would bring the funeral party to the cemetery, in sight of which the "slow march" would be resumed, and the Chaplain, surpliced, book-bearing, come forth to put himself at its head, leading the way to the grave-side where, with uncovered heads, the mourners would listen to the impressive words with feelings varying as their education, religion, temperament, and—digestion—impelled.
At the close of the service, the firing-party in their places, six on either side of the grave, would fire three volleys into the air, while the band breathed a solemn dirge.
And—perhaps most impressively tragic touch of all—the party would march briskly off to the strains of the liveliest air in the whole repertoire of the band.
Why should John Humphreyville Priddell—doubtless scion of the great Norman houses of Humphreyville and Paradelle, who shared much of Dorsetshire between them from Domesday Book to Stuart downfall—have been born in a tiny village of the Vale of Froom in "Dorset Dear," to die of cholera in vile Motipur? Was some maid, in barton, byre, or dairy, thinking of him but now—with an ill-writ letter in her bosom, a letter beginning with "I now take up my pen to right you these few lines hopping they find you the same which they now leave me at present" according to right tradition and proper custom, and continuing to speak of homesick longings, dreams of furlough, promotion, marrying "on the strength," and retirement to green fair Dorset Dear on a Sergeant-Major's pension?
What was the meaning of it all? Was it pure chance and accident—or had a Living, Scheming, Purposeful Deity a great wise object in this that John Humphreyville Priddell should have been born and bred and nurtured in the Vale of Froom to be struck from lusty life to a death of agony in a few hours at Motipur in the cruel accursed blighted land of Ind?
Well, well!—high time to rap again upon the door, the last door, of John Humphreyville Priddell, Trooper, ex-dairyhand, decaying carrion,—and scare from his carcass such over-early visitants as anticipated….
How hollowly the blows re-echoed. Did they strike muffled but murderous upon the heart of the thousand-league distant dairymaid, or of the old cottage-mother whose evenings were spent in spelling out her boy's loving letters—that so oft covered a portion of his exiguous pay?…
Was that a scuttling within? Quite probably. It might be—rats, it might be a bandicoot; it could hardly be a jackal; it might be a SNAKE,—and Trooper Matthewson's carbine clattered to the ground and his knees smote together as he thought the word. Pulling himself together he hastily snatched up his carbine with a flush of shame at the slovenly unsoldierly "crime" of dropping it. He'd be dropping his arms on parade next! But it might be a snake—for he had certainly heard the sound of a movement of some sort. The strong man felt faint and leant against the mortuary wall for a moment.
Oh, that the wretched carbine were a sword! A man could feel a man with a sword in his hand. He could almost face the Snake, even in Snake form, if he had a sword … but what is a carbine, even a loaded Martini-Henry carbine with its good soft man-stopping slug? There are no traditions to a carbine—nothing of the Spirit of one's Ancestors in one—a vile mechanic thing of villainous saltpetre. How should the Snake fear that? Now a sword was different. It stood for human war and human courage and human deeds from the mistiest past, and behind it must be a weight of human wrath, feats, and tradition that must make even the Snake pause. Oh, for his sword—if the Snake came upon him when he had but this wretched carbine he would probably desert his post, fling the useless toy from him, and flee till he fell blind and fainting on the ground…. And what would the Trooper of the Queen get who deserted his sentry-post, threw away his arms and fled—and explained in defence that he had seen a snake? Probably a court-martial would give him a spell of Military Prison. Yes—Jail…. What proportion of truth could there be in the firmly-held belief of the men that "crimes" are made so numerous and so inevitable, to the best-meaning and most careful, because there exist a great Military Prison System and a great Military Prison personnel—and that "criminals" are essential to the respective proper inhabitation and raison d'être thereof—that unless a good supply of military "criminals" were forthcoming there might have to be reductions and curtailments—loss of snug billets…. Certainly soldiers got years of imprisonment for "crimes" for which civilians would get reprimands or nominal fines, and, moreover, when a man became a soldier he certainly lost the elementary fundamental rights guaranteed to Englishmen by Magna Charta—among them the right of trial by his peers….
Would poor Priddell mind if he did not knock again? If it were the Snake it could do Priddell no harm now—he being happily dead—whereas, if disturbed, it might emerge to the utter undoing—mind, body, and soul—of Trooper Matthewson. It would certainly send him to Jail or Lunatic Asylum—probably to both in due succession, for he was daily getting worse in the matter of the Snake.
No—it was part of his orders, on this sentry-post, to knock at the door, and he would do his duty, Snake or not. He had always tried to do his duty faithfully and he would continue….
Once more to knock at a dead man's door….
Bump, Bump: Bump, Bump: Bump, Bump.
"You'll soon be at rest, Priddell, old chap—and I wish I could join you," called Dam, and it seemed to his excited brain that a deep hollow groan replied.
"By Jove! He's not dead," coolly remarked the man who would have fled shrieking from a harmless blind-worm, and, going round to the back of the building, he placed his carbine against the wall and sprang up at a kind of window-ledge that formed the base of a grated aperture made for purposes of ventilation. Slowly raising his body till his face was above the ledge, he peered into the dimly moonlit cell and then dropped to the ground and, catching up his carbine, sprinted in the direction of the Hospital Guard-room.
There arrived, he shouted for the Corporal of the Guard and was quickly confronted by Corporal Prag.
"Wot the devil you deserted yore"…. he began.
"Get the key of the mortuary, send for the Surgeon, and come at once," gasped Dam as soon as he could speak. "Priddell's not dead. Must be some kind of catalepsy. Quick, man"….
"Catter wot? You drunken 'og," drawled the Corporal. "Catter_waulin' more like it. Under arrest you goes, my lad. Now you 'ave_ done it. 'Ere, 'Awker, run down an' call up the Sergeant o' the Guard an' tell 'im Maffewson's left 'is post. 'E'll 'ave to plant annuvver sentry. Maffewson goes ter clink."
"Yes—but send for the Surgeon and the key of the mortuary too," begged Dam. "I give you fair warning that Priddell is alive and groaning and off the bier—"
"Pity you ain't 'off the beer' too," said the Corporal with a yawn.
"Well—there are witnesses that I brought the report to you. If Priddell is found dead on the ground to-morrow you'll have to answer for manslaughter."
"'Ere, chuck it you snaike-seeing delirying trimmer, will yer! Give anyone the 'orrers to listen to yer! When Priddell is wrote off as 'Dead' 'e is dead, whether 'e likes it or no," and he turned to give orders to the listening guard to arrest Trooper Matthewson.
The Sergeant of the Guard arrived at the "double," followed by Trooper Bear carrying a hurricane-lamp.
"What's the row?" panted the Sergeant. "Matthewson on the booze agin?"
"I report that there is a living man in the mortuary, Sergeant," replied Dam. "Priddell is not dead. I heard him groan, and I scrambled up to the grating and saw him lying on the ground by the door."
"Well, you'll see yerself groanin' an' lyin' on the ground in the Digger, now," replied the Sergeant, and, as much in sorrow
