He recognized a horse when he saw one, and could do more than fill a cantle.
He played a very fair game at billiards, and was a sound man at the whist-
table. Everyone liked him; and nobody ever dreamed of seeing him handcuffed on
a station platform as a deserter. But this sad thing happened.
He was going down from Dalhousie, at the end of his leave--riding down. He had
cut his leave as fine as he dared, and wanted to come down in a hurry.
It was fairly warm at Dalhousie, and knowing what to expect below, he
descended in a new khaki suit--tight fitting--of a delicate olive-green; a
peacock-blue tie, white collar, and a snowy white solah helmet. He prided
himself on looking neat even when he was riding post. He did look neat, and he
was so deeply concerned about his appearance before he started that he quite
forgot to take anything but some small change with him. He left all his notes
at the hotel. His servants had gone down the road before him, to be ready in
waiting at Pathankote with a change of gear. That was what he called
travelling in "light marching-order." He was proud of his faculty of
organization--what we call bundobust.
Twenty-two miles out of Dalhousie it began to rain--not a mere hill-shower,
but a good, tepid monsoonish downpour.
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