Sikhs, Rajputs, Pathans and Punjabis, men of honour, courage,
physique, tradition. Grand fighters, loyal as steel while properly
understood and properly treated--in other words, while properly
officered. (Men, albeit, with deplorably little understanding of, or
regard for, Pagett, M.P., and his kind, who yearn to do so much for
them.)

These men Damocles admired and loved, though even _they_ were apt to
be very naughty in the bazaar, to gamble and to toy with opium, bhang,
and (alleged) brandy, to dally with houris and hearts'-delights, to
use unkind measures towards the good _bunnia_ and _sowkar_ who had
lent them monies, and to do things outside the Lines that were not
known in the Officers' Mess.

The boy preferred the Rissaldar-Major even to some Sahibs of his
acquaintance--that wonderful old man-at-arms, horseman, _shikarri_,
athlete, gentleman. (Yet how strange and sad to see him out of his
splendid uniform, in sandals, _dhotie_, untrammelled shirt-tails,
dingy old cotton coat and loose _puggri_, undistinguishable from a
school-master, clerk, or post-man; so _un_-sahib-like.)

And what a fine riding-master he made for an ambitious, fearless
boy--though Ochterlonie Sahib said he was too cruel to be a good
_horse_-master.

How _could_ people be civilians and live away from regiments? Live
without ever touching swords, lances, carbines, saddles?

What a queer feeling it gave one to see the regiment go past the
saluting base on review-days, at the gallop, with lances down. One