The preliminaries were soon settled, and Dick was seizing every opportunity to, as he said, “go round to the stables and have a look at my horse.”

But “my” horse was far from perfect, and no one knew it better than the young officer himself.

He was a keen, observant fellow, and it did not take him long to notice that Burnouse was gentle with one of the late Captain Morrison’s syces, while the sight of the other was enough to make the animal roll back his eyes and bare his teeth.

Wyatt, big and old as he was, to fully justify Captain Hulton’s words that he was quite a boy still, showed it by attaching himself thoroughly to his young brother-officer, treating him just as if he were of the same age.

“I used to find it so dull, Dick,” he said once in confidence, “before you came. Hulton’s a splendid chap, and I quite love him like a brother, but he’s such a serious old cock. No fun in him for a companion. You and I are going to get on together, you know.”

“I hope so,” said Dick; “only I’m precious young, Mr Wyatt.”

“Mr. Wyatt! Look here, young fellow, drop that; we’re brother-officers. You’re young, but you’ll soon get over that. A fellow who can ride as you do, and drop into your place in the troop, with the men looking as proud of you and as smiling whenever you come on parade as if you were the very fellow they’d ride after anywhere, needn’t talk about being young. Age has nothing to do with a man being a smart soldier. Look here; we’re all glad you’ve joined, and there’s an end of it.”

But there was no end of Wyatt; he was always after his new brother-officer, and thoroughly enjoyed going with him to the stables to have a look at Burnouse, who, to do him justice, thoroughly hated him, and would not let him go near.

“Look here, Wyatt,” said Dick one morning.

“I’m looking, old chap. What is it? He seems as fit as he can be, and as nasty-tempered as ever.”

“Yes; that’s what I wanted you to notice. Did you see him show his teeth then at Dondy Lal?”

“Yes—just as if he’d eat him.”

“He wouldn’t eat him, but he’d worry him if he could.”

“Without salt,” said Wyatt.

“Well, have you seen Ram Dad go to him?”

“Yes; and seen him take hay out of his hand.”

“Well, what does that prove?”

“That he likes Ram Dad better than Dondy Lal.”

Dick said no more, but he was uncomfortable; and, on thinking over the matter, he felt that he should like to discharge Dondy Lal, who, with his fellow seemed to have come with the horse as a matter of course, and looked upon him as his new sahib, it being considered quite natural that an officer should have plenty of servants.

But Dick felt it would be an injustice to discharge a man upon mere suspicion; and, as he could not stoop to watch, nor question the man’s fellow-servant, matters remained in abeyance till fortune was kind to the horse one morning, when his master had risen extra early to go on to the riding-school for his lesson from Sergeant Stubbs.

It proved to be too soon, so Dick turned off in the direction of the officers’ stables to have a look at his favourite, when the loud trampling of feet and the sound of an angry voice delivering a tirade of abuse sent a thrill through the lad, and he hurried to the door, where the suspicions he had formed that the horse was brutally ill-used were at once confirmed.

For there, close to Burnouse’s stall in the half-dark stable, about a dozen of the native grooms had collected—to the neglect of the other officers’ horses—to stand grinning and looking on at the scene taking place.

As Dick passed through the door into the long, gloomy place, he was just in time to see his horse rear up as high as his halter would let him and rise on his hindlegs, striking out with his fore-hoofs, and snorting angrily at Dondy Lal, who, armed with a pitchfork, was standing just out of reach, teasing the animal, and striking it with the handle of the fork on head, neck, or leg, whenever he could get a chance—sharp, cruel blows, all dexterously given, and with just sufficient force to cause pain without leaving traces for his master to see.

Dick’s Hindustani was not perfect, and it was hard to make out exactly what was said amidst the jabbering and laughing; but the lad grasped enough to know that this was an exhibition got up for the amusement of the other syces, and to show how cleverly the Hindu scoundrel could torture the noble beast without getting hurt.

Dick was educated to be an officer and a gentleman, but the natural sturdy British boy in him boiled over on the instant.

“Ah, son of Sheitan, take that!” and there was a loud rap.

But it was not Richard Darrell who uttered the words in Hindustani, but Dondy Lal: and the rap was caused by the sharp application of the fork-handle across one of the forelegs which were vainly striking at the tormentor.

But there was an echo, followed by a rush and a scuffle.

The echo was caused by Dondy Lal’s head striking against the wall of the stable, consequent upon Dick’s charging through the semicircle of syces and delivering a fine, straightforward blow from the shoulder, backed by the weight of his body, right on the bridge of the man’s nose, sending him against the wall, from whence he dropped to the floor.

If a thunderbolt, or a shrapnel-shell from a six-pounder, had fallen in the midst of the group, they could not have dispersed more quickly; and the next minute there was a loud cissing arising from different stalls, where men were industriously rubbing down their masters’ chargers, and a sharp rattling of a bucket in the hands of Ram Dad, who trembled as he busied himself with water and brush.

“I thought so!” cried Dick savagely; and there was a loud neigh as the horse dropped upon all fours panting, and stamping with one of his hoofs. “What is it, old fellow? Have they been ill-using you? The scoundrels—the dogs!”

It looked dangerous with the horse in such an excited state, for his master went close up and began patting the netted neck and talking soothingly.

But the beautiful animal had sense enough to know friends from foes; and, as if getting rid of his anger by stamping furiously, he lowered his crest, snorted and whinnied, and submitted to his master’s caress.

“You, Ram Dad!” cried Dick fiercely; “how dare you stand there and let that black scoundrel ill-use my horse?”

“Dondy Lal Ram Dad’s sahib, sahib. If Ram Dad say a word, Dondy Lal hit him with the stick, and not the horse.”

“You miserable coward!” cried Dick, as he went on caressing the horse and passing his hands softly down the bruised legs, with the effect of making the animal stand quite still; “why didn’t you tell me?”

“Dondy Lal tells things sahib, or give Ram Dad poison. Kill Ram Dad, same as sahib kill Dondy Lal.”

“What!” cried Dick, starting in alarm to gaze down at the syce, who was lying perfectly motionless by the wall, with the light from the door shining full upon his dark face, showing that the eyes were puffing up and the blood running down over his mouth, chin, and neck, to stain his white garments.

“Yes, sahib: kill, quite dead.”

Dick stood gazing at his prostrate servant for a few moments quite aghast, till his strong common-sense began to teach him that such a blow as he had delivered could not have caused death; and the horrible dread which had begun to assail him passed away.

“The cowardly scoundrel is shamming,” thought Dick.

“You think he’s dead?” he said softly.

“Yes, sahib, quite dead. Ram Dad fess doctor?”

“No,” said Dick sharply. “I’ll soon see whether he’s dead. Here, Burnouse!”

He rushed to the horse’s head and began to unfasten the horse’s head-stall, but before he could unbuckle a strap Dondy Lal uttered a cry of horror, sprang to his feet, and ran, leaving Ram Dad grinning with delight.

“Now you go on with your work,” cried Dick sharply; “and if ever I find you ill-use my horse, I’ll thrash you till you can’t stand.”

“Ram Dad never hurt the sahib’s horse,” protested the man. “Burnouse good friends. See.”

He raised a hand to pat the horse, which gave a gentle snort.

“But you were cowardly enough to stand by and see the poor brute knocked about.”

“Ram Dad never dare say a word, sahib; Dondy Lal too big man.”

“Has this been going on long?” asked Dick.

“Will the sahib tell Dondy Lal?” whispered the syce cautiously, after a glance round to see whether the other grooms could hear.

“I’m never going to let him come into the stable again,” said Dick between his teeth. “Now tell me.”

The man nodded.

“Yes—long time. Hate Burnouse. Make him fight with stick.”

“That will do. Now you go on, and mind you never strike that horse, for I should be sure to know.”

Dick went back to pat the Arab, and then hurried away for his lesson.