The call
brought back memories of his cot under the mosquito-netting, his
mother's kiss, and the sound of footsteps growing fainter as he
dropped asleep among his men. So he hooked the dark collar of
his new mess-jacket, and went to dinner like a prince who has
newly inherited his father's crown.
Old Bukta swaggered forth curling his whiskers. He knew his own
value, and no money and no rank within the gift of the Government
would have induced him to put studs in young officers' shirts, or
to hand them clean ties. Yet, when he took off his uniform that
night, and squatted among his fellows for a quiet smoke, he told
them what he had done, and they said that he was entirely right.
Thereat Bukta propounded a theory which to a white mind would
have seemed raving insanity; but the whispering, level-headed
little men of war considered it from every point of view, and
thought that there might be a great deal in it.
At mess under the oil-lamps the talk turned as usual to the
unfailing subject of shikar - big game-shooting of every kind
and under all sorts of conditions. Young Chinn opened his eyes
when he understood that each one of his companions had shot
several tigers in the Wuddar style - on foot, that is - making no
more of the business than if the brute had been a dog.
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