He turned in through a narrow gate leading to a pretty though neglected garden in which stood the Mess, a long, single-storied building raised on piles.  On the broad wooden verandah to which a flight of steps led from the ground two men were reclining in long chairs reading old newspapers.  On seeing Dermot and his companion they rose, and the Colonel introduced Frank.  They shook hands with him and gave him a hearty welcome, which, coming on the top of the Dermot’s, cheered the subaltern exceedingly and for the time made him forget the circumstances of his coming.

“It’s mighty glad I am to see you here, Wargrave,” said Burke, the doctor, in a mellow brogue, “aven av it’s only to have someone living in the Mess wid me.  The Major there lives in solitary state in his little bungalow; and I’m all alone here at night wid shaitans (devils) and wild beasts walking on the verandah.”

“What?  Has that panther been prowling round the Mess again?” asked the Political Officer.

“Faith! and he has that.  Sure, I heard him sniffing at me door last night.  I wish to the Powers ye’d shoot him, sir.”

“I can’t get him.  I’ve tried often enough.”

“Troth! and it’s waking up one fine morning I’ll be to find he’s made a meal av me.  Keep your door shut at night, Wargrave.  Merrick, who lived in the room you’ll have, forgot to do it once and the divil nearly had him.”

“Is that really a fact?” asked Frank, delighted at the thought of having come to a place with such possibilities of sport.

“Yes; we’re plagued by a brute of a panther that prowls about the station at night, jumps the wall of the Fort and carries off the sepoys’ dogs, and has actually entered rooms here in the Mess.  He has killed several Bhuttia children on the hills around here.  Nobody can ever get a shot at him.  He’s too cunning.  Will you have a drink, Colonel?” said Hunt.

The Political Officer thanked him but declined, and, reminding them all of his wife’s invitation for the morrow, bade them goodnight.

“That’s one av the finest men in India,” exclaimed Burke, as they watched Dermot’s figure receding down the road.  The doctor had a pleasant, ugly face and wore spectacles.

“He is, indeed.  He keeps the whole Bhutan border in order,” said the commandant, Major Hunt, a slight, grey-haired man with a quiet and reserved manner.  “The Bhuttias are more afraid of a cross look from him than of all our rifles and machine-guns.  Have a drink, Wargrave?  Yes?  And you, Burke?  Hi, boy!”

A Gurkha servant with the ugly, cheery face of his race appeared and was ordered to bring three whiskeys and sodas.

“Ranga’s not a bad place if you can stand the loneliness,” continued the Major.  “Are you fond of shooting.”

“Yes, sir, awfully.”

“Hooray!  That’s good,” cried Burke.  “Now we’ll have someone to go down to the jungle and shoot for the Mess.  We want a change from tinned Army rations and the tough ould hins that these benighted haythins call chickens.”