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His voice rose at the end of the sentence, and he wound up with a six-shot Anglo-Vernacular oath. Mulvaney said nothing, but looked at me as if he expected that I could bring peace to poor Ortheris’ troubled brain.

I remembered once at Rawal Pindi having seen a man, nearly mad with drink, sobered by being made a fool of. Some regiments may know what I mean. I hoped that we might slake off Ortheris in the same way, though he was perfectly sober. So I said–

“What’s the use of grousing there, and speaking against The Widow?”

“I didn’t!” said Ortheris, “S’elp me, Gawd, I never said a word agin ‘er, an’ I wouldn’t–not if I was to desert this minute!”

Here was my opening. “Well, you meant to, anyhow. What’s the use of cracking-on for nothing? Would you slip it now if you got the chance?”

“On’y try me!” said Ortheris, jumping to his feet as if he had been stung.

Mulvaney jumped too. “Fwhat are you going to do?” said he.

“Help Ortheris down to Bombay or Karachi, whichever he likes. You can report that he separated from you before tiffin, and left his gun on the bank here!”

“I’m to report that–am I?” said Mulvaney, slowly. “Very well. If Orth’ris manes to desert now, and will desert now, an’ you, sorr, who have been a frind to me an’ to him, will help him to ut, I, Terence Mulvaney, on my oath which I’ve never bruk yet, will report as you say, But”–here he stepped up to Ortheris, and shook the stock of the fowling-piece in his face–“your fists help you, Stanley Orth’ris, if ever I come across you agin!”

“I don’t care!” said Ortheris. “I’m sick o’ this dorg’s life. Give me a chanst. Don’t play with me. Le’ me go!”

“Strip,” said I, “and change with me, and then I’ll tell you what to do.”

I hoped that the absurdity of this would check Ortheris; but he had kicked off his ammunition-boots and got rid of his tunic almost before I had loosed my shirt-collar. Mulvaney gripped me by the arm–

“The fit’s on him: the fit’s workin’ on him still! By my Honor and Sowl, we shall be accessiry to a desartion yet. Only, twenty-eight days, as you say, sorr, or fifty-six, but think o’ the shame–the black shame to him an’ me!” I had never seen Mulvaney so excited.

But Ortheris was quite calm, and, as soon as he had exchanged clothes with me, and I stood up a Private of the Line, he said shortly, “Now! Come on. What nex’? D’ye mean fair. What must I do to get out o’ this ‘ere a-Hell?”

I told him that, if he would wait for two or three hours near the river, I would ride into the Station and come back with one hundred rupees. He would, with that money in his pocket, walk to the nearest side-station on the line, about five miles away, and would there take a first-class ticket for Karachi. Knowing that he had no money on him when he went out shooting, his regiment would not immediately wire to the seaports, but would hunt for him in the native villages near the river. Further, no one would think of seeking a deserter in a first-class carriage. At Karachi, he was to buy white clothes and ship, if he could, on a cargo-steamer.

Here he broke in. If I helped him to Karachi, he would arrange all the rest. Then I ordered him to wait where he was until it was dark enough for me to ride into the station without my dress being noticed. Now God in His wisdom has made the heart of the British Soldier, who is very often an unlicked ruffian, as soft as the heart of a little child, in order that he may believe in and follow his officers into tight and nasty places. He does not so readily come to believe in a “civilian,” but, when he does, he believes implicitly and like a dog. I had had the honor of the friendship of Private Ortheris, at intervals, for more than three years, and we had dealt with each other as man by man, Consequently, he considered that all my words were true, and not spoken lightly.