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 [missing] 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. Just then I saw through one of the windows a little hurricane-lamp burning. This was at four in the afternoon. We both stopped dead in the verandah, holding our breath to catch every sound; and we heard, inside the room, the “brr--brr--brr” of a multitude of flies. The Major said nothing, but he took off his helmet and we entered very softly. The Boy was dead on the charpoy in the centre of the bare, lime-washed room. He had shot his head nearly to pieces with his revolver. The gun-cases were still strapped, so was the bedding, and on the table lay The Boy's writing-case with photographs. He had gone away to die like a poisoned rat! The Major said to himself softly: “Poor Boy! Poor, POOR devil!” Then he turned away from the bed and said: “I want your help in this business.”