+had left, on a shooting expedition. Yes—he knew all about travelling in
+circles—and what he had done in ignorance (as well as in agony and
+horror), he would now do intentionally and with grim purpose. Hard on
+the poor camel!… Perhaps he could manage so that it was set free in
+time to find its way back somehow. It would if it were loosed within
+smell of water…. He must die fairly and squarely of hunger and
+thirst—no blowing out of brains or throat-cutting, no trace of suicide;
+just lost, poor chap, and no more to be said…. Death of _thirst_—in
+that awful desert—_again_—No! God in Heaven he had faced the actual
+pangs of it once, and escaped—he could _not_ face it again—he wasn’t
+strong enough … and the unhappy man sprang to his feet to rush from the
+room and saddle-up the camel for—Life and Lucille—and then his eye fell
+on the Sword, the Sword of his Fathers, brought to him by Lucille, who
+had said, “Have it with you always, Dearest. It can _talk_ to you, as
+even I can not….”
+
+He sat down and drew it from the incongruous modern case and from its
+scabbard. Ha! What did it say but “_Honour_!” What was its message but
+“Do the right thing. Death is nothing—Honour is everything. Be worthy
+of your Name, your Traditions, your Ancestors—”
+
+He would die.
+
+Let him die that Lucille’s honour, Lucille’s happiness, Lucille’s
+welfare, might live—and he kissed the hilt of the Sword as he had so
+often done in childhood. Having removed boots, leggings and socks, he
+lay down on the settee—innocent of bedding and pillows, pulled over him
+the coat that had been rolled and strapped trooper-fashion behind the
+saddle and fell asleep….
+
+And dreamed that he was shut naked in a tiny cell with a gigantic
+python upon whose yard-long fangs he was about to be impaled and, as
+usual, awoke trembling and bathed in perspiration, with dry mouth and
+throbbing head, sickness, and tingling extremities.
+
+The wind had got up and had blown out the candle which should have
+lasted till dawn!…
+
+As he lay shaking, terrified (uncertain as to whether he were a soul in
+torment or a human being still alive), and debating as to whether he
+could get off the couch, relight the candle, and close the windward
+window, he heard a sound that caused his heart to miss a beat and his
+hair to rise on end. A strange, dry rustle merged in the sound of paper
+being dragged across the floor, and he knew that he _was_ shut in with
+a snake, shut up in a _blue room_, cut off from the matches on the
+table, and doomed to lie and await the Death he dreaded more than ten
+thousand others—or, going mad, to rush upon that Death.
+
+_He was shut in with the SNAKE_. At last it had come for him in its own
+concrete form and had him bound and gagged by fascination and fear—in
+the Dark, the awful cruel Dark. No more mere myrmidons. _The SNAKE
+ITSELF_.
+
+He tried to scream and could not. He tried to strike out at an
+imaginary serpent-head, huge as an elephant, that reared itself above
+him—and could not.
+
+He could not even draw his bare foot in under the overcoat. And
+steadily the paper dragged across the floor … Was it approaching? Was
+it progressing round and round by the walls? Would the Snake find the
+bed and climb on to it? Would it coil round his throat and gaze
+with-luminescent eyes into his, and torture him thus for hours ere
+thrusting its fangs into his brain? Would it coil up and sleep upon his
+body for hours before doing so, knowing that he could not move? Here
+were his Snake-Dreams realized, and in the actual flesh he lay awake
+and conscious, and could neither move nor cry aloud!
+
+In the Dark he lay bound and gagged, in a blue-walled room, and the
+Snake enveloped him with its Presence, and he could in no wise save
+himself.
+
+Oh, God, why let a sentient creature suffer thus? He himself would have
+shot any human being guilty of inflicting a tithe of the agony on a
+pariah dog. There could _be_ no God!… and then the beams of the rising
+moon fell upon the blade of the Sword, making it shine like a lamp,
+and, with a roar as of a charging lion, Damocles de Warrenne sprang
+from the bed, seized it by the hilt, and was aware, without a tremor,
+of a cobra that reared itself before him in the moonlight, swaying in
+the Dance of Death.
+
+With a mere flick of the sword he laid the reptile twitching on the
+floor—and for a few minutes was madder with Joy than ever in his life
+he had been with Fear.
+
+_For Fear was gone. The World of Woe had fallen from his shoulders. The
+Snake was to him but a wretched reptile whose head he would crush ere
+it bruised his heel. He was sane—he was safe—he was a Man again, and
+ere many days were past he would be the husband of Lucille and the
+master of Monksmead._
+
+“Oh, God forgive me for a blind, rebellious worm,” he prayed. “Forgive
+me, and strike not this cup from my lips. You would not punish the
+blasphemy of a madman? I _cannot_ pray in ordered forms, but I beg
+forgiveness for my hasty cry ‘There is on God’ …” and then pressed the
+Sword to his lips—the Sword that, under God, had overthrown the Snake
+for ever, saved his reason—and given him Lucille….
+
+With the Sword in his hand he lay on the bed once more, and slept the
+sweet, dreamless sleep of a healthy, happy child. In the morning, when
+he awoke, his eyes fell upon the still living cobra that appeared to
+watch him with the hate of a baffled Lucifer as it lay broken-backed,
+impotent, and full of vicious fury.
+
+Rising, Damocles de Warrenne stepped across to the reptile, and, with a
+quick snatch, seized it behind the head and raised it from the ground.
+Staring into its baleful, evil-looking eyes, he remarked:—
+
+“Well, mine ancient enemy and almost victor! I’m not of a particularly
+vengeful disposition, but I fancy a few of your brethren have got to
+die before I leave India. Why, you poor wretched worm, you miserable
+maggot,—to think what I have _suffered_” and he angrily dashed it on
+the ground and spurned it with his foot.
+
+“Easy to do that when your back’s broken, you think?” he continued.
+“Right-O, my lad, wait till I find your mate, and we’ll see. Hand to
+hand, no weapons—my quickness and strength against his quickness and
+venom. Snakes! The paltriest things that crawl”—and he kicked the
+reptile into a corner and burst into song as he busied himself about
+preparations for washing, food for himself and the camel, and—_return_.
+After enough food to hearten them both for the thirty-mile journey he
+would go as fast as camel’s legs could move to Lucille and the
+announcement that would send her frantic with joy. He would take her in
+his arms—then they would waltz for an hour to keep themselves from
+behaving like lunatics…. Fear was dead! The SNAKE was dead—killed by
+the SWORD, the Sword that Lucille had brought, and thereby saved him!
+Madness was dead! Joy, Peace, Sanity, Health were come—the
+wedding-bells were trembling to burst into peals of joyous
+announcement.
+
+He would, for Lucille’s sake and the names of de Warrenne and Stukeley,
+show whether he was a Coward or a snake-fearing Lunatic, an epileptic,
+an unfit-to-marry monstrosity and freak. He would show the Harley
+Street physicians how much he feared snakes, and would challenge them
+to an undertaking which would give them food for thought before
+acceptance…. Where were his boots? He must fly to Lucille!…
+
+And then the galloping hoofs of a horse were heard thudding towards the
+hut, and, hastening to the door, he saw Lucille whipping a lathered
+horse.
+
+Rushing towards her he shouted:—
+
+“Will you marry me to-morrow? Will you marry me to-day, Lucille?” and,
+as she pulled her horse in, he darted back into the room and reappeared
+twirling a twitching cobra by its tail, and laughing uproariously….
+
+Lucille appeared to be about to faint as he dropped it, seized her in
+his arms, and said:—
+
+_“Darling, I am cured! I have not the slightest fear of snakes. The
+Sword has saved me. I am a Man again.”_
+
+He told her all as she sat laughing and sobbing for joy and the dying
+snake lay at their feet.
+
+In her heart of hearts Lucille determined that the wedding should take
+place immediately, so that if this were but a temporary respite, the
+result of the flash of daring inspired by the Sword, she would have the
+right to care for him for the rest of his life … She would——
+
+“Look!” she suddenly shrieked, and pointed to where, in the doorway,
+cutting them off from escape, was the mate of the cobra that lay
+mangled before them. Had the injured reptile in some way called its
+mate—or were they regular inhabitants of this deserted hut?
+
+It was Lucille’s first experience of cobras and she shuddered to see
+the second—evidently comprehending, aggressive, vengeful—would it
+spring from there … and the Sword lay on the bed, out of reach.
+
+Dam arose with a laugh, picked up his heavy boot as he did so, and, all
+in one swift movement, hurled it at the half-coiled swaying creature,
+with the true aim of the first-class cricketer and trained athlete;
+then, following his boot with a leap, he snatched at the tail of the
+coiling, thrashing reptile and “cracked” the snake as a carter cracks a
+whip—whereafter it dangled limp and dead from his hand! Lucille
+shrieked, paled, and sprang towards him.
+
+“Oh, Dam!” she cried, “how _could_ you!”
+
+“Pooh, Kiddy,” he replied. “I’m going to invite the Harley Street cove
+to have a match at that—and I’m going to give a little exhibition of it
+on the lawn at Monksmead—to all the good folk who witnessed my
+disgrace…. What’s a snake after all? It’s _my_ turn now;” and Lucille’s
+heart was at rest and very thankful. This was not a temporary “cure”.
+Oh, thank God for her inspiration anent the Sword … Thank God, thank
+God!…
+
+
+
+
+SEVEN YEARS AFTER.
+
+
+A beautiful woman, whose face is that of one whose soul is full of
+peace and joy, passes up the great staircase of the stately mansion of
+Monksmead. Slowly, because her hand holds that of a chubby youth of
+five, a picture of sturdy health, strength and happiness. They pass
+beneath an ancient Sword and the boy wheels to the right, stiffens
+himself, brings his heels together, and raises a fat little hand to his
+forehead in solemn salute. The journey is continued without remark
+until they reach the day nursery, a big, bright room of which a
+striking feature is the mural decoration in a conventional pattern of
+entwined serpents, the number of brilliant pictures of snakes, framed
+and hung upon the walls, and two glass cases, the one containing a pair
+of stuffed cobras and the other a finely-mounted specimen of a
+boa-constrictor (which had once been the pride of the heart of a
+Folkestone taxidermist).
+
+“Go away, Mitthis Beaton,” says the small boy to a white-haired but
+fresh-looking and comely old dame; “I’se not going to bed till Mummy
+hath tolded me about ve bwacelet again.”
+
+“But I’ve told you a _thousand_ times, Dammykins,” says the lady.
+
+“Well, now tell me ten hundred times,” replies the young man coolly,
+and attempts to draw from the lady’s wrist a huge and remarkable
+bracelet.
+
+This uncommon ornament consists of a great ruby-eyed gold snake which
+coils around the lady’s arm and which is pierced through every coil by
+a platinum, diamond-hilted sword, an exact model of the Sword which
+hangs on the staircase.
+
+“You tell _me_, Sonny, for a change,” suggests the lady.
+
+“Velly well,” replies the boy…. “Vere was once a Daddy and a hobberell
+gweat Thnake always bovvered him and followed him about and wouldn’t
+let him gone to thleep and made him be ill like he had eaten too much
+sweets, and the doctor came and gave him lotths of meddisnin. Then he
+had to wun away from the Thnake, but it wunned after him, and it wath
+jutht going to kill him when Mummy bwoughted the Thword and Daddy
+killed the Thnake all dead. And I am going to have the Thword when I
+gwow up, but vere aren’t any more bad Thnakes. They is all good now and
+Daddy likes vem and I likes vem. Amen.”
+
+“_I_ never said _Amen_, when I told you the story, Sonny,” remarks the
+lady.
+
+“Well you can, now I have tolded you it,” permits her son. “It means
+_bus_[32]—all finished. Mitthis Beaton thaid tho. And when I am as big
+as Daddy I’m going to be the Generwal of the Queenth Gweyth and thay
+‘_Charge!_’ and wear the Thword.”
+
+Lucille de Warrenne here smothers conversation in the manner common to
+worshipping mothers whose prodigies make remarks indicative of
+marvellous precocity, in fact absolutely unique intelligence.
+
+ [32] Hindustani—enough, finished, complete.
+
+
+
+
+EPILOGUE.
+
+
+Is it well, O my Soul, is it well?
+
+        In silent aisles of sombre tone
+        Where phantoms roam, thou dwell’st apart
+        In drear alone.
+        Where serpents coil and night-birds dart
+        Thou liest prone, O Heart, my Heart,
+        In dread unknown.
+        O Soul of Night, surpassing fair,
+        Guide this poor spirit through the air,
+        And thus atone …
+
+This sad Soul, searching for the light….
+
+O Soul of Night, enstarréd bright,
+        Shine over all.
+        Enforce thy right to fend for us
+        Extend thy power to fight for us
+        Raise thou night’s pall.
+        Ensteep our minds in loveliness
+        In all sweet hope and godliness
+        Give guard o’er all …
+This brave Soul striving in stern fight….
+
+Thou soul of Night, thou spirit-elf,
+        Rise up and bless.
+        Help us to cleanse in holiness
+        Show how to dress in saintliness
+        Our weary selves,
+        Expurge our deeds of earthiness
+        Expunge desires of selfliness
+        Rise up and bless …
+This strong Soul dying in such plight….
+
+
+        Night gently spreads her wings and flies
+        Star-laden, wide across the skies.
+        My Soul, new strong,
+        So late enstained with earthly dust
+        So long estranged in wander-lust
+        Gives praise and song,
+        Strives to create in morning light
+        The starry wonders of the night
+        In praise and song …
+
+This strong Soul praising in new right.
+It is well, O my Soul, it is well….
+
+
+A. L. WREN.
+
+
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SNAKE AND SWORD ***
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