HARILEK HARILEK _A Romance_ BY “GANPAT” [Illustration] BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY The Riverside Press Cambridge 1923 COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY ALL RIGHTS RESERVED The Riverside Press CAMBRIDGE · MASSACHUSETTS PRINTED IN THE U.S.A. TO ARYENIS SOMETIMES DELICIOUSLY SAPIENTISSIMA SOMETIMES ADORABLY BABETTE THE STORY-TELLER’S INVITATION I’ll tell you a tale of a far-off land, Cliff-girt o’er the yellow desert sand, And crowned with peaks of snow; Of forests of pine and a garden gay, Of shirts of mail in a steel-capped fray, And shafts from the six-foot bow. Of soldier-men and of maidens fair-- Of a fairy princess with red-gold hair In a stronghold of wizards cruel; Of a fight or two of an old-world kind-- Magazine-rifle and spear combined, And death in a hand-locked duel. Of men and women like me and you, Of love old-fashioned yet ever new, Brave eyes in a valley of fear; Of the cold grey steel and the long warm kiss, With a proper ending of honeymoon bliss-- Won’t you gather round me and hear? “GANPAT” FOREWORD In giving this story to the world I must frankly confess that I do not know whether it is a remarkable record of actual adventure, or a fantastic romance from the pen of some one gifted with a particularly vivid imagination. Harry Lake and I last parted in 1920 near Sorarogha in Waziristan, on the Indian frontier--I bound for home on leave, he in charge of the picketing troops, whose business it was to ensure the reasonably safe passage of wearied soldiery like me through the knife-edged hills, where the Mahsud snipers made night noisy and day sometimes dangerous. I have known him on and off for many years. Stationed together before the war, our paths led apart in 1914--he to France with his regiment, I to East Africa with mine--to meet again in a London hospital in late 1915. With him once more in India in 1917, I then lost sight of him for over two years, till January, 1920, brought us together in a rather noisy brawl in Mahsud Waziristan, where the tribesmen were taking exception to our military promenade up their pet valley. I know his people slightly, more particularly his sister, Ethel Wheeler, to whom he refers in his story, but she does not often favour me with letters. It was somewhat of a surprise, therefore, when in October last year, while a student at the Staff College, Quetta, an English mail brought me a bulky parcel and a letter from her, enclosing one from Lake, in which was the following passage: