To call such a famished lean fellow a follower
of "noble" sport is too much. Other British men deny themselves; but
then think of the circumstances! Far away among the sea of mountains on
our Indian frontier a gallant Englishman remains in charge of his lonely
station; his Pathans or Ghoorkas are fine fellows, and perhaps some
brave old warrior will use the privilege of age and stroll in to chat
respectfully to the Sahib. But it is all lonely--drearily lonely. The
mountain partridge may churr at sunrise and sundown; the wily crows may
play out their odd life-drama daily; the mountain winds may rush
roaring through the gullies until the village women say they can hear
the hoofs of the brigadier's horse. But what are these desert sounds and
sights for the laboriously-cultured officer? His nearest comrade is
miles off; his spirit must dwell alone. And yet such men hang on at
their dreary toil; and who can ever hear them complain, save in their
semi-humorous letters to friends at home? They often carry their lives
in their hands; but they can only hope to rest unknown if the chance
goes against them. I call those men noble. There are no excited
thousands for them to figure before; they scarcely have the honour of
mention in a despatch; but they go on in grim silence, working out their
own destiny and the destiny of this colossal empire.
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