Young John Chinn was decanted at the verandah of the Wuddars'
lonely mess-house from the back seat of a two-wheeled cart, his
gun-cases cascading all round him. The slender little, hookey-nosed
boy looked forlorn as a strayed goat when he slapped the white dust
off his knees, and the cart jolted down the glaring road. But in
his heart he was contented. After all, this was the place where
he had been born, and things were not much changed since he had
been sent to England, a child, fifteen years ago.
There were a few new buildings, but the air and the smell and the
sunshine were the same; and the little green men who crossed the
parade-ground looked very familiar. Three weeks ago John Chinn
would have said he did not remember a word of the Bhil tongue, but
at the mess door he found his lips moving in sentences that he did
not understand - bits of old nursery rhymes, and tail-ends of such
orders as his father used to give the men.
The Colonel watched him come up the steps, and laughed.
"Look!" he said to the Major. "No need to ask the young un's
breed. He's a pukka Chinn. 'Might be his father in the Fifties
over again."
"'Hope he'll shoot as straight," said the Major.
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