CHAPTER I
Ted Disapproves
Ted Russell, ensign of the 193rd Bengal Native Infantry, stationed at Aurungpore, in the Punjab, was disgusted and irritable on this first day of the never-to-be-forgotten year of 1857—a year destined to bring untold misery to thousands of homes and families, and to many a race and creed throughout Hindustan and the British Isles; a year that would henceforward lie as a dark stain across the page of history.
But our young friend’s ill-humour could be traced to a much simpler cause than a mere prophetic dread of the future. Ensign Russell had not been in India many months, and during the whole of that short period he had looked forward with lively and pleasant anticipation to a visit from his brother Jim, whom he had seen but twice in the past ten years, and who was quite a veteran warrior in Ted’s admiring eyes. For Captain Russell had been engaged in the Sikh war as well as in several affrays with the border Pathans; he was the proud possessor of more than one medal, and had quite a prominent scar across his face—the mark of a Khyber knife. For the past twelve months he had held the rank of captain in the ten-year-old corps of Guides, stationed near Peshawur across the Indus, the town that guards the Khyber Pass—the gate of India.
At length this hero-brother had obtained leave of absence to visit Aurungpore, and great was the delight of both.
Now, here is what had disgusted the ensign. Before the stalwart captain, who had successfully held his own against Sikhs and Afghans, had been with Ted a couple of days, he had actually suffered defeat at the hands of a slip of a girl of twenty-one—a girl about five feet in height, the daughter of Ted’s colonel! Jim, who of all men should have been proof against such silly nonsense—such idiocy!—had succumbed at first sight, and instead of spinning yarns about his campaigns and his defence of Chiras Fort, he was mooning about all day long in the wake of this Ethel Woodburn.
Ensign Russell quickly found that, whatever plans he might make for the day, his brother would be sure to demur, unless the programme provided some chance of their meeting or seeing Miss Woodburn. He would plead fatigue or lack of interest, and then propose as an alternative something either much more fatiguing, or—in the boy’s eyes—much less interesting. The paltry excuses he made for altering the plans! Poor fellow, he thought that the “kid” would not see through his transparent subterfuges; but that sharp-witted youngster was not so easily befooled, and he voted the proceedings slow, and did not fail to express the opinion that his brother was no better than a milksop.
“You say you don’t ‘feel inclined’ to ride to Khasmi to-day,” exclaimed Ted in disgust, “because your horse is not quite fit! Bosh! Nimrod never was better in his life, and he’s just eating his head off. I was looking at him this morning; he’s in the pink of condition, and he simply begged me to take him out. Would he be in any better condition, I wonder, if Ethel Woodburn was likely to be there?”
Jim turned red, and sharply asked: “What had Miss Woodburn to do with it?”