Once upon a time, very far from England, there lived three men who loved each other so greatly that neither man nor woman could come between them.  They were in no sense refined, nor to be admitted to the outer-door mats of decent folk, because they happened to be private soldiers in Her Majesty’s Army; and private soldiers of our service have small time for self-culture.  Their duty is to keep themselves and their accoutrements specklessly clean, to refrain from getting drunk more often than is necessary, to obey their superiors, and to pray for a war.  All these things my friends accomplished; and of their own motion threw in some fighting-work for which the Army Regulations did not call.  Their fate sent them to serve in India, which is not a golden country, though poets have sung otherwise.  There men die with great swiftness, and those who live suffer many and curious things.  I do not think that my friends concerned themselves much with the social or political aspects of the East.  They attended a not unimportant war on the northern frontier, another one on our western boundary, and a third in Upper Burma.  Then their regiment sat still to recruit, and the boundless monotony of cantonment life was their portion.  They were drilled morning and evening on the same dusty parade-ground.  They wandered up and down the same stretch of dusty white road, attended the same church and the same grog-shop, and slept in the same lime-washed barn of a barrack for two long years.  There was Mulvaney, the father in the craft, who had served with various regiments from Bermuda to Halifax, old in war, scarred, reckless, resourceful, and in his pious hours an unequalled soldier.  To him turned for help and comfort six and a half feet of slow-moving, heavy-footed Yorkshireman, born on the wolds, bred in the dales, and educated chiefly among the carriers’ carts at the back of York railway-station.  His name was Learoyd, and his chief virtue an unmitigated patience which helped him to win fights.  How Ortheris, a fox-terrier of a Cockney, ever came to be one of the trio, is a mystery which even to-day I cannot explain.  ‘There was always three av us,’ Mulvaney used to say.  ‘An’ by the grace av God, so long as our service lasts, three av us they’ll always be.  ‘Tis betther so.’

They desired no companionship beyond their own, and it was evil for any man of the regiment who attempted dispute with them.  Physical argument was out of the question as regarded Mulvaney and the Yorkshireman; and assault on Ortheris meant a combined attack from these twain—­a business which no five men were anxious to have on their hands.  Therefore they flourished, sharing their drinks, their tobacco, and their money; good luck and evil; battle and the chances of death; life and the chances of happiness from Calicut in southern, to Peshawur in northern India.

Through no merit of my own it was my good fortune to be in a measure admitted to their friendship—­frankly by Mulvaney from the beginning, sullenly and with reluctance by Learoyd, and suspiciously by Ortheris, who held to it that no man not in the Army could fraternise with a red-coat.  ‘Like to like,’ said he.  ‘I’m a bloomin’ sodger—­he’s a bloomin’ civilian.  ‘Tain’t natural—­that’s all.’