“There wasn’t another man to me like the Governor in all the countries of the world.  Once he brought me to life after doctors had given me up for dead; but he willed it, and I lived; and ever afterwards I loved him as a dog loves its master.  That was in the Punjab; and I came home to England with him, and was his servant when he got his appointment to the jail here.  I tell you he was a proud and fierce man, but under control and tender to those he favoured; and I will tell you also a strange thing about him.  Though he was a soldier and an officer, and strict in discipline as made men fear and admire him, his heart at bottom was all for books, and literature, and such-like gentle crafts.  I had his confidence, as a man gives his confidence to his dog, and before me sometimes he unbent as he never would before others.  In this way I learnt the bitter sorrow of his life.  He had once hoped to be a poet, acknowledged as such before the world.  He was by natur’ an idelist, as they call it, and God knows what it meant to him to come out of the woods, so to speak, and sweat in the dust of cities; but he did it, for his will was of tempered steel.  He buried his dreams in the clouds and came down to earth greatly resolved, but with one undying hate.  It is not good to hate as he could, and worse to be hated by such as him; and I will tell you the story, and what it led to.

“It was when he was a subaltern that he made up his mind to the plunge.  For years he had placed all his hopes and confidents in a book of verses he had wrote, and added to, and improved during that time.  A little encouragement, a little word of praise, was all he looked for, and then he was ready to buckle to again, profitin’ by advice, and do better.  He put all the love and beauty of his heart into that book, and at last, after doubt, and anguish, and much diffidents, he published it and give it to the world.  Sir, it fell what they call still-born from the press.  It was like a green leaf flutterin’ down in a dead wood.  To a proud and hopeful man, bubblin’ with music, the pain of neglect, when he come to realize it, was terrible.  But nothing was said, and there was nothing to say.  In silence he had to endure and suffer.

“But one day, during maneuvers, there came to the camp a grey-faced man, a newspaper correspondent, and young Shrike knocked up a friendship with him.  Now how it come about I cannot tell, but so it did that this skip-kennel wormed the lad’s sorrow out of him, and his confidents, swore he’d been damnabilly used, and that when he got back he’d crack up the book himself in his own paper.  He was a fool for his pains, and a serpent in his cruelty.  The notice come out as promised, and, my God! the author was laughed and mocked at from beginning to end.  Even confidentses he had given to the creature was twisted to his ridicule, and his very appearance joked over.  And the mess got wind of it, and made a rare story for the dog days.