had no one to fall back on in time of trouble except himself.

Now India is a place beyond all others where one must not take
things too seriously--the midday sun always excepted. Too much
work and too much energy kill a man just as effectively as too much
assorted vice or too much drink. Flirtation does not matter
because every one is being transferred and either you or she leave
the Station, and never return. Good work does not matter, because
a man is judged by his worst output and another man takes all the
credit of his best as a rule. Bad work does not matter, because
other men do worse, and incompetents hang on longer in India than
anywhere else. Amusements do not matter, because you must repeat
them as soon as you have accomplished them once, and most
amusements only mean trying to win another person's money.
Sickness does not matter, because it's all in the day's work, and
if you die another man takes over your place and your office in the
eight hours between death and burial. Nothing matters except Home
furlough and acting allowances, and these only because they are
scarce. This is a slack, kutcha country where all men work with
imperfect instruments; and the wisest thing is to take no one and
nothing in earnest, but to escape as soon as ever you can to some
place where amusement is amusement and a reputation worth the
having.

But this Boy--the tale is as old as the Hills--came out, and took
all things seriously. He was pretty and was petted. He took the
pettings seriously, and fretted over women not worth saddling a
pony to call upon. He found his new free life in India very good.
It DOES look attractive in the beginning, from a Subaltern's point
of view--all ponies, partners, dancing, and so on. He tasted it as