“Talking of snakes,” said the colonel, pushing back his chair and lighting another cheroot, “reminds me of a curious incident that happened when I was stationed at Ghurrapore, in the early ’eighties. Ghurrapore was an infernal bad place for snakes, and the worst of the lot was the cobra or hooded snake. These cobras, or hooded snakes, turned up everywhere—in your bath, under the verandah, anywhere. Now, one day one of my officers, Lieutenant Simpson, went into the officers’ changing-room to get a pair of tennis shoes. There were a dozen pairs in a wooden box; and not seeing his own on the top he put his hand in to fish out the bottom ones. Now you must know that there had been a regular plague of cobras, or hooded snakes, in the lines, and we were all a bit panicky; so when Simpson suddenly felt something pricking him, and drew out his hand to find two drops of blood on his little finger, he at once concluded it was a cobra, or hooded snake.

“I was sitting in the club at the time drinking some of that excellent 7 star whisky—you remember it, Major? And when I saw young Simpson running across the compound holding his little finger, I at once said to myself, ‘That’s a hooded snake or cobra!’

“I then followed him to the carpenter’s shop; but by the time I got there the thing was done. He had taken a heavy chisel, and cut his little finger right off! I helped him back to the club, sent for the doctor, and gave Simpson a dose of that 7 star whisky—you remember it, Major? I then sent four men to the changing-room armed with sticks. We upset the box and beat those shoes unmercifully—but no cobra or hooded snake! When I felt that the situation was quite safe, I myself examined the box. And there sticking up through the bottom boards were two little nails, sharp and close together! And so young Simpson had cut his finger off for nothing! Infernal bad luck I call it. Infernal bad luck. For anyone—even I myself—would easily have mistaken the ‘bite’ for that of a cobra, or hooded snake.”