"Would they have you back at Sandhurst, Bob?" asked his uncle.

"No need for that," exclaimed the Major. "The Chief will give him a commission in the Indian army straight away when I've had a talk with him."

"Will that suit you, Bob?"

"I couldn't wish for anything more splendid," said Bob, flushing with pleasure.

"That's settled then. And you, Lawrence?"

"The same for him, of course," said the Major.

"It's uncommonly good of you," said Lawrence, "but--well, I'm not cut out for a soldier."

"Rubbish, sir. I wish all my subalterns were like you."

"What's your notion then?" asked Mr. Appleton.

"Well, Uncle, I was going to Oxford, you know, but I'm afraid I shall be too old for a scholarship next year, and--and it would cost too much without."

Lawrence spoke awkwardly, colouring to the roots of his hair.

"You could manage on 400 a year, I suppose?" said Mr. Appleton, dryly.

"Much less, Uncle. I know a chap who did jolly well on 200, and saved."

"What will you do when you come down? Take a clerkship at thirty shillings a week, or teach little ruffians good cricket and bad Latin on forty?"

"I thought of trying for the Indian Civil, Uncle. I should like it immensely after being out here."

"Stiff exam, isn't it?"

"I can swat, sir."

"I believe you can! Well, I'm going to settle my silver money on Bob and you." [Here there was what the reporters call a "sensation."] "It should bring in 1500 a year even in the safest security. You shall have 400 each until you're twenty-five; after that you'll share the whole lot equally between you. Think I'm mad, Major?"

"I wish you'd bite an old uncle of mine," said the Major with a laugh.

"I congratulate you young fellows; you deserve it all."

The boys were overwhelmed with their good luck, and their uncle's generosity. They stammered out their thanks; then, desiring to talk things over quietly between themselves, they got up and went out.

They strolled up and down the compound, looking with the mind's eye into the vista opening so brightly before them, discussing plans with youthful eagerness and optimism, voting their uncle a "trump," a "brick," a "ripping old boy," and employing the hundred and one meaningless phrases with which Englishmen are wont to dissemble their feelings. It is only the bare truth to say that their deepest satisfaction and thankfulness sprang from reunion with their uncle.

Presently Bob noticed, in the gloom, Ditta Lal pacing slowly along by the cliff wall.

"Hallo, Babu!" he called. "Come here. I want to speak to you."

The Bengali drew near, and as he came within the candlelight beaming through the open doorway of the shed, they noticed that he wore a very dejected look.

"I want to thank you," continued Bob. "Chunda Beg told me that while the fight was going on you were heaping up that rampart yonder. It was well thought of; we're indebted to you."

The Babu's face lit up for a moment as he bowed his acknowledgments; but it instantly clouded over again.

"You don't look very happy," said Lawrence. "What's the matter?"

"It is a complicated case, sir," said the Babu mournfully. "Diagnosis easy, but as for remedies that touch the spot, alas! _non est_, or more correctly, _non sunt_."

"What's wrong? Out with it, man," said Bob.

"Imprimis and in first place, sir, I droop in shade of impending calamity--regular sword of Damocles. I learn from esteemed avuncular relative, whose return to wonted haunts fills bitter cup of rejoicing to overflowing and slops, that he abandons commercial avocation, rests on his oars and laurels, and subsides into la.s.situde of adipose retirement.

Every man to his gout, sir; but what is one man's alimentary nourishment is another man's happy dispatch. In short, young sirs, where do I come in?"

"Well, I'll tell you a secret," said Bob. "In recognition of your valuable services, and your willingness to help in all sorts of ways out of your own line, my uncle is going to make you a present of 50 when you leave his employment."

"Jolly good tip, sir," said the Babu, brightening. "To use vulgar tongue, Burra Sahib is ripping old josser, and no mistakes. But for one harrowing reflection, carking care, sir, and fly in ointment, I should be restored to normal hilarity and c.o.c.k-a-hoopness."

"Well?"

"You observe, sir, that while honourable superior persons are engaged in temperate carousal and fumigation, there is absence of mafficking and horseplays among small fry; no beer and skittles, sir. That lies like leaden hundred-weight upon my bounding bosom. I attribute it to vacuous cavity in my brain-pan, or possibly erratic convulsions of grey matter.

I spoke of organising tamasha, you remember--regular orgy of intellectual fireworks and monkey tricks, the set piece and tour de force of which was to be ode, elegy, or comic song penned by humble and obsequious servant. Would you believe it! Though I have scorned delights and lived laborious days, crowned my n.o.ble brow with sopped tea-cloth, imbibed oceans of coffee, black as your hat, and performed other rites enjoined by custom and recollections of stewing for exams--in spite of stupendous and praiseworthy efforts, that monument of literary agility is yet only shapeless block, sir: in short, I haven't done it."

"That's a pity," said Lawrence, repressing a smile. "Inspiration ran short, eh?"

"No, sir, inspiration flows unchecked, a mild pellucid stream. Failure is due to intractable and churlish disposition of English lingo. I write a magnificent and lovely line, to wit--

"The solar luminary winked his bloodshot orb--

and then beat coverts for a rhyme: cui bono and what's the use? How true it is that fine words b.u.t.ter no parsnips! My note-book is chock full of similar felicitous lines, left in single blessedness and mere oblivion for want of an accommodating partner, or, as I may say, eligible parti."

"Why not try blank verse, then?" said Bob.

"Blank verse is like blank cartridge, sir, suitable for reviews and sham-fights--that is to say, for long-winded epics and rigmaroles about nothing in particular; but not for battle pieces, in which you need clink-clank and rum-ti-tum to achieve truly martial effects."

"I should like to see what you've done, though," said Lawrence.

"Well begun is half done, proverb runs; fallacious and tommy rot, sir.

I began well; I will exhibit, commending to you beautiful aphorism of some precious and defunct poet now forgotten, namely, 'We may our ends by our beginnings know.'"

He drew a roll of paper from his pocket, and moving towards the lighted doorway, spread it before their eyes. This is what they read--

ODE

_in celebration of gorgeous defence of gorge by two young English sirs, who with handful of rude mechanicals, dauntless b.r.e.a.s.t.s and flying machine, 100 h.p., withstood the mights of twenty thousand Mongols.

Written at request of one of aforesaid sirs, Mr. ROBERT APPLETON, Esquire, etc., by DITTA LAL, B.A. Calcutta University._

Here the page ended. Lawrence turned over: the back was blank.