Later he addressed the draft in a gentle little speech of the kind that annoyed his brother-officers almost past bearing.
"You have all heard of Death and Glory," he began. "Well, in this country there's a certain amount of Death going about, if you care to look out for it, but very little Glory. You have also heard no doubt from your mothers and the missionaries that the black man is your brother. It may be so. But in this country there are no black men and therefore no brothers. There are brown men who are your remote cousins; and they aren't bad fellows if you keep them in their place, and remember your own. On Sundays there is church for those who like it; and the same for those who don't. For the rest, whether you are happy or the reverse depends in the main upon your health, and your health depends in the main on yourselves. Be careful what you drink, and don't suck every stick of sugar-cane a native offers you. Remember you are Hammer-men and not monkeys. Most of you are men of Sussex, as are most of your officers; and we all know that the Sussex man wunt be druv. But discipline is discipline and must be maintained. We don't hammer each other more than we can help, nor do we hammer the natives more than is good for them. We exist to hammer the King's enemies. And now I wish you all well and hope you'll find the Regiment a real home."
Major Lewknor's long spidery legs carried him back to the bungalow where his wife awaited him.
She was a little woman, clearly Semitic, fine as she was strong, with eyes like jewels and the nose of an Arab.
"My dear," said the Major, "in your young days did you ever hear of one Hans Caspar?"
"My Jock, did I ever hear of one Napoleon Buonaparte?" mocked his mate. "What about him?"
"I was at Trinity with his son," replied the Colonel.
"We used to call him Hathri. A charming fellow, and a brilliant scholar, but——"
"What about him?" said Mrs. Lewknor, who seemed suddenly on the defensive.
"His son has just joined us," answered the Major. "In the ranks."