(By Mr. Punch's own Short Story-teller.)
I.—THE PINK HIPPOPOTAMUS.
The island of Seringapatam is without exaggeration one of thefairest jewels in the imperial diadem of our world-wide possessions.Embosomed in the blue and sparkling wavelets of the Pacific Ocean,breathed upon by the spicy breezes that waft their intoxicating perfumesthrough endless groves of gigantic acacias, feathery ferntrees, and gorgeously coloured Indian acanthoids; studded with theglittering domes of a profusion of jasper palaces beside which thetrumpery splendours of Windsor or Versailles are but as dust, andguarded by the loyal devotion of an ancient warrior race noted notless for the supreme beauty of its women than for the matchlesscourage and endurance of its men, the Kingdom of Seringapatamoffered during a period of more than one hundred years a stubbornresistance even to the arms of the all-conquering Britons. So greatindeed, was the respect extortedfrom the victors by the vanquishedthat when, owing to the marvellousstrategy of my old friendMajor-General Sir Bonamy Battlehorn,K.C.B., K.C.M.G., theisland was finally subdued, it wasagreed that in all but their acknowledgmentof a British Suzeraintyand the payment of anannual tribute of fifteen hundredgold lakhs, the proud islanderswere to maintain their independenceand to continue those formsof government which long traditionhad invested in their eyeswith all the sanctity of a religion.
I had been present with mydear father at the great battle ofthe Dead Marshes by which thefortunes of the islanders werefinally shattered. Never shall Iforget the glow of exultant gratitudewith which towards the endof the day gallant old Sir Bonamycame cantering towards me on hiselephant. "Thank you, thankyou a thousand times, my dearOrlando," said the glorious veteranas he approached me; "itwas that last charge of yours atthe head of your magnificentThundershakers that has converteddefeat into victory, andassured Westminster Abbey to thebones of Bonamy Battlehorn.All that is now necessary," he continued,rising in his stirrups and waving his sword, "is that youshould complete the work that you have begun. Dost see thatbattery of fifty guns still served by the haughty remnants of theSeringapatamese bombardiers? Let them be captured, and nothingwill stand between us and the Diamond City of the Ranee."
I needed no further incitement. Gathering round me the fewThundershakers who had escaped unscathed, I bade the standard-bearerunfurl the flag of the brigade. In another moment we wereupon them. Cutting, slashing, piercing, parrying, trampling,crushing, we dashed into the midst of the foe. Far over the field ofcarnage sounded our war-cry, the famous "Higher up Bayswater!"which was to our horses as the prick of spur. In vain the doughtybombardiers belaboured us; in vain did they answer with the awfulshout of "Benkcitibenk," which none hitherto had been able towithstand. The work was hot, but in less than three minutes thebattery was ours, and the broken host of the Ranee was streamingin full flight down the slopes from which so lately they had dealtdeath amongst the English army. In another moment we hadlimbered up—two men to each gun, except the largest, which wasassigned to me as the chief of the band—and helter skelter down thehill we went, and so, with shouting and with laughter, depositedour