n the uneducated ghazi fanatic of the hills
and young men of the same race and antecedents who have passed through
the humanizing and civilizing influences of a mission school.

It is a lovely autumn afternoon in the little frontier town of
Bannu. The trees round the recreation-ground between the city and
cantonments are becoming sere and showing variegated tints of yellow
and brown. There is an unusual crowd round the greensward which forms
the station cricket-pitch, and as it is Friday, the Bannu market-day,
a number of Wazirs and other hillmen who are coming to and from market
stop for a few minutes to gaze on the scene that lies before them,
and probably to wonder in their minds what mysterious ultimate object
the Feringis have in the evolutions they are watching enacted, or
whether it is some preliminary to military operations on their own
hill fastnesses.

Turning to the recreation-ground itself, we find that it is a
cricket-match between the garrison officers and the Mission High School
students. The boys have been stealing a number of runs, and their
score is beginning to draw on towards a century, when the officers
put on a new slow bowler, and a succession of unwary batsmen fall
victims to his wiles, and soon the innings is over with a score of
eighty-eight. The officers begin to bat, and the score rises rapidly;
then some good catches send several players back to the pavilion
(here represented by some shady shisham-trees). The score reaches
eighty-eight, and the last player goes in, a young fair-haired boy,
the son of the slow bowler; the winning run is made, and the boy
caught at point next ball, and the innings is over.

Just one week has passed. Again it is market-day, but no tribesmen can
be seen anywhere near the recreation-ground; instead we see long lines
of khaki-dressed native infantry, while sentries and patrols guard all
the roads leading thereto, and all is silent as the grave. Then we see
a long procession slowly, silently moving out of the fort, long ranks
of native infantry--Sikh, Pathan, and Punjabi Mussulmans--with slow,
measured tread and arms reversed; then a gun-carriage surmounted by
a coffin covered with the Union Jack and wreaths, the masterless
steed, the mourners; a group of sunburnt officers of the Frontier
Force and some more troops bring up the rear. It is the funeral of a
distinguished frontier officer, and the slow bowler of last Friday,
now borne to his last resting-place