There he comes! he is glad, too--good--everything goes well. ‘You know these things, my friend; tell me where shall I hit him to kill?’ ‘I reckon you’re a kind of a spitfire. Take the cuss under the arm, as he stands sideways, and keep your own elbow low.’ Ah! My friend, thou art an artist, and valued as such, but, when the blood surges and sings in the head, words count for little. So I can see his hated face glaring at me above his pistol, the flames from our eyes are meeting. Ah, me! goodness and strength are gone out of me with that glance--pity to spend so much good hatred on a cur like that. Yet ’tis not for long! and now ... ’tis all over, and they are carrying _le petit_ back from the regretful waters. And some time--when was it? who knows?--he drags himself to sea again, and the page is closed. And what of the other, that hound? And of her? Again, who knows?--Ah, yes, I have still the pain of that wound, but not greatly. Well! well! a long time ago,--and it was but a page. Come, turn over. Nay, not even the strength for that; thou hast had thy dose of life for the day, and the barrel-organ is gone, and thou art tired, and the fire is low, and the cigarette--pouf--it is but ashes. ‘TALLY HO’--BUDMASH ‘As the egg, so the chicken.’ --Free translation of a native proverb. Two figures stood on the edge of the stream of traffic which flows unceasingly along Piccadilly in the dusty forenoons of the season. They stood with their eyes blinking watchfully in the sun that glared with a friendly and altogether satisfying glare upon the stone pavement. The one was the figure of a small boy; his legs were planted firmly apart, and a wide-brimmed straw hat was set sturdily on the very back of his head. A very small, very brown-faced boy was he, with round blue eyes, and hair fair almost to whiteness; rising a stout five, and his name--for the purposes of this chronicle--was ‘Tally Ho.’ The other was the presentment of a silent and melancholy Hindu, with a black beard, and turbaned head of a dusky mahogany; lean, and white-clothed, he stood slightly behind, in an attitude of respectful protection. They gazed curiously at the changing, throbbing flow of Western energy, and ever and again the flow glanced over its shoulder in its ceaseless, and apparently objectless, quest, to wonder in its turn at those two strange figures from an unknown and far-off land, washed up high and dry on the edge of the stream. ‘De big fire is velly hot,’--Tally Ho always called the sun the big fire--‘as hot as Inja, doesn’t ’oo tink, Kotah Lal?’ ‘If Tally Ho Sahib say, then so it is; yet it is in his servant’s mind that in India there were even days when Tally Ho Sahib called that they should put the big fire out, and greatly pull the punkah, and, as the Sahib knows, there be no punkahs this side of the big water.’