chant. It came from the barrack-room door. Afterwards I discovered it
was Hawk sitting on his trestle bed cross-legged, with a bit of
sacking and ashes on his head imitating the death-wail of an Indian
woman for her dead husband.

Hawk knew all the rites and ceremonies of the various Hindoo castes,
and could act the part of a fakir or a bazaar-wullah with wonderful
realism.

By turns Hawk was a heavy drinker and a clear-brained man of action,
calm in danger.

In those early days of my "military career" I looked upon him only as
an author looks upon an interesting character.

Months afterwards, on the death-swept peninsula, Hawk and I became
fast friends. The "bad man" of the ambulance became the most useful,
most faithful, in my section. We went everywhere together--like
"Horace and Holly" of Rider Haggard fame: he the great, strong man,
and I the young artist scout.

If Hawk was out of camp, you could bet I was also--and vice-versa.

Of Hawk more anon.




CHAPTER VI