With our young Afridi
on his beat there happened to be a Gurkha, and that Gurkha did a thing
which not only hurled his comrade to perdition, but brought himself to a
court-martial. His tent was close by and he said to the young Afridi:
"Hold my rifle a minute, while I fetch something from my tent." In one
second the whole of that young Afridi's good resolutions failed him; the
struggle of weeks had been in vain. Two rifles in his hand, not a soul
near, the black night in front, and beyond--his own village, and
friends, and a warm welcome! He stalked off into the darkness and was
lost for ever. Then came the sequel.
The British officers were at dinner in their mess tent, when the
havildar of the guard came running up to make his report, and brought as
witness the erring Gurkha. The Colonel of the Corps at this time was
Colonel F.H. Jenkins, a man who had learnt much from Lumsden, and had
caught in many ways the genius for dealing with wild warriors. "How many
men of that man's tribe are there in the regiment?" sternly demanded
Jenkins. After reference to the company, it was found that there were
seventeen of them all told. "Parade them all here," said the Colonel;
and they were duly summoned, and paraded in line. "Now take off every
scrap of uniform or equipment that belongs to the Sirkar." Each man did
as he was bid, and placed the little pile in front of him, on the
ground.
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