THE GREY BOAR

    Youth’s daring courage, manhood’s fire,
      Firm seat and eagle eye,
    Must he acquire who doth aspire
      To see the grey boar die.

    —­Indian Pigsticking Song.

Mrs. Norton looked contentedly at her image in the long mirror which reflected a graceful figure in a well-cut grey habit and smart long brown boots, a pretty face and wavy auburn hair under the sun-helmet.  Then turning away and picking up her whip she left the dressing-room and, passing the door of her husband’s bedroom where he lay still sleeping, descended the broad marble staircase of the Residency to the lofty hall, where an Indian servant in a long red coat hurried to open the door of the dining-room for her.

Almost at that moment a mile away Raymond, the adjutant of the 180th Punjaub Infantry, looked at his watch and called out loudly: 

“Hurry up, Wargrave; it’s four o’clock and the ponies will be round in ten minutes.  And it’s a long ride to the Palace.”

He was seated at a table on the verandah of the bungalow which he shared with his brother subaltern in the small military cantonment near Rohar, the capital of the Native State of Mandha in the west of India.  Dawn had not yet come; and by the light of an oil lamp Raymond was eating a frugal breakfast of tea, toast and fruit, the chota hazri or light meal with which Europeans in the East begin the day.  He was dressed in an old shooting-jacket, breeches and boots; and as he ate his eyes turned frequently to a bundle of steel-headed bamboo spears leaning against the wall near him.  For he and his companion were going as the guests of the Maharajah of Mandha for a day’s pigsticking, as hunting the wild boar is termed in India.

He had finished his meal and lit a cheroot before Wargrave came yawning on to the verandah.

“Sorry for being so lazy, old chap,” said the newcomer.  “But a year’s leave in England gets one out of the habit of early rising.”

He pulled up a chair to the table on which his white-clad Mussulman servant, who had come up the front steps of the verandah, laid a tray with his tea and toast.  And while he ate Raymond lay back smoking in a long chair and looked almost affectionately at him.  They had been friends since their Sandhurst days, and during the past twelve months of his comrade’s absence on furlough in Europe the adjutant had sorely missed his cheery companionship.  Nor was he the only one in their regiment who had.

Frank Wargrave was almost universally liked by both men and women, and, while unspoilt by popularity, thoroughly deserved it.  He was about twenty-six years of age, above medium height, with a lithe and graceful figure which the riding costume that he was wearing well set off.  Fair-haired and blue-eyed, with good though irregular features, he was pleasant-faced and attractive rather than handsome.  The cheerful,