tten who took him to
see the trapped tiger in the village across the river, when his mother
was so frightened and he was so brave?"

The scene came back to Chinn in great magic-lantern flashes. "Bukta!" he
cried; and all in a breath: "You promised nothing should hurt me. Is it
Bukta?"

The man was at his feet a second time. "He has not forgotten. He
remembers his own people as his father remembered. Now can I die. But
first I will live and show the Sahib how to kill tigers. That that
yonder is my nephew. If he is not a good servant, beat him and send him
to me, and I will surely kill him, for now the Sahib is with his own
people. Ai, Jan haba--Jan haba! My Jan haba! I will stay here and see
that this does his work well. Take off his boots, fool. Sit down upon
the bed, Sahib, and let me look. It is Jan haba."

He pushed forward the hilt of his sword as a sign of service, which
is an honour paid only to viceroys, governors, generals, or to little
children whom one loves dearly. Chinn touched the hilt mechanically with
three fingers, muttering he knew not what. It happened to be the old
answer of his childhood, when Bukta in jest called him the little
General Sahib.

The Major's quarters were opposite Chinn's, and when he heard his
servant gasp with surprise he looked across the room. Then the Major
sat on the bed and whistled; for the spectacle of the senior native
commissioned officer of the regiment, an "unmixed" Bhil, a Companion of
the Order of British India, with thirty-five years' spotless service
in the army, and a rank among his own people superior to that of many
Bengal princelings, valeting the last-joined subaltern, was a little too
much for his nerves.

The throaty bugles blew the Mess-call that has a long legend behind it.
First a few piercing notes like the shrieks of beaters in a far-away
cover, and next, large, full, and smooth, the refrain of the wild song:
"And oh, and oh, the green pulse of Mundore--Mundore!"

"All little children were in bed when the Sahib heard that call last,"
said Bukta, passing Chinn a clean handkerchief. The call brought back
memories of his cot under the mosquito-netting, his mother's kiss, and
the sound of footsteps growing fainter as he dropped asleep among his
men. So he hooked the dark collar of his new mess-jacket, and went to
dinner like a prince who has newly inherited his father's crown.

Old Bukta swaggered forth curling his whiskers. He knew his own value,
and