is a good fellow. Bottles, _alias_
John George Peritt, of a regiment it is unnecessary to name, amply
justified both these definitions, for a kindlier-tempered or better
fellow never breathed. But unless a thick round nose, a pair of small
light-coloured eyes, set under bushy brows, and a large but not badly
shaped mouth can be said to constitute beauty, he was not beautiful.
On the other hand, however, he was big and well-formed, and a
pleasant-mannered if a rather silent companion.

Many years ago Bottles was in love; all the regiment knew it, he was so
very palpably and completely in love. Over his bed in his tidy quarters
hung the photograph of a young lady who was known to be _the_ young
lady; which, when the regiment, individually and collectively, happened
to see it, left no doubt in its mind as to their comrade's taste. It
was evident even from that badly-coloured photograph that Miss Madeline
Spenser had the makings of a lovely figure and a pair of wonderful eyes.
It was said, however, that she had not a sixpence; and as our hero had
but very few, the married ladies of the battalion used frequently to
speculate how Mr. Peritt would "manage" when it came to matrimony.

At this date the regiment was quartered in Maritzburg, Natal, but its
term of foreign service had expired, and it expected to be ordered home
immediately.

One morning Bottles had been out buck hunting with the scratch pack kept
in those days by the garrison at Maritzburg. The run had been a good
one, and after a seven or eight-mile gallop over the open country they
had actually killed their buck--a beautiful Oribe. This was a thing that
did not often happen, and Bottles returned filled with joy and pride
with the buck fastened behind his saddle, for he was whip to the pack.
The hounds had met at dawn, and it was nine o'clock or so, when, as he
was riding hot and tired up the shadier side of broad and dusty Church
Street, a gun fired at the Fort beyond Government House announced the
arrival of the English mail.

With a beaming smile--for to him the English mail meant one if not two
letters from Madeline, and possibly the glad news of sailing orders--he
pushed on to his quarters, tubbed and dressed, and then went down to the
mess-house for breakfast, expecting to find the letters delivered. But
the mail was a heavy one, and he had ample time to eat his breakfast,
also to sit and smoke a pipe upon the pleasant verandah under the shade
of the ba