quality, whose merit liberally covers the charge that their hero is of
no human importance. Ortheris is in rather a different case. He has
just that air of being authentic which is needed for an anecdote or
narrative. He is not a profound and original document in human nature.
There is no such document in any one of Mr Kipling's books. But he
stands well erect among the professional soldiers of literature.

We will take one look at Private Ortheris at work:


"Ortheris suddenly rose to his knees, his rifle at his shoulder, and
peered across the valley in the clear afternoon light. His chin
cuddled the stock, and there was a twitching of the muscles of the
right cheek as he sighted; Private Stanley Ortheris was engaged on his
business. A speck of white crawled up the watercourse.

"'See that beggar? . . . Got 'im.'

"Seven hundred yards away, and a full two hundred down the hillside,
the deserter of the Aurangabadis pitched forward, rolled down a red
rock, and lay very still, with his face in a clump of blue gentians,
while a big raven flapped out of the pine wood to make investigation.

"'That's a clean shot, little man,' said Mulvaney.

"Learoyd thoughtfully watched the smoke clear away. 'Happen there was
a lass tewed up wi' him, too,' said he.

"Ortheris did not reply. He was staring across the valley, with the
smile of the artist who looks on the completed work."