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The pale, shrunken face of the speaker glowed, and his faded eyes lit up with the light of love.

“We were happy for a time, and the little gal was born, but the bumper crop did not come. Then, sir, I sold farm tools and my horse, and sent the wife to a hill station for her health. I kept the little gal. I stayed to work, as none of my natives ever worked. It was a gay station to which she went. You know the rest,–she never came back. That ended the struggle. I would have shot myself but for the little one. I took her and we wandered here and there, doing odd jobs for a few months at a time. I drifted down to Singapore, hoping to better myself, but, sir, I am about used up. It’s hard–hard.”

He buried his head in his long, thin fingers, and sat perfectly still.

There was a sound outside above the roar of the wind and the rain. At first faint and intermittent, it grew louder, and continuous, and came close. There was no mistaking it,–the march of booted men.

“What’s that?” asked my companion, with a start.

“Tommy Atkins,” I replied, “the clang of the ammunition boot as big as life.”

His face grew ashy white, and he looked furtively around the room.

“What’s the matter?” I exclaimed, but as I asked, I knew.

I opened the bath-room door and shoved him in.

“Go in there” I said, “and compose some more fairy tales.”

He was scarcely out of sight when the front door was thrown open, and a corporal’s guard, wet yet happy, marched into the room.

The corporal stood with his back to the door, and gave himself mental words of command,–“Eyes left, eyes right,”–then, as a last resource,–“eyes under the table.” He had not noticed the little bundle in the dark corner. He drew himself up and gave the military salute.

“Beg pardon, sir, but we are out for a deserter from the 58th,–Bill Hulish,–we ‘ave tracked him ‘ere, and with the compliments of the commanding hofficer, we’ll search the ‘ouse.”

“Search away,” I answered, as I heard the outside bath-room door open and close softly.

They returned empty-handed, but not greatly disappointed.

“Wet night, corporal,” I ventured.

“One of the worst as ever I knew, sir,” he replied, eying the whiskey bottle and the two half-drained glasses.

“‘Ad a long march, sir, fourteen miles.”

I pushed the bottle toward him, and with a deprecatory salute he turned out a stiff drink.

“‘Ere’s to yer ‘ealth, sir, an’ may ye always ‘ave an extra glass ready for a visitor.”

I smiled, and motioned for his men to do likewise, and then, because he was a man of sweet composure and had not asked any questions as to the extra glass and chair, told him that his bird had flown.

“Bad ‘cess to him, sir, ‘e’s led us a pretty chase for these last four weeks. If ‘e was only a deserter I wouldn’t mind, but ‘e’s a kidnapper. Leastways, Tommy Loud’s young’n turned up missin’ the day he skipped, an’ we ain’t seen nothin’ of ‘er since.”

“Is this she?” I asked, leading him to the cot.

Hardly looking at the child, he raised her in his arms and kissed her.

“God be praised, sir,” he said with a show of feeling. “We ‘ave got her back. I think her mother would ‘ave died if we ‘ad come back again without her,–but, O my little darlin’, you look cruel bad. Drugged, sir, that’s what she is. Drugged to keep ‘er quiet and save food. The blag’ard!”

“But what did he take her for?” I asked.

“Bless you, sir,” replied the corporal, “she was his stock in trade. I reckon she’s drawn many dibs out of other people’s pockets that would ‘ave been nestlin’ there to-day if it ‘adn’t ‘a’ bin for ‘er.”

Then a broad grin broke over his ruddy features, and he looked at me quizzically.

“But ‘e was a great play hactor, sir.”

“And a poet,” I added enthusiastically.

“‘E could beat Kipling romancin’, sir.” He checked himself, as though ashamed of awarding such meed of praise to his ex-colleague.

“But we must be goin’; orders strict. With your permission, sir, I will leave her with a guard of one man for to-night, and send the ambulance for her in the morning.”

He drew up his little file, saluted, and marched out into the rain and wind, with all the cheerfulness of a duck.

I could hear them singing as they crossed the compound and struck into the jungle road:–

“Oh, it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ ‘Tommy, go away’;
But it’s ‘Thank you, Mister Atkins,’ when the band begins to play,
The band begins to–“

A peal of thunder that shook the bungalow from its attap roof to its nebong pillars drowned the melody and drove me inside.