This is the story of the worm that turned. For the sake of brevity, we
will call Henry Augustus Ramsay Faizanne, "The Worm," although he really was
an exceedingly pretty boy, without a hair on his face, and with a waist like a
girl's when he came out to the Second "Shikarris" and was made unhappy in
several ways. The "Shikarris" are a high-caste regiment, and you must be able
to do things well--play a banjo or ride more than a little, or sing, or act--
to get on with them.
The Worm did nothing except fall off his pony, and knock chips out of gate-
posts with his trap. Even that became monotonous after a time. He objected to
whist, cut the cloth at billiards, sang out of tune, kept very much to
himself, and wrote to his Mamma and sisters at Home. Four of these five things
were vices which the "Shikarris" objected to and set themselves to eradicate.
Every one knows how subalterns are, by brother subalterns, softened and not
permitted to be ferocious. It is good and wholesome, and does no one any harm,
unless tempers are lost; and then there is trouble. There was a man once--but
that is another story.
The "Shikarris" shikarred The Worm very much, and he bore everything without
winking. He was so good and so anxious to learn, and flushed so pink, that his
education was cut short, and he was left to his own devices by every one
except the Senior Subaltern, who continued to make life a burden to The Worm.
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