It was Boots, of course; but no one could find Boots, not though the Captain offered fifty pounds out of his own pocket for the discovery. The small company of English soldiers, with two officers, and a doctor, arrived in the early morning, but Ayres was intractable; he would not sit still for a moment, or eat, or smoke, or behave in the least like a reasonable being.
"I knew Boots' voice," he said huskily, "and I am sure the brutes murdered him. He tried to warn me—he knew his own tribe, you see—but I wouldn't believe him, and he saved the camp at the sacrifice of his own life."
"Perhaps he went off with this tribe," someone suggested.
"I am sure he didn't," said Captain Ayres sharply. "However, we must strike tents and go. Poor Boots!"
And would you like to know where Boots was all the time? He was hidden close in the folds of Captain Ayres' own tent, where they found him lying insensible, with a dark wound on his bare, brown breast. Not a fatal wound, I hasten to tell you unless you should feel unhappy about him; for Boots has grown up into a faithful servant, and has often since then recklessly offered his life in defence of his master. He wears a coat now, because he is a respectable member of society, and also because his medal obliges him to do so.
Captain Ayres had plenty to add to that eventful letter to his mother, but he had not time to do so for nearly a week afterwards. He wrote:—
"Boots has distinguished himself. The dacoits came in the dead of the night, and sneaked past the sentries, and meant to rush the camp, but Boots was one too many for them. They tried to silence him, but he shouted to me, and roused the camp, before they put a spear into him. He is doing well, and has been recommended for a medal, and so am I; but the honour and glory are all to Boots!"
Geraldine R. Glasgow.
