“And which of us is to have her?” cried the Adjutant. “Take notice, all, that I speak first. You won’t pass over me, sir. Missus and I were always very chummy, and I want her to look after my chargers and servants, fetch my slippers, bring me home from mess--and to take care of me and keep me straight.” “I have already given her away to----” the rest of the sentence seemed to stick in the Major’s throat, and his face worked painfully. “Away to whom?” repeated young Stradbrooke. “Say it’s to _me_, sir. I’ve one of the family already--and Missus likes me. I know her pet biscuits, and there are heaps of rats in my stables--such whoppers!” “Given her--to the bearer--Abdul,” he answered, stoutly enough, though there was still a little nervous quivering of the lower lip. If the ceiling had parted asunder and straightway tumbled down on their heads, the Major’s audience would not have been half so much dumfoundered. For a whole minute they sat agape, and then one burst out-- “I say, Major, it’s a joke--you would not give her out of the regiment; she is on the _strength_.” “She is promised,” replied the Major, in a sort of husky whisper. Every one knew that the Major’s promises were a serious matter, and after this answer there ensued a long dismayed silence. The visitors eventually turned the topic, and tried to talk of other matters--the last gazette, the new regimental ribbon, of anything but of what every mind was full, to wit, “the Missus.” The news respecting her bestowal created quite a sensation that evening at the mess--far more than that occasioned by a newly announced engagement, for there was an element of mystery about _this_ topic. Why had the Missus been given away? “Bowen must be off his chump,” was the general verdict, “poor old chap, to give the dog to that rascal Abdul, of all people!” (One curious feature in Anglo-Indian life, is the low opinion people generally entertain of their friends’ servants.) “The proper thing was, of course, to buy the dog, and keep her in the regiment; and when the Major came to his right senses, how glad he would be, dear old man!” The Adjutant waylaid Abdul in the road, and said, curtly-- “Is this true, about the dog?--that your sahib has given her to you?” Abdul salaamed. How convenient and non-committal is that gesture! “What will you take for her?” “I never selling master’s present,” rejoined the bearer, with superb dignity. “What does a nigger want with a dog?” demanded the officer, scornfully. “Well, then, swop her--_that_ won’t hurt your delicate sense of honour. I’ll get you an old pariah out of the bazaar, and give you fifty rupees to buy him a collar!” “I have refused to-day one thousand rupees for the Missy,” said Abdul, with increased hauteur. “You lie, Abdul,” said the officer, sternly; “or else you have been dealing with a stark, staring madman.” “I telling true, Captain Sahib. I swear by the beard of the Prophet.” “Who made the offer?”