he hurried away to write telegrams, because a belief thrives in
the early days of any war that influence can make or break a man's
chances. In the other room where the telegraph blanks were littered
in confusion all about the floor, he ran into a crony whose chief
sore point was Athelstan King, loathing him as some men loathe
pickles or sardines, for no real reason whatever, except that they
are what they are.

"Saw you talking to King," he said.

"Yes. Can't make him out. Rum fellow!"

"Rum? Huh! Trouble is he's seventh of his family in succession
to serve in India. She has seeped into him and pickled his heritage.
He's a believer in Kismet crossed on to Opportunity. Not sure he
doesn't pray to Allah on the sly! Hopeless case."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite!"

So they all sent telegrams and forgot King who sat and smoked and
read about surgery; and before he had nearly finished one box of
cheroots a general at Peshawur wiped a bald red skull and sent him
an urgent telegram.

"Come at once!" it said simply.

King was at Lahore, but miles don't matter when the dogs of war
are loosed. The right man goes to the right place at the exact