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No kilted Jock goes with more swagger down Princes Street than Johnny Gurkha down the bazaar of Darrapore, particularly in the evening, when he doffs khaki for the mufti suit of his clan the spotless white shorts, coat of black sateen, little cocked cap and brightly bordered stockings a mode de rigueur that would be robbed of its final cachet without the black umbrella, tucked well up under the arm.
Dogs barked; pet names were squealed; old men waved their staffs; children clung to the waggons and whooped, and when the cortege finally turned into the hospital compound and I cantered back to the lines I wondered what a London bobby would have made of the heterogeneous traffic that littered the Darrapore Road.
Then No Man's Land became a jungle and the Bosch a beast whose dispatch was swift and sure under his cunning wrist. Dawn would find him squatting in the corner of his dug-out sleeping as one who has sweet dreams dreams maybe of counting the decapitated before an admiring crowd in his native city, himself again the dapper young dog of Darrapore.
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