But he had his points, mark you, and it was a thousand pities that so fine a soldier was undeniably subject to attacks of delirium tremens and unmistakeably a secret drinker who might at any time have a violent outburst, finishing in screams, sobs, and tears.  A most remarkable case!  Who ever heard of a magnificent athlete—­regimental champion boxer and swordsman, admittedly as fine and bold a horseman and horse-master as the Rough-Riding Sergeant-Major or the Riding-Master himself—­being a sufficiently industrious secret-drinker to get “goes” of “d.t.,” to drink till he behaved like some God-and-man-forsaken wretch that lives on cheap gin in a chronic state of alcoholism.  He had his points, and if the Brigadier had ever happened to say to the Colonel:  “Send me your smartest, most intelligent, and keenest man to gallop for me at the manoeuvres,” or the Inspector of Army Gymnasia had asked for the regiment’s finest specimen, or if one representative private soldier had to be sent somewhere to uphold the credit and honour of the Queen’s Greys, undoubtedly Trooper Matthewson would have been chosen.

What a splendid squadron-sergeant major, regimental sergeant-major, yea, what a fine officer he would have made, had he been reliable.  But there, you can’t have an officer, nor a non-com., either, who lies shrieking and blubbering on the floor coram publico, and screams to God and man to save him from the snakes that exist only in his own drink-deranged mind.  For of course it can only be Drink that produces “Snakes”!  Yes, it is only through the ghastly alcohol-tinted glasses that you can “see snakes”—­any fool knows that.

And the fools of the Queen’s Greys knew it, and hoped to God that Matthewson would “keep off it” till after the Divisional Boxing Tournament and Assault-at-Arms, for, if he did, the Queen’s Greys would certainly have the Best Man-at-Arms in the Division and have a mighty good shot at having the Heavy-Weight All-India Champion, since Matthewson had challenged the Holder and held an absolutely unbroken record of victories in the various regimental and inter-regimental boxing tournaments in which he had taken part since joining the regiment.  And he had been “up against some useful lads” as Captain Chevalier, the president and Maecenas of the Queen’s Greys’ boxing-club, expressed it.  Yes, Matthewson had his points and the man who brought the Regiment the kudos of having best Man-at-Arms and Heavy-Weight Champion of India would be forgiven a lot.

And Damocles de Warrenne blessed the Divisional Boxing Tournament, Assault-at-Arms, and, particularly, the All-India Heavy-Weight Championship.

Occupation, labour, anodyne....  Work and deep Sleep.  Fighting to keep the Snake at bay.  No, fighting to get away from it—­there was no keeping it at bay—­nothing but shrieking collapse when It came....

From parade ground to gymnasium, from gymnasium to swimming-bath, from swimming-bath to running-track, from running-track to boxing-ring, from boxing-ring to gymnasium again.  Work, occupation, forgetfulness.  Forget the Snake for a little while—­even though it is surely lurking near—­waiting, waiting, waiting; nay, even beneath his very foot and moving....