Free Selected Stories by Rudyard Kipling

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 everyone laughed.
    Next morning one of the Majors came in from short leave, and heardthat 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. The Major put up his eyebrows when he heard of the expedition and went to The Boy’s rooms 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
7 with a revolver and writing-case?’
    I said, ‘Nonsense, Major!’ for I saw what was in his mind.
    He said, ‘Nonsense or no 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?’
    â€˜You know best,’ I answered. ‘It’s my profession.’
    â€˜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
8 –
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 9 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.
    â€˜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 bed 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 TheBoy’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.’
    Knowing The Boy was dead by his own hand, I saw exactly what that help would be, so I passed over to the table, took a chair, lit a cheroot, and began to go through the writing-case; the Major looking over my shoulder and repeating to himself, ‘We came too late! – Like a rat in a hole! – Poor,
poor
devil!’
    The Boy must have spent half the night in writing to his people, to his Colonel, and to a girl at Home; and as soon as he had finished, must have shot himself, for he had been dead a long time when we came in.
    I read all that he had written, and passed over each sheet to the Major as I finished it.
    We saw from his accounts how very seriously he had taken