On mounting his horse, the General was compelled to work out a little sum.

If one has four fingers there must be three inter-finger spaces, eh?  Granted.  Then how the devil are four reins to go into three places between four fingers, eh?  Absurd idea, an’ damsilly.  However, till the matter was referred to the War Office and finally settled, one could put two reins between two fingers or pass one outside the lill’ finger, what?  But the General hated compromises....  The mounted orderly met the General, saluted and directed him to the entrance to the tree-encircled camp and parade-ground.

At the entrance, the General, leading, reined in so sharply as to throw his horse on its haunches—­his mouth fell open, his mottled face went putty-coloured, and each hair that he possessed appeared to bristle.

He uttered a deep groan, rubbed his eyes, emitted a yell, wheeled round and galloped for dear life, with a cry, nay a scream, of “I’ve got ’em at last,” followed by his utterly bewildered but ever-faithful Brigade-Major, who had seen nothing but foliage, scrub, and cactus.  To Gungapur the General galloped without drawing rein, took to his bed, sent for surgeon and priest—­and became a teetotaller.

And what had he seen?

The affair is wrapped in mystery.

The Brigade-Major says nothing because he knows nothing, as it happens, and the Corps declared it was never inspected.  Father Ignatius knows what the General saw, or thinks he saw, and so does the Surgeon-General, but neither is in the habit of repeating confessions and confidences.  What Jobler, at the keyhole, understood him to say he had seen, or thought he had seen, is not to be believed.

Judge of it.

“I rode into the dem place and what did I behold?  A dem pandemonium, Sir, a pantomime—­a lunatic asylum, Sir—­all Hell out for a Bank Holiday, I tell you.  There was a battalion of Red Indians, Negroes, Esquimaux, Ballet Girls, Angels, Sweeps, Romans, Sailors, Pierrots, Savages, Bogeymen, Ancient Britons, Bishops, Zulus, Pantaloons, Beef-eaters, Tramps, Life-Guards, Washerwomen, Ghosts, Clowns and God-knows-what, armed with jezails, umbrellas, brooms, catapults, pikes, brickbats, kukeries,[52] pokers, clubs, axes, horse-pistols, bottles, dead fowls, polo-sticks, assegais and bombs.  They were commanded by a Highlander in a bum-bee tartan kilt, top-hat and one sock, with a red nose a foot long, riding on a rocking horse and brandishing a dem great cucumber and a tea-tray made into a shield.  There was a thundering great drain-pipe mounted on a bullock-cart and a naked man, painted blue, in a cocked-hat, laying an aim and firing a penny-pistol down the middle of it and yelling ‘Pip!’

  [52] Ghurka knives.

“There was a chauffeur in smart livery on an elephant, twirling a steering-wheel on its neck for dear life, and tooting a big motor-horn..  There was a fat man in a fireman’s helmet and pyjamas, armed with a peashooter, riding a donkey backwards—­and the moke wore two pairs of trousers!...  As I rubbed my poor old eyes, the devil in command howled ’General salaam.  Pre_sent_-legs’—­and every fiend there fell flat on his face and raised his right leg up behind—­I tell you, Sir, I fled for my life, and—­no more liquor for me.” ...