Soldiers of fortune and dashing young bloods from all the countryside flocked to his standard, and so popular was the corps that there were sometimes as many as thirty of these receiving no pay, and maintaining themselves and their horses, while awaiting a vacancy.  And great indeed was the excitement when Lumsden, in his bluff breezy way, would say:  “Well, here’s a vacancy, and I don’t for the life of me know which of you to give it to.  Come along down to the rifle-range, and shoot it off amongst yourselves; the best shot gets the vacancy.”  And off they would go to the range, with all their friends and relations to the fifth generation, and all the partisans in the corps of each competitor:  shooting for the King’s Prize at Bisley is a flat and tame proceeding in comparison with this.  And as each shot was fired the friends of the competitor would yell:  “Shahbash!  Bravo!  Well shot!  Another bull’s eye!  You will win for certain.”  While rival interests would with equal emphasis discredit the performance:  “This bull’s eye was certainly an accident.  God willing he will miss next time.  Bravo! let us not lose heart!”

The demeanour of the winner on such occasions would make a Master in Lunacy look grave.  The happy young fellow would jump into the air, yelling and pirouetting, brandishing a sword, and at frequent intervals letting off a gun, nominally into the air, while most of his friends did likewise, embracing and congratulating him in the intervals.  Without taking a seat amongst the Scribes and Pharisees, it is perhaps permissible to notice that such a scene as this is in curious contrast to that to be seen in any French or German country town when lots are being drawn for conscription.  There the youth, who by drawing a lucky number escapes serving his country, is congratulated, feted, and led in procession round the streets.

One hard and fast rule, however, Lumsden made.  He would take no low caste men; he would have naught to say to the washermen, sweepers, and fiddlers[7] of the village; he would take only the highest, which in this land is the fighting caste.  His argument was one which still holds good.  It is not in reason to expect the classes which for hundreds of years have been hewers of wood and drawers of water, and for hundreds of years have been accustomed to receive the cuffs and kicks of their village superiors, to face readily the fighting classes in the day of battle.  The prestige of the soldier would be wanting to them, and prestige counts for as much in the East as elsewhere.

  [7] A musician in India is a low caste person.