PRIVATE LEAROYD'S STORY

And he told a tale.
--_Chronicles of Gautama Buddha._

FAR from the haunts of Company Officers who insist upon kit-inspections,
far from keen-nosed Sergeants who sniff the pipe stuffed into the
bedding-roll, two miles from the tumult of the barracks, lies the Trap.
It is an old dry well, shadowed by a twisted _pipal_ tree and fenced
with high grass. Here, in the years gone by, did Private Ortheris
establish his depot and menagerie for such possessions, dead and living,
as could not safely be introduced to the barrack-room. Here were
gathered Houdin pullets, and fox-terriers of undoubted pedigree and
more than doubtful ownership, for Ortheris was an inveterate poacher
and pre-eminent among a regiment of neat-handed dog-stealers.

Never again will the long lazy evenings return wherein Ortheris,
whistling softly, moved surgeon-wise among the captives of his craft
at the bottom of the well; when Learoyd sat in the niche, giving sage
counsel on the management of 'tykes,' and Mulvaney, from the crook of
the overhanging _pipal_, waved his enormous boots in benediction above
our heads, delighting us with tales of Love and War, and strange
experiences of cities and men.

Ortheris--landed at last in the 'little stuff bird-shop' for which
your soul longed; Learoyd--back again in the smoky, stone-ribbed North,
amid the clang of the Bradford looms; Mulvaney--grizzled, tender, and
very wise Ulysses, sweltering on the earthwork of a Central India