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“Lay! Pardon me, but how did he lie?” said Cleever.

“Lay doggo – lay quiet, with the other thirty men. When I came back, he’d take out his half of the men, and have a good time of his own.”

“Who was he?” said Boileau.

“Carter-Deecey, of the Aurungabadis. Good chap, but too zubberdusty, and went bokhar four days out of seven. He’s gone out too. Don’t interrupt a man.”

Cleever looked helplessly at me.

“The other subaltern,” I translated swiftly, “came from a native regiment, and was overbearing in his demeanour. He suffered much from the fever of the country, and is now dead. Go on, Infant.”

“After a bit, we got into trouble for using the men on frivolous occasions, and so I used to put my signaller under arrest to prevent him reading the helio-orders. Then I’d go out and leave a message to be sent an hour after I got clear of the camp, something like this: ‘Received important information; start in an hour, unless countermanded.’ If I was ordered back, it didn’t much matter. I swore the C. 0.’s watch was wrong, or something, when I came back. The Tommies enjoyed the fun, and – Oh, yes, there was one Tommy who was the bard of the detachment. He used to make up verses on everything that happened.”

“What sort of verses?” said Cleever.

“Lovely verses; and the Tommies used to sing ’em. There was one song with a chorus, and it said something like this.” The Infant dropped into the true barrack-room twang:

“Theebaw, the Burma king, did a very foolish thing,
When ‘e mustered ‘ostile forces in ar-rai,
‘E little thought that we, from far across the sea,
Would send our armies up to Mandalai!”

“0 gorgeous !” said Cleever. “And how magnificently direct! The notion of a regimental bard is new to me, but of course it must be so.”

“He was awfly popular with the men,” said The Infant. “He had them all down in rhyme as soon as ever they had done anything. He was a great bard. He was always ready with an elegy when we picked up a Boh – that’s a leader of dacoits.”

“How did you pick him up?” said Cleever.

“Oh! shot him if he wouldn’t surrender.”

“You! Have you shot a man?”

There was a subdued chuckle from all three boys, and it dawned on the questioner that one experience in life which was denied to himself, and he weighed the souls of men in a balance, had been shared by three very young gentlemen of engaging appearance. He turned round on Nevin, who had climbed to the top of the bookcase and was sitting cross-legged as before.

“And have you, too?”

“Think so,” said Nevin, sweetly. “In the Black Mountain. He was rolling cliffs on to my half-company, and spoiling our formation. I took a rifle from a man, and brought him down at the second shot.”

“Good Heavens! And how did you feel afterwards?”

“Thirsty. I wanted a smoke, too.”

Cleever looked at Boileau – the youngest. Surely his hands were guiltless of blood.

Boileau shook his head and laughed. “Go on, Infant,” said he.

“And you too?” said Cleever.

“Fancy so. It was a case of cut, cut or be cut, with me; so I cut – one. I couldn’t do any more, sir.”

Cleever looked as though he would like to ask many questions, but The Infant swept on in the full tide of his tale.

“Well, we were called insubordinate young whelps at last, and strictly forbidden to take the Tommies out any more without orders. I wasn’t sorry, because Tommy is such an exacting sort of creature. He wants to live as though he were in barracks all the time. I was grubbing on fowls and boiled corn, but the Tommies wanted their pound of fresh meat, and their half ounce of this, and their two ounces of t’other thing, and they used to come to me and badger me for plug tobacco when we were four days in jungle. I said: ‘I can get you Burma tobacco, but I don’t keep a canteen up my sleeve.’ They couldn’t see it. They wanted all the luxuries of the season, confound ’em!”