Part 63 (2/2)

”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 b.u.t.t 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 forever.”

”No. The men would precious soon show him that he was not wanted.

You've got to”--Here the Color-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 in-he-briated 'e is, the more fish 'e catches. They call 'im the Looney Fish-monger in the Comp'ny, sir.”

Revere signed the last paper and the Sergeant retreated.

”It's a filthy amus.e.m.e.nt,” 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 a 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 the 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 Ca.n.a.l?”

”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 Ca.n.a.l, jes' such a night, come next week twelve month, a-trailin' of my toes in the water.” He smoked and said no more till bedtime.

The witchery of the dawn turned the grey river-reaches to purple, gold, and opal; and it was as though the lumbering dhoni crept across the splendors of a new heaven.

Private Dormer popped his head out of his blanket and gazed at the glory below and around.

”Well--d.a.m.n-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 Sat.u.r.day 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?”

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