for seven-and-thirty years, and in the end was shot for old age.
Half the mess tore the thing down from its place and thrust it
into the man's hands. He placed it above the mantelpiece, it
clattered on the ledge as his poor hands dropped it, and he
staggered towards the bottom of the table, falling into Mildred's
chair. Then all the men spoke to one another something after this
fashion, "The drum-horse hasn't hung over the mantelpiece since
'67." "How does he know?" "Mildred, go and speak to him again."
"Colonel, what are you going to do?" "Oh, dry up, and give the
poor devil a chance to pull himself together." "It isn't possible
anyhow. The man's a lunatic."

Little Mildred stood at the colonel's side, talking in his ear.
"Will you be good enough to take your seats please, gentlemen!" he
said, and the mess dropped into the chairs. Only Dirkovitch's
seat, next to little Mildred's, was blank, and little Mildred
himself had found Hira Singh's place. The wide-eyed mess-sergeant
filled the glasses in dead silence. Once more the colonel rose,
but his hand shook, and the port spilled on the table as he looked
straight at the man in little Mildred's chair and said hoarsely,
"Mr. Vice, the Queen." There was a little pause, but the man
sprung to his feet and answered without hesitation, "The Queen,
God bless her!" and as he emptied the thin glass he snapped the
shank between his fingers.

Long and long ago, when the Empress of India was a young woman,
and there were no unclean ideals in the land, it was the custom of
a few messes to drink the Queen's toast in broken glass, to the
vast delight of the mess-contractors. The custom is now dead,
because there is nothing to break anything for, except now and