Rudyard Kipling 21 and commissariat. He had met at Suakin a young man, sitting on the edge of a recently abandoned redoubt about the size of a hat-box, sketching a clump of shell-torn bodies on the gravel plain. “What are you for?” said Torpenhow. The greeting of the correspondent is that of the commercial traveler on the road. “My own hand,” said the young man, without looking up. “Have you any tobacco?” Torpenhow waited till the sketch was finished, and when he had looked at it said, “What’s your business here?” “Nothing; there was a row, so I came. I’m supposed to be doing something down at the painting-slips among the boats, or else I’m in charge of the condenser on one of the water-ships. I’ve forgotten which.” “You ve cheek enough to build a redoubt with,” said Torpenhow, and took stock of the new acquaintance. “Do you always draw like that?” The young man produced more sketches. “Row on a Chinese pig-boat,” said he, sententiously, showing them one after another. — “Chief mate dirked by a comprador. — Junk ashore off Hakodate. — Somali muleteer being flogged. — Star-shelled bursting over camp at Berbera. — Slave-dhow being chased round Tajurrah Bah. — Soldier lying dead in the moonlight outside Suakin. — throat cut by Fuzzies.” “H’m!” said Torpenhow, “can’t say I care for Verestchagin-and-water myself, but there’s no accounting for tastes. Doing anything now, are you?” “No. I’m amusing myself here.” Torpenhow looked at the sketches again, and nodded. “Yes, you’re right to take your first chance when you can get it.” He rode away swiftly through the Gate of the Two