The Political Officer thanked him but declined, and, reminding them all of his wife's invitation for the morrow, bade them goodnight.
"That's one av the finest men in India," exclaimed Burke, as they watched Dermot's figure receding down the road. The doctor had a pleasant, ugly face and wore spectacles.
"He is, indeed. He keeps the whole Bhutan border in order," said the commandant, Major Hunt, a slight, grey-haired man with a quiet and reserved manner. "The Bhuttias are more afraid of a cross look from him than of all our rifles and machine-guns. Have a drink, Wargrave? Yes? And you, Burke? Hi, boy!"
A Gurkha servant with the ugly, cheery face of his race appeared and was ordered to bring three whiskeys and sodas.
"Ranga's not a bad place if you can stand the loneliness," continued the Major. "Are you fond of shooting."
"Yes, sir, awfully."
"Hooray! That's good," cried Burke. "Now we'll have someone to go down to the jungle and shoot for the Mess. We want a change from tinned Army rations and the tough ould hins that these benighted haythins call chickens."
"Yes, you'll be a Godsend to us if you're a good shot, Wargrave," added the Commandant. "We never get meat here unless someone shoots a stag or a buck in the jungle; and for that we generally have to rely on Dermot. But he is away such a lot, wandering along the frontier, keeping an eye on the peace of the Border. Now we'll be able to look to you. We have three transport elephants with the detachment, all steady to shoot from."
Frank was delighted.
"I'd love to go into the jungle if you'd let me, sir."