"Of course!" cried Colonel Edwardes. "Poor Barclay had a mania for nicknames. And by George! what was that nonsense I used to rattle off: it used to amuse the boy's mother—
"There was a little Jorkins,
And he had a little pork ins-
Ide his little tummy,
And bellowed for his mummy,
And howled for his daddy,
Who caught him drinking madi,
And said the nasty toddy
Was bad for his little body——"
"How long did that go on, Edwardes?" interrupted some one.
"It never ended; I had to reel off a fresh instalment at every visit. Poor old Barclay!"
Ahmed was dazed at all this and the dim memories which the long-forgotten doggrel revived. Looking at Edwardes, he fancied he remembered the tall jolly officer, brimming over with jokes, whose visits were so welcome. But he perceived the distress of Rahmut Khan, and asked permission to take him away.
When the Guides marched to Hoti-Mardan Ahmed was not among them. It had been decided that he should leave almost immediately for England, where he would find relatives of his father and mother, and where a small property awaited its owner. He took leave very cordially, yet with regret, of his comrades of the corps. Sherdil hugged the belief that Ahmed's good fortune was due mainly to the coaching he had had when a candidate for the Guides, and begged that his pupil would never forget it. Rahmut Khan remained for a week in Peshawar, made much of by the British officers, who vied with each other in entertaining him. The old man then set off on his lonely way back to Shagpur. He maintained his composure throughout his farewell interview with Ahmed; but Ahmed knew what strength of feeling was masked by his self-control.
A few weeks later Ahmed embarked for England. It had been discovered that Dr. Craddock and his daughter were leaving for home, and the doctor willingly undertook the office of guardian. He had known Ahmed's father; it was the likeness between them which had awakened a vague remembrance of having seen Ahmed before. With these good friends Ahmed Khan left the shores of India, but among the passengers who disembarked at St. Katharine's Docks there was no one of that name; he had become accustomed to hearing himself called Mr. James Barclay.
EPILOGUE
It is a bleak, raw day in November, 1863. A field force of all arms, under Sir Neville Chamberlain, is encamped in the rocky country of Umbeyla; their duty is to punish the tribesmen who, led by a fierce and fanatical mullah, have long been giving trouble. Above their camp towers an abrupt and precipitous rock, known as the Crag, and its summit is held by a picket of the 1st Panjab Infantry, a hundred and twenty strong. Twice already has the enemy, creeping up in thousands on the other side from the lower hills, driven the picket from its post, and twice has the position been recaptured at the point of the bayonet. And on this 13th of November the wild tribesmen have for the third time swarmed up to the attack, in such overwhelming force that the Crag's handful of defenders is driven back, and comes in full flight down the narrow rocky path that leads to the encampment below.