What follows is a curious instance of the fashion in which we are all linked together and made responsible for one another. THE thing that kicked the beam in The Boy's mind was a remark that a woman made when he was talking to her. There is no use in repeating it, for it was only a cruel little sentence, rapped out before thinking, that made him flush to the roots of his hair. He kept himself to himself for three days, and then put in for two days' leave to go shooting near a Canal Engineer's Rest House about thirty miles out. He got his leave, and that night at Mess was noisier and more offensive than ever. He said that he was “going to shoot big game”, and left at half-past ten o'clock in an ekka. Partridge--which was the only thing a man could get near the Rest House--is not big game; so every one laughed. Next morning one of the Majors came in from short leave, and heard that The Boy had gone out to shoot “big game.” The Major had taken an interest in The Boy, and had, more than once, tried to check him in the cold weather. The Major put up his eyebrows when he heard of the expedition and went to The Boy's room, where he rummaged. Presently he came out and found me leaving cards on the Mess. There was no one else in the ante-room. He said: “The Boy has gone out shooting. DOES a man shoot tetur with a revolver and a writing-case?” I said: “Nonsense, Major!” for I saw what was in his mind. He said: “Nonsense or nonsense, I'm going to the Canal now--at once. I don't feel easy.” Then he thought for a minute, and said: “Can you lie?” “You know best,” I answered. “It's my profession.” “Very well,” said the Major; “you must come out with me now--at once--in an ekka to the Canal to shoot black-buck. Go and put on shikar-kit--quick--and drive here with a gun.” The Major was a masterful man; and I knew that he would not give orders for nothing. So I obeyed, and on return found the Major packed up in an ekka--gun-cases and food slung below--all ready for a shooting-trip. He dismissed the driver and drove himself. We jogged along quietly while in the station; but as soon as we got to the dusty road across the plains, he made that pony fly. A country-bred can do nearly anything at a pinch. We covered the thirty miles in under three hours, but the poor brute was nearly dead. Once I said: “What's the blazing hurry, Major?” He said, quietly: “The Boy has been alone, by himself, for--one, two, five--fourteen hours now! I tell you, I don't feel easy.” This uneasiness spread itself to me, and I helped to beat the pony. When we came to the Canal Engineer's Rest House the Major called for The Boy's servant; but there was no answer. Then we went up to the house, calling for The Boy by name; but there was no answer. “Oh, he's out shooting,” said I.