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clapping of the dead. Simultaneously, a gathering of crows clattered off the ground and settled into the tree where the children had been and now were not. The sun was larger in the sky, whiter than yellow, and Harry’s shadow was pooled around the soles of his boots.
    Harry’s pony had an ugly cut on her right forefoot, but on closer inspection, the cut was bloody rather than deep. He was covered in dust and some muscle in his right hand was twitching painfully, a result of the grip on his mallet. He was ready for a drink.
    “Lieutenant Gillen, do you want my syce to have a look atthat?” It was Major Berystede, who still looked remarkably clean.
    “Sir?” said Harry.
    “That cut. It might not look like much, but an open wound like that in this climate . . . You wouldn’t want it to get infected.”
    “I’d appreciate that very much.” Harry smiled and slapped the horse’s shoulder.
    “Where’s your second horse?”
    “Borrowed,” said Harry, “from the magistrate.”
    “That’s a fine mount, there.”
    “Not so fine, but she gets the job done, and for that she has my respect.”
    “Yes,” said the major, “good is as good does. Performance is the key. I think, perhaps, we British put too much stock in breeding.”
    Harry controlled his smile. The major had just put his foot in his mouth. Harry ran his hand down the horse’s leg and squeezed the fetlock, pretending to inspect the hoof.
    “Breeding horses, that is. And horses are what we’re talking about. Horses. Yes. And we breed dogs.”
    “Sir,” said Harry, looking up. The major’s face was a brilliant red. “I appreciate your offer. I feel I’m delaying you. I’d be delighted to continue the conversation at the mess after we’ve both had a chance to bathe.”
    “Absolutely. I’m buying the first round.”
    Harry had the first round in the shower. The water thundered over his head and that, accompanied by the slow, even burn of whisky down his throat, was hard to equal.
    After his shower, Harry dressed quickly. Harry’s grandfather had said that Harry could ride all the way to colonel on the back of a polo pony. Maybe he was right. Rather than entering the dining room through the long corridor, Harry slipped out the back, letting the screen close silently behind him. He needed a private smoke before he faced the major. He needed time to remember who he was in the army—Lieutenant Gillen, reserved,elegant, somewhat mysterious as many Anglo-Indians were—rather than the conflicted, cynical man that the last few months of drinking and horse sport had created. Harry reminded himself that he was lucky to be in the army, better than the ICS with its excruciating exam and cramped offices. What else would he do other than soldier? India for Anglo-Indians was the ICS and the army. Except for the Indian railways. And who wanted to work on a train?
    Harry tossed his cigarette to the ground. Behind the mess was an impressive mango tree, whose branches stretched over the whole compound. In the right season, the tree blushed red when the green fruit ripened. Monkeys clattered through the branches, waving their bony, lax fingers at each other in angry bargaining. Birds sang in low, then shrill, keys and the leaves shivered with life when a breeze crossed the cantonment.
    A respectful distance from the mess back door, a boot-wallah in his yellowed headcloth and coarse robe was abusing a boot to a brilliant sheen with a camel-hair brush. A few bursts of conversation and an occasional gruff laugh came from the dining room. Harry took out another cigarette. He was about to light it when he caught the boot-wallah surreptitiously watching him. He returned the cigarette to the case. Major Berystede was waiting for him and despite the beautiful stillness of the early afternoon, Harry had a duty to perform, even if it was in the form of a few drinks and some idle conversation.
    The major was a moderate drinker, which was a nuisance because Harry was not. He