Part 17

“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.”