Part 25

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 lassitude 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 L50 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 cock-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 noble 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 butter 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 breasts 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.

"Where's the rest?" he asked.

"There's the rub, sir. The rest is dispersed through many pages of my note-book, high and dry, pearls of poesy, gems of purest ray serene, waiting leisure and a rhyming dictionary to thread them into perfect and resplendent ornament."

"Well, finish it when you have time. You can send it to us, you know."

"Registered, sir. I will do so without failings, and earn the meed of melodious tear or two, if not penny a line."

Rolling up the paper, he returned to his own quarters, followed by eyes mirthful but compassionate.

The campaign in Afghanistan lasted for several months after the check given to the flanking force in the valley. The Mongols having obtained a firm grip of the country around Kabul, it was difficult to dislodge them, though they never succeeded in forcing the passes into India. As the struggle developed, and the British Indian army took the offensive, the Afghans, who had by this time found the Mongols unpleasant guests, and begun to doubt their value as allies, quarrelled with the invaders, and either withdrew into their remotest and least accessible hills, or took sides actively against them. This was the beginning of the end. The horses which, if the early raids had been successful, would have proved a tremendous asset to the enemy, were in a prolonged check in Afghanistan a serious handicap. It became impossible to feed them. The Mongol host lost its mobility, and found itself pent up in a mountainous region where supplies even for the men failed.

The story of the great retreat cannot be told in these pages. When once the retrograde movement began, every armed man in Afghanistan and Northern Persia hasted like a sleuth-hound in pursuit. Only a fraction of the half-million invaders returned to Tashkend and beyond.

A year or two afterwards, when the invasion was passing into the oblivion which soon swallows up even the greatest events of the hurrying modern world, two of the actors in this little drama had their memories recalled to it by a trifling street scene. Colonel Sir Herbert Endicott and Lieutenant Robert Appleton were walking through the bazaar at Lahore when they met an old fakir striding along. They were struck by his vacant gaze, and the incessant muttering of his lips.

"You heard what he said, Bob?" said the Colonel, as the tall, lean, half-naked figure swung by.

"Yes," replied Bob, who was becoming an expert in the Border dialects. "'I am a sharpener of swords,' wasn't it?"

And his thoughts flew back to that first journey through the hills.

"The poor wretch is clearly mad," said the Colonel. "I fear the sword he sharpened has wounded his own hand. Let's hope it will always be so with rebels and malcontents. There's this good come out of it, at any rate: we have learnt to sharpen our own swords, and not to grudge the expense.... When do you expect your new aeroplane?"

"Pretty soon. It's a ripper, but I shan't like it so well as the old one. Old friends are best."

"Does that hold with aeroplanes as with men, I wonder? Anyhow, I wish you luck with it. Shall we turn?"

THE END

Richard Clay & Sons, Limited London and Bungay.