“‘I woke,’ he said unsteadily, ‘to feel something crawling over me on the bed. Outside that infernal whistling was going on, and at last I made out what was—what was——My God!’ he cried thickly, ‘what was it, Mac—what was it?’ “‘Steady, boy!’ said McAndrew. ‘It’s dead now, anyway. But it was touch and go. I’ve seen ’em bigger than that up in the Arakans. It’s a bloodsucking, poisonous spider. They’re sacred to some of the sects.’ “Suddenly out of the jungle came one dreadful, piercing cry. “‘What was that?’ Jack muttered, and McAndrew shook his head. “‘Well find out to-morrow,’ he said. ‘There are strange things abroad to-night.’ “We saw the darkness out—the three of us—round a bottle of whisky. “‘They’ve been trying to get you for a week, Manderby,’ said the Scotsman. ‘To-night they very near succeeded.’ “‘But why?’ cried Jack. ‘I’ve never done ’em any harm.’ “McAndrew shrugged his shoulders. “‘Don’t ask me that,’ he answered. ‘Their ways are not our ways.’ “‘Has that brute been in my room every night?’ the boy asked. “‘Every night,’ answered McAndrew gravely. ‘Probably two of them. They hunt them in pairs. They starve ’em, and then, when the music stops, they feed.’ He thoughtfully poured out some more whisky. “And then at last came the dawn, and we went out to investigate. It was Jack who found him. The face was puffed and horrible, and as we approached, something black, about the size of a big kitten, moved away from the body and shambled sluggishly into the undergrowth. “‘You’re safe, boy,’ said McAndrew slowly. ‘It was not the priests at all. Just murder—plain murder.’ “And with that he took his handkerchief and covered the dreadful, staring eyes of Rupert Morrison.” _V_ _The Soldier’s Story, being A Bit of Orange Peel_ “YOU can set your minds at rest about one thing, you fellows,” began the Soldier, with a grin. “My yarn isn’t about the war. There have been quite enough lies told already about that performance without my adding to the number. No; my story concerns peace soldiering, and, strangely enough, I had an ocular demonstration when dining at the Ritz two nights ago that everything had finished up quite satisfactorily, in the approved story-book manner. At least, when I say quite satisfactorily—there was a price, and it was paid by one of the principal actors. But that is the unchangeable rule: one can but shrug one’s shoulders and pay accordingly. “The regiment—I was a squadron-leader at the time—was quartered at Murchester. Not a bad station at all: good shooting, very fair hunting, especially if you didn’t scorn the carted stag, polo, and most excellent cricket. Also some delightful houses in the neighbourhood; and as we’d just come home from our foreign tour we found the place greatly to our liking. London was an hour and a bit by train; in fact, there are many worse stations in England than the spot I have labelled Murchester.