the mare most nearly approach- longing Our heat rides quietly behind its allotted bit of the line, on the look-out to catch the first glimpse of any boar that may break, and to prevent the beaters carelessly missing any patch of covert. Bird and beast are constantly on the move in front of us now it is the burnished bronze and ebony of the black partridge as he skims over the grass-tops; now the russet of the hog-deer stealing furtively down a game-track with lowered head, like some detested oriminal; now it is a herd of black-buck, playing follow-my-leader as they go, each in turn leaping high above the grass in graceful bounds; now a group of nilghai, those cow-like antelopes, lumbering clumsily along. Several sounders, too, are soon afoot, bursting like bombshells from the grass at our feet with a chorus of protesting grunts-on every occasion to be loudly acclaimed as the fathers of all pig by the beaters who have dislodged them. And here we see the advantage of mounting the shikaris on camels or elephants, for from these coigns of vantage they can distinguish size and sex, and save us many a useless ride. At last!-loud and clear, trembling with pent-up excitement-comes that shout for which we have all been that shout that would surely galvanise 8 corpse: "Woh jata! Woh jata! Bara kala soor!"-There he goes there he goes great black boar; and we catch a glimpse of Babu-an incarnation of eagerness, upright on his elephant, with his one arm outstretched-pointing us wildly forward. has just seen a huge boar slipping away far ahead. He It is but a glimpse you catch, for "Regret" has been waiting for that ory. Before the first word has died on Babu's lips-long before you have put your legs to hershe has travelled half a dozen lengths. Leave her head alone and let her gallop-a loose rein is best travelling fast over this sort of ground, and if you try to steady her you will only bring her down. And travel we must, for somewhere on ahead the boar is moving fast, and he has a big start. Unless we can pick him up quickly it will be hopeless. No good riding for the place where he was last seen-his line is sure to be left-handed for those big coverts in the centre of the island, so hold to the left, and ride like blazes to out him off, keeping a good look-out far ahead, and trusting to your mare to stand up. There! did you catch that spurt of sand and dust behind that clump of jhow? Your boar, for a wager. Yes-the merest glimpse of something black vanishing into the covert beyond, and you know you are on the right line. Now, holler like anything to bring on the rest of your heat, and after him as hard as you can. Now you are fairly on terms with your boar, for you can see the tops of the jhow waving in front of you as he passes. It is very thick here, so close with him as much as you can, and lie olose behind him, following every jink and turn with horse absolutely in hand. Don't be in too great a hurry to spear till you have got him beat, or have nursed him into a lighter bit of country. If you try to rush him now, you will override him and lose him. There-the jhow isn't moving any more,-he must have squatted. Don't take your eyes off the exact spot. Lucky that your mare was well in hand, or you could never have stopped her as you did, and you would have lost sight of the place. Now he can't move on without the jhow telling you, and he's still here all right-you could tell that by the rank smell of pig, let alone anything else, for, on a hot day, you can hunt a large gross boar almost by scent alone. Look out for the slightest tremor in the jhow, and shout to the others to come up to watch the farther side. Woof! Woof! The jhow parts and out he comes-he has charged you. It was your shout that did it, too much for piggy's nerves. It was lucky that prod you gave him in the face stopped him, for you had no time to get any way on your horse, and something over two hundred pounds of bone and muscle at the charge has a nasty habit of knocking over horse and rider when it meets them at the halt. Now after him again, but look out for squalls; for see, all the hackles on his back and spine are standing up like porcupine quills, his jaws are open, and you can catch the wicked twinkle of his little eyes as he watches you over his shoulder. You have but to forge alongside of him, and he will come in again like a flash. Take himquietly-let the momentum of your horse send the spear home-and, above all, don't thrust. My goodness!-that's just what you did do, so of course your point went over his shoulder. And of course he got in-and knocked your poor mare's forelegs from under her, sending you on your head. You deserved what you got, but she might have had her shoulder laid open. Thank goodness, she isn't out, and you may thank your lucky stars that the rest of your heat was near enough to stop piggy from paying you loving attentions on the ground. Up you get again quickly, and help to finish off your boar. Back we go to rejoin the line, where we change horses and are ready for another hunt; while the dead boar, slung on a pole, is borne off by four beaters in triumph to the luncheon place. Soon after, as we ride behind the line, we see old Sidjoo, like a stage conspirator, beckoning frantically to us and pointing to a grass-tuft at his feet, he must have found a boar squatting within. We ride quietly over to investigate, and there he is sure enough-a grey old gentleman, squatting in his form like a hare, with lips wrinkled by his curling tushes to a perpetual sardonic grin, and little eyes that watch our every movement. One moment we visualise him thus the next he is out upon us with his war-ory, Straight down on B. he bears, but B. has his horse in motion to meet him, and as the boar rises on his hooks to uppercut with all the strength of his mighty neck, the spear-point enters his wither and is driven home by the weight of horse and pig. A moment he stands, blood pouring from his mouth, then totters and falls down. Death could not be quicker or more merciful. So, with varying fortunes, the morning passes to the luncheon halt, where horses are off-saddled, watered, and fed, while we have our meal beneath a tree. But first of all the beaters must be attended to, and they seat themselves on their hunkers in a big oirole, waiting for their rations to be distributed. These rations consist of a big handful of gram1 and a lump of gur per man-not excessive, you think, after a long morning's beating, but it is the food to which they are acoustomed, so they are quite happy and sit munching away like so many monkeys. After luncheon we beat the rest of the island till all the coverts have been drawn, or horses and beaters have had enough. Then the unofficial members of the Tent Club oan hie them back to camp, but the secretary must still remain, for there are sundry rites yet to be performed. All the dead boar have been collected—and the writer once remembers twenty of them after a day on Pig Island— and these must be weighed and measured, for a careful record of size and weight is kept in the Tent Club Log, together with the names of successful riders and their horses. Also, a fine of one gold Mohr (sixteen rupees) must be recorded against any miscreant responsible for the death of a sow or an unwarrantable boar. The beaters, too, are again formed up-this time in groups by villages-and their day's wages are handed out to them and the pig distributed amongst them as fairly as possible; for except for the tushes, which go to the firstspear, the pig are the beaters' perquisite-probably the only meat-meal many of them get in the year. And the daily wage for which each man is content to beat is tuppence- tuppence and a handful of gram, for a day's beating. Think of that, ye shooting hosts at home, and envy; for even before the war was not the wage five shillings and his lunch for a beater on a Perthshire moor?-and one trembles to think what they must be asking of you now 1 Chickpeas. Turcoman that broke the Mahrattas by the sword of Ahmed Khan Abdali? The day is over; the other i-Nur to Nadir, the robber spears have long since ridden off to camp, and the last beater set out for his home. Pig Island has sunk back to its wonted calm—and all is still. As I linger by the bridgehead, and watch the shadows of the western bank lengthen slowly over Mother Gunga's bosom, memories of India, the beloved, come thronging to the mind-India in a state of change — India tortured by orude experiment. And ever fresh pictures rise of old hunting days, and of the companions and the horses who will hunt no more. Among the throng I see again L.-S. of the 13th on old "Grey Dawn," that best of country-breds, and "Chicken" of the 60th on wonderful little "Defender"; D. of the 14th on "Indian Chief," on whom he rode and speared a black-buck singlehanded, and N. and L.-S. of the Horse Artillery on "Leotard" and "Darkie," those two perfect pig-stickers; little P. of the 7th on his game old roan, and the Earl, that kindest and best of sportsmen. And a host of others behind-in sooth, there must have been feasting in Valhalla when Wodin, the Hunter of the Gods, welcomed such a goodly company. But is there no return? And will they hunt no more? Have we forgotten the story of Panipat, that battlefield but a few short miles to the westward, where the fate of India has been thrice decided-the battlefield that gave Delhi to Babar the Mogul, and the Peacock Throne and the Koh Do we not know that—to this day-no man may pass thereby after the sun has set, for phantom hosts of Tartar and Afghan, Persian and Kizilbash, make the empty plains ring again with hideous strife, and nightly play the drama of times long gone, when the stricken field was strewn with saffron robes of fallen Rajput chivalry, as with the petals of a full-blown rose? And if there be return to scenes of death and dread and suffering - surely, then, much more so will there be to those that memory holds dear! Faint on the evening air I seem to hear again the ring of hoofs - nearer and nearer-and then the rustle and crash of the reed-like grass as the heat sweeps by. They are olose upon their boar, and one rider, whose voice I know so well-out in front with eyes fixed on his quarry-is calling the course of the boar for those behind, as all good hunters should. "On-on-on," I hear his joyous refrain, and then "Right right," in wild crescendo. The boar has doubled like a hare-but his warning shout has been in time, and those behind take up the running. And so the sounds fade in the distance, and night draws in. Good hunting to you, old friends, and good-bye. A COMPANY OF TANKS. BY MAJOR W. H. L. WATSON, D.S.O., D.C.M., Author of 'Adventures of a Despatch Rider.' CHAPTER XIV.-THE CARRIER TANKS. AT my leisure I visited the Headquarters of the Tank Corps in Regent Street, and after a somewhat undignified appeal to the good nature of a corporal-the staff-captain was busy, or out to lunch, or dictating-I obtained a fortnight's leave. The fortnight passed expensively, but it was pleasant, if dull, to take the train at the end of it from Waterloo and not from Viotoria. In due course I arrived at Nool Station, and with two cheery subalterns, who had experienced enthralling adventures in Bournemouth, I drove in a taxi along narrow winding lanes to the camp on the orest of a hill. I reported, but the charming officers who received me had not been warned of my arrival, and were perplexed. Majors, it appeared, were & drug on the market unattached majors swarmed in Bovington. Would I go to the Depot at Wareham? I refused politely. I knew something of the Depot. Two skeleton battalions were just being formed. They might not go out to France this year. I refused again: I did not intend to stop at Bovington any longer than was necessary. At last it was suggested that I should be posted to the "Carrier Tanks." I had not heard of them, and asked for information. I was told vaguely "that they would carry infantry about," and it was expected that they would embark within the next three months. So I found my way through the nice, clean, well-ordered camp to the lines of the Carrier tanks. That night I slept uncomfortably on a borrowed blanket in a bare and chilly hut. It had never struck me that I should require my camp-kit at home. In the morning I was given the command of the 4th Infantry Carrier Company. The six Carrier Companies were under the command of Lieut.-Colonel L. A. de B. Doucet, R.E. They were to consist of tanks specially constructed to carry infantry. In the past the infantry had followed the tanks. Now it was intended that they should go forward in the tanks. If, for example, it was necessary to storm a village, the Carrier tanks would fill up with infantry and deposit them in the middle of the village to the confusion of the enemy. The prospect was certainly exhilarating. But soon these hopes began |