Life's Handicap: Being Stories of Mine Own People

  THE MAN WHO WAS

  The Earth gave up her dead that tide, Into our camp he came, And said his say, and went his way, And left our hearts aflame.

  Keep tally--on the gun-butt score The vengeance we must take, When God shall bring full reckoning, For our dead comrade's sake. BALLAD.

  Let it be clearly understood that the Russian is a delightful persontill he tucks in his shirt. As an Oriental he is charming. It is onlywhen he insists upon being treated as the most easterly of westernpeoples instead of the most westerly of easterns that he becomes aracial anomaly extremely difficult to handle. The host never knows whichside of his nature is going to turn up next.

  Dirkovitch was a Russian--a Russian of the Russians--who appeared to gethis bread by serving the Czar as an officer in a Cossack regiment, andcorresponding for a Russian newspaper with a name that was never twicealike. He was a handsome young Oriental, fond of wandering throughunexplored portions of the earth, and he arrived in India from nowherein particular. At least no living man could ascertain whether it was byway of Balkh, Badakshan, Chitral, Beluchistan, or Nepaul, or anywhereelse. The Indian Government, being in an unusually affable mood, gaveorders that he was to be civilly treated and shown everything that wasto be seen. So he drifted, talking bad English and worse French, fromone city to another, till he foregathered with Her Majesty's WhiteHussars in the city of Peshawur, which stands at the mouth of thatnarrow swordcut in the hills that men call the Khyber Pass. He wasundoubtedly an officer, and he was decorated after the manner of theRussians with little enamelled crosses, and he could talk, and (thoughthis has nothing to do with his merits) he had been given up as ahopeless task, or cask, by the Black Tyrone, who individually andcollectively, with hot whisky and honey, mulled brandy, and mixedspirits of every kind, had striven in all hospitality to make him drunk.And when the Black Tyrone, who are exclusively Irish, fail to disturbthe peace of head of a foreigner--that foreigner is certain to be asuperior man.

  The White Hussars were as conscientious in choosing their wine as incharging the enemy. All that they possessed, including some wondrousbrandy, was placed at the absolute disposition of Dirkovitch, and heenjoyed himself hugely--even more than among the Black Tyrones.

  But he remained distressingly European through it all. The White Hussarswere 'My dear true friends,' 'Fellow-soldiers glorious,' and 'Brothersinseparable.' He would unburden himself by the hour on the gloriousfuture that awaited the combined arms of England and Russia when theirhearts and their territories should run side by side and the greatmission of civilising Asia should begin. That was unsatisfactory,because Asia is not going to be civilised after the methods of the West.There is too much Asia and she is too old. You cannot reform a lady ofmany lovers, and Asia has been insatiable in her flirtations aforetime.She will never attend Sunday-school or learn to vote save with swordsfor tickets.

  Dirkovitch knew this as well as any one else, but it suited him to talkspecial-correspondently and to make himself as genial as he could. Nowand then he volunteered a little, a very little, information abouthis own sotnia of Cossacks, left apparently to look after themselvessomewhere at the back of beyond. He had done rough work in Central Asia,and had seen rather more help-yourself fighting than most men of hisyears. But he was careful never to betray his superiority, and more thancareful to praise on all occasions the appearance, drill, uniform, andorganisation of Her Majesty's White Hussars. And indeed they were aregiment to be admired. When Lady Durgan, widow of the late Sir JohnDurgan, arrived in their station, and after a short time had beenproposed to by every single man at mess, she put the public sentimentvery neatly when she explained that they were all so nice that unlessshe could marry them all, including the colonel and some majors alreadymarried, she was not going to content herself with one hussar.Wherefore she wedded a little man in a rifle regiment, being by naturecontradictious; and the White Hussars were going to wear crape on theirarms, but compromised by attending the wedding in full force, and liningthe aisle with unutterable reproach. She had jilted them all--fromBasset-Holmer the senior captain to little Mildred the junior subaltern,who could have given her four thousand a year and a title.

  The only persons who did not share the general regard for the WhiteHussars were a few thousand gentlemen of Jewish extraction who livedacross the border, and answered to the name of Pathan. They had once metthe regiment officially and for something less than twenty minutes, butthe interview, which was complicated with many casualties, had filledthem with prejudice. They even called the White Hussars children of thedevil and sons of persons whom it would be perfectly impossible to meetin decent society. Yet they were not above making their aversionfill their money-belts. The regiment possessed carbines--beautifulMartini-Henri carbines that would lob a bullet into an enemy's camp atone thousand yards, and were even handier than the long rifle. Thereforethey were coveted all along the border, and since demand inevitablybreeds supply, they were supplied at the risk of life and limb forexactly their weight in coined silver--seven and one-half pounds weightof rupees, or sixteen pounds sterling reckoning the rupee at par.They were stolen at night by snaky-haired thieves who crawled on theirstomachs under the nose of the sentries; they disappeared mysteriouslyfrom locked arm-racks, and in the hot weather, when all the barrackdoors and windows were open, they vanished like puffs of theirown smoke. The border people desired them for family vendettas andcontingencies. But in the long cold nights of the northern Indian winterthey were stolen most extensively. The traffic of murder was liveliestamong the hills at that season, and prices ruled high. The regimentalguards were first doubled and then trebled. A trooper does not muchcare if he loses a weapon--Government must make it good--but he deeplyresents the loss of his sleep. The regiment grew very angry, and onerifle-thief bears the visible marks of their anger upon him to thishour. That incident stopped the burglaries for a time, and the guardswere reduced accordingly, and the regiment devoted itself to polo withunexpected results; for it beat by two goals to one that very terriblepolo corps the Lushkar Light Horse, though the latter had four poniesapiece for a short hour's fight, as well as a native officer who playedlike a lambent flame across the ground.

  They gave a dinner to celebrate the event. The Lushkar team came, andDirkovitch came, in the fullest full uniform of a Cossack officer, whichis as full as a dressing-gown, and was introduced to the Lushkars, andopened his eyes as he regarded. They were lighter men than the Hussars,and they carried themselves with the swing that is the peculiar right ofthe Punjab Frontier Force and all Irregular Horse. Like everything elsein the Service it has to be learnt, but, unlike many things, it is neverforgotten, and remains on the body till death.

  The great beam-roofed mess-room of the White Hussars was a sight to beremembered. All the mess plate was out on the long table--the same tablethat had served up the bodies of five officers after a forgotten fightlong and long ago--the dingy, battered standards faced the door ofentrance, clumps of winter-roses lay between the silver candlesticks,and the portraits of eminent officers deceased looked down on theirsuccessors from between the heads of sambhur, nilghai, markhor,and, pride of all the mess, two grinning snow-leopards that had costBasset-Holmer four months' leave that he might have spent in England,instead of on the road to Thibet and the daily risk of his life byledge, snow-slide, and grassy slope.

  The servants in spotless white muslin and the crest of their regimentson the brow of their turbans waited behind their masters, who were cladin the scarlet and gold of the White Hussars, and the cream and silverof the Lushkar Light Horse. Dirkovitch's dull green uniform was the onlydark spot at the board, but his big onyx eyes made up for it. He wasfraternising effusively with the captain of the Lushkar team, whowas wondering how many of Dirkovitch's Cossacks his own dark wirydown-countrymen could account for in a fair charge. But one does notspeak of these things openly.

  The talk rose higher and higher, and the regimental band played betweenthe courses, as is the immemorial cu
stom, till all tongues ceased fora moment with the removal of the dinner-slips and the first toast ofobligation, when an officer rising said, 'Mr. Vice, the Queen,' andlittle Mildred from the bottom of the table answered, 'The Queen, Godbless her,' and the big spurs clanked as the big men heaved themselvesup and drank the Queen upon whose pay they were falsely supposed tosettle their mess-bills. That Sacrament of the Mess never grows old, andnever ceases to bring a lump into the throat of the listener wherever hebe by sea or by land. Dirkovitch rose with his 'brothers glorious,' buthe could not understand. No one but an officer can tell what the toastmeans; and the bulk have more sentiment than comprehension. Immediatelyafter the little silence that follows on the ceremony there entered thenative officer who had played for the Lushkar team. He could not, ofcourse, eat with the mess, but he came in at dessert, all six feetof him, with the blue and silver turban atop, and the big black bootsbelow. The mess rose joyously as he thrust forward the hilt of his sabrein token of fealty for the colonel of the White Hussars to touch, anddropped into a vacant chair amid shouts of: 'Rung ho, Hira Singh!'(which being translated means 'Go in and win'). 'Did I whack you overthe knee, old man?' 'Ressaidar Sahib, what the devil made you play thatkicking pig of a pony in the last ten minutes?' 'Shabash, RessaidarSahib!' Then the voice of the colonel, 'The health of Ressaidar HiraSingh!'

  After the shouting had died away Hira Singh rose to reply, for he wasthe cadet of a royal house, the son of a king's son, and knew what wasdue on these occasions. Thus he spoke in the vernacular:--'Colonel Sahiband officers of this regiment. Much honour have you done me. This will Iremember. We came down from afar to play you. But we were beaten.' ('Nofault of yours, Ressaidar Sahib. Played on our own ground y'know. Yourponies were cramped from the railway. Don't apologise!') 'Thereforeperhaps we will come again if it be so ordained.' ('Hear! Hear! Hear,indeed! Bravo! Hsh!') 'Then we will play you afresh' ('Happy to meetyou.') 'till there are left no feet upon our ponies. Thus far forsport.' He dropped one hand on his sword-hilt and his eye wandered toDirkovitch lolling back in his chair. 'But if by the will of God therearises any other game which is not the polo game, then be assured,Colonel Sahib and officers, that we will play it out side by side,though THEY,' again his eye sought Dirkovitch,'though THEY I say havefifty ponies to our one horse.' And with a deep-mouthed Rung ho! thatsounded like a musket-butt on flagstones he sat down amid leapingglasses.

  Dirkovitch, who had devoted himself steadily to the brandy--the terriblebrandy aforementioned--did not understand, nor did the expurgatedtranslations offered to him at all convey the point. Decidedly HiraSingh's was the speech of the evening, and the clamour might havecontinued to the dawn had it not been broken by the noise of a shotwithout that sent every man feeling at his defenceless left side. Thenthere was a scuffle and a yell of pain.

  'Carbine-stealing again!' said the adjutant, calmly sinking back inhis chair. 'This comes of reducing the guards. I hope the sentries havekilled him.'

  The feet of armed men pounded on the verandah flags, and it was asthough something was being dragged.

  'Why don't they put him in the cells till the morning?' said the coloneltestily. 'See if they've damaged him, sergeant.'

  The mess sergeant fled out into the darkness and returned with twotroopers and a corporal, all very much perplexed.

  'Caught a man stealin' carbines, sir,' said the corporal. 'Leastways 'ewas crawlin' towards the barricks, sir, past the main road sentries, an'the sentry 'e sez, sir--'

  The limp heap of rags upheld by the three men groaned. Never was seen sodestitute and demoralised an Afghan. He was turbanless, shoeless, cakedwith dirt, and all but dead with rough handling. Hira Singh startedslightly at the sound of the man's pain. Dirkovitch took another glassof brandy.

  'WHAT does the sentry say?' said the colonel.

  'Sez 'e speaks English, sir,' said the corporal.

  'So you brought him into mess instead of handing him over to thesergeant! If he spoke all the Tongues of the Pentecost you've nobusiness--'

  Again the bundle groaned and muttered. Little Mildred had risen from hisplace to inspect. He jumped back as though he had been shot.

  'Perhaps it would be better, sir, to send the men away,' said he to thecolonel, for he was a much privileged subaltern. He put his arms roundthe ragbound horror as he spoke, and dropped him into a chair. It maynot have been explained that the littleness of Mildred lay in his beingsix feet four and big in proportion. The corporal seeing that an officerwas disposed to look after the capture, and that the colonel's eye wasbeginning to blaze, promptly removed himself and his men. The mess wasleft alone with the carbine-thief, who laid his head on the table andwept bitterly, hopelessly, and inconsolably, as little children weep.

  Hira Singh leapt to his feet. 'Colonel Sahib,' said he, 'that man is noAfghan, for they weep Ai! Ai! Nor is he of Hindustan, for they weep Oh!Ho! He weeps after the fashion of the white men, who say Ow! Ow!'

  'Now where the dickens did you get that knowledge, Hira Singh?' said thecaptain of the Lushkar team.

  'Hear him!' said Hira Singh simply, pointing at the crumpled figure thatwept as though it would never cease.

  'He said, "My God!"' said little Mildred. 'I heard him say it.'

  The colonel and the mess-room looked at the man in silence. It is ahorrible thing to hear a man cry. A woman can sob from the top of herpalate, or her lips, or anywhere else, but a man must cry from hisdiaphragm, and it rends him to pieces.

  'Poor devil!' said the colonel, coughing tremendously. 'We ought to sendhim to hospital. He's been man-handled.'

  Now the adjutant loved his carbines. They were to him as hisgrandchildren, the men standing in the first place. He gruntedrebelliously: 'I can understand an Afghan stealing, because he's builtthat way. But I can't understand his crying. That makes it worse.'

  The brandy must have affected Dirkovitch, for he lay back in his chairand stared at the ceiling. There was nothing special in the ceilingbeyond a shadow as of a huge black coffin. Owing to some peculiarity inthe construction of the mess-room this shadow was always thrown whenthe candles were lighted. It never disturbed the digestion of the WhiteHussars. They were in fact rather proud of it.

  'Is he going to cry all night?' said the colonel, 'or are we supposed tosit up with little Mildred's guest until he feels better?'

  The man in the chair threw up his head and stared at the mess. 'Oh, myGod!' he said, and every soul in the mess rose to his feet. Then theLushkar captain did a deed for which he ought to have been given theVictoria Cross--distinguished gallantry in a fight against overwhelmingcuriosity. He picked up his team with his eyes as the hostess picks upthe ladies at the opportune moment, and pausing only by the colonel'schair to say, 'This isn't OUR affair, you know, sir,' led them into theverandah and the gardens. Hira Singh was the last to go, and he lookedat Dirkovitch. But Dirkovitch had departed into a brandy-paradise of hisown. His lips moved without sound and he was studying the coffin on theceiling.

  'White--white all over,' said Basset-Holmer, the adjutant. 'What apernicious renegade he must be! I wonder where he came from?'

  The colonel shook the man gently by the arm, and 'Who are you?' said he.

  There was no answer. The man stared round the mess-room and smiled inthe colonel's face. Little Mildred, who was always more of a woman thana man till 'Boot and saddle' was sounded, repeated the question in avoice that would have drawn confidences from a geyser. The man onlysmiled. Dirkovitch at the far end of the table slid gently from hischair to the floor.

  No son of Adam in this present imperfect world can mix the Hussars'champagne with the Hussars' brandy by five and eight glasses of eachwithout remembering the pit whence he was digged and descending thither.The band began to play the tune with which the White Hussars from thedate of their formation have concluded all their functions. They wouldsooner be disbanded than abandon that tune; it is a part of theirsystem. The man straightened himself in his chair and drummed on thetable with his fingers.

  'I don'
t see why we should entertain lunatics,' said the colonel. 'Calla guard and send him off to the cells. We'll look into the business inthe morning. Give him a glass of wine first though.'

  Little Mildred filled a sherry-glass with the brandy and thrust it overto the man. He drank, and the tune rose louder, and he straightenedhimself yet more. Then he put out his long-taloned hands to a piece ofplate opposite and fingered it lovingly. There was a mystery connectedwith that piece of plate, in the shape of a spring which converted whatwas a seven-branched candlestick, three springs on each side and one inthe middle, into a sort of wheel-spoke candelabrum. He found the spring,pressed it, and laughed weakly. He rose from his chair and inspected apicture on the wall, then moved on to another picture, the mess watchinghim without a word. When he came to the mantelpiece he shook his headand seemed distressed. A piece of plate representing a mounted hussarin full uniform caught his eye. He pointed to it, and then to themantelpiece with inquiry in his eyes.

  'What is it--Oh what is it?' said little Mildred. Then as a mother mightspeak to a child, 'That is a horse. Yes, a horse.'

  Very slowly came the answer in a thick, passionless guttural--'Yes,I--have seen. But--where is THE horse?'

  You could have heard the hearts of the mess beating as the men drew backto give the stranger full room in his wanderings. There was no questionof calling the guard.

  Again he spoke--very slowly, 'Where is OUR horse?'

  There is but one horse in the White Hussars, and his portrait hangsoutside the door of the mess-room. He is the piebald drum-horse,the king of the regimental band, that served the regiment forseven-and-thirty years, and in the end was shot for old age. Half themess tore the thing down from its place and thrust it into the man'shands. He placed it above the mantel-piece, it clattered on the ledgeas his poor hands dropped it, and he staggered towards the bottom ofthe table, falling into Mildred's chair. Then all the men spoke to oneanother something after this fashion, 'The drum-horse hasn't hung overthe mantelpiece since '67.' 'How does he know?' 'Mildred, go and speakto him again.' 'Colonel, what are you going to do?' 'Oh, dry up, andgive the poor devil a chance to pull himself together.' 'It isn'tpossible anyhow. The man's a lunatic.'

  Little Mildred stood at the colonel's side talking in his ear. 'Will yoube good enough to take your seats please, gentlemen!' he said, and themess dropped into the chairs. Only Dirkovitch's seat, next to littleMildred's, was blank, and little Mildred himself had found Hira Singh'splace. The wide-eyed mess-sergeant filled the glasses in deep silence.Once more the colonel rose, but his hand shook and the port spilled onthe table as he looked straight at the man in little Mildred's chair andsaid hoarsely, 'Mr. Vice, the Queen.' There was a little pause, but theman sprung to his feet and answered without hesitation, 'The Queen,God bless her!' and as he emptied the thin glass he snapped the shankbetween his fingers.

  Long and long ago, when the Empress of India was a young woman and therewere no unclean ideals in the land, it was the custom of a few messesto drink the Queen's toast in broken glass, to the vast delight of themess-contractors. The custom is now dead, because there is nothing tobreak anything for, except now and again the word of a Government, andthat has been broken already.

  'That settles it,' said the colonel, with a gasp. 'He's not a sergeant.What in the world is he?'

  The entire mess echoed the word, and the volley of questions would havescared any man. It was no wonder that the ragged, filthy invader couldonly smile and shake his head.

  From under the table, calm and smiling, rose Dirkovitch, who had beenroused from healthful slumber by feet upon his body. By the side of theman he rose, and the man shrieked and grovelled. It was a horrible sightcoming so swiftly upon the pride and glory of the toast that had broughtthe strayed wits together.

  Dirkovitch made no offer to raise him, but little Mildred heaved himup in an instant. It is not good that a gentleman who can answer to theQueen's toast should lie at the feet of a subaltern of Cossacks.

  The hasty action tore the wretch's upper clothing nearly to the waist,and his body was seamed with dry black scars. There is only one weaponin the world that cuts: in parallel lines, and it is neither the canenor the cat. Dirkovitch saw the marks, and the pupils of his eyesdilated. Also his face changed. He said something that sounded like Shtove takete, and the man fawning answered, Chetyre.

  'What's that?' said everybody together.

  'His number. That is number four, you know.' Dirkovitch spoke verythickly.

  'What has a Queen's officer to do with a qualified number?' said theColonel, and an unpleasant growl ran round the table.

  'How can I tell?' said the affable Oriental with a sweet smile. 'Heis a--how you have it?--escape--run-a-way, from over there.' He noddedtowards the darkness of the night.

  'Speak to him if he'll answer you, and speak to him gently,' said littleMildred, settling the man in a chair. It seemed most improper to allpresent that Dirkovitch should sip brandy as he talked in purring,spitting Russian to the creature who answered so feebly and with suchevident dread. But since Dirkovitch appeared to understand no one saida word. All breathed heavily, leaning forward, in the long gaps of theconversation. The next time that they have no engagements on hand theWhite Hussars intend to go to St. Petersburg in a body to learn Russian.

  'He does not know how many years ago,' said Dirkovitch, facing the mess,'but he says it was very long ago in a war. I think that there was anaccident. He says he was of this glorious and distinguished regiment inthe war.'

  'The rolls! The rolls! Holmer, get the rolls!' said little Mildred,and the adjutant dashed off bare-headed to the orderly-room, where themuster-rolls of the regiment were kept. He returned just in time to hearDirkovitch conclude, 'Therefore, my dear friends, I am most sorry tosay there was an accident which would have been reparable if he hadapologised to that our colonel, which he had insulted.'

  Then followed another growl which the colonel tried to beat down. Themess was in no mood just then to weigh insults to Russian colonels.

  'He does not remember, but I think that there was an accident, and sohe was not exchanged among the prisoners, but he was sent to anotherplace--how do you say?--the country. SO, he says, he came here. He doesnot know how he came. Eh? He was at Chepany'--the man caught the word,nodded, and shivered--'at Zhigansk and Irkutsk. I cannot understand howhe escaped. He says, too, that he was in the forests for many years,but how many years he has forgotten--that with many things. It was anaccident; done because he did not apologise to that our colonel. Ah!'

  Instead of echoing Dirkovitch's sigh of regret, it is sad to recordthat the White Hussars livelily exhibited un-Christian delight and otheremotions, hardly restrained by their sense of hospitality. Holmer flungthe frayed and yellow regimental rolls on the table, and the men flungthemselves at these.

  'Steady! Fifty-six--fifty-five--fifty-four,' said Holmer. 'Here we are."Lieutenant Austin Limmason. MISSING." That was before Sebastopol.What an infernal shame! Insulted one of their colonels, and was quietlyshipped off. Thirty years of his life wiped out.'

  'But he never apologised. Said he'd see him damned first,' chorused themess.

  'Poor chap! I suppose he never had the chance afterwards. How did hecome here?' said the colonel.

  The dingy heap in the chair could give no answer.

  'Do you know who you are?'

  It laughed weakly.

  'Do you know that you are Limmason--Lieutenant Limmason of the WhiteHussars?'

  Swiftly as a shot came the answer, in a slightly surprised tone, 'Yes,I'm Limmason, of course.' The light died out in his eyes, and the mancollapsed, watching every motion of Dirkovitch with terror. A flightfrom Siberia may fix a few elementary facts in the mind, but it does notseem to lead to continuity of thought. The man could not explain how,like a homing pigeon, he had found his way to his own old mess again.Of what he had suffered or seen he knew nothing. He cringed beforeDirkovitch as instinctively as he had pressed the spring of thecandlestick, sought the picture of the
drum-horse, and answered to thetoast of the Queen. The rest was a blank that the dreaded Russian tonguecould only in part remove. His head bowed on his breast, and he giggledand cowered alternately.

  The devil that lived in the brandy prompted Dirkovitch at this extremelyinopportune moment to make a speech. He rose, swaying slightly, grippedthe table-edge, while his eyes glowed like opals, and began:

  'Fellow-soldiers glorious--true friends and hospitables. It was anaccident, and deplorable--most deplorable.' Here he smiled sweetly allround the mess. 'But you will think of this little, little thing. Solittle, is it not? The Czar! Posh! I slap my fingers--I snap my fingersat him. Do I believe in him? No! But in us Slav who has done nothing,HIM I believe. Seventy--how much--millions peoples that have donenothing--not one thing. Posh! Napoleon was an episode.' He banged ahand on the table. 'Hear you, old peoples, we have done nothing inthe world--out here. All our work is to do; and it shall be done, oldpeoples. Get a-way!' He waved his hand imperiously, and pointed to theman. 'You see him. He is not good to see. He was just one little--oh,so little--accident, that no one remembered. Now he is THAT! So will yoube, brother-soldiers so brave--so will you be. But you will never comeback. You will all go where he is gone, or'--he pointed to the greatcoffin-shadow on the ceiling, and muttering, 'Seventy millions--geta-way, you old peoples,' fell asleep.

  'Sweet, and to the point,' said little Mildred. 'What's the use ofgetting wroth? Let's make this poor devil comfortable.'

  But that was a matter suddenly and swiftly taken from the loving handsof the White Hussars. The lieutenant had returned only to go away againthree days later, when the wail of the Dead March, and the tramp of thesquadrons, told the wondering Station, who saw no gap in the mess-table,that an officer of the regiment had resigned his new-found commission.

  And Dirkovitch, bland, supple, and always genial, went away too by anight train. Little Mildred and another man saw him off, for he was theguest of the mess, and even had he smitten the colonel with the openhand, the law of that mess allowed no relaxation of hospitality.

  'Good-bye, Dirkovitch, and a pleasant journey,' said little Mildred.

  'Au revoir,' said the Russian.

  'Indeed! But we thought you were going home?'

  'Yes, but I will come again. My dear friends, is that road shut?' Hepointed to where the North Star burned over the Khyber Pass.

  'By Jove! I forgot. Of course. Happy to meet you, old man, any time youlike. Got everything you want? Cheroots, ice, bedding? That's all right.Well, au revoir, Dirkovitch.'

  'Um,' said the other man, as the tail-lights of the train grew small.'Of--all--the--unmitigated--!'

  Little Mildred answered nothing, but watched the North Star and hummeda selection from a recent Simla burlesque that had much delighted theWhite Hussars. It ran--

  I'm sorry for Mister Bluebeard, I'm sorry to cause him pain; But a terrible spree there's sure to be When he comes back again.