Then, if we think of the lot of those who fight for us and slaughter our hapless enemies by deputy as it were, their luck seems very hard.  When the steady lines moved up the Alma slope and the men were dropping so fast, the soldiers knew that they were performing their parts as in a vast theatre; their country would learn the story of their deed, and the feats of individuals would be amply recorded.  But, when a man spends months in a far-off rocky country, fighting day after day, watching night after night, and knowing that at any moment the bullet of a prowling Ghilzai or Afridi may strike him, he has very little consolation indeed.  When one comes to think of the matter from the humorous point of view—­though there is more grim fact than fun in it—­it does seem odd that we should be compelled to spend two thousand pounds on an officer’s education, and then send him where he may be wiped out of the world in an instant by a savage little above the level of the Bushman.  I pity the poor savages, but I certainly pity the refined and highly-trained English soldier more.  The latest and most delightful of our Anglo-Indians has put the matter admirably in verse which carries a sting even amidst its pathos.  He calls his verses “Arithmetic on the Frontier.”

     A great and glorious thing it is
       To learn for seven years or so
     The Lord knows what of that or this,
       Ere reckoned fit to face the foe,
     The flying bullet down the pass,
     That whistles clear, “All flesh is grass.”

     Three hundred pounds per annum spent
       On making brain and body meeter
     For all the murderous intent
       Comprised in villainous saltpetre! 
     And after—­ask the Yusufzaies
     What comes of all our ’ologies.

     A scrimmage in a border station,
       A canter down some dark defile—­
     Two thousand pounds of education
       Drops to a ten-rupee jezail! 
     The crammer’s boast, the squadron’s pride
     Shot like a rabbit in a ride.

     No proposition Euclid wrote,
       No formulae the text-book know,
     Will turn the bullet from your coat
       Or ward the tulwar’s downward blow;
     Strike hard who cares—­shoot straight who can—­
     The odds are on the cheaper man.

     One sword-knot stolen from the camp
       Will pay for all the school expenses
     Of any Kurrum Valley scamp
       Who knows no word of moods and tenses,
     But, being blessed with perfect sight,
     Picks off our messmates left and right.

     With home-bred hordes the hillsides teem;
       The troop-ships bring us one by one,
     At vast expense of time and steam,
       To slay Afridis where they run. 
     The captives of our bow and spear
     Are cheap, alas, as we are dear!