our hands. It was utterly impossible to let the letters go Home.
They would have broken his Father's heart and killed his Mother
after killing her belief in her son.

At last the Major dried his eyes openly, and said: "Nice sort of
thing to spring on an English family! What shall we do?"

I said, knowing what the Major had brought me but for: "The Boy
died of cholera. We were with him at the time. We can't commit
ourselves to half-measures. Come along."

Then began one of the most grimy comic scenes I have ever taken
part in--the concoction of a big, written lie, bolstered with
evidence, to soothe The Boy's people at Home. I began the rough
draft of a letter, the Major throwing in hints here and there while
he gathered up all the stuff that The Boy had written and burnt it
in the fireplace. It was a hot, still evening when we began, and
the lamp burned very badly. In due course I got the draft to my
satisfaction, setting forth how The Boy was the pattern of all
virtues, beloved by his regiment, with every promise of a great
career before him, and so on; how we had helped him through the
sickness--it was no time for little lies, you will understand--and
how he had died without pain. I choked while I was putting down
these things and thinking of the poor people who would read them.
Then I laughed at the grotesqueness of the affair, and the laughter
mixed itself up with the choke--and the Major said that we both
wanted drinks.

I am afraid to say how much whiskey we drank before the letter was
finished. It had not the least effect on us. Then we took off The