INTRODUCTION
Suckled were we in a school unkind On suddenly snatched deduction And ever ahead of you (never behind!) Over the border our tracks you’ll find, Wherever some idiot feels inclined To scatter the seeds of ruction.
For eyes we be, of Empire, we! Skinned and Puckered and quick to see And nobody guesses how wise we be. Unwilling to advertise we be. But, hot on the trail of ties, we be The pullers of roots of ruction!
Son of the Indian Secret Service
The men who govern India more power to them and her! are few. Those who stand in their way and pretend to help them with a flood of words are a host.
And from the host goes up an endless cry that India is the home of thugs, and of three hundred million hungry ones.
The men who know and Athelstan King might claim to know a little answer that she is the original home of chivalry and the modern mistress of as many decent, gallant, native gentlemen as ever graced a page of history.
