Only A Subaltern
Not only to enforce by command but to encourage by example the
energetic discharge of duty and the steady endurance of the
difficulties and privations inseparable from Military Service. -
Bengal Army Regulations.
They made Bobby Wick pass an examination at Sandhurst. He was a
gentleman before he was gazetted, so, when the Empress announced
that "Gentleman-Cadet Robert Hanna Wick" was posted as Second
Lieutenant to the Tyneside Tail Twisters at Krab Bokhar, he became
an officer and a gentleman, which is an enviable thing; and there
was joy in the house of Wick, where Mamma Wick and all the little
Wicks fell upon their knees and offered incense to Bobby by virtue
of his achievements.
Papa Wick had been a Commissioner in his day, holding authority
over three millions of men in the Chota-Buldana Division, building
great works for the good of the land, and doing his best to make
two blades of grass grow where there was but one before. Of
course, nobody knew anything about this in the little English
village where he was just "old Mr. Wick" and had forgotten that he
was a Companion of the Order of the Star of India.
He patted Bobby on the shoulder and said: "Well done, my boy!"
There followed, while the uniform was being prepared, an interval
of pure delight, during which Bobby took brevet-rank as a "man" at
the women-swamped tennis-parties and tea-fights of the village,
and, I daresay, had his joining-time been extended, would have
fallen in love with several girls at once. Little country villages
at Home are very full of nice girls, because all the young men
come out to India to make their fortunes.
"India," said Papa Wick, "is the place. I've had thirty years of
it, and, begad, I'd like to go back again. When you join the Tail
Twisters you'll be among friends, if every one hasn't forgotten
Wick of Chota-Buldana, and a lot of people will be kind to you for
our sakes. The mother will tell you more about outfit than I can,
but remember this. Stick to your Regiment, Bobby - stick to your
Regiment. You'll see men all round you going into the Staff Corps,
and doing every possible sort of duty but regimental, and you may
be tempted to follow suit. Now so long as you keep within your
allowance, and I haven't stinted you there, stick to the Line, the
whole Line, and nothing but the Line. Be careful how you back
another young fool's bill, and if you fall in love with a woman
twenty years older than yourself, don't tell me about it, that's
all."
With these counsels, and many others equally valuable, did Papa
Wick fortify Bobby ere that last awful night at Portsmouth when
the Officers' Quarters held more inmates than were provided for by
the Regulations, and the liberty-men of the ships fell foul of the
drafts for India, and the battle raged from the Dockyard Gates
even to the slums of Longport, while the drabs of Fratton came
down and scratched the faces of the Queen's Officers.
Bobby Wick, with an ugly bruise on his freckled nose, a sick and
shaky detachment to manoeuvre inship, and the comfort of fifty
scornful females to attend to, had no time to feel homesick till
the Malabar reached mid-Channel, when he doubled his emotions with
a little guard-visiting and a great many other matters.
The Tail Twisters were a most particular Regiment. Those who knew
them least said that they were eaten up with "side." But their
reserve and their internal arrangements generally were merely
protective diplomacy. Some five years before, the Colonel
commanding had looked into the fourteen fearless eyes of seven
plump and juicy subalterns who had all applied to enter the Staff
Corps, and had asked them why the three stars should he, a colonel
of the Line, command a dashed nursery for double-dashed bottle-
suckers who put on condemned tin spurs and rode qualified mokes at
the hiatused heads of forsaken Black Regiments. He was a rude man
and a terrible. Wherefore the remnant took measures (with the
half-butt as an engine of public opinion) till the rumour went
abroad that young men who used the Tail Twisters as a crutch to
the Staff Corps had many and varied trials to endure. However, a
regiment has just as much right to its own secrets as a woman.
When Bobby came up from Deolali and took his place among the Tail
Twisters, it was gently but firmly borne in upon him that the
Regiment was his father and his mother and his indissolubly wedded
wife, and that there was no crime under the canopy of heaven
blacker than that of bringing shame on the Regiment, which was the
best-shooting, best-drilled, best set-up, bravest, most
illustrious, and in all respects most desirable Regiment within
the compass of the Seven Seas. He was taught the legends of the
Mess Plate, from the great grinning Golden Gods that had come out
of the Summer Palace in Pekin to the silver-mounted markhor-horn
snuffmull presented by the last C. 0. (he who spake to the seven
subalterns). And every one of those legends told him of battles
fought at long odds, without fear as without support; of
hospitality catholic as an Arab's; of friendships deep as the sea
and steady as the fighting-line; of honour won by hard roads for
honour's sake; and of instant and unquestioning devotion to the
Regiment - the Regiment that claims the lives of all and lives
forever.
More than once, too, he came officially into contact with the
Regimental colours, which looked like the lining of a bricklayer's
hat on the end of a chewed stick. Bobby did not kneel and worship
them, because British subalterns are not constructed in that
manner. Indeed, he condemned them for their weight at the very
moment that they were filling him with awe and other more noble
sentiments.
But best of all was the occasion when he moved with the Tail
Twisters in review order at the breaking of a November day.
Allowing for duty-men and sick, the Regiment was one thousand and
eighty strong, and Bobby belonged to them; for was he not a
Subaltern of the Line, - the whole Line and nothing but the Line,
- as the tramp of two thousand one hundred and sixty sturdy
ammunition boots attested? He would not have changed places with
Deighton of the Horse Battery, whirling by in a pillar of cloud to
a chorus of "Strong right! Strong left!" or Hogan-Yale of the
White Hussars, leading his squadron for all it was worth, with the
price of horseshoes thrown in; or "Tick" Boileau, trying to live
up to his fierce blue and gold turban while the wasps of the
Bengal Cavalry stretched to a gallop in the wake of the long,
lollopping Walers of the White Hussars.
They fought through the clear cool day, and Bobby felt a little
thrill run down his spine when he heard the tinkle-tinkle-tinkle
of the empty cartridge-cases hopping from the breech-blocks after
the roar of the volleys; for he knew that he should live to hear
that sound in action. The review ended in a glorious chase across
the plain - batteries thundering after cavalry to the huge disgust
of the White Hussars, and the Tyneside Tail Twisters hunting a
Sikh Regiment till the lean, lathy Singhs panted with exhaustion.
Bobby was dusty and dripping long before noon, but his enthusiasm
was merely focused - not diminished.
He returned to sit at the feet of Revere, his "skipper," that is
to say, the Captain of his Company, and to be instructed in the
dark art and mystery of managing men, which is a very large part
of the Profession of Arms.
"If you haven't a taste that way," said Revere between his puffs
of his cheroot, "you'll never be able to get the hang of it, but
remember, Bobby, 'tisn't the best drill, though drill is nearly
everything, that hauls a Regiment through Hell and out on the
other side. It's the man who knows how to handle men - goat-men,
swine-men, dog-men, and so on."
"Dormer, for instance," said Bobby; "I think he comes under the
head of fool-men. He mopes like a sick owl."
"That 's where you make your mistake, my son. Dormer isn't a fool
yet, but he's a dashed dirty soldier, and his room corporal makes
fun of his socks before kit-inspection. Dormer, being two-thirds
pure brute, goes into a corner and growls."
"How do you know'?" said Bobby admiringly.
"Because a Company commander has to know these things - because,
if he does not know, he may have crime - ay, murder - brewing
under his very nose and yet not see that it's there. Dormer is
being badgered out of his mind - big as he is - and he hasn't
intellect enough to resent it. He's taken to quiet boozing, and,
Bobby, when the butt of a room goes on the drink, or takes to
moping by himself, measures are necessary to pull him out of
himself."
"What measures? 'Man can't run round coddling his men for ever."
"No. The men would precious soon show him that he was not wanted.
You've got to -
Here the Colour-sergeant entered with some papers; Bobby reflected
for a while as Revere looked through the Company forms.
"Does Dormer do anything, Sergeant?" Bobby asked with the air of
one continuing an interrupted conversation.
"No, sir. Does 'is dooty like a hortomato," said the Sergeant, who
delighted in long words. "A dirty soldier, and 'e's under full
stoppages for new kit. It's covered with scales, sir."
"Scales? What scales?"
"Fish-scales, sir. 'E's always pokin' in the mud by the river an'
a-cleanin' them muchly-fish with 'is thumbs." Revere was still
absorbed in the Company papers, and the Sergeant, who was sternly
fond of Bobby, continued, -" 'E generally goes down there when
'e's got 'is skinful, beggin' your pardon, sir, an' they do say
that the more lush - inebriated 'e is, the more fish 'e catches.
They call 'im the Looney Fishmonger in the Comp'ny, sir."
Revere signed the last paper and the Sergeant retreated.
"It's a filthy amusement," sighed Bobby to himself. Then aloud to
Revere: "Are you really worried about Dormer?"
"A little. You see he's never mad enough to send to hospital, or
drunk enough to run in, but at any minute he may flare up,
brooding and sulking as he does. He resents any interest being
shown in him, and the only time I took him out shooting he all but
shot me by accident."
"I fish," said Bobby, with a wry face. "I hire a country-boat and
go down river from Thursday to Sunday, and the amiable Dormer goes
with me - if you can spare us both."
"You blazing young fool!" said Revere, but his heart was full of
much more pleasant words.
Bobby, the Captain of a dhoni, with Private Dormer for mate,
dropped down the river on Thursday morning - the Private at the
bow, the Subaltern at the helm. The Private glared uneasily at the
Subaltern, who respected the reserve of the Private.
After six hours, Dormer paced to the stern, saluted, and said -"
Beg y' pardon, sir, but was you ever on the Durh'm Canal?"
"No," said Bobby Wick. "Come and have some tiffin."
They ate in silence. As the evening fell, Private Dormer broke
forth, speaking to himself -
"Hi was on the Durh'm Canal, jes' such a night, come next week
twelvemonth, a-trailin' of my toes in the water." He smoked and
said no more till bedtime.
The witchery of the dawn turned the gray river-reaches to purple,
gold, and opal; and it was as though the lumbering dhoni crept
across the splendours of a new heaven.
Private Dormer popped his head out of his blanket and gazed at the
glory below and around.
"Well - damn - my eyes!" said Private Dormer in an awed whisper.
"This 'ere is like a bloomin' gallantry-show!" For the rest of the
day he was dumb, but achieved an ensanguined filthiness through
the cleaning of big fish.
The boat returned on Saturday evening. Dormer had been struggling
with speech since noon. As the lines and luggage were being
disembarked, he found tongue.
"Beg y' pardon, sir," he said, "but would you - would you min'
shakin' 'ands with me, sir?"
"Of course not," said Bobby, and he shook accordingly. Dormer
returned to barracks and Bobby to mess.
"He wanted a little quiet and some fishing, I think," said Bobby.
"My aunt, but he's a filthy sort of animal! Have you ever seen him
clean 'them muchly-fish with 'is thumbs?"
"Anyhow," said Revere three weeks later, "he's doing his best to
keep his things clean."
When the spring died, Bobby joined in the general scramble for
Hill leave, and to his surprise and delight secured three months.
"As good a boy as I want," said Revere, the admiring skipper.
"The best of the batch," said the Adjutant to the Colonel. "Keep
back that young skrimshanker Porkiss, sir, and let Revere make him
sit up."
So Bobby departed joyously to Simla Pahar with a tin box of
gorgeous raiment.
"Son of Wick - old Wick of Chota-Buldana? Ask him to dinner,
dear," said the aged men.
"What a nice boy!" said the matrons and the maids.
"First-class place, Simla. Oh, ri - - ipping!" said Bobby Wick,
and ordered new white cord breeches on the strength of it.
"We're in a bad way," wrote Revere to Bobby at the end of two
months. "Since you left, the Regiment has taken to fever and is
fairly rotten with it - two hundred in hospital, about a hundred
in cells - drinking to keep off fever - and the Companies on
parade fifteen file strong at the outside. There's rather more
sickness in the out-villages than I care for, but then I'm so
blistered with prickly-heat that I'm ready to hang myself. What's
the yarn about your mashing a Miss Haverley up there? Not serious,
I hope? You're over-young to hang millstones round your neck, and
the Colonel will turf you out of that in double-quick time if you
attempt it."
It was not the Colonel that brought Bobby out of Simla, but a much
more to be respected Commandant. The sickness in the out-villages
spread, the Bazar was put out of bounds, and then came the news
that the Tail Twisters must go into camp. The message flashed to
the Hill stations. - "Cholera - Leave stopped - Officers
recalled." Alas, for the white gloves in the neatly soldered
boxes, the rides and the dances and picnics that were to be, the
loves half spoken, and the debts
unpaid! Without demur and without question, fast as tonga could
fly or pony gallop, back to their Regiments and their Batteries,
as though they were hastening to their weddings, fled the
subalterns.
Bobby received his orders on returning from a dance at Viceregal
Lodge, where he had but only the Haverley girl knows what Bobby
had said or how many waltzes he had claimed for the next ball. Six
in the morning saw Bobby at the Tonga Office in the drenching
rain, the whirl of the last waltz still in his ears, and an
intoxication due neither to wine nor waltzing in his brain.
"Good man!" shouted Deighton of the Horse Battery through the
mists. "Whar you raise dat tonga? I'm coming with you. Ow! But
I've a head and half. I didn't sit out all night. They say the
Battery's awful bad," and he hummed dolorously -
"Leave the what at the what's-its-name,
Leave the flock without shelter,
Leave the corpse uninterred,
Leave the bride at the altar
"My faith! It'll be more bally corpse than bride, though, this
journey. Jump in, Bobby. Get on, Coachwan!"
On the Umballa platform waited a detachment of officers discussing
the latest news from the stricken cantonment, and it was here that
Bobby learned the real condition of the Tail Twisters.
"They went into camp," said an elderly Major recalled from the
whist-tables at Mussoorie to a sickly Native Regiment, "they went
into camp with two hundred and ten sick in carts. Two hundred and
ten fever cases only, and the balance looking like so many ghosts
with sore eyes. A Madras Regiment could have walked through 'em."
"But they were as fit as be-damned when I left them!" said Bobby.
"Then you'd better make them as fit as be-damned when you rejoin,"
said the Major brutally.
Bobby pressed his forehead against the rain-splashed window-pane
as the train lumbered across the sodden Doab, and prayed for the
health of the Tyneside Tail Twisters. Naini Tal had sent down her
contingent with all speed; the lathering ponies of the Dalhousie
Road staggered into Pathankot, taxed to the full stretch of their
strength; while from cloudy Darjiling the Calcutta Mail whirled up
the last straggler of the little army that was to fight a fight,
in which was neither medal nor honour for the winning, against an
enemy none other than "the sickness that destroyeth in the
noonday."
And as each man reported himself, he said: "This is a bad
business," and went about his own forthwith, for every Regiment
and Battery in the cantonment was under canvas, the sickness
bearing them company.
Bobby fought his way through the rain to the Tail Twisters'
temporary mess, and Revere could have fallen on the boy's neck for
the joy of seeing that ugly, wholesome phiz once more.
"Keep 'em amused and interested," said Revere. "They went on the
drink, poor fools, after the first two cases, and there was no
improvement. Oh, it's good to have you back, Bobby! Porkiss is a -
never mind."
Deighton came over from the Artillery camp to attend a dreary mess
dinner, and contributed to the general gloom by nearly weeping
over the condition of his beloved Battery. Porkiss so far forgot
himself as to insinuate that the presence of the officers could do
no earthly good, and that the best thing would be to send the
entire Regiment into hospital and "let the doctors look after
them." Porkiss was demoralised with fear, nor was his peace of
mind restored when Revere said coldly: "Oh! The sooner you go out
the better, if that's your way of thinking. Any public school
could send us fifty good men in your place, but it takes time,
time, Porkiss, and money, and a certain amount of trouble, to make
a Regiment. S'pose you're the person we go into camp for, eh?"
Whereupon Porkiss was overtaken with a great and chilly fear which
a drenching in the rain did not allay, and, two days later,
quitted this world for another where, men do fondly hope,
allowances are made for the weaknesses of the flesh. The
Regimental Sergeant-Major looked wearily across the Sergeants'
Mess tent when the news was announced.
"There goes the worst of them," he said. "It'll take the best, and
then, please God, it'll stop." The Sergeants were silent till one
said: "It couldn't be him!" and all knew of whom Travis was
thinking.
Bobby Wick stormed through the tents of his Company, rallying,
rebuking, mildly, as is consistent with the Regulations, chaffing
the fainthearted; haling the sound into the watery sunlight when
there was a break in the weather, and bidding them be of good
cheer, for their trouble was nearly at an end; scuttling on his
dun pony round the outskirts of the camp and heading back men who,
with the innate perversity of British soldiers, were always
wandering into infected villages, or drinking deeply from rain-
flooded marshes; comforting the panic-stricken with rude speech,
and more than once tending the dying who had no friends - the men
without "townies"; organizing, with banjos and burnt cork, Sing-
songs which should allow the talent of the Regiment full play; and
generally, as he explained, "playing the giddy garden-goat all
round."
"You're worth half a dozen of us, Bobby," said Revere in a moment
of enthusiasm. "How the devil do you keep it up?"
Bobby made no answer, but had Revere looked into the breast-pocket
of his coat he might have seen there a sheaf of badly-written
letters which perhaps accounted for the power that possessed the
boy. A letter came to Bobby every other day. The spelling was not
above reproach, but the sentiments must have been most
satisfactory, for on receipt Bobby's eyes softened marvellously,
and he was wont to fall into a tender abstraction for a while ere,
shaking his cropped head, he charged into his work.
By what power he drew after him the hearts of the roughest, and
the Tail Twisters counted in their ranks some rough diamonds
indeed, was a mystery to both skipper and C. 0., who learned from
the regimental chaplain that Bobby was considerably more in
request in the hospital tents than the Reverend John Emery.
"The men seem fond of you. Are you in the hospitals much?" said
the Colonel, who did his daily round and ordered the men to get
well with a hardness that did not cover his bitter grief.
"A little, sir," said Bobby.
"Shouldn't go there too often if I were you. They say it's not
contagious, but there's no use in running unnecessary risks. We
can't afford to have you down, y' know."
Six days later, it was with the utmost difficulty that the post-
runner plashed his way out to the camp with the mail-bags, for the
rain was falling in torrents. Bobby received a letter, bore it off
to his tent, and, the programme for the next week's Sing-song
being satisfactorily disposed of, sat down to answer it. For an
hour the unhandy pen toiled over the paper, and where sentiment
rose to more than normal tide-level, Bobby Wick stuck out his
tongue and breathed heavily. He was not used to letter-writing.
"Beg y' pardon, sir," said a voice at the tent door; "but Dormer's
'orrid bad, sir, an' they've taken him orf, sir."
"Damn Private Dormer and you too!" said Bobby Wick, running the
blotter over the half-finished letter. "Tell him I'll come in the
morning."
"'E's awful bad, sir," said the voice hesitatingly. There was an
undecided squelching of heavy boots.
"Well?" said Bobby impatiently.
"Excusin' 'imself before 'and for takin' the liberty, 'e says it
would be a comfort for to assist 'im, sir, if -
"
tattoo lao! Get my pony! Here, come in out of the rain till I'm
ready. What blasted nuisances you are! That's brandy. Drink some;
you want it. Hang on to my stirrup and tell me if I go too fast."
Strengthened by a four-finger "nip" which he swallowed without a
wink, the Hospital Orderly kept up with the slipping, mud-stained,
and very disgusted pony as it shambled to the hospital tent.
Private Dormer was certainly "'orrid bad." He had all but reached
the stage of collapse, and was not pleasant to look upon.
"What's this, Dormer?" said Bobby, bending over the man. "You're
not going out this time. You've got to come fishing with me once
or twice more yet."
The blue lips parted and in the ghost of a whisper said, - "Beg y'
pardon, sir, disturbin' of you now, but would you min' 'oldin' my
'and, sir'?
Bobby sat on the side of the bed, and the icy-cold hand closed on
his own like a vice, forcing a lady's ring which was on the little
finger deep into the flesh. Bobby set his lips and waited, the
water dripping from the hem of his trousers. An hour passed, and
the grasp of the hand did not relax, nor did the expression of the
drawn face change. Bobby with infinite craft lit himself a cheroot
with the left hand (his right arm was numbed to the elbow), and
resigned himself to a night of pain.
Dawn showed a very white-faced Subaltern sitting on the side of a
sick man's cot, and a Doctor in the doorway using language unfit
for publication.
"Have you been here all night, you young ass?" said the Doctor.
"There or thereabouts," said Bobby ruefully. "He's frozen on to
me."
Dormer's mouth shut with a click. He turned his head and sighed.
The clinging hand opened, and Bobby's arm fell useless at his
side.
"He'll do," said the Doctor quietly. "It must have been a toss-up
all through the night. 'Think you're to be congratulated on this
case."
"Oh, bosh!" said Bobby. "I thought the man had gone out long ago -
only - only I didn't care to take my hand away. Rub my arm down,
there's a good chap. What a grip the brute has! I'm chilled to the
marrow!" He passed out of the tent shivering.
Private Dormer was allowed to celebrate his repulse of Death by
strong waters. Four days later, he sat on the side of his cot and
said to the patients mildly: "I'd 'a' liken to 'a' spoken to 'im -
so I should."
But at that time Bobby was reading yet another letter, - he had
the most persistent correspondent of any man in camp, - and was
even then about to write that the sickness had abated, and in
another week at the outside would be gone. He did not intend to
say that the chill of a sick man's hand seemed to have struck into
the heart whose capacities for affection he dwelt on at such
length. He did intend to enclose the illustrated programme of the
forthcoming Sing-song, whereof he was not a little proud. He also
intended to write on many other matters which do not concern us,
and doubtless would have done so but for the slight feverish
headache which made him dull and unresponsive at mess.
"You are overdoing it, Bobby," said his skipper. "'Might give the
rest of us credit of doing a little work. You go on as if you were
the whole Mess rolled into one. Take it easy."
"I will," said Bobby. "I'm feeling done up, somehow." Revere
looked at him anxiously and said nothing.
There was a flickering of lanterns about the camp that night, and
a rumour that brought men out of their cots to the tent doors, a
paddling of the naked feet of doolie-bearers, and the rush of a
galloping horse.
"Wot's up?" asked twenty tents; and through twenty tents ran the
answer - "Wick, 'e's down."
They brought the news to Revere and he groaned. "Any one but Bobby
and I shouldn't have cared! The Sergeant-Major was right."
"Not going out this journey," gasped Bobby, as he was lifted from
the doolie. "Not going out this journey." Then with an air of
supreme conviction - "I can't, you see."
"Not if I can do anything!" said the Surgeon-Major, who had
hastened over from the mess where he had been dining.
He and the Regimental Surgeon fought together with Death for the
life of Bobby Wick. Their work was interrupted by a hairy
apparition in a blue-gray dressing-gown, who stared in horror at
the bed and cried - "Oh, my Gawd! It can't be 'im!" until an
indignant Hospital Orderly whisked him away.
If care of man and desire to live could have done aught, Bobby
would have been saved. As it was, he made a fight of three days,
and the Surgeon-Major's brow uncreased. "We'll save him yet," he
said; and the Surgeon, who, though he ranked with the Captain, had
a very youthful heart, went out upon the word and pranced joyously
in the mud.
"Not going out this journey," whispered Bobby Wick gallantly, at
the end of the third day.
"Bravo!" said the Surgeon-Major. "That's the way to look at it,
Bobby."
As evening fell a gray shade gathered round Bobby's mouth, and he
turned his face to the tent-wall wearily. The Surgeon-Major
frowned.
"I'm awfully tired," said Bobby, very faintly. "What's the use of
bothering me with medicine? I - don't - want - it. Let me alone."
The desire for life had departed, and Bobby was content to drift
away on the easy tide of Death.
"It's no good," said the Surgeon-Major. "He doesn't want to live.
He's meeting it, poor child." And he blew his nose.
Half a mile away, the regimental band was playing the overture to
the Sing-song, for the men had been told that Bobby was out of
danger. The clash of the brass and the wail of the horns reached
Bobby's ears.
Is there a single joy or pain,
That I should never kno-ow?
You do not love me, 'tis in vain,
Bid me good-bye and go!
An expression of hopeless irritation crossed the boy's face, and
he tried to shake his head.
The Surgeon-Major bent down -" What is it, Bobby? "---" Not that
waltz," muttered Bobby. "That's our own - our very ownest own . .
Mummy dear."
With this he sank into the stupor that gave place to death early
next morning.
Revere, his eyes red at the rims and his nose very white, went
into Bobby's tent to write a letter to Papa Wick which should bow
the white head of the ex-Commissioner of Chota-Buldana in the
keenest sorrow of his life. Bobby's little store of papers lay in
confusion on the table, and among them a half-finished letter. The
last sentence ran: "So you see, darling, there is really no fear,
because as long as I know you care for me and I care for you,
nothing can touch me."
Revere stayed in the tent for an hour. When he came out, his eyes
were redder than ever.
Private Conklin sat on a turned-down bucket, and listened to a not
unfamiliar tune. Private Conklin was a convalescent and should
have been tenderly treated.
"Ho! "said Private Conklin. "There's another bloomin' orf'cer da-
ed."
The bucket shot from under him, and his eyes filled with a
smithyful of sparks. A tall man in a blue-gray bedgown was
regarding him with deep disfavour.
"You ought to take shame for yourself, Conky! Orf'cer? - bloomin'
orf'cer? I'll learn you to misname the likes of 'im. Hangel!
Bloomin' Hangel! That's wot 'e is!"
And the Hospital Orderly was so satisfied with the justice of the
punishment that he did not even order Private Dormer back to his
cot.
-THE END-
Rudyard Kipling's short story: Only A Subaltern
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