{"collection":"folklore-oral-tradition","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_8649/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_8649","id":"gutenberg_8649","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/8649","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Adventure","Category: British Literature","Category: Short Stories","Folklore","India","India -- Social life and customs -- Fiction","Nobel Prizes in Literature","Scouts","Short stories, English"],"text":"INDIAN TALES\n\nBY RUDYARD KIPLING\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n\"The Finest Story in the World\"\n\nWith the Main Guard\n\nWee Willie Winkie\n\nThe Rout of the White Hussars\n\nAt Twenty-two\n\nThe Courting of Dinah Shadd\n\nThe Story of Muhammad Din\n\nIn Flood Time\n\nMy Own True Ghost Story\n\nThe Big Drunk Draf'\n\nBy Word of Mouth\n\nThe Drums of the Fore and Aft\n\nThe Sending of Dana Da\n\nOn the City Wall\n\nThe Broken-link Handicap\n\nOn Greenhow Hill\n\nTo Be Filed for Reference\n\nThe Man Who Would Be King\n\nThe Gate of the Hundred Sorrows\n\nThe Incarnation of Krishna Mulvaney\n\nHis Majesty the King\n\nThe Strange Ride of Morrowbie Jukes\n\nIn the House of Suddhoo\n\nBlack Jack\n\nThe Taking of Lungtungpen\n\nThe Phantom Rickshaw\n\nOn the Strength of a Likeness\n\nPrivate Learoyd's Story\n\nWressley of the Foreign Office\n\nThe Solid Muldoon\n\nThe Three Musketeers\n\nBeyond the Pale\n\nThe God from the Machine\n\nThe Daughter of the Regiment\n\nThe Madness of Private Ortheris\n\nL'Envoi\n\n\n\n\n\"THE FINEST STORY IN THE WORLD\"\n\n  \"Or ever the knightly years were gone\n      With the old world to the grave,\n    I was a king in Babylon\n      And you were a Christian slave,\"\n     --_W.E. Henley_.\n\n\nHis name was Charlie Mears; he was the only son of his mother who was a\nwidow, and he lived in the north of London, coming into the City every day\nto work in a bank. He was twenty years old and suffered from aspirations.\nI met him in a public billiard-saloon where the marker called him by his\ngiven name, and he called the marker \"Bullseyes.\" Charlie explained, a\nlittle nervously, that he had only come to the place to look on, and since\nlooking on at games of skill is not a cheap amusement for the young, I\nsuggested that Charlie should go back to his mother.\n\nThat was our first step toward better acquaintance. He would call on me\nsometimes in the evenings instead of running about London with his\nfellow-clerks; and before long, speaking of himself as a young man must,\nhe told me of his aspirations, which were all literary. He desired to make\nhimself an undying name chiefly through verse, though he was not above\nsending stories of love and death to the drop-a-penny-in-the-slot\njournals. It was my fate to sit still while Charlie read me poems of many\nhundred lines, and bulky fragments of plays that would surely shake the\nworld. My reward was his unreserved confidence, and the self-revelations\nand troubles of a young man are almost as holy as those of a maiden.\nCharlie had never fallen in love, but was anxious to do so on the first\nopportunity; he believed in all things good and all things honorable, but,\nat the same time, was curiously careful to let me see that he knew his way\nabout the world as befitted a bank clerk on twenty-five shillings a week.\nHe rhymed \"dove\" with \"love\" and \"moon\" with \"June,\" and devoutly believed\nthat they had never so been rhymed before. The long lame gaps in his plays\nhe filled up with hasty words of apology and description and swept on,\nseeing all that he intended to do so clearly that he esteemed it already\ndone, and turned to me for applause.\n\nI fancy that his mother did not encourage his aspirations, and I know that\nhis writing-table at home was the edge of his washstand. This he told me\nalmost at the outset of our acquaintance; when he was ravaging my\nbookshelves, and a little before I was implored to speak the truth as to\nhis chances of \"writing something really great, you know.\" Maybe I\nencouraged him too much, for, one night, he called on me, his eyes flaming\nwith excitement, and said breathlessly:\n\n\"Do you mind--can you let me stay here and write all this evening? I won't\ninterrupt you, I won't really. There's no place for me to write in at my\nmother's.\"\n\n\"What's the trouble?\" I said, knowing well what that trouble was.\n\n\"I've a notion in my head that would make the most splendid story that was\never written. Do let me write it out here. It's _such_ a notion!\"\n\nThere was no resisting the appeal. I set him a table; he hardly thanked\nme, but plunged into the work at once. For half an hour the pen scratched\nwithout stopping. Then Charlie sighed and tugged his hair. The scratching\ngrew slower, there were more erasures, and at last ceased. The finest\nstory in the world would not come forth.\n\n\"It looks such awful rot now,\" he said, mournfully. \"And yet it seemed so\ngood when I was thinking about it. What's wrong?\"\n\nI could not dishearten him by saying the truth. So I answered: \"Perhaps\nyou don't feel in the mood for writing.\"\n\n\"Yes I do--except when I look at this stuff. Ugh!\"\n\n\"Read me what you've done,\" I said.\n\nHe read, and it was wondrous bad, and he paused at all the specially\nturgid sentences, expecting a little approval; for he was proud of those\nsentences, as I knew he would be.\n\n\"It needs compression,\" I suggested, cautiously.\n\n\"I hate cutting my things down. I don't think you could alter a word here\nwithout spoiling the sense. It reads better aloud than when I was writing\nit.\"\n\n\"Charlie, you're suffering from an alarming disease afflicting a numerous\nclass. Put the thing by, and tackle it again in a week.\"\n\n\"I want to do it at once. What do you think of it?\"\n\n\"How can I judge from a half-written tale? Tell me the story as it lies in\nyour head.\"\n\nCharlie told, and in the telling there was everything that his ignorance\nhad so carefully prevented from escaping into the written word. I looked\nat him, and wondering whether it were possible that he did not know the\noriginality, the power of the notion that had come in his way? It was\ndistinctly a Notion among notions. Men had been puffed up with pride by\nnotions not a tithe as excellent and practicable. But Charlie babbled on\nserenely, interrupting the current of pure fancy with samples of horrible\nsentences that he purposed to use. I heard him out to the end. It would be\nfolly to allow his idea to remain in his own inept hands, when I could do\nso much with it. Not all that could be done indeed; but, oh so much!\n\n\"What do you think?\" he said, at last. \"I fancy I shall call it 'The Story\nof a Ship.'\"\n\n\"I think the idea's pretty good; but you won't be able to handle it for\never so long. Now I\"----\n\n\"Would it be of any use to you? Would you care to take it? I should be\nproud,\" said Charlie, promptly.\n\nThere are few things sweeter in this world than the guileless, hot-headed,\nintemperate, open admiration of a junior. Even a woman in her blindest\ndevotion does not fall into the gait of the man she adores, tilt her\nbonnet to the angle at which he wears his hat, or interlard her speech\nwith his pet oaths. And Charlie did all these things. Still it was\nnecessary to salve my conscience before I possessed myself of Charlie's\nthoughts.\n\n\"Let's make a bargain. I'll give you a fiver for the notion,\" I said.\n\nCharlie became a bank-clerk at once.\n\n\"Oh, that's impossible. Between two pals, you know, if I may call you so,\nand speaking as a man of the world, I couldn't. Take the notion if it's\nany use to you. I've heaps more.\"\n\nHe had--none knew this better than I--but they were the notions of other\nmen.\n\n\"Look at it as a matter of business--between men of the world,\" I\nreturned. \"Five pounds will buy you any number of poetry-books. Business\nis business, and you may be sure I shouldn't give that price unless\"----\n\n\"Oh, if you put it _that_ way,\" said Charlie, visibly moved by the thought\nof the books. The bargain was clinched with an agreement that he should at\nunstated intervals come to me with all the notions that he possessed,\nshould have a table of his own to write at, and unquestioned right to\ninflict upon me all his poems and fragments of poems. Then I said, \"Now\ntell me how you came by this idea.\"\n\n\"It came by itself,\" Charlie's eyes opened a little.\n\n\"Yes, but you told me a great deal about the hero that you must have read\nbefore somewhere.\"\n\n\"I haven't any time for reading, except when you let me sit here, and on\nSundays I'm on my bicycle or down the river all day. There's nothing wrong\nabout the hero, is there?\"\n\n\"Tell me again and I shall understand clearly. You say that your hero went\npirating. How did he live?\"\n\n\"He was on the lower deck of this ship-thing that I was telling you\nabout.\"\n\n\"What sort of ship?\"\n\n\"It was the kind rowed with oars, and the sea spurts through the oar-holes\nand the men row sitting up to their knees in water. Then there's a bench\nrunning down between the two lines of oars and an overseer with a whip\nwalks up and down the bench to make the men work.\"\n\n\"How do you know that?\"\n\n\"It's in the tale. There's a rope running overhead, looped to the upper\ndeck, for the overseer to catch hold of when the ship rolls. When the\noverseer misses the rope once and falls among the rowers, remember the\nhero laughs at him and gets licked for it. He's chained to his oar of\ncourse--the hero.\"\n\n\"How is he chained?\"\n\n\"With an iron band round his waist fixed to the bench he sits on, and a\nsort of handcuff on his left wrist chaining him to the oar. He's on the\nlower deck where the worst men are sent, and the only light comes from the\nhatchways and through the oar-holes. Can't you imagine the sunlight just\nsqueezing through between the handle and the hole and wobbling about as\nthe ship moves?\"\n\n\"I can, but I can't imagine your imagining it.\"\n\n\"How could it be any other way? Now you listen to me. The long oars on the\nupper deck are managed by four men to each bench, the lower ones by three,\nand the lowest of all by two. Remember, it's quite dark on the lowest deck\nand all the men there go mad. When a man dies at his oar on that deck he\nisn't thrown overboard, but cut up in his chains and stuffed through the\noar-hole in little pieces.\"\n\n\"Why?\" I demanded, amazed, not so much at the information as the tone of\ncommand in which it was flung out.\n\n\"To save trouble and to frighten the others. It needs two overseers to\ndrag a man's body up to the top deck; and if the men at the lower deck\noars were left alone, of course they'd stop rowing and try to pull up the\nbenches by all standing up together in their chains.\"\n\n\"You've a most provident imagination. Where have you been reading about\ngalleys and galley-slaves?\"\n\n\"Nowhere that I remember. I row a little when I get the chance. But,\nperhaps, if you say so, I may have read something.\"\n\nHe went away shortly afterward to deal with booksellers, and I wondered\nhow a bank clerk aged twenty could put into my hands with a profligate\nabundance of detail, all given with absolute assurance, the story of\nextravagant and bloodthirsty adventure, riot, piracy, and death in unnamed\nseas. He had led his hero a desperate dance through revolt against the\noverseers, to command of a ship of his own, and ultimate establishment of\na kingdom on an island \"somewhere in the sea, you know\"; and, delighted\nwith my paltry five pounds, had gone out to buy the notions of other men,\nthat these might teach him how to write. I had the consolation of knowing\nthat this notion was mine by right of purchase, and I thought that I could\nmake something of it.\n\nWhen next he came to me he was drunk--royally drunk on many poets for the\nfirst time revealed to him. His pupils were dilated, his words tumbled\nover each other, and he wrapped himself in quotations. Most of all was he\ndrunk with Longfellow.\n\n\"Isn't it splendid? Isn't it superb?\" he cried, after hasty greetings.\n\"Listen to this--\n\n  \"'Wouldst thou,'--so the helmsman answered,\n     'Know the secret of the sea?\n   Only those who brave its dangers\n     Comprehend its mystery.'\"\n\nBy gum!\n\n  \"'Only those who brave its dangers\n     Comprehend its mystery,'\"\n\nhe repeated twenty times, walking up and down the room and forgetting me.\n\"But _I_ can understand it too,\" he said to himself. \"I don't know how to\nthank you for that fiver, And this; listen--\n\n  \"'I remember the black wharves and the ships\n     And the sea-tides tossing free,\n   And the Spanish sailors with bearded lips,\n   And the beauty and mystery of the ships,\n     And the magic of the sea.'\"\n\nI haven't braved any dangers, but I feel as if I knew all about it.\"\n\n\"You certainly seem to have a grip of the sea. Have you ever seen it?\"\n\n\"When I was a little chap I went to Brighton once; we used to live in\nCoventry, though, before we came to London. I never saw it,\n\n  \"'When descends on the Atlantic\n   The gigantic\n   Storm-wind of the Equinox.'\"\n\nHe shook me by the shoulder to make me understand the passion that was\nshaking himself.\n\n\"When that storm comes,\" he continued, \"I think that all the oars in the\nship that I was talking about get broken, and the rowers have their chests\nsmashed in by the bucking oar-heads. By the way, have you done anything\nwith that notion of mine yet?\"\n\n\"No. I was waiting to hear more of it from you. Tell me how in the world\nyou're so certain about the fittings of the ship. You know nothing of\nships.\"\n\n\"I don't know. It's as real as anything to me until I try to write it\ndown. I was thinking about it only last night in bed, after you had loaned\nme 'Treasure Island'; and I made up a whole lot of new things to go into\nthe story.\"\n\n\"What sort of things?\"\n\n\"About the food the men ate; rotten figs and black beans and wine in a\nskin bag, passed from bench to bench.\"\n\n\"Was the ship built so long ago as _that_?\"\n\n\"As what? I don't know whether it was long ago or not. It's only a notion,\nbut sometimes it seems just as real as if it was true. Do I bother you\nwith talking about it?\"\n\n\"Not in the least. Did you make up anything else?\"\n\n\"Yes, but it's nonsense.\" Charlie flushed a little.\n\n\"Never mind; let's hear about it.\"\n\n\"Well, I was thinking over the story, and after awhile I got out of bed\nand wrote down on a piece of paper the sort of stuff the men might be\nsupposed to scratch on their oars with the edges of their handcuffs. It\nseemed to make the thing more lifelike. It _is_ so real to me, y'know.\"\n\n\"Have you the paper on you?\"\n\n\"Ye-es, but what's the use of showing it? It's only a lot of scratches.\nAll the same, we might have 'em reproduced in the book on the front page.\"\n\n\"I'll attend to those details. Show me what your men wrote.\"\n\nHe pulled out of his pocket a sheet of note-paper, with a single line of\nscratches upon it, and I put this carefully away.\n\n\"What is it supposed to mean in English?\" I said.\n\n\"Oh, I don't know. Perhaps it means 'I'm beastly tired.' It's great\nnonsense,\" he repeated, \"but all those men in the ship seem as real as\npeople to me. Do do something to the notion soon; I should like to see it\nwritten and printed.\"\n\n\"But all you've told me would make a long book.\"\n\n\"Make it then. You've only to sit down and write it out.\"\n\n\"Give me a little time. Have you any more notions?\"\n\n\"Not just now. I'm reading all the books I've bought. They're splendid.\"\n\nWhen he had left I looked at the sheet of note-paper with the inscription\nupon it. Then I took my head tenderly between both hands, to make certain\nthat it was not coming off or turning round. Then ... but there seemed to\nbe no interval between quitting my rooms and finding myself arguing with a\npoliceman outside a door marked _Private_ in a corridor of the British\nMuseum. All I demanded, as politely as possible, was \"the Greek antiquity\nman.\" The policeman knew nothing except the rules of the Museum, and it\nbecame necessary to forage through all the houses and offices inside the\ngates. An elderly gentleman called away from his lunch put an end to my\nsearch by holding the note-paper between finger and thumb and sniffing at\nit scornfully.\n\n\"What does this mean? H'mm,\" said he. \"So far as I can ascertain it is an\nattempt to write extremely corrupt Greek on the part\"--here he glared at\nme with intention--\"of an extremely illiterate--ah--person.\" He read\nslowly from the paper, \"_Pollock, Erckmann, Tauchnitz, Henniker_\"--four\nnames familiar to me.\n\n\"Can you tell me what the corruption is supposed to mean--the gist of the\nthing?\" I asked.\n\n\"I have been--many times--overcome with weariness in this particular\nemployment. That is the meaning.\" He returned me the paper, and I fled\nwithout a word of thanks, explanation, or apology.\n\nI might have been excused for forgetting much. To me of all men had been\ngiven the chance to write the most marvelous tale in the world, nothing\nless than the story of a Greek galley-slave, as told by himself. Small\nwonder that his dreaming had seemed real to Charlie. The Fates that are so\ncareful to shut the doors of each successive life behind us had, in this\ncase, been neglectful, and Charlie was looking, though that he did not\nknow, where never man had been permitted to look with full knowledge since\nTime began. Above all, he was absolutely ignorant of the knowledge sold to\nme for five pounds; and he would retain that ignorance, for bank-clerks do\nnot understand metempsychosis, and a sound commercial education does not\ninclude Greek. He would supply me--here I capered among the dumb gods of\nEgypt and laughed in their battered faces--with material to make my tale\nsure--so sure that the world would hail it as an impudent and vamped\nfiction. And I--I alone would know that it was absolutely and literally\ntrue. I--I alone held this jewel to my hand for the cutting and polishing.\nTherefore I danced again among the gods till a policeman saw me and took\nsteps in my direction.\n\nIt remained now only to encourage Charlie to talk, and here there was no\ndifficulty. But I had forgotten those accursed books of poetry. He came to\nme time after time, as useless as a surcharged phonograph--drunk on Byron,\nShelley, or Keats. Knowing now what the boy had been in his past lives,\nand desperately anxious not to lose one word of his babble, I could not\nhide from him my respect and interest. He misconstrued both into respect\nfor the present soul of Charlie Mears, to whom life was as new as it was\nto Adam, and interest in his readings; and stretched my patience to\nbreaking point by reciting poetry--not his own now, but that of others. I\nwished every English poet blotted out of the memory of mankind. I\nblasphemed the mightiest names of song because they had drawn Charlie from\nthe path of direct narrative, and would, later, spur him to imitate them;\nbut I choked down my impatience until the first flood of enthusiasm should\nhave spent itself and the boy returned to his dreams.\n\n\"What's the use of my telling you what _I_ think, when these chaps wrote\nthings for the angels to read?\" he growled, one evening. \"Why don't you\nwrite something like theirs?\"\n\n\"I don't think you're treating me quite fairly,\" I said, speaking under\nstrong restraint.\n\n\"I've given you the story,\" he said, shortly, replunging into \"Lara.\"\n\n\"But I want the details.\"\n\n\"The things I make up about that damned ship that you call a galley?\nThey're quite easy. You can just make 'em up yourself. Turn up the gas a\nlittle, I want to go on reading.\"\n\nI could have broken the gas globe over his head for his amazing stupidity.\nI could indeed make up things for myself did I only know what Charlie did\nnot know that he knew. But since the doors were shut behind me I could\nonly wait his youthful pleasure and strive to keep him in good temper. One\nminute's want of guard might spoil a priceless revelation; now and again\nhe would toss his books aside--he kept them in my rooms, for his mother\nwould have been shocked at the waste of good money had she seen them--and\nlaunched into his sea dreams. Again I cursed all the poets of England. The\nplastic mind of the bank-clerk had been overlaid, colored and distorted by\nthat which he had read, and the result as delivered was a confused tangle\nof other voices most like the muttered song through a City telephone in\nthe busiest part of the day.\n\nHe talked of the galley--his own galley had he but known it--with\nillustrations borrowed from the \"Bride of Abydos.\" He pointed the\nexperiences of his hero with quotations from \"The Corsair,\" and threw in\ndeep and desperate moral reflections from \"Cain\" and \"Manfred,\" expecting\nme to use them all. Only when the talk turned on Longfellow were the\njarring cross-currents dumb, and I knew that Charlie was speaking the\ntruth as he remembered it.\n\n\"What do you think of this?\" I said one evening, as soon as I understood\nthe medium in which his memory worked best, and, before he could\nexpostulate, read him the whole of \"The Saga of King Olaf!\"\n\nHe listened open-mouthed, flushed, his hands drumming on the back of the\nsofa where he lay, till I came to the Song of Einar Tamberskelver and the\nverse:\n\n  \"Einar then, the arrow taking\n     From the loosened string,\n   Answered: 'That was Norway breaking\n     'Neath thy hand, O King.'\"\n\nHe gasped with pure delight of sound.\n\n\"That's better than Byron, a little,\" I ventured.\n\n\"Better? Why it's _true!_ How could he have known?\"\n\nI went back and repeated:\n\n  \"What was that?' said Olaf, standing\n     On the quarter-deck,\n   'Something heard I like the stranding\n     Of a shattered wreck?'\"\n\n\"How could he have known how the ships crash and the oars rip out and go\n_z-zzp_ all along the line? Why only the other night.... But go back\nplease and read 'The Skerry of Shrieks' again.\"\n\n\"No, I'm tired. Let's talk. What happened the other night?\"\n\n\"I had an awful nightmare about that galley of ours. I dreamed I was\ndrowned in a fight. You see we ran alongside another ship in harbor. The\nwater was dead still except where our oars whipped it up. You know where I\nalways sit in the galley?\" He spoke haltingly at first, under a fine\nEnglish fear of being laughed at.\n\n\"No. That's news to me,\" I answered, meekly, my heart beginning to beat.\n\n\"On the fourth oar from the bow on the right side on the upper deck. There\nwere four of us at that oar, all chained. I remember watching the water\nand trying to get my handcuffs off before the row began. Then we closed up\non the other ship, and all their fighting men jumped over our bulwarks,\nand my bench broke and I was pinned down with the three other fellows on\ntop of me, and the big oar jammed across our backs.\"\n\n\"Well?\" Charlie's eyes were alive and alight. He was looking at the wall\nbehind my chair.\n\n\"I don't know how we fought. The men were trampling all over my back, and\nI lay low. Then our rowers on the left side--tied to their oars, you\nknow--began to yell and back water. I could hear the water sizzle, and we\nspun round like a cockchafer and I knew, lying where I was, that there was\na galley coming up bow-on, to ram us on the left side. I could just lift\nup my head and see her sail over the bulwarks. We wanted to meet her bow\nto bow, but it was too late. We could only turn a little bit because the\ngalley on our right had hooked herself on to us and stopped our moving.\nThen, by gum! there was a crash! Our left oars began to break as the other\ngalley, the moving one y'know, stuck her nose into them. Then the\nlower-deck oars shot up through the deck planking, butt first, and one of\nthem jumped clean up into the air and came down again close to my head.\"\n\n\"How was that managed?\"\n\n\"The moving galley's bow was plunking them back through their own\noar-holes, and I could hear the devil of a shindy in the decks below. Then\nher nose caught us nearly in the middle, and we tilted sideways, and the\nfellows in the right-hand galley unhitched their hooks and ropes, and\nthrew things on to our upper deck--arrows, and hot pitch or something that\nstung, and we went up and up and up on the left side, and the right side\ndipped, and I twisted my head round and saw the water stand still as it\ntopped the right bulwarks, and then it curled over and crashed down on the\nwhole lot of us on the right side, and I felt it hit my back, and I woke.\"\n\n\"One minute, Charlie. When the sea topped the bulwarks, what did it look\nlike?\" I had my reasons for asking. A man of my acquaintance had once gone\ndown with a leaking ship in a still sea, and had seen the water-level\npause for an instant ere it fell on the deck.\n\n\"It looked just like a banjo-string drawn tight, and it seemed to stay\nthere for years,\" said Charlie.\n\nExactly! The other man had said: \"It looked like a silver wire laid down\nalong the bulwarks, and I thought it was never going to break.\" He had\npaid everything except the bare life for this little valueless piece of\nknowledge, and I had traveled ten thousand weary miles to meet him and\ntake his knowledge at second hand. But Charlie, the bank-clerk on\ntwenty-five shillings a week, he who had never been out of sight of a\nLondon omnibus, knew it all. It was no consolation to me that once in his\nlives he had been forced to die for his gains. I also must have died\nscores of times, but behind me, because I could have used my knowledge,\nthe doors were shut.\n\n\"And then?\" I said, trying to put away the devil of envy.\n\n\"The funny thing was, though, in all the mess I didn't feel a bit\nastonished or frightened. It seemed as if I'd been in a good many fights,\nbecause I told my next man so when the row began. But that cad of an\noverseer on my deck wouldn't unloose our chains and give us a chance. He\nalways said that we'd all be set free after a battle, but we never were;\nwe never were.\" Charlie shook his head mournfully.\n\n\"What a scoundrel!\"\n\n\"I should say he was. He never gave us enough to eat, and sometimes we\nwere so thirsty that we used to drink salt-water. I can taste that\nsalt-water still.\"\n\n\"Now tell me something about the harbor where the fight was fought.\"\n\n\"I didn't dream about that. I know it was a harbor, though; because we\nwere tied up to a ring on a white wall and all the face of the stone under\nwater was covered with wood to prevent our ram getting chipped when the\ntide made us rock.\"\n\n\"That's curious. Our hero commanded the galley, didn't he?\"\n\n\"Didn't he just! He stood by the bows and shouted like a good 'un. He was\nthe man who killed the overseer.\"\n\n\"But you were all drowned together, Charlie, weren't you?\"\n\n\"I can't make that fit quite,\" he said, with a puzzled look. \"The galley\nmust have gone down with all hands, and yet I fancy that the hero went on\nliving afterward. Perhaps he climbed into the attacking ship. I wouldn't\nsee that, of course. I was dead, you know.\" He shivered slightly and\nprotested that he could remember no more.\n\nI did not press him further, but to satisfy myself that he lay in\nignorance of the workings of his own mind, deliberately introduced him to\nMortimer Collins's \"Transmigration,\" and gave him a sketch of the plot\nbefore he opened the pages.\n\n\"What rot it all is!\" he said, frankly, at the end of an hour. \"I don't\nunderstand his nonsense about the Red Planet Mars and the King, and the\nrest of it. Chuck me the Longfellow again.\"\n\nI handed him the book and wrote out as much as I could remember of his\ndescription of the sea-fight, appealing to him from time to time for\nconfirmation of fact or detail. He would answer without raising his eyes\nfrom the book, as assuredly as though all his knowledge lay before him on\nthe printed page. I spoke under the normal key of my voice that the\ncurrent might not be broken, and I know that he was not aware of what he\nwas saying, for his thoughts were out on the sea with Longfellow.\n\n\"Charlie,\" I asked, \"when the rowers on the gallies mutinied how did they\nkill their overseers?\"\n\n\"Tore up the benches and brained 'em. That happened when a heavy sea was\nrunning. An overseer on the lower deck slipped from the centre plank and\nfell among the rowers. They choked him to death against the side of the\nship with their chained hands quite quietly, and it was too dark for the\nother overseer to see what had happened. When he asked, he was pulled down\ntoo and choked, and the lower deck fought their way up deck by deck, with\nthe pieces of the broken benches banging behind 'em. How they howled!\"\n\n\"And what happened after that?\"\n\n\"I don't know. The hero went away--red hair and red beard and all. That\nwas after he had captured our galley, I think.\"\n\nThe sound of my voice irritated him, and he motioned slightly with his\nleft hand as a man does when interruption jars.\n\n\"You never told me he was red-headed before, or that he captured your\ngalley,\" I said, after a discreet interval.\n\nCharlie did not raise his eyes.\n\n\"He was as red as a red bear,\" said he, abstractedly. \"He came from the\nnorth; they said so in the galley when he looked for rowers--not slaves,\nbut free men. Afterward--years and years afterward--news came from another\nship, or else he came back\"--\n\nHis lips moved in silence. He was rapturously retasting some poem before\nhim.\n\n\"Where had he been, then?\" I was almost whispering that the sentence might\ncome gentle to whichever section of Charlie's brain was working on my\nbehalf.\n\n\"To the Beaches--the Long and Wonderful Beaches!\" was the reply, after a\nminute of silence.\n\n\"To Furdurstrandi?\" I asked, tingling from head to foot.\n\n\"Yes, to Furdurstrandi,\" he pronounced the word in a new fashion. \"And I\ntoo saw\"----The voice failed.\n\n\"Do you know what you have said?\" I shouted, incautiously.\n\nHe lifted his eyes, fully roused now, \"No!\" he snapped. \"I wish you'd let\na chap go on reading. Hark to this:\n\n  \"'But Othere, the old sea captain,\n   He neither paused nor stirred\n     Till the king listened, and then\n     Once more took up his pen\n   And wrote down every word,\n\n  \"'And to the King of the Saxons\n   In witness of the truth,\n     Raising his noble head,\n     He stretched his brown hand and said,\n   \"Behold this walrus tooth.\"'\n\nBy Jove, what chaps those must have been, to go sailing all over the shop\nnever knowing where they'd fetch the land! Hah!\"\n\n\"Charlie,\" I pleaded, \"if you'll only be sensible for a minute or two I'll\nmake our hero in our tale every inch as good as Othere.\"\n\n\"Umph! Longfellow wrote that poem. I don't care about writing things any\nmore. I want to read.\" He was thoroughly out of tune now, and raging over\nmy own ill-luck, I left him.\n\nConceive yourself at the door of the world's treasure-house guarded by a\nchild--an idle irresponsible child playing knuckle-bones--on whose favor\ndepends the gift of the key, and you will imagine one half my torment.\nTill that evening Charlie had spoken nothing that might not lie within the\nexperiences of a Greek galley-slave. But now, or there was no virtue in\nbooks, he had talked of some desperate adventure of the Vikings, of\nThorfin Karlsefne's sailing to Wineland, which is America, in the ninth or\ntenth century. The battle in the harbor he had seen; and his own death he\nhad described. But this was a much more startling plunge into the past.\nWas it possible that he had skipped half a dozen lives and was then dimly\nremembering some episode of a thousand years later? It was a maddening\njumble, and the worst of it was that Charlie Mears in his normal condition\nwas the last person in the world to clear it up. I could only wait and\nwatch, but I went to bed that night full of the wildest imaginings. There\nwas nothing that was not possible if Charlie's detestable memory only held\ngood.\n\nI might rewrite the Saga of Thorfin Karlsefne as it had never been written\nbefore, might tell the story of the first discovery of America, myself the\ndiscoverer. But I was entirely at Charlie's mercy, and so long as there\nwas a three-and-six-penny Bohn volume within his reach Charlie would not\ntell. I dared not curse him openly; I hardly dared jog his memory, for I\nwas dealing with the experiences of a thousand years ago, told through the\nmouth of a boy of to-day; and a boy of to-day is affected by every change\nof tone and gust of opinion, so that he lies even when he desires to speak\nthe truth.\n\nI saw no more of him for nearly a week. When next I met him it was in\nGracechurch Street with a billhook chained to his waist. Business took him\nover London Bridge and I accompanied him. He was very full of the\nimportance of that book and magnified it. As we passed over the Thames we\npaused to look at a steamer unloading great slabs of white and brown\nmarble. A barge drifted under the steamer's stern and a lonely cow in that\nbarge bellowed. Charlie's face changed from the face of the bank-clerk to\nthat of an unknown and--though he would not have believed this--a much\nshrewder man. He flung out his arm across the parapet of the bridge and\nlaughing very loudly, said:\n\n\"When they heard _our_ bulls bellow the Skroelings ran away!\"\n\nI waited only for an instant, but the barge and the cow had disappeared\nunder the bows of the steamer before I answered.\n\n\"Charlie, what do you suppose are Skroelings?\"\n\n\"Never heard of 'em before. They sound like a new kind of seagull. What a\nchap you are for asking questions!\" he replied. \"I have to go to the\ncashier of the Omnibus Company yonder. Will you wait for me and we can\nlunch somewhere together? I've a notion for a poem.\"\n\n\"No, thanks. I'm off. You're sure you know nothing about Skroelings?\"\n\n\"Not unless he's been entered for the Liverpool Handicap.\" He nodded and\ndisappeared in the crowd.\n\nNow it is written in the Saga of Eric the Red or that of Thorfin\nKarlsefne, that nine hundred years ago when Karlsefne's galleys came to\nLeif's booths, which Leif had erected in the unknown land called Markland,\nwhich may or may not have been Rhode Island, the Skroelings--and the Lord\nHe knows who these may or may not have been--came to trade with the\nVikings, and ran away because they were frightened at the bellowing of the\ncattle which Thorfin had brought with him in the ships. But what in the\nworld could a Greek slave know of that affair? I wandered up and down\namong the streets trying to unravel the mystery, and the more I considered\nit, the more baffling it grew. One thing only seemed certain, and that\ncertainty took away my breath for the moment. If I came to full knowledge\nof anything at all it would not be one life of the soul in Charlie Mears's\nbody, but half a dozen--half a dozen several and separate existences spent\non blue water in the morning of the world!\n\nThen I walked round the situation.\n\nObviously if I used my knowledge I should stand alone and unapproachable\nuntil all men were as wise as myself. That would be something, but manlike\nI was ungrateful. It seemed bitterly unfair that Charlie's memory should\nfail me when I needed it most. Great Powers above--I looked up at them\nthrough the fog smoke--did the Lords of Life and Death know what this\nmeant to me? Nothing less than eternal fame of the best kind, that comes\nfrom One, and is shared by one alone. I would be content--remembering\nClive, I stood astounded at my own moderation,--with the mere right to\ntell one story, to work out one little contribution to the light\nliterature of the day. If Charlie were permitted full recollection for one\nhour--for sixty short minutes--of existences that had extended over a\nthousand years--I would forego all profit and honor from all that I should\nmake of his speech. I would take no share in the commotion that would\nfollow throughout the particular corner of the earth that calls itself\n\"the world.\" The thing should be put forth anonymously. Nay, I would make\nother men believe that they had written it. They would hire bull-hided\nself-advertising Englishmen to bellow it abroad. Preachers would found a\nfresh conduct of life upon it, swearing that it was new and that they had\nlifted the fear of death from all mankind. Every Orientalist in Europe\nwould patronize it discursively with Sanskrit and Pali texts. Terrible\nwomen would invent unclean variants of the men's belief for the elevation\nof their sisters. Churches and religions would war over it. Between the\nhailing and re-starting of an omnibus I foresaw the scuffles that would\narise among half a dozen denominations all professing \"the doctrine of the\nTrue Metempsychosis as applied to the world and the New Era\"; and saw,\ntoo, the respectable English newspapers shying, like frightened kine, over\nthe beautiful simplicity of the tale. The mind leaped forward a\nhundred--two hundred--a thousand years. I saw with sorrow that men would\nmutilate and garble the story; that rival creeds would turn it upside down\ntill, at last, the western world which clings to the dread of death more\nclosely than the hope of life, would set it aside as an interesting\nsuperstition and stampede after some faith so long forgotten that it\nseemed altogether new. Upon this I changed the terms of the bargain that I\nwould make with the Lords of Life and Death. Only let me know, let me\nwrite, the story with sure knowledge that I wrote the truth, and I would\nburn the manuscript as a solemn sacrifice. Five minutes after the last\nline was written I would destroy it all. But I must be allowed to write it\nwith absolute certainty.\n\nThere was no answer. The flaming colors of an Aquarium poster caught my\neye and I wondered whether it would be wise or prudent to lure Charlie\ninto the hands of the professional mesmerist, and whether, if he were\nunder his power, he would speak of his past lives. If he did, and if\npeople believed him ... but Charlie would be frightened and flustered, or\nmade conceited by the interviews. In either case he would begin to lie,\nthrough fear or vanity. He was safest in my own hands.\n\n\"They are very funny fools, your English,\" said a voice at my elbow, and\nturning round I recognized a casual acquaintance, a young Bengali law\nstudent, called Grish Chunder, whose father had sent him to England to\nbecome civilized. The old man was a retired native official, and on an\nincome of five pounds a month contrived to allow his son two hundred\npounds a year, and the run of his teeth in a city where he could pretend\nto be the cadet of a royal house, and tell stories of the brutal Indian\nbureaucrats who ground the faces of the poor.\n\nGrish Chunder was a young, fat, full-bodied Bengali dressed with\nscrupulous care in frock coat, tall hat, light trousers and tan gloves.\nBut I had known him in the days when the brutal Indian Government paid for\nhis university education, and he contributed cheap sedition to _Sachi\nDurpan_, and intrigued with the wives of his schoolmates.\n\n\"That is very funny and very foolish,\" he said, nodding at the poster. \"I\nam going down to the Northbrook Club. Will you come too?\"\n\nI walked with him for some time. \"You are not well,\" he said. \"What is\nthere in your mind? You do not talk.\"\n\n\"Grish Chunder, you've been too well educated to believe in a God, haven't\nyou?\"\n\n\"Oah, yes, _here!_ But when I go home I must conciliate popular\nsuperstition, and make ceremonies of purification, and my women will\nanoint idols.\"\n\n\"And hang up _tulsi_ and feast the _purohit_, and take you back into caste\nagain and make a good _khuttri_ of you again, you advanced social\nFree-thinker. And you'll eat _desi_ food, and like it all, from the smell\nin the courtyard to the mustard oil over you.\"\n\n\"I shall very much like it,\" said Grish Chunder, unguardedly. \"Once a\nHindu--always a Hindu. But I like to know what the English think they\nknow.\"\n\n\"I'll tell you something that one Englishman knows. It's an old tale to\nyou.\"\n\nI began to tell the story of Charlie in English, but Grish Chunder put a\nquestion in the vernacular, and the history went forward naturally in the\ntongue best suited for its telling. After all it could never have been\ntold in English. Grish Chunder heard me, nodding from time to time, and\nthen came up to my rooms where I finished the tale.\n\n\"_Beshak_,\" he said, philosophically. \"_Lekin darwaza band hai_. (Without\ndoubt, but the door is shut.) I have heard of this remembering of previous\nexistences among my people. It is of course an old tale with us, but, to\nhappen to an Englishman--a cow-fed _Malechh_--an outcast. By Jove, that is\nmost peculiar!\"\n\n\"Outcast yourself, Grish Chunder! You eat cow-beef every day. Let's think\nthe thing over. The boy remembers his incarnations.\"\n\n\"Does he know that?\" said Grish Chunder, quietly, swinging his legs as he\nsat on my table. He was speaking in English now.\n\n\"He does not know anything. Would I speak to you if he did? Go on!\"\n\n\"There is no going on at all. If you tell that to your friends they will\nsay you are mad and put it in the papers. Suppose, now, you prosecute for\nlibel.\"\n\n\"Let's leave that out of the question entirely. Is there any chance of his\nbeing made to speak?\"\n\n\"There is a chance. Oah, yess! But _if_ he spoke it would mean that all\nthis world would end now--_instanto_--fall down on your head. These things\nare not allowed, you know. As I said, the door is shut.\"\n\n\"Not a ghost of a chance?\"\n\n\"How can there be? You are a Christian, and it is forbidden to eat, in\nyour books, of the Tree of Life, or else you would never die. How shall\nyou all fear death if you all know what your friend does not know that he\nknows? I am afraid to be kicked, but I am not afraid to die, because I\nknow what I know. You are not afraid to be kicked, but you are afraid to\ndie. If you were not, by God! you English would be all over the shop in an\nhour, upsetting the balances of power, and making commotions. It would not\nbe good. But no fear. He will remember a little and a little less, and he\nwill call it dreams. Then he will forget altogether. When I passed my\nFirst Arts Examination in Calcutta that was all in the cram-book on\nWordsworth. Trailing clouds of glory, you know.\"\n\n\"This seems to be an exception to the rule.\"\n\n\"There are no exceptions to rules. Some are not so hard-looking as others,\nbut they are all the same when you touch. If this friend of yours said\nso-and-so and so-and-so, indicating that he remembered all his lost lives,\nor one piece of a lost life, he would not be in the bank another hour. He\nwould be what you called sack because he was mad, and they would send him\nto an asylum for lunatics. You can see that, my friend.\"\n\n\"Of course I can, but I wasn't thinking of him. His name need never appear\nin the story.\"\n\n\"Ah! I see. That story will never be written. You can try.\"\n\n\"I am going to.\"\n\n\"For your own credit and for the sake of money, _of_ course?\"\n\n\"No. For the sake of writing the story. On my honor that will be all.\"\n\n\"Even then there is no chance. You cannot play with the Gods. It is a very\npretty story now. As they say, Let it go on that--I mean at that. Be\nquick; he will not last long.\"\n\n\"How do you mean?\"\n\n\"What I say. He has never, so far, thought about a woman.\"\n\n\"Hasn't he, though!\" I remembered some of Charlie's confidences.\n\n\"I mean no woman has thought about him. When that comes;\n_bus_--_hogya_--all up! I know. There are millions of women here.\nHousemaids, for instance.\"\n\nI winced at the thought of my story being ruined by a housemaid. And yet\nnothing was more probable.\n\nGrish Chunder grinned.\n\n\"Yes--also pretty girls--cousins of his house, and perhaps _not_ of his\nhouse. One kiss that he gives back again and remembers will cure all this\nnonsense, or else\"--\n\n\"Or else what? Remember he does not know that he knows.\"\n\n\"I know that. Or else, if nothing happens he will become immersed in the\ntrade and the financial speculations like the rest. It must be so. You can\nsee that it must be so. But the woman will come first, _I_ think.\"\n\nThere was a rap at the door, and Charlie charged in impetuously. He had\nbeen released from office, and by the look in his eyes I could see that he\nhad come over for a long talk; most probably with poems in his pockets.\nCharlie's poems were very wearying, but sometimes they led him to talk\nabout the galley.\n\nGrish Chunder looked at him keenly for a minute.\n\n\"I beg your pardon,\" Charlie said, uneasily; \"I didn't know you had any\none with you.\"\n\n\"I am going,\" said Grish Chunder.\n\nHe drew me into the lobby as he departed.\n\n\"That is your man,\" he said, quickly. \"I tell you he will never speak all\nyou wish. That is rot--bosh. But he would be most good to make to see\nthings. Suppose now we pretend that it was only play\"--I had never seen\nGrish Chunder so excited--\"and pour the ink-pool into his hand. Eh, what\ndo you think? I tell you that he could see _anything_ that a man could\nsee. Let me get the ink and the camphor. He is a seer and he will tell us\nvery many things.\"\n\n\"He may be all you say, but I'm not going to trust him to your gods and\ndevils.\"\n\n\"It will not hurt him. He will only feel a little stupid and dull when he\nwakes up. You have seen boys look into the ink-pool before.\"\n\n\"That is the reason why I am not going to see it any more. You'd better\ngo, Grish Chunder.\"\n\nHe went, declaring far down the staircase that it was throwing away my\nonly chance of looking into the future.\n\nThis left me unmoved, for I was concerned for the past, and no peering of\nhypnotized boys into mirrors and ink-pools would help me to that. But I\nrecognized Grish Chunder's point of view and sympathized with it.\n\n\"What a big black brute that was!\" said Charlie, when I returned to him.\n\"Well, look here, I've just done a poem; did it instead of playing\ndominoes after lunch. May I read it?\"\n\n\"Let me read it to myself.\"\n\n\"Then you miss the proper expression. Besides, you always make my things\nsound as if the rhymes were all wrong.\"\n\n\"Read it aloud, then. You're like the rest of 'em.\"\n\nCharlie mouthed me his poem, and it was not much worse than the average of\nhis verses. He had been reading his books faithfully, but he was not\npleased when I told him that I preferred my Longfellow undiluted with\nCharlie.\n\nThen we began to go through the MS. line by line; Charlie parrying every\nobjection and correction with:\n\n\"Yes, that may be better, but you don't catch what I'm driving at.\"\n\nCharles was, in one way at least, very like one kind of poet.\n\nThere was a pencil scrawl at the back of the paper and \"What's that?\" I\nsaid.\n\n\"Oh that's not poetry at all. It's some rot I wrote last night before I\nwent to bed and it was too much bother to hunt for rhymes; so I made it a\nsort of blank verse instead.\"\n\nHere is Charlie's \"blank verse\":\n\n   \"We pulled for you when the wind was against us and the sails were low.\n  _Will you never let us go?_\n\n   We ate bread and onions when you took towns or ran aboard quickly when\nyou were beaten back by the foe,\n   The captains walked up and down the deck in fair weather singing songs,\nbut we were below,\n   We fainted with our chins on the oars and you did not see that we were\nidle for we still swung to and fro.\n  _Will you never let us go?_\n\n  The salt made the oar bandies like sharkskin; our knees were cut to the\nbone with salt cracks; our hair was stuck to our foreheads; and our lips\nwere cut to our gums and you whipped us because we could not row,\n  _Will you never let us go?_\n\n  But in a little time we shall run out of the portholes as the water runs\nalong the oarblade, and though you tell the others to row after us you\nwill never catch us till you catch the oar-thresh and tie up the winds in\nthe belly of the sail. Aho!\n  _Will you never let us go?_\"\n\n\"H'm. What's oar-thresh, Charlie?\"\n\n\"The water washed up by the oars. That's the sort of song they might sing\nin the galley, y'know. Aren't you ever going to finish that story and give\nme some of the profits?\"\n\n\"It depends on yourself. If you had only told me more about your hero in\nthe first instance it might have been finished by now. You're so hazy in\nyour notions.\"\n\n\"I only want to give you the general notion of it--the knocking about from\nplace to place and the fighting and all that. Can't you fill in the rest\nyourself? Make the hero save a girl on a pirate-galley and marry her or do\nsomething.\"\n\n\"You're a really helpful collaborator. I suppose the hero went through\nsome few adventures before he married.\"\n\n\"Well then, make him a very artful card--a low sort of man--a sort of\npolitical man who went about making treaties and breaking them--a\nblack-haired chap who hid behind the mast when the fighting began.\"\n\n\"But you said the other day that he was red-haired.\"\n\n\"I couldn't have. Make him black-haired of course. You've no imagination.\"\n\nSeeing that I had just discovered the entire principles upon which the\nhalf-memory falsely called imagination is based, I felt entitled to laugh,\nbut forbore, for the sake of the tale.\n\n\"You're right. _You're_ the man with imagination. A black-haired chap in a\ndecked ship,\" I said.\n\n\"No, an open ship--like a big boat.\"\n\nThis was maddening.\n\n\"Your ship has been built and designed, closed and decked in; you said so\nyourself,\" I protested.\n\n\"No, no, not that ship. That was open, or half decked because--By Jove\nyou're right. You made me think of the hero as a red-haired chap. Of course\nif he were red, the ship would be an open one with painted sails.\"\n\nSurely, I thought, he would remember now that he had served in two galleys\nat least--in a three-decked Greek one under the black-haired \"political\nman,\" and again in a Viking's open sea-serpent under the man \"red as a red\nbear\" who went to Markland. The devil prompted me to speak.\n\n\"Why, 'of course,' Charlie?\" said I.\n\n\"I don't know. Are you making fun of me?\"\n\nThe current was broken for the time being. I took up a notebook and\npretended to make many entries in it.\n\n\"It's a pleasure to work with an imaginative chap like yourself,\" I said,\nafter a pause. \"The way that you've brought out the character of the hero\nis simply wonderful.\"\n\n\"Do you think so?\" he answered, with a pleased flush. \"I often tell myself\nthat there's more in me than my mo--than people think.\"\n\n\"There's an enormous amount in you.\"\n\n\"Then, won't you let me send an essay on The Ways of Bank Clerks to\n_Tit-Bits_, and get the guinea prize?\"\n\n\"That wasn't exactly what I meant, old fellow; perhaps it would be better\nto wait a little and go ahead with the galley-story.\"\n\n\"Ah, but I sha'n't get the credit of that. _Tit-Bits_ would publish my\nname and address if I win. What are you grinning at? They _would_.\"\n\n\"I know it. Suppose you go for a walk. I want to look through my notes\nabout our story.\"\n\nNow this reprehensible youth who left me, a little hurt and put back,\nmight for aught he or I knew have been one of the crew of the _Argo_--had\nbeen certainly slave or comrade to Thorfin Karlsefne. Therefore he was\ndeeply interested in guinea competitions. Remembering what Grish Chunder\nhad said I laughed aloud. The Lords of Life and Death would never allow\nCharlie Mears to speak with full knowledge of his pasts, and I must even\npiece out what he had told me with my own poor inventions while Charlie\nwrote of the ways of bank clerks.\n\nI got together and placed on one file all my notes; and the net result was\nnot cheering. I read them a second time. There was nothing that might not\nhave been compiled at secondhand from other people's books--except,\nperhaps, the story of the fight in the harbor. The adventures of a Viking\nhad been written many times before; the history of a Greek galley-slave\nwas no new thing, and though I wrote both, who could challenge or confirm\nthe accuracy of my details? I might as well tell a tale of two thousand\nyears hence. The Lords of Life and Death were as cunning as Grish Chunder\nhad hinted. They would allow nothing to escape that might trouble or make\neasy the minds of men. Though I was convinced of this, yet I could not\nleave the tale alone. Exaltation followed reaction, not once, but twenty\ntimes in the next few weeks. My moods varied with the March sunlight and\nflying clouds. By night or in the beauty of a spring morning I perceived\nthat I could write that tale and shift continents thereby. In the wet,\nwindy afternoons, I saw that the tale might indeed be written, but would\nbe nothing more than a faked, false-varnished, sham-rusted piece of\nWardour Street work at the end. Then I blessed Charlie in many\nways--though it was no fault of his. He seemed to be busy with prize\ncompetitions, and I saw less and less of him as the weeks went by and the\nearth cracked and grew ripe to spring, and the buds swelled in their\nsheaths. He did not care to read or talk of what he had read, and there\nwas a new ring of self-assertion in his voice. I hardly cared to remind\nhim of the galley when we met; but Charlie alluded to it on every\noccasion, always as a story from which money was to be made.\n\n\"I think I deserve twenty-five per cent., don't I, at least,\" he said,\nwith beautiful frankness. \"I supplied all the ideas, didn't I?\"\n\nThis greediness for silver was a new side in his nature. I assumed that it\nhad been developed in the City, where Charlie was picking up the curious\nnasal drawl of the underbred City man.\n\n\"When the thing's done we'll talk about it. I can't make anything of it at\npresent. Red-haired or black-haired hero are equally difficult.\"\n\nHe was sitting by the fire staring at the red coals. \"I can't understand\nwhat you find so difficult. It's all as clear as mud to me,\" he replied. A\njet of gas puffed out between the bars, took light and whistled softly.\n\"Suppose we take the red-haired hero's adventures first, from the time\nthat he came south to my galley and captured it and sailed to the\nBeaches.\"\n\nI knew better now than to interrupt Charlie. I was out of reach of pen and\npaper, and dared not move to get them lest I should break the current. The\ngas-jet puffed and whinnied, Charlie's voice dropped almost to a whisper,\nand he told a tale of the sailing of an open galley to Furdurstrandi, of\nsunsets on the open sea, seen under the curve of the one sail evening\nafter evening when the galley's beak was notched into the centre of the\nsinking disc, and \"we sailed by that for we had no other guide,\" quoth\nCharlie. He spoke of a landing on an island and explorations in its woods,\nwhere the crew killed three men whom they found asleep under the pines.\nTheir ghosts, Charlie said, followed the galley, swimming and choking in\nthe water, and the crew cast lots and threw one of their number overboard\nas a sacrifice to the strange gods whom they had offended. Then they ate\nsea-weed when their provisions failed, and their legs swelled, and their\nleader, the red-haired man, killed two rowers who mutinied, and after a\nyear spent among the woods they set sail for their own country, and a wind\nthat never failed carried them back so safely that they all slept at\nnight. This, and much more Charlie told. Sometimes the voice fell so low\nthat I could not catch the words, though every nerve was on the strain. He\nspoke of their leader, the red-haired man, as a pagan speaks of his God;\nfor it was he who cheered them and slew them impartially as he thought\nbest for their needs; and it was he who steered them for three days among\nfloating ice, each floe crowded with strange beasts that \"tried to sail\nwith us,\" said Charlie, \"and we beat them back with the handles of the\noars.\"\n\nThe gas-jet went out, a burned coal gave way, and the fire settled down\nwith a tiny crash to the bottom of the grate. Charlie ceased speaking, and\nI said no word.\n\n\"By Jove!\" he said, at last, shaking his head. \"I've been staring at the\nfire till I'm dizzy. What was I going to say?\"\n\n\"Something about the galley.\"\n\n\"I remember now. It's 25 per cent. of the profits, isn't it?\"\n\n\"It's anything you like when I've done the tale.\"\n\n\"I wanted to be sure of that. I must go now. I've--I've an appointment.\"\nAnd he left me.\n\nHad my eyes not been held I might have known that that broken muttering\nover the fire was the swan-song of Charlie Mears. But I thought it the\nprelude to fuller revelation. At last and at last I should cheat the Lords\nof Life and Death!\n\nWhen next Charlie came to me I received him with rapture. He was nervous\nand embarrassed, but his eyes were very full of light, and his lips a\nlittle parted.\n\n\"I've done a poem,\" he said; and then, quickly: \"it's the best I've ever\ndone. Read it.\" He thrust it into my hand and retreated to the window.\n\nI groaned inwardly. It would be the work of half an hour to\ncriticise--that is to say praise--the poem sufficiently to please Charlie.\nThen I had good reason to groan, for Charlie, discarding his favorite\ncentipede metres, had launched into shorter and choppier verse, and verse\nwith a motive at the back of it. This is what I read:\n\n  \"The day is most fair, the cheery wind\n     Halloos behind the hill,\n   Where he bends the wood as seemeth good,\n     And the sapling to his will!\n   Riot O wind; there is that in my blood\n     That would not have thee still!\n\n  \"She gave me herself, O Earth, O Sky;\n     Grey sea, she is mine alone!\n   Let the sullen boulders hear my cry,\n     And rejoice tho' they be but stone!\n\n  \"Mine! I have won her O good brown earth,\n     Make merry! 'Tis hard on Spring;\n   Make merry; my love is doubly worth\n     All worship your fields can bring!\n   Let the hind that tills you feel my mirth\n     At the early harrowing.\"\n\n\"Yes, it's the early harrowing, past a doubt,\" I said, with a dread at my\nheart, Charlie smiled, but did not answer.\n\n  \"Red cloud of the sunset, tell it abroad;\n     I am victor. Greet me O Sun,\n   Dominant master and absolute lord\n     Over the soul of one!\"\n\n\"Well?\" said Charlie, looking over my shoulder.\n\nI thought it far from well, and very evil indeed, when he silently laid a\nphotograph on the paper--the photograph of a girl with a curly head, and a\nfoolish slack mouth.\n\n\"Isn't it--isn't it wonderful?\" he whispered, pink to the tips of his\nears, wrapped in the rosy mystery of first love. \"I didn't know; I didn't\nthink--it came like a thunderclap.\"\n\n\"Yes. It comes like a thunderclap. Are you very happy, Charlie?\"\n\n\"My God--she--she loves me!\" He sat down repeating the last words to\nhimself. I looked at the hairless face, the narrow shoulders already bowed\nby desk-work, and wondered when, where, and how he had loved in his past\nlives.\n\n\"What will your mother say?\" I asked, cheerfully.\n\n\"I don't care a damn what she says.\"\n\nAt twenty the things for which one does not care a damn should, properly,\nbe many, but one must not include mothers in the list. I told him this\ngently; and he described Her, even as Adam must have described to the\nnewly named beasts the glory and tenderness and beauty of Eve.\nIncidentally I learned that She was a tobacconist's assistant with a\nweakness for pretty dress, and had told him four or five times already\nthat She had never been kissed by a man before.\n\nCharlie spoke on and on, and on; while I, separated from him by thousands\nof years, was considering the beginnings of things. Now I understood why\nthe Lords of Life and Death shut the doors so carefully behind us. It is\nthat we may not remember our first wooings. Were it not so, our world\nwould be without inhabitants in a hundred years.\n\n\"Now, about that galley-story,\" I said, still more cheerfully, in a pause\nin the rush of the speech.\n\nCharlie looked up as though he had been hit. \"The galley--what galley?\nGood heavens, don't joke, man! This is serious! You don't know how serious\nit is!\"\n\nGrish Chunder was right, Charlie had tasted the love of woman that kills\nremembrance, and the finest story in the world would never be written.\n\n\n\n\nWITH THE MAIN GUARD\n\n   Der jungere Uhlanen\n   Sit round mit open mouth\n   While Breitmann tell dem stories\n   Of fightin' in the South;\n   Und gif dem moral lessons,\n   How before der battle pops,\n   Take a little prayer to Himmel\n   Und a goot long drink of Schnapps.\n\n      _Hans Breitmann's Ballads_.\n\n\n\"Mary, Mother av Mercy, fwhat the divil possist us to take an' kepe this\nmelancolius counthry? Answer me that, sorr.\"\n\nIt was Mulvaney who was speaking. The time was one o'clock of a stifling\nJune night, and the place was the main gate of Fort Amara, most desolate\nand least desirable of all fortresses in India. What I was doing there at\nthat hour is a question which only concerns M'Grath the Sergeant of the\nGuard, and the men on the gate.\n\n\"Slape,\" said Mulvaney, \"is a shuparfluous necessity. This gyard'll shtay\nlively till relieved.\" He himself was stripped to the waist; Learoyd on\nthe next bedstead was dripping from the skinful of water which Ortheris,\nclad only in white trousers, had just sluiced over his shoulders; and a\nfourth private was muttering uneasily as he dozed open-mouthed in the\nglare of the great guard-lantern. The heat under the bricked archway was\nterrifying.\n\n\"The worrst night that iver I remimber. Eyah! Is all Hell loose this\ntide?\" said Mulvaney. A puff of burning wind lashed through the\nwicket-gate like a wave of the sea, and Ortheris swore.\n\n\"Are ye more heasy, Jock?\" he said to Learoyd. \"Put yer 'ead between your\nlegs. It'll go orf in a minute.\"\n\n\"Ah don't care. Ah would not care, but ma heart is plaayin' tivvy-tivvy on\nma ribs. Let me die! Oh, leave me die!\" groaned the huge Yorkshireman, who\nwas feeling the heat acutely, being of fleshly build.\n\nThe sleeper under the lantern roused for a moment and raised himself on\nhis elbow,--\"Die and be damned then!\" he said. \"_I_'m damned and I can't\ndie!\"\n\n\"Who's that?\" I whispered, for the voice was new to me.\n\n\"Gentleman born,\" said Mulvaney; \"Corp'ril wan year, Sargint nex'. Red-hot\non his C'mission, but dhrinks like a fish. He'll be gone before the cowld\nweather's here. So!\"\n\nHe slipped his boot, and with the naked toe just touched the trigger of\nhis Martini. Ortheris misunderstood the movement, and the next instant the\nIrishman's rifle was dashed aside, while Ortheris stood before him, his\neyes blazing with reproof.\n\n\"You!\" said Ortheris. \"My Gawd, _you!_ If it was you, wot would _we_ do?\"\n\n\"Kape quiet, little man,\" said Mulvaney, putting him aside, but very\ngently; \"'tis not me, nor will ut be me whoile Dina Shadd's here. I was\nbut showin' something.\"\n\nLearoyd, bowed on his bedstead, groaned, and the gentleman-ranker sighed\nin his sleep. Ortheris took Mulvaney's tendered pouch, and we three smoked\ngravely for a space while the dust-devils danced on the glacis and scoured\nthe red-hot plain.\n\n\"Pop?\" said Ortheris, wiping his forehead.\n\n\"Don't tantalize wid talkin' av dhrink, or I'll shtuff you into your own\nbreech-block an'--fire you off!\" grunted Mulvaney.\n\nOrtheris chuckled, and from a niche in the veranda produced six bottles of\nginger ale.\n\n\"Where did ye get ut, ye Machiavel?\" said Mulvaney. \"'Tis no bazar pop.\"\n\n\"'Ow do _Hi_ know wot the Orf'cers drink?\" answered Ortheris. \"Arst the\nmess-man.\"\n\n\"Ye'll have a Disthrict Coort-martial settin' on ye yet, me son,\" said\nMulvaney, \"but\"--he opened a bottle--\"I will not report ye this time.\nFwhat's in the mess-kid is mint for the belly, as they say, 'specially\nwhin that mate is dhrink, Here's luck! A bloody war or a--no, we've got\nthe sickly season. War, thin!\"--he waved the innocent \"pop\" to the four\nquarters of Heaven. \"Bloody war! North, East, South, an' West! Jock, ye\nquakin' hayrick, come an' dhrink.\"\n\nBut Learoyd, half mad with the fear of death presaged in the swelling\nveins of his neck, was pegging his Maker to strike him dead, and fighting\nfor more air between his prayers. A second time Ortheris drenched the\nquivering body with water, and the giant revived.\n\n\"An' Ah divn't see thot a mon is i' fettle for gooin' on to live; an' Ah\ndivn't see thot there is owt for t' livin' for. Hear now, lads! Ah'm\ntired--tired. There's nobbut watter i' ma bones. Let me die!\"\n\nThe hollow of the arch gave back Learoyd's broken whisper in a bass boom.\nMulvaney looked at me hopelessly, but I remembered how the madness of\ndespair had once fallen upon Ortheris, that weary, weary afternoon in the\nbanks of the Khemi River, and how it had been exorcised by the skilful\nmagician Mulvaney.\n\n\"Talk, Terence!\" I said, \"or we shall have Learoyd slinging loose, and\nhe'll be worse than Ortheris was. Talk! He'll answer to your voice.\"\n\nAlmost before Ortheris had deftly thrown all the rifles of the Guard on\nMulvaney's bedstead, the Irishman's voice was uplifted as that of one in\nthe middle of a story, and, turning to me, he said--\n\n\"In barricks or out of it, as _you_ say, sorr, an Oirish rig'mint is the\ndivil an' more. 'Tis only fit for a young man wid eddicated fistesses. Oh\nthe crame av disruption is an Oirish rig'mint, an' rippin', tearin',\nragin' scattherers in the field av war! My first rig'mint was\nOirish--Faynians an' rebils to the heart av their marrow was they, an'\n_so_ they fought for the Widdy betther than most, bein' contrairy--Oirish.\nThey was the Black Tyrone. You've heard av thim, sorr?\"\n\nHeard of them! I knew the Black Tyrone for the choicest collection of\nunmitigated blackguards, dog-stealers, robbers of hen-roosts, assaulters\nof innocent citizens, and recklessly daring heroes in the Army List. Half\nEurope and half Asia has had cause to know the Black Tyrone--good luck be\nwith their tattered Colors as Glory has ever been!\n\n\"They _was_ hot pickils an' ginger! I cut a man's head tu deep wid my belt\nin the days av my youth, an', afther some circumstances which I will\noblitherate, I came to the Ould Rig'mint, bearin' the character av a man\nwid hands an' feet. But, as I was goin' to tell you, I fell acrost the\nBlack Tyrone agin wan day whin we wanted thim powerful bad, Orth'ris, me\nson, fwhat was the name av that place where they sint wan comp'ny av us\nan' wan av the Tyrone roun' a hill an' down again, all for to tache the\nPaythans something they'd niver learned before? Afther Ghuzni 'twas.\"\n\n\"Don't know what the bloomin' Paythans called it. We call it Silver's\nTheayter. You know that, sure!\"\n\n\"Silver's Theatre--so 'twas, A gut betune two hills, as black as a bucket,\nan' as thin as a girl's waist. There was over-many Paythans for our\nconvaynience in the gut, an' begad they called thimselves a Reserve--bein'\nimpident by natur! Our Scotchies an' lashins av Gurkys was poundin' into\nsome Paythan rig'mints, I think 'twas. Scotchies an' Gurkys are twins\nbekaze they're so onlike, an' they get dhrunk together whin God plazes. As\nI was sayin', they sint wan comp'ny av the Ould an wan av the Tyrone to\ndouble up the hill an' clane out the Paythan Reserve. Orf'cers was scarce\nin thim days, fwhat with dysintry an' not takin' care av thimselves, an'\nwe was sint out wid only wan orf'cer for the comp'ny; but he was a Man\nthat had his feet beneath him, an' all his teeth in their sockuts.\"\n\n\"Who was he?\" I asked,\n\n\"Captain O'Neil--Old Crook--Cruikna-bulleen--him that I tould ye that tale\nav whin he was in Burma.[1] Hah! He was a Man. The Tyrone tuk a little\norf'cer bhoy, but divil a bit was he in command, as I'll dimonstrate\npresintly. We an' they came over the brow av the hill, wan on each side av\nthe gut, an' there was that ondacint Reserve waitin' down below like rats\nin a pit.\n\n\n[Footnote 1:\n   Now first of the foemen of Boh Da Thone\n   Was Captain O'Neil of the Black Tyrone.\n      _The Ballad of Boh Da Thone. _]\n\n\"'Howld on, men,' sez Crook, who tuk a mother's care av us always. 'Rowl\nsome rocks on thim by way av visitin'-kyards.' We hadn't rowled more than\ntwinty bowlders, an' the Paythans was beginnin' to swear tremenjus, whin\nthe little orf'cer bhoy av the Tyrone shqueaks out acrost the\nvalley:--'Fwhat the devil an' all are you doin', shpoilin' the fun for my\nmen? Do ye not see they'll stand?'\n\n\"'Faith, that's a rare pluckt wan!' sez Crook. 'Niver mind the rocks, men.\nCome along down an' take tay wid thim!'\n\n\"'There's damned little sugar in ut!' sez my rear-rank man; but Crook\nheard.\n\n\"'Have ye not all got spoons?' he sez, laughin', an' down we wint as fast\nas we cud. Learoyd bein' sick at the Base, he, av coorse, was not there.\"\n\n\"Thot's a lie!\" said Learoyd, dragging his bedstead nearer. \"Ah gotten\n_thot_ theer, an' you knaw it, Mulvaney.\" He threw up his arms, and from\nthe right arm-pit ran, diagonally through the fell of his chest, a thin\nwhite line terminating near the fourth left rib.\n\n\"My mind's goin',\" said Mulvaney, the unabashed. \"Ye were there. Fwhat I\nwas thinkin' of! 'Twas another man, av coorse. Well, you'll remimber thin,\nJock, how we an' the Tyrone met wid a bang at the bottom an' got jammed\npast all movin' among the Paythans.\"\n\n\"Ow! It _was_ a tight 'ole. I was squeezed till I thought I'd bloomin'\nwell bust,\" said Ortheris, rubbing his stomach meditatively,\n\n\"'Twas no place for a little man, but _wan_ little man\"--Mulvaney put his\nhand on Ortheris's shoulder--\"saved the life av me. There we shtuck, for\ndivil a bit did the Paythans flinch, an' divil a bit dare we: our business\nbein' to clear 'em out. An' the most exthryordinar' thing av all was that\nwe an' they just rushed into each other's arrums, an' there was no firing\nfor a long time. Nothin' but knife an' bay'nit when we cud get our hands\nfree: an' that was not often. We was breast-on to thim, an' the Tyrone was\nyelpin' behind av us in a way I didn't see the lean av at first. But I knew\nlater, an' so did the Paythans.\n\n\"'Knee to knee!' sings out Crook, wid a laugh whin the rush av our comin'\ninto the gut shtopped, an' he was huggin' a hairy great Paythan, neither\nbein' able to do anything to the other, tho' both was wishful.\n\n\"'Breast to breast!' he sez, as the Tyrone was pushin' us forward closer\nan' closer.\n\n\"'An' hand over back!' sez a Sargint that was behin'. I saw a sword lick\nout past Crook's ear, an' the Paythan was tuk in the apple av his throat\nlike a pig at Dromeen fair.\n\n\"'Thank ye, Brother Inner Guard,' sez Crook, cool as a cucumber widout\nsalt. 'I wanted that room.' An' he wint forward by the thickness av a\nman's body, havin' turned the Paythan undher him. The man bit the heel off\nCrook's boot in his death-bite.\n\n\"'Push, men!' sez Crook. 'Push, ye paper-backed beggars!' he sez. 'Am I to\npull ye through?' So we pushed, an' we kicked, an' we swung, an' we swore,\nan' the grass bein' slippery, our heels wouldn't bite, an' God help the\nfront-rank man that wint down that day!\"\n\n\"'Ave you ever bin in the Pit hentrance o' the Vic. on a thick night?\"\ninterrupted Ortheris. \"It was worse nor that, for they was goin' one way\nan' we wouldn't 'ave it. Leastaways, I 'adn't much to say.\"\n\n\"Faith, me son, ye said ut, thin. I kep' the little man betune my knees as\nlong as I cud, but he was pokin' roun' wid his bay'nit, blindin' an'\nstiffin' feroshus. The devil of a man is Orth'ris in a ruction--aren't\nye?\" said Mulvaney.\n\n\"Don't make game!\" said the Cockney. \"I knowed I wasn't no good then, but\nI gev 'em compot from the lef' flank when we opened out. No!\" he said,\nbringing down his hand with a thump on the bedstead, \"a bay'nit ain't no\ngood to a little man--might as well 'ave a bloomin' fishin'-rod! I 'ate a\nclawin', maulin' mess, but gimme a breech that's wore out a bit, an'\nhamminition one year in store, to let the powder kiss the bullet, an' put\nme somewheres where I ain't trod on by 'ulkin swine like you, an' s'elp me\nGawd, I could bowl you over five times outer seven at height 'undred.\nWould yer try, you lumberin' Hirishman.\"\n\n\"No, ye wasp, I've seen ye do ut. I say there's nothin' better than the\nbay'nit, wid a long reach, a double twist av ye can, an' a slow recover.\"\n\n\"Dom the bay'nit,\" said Learoyd, who had been listening intently. \"Look\na-here!\" He picked up a rifle an inch below the foresight with an\nunderhand action, and used it exactly as a man would use a dagger.\n\n\"Sitha,\" said he, softly, \"thot's better than owt, for a mon can bash t'\nfaace wi' thot, an', if he divn't, he can breeak t' forearm o' t' gaard,\n'Tis not i' t' books, though. Gie me t' butt.\"\n\n\"Each does ut his own way, like makin' love,\" said Mulvaney, quietly; \"the\nbutt or the bay'nit or the bullet accordin' to the natur' av the man.\nWell, as I was sayin', we shtuck there breathin' in each other's faces and\nswearin' powerful; Orth'ris cursin' the mother that bore him bekaze he was\nnot three inches taller.\n\n\"Prisintly he sez:--'Duck, ye lump, an' I can get at a man over your\nshouldher!'\n\n\"'You'll blow me head off,' I sez, throwin' my arm clear; 'go through\nunder my arm-pit, ye bloodthirsty little scutt,' sez I, 'but don't shtick\nme or I'll wring your ears round.'\n\n\"Fwhat was ut ye gave the Paythan man for-ninst me, him that cut at me\nwhin I cudn't move hand or foot? Hot or cowld was ut?\"\n\n\"Cold,\" said Ortheris, \"up an' under the rib-jint. 'E come down flat. Best\nfor you 'e did.\"\n\n\"Thrue, my son! This jam thing that I'm talkin' about lasted for five\nminutes good, an' thin we got our arms clear an' wint in. I misremimber\nexactly fwhat I did, but I didn't want Dinah to be a widdy at the Dep\u00f4t.\nThin, after some promishkuous hackin' we shtuck again, an' the Tyrone\nbehin' was callin' us dogs an' cowards an' all manner av names; we barrin'\ntheir way.\n\n\"'Fwhat ails the Tyrone?' thinks I; 'they've the makin's av a most\nconvanient fight here.'\n\n\"A man behind me sez beseechful an' in a whisper:--'Let me get at thim!\nFor the Love av Mary give me room beside ye, ye tall man!\"\n\n\"'An' who are you that's so anxious to be kilt?' sez I, widout turnin' my\nhead, for the long knives was dancin' in front like the sun on Donegal Bay\nwhin ut's rough.\n\n\"'We've seen our dead,' he sez, squeezin' into me; 'our dead that was men\ntwo days gone! An' me that was his cousin by blood could not bring Tim\nCoulan off! Let me get on,' he sez, 'let me get to thim or I'll run ye\nthrough the back!'\n\n\"'My troth,' thinks I, 'if the Tyrone have seen their dead, God help the\nPaythans this day!' An' thin I knew why the Oirish was ragin' behind us as\nthey was.\n\n\"I gave room to the man, an' he ran forward wid the Haymaker's Lift on his\nbay'nit an' swung a Paythan clear off his feet by the belly-band av the\nbrute, an' the iron bruk at the lockin'-ring.\n\n\"'Tim Coulan 'll slape easy to-night,' sez he, wid a grin; an' the next\nminut his head was in two halves and he wint down grinnin' by sections.\n\n\"The Tyrone was pushin' an' pushin' in, an' our men was swearin' at thim,\nan' Crook was workin' away in front av us all, his sword-arm swingin' like\na pump-handle an' his revolver spittin' like a cat. But the strange thing\nav ut was the quiet that lay upon. 'Twas like a fight in a drame--except\nfor thim that was dead.\n\n\"Whin I gave room to the Oirishman I was expinded an' forlorn in my\ninside. 'Tis a way I have, savin' your presince, sorr, in action. 'Let me\nout, bhoys,' sez I, backin' in among thim. 'I'm goin' to be onwell!' Faith\nthey gave me room at the wurrud, though they would not ha' given room for\nall Hell wid the chill off. When I got clear, I was, savin' your presince,\nsorr, outragis sick bekaze I had dhrunk heavy that day.\n\n\"Well an' far out av harm was a Sargint av the Tyrone sittin' on the\nlittle orf'cer bhoy who had stopped Crook from rowlin' the rocks. Oh, he\nwas a beautiful bhoy, an' the long black curses was slidin' out av his\ninnocint mouth like mornin'-jew from a rose!\n\n\"'Fwhat have you got there?' sez I to the Sargint.\n\n\"'Wan av Her Majesty's bantams wid his spurs up,' sez he. 'He's goin' to\nCoort-martial me.'\n\n\"'Let me go!' sez the little orf'cer bhoy. 'Let me go and command my men!'\nmanin' thereby the Black Tyrone which was beyond any command--ay, even av\nthey had made the Divil a Field orf'cer.\n\n\"'His father howlds my mother's cow-feed in Clonmel,' sez the man that was\nsittin' on him. 'Will I go back to _his_ mother an' tell her that I've let\nhim throw himself away? Lie still, ye little pinch av dynamite, an'\nCoort-martial me aftherward.'\n\n\"'Good,' sez I; ''tis the likes av him makes the likes av the\nCommandher-in-Chief, but we must presarve thim. Fwhat d'you want to do,\nsorr?' sez I, very politeful.\n\n\"'Kill the beggars--kill the beggars!' he shqueaks; his big blue eyes\nbrimmin' wid tears.\n\n\"'An' how'll ye do that?' sez I. 'You've shquibbed off your revolver like\na child wid a cracker; you can make no play wid that fine large sword av\nyours; an' your hand's shakin' like an asp on a leaf. Lie still an' grow,'\nsez I.\n\n\"'Get back to your comp'ny,' sez he; 'you're insolint!'\n\n\"'All in good time,' sez I, 'but I'll have a dhrink first.'\n\n\"Just thin Crook comes up, blue an' white all over where he wasn't red.\n\n\"'Wather!' sez he; 'I'm dead wid drouth! Oh, but it's a gran' day!'\n\n\"He dhrank half a skinful, and the rest he tilts into his chest, an' it\nfair hissed on the hairy hide av him. He sees the little orf'cer bhoy\nundher the Sargint.\n\n\"'Fwhat's yonder?' sez he.\n\n\"'Mutiny, sorr,' sez the Sargint, an' the orf'cer bhoy begins pleadin'\npitiful to Crook to be let go: but divil a bit wud Crook budge.\n\n\"'Kape him there,' he sez, ''tis no child's work this day. By the same\ntoken,' sez he, 'I'll confishcate that iligant nickel-plated\nscent-sprinkler av yours, for my own has been vomitin' dishgraceful!'\n\n\"The fork av his hand was black wid the backspit av the machine. So he tuk\nthe orf'cer bhoy's revolver. Ye may look, sorr, but, by my faith, _there's\na dale more done in the field than iver gets into Field Ordhers!_\n\n\"'Come on, Mulvaney,' sez Crook; 'is this a Coort-martial?' The two av us\nwint back together into the mess an' the Paythans were still standin' up.\nThey was not _too_ impart'nint though, for the Tyrone was callin' wan to\nanother to remimber Tim Coulan.\n\n\"Crook stopped outside av the strife an' looked anxious, his eyes rowlin'\nroun'.\n\n\"'Fwhat is ut, sorr?' sez I; 'can I get ye anything?'\n\n\"'Where's a bugler?' sez he.\n\n\"I wint into the crowd--our men was dhrawin' breath behin' the Tyrone who\nwas fightin' like sowls in tormint--an' prisintly I came acrost little\nFrehan, our bugler bhoy, pokin' roun' among the best wid a rifle an'\nbay'nit.\n\n\"'Is amusin' yoursilf fwhat you're paid for, ye limb?' sez I, catchin' him\nby the scruff. 'Come out av that an' attind to your duty.' I sez; but the\nbhoy was not pleased.\n\n\"'I've got wan,' sez he, grinnin', 'big as you, Mulvaney, an' fair half as\nugly. Let me go get another.'\n\n\"I was dishpleased at the personability av that remark, so I tucks him\nunder my arm an' carries him to Crook who was watchin' how the fight wint.\nCrook cuffs him till the bhoy cries, an' thin sez nothin' for a whoile.\n\n\"The Paythans began to flicker onaisy, an' our men roared. 'Opin ordher!\nDouble!' sez Crook. 'Blow, child, blow for the honor av the British\nArrmy!'\n\n\"That bhoy blew like a typhoon, an' the Tyrone an' we opined out as the\nPaythans broke, an' I saw that fwhat had gone before wud be kissin' an'\nhuggin' to fwhat was to come. We'd dhruv thim into a broad part av the gut\nwhin they gave, an' thin we opined out an' fair danced down the valley,\ndhrivin' thim before us. Oh, 'twas lovely, an' stiddy, too! There was the\nSargints on the flanks av what was left av us, kapin' touch, an' the fire\nwas runnin' from flank to flank, an' the Paythans was dhroppin'. We opined\nout wid the widenin' av the valley, an' whin the valley narrowed we closed\nagain like the shticks on a lady's fan, an' at the far ind av the gut\nwhere they thried to stand, we fair blew them off their feet, for we had\nexpinded very little ammunition by reason av the knife work.\"\n\n\"Hi used thirty rounds goin' down that valley,\" said Ortheris, \"an' it was\ngentleman's work. Might 'a' done it in a white 'andkerchief an' pink silk\nstockin's, that part. Hi was on in that piece.\"\n\n\"You could ha' heard the Tyrone yellin' a mile away,\" said Mulvaney, \"an'\n'twas all their Sargints cud do to get thim off. They was mad--mad--mad!\nCrook sits down in the quiet that fell whin we had gone down the valley,\nan' covers his face wid his hands. Prisintly we all came back again\naccordin' to our natures and disposishins, for they, mark you, show\nthrough the hide av a man in that hour.\n\n\"'Bhoys! bhoys!' sez Crook to himself. 'I misdoubt we could ha' engaged at\nlong range an' saved betther men than me.' He looked at our dead an' said\nno more.\n\n\"'Captain dear,' sez a man av the Tyrone, comin' up wid his mouth bigger\nthan iver his mother kissed ut, spittin' blood like a whale; 'Captain\ndear,' sez he, 'if wan or two in the shtalls have been discommoded, the\ngallery have enjoyed the performinces av a Roshus.'\n\n\"Thin I knew that man for the Dublin dockrat he was--wan av the bhoys that\nmade the lessee av Silver's Theatre grey before his time wid tearin' out\nthe bowils av the benches an' t'rowin' thim into the pit. So I passed the\nwurrud that I knew when I was in the Tyrone an' we lay in Dublin. 'I don't\nknow who 'twas,' I whispers, 'an' I don't care, but anyways I'll knock the\nface av you, Tim Kelly.'\n\n\"'Eyah!' sez the man, 'was you there too? We'll call ut Silver's Theatre.'\nHalf the Tyrone, knowin' the ould place, tuk ut up: so we called ut\nSilver's Theatre.\n\n\"The little orf'cer bhoy av the Tyrone was thremblin' an' cryin', He had\nno heart for the Coort-martials that he talked so big upon. 'Ye'll do well\nlater,' sez Crook, very quiet, 'for not bein' allowed to kill yourself for\namusemint.'\n\n\"'I'm a dishgraced man!' sez the little orf'cer bhoy.\n\n\"Put me undher arrest, sorr, if you will, but by my sowl, I'd do ut again\nsooner than face your mother wid you dead,' sez the Sargint that had sat\non his head, standin' to attention an' salutin'. But the young wan only\ncried as tho' his little heart was breakin'.\n\n\"Thin another man av the Tyrone came up, wid the fog av fightin' on him.\"\n\n\"The what, Mulvaney?\"\n\n\"Fog av fightin'. You know, sorr, that, like makin' love, ut takes each\nman diff'rint. Now I can't help bein' powerful sick whin I'm in action.\nOrth'ris, here, niver stops swearin' from ind to ind, an' the only time\nthat Learoyd opins his mouth to sing is whin he is messin' wid other\npeople's heads; for he's a dhirty fighter is Jock. Recruities sometime\ncry, an' sometime they don't know fwhat they do, an' sometime they are all\nfor cuttin' throats an' such like dirtiness; but some men get\nheavy-dead-dhrunk on the fightin'. This man was. He was staggerin', an'\nhis eyes were half shut, an' we cud hear him dhraw breath twinty yards\naway. He sees the little orf'cer bhoy, an' comes up, talkin' thick an'\ndrowsy to himsilf. 'Blood the young whelp!' he sez; 'blood the young\nwhelp;' an' wid that he threw up his arms, shpun roun', an' dropped at our\nfeet, dead as a Paythan, an' there was niver sign or scratch on him. They\nsaid 'twas his heart was rotten, but oh, 'twas a quare thing to see!\n\n\"Thin we wint to bury our dead, for we wud not lave thim to the Paythans,\nan' in movin' among the haythen we nearly lost that little orf'cer bhoy.\nHe was for givin' wan divil wather and layin' him aisy against a rock. 'Be\ncareful, sorr,' sez I; 'a wounded Paythan's worse than a live wan.' My\ntroth, before the words was out of my mouth, the man on the ground fires\nat the orf'cer bhoy lanin' over him, an' I saw the helmit fly. I dropped\nthe butt on the face av the man an' tuk his pistol. The little orf'cer\nbhoy turned very white, for the hair av half his head was singed away.\n\n\"'I tould you so, sorr!' sez I; an', afther that, whin he wanted to help a\nPaythan I stud wid the muzzle contagious to the ear. They dare not do\nanythin' but curse. The Tyrone was growlin' like dogs over a bone that had\nbeen taken away too soon, for they had seen their dead an' they wanted to\nkill ivry sowl on the ground. Crook tould thim that he'd blow the hide off\nany man that misconducted himself; but, seeing that ut was the first time\nthe Tyrone had iver seen their dead, I do not wondher they were on the\nsharp. 'Tis a shameful sight! Whin I first saw ut I wud niver ha' given\nquarter to any man north of the Khaibar--no, nor woman either, for the\nwomen used to come out afther dhark--Auggrh!\n\n\"Well, evenshually we buried our dead an' tuk away our wounded, an' come\nover the brow av the hills to see the Scotchies an' the Gurkys taking tay\nwith the Paythans in bucketsfuls. We were a gang av dissolute ruffians,\nfor the blood had caked the dust, an' the sweat had cut the cake, an' our\nbay'nits was hangin' like butchers' steels betune ur legs, an' most av us\nwere marked one way or another.\n\n\"A Staff Orf'cer man, clean as a new rifle, rides up an' sez: 'What damned\nscarecrows are you?'\n\n\"'A comp'ny av Her Majesty's Black Tyrone an' wan av the Ould Rig'mint,'\nsez Crook very quiet, givin' our visitors the flure as 'twas.\n\n\"'Oh!' sez the Staff Orf'cer; 'did you dislodge that Reserve?'\n\n\"'No!' sez Crook, an' the Tyrone laughed.\n\n\"'Thin fwhat the divil have ye done?'\n\n\"'Disthroyed ut,' sez Crook, an' he took us on, but not before Toomey that\nwas in the Tyrone sez aloud, his voice somewhere in his stummick: 'Fwhat\nin the name av misfortune does this parrit widout a tail mane by shtoppin'\nthe road av his betthers?'\n\n\"The Staff Orf'cer wint blue, an' Toomey makes him pink by changin' to the\nvoice av a minowderin' woman an' sayin': 'Come an' kiss me, Major dear,\nfor me husband's at the wars an' I'm all alone at the Depot.'\n\n\"The Staff Orf'cer wint away, an' I cud see Crook's shoulthers shakin'.\n\n\"His Corp'ril checks Toomey. 'Lave me alone,' sez Toomey, widout a wink.\n'I was his batman before he was married an' he knows fwhat I mane, av you\ndon't. There's nothin' like livin' in the hoight av society.' D'you\nremimber that, Orth'ris!\"\n\n\"Hi do. Toomey, 'e died in 'orspital, next week it was, 'cause I bought\n'arf his kit; an' I remember after that\"--\n\n\"GUARRD, TURN OUT!\"\n\nThe Relief had come; it was four o'clock. \"I'll catch a kyart for you,\nsorr,\" said Mulvaney, diving hastily into his accoutrements. \"Come up to\nthe top av the Fort an' we'll pershue our invistigations into M'Grath's\nshtable.\" The relieved Guard strolled round the main bastion on its way to\nthe swimming-bath, and Learoyd grew almost talkative. Ortheris looked into\nthe Fort ditch and across the plain. \"Ho! it's weary waitin' for Ma-ary!\"\nhe hummed; \"but I'd like to kill some more bloomin' Paythans before my\ntime's up. War! Bloody war! North, East, South, and West.\"\n\n\"Amen,\" said Learoyd, slowly.\n\n\"Fwhat's here?\" said Mulvaney, checking at a blurr of white by the foot of\nthe old sentry-box. He stooped and touched it. \"It's Norah--Norah\nM'Taggart! Why, Nonie, darlin', fwhat are ye doin' out av your mother's\nbed at this time?\"\n\nThe two-year-old child of Sergeant M'Taggart must have wandered for a\nbreath of cool air to the very verge of the parapet of the Fort ditch, Her\ntiny night-shift was gathered into a wisp round her neck and she moaned in\nher sleep. \"See there!\" said Mulvaney; \"poor lamb! Look at the heat-rash\non the innocint skin av her. 'Tis hard--crool hard even for us. Fwhat must\nit be for these? Wake up, Nonie, your mother will be woild about you.\nBegad, the child might ha' fallen into the ditch!\"\n\nHe picked her up in the growing light, and set her on his shoulder, and\nher fair curls touched the grizzled stubble of his temples. Ortheris and\nLearoyd followed snapping their fingers, while Norah smiled at them a\nsleepy smile. Then carolled Mulvaney, clear as a lark, dancing the baby on\nhis arm--\n\n  \"If any young man should marry you,\n     Say nothin' about the joke;\n   That iver ye slep' in a sinthry-box,\n     Wrapped up in a soldier's cloak.\"\n\n\"Though, on my sowl, Nonie,\" he said, gravely, \"there was not much cloak\nabout you. Niver mind, you won't dhress like this ten years to come. Kiss\nyour friends an' run along to your mother.\"\n\nNonie, set down close to the Married Quarters, nodded with the quiet\nobedience of the soldier's child, but, ere she pattered off over the\nflagged path, held up her lips to be kissed by the Three Musketeers.\nOrtheris wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and swore\nsentimentally; Learoyd turned pink; and the two walked away together. The\nYorkshireman lifted up his voice and gave in thunder the chorus of _The\nSentry-Box_, while Ortheris piped at his side.\n\n\"'Bin to a bloomin' sing-song, you two?\" said the Artilleryman, who was\ntaking his cartridge down to the Morning Gun, \"You're over merry for these\ndashed days.\"\n\n   \"I bid ye take care o' the brat,\" said he,\n   \"For it comes of a noble race\"\n\nLearoyd bellowed. The voices died out in the swimming-bath.\n\n\"Oh, Terence!\" I said, dropping into Mulvaney's speech, when we were\nalone, \"it's you that have the Tongue!\"\n\nHe looked at me wearily; his eyes were sunk in his head, and his face was\ndrawn and white, \"Eyah!\" said he; \"I've blandandhered thim through the\nnight somehow, but can thim that helps others help thimselves? Answer me\nthat, sorr!\"\n\nAnd over the bastions of Fort Amara broke the pitiless day.\n\n\n\n\nWEE WILLIE WINKIE\n\n\n\"An officer and a gentleman.\"\n\nHis full name was Percival William Williams, but he picked up the other\nname in a nursery-book, and that was the end of the christened titles. His\nmother's _ayah_ called him Willie-_Baba_, but as he never paid the\nfaintest attention to anything that the _ayah_ said, her wisdom did not\nhelp matters.\n\nHis father was the Colonel of the 195th, and as soon as Wee Willie Winkie\nwas old enough to understand what Military Discipline meant, Colonel\nWilliams put him under it. There was no other way of managing the child.\nWhen he was good for a week, he drew good-conduct pay; and when he was\nbad, he was deprived of his good-conduct stripe. Generally he was bad, for\nIndia offers so many chances to little six-year-olds of going wrong.\n\nChildren resent familiarity from strangers, and Wee Willie Winkie was a\nvery particular child. Once he accepted an acquaintance, he was graciously\npleased to thaw. He accepted Brandis, a subaltern of the 195th, on sight.\nBrandis was having tea at the Colonel's, and Wee Willie Winkie entered\nstrong in the possession of a good-conduct badge won for not chasing the\nhens round the compound. He regarded Brandis with gravity for at least ten\nminutes, and then delivered himself of his opinion.\n\n\"I like you,\" said he, slowly, getting off his chair and coming over to\nBrandis. \"I like you. I shall call you Coppy, because of your hair. Do you\n_mind_ being called Coppy? it is because of ve hair, you know.\"\n\nHere was one of the most embarrassing of Wee Willie Winkie's\npeculiarities. He would look at a stranger for some time, and then,\nwithout warning or explanation, would give him a name. And the name stuck.\nNo regimental penalties could break Wee Willie Winkie of this habit. He\nlost his good-conduct badge for christening the Commissioner's wife\n\"Pobs\"; but nothing that the Colonel could do made the Station forego the\nnickname, and Mrs. Collen remained Mrs. \"Pobs\" till the end of her stay.\nSo Brandis was christened \"Coppy,\" and rose, therefore, in the estimation\nof the regiment.\n\nIf Wee Willie Winkie took an interest in any one, the fortunate man was\nenvied alike by the mess and the rank and file. And in their envy lay no\nsuspicion of self-interest. \"The Colonel's son\" was idolized on his own\nmerits entirely. Yet Wee Willie Winkie was not lovely. His face was\npermanently freckled, as his legs were permanently scratched, and in spite\nof his mother's almost tearful remonstrances he had insisted upon having\nhis long yellow locks cut short in the military fashion. \"I want my hair\nlike Sergeant Tummil's,\" said Wee Willie Winkie, and, his father abetting,\nthe sacrifice was accomplished.\n\nThree weeks after the bestowal of his youthful affections on Lieutenant\nBrandis--henceforward to be called \"Coppy\" for the sake of brevity--Wee\nWillie Winkie was destined to behold strange things and far beyond his\ncomprehension.\n\nCoppy returned his liking with interest. Coppy had let him wear for five\nrapturous minutes his own big sword--just as tall as Wee Willie Winkie.\nCoppy had promised him a terrier puppy; and Coppy had permitted him to\nwitness the miraculous operation of shaving. Nay, more--Coppy had said\nthat even he, Wee Willie Winkie, would rise in time to the ownership of a\nbox of shiny knives, a silver soap-box and a silver-handled\n\"sputter-brush,\" as Wee Willie Winkie called it. Decidedly, there was no\none except his father, who could give or take away good-conduct badges at\npleasure, half so wise, strong, and valiant as Coppy with the Afghan and\nEgyptian medals on his breast. Why, then, should Coppy be guilty of the\nunmanly weakness of kissing--vehemently kissing--a \"big girl,\" Miss\nAllardyce to wit? In the course of a morning ride, Wee Willie Winkie had\nseen Coppy so doing, and, like the gentleman he was, had promptly wheeled\nround and cantered back to his groom, lest the groom should also see.\n\nUnder ordinary circumstances he would have spoken to his father, but he\nfelt instinctively that this was a matter on which Coppy ought first to be\nconsulted.\n\n\"Coppy,\" shouted Wee Willie Winkie, reining up outside that subaltern's\nbungalow early one morning--\"I want to see you, Coppy!\"\n\n\"Come in, young 'un,\" returned Coppy, who was at early breakfast in the\nmidst of his dogs. \"What mischief have you been getting into now?\"\n\nWee Willie Winkie had done nothing notoriously bad for three days, and so\nstood on a pinnacle of virtue.\n\n\"I've been doing nothing bad,\" said he, curling himself into a long chair\nwith a studious affectation of the Colonel's languor after a hot parade.\nHe buried his freckled nose in a tea-cup and, with eyes staring roundly\nover the rim, asked:--\"I say, Coppy, is it pwoper to kiss big girls?\"\n\n\"By Jove! You're beginning early. Who do you want to kiss?\"\n\n\"No one. My muvver's always kissing me if I don't stop her. If it isn't\npwoper, how was you kissing Major Allardyce's big girl last morning, by ve\ncanal?\"\n\nCoppy's brow wrinkled. He and Miss Allardyce had with great craft managed\nto keep their engagement secret for a fortnight. There were urgent and\nimperative reasons why Major Allardyce should not know how matters stood\nfor at least another month, and this small marplot had discovered a great\ndeal too much.\n\n\"I saw you,\" said Wee Willie Winkie, calmly. \"But ve groom didn't see. I\nsaid, '_Hut jao_.'\"\n\n\"Oh, you had that much sense, you young Rip,\" groaned poor Coppy, half\namused and half angry. \"And how many people may you have told about it?\"\n\n\"Only me myself. You didn't tell when I twied to wide ve buffalo ven my\npony was lame; and I fought you wouldn't like.\"\n\n\"Winkie,\" said Coppy, enthusiastically, shaking the small hand, \"you're\nthe best of good fellows. Look here, you can't understand all these\nthings. One of these days--hang it, how can I make you see it!--I'm going\nto marry Miss Allardyce, and then she'll be Mrs. Coppy, as you say. If\nyour young mind is so scandalized at the idea of kissing big girls, go and\ntell your father.\"\n\n\"What will happen?\" said Wee Willie Winkie, who firmly believed that his\nfather was omnipotent.\n\n\"I shall get into trouble.\" said Coppy, playing his trump card with an\nappealing look at the holder of the ace.\n\n\"Ven I won't,\" said Wee Willie Winkie, briefly. \"But my faver says it's\nun-man-ly to be always kissing, and I didn't fink _you'd_ do vat, Coppy.\"\n\n\"I'm not always kissing, old chap. It's only now and then, and when you're\nbigger you'll do it too. Your father meant it's not good for little boys.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said Wee Willie Winkie, now fully enlightened. \"It's like ve\nsputter-brush?\"\n\n\"Exactly,\" said Coppy, gravely.\n\n\"But I don't fink I'll ever want to kiss big girls, nor no one, 'cept my\nmuvver. And I _must_ vat, you know.\"\n\nThere was a long pause, broken by Wee Willie Winkie,\n\n\"Are you fond of vis big girl, Coppy?\"\n\n\"Awfully!\" said Coppy.\n\n\"Fonder van you are of Bell or ve Butcha--or me?\"\n\n\"It's in a different way,\" said Coppy. \"You see, one of these days Miss\nAllardyce will belong to me, but you'll grow up and command the Regiment\nand--all sorts of things. It's quite different, you see.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" said Wee Willie Winkie, rising. \"If you're fond of ve big\ngirl, I won't tell any one. I must go now.\"\n\nCoppy rose and escorted his small guest to the door, adding: \"You're the\nbest of little fellows, Winkie. I tell you what. In thirty days from now\nyou can tell if you like--tell any one you like.\"\n\nThus the secret of the Brandis-Allardyce engagement was dependent on a\nlittle child's word. Coppy, who knew Wee Willie Winkie's idea of truth,\nwas at ease, for he felt that he would not break promises. Wee Willie\nWinkie betrayed a special and unusual interest in Miss Allardyce, and,\nslowly revolving round that embarrassed young lady, was used to regard her\ngravely with unwinking eye. He was trying to discover why Coppy should\nhave kissed her. She was not half so nice as his own mother. On the other\nhand, she was Coppy's property, and would in time belong to him. Therefore\nit behooved him to treat her with as much respect as Coppy's big sword or\nshiny pistol.\n\nThe idea that he shared a great secret in common with Coppy kept Wee\nWillie Winkie unusually virtuous for three weeks. Then the Old Adam broke\nout, and he made what he called a \"camp-fire\" at the bottom of the garden.\nHow could he have foreseen that the flying sparks would have lighted the\nColonel's little hayrick and consumed a week's store for the horses?\nSudden and swift was the punishment--deprivation of the good-conduct badge\nand, most sorrowful of all, two days confinement to barracks--the house\nand veranda--coupled with the withdrawal of the light of his father's\ncountenance.\n\nHe took the sentence like the man he strove to be, drew himself up with a\nquivering under-lip, saluted, and, once clear of the room, ran to weep\nbitterly in his nursery--called by him \"my quarters,\" Coppy came in the\nafternoon and attempted to console the culprit.\n\n\"I'm under awwest,\" said Wee Willie Winkie, mournfully, \"and I didn't\nought to speak to you.\"\n\nVery early the next morning he climbed on to the roof of the house--that\nwas not forbidden--and beheld Miss Allardyce going for a ride.\n\n\"Where are you going?\" cried Wee Willie Winkie.\n\n\"Across the river,\" she answered, and trotted forward.\n\nNow the cantonment in which the 195th lay was bounded on the north by a\nriver--dry in the winter. From his earliest years, Wee Willie Winkie had\nbeen forbidden to go across the river, and had noted that even Coppy--the\nalmost almighty Coppy--had never set foot beyond it. Wee Willie Winkie had\nonce been read to, out of a big blue book, the history of the Princess and\nthe Goblins--a most wonderful tale of a land where the Goblins were always\nwarring with the children of men until they were defeated by one Curdie.\nEver since that date it seemed to him that the bare black and purple hills\nacross the river were inhabited by Goblins, and, in truth, every one had\nsaid that there lived the Bad Men. Even in his own house the lower halves\nof the windows were covered with green paper on account of the Bad Men who\nmight, if allowed clear view, fire into peaceful drawing-rooms and\ncomfortable bedrooms. Certainly, beyond the river, which was the end of\nall the Earth, lived the Bad Men. And here was Major Allardyce's big girl,\nCoppy's property, preparing to venture into their borders! What would\nCoppy say if anything happened to her? If the Goblins ran off with her as\nthey did with Curdie's Princess? She must at all hazards be turned back.\n\nThe house was still. Wee Willie Winkie reflected for a moment on the very\nterrible wrath of his father; and then--broke his arrest! It was a crime\nunspeakable. The low sun threw his shadow, very large and very black, on\nthe trim garden-paths, as he went down to the stables and ordered his\npony. It seemed to him in the hush of the dawn that all the big world had\nbeen bidden to stand still and look at Wee Willie Winkie guilty of mutiny.\nThe drowsy groom handed him his mount, and, since the one great sin made\nall others insignificant, Wee Willie Winkie said that he was going to ride\nover to Coppy Sahib, and went out at a foot-pace, stepping on the soft\nmould of the flower-borders.\n\nThe devastating track of the pony's feet was the last misdeed that cut him\noff from all sympathy of Humanity, He turned into the road, leaned\nforward; and rode as fast as the pony could put foot to the ground in the\ndirection of the river.\n\nBut the liveliest of twelve-two ponies can do little against the long\ncanter of a Waler. Miss Allardyce was far ahead, had passed through the\ncrops, beyond the Police-post when all the guards were asleep, and her\nmount was scattering the pebbles of the river bed as Wee Willie Winkie\nleft the cantonment and British India behind him. Bowed forward and still\nflogging, Wee Willie Winkie shot into Afghan territory, and could just see\nMiss Allardyce a black speck, flickering across the stony plain. The\nreason of her wandering was simple enough. Coppy, in a tone of\ntoo-hastily-assumed authority, had told her over night, that she must not\nride out by the river. And she had gone to prove her own spirit and teach\nCoppy a lesson.\n\nAlmost at the foot of the inhospitable hills, Wee Willie Winkie saw the\nWaler blunder and come down heavily. Miss Allardyce struggled clear, but\nher ankle had been severely twisted, and she could not stand. Having thus\ndemonstrated her spirit, she wept copiously, and was surprised by the\napparition of a white, wide-eyed child in khaki, on a nearly spent pony.\n\n\"Are you badly, badly hurted?\" shouted Wee Willie Winkie, as soon as he\nwas within range. \"You didn't ought to be here.\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Miss Allardyce, ruefully, ignoring the reproof. \"Good\ngracious, child, what are _you_ doing here?\"\n\n\"You said you was going acwoss ve wiver,\" panted Wee Willie Winkie,\nthrowing himself off his pony. \"And nobody--not even Coppy--must go acwoss\nve wiver, and I came after you ever so hard, but you wouldn't stop, and\nnow you've hurted yourself, and Coppy will be angwy wiv me, and--I've\nbwoken my awwest! I've bwoken my awwest!\"\n\nThe future Colonel of the 195th sat down and sobbed. In spite of the pain\nin her ankle the girl was moved.\n\n\"Have you ridden all the way from cantonments, little man? What for?\"\n\n\"You belonged to Coppy. Coppy told me so!\" wailed Wee Willie Winkie,\ndisconsolately. \"I saw him kissing you, and he said he was fonder of you\nvan Bell or ve Butcha or me. And so I came. You must get up and come back.\nYou didn't ought to be here. Vis is a bad place, and I've bwoken my\nawwest.\"\n\n\"I can't move, Winkie,\" said Miss Allardyce, with a groan. \"I've hurt my\nfoot. What shall I do?\"\n\nShe showed a readiness to weep afresh, which steadied Wee Willie Winkie,\nwho had been brought up to believe that tears were the depth of\nunmanliness. Still, when one is as great a sinner as Wee Willie Winkie,\neven a man may be permitted to break down,\n\n\"Winkie,\" said Miss Allardyce, \"when you've rested a little, ride back and\ntell them to send out something to carry me back in. It hurts fearfully.\"\n\nThe child sat still for a little time and Miss Allardyce closed her eyes;\nthe pain was nearly making her faint. She was roused by Wee Willie Winkie\ntying up the reins on his pony's neck and setting it free with a vicious\ncut of his whip that made it whicker. The little animal headed toward the\ncantonments.\n\n\"Oh, Winkie! What are you doing?\"\n\n\"Hush!\" said Wee Willie Winkie. \"Vere's a man coming--one of ve Bad Men. I\nmust stay wiv you. My faver says a man must _always_ look after a girl.\nJack will go home, and ven vey'll come and look for us. Vat's why I let\nhim go.\"\n\nNot one man but two or three had appeared from behind the rocks of the\nhills, and the heart of Wee Willie Winkie sank within him, for just in\nthis manner were the Goblins wont to steal out and vex Curdie's soul. Thus\nhad they played in Curdie's garden, he had seen the picture, and thus had\nthey frightened the Princess's nurse. He heard them talking to each other,\nand recognized with joy the bastard Pushto that he had picked up from one\nof his father's grooms lately dismissed. People who spoke that tongue\ncould not be the Bad Men. They were only natives after all.\n\nThey came up to the bowlders on which Miss Allardyce's horse had\nblundered.\n\nThen rose from the rock Wee Willie Winkie, child of the Dominant Race,\naged six and three-quarters, and said briefly and emphatically \"_Jao!_\"\nThe pony had crossed the river-bed.\n\nThe men laughed, and laughter from natives was the one thing Wee Willie\nWinkie could not tolerate. He asked them what they wanted and why they did\nnot depart. Other men with most evil faces and crooked-stocked guns crept\nout of the shadows of the hills, till, soon, Wee Willie Winkie was face to\nface with an audience some twenty strong, Miss Allardyce screamed.\n\n\"Who are you?\" said one of the men.\n\n\"I am the Colonel Sahib's son, and my order is that you go at once. You\nblack men are frightening the Miss Sahib. One of you must run into\ncantonments and take the news that Miss Sahib has hurt herself, and that\nthe Colonel's son is here with her.\"\n\n\"Put our feet into the trap?\" was the laughing reply. \"Hear this boy's\nspeech!\"\n\n\"Say that I sent you--I, the Colonel's son. They will give you money.\"\n\n\"What is the use of this talk? Take up the child and the girl, and we can\nat least ask for the ransom. Ours are the villages on the heights,\" said a\nvoice in the background.\n\nThese _were_ the Bad Men--worse than Goblins--and it needed all Wee Willie\nWinkie's training to prevent him from bursting into tears. But he felt\nthat to cry before a native, excepting only his mother's _ayah_, would be\nan infamy greater than any mutiny. Moreover, he, as future Colonel of the\n195th, had that grim regiment at his back.\n\n\"Are you going to carry us away?\" said Wee Willie Winkie, very blanched\nand uncomfortable.\n\n\"Yes, my little _Sahib Bahadur_,\" said the tallest of the men, \"and eat\nyou afterward.\"\n\n\"That is child's talk,\" said Wee Willie Winkie. \"Men do not eat men.\"\n\nA yell of laughter interrupted him, but he went on firmly,--\"And if you do\ncarry us away, I tell you that all my regiment will come up in a day and\nkill you all without leaving one. Who will take my message to the Colonel\nSahib?\"\n\nSpeech in any vernacular--and Wee Willie Winkie had a colloquial\nacquaintance with three--was easy to the boy who could not yet manage his\n\"r's\" and \"th's\" aright.\n\nAnother man joined the conference, crying:--\"O foolish men! What this babe\nsays is true. He is the heart's heart of those white troops. For the sake\nof peace let them go both, for if he be taken, the regiment will break\nloose and gut the valley. _Our_ villages are in the valley, and we shall\nnot escape. That regiment are devils. They broke Khoda Yar's breast-bone\nwith kicks when he tried to take the rifles; and if we touch this child\nthey will fire and rape and plunder for a month, till nothing remains.\nBetter to send a man back to take the message and get a reward. I say that\nthis child is their God, and that they will spare none of us, nor our\nwomen, if we harm him.\"\n\nIt was Din Mahommed, the dismissed groom of the Colonel, who made the\ndiversion, and an angry and heated discussion followed. Wee Willie Winkie,\nstanding over Miss Allardyce, waited the upshot. Surely his \"wegiment,\"\nhis own \"wegiment,\" would not desert him if they knew of his extremity.\n\n\n       *\n       *\n       *\n       *\n       *\n\nThe riderless pony brought the news to the 195th, though there had been\nconsternation in the Colonel's household for an hour before. The little\nbeast came in through the parade ground in front of the main barracks,\nwhere the men were settling down to play Spoil-five till the afternoon.\nDevlin, the Color Sergeant of E Company, glanced at the empty saddle and\ntumbled through the barrack-rooms, kicking up each Room Corporal as he\npassed. \"Up, ye beggars! There's something happened to the Colonel's son,\"\nhe shouted.\n\n\"He couldn't fall off! S'elp me, 'e _couldn't_ fall off,\" blubbered a\ndrummer-boy, \"Go an' hunt acrost the river. He's over there if he's\nanywhere, an' maybe those Pathans have got 'im. For the love o' Gawd don't\nlook for 'im in the nullahs! Let's go over the river.\"\n\n\"There's sense in Mott yet,\" said Devlin. \"E Company, double out to the\nriver--sharp!\"\n\nSo E Company, in its shirt-sleeves mainly, doubled for the dear life, and\nin the rear toiled the perspiring Sergeant, adjuring it to double yet\nfaster. The cantonment was alive with the men of the 195th hunting for Wee\nWillie Winkie, and the Colonel finally overtook E Company, far too\nexhausted to swear, struggling in the pebbles of the river-bed.\n\nUp the hill under which Wee Willie Winkie's Bad Men were discussing the\nwisdom of carrying off the child and the girl, a look-out fired two shots.\n\n\"What have I said?\" shouted Din Mahommed. \"There is the warning! The\n_pulton_ are out already and are coming across the plain! Get away! Let us\nnot be seen with the boy!\"\n\nThe men waited for an instant, and then, as another shot was fired,\nwithdrew into the hills, silently as they had appeared.\n\n\"The wegiment is coming,\" said Wee Willie Winkie, confidently, to Miss\nAllardyce, \"and it's all wight. Don't cwy!\"\n\nHe needed the advice himself, for ten minutes later, when his father came\nup, he was weeping bitterly with his head in Miss Allardyce's lap.\n\nAnd the men of the 195th carried him home with shouts and rejoicings; and\nCoppy, who had ridden a horse into a lather, met him, and, to his intense\ndisgust, kissed him openly in the presence of the men.\n\nBut there was balm for his dignity. His father assured him that not only\nwould the breaking of arrest be condoned, but that the good-conduct badge\nwould be restored as soon as his mother could sew it on his blouse-sleeve.\nMiss Allardyce had told the Colonel a story that made him proud of his\nson.\n\n\"She belonged to you, Coppy,\" said Wee Willie Winkie, indicating Miss\nAllardyce with a grimy forefinger. \"I _knew_ she didn't ought to go acwoss\nve wiver, and I knew ve wegiment would come to me if I sent Jack home.\"\n\n\"You're a hero, Winkie,\" said Coppy--\"a _pukka_ hero!\"\n\n\"I don't know what vat means,\" said Wee Willie Winkie, \"but you mustn't\ncall me Winkie any no more, I'm Percival Will'am Will'ams.\"\n\nAnd in this manner did Wee Willie Winkie enter into his manhood.\n\n\n\nTHE ROUT OF THE WHITE HUSSARS\n\n  It was not in the open fight\n     We threw away the sword,\n   But in the lonely watching\n     In the darkness by the ford.\n   The waters lapped, the night-wind blew,\n   Full-armed the Fear was born and grew.\n   And we were flying ere we knew\n     From panic in the night.\n        --_Beoni Bar_.\n\nSome people hold that an English Cavalry regiment cannot run. This is a\nmistake. I have seen four hundred and thirty-seven sabres flying over the\nface of the country in abject terror--have seen the best Regiment that\never drew bridle wiped off the Army List for the space of two hours. If\nyou repeat this tale to the White Hussars they will, in all probability,\ntreat you severely. They are not proud of the incident.\n\nYou may know the White Hussars by their \"side,\" which is greater than that\nof all the Cavalry Regiments on the roster. If this is not a sufficient\nmark, you may know them by their old brandy. It has been sixty years in\nthe Mess and is worth going far to taste. Ask for the \"McGaire\" old\nbrandy, and see that you get it. If the Mess Sergeant thinks that you are\nuneducated, and that the genuine article will be lost on you, he will\ntreat you accordingly. He is a good man. But, when you are at Mess, you\nmust never talk to your hosts about forced marches or long-distance rides.\nThe Mess are very sensitive; and, if they think that you are laughing at\nthem, will tell you so.\n\nAs the White Hussars say, it was all the Colonel's fault. He was a new\nman, and he ought never to have taken the Command. He said that the\nRegiment was not smart enough. This to the White Hussars, who knew that\nthey could walk round any Horse and through any Guns, and over any Foot on\nthe face of the earth! That insult was the first cause of offence.\n\nThen the Colonel cast the Drum-Horse--the Drum-Horse of the White Hussars!\nPerhaps you do not see what an unspeakable crime he had committed. I will\ntry to make it clear. The soul of the Regiment lives in the Drum-Horse who\ncarries the silver kettle-drums. He is nearly always a big piebald Waler.\nThat is a point of honor; and a Regiment will spend anything you please on\na piebald. He is beyond the ordinary laws of casting. His work is very\nlight, and he only manoeuvres at a foot-pace. Wherefore, so long as he can\nstep out and look handsome, his well-being is assured. He knows more about\nthe Regiment than the Adjutant, and could not make a mistake if he tried.\n\nThe Drum-Horse of the White Hussars was only eighteen years old, and\nperfectly equal to his duties. He had at least six years' more work in\nhim, and carried himself with all the pomp and dignity of a Drum-Major of\nthe Guards. The Regiment had paid Rs.1200 for him.\n\nBut the Colonel said that he must go, and he was cast in due form and\nreplaced by a washy, bay beast, as ugly as a mule, with a ewe-neck,\nrat-tail, and cow-hocks. The Drummer detested that animal, and the best of\nthe Band-horses put back their ears and showed the whites of their eyes at\nthe very sight of him. They knew him for an upstart and no gentleman. I\nfancy that the Colonel's ideas of smartness extended to the Band, and that\nhe wanted to make it take part in the regular parade movements. A Cavalry\nBand is a sacred thing. It only turns out for Commanding Officers'\nparades, and the Band Master is one degree more important than the\nColonel. He is a High Priest and the \"Keel Row\" is his holy song. The\n\"Keel Row\" is the Cavalry Trot; and the man who has never heard that tune\nrising, high and shrill, above the rattle of the Regiment going past the\nsaluting-base, has something yet to hear and understand.\n\nWhen the Colonel cast the Drum-Horse of the White Hussars, there was\nnearly a mutiny.\n\nThe officers were angry, the Regiment were furious, and the Bandsmen\nswore--like troopers. The Drum-Horse was going to be put up to\nauction--public auction--to be bought, perhaps, by a Parsee and put into a\ncart! It was worse than exposing the Inner life of the Regiment to the\nwhole world, or selling the Mess Plate to a Jew--a Black Jew.\n\nThe Colonel was a mean man and a bully. He knew what the Regiment thought\nabout his action; and, when the troopers offered to buy the Drum-Horse, he\nsaid that their offer was mutinous and forbidden by the Regulations.\n\nBut one of the Subalterns--Hogan-Yale, an Irishman--bought the Drum-Horse\nfor Rs. 160 at the sale, and the Colonel was wroth. Yale professed\nrepentance--he was unnaturally submissive--and said that, as he had only\nmade the purchase to save the horse from possible ill-treatment and\nstarvation, he would now shoot him and end the business. This appeared to\nsoothe the Colonel, for he wanted the Drum-Horse disposed of. He felt that\nhe had made a mistake, and could not of course acknowledge it. Meantime,\nthe presence of the Drum-Horse was an annoyance to him.\n\nYale took to himself a glass of the old brandy, three cheroots, and his\nfriend Martyn; and they all left the Mess together. Yale and Martyn\nconferred for two hours in Yale's quarters; but only the bull-terrier who\nkeeps watch over Yale's boot-trees knows what they said. A horse, hooded\nand sheeted to his ears, left Yale's stables and was taken, very\nunwillingly, into the Civil Lines. Yale's groom went with him. Two men\nbroke into the Regimental Theatre and took several paint-pots and some\nlarge scenery-brushes. Then night fell over the Cantonments, and there was\na noise as of a horse kicking his loose-box to pieces in Yale's stables.\nYale had a big, old, white Waler trap-horse.\n\nThe next day was a Thursday, and the men, hearing that Yale was going to\nshoot the Drum-Horse in the evening, determined to give the beast a\nregular regimental funeral--a finer one than they would have given the\nColonel had he died just then. They got a bullock-cart and some sacking,\nand mounds and mounds of roses, and the body, under sacking, was carried\nout to the place where the anthrax cases were cremated; two-thirds of the\nRegiment following. There was no Band, but they all sang \"The Place where\nthe old Horse died\" as something respectful and appropriate to the\noccasion. When the corpse was dumped into the grave and the men began\nthrowing down armfuls of roses to cover it, the Farrier-Sergeant ripped\nout an oath and said aloud, \"Why, it ain't the Drum-Horse any more than\nit's me!\" The Troop Sergeant-Majors asked him whether he had left his head\nin the Canteen. The Farrier-Sergeant said that he knew the Drum-Horse's\nfeet as well as he knew his own; but he was silenced when he saw the\nregimental number burned in on the poor stiff, upturned near-fore.\n\nThus was the Drum-Horse of the White Hussars buried; the Farrier-Sergeant\ngrumbling. The sacking that covered the corpse was smeared In places with\nblack paint; and the Farrier-Sergeant drew attention to this fact. But the\nTroop Sergeant-Major of E Troop kicked him severely on the shin, and told\nhim that he was undoubtedly drunk.\n\nOn the Monday following the burial, the Colonel sought revenge on the\nWhite Hussars. Unfortunately, being at that time temporarily in Command of\nthe Station, he ordered a Brigade field-day. He said that he wished to\nmake the Regiment \"sweat for their damned insolence,\" and he carried out\nhis notion thoroughly. That Monday was one of the hardest days in the\nmemory of the White Hussars. They were thrown against a skeleton-enemy,\nand pushed forward, and withdrawn, and dismounted, and \"scientifically\nhandled\" in every possible fashion over dusty country, till they sweated\nprofusely. Their only amusement came late in the day when they fell upon\nthe battery of Horse Artillery and chased it for two miles. This was a\npersonal question, and most of the troopers had money on the event; the\nGunners saying openly that they had the legs of the White Hussars. They\nwere wrong. A march-past concluded the campaign, and when the Regiment got\nback to their Lines, the men were coated with dirt from spur to\nchin-strap.\n\nThe White Hussars have one great and peculiar privilege. They won it at\nFontenoy, I think.\n\nMany Regiments possess special rights such as wearing collars with undress\nuniform, or a bow of riband between the shoulders, or red and white roses\nin their helmets on certain days of the year. Some rights are connected\nwith regimental saints, and some with regimental successes. All are valued\nhighly; but none so highly as the right of the White Hussars to have the\nBand playing when their horses are being watered in the Lines. Only one\ntune is played, and that tune never varies. I don't know its real name,\nbut the White Hussars call it, \"Take me to London again.\" It sounds very\npretty. The Regiment would sooner be struck off the roster than forego\ntheir distinction.\n\nAfter the \"dismiss\" was sounded, the officers rode off home to prepare for\nstables; and the men filed into the lines riding easy. That is to say,\nthey opened their tight buttons, shifted their helmets, and began to joke\nor to swear as the humor took them; the more careful slipping off and\neasing girths and curbs. A good trooper values his mount exactly as much\nas he values himself, and believes, or should believe, that the two\ntogether are irresistible where women or men, girls or guns, are\nconcerned.\n\nThen the Orderly-Officer gave the order, \"Water horses,\" and the Regiment\nloafed off to the squadron-troughs which were in rear of the stables and\nbetween these and the barracks. There were four huge troughs, one for each\nsquadron, arranged _en \u00e9chelon_, so that the whole Regiment could water in\nten minutes if it liked. But it lingered for seventeen, as a rule, while\nthe Band played.\n\nThe Band struck up as the squadrons filed off to the troughs, and the men\nslipped their feet out of the stirrups and chaffed each other. The sun was\njust setting in a big, hot bed of red cloud, and the road to the Civil\nLines seemed to run straight into the sun's eye. There was a little dot on\nthe road. It grew and grew till it showed as a horse, with a sort of\ngridiron-thing on his back. The red cloud glared through the bars of the\ngridiron. Some of the troopers shaded their eyes with their hands and\nsaid--\"What the mischief 'as that there 'orse got on 'im?\"\n\nIn another minute they heard a neigh that every soul--horse and man--in\nthe Regiment knew, and saw, heading straight toward the Band, the dead\nDrum-Horse of the White Hussars!\n\nOn his withers banged and bumped the kettledrums draped in crape, and on\nhis back, very stiff and soldierly, sat a bareheaded skeleton.\n\nThe Band stopped playing, and, for a moment, there was a hush.\n\nThen some one in E Troop--men said it was the Troop-Sergeant-Major--swung\nhis horse round and yelled. No one can account exactly for what happened\nafterward; but it seems that, at least, one man in each troop set an\nexample of panic, and the rest followed like sheep. The horses that had\nbarely put their muzzles into the troughs reared and capered; but as soon\nas the Band broke, which it did when the ghost of the Drum-Horse was about\na furlong distant, all hooves followed suit, and the clatter of the\nstampede--quite different from the orderly throb and roar of a movement on\nparade, or the rough horse-play of watering in camp--made them only more\nterrified. They felt that the men on their backs were afraid of something.\nWhen horses once know that, all is over except the butchery.\n\nTroop after troop turned from the troughs and ran--anywhere and\neverywhere--like spilled quicksilver. It was a most extraordinary\nspectacle, for men and horses were in all stages of easiness, and the\ncarbine-buckets flopping against their sides urged the horses on. Men were\nshouting and cursing, and trying to pull clear of the Band which was being\nchased by the Drum-Horse whose rider had fallen forward and seemed to be\nspurring for a wager.\n\nThe Colonel had gone over to the Mess for a drink. Most of the officers\nwere with him, and the Subaltern of the Day was preparing to go down to\nthe lines, and receive the watering reports from the Troop-Sergeant-\nMajors. When \"Take me to London again\" stopped, after twenty bars, every\none in the Mess said, \"What on earth has happened?\" A minute later, they\nheard unmilitary noises, and saw, far across the plain, the White Hussars\nscattered, and broken, and flying.\n\nThe Colonel was speechless with rage, for he thought that the Regiment had\nrisen against him or was unanimously drunk. The Band, a disorganized mob,\ntore past, and at its heels labored the Drum-Horse--the dead and buried\nDrum-Horse--with the jolting, clattering skeleton, Hogan-Yale whispered\nsoftly to Martyn--\"No wire will stand that treatment,\" and the Band, which\nhad doubled like a hare, came back again. But the rest of the Regiment was\ngone, was rioting all over the Province, for the dusk had shut in and each\nman was howling to his neighbor that the Drum-Horse was on his flank.\nTroop-horses are far too tenderly treated as a rule. They can, on\nemergencies, do a great deal, even with seventeen stone on their backs. As\nthe troopers found out.\n\nHow long this panic lasted I cannot say. I believe that when the moon rose\nthe men saw they had nothing to fear, and, by twos and threes and\nhalf-troops, crept back into Cantonments very much ashamed of themselves.\nMeantime, the Drum-Horse, disgusted at his treatment by old friends,\npulled up, wheeled round, and trotted up to the Mess veranda-steps for\nbread. No one liked to run; but no one cared to go forward till the\nColonel made a movement and laid hold of the skeleton's foot. The Band had\nhalted some distance away, and now came back slowly. The Colonel called\nit, individually and collectively, every evil name that occurred to him at\nthe time; for he had set his hand on the bosom of the Drum-Horse and found\nflesh and blood. Then he beat the kettle-drums with his clenched fist, and\ndiscovered that they were but made of silvered paper and bamboo. Next,\nstill swearing, he tried to drag the skeleton out of the saddle, but found\nthat it had been wired into the cantle. The sight of the Colonel, with his\narms round the skeleton's pelvis and his knee in the old Drum-Horse's\nstomach, was striking. Not to say amusing. He worried the thing off in a\nminute or two, and threw it down on the ground, saying to the Band--\"Here,\nyou curs, that's what you're afraid of.\" The skeleton did not look pretty\nin the twilight The Band-Sergeant seemed to recognize it, for he began to\nchuckle and choke. \"Shall I take it away, sir?\" said the Band-Sergeant.\n\"Yes,\" said the Colonel, \"take it to Hell, and ride there yourselves!\"\n\nThe Band-Sergeant saluted, hoisted the skeleton across his saddle-bow, and\nled off to the stables. Then the Colonel began to make inquiries for the\nrest of the Regiment, and the language he used was wonderful, He would\ndisband the Regiment--he would court-martial every soul in it--he would\nnot command such a set of rabble, and so on, and so on. As the men dropped\nin, his language grew wilder, until at last it exceeded the utmost limits\nof free speech allowed even to a Colonel of Horse.\n\nMartyn took Hogan-Yale aside and suggested compulsory retirement from the\nService as a necessity when all was discovered. Martyn was the weaker man\nof the two. Hogan-Yale put up his eyebrows and remarked, firstly, that he\nwas the son of a Lord, and, secondly, that he was as innocent as the babe\nunborn of the theatrical resurrection of the Drum-Horse.\n\n\"My instructions,\" said Yale, with a singularly sweet smile, \"were that\nthe Drum-Horse should be sent back as impressively as possible. I ask you,\n_am_ I responsible if a mule-headed friend sends him back in such a manner\nas to disturb the peace of mind of a regiment of Her Majesty's Cavalry?\"\n\nMartyn said, \"You are a great man, and will in time become a General; but\nI'd give my chance of a troop to be safe out of this affair.\"\n\nProvidence saved Martyn and Hogan-Yale. The Second-in-Command led the\nColonel away to the little curtained alcove wherein the Subalterns of the\nWhite Hussars were accustomed to play poker of nights; and there, after\nmany oaths on the Colonel's part, they talked together in low tones. I\nfancy that the Second-in-Command must have represented the scare as the\nwork of some trooper whom it would be hopeless to detect; and I know that\nhe dwelt upon the sin and the shame of making a public laughing-stock of\nthe scare.\n\n\"They will call us,\" said the Second-in-Command, who had really a fine\nimagination--\"they will call us the 'Fly-by-Nights'; they will call us the\n'Ghost Hunters'; they will nickname us from one end of the Army List to\nthe other. All the explanation in the world won't make outsiders\nunderstand that the officers were away when the panic began. For the honor\nof the Regiment and for your own sake keep this thing quiet.\"\n\nThe Colonel was so exhausted with anger that soothing him down was not so\ndifficult as might be imagined. He was made to see, gently and by degrees,\nthat it was obviously impossible to court-martial the whole Regiment and\nequally impossible to proceed against any subaltern who, in his belief,\nhad any concern in the hoax.\n\n\"But the beast's alive! He's never been shot at all!\" shouted the Colonel.\n\"It's flat flagrant disobedience! I've known a man broke for less--dam\nsight less. They're mocking me, I tell you, Mutman! They're mocking me!\"\n\nOnce more, the Second-in-Command set himself to soothe the Colonel, and\nwrestled with him for half an hour. At the end of that time, the\nRegimental Sergeant-Major reported himself. The situation was rather novel\nto him; but he was not a man to be put out by circumstances. He saluted\nand said, \"Regiment all comeback, Sir.\" Then, to propitiate the\nColonel--\"An' none of the 'orses any the worse, Sir,\"\n\nThe Colonel only snorted and answered--\"You'd better tuck the men into\ntheir cots, then, and see that they don't wake up and cry in the night\"\nThe Sergeant withdrew.\n\nHis little stroke of humor pleased the Colonel, and, further, he felt\nslightly ashamed of the language he had been using. The Second-in-Command\nworried him again, and the two sat talking far into the night.\n\nNext day but one, there was a Commanding Officer's parade, and the Colonel\nharangued the White Hussars vigorously. The pith of his speech was that,\nsince the Drum-Horse in his old age had proved himself capable of cutting\nup the whole Regiment, he should return to his post of pride at the head\nof the Band, _but_ the Regiment were a set of ruffians with bad\nconsciences.\n\nThe White Hussars shouted, and threw everything movable about them into\nthe air, and when the parade was over, they cheered the Colonel till they\ncouldn't speak. No cheers were put up for Lieutenant Hogan-Yale, who\nsmiled very sweetly in the background.\n\nSaid the Second-in-Command to the Colonel, unofficially--\n\n\"These little things ensure popularity, and do not the least affect\ndiscipline.\"\n\n\"But I went back on my word,\" said the Colonel.\n\n\"Never mind,\" said the Second-in-Command. \"The White Hussars will follow\nyou anywhere from to-day. Regiments are just like women. They will do\nanything for trinketry.\"\n\nA week later, Hogan-Yale received an extraordinary letter from some one\nwho signed himself \"Secretary, _Charity and Zeal_, 3709, E. C.,\" and asked\nfor \"the return of our skeleton which we have reason to believe is in your\npossession.\"\n\n\"Who the deuce is this lunatic who trades in bones?\" said Hogan-Yale.\n\n\"Beg your pardon, Sir,\" said the Band-Sergeant, \"but the skeleton is with\nme, an' I'll return it if you'll pay the carriage into the Civil Lines.\nThere's a coffin with it, Sir.\"\n\nHogan-Yale smiled and handed two rupees to the Band-Sergeant, saying,\n\"Write the date on the skull, will you?\"\n\nIf you doubt this story, and know where to go, you can see the date on the\nskeleton. But don't mention the matter to the White Hussars.\n\nI happened to know something about it, because I prepared the Drum-Horse\nfor his resurrection. He did not take kindly to the skeleton at all.\n\n\n\n\nAT TWENTY-TWO\n\n\nNarrow as the womb, deep as the Pit, and dark as the heart of a\nman.--_Sonthal Miner's Proverb_.\n\n\"A weaver went out to reap but stayed to unravel the corn-stalks. Ha! Ha!\nHa! Is there any sense in a weaver?\"\n\nJanki Meah glared at Kundoo, but, as Janki Meah was blind, Kundoo was not\nimpressed. He had come to argue with Janki Meah, and, if chance favored,\nto make love to the old man's pretty young wife.\n\nThis was Kundoo's grievance, and he spoke in the name of all the five men\nwho, with Janki Meah, composed the gang in Number Seven gallery of\nTwenty-Two. Janki Meah had been blind for the thirty years during which he\nhad served the Jimahari Collieries with pick and crowbar. All through\nthose thirty years he had regularly, every morning before going down,\ndrawn from the overseer his allowance of lamp-oil--just as if he had been\nan eyed miner. What Kundoo's gang resented, as hundreds of gangs had\nresented before, was Janki Meah's selfishness. He would not add the oil to\nthe common stock of his gang, but would save and sell it.\n\n\"I knew these workings before you were born,\" Janki Meah used to reply; \"I\ndon't want the light to get my coal out by, and I am not going to help\nyou. The oil is mine, and I intend to keep it.\"\n\nA strange man in many ways was Janki Meah, the white-haired, hot tempered,\nsightless weaver who had turned pitman. All day long--except on Sundays\nand Mondays when he was usually drunk--he worked in the Twenty-Two shaft\nof the Jimahari Colliery as cleverly as a man with all the senses. At\nevening he went up in the great steam-hauled cage to the pit-bank, and\nthere called for his pony--a rusty, coal-dusty beast, nearly as old as\nJanki Meah. The pony would come to his side, and Janki Meah would clamber\non to its back and be taken at once to the plot of land which he, like the\nother miners, received from the Jimahari Company. The pony knew that\nplace, and when, after six years, the Company changed all the allotments\nto prevent the miners from acquiring proprietary rights, Janki Meah\nrepresented, with tears in his eyes, that were his holdings shifted, he\nwould never be able to find his way to the new one. \"My horse only knows\nthat place,\" pleaded Janki Meah, and so he was allowed to keep his land.\n\nOn the strength of this concession and his accumulated oil-savings, Janki\nMeah took a second wife--a girl of the Jolaha main stock of the Meahs, and\nsingularly beautiful. Janki Meah could not see her beauty; wherefore he\ntook her on trust, and forbade her to go down the pit. He had not worked\nfor thirty years in the dark without knowing that the pit was no place for\npretty women. He loaded her with ornaments--not brass or pewter, but real\nsilver ones--and she rewarded him by flirting outrageously with Kundoo of\nNumber Seven gallery gang. Kundoo was really the gang-head, but Janki Meah\ninsisted upon all the work being entered in his own name, and chose the\nmen that he worked with. Custom--stronger even than the Jimahari\nCompany--dictated that Janki, by right of his years, should manage these\nthings, and should, also, work despite his blindness. In Indian mines\nwhere they cut into the solid coal with the pick and clear it out from\nfloor to ceiling, he could come to no great harm. At Home, where they\nundercut the coal and bring it down in crashing avalanches from the roof,\nhe would never have been allowed to set foot in a pit. He was not a\npopular man, because of his oil-savings; but all the gangs admitted that\nJanki knew all the _khads_, or workings, that had ever been sunk or worked\nsince the Jimahari Company first started operations on the Tarachunda\nfields.\n\nPretty little Unda only knew that her old husband was a fool who could be\nmanaged. She took no interest in the collieries except in so far as they\nswallowed up Kundoo five days out of the seven, and covered him with\ncoal-dust. Kundoo was a great workman, and did his best not to get drunk,\nbecause, when he had saved forty rupees, Unda was to steal everything that\nshe could find in Janki's house and run with Kundoo to a land where there\nwere no mines, and every one kept three fat bullocks and a milch-buffalo.\nWhile this scheme ripened it was his custom to drop in upon Janki and\nworry him about the oil savings. Unda sat in a corner and nodded approval.\nOn the night when Kundoo had quoted that objectionable proverb about\nweavers, Janki grew angry.\n\n\"Listen, you pig,\" said he, \"blind I am, and old I am, but, before ever\nyou were born, I was grey among the coal. Even in the days when the\nTwenty-Two _khad_ was unsunk and there were not two thousand men here, I\nwas known to have all knowledge of the pits. What _khad_ is there that I\ndo not know, from the bottom of the shaft to the end of the last drive? Is\nit the Baromba _khad_, the oldest, or the Twenty-Two where Tibu's gallery\nruns up to Number Five?\"\n\n\"Hear the old fool talk!\" said Kundoo, nodding to Unda. \"No gallery of\nTwenty-Two will cut into Five before the end of the Rains. We have a\nmonth's solid coal before us. The Babuji says so.\"\n\n\"Babuji! Pigji! Dogji! What do these fat slugs from Calcutta know? He\ndraws and draws and draws, and talks and talks and talks, and his maps are\nall wrong. I, Janki, know that this is so. When a man has been shut up in\nthe dark for thirty years, God gives him knowledge. The old gallery that\nTibu's gang made is not six feet from Number Five.\"\n\n\"Without doubt God gives the blind knowledge,\" said Kundoo, with a look at\nUnda. \"Let it be as you say. I, for my part, do not know where lies the\ngallery of Tibu's gang, but _I_ am not a withered monkey who needs oil to\ngrease his joints with.\"\n\nKundoo swung out of the hut laughing, and Unda giggled. Janki turned his\nsightless eyes toward his wife and swore. \"I have land, and I have sold a\ngreat deal of lamp-oil,\" mused Janki; \"but I was a fool to marry this\nchild.\"\n\nA week later the Rains set in with a vengeance, and the gangs paddled\nabout in coal-slush at the pit-banks. Then the big mine-pumps were made\nready, and the Manager of the Colliery ploughed through the wet toward the\nTarachunda River swelling between its soppy banks. \"Lord send that this\nbeastly beck doesn't misbehave,\" said the Manager, piously, and he went to\ntake counsel with his Assistant about the pumps.\n\nBut the Tarachunda misbehaved very much indeed. After a fall of three\ninches of rain in an hour it was obliged to do something. It topped its\nbank and joined the flood water that was hemmed between two low hills just\nwhere the embankment of the Colliery main line crossed. When a large part\nof a rain-fed river, and a few acres of flood-water, made a dead set for a\nnine-foot culvert, the culvert may spout its finest, but the water cannot\n_all_ get out. The Manager pranced upon one leg with excitement, and his\nlanguage was improper.\n\nHe had reason to swear, because he knew that one inch of water on land\nmeant a pressure of one hundred tons to the acre; and here were about five\nfeet of water forming, behind the railway embankment, over the shallower\nworkings of Twenty-Two. You must understand that, in a coal-mine, the coal\nnearest the surface is worked first from the central shaft. That is to\nsay, the miners may clear out the stuff to within ten, twenty, or thirty\nfeet of the surface, and, when all is worked out, leave only a skin of\nearth upheld by some few pillars of coal. In a deep mine where they know\nthat they have any amount of material at hand, men prefer to get all their\nmineral out at one shaft, rather than make a number of little holes to tap\nthe comparatively unimportant surface-coal.\n\nAnd the Manager watched the flood.\n\nThe culvert spouted a nine-foot gush; but the water still formed, and word\nwas sent to clear the men out of Twenty-Two. The cages came up crammed and\ncrammed again with the men nearest the pit-eye, as they call the place\nwhere you can see daylight from the bottom of the main shaft. All away and\naway up the long black galleries the flare-lamps were winking and dancing\nlike so many fireflies, and the men and the women waited for the clanking,\nrattling, thundering cages to come down and fly up again. But the\noutworkings were very far off, and word could not be passed quickly,\nthough the heads of the gangs and the Assistant shouted and swore and\ntramped and stumbled. The Manager kept one eye on the great troubled pool\nbehind the embankment, and prayed that the culvert would give way and let\nthe water through in time. With the other eye he watched the cages come up\nand saw the headmen counting the roll of the gangs. With all his heart and\nsoul he swore at the winder who controlled the iron drum that wound up the\nwire rope on which hung the cages.\n\nIn a little time there was a down-draw in the water behind the\nembankment--a sucking whirlpool, all yellow and yeasty. The water had\nsmashed through the skin of the earth and was pouring into the old shallow\nworkings of Twenty-Two.\n\nDeep down below, a rush of black water caught the last gang waiting for\nthe cage, and as they clambered in, the whirl was about their waists. The\ncage reached the pit-bank, and the Manager called the roll. The gangs were\nall safe except Gang Janki, Gang Mogul, and Gang Rahim, eighteen men, with\nperhaps ten basket-women who loaded the coal into the little iron\ncarriages that ran on the tramways of the main galleries. These gangs were\nin the out-workings, three-quarters of a mile away, on the extreme fringe\nof the mine. Once more the cage went down, but with only two English men\nin it, and dropped into a swirling, roaring current that had almost\ntouched the roof of some of the lower side-galleries. One of the wooden\nbalks with which they had propped the old workings shot past on the\ncurrent, just missing the cage.\n\n\"If we don't want our ribs knocked out, we'd better go,\" said the Manager.\n\"We can't even save the Company's props.\"\n\nThe cage drew out of the water with a splash, and a few minutes later, it\nwas officially reported that there were at least ten feet of water in the\npit's eye. Now ten feet of water there meant that all other places in the\nmine were flooded except such galleries as were more than ten feet above\nthe level of the bottom of the shaft. The deep workings would be full, the\nmain galleries would be full, but in the high workings reached by inclines\nfrom the main roads, there would be a certain amount of air cut off, so to\nspeak, by the water and squeezed up by it. The little science-primers\nexplain how water behaves when you pour it down test-tubes. The flooding\nof Twenty-Two was an illustration on a large scale.\n\n\n       *\n       *\n       *\n       *\n       *\n\n\"By the Holy Grove, what has happened to the air!\" It was a Sonthal\ngangman of Gang Mogul in Number Nine gallery, and he was driving a\nsix-foot way through the coal. Then there was a rush from the other\ngalleries, and Gang Janki and Gang Rahim stumbled up with their\nbasket-women.\n\n\"Water has come in the mine,\" they said, \"and there is no way of getting\nout.\"\n\n\"I went down,\" said Janki--\"down the slope of my gallery, and I felt the\nwater.\"\n\n\"There has been no water in the cutting in our time,\" clamored the women,\n\"Why cannot we go away?\"\n\n\"Be silent!\" said Janki, \"Long ago, when my father was here, water came to\nTen--no, Eleven--cutting, and there was great trouble. Let us get away to\nwhere the air is better.\"\n\nThe three gangs and the basket-women left Number Nine gallery and went\nfurther up Number Sixteen. At one turn of the road they could see the\npitchy black water lapping on the coal. It had touched the roof of a\ngallery that they knew well--a gallery where they used to smoke their\n_huqas_ and manage their flirtations. Seeing this, they called aloud upon\ntheir Gods, and the Mehas, who are thrice bastard Muhammadans, strove to\nrecollect the name of the Prophet. They came to a great open square whence\nnearly all the coal had been extracted. It was the end of the\nout-workings, and the end of the mine.\n\nFar away down the gallery a small pumping-engine, used for keeping dry a\ndeep working and fed with steam from above, was throbbing faithfully. They\nheard it cease.\n\n\"They have cut off the steam,\" said Kundoo, hopefully. \"They have given\nthe order to use all the steam for the pit-bank pumps. They will clear out\nthe water.\"\n\n\"If the water has reached the smoking-gallery,\" said Janki, \"all the\nCompany's pumps can do nothing for three days.\"\n\n\"It is very hot,\" moaned Jasoda, the Meah basket-woman. \"There is a very\nbad air here because of the lamps.\"\n\n\"Put them out,\" said Janki; \"why do you want lamps?\" The lamps were put\nout and the company sat still in the utter dark. Somebody rose quietly and\nbegan walking over the coals. It was Janki, who was touching the walls\nwith his hands. \"Where is the ledge?\" he murmured to himself.\n\n\"Sit, sit!\" said Kundoo. \"If we die, we die. The air is very bad.\"\n\nBut Janki still stumbled and crept and tapped with his pick upon the\nwalls. The women rose to their feet.\n\n\"Stay all where you are. Without the lamps you cannot see, and I--I am\nalways seeing,\" said Janki. Then he paused, and called out: \"Oh, you who\nhave been in the cutting more than ten years, what is the name of this\nopen place? I am an old man and I have forgotten.\"\n\n\"Bullia's Room,\" answered the Sonthal, who had complained of the vileness\nof the air.\n\n\"Again,\" said Janki.\n\n\"Bullia's Room.\"\n\n\"Then I have found it,\" said Janki. \"The name only had slipped my memory.\nTibu's gang's gallery is here.\"\n\n\"A lie,\" said Kundoo. \"There have been no galleries in this place since my\nday.\"\n\n\"Three paces was the depth of the ledge,\" muttered Janki, without\nheeding--\"and--oh, my poor bones!--I have found it! It is here, up this\nledge, Come all you, one by one, to the place of my voice, and I will\ncount you,\"\n\nThere was a rush in the dark, and Janki felt the first man's face hit his\nknees as the Sonthal scrambled up the ledge.\n\n\"Who?\" cried Janki.\n\n\"I, Sunua Manji.\"\n\n\"Sit you down,\" said Janki, \"Who next?\"\n\nOne by one the women and the men crawled up the ledge which ran along one\nside of \"Bullia's Room.\" Degraded Muhammadan, pig-eating Musahr and wild\nSonthal, Janki ran his hand over them all.\n\n\"Now follow after,\" said he, \"catching hold of my heel, and the women\ncatching the men's clothes.\" He did not ask whether the men had brought\ntheir picks with them. A miner, black or white, does not drop his pick.\nOne by one, Janki leading, they crept into the old gallery--a six-foot way\nwith a scant four feet from hill to roof.\n\n\"The air is better here,\" said Jasoda. They could hear her heart beating\nin thick, sick bumps.\n\n\"Slowly, slowly,\" said Janki. \"I am an old man, and I forget many things.\nThis is Tibu's gallery, but where are the four bricks where they used to\nput their _huqa_ fire on when the Sahibs never saw? Slowly, slowly, O you\npeople behind.\"\n\nThey heard his hands disturbing the small coal on the floor of the gallery\nand then a dull sound. \"This is one unbaked brick, and this is another and\nanother. Kundoo is a young man--let him come forward. Put a knee upon this\nbrick and strike here. When Tibu's gang were at dinner on the last day\nbefore the good coal ended, they heard the men of Five on the other side,\nand Five worked _their_ gallery two Sundays later--or it may have been\none. Strike there, Kundoo, but give me room to go back.\"\n\nKundoo, doubting, drove the pick, but the first soft crush of the coal was\na call to him. He was fighting for his life and for Unda--pretty little\nUnda with rings on all her toes--for Unda and the forty rupees. The women\nsang the Song of the Pick--the terrible, slow, swinging melody with the\nmuttered chorus that repeats the sliding of the loosened coal, and, to\neach cadence, Kundoo smote in the black dark. When he could do no more,\nSunua Manji took the pick, and struck for his life and his wife, and his\nvillage beyond the blue hills over the Tarachunda River. An hour the men\nworked, and then the women cleared away the coal.\n\n\"It is farther than I thought,\" said Janki. \"The air is very bad; but\nstrike, Kundoo, strike hard,\"\n\nFor the fifth time Kundoo took up the pick as the Sonthal crawled back.\nThe song had scarcely recommenced when it was broken by a yell from Kundoo\nthat echoed down the gallery: \"_Par hua! Par hua!_ We are through, we are\nthrough!\" The imprisoned air in the mine shot through the opening, and the\nwomen at the far end of the gallery heard the water rush through the\npillars of \"Bullia's Room\" and roar against the ledge. Having fulfilled\nthe law under which it worked, it rose no farther. The women screamed and\npressed forward, \"The water has come--we shall be killed! Let us go.\"\n\nKundoo crawled through the gap and found himself in a propped gallery by\nthe simple process of hitting his head against a beam.\n\n\"Do I know the pits or do I not?\" chuckled Janki. \"This is the Number\nFive; go you out slowly, giving me your names. Ho! Rahim, count your gang!\nNow let us go forward, each catching hold of the other as before.\"\n\nThey formed a line in the darkness and Janki led them--for a pit-man in a\nstrange pit is only one degree less liable to err than an ordinary mortal\nunderground for the first time. At last they saw a flare-lamp, and Gangs\nJanki, Mogul, and Rahim of Twenty-Two stumbled dazed into the glare of the\ndraught-furnace at the bottom of Five; Janki feeling his way and the rest\nbehind.\n\n\"Water has come into Twenty-Two. God knows where are the others. I have\nbrought these men from Tibu's gallery in our cutting; making connection\nthrough the north side of the gallery. Take us to the cage,\" said Janki\nMeah.\n\n\n       *\n       *\n       *\n       *\n       *\n\nAt the pit-bank of Twenty-Two, some thousand people clamored and wept and\nshouted. One hundred men--one thousand men--had been drowned in the\ncutting. They would all go to their homes to-morrow. Where were their men?\nLittle Unda, her cloth drenched with the rain, stood at the pit-mouth\ncalling down the shaft for Kundoo. They had swung the cages clear of the\nmouth, and her only answer was the murmur of the flood in the pit's eye\ntwo hundred and sixty feet below.\n\n\"Look after that woman! She'll chuck herself down the shaft in a minute,\"\nshouted the Manager.\n\nBut he need not have troubled; Unda was afraid of Death. She wanted\nKundoo. The Assistant was watching the flood and seeing how far he could\nwade into it. There was a lull in the water, and the whirlpool had\nslackened. The mine was full, and the people at the pit-bank howled.\n\n\"My faith, we shall be lucky if we have five hundred hands on the place\nto-morrow!\" said the Manager. \"There's some chance yet of running a\ntemporary dam across that water. Shove in anything--tubs and bullock-carts\nif you haven't enough bricks. Make them work _now_ if they never worked\nbefore. Hi! you gangers, make them work.\"\n\nLittle by little the crowd was broken into detachments, and pushed toward\nthe water with promises of overtime. The dam-making began, and when it was\nfairly under way, the Manager thought that the hour had come for the\npumps. There was no fresh inrush into the mine. The tall, red,\niron-clamped pump-beam rose and fell, and the pumps snored and guttered\nand shrieked as the first water poured out of the pipe.\n\n\"We must run her all to-night,\" said the Manager, wearily, \"but there's no\nhope for the poor devils down below. Look here, Gur Sahai, if you are\nproud of your engines, show me what they can do now.\"\n\nGur Sahai grinned and nodded, with his right hand upon the lever and an\noil-can in his left. He could do no more than he was doing, but he could\nkeep that up till the dawn. Were the Company's pumps to be beaten by the\nvagaries of that troublesome Tarachunda River? Never, never! And the pumps\nsobbed and panted: \"Never, never!\" The Manager sat in the shelter of the\npit-bank roofing, trying to dry himself by the pump-boiler fire, and, in\nthe dreary dusk, he saw the crowds on the dam scatter and fly.\n\n\"That's the end,\" he groaned. \"'Twill take us six weeks to persuade 'em\nthat we haven't tried to drown their mates on purpose. Oh, for a decent,\nrational Geordie!\"\n\nBut the flight had no panic in it. Men had run over from Five with\nastounding news, and the foremen could not hold their gangs together.\nPresently, surrounded by a clamorous crew, Gangs Rahim, Mogul, and Janki,\nand ten basket-women, walked up to report themselves, and pretty little\nUnda stole away to Janki's hut to prepare his evening meal.\n\n\"Alone I found the way,\" explained Janki Meah, \"and now will the Company\ngive me pension?\"\n\nThe simple pit-folk shouted and leaped and went back to the dam, reassured\nin their old belief that, whatever happened, so great was the power of the\nCompany whose salt they ate, none of them could be killed. But Gur Sahai\nonly bared his white teeth and kept his hand upon the lever and proved his\npumps to the uttermost.\n\n\n       *\n       *\n       *\n       *\n       *\n\n\"I say,\" said the Assistant to the Manager, a week later, \"do you\nrecollect _Germinal?_\"\n\n\"Yes. 'Queer thing, I thought of it In the cage when that balk went by.\nWhy?\"\n\n\"Oh, this business seems to be _Germinal_ upside down. Janki was in my\nveranda all this morning, telling me that Kundoo had eloped with his\nwife--Unda or Anda, I think her name was.\"\n\n\"Hillo! And those were the cattle that you risked your life to clear out\nof Twenty-Two!\"\n\n\"No--I was thinking of the Company's props, not the Company's men.\"\n\n\"Sounds better to say so _now_; but I don't believe you, old fellow.\"\n\n\n\nTHE COURTING OF DINAH SHADD\n\n  What did the colonel's lady think?\n     Nobody never knew.\n   Somebody asked the sergeant's wife\n     An' she told 'em true.\n   When you git to a man in the case\n     They're like a row o' pins,\n   For the colonel's lady an' Judy O'Grady\n     Are sisters under their skins.\n\n    _Barrack Room Ballad._\n\nAll day I had followed at the heels of a pursuing army engaged on one of\nthe finest battles that ever camp of exercise beheld. Thirty thousand\ntroops had by the wisdom of the Government of India been turned loose over\na few thousand square miles of country to practice in peace what they\nwould never attempt in war. Consequently cavalry charged unshaken infantry\nat the trot. Infantry captured artillery by frontal attacks delivered in\nline of quarter columns, and mounted infantry skirmished up to the wheels\nof an armored train which carried nothing more deadly than a twenty-five\npounder Armstrong, two Nordenfeldts, and a few score volunteers all cased\nin three-eighths-inch boiler-plate. Yet it was a very lifelike camp.\nOperations did not cease at sundown; nobody knew the country and nobody\nspared man or horse. There was unending cavalry scouting and almost\nunending forced work over broken ground. The Army of the South had finally\npierced the centre of the Army of the North, and was pouring through the\ngap hot-foot to capture a city of strategic importance. Its front extended\nfanwise, the sticks being represented by regiments strung out along the\nline of route backward to the divisional transport columns and all the\nlumber that trails behind an army on the move. On its right the broken\nleft of the Army of the North was flying in mass, chased by the Southern\nhorse and hammered by the Southern guns till these had been pushed far\nbeyond the limits of their last support. Then the flying sat down to rest,\nwhile the elated commandant of the pursuing force telegraphed that he held\nall in check and observation.\n\nUnluckily he did not observe that three miles to his right flank a flying\ncolumn of Northern horse with a detachment of Ghoorkhas and British troops\nhad been pushed round, as fast as the failing light allowed, to cut across\nthe entire rear of the Southern Army, to break, as it were, all the ribs\nof the fan where they converged by striking at the transport, reserve\nammunition, and artillery supplies. Their instructions were to go in,\navoiding the few scouts who might not have been drawn off by the pursuit,\nand create sufficient excitement to impress the Southern Army with the\nwisdom of guarding their own flank and rear before they captured cities.\nIt was a pretty manoeuvre, neatly carried out.\n\nSpeaking for the second division of the Southern Army, our first\nintimation of the attack was at twilight, when the artillery were laboring\nin deep sand, most of the escort were trying to help them out, and the\nmain body of the infantry had gone on. A Noah's Ark of elephants, camels,\nand the mixed menagerie of an Indian transport-train bubbled and squealed\nbehind the guns, when there appeared from nowhere in particular British\ninfantry to the extent of three companies, who sprang to the heads of the\ngun-horses and brought all to a standstill amid oaths and cheers.\n\n\"How's that, umpire?\" said the major commanding the attack, and with one\nvoice the drivers and limber gunners answered \"Hout!\" while the colonel of\nartillery sputtered.\n\n\"All your scouts are charging our main body,\" said the major. \"Your flanks\nare unprotected for two miles. I think we've broken the back of this\ndivision. And listen,--there go the Ghoorkhas!\"\n\nA weak fire broke from the rear-guard more than a mile away, and was\nanswered by cheerful howlings. The Ghoorkhas, who should have swung clear\nof the second division, had stepped on its tail in the dark, but drawing\noff hastened to reach the next line of attack, which lay almost parallel\nto us five or six miles away.\n\nOur column swayed and surged irresolutely,--three batteries, the\ndivisional ammunition reserve, the baggage, and a section of the hospital\nand bearer corps. The commandant ruefully promised to report himself \"cut\nup\" to the nearest umpires and commending his cavalry and all other\ncavalry to the special care of Eblis, toiled on to resume touch with the\nrest of the division.\n\n\"We'll bivouac here to-night,\" said the major, \"I have a notion that the\nGhoorkhas will get caught. They may want us to re-form on. Stand easy till\nthe transport gets away,\"\n\nA hand caught my beast's bridle and led him out of the choking dust; a\nlarger hand deftly canted me out of the saddle; and two of the hugest\nhands in the world received me sliding. Pleasant is the lot of the special\ncorrespondent who falls into such hands as those of Privates Mulvaney,\nOrtheris, and Learoyd.\n\n\"An' that's all right,\" said the Irishman, calmly. \"We thought we'd find\nyou somewheres here by. Is there anything av yours in the transport?\nOrth'ris 'll fetch ut out.\"\n\nOrtheris did \"fetch ut out,\" from under the trunk of an elephant, in the\nshape of a servant and an animal both laden with medical comforts. The\nlittle man's eyes sparkled.\n\n\"If the brutil an' licentious soldiery av these parts gets sight av the\nthruck,\" said Mulvaney, making practiced investigation, \"they'll loot\nev'rything. They're bein' fed on iron-filin's an' dog-biscuit these days,\nbut glory's no compensation for a belly-ache. Praise be, we're here to\nprotect you, sorr. Beer, sausage, bread (soft an' that's a cur'osity),\nsoup in a tin, whisky by the smell av ut, an' fowls! Mother av Moses, but\nye take the field like a confectioner! 'Tis scand'lus.\"\n\n\"'Ere's a orficer,\" said Ortheris, significantly. \"When the sergent's done\nlushin' the privit may clean the pot.\"\n\nI bundled several things into Mulvaney's haversack before the major's hand\nfell on my shoulder and he said, tenderly, \"Requisitioned for the Queen's\nservice. Wolseley was quite wrong about special correspondents: they are\nthe soldier's best friends. Come and take pot-luck with us to-night.\"\n\nAnd so it happened amid laughter and shoutings that my well-considered\ncommissariat melted away to reappear later at the mess-table, which was a\nwaterproof sheet spread on the ground. The flying column had taken three\ndays' rations with it, and there be few things nastier than government\nrations--especially when government is experimenting with German toys.\nErbsenwurst, tinned beef of surpassing tinniness, compressed vegetables,\nand meat-biscuits may be nourishing, but what Thomas Atkins needs is bulk\nin his inside. The major, assisted by his brother officers, purchased\ngoats for the camp and so made the experiment of no effect. Long before\nthe fatigue-party sent to collect brushwood had returned, the men were\nsettled down by their valises, kettles and pots had appeared from the\nsurrounding country and were dangling over fires as the kid and the\ncompressed vegetable bubbled together; there rose a cheerful clinking of\nmess-tins; outrageous demands for \"a little more stuffin' with that there\nliver-wing;\" and gust on gust of chaff as pointed as a bayonet and as\ndelicate as a gun-butt.\n\n\"The boys are in a good temper,\" said the major. \"They'll be singing\npresently. Well, a night like this is enough to keep them happy.\"\n\nOver our heads burned the wonderful Indian stars, which are not all\npricked in on one plane, but, preserving an orderly perspective, draw the\neye through the velvet darkness of the void up to the barred doors of\nheaven itself. The earth was a grey shadow more unreal than the sky. We\ncould hear her breathing lightly in the pauses between the howling of the\njackals, the movement of the wind in the tamarisks, and the fitful mutter\nof musketry-fire leagues away to the left. A native woman from some unseen\nhut began to sing, the mail-train thundered past on its way to Delhi, and\na roosting crow cawed drowsily. Then there was a belt-loosening silence\nabout the fires, and the even breathing of the crowded earth took up the\nstory.\n\nThe men, full fed, turned to tobacco and song,--their officers with them.\nThe subaltern is happy who can win the approval of the musical critics in\nhis regiment, and is honored among the more intricate step-dancers. By\nhim, as by him who plays cricket cleverly, Thomas Atkins will stand in\ntime of need, when he will let a better officer go on alone. The ruined\ntombs of forgotten Mussulman saints heard the ballad of _Agra Town, The\nBuffalo Battery, Marching to Kabul, The long, long Indian Day, The Place\nwhere the Punkah-coolie died_, and that crashing chorus which announces,\n\n  Youth's daring spirit, manhood's fire,\n     Firm hand and eagle eye,\n   Must he acquire who would aspire\n     To see the grey boar die.\n\nTo-day, of all those jovial thieves who appropriated my commissariat and\nlay and laughed round that waterproof sheet, not one remains. They went to\ncamps that were not of exercise and battles without umpires. Burmah, the\nSoudan, and the frontier,--fever and fight,--took them in their time.\n\nI drifted across to the men's fires in search of Mulvaney, whom I found\nstrategically greasing his feet by the blaze. There is nothing\nparticularly lovely in the sight of a private thus engaged after a long\nday's march, but when you reflect on the exact proportion of the \"might,\nmajesty, dominion, and power\" of the British Empire which stands on those\nfeet you take an interest in the proceedings.\n\n\"There's a blister, bad luck to ut, on the heel,\" said Mulvaney. \"I can't\ntouch ut. Prick ut out, little man,\"\n\nOrtheris took out his house-wife, eased the trouble with a needle, stabbed\nMulvaney in the calf with the same weapon, and was swiftly kicked into the\nfire.\n\n\"I've bruk the best av my toes over you, ye grinnin' child av disruption,\"\nsaid Mulvaney, sitting cross-legged and nursing his feet; then seeing me,\n\"Oh, ut's you, sorr! Be welkim, an' take that maraudin' scutt's place,\nJock, hold him down on the cindhers for a bit.\"\n\nBut Ortheris escaped and went elsewhere, as I took possession of the\nhollow he had scraped for himself and lined with his greatcoat. Learoyd on\nthe other side of the fire grinned affably and in a minute fell fast\nasleep.\n\n\"There's the height av politeness for you,\" said Mulvaney, lighting his\npipe with a flaming branch. \"But Jock's eaten half a box av your sardines\nat wan gulp, an' I think the tin too. What's the best wid you, sorr, an'\nhow did you happen to be on the losin' side this day whin we captured\nyou?\"\n\n\"The Army of the South is winning all along the line,\" I said.\n\n\"Then that line's the hangman's rope, savin' your presence. You'll learn\nto-morrow how we rethreated to dhraw thim on before we made thim trouble,\nan' that's what a woman does. By the same tokin, we'll be attacked before\nthe dawnin' an' ut would be betther not to slip your boots. How do I know\nthat? By the light av pure reason. Here are three companies av us ever so\nfar inside av the enemy's flank an' a crowd av roarin', tarin', squealin'\ncavalry gone on just to turn out the whole hornet's nest av them. Av\ncourse the enemy will pursue, by brigades like as not, an' thin we'll have\nto run for ut. Mark my words. I am av the opinion av Polonius whin he\nsaid, 'Don't fight wid ivry scutt for the pure joy av fightin', but if you\ndo, knock the nose av him first an' frequint.'. We ought to ha' gone on\nan' helped the Ghoorkhas.\"\n\n\"But what do you know about Polonius?\" I demanded. This was a new side of\nMulvaney's character.\n\n\"All that Shakespeare iver wrote an' a dale more that the gallery\nshouted,\" said the man of war, carefully lacing his boots. \"Did I not tell\nyou av Silver's theatre in Dublin, whin I was younger than I am now an' a\npatron av the drama? Ould Silver wud never pay actor-man or woman their\njust dues, an' by consequince his comp'nies was collapsible at the last\nminut. Thin the bhoys wud clamor to take a part, an' oft as not ould\nSilver made them pay for the fun. Faith, I've seen Hamlut played wid a new\nblack eye an' the queen as full as a cornucopia. I remimber wanst Hogin\nthat 'listed in the Black Tyrone an' was shot in South Africa, he sejuced\nould Silver into givin' him Hamlut's part instid av me that had a fine\nfancy for rhetoric in those days. Av course I wint into the gallery an'\nbegan to fill the pit wid other people's hats, an' I passed the time av\nday to Hogin walkin' through Denmark like a hamstrung mule wid a pall on\nhis back, 'Hamlut,' sez I, 'there's a hole in your heel. Pull up your\nshtockin's, Hamlut,' sez I, 'Hamlut, Hamlut, for the love av decincy dhrop\nthat skull an' pull up your shtockin's.' The whole house begun to tell him\nthat. He stopped his soliloquishms mid-between. 'My shtockin's may be\ncomin' down or they may not,' sez he, screwin' his eye into the gallery,\nfor well he knew who I was. 'But afther this performince is over me an'\nthe Ghost 'll trample the tripes out av you, Terence, wid your ass's\nbray!' An' that's how I come to know about Hamlut. Eyah! Those days, those\ndays! Did you iver have onendin' devilmint an' nothin' to pay for it in\nyour life, sorr?\"\n\n\"Never, without having to pay,\" I said.\n\n\"That's thrue! 'Tis mane whin you considher on ut; but ut's the same wid\nhorse or fut. A headache if you dhrink, an' a belly-ache if you eat too\nmuch, an' a heart-ache to kape all down. Faith, the beast only gets the\ncolic, an' he's the lucky man.\"\n\nHe dropped his head and stared into the fire, fingering his moustache the\nwhile. From the far side of the bivouac the voice of Corbet-Nolan, senior\nsubaltern of B Company, uplifted itself in an ancient and much appreciated\nsong of sentiment, the men moaning melodiously behind him.\n\n   The north wind blew coldly, she dropped from that hour,\n   My own little Kathleen, my sweet little Kathleen,\n   Kathleen, my Kathleen, Kathleen O'Moore!\n\nWith forty-five O's in the last word: even at that distance you might have\ncut the soft South Irish accent with a shovel.\n\n\"For all we take we must pay, but the price is cruel high,\" murmured\nMulvaney when the chorus had ceased.\n\n\"What's the trouble?\" I said gently, for I knew that he was a man of an\ninextinguishable sorrow.\n\n\"Hear now,\" said he. \"Ye know what I am now. _I_ know what I mint to be at\nthe beginnin' av my service. I've tould you time an' again, an' what I\nhave not Dinah Shadd has. An' what am I? Oh, Mary Mother av Hiven, an ould\ndhrunken, untrustable baste av a privit that has seen the reg'ment change\nout from colonel to drummer-boy, not wanst or twice, but scores av times!\nAy, scores! An' me not so near gettin' promotion as in the first! An' me\nlivin' on an' kapin' clear av clink, not by my own good conduck, but the\nkindness av some orf'cer-bhoy young enough to be son to me! Do I not know\nut? Can I not tell whin I'm passed over at p'rade, tho' I'm rockin' full\nav liquor an' ready to fall all in wan piece, such as even a suckin' child\nmight see, bekaze, 'Oh, 'tis only ould Mulvaney!' An' whin I'm let off in\nord'ly-room through some thrick of the tongue an' a ready answer an' the\nould man's mercy, is ut smilin' I feel whin I fall away an' go back to\nDinah Shadd, thryin' to carry ut all off as a joke? Not I! 'Tis hell to\nme, dumb hell through ut all; an' next time whin the fit comes I will be\nas bad again. Good cause the reg'ment has to know me for the best soldier\nin ut. Better cause have I to know mesilf for the worst man. I'm only fit\nto tache the new drafts what I'll niver learn mesilf; an' I am sure, as\ntho' I heard ut, that the minut wan av these pink-eyed recruities gets\naway from my 'Mind ye now,' an' 'Listen to this, Jim, bhoy,'--sure I am\nthat the sergint houlds me up to him for a warnin'. So I tache, as they\nsay at musketry-instruction, by direct and ricochet fire. Lord be good to\nme, for I have stud some throuble!\"\n\n\"Lie down and go to sleep,\" said I, not being able to comfort or advise.\n\"You're the best man in the regiment, and, next to Ortheris, the biggest\nfool. Lie down and wait till we're attacked. What force will they turn\nout? Guns, think you?\"\n\n\"Try that wid your lorrds an' ladies, twistin' an' turnin' the talk, tho'\nyou mint ut well. Ye cud say nothin' to help me, an' yet ye niver knew\nwhat cause I had to be what I am.\"\n\n\"Begin at the beginning and go on to the end,\" I said, royally. \"But rake\nup the fire a bit first.\"\n\nI passed Ortheris's bayonet for a poker.\n\n\"That shows how little we know what we do,\" said Mulvaney, putting it\naside. \"Fire takes all the heart out av the steel, an' the next time, may\nbe, that our little man is fighting for his life his bradawl 'll break,\nan' so you'll ha' killed him, manin' no more than to kape yourself warm.\n'Tis a recruity's thrick that. Pass the clanin'-rod, sorr.\"\n\nI snuggled down abased; and after an interval the voice of Mulvaney began.\n\n\"Did I iver tell you how Dinah Shadd came to be wife av mine?\"\n\nI dissembled a burning anxiety that I had felt for some months--ever since\nDinah Shadd, the strong, the patient, and the infinitely tender, had of\nher own good love and free will washed a shirt for me, moving in a barren\nland where washing was not.\n\n\"I can't remember,\" I said, casually. \"Was it before or after you made\nlove to Annie Bragin, and got no satisfaction?\"\n\nThe story of Annie Bragin is written in another place. It is one of the\nmany less respectable episodes in Mulvaney's checkered career.\n\n\"Before--before--long before, was that business av Annie Bragin an' the\ncorp'ril's ghost. Niver woman was the worse for me whin I had married\nDinah. There's a time for all things, an' I know how to kape all things in\nplace--barrin' the dhrink, that kapes me in my place wid no hope av comin'\nto be aught else.\"\n\n\"Begin at the beginning,\" I insisted. \"Mrs. Mulvaney told me that you\nmarried her when you were quartered in Krab Bokhar barracks.\"\n\n\"An' the same is a cess-pit,\" said Mulvaney, piously. \"She spoke thrue,\ndid Dinah. 'Twas this way. Talkin' av that, have ye iver fallen in love,\nsorr?\"\n\nI preserved the silence of the damned. Mulvaney continued--\n\n\"Thin I will assume that ye have not. _I_ did. In the days av my youth, as\nI have more than wanst tould you, I was a man that filled the eye an'\ndelighted the sowl av women. Niver man was hated as I have bin. Niver man\nwas loved as I--no, not within half a day's march av ut! For the first\nfive years av my service, whin I was what I wud give my sowl to be now, I\ntuk whatever was within my reach an' digested ut--an' that's more than\nmost men can say. Dhrink I tuk, an' ut did me no harm. By the Hollow av\nHiven, I cud play wid four women at wanst, an' kape them from findin' out\nanythin' about the other three, an' smile like a fullblown marigold\nthrough ut all. Dick Coulhan, av the battery we'll have down on us\nto-night, could drive his team no better than I mine, an' I hild the\nworser cattle! An' so I lived, an' so I was happy till afther that\nbusiness wid Annie Bragin--she that turned me off as cool as a meat-safe,\nan' taught me where I stud in the mind av an honest woman. 'Twas no sweet\ndose to swallow.\n\n\"Afther that I sickened awhile an' tuk thought to my reg'mental work;\nconceiting mesilf I wud study an' be a sargint, an' a major-gineral twinty\nminutes afther that. But on top av my ambitiousness there was an empty\nplace in my sowl, an' me own opinion av mesilf cud not fill ut. Sez I to\nmesilf, 'Terence, you're a great man an' the best set-up in the reg'mint.\nGo on an' get promotion.' Sez mesilf to me, 'What for?' Sez I to mesilf,\n'For the glory av ut!' Sez mesilf to me, 'Will that fill these two strong\narrums av yours, Terence?' 'Go to the devil,' sez I to mesilf, 'Go to the\nmarried lines,' sez mesilf to me. 'Tis the same thing,' sez I to mesilf.\n'Av you're the same man, ut is,' said mesilf to me; an' wid that I\nconsidhered on ut a long while. Did you iver feel that way, sorr?\"\n\nI snored gently, knowing that if Mulvaney were uninterrupted he would go\non. The clamor from the bivouac fires beat up to the stars, as the rival\nsingers of the companies were pitted against each other.\n\n\"So I felt that way an' a bad time ut was. Wanst, bein' a fool, I wint\ninto the married lines more for the sake av spakin' to our ould\ncolor-sergint Shadd than for any thruck wid womenfolk. I was a corp'ril\nthen--rejuced aftherward, but a corp'ril then. I've got a photograft av\nmesilf to prove ut. 'You'll take a cup av tay wid us?' sez Shadd. 'I will\nthat,' I sez, 'tho' tay is not my divarsion.'\n\n\"''Twud be better for you if ut were,' sez ould Mother Shadd, an' she had\nought to know, for Shadd, in the ind av his service, dhrank bung-full each\nnight.\n\n\"Wid that I tuk off my gloves--there was pipe-clay in thim, so that they\nstud alone--an' pulled up my chair, lookin' round at the china ornaments\nan' bits av things in the Shadds' quarters. They were things that belonged\nto a man, an' no camp-kit, here to-day an' dishipated next. 'You're\ncomfortable in this place, sergint,' sez I. ''Tis the wife that did ut,\nboy,' sez he, pointin' the stem av his pipe to ould Mother Shadd, an' she\nsmacked the top av his bald head apon the compliment. 'That manes you want\nmoney,' sez she.\n\n\"An' thin--an' thin whin the kettle was to be filled, Dinah came in--my\nDinah--her sleeves rowled up to the elbow an' her hair in a winkin' glory\nover her forehead, the big blue eyes beneath twinklin' like stars on a\nfrosty night, an' the tread av her two feet lighter than wastepaper from\nthe colonel's basket in ord'ly-room whin ut's emptied. Bein' but a shlip\nav a girl she went pink at seein' me, an' I twisted me moustache an'\nlooked at a picture forninst the wall. Niver show a woman that ye care the\nsnap av a finger for her, an' begad she'll come bleatin' to your\nboot-heels!\"\n\n\"I suppose that's why you followed Annie Bragin till everybody in the\nmarried quarters laughed at you,\" said I, remembering that unhallowed\nwooing and casting off the disguise of drowsiness.\n\n\"I'm layin' down the gin'ral theory av the attack,\" said Mulvaney, driving\nhis boot into the dying fire. \"If you read the _Soldier's Pocket Book_,\nwhich niver any soldier reads, you'll see that there are exceptions. Whin\nDinah was out av the door (an' 'twas as tho' the sunlight had shut\ntoo)--'Mother av Hiven, sergint,' sez I, 'but is that your\ndaughter?'--'I've believed that way these eighteen years,' sez ould Shadd,\nhis eyes twinklin'; 'but Mrs. Shadd has her own opinion, like iv'ry\nwoman,'--'Tis wid yours this time, for a mericle,' sez Mother Shadd. 'Thin\nwhy in the name av fortune did I niver see her before?' sez I. 'Bekaze\nyou've been thrapesin' round wid the married women these three years past.\nShe was a bit av a child till last year, an' she shot up wid the spring,'\nsez ould Mother Shadd, 'I'll thrapese no more,' sez I. 'D'you mane that?'\nsez ould Mother Shadd, lookin' at me side-ways like a hen looks at a hawk\nwhin the chickens are runnin' free. 'Try me, an' tell,' sez I. Wid that I\npulled on my gloves, dhrank off the tay, an' went out av the house as\nstiff as at gin'ral p'rade, for well I knew that Dinah Shadd's eyes were\nin the small av my back out av the scullery window. Faith! that was the\nonly time I mourned I was not a cav'lry man for the pride av the spurs to\njingle.\n\n\"I wint out to think, an' I did a powerful lot av thinkin', but ut all\ncame round to that shlip av a girl in the dotted blue dhress, wid the blue\neyes an' the sparkil in them. Thin I kept off canteen, an' I kept to the\nmarried quarthers, or near by, on the chanst av meetin' Dinah. Did I meet\nher? Oh, my time past, did I not; wid a lump in my throat as big as my\nvalise an' my heart goin' like a farrier's forge on a Saturday morning?\n'Twas 'Good day to ye, Miss Dinah,' an' 'Good day t'you, corp'ril,' for a\nweek or two, and divil a bit further could I get bekaze av the respect I\nhad to that girl that I cud ha' broken betune finger an' thumb.\"\n\nHere I giggled as I recalled the gigantic figure of Dinah Shadd when she\nhanded me my shirt.\n\n\"Ye may laugh,\" grunted Mulvaney. \"But I'm speakin' the trut', an' 'tis\nyou that are in fault. Dinah was a girl that wud ha' taken the\nimperiousness out av the Duchess av Clonmel in those days. Flower hand,\nfoot av shod air, an' the eyes av the livin' mornin' she had that is my\nwife to-day--ould Dinah, and niver aught else than Dinah Shadd to me.\n\n\"'Twas after three weeks standin' off an' on, an' niver makin' headway\nexcipt through the eyes, that a little drummer boy grinned in me face whin\nI had admonished him wid the buckle av my belt for riotin' all over the\nplace, 'An' I'm not the only wan that doesn't kape to barricks,' sez he. I\ntuk him by the scruff av his neck,--my heart was hung on a hair-thrigger\nthose days, you will onderstand--an' 'Out wid ut,' sez I, 'or I'll lave no\nbone av you unbreakable,'--'Speak to Dempsey,' sez he howlin'. 'Dempsey\nwhich?' sez I, 'ye unwashed limb av Satan.'--'Av the Bob-tailed\nDhragoons,' sez he, 'He's seen her home from her aunt's house in the civil\nlines four times this fortnight,'--'Child!' sez I, dhroppin' him, 'your\ntongue's stronger than your body. Go to your quarters. I'm sorry I\ndhressed you down.'\n\n\"At that I went four ways to wanst huntin' Dempsey. I was mad to think\nthat wid all my airs among women I shud ha' been chated by a basin-faced\nfool av a cav'lryman not fit to trust on a trunk. Presintly I found him in\nour lines--the Bobtails was quartered next us--an' a tallowy, topheavy son\nav a she-mule he was wid his big brass spurs an' his plastrons on his\nepigastrons an' all. But he niver flinched a hair.\n\n\"'A word wid you, Dempsey,' sez I. 'You've walked wid Dinah Shadd four\ntimes this fortnight gone.'\n\n\"'What's that to you?' sez he. 'I'll walk forty times more, an' forty on\ntop av that, ye shovel-futted clod-breakin' infantry lance-corp'ril.'\n\n\"Before I cud gyard he had his gloved fist home on my cheek an' down I\nwent full-sprawl. 'Will that content you?' sez he, blowin' on his knuckles\nfor all the world like a Scots Greys orf'cer. 'Content!' sez I. 'For your\nown sake, man, take off your spurs, peel your jackut, an' onglove. 'Tis\nthe beginnin' av the overture; stand up!'\n\n\"He stud all he know, but he niver peeled his jacket, an' his shoulders\nhad no fair play. I was fightin' for Dinah Shadd an' that cut on my cheek.\nWhat hope had he forninst me? 'Stand up,' sez I, time an' again whin he\nwas beginnin' to quarter the ground an' gyard high an' go large. 'This\nisn't ridin'-school,' I sez. 'O man, stand up an' let me get in at ye.'\nBut whin I saw he wud be runnin' about, I grup his shtock in my left an'\nhis waist-belt in my right an' swung him clear to my right front, head\nundher, he hammerin' my nose till the wind was knocked out av him on the\nbare ground. 'Stand up,' sez I, 'or I'll kick your head into your chest!'\nand I wud ha' done ut too, so ragin' mad I was.\n\n\"'My collar-bone's bruk,' sez he. 'Help me back to lines. I'll walk wid\nher no more.' So I helped him back.\"\n\n\"And was his collar-bone broken?\" I asked, for I fancied that only Learoyd\ncould neatly accomplish that terrible throw.\n\n\"He pitched on his left shoulder point. Ut was. Next day the news was in\nboth barricks, an' whin I met Dinah Shadd wid a cheek on me like all the\nreg'mintal tailor's samples there was no 'Good mornin', corp'ril,' or\naught else. 'An' what have I done, Miss Shadd,' sez I, very bould,\nplantin' mesilf forninst her, 'that ye should not pass the time of day?'\n\n\"'Ye've half-killed rough-rider Dempsey,' sez she, her dear blue eyes\nfillin' up.\n\n\"'May be,' sez I. 'Was he a friend av yours that saw ye home four times in\nthe fortnight?'\n\n\"'Yes,' sez she, but her mouth was down at the corners, 'An'--an' what's\nthat to you?' she sez.\n\n\"'Ask Dempsey,' sez I, purtendin' to go away.\n\n\"'Did you fight for me then, ye silly man?' she sez, tho' she knew ut all\nalong.\n\n\"'Who else?' sez I, an' I tuk wan pace to the front.\n\n\"'I wasn't worth ut,' sez she, fingerin' in her apron.\n\n\"'That's for me to say,' sez I. 'Shall I say ut?'\n\n\"'Yes,' sez she, in a saint's whisper, an' at that I explained mesilf; and\nshe tould me what ivry man that is a man, an' many that is a woman, hears\nwanst in his life.\n\n\"'But what made ye cry at startin', Dinah, darlin'?' sez I.\n\n\"'Your--your bloody cheek,' sez she, duckin' her little head down on my\nsash (I was on duty for the day) an' whimperin' like a sorrowful angil.\n\n\"Now a man cud take that two ways. I tuk ut as pleased me best an' my\nfirst kiss wid ut. Mother av Innocence! but I kissed her on the tip av the\nnose and undher the eye; an' a girl that let's a kiss come tumble-ways\nlike that has never been kissed before. Take note av that, sorr. Thin we\nwint hand in hand to ould Mother Shadd like two little childher, an' she\nsaid 'twas no bad thing, an' ould Shadd nodded behind his pipe, an' Dinah\nran away to her own room. That day I throd on rollin' clouds. All earth\nwas too small to hould me. Begad, I cud ha' hiked the sun out av the sky\nfor a live coal to my pipe, so magnificent I was. But I tuk recruities at\nsquad-drill instid, an' began wid general battalion advance whin I shud\nha' been balance-steppin' them. Eyah! that day! that day!\"\n\nA very long pause. \"Well?\" said I.\n\n\"'Twas all wrong,\" said Mulvaney, with an enormous sigh. \"An' I know that\nev'ry bit av ut was my own foolishness. That night I tuk maybe the half av\nthree pints--not enough to turn the hair of a man in his natural senses.\nBut I was more than half drunk wid pure joy, an' that canteen beer was so\nmuch whisky to me, I can't tell how it came about, but _bekaze_ I had no\nthought for anywan except Dinah, _bekaze_ I hadn't slipped her little\nwhite arms from my neck five minuts, _bekaze_ the breath of her kiss was\nnot gone from my mouth, I must go through the married lines on my way to\nquarters an' I must stay talkin' to a red-headed Mullingar heifer av a\ngirl, Judy Sheehy, that was daughter to Mother Sheehy, the wife of Nick\nSheehy, the canteen-sergint--the Black Curse av Shielygh be on the whole\nbrood that are above groun' this day!\n\n\"'An' what are ye houldin' your head that high for, corp'ril?' sez Judy.\n'Come in an' thry a cup av tay,' she sez, standin' in the doorway. Bein'\nan ontrustable fool, an' thinkin' av anything but tay, I wint.\n\n\"'Mother's at canteen,' sez Judy, smoothin' the hair av hers that was like\nred snakes, an' lookin' at me corner-ways out av her green cats' eyes. 'Ye\nwill not mind, corp'ril?'\n\n\"'I can endure,' sez I; ould Mother Sheehy bein' no divarsion av mine, nor\nher daughter too. Judy fetched the tea things an' put thim on the table,\nleanin' over me very close to get thim square. I dhrew back, thinkin' av\nDinah.\n\n\"'Is ut afraid you are av a girl alone?' sez Judy.\n\n\"'No,' sez I. 'Why should I be?'\n\n\"'That rests wid the girl,' sez Judy, dhrawin' her chair next to mine.\n\n\"'Thin there let ut rest,' sez I; an' thinkin' I'd been a trifle onpolite,\nI sez, 'The tay's not quite sweet enough for my taste. Put your little\nfinger in the cup, Judy. 'Twill make ut necthar.'\n\n\"'What's necthar?' sez she.\n\n\"'Somethin' very sweet,' sez I; an' for the sinful life av me I cud not\nhelp lookin' at her out av the corner av my eye, as I was used to look at\na woman.\n\n\"'Go on wid ye, corp'ril,' sez she. 'You're a flirrt.'\n\n\"'On me sowl I'm not,' sez I.\n\n\"'Then you're a cruel handsome man, an' that's worse,' sez she, heaving\nbig sighs an' lookin' crossways.\n\n\"'You know your own mind,' sez I.\n\n\"''Twud be better for me if I did not,' she sez.\n\n\"'There's a dale to be said on both sides av that,' sez I, unthinkin'.\n\n\"'Say your own part av ut, then, Terence, darlin',' sez she; 'for begad\nI'm thinkin' I've said too much or too little for an honest girl,' an' wid\nthat she put her arms round my neck an' kissed me.\n\n\"'There's no more to be said afther that,' sez I, kissin' her back\nagain--Oh the mane scutt that I was, my head ringin' wid Dinah Shadd! How\ndoes ut come about, sorr, that when a man has put the comether on wan\nwoman, he's sure bound to put it on another? 'Tis the same thing at\nmusketry, Wan day ivry shot goes wide or into the bank, an' the next, lay\nhigh lay low, sight or snap, ye can't get off the bull's-eye for ten shots\nrunnin'.\"\n\n\"That only happens to a man who has had a good deal of experience. He does\nit without thinking,\" I replied.\n\n\"Thankin' you for the complimint, sorr, ut may be so. But I'm doubtful\nwhether you mint ut for a complimint. Hear now; I sat there wid Judy on my\nknee tellin' me all manner av nonsinse an' only sayin' 'yes' an' 'no,'\nwhen I'd much better ha' kept tongue betune teeth. An' that was not an\nhour afther I had left Dinah! What I was thinkin' av I cannot say,\nPresintly. quiet as a cat, ould Mother Sheehy came in velvet-dhrunk. She\nhad her daughter's red hair, but 'twas bald in patches, an' I cud see in\nher wicked ould face, clear as lightnin', what Judy wud be twenty years to\ncome. I was for jumpin' up, but Judy niver moved.\n\n\"'Terence has promust, mother,' sez she, an' the could sweat bruk out all\nover me. Ould Mother Sheehy sat down of a heap an' began playin' wid the\ncups. 'Thin you're a well-matched pair,' she sez, very thick. 'For he's\nthe biggest rogue that iver spoiled the queen's shoe-leather,' an'--\n\n\"'I'm off, Judy,' sez I. 'Ye should not talk nonsinse to your mother. Get\nher to bed, girl.'\n\n\"'Nonsinse!' sez the ould woman, prickin' up her ears like a cat an'\ngrippin' the table-edge. ''Twill be the most nonsinsical nonsinse for you,\nye grinnin' badger, if nonsinse 'tis. Git clear, you. I'm goin' to bed.'\n\n\"I ran out into the dhark, my head in a stew an' my heart sick, but I had\nsinse enough to see that I'd brought ut all on mysilf. 'It's this to pass\nthe time av day to a panjandhrum av hellcats,' sez I. 'What I've said, an'\nwhat I've not said do not matther. Judy an' her dam will hould me for a\npromust man, an' Dinah will give me the go, an' I desarve ut. I will go\nan' get dhrunk,' sez I, 'an' forget about ut, for 'tis plain I'm not a\nmarrin' man.'\n\n\"On my way to canteen I ran against Lascelles, color-sergeant that was av\nE Comp'ny, a hard, hard man, wid a torment av a wife. 'You've the head av\na drowned man on your shoulders,' sez he; 'an' you're goin' where you'll\nget a worse wan. 'Come back,' sez he. 'Let me go,' sez I. 'I've thrown my\nluck over the wall wid my own hand!'--'Then that's not the way to get ut\nback again,' sez he. 'Have out wid your throuble, ye fool-bhoy.' An' I\ntould him how the matther was.\n\n\"He sucked in his lower lip. 'You've been thrapped,' sez he. 'Ju Sheehy\nwud be the betther for a man's name to hers as soon as can. An' ye thought\nye'd put the comether on her,--that's the natural vanity of the baste.\nTerence, you're a big born fool, but you're not bad enough to marry into\nthat comp'ny. If you said anythin', an' for all your protestations I'm\nsure ye did--or did not, which is worse,--eat ut all--lie like the father\nof all lies, but come out av ut free av Judy. Do I not know what ut is to\nmarry a woman that was the very spit an' image av Judy whin she was young?\nI'm gettin' old an' I've larnt patience, but you, Terence, you'd raise\nhand on Judy an' kill her in a year. Never mind if Dinah gives you the go,\nyou've desarved ut; never mind if the whole reg'mint laughs you all day.\nGet shut av Judy an' her mother. They can't dhrag you to church, but if\nthey do, they'll dhrag you to hell. Go back to your quarters and lie\ndown,' sez he. Thin over his shoulder, 'You _must_ ha' done with thim,'\n\n\"Next day I wint to see Dinah, but there was no tucker in me as I walked.\nI knew the throuble wud come soon enough widout any handlin' av mine, an'\nI dreaded ut sore.\n\n\"I heard Judy callin' me, but I hild straight on to the Shadds' quarthers,\nan' Dinah wud ha' kissed me but I put her back.\n\n\"'Whin all's said, darlin',' sez I, 'you can give ut me if ye will, tho' I\nmisdoubt 'twill be so easy to come by then.'\n\n\"I had scarce begun to put the explanation into shape before Judy an' her\nmother came to the door. I think there was a veranda, but I'm forgettin'.\n\n\"'Will ye not step in?' sez Dinah, pretty and polite, though the Shadds\nhad no dealin's with the Sheehys. Old Mother Shadd looked up quick, an'\nshe was the fust to see the throuble; for Dinah was her daughter.\n\n\"'I'm pressed for time to-day,' sez Judy as bould as brass; 'an' I've only\ncome for Terence,--my promust man. Tis strange to find him here the day\nafther the day.'\n\n\"Dinah looked at me as though I had hit her, an' I answered straight.\n\n\"'There was some nonsinse last night at the Sheehys' quarthers, an' Judy's\ncarryin' on the joke, darlin',' sez I.\n\n\"'At the Sheehys' quarthers?' sez Dinah very slow, an' Judy cut in wid:\n'He was there from nine till ten, Dinah Shadd, an' the betther half av\nthat time I was sittin' on his knee, Dinah Shadd. Ye may look and ye may\nlook an' ye may look me up an' down, but ye won't look away that Terence\nis my promust man, Terence, darlin', 'tis time for us to be comin' home.'\n\n\"Dinah Shadd niver said word to Judy. 'Ye left me at half-past eight,' she\nsez to me, 'an' I niver thought that ye'd leave me for Judy,--promises, or\nno promises. Go back wid her, you that have to be fetched by a girl! I'm\ndone with you,' sez she, and she ran into her own room, her mother\nfollowin'. So I was alone wid those two women and at liberty to spake my\nsentiments.\n\n\"'Judy Sheehy,' sez I, 'if you made a fool av me betune the lights you\nshall not do ut in the day. I niver promised you words or lines.'\n\n\"'You lie,' sez ould Mother Sheehy, 'an' may ut choke you waere you\nstand!' She was far gone in dhrink.\n\n\"'An' tho' ut choked me where I stud I'd not change,' sez I. 'Go home,\nJudy. I take shame for a decent girl like you dhraggin' your mother out\nbareheaded on this errand. Hear now, and have ut for an answer. I gave my\nword to Dinah Shadd yesterday, an', more blame to me, I was wid you last\nnight talkin' nonsinse but nothin' more. You've chosen to thry to hould me\non ut. I will not be held thereby for anythin' in the world. Is that\nenough?'\n\n\"Judy wint pink all over. 'An' I wish you joy av the perjury,' sez she,\nduckin' a curtsey. 'You've lost a woman that would ha' wore her hand to\nthe bone for your pleasure; an' 'deed, Terence, ye were not thrapped....'\nLascelles must ha' spoken plain to her. 'I am such as Dinah is--'deed I\nam! Ye've lost a fool av a girl that'll niver look at you again, an' ye've\nlost what ye niver had,--your common honesty. If you manage your men as\nyou manage your love-makin', small wondher they call you the worst\ncorp'ril in the comp'ny. Come away, mother,' sez she.\n\n\"But divil a fut would the ould woman budge! 'D'you hould by that?' sez\nshe, peerin' up under her thick grey eyebrows.\n\n\"'Ay, an wud,' sez I, 'tho' Dinah give me the go twinty times. I'll have\nno thruck with you or yours,' sez I. 'Take your child away, ye shameless\nwoman.'\n\n\"'An' am I shameless?' sez she, bringin' her hands up above her head.\n'Thin what are you, ye lyin', schamin', weak-kneed, dhirty-souled son av a\nsutler? Am _I_ shameless? Who put the open shame on me an' my child that\nwe shud go beggin' through the lines in the broad daylight for the broken\nword of a man? Double portion of my shame be on you, Terence Mulvaney,\nthat think yourself so strong! By Mary and the saints, by blood and water\nan' by ivry sorrow that came into the world since the beginnin', the black\nblight fall on you and yours, so that you may niver be free from pain for\nanother when ut's not your own! May your heart bleed in your breast drop\nby drop wid all your friends laughin' at the bleedin'! Strong you think\nyourself? May your strength be a curse to you to dhrive you into the\ndivil's hands against your own will! Clear-eyed you are? May your eyes see\ndear evry step av the dark path you take till the hot cindhers av hell put\nthim out! May the ragin' dry thirst in my own ould bones go to you that\nyou shall niver pass bottle full nor glass empty. God preserve the light\nav your onder-standin' to you, my jewel av a bhoy, that ye may niver\nforget what you mint to be an' do, whin you're wallowin' in the muck! May\nye see the betther and follow the worse as long as there's breath in your\nbody; an' may ye die quick in a strange land; watchin' your death before\nut takes you, an' onable to stir hand or foot!'\n\n\"I heard a scufflin' in the room behind, and thin Dinah Shadd's hand\ndhropped into mine like a rose-leaf into a muddy road.\n\n\"'The half av that I'll take,' sez she, 'an' more too if I can. Go home,\nye silly talkin' woman,--go home an' confess.'\n\n\"'Come away! Come away!' sez Judy, pullin' her mother by the shawl. ''Twas\nnone av Terence's fault. For the love av Mary stop the talkin'!'\n\n\"'An' you!' said ould Mother Sheehy, spinnin' round forninst Dinah. 'Will\nye take the half av that man's load? Stand off from him, Dinah Shadd,\nbefore he takes you down too--you that look to be a quarther-master-\nsergeant's wife in five years. You look too high, child. You shall _wash_\nfor the quarther-master-sergeant, whin he plases to give you the job out\nav charity; but a privit's wife you shall be to the end, an' evry sorrow\nof a privit's wife you shall know and nivir a joy but wan, that shall go\nfrom you like the running tide from a rock. The pain av bearin' you shall\nknow but niver the pleasure av giving the breast; an' you shall put away\na man-child into the common ground wid never a priest to say a prayer over\nhim, an' on that man-child ye shall think ivry day av your life. Think\nlong, Dinah Shadd, for you'll niver have another tho' you pray till your\nknees are bleedin'. The mothers av childer shall mock you behind your back\nwhen you're wringing over the washtub. You shall know what ut is to help a\ndhrunken husband home an' see him go to the gyard-room. Will that plase\nyou, Dinah Shadd, that won't be seen talkin' to my daughter? You shall\ntalk to worse than Judy before all's over. The sergints' wives shall look\ndown on you contemptuous, daughter av a sergint, an' you shall cover ut\nall up wid a smiling face when your heart's burstin'. Stand off av him,\nDinah Shadd, for I've put the Black Curse of Shielygh upon him an' his own\nmouth shall make ut good.\"\n\n\"She pitched forward on her head an' began foamin' at the mouth. Dinah\nShadd ran out wid water, an' Judy dhragged the ould woman into the veranda\ntill she sat up.\n\n\"'I'm old an' forlore,' she sez, thremblin' an' cryin', 'and 'tis like I\nsay a dale more than I mane.'\n\n\"'When you're able to walk,--go,' says ould Mother Shadd. 'This house has\nno place for the likes av you that have cursed my daughter.'\n\n\"'Eyah!' said the ould woman. 'Hard words break no bones, an' Dinah Shadd\n'll keep the love av her husband till my bones are green corn, Judy\ndarlin', I misremember what I came here for. Can you lend us the bottom av\na taycup av tay, Mrs. Shadd?'\n\n\"But Judy dhragged her off cryin' as tho' her heart wud break. An' Dinah\nShadd an' I, in ten minutes we had forgot ut all.\"\n\n\"Then why do you remember it now?\" said I.\n\n\"Is ut like I'd forget? Ivry word that wicked ould woman spoke fell thrue\nin my life aftherward, an' I cud ha' stud ut all--stud ut all--excipt when\nmy little Shadd was born. That was on the line av march three months\nafther the regiment was taken with cholera. We were betune Umballa an'\nKalka thin, an' I was on picket. Whin I came off duty the women showed me\nthe child, an' ut turned on uts side an' died as I looked. We buried him\nby the road, an' Father Victor was a day's march behind wid the heavy\nbaggage, so the comp'ny captain read a prayer. An' since then I've been a\nchildless man, an' all else that ould Mother Sheehy put upon me an' Dinah\nShadd. What do you think, sorr?\"\n\nI thought a good deal, but it seemed better then to reach out for\nMulvaney's hand. The demonstration nearly cost me the use of three\nfingers. Whatever he knows of his weaknesses, Mulvaney is entirely\nignorant of his strength.\n\n\"But what do you think?\" he repeated, as I was straightening out the\ncrushed fingers.\n\nMy reply was drowned in yells and outcries from the next fire, where ten\nmen were shouting for \"Orth'ris,\" \"Privit Orth'ris,\" \"Mistah\nOr--ther--ris!\" \"Deah boy,\" \"Cap'n Orth'ris,\" \"Field-Marshal Orth'ris,\"\n\"Stanley, you pen'north o' pop, come 'ere to your own comp'ny!\" And the\ncockney, who had been delighting another audience with recondite and\nRabelaisian yarns, was shot down among his admirers by the major force.\n\n\"You've crumpled my dress-shirt 'orrid,\" said he, \"an' I shan't sing no\nmore to this 'ere bloomin' drawin'-room.\"\n\nLearoyd, roused by the confusion, uncoiled himself, crept behind Ortheris,\nand slung him aloft on his shoulders.\n\n\"Sing, ye bloomin' hummin' bird!\" said he, and Ortheris, beating time on\nLearoyd's skull, delivered himself, in the raucous voice of the Ratcliffe\nHighway, of this song:--\n\n   My girl she give me the go onst,\n     When I was a London lad,\n   An' I went on the drink for a fortnight,\n     An' then I went to the bad.\n   The Queen she give me a shillin'\n     To fight for 'er over the seas;\n   But Guv'ment built me a fever-trap,\n     An' Injia give me disease.\n\n_Chorus._\n\n   Ho! don't you 'eed what a girl says,\n     An' don't you go for the beer;\n   But I was an ass when I was at grass,\n     An' that is why I'm here.\n\n   I fired a shot at a Afghan,\n     The beggar 'e fired again,\n   An' I lay on my bed with a 'ole in my 'ed,\n     An' missed the next campaign!\n   I up with my gun at a Burman\n     Who carried a bloomin' _dah_,\n   But the cartridge stuck and the bay'nit bruk,\n     An' all I got was the scar.\n\n_Chorus._\n\n   Ho! don't you aim at a Afghan\n     When you stand on the sky-line clear;\n   An' don't you go for a Burman\n     If none o' your friends is near.\n\n  I served my time for a corp'ral,\n     An' wetted my stripes with pop,\n   For I went on the bend with a intimate friend,\n     An' finished the night in the \"shop.\"\n   I served my time for a sergeant;\n     The colonel 'e sez \"No!\n   The most you'll see is a full C.B.\" [1]\n     An' ... very next night 'twas so.\n\n[Footnote 1: Confined to barracks.]\n\n_Chorus._\n\n   Ho! don't you go for a corp'ral\n     Unless your 'ed is clear;\n   But I was an ass when I was at grass,\n     An' that is why I'm 'ere.\n\n   I've tasted the luck o' the army\n     In barrack an' camp an' clink,\n   An' I lost my tip through the bloomin' trip\n     Along o' the women an' drink.\n   I'm down at the heel o' my service\n     An' when I am laid on the shelf,\n   My very wust friend from beginning to end\n     By the blood of a mouse was myself!\n\n_Chorus_.\n\n   Ho! don't you 'eed what a girl says,\n     An' don't you go for the beer:\n   But I was an ass when I was at grass,\n     An' that is why I'm 'ere,\n\n\"Ay, listen to our little man now, singin' an' shoutin' as tho' trouble\nhad niver touched him. D' you remember when he went mad with the\nhomesickness?\" said Mulvaney, recalling a never-to-be-forgotten season\nwhen Ortheris waded through the deep waters of affliction and behaved\nabominably. \"But he's talkin' bitter truth, though. Eyah!\n\n  \"My very worst frind from beginnin' to ind\n  By the blood av a mouse was mesilf!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen I woke I saw Mulvaney, the night-dew gemming his moustache, leaning\non his rifle at picket, lonely as Prometheus on his rock, with I know not\nwhat vultures tearing his liver.\n\n\n\n\nTHE STORY OF MUHAMMAD DIN\n\n\n  Who is the happy man? He that sees in his own house at home, little\nchildren crowned with dust, leaping and falling and crying.\n--_Munichandra_, translated by Professor Peterson.\n\nThe polo-ball was an old one, scarred, chipped, and dinted. It stood on\nthe mantelpiece among the pipe-stems which Imam Din, _khitmatgar_, was\ncleaning for me.\n\n\"Does the Heaven-born want this ball?\" said Imam Din, deferentially.\n\nThe Heaven-born set no particular store by it; but of what use was a\npolo-ball to a _khitmatgar_?\n\n\"By your Honor's favor, I have a little son. He has seen this ball, and\ndesires it to play with. I do not want it for myself.\"\n\nNo one would for an instant accuse portly old Imam Din of wanting to play\nwith polo-balls. He carried out the battered thing into the veranda; and\nthere followed a hurricane of joyful squeaks, a patter of small feet, and\nthe _thud-thud-thud_ of the ball rolling along the ground. Evidently the\nlittle son had been waiting outside the door to secure his treasure. But\nhow had he managed to see that polo-ball?\n\nNext day, coming back from office half an hour earlier than usual, I was\naware of a small figure in the dining-room--a tiny, plump figure in a\nridiculously inadequate shirt which came, perhaps, half-way down the tubby\nstomach. It wandered round the room, thumb in mouth, crooning to itself as\nit took stock of the pictures. Undoubtedly this was the \"little son.\"\n\nHe had no business in my room, of course; but was so deeply absorbed in\nhis discoveries that he never noticed me in the doorway. I stepped into\nthe room and startled him nearly into a fit. He sat down on the ground\nwith a gasp. His eyes opened, and his mouth followed suit. I knew what was\ncoming, and fled, followed by a long, dry howl which reached the servants'\nquarters far more quickly than any command of mine had ever done. In ten\nseconds Imam Din was in the dining-room. Then despairing sobs arose, and I\nreturned to find Imam Din admonishing the small sinner who was using most\nof his shirt as a handkerchief.\n\n\"This boy,\" said Imam Din, judicially, \"is a _budmash_--a big _budmash_.\nHe will, without doubt, go to the _jail-khana_ for his behavior.\" Renewed\nyells from the penitent, and an elaborate apology to myself from Imam Din.\n\n\"Tell the baby,\" said I, \"that the _Sahib_ is not angry, and take him\naway.\" Imam Din conveyed my forgiveness to the offender, who had now\ngathered all his shirt round his neck, stringwise, and the yell subsided\ninto a sob. The two set off for the door. \"His name,\" said Imam Din, as\nthough the name were part of the crime, \"is Muhammad Din, and he is a\n_budmash_.\" Freed from present danger, Muhammad Din turned round in his\nfather's arms, and said gravely, \"It is true that my name is Muhammad Din,\n_Tahib_, but I am not a _budmash_. I am a _man!_\"\n\nFrom that day dated my acquaintance with Muhammad Din. Never again did he\ncome into my dining-room, but on the neutral ground of the garden, we\ngreeted each other with much state, though our conversation was confined\nto \"_Talaam, Tahib_\" from his side, and \"_Salaam, Muhammad Din_\" from\nmine. Daily on my return from office, the little white shirt, and the fat\nlittle body used to rise from the shade of the creeper-covered trellis\nwhere they had been hid; and daily I checked my horse here, that my\nsalutation might not be slurred over or given unseemly.\n\nMuhammad Din never had any companions. He used to trot about the compound,\nin and out of the castor-oil bushes, on mysterious errands of his own. One\nday I stumbled upon some of his handiwork far down the grounds. He had\nhalf buried the polo-ball in dust, and stuck six shriveled old marigold\nflowers in a circle round it.\n\nOutside that circle again was a rude square, traced out in bits of red\nbrick alternating with fragments of broken china; the whole bounded by a\nlittle bank of dust. The water-man from the well-curb put in a plea for\nthe small architect, saying that it was only the play of a baby and did\nnot much disfigure my garden.\n\nHeaven knows that I had no intention of touching the child's work then or\nlater; but, that evening, a stroll through the garden brought me unawares\nfull on it; so that I trampled, before I knew, marigold-heads, dust-bank,\nand fragments of broken soap-dish into confusion past all hope of mending.\nNext morning, I came upon Muhammad Din crying softly to himself over the\nruin I had wrought. Some one had cruelly told him that the _Sahib_ was\nvery angry with him for spoiling the garden, and had scattered his\nrubbish, using bad language the while. Muhammad Din labored for an hour at\neffacing every trace of the dust-bank and pottery fragments, and it was\nwith a tearful and apologetic face that he said \"_Talaam, Tahib_,\" when I\ncame home from office. A hasty inquiry resulted in Imam Din informing\nMuhammad Din that, by my singular favor, he was permitted to disport\nhimself as he pleased. Whereat the child took heart and fell to tracing\nthe ground-plan of an edifice which was to eclipse the marigold-polo-ball\ncreation.\n\nFor some months, the chubby little eccentricity revolved in his humble\norbit among the castor-oil bushes and in the dust; always fashioning\nmagnificent palaces from stale flowers thrown away by the bearer, smooth\nwater-worn pebbles, bits of broken glass, and feathers pulled, I fancy,\nfrom my fowls--always alone, and always crooning to himself.\n\nA gaily-spotted sea-shell was dropped one day close to the last of his\nlittle buildings; and I looked that Muhammad Din should build something\nmore than ordinarily splendid on the strength of it. Nor was I\ndisappointed. He meditated for the better part of an hour, and his\ncrooning rose to a jubilant song. Then he began tracing in the dust. It\nwould certainly be a wondrous palace, this one, for it was two yards long\nand a yard broad in ground-plan. But the palace was never completed.\n\nNext day there was no Muhammad Din at the head of the carriage-drive, and\nno \"_Talaam, Tahib_\" to welcome my return. I had grown accustomed to the\ngreeting, and its omission troubled me. Next day Imam Din told me that the\nchild was suffering slightly from fever and needed quinine. He got the\nmedicine, and an English Doctor.\n\n\"They have no stamina, these brats,\" said the Doctor, as he left Imam\nDin's quarters.\n\nA week later, though I would have given much to have avoided it, I met on\nthe road to the Mussulman burying-ground Imam Din, accompanied by one\nother friend, carrying in his arms, wrapped in a white cloth, all that was\nleft of little Muhammad Din.\n\n\n\nIN FLOOD TIME\n\n   Tweed said tae Till:\n   \"What gars ye rin sae Still?\"\n   Till said tae Tweed:\n   \"Though ye rin wi' speed\n   An' I rin slaw--\n   Yet where ye droon ae man\n   I droon twa.\"\n\nThere is no getting over the river to-night, Sahib. They say that a\nbullock-cart has been washed down already, and the _ekka_ that went over a\nhalf hour before you came, has not yet reached the far side. Is the Sahib\nin haste? I will drive the ford-elephant in to show him. _Oh\u00e9, mahout_\nthere in the shed! Bring out Ram Pershad, and if he will face the current,\ngood. An elephant never lies, Sahib, and Ram Pershad is separated from his\nfriend Kala Nag. He, too, wishes to cross to the far side. Well done! Well\ndone! my King! Go half way across, _mahoutji_, and see what the river\nsays. Well done, Ram Pershad! Pearl among elephants, go into the river!\nHit him on the head, fool! Was the goad made only to scratch thy own fat\nback with, bastard? Strike! Strike! What are the boulders to thee, Ram\nPershad, my Rustum, my mountain of strength? Go in! Go in!\n\nNo, Sahib! It is useless. You can hear him trumpet. He is telling Kala Nag\nthat he cannot come over. See! He has swung round and is shaking his head.\nHe is no fool. He knows what the Barhwi means when it is angry. Aha!\nIndeed, thou art no fool, my child! _Salaam_, Ram Pershad, Bahadur! Take\nhim under the trees, _mahout_, and see that he gets his spices. Well done,\nthou chiefest among tuskers. _Salaam_ to the Sirkar and go to sleep.\n\nWhat is to be done? The Sahib must wait till the river goes down. It will\nshrink to-morrow morning, if God pleases, or the day after at the latest.\nNow why does the Sahib get so angry? I am his servant. Before God, _I_ did\nnot create this stream! What can I do? My hut and all that is therein is\nat the service of the Sahib, and it is beginning to rain. Come away, my\nLord, How will the river go down for your throwing abuse at it? In the old\ndays the English people were not thus. The fire-carriage has made them\nsoft. In the old days, when they drave behind horses by day or by night,\nthey said naught if a river barred the way, or a carriage sat down in the\nmud. It was the will of God--not like a fire-carriage which goes and goes\nand goes, and would go though all the devils in the land hung on to its\ntail. The fire-carriage hath spoiled the English people. After all, what\nis a day lost, or, for that matter, what are two days? Is the Sahib going\nto his own wedding, that he is so mad with haste? Ho! Ho! Ho! I am an old\nman and see few Sahibs. Forgive me if I have forgotten the respect that is\ndue to them. The Sahib is not angry?\n\nHis own wedding! Ho! Ho! Ho! The mind of an old man is like the\n_numah_-tree. Fruit, bud, blossom, and the dead leaves of all the years of\nthe past flourish together. Old and new and that which is gone out of\nremembrance, all three are there! Sit on the bedstead, Sahib, and drink\nmilk. Or--would the Sahib in truth care to drink my tobacco? It is good.\nIt is the tobacco of Nuklao. My son, who is in service there sent it to\nme. Drink, then, Sahib, if you know how to handle the tube. The Sahib\ntakes it like a Musalman. Wah! Wah! Where did he learn that? His own\nwedding! Ho! Ho! Ho! The Sahib says that there is no wedding in the matter\nat all? Now _is_ it likely that the Sahib would speak true talk to me who\nam only a black man? Small wonder, then, that he is in haste. Thirty years\nhave I beaten the gong at this ford, but never have I seen a Sahib in such\nhaste. Thirty years, Sahib! That is a very long time. Thirty years ago\nthis ford was on the track of the _bunjaras_, and I have seen two thousand\npack-bullocks cross in one night. Now the rail has come, and the\nfire-carriage says _buz-buz-buz_, and a hundred lakhs of maunds slide\nacross that big bridge. It is very wonderful; but the ford is lonely now\nthat there are no _bunjaras_ to camp under the trees.\n\nNay, do not trouble to look at the sky without. It will rain till the\ndawn. Listen! The boulders are talking to-night in the bed of the river.\nHear them! They would be husking your bones, Sahib, had you tried to\ncross. See, I will shut the door and no rain can enter. _Wahi! Ahi! Ugh!_\nThirty years on the banks of the ford! An old man am I and--where is the\noil for the lamp?\n\n\n       *\n       *\n       *\n       *\n       *\n\nYour pardon, but, because of my years, I sleep no sounder than a dog; and\nyou moved to the door. Look then, Sahib. Look and listen. A full half\n_kos_ from bank to bank is the stream now--you can see it under the\nstars--and there are ten feet of water therein. It will not shrink because\nof the anger in your eyes, and it will not be quiet on account of your\ncurses. Which is louder, Sahib--your voice or the voice of the river? Call\nto it--perhaps it will be ashamed. Lie down and sleep afresh, Sahib. I\nknow the anger of the Barhwi when there has fallen rain in the foot-hills.\nI swam the flood, once, on a night tenfold worse than this, and by the\nFavor of God I was released from Death when I had come to the very gates\nthereof.\n\nMay I tell the tale? Very good talk. I will fill the pipe anew.\n\nThirty years ago it was, when I was a young man and had but newly come to\nthe ford. I was strong then, and the _bunjaras_ had no doubt when I said\n\"this ford is clear.\" I have toiled all night up to my shoulder-blades in\nrunning water amid a hundred bullocks mad with fear, and have brought them\nacross losing not a hoof. When all was done I fetched the shivering men,\nand they gave me for reward the pick of their cattle--the bell-bullock of\nthe drove. So great was the honor in which I was held! But, to-day when\nthe rain falls and the river rises, I creep into my hut and whimper like a\ndog. My strength is gone from me. I am an old man and the fire-carriage\nhas made the ford desolate. They were wont to call me the Strong One of\nthe Barhwi.\n\nBehold my face, Sahib--it is the face of a monkey. And my arm--it is the\narm of an old woman. I swear to you, Sahib, that a woman has loved this\nface and has rested in the hollow of this arm. Twenty years ago, Sahib.\nBelieve me, this was true talk--twenty years ago.\n\nCome to the door and look across. Can you see a thin fire very far away\ndown the stream? That is the temple-fire, in the shrine of Hanuman, of the\nvillage of Pateera. North, under the big star, is the village itself, but\nit is hidden by a bend of the river. Is that far to swim, Sahib? Would you\ntake off your clothes and adventure? Yet I swam to Pateera--not once but\nmany times; and there are _muggers_ in the river too.\n\nLove knows no caste; else why should I, a Musalman and the son of a\nMusalman, have sought a Hindu woman--a widow of the Hindus--the sister of\nthe headman of Pateera? But it was even so. They of the headman's\nhousehold came on a pilgrimage to Muttra when She was but newly a bride.\nSilver tires were upon the wheels of the bullock-cart, and silken curtains\nhid the woman. Sahib, I made no haste in their conveyance, for the wind\nparted the curtains and I saw Her. When they returned from pilgrimage the\nboy that was Her husband had died, and I saw Her again in the\nbullock-cart. By God, these Hindus are fools! What was it to me whether\nShe was Hindu or Jain--scavenger, leper, or whole? I would have married\nHer and made Her a home by the ford. The Seventh of the Nine Bars says\nthat a man may not marry one of the idolaters? Is that truth? Both Shiahs\nand Sunnis say that a Musalman may not marry one of the idolaters? Is the\nSahib a priest, then, that he knows so much? I will tell him something\nthat he does not know. There is neither Shiah nor Sunni, forbidden nor\nidolater, in Love; and the Nine Bars are but nine little fagots that the\nflame of Love utterly burns away. In truth, I would have taken Her; but\nwhat could I do? The headman would have sent his men to break my head with\nstaves. I am not--I was not--afraid of any five men; but against half a\nvillage who can prevail?\n\nTherefore it was my custom, these things having been arranged between us\ntwain, to go by night to the village of Pateera, and there we met among\nthe crops; no man knowing aught of the matter. Behold, now! I was wont to\ncross here, skirting the jungle to the river bend where the railway bridge\nis, and thence across the elbow of land to Pateera. The light of the\nshrine was my guide when the nights were dark. That jungle near the river\nis very full of snakes--little _karaits_ that sleep on the sand--and\nmoreover, Her brothers would have slain me had they found me in the crops.\nBut none knew--none knew save She and I; and the blown sand of the\nriver-bed covered the track of my feet. In the hot months it was an easy\nthing to pass from the ford to Pateera, and in the first Rains, when the\nriver rose slowly, it was an easy thing also. I set the strength of my\nbody against the strength of the stream, and nightly I ate in my hut here\nand drank at Pateera yonder. She had said that one Hirnam Singh, a thief,\nhad sought Her, and he was of a village up the river but on the same bank.\nAll Sikhs are dogs, and they have refused in their folly that good gift of\nGod--tobacco. I was ready to destroy Hirnam Singh that ever he had come\nnigh Her; and the more because he had sworn to Her that She had a lover,\nand that he would lie in wait and give the name to the headman unless She\nwent away with him. What curs are these Sikhs!\n\nAfter that news, I swam always with a little sharp knife in my belt, and\nevil would it have been for a man had he stayed me, I knew not the face of\nHirnam Singh, but I would have killed any who came between me and Her.\n\nUpon a night in the beginning of the Rains, I was minded to go across to\nPateera, albeit the river was angry. Now the nature of the Barhwi is this,\nSahib. In twenty breaths it comes down from the Hills, a wall three feet\nhigh, and I have seen it, between the lighting of a fire and the cooking\nof a _chupatty_, grow from a runnel to a sister of the Jumna.\n\nWhen I left this bank there was a shoal a half mile down, and I made shift\nto fetch it and draw breath there ere going forward; for I felt the hands\nof the river heavy upon my heels. Yet what will a young man not do for\nLove's sake? There was but little light from the stars, and midway to the\nshoal a branch of the stinking deodar tree brushed my mouth as I swam.\nThat was a sign of heavy rain in the foot-hills and beyond, for the deodar\nis a strong tree, not easily shaken from the hillsides. I made haste, the\nriver aiding me, but ere I had touched the shoal, the pulse of the stream\nbeat, as it were, within me and around, and, behold, the shoal was gone\nand I rode high on the crest of a wave that ran from bank to bank. Has the\nSahib ever been cast into much water that fights and will not let a man\nuse his limbs? To me, my head upon the water, it seemed as though there\nwere naught but water to the world's end, and the river drave me with its\ndriftwood. A man is a very little thing in the belly of a flood. And\n_this_ flood, though I knew it not, was the Great Flood about which men\ntalk still. My liver was dissolved and I lay like a log upon my back in\nthe fear of Death. There were living things in the water, crying and\nhowling grievously--beasts of the forest and cattle, and once the voice of\na man asking for help. But the rain came and lashed the water white, and I\nheard no more save the roar of the boulders below and the roar of the rain\nabove. Thus I was whirled down-stream, wrestling for the breath in me. It\nis very hard to die when one is young. Can the Sahib, standing here, see\nthe railway bridge? Look, there are the lights of the mail-train going to\nPeshawur! The bridge is now twenty feet above the river, but upon that\nnight the water was roaring against the lattice-work and against the\nlattice came I feet first, But much driftwood was piled there and upon the\npiers, and I took no great hurt. Only the river pressed me as a strong man\npresses a weaker. Scarcely could I take hold of the lattice-work and crawl\nto the upper boom. Sahib, the water was foaming across the rails a foot\ndeep! Judge therefore what manner of flood it must have been. I could not\nhear, I could not see. I could but lie on the boom and pant for breath.\n\nAfter a while the rain ceased and there came out in the sky certain new\nwashed stars, and by their light I saw that there was no end to the black\nwater as far as the eye could travel, and the water had risen upon the\nrails. There were dead beasts in the driftwood on the piers, and others\ncaught by the neck in the lattice-work, and others not yet drowned who\nstrove to find a foothold on the lattice-work--buffaloes and kine, and\nwild pig, and deer one or two, and snakes and jackals past all counting.\nTheir bodies were black upon the left side of the bridge, but the smaller\nof them were forced through the lattice-work and whirled down-stream.\n\nThereafter the stars died and the rain came down afresh and the river rose\nyet more, and I felt the bridge begin to stir under me as a man stirs in\nhis sleep ere he wakes. But I was not afraid, Sahib. I swear to you that I\nwas not afraid, though I had no power in my limbs. I knew that I should\nnot die till I had seen Her once more. But I was very cold, and I felt\nthat the bridge must go.\n\nThere was a trembling in the water, such a trembling as goes before the\ncoming of a great wave, and the bridge lifted its flank to the rush of\nthat coming so that the right lattice dipped under water and the left rose\nclear. On my beard, Sahib, I am speaking God's truth! As a Mirzapore\nstone-boat careens to the wind, so the Barhwi Bridge turned. Thus and in\nno other manner.\n\nI slid from the boom into deep water, and behind me came the wave of the\nwrath of the river. I heard its voice and the scream of the middle part of\nthe bridge as it moved from the piers and sank, and I knew no more till I\nrose in the middle of the great flood. I put forth my hand to swim, and\nlo! it fell upon the knotted hair of the head of a man. He was dead, for\nno one but I, the Strong One of Barhwi, could have lived in that race. He\nhad been dead full two days, for he rode high, wallowing, and was an aid\nto me, I laughed then, knowing for a surety that I should yet see Her and\ntake no harm; and I twisted my fingers in the hair of the man, for I was\nfar spent, and together we went down the stream--he the dead and I the\nliving. Lacking that help I should have sunk: the cold was in my marrow,\nand my flesh was ribbed and sodden on my bones. But _he_ had no fear who\nhad known the uttermost of the power of the river; and I let him go where\nhe chose. At last we came into the power of a side-current that set to the\nright bank, and I strove with my feet to draw with it. But the dead man\nswung heavily in the whirl, and I feared that some branch had struck him\nand that he would sink. The tops of the tamarisk brushed my knees, so I\nknew we were come into flood-water above the crops, and, after, I let down\nmy legs and felt bottom--the ridge of a field--and, after, the dead man\nstayed upon a knoll under a fig-tree, and I drew my body from the water\nrejoicing.\n\nDoes the Sahib know whither the backwash of the flood had borne me? To the\nknoll which is the eastern boundary-mark of the village of Pateera! No\nother place. I drew the dead man up on the grass for the service that he\nhad done me, and also because I knew not whether I should need him again.\nThen I went, crying thrice like a jackal, to the appointed place which was\nnear the byre of the headman's house. But my Love was already there,\nweeping. She feared that the flood had swept my hut at the Barhwi Ford.\nWhen I came softly through the ankle-deep water, She thought it was a\nghost and would have fled, but I put my arms round Her, and--I was no\nghost in those days, though I am an old man now. Ho! Ho! Dried corn, in\ntruth. Maize without juice. Ho! Ho! [Footnote: I grieve to say that the\nWarden of Barhwi ford is responsible here for two very bad puns in the\nvernacular.--_R.K._]\n\nI told Her the story of the breaking of the Barhwi Bridge, and She said\nthat I was greater than mortal man, for none may cross the Barhwi in full\nflood, and I had seen what never man had seen before. Hand in hand we went\nto the knoll where the dead lay, and I showed Her by what help I had made\nthe ford. She looked also upon the body under the stars, for the latter\nend of the night was clear, and hid Her face in Her hands, crying: \"It is\nthe body of Hirnam Singh!\" I said: \"The swine is of more use dead than\nliving, my Beloved,\" and She said: \"Surely, for he has saved the dearest\nlife in the world to my love. None the less, he cannot stay here, for that\nwould bring shame upon me.\" The body was not a gunshot from her door.\n\nThen said I, rolling the body with my hands: \"God hath judged between us,\nHirnam Singh, that thy blood might not be upon my head. Now, whether I\nhave done thee a wrong in keeping thee from the burning-ghat, do thou and\nthe crows settle together.\" So I cast him adrift into the flood-water, and\nhe was drawn out to the open, ever wagging his thick black beard like a\npriest under the pulpit-board. And I saw no more of Hirnam Singh.\n\nBefore the breaking of the day we two parted, and I moved toward such of\nthe jungle as was not flooded. With the full light I saw what I had done\nin the darkness, and the bones of my body were loosened in my flesh, for\nthere ran two _kos_ of raging water between the village of Pateera and the\ntrees of the far bank, and, in the middle, the piers of the Barhwi Bridge\nshowed like broken teeth in the jaw of an old man. Nor was there any life\nupon the waters--neither birds nor boats, but only an army of drowned\nthings--bullocks and horses and men--and the river was redder than blood\nfrom the clay of the foot-hills. Never had I seen such a flood--never\nsince that year have I seen the like--and, O Sahib, no man living had done\nwhat I had done. There was no return for me that day. Not for all the\nlands of the headman would I venture a second time without the shield of\ndarkness that cloaks danger. I went a _kos_ up the river to the house of a\nblacksmith, saying that the flood had swept me from my hut, and they gave\nme food. Seven days I stayed with the blacksmith, till a boat came and I\nreturned to my house. There was no trace of wall, or roof, or\nfloor--naught but a patch of slimy mud. Judge, therefore, Sahib, how far\nthe river must have risen.\n\nIt was written that I should not die either in my house, or in the heart\nof the Barhwi, or under the wreck of the Barhwi Bridge, for God sent down\nHirnam Singh two days dead, though I know not how the man died, to be my\nbuoy and support. Hirnam Singh has been in Hell these twenty years, and\nthe thought of that night must be the flower of his torment.\n\nListen, Sahib! The river has changed its voice. It is going to sleep\nbefore the dawn, to which there is yet one hour. With the light it will\ncome down afresh. How do I know? Have I been here thirty years without\nknowing the voice of the river as a father knows the voice of his son?\nEvery moment it is talking less angrily. I swear that there will be no\ndanger for one hour or, perhaps, two. I cannot answer for the morning. Be\nquick, Sahib! I will call Ram Pershad, and he will not turn back this\ntime. Is the paulin tightly corded upon all the baggage? _Oh\u00e9, mahout_\nwith a mud head, the elephant for the Sahib, and tell them on the far side\nthat there will be no crossing after daylight.\n\nMoney? Nay, Sahib. I am not of that kind. No, not even to give sweetmeats\nto the baby-folk. My house, look you, is empty, and I am an old man.\n\n_Dutt_, Ram Pershad! _Dutt! Dutt! Dutt!_ Good luck go with you, Sahib.\n\n\n\nMY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY\n\n   As I came through the Desert thus it was--\n   As I came through the Desert.\n\n--_The City of Dreadful Night_.\n\nSomewhere in the Other World, where there are books and pictures and plays\nand shop-windows to look at, and thousands of men who spend their lives in\nbuilding up all four, lives a gentleman who writes real stories about the\nreal insides of people; and his name is Mr. Walter Besant. But he will\ninsist upon treating his ghosts--he has published half a workshopful of\nthem--with levity. He makes his ghost-seers talk familiarly, and, in some\ncases, flirt outrageously, with the phantoms. You may treat anything, from\na Viceroy to a Vernacular Paper, with levity; but you must behave\nreverently toward a ghost, and particularly an Indian one.\n\nThere are, in this land, ghosts who take the form of fat, cold, pobby\ncorpses, and hide in trees near the roadside till a traveler passes. Then\nthey drop upon his neck and remain. There are also terrible ghosts of\nwomen who have died in child-bed. These wander along the pathways at dusk,\nor hide in the crops near a village, and call seductively. But to answer\ntheir call is death in this world and the next. Their feet are turned\nbackward that all sober men may recognize them. There are ghosts of little\nchildren who have been thrown into wells. These haunt well-curbs and the\nfringes of jungles, and wail under the stars, or catch women by the wrist\nand beg to be taken up and carried. These and the corpse-ghosts, however,\nare only vernacular articles and do not attack Sahibs. No native ghost has\nyet been authentically reported to have frightened an Englishman; but many\nEnglish ghosts have scared the life out of both white and black.\n\nNearly every other Station owns a ghost. There are said to be two at\nSimla, not counting the woman who blows the bellows at Syree d\u00e2k-bungalow\non the Old Road; Mussoorie has a house haunted of a very lively Thing; a\nWhite Lady is supposed to do night-watchman round a house in Lahore;\nDalhousie says that one of her houses \"repeats\" on autumn evenings all the\nincidents of a horrible horse-and-precipice accident; Murree has a merry\nghost, and, now that she has been swept by cholera, will have room for a\nsorrowful one; there are Officers Quarters in Mian Mir whose doors open\nwithout reason, and whose furniture is guaranteed to creak, not with the\nheat of June but with the weight of Invisibles who come to lounge in the\nchair; Peshawur possesses houses that none will willingly rent; and there\nis something--not fever--wrong with a big bungalow in Allahabad. The older\nProvinces simply bristle with haunted houses, and march phantom armies\nalong their main thoroughfares.\n\nSome of the d\u00e2k-bungalows on the Grand Trunk Road have handy little\ncemeteries in their compound--witnesses to the \"changes and chances of\nthis mortal life\" in the days when men drove from Calcutta to the\nNorthwest. These bungalows are objectionable places to put up in. They are\ngenerally very old, always dirty, while the _khansamah_ is as ancient as\nthe bungalow. He either chatters senilely, or falls into the long trances\nof age. In both moods he is useless. If you get angry with him, he refers\nto some Sahib dead and buried these thirty years, and says that when he\nwas in that Sahib's service not a _khansamah_ in the Province could touch\nhim. Then he jabbers and mows and trembles and fidgets among the dishes,\nand you repent of your irritation.\n\nIn these d\u00e2k-bungalows, ghosts are most likely to be found, and when\nfound, they should be made a note of. Not long ago it was my business to\nlive in d\u00e2k-bungalows. I never inhabited the same house for three nights\nrunning, and grew to be learned in the breed. I lived in Government-built\nones with red brick walls and rail ceilings, an inventory of the furniture\nposted in every room, and an excited snake at the threshold to give\nwelcome. I lived in \"converted\" ones--old houses officiating as\nd\u00e2k-bungalows--where nothing was in its proper place and there wasn't even\na fowl for dinner. I lived in second-hand palaces where the wind blew\nthrough open-work marble tracery just as uncomfortably as through a broken\npane. I lived in d\u00e2k-bungalows where the last entry in the visitors' book\nwas fifteen months old, and where they slashed off the curry-kid's head\nwith a sword. It was my good-luck to meet all sorts of men, from sober\ntraveling missionaries and deserters flying from British Regiments, to\ndrunken loafers who threw whiskey bottles at all who passed; and my still\ngreater good-fortune just to escape a maternity case. Seeing that a fair\nproportion of the tragedy of our lives out here acted itself in\nd\u00e2k-bungalows, I wondered that I had met no ghosts. A ghost that would\nvoluntarily hang about a d\u00e2k-bungalow would be mad of course; but so many\nmen have died mad in d\u00e2k-bungalows that there must be a fair percentage of\nlunatic ghosts.\n\nIn due time I found my ghost, or ghosts rather, for there were two of\nthem. Up till that hour I had sympathized with Mr. Besant's method of\nhandling them, as shown in \"_The Strange Case of Mr. Lucraft and other\nStories._\" I am now in the Opposition.\n\nWe will call the bungalow Katmal d\u00e2k-bungalow. But _that_ was the smallest\npart of the horror. A man with a sensitive hide has no right to sleep in\nd\u00e2k-bungalows. He should marry. Katmal d\u00e2k-bungalow was old and rotten and\nunrepaired. The floor was of worn brick, the walls were filthy, and the\nwindows were nearly black with grime. It stood on a bypath largely used by\nnative Sub-Deputy Assistants of all kinds, from Finance to Forests; but\nreal Sahibs were rare. The _khansamah_, who was nearly bent double with\nold age, said so.\n\nWhen I arrived, there was a fitful, undecided rain on the face of the\nland, accompanied by a restless wind, and every gust made a noise like the\nrattling of dry bones in the stiff toddy-palms outside. The _khansamah_\ncompletely lost his head on my arrival. He had served a Sahib once. Did I\nknow that Sahib? He gave me the name of a well-known man who has been\nburied for more than a quarter of a century, and showed me an ancient\ndaguerreotype of that man in his prehistoric youth. I had seen a steel\nengraving of him at the head of a double volume of Memoirs a month before,\nand I felt ancient beyond telling.\n\nThe day shut in and the _khansamah_ went to get me food. He did not go\nthrough the pretence of calling it \"_khana_\"--man's victuals. He said\n\"_ratub_,\" and that means, among other things, \"grub\"--dog's rations.\nThere was no insult in his choice of the term. He had forgotten the other\nword, I suppose.\n\nWhile he was cutting up the dead bodies of animals, I settled myself down,\nafter exploring the d\u00e2k-bungalow. There were three rooms, beside my own,\nwhich was a corner kennel, each giving into the other through dingy white\ndoors fastened with long iron bars. The bungalow was a very solid one, but\nthe partition-walls of the rooms were almost jerry-built in their\nflimsiness. Every step or bang of a trunk echoed from my room down the\nother three, and every footfall came back tremulously from the far walls.\nFor this reason I shut the door. There were no lamps--only candles in long\nglass shades. An oil wick was set in the bath-room.\n\nFor bleak, unadulterated misery that d\u00e2k-bungalow was the worst of the\nmany that I had ever set foot in. There was no fireplace, and the windows\nwould not open; so a brazier of charcoal would have been useless. The rain\nand the wind splashed and gurgled and moaned round the house, and the\ntoddy-palms rattled and roared. Half a dozen jackals went through the\ncompound singing, and a hyena stood afar off and mocked them. A hyena\nwould convince a Sadducee of the Resurrection of the Dead--the worst sort\nof Dead. Then came the _ratub_--a curious meal, half native and half\nEnglish in composition--with the old _khansamah_ babbling behind my chair\nabout dead and gone English people, and the wind-blown candles playing\nshadow-bo-peep with the bed and the mosquito-curtains. It was just the\nsort of dinner and evening to make a man think of every single one of his\npast sins, and of all the others that he intended to commit if he lived.\n\nSleep, for several hundred reasons, was not easy. The lamp in the\nbath-room threw the most absurd shadows into the room, and the wind was\nbeginning to talk nonsense.\n\nJust when the reasons were drowsy with blood-sucking I heard the\nregular--\"Let-us-take-and-heave-him-over\" grunt of doolie-bearers in the\ncompound. First one doolie came in, then a second, and then a third. I\nheard the doolies dumped on the ground, and the shutter in front of my\ndoor shook. \"That's some one trying to come in,\" I said. But no one spoke,\nand I persuaded myself that it was the gusty wind. The shutter of the room\nnext to mine was attacked, flung back, and the inner door opened, \"That's\nsome Sub-Deputy Assistant,\" I said, \"and he has brought his friends with\nhim. Now they'll talk and spit and smoke for an hour.\"\n\nBut there were no voices and no footsteps, No one was putting his luggage\ninto the next room. The door shut, and I thanked Providence that I was to\nbe left in peace. But I was curious to know where the doolies had gone. I\ngot out of bed and looked into the darkness. There was never a sign of a\ndoolie. Just as I was getting into bed again, I heard, in the next room,\nthe sound that no man in his senses can possibly mistake--the whir of a\nbilliard ball down the length of the slates when the striker is stringing\nfor break. No other sound is like it. A minute afterward there was another\nwhir, and I got into bed. I was not frightened--indeed I was not. I was\nvery curious to know what had become of the doolies. I jumped into bed for\nthat reason.\n\nNext minute I heard the double click of a cannon and my hair sat up. It is\na mistake to say that hair stands up. The skin of the head tightens and\nyou can feel a faint, prickly bristling all ever the scalp. That is the\nhair sitting up.\n\nThere was a whir and a click, and both sounds could only have been made by\none thing--a billiard ball. I argued the matter out at great length with\nmyself; and the more I argued the less probable it seemed that one bed,\none table, and two chairs--all the furniture of the room next to\nmine--could so exactly duplicate the sounds of a game of billiards. After\nanother cannon, a three-cushion one to judge by the whir, I argued no\nmore. I had found my ghost and would have given worlds to have escaped\nfrom that d\u00e2k-bungalow. I listened, and with each listen the game grew\nclearer. There was whir on whir and click on click. Sometimes there was a\ndouble click and a whir and another click. Beyond any sort of doubt,\npeople were playing billiards in the next room. And the next room was not\nbig enough to hold a billiard table!\n\nBetween the pauses of the wind I heard the game go forward--stroke after\nstroke. I tried to believe that I could not hear voices; but that attempt\nwas a failure.\n\nDo you know what fear is? Not ordinary fear of insult, injury or death,\nbut abject, quivering dread of something that you cannot see--fear that\ndries the inside of the mouth and half of the throat--fear that makes you\nsweat on the palms of the hands, and gulp in order to keep the uvula at\nwork? This is a fine Fear--a great cowardice, and must be felt to be\nappreciated. The very improbability of billiards in a d\u00e2k-bungalow proved\nthe reality of the thing. No man--drunk or sober--could imagine a game a\nbilliards, or invent the spitting crack of a \"screw-cannon.\"\n\nA severe course of d\u00e2k-bungalows has this disadvantage--it breeds infinite\ncredulity. If a man said to a confirmed d\u00e2k-bungalow-haunter:--\"There is a\ncorpse in the next room, and there's a mad girl in the next but one, and\nthe woman and man on that camel have just eloped from a place sixty miles\naway,\" the hearer would not disbelieve because he would know that nothing\nis too wild, grotesque, or horrible to happen in a d\u00e2k-bungalow.\n\nThis credulity, unfortunately extends to ghosts. A rational person fresh\nfrom his own house would have turned on his side and slept. I did not. So\nsurely as I was given up as a bad carcass by the scores of things in the\nbed because the bulk of my blood was in my heart, so surely did I hear\nevery stroke of a long game at billiards played in the echoing room behind\nthe iron-barred door. My dominant fear was that the players might want a\nmarker. It was an absurd fear; because creatures who could play in the\ndark would be above such superfluities. I only know that that was my\nterror; and it was real.\n\nAfter a long long while, the game stopped, and the door banged, I slept\nbecause I was dead tired. Otherwise I should have preferred to have kept\nawake. Not for everything in Asia would I have dropped the door-bar and\npeered into the dark of the next room.\n\nWhen the morning came, I considered that I had done well and wisely, and\ninquired for the means of departure.\n\n\"By the way, _khansamah_,\" I said, \"what were those three doolies doing in\nmy compound in the night?\"\n\n\"There were no doolies,\" said the _khansamah_.\n\nI went into the next room and the daylight streamed through the open door.\nI was immensely brave. I would, at that hour, have played Black Pool with\nthe owner of the big Black Pool down below.\n\n\"Has this place always been a d\u00e2k-bungalow?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" said the _khansamah_. \"Ten or twenty years ago, I have forgotten how\nlong, it was a billiard-room.\"\n\n\"A how much?\"\n\n\"A billiard-room for the Sahibs who built the Railway. I was _khansamah_\nthen in the big house where all the Railway-Sahibs lived, and I used to\ncome across with brandy-_shrab_. These three rooms were all one, and they\nheld a big table on which the Sahibs played every evening. But the Sahibs\nare all dead now, and the Railway runs, you say, nearly to Kabul.\"\n\n\"Do you remember anything about the Sahibs?\"\n\n\"It is long ago, but I remember that one Sahib, a fat man and always\nangry, was playing here one night, and he said to me:--'Mangal Khan,\nbrandy-_pani do_,' and I filled the glass, and he bent over the table to\nstrike, and his head fell lower and lower till it hit the table, and his\nspectacles came off, and when we--the Sahibs and I myself--ran to lift him\nhe was dead. I helped to carry him out. Aha, he was a strong Sahib! But he\nis dead and I, old Mangal Khan, am still living, by your favor.\"\n\nThat was more than enough! I had my ghost--a first-hand, authenticated\narticle. I would write to the Society for Psychical Research--I would\nparalyze the Empire with the news! But I would, first of all, put eighty\nmiles of assessed crop-land between myself and that d\u00e2k-bungalow before\nnightfall. The Society might send their regular agent to investigate later\non.\n\nI went into my own room and prepared to pack after noting down the facts\nof the case. As I smoked I heard the game begin again--with a miss in balk\nthis time, for the whir was a short one.\n\nThe door was open and I could see into the room. _Click-click!_ That was a\ncannon. I entered the room without fear, for there was sunlight within and\na fresh breeze without. The unseen game was going on at a tremendous rate.\nAnd well it might, when a restless little rat was running to and fro\ninside the dingy ceiling-cloth, and a piece of loose window-sash was\nmaking fifty breaks off the window-bolt as it shook in the breeze!\n\nImpossible to mistake the sound of billiard balls! Impossible to mistake\nthe whir of a ball over the slate! But I was to be excused. Even when I\nshut my enlightened eyes the sound was marvelously like that of a fast\ngame.\n\nEntered angrily the faithful partner of my sorrows, Kadir Baksh.\n\n\"This bungalow is very bad and low-caste! No wonder the Presence was\ndisturbed and is speckled. Three sets of doolie-bearers came to the\nbungalow late last night when I was sleeping outside, and said that it was\ntheir custom to rest in the rooms set apart for the English people! What\nhonor has the _khansamah_? They tried to enter, but I told them to go. No\nwonder, if these _Oorias_ have been here, that the Presence is sorely\nspotted. It is shame, and the work of a dirty man!\"\n\nKadir Baksh did not say that he had taken from each gang two annas for\nrent in advance, and then, beyond my earshot, had beaten them with the big\ngreen umbrella whose use I could never before divine. But Kadir Baksh has\nno notions of morality.\n\nThere was an interview with the _khansamah_, but as he promptly lost his\nhead, wrath gave place to pity, and pity led to a long conversation, in\nthe course of which he put the fat Engineer-Sahib's tragic death in three\nseparate stations--two of them fifty miles away. The third shift was to\nCalcutta, and there the Sahib died while driving a dog-cart.\n\nIf I had encouraged him the _khansamah_ would have wandered all through\nBengal with his corpse.\n\nI did not go away as soon as I intended. I stayed for the night, while the\nwind and the rat and the sash and the window-bolt played a ding-dong\n\"hundred and fifty up.\" Then the wind ran out and the billiards stopped,\nand I felt that I had ruined my one genuine, hall-marked ghost story.\n\nHad I only stopped at the proper time, I could have made _anything_ out of\nit.\n\nThat was the bitterest thought of all!\n\n\n\nTHE BIG DRUNK DRAF'\n\n   We're goin' 'ome, we're goin' 'ome--\n     Our ship is _at_ the shore,\n   An' you mus' pack your 'aversack,\n     For we won't come back no more.\n   Ho, don't you grieve for me,\n     My lovely Mary Ann,\n   For I'll marry you yet on a fourp'ny bit,\n     As a time-expired ma-a-an!\n\n_Barrack Room Ballad_.\n\nAn awful thing has happened! My friend, Private Mulvaney, who went home in\nthe _Serapis_, time-expired, not very long ago, has come back to India as\na civilian! It was all Dinah Shadd's fault. She could not stand the poky\nlittle lodgings, and she missed her servant Abdullah more than words could\ntell. The fact was that the Mulvaneys had been out here too long, and had\nlost touch of England.\n\nMulvaney knew a contractor on one of the new Central India lines, and\nwrote to him for some sort of work. The contractor said that if Mulvaney\ncould pay the passage he would give him command of a gang of coolies for\nold sake's sake. The pay was eighty-five rupees a month, and Dinah Shadd\nsaid that if Terence did not accept she would make his life a \"basted\npurgathory.\" Therefore the Mulvaneys came out as \"civilians,\" which was a\ngreat and terrible fall; though Mulvaney tried to disguise it, by saying\nthat he was \"Ker'nel on the railway line, an' a consequinshal man.\"\n\nHe wrote me an invitation, on a tool-indent form, to visit him; and I came\ndown to the funny little \"construction\" bungalow at the side of the line.\nDinah Shadd had planted peas about and about, and nature had spread all\nmanner of green stuff round the place. There was no change in Mulvaney\nexcept the change of clothing, which was deplorable, but could not be\nhelped. He was standing upon his trolly, haranguing a gang-man, and his\nshoulders were as well drilled, and his big, thick chin was as\nclean-shaven as ever.\n\n\"I'm a civilian now,\" said Mulvaney. \"Cud you tell that I was iver a\nmartial man? Don't answer, sorr, av you're strainin' betune a complimint\nan' a lie. There's no houldin' Dinah Shadd now she's got a house av her\nown. Go inside, an' dhrink tay out av chiny in the drrrrawin'-room, an'\nthin we'll dhrink like Christians undher the tree here. Scutt, ye\nnaygur-folk! There's a Sahib come to call on me, an' that's more than\nhe'll iver do for you onless you run! Get out, an' go on pilin' up the\nearth, quick, till sundown.\"\n\nWhen we three were comfortably settled under the big _sisham_ in front of\nthe bungalow, and the first rush of questions and answers about Privates\nOrtheris and Learoyd and old times and places had died away, Mulvaney\nsaid, reflectively--\"Glory be there's no p'rade to-morrow, an' no\nbun-headed Corp'ril-bhoy to give you his lip. An' yit I don't know. Tis\nharrd to be something ye niver were an' niver meant to be, an' all the\nould days shut up along wid your papers. Eyah! I'm growin' rusty, an' 'tis\nthe will av God that a man mustn't serve his Quane for time an' all.\"\n\nHe helped himself to a fresh peg, and sighed furiously.\n\n\"Let your beard grow, Mulvaney,\" said I, \"and then you won't be troubled\nwith those notions. You'll be a real civilian.\"\n\nDinah Shadd had told me in the drawing-room of her desire to coax Mulvaney\ninto letting his beard grow. \"Twas so civilian-like,\" said poor Dinah, who\nhated her husband's hankering for his old life.\n\n\"Dinah Shadd, you're a dishgrace to an honust, clane-scraped man!\" said\nMulvaney, without replying to me. \"Grow a beard on your own chin, darlint,\nand lave my razors alone. They're all that stand betune me and\ndis-ris-pect-ability. Av I didn't shave, I wud be torminted wid an\noutrajis thurrst; for there's nothin' so dhryin' to the throat as a big\nbilly-goat beard waggin' undher the chin. Ye wudn't have me dhrink\n_always_, Dinah Shadd? By the same token, you're kapin' me crool dhry now.\nLet me look at that whiskey.\"\n\nThe whiskey was lent and returned, but Dinah Shadd, who had been just as\neager as her husband in asking after old friends, rent me with--\n\n\"I take shame for you, sorr, coming down here--though the Saints know\nyou're as welkim as the daylight whin you _do_ come--an' upsettin'\nTerence's head wid your nonsense about--about fwhat's much better\nforgotten. He bein' a civilian now, an' you niver was aught else. Can you\nnot let the Arrmy rest? 'Tis not good for Terence.\"\n\nI took refuge by Mulvaney, for Dinah Shadd has a temper of her own.\n\n\"Let be--let be,\" said Mulvaney, \"'Tis only wanst in a way I can talk\nabout the ould days.\" Then to me:--\"Ye say Dhrumshticks is well, an' his\nlady tu? I niver knew how I liked the grey garron till I was shut av him\nan' Asia.\"--\"Dhrumshticks\" was the nickname of the Colonel commanding\nMulvaney's old regiment.--\"Will you be seein' him again? You will. Thin\ntell him\"--Mulvaney's eyes began to twinkle--\"tell him wid\nPrivit\"--\"_Mister_, Terence,\" interrupted Dinah Shadd.\n\n\"Now the Divil an' all his angils an' the Firmament av Hiven fly away wid\nthe 'Mister,' an' the sin av making me swear be on your confession, Dinah\nShadd! _Privit_, I tell ye. Wid _Privit_ Mulvaney's best obedience, that\nbut for me the last time-expired wud be still pullin' hair on their way to\nthe sea.\"\n\nHe threw himself back in the chair, chuckled, and was silent.\n\n\"Mrs. Mulvaney,\" I said, \"please take up the whiskey, and don't let him\nhave it until he has told the story.\"\n\nDinah Shadd dexterously whipped the bottle away, saying at the same time,\n\"'Tis nothing to be proud av,\" and thus captured by the enemy, Mulvaney\nspake:--\n\n\"'Twas on Chuseday week. I was behaderin' round wid the gangs on the\n'bankmint--I've taught the hoppers how to kape step an' stop\nscreechin'--whin a head-gangman comes up to me, wid about two inches av\nshirt-tail hanging round his neck an' a disthressful light in his oi.\n'Sahib,' sez he, 'there's a reg'mint an' a half av soldiers up at the\njunction, knockin' red cinders out av ivrything an' ivrybody! They thried\nto hang me in my cloth,' he sez, 'an' there will be murder an' ruin an'\nrape in the place before nightfall! They say they're comin' down here to\nwake us up. What will we do wid our womenfolk?'\n\n\"'Fetch my throlly!' sez I; 'my heart's sick in my ribs for a wink at\nanything wid the Quane's uniform on ut, Fetch my throlly, an' six av the\njildiest men, and run me up in shtyle.'\"\n\n\"He tuk his best coat,\" said Dinah Shadd, reproachfully.\n\n\"'Twas to do honor to the Widdy. I cud ha' done no less, Dinah Shadd. You\nand your digresshins interfere wid the coorse av the narrative. Have you\niver considhered fwhat I wud look like wid me _head_ shaved as well as my\nchin? You bear that in your mind, Dinah darlin'.\n\n\"I was throllied up six miles, all to get a shquint at that draf'. I\n_knew_ 'twas a spring draf' goin' home, for there's no rig'mint\nhereabouts, more's the pity.\"\n\n\"Praise the Virgin!\" murmured Dinah Shadd. But Mulvaney did not hear.\n\n\"Whin I was about three-quarters av a mile off the rest-camp, powtherin'\nalong fit to burrst, I heard the noise av the men an', on my sowl, sorr, I\ncud catch the voice av Peg Barney bellowin' like a bison wid the\nbelly-ache. You remimber Peg Barney that was in D Comp'ny--a red, hairy\nscraun, wid a scar on his jaw? Peg Barney that cleared out the Blue\nLights' jubilee meeting wid the cook-room mop last year?\n\n\"Thin I knew ut was a draf' of the ould rig'mint, an' I was conshumed wid\nsorrow for the bhoy that was in charge. We was harrd scrapin's at any\ntime. Did I iver tell you how Horker Kelley went into clink nakid as\nPhoebus Apollonius, wid the shirts av the Corp'ril an' file undher his\narrum? An' _he_ was a moild man! But I'm digreshin'. 'Tis a shame both to\nthe rig'mints and the Arrmy sendin' down little orf'cer bhoys wid a draf'\nav strong men mad wid liquor an' the chanst av gettin' shut av India, an'\n_niver a punishment that's fit to be given right down an' away from\ncantonmints to the dock!_ 'Tis this nonsince. Whin I am servin' my time,\nI'm undher the Articles av War, an' can be whipped on the peg for _thim_.\nBut whin I've _served_ my time, I'm a Reserve man, an' the Articles av War\nhaven't any hould on me. An orf'cer _can't_ do anythin' to a time-expired\nsavin' confinin' him to barricks. 'Tis a wise rig'lation bekaze a\ntime-expired does not have any barricks; bein' on the move all the time.\n'Tis a Solomon av a rig'lation, is that. I wud like to be inthroduced to\nthe man that made ut. 'Tis easier to get colts from a Kibbereen horse-fair\ninto Galway than to take a bad draf' over ten miles av country.\nConsiquintly that rig'lation--for fear that the men wud be hurt by the\nlittle orf'cer bhoy. No matther. The nearer my throlly came to the\nrest-camp, the woilder was the shine, an' the louder was the voice av Peg\nBarney. ''Tis good I am here,' thinks I to myself, 'for Peg alone is\nemployment for two or three.' He bein', I well knew, as copped as a\ndhrover.\n\n\"Faith, that rest-camp was a sight! The tent-ropes was all skew-nosed, an'\nthe pegs looked as dhrunk as the men--fifty av thim--the scourin's, an'\nrinsin's, an' Divil's lavin's av the Ould Rig'mint. I tell you, sorr, they\nwere dhrunker than any men you've ever seen in your mortial life. _How_\ndoes a draf' get dhrunk? How does a frog get fat? They suk ut in through\ntheir shkins.\n\n\"There was Peg Barney sittin' on the groun' in his shirt--wan shoe off an'\nwan shoe on--whackin' a tent-peg over the head wid his boot, an' singin'\nfit to wake the dead. 'Twas no clane song that he sung, though. 'Twas the\nDivil's Mass.\"\n\n\"What's that?\" I asked.\n\n\"Whin a bad egg is shut av the Army, he sings the Divil's Mass for a good\nriddance; an' that manes swearin' at ivrything from the\nCommandher-in-Chief down to the Room-Corp'ril, such as you niver in your\ndays heard. Some men can swear so as to make green turf crack! Have you\niver heard the Curse in an Orange Lodge? The Divil's Mass is ten times\nworse, an' Peg Barney was singin' ut, whackin' the tent-peg on the head\nwid his boot for each man that he cursed. A powerful big voice had Peg\nBarney, an' a hard swearer he was whin sober. I stood forninst him, an'\n'twas not me oi alone that cud tell Peg was dhrunk as a coot.\n\n\"'Good mornin', Peg,' I sez, whin he dhrew breath afther cursin' the\nAdj'tint Gen'ral; 'I've put on my best coat to see you, Peg Barney,' sez\nI.\n\n\"'Thin take ut off again,' sez Peg Barney, latherin' away wid the boot;\n'take ut off an' dance, ye lousy civilian!'\n\n\"Wid that he begins cursin' ould Dhrumshticks, being so full he clean\ndisremimbers the Brigade-Major an' the Judge Advokit Gen'ral.\n\n\"'Do you not know me, Peg?' sez I, though me blood was hot in me wid being\ncalled a civilian.\"\n\n\"An' him a decent married man!\" wailed Dinah Shadd.\n\n\"'I do not,' sez Peg, 'but dhrunk or sober I'll tear the hide off your\nback wid a shovel whin I've stopped singin'.'\n\n\"'Say you so, Peg Barney?' sez I. 'Tis clear as mud you've forgotten me.\nI'll assist your autobiography.' Wid that I stretched Peg Barney, boot an'\nall, an' wint into the camp. An awful sight ut was!\n\n\"'Where's the orf'cer in charge av the detachment?' sez I to Scrub\nGreene--the manest little worm that ever walked.\n\n\"'There's no orf'cer, ye ould cook,' sez Scrub; 'we're a bloomin'\nRepublic.'\n\n\"'Are you that?' sez I; 'thin I'm O'Connell the Dictator, an' by this you\nwill larn to kape a civil tongue in your rag-box.'\n\n\"Wid that I stretched Scrub Greene an' wint to the orf'cer's tent. 'Twas a\nnew little bhoy--not wan I'd iver seen before. He was sittin' in his tent,\npurtendin' not to 'ave ear av the racket.\n\n\"I saluted--but for the life av me! mint to shake hands whin I went in.\nTwas the sword hangin' on the tent-pole changed my will.\n\n\"'Can't I help, sorr?' sez I; ''tis a strong man's job they've given you,\nan' you'll be wantin' help by sundown.' He was a bhoy wid bowils, that\nchild, an' a rale gintleman.\n\n\"'Sit down,' sez he.\n\n\"'Not before my orf'cer,' sez I; an' I tould him fwhat my service was.\n\n\"'I've heard av you,' sez he. 'You tuk the town av Lungtungpen nakid.'\n\n\"'Faith,' thinks I, 'that's Honor an' Glory, for 'twas Lift'nint Brazenose\ndid that job. 'I'm wid ye, sorr,' sez I, 'if I'm av use. They shud niver\nha' sent you down wid the draf'. Savin' your presince, sorr,' I sez, 'tis\nonly Lift'nint Hackerston in the Ould Rig'mint can manage a Home draf'.'\n\n\"'I've niver had charge of men like this before,' sez he, playin' wid the\npens on the table; 'an' I see by the Rig'lations'--\n\n\"'Shut your oi to the Rig'lations, sorr,' I sez, 'till the throoper's into\nblue wather. By the Rig'lations you've got to tuck thim up for the night,\nor they'll be runnin' foul av my coolies an' makin' a shiverarium half\nthrough the country. Can you trust your noncoms, sorr?'\n\n\"'Yes,' sez he.\n\n\"'Good,' sez I; 'there'll be throuble before the night. Are you marchin',\nsorr?'\n\n\"'To the next station,' sez he.\n\n\"'Better still,' sez I; 'there'll be big throuble.'\n\n\"'Can't be too hard on a Home draf',' sez he; 'the great thing is to get\nthim in-ship.'\n\n\"'Faith you've larnt the half av your lesson, sorr,' sez I, 'but av you\nshtick to the Rig'lations you'll niver get thim in-ship at all, at all. Or\nthere won't be a rag av kit betune thim whin you do.'\n\n\"'Twas a dear little orf'cer bhoy, an' by way av kapin' his heart up, I\ntould him fwhat I saw wanst in a draf' in Egypt.\"\n\n\"What was that, Mulvaney?\" said I.\n\n\"Sivin an' fifty men sittin' on the bank av a canal, laughin' at a poor\nlittle squidgereen av an orf'cer that they'd made wade into the slush an'\npitch the things out av the boats for their Lord High Mightinesses. That\nmade me orf'cer bhoy woild wid indignation.\n\n\"'Soft an' aisy, sorr,' sez I; 'you've niver had your draf' in hand since\nyou left cantonmints. Wait till the night, an' your work will be ready to\nyou. Wid your permission, sorr, I will investigate the camp, an' talk to\nmy ould friends. Tis no manner av use thryin' to shtop the divilmint\n_now_.'\n\n\"Wid that I wint out into the camp an' inthrojuced mysilf to ivry man\nsober enough to remimber me. I was some wan in the ould days, an' the\nbhoys was glad to see me--all excipt Peg Barney wid a eye like a tomata\nfive days in the bazar, an' a nose to match. They come round me an' shuk\nme, an' I tould thim I was in privit employ wid an income av me own, an' a\ndrrrawin'-room fit to bate the Quane's; an' wid me lies an' me shtories\nan' nonsinse gin'rally, I kept 'em quiet in wan way an' another, knockin'\nroun' the camp. Twas _bad_ even thin whin I was the Angil av Peace.\n\n\"I talked to me ould non-coms--_they_ was sober--an' betune me an' thim we\nwore the draf' over into their tents at the proper time. The little\norf'cer bhoy he comes round, decint an' civil-spoken as might be.\n\n\"'Rough quarters, men,' sez he, 'but you can't look to be as comfortable\nas in barricks. We must make the best av things. I've shut my eyes to a\ndale av dog's tricks to-day, an' now there must be no more av ut.'\n\n\"'No more we will. Come an' have a dhrink, me son,' sez Peg Barney,\nstaggerin' where he stud. Me little orf'cer bhoy kep' his timper.\n\n\"'You're a sulky swine, you are,' sez Peg Barney, an' at that the men in\nthe tent began to laugh.\n\n\"I tould you me orf'cer bhoy had bowils. He cut Peg Barney as near as\nmight be on the oi that I'd squshed whin we first met. Peg wint spinnin'\nacrost the tent.\n\n\"'Peg him out, sorr,' sez I, in a whishper.\n\n\"'Peg him out!' sez me orf'cer bhoy, up loud, just as if 'twas\nbattalion-p'rade an' he pickin' his wurrds from the Sargint.\n\n\"The non-coms tuk Peg Barney--a howlin' handful he was--an' in three\nminuts he was pegged out--chin down, tight-dhrawn--on his stummick, a\ntent-peg to each arm an' leg, swearin' fit to turn a naygur white.\n\n\"I tuk a peg an' jammed ut into his ugly jaw.--'Bite on that, Peg Barney,'\nI sez; 'the night is settin' frosty, an' you'll be wantin' divarsion\nbefore the mornin'. But for the Rig'lations you'd be bitin' on a bullet\nnow at the thriangles, Peg Barney,' sez I.\n\n\"All the draf' was out av their tents watchin' Barney bein' pegged.\n\n\"''Tis agin the Rig'lations! He strook him!' screeches out Scrub Greene,\nwho was always a lawyer; an' some of the men tuk up the shoutin'.\n\n\"'Peg out that man!' sez my orf'cer bhoy, niver losin' his timper; an' the\nnon-coms wint in and pegged out Scrub Greene by the side av Peg Barney.\n\n\"I cud see that the draf' was comin' roun'. The men stud not knowin' fwhat\nto do.\n\n\"'Get to your tents!' sez me orf'cer bhoy. 'Sargint, put a sintry over\nthese two men.'\n\n\"The men wint back into the tents like jackals, an' the rest av the night\nthere was no noise at all excipt the stip av the sintry over the two, an'\nScrub Greene blubberin' like a child. 'Twas a chilly night, an' faith, ut\nsobered Peg Barney.\n\n\"Just before Revelly, my orf'cer bhoy comes out an' sez: 'Loose those men\nan' send thim to their tents!' Scrub Greene wint away widout a word, but\nPeg Barney, stiff wid the cowld, stud like a sheep, thryin' to make his\norf'cer understhand he was sorry for playin' the goat.\n\n\"There was no tucker in the draf' whin ut fell in for the march, an' divil\na wurrd about 'illegality' cud I hear.\n\n\"I wint to the ould Color Sargint and I sez:--'Let me die in glory,' sez\nI. 'I've seen a man this day!'\n\n\"'A man he is,' sez ould Hother; 'the draf's as sick as a herrin'. They'll\nall go down to the sea like lambs. That bhoy has the bowils av a\ncantonmint av Gin'rals.'\n\n\"'Amin,' sez I, 'an' good luck go wid him, wheriver he be, by land or by\nsea. Let me know how the draf' gets clear.'\n\n\"An' do you know how they _did_? That bhoy, so I was tould by letter from\nBombay, bullydamned 'em down to the dock, till they cudn't call their\nsowls their own. From the time they left me oi till they was 'tween decks,\nnot wan av thim was more than dacintly dhrunk. An', by the Holy Articles\nav War, whin they wint aboard they cheered him till they cudn't spake, an'\n_that_, mark you, has not come about wid a draf' in the mim'ry av livin'\nman! You look to that little orf'cer bhoy. He has bowils. 'Tis not ivry\nchild that wud chuck the Rig'lations to Flanders an' stretch Peg Barney on\na wink from a brokin an' dilapidated ould carkiss like mesilf. I'd be\nproud to serve\"--\n\n\"Terrence, you're a civilian,\" said Dinah Shadd, warningly.\n\n\"So I am--so I am. Is ut likely I wud forget ut? But he was a gran' bhoy\nall the same, an' I'm only a mudtipper wid a hod on my shoulthers. The\nwhiskey's in the heel av your hand, sorr. Wid your good lave we'll dhrink\nto the Ould Rig'mint--three fingers--standin' up!\"\n\nAnd we drank.\n\n\n\nBY WORD OF MOUTH\n\n   Not though you die to-night, O Sweet, and wail,\n       A spectre at my door,\n   Shall mortal Fear make Love immortal fail--\n       I shall but love you more,\n   Who, from Death's house returning, give me still\n   One moment's comfort in my matchless ill.\n\n--_Shadow Houses_.\n\nThis tale may be explained by those who know how souls are made, and where\nthe bounds of the Possible are put down. I have lived long enough in this\nIndia to know that it is best to know nothing, and can only write the\nstory as it happened.\n\nDumoise was our Civil Surgeon at Meridki, and we called him \"Dormouse,\"\nbecause he was a round little, sleepy little man. He was a good Doctor and\nnever quarreled with any one, not even with our Deputy Commissioner who\nhad the manners of a bargee and the tact of a horse. He married a girl as\nround and as sleepy-looking as himself. She was a Miss Hillardyce,\ndaughter of \"Squash\" Hillardyce of the Berars, who married his Chief's\ndaughter by mistake. But that is another story.\n\n\n       *\n       *\n       *\n       *\n       *\n\nA honeymoon in India is seldom more than a week long; but there is nothing\nto hinder a couple from extending it over two or three years. India is a\ndelightful country for married folk who are wrapped up in one another.\nThey can live absolutely alone and without interruption--just as the\nDormice did. Those two little people retired from the world after their\nmarriage, and were very happy. They were forced, of course, to give\noccasional dinners, but they made no friends thereby, and the Station went\nits own way and forgot them; only saying, occasionally, that Dormouse was\nthe best of good fellows though dull. A Civil Surgeon who never quarrels\nis a rarity, appreciated as such.\n\nFew people can afford to play Robinson Crusoe anywhere--least of all in\nIndia, where we are few in the land and very much dependent on each\nother's kind offices. Dumoise was wrong in shutting himself from the world\nfor a year, and he discovered his mistake when an epidemic of typhoid\nbroke out in the Station in the heart of the cold weather, and his wife\nwent down. He was a shy little man, and five days were wasted before he\nrealized that Mrs. Dumoise was burning with something worse than simple\nfever, and three days more passed before he ventured to call on Mrs.\nShute, the Engineer's wife, and timidly speak about his trouble.\n\nNearly every household in India knows that Doctors are very helpless in\ntyphoid. The battle must be fought out between Death and the Nurses minute\nby minute and degree by degree. Mrs. Shute almost boxed Dumoise's ears for\nwhat she called his \"criminal delay,\" and went off at once to look after\nthe poor girl. We had seven cases of typhoid in the Station that winter\nand, as the average of death is about one in every five cases, we felt\ncertain that we should have to lose somebody. But all did their best. The\nwomen sat up nursing the women, and the men turned to and tended the\nbachelors who were down, and we wrestled with those typhoid cases for\nfifty-six days, and brought them through the Valley of the Shadow in\ntriumph. But, just when we thought all was over, and were going to give a\ndance to celebrate the victory, little Mrs. Dumoise got a relapse and died\nin a week and the Station went to the funeral. Dumoise broke down utterly\nat the brink of the grave, and had to be taken away.\n\nAfter the death, Dumoise crept into his own house and refused to be\ncomforted. He did his duties perfectly, but we all felt that he should go\non leave, and the other men of his own Service told him so. Dumoise was\nvery thankful for the suggestion--he was thankful for anything in those\ndays--and went to Chini on a walking-tour. Chini is some twenty marches\nfrom Simla, in the heart of the Hills, and the scenery is good if you are\nin trouble. You pass through big, still deodar-forests, and under big,\nstill cliffs, and over big, still grass-downs swelling like a woman's\nbreasts; and the wind across the grass, and the rain among the deodars\nsays--\"Hush--hush--hush.\" So little Dumoise was packed off to Chini, to\nwear down his grief with a full-plate camera and a rifle. He took also a\nuseless bearer, because the man had been his wife's favorite servant. He\nwas idle and a thief, but Dumoise trusted everything to him.\n\nOn his way back from Chini, Dumoise turned aside to Bagi, through the\nForest Reserve which is on the spur of Mount Huttoo. Some men who have\ntraveled more than a little say that the march from Kotegarh to Bagi is\none of the finest in creation. It runs through dark wet forest, and ends\nsuddenly in bleak, nipped hillside and black rocks. Bagi d\u00e2k-bungalow is\nopen to all the winds and is bitterly cold. Few people go to Bagi. Perhaps\nthat was the reason why Dumoise went there. He halted at seven in the\nevening, and his bearer went down the hillside to the village to engage\ncoolies for the next day's march. The sun had set, and the night-winds\nwere beginning to croon among the rocks. Dumoise leaned on the railing of\nthe veranda, waiting for his bearer to return. The man came back almost\nimmediately after he had disappeared, and at such a rate that Dumoise\nfancied he must have crossed a bear. He was running as hard as he could up\nthe face of the hill.\n\nBut there was no bear to account for his terror. He raced to the veranda\nand fell down, the blood spurting from his nose and his face iron-grey.\nThen he gurgled--\"I have seen the _Memsahib_! I have seen the _Memsahib_!\"\n\n\"Where?\" said Dumoise.\n\n\"Down there, walking on the road to the village. She was in a blue dress,\nand she lifted the veil of her bonnet and said--'Ram Dass, give my\n_salaams_ to the _Sahib_, and tell him that I shall meet him next month at\nNuddea.' Then I ran away, because I was afraid.\"\n\nWhat Dumoise said or did I do not know. Ram Dass declares that he said\nnothing, but walked up and down the veranda all the cold night, waiting\nfor the _Memsahib_ to come up the hill and stretching out his arms into\nthe dark like a madman. But no _Memsahib_ came, and, next day, he went on\nto Simla cross-questioning the bearer every hour.\n\nRam Dass could only say that he had met Mrs. Dumoise and that she had\nlifted up her veil and given him the message which he had faithfully\nrepeated to Dumoise. To this statement Ram Dass adhered. He did not know\nwhere Nuddea was, had no friends at Nuddea, and would most certainly never\ngo to Nuddea; even though his pay were doubled,\n\nNuddea is in Bengal and has nothing whatever to do with a Doctor serving\nin the Punjab. It must be more than twelve hundred miles south of Meridki.\n\nDumoise went through Simla without halting, and returned to Meridki, there\nto take over charge from the man who had been officiating for him during\nhis tour. There were some Dispensary accounts to be explained, and some\nrecent orders of the Surgeon-General to be noted, and, altogether, the\ntaking-over was a full day's work, In the evening, Dumoise told his _locum\ntenens_, who was an old friend of his bachelor days, what had happened at\nBagi; and the man said that Ram Dass might as well have chosen Tuticorin\nwhile he was about it.\n\nAt that moment, a telegraph-peon came in with a telegram from Simla,\nordering Dumoise not to take over charge at Meridki, but to go at once to\nNuddea on special duty. There was a nasty outbreak of cholera at Nuddea,\nand the Bengal Government, being short-handed, as usual, had borrowed a\nSurgeon from the Punjab.\n\nDumoise threw the telegram across the table and said--\"Well?\"\n\nThe other Doctor said nothing. It was all that he could say.\n\nThen he remembered that Dumoise had passed through Simla on his way from\nBagi; and thus might, possibly, have heard first news of the impending\ntransfer.\n\nHe tried to put the question, and the implied suspicion into words, but\nDumoise stopped him with--\"If I had desired _that_, I should never have\ncome back from Chini. I was shooting there. I wish to live, for I have\nthings to do ... but I shall not be sorry.\"\n\nThe other man bowed his head, and helped, in the twilight, to pack up\nDumoise's just opened trunks. Ram Dass entered with the lamps.\n\n\"Where is the _Sahib_ going?\" he asked.\n\n\"To Nuddea,\" said Dumoise, softly.\n\nRam Dass clawed Dumoise's knees and boots and begged him not to go. Ram\nDass wept and howled till he was turned out of the room. Then he wrapped\nup all his belongings and came back to ask for a character. He was not\ngoing to Nuddea to see his _Sahib_ die and, perhaps, to die himself.\n\nSo Dumoise gave the man his wages and went down to Nuddea alone; the other\nDoctor bidding him good-bye as one under sentence of death.\n\nEleven days later he had joined his _Memsahib_; and the Bengal Government\nhad to borrow a fresh Doctor to cope with that epidemic at Nuddea, The\nfirst importation lay dead in Chooadanga D\u00e2k Bungalow.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT\n\n\n\"And a little child shall lead them.\"\n\nIn the Army List they still stand as \"The Fore and Fit Princess\nHohenzollern-Sigmaringen-Auspach's Merther-Tydfilshire Own Royal Loyal\nLight Infantry, Regimental District 329A,\" but the Army through all its\nbarracks and canteens knows them now as the \"Fore and Aft.\" They may in\ntime do something that shall make their new title honorable, but at\npresent they are bitterly ashamed, and the man who calls them \"Fore and\nAft\" does so at the risk of the head which is on his shoulders.\n\nTwo words breathed into the stables of a certain Cavalry Regiment will\nbring the men out into the streets with belts and mops and bad language;\nbut a whisper of \"Fore and Aft\" will bring out this regiment with rifles.\n\nTheir one excuse is that they came again and did their best to finish the\njob in style. But for a time all their world knows that they were openly\nbeaten, whipped, dumb-cowed, shaking and afraid. The men know it; their\nofficers know it; the Horse Guards know it, and when the next war comes\nthe enemy will know it also. There are two or three regiments of the Line\nthat have a black mark against their names which they will then wipe out,\nand it will be excessively inconvenient for the troops upon whom they do\ntheir wiping.\n\nThe courage of the British soldier is officially supposed to be above\nproof, and, as a general rule, it is so. The exceptions are decently\nshoveled out of sight, only to be referred to in the freshet of unguarded\ntalk that occasionally swamps a Mess-table at midnight. Then one hears\nstrange and horrible stories of men not following their officers, of\norders being given by those who had no right to give them, and of disgrace\nthat, but for the standing luck of the British Army, might have ended in\nbrilliant disaster. These are unpleasant stories to listen to, and the\nMesses tell them under their breath, sitting by the big wood fires, and\nthe young officer bows his head and thinks to himself, please God, his men\nshall never behave unhandily,\n\nThe British soldier is not altogether to be blamed for occasional lapses;\nbut this verdict he should not know. A moderately intelligent General will\nwaste six months in mastering the craft of the particular war that he may\nbe waging; a Colonel may utterly misunderstand the capacity of his\nregiment for three months after it has taken the field; and even a Company\nCommander may err and be deceived as to the temper and temperament of his\nown handful: wherefore the soldier, and the soldier of to-day more\nparticularly, should not be blamed for falling back. He should be shot or\nhanged afterward--_pour encourager les autres_; but he should not be\nvilified in newspapers, for that is want of tact and waste of space.\n\nHe has, let us say, been in the service of the Empress for, perhaps, four\nyears. He will leave in another two years. He has no inherited morals, and\nfour years are not sufficient to drive toughness into his fibre, or to\nteach him how holy a thing is his Regiment. He wants to drink, he wants to\nenjoy himself--in India he wants to save money--and he does not in the\nleast like getting hurt. He has received just sufficient education to make\nhim understand half the purport of the orders he receives, and to\nspeculate on the nature of clean, incised, and shattering wounds. Thus, if\nhe is told to deploy under fire preparatory to an attack, he knows that he\nruns a very great risk of being killed while he is deploying, and suspects\nthat he is being thrown away to gain ten minutes' time. He may either\ndeploy with desperate swiftness, or he may shuffle, or bunch, or break,\naccording to the discipline under which he has lain for four years.\n\nArmed with imperfect knowledge, cursed with the rudiments of an\nimagination, hampered by the intense selfishness of the lower classes, and\nunsupported, by any regimental associations, this young man is suddenly\nintroduced to an enemy who in eastern lands is always ugly, generally tall\nand hairy, and frequently noisy. If he looks to the right and the left and\nsees old soldiers--men of twelve years' service, who, he knows, know what\nthey are about--taking a charge, rush, or demonstration without\nembarrassment, he is consoled and applies his shoulder to the butt of his\nrifle with a stout heart. His peace is the greater if he hears a senior,\nwho has taught him his soldiering and broken his head on occasion,\nwhispering:--\"They'll shout and carry on like this for five minutes. Then\nthey'll rush in, and then we've got 'em by the short hairs!\"\n\nBut, on the other hand, if he sees only men of his own term of service,\nturning white and playing with their triggers and saying:--\"What the\nHell's up now?\" while the Company Commanders are sweating into their\nsword-hilts and shouting:--\"Front-rank, fix bayonets. Steady\nthere--steady! Sight for three hundred--no, for five! Lie down, all!\nSteady! Front-rank, kneel!\" and so forth, he becomes unhappy; and grows\nacutely miserable when he hears a comrade turn over with the rattle of\nfire-irons falling into the fender, and the grunt of a pole-axed ox. If he\ncan be moved about a little and allowed to watch the effect of his own\nfire on the enemy he feels merrier, and may be then worked up to the blind\npassion of fighting, which is, contrary to general belief, controlled by a\nchilly Devil and shakes men like ague. If he is not moved about, and\nbegins to feel cold at the pit of the stomach, and in that crisis is badly\nmauled and hears orders that were never given, he will break, and he will\nbreak badly; and of all things under the sight of the Sun there is nothing\nmore terrible than a broken British regiment. When the worst comes to the\nworst and the panic is really epidemic, the men must be e'en let go, and\nthe Company Commanders had better escape to the enemy and stay there for\nsafety's sake. If they can be made to come again they are not pleasant men\nto meet, because they will not break twice.\n\nAbout thirty years from this date, when we have succeeded in\nhalf-educating everything that wears trousers, our Army will be a\nbeautifully unreliable machine. It will know too much and it will do too\nlittle. Later still, when all men are at the mental level of the officer\nof to-day it will sweep the earth. Speaking roughly, you must employ\neither blackguards or gentlemen, or, best of all, blackguards commanded by\ngentlemen, to do butcher's work with efficiency and despatch. The ideal\nsoldier should, of course, think for himself--the _Pocketbook_ says so.\nUnfortunately, to attain this virtue, he has to pass through the phase of\nthinking of himself, and that is misdirected genius. A blackguard may be\nslow to think for himself, but he is genuinely anxious to kill, and a\nlittle punishment teaches him how to guard his own skin and perforate\nanother's. A powerfully prayerful Highland Regiment, officered by rank\nPresbyterians, is, perhaps, one degree more terrible in action than a\nhard-bitten thousand of irresponsible Irish ruffians led by most improper\nyoung unbelievers. But these things prove the rule--which is that the\nmidway men are not to be trusted alone. They have ideas about the value of\nlife and an upbringing that has not taught them to go on and take the\nchances. They are carefully unprovided with a backing of comrades who have\nbeen shot over, and until that backing is re-introduced, as a great many\nRegimental Commanders intend it shall be, they are more liable to disgrace\nthemselves than the size of the Empire or the dignity of the Army allows.\nTheir officers are as good as good can be, because their training begins\nearly, and God has arranged that a clean-run youth of the British middle\nclasses shall, in the matter of backbone, brains, and bowels, surpass all\nother youths. For this reason a child of eighteen will stand up, doing\nnothing, with a tin sword in his hand and joy in his heart until he is\ndropped. If he dies, he dies like a gentleman. If he lives, he writes Home\nthat he has been \"potted,\" \"sniped,\" \"chipped\" or \"cut over,\" and sits\ndown to besiege Government for a wound-gratuity until the next little war\nbreaks out, when he perjures himself before a Medical Board, blarneys his\nColonel, burns incense round his Adjutant, and is allowed to go to the\nFront once more.\n\nWhich homily brings me directly to a brace of the most finished little\nfiends that ever banged drum or tootled fife in the Band of a British\nRegiment. They ended their sinful career by open and flagrant mutiny and\nwere shot for it. Their names were Jakin and Lew--Piggy Lew--and they were\nbold, bad drummer-boys, both of them frequently birched by the Drum-Major\nof the Fore and Aft.\n\nJakin was a stunted child of fourteen, and Lew was about the same age.\nWhen not looked after, they smoked and drank. They swore habitually after\nthe manner of the Barrack-room, which is cold-swearing and comes from\nbetween clinched teeth; and they fought religiously once a week. Jakin had\nsprung from some London gutter and may or may not have passed through Dr.\nBarnado's hands ere he arrived at the dignity of drummer-boy. Lew could\nremember nothing except the regiment and the delight of listening to the\nBand from his earliest years. He hid somewhere in his grimy little soul a\ngenuine love for music, and was most mistakenly furnished with the head of\na cherub: insomuch that beautiful ladies who watched the Regiment in\nchurch were wont to speak of him as a \"darling.\" They never heard his\nvitriolic comments on their manners and morals, as he walked back to\nbarracks with the Band and matured fresh causes of offence against Jakin.\n\nThe other drummer-boys hated both lads on account of their illogical\nconduct. Jakin might be pounding Lew, or Lew might be rubbing Jakin's head\nin the dirt, but any attempt at aggression on the part of an outsider was\nmet by the combined forces of Lew and Jakin; and the consequences were\npainful. The boys were the Ishmaels of the corps, but wealthy Ishmaels,\nfor they sold battles in alternate weeks for the sport of the barracks\nwhen they were not pitted against other boys; and thus amassed money.\n\nOn this particular day there was dissension in the camp. They had just\nbeen convicted afresh of smoking, which is bad for little boys who use\nplug-tobacco, and Lew's contention was that Jakin had \"stunk so 'orrid bad\nfrom keepin' the pipe in pocket,\" that he and he alone was responsible for\nthe birching they were both tingling under.\n\n\"I tell you I 'id the pipe back o' barricks,\" said Jakin, pacifically.\n\n\"You're a bloomin' liar,\" said Lew, without heat.\n\n\"You're a bloomin' little barstard,\" said Jakin, strong in the knowledge\nthat his own ancestry was unknown.\n\nNow there is one word in the extended vocabulary of barrack-room abuse\nthat cannot pass without comment. You may call a man a thief and risk\nnothing. You may even call him a coward without finding more than a boot\nwhiz past your ear, but you must not call a man a bastard unless you are\nprepared to prove it on his front teeth.\n\n\"You might ha' kep' that till I wasn't so sore,\" said Lew, sorrowfully,\ndodging round Jakin's guard.\n\n\"I'll make you sorer,\" said Jakin, genially, and got home on Lew's\nalabaster forehead. All would have gone well and this story, as the books\nsay, would never have been written, had not his evil fate prompted the\nBazar-Sergeant's son, a long, employless man of five and twenty, to put in\nan appearance after the first round. He was eternally in need of money,\nand knew that the boys had silver.\n\n\"Fighting again,\" said he. \"I'll report you to my father, and he'll report\nyou to the Color-Sergeant.\"\n\n\"What's that to you?\" said Jakin, with an unpleasant dilation of the\nnostrils.\n\n\"Oh! nothing to _me_. You'll get into trouble, and you've been up too\noften to afford that.\"\n\n\"What the Hell do you know about what we've done?\" asked Lew the Seraph.\n\"_You_ aren't in the Army, you lousy, cadging civilian.\"\n\nHe closed in on the man's left flank.\n\n\"Jes' 'cause you find two gentlemen settlin' their differences with their\nfistes you stick in your ugly nose where you aren't wanted. Run 'ome to\nyour 'arf-caste slut of a Ma--or we'll give you what-for,\" said Jakin.\n\nThe man attempted reprisals by knocking the boys' heads together. The\nscheme would have succeeded had not Jakin punched him vehemently in the\nstomach, or had Lew refrained from kicking his shins. They fought\ntogether, bleeding and breathless, for half an hour, and after heavy\npunishment, triumphantly pulled down their opponent as terriers pull down\na jackal.\n\n\"Now,\" gasped Jakin, \"I'll give you what-for.\" He proceeded to pound the\nman's features while Lew stamped on the outlying portions of his anatomy.\nChivalry is not a strong point in the composition of the average\ndrummer-boy. He fights, as do his betters, to make his mark.\n\nGhastly was the ruin that escaped, and awful was the wrath of the\nBazar-Sergeant. Awful too was the scene in Orderly-room when the two\nreprobates appeared to answer the charge of half-murdering a \"civilian.\"\nThe Bazar-Sergeant thirsted for a criminal action, and his son lied. The\nboys stood to attention while the black clouds of evidence accumulated.\n\n\"You little devils are more trouble than the rest of the Regiment put\ntogether,\" said the Colonel, angrily. \"One might as well admonish\nthistledown, and I can't well put you in cells or under stoppages. You\nmust be flogged again.\"\n\n\"Beg y' pardon, Sir. Can't we say nothin' in our own defence, Sir?\"\nshrilled Jakin.\n\n\"Hey! What? Are you going to argue with me?\" said the Colonel.\n\n\"No, Sir,\" said Lew. \"But if a man come to you, Sir, and said he was going\nto report you, Sir, for 'aving a bit of a turn-up with a friend, Sir, an'\nwanted to get money out o' _you_, Sir\"--\n\nThe Orderly-room exploded in a roar of laughter. \"Well?\" said the Colonel.\n\n\"That was what that measly _jarnwar_ there did, Sir, and 'e'd 'a' _done_\nit, Sir, if we 'adn't prevented 'im. We didn't 'it 'im much, Sir. 'E\n'adn't no manner o' right to interfere with us, Sir. I don't mind bein'\nflogged by the Drum-Major, Sir, nor yet reported by _any_ Corp'ral, but\nI'm--but I don't think it's fair, Sir, for a civilian to come an' talk\nover a man in the Army.\"\n\nA second shout of laughter shook the Orderly-room, but the Colonel was\ngrave.\n\n\"What sort of characters have these boys?\" he asked of the Regimental\nSergeant-Major.\n\n\"Accordin' to the Bandmaster, Sir,\" returned that revered official--the\nonly soul in the regiment whom the boys feared--\"they do everything _but_\nlie, Sir.\"\n\n\"Is it like we'd go for that man for fun, Sir?\" said Lew, pointing to the\nplaintiff.\n\n\"Oh, admonished,--admonished!\" said the Colonel, testily, and when the\nboys had gone he read the Bazar-Sergeant's son a lecture on the sin of\nunprofitable meddling, and gave orders that the Bandmaster should keep the\nDrums in better discipline.\n\n\"If either of you come to practice again with so much as a scratch on your\ntwo ugly little faces,\" thundered the Bandmaster, \"I'll tell the\nDrum-Major to take the skin off your backs. Understand that, you young\ndevils.\"\n\nThen he repented of his speech for just the length of time that Lew,\nlooking like a Seraph in red worsted embellishments, took the place of one\nof the trumpets--in hospital--and rendered the echo of a battle-piece. Lew\ncertainly was a musician, and had often in his more exalted moments\nexpressed a yearning to master every instrument of the Band.\n\n\"There's nothing to prevent your becoming a Bandmaster, Lew,\" said the\nBandmaster, who had composed waltzes of his own, and worked day and night\nin the interests of the Band.\n\n\"What did he say?\" demanded Jakin, after practice.\n\n\"'Said I might be a bloomin' Bandmaster, an' be asked in to 'ave a glass\no' sherry-wine on Mess-nights.\"\n\n\"Ho! 'Said you might be a bloomin' non-combatant, did 'e! That's just\nabout wot 'e would say. When I've put in my boy's service--it's a bloomin'\nshame that doesn't count for pension--I'll take on a privit. Then I'll be\na Lance in a year--knowin' what I know about the ins an' outs o' things.\nIn three years I'll be a bloomin' Sergeant. I won't marry then, not I!\nI'll 'old on and learn the orf'cers' ways an' apply for exchange into a\nreg'ment that doesn't know all about me. Then I'll be a bloomin' orf'cer.\nThen I'll ask you to 'ave a glass o' sherry-wine, _Mister_ Lew, an' you'll\nbloomin' well 'ave to stay in the hanty-room while the Mess-Sergeant\nbrings it to your dirty 'ands.\"\n\n\"'S'pose _I_'m going to be a Bandmaster? Not I, quite. I'll be a orf'cer\ntoo. There's nothin' like taking to a thing an' stickin' to it, the\nSchoolmaster says. The reg'ment don't go 'ome for another seven years.\nI'll be a Lance then or near to.\"\n\nThus the boys discussed their futures, and conducted themselves with\nexemplary piety for a week. That is to say, Lew started a flirtation with\nthe Color-Sergeant's daughter, aged thirteen,--\"not,\" as he explained to\nJakin, \"with any intention o' matrimony, but by way o' keepin' my 'and\nin.\" And the black-haired Cris Delighan enjoyed that flirtation more than\nprevious ones, and the other drummer-boys raged furiously together, and\nJakin preached sermons on the dangers of \"bein' tangled along o'\npetticoats.\"\n\nBut neither love nor virtue would have held Lew long in the paths of\npropriety had not the rumor gone abroad that the Regiment was to be sent\non active service, to take part in a war which, for the sake of brevity,\nwe will call \"The War of the Lost Tribes.\"\n\nThe barracks had the rumor almost before the Mess-room, and of all the\nnine hundred men in barracks not ten had seen a shot fired in anger. The\nColonel had, twenty years ago, assisted at a Frontier expedition; one of\nthe Majors had seen service at the Cape; a confirmed deserter in E Company\nhad helped to clear streets in Ireland; but that was all. The Regiment had\nbeen put by for many years. The overwhelming mass of its rank and file had\nfrom three to four years' service; the non-commissioned officers were\nunder thirty years old; and men and sergeants alike had forgotten to speak\nof the stories written in brief upon the Colors--the New Colors that had\nbeen formally blessed by an Archbishop in England ere the Regiment came\naway.\n\nThey wanted to go to the Front--they were enthusiastically anxious to\ngo--but they had no knowledge of what war meant, and there was none to\ntell them. They were an educated regiment, the percentage of\nschool-certificates in their ranks was high, and most of the men could do\nmore than read and write. They had been recruited in loyal observance of\nthe territorial idea; but they themselves had no notion of that idea. They\nwere made up of drafts from an over-populated manufacturing district. The\nsystem had put flesh and muscle upon their small bones, but it could not\nput heart into the sons of those who for generations had done overmuch\nwork for overscanty pay, had sweated in drying-rooms, stooped over looms,\ncoughed among white-lead and shivered on lime-barges. The men had found\nfood and rest in the Army, and now they were going to fight\n\"niggers\"--people who ran away if you shook a stick at them.\n\nWherefore they cheered lustily when the rumor ran, and the shrewd, clerkly\nnon-commissioned officers speculated on the chances of batta and of saving\ntheir pay. At Headquarters, men said:--\"The Fore and Fit have never been\nunder fire within the last generation. Let us, therefore, break them in\neasily by setting them to guard lines of communication.\" And this would\nhave been done but for the fact that British Regiments were wanted--badly\nwanted--at the Front, and there were doubtful Native Regiments that could\nfill the minor duties, \"Brigade 'em with two strong Regiments,\" said\nHeadquarters. \"They may be knocked about a bit, but they'll learn their\nbusiness before they come through. Nothing like a night-alarm and a little\ncutting-up of stragglers to make a Regiment smart in the field. Wait till\nthey've had half a dozen sentries' throats cut.\"\n\nThe Colonel wrote with delight that the temper of his men was excellent,\nthat the Regiment was all that could be wished and as sound as a bell. The\nMajors smiled with a sober joy, and the subalterns waltzed in pairs down\nthe Mess-room after dinner and nearly shot themselves at revolver\npractice. But there was consternation in the hearts of Jakin and Lew. What\nwas to be done with the drums? Would the Band go to the Front? How many of\nthe drums would accompany the Regiment?\n\nThey took council together, sitting in a tree and smoking.\n\n\"It's more than a bloomin' toss-up they'll leave us be'ind at the Depot\nwith the women. You'll like that,\" said Jakin, sarcastically.\n\n\"'Cause o' Cris, y' mean? Wot's a woman, or a 'ole bloomin' dep\u00f4t o'\nwomen, 'longside o' the chanst of field-service? You know I'm as keen on\ngoin' as you,\" said Lew.\n\n\"Wish I was a bloomin' bugler,\" said Jakin, sadly. \"They'll take Tom Kidd\nalong, that I can plaster a wall with, an' like as not they won't take\nus.\"\n\n\"Then let's go an' make Tom Kidd so bloomin' sick 'e can't bugle no more.\nYou 'old 'is 'ands an' I'll kick him,\" said Lew, wriggling on the branch.\n\n\"That ain't no good neither. We ain't the sort o' characters to presoom on\nour rep'tations--they're bad. If they have the Band at the Depot we don't\ngo, and no error _there_. If they take the Band we may get cast for\nmedical unfitness. Are you medical fit, Piggy?\" said Jakin, digging Lew in\nthe ribs with force.\n\n\"Yus,\" said Lew, with an oath. \"The Doctor says your 'eart's weak through\nsmokin' on an empty stummick. Throw a chest an' I'll try yer.\"\n\nJakin threw out his chest, which Lew smote with all his might, Jakin\nturned very pale, gasped, crowed, screwed up his eyes and said,--\"That's\nall right.\"\n\n\"You'll do,\" said Lew. \"I've 'eard o' men dyin' when you 'it 'em fair on\nthe breast-bone.\"\n\n\"Don't bring us no nearer goin', though,\" said Jakin. \"Do you know where\nwe're ordered?\"\n\n\"Gawd knows, an' 'e won't split on a pal. Somewheres up to the Front to\nkill Paythans--hairy big beggars that turn you inside out if they get 'old\no' you. They say their women are good-looking, too.\"\n\n\"Any loot?\" asked the abandoned Jakin.\n\n\"Not a bloomin' anna, they say, unless you dig up the ground an' see what\nthe niggers 'ave 'id. They're a poor lot.\" Jakin stood upright on the\nbranch and gazed across the plain.\n\n\"Lew,\" said he, \"there's the Colonel coming, 'Colonel's a good old beggar.\nLet's go an' talk to 'im.\"\n\nLew nearly fell out of the tree at the audacity of the suggestion. Like\nJakin he feared not God neither regarded he Man, but there are limits even\nto the audacity of drummer-boy, and to speak to a Colonel was ...\n\nBut Jakin had slid down the trunk and doubled in the direction of the\nColonel. That officer was walking wrapped in thought and visions of a C.\nB.--yes, even a K.C.B., for had he not at command one of the best\nRegiments of the Line--the Fore and Fit? And he was aware of two small\nboys charging down upon him. Once before it had been solemnly reported to\nhim that \"the Drums were in a state of mutiny\"; Jakin and Lew being the\nringleaders. This looked like an organized conspiracy.\n\nThe boys halted at twenty yards, walked to the regulation four paces, and\nsaluted together, each as well set-up as a ramrod and little taller.\n\nThe Colonel was in a genial mood; the boys appeared very forlorn and\nunprotected on the desolate plain, and one of them was handsome.\n\n\"Well!\" said the Colonel, recognizing them. \"Are you going to pull me down\nin the open? I'm sure I never interfere with you, even though\"--he sniffed\nsuspiciously--\"you have been smoking.\"\n\nIt was time to strike while the iron was hot. Their hearts beat\ntumultuously.\n\n\"Beg y' pardon, Sir,\" began Jakin. \"The Reg'ment's ordered on active\nservice, Sir?\"\n\n\"So I believe,\" said the Colonel, courteously.\n\n\"Is the Band goin', Sir?\" said both together. Then, without pause, \"We're\ngoin', Sir, ain't we?\"\n\n\"You!\" said the Colonel, stepping back the more fully to take in the two\nsmall figures. \"You! You'd die in the first march.\"\n\n\"No, we wouldn't, Sir. We can march with the Regiment anywheres--p'rade\nan' anywhere else,\" said Jakin.\n\n\"If Tom Kidd goes 'ell shut up like a clasp-knife,\" said Lew, \"Tom 'as\nvery close veins in both 'is legs, Sir.\"\n\n\"Very how much?\"\n\n\"Very close veins, Sir. That's why they swells after long p'rade, Sir, If\n'e can go, we can go, Sir.\"\n\nAgain the Colonel looked at them long and intently.\n\n\"Yes, the Band is going,\" he said, as gravely as though, he had been\naddressing a brother officer. \"Have you any parents, either of you two?\"\n\n\"No, Sir,\" rejoicingly from Lew and Jakin. \"We're both orphans, Sir.\nThere's no one to be considered of on our account, Sir.\"\n\n\"You poor little sprats, and you want to go up to the Front with the\nRegiment, do you? Why?\"\n\n\"I've wore the Queen's Uniform for two years,\" said Jakin. \"It's very\n'ard, Sir, that a man don't get no recompense for doin' 'is dooty, Sir.\"\n\n\"An'--an' if I don't go, Sir,\" interrupted Lew, \"the Bandmaster 'e says\n'e'll catch an' make a bloo--a blessed musician o' me, Sir. Before I've\nseen any service, Sir.\"\n\nThe Colonel made no answer for a long time. Then he said quietly:--\"If\nyou're passed by the Doctor I dare say you can go. I shouldn't smoke if I\nwere you.\"\n\nThe boys saluted and disappeared. The Colonel walked home and told the\nstory to his wife, who nearly cried over it. The Colonel was well pleased.\nIf that was the temper of the children, what would not the men do?\n\nJakin and Lew entered the boys' barrack-room with great stateliness, and\nrefused to hold any conversation with their comrades for at least ten\nminutes. Then, bursting with pride, Jakin drawled:--\"I've bin intervooin'\nthe Colonel. Good old beggar is the Colonel. Says I to 'im, 'Colonel,'\nsays I, 'let me go the Front, along o' the Reg'ment.' 'To the Front you\nshall go,' says 'e, 'an' I only wish there was more like you among the\ndirty little devils that bang the bloomin' drums.' Kidd, if you throw your\n'coutrements at me for tellin' you the truth to your own advantage, your\nlegs 'll swell.\"\n\nNone the less there was a Battle-Royal in the barrack-room, for the boys\nwere consumed with envy and hate, and neither Jakin nor Lew behaved in\nconciliatory wise.\n\n\"I'm goin' out to say adoo to my girl,\" said Lew, to cap the climax.\n\"Don't none o' you touch my kit because it's wanted for active service, me\nbein' specially invited to go by the Colonel\"\n\nHe strolled forth and whistled in the clump of trees at the back of the\nMarried Quarters till Cris came to him, and, the preliminary kisses being\ngiven and taken, Lew began to explain the situation.\n\n\"I'm goin' to the Front with the Reg'ment,\" he said, valiantly,\n\n\"Piggy, you're a little liar,\" said Cris, but her heart misgave her, for\nLew was not in the habit of lying.\n\n\"Liar yourself, Cris,\" said Lew. slipping an arm round her. \"I'm goin'\nWhen the Reg'ment marches out you'll see me with 'em, all galliant and\ngay. Give us another kiss, Cris, on the strength of it.\"\n\n\"If you'd on'y a-stayed at the Dep\u00f4t--where you _ought_ to ha' bin--you\ncould get as many of 'em as--as you dam please,\" whimpered Cris, putting\nup her mouth.\n\n\"It's 'ard, Cris. I grant you it's 'ard. But what's a man to do? If I'd\na-stayed at the Dep\u00f4t, you wouldn't think anything of me,\"\n\n\"Like as not, but I'd 'ave you with me, Piggy, An' all the thinkin' in the\nworld isn't like kissin'.\"\n\n\"An' all the kissin' in the world isn't like 'avin' a medal to wear on the\nfront o' your coat.\"\n\n\"_You_ won't get no medal.\"\n\n\"Oh, yus, I shall though. Me an' Jakin are the only acting-drummers\nthat'll be took along. All the rest is full men, an' we'll get our medals\nwith them.\"\n\n\"They might ha' taken anybody but you, Piggy. You'll get killed--you're so\nventuresome. Stay with me, Piggy, darlin', down at the Dep\u00f4t, an' I'll\nlove you true forever.\"\n\n\"Ain't you goin' to do that _now_, Cris? You said you was.\"\n\n\"O' course I am, but th' other's more comfortable. Wait till you've growed\na bit, Piggy. You aren't no taller than me now.\"\n\n\"I've bin in the army for two years an' I'm not goin' to get out of a\nchanst o' seein' service an' don't you try to make me do so. I'll come\nback, Cris, an' when I take on as a man I'll marry you--marry you when I'm\na Lance.\"\n\n\"Promise, Piggy?\"\n\nLew reflected on the future as arranged by Jakin a short time previously,\nbut Cris's mouth was very near to his own.\n\n\"I promise, s'elp me Gawd!\" said he.\n\nCris slid an arm round his neck.\n\n\"I won't 'old you back no more, Piggy. Go away an' get your medal, an'\nI'll make you a new button-bag as nice as I know how,\" she whispered.\n\n\"Put some o' your 'air into it, Cris, an' I'll keep it in my pocket so\nlong's I'm alive.\"\n\nThen Cris wept anew, and the interview ended. Public feeling among the\ndrummer-boys rose to fever pitch and the lives of Jakin and Lew became\nunenviable. Not only had they been permitted to enlist two years before\nthe regulation boy's age--fourteen--but, by virtue, it seemed, of their\nextreme youth, they were allowed to go to the Front--which thing had not\nhappened to acting-drummers within the knowledge of boy. The Band which\nwas to accompany the Regiment had been cut down to the regulation twenty\nmen, the surplus returning to the ranks. Jakin and Lew were attached to\nthe Band as supernumeraries, though they would much have preferred being\nCompany buglers.\n\n\"'Don't matter much,\" said Jakin, after the medical inspection, \"Be\nthankful that we're 'lowed to go at all. The Doctor 'e said that if we\ncould stand what we took from the Bazar-Sergeant's son we'd stand pretty\nnigh anything.\"\n\n\"Which we will,\" said Lew, looking tenderly at the ragged and ill-made\nhouse-wife that Cris had given him, with a lock of her hair worked into a\nsprawling \"L\" upon the cover.\n\n\"It was the best I could,\" she sobbed. \"I wouldn't let mother nor the\nSergeant's tailor 'elp me. Keep it always, Piggy, an' remember I love you\ntrue.\"\n\nThey marched to the railway station, nine hundred and sixty strong, and\nevery soul in cantonments turned out to see them go. The drummers gnashed\ntheir teeth at Jakin and Lew marching with the Band, the married women\nwept upon the platform, and the Regiment cheered its noble self black in\nthe face.\n\n\"A nice level lot,\" said the Colonel to the Second-in-Command, as they\nwatched the first four companies entraining.\n\n\"Fit to do anything,\" said the Second-in-Command, enthusiastically. \"But\nit seems to me they're a thought too young and tender for the work in\nhand. It's bitter cold up at the Front now.\"\n\n\"They're sound enough,\" said the Colonel. \"We must take our chance of sick\ncasualties.\"\n\nSo they went northward, ever northward, past droves and droves of camels,\narmies of camp followers, and legions of laden mules, the throng\nthickening day by day, till with a shriek the train pulled up at a\nhopelessly congested junction where six lines of temporary track\naccommodated six forty-wagon trains; where whistles blew, Babus sweated\nand Commissariat officers swore from dawn till far into the night amid the\nwind-driven chaff of the fodder-bales and the lowing of a thousand steers.\n\n\"Hurry up--you're badly wanted at the Front,\" was the message that greeted\nthe Fore and Aft, and the occupants of the Red Cross carriages told the\nsame tale.\n\n\"Tisn't so much the bloomin' fighting,\" gasped a headbound trooper of\nHussars to a knot of admiring Fore and Afts. \"Tisn't so much the bloomin'\nfightin', though there's enough o' that. It's the bloomin' food an' the\nbloomin' climate. Frost all night 'cept when it hails, and biling sun all\nday, and the water stinks fit to knock you down. I got my 'ead chipped\nlike a egg; I've got pneumonia too, an' my guts is all out o' order.\nTain't no bloomin' picnic in those parts, I can tell you.\"\n\n\"Wot are the niggers like?\" demanded a private.\n\n\"There's some prisoners in that train yonder. Go an' look at 'em. They're\nthe aristocracy o' the country. The common folk are a dashed sight uglier.\nIf you want to know what they fight with, reach under my seat an' pull out\nthe long knife that's there.\"\n\nThey dragged out and beheld for the first time the grim, bone-handled,\ntriangular Afghan knife. It was almost as long as Lew.\n\n\"That's the thing to jint ye,\" said the trooper, feebly.\n\n\"It can take off a man's arm at the shoulder as easy as slicing butter. I\nhalved the beggar that used that 'un, but there's more of his likes up\nabove. They don't understand thrustin', but they're devils to slice.\"\n\nThe men strolled across the tracks to inspect the Afghan prisoners. They\nwere unlike any \"niggers\" that the Fore and Aft had ever met--these huge,\nblack-haired, scowling sons of the Beni-Israel. As the men stared the\nAfghans spat freely and muttered one to another with lowered eyes.\n\n\"My eyes! Wot awful swine!\" said Jakin, who was in the rear of the\nprocession. \"Say, old man, how you got _puckrowed_, eh? _Kiswasti_ you\nwasn't hanged for your ugly face, hey?\"\n\nThe tallest of the company turned, his leg-irons, clanking at the\nmovement, and stared at the boy. \"See!\" he cried to his fellows in Pushto.\n\"They send children against us. What a people, and what fools!\"\n\n\"_Hya!_\" said Jakin, nodding his head cheerily. \"You go down-country.\n_Khana_ get, _peenikapanee_ get--live like a bloomin' Raja _ke marfik_.\nThat's a better _bandobust_ than baynit get it in your innards. Good-bye,\nole man. Take care o' your beautiful figure-'ed, an' try to look _kushy_.\"\n\nThe men laughed and fell in for their first march when they began to\nrealize that a soldier's life was not all beer and skittles. They were\nmuch impressed with the size and bestial ferocity of the niggers whom they\nhad now learned to call \"Paythans,\" and more with the exceeding discomfort\nof their own surroundings. Twenty old soldiers in the corps would have\ntaught them how to make themselves moderately snug at night, but they had\nno old soldiers, and, as the troops on the line of march said, \"they lived\nlike pigs.\" They learned the heart-breaking cussedness of camp-kitchens\nand camels and the depravity of an E.P. tent and a wither-wrung mule. They\nstudied animalculae in water, and developed a few cases of dysentery in\ntheir study.\n\nAt the end of their third march they were disagreeably surprised by the\narrival in their camp of a hammered iron slug which, fired from a steady\nrest at seven hundred yards, flicked out the brains of a private seated by\nthe fire. This robbed them of their peace for a night, and was the\nbeginning of a long-range fire carefully calculated to that end. In the\ndaytime they saw nothing except an occasional puff of smoke from a crag\nabove the line of march. At night there were distant spurts of flame and\noccasional casualties, which set the whole camp blazing into the gloom,\nand, occasionally, into opposite tents. Then they swore vehemently and\nvowed that this was magnificent but not war.\n\nIndeed it was not. The Regiment could not halt for reprisals against the\n_franctireurs_ of the country side. Its duty was to go forward and make\nconnection with the Scotch and Gurkha troops with which it was brigaded.\nThe Afghans knew this, and knew too, after their first tentative shots,\nthat they were dealing with a raw regiment. Thereafter they devoted\nthemselves to the task of keeping the Fore and Aft on the strain. Not for\nanything would they have taken equal liberties with a seasoned corps--with\nthe wicked little Gurkhas, whose delight it was to lie out in the open on\na dark night and stalk their stalkers--with the terrible, big men dressed\nin women's clothes, who could be heard praying to their God in the\nnight-watches, and whose peace of mind no amount of \"sniping\" could\nshake--or with those vile Sikhs, who marched so ostentatiously unprepared\nand who dealt out such grim reward to those who tried to profit by that\nunpreparedness. This white regiment was different--quite different. It\nslept like a hog, and, like a hog, charged in every direction when it was\nroused. Its sentries walked with a footfall that could be heard for a\nquarter of a mile; would fire at anything that moved--even a driven\ndonkey--and when they had once fired, could be scientifically \"rushed\" and\nlaid out a horror and an offence against the morning sun. Then there were\ncamp-followers who straggled and could be cut up without fear. Their\nshrieks would disturb the white boys, and the loss of their services would\ninconvenience them sorely.\n\nThus, at every march, the hidden enemy became bolder and the regiment\nwrithed and twisted under attacks it could not avenge. The crowning\ntriumph was a sudden night-rush ending in the cutting of many tent-ropes,\nthe collapse of the sodden canvas and a glorious knifing of the men who\nstruggled and kicked below. It was a great deed, neatly carried out, and\nit shook the already shaken nerves of the Fore and Aft. All the courage\nthat they had been required to exercise up to this point was the \"two\no'clock in the morning courage\"; and they, so far, had only succeeded in\nshooting their comrades and losing their sleep.\n\nSullen, discontented, cold, savage, sick, with their uniforms dulled and\nunclean, the \"Fore and Aft\" joined their Brigade.\n\n\"I hear you had a tough time of it coming up,\" said the Brigadier. But\nwhen he saw the hospital-sheets his face fell.\n\n\"This is bad,\" said he to himself. \"They're as rotten as sheep.\" And aloud\nto the Colonel,--\"I'm afraid we can't spare you just yet. We want all we\nhave, else I should have given you ten days to recruit in.\"\n\nThe Colonel winced. \"On my honor, Sir,\" he returned, \"there is not the\nleast necessity to think of sparing us. My men have been rather mauled and\nupset without a fair return. They only want to go in somewhere where they\ncan see what's before them.\"\n\n\"'Can't say I think much of the Fore and Fit,\" said the Brigadier, in\nconfidence, to his Brigade-Major. \"They've lost all their soldiering, and,\nby the trim of them, might have marched through the country from the other\nside. A more fagged-out set of men I never put eyes on.\"\n\n\"Oh, they'll improve as the work goes on. The parade gloss has been rubbed\noff a little, but they'll put on field polish before long,\" said the\nBrigade-Major. \"They've been mauled, and they don't quite understand it.\"\n\nThey did not. All the hitting was on one side, and it was cruelly hard\nhitting with accessories that made them sick. There was also the real\nsickness that laid hold of a strong man and dragged him howling to the\ngrave. Worst of all, their officers knew just as little of the country as\nthe men themselves, and looked as if they did. The Fore and Aft were in a\nthoroughly unsatisfactory condition, but they believed that all would be\nwell if they could once get a fair go-in at the enemy. Pot-shots up and\ndown the valleys were unsatisfactory, and the bayonet never seemed to get\na chance. Perhaps it was as well, for a long-limbed Afghan with a knife\nhad a reach of eight feet, and could carry away enough lead to disable\nthree Englishmen, The Fore and Fit would like some rifle-practice at the\nenemy--all seven hundred rifles blazing together. That wish showed the\nmood of the men.\n\nThe Gurkhas walked into their camp, and in broken, barrack-room English\nstrove to fraternize with them; offered them pipes of tobacco and stood\nthem treat at the canteen. But the Fore and Aft, not knowing much of the\nnature of the Gurkhas, treated them as they would treat any other\n\"niggers,\" and the little men in green trotted back to their firm friends\nthe Highlanders, and with many grins confided to them:--\"That dam white,\nregiment no dam use. Sulky--ugh! Dirty--ugh! Hya, any tot for Johnny?\"\nWhereat the Highlanders smote the Gurkhas as to the head, and told them\nnot to vilify a British Regiment, and the Gurkhas grinned cavernously, for\nthe Highlanders were their elder brothers and entitled to the privileges\nof kinship. The common soldier who touches a Gurkha is more than likely to\nhave his head sliced open.\n\nThree days later the Brigadier arranged a battle according to the rules of\nwar and the peculiarity of the Afghan temperament. The enemy were massing\nin inconvenient strength among the hills, and the moving of many green\nstandards warned him that the tribes were \"up\" in aid of the Afghan\nregular troops. A Squadron and a half of Bengal Lancers represented the\navailable Cavalry, and two screw-guns borrowed from a column thirty miles\naway, the Artillery at the General's disposal.\n\n\"If they stand, as I've a very strong notion that they will, I fancy we\nshall see an infantry fight that will be worth watching,\" said the\nBrigadier. \"We'll do it in style. Each regiment shall be played into\naction by its Band, and we'll hold the Cavalry in reserve.\"\n\n\"For _all_ the reserve?\" somebody asked.\n\n\"For all the reserve; because we're going to crumple them up,\" said the\nBrigadier, who was an extraordinary Brigadier, and did not believe in the\nvalue of a reserve when dealing with Asiatics. And, indeed, when you come\nto think of it, had the British Army consistently waited for reserves in\nall its little affairs, the boundaries of Our Empire would have stopped at\nBrighton beach.\n\nThat battle was to be a glorious battle.\n\nThe three regiments debouching from three separate gorges, after duly\ncrowning the heights above, were to converge from the centre, left and\nright upon what we will call the Afghan army, then stationed toward the\nlower extremity of a flat-bottomed valley. Thus it will be seen that three\nsides of the valley practically belonged to the English, while the fourth\nwas strictly Afghan property. In the event of defeat the Afghans had the\nrocky hills to fly to, where the fire from the guerilla tribes in aid\nwould cover their retreat. In the event of victory these same tribes would\nrush down and lend their weight to the rout of the British.\n\nThe screw-guns were to shell the head of each Afghan rush that was made in\nclose formation, and the Cavalry, held in reserve in the right valley,\nwere to gently stimulate the break-up which would follow on the combined\nattack. The Brigadier, sitting upon a rock overlooking the valley, would\nwatch the battle unrolled at his feet. The Fore and Aft would debouch from\nthe central gorge, the Gurkhas from the left, and the Highlanders from the\nright, for the reason that the left flank of the enemy seemed as though it\nrequired the most hammering. It was not every day that an Afghan force\nwould take ground in the open, and the Brigadier was resolved to make the\nmost of it.\n\n\"If we only had a few more men,\" he said, plaintively, \"we could surround\nthe creatures and crumble 'em up thoroughly. As it is, I'm afraid we can\nonly cut them up as they run. It's a great pity.\"\n\nThe Fore and Aft had enjoyed unbroken peace for five days, and were\nbeginning, in spite of dysentery, to recover their nerve. But they were\nnot happy, for they did not know the work in hand, and had they known,\nwould not have known how to do it. Throughout those five days in which old\nsoldiers might have taught them the craft of the game, they discussed\ntogether their misadventures in the past--how such an one was alive at\ndawn and dead ere the dusk, and with what shrieks and struggles such\nanother had given up his soul under the Afghan knife. Death was a new and\nhorrible thing to the sons of mechanics who were used to die decently of\nzymotic disease; and their careful conservation in barracks had done\nnothing to make them look upon it with less dread.\n\nVery early in the dawn the bugles began to blow, and the Fore and Aft,\nfilled with a misguided enthusiasm, turned out without waiting for a cup\nof coffee and a biscuit; and were rewarded by being kept under arms in the\ncold while the other regiments leisurely prepared for the fray. All the\nworld knows that it is ill taking the breeks off a Highlander. It is much\niller to try to make him stir unless he is convinced of the necessity for\nhaste.\n\nThe Fore and Aft awaited, leaning upon their rifles and listening to the\nprotests of their empty stomachs. The Colonel did his best to remedy the\ndefault of lining as soon as it was borne in upon him that the affair\nwould not begin at once, and so well did he succeed that the coffee was\njust ready when--the men moved off, their Band leading. Even then there\nhad been a mistake in time, and the Fore and Aft came out into the valley\nten minutes before the proper hour. Their Band wheeled to the right after\nreaching the open, and retired behind a little rocky knoll still playing\nwhile the regiment went past.\n\nIt was not a pleasant sight that opened on the uninstructed view, for the\nlower end of the valley appeared to be filled by an army in position--real\nand actual regiments attired in red coats, and--of this there was no\ndoubt--firing Martini-Henri bullets which cut up the ground a hundred\nyards in front of the leading company. Over that pock-marked ground the\nregiment had to pass, and it opened the ball with a general and profound\ncourtesy to the piping pickets; ducking in perfect time, as though it had\nbeen brazed on a rod. Being half-capable of thinking for itself, it fired\na volley by the simple process of pitching its rifle into its shoulder and\npulling the trigger. The bullets may have accounted for some of the\nwatchers on the hillside, but they certainly did not affect the mass of\nenemy in front, while the noise of the rifles drowned any orders that\nmight have been given.\n\n\"Good God!\" said the Brigadier, sitting on the rock high above all. \"That\nregiment has spoiled the whole show. Hurry up the others, and let the\nscrew-guns get off.\"\n\nBut the screw-guns, in working round the heights, had stumbled upon a\nwasp's nest of a small mud fort which they incontinently shelled at eight\nhundred yards, to the huge discomfort of the occupants, who were\nunaccustomed to weapons of such devilish precision.\n\nThe Fore and Aft continued to go forward but with shortened stride. Where\nwere the other regiments, and why did these niggers use Martinis? They\ntook open order instinctively, lying down and firing at random, rushing a\nfew paces forward and lying down again, according to the regulations. Once\nin this formation, each man felt himself desperately alone, and edged in\ntoward his fellow for comfort's sake.\n\nThen the crack of his neighbor's rifle at his ear led him to fire as\nrapidly as he could--again for the sake of the comfort of the noise. The\nreward was not long delayed. Five volleys plunged the files in banked\nsmoke impenetrable to the eye, and the bullets began to take ground twenty\nor thirty yards in front of the firers, as the weight of the bayonet\ndragged down, and to the right arms wearied with holding the kick of the\nleaping Martini. The Company Commanders peered helplessly through the\nsmoke, the more nervous mechanically trying to fan it away with their\nhelmets.\n\n\"High and to the left!\" bawled a Captain till he was hoarse. \"No good!\nCease firing, and let it drift away a bit.\"\n\nThree and four times the bugles shrieked the order, and when it was obeyed\nthe Fore and Aft looked that their foe should be lying before them in mown\nswaths of men. A light wind drove the smoke to leeward, and showed the\nenemy still in position and apparently unaffected. A quarter of a ton of\nlead had been buried a furlong in front of them, as the ragged earth\nattested.\n\nThat was not demoralizing to the Afghans, who have not European nerves.\nThey were waiting for the mad riot to die down, and were firing quietly\ninto the heart of the smoke. A private of the Fore and Aft spun up his\ncompany shrieking with agony, another was kicking the earth and gasping,\nand a third, ripped through the lower intestines by a jagged bullet, was\ncalling aloud on his comrades to put him out of his pain. These were the\ncasualties, and they were not soothing to hear or see. The smoke cleared\nto a dull haze.\n\nThen the foe began to shout with a great shouting and a mass--a black\nmass--detached itself from the main body, and rolled over the ground at\nhorrid speed. It was composed of, perhaps, three hundred men, who would\nshout and fire and slash if the rush of their fifty comrades who were\ndetermined to die carried home. The fifty were Ghazis, half-maddened with\ndrugs and wholly mad with religious fanaticism. When they rushed the\nBritish fire ceased, and in the lull the order was given to close ranks\nand meet them with the bayonet.\n\nAny one who knew the business could have told the Fore and Aft that the\nonly way of dealing with a Ghazi rush is by volleys at long ranges;\nbecause a man who means to die, who desires to die, who will gain heaven\nby dying, must, in nine cases out of ten, kill a man who has a lingering\nprejudice in favor of life if he can close with the latter. Where they\nshould have closed and gone forward, the Fore and Aft opened out and\nskirmished, and where they should have opened out and fired, they closed\nand waited.\n\nA man dragged from his blankets half awake and unfed is never in a\npleasant frame of mind. Nor does his happiness increase when he watches\nthe whites of the eyes of three hundred six-foot fiends upon whose beards\nthe foam is lying, upon whose tongues is a roar of wrath, and in whose\nhands are three-foot knives.\n\nThe Fore and Aft heard the Gurkha bugles bringing that regiment forward at\nthe double, while the neighing of the Highland pipes came from the left.\nThey strove to stay where they were, though the bayonets wavered down the\nline like the oars of a ragged boat. Then they felt body to body the\namazing physical strength of their foes; a shriek of pain ended the rush,\nand the knives fell amid scenes not to be told. The men clubbed together\nand smote blindly--as often as not at their own fellows. Their front\ncrumpled like paper, and the fifty Ghazis passed on; their backers, now\ndrunk with success, fighting as madly as they.\n\nThen the rear-ranks were bidden to close up, and the subalterns dashed\ninto the stew--alone. For the rear-rank had heard the clamor in front, the\nyells and the howls of pain, and had seen the dark stale blood that makes\nafraid. They were not going to stay. It was the rushing of the camps over\nagain. Let their officers go to Hell, if they chose; they would get away\nfrom the knives.\n\n\"Come on!\" shrieked the subalterns, and their men, cursing them, drew\nback, each closing into his neighbor and wheeling round.\n\nCharteris and Devlin, subalterns of the last company, faced their death\nalone in the belief that their men would follow.\n\n\"You've killed me, you cowards,\" sobbed Devlin and dropped, cut from the\nshoulder-strap to the centre of the chest, and a fresh detachment of his\nmen retreating, always retreating, trampled him under foot as they made\nfor the pass whence they had emerged.\n\n   I kissed her in the kitchen and I kissed her in the hall.\n       Child'un, child'un, follow me!\n   Oh Golly, said the cook, is he gwine to kiss us all?\n       Halla-Halla-Halla Hallelujah!\n\nThe Gurkhas were pouring through the left gorge and over the heights at\nthe double to the invitation of their regimental Quickstep. The black\nrocks were crowned with dark green spiders as the bugles gave tongue\njubilantly:\n\n   In the morning! In the morning by the bright light!\n   When Gabriel blows his trumpet in the morning!\n\nThe Gurkha rear-companies tripped and blundered over loose stones. The\nfront-files halted for a moment to take stock of the valley and to settle\nstray boot-laces. Then a happy little sigh of contentment soughed down the\nranks, and it was as though the land smiled, for behold there below was\nthe enemy, and it was to meet them that the Gurkhas had doubled so\nhastily. There was much enemy. There would be amusement. The little men\nhitched their _kukris_ well to hand, and gaped expectantly at their\nofficers as terriers grin ere the stone is cast for them to fetch. The\nGurkhas' ground sloped downward to the valley, and they enjoyed a fair\nview of the proceedings. They sat upon the bowlders to watch, for their\nofficers were not going to waste their wind in assisting to repulse a\nGhazi rush more than half a mile away. Let the white men look to their own\nfront.\n\n\"Hi! yi!\" said the Subadar-Major, who was sweating profusely, \"Dam fools\nyonder, stand close-order! This is no time for close order, it's the time\nfor volleys. Ugh!\"\n\nHorrified, amused, and, indignant, the Gurkhas beheld the retirement--let\nus be gentle--of the Fore and Aft with a running chorus of oaths and\ncommentaries.\n\n\"They run! The white men run! Colonel Sahib, may _we_ also do a little\nrunning?\" murmured Runbir Thappa, the Senior Jemadar.\n\nBut the Colonel would have none of it. \"Let the beggars be cut up a\nlittle,\" said he wrathfully. \"'Serves 'em right They'll be prodded into\nfacing round in a minute.\" He looked through his field-glasses, and caught\nthe glint of an officer's sword.\n\n\"Beating 'em with the flat--damned conscripts! How the Ghazis are walking\ninto them!\" said he.\n\nThe Fore and Aft, heading back, bore with them their officers. The\nnarrowness of the pass forced the mob into solid formation, and the\nrear-rank delivered some sort of a wavering volley. The Ghazis drew off,\nfor they did not know what reserves the gorge might hide. Moreover, it was\nnever wise to chase white men too far. They returned as wolves return to\ncover, satisfied with the slaughter that they had done, and only stopping\nto slash at the wounded on the ground. A quarter of a mile had the Fore\nand Aft retreated, and now, jammed in the pass, was quivering with pain,\nshaken and demoralized with fear, while the officers, maddened beyond\ncontrol, smote the men with the hilts and the flats of their swords.\n\n\"Get back! Get back, you cowards--you women! Right about face--column of\ncompanies, form--you hounds!\" shouted the Colonel, and the subalterns\nswore aloud. But the Regiment wanted to go--to go anywhere out of the\nrange of those merciless knives. It swayed to and fro irresolutely with\nshouts and outcries, while from the right the Gurkhas dropped volley after\nvolley of cripple-stopper Snider bullets at long range into the mob of the\nGhazis returning to their own troops.\n\nThe Fore and Aft Band, though protected from direct fire by the rocky\nknoll under which it had sat down, fled at the first rush. Jakin and Lew\nwould have fled also, but their short legs left them fifty yards in the\nrear, and by the time the Band had mixed with the regiment, they were\npainfully aware that they would have to close in alone and unsupported.\n\n\"Get back to that rock,\" gasped Jakin. \"They won't see us there.\"\n\nAnd they returned to the scattered instruments of the Band; their hearts\nnearly bursting their ribs.\n\n\"Here's a nice show for _us_,\" said Jakin, throwing himself full length on\nthe ground. \"A bloomin' fine show for British Infantry! Oh, the devils!\nThey've gone an' left us alone here! Wot 'll we do?\"\n\nLew took possession of a cast-off water bottle, which naturally was full\nof canteen rum, and drank till he coughed again.\n\n\"Drink,\" said he, shortly. \"They'll come back in a minute or two--you\nsee.\"\n\nJakin drank, but there was no sign of the regiment's return. They could\nhear a dull clamor from the head of the valley of retreat, and saw the\nGhazis slink back, quickening their pace as the Gurkhas fired at them.\n\n\"We're all that's left of the Band, an' we'll be cut up as sure as death,\"\nsaid Jakin.\n\n\"I'll die game, then,\" said Lew, thickly, fumbling with his tiny drummer's\nsword. The drink was working on his brain as it was on Jakin's.\n\n\"'Old on! I know something better than fightin',\" said Jakin, stung by the\nsplendor of a sudden thought due chiefly to rum. \"Tip our bloomin' cowards\nyonder the word to come back. The Paythan beggars are well away. Come on,\nLew! We won't get hurt. Take the fife an' give me the drum. The Old Step\nfor all your bloomin' guts are worth! There's a few of our men coming back\nnow. Stand up, ye drunken little defaulter. By your right--quick march!\"\n\nHe slipped the drum-sling over his shoulder, thrust the fife into Lew's\nhand, and the two boys marched out of the cover of the rock into the open,\nmaking a hideous hash of the first bars of the \"British Grenadiers.\"\n\nAs Lew had said, a few of the Fore and Aft were coming back sullenly and\nshamefacedly under the stimulus of blows and abuse; their red coats shone\nat the head of the valley, and behind them were wavering bayonets. But\nbetween this shattered line and the enemy, who with Afghan suspicion\nfeared that the hasty retreat meant an ambush, and had not moved\ntherefore, lay half a mile of a level ground dotted only by the wounded.\n\nThe tune settled into full swing and the boys kept shoulder to shoulder,\nJakin banging the drum as one possessed. The one fife made a thin and\npitiful squeaking, but the tune carried far, even to the Gurkhas.\n\n\"Come on, you dogs!\" muttered Jakin, to himself, \"Are we to play\nforhever?\" Lew was staring straight in front of him and marching more\nstiffly than ever he had done on parade.\n\nAnd in bitter mockery of the distant mob, the old tune of the Old Line\nshrilled and rattled:\n\n   Some talk of Alexander,\n     And some of Hercules;\n   Of Hector and Lysander,\n     And such great names as these!\n\nThere was a far-off clapping of hands from the Gurkhas, and a roar from\nthe Highlanders in the distance, but never a shot was fired by British or\nAfghan. The two little red dots moved forward in the open parallel to the\nenemy's front.\n\n   But of all the world's great heroes\n     There's none that can compare,\n   With a tow-row-row-row-row-row\n     To the British Grenadier!\n\nThe men of the Fore and Aft were gathering thick at the entrance into the\nplain. The Brigadier on the heights far above was speechless with rage.\nStill no movement from the enemy. The day stayed to watch the children.\n\nJakin halted and beat the long roll of the Assembly, while the fife\nsquealed despairingly.\n\n\"Right about face! Hold up, Lew, you're drunk,\" said Jakin. They wheeled\nand marched back:\n\n   Those heroes of antiquity\n     Ne'er saw a cannon-ball,\n   Nor knew the force o' powder,\n\n\"Here they come!\" said Jakin. \"Go on, Lew:\"\n\n    To scare their foes withal!\n\nThe Fore and Aft were pouring out of the valley. What officers had said to\nmen in that time of shame and humiliation will never be known; for neither\nofficers nor men speak of it now.\n\n\"They are coming anew!\" shouted a priest among the Afghans. \"Do not kill\nthe boys! Take them alive, and they shall be of our faith.\"\n\nBut the first volley had been fired, and Lew dropped on his face. Jakin\nstood for a minute, spun round and collapsed, as the Fore and Aft came\nforward, the maledictions of their officers in their ears, and in their\nhearts the shame of open shame.\n\nHalf the men had seen the drummers die, and they made no sign. They did\nnot even shout. They doubled out straight across the plain in open order,\nand they did not fire.\n\n\"This,\" said the Colonel of Gurkhas, softly, \"is the real attack, as it\nought to have been delivered. Come on, my children.\"\n\n\"Ulu-lu-lu-lu!\" squealed the Gurkhas, and came down with a joyful clicking\nof _kukris_--those vicious Gurkha knives.\n\nOn the right there was no rush. The Highlanders, cannily commending their\nsouls to God (for it matters as much to a dead man whether he has been\nshot in a Border scuffle or at Waterloo) opened out and fired according to\ntheir custom, that is to say without heat and without intervals, while the\nscrew-guns, having disposed of the impertinent mud fort aforementioned,\ndropped shell after shell into the clusters round the flickering green\nstandards on the heights.\n\n\"Charrging is an unfortunate necessity,\" murmured the Color-Sergeant of\nthe right company of the Highlanders.\n\n\"It makes the men sweer so, but I am thinkin' that it will come to a\ncharrge if these black devils stand much longer. Stewarrt, man, you're\nfiring into the eye of the sun, and he'll not take any harm for Government\nammuneetion. A foot lower and a great deal slower! What are the English\ndoing? They're very quiet there in the centre. Running again?\"\n\nThe English were not running. They were hacking and hewing and stabbing,\nfor though one white man is seldom physically a match for an Afghan in a\nsheepskin or wadded coat, yet, through the pressure of many white men\nbehind, and a certain thirst for revenge in his heart, he becomes capable\nof doing much with both ends of his rifle. The Fore and Aft held their\nfire till one bullet could drive through five or six men, and the front of\nthe Afghan force gave on the volley. They then selected their men, and\nslew them with deep gasps and short hacking coughs, and groanings of\nleather belts against strained bodies, and realized for the first time\nthat an Afghan attacked is far less formidable than an Afghan attacking;\nwhich fact old soldiers might have told them.\n\nBut they had no old soldiers in their ranks.\n\nThe Gurkhas' stall at the bazar was the noisiest, for the men were\nengaged--to a nasty noise as of beef being cut on the block--with the\n_kukri_, which they preferred to the bayonet; well knowing how the Afghan\nhates the half-moon blade.\n\nAs the Afghans wavered, the green standards on the mountain moved down to\nassist them in a last rally. Which was unwise. The Lancers chafing in the\nright gorge had thrice despatched their only subaltern as galloper to\nreport on the progress of affairs. On the third occasion he returned, with\na bullet-graze on his knee, swearing strange oaths in Hindoostani, and\nsaying that all things were ready. So that Squadron swung round the right\nof the Highlanders with a wicked whistling of wind in the pennons of its\nlances, and fell upon the remnant just when, according to all the rules of\nwar, it should have waited for the foe to show more signs of wavering.\n\nBut it was a dainty charge, deftly delivered, and it ended by the Cavalry\nfinding itself at the head of the pass by which the Afghans intended to\nretreat; and down the track that the lances had made streamed two\ncompanies of the Highlanders, which was never intended by the Brigadier.\nThe new development was successful. It detached the enemy from his base as\na sponge is torn from a rock, and left him ringed about with fire in that\npitiless plain. And as a sponge is chased round the bath-tub by the hand\nof the bather, so were the Afghans chased till they broke into little\ndetachments much more difficult to dispose of than large masses.\n\n\"See!\" quoth the Brigadier. \"Everything has come as I arranged. We've cut\ntheir base, and now we'll bucket 'em to pieces.\"\n\nA direct hammering was all that the Brigadier had dared to hope for,\nconsidering the size of the force at his disposal; but men who stand or\nfall by the errors of their opponents may be forgiven for turning Chance\ninto Design. The bucketing went forward merrily. The Afghan forces were\nupon the run--the run of wearied wolves who snarl and bite over their\nshoulders. The red lances dipped by twos and threes, and, with a shriek,\nup rose the lance-butt, like a spar on a stormy sea, as the trooper\ncantering forward cleared his point. The Lancers kept between their prey\nand the steep hills, for all who could were trying to escape from the\nvalley of death. The Highlanders gave the fugitives two hundred yards'\nlaw, and then brought them down, gasping and choking ere they could reach\nthe protection of the bowlders above. The Gurkhas followed suit; but the\nFore and Aft were killing on their own account, for they had penned a mass\nof men between their bayonets and a wall of rock, and the flash of the\nrifles was lighting the wadded coats.\n\n\"We cannot hold them, Captain Sahib!\" panted a Ressaldar of Lancers. \"Let\nus try the carbine. The lance is good, but it wastes time.\"\n\nThey tried the carbine, and still the enemy melted away--fled up the hills\nby hundreds when there were only twenty bullets to stop them. On the\nheights the screw-guns ceased firing--they had run out of ammunition--and\nthe Brigadier groaned, for the musketry fire could not sufficiently smash\nthe retreat. Long before the last volleys were fired, the litters were out\nin force looking for the wounded. The battle was over, and, but for want\nof fresh troops, the Afghans would have been wiped off the earth. As it\nwas they counted their dead by hundreds, and nowhere were the dead thicker\nthan in the track of the Fore and Aft.\n\nBut the Regiment did not cheer with the Highlanders, nor did they dance\nuncouth dances with the Gurkhas among the dead. They looked under their\nbrows at the Colonel as they leaned upon their rifles and panted.\n\n\"Get back to camp, you. Haven't you disgraced yourself enough for one day!\nGo and look to the wounded. It's all you're fit for,\" said the Colonel.\nYet for the past hour the Fore and Aft had been doing all that mortal\ncommander could expect. They had lost heavily because they did not know\nhow to set about their business with proper skill, but they had borne\nthemselves gallantly, and this was their reward.\n\nA young and sprightly Color-Sergeant, who had begun to imagine himself a\nhero, offered his water-bottle to a Highlander, whose tongue was black\nwith thirst. \"I drink with no cowards,\" answered the youngster, huskily,\nand, turning to a Gurkha, said, \"Hya, Johnny! Drink water got it?\" The\nGurkha grinned and passed his bottle. The Fore and Aft said no word.\n\nThey went back to camp when the field of strife had been a little mopped\nup and made presentable, and the Brigadier, who saw himself a Knight in\nthree months, was the only soul who was complimentary to them. The Colonel\nwas heart-broken and the officers were savage and sullen.\n\n\"Well,\" said the Brigadier, \"they are young troops of course, and it was\nnot unnatural that they should retire in disorder for a bit.\"\n\n\"Oh, my only Aunt Maria!\" murmured a junior Staff Officer. \"Retire in\ndisorder! It was a bally run!\"\n\n\"But they came again as we all know,\" cooed the Brigadier, the Colonel's\nashy-white face before him, \"and they behaved as well as could possibly be\nexpected. Behaved beautifully, indeed. I was watching them. It's not a\nmatter to take to heart, Colonel. As some German General said of his men,\n'they wanted to be shooted over a little, that was all.' To himself he\nsaid: 'Now they're blooded I can give 'em responsible work. It's as well\nthat they got what they did. 'Teach 'em more than half a dozen rifle\nflirtations, that will--later--run alone and bite. Poor old Colonel,\nthough.'\"\n\nAll that afternoon the heliograph winked and flickered on the hills,\nstriving to tell the good news to a mountain forty miles away. And in the\nevening there arrived, dusty, sweating, and sore, a misguided\nCorrespondent who had gone out to assist at a trumpery village-burning and\nwho had read off the message from afar, cursing his luck the while.\n\n\"Let's have the details somehow--as full as ever you can, please. It's the\nfirst time I've ever been left this campaign,\" said the Correspondent to\nthe Brigadier; and the Brigadier, nothing loath, told him how an Army of\nCommunication had been crumpled up, destroyed, and all but annihilated by\nthe craft, strategy, wisdom, and foresight of the Brigadier,\n\nBut some say, and among these be the Gurkhas who watched on the hillside,\nthat that battle was won by Jakin and Lew, whose little bodies were borne\nup just in time to fit two gaps at the head of the big ditch-grave for the\ndead under the heights of Jagai.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SENDING OF DANA DA\n\n\nWhen the Devil rides on your chest remember the _chamar.--Native Proverb_.\n\nOnce upon a time, some people in India made a new Heaven and a new Earth\nout of broken tea-cups, a missing brooch or two, and a hair-brush. These\nwere hidden under brushes, or stuffed into holes in the hillside, and an\nentire Civil Service of subordinate Gods used to find or mend them again;\nand every one said: \"There are more things in Heaven and Earth than are\ndreamed of in our philosophy.\" Several other things happened also, but the\nReligion never seemed to get much beyond its first manifestations; though\nit added an air-line postal service, and orchestral effects in order to\nkeep abreast of the times, and choke off competition.\n\nThis Religion was too elastic for ordinary use. It stretched itself and\nembraced pieces of everything that the medicine-men of all ages have\nmanufactured. It approved of and stole from Freemasonry; looted the\nLatter-day Rosicrucians of half their pet words; took any fragments of\nEgyptian philosophy that it found in the _Encyclopaedia Britannica_;\nannexed as many of the Vedas as had been translated into French or\nEnglish, and talked of all the rest; built in the German versions of what\nis left of the Zend Avesta; encouraged White, Grey and Black Magic,\nincluding spiritualism, palmistry, fortune-telling by cards, hot\nchestnuts, double-kerneled nuts and tallow droppings; would have adopted\nVoodoo and Oboe had it known anything about them, and showed itself, in\nevery way, one of the most accommodating arrangements that had ever been\ninvented since the birth of the Sea.\n\nWhen it was in thorough working order, with all the machinery, down to the\nsubscriptions, complete, Dana Da came from nowhere, with nothing in his\nhands, and wrote a chapter in its history which has hitherto been\nunpublished. He said that his first name was Dana, and his second was Da.\nNow, setting aside Dana of the New York _Sun_, Dana is a Bhil name, and Da\nfits no native of India unless you except the Bengali D\u00e9 as the original\nspelling. Da is Lap or Finnish; and Dana Da was neither Finn, Chin, Bhil,\nBengali, Lap, Nair, Gond, Romaney, Magh, Bokhariot, Kurd, Armenian,\nLevantine, Jew, Persian, Punjabi, Madrasi, Parsee, nor anything else known\nto ethnologists. He was simply Dana Da, and declined to give further\ninformation. For the sake of brevity and as roughly indicating his origin,\nhe was called \"The Native.\" He might have been the original Old Man of the\nMountains, who is said to be the only authorized head of the Tea-cup\nCreed. Some people said that he was; but Dana Da used to smile and deny\nany connection with the cult; explaining that he was an \"Independent\nExperimenter.\"\n\nAs I have said, he came from nowhere, with his hands behind his back, and\nstudied the Creed for three weeks; sitting at the feet of those best\ncompetent to explain its mysteries. Then he laughed aloud and went away,\nbut the laugh might have been either of devotion or derision.\n\nWhen he returned he was without money, but his pride was unabated. He\ndeclared that he knew more about the Things in Heaven and Earth than those\nwho taught him, and for this contumacy was abandoned altogether.\n\nHis next appearance in public life was at a big cantonment in Upper India,\nand he was then telling fortunes with the help of three leaden dice, a\nvery dirty old cloth, and a little tin box of opium pills. He told better\nfortunes when he was allowed half a bottle of whiskey; but the things\nwhich he invented on the opium were quite worth the money. He was in\nreduced circumstances. Among other people's he told the fortune of an\nEnglishman who had once been interested in the Simla Creed, but who, later\non, had married and forgotten all his old knowledge in the study of babies\nand things. The Englishman allowed Dana Da to tell a fortune for charity's\nsake, and gave him five rupees, a dinner, and some old clothes. When he\nhad eaten, Dana Da professed gratitude, and asked if there were anything\nhe could do for his host--in the esoteric line.\n\n\"Is there any one that you love?\" said Dana Da. The Englishman loved his\nwife, but had no desire to drag her name into the conversation. He\ntherefore shook his head.\n\n\"Is there any one that you hate?\" said Dana Da. The Englishman said that\nthere were several men whom he hated deeply.\n\n\"Very good,\" said Dana Da, upon whom the whiskey and the opium were\nbeginning to tell. \"Only give me their names, and I will despatch a\nSending to them and kill them.\"\n\nNow a Sending is a horrible arrangement, first invented, they say, in\nIceland. It is a Thing sent by a wizard, and may take any form, but, most\ngenerally, wanders about the land in the shape of a little purple cloud\ntill it finds the Sendee, and him it kills by changing into the form of a\nhorse, or a cat, or a man without a face. It is not strictly a native\npatent, though _chamars_ of the skin and hide castes can, if irritated,\ndespatch a Sending which sits on the breast of their enemy by night and\nnearly kills him, Very few natives care to irritate _chamars_ for this\nreason.\n\n\"Let me despatch a Sending,\" said Dana Da; \"I am nearly dead now with\nwant, and drink, and opium; but I should like to kill a man before I die.\nI can send a Sending anywhere you choose, and in any form except in the\nshape of a man.\"\n\nThe Englishman had no friends that he wished to kill, but partly to soothe\nDana Da, whose eyes were rolling, and partly to see what would be done, he\nasked whether a modified Sending could not be arranged for--such a Sending\nas should make a man's life a burden to him, and yet do him no harm. If\nthis were possible, he notified his willingness to give Dana Da ten rupees\nfor the job.\n\n\"I am not what I was once,\" said Dana Da, \"and I must take the money\nbecause I am poor. To what Englishman shall I send it?\"\n\n\"Send a Sending to Lone Sahib,\" said the Englishman, naming a man who had\nbeen most bitter in rebuking him for his apostasy from the Tea-cup Creed.\nDana Da laughed and nodded.\n\n\"I could have chosen no better man myself,\" said he. \"I will see that he\nfinds the Sending about his path and about his bed.\"\n\nHe lay down on the hearth-rug, turned up the whites of his eyes, shivered\nall over and began to snort. This was Magic, or Opium, or the Sending, or\nall three. When he opened his eyes he vowed that the Sending had started\nupon the war-path, and was at that moment flying up to the town where Lone\nSahib lives,\n\n\"Give me my ten rupees,\" said Dana Da, wearily, \"and write a letter to\nLone Sahib, telling him, and all who believe with him, that you and a\nfriend are using a power greater than theirs. They will see that you are\nspeaking the truth.\"\n\nHe departed unsteadily, with the promise of some more rupees if anything\ncame of the Sending,\n\nThe Englishman sent a letter to Lone Sahib, couched in what he remembered\nof the terminology of the Creed. He wrote: \"I also, in the days of what\nyou held to be my backsliding, have obtained Enlightenment, and with\nEnlightenment has come Power.\" Then he grew so deeply mysterious that the\nrecipient of the letter could make neither head nor tail of it, and was\nproportionately impressed; for he fancied that his friend had become a\n\"fifth-rounder.\" When a man is a \"fifth-rounder\" he can do more than Slade\nand Houdin combined,\n\nLone Sahib read the letter in five different fashions, and was beginning a\nsixth interpretation when his bearer dashed in with the news that there\nwas a cat on the bed. Now if there was one thing that Lone Sahib hated\nmore than another, it was a cat. He scolded the bearer for not turning it\nout of the house. The bearer said that he was afraid. All the doors of the\nbedroom had been shut throughout the morning, and no _real_ cat could\npossibly have entered the room. He would prefer not to meddle with the\ncreature.\n\nLone Sahib entered the room gingerly, and there, on the pillow of his bed,\nsprawled and whimpered a wee white kitten; not a jumpsome, frisky little\nbeast, but a slug-like crawler with its eyes barely opened and its paws\nlacking strength or direction--a kitten that ought to have been in a\nbasket with its mamma. Lone Sahib caught it by the scruff of its neck,\nhanded it over to the sweeper to be drowned, and fined the bearer four\nannas.\n\nThat evening, as he was reading in his room, he fancied that he saw\nsomething moving about on the hearth-rug, outside the circle of light from\nhis reading-lamp. When the thing began to myowl, he realized that it was a\nkitten--a wee white kitten, nearly blind and very miserable. He was\nseriously angry, and spoke bitterly to his bearer, who said that there was\nno kitten in the room when he brought in the lamp, and _real_ kittens of\ntender age generally had mother-cats in attendance.\n\n\"If the Presence will go out into the veranda and listen,\" said the\nbearer, \"he will hear no cats. How, therefore, can the kitten on the bed\nand the kitten on the hearth-rug be real kittens?\"\n\nLone Sahib went out to listen, and the bearer followed him, but there was\nno sound of any one mewing for her children. He returned to his room,\nhaving hurled the kitten down the hillside, and wrote out the incidents of\nthe day for the benefit of his co-religionists. Those people were so\nabsolutely free from superstition that they ascribed anything a little out\nof the common to Agencies. As it was their business to know all about the\nAgencies, they were on terms of almost indecent familiarity with\nManifestations of every kind. Their letters dropped from the\nceiling--unstamped--and Spirits used to squatter up and down their\nstaircases all night; but they had never come into contact with kittens.\nLone Sahib wrote out the facts, noting the hour and the minute, as every\nPsychical Observer is bound to do, and appending the Englishman's letter\nbecause it was the most mysterious document and might have had a bearing\nupon anything in this world or the next. An outsider would have translated\nall the tangle thus: \"Look out! You laughed at me once, and now I am going\nto make you sit up,\"\n\nLone Sahib's co-religionists found that meaning in it; but their\ntranslation was refined and full of four-syllable words. They held a\nsederunt, and were filled with tremulous joy, for, in spite of their\nfamiliarity with all the other worlds and cycles, they had a very human\nawe of things sent from Ghost-land. They met in Lone Sahib's room in\nshrouded and sepulchral gloom, and their conclave was broken up by\nclinking among the photo-frames on the mantelpiece. A wee white kitten,\nnearly blind, was looping and writhing itself between the clock and the\ncandlesticks. That stopped all investigations or doubtings. Here was the\nManifestation in the flesh. It was, so far as could be seen, devoid of\npurpose, but it was a Manifestation of undoubted authenticity.\n\nThey drafted a Round Robin to the Englishman, the backslider of old days,\nadjuring him in the interests of the Creed to explain whether there was\nany connection between the embodiment of some Egyptian God or other (I\nhave forgotten the name) and his communication. They called the kitten Ra,\nor Toth, or Tum, or some thing; and when Lone Sahib confessed that the\nfirst one had, at his most misguided instance, been drowned by the\nsweeper, they said consolingly that in his next life he would be a\n\"bounder,\" and not even a \"rounder\" of the lowest grade. These words may\nnot be quite correct, but they accurately express the sense of the house.\n\nWhen the Englishman received the Round Robin--it came by post--he was\nstartled and bewildered. He sent into the bazar for Dana Da, who read the\nletter and laughed, \"That is my Sending,\" said he. \"I told you I would\nwork well. Now give me another ten rupees.\"\n\n\"But what in the world is this gibberish about Egyptian Gods?\" asked the\nEnglishman,\n\n\"Cats,\" said Dana Da, with a hiccough, for he had discovered the\nEnglishman's whiskey bottle. \"Cats, and cats, and cats! Never was such a\nSending. A hundred of cats. Now give me ten more rupees and write as I\ndictate.\"\n\nDana Da's letter was a curiosity. It bore the Englishman's signature, and\nhinted at cats--at a Sending of Cats. The mere words on paper were creepy\nand uncanny to behold.\n\n\"What have you done, though?\" said the Englishman; \"I am as much in the\ndark as ever. Do you mean to say that you can actually send this absurd\nSending you talk about?\"\n\n\"Judge for yourself,\" said Dana Da. \"What does that letter mean? In a\nlittle time they will all be at my feet and yours, and I--O Glory!--will\nbe drugged or drunk all day long.\"\n\nDana Da knew his people.\n\nWhen a man who hates cats wakes up in the morning and finds a little\nsquirming kitten on his breast, or puts his hands into his ulster-pocket\nand finds a little half-dead kitten where his gloves should be, or opens\nhis trunk and finds a vile kitten among his dress-shirts, or goes for a\nlong ride with his mackintosh strapped on his saddle-bow and shakes a\nlittle squawling kitten from its folds when he opens it, or goes out to\ndinner and finds a little blind kitten under his chair, or stays at home\nand finds a writhing kitten under the quilt, or wriggling among his boots,\nor hanging, head downward, in his tobacco-jar, or being mangled by his\nterrier in the veranda,--when such a man finds one kitten, neither more\nnor less, once a day in a place where no kitten rightly could or should\nbe, he is naturally upset. When he dare not murder his daily trove because\nhe believes it to be a Manifestation, an Emissary, an Embodiment, and half\na dozen other things all out of the regular course of nature, he is more\nthan upset. He is actually distressed. Some of Lone Sahib's\nco-religionists thought that he was a highly favored individual; but many\nsaid that if he had treated the first kitten with proper respect--as\nsuited a Toth-Ra-Tum-Sennacherib Embodiment--all this trouble would have\nbeen averted. They compared him to the Ancient Mariner, but none the less\nthey were proud of him and proud of the Englishman who had sent the\nManifestation. They did not call it a Sending because Icelandic magic was\nnot in their programme.\n\nAfter sixteen kittens, that is to say after one fortnight, for there were\nthree kittens on the first day to impress the fact of the Sending, the\nwhole camp was uplifted by a letter--it came flying through a window--from\nthe Old Man of the Mountains--the Head of all the Creed--explaining the\nManifestation in the most beautiful language and soaking up all the credit\nof it for himself. The Englishman, said the letter, was not there at all.\nHe was a backslider without Power or Asceticism, who couldn't even raise a\ntable by force of volition, much less project an army of kittens through\nspace. The entire arrangement, said the letter, was strictly orthodox,\nworked and sanctioned by the highest Authorities within the pale of the\nCreed. There was great joy at this, for some of the weaker brethren seeing\nthat an outsider who had been working on independent lines could create\nkittens, whereas their own rulers had never gone beyond crockery--and\nbroken at best--were showing a desire to break line on their own trail. In\nfact, there was the promise of a schism. A second Round Robin was drafted\nto the Englishman, beginning: \"O Scoffer,\" and ending with a selection of\ncurses from the Rites of Mizraim and Memphis and the Commination of\nJugana, who was a \"fifth-rounder,\" upon whose name an upstart\n\"third-rounder\" once traded. A papal excommunication is a _billet-doux_\ncompared to the Commination of Jugana. The Englishman had been proved,\nunder the hand and seal of the Old Man of the Mountains, to have\nappropriated Virtue and pretended to have Power which, in reality,\nbelonged only to the Supreme Head. Naturally the Round Robin did not spare\nhim.\n\nHe handed the letter to Dana Da to translate into decent English. The\neffect on Dana Da was curious. At first he was furiously angry, and then\nhe laughed for five minutes.\n\n\"I had thought,\" he said, \"that they would have come to me. In another\nweek I would have shown that I sent the Sending, and they would have\ndiscrowned the Old Man of the Mountains who has sent this Sending of mine.\nDo you do nothing. The time has come for me to act. Write as I dictate,\nand I will put them to shame. But give me ten more rupees.\"\n\nAt Dana Da's dictation the Englishman wrote nothing less than a formal\nchallenge to the Old Man of the Mountains. It wound up: \"And if this\nManifestation be from your hand, then let it go forward; but if it be from\nmy hand, I will that the Sending shall cease in two days' time. On that\nday there shall be twelve kittens and thenceforward none at all. The\npeople shall judge between us.\" This was signed by Dana Da, who added\npentacles and pentagrams, and a _crux ansaia_, and half a dozen\n_swastikas_, and a Triple Tau to his name, just to show that he was all he\nlaid claim to be.\n\nThe challenge was read out to the gentlemen and ladies, and they\nremembered then that Dana Da had laughed at them some years ago. It was\nofficially announced that the Old Man of the Mountains would treat the\nmatter with contempt; Dana Da being an Independent Investigator without a\nsingle \"round\" at the back of him. But this did not soothe his people.\nThey wanted to see a fight. They were very human for all their\nspirituality. Lone Sahib, who was really being worn out with kittens,\nsubmitted meekly to his fate. He felt that he was being \"kittened to prove\nthe power of Dana Da,\" as the poet says.\n\nWhen the stated day dawned, the shower of kittens began. Some were white\nand some were tabby, and all were about the same loathsome age. Three were\non his hearth-rug, three in his bath-room, and the other six turned up at\nintervals among the visitors who came to see the prophecy break down.\nNever was a more satisfactory Sending. On the next day there were no\nkittens, and the next day and all the other days were kittenless and\nquiet. The people murmured and looked to the Old Man of the Mountains for\nan explanation. A letter, written on a palm-leaf, dropped from the\nceiling, but every one except Lone Sahib felt that letters were not what\nthe occasion demanded. There should have been cats, there should have been\ncats,--full-grown ones. The letter proved conclusively that there had been\na hitch in the Psychic Current which, colliding with a Dual Identity, had\ninterfered with the Percipient Activity all along the main line. The\nkittens were still going on, but owing to some failure in the Developing\nFluid, they were not materialized. The air was thick with letters for a\nfew days afterward. Unseen hands played Gl\u00fcck and Beethoven on\nfinger-bowls and clock-shades; but all men felt that Psychic Life was a\nmockery without materialized Kittens. Even Lone Sahib shouted with the\nmajority on this head. Dana Da's letters were very insulting, and if he\nhad then offered to lead a new departure, there is no knowing what might\nnot have happened.\n\nBut Dana Da was dying of whiskey and opium in the Englishman's godown, and\nhad small heart for honors.\n\n\"They have been put to shame,\" said he. \"Never was such a Sending. It has\nkilled me.\"\n\n\"Nonsense,\" said the Englishman, \"you are going to die, Dana Da, and that\nsort of stuff must be left behind. I'll admit that you have made some\nqueer things come about. Tell me honestly, now, how was it done?\"\n\n\"Give me ten more rupees,\" said Dana Da, faintly, \"and if I die before I\nspend them, bury them with me.\" The silver was counted out while Dana Da\nwas fighting with Death. His hand closed upon the money and he smiled a\ngrim smile.\n\n\"Bend low,\" he whispered. The Englishman bent.\n\n\"_Bunnia_--Mission--school--expelled--_box-wallah_ (peddler)--Ceylon\npearl-merchant--all mine English education--out-casted, and made up name\nDana Da--England with American thought-reading man and--and--you gave me\nten rupees several times--I gave the Sahib's bearer two-eight a month for\ncats--little, little cats. I wrote, and he put them about--very clever\nman. Very few kittens now in the _bazar_. Ask Lone Sahib's sweeper's\nwife.\"\n\nSo saying, Dana Da gasped and passed away into a land where, if all be\ntrue, there are no materializations and the making of new creeds is\ndiscouraged.\n\nBut consider the gorgeous simplicity of it all!\n\n\n\nON THE CITY WALL\n\n  Then she let them down by a cord through the window; for her house was\nupon the town-wall, and she dwelt upon the wall.--_Joshua_ ii. 15.\n\nLalun is a member of the most ancient profession in the world. Lilith was\nher very-great-grandmamma, and that was before the days of Eve as every\none knows. In the West, people say rude things about Lalun's profession,\nand write lectures about it, and distribute the lectures to young persons\nin order that Morality may be preserved. In the East where the profession\nis hereditary, descending from mother to daughter, nobody writes lectures\nor takes any notice; and that is a distinct proof of the inability of the\nEast to manage its own affairs.\n\nLalun's real husband, for even ladies of Lalun's profession in the East\nmust have husbands, was a big jujube-tree. Her Mamma, who had married a\nfig-tree, spent ten thousand rupees on Lalun's wedding, which was blessed\nby forty-seven clergymen of Mamma's church, and distributed five thousand\nrupees in charity to the poor. And that was the custom of the land. The\nadvantages of having a jujube-tree for a husband are obvious. You cannot\nhurt his feelings, and he looks imposing.\n\nLalun's husband stood on the plain outside the City walls, and Lalun's\nhouse was upon the east wall facing the river. If you fell from the broad\nwindow-seat you dropped thirty feet sheer into the City Ditch. But if you\nstayed where you should and looked forth, you saw all the cattle of the\nCity being driven down to water, the students of the Government College\nplaying cricket, the high grass and trees that fringed the river-bank, the\ngreat sand bars that ribbed the river, the red tombs of dead Emperors\nbeyond the river, and very far away through the blue heat-haze, a glint of\nthe snows of the Himalayas.\n\nWali Dad used to lie in the window-seat for hours at a time watching this\nview. He was a young Muhammadan who was suffering acutely from education\nof the English variety and knew it. His father had sent him to a\nMission-school to get wisdom, and Wali Dad had absorbed more than ever his\nfather or the Missionaries intended he should. When his father died, Wali\nDad was independent and spent two years experimenting with the creeds of\nthe Earth and reading books that are of no use to anybody.\n\nAfter he had made an unsuccessful attempt to enter the Roman Catholic\nChurch and the Presbyterian fold at the same time (the Missionaries found\nhim out and called him names, but they did not understand his trouble), he\ndiscovered Lalun on the City wall and became the most constant of her few\nadmirers. He possessed a head that English artists at home would rave over\nand paint amid impossible surroundings--a face that female novelists would\nuse with delight through nine hundred pages. In reality he was only a\nclean-bred young Muhammadan, with penciled eyebrows, small-cut nostrils,\nlittle feet and hands, and a very tired look in his eyes. By virtue of his\ntwenty-two years he had grown a neat black beard which he stroked with\npride and kept delicately scented. His life seemed to be divided between\nborrowing books from me and making love to Lalun in the window-seat. He\ncomposed songs about her, and some of the songs are sung to this day in\nthe City from the Street of the Mutton-Butchers to the Copper-Smiths'\nward.\n\nOne song, the prettiest of all, says that the beauty of Lalun was so great\nthat it troubled the hearts of the British Government and caused them to\nlose their peace of mind. That is the way the song is sung in the streets;\nbut, if you examine it carefully and know the key to the explanation, you\nwill find that there are three puns in it--on \"beauty,\" \"heart,\" and\n\"peace of mind,\"--so that it runs: \"By the subtlety of Lalun the\nadministration of the Government was troubled and it lost such and such a\nman.\" When Wali Dad sings that song his eyes glow like hot coals, and\nLalun leans back among the cushions and throws bunches of jasmine-buds at\nWali Dad.\n\nBut first it is necessary to explain something about the Supreme\nGovernment which is above all and below all and behind all. Gentlemen come\nfrom England, spend a few weeks in India, walk round this great Sphinx of\nthe Plains, and write books upon its ways and its works, denouncing or\npraising it as their own ignorance prompts. Consequently all the world\nknows how the Supreme Government conducts itself, But no one, not even the\nSupreme Government, knows everything about the administration of the\nEmpire. Year by year England sends out fresh drafts for the first\nfighting-line, which is officially called the Indian Civil Service. These\ndie, or kill themselves by overwork, or are worried to death or broken in\nhealth and hope in order that the land may be protected from death and\nsickness, famine and war, and may eventually become capable of standing\nalone. It will never stand alone, but the idea is a pretty one, and men\nare willing to die for it, and yearly the work of pushing and coaxing and\nscolding and petting the country into good living goes forward. If an\nadvance be made all credit is given to the native, while the Englishmen\nstand back and wipe their foreheads. If a failure occurs the Englishmen\nstep forward and take the blame. Overmuch tenderness of this kind has bred\na strong belief among many natives that the native is capable of\nadministering the country, and many devout Englishmen believe this also,\nbecause the theory is stated in beautiful English with all the latest\npolitical color.\n\nThere be other men who, though uneducated, see visions and dream dreams,\nand they, too, hope to administer the country in their own way--that is to\nsay, with a garnish of Red Sauce. Such men must exist among two hundred\nmillion people, and, if they are not attended to, may cause trouble and\neven break the great idol called _Pax Britannic_, which, as the newspapers\nsay, lives between Peshawur and Cape Comorin. Were the Day of Doom to dawn\nto-morrow, you would find the Supreme Government \"taking measures to allay\npopular excitement\" and putting guards upon the graveyards that the Dead\nmight troop forth orderly. The youngest Civilian would arrest Gabriel on\nhis own responsibility if the Archangel could not produce a Deputy\nCommissioner's permission to \"make music or other noises\" as the license\nsays.\n\nWhence it is easy to see that mere men of the flesh who would create a\ntumult must fare badly at the hands of the Supreme Government. And they\ndo. There is no outward sign of excitement; there is no confusion; there\nis no knowledge. When due and sufficient reasons have been given, weighed\nand approved, the machinery moves forward, and the dreamer of dreams and\nthe seer of visions is gone from his friends and following. He enjoys the\nhospitality of Government; there is no restriction upon his movements\nwithin certain limits; but he must not confer any more with his brother\ndreamers. Once in every six months the Supreme Government assures itself\nthat he is well and takes formal acknowledgment of his existence. No one\nprotests against his detention, because the few people who know about it\nare in deadly fear of seeming to know him; and never a single newspaper\n\"takes up his case\" or organizes demonstrations on his behalf, because the\nnewspapers of India have got behind that lying proverb which says the Pen\nis mightier than the Sword, and can walk delicately.\n\nSo now you know as much as you ought about Wali Dad, the educational\nmixture, and the Supreme Government.\n\nLalun has not yet been described. She would need, so Wali Dad says, a\nthousand pens of gold and ink scented with musk. She has been variously\ncompared to the Moon, the Dil Sagar Lake, a spotted quail, a gazelle, the\nSun on the Desert of Kutch, the Dawn, the Stars, and the young bamboo.\nThese comparisons imply that she is beautiful exceedingly according to the\nnative standards, which are practically the same as those of the West. Her\neyes are black and her hair is black, and her eyebrows are black as\nleeches; her mouth is tiny and says witty things; her hands are tiny and\nhave saved much money; her feet are tiny and have trodden on the naked\nhearts of many men. But, as Wali Dad sings: \"Lalun _is_ Lalun, and when\nyou have said that, you have only come to the Beginnings of Knowledge.\"\n\nThe little house on the City wall was just big enough to hold Lalun, and\nher maid, and a pussy-cat with a silver collar. A big pink and blue\ncut-glass chandelier hung from the ceiling of the reception room. A petty\nNawab had given Lalun the horror, and she kept it for politeness' sake.\nThe floor of the room was of polished chunam, white as curds. A latticed\nwindow of carved wood was set in one wall; there was a profusion of\nsquabby pluffy cushions and fat carpets everywhere, and Lalun's silver\n_huqa_, studded with turquoises, had a special little carpet all to its\nshining self. Wali Dad was nearly as permanent a fixture as the\nchandelier. As I have said, he lay in the window-seat and meditated on\nLife and Death and Lalun--specially Lalun. The feet of the young men of\nthe City tended to her doorways and then--retired, for Lalun was a\nparticular maiden, slow of speech, reserved of mind, and not in the least\ninclined to orgies which were nearly certain to end in strife. \"If I am of\nno value, I am unworthy of this honor,\" said Lalun. \"If I am of value,\nthey are unworthy of Me,\" And that was a crooked sentence.\n\nIn the long hot nights of latter April and May all the City seemed to\nassemble in Lalun's little white room to smoke and to talk. Shiahs of the\ngrimmest and most uncompromising persuasion; Sufis who had lost all belief\nin the Prophet and retained but little in God; wandering Hindu priests\npassing southward on their way to the Central India fairs and other\naffairs; Pundits in black gowns, with spectacles on their noses and\nundigested wisdom in their insides; bearded headmen of the wards; Sikhs\nwith all the details of the latest ecclesiastical scandal in the Golden\nTemple; red-eyed priests from beyond the Border, looking like trapped\nwolves and talking like ravens; M.A.'s of the University, very superior\nand very voluble--all these people and more also you might find in the\nwhite room. Wali Dad lay in the window-seat and listened to the talk.\n\n\"It is Lalun's salon,\" said Wali Dad to me, \"and it is electic--is not\nthat the word? Outside of a Freemason's Lodge I have never seen such\ngatherings. _There_ I dined once with a Jew--a Yahoudi!\" He spat into the\nCity Ditch with apologies for allowing national feelings to overcome him.\n\"Though I have lost every belief in the world,\" said he, \"and try to be\nproud of my losing, I cannot help hating a Jew. Lalun admits no Jews\nhere.\"\n\n\"But what in the world do all these men do?\" I asked.\n\n\"The curse of our country,\" said Wali Dad. \"They talk. It is like the\nAthenians--always hearing and telling some new thing. Ask the Pearl and\nshe will show you how much she knows of the news of the City and the\nProvince. Lalun knows everything.\"\n\n\"Lalun,\" I said at random--she was talking to a gentleman of the Kurd\npersuasion who had come in from God-knows-where--\"when does the 175th\nRegiment go to Agra?\"\n\n\"It does not go at all,\" said Lalun, without turning her head. \"They have\nordered the 118th to go in its stead. That Regiment goes to Lucknow in\nthree months, unless they give a fresh order.\"\n\n\"That is so,\" said Wali Dad without a shade of doubt. \"Can you, with your\ntelegrams and your newspapers, do better? Always hearing and telling some\nnew thing,\" he went on. \"My friend, has your God ever smitten a European\nnation for gossiping in the bazars? India has gossiped for\ncenturies--always standing in the bazars until the soldiers go by.\nTherefore--you are here to-day instead of starving in your own country,\nand I am not a Muhammadan--I am a Product--a Demnition Product. That also\nI owe to you and yours: that I cannot make an end to my sentence without\nquoting from your authors.\" He pulled at the _huqa_ and mourned, half\nfeelingly, half in earnest, for the shattered hopes of his youth. Wali Dad\nwas always mourning over something or other--the country of which he\ndespaired, or the creed in which he had lost faith, or the life of the\nEnglish which he could by no means understand.\n\nLalun never mourned. She played little songs on the _sitar_, and to hear\nher sing, \"_O Peacock, cry again_,\" was always a fresh pleasure. She knew\nall the songs that have ever been sung, from the war-songs of the South\nthat make the old men angry with the young men and the young men angry\nwith the State, to the love-songs of the North where the swords\nwhinny-whicker like angry kites in the pauses between the kisses, and the\nPasses fill with armed men, and the Lover is torn from his Beloved and\ncries, _Ai, Ai, Ai!_ evermore. She knew how to make up tobacco for the\n_huqa_ so that it smelled like the Gates of Paradise and wafted you gently\nthrough them. She could embroider strange things in gold and silver, and\ndance softly with the moonlight when it came in at the window. Also she\nknew the hearts of men, and the heart of the City, and whose wives were\nfaithful and whose untrue, and more of the secrets of the Government\nOffices than are good to be set down in this place. Nasiban, her maid,\nsaid that her jewelry was worth ten thousand pounds, and that, some night,\na thief would enter and murder her for its possession; but Lalun said that\nall the City would tear that thief limb from limb, and that he, whoever he\nwas, knew it.\n\nSo she took her _sitar_ and sat in the windowseat and sang a song of old\ndays that had been sung by a girl of her profession in an armed camp on\nthe eve of a great battle--the day before the Fords of the Jumna ran red\nand Sivaji fled fifty miles to Delhi with a Toorkh stallion at his horse's\ntail and another Lalun on his saddle-bow. It was what men call a Mahratta\n_Laonee_, and it said:\n\n   Their warrior forces Chimnajee\n     Before the Peishwa led,\n   The Children of the Sun and Fire\n     Behind him turned and fled.\n\nAnd the chorus said:\n\n   With them there fought who rides so free\n     With sword and turban red,\n   The warrior-youth who earns his fee\n     At peril of his head,\n\n\"At peril of his head,\" said Wali Dad in English to me, \"Thanks to your\nGovernment, all our heads are protected, and with the educational\nfacilities at my command\"--his eyes twinkled wickedly--\"I might be a\ndistinguished member of the local administration. Perhaps, in time, I\nmight even be a member of a Legislative Council.\"\n\n\"Don't speak English,\" said Lalun, bending over her _sitar_ afresh. The\nchorus went out from the City wall to the blackened wall of Fort Amara\nwhich dominates the City. No man knows the precise extent of Fort Amara.\nThree kings built it hundreds of years ago, and they say that there are\nmiles of underground rooms beneath its walls. It is peopled with many\nghosts, a detachment of Garrison Artillery and a Company of Infantry. In\nits prime it held ten thousand men and filled its ditches with corpses.\n\n\"At peril of his head,\" sang Lalun, again and again.\n\nA head moved on one of the Ramparts--the grey head of an old man--and a\nvoice, rough as shark-skin on a sword-hilt, sent back the last line of the\nchorus and broke into a song that I could not understand, though Lalun and\nWali Dad listened intently.\n\n\"What is it?\" I asked. \"Who is it?\"\n\n\"A consistent man,\" said Wali Dad. \"He fought you in '46, when he was a\nwarrior-youth; refought you in '57, and he tried to fight you in '71, but\nyou had learned the trick of blowing men from guns too well. Now he is\nold; but he would still fight if he could.\"\n\n\"Is he a Wahabi, then? Why should he answer to a Mahratta _laonee_ if he\nbe Wahabi--or Sikh?\" said I.\n\n\"I do not know,\" said Wali Dad. \"He has lost perhaps, his religion.\nPerhaps he wishes to be a King. Perhaps he is a King. I do not know his\nname.\"\n\n\"That is a lie, Wali Dad. If you know his career you must know his name.\"\n\n\"That is quite true. I belong to a nation of liars. I would rather not\ntell you his name. Think for yourself.\"\n\nLalun finished her song, pointed to the Fort, and said simply: \"Khem\nSingh.\"\n\n\"Hm,\" said Wali Dad. \"If the Pearl chooses to tell you the Pearl is a\nfool.\"\n\nI translated to Lalun, who laughed. \"I choose to tell what I choose to\ntell. They kept Khem Singh in Burma,\" said she. \"They kept him there for\nmany years until his mind was changed in him. So great was the kindness of\nthe Government. Finding this, they sent him back to his own country that\nhe might look upon it before he died. He is an old man, but when he looks\nupon this his country his memory will come. Moreover, there be many who\nremember him.\"\n\n\"He is an Interesting Survival,\" said Wali Dad, pulling at the _huqa_. \"He\nreturns to a country now full of educational and political reform, but, as\nthe Pearl says, there are many who remember him. He was once a great man.\nThere will never he any more great men in India. They will all, when they\nare boys, go whoring after strange gods, and they will become\ncitizens--'fellow-citizens'--'illustrious fellow-citizens.' What is it\nthat the native papers call them?\"\n\nWali Dad seemed to be in a very bad temper. Lalun looked out of the window\nand smiled into the dust-haze. I went away thinking about Khem Singh who\nhad once made history with a thousand followers, and would have been a\nprinceling but for the power of the Supreme Government aforesaid.\n\nThe Senior Captain Commanding Fort Amara was away on leave, but the\nSubaltern, his Deputy, drifted down to the Club, where I found him and\ninquired of him whether it was really true that a political prisoner had\nbeen added to the attractions of the Fort. The Subaltern explained at\ngreat length, for this was the first time that he had held Command of the\nFort, and his glory lay heavy upon him.\n\n\"Yes,\" said he, \"a man was sent in to me about a week ago from down the\nline--a thorough gentleman whoever he is. Of course I did all I could for\nhim. He had his two servants and some silver cooking-pots, and he looked\nfor all the world like a native officer. I called him Subadar Sahib; just\nas well to be on the safe side, y'know. 'Look here, Subadar Sahib,' I\nsaid, 'you're handed over to my authority, and I'm supposed to guard you.\nNow I don't want to make your life hard, but you must make things easy for\nme. All the Fort is at your disposal, from the flagstaff to the dry ditch,\nand I shall be happy to entertain you in any way I can, but you mustn't\ntake advantage of it. Give me your word that you won't try to escape,\nSubadar Sahib, and I'll give you my word that you shall have no heavy\nguard put over you.' I thought the best way of getting him was by going at\nhim straight, y'know, and it was, by Jove! The old man gave me his word,\nand moved about the Fort as contented as a sick crow. He's a rummy\nchap--always asking to be told where he is and what the buildings about\nhim are. I had to sign a slip of blue paper when he turned up,\nacknowledging receipt of his body and all that, and I'm responsible,\ny'know, that he doesn't get away. Queer thing, though, looking after a\nJohnnie old enough to be your grandfather, isn't it? Come to the Fort one\nof these days and see him?\"\n\nFor reasons which will appear, I never went to the Fort while Khem Singh\nwas then within its walls. I knew him only as a grey head seen from\nLalun's window--a grey head and a harsh voice. But natives told me that,\nday by day, as he looked upon the fair lands round Amara, his memory came\nback to him and, with it, the old hatred against the Government that had\nbeen nearly effaced in far-off Burma. So he raged up and down the West\nface of the Fort from morning till noon and from evening till the night,\ndevising vain things in his heart, and croaking war-songs when Lalun sang\non the City wall. As he grew more acquainted with the Subaltern he\nunburdened his old heart of some of the passions that had withered it.\n\"Sahib,\" he used to say, tapping his stick against the parapet, \"when I\nwas a young man I was one of twenty thousand horsemen who came out of the\nCity and rode round the plain here. Sahib, I was the leader of a hundred,\nthen of a thousand, then of five thousand, and now!\"--he pointed to his\ntwo servants. \"But from the beginning to to-day I would cut the throats of\nall the Sahibs in the land if I could. Hold me fast, Sahib, lest I get\naway and return to those who would follow me. I forgot them when I was in\nBurma, but now that I am in my own country again, I remember everything.\"\n\n\"Do you remember that you have given me your Honor not to make your\ntendance a hard matter?\" said the Subaltern.\n\n\"Yes, to you, only to you, Sahib,\" said Khem Singh. \"To you, because you\nare of a pleasant countenance. If my turn comes again, Sahib, I will not\nhang you nor cut your throat.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said the Subaltern, gravely, as he looked along the line of\nguns that could pound the City to powder in half an hour. \"Let us go into\nour own quarters, Khem Singh. Come and talk with me after dinner.\"\n\nKhem Singh would sit on his own cushion at the Subaltern's feet, drinking\nheavy, scented anise-seed brandy in great gulps, and telling strange\nstories of Fort Amara, which had been a palace in the old days, of Begums\nand Ranees tortured to death--aye, in the very vaulted chamber that now\nserved as a Mess-room; would tell stories of Sobraon that made the\nSubaltern's cheeks flush and tingle with pride of race, and of the Kuka\nrising from which so much was expected and the foreknowledge of which was\nshared by a hundred thousand souls. But he never told tales of '57\nbecause, as he said, he was the Subaltern's guest, and '57 is a year that\nno man, Black or White, cares to speak of. Once only, when the anise-seed\nbrandy had slightly affected his head, he said: \"Sahib, speaking now of a\nmatter which lay between Sobraon and the affair of the Kukas, it was ever\na wonder to us that you stayed your hand at all, and that, having stayed\nit, you did not make the land one prison. Now I hear from without that you\ndo great honor to all men of our country and by your own hands are\ndestroying the Terror of your Name which is your strong rock and defence.\nThis is a foolish thing. Will oil and water mix? Now in '57\"--\n\n\"I was not born then, Subadar Sahib,\" said the Subaltern, and Khem Singh\nreeled to his quarters,\n\nThe Subaltern would tell me of these conversations at the Club, and my\ndesire to see Khem Singh increased. But Wali Dad, sitting in the\nwindow-seat of the house on the City wall, said that it would be a cruel\nthing to do, and Lalun pretended that I preferred the society of a\ngrizzled old Sikh to hers.\n\n\"Here is tobacco, here is talk, here are many friends and all the news of\nthe City, and, above all, here is myself. I will tell you stories and sing\nyou songs, and Wali Dad will talk his English nonsense in your ears. Is\nthat worse than watching the caged animal yonder? Go to-morrow then, if\nyou must, but to-day such and such an one will be here, and he will speak\nof wonderful things.\"\n\nIt happened that To-morrow never came, and the warm heat of the latter\nRains gave place to the chill of early October almost before I was aware\nof the flight of the year. The Captain commanding the Fort returned from\nleave and took over charge of Khem Singh according to the laws of\nseniority. The Captain was not a nice man. He called all natives\n\"niggers,\" which, besides being extreme bad form, shows gross ignorance.\n\n\"What's the use of telling off two Tommies to watch that old nigger?\" said\nhe.\n\n\"I fancy it soothes his vanity,\" said the Subaltern. \"The men are ordered\nto keep well out of his way, but he takes them as a tribute to his\nimportance, poor old wretch.\"\n\n\"I won't have Line men taken off regular guards in this way. Put on a\ncouple of Native Infantry.\"\n\n\"Sikhs?\" said the Subaltern, lifting his eyebrows.\n\n\"Sikhs, Pathans, Dogras--they're all alike, these black vermin,\" and the\nCaptain talked to Khem Singh in a manner which hurt that old gentleman's\nfeelings. Fifteen years before, when he had been caught for the second\ntime, every one looked upon him as a sort of tiger. He liked being\nregarded in this light. But he forgot that the world goes forward in\nfifteen years, and many Subalterns are promoted to Captaincies,\n\n\"The Captain-pig is in charge of the Fort?\" said Khem Singh to his native\nguard every morning. And the native guard said: \"Yes, Subadar Sahib,\" in\ndeference to his age and his air of distinction; but they did not know who\nhe was.\n\nIn those days the gathering in Lalun's little white room was always large\nand talked more than before,\n\n\"The Greeks,\" said Wali Dad who had been borrowing my books, \"the\ninhabitants of the city of Athens, where they were always hearing and\ntelling some new thing, rigorously secluded their women--who were fools.\nHence the glorious institution of the heterodox women--is it not?--who\nwere amusing and _not_ fools. All the Greek philosophers delighted in\ntheir company. Tell me, my friend, how it goes now in Greece and the other\nplaces upon the Continent of Europe. Are your women-folk also fools?\"\n\n\"Wali Dad,\" I said, \"you never speak to us about your women-folk and we\nnever speak about ours to you. That is the bar between us.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Wali Dad, \"it is curious to think that our common\nmeeting-place should be here, in the house of a common--how do you call\n_her_?\" He pointed with the pipe-mouth to Lalun.\n\n\"Lalun is nothing but Lalun,\" I said, and that was perfectly true. \"But if\nyou took your place in the world, Wali Dad, and gave up dreaming dreams\"--\n\n\"I might wear an English coat and trouser. I might be a leading Muhammadan\npleader. I might be received even at the Commissioner's tennis-parties\nwhere the English stand on one side and the natives on the other, in order\nto promote social intercourse throughout the Empire. Heart's Heart,\" said\nhe to Lalun quickly, \"the Sahib says that I ought to quit you.\"\n\n\"The Sahib is always talking stupid talk,\" returned Lalun, with a laugh.\n\"In this house I am a Queen and thou art a King. The Sahib\"--she put her\narms above her head and thought for a moment--\"the Sahib shall be our\nVizier--thine and mine, Wali Dad--because he has said that thou shouldst\nleave me.\"\n\nWali Dad laughed immoderately, and I laughed too. \"Be it so,\" said he. \"My\nfriend, are you willing to take this lucrative Government appointment?\nLalun, what shall his pay be?\"\n\nBut Lalun began to sing, and for the rest of the time there was no hope of\ngetting a sensible answer from her or Wall Dad. When the one stopped, the\nother began to quote Persian poetry with a triple pun in every other line.\nSome of it was not strictly proper, but it was all very funny, and it only\ncame to an end when a fat person in black, with gold _pince-nez_, sent up\nhis name to Lalun, and Wali Dad dragged me into the twinkling night to\nwalk in a big rose-garden and talk heresies about Religion and Governments\nand a man's career in life.\n\nThe Mohurrum, the great mourning-festival of the Muhammadans, was close at\nhand, and the things that Wali Dad said about religious fanaticism would\nhave secured his expulsion from the loosest-thinking Muslim sect. There\nwere the rose-bushes round us, the stars above us, and from every quarter\nof the City came the boom of the big Mohurrum drums, You must know that\nthe City is divided in fairly equal proportions between the Hindus and the\nMusalmans, and where both creeds belong to the fighting races, a big\nreligious festival gives ample chance for trouble. When they can--that is\nto say when the authorities are weak enough to allow it--the Hindus do\ntheir best to arrange some minor feast-day of their own in time to clash\nwith the period of general mourning for the martyrs Hasan and Hussain, the\nheroes of the Mohurrum. Gilt and painted paper presentations of their\ntombs are borne with shouting and wailing, music, torches, and yells,\nthrough the principal thoroughfares of the City, which fakements are\ncalled _tazias_. Their passage is rigorously laid down beforehand by the\nPolice, and detachments of Police accompany each _tazias_, lest the Hindus\nshould throw bricks at it and the peace of the Queen and the heads of Her\nloyal subjects should thereby be broken. Mohurrum time in a \"fighting\"\ntown means anxiety to all the officials, because, if a riot breaks out,\nthe officials and not the rioters are held responsible. The former must\nforesee everything, and while not making their precautions ridiculously\nelaborate, must see that they are at least adequate.\n\n\"Listen to the drums!\" said Wali Dad. \"That is the heart of the\npeople--empty and making much noise. How, think you, will the Mohurrum go\nthis year? I think that there will be trouble.\"\n\nHe turned down a side-street and left me alone with the stars and a sleepy\nPolice patrol. Then I went to bed and dreamed that Wali Dad had sacked the\nCity and I was made Vizier, with Lalun's silver _huqa_ for mark of office.\n\nAll day the Mohurrum drums beat in the City, and all day deputations of\ntearful Hindu gentlemen besieged the Deputy Commissioner with assurances\nthat they would be murdered ere next dawning by the Muhammadans. \"Which,\"\nsaid the Deputy Commissioner, in confidence to the Head of Police, \"is a\npretty fair indication that the Hindus are going to make 'emselves\nunpleasant. I think we can arrange a little surprise for them. I have\ngiven the heads of both Creeds fair warning. If they choose to disregard\nit, so much the worse for them.\"\n\nThere was a large gathering in Lalun's house that night, but of men that I\nhad never seen before, if I except the fat gentleman in black with the\ngold _pince-nez_. Wali Dad lay in the window-seat, more bitterly scornful\nof his Faith and its manifestations than I had ever known him. Lalun's\nmaid was very busy cutting up and mixing tobacco for the guests. We could\nhear the thunder of the drums as the processions accompanying each _tazia_\nmarched to the central gathering-place in the plain outside the City,\npreparatory to their triumphant reentry and circuit within the walls. All\nthe streets seemed ablaze with torches, and only Fort Amara was black and\nsilent.\n\nWhen the noise of the drums ceased, no one in the white room spoke for a\ntime. \"The first _tazia_ has moved off,\" said Wali Dad, looking to the\nplain.\n\n\"That is very early,\" said the man with the _pince-nez_.\n\n\"It is only half-past eight.\" The company rose and departed.\n\n\"Some of them were men from Ladakh,\" said Lalun, when the last had gone.\n\"They brought me brick-tea such as the Russians sell, and a tea-turn from\nPeshawur. Show me, now, how the English _Memsahibs_ make tea.\"\n\nThe brick-tea was abominable. When it was finished Wali Dad suggested\ngoing into the streets. \"I am nearly sure that there will be trouble\nto-night,\" he said. \"All the City thinks so, and _Vox Populi_ is _Vox\nDei_, as the Babus say. Now I tell you that at the corner of the Padshahi\nGate you will find my horse all this night if you want to go about and to\nsee things. It is a most disgraceful exhibition. Where is the pleasure of\nsaying '_Ya Hasan, Ya Hussain_,' twenty thousand times in a night?\"\n\nAll the processions--there were two and twenty of them--were now well\nwithin the City walls. The drums were beating afresh, the crowd were\nhowling \"_Ya Hasan! Ya Hussain!_\" and beating their breasts, the brass\nbands were playing their loudest, and at every corner where space allowed,\nMuhammadan preachers were telling the lamentable story of the death of the\nMartyrs. It was impossible to move except with the crowd, for the streets\nwere not more than twenty feet wide. In the Hindu quarters the shutters of\nall the shops were up and cross-barred. As the first _tazia_, a gorgeous\nerection ten feet high, was borne aloft on the shoulders of a score of\nstout men into the semi-darkness of the Gully of the Horsemen, a brickbat\ncrashed through its talc and tinsel sides.\n\n\"Into thy hands, O Lord?\" murmured Wali Dad. profanely, as a yell went up\nfrom behind, and a native officer of Police jammed his horse through the\ncrowd. Another brickbat followed, and the _tazia_ staggered and swayed\nwhere it had stopped.\n\n\"Go on! In the name of the _Sirkar_, go forward!\" shouted the Policeman;\nbut there was an ugly cracking and splintering of shutters, and the crowd\nhalted, with oaths and growlings, before the house whence the brickbat had\nbeen thrown.\n\nThen, without any warning, broke the storm--not only in the Gully of the\nHorsemen, but in half a dozen other places. The _tazias_ rocked like ships\nat sea, the long pole-torches dipped and rose round them while the men\nshouted: \"The Hindus are dishonoring the _tazias!_ Strike! Strike! Into\ntheir temples for the faith!\" The six or eight Policemen with each _tazia_\ndrew their batons, and struck as long as they could in the hope of forcing\nthe mob forward, but they were overpowered, and as contingents of Hindus\npoured into the streets, the fight became general. Half a mile away where\nthe _tazias_ were yet untouched the drums and the shrieks of \"_Ya Hasan!\nYa Hussain!_\" continued, but not for long. The priests at the corners of\nthe streets knocked the legs from the bedsteads that supported their\npulpits and smote for the Faith, while stones fell from the silent houses\nupon friend and foe, and the packed streets bellowed: \"_Din! Din! Din!_\" A\n_tazia_ caught fire, and was dropped for a flaming barrier between Hindu\nand Musalman at the corner of the Gully. Then the crowd surged forward,\nand Wali Dad drew me close to the stone pillar of a well.\n\n\"It was intended from the beginning!\" he shouted in my ear, with more heat\nthan blank unbelief should be guilty of. \"The bricks were carried up to\nthe houses beforehand. These swine of Hindus! We shall be gutting kine in\ntheir temples to-night!\"\n\n_Tazia_ after _tazia_, some burning, others torn to pieces, hurried past\nus and the mob with them, howling, shrieking, and striking at the house\ndoors in their flight. At last we saw the reason of the rush. Hugonin, the\nAssistant District Superintendent of Police, a boy of twenty, had got\ntogether thirty constables and was forcing the crowd through the streets.\nHis old grey Police-horse showed no sign of uneasiness as it was spurred\nbreast-on into the crowd, and the long dog-whip with which he had armed\nhimself was never still.\n\n\"They know we haven't enough Police to hold 'em,\" he cried as he passed\nme, mopping a cut on his face, \"They _know_ we haven't! Aren't any of the\nmen from the Club coming down to help? Get on, you sons of burned\nfathers!\" The dog-whip cracked across the writhing backs, and the\nconstables smote afresh with baton and gun-butt. With these passed the\nlights and the shouting, and Wali Dad began to swear under his breath.\nFrom Fort Amara shot up a single rocket; then two side by side. It was the\nsignal for troops.\n\nPetitt, the Deputy Commissioner, covered with dust and sweat, but calm and\ngently smiling, cantered up the clean-swept street in rear of the main\nbody of the rioters, \"No one killed yet,\" he shouted. \"I'll keep 'em on\nthe run till dawn! Don't let 'em halt, Hugonin! Trot 'em about till the\ntroops come.\"\n\nThe science of the defence lay solely in keeping the mob on the move. If\nthey had breathing-space they would halt and fire a house, and then the\nwork of restoring order would be more difficult, to say the least of it.\nFlames have the same effect on a crowd as blood has on a wild beast.\n\nWord had reached the Club and men in evening-dress were beginning to show\nthemselves and lend a hand in heading off and breaking up the shouting\nmasses with stirrup-leathers, whips, or chance-found staves. They were not\nvery often attacked, for the rioters had sense enough to know that the\ndeath of a European would not mean one hanging but many, and possibly the\nappearance of the thrice-dreaded Artillery. The clamor in the City\nredoubled. The Hindus had descended into the streets in real earnest and\nere long the mob returned. It was a strange sight. There were no\n_tazias_--only their riven platforms--and there were no Police. Here and\nthere a City dignitary, Hindu or Muhammadan, was vainly imploring his\nco-religionists to keep quiet and behave themselves--advice for which his\nwhite beard was pulled. Then a native officer of Police, unhorsed but\nstill using his spurs with effect, would be borne along, warning all the\ncrowd of the danger of insulting the Government. Everywhere men struck\naimlessly with sticks, grasping each other by the throat, howling and\nfoaming with rage, or beat with their bare hands on the doors of the\nhouses.\n\n\"It is a lucky thing that they are fighting with natural weapons,\" I said\nto Wali Dad, \"else we should have half the City killed.\"\n\nI turned as I spoke and looked at his face. His nostrils were distended,\nhis eyes were fixed, and he was smiting himself softly on the breast. The\ncrowd poured by with renewed riot--a gang of Musalmans hard-pressed by\nsome hundred Hindu fanatics. Wali Dad left my side with an oath, and\nshouting: \"_Ya Hasan! Ya Hussain!_\" plunged into the thick of the fight\nwhere I lost sight of him.\n\nI fled by a side alley to the Padshahi Gate where I found Wali Dad's\nhouse, and thence rode to the Fort. Once outside the City wall, the tumult\nsank to a dull roar, very impressive under the stars and reflecting great\ncredit on the fifty thousand angry able-bodied men who were making it. The\ntroops who, at the Deputy Commissioner's instance, had been ordered to\nrendezvous quietly near the Fort, showed no signs of being impressed. Two\ncompanies of Native Infantry, a squadron of Native Cavalry and a company\nof British Infantry were kicking their heels in the shadow of the East\nface, waiting for orders to march in. I am sorry to say that they were all\npleased, unholily pleased, at the chance of what they called \"a little\nfun.\" The senior officers, to be sure, grumbled at having been kept out of\nbed, and the English troops pretended to be sulky, but there was joy in\nthe hearts of all the subalterns, and whispers ran up and down the line:\n\"No ball-cartridge--what a beastly shame!\" \"D'you think the beggars will\nreally stand up to us?\" \"'Hope I shall meet my money-lender there. I owe\nhim more than I can afford.\" \"Oh, they won't let us even unsheathe\nswords.\" \"Hurrah! Up goes the fourth rocket. Fall in, there!\"\n\nThe Garrison Artillery, who to the last cherished a wild hope that they\nmight be allowed to bombard the City at a hundred yards' range, lined the\nparapet above the East gateway and cheered themselves hoarse as the\nBritish Infantry doubled along the road to the Main Gate of the City. The\nCavalry cantered on to the Padshahi Gate, and the Native Infantry marched\nslowly to the Gate of the Butchers. The surprise was intended to be of a\ndistinctly unpleasant nature, and to come on top of the defeat of the\nPolice who had been just able to keep the Muhammadans from firing the\nhouses of a few leading Hindus. The bulk of the riot lay in the north and\nnorthwest wards. The east and southeast were by this time dark and silent,\nand I rode hastily to Lalun's house for I wished to tell her to send some\none in search of Wali Dad. The house was unlighted, but the door was open,\nand I climbed upstairs in the darkness. One small lamp in the white room\nshowed Lalun and her maid leaning half out of the window, breathing\nheavily and evidently pulling at something that refused to come.\n\n\"Thou art late--very late,\" gasped Lalun, without turning her head. \"Help\nus now, O Fool, if thou hast not spent thy strength howling among the\n_tazias_. Pull! Nasiban and I can do no more! O Sahib, is it you? The\nHindus have been hunting an old Muhammadan round the Ditch with clubs. If\nthey find him again they will kill him. Help us to pull him up.\"\n\nI put my hands to the long red silk waist-cloth that was hanging out of\nthe window, and we three pulled and pulled with all the strength at our\ncommand. There was something very heavy at the end, and it swore in an\nunknown tongue as it kicked against the City wall.\n\n\"Pull, oh, pull!\" said Lalun, at the last. A pair of brown hands grasped\nthe window-sill and a venerable Muhammadan tumbled upon the floor, very\nmuch out of breath. His jaws were tied up, his turban had fallen over one\neye, and he was dusty and angry.\n\nLalun hid her face in her hands for an instant and said something about\nWali Dad that I could not catch,\n\nThen, to my extreme gratification, she threw her arms round my neck and\nmurmured pretty things. I was in no haste to stop her; and Nasiban, being\na handmaiden of tact, turned to the big jewel-chest that stands in the\ncorner of the white room and rummaged among the contents. The Muhammadan\nsat on the floor and glared.\n\n\"One service more, Sahib, since thou hast come so opportunely,\" said\nLalun. \"Wilt thou\"--it is very nice to be thou-ed by Lalun--\"take this old\nman across the City--the troops are everywhere, and they might hurt him\nfor he is old--to the Kumharsen Gate? There I think he may find a carriage\nto take him to his house. He is a friend of mine, and thou art--more than\na friend--therefore I ask this.\"\n\nNasiban bent over the old man, tucked something into his belt, and I\nraised him up, and led him into the streets. In crossing from the east to\nthe west of the City there was no chance of avoiding the troops and the\ncrowd. Long before I reached the Gully of the Horsemen I heard the shouts\nof the British Infantry crying cheeringly: \"Hutt, ye beggars! Hutt, ye\ndevils! Get along! Go forward, there!\" Then followed the ringing of\nrifle-butts and shrieks of pain. The troops were banging the bare toes of\nthe mob with their gun-butts--for not a bayonet had been fixed. My\ncompanion mumbled and jabbered as we walked on until we were carried back\nby the crowd and had to force our way to the troops. I caught him by the\nwrist and felt a bangle there--the iron bangle of the Sikhs--but I had no\nsuspicions, for Lalun had only ten minutes before put her arms round me.\nThrice we were carried back by the crowd, and when we made our way past\nthe British Infantry it was to meet the Sikh Cavalry driving another mob\nbefore them with the butts of their lances.\n\n\"What are these dogs?\" said the old man.\n\n\"Sikhs of the Cavalry, Father,\" I said, and we edged our way up the line\nof horses two abreast and found the Deputy Commissioner, his helmet\nsmashed on his head, surrounded by a knot of men who had come down from\nthe Club as amateur constables and had helped the Police mightily.\n\n\"We'll keep 'em on the run till dawn,\" said Petitt, \"Who's your villainous\nfriend?\"\n\nI had only time to say: \"The Protection of the _Sirkar!_\" when a fresh\ncrowd flying before the Native Infantry carried us a hundred yards nearer\nto the Kumharsen Gate, and Petitt was swept away like a shadow.\n\n\"I do not know--I cannot see--this is all new to me!\" moaned my companion.\n\"How many troops are there in the City?\"\n\n\"Perhaps five hundred,\" I said.\n\n\"A lakh of men beaten by five hundred--and Sikhs among them! Surely,\nsurely, I am an old man, but--the Kumharsen Gate is new. Who pulled down\nthe stone lions? Where is the conduit? Sahib, I am a very old man, and,\nalas, I--I cannot stand.\" He dropped in the shadow of the Kumharsen Gate\nwhere there was no disturbance. A fat gentleman wearing gold _pince-nez_\ncame out of the darkness.\n\n\"You are most kind to bring my old friend,\" he said, suavely. \"He is a\nlandholder of Akala. He should not be in a big City when there is\nreligious excitement. But I have a carriage here. You are quite truly\nkind. Will you help me to put him into the carriage? It is very late.\"\n\nWe bundled the old man into a hired victoria that stood close to the gate,\nand I turned back to the house on the City wall. The troops were driving\nthe people to and fro, while the Police shouted, \"To your houses! Get to\nyour houses!\" and the dog-whip of the Assistant District Superintendent\ncracked remorselessly. Terror-stricken _bunnias_ clung to the stirrups of\nthe cavalry, crying that their houses had been robbed (which was a lie),\nand the burly Sikh horsemen patted them on the shoulder, and bade them\nreturn to those houses lest a worse thing should happen. Parties of five\nor six British soldiers, joining arms, swept down the side-gullies, their\nrifles on their backs, stamping, with shouting and song, upon the toes of\nHindu and Musalman. Never was religious enthusiasm more systematically\nsquashed; and never were poor breakers of the peace more utterly weary and\nfootsore. They were routed out of holes and corners, from behind\nwell-pillars and byres, and bidden to go to their houses. If they had no\nhouses to go to, so much the worse for their toes.\n\nOn returning to Lalun's door I stumbled over a man at the threshold. He\nwas sobbing hysterically and his arms flapped like the wings of a goose.\nIt was Wali Dad, Agnostic and Unbeliever, shoeless, turbanless, and\nfrothing at the mouth, the flesh on his chest bruised and bleeding from\nthe vehemence with which he had smitten himself. A broken torch-handle lay\nby his side, and his quivering lips murmured, \"Ya Hasan! Ya Hussain!\" as I\nstooped over him. I pushed him a few steps up the staircase, threw a\npebble at Lalun's City window and hurried home.\n\nMost of the streets were very still, and the cold wind that comes before\nthe dawn whistled down them. In the centre of the Square of the Mosque a\nman was bending over a corpse. The skull had been smashed in by gun-butt\nor bamboo-stave.\n\n\"It is expedient that one man should die for the people,\" said Petitt,\ngrimly, raising the shapeless head. \"These brutes were beginning to show\ntheir teeth too much.\"\n\nAnd from afar we could hear the soldiers singing \"Two Lovely Black Eyes,\"\nas they drove the remnant of the rioters within doors.\n\n\n       *\n       *\n       *\n       *\n       *\n\nOf course you can guess what happened? I was not so clever. When the news\nwent abroad that Khem Singh had escaped from the Fort, I did not, since I\nwas then living this story, not writing it, connect myself, or Lalun, or\nthe fat gentleman of the gold _pince-nez_, with his disappearance. Nor did\nit strike me that Wali Dad was the man who should have convoyed him across\nthe City, or that Lalun's arms round my neck were put there to hide the\nmoney that Nasiban gave to Kehm Singh, and that Lalun had used me and my\nwhite face as even a better safeguard than Wali Dad who proved himself so\nuntrustworthy. All that I knew at the time was that, when Fort Amara was\ntaken up with the riots, Khem Singh profited by the confusion to get away,\nand that his two Sikh guards also escaped.\n\nBut later on I received full enlightenment; and so did Khem Singh. He fled\nto those who knew him in the old days, but many of them were dead and more\nwere changed, and all knew something of the Wrath of the Government. He\nwent to the young men, but the glamour of his name had passed away, and\nthey were entering native regiments of Government offices, and Khem Singh\ncould give them neither pension, decorations, nor influence--nothing but a\nglorious death with their backs to the mouth of a gun. He wrote letters\nand made promises, and the letters fell into bad hands, and a wholly\ninsignificant subordinate officer of Police tracked them down and gained\npromotion thereby. Moreover, Khem Singh was old, and anise-seed brandy was\nscarce, and he had left his silver cooking-pots in Fort Amara with his\nnice warm bedding, and the gentleman with the gold _pince-nez_ was told by\nthose who had employed him that Khem Singh as a popular leader was not\nworth the money paid.\n\n\"Great is the mercy of these fools of English!\" said Khem Singh when the\nsituation was put before him. \"I will go back to Fort Amara of my own free\nwill and gain honor. Give me good clothes to return in,\"\n\nSo, at his own time, Khem Singh knocked at the wicket-gate of the Fort and\nwalked to the Captain and the Subaltern, who were nearly grey-headed on\naccount of correspondence that daily arrived from Simla marked \"Private,\"\n\n\"I have come back, Captain Sahib,\" said Khem Singh, \"Put no more guards\nover me. It is no good out yonder.\"\n\nA week later I saw him for the first time to my knowledge, and he made as\nthough there were an understanding between us.\n\n\"It was well done, Sahib,\" said he, \"and greatly I admired your astuteness\nin thus boldly facing the troops when I, whom they would have doubtless\ntorn to pieces, was with you. Now there is a man in Fort Ooltagarh whom a\nbold man could with ease help to escape. This is the position of the Fort\nas I draw it on the sand\"--\n\nBut I was thinking how I had become Lalun's Vizier after all.\n\n\n\nTHE BROKEN-LINK HANDICAP\n\n   While the snaffle holds, or the long-neck slings,\n   While the big beam tilts, or the last bell rings,\n   While horses are horses to train and to race.\n   Then women and wine take a second place\n       For me--for me--\n       While a short \"ten-three\"\n   Has a field to squander or fence to face!\n\n_--Song of the. G. R._\n\nThere are more ways of running a horse to suit your book than pulling his\nhead off in the straight. Some men forget this. Understand clearly that\nall racing is rotten--as everything connected with losing money must be.\nIn India, in addition to its inherent rottenness, it has the merit of\nbeing two-thirds sham; looking pretty on paper only. Every one knows every\none else far too well for business purposes. How on earth can you rack and\nharry and post a man for his losings, when you are fond of his wife, and\nlive in the same Station with him? He says, \"On the Monday following,\" \"I\ncan't settle just yet.\" You say, \"All right, old man,\" and think yourself\nlucky if you pull off nine hundred out of a two-thousand-rupee debt. Any\nway you look at it, Indian racing is immoral, and expensively immoral.\nWhich is much worse. If a man wants your money, he ought to ask for it, or\nsend round a subscription-list, instead of juggling about the country,\nwith an Australian larrikin; a \"brumby,\" with as much breed as the boy; a\nbrace of _chumars_ in gold-laced caps; three or four _ekka_-ponies with\nhogged manes, and a switch-tailed demirep of a mare called Arab because\nshe has a kink in her flag. Racing leads to the _shroff_ quicker than\nanything else. But if you have no conscience and no sentiments, and good\nhands, and some knowledge of pace, and ten years' experience of horses,\nand several thousand rupees a month, I believe that you can occasionally\ncontrive to pay your shoeing-bills.\n\nDid you ever know Shackles--b. w. g., 15. 1-3/8--coarse, loose, mule-like\nears--barrel as long as a gatepost--tough as a telegraph-wire--and the\nqueerest brute that ever looked through a bridle? He was of no brand,\nbeing one of an ear-nicked mob taken into the _Bucephalus_ at \u00a34:10s., a\nhead to make up freight, and sold raw and out of condition at Calcutta for\nRs.275. People who lost money on him called him a \"brumby\"; but if ever\nany horse had Harpoon's shoulders and The Gin's temper, Shackles was that\nhorse. Two miles was his own particular distance. He trained himself, ran\nhimself, and rode himself; and, if his jockey insulted him by giving him\nhints, he shut up at once and bucked the boy off. He objected to\ndictation. Two or three of his owners did not understand this, and lost\nmoney in consequence. At last he was bought by a man who discovered that,\nif a race was to be won, Shackles, and Shackles only, would win it in his\nown way, so long as his jockey sat still. This man had a riding-boy called\nBrunt--a lad from Perth, West Australia--and he taught Brunt, with a\ntrainer's whip, the hardest thing a jock can learn--to sit still, to sit\nstill, and to keep on sitting still. When Brunt fairly grasped this truth,\nShackles devastated the country. No weight could stop him at his own\ndistance; and the fame of Shackles spread from Ajmir in the South, to\nChedputter in the North. There was no horse like Shackles, so long as he\nwas allowed to do his work in his own way. But he was beaten in the end;\nand the story of his fall is enough to make angels weep.\n\nAt the lower end of the Chedputter racecourse, just before the turn into\nthe straight, the track passes close to a couple of old brick-mounds\nenclosing a funnel-shaped hollow. The big end of the funnel is not six\nfeet from the railings on the off-side. The astounding peculiarity of the\ncourse is that, if you stand at one particular place, about half a mile\naway, inside the course, and speak at ordinary pitch, your voice just hits\nthe funnel of the brick-mounds and makes a curious whining echo there. A\nman discovered this one morning by accident while out training with a\nfriend. He marked the place to stand and speak from with a couple of\nbricks, and he kept his knowledge to himself. _Every_ peculiarity of a\ncourse is worth remembering in a country where rats play the mischief with\nthe elephant-litter, and Stewards build jumps to suit their own stables.\nThis man ran a very fairish country-bred, a long, racking high mare with\nthe temper of a fiend, and the paces of an airy wandering seraph--a\ndrifty, glidy stretch. The mare was, as a delicate tribute to Mrs. Reiver,\ncalled \"The Lady Regula Baddun\"--or for short, Regula Baddun.\n\nShackles' jockey, Brunt, was a quite well-behaved boy, but his nerve had\nbeen shaken. He began his career by riding jump-races in Melbourne, where\na few Stewards want lynching, and was one of the jockeys who came through\nthe awful butchery--perhaps you will recollect it--of the Maribyrnong\nPlate. The walls were colonial ramparts--logs of _jarrah_ spiked into\nmasonry--with wings as strong as Church buttresses. Once in his stride, a\nhorse had to jump or fall. He couldn't run out. In the Maribyrnong Plate,\ntwelve horses were jammed at the second wall. Red Hat, leading, fell this\nside, and threw out The Gled, and the ruck came up behind and the space\nbetween wing and wing was one struggling, screaming, kicking shambles.\nFour jockeys were taken out dead; three were very badly hurt, and Brunt\nwas among the three. He told the story of the Maribyrnong Plate sometimes;\nand when he described how Whalley on Red Hat, said, as the mare fell under\nhim--\"God ha' mercy, I'm done for!\" and how, next instant, Sithee There\nand White Otter had crushed the life out of poor Whalley, and the dust hid\na small hell of men and horses, no one marveled that Brunt had dropped\njump-races and Australia together. Regula Baddun's owner knew that story\nby heart. Brunt never varied it in the telling. He had no education.\n\nShackles came to the Chedputter Autumn races one year, and his owner\nwalked about insulting the sportsmen of Chedputter generally, till they\nwent to the Honorary Secretary in a body and said, \"Appoint handicappers,\nand arrange a race which shall break Shackles and humble the pride of his\nowner.\" The Districts rose against Shackles and sent up of their best;\nOusel, who was supposed to be able to do his mile in 1-53; Petard, the\nstud-bred, trained by a cavalry regiment who knew how to train; Gringalet,\nthe ewe-lamb of the 75th; Bobolink, the pride of Peshawar; and many\nothers.\n\nThey called that race The Broken-Link Handicap, because it was to smash\nShackles; and the Handicappers piled on the weights, and the Fund gave\neight hundred rupees, and the distance was \"round the course for all\nhorses.\" Shackles' owner said, \"You can arrange the race with regard to\nShackles only. So long as you don't bury him under weight-cloths, I don't\nmind.\" Regula Baddun's owner said, \"I throw in my mare to fret Ousel. Six\nfurlongs is Regula's distance, and she will then lie down and die. So also\nwill Ousel, for his jockey doesn't understand a waiting race.\" Now, this\nwas a lie, for Regula had been in work for two months at Dehra, and her\nchances were good, always supposing that Shackles broke a blood-vessel--or\nBrunt moved on him.\n\nThe plunging in the lotteries was fine. They filled eight thousand-rupee\nlotteries on the Broken-Link Handicap, and the account in the _Pioneer_\nsaid that \"favoritism was divided.\" In plain English, the various\ncontingents were wild on their respective horses; for the Handicappers had\ndone their work well. The Honorary Secretary shouted himself hoarse\nthrough the din; and the smoke of the cheroots was like the smoke, and the\nrattling of the dice-boxes like the rattle of small-arm fire.\n\nTen horses started--very level--and Regula Baddun's owner cantered out on\nhis hack to a place inside the circle of the course, where two bricks had\nbeen thrown. He faced toward the brick-mounds at the lower end of the\ncourse and waited.\n\nThe story of the running is in the _Pioneer_. At the end of the first\nmile, Shackles crept out of the ruck, well on the outside, ready to get\nround the turn, lay hold of the bit and spin up the straight before the\nothers knew he had got away. Brunt was sitting still, perfectly happy,\nlistening to the \"drum-drum-drum\" of the hoofs behind, and knowing that,\nin about twenty strides, Shackles would draw one deep breath and go up the\nlast half-mile like the \"Flying Dutchman.\" As Shackles went short to take\nthe turn and came abreast of the brick-mound, Brunt heard, above the noise\nof the wind in his ears, a whining, wailing voice on the offside,\nsaying--\"God ha' mercy, I'm done for!\" In one stride. Brunt saw the whole\nseething smash of the Maribyrnong Plate before him, started in his saddle\nand gave a yell of terror. The start brought the heels into Shackles'\nside, and the scream hurt Shackles' feelings. He couldn't stop dead; but\nhe put out his feet and slid along for fifty yards, and then, very gravely\nand judicially, bucked off Brunt--a shaking, terror-stricken lump, while\nRegula Baddun made a neck-and-neck race with Bobolink up the straight, and\nwon by a short head--Petard a bad third. Shackles' owner, in the Stand,\ntried to think that his field-glasses had gone wrong. Regula Baddun's\nowner, waiting by the two bricks, gave one deep sigh of relief, and\ncantered back to the Stand. He had won, in lotteries and bets, about\nfifteen thousand.\n\nIt was a Broken-Link Handicap with a vengeance. It broke nearly all the\nmen concerned, and nearly broke the heart of Shackles' owner. He went down\nto interview Brunt. The boy lay, livid and gasping with fright, where he\nhad tumbled off. The sin of losing the race never seemed to strike him.\nAll he knew was that Whalley had \"called\" him, that the \"call\" was a\nwarning; and, were he cut in two for it, he would never get up again. His\nnerve had gone altogether, and he only asked his master to give him a good\nthrashing, and let him go. He was fit for nothing, he said. He got his\ndismissal, and crept up to the paddock, white as chalk, with blue lips,\nhis knees giving way under him. People said nasty things in the paddock;\nbut Brunt never heeded. He changed into tweeds, took his stick and went\ndown the road, still shaking with fright, and muttering over and over\nagain--\"God ha' mercy, I'm done for!\" To the best of my knowledge and\nbelief he spoke the truth.\n\nSo now you know how the Broken-Link Handicap was run and won. Of course\nyou don't believe it. You would credit anything about Russia's designs on\nIndia, or the recommendations of the Currency Commission; but a little bit\nof sober fact is more than you can stand.\n\n\n\nON GREENHOW HILL\n\n   To Love's low voice she lent a careless ear;\n     Her hand within his rosy fingers lay,\n   A chilling weight. She would not turn or hear;\n     But with averted face went on her way.\n   But when pale Death, all featureless and grim,\n     Lifted his bony hand, and beckoning\n   Held out his cypress-wreath, she followed him,\n     And Love was left forlorn and wondering,\n   That she who for his bidding would not stay,\n   At Death's first whisper rose and went away.\n\n  _Rivals_,\n\n\"_Oh\u00e9, Ahmed Din! Shafiz Ulla ahoo!_ Bahadur Khan, where are you? Come out\nof the tents, as I have done, and fight against the English. Don't kill\nyour own kin! Come out to me!\"\n\nThe deserter from a native corps was crawling round the outskirts of the\ncamp, firing at intervals, and shouting invitations to his old comrades.\nMisled by the rain and the darkness, he came to the English wing of the\ncamp, and with his yelping and rifle-practice disturbed the men. They had\nbeen making roads all day, and were tired.\n\nOrtheris was sleeping at Learoyd's feet. \"Wot's all that?\" he said\nthickly. Learoyd snored, and a Snider bullet ripped its way through the\ntent wall. The men swore, \"it's that bloomin' deserter from the\nAurangabadis,\" said Ortheris. \"Git up, some one, an' tell 'im 'e's come to\nthe wrong shop,\"\n\n\"Go to sleep, little man,\" said Mulvaney, who was steaming nearest the\ndoor. \"I can't arise and expaytiate with him. Tis rainin' entrenchin'\ntools outside.\"\n\n\"'Tain't because you bloomin' can't. It's 'cause you bloomin' won't, ye\nlong, limp, lousy, lazy beggar, you. 'Ark to 'im 'owlin'!\"\n\n\"Wot's the good of argifying? Put a bullet into the swine! 'E's keepin' us\nawake!\" said another voice.\n\nA subaltern shouted angrily, and a dripping sentry whined from the\ndarkness--\n\n\"'Tain't no good, sir. I can't see 'im. 'E's 'idin' somewhere down 'ill.\"\n\nOrtheris tumbled out of his blanket. \"Shall I try to get 'im, sir?\" said\nhe.\n\n\"No,\" was the answer. \"Lie down. I won't have the whole camp shooting all\nround the clock. Tell him to go and pot his friends.\"\n\nOrtheris considered for a moment. Then, putting his head under the tent\nwall, he called, as a 'bus conductor calls in a block, \"'Igher up, there!\n'Igher up!\"\n\nThe men laughed, and the laughter was carried down wind to the deserter,\nwho, hearing that he had made a mistake, went off to worry his own\nregiment half a mile away. He was received with shots; the Aurangabadis\nwere very angry with him for disgracing their colors.\n\n\"An' that's all right,\" said Ortheris, withdrawing his head as he heard\nthe hiccough of the Sniders in the distance. \"S'elp me Gawd, tho', that\nman's not fit to live--messin' with my beauty-sleep this way.\"\n\n\"Go out and shoot him in the morning, then,\" said the subaltern\nincautiously. \"Silence in the tents now. Get your rest, men.\"\n\nOrtheris lay down with a happy little sigh, and in two minutes there was\nno sound except the rain on the canvas and the all-embracing and elemental\nsnoring of Learoyd.\n\nThe camp lay on a bare ridge of the Himalayas, and for a week had been\nwaiting for a flying column to make connection. The nightly rounds of the\ndeserter and his friends had become a nuisance.\n\nIn the morning the men dried themselves in hot sunshine and cleaned their\ngrimy accoutrements. The native regiment was to take its turn of\nroad-making that day while the Old Regiment loafed.\n\n\"I'm goin' to lay for a shot at that man,\" said Ortheris, when he had\nfinished washing out his rifle, \"'E comes up the watercourse every evenin'\nabout five o'clock. If we go and lie out on the north 'ill a bit this\nafternoon we'll get 'im.\"\n\n\"You're a bloodthirsty little mosquito,\" said Mulvaney, blowing blue\nclouds into the air. \"But I suppose I will have to come wid you. Pwhere's\nJock?\"\n\n\"Gone out with the Mixed Pickles, 'cause 'e thinks 'isself a bloomin'\nmarksman,\" said Ortheris, with scorn,\n\nThe \"Mixed Pickles\" were a detachment of picked shots, generally employed\nin clearing spurs of hills when the enemy were too impertinent. This\ntaught the young officers how to handle men, and did not do the enemy much\nharm. Mulvaney and Ortheris strolled out of camp, and passed the\nAurangabadis going to their road-making,\n\n\"You've got to sweat to-day,\" said Ortheris, genially. \"We're going to get\nyour man. You didn't knock 'im out last night by any chance, any of you?\"\n\n\"No. The pig went away mocking us. I had one shot at him,\" said a private,\n\"He's my cousin, and _I_ ought to have cleared our dishonor. But good luck\nto you.\"\n\nThey went cautiously to the north hill, Ortheris leading, because, as he\nexplained, \"this is a long-range show, an' I've got to do it.\" His was an\nalmost passionate devotion to his rifle, which, by barrack-room report, he\nwas supposed to kiss every night before turning in. Charges and scuffles\nhe held in contempt, and, when they were inevitable, slipped between\nMulvaney and Learoyd, bidding them to fight for his skin as well as their\nown. They never failed him. He trotted along, questing like a hound on a\nbroken trail, through the wood of the north hill. At last he was\nsatisfied, and threw himself down on the soft pine-needle slope that\ncommanded a clear view of the watercourse and a brown, bare hillside\nbeyond it. The trees made a scented darkness in which an army corps could\nhave hidden from the sun-glare without.\n\n\"'Ere's the tail o' the wood,\" said Ortheris. \"'E's got to come up the\nwatercourse, 'cause it gives 'im cover. We'll lay 'ere. 'Tain't not arf so\nbloomin' dusty neither.\"\n\nHe buried his nose in a clump of scentless white violets. No one had come\nto tell the flowers that the season of their strength was long past, and\nthey had bloomed merrily in the twilight of the pines.\n\n\"This is something like,\" he said, luxuriously. \"Wot a 'evinly clear drop\nfor a bullet acrost! How much d'you make it, Mulvaney?\"\n\n\"Seven hunder. Maybe a trifle less, bekaze the air's so thin.\"\n\n_Wop! Wop! Wop!_ went a volley of musketry on the rear face of the north\nhill.\n\n\"Curse them Mixed Pickles firin' at nothin'! They'll scare arf the\ncountry.\"\n\n\"Thry a sightin' shot in the middle of the row,\" said Mulvaney, the man of\nmany wiles. \"There's a red rock yonder he'll be sure to pass. Quick!\"\n\nOrtheris ran his sight up to six hundred yards and fired. The bullet threw\nup a feather of dust by a clump of gentians at the base of the rock.\n\n\"Good enough!\" said Ortheris, snapping the scale down. \"You snick your\nsights to mine or a little lower. You're always firin' high. But remember,\nfirst shot to me, O Lordy! but it's a lovely afternoon.\"\n\nThe noise of the firing grew louder, and there was a tramping of men in\nthe wood. The two lay very quiet, for they knew that the British soldier\nis desperately prone to fire at anything that moves or calls. Then Learoyd\nappeared, his tunic ripped across the breast by a bullet, looking ashamed\nof himself. He flung down on the pine-needles, breathing in snorts.\n\n\"One o' them damned gardeners o' th' Pickles,\" said he, fingering the\nrent. \"Firin' to th' right flank, when he knowed I was there. If I knew\nwho he was I'd 'a' rippen the hide offan him. Look at ma tunic!\"\n\n\"That's the spishil trustability av a marksman. Train him to hit a fly wid\na stiddy rest at seven hunder, an' he loose on anythin' he sees or hears\nup to th' mile. You're well out av that fancy-firin' gang, Jock. Stay\nhere.\"\n\n\"Bin firin' at the bloomin' wind in the bloomin' treetops,\" said Ortheris,\nwith a chuckle. \"I'll show you some firin' later on.\"\n\nThey wallowed in the pine-needles, and the sun warmed them where they lay.\nThe Mixed Pickles ceased firing, and returned to camp, and left the wood\nto a few scared apes. The watercourse lifted up its voice in the silence,\nand talked foolishly to the rocks. Now and again the dull thump of a\nblasting charge three miles away told that the Aurangabadis were in\ndifficulties with their road-making. The men smiled as they listened and\nlay still, soaking in the warm leisure. Presently Learoyd, between the\nwhiffs of his pipe--\n\n\"Seems queer--about 'im yonder--desertin' at all.\"\n\n\"'E'll be a bloomin' side queerer when I've done with 'im,\" said Ortheris.\nThey were talking in whispers, for the stillness of the wood and the\ndesire of slaughter lay heavy upon them.\n\n\"I make no doubt he had his reasons for desertin'; but, my faith! I make\nless doubt ivry man has good reason for killin' him,\" said Mulvaney.\n\n\"Happen there was a lass tewed up wi'it. Men do more than more for th'\nsake of a lass.\"\n\n\"They make most av us 'list. They've no manner av right to make us\ndesert.\"\n\n\"Ah; they make us 'list, or their fathers do,\" said Learoyd, softly, his\nhelmet over his eyes.\n\nOrtheris's brows contracted savagely. He was watching the valley, \"If it's\na girl I'll shoot the beggar twice over, an' second time for bein' a fool.\nYou're blasted sentimental all of a sudden, Thinkin' o' your last near\nshave?\"\n\n\"Nay, lad; ah was but thinkin' o' what had happened,\"\n\n\"An' fwhat has happened, ye lumberin' child av calamity, that you're\nlowing like a cow-calf at the back av the pasture, an' suggestin'\ninvidious excuses for the man Stanley's goin' to kill. Ye'll have to wait\nanother hour yet, little man. Spit it out, Jock, an' bellow melojus to the\nmoon. It takes an earthquake or a bullet graze to fetch aught out av you.\nDiscourse, Don Juan! The a-moors av Lotharius Learoyd! Stanley, kape a\nrowlin' rig'mental eye on the valley.\"\n\n\"It's along o' yon hill there,\" said Learoyd, watching the bare\nsub-Himalayan spur that reminded him of his Yorkshire moors. He was\nspeaking more to himself than his fellows.\n\n\"Ay,\" said he, \"Rumbolds Moor stands up ower Skipton town, an' Greenhow\nHill stands up ower Pately Brig. I reckon you've never heeard tell o'\nGreenhow Hill, but yon bit o' bare stuff if there was nobbut a white road\nwindin' is like ut; strangely like. Moors an' moors an' moors, wi' never a\ntree for shelter, an' grey houses wi' flagstone rooves, and pewits cryin',\nan' a windhover goin' to and fro just like these kites. And cold! A wind\nthat cuts you like a knife. You could tell Greenhow Hill folk by the\nred-apple color o' their cheeks an' nose tips, and their blue eyes, driven\ninto pin-points by the wind. Miners mostly, burrowin' for lead i' th'\nhillsides, followin' the trail of th' ore vein same as a field-rat. It was\nthe roughest minin' I ever seen. Yo'd come on a bit o' creakin' wood\nwindlass like a well-head, an' you was let down i' th' bight of a rope,\nfendin' yoursen off the side wi' one hand, carryin' a candle stuck in a\nlump o' clay with t'other, an' clickin' hold of a rope with t'other hand.\"\n\n\"An' that's three of them,\" said Mulvaney. \"Must be a good climate in\nthose parts.\"\n\nLearoyd took no heed.\n\n\"An' then yo' came to a level, where you crept on your hands and knees\nthrough a mile o' windin' drift, 'an' you come out into a cave-place as\nbig as Leeds Townhall, with a engine pumpin' water from workin's 'at went\ndeeper still. It's a queer country, let alone minin', for the hill is full\nof those natural caves, an' the rivers an' the becks drops into what they\ncall pot-holes, an' come out again miles away.\"\n\n\"Wot was you doin' there?\" said Ortheris.\n\n\"I was a young chap then, an' mostly went wi' 'osses, leadin' coal and\nlead ore; but at th' time I'm tellin' on I was drivin' the waggon-team i'\nth' big sumph. I didn't belong to that countryside by rights. I went there\nbecause of a little difference at home, an' at fust I took up wi' a rough\nlot. One night we'd been drinkin', an' I must ha' hed more than I could\nstand, or happen th' ale was none so good. Though i' them days, By for\nGod, I never seed bad ale.\" He flung his arms over his head, and gripped a\nvast handful of white violets. \"Nah,\" said he, \"I never seed the ale I\ncould not drink, the bacca I could not smoke, nor the lass I could not\nkiss. Well, we mun have a race home, the lot on us. I lost all th' others,\nan' when I was climbin' ower one of them walls built o' loose stones, I\ncomes down into the ditch, stones and all, an' broke my arm. Not as I\nknawed much about it, for I fell on th' back of my head, an' was knocked\nstupid like. An' when I come to mysen it were mornin', an' I were lyin' on\nthe settle i' Jesse Roantree's house-place, an' 'Liza Roantree was settin'\nsewin'. I ached all ower, and my mouth were like a limekiln. She gave me a\ndrink out of a china mug wi' gold letters--'A Present from Leeds'--as I\nlooked at many and many a time at after. 'Yo're to lie still while Dr.\nWarbottom comes, because your arm's broken, and father has sent a lad to\nfetch him. He found yo' when he was goin' to work, an' carried you here on\nhis back,' sez she. 'Oa!' sez I; an' I shet my eyes, for I felt ashamed o'\nmysen. 'Father's gone to his work these three hours, an' he said he' tell\n'em to get somebody to drive the tram.' The clock ticked, an' a bee comed\nin the house, an' they rung i' my head like mill-wheels. An' she give me\nanother drink an' settled the pillow. 'Eh, but yo're young to be getten\ndrunk an' such like, but yo' won't do it again, will yo'?'--'Noa,' sez I,\n'I wouldn't if she'd not but stop they mill-wheels clatterin'.'\"\n\n\"Faith, it's a good thing to be nursed by a woman when you're sick!\" said\nMulvaney. \"Dir' cheap at the price av twenty broken heads.\"\n\nOrtheris turned to frown across the valley. He had not been nursed by many\nwomen in his life.\n\n\"An' then Dr. Warbottom comes ridin' up, an' Jesse Roantree along with\n'im. He was a high-larned doctor, but he talked wi' poor folk same as\ntheirsens. 'What's ta bin agaate on naa?' he sings out. 'Brekkin' tha\nthick head?' An' he felt me all ovver. 'That's none broken. Tha' nobbut\nknocked a bit sillier than ordinary, an' that's daaft eneaf.' An' soa he\nwent on, callin' me all the names he could think on, but settin' my arm,\nwi' Jesse's help, as careful as could be. 'Yo' mun let the big oaf bide\nhere a bit, Jesse,' he says, when he hed strapped me up an' given me a\ndose o' physic; 'an' you an' 'Liza will tend him, though he's scarcelins\nworth the trouble. An' tha'll lose tha work,' sez he, 'an' tha'll be upon\nth' Sick Club for a couple o' months an' more. Doesn't tha think tha's a\nfool?'\"\n\n\"But whin was a young man, high or low, the other av a fool, I'd like to\nknow?\" said Mulvaney, \"Sure, folly's the only safe way to wisdom, for I've\nthried it.\"\n\n\"Wisdom!\" grinned Ortheris, scanning his comrades with uplifted chin.\n\"You're bloomin' Solomons, you two, ain't you?\"\n\nLearoyd went calmly on, with a steady eye like an ox chewing the cud.\n\n\"And that was how I come to know 'Liza Roantree. There's some tunes as she\nused to sing--aw, she were always singin'--that fetches Greenhow Hill\nbefore my eyes as fair as yon brow across there. And she would learn me to\nsing bass, an' I was to go to th' chapel wi' 'em where Jesse and she led\nthe singin', th' old man playin' the fiddle. He was a strange chap, old\nJesse, fair mad wi' music, an' he made me promise to learn the big fiddle\nwhen my arm was better. It belonged to him, and it stood up in a big case\nalongside o' th' eight-day clock, but Willie Satterthwaite, as played it\nin the chapel, had getten deaf as a door-post, and it vexed Jesse, as he\nhad to rap him ower his head wi' th' fiddle-stick to make him give ower\nsawin' at th' right time.\n\n\"But there was a black drop in it all, an' it was a man in a black coat\nthat brought it. When th' primitive Methodist preacher came to Greenhow,\nhe would always stop wi' Jesse Roantree, an' he laid hold of me from th'\nbeginning. It seemed I wor a soul to be saved, and he meaned to do it. At\nth' same time I jealoused 'at he were keen o' savin' 'Liza Roantree's soul\nas well, and I could ha' killed him many a time. An' this went on till one\nday I broke out, an' borrowed th' brass for a drink from 'Liza. After\nfower days I come back, wi' my tail between my legs, just to see 'Liza\nagain. But Jesse were at home an' th' preacher--th' Reverend Amos\nBarraclough. 'Liza said naught, but a bit o' red come into her face as\nwere white of a regular thing. Says Jesse, tryin' his best to be civil,\n'Nay, lad, it's like this. You've getten to choose which way it's goin' to\nbe. I'll ha' nobody across ma doorstep as goes a-drinkin', an' borrows my\nlass's money to spend i' their drink. Ho'd tha tongue, 'Liza,' sez he,\nwhen she wanted to put in a word 'at I were welcome to th' brass, and she\nwere none afraid that I wouldn't pay it back. Then the Reverend cuts in,\nseein' as Jesse were losin' his temper, an' they fair beat me among them.\nBut it were 'Liza, as looked an' said naught, as did more than either o'\ntheir tongues, an' soa I concluded to get converted.\"\n\n\"Fwhat?\" shouted Mulvaney. Then, checking himself, he said softly, \"Let\nbe! Let be! Sure the Blessed Virgin is the mother of all religion an' most\nwomen; an' there's a dale av piety in a girl if the men would only let ut\nstay there. I'd ha' been converted myself under the circumstances.\"\n\n\"Nay, but,\" pursued Learoyd with a blush, \"I meaned it.\"\n\nOrtheris laughed as loudly as he dared, having regard to his business at\nthe time.\n\n\"Ay, Ortheris, you may laugh, but you didn't know yon preacher\nBarraclough--a little white-faced chap, wi' a voice as 'ud wile a bird off\nan a bush, and a way o' layin' hold of folks as made them think they'd\nnever had a live man for a friend before. You never saw him, an'--an'--you\nnever seed 'Liza Roantree--never seed 'Liza Roantree.... Happen it was as\nmuch 'Liza as th' preacher and her father, but anyways they all meaned it,\nan' I was fair shamed o' mysen, an' so I become what they call a changed\ncharacter. And when I think on, it's hard to believe as yon chap going to\nprayermeetin's, chapel, and class-meetin's were me. But I never had naught\nto say for mysen, though there was a deal o' shoutin', and old Sammy\nStrother, as were almost clemmed to death and doubled up with the\nrheumatics, would sing out, 'Joyful! Joyful!' and 'at it were better to go\nup to heaven in a coal-basket than down to hell i' a coach an' six. And he\nwould put his poor old claw on my shoulder, sayin', 'Doesn't tha feel it,\ntha great lump? Doesn't tha feel it?' An' sometimes I thought I did, and\nthen again I thought I didn't, an' how was that?\"\n\n\"The iverlastin' nature av mankind,\" said Mulvaney. \"An', furthermore, I\nmisdoubt you were built for the Primitive Methodians. They're a new corps\nanyways. I hold by the Ould Church, for she's the mother of them all--ay,\nan' the father, too. I like her bekase she's most remarkable regimental in\nher fittings. I may die in Honolulu, Nova Zambra, or Cape Cayenne, but\nwherever I die, me bein' fwhat I am, an' a priest handy, I go under the\nsame orders an' the same words an' the same unction as tho' the Pope\nhimself come down from the roof av St. Peter's to see me off. There's\nneither high nor low, nor broad nor deep, nor betwixt nor between wid her,\nan' that's what I like. But mark you, she's no manner av Church for a wake\nman, bekaze she takes the body and the soul av him, onless he has his\nproper work to do. I remember when my father died that was three months\ncomin' to his grave; begad he'd ha' sold the shebeen above our heads for\nten minutes' quittance of purgathory. An' he did all he could. That's why\nI say ut takes a strong man to deal with the Ould Church, an' for that\nreason you'll find so many women go there. An' that same's a conundrum.\"\n\n\"Wot's the use o' worritin' 'bout these things?\" said Ortheris. \"You're\nbound to find all out quicker nor you want to, any'ow.\" He jerked the\ncartridge out of the breech-block into the palm of his hand. \"Ere's my\nchaplain,\" he said, and made the venomous black-headed bullet bow like a\nmarionette. \"'E's goin' to teach a man all about which is which, an' wot's\ntrue, after all, before sundown. But wot 'appened after that, Jock?\"\n\n\"There was one thing they boggled at, and almost shut th' gate i' my face\nfor, and that were my dog Blast, th' only one saved out o' a litter o'\npups as was blowed up when a keg o' minin' powder loosed off in th'\nstorekeeper's hut. They liked his name no better than his business, which\nwere fightin' every dog he comed across; a rare good dog, wi' spots o'\nblack and pink on his face, one ear gone, and lame o' one side wi' being\ndriven in a basket through an iron roof, a matter of half a mile.\n\n\"They said I mun give him up 'cause he were worldly and low; and would I\nlet mysen be shut out of heaven for the sake on a dog? 'Nay,' says I, 'if\nth' door isn't wide enough for th' pair on us, we'll stop outside, for\nwe'll none be parted.' And th' preacher spoke up for Blast, as had a\nlikin' for him from th' first--I reckon that was why I come to like th'\npreacher--and wouldn't hear o' changin' his name to Bless, as some o' them\nwanted. So th' pair on us became reg'lar chapel-members. But it's hard for\na young chap o' my build to cut traces from the world, th' flesh, an' the\ndevil all uv a heap. Yet I stuck to it for a long time, while th' lads as\nused to stand about th' town-end an' lean ower th' bridge, spittin' into\nth' beck o' a Sunday, would call after me, 'Sitha, Learoyd, when's ta bean\nto preach, 'cause we're comin' to hear tha.'--'Ho'd tha jaw. He hasn't\ngetten th' white choaker on ta morn,' another lad would say, and I had to\ndouble my fists hard i' th' bottom of my Sunday coat, and say to mysen,\n'If 'twere Monday and I warn't a member o' the Primitive Methodists, I'd\nleather all th' lot of yond'.' That was th' hardest of all--to know that I\ncould fight and I mustn't fight.\"\n\nSympathetic grunts from Mulvaney.\n\n\"So what wi' singin', practicin', and class-meetin's, and th' big fiddle,\nas he made me take between my knees, I spent a deal o' time i' Jesse\nRoantree's house-place. But often as I was there, th' preacher fared to me\nto go oftener, and both th' old man an' th' young woman were pleased to\nhave him. He lived i' Pately Brig, as were a goodish step off, but he\ncome. He come all the same. I liked him as well or better as any man I'd\never seen i' one way, and yet I hated him wi' all my heart i' t'other, and\nwe watched each other like cat and mouse, but civil as you please, for I\nwas on my best behavior, and he was that fair and open that I was bound to\nbe fair with him. Rare good company he was, if I hadn't wanted to wring\nhis cliver little neck half of the time. Often and often when he was goin'\nfrom Jesse's I'd set him a bit on the road.\"\n\n\"See 'im 'ome, you mean?\" said Ortheris,\n\n\"Ay. It's a way we have i' Yorkshire o' seein' friends off. You was a\nfriend as I didn't want to come back, and he didn't want me to come back\nneither, and so we'd walk together toward Pately, and then he'd set me\nback again, and there we'd be wal two o'clock i' the mornin' settin' each\nother to an' fro like a blasted pair o' pendulums twixt hill and valley,\nlong after th' light had gone out i' 'Liza's window, as both on us had\nbeen looking at, pretending to watch the moon.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" broke in Mulvaney, \"ye'd no chanst against the maraudin'\npsalm-singer. They'll take the airs an' the graces instid av the man nine\ntimes out av ten, an' they only find the blunder later--the wimmen.\"\n\n\"That's just where yo're wrong,\" said Learoyd, reddening under the\nfreckled tan of his cheeks. \"I was th' first wi' 'Liza, an' yo'd think\nthat were enough. But th' parson were a steady-gaited sort o' chap, and\nJesse were strong o' his side, and all th' women i' the congregation\ndinned it to 'Liza 'at she were fair fond to take up wi' a wastrel\nne'er-do-weel like me, as was scarcelins respectable an' a fighting dog at\nhis heels. It was all very well for her to be doing me good and saving my\nsoul, but she must mind as she didn't do herself harm. They talk o' rich\nfolk bein' stuck up an' genteel, but for cast-iron pride o' respectability\nthere's naught like poor chapel folk. It's as cold as th' wind o' Greenhow\nHill--ay, and colder, for 'twill never change. And now I come to think on\nit, one at strangest things I know is 'at they couldn't abide th' thought\no' soldiering. There's a vast o' fightin' i' th' Bible, and there's a deal\nof Methodists i' th' army; but to hear chapel folk talk yo'd think that\nsoldierin' were next door, an' t'other side, to hangin'. I' their meetin's\nall their talk is o' fightin'. When Sammy Strother were stuck for summat\nto say in his prayers, he'd sing out, 'Th' sword o' th' Lord and o'\nGideon. They were allus at it about puttin' on th' whole armor o'\nrighteousness, an' fightin' the good fight o' faith. And then, atop o' 't\nall, they held a prayer-meetin' ower a young chap as wanted to 'list, and\nnearly deafened him, till he picked up his hat and fair ran away. And\nthey'd tell tales in th' Sunday-school o' bad lads as had been thumped and\nbrayed for bird-nesting o' Sundays and playin' truant o' week days, and\nhow they took to wrestlin', dog-fightin', rabbit-runnin', and drinkin',\ntill at last, as if 'twere a hepitaph on a gravestone, they damned him\nacross th' moors wi', 'an' then he went and 'listed for a soldier,' an'\nthey'd all fetch a deep breath, and throw up their eyes like a hen\ndrinkin'.\"\n\n\"Fwhy is ut?\" said Mulvaney, bringing down his hand on his thigh with a\ncrack, \"In the name av God, fwhy is ut? I've seen ut, tu. They cheat an'\nthey swindle an' they lie an' they slander, an' fifty things fifty times\nworse; but the last an' the worst by their reckonin' is to serve the Widdy\nhonest. It's like the talk av childer--seein' things all round.\"\n\n\"Plucky lot of fightin' good fights of whatsername they'd do if we didn't\nsee they had a quiet place to fight in. And such fightin' as theirs is!\nCats on the tiles. T'other callin' to which to come on. I'd give a month's\npay to get some o' them broad-backed beggars in London sweatin' through a\nday's road-makin' an' a night's rain. They'd carry on a deal\nafterward--same as we're supposed to carry on. I've bin turned out of a\nmeasly arf-license pub down Lambeth way, full o' greasy kebmen, 'fore\nnow,\" said Ortheris with an oath.\n\n\"Maybe you were dhrunk,\" said Mulvaney, soothingly.\n\n\"Worse nor that. The Forders were drunk. _I_ was wearin' the Queen's\nuniform.\"\n\n\"I'd no particular thought to be a soldier i' them days,\" said Learoyd,\nstill keeping his eye on the bare hill opposite, \"but this sort o' talk\nput it i' my head. They was so good, th' chapel folk, that they tumbled\nower t'other side. But I stuck to it for 'Liza's sake, specially as she\nwas learning me to sing the bass part in a horotorio as Jesse were gettin'\nup. She sung like a throstle hersen, and we had practicin's night after\nnight for a matter of three months.\"\n\n\"I know what a horotorio is,\" said Ortheris, pertly. \"It's a sort of\nchaplain's sing-song--words all out of the Bible, and hullabaloojah\nchoruses.\"\n\n\"Most Greenhow Hill folks played some instrument or t'other, an' they all\nsung so you mignt have heard them miles away, and they were so pleased wi'\nthe noise they made they didn't fair to want anybody to listen. The\npreacher sung high seconds when he wasn't playin' the flute, an' they set\nme, as hadn't got far with big fiddle, again Willie Satterthwaite, to jog\nhis elbow when he had to get a' gate playin'. Old Jesse was happy if ever\na man was, for he were th' conductor an' th' first fiddle an' th' leadin'\nsinger, beatin' time wi' his fiddle-stick, till at times he'd rap with it\non the table, and cry out, 'Now, you mun all stop; it's my turn,' And he'd\nface round to his front, fair sweating wi' pride, to sing th' tenor solos.\nBut he were grandest i' th' choruses, waggin' his head, flinging his arms\nround like a windmill, and singin' hisself black in the face. A rare\nsinger were Jesse.\n\n\"Yo' see, I was not o' much account wi' 'em all exceptin' to 'Liza\nRoantree, and I had a deal o' time settin' quiet at meetings and horotorio\npractices to hearken their talk, and if it were strange to me at\nbeginnin', it got stranger still at after, when I was shut on it, and\ncould study what it meaned.\n\n\"Just after th' horotorios come off, 'Liza, as had allus been weakly like,\nwas took very bad. I walked Dr. Warbottom's horse up and down a deal of\ntimes while he were inside, where they wouldn't let me go, though I fair\nached to see her.\n\n\"'She'll be better i' noo, lad--better i' noo,' he used to say. 'Tha mun\nha' patience.' Then they said if I was quiet I might go in, and th'\nReverend Amos Barraclough used to read to her lyin' propped up among th'\npillows. Then she began to mend a bit, and they let me carry her on to th'\nsettle, and when it got warm again she went about same as afore. Th'\npreacher and me and Blast was a deal together i' them days, and i' one way\nwe was rare good comrades. But I could ha' stretched him time and again\nwith a good will. I mind one day he said he would like to go down into th'\nbowels o' th' earth, and see how th' Lord had builded th' framework o' th'\neverlastin' hills. He were one of them chaps as had a gift o' sayin'\nthings. They rolled off the tip of his clever tongue, same as Mulvaney\nhere, as would ha' made a rare good preacher if he had nobbut given his\nmind to it. I lent him a suit o' miner's kit as almost buried th' little\nman, and his white face down i' th' coat-collar and hat-flap looked like\nthe face of a boggart, and he cowered down i' th' bottom o' the waggon. I\nwas drivin' a tram as led up a bit of an incline up to th' cave where the\nengine was pumpin', and where th' ore was brought up and put into th'\nwaggons as went down o' themselves, me puttin' th' brake on and th' horses\na-trottin' after. Long as it was daylight we were good friends, but when\nwe got fair into th' dark, and could nobbut see th' day shinin' at the\nhole like a lamp at a street-end, I feeled downright wicked. Ma religion\ndropped all away from me when I looked back at him as were always comin'\nbetween me and 'Liza. The talk was 'at they were to be wed when she got\nbetter, an' I couldn't get her to say yes or nay to it. He began to sing a\nhymn in his thin voice, and I came out wi' a chorus that was all cussin'\nan' swearin' at my horses, an' I began to know how I hated him. He were\nsuch a little chap, too. I could drop him wi' one hand down Garstang's\nCopper-hole--a place where th' beck slithered ower th' edge on a rock, and\nfell wi' a bit of a whisper into a pit as no rope i' Greenhow could\nplump.\"\n\nAgain Learoyd rooted up the innocent violets. \"Ay, he should see th'\nbowels o' th' earth an' never naught else. I could take him a mile or two\nalong th' drift, and leave him wi' his candle doused to cry hallelujah,\nwi' none to hear him and say amen. I was to lead him down th' ladder-way\nto th' drift where Jesse Roantree was workin', and why shouldn't he slip\non th' ladder, wi' my feet on his fingers till they loosed grip, and I put\nhim down wi' my heel? If I went fust down th' ladder I could click hold on\nhim and chuck him over my head, so as he should go squshin' down the shaft\nbreakin' his bones at ev'ry timberin' as Bill Appleton did when he was\nfresh, and hadn't a bone left when he wrought to th' bottom. Niver a\nblasted leg to walk from Pately. Niver an arm to put round 'Liza\nRoantree's waist. Niver no more--niver no more.\"\n\nThe thick lips curled back over the yellow teeth, and that flushed face\nwas not pretty to look upon. Mulvaney nodded sympathy, and Ortheris, moved\nby his comrade's passion, brought up the rifle to his shoulder, and\nsearched the hillside for his quarry, muttering ribaldry about a sparrow,\na spout, and a thunderstorm. The voice of the watercourse supplied the\nnecessary small talk till Learoyd picked up his story,\n\n\"But it's none so easy to kill a man like yon. When I'd given up my horses\nto th' lad as took my place and I was showin' th' preacher th' workin's,\nshoutin' into his ear across th' clang o' th' pumpin' engines, I saw he\nwere afraid o' naught; and when the lamplight showed his black eyes, I\ncould feel as he was masterin' me again. I were no better nor Blast\nchained up short and growlin' i' the depths of him while a strange dog\nwent safe past.\n\n\"'Th' art a coward and a fool,' I said to mysen; an' I wrestled i' my mind\nagain' him till, when we come to Garstang's Copper-hole, I laid hold o'\nthe preacher and lifted him up over my head and held him into the darkest\non it. 'Now, lad,' I says, 'it's to be one or t'other on us--thee or\nme--for 'Liza Roantree. Why, isn't thee afraid for thysen?' I says, for he\nwere still i' my arms as a sack. 'Nay; I'm but afraid for thee, my poor\nlad, as knows naught,' says he. I set him down on th' edge, an' th' beck\nrun stiller, an' there was no more buzzin' in my head like when th' bee\ncome through th' window o' Jesse's house. 'What dost tha mean?' says I.\n\n\"'I've often thought as thou ought to know,' says he, 'but 'twas hard to\ntell thee. 'Liza Roantree's for neither on us, nor for nobody o' this\nearth, Dr. Warbottom says--and he knows her, and her mother before\nher--that she is in a decline, and she cannot live six months longer. He's\nknown it for many a day. Steady, John! Steady!' says he. And that weak\nlittle man pulled me further back and set me again' him, and talked it all\nover quiet and still, me turnin' a bunch o' candles in my hand, and\ncounting them ower and ower again as I listened. A deal on it were th'\nregular preachin' talk, but there were a vast lot as made me begin to\nthink as he were more of a man than I'd ever given him credit for, till I\nwere cut as deep for him as I were for mysen.\n\n\"Six candles we had, and we crawled and climbed all that day while they\nlasted, and I said to mysen, ''Liza Roantree hasn't six months to live.'\nAnd when we came into th' daylight again we were like dead men to look at,\nan' Blast come behind us without so much as waggin' his tail. When I saw\n'Liza again she looked at me a minute and says, 'Who's telled tha? For I\nsee tha knows.' And she tried to smile as she kissed me, and I fair broke\ndown.\n\n\"Yo' see, I was a young chap i' them days, and had seen naught o' life,\nlet alone death, as is allus a-waitin'. She telled me as Dr. Warbottom\nsaid as Greenhow air was too keen, and they were goin' to Bradford, to\nJesse's brother David, as worked i' a mill, and I mun hold up like a man\nand a Christian, and she'd pray for me. Well, and they went away, and the\npreacher that same back end o' th' year were appointed to another circuit,\nas they call it, and I were left alone on Greenhow Hill.\n\n\"I tried, and I tried hard, to stick to th' chapel, but 'tweren't th' same\nthing at after. I hadn't 'Liza's voice to follow i' th' singin', nor her\neyes a-shinin' acrost their heads. And i' th' class-meetings they said as\nI mun have some experiences to tell, and I hadn't a word to say for mysen.\n\n\"Blast and me moped a good deal, and happen we didn't behave ourselves\nover well, for they dropped us and wondered however they'd come to take us\nup. I can't tell how we got through th' time, while i' th' winter I gave\nup my job and went to Bradford. Old Jesse were at th' door o' th' house,\nin a long street o' little houses. He'd been sendin' th' children 'way as\nwere clatterin' their clogs in th' causeway, for she were asleep.\n\n\"'Is it thee?' he says; 'but you're not to see her. I'll none have her\nwakened for a nowt like thee. She's goin' fast, and she mun go in peace.\nThou 'lt never be good for naught i' th' world, and as long as thou lives\nthou'll never play the big fiddle. Get away, lad, get away!' So he shut\nthe door softly i' my face.\n\n\"Nobody never made Jesse my master, but it seemed to me he was about\nright, and I went away into the town and knocked up against a recruiting\nsergeant. The old tales o' th' chapel folk came buzzin' into my head. I\nwas to get away, and this were th' regular road for the likes o' me, I\nlisted there and then, took th' Widow's shillin', and had a bunch o'\nribbons pinned i' my hat.\n\n\"But next day I found my way to David Roantree's door, and Jesse came to\nopen it. Says he, 'Thou's come back again wi' th' devil's colors\nflyin'--thy true colors, as I always telled thee.'\n\n\"But I begged and prayed of him to let me see her nobbut to say good-bye,\ntill a woman calls down th' stairway, 'She says John Learoyd's to come\nup.' Th' old man shifts aside in a flash, and lays his hand on my arm,\nquite gentle like. 'But thou'lt be quiet, John,' says he, 'for she's rare\nand weak. Thou was allus a good lad.'\n\n\"Her eyes were all alive wi' light, and her hair was thick on the pillow\nround her, but her cheeks were thin--thin to frighten a man that's strong.\n'Nay, father, yo mayn't say th' devil's colors. Them ribbons is pretty.'\nAn' she held out her hands for th' hat, an' she put all straight as a\nwoman will wi' ribbons. 'Nay, but what they're pretty,' she says. 'Eh, but\nI'd ha' liked to see thee i' thy red coat, John, for thou was allus my own\nlad--my very own lad, and none else.'\n\n\"She lifted up her arms, and they come round my neck i' a gentle grip, and\nthey slacked away, and she seemed fainting. 'Now yo' mun get away, lad,'\nsays Jesse, and I picked up my hat and I came downstairs.\n\n\"Th' recruiting sergeant were waitin' for me at th' corner public-house.\n'You've seen your sweetheart?' says he. 'Yes, I've seen her,' says I.\n'Well, we'll have a quart now, and you'll do your best to forget her,'\nsays he, bein' one o' them smart, bustlin' chaps. 'Ay, sergeant,' says I.\n'Forget her.' And I've been forgettin' her ever since.\"\n\nHe threw away the wilted clump of white violets as he spoke. Ortheris\nsuddenly rose to his knees, his rifle at his shoulder, and peered across\nthe valley in the clear afternoon light. His chin cuddled the stock, and\nthere was a twitching of the muscles of the right cheek as he sighted:\nPrivate Stanley Ortheris was engaged on his business, A speck of white\ncrawled up the watercourse.\n\n\"See that beggar? ... Got 'im,\"\n\nSeven hundred yards away, and a full two hundred down the hillside, the\ndeserter of the Aurangabadis pitched forward, rolled down a red rock, and\nlay very still, with his face in a clump of blue gentians, while a big\nraven flapped out of the pine wood to make investigation.\n\n\"That's a clean shot, little man,\" said Mulvaney.\n\nLearoyd thoughtfully watched the smoke clear away. \"Happen there was a\nlass tewed up wi' him, too,\" said he.\n\nOrtheris did not reply. He was staring across the valley, with the smile\nof the artist who looks on the completed work.\n\n\n\nTO BE FILED FOR REFERENCE\n\n   By the hoof of the Wild Goat up-tossed\n   From the Cliff where She lay in the Sun,\n       Fell the Stone\n   To the Tarn where the daylight is lost;\n   So She fell from the light of the Sun,\n       And alone.\n\n   Now the fall was ordained from the first,\n   With the Goat and the Cliff and the Tarn,\n       But the Stone\n   Knows only Her life is accursed,\n   As She sinks in the depths of the Tarn,\n       And alone.\n\n   Oh, Thou who hast builded the world!\n   Oh, Thou who hast lighted the Sun!\n   Oh, Thou who hast darkened the Tarn!\n       Judge Thou\n   The sin of the Stone that was hurled\n   By the Goat from the light of the Sun,\n   As She sinks in the mire of the Tarn,\n       Even now--even now--even now!\n --_From the Unpublished Papers of McIntosh Jellaluidin_.\n\n\"Say is it dawn, is it dusk in thy Bower, Thou whom I long for, who\nlongest for me? Oh, be it night--be it\"--Here he fell over a little\ncamel-colt that was sleeping in the Serai where the horse-traders and the\nbest of the blackguards from Central Asia live; and, because he was very\ndrunk indeed and the night was dark, he could not rise again till I helped\nhim. That was the beginning of my acquaintance with McIntosh Jellaludin,\nWhen a loafer, and drunk, sings \"The Song of the Bower,\" he must be worth\ncultivating. He got off the camel's back and said, rather thickly,\n\"I--I--I'm a bit screwed, but a dip in Loggerhead will put me right again;\nand, I say, have you spoken to Symonds about the mare's knees?\"\n\nNow Loggerhead was six thousand weary miles away from us, close to\nMesopotamia, where you mustn't fish and poaching is impossible, and\nCharley Symonds' stable a half mile farther across the paddocks. It was\nstrange to hear all the old names, on a May night, among the horses and\ncamels of the Sultan Caravanserai. Then the man seemed to remember himself\nand sober down at the same time. We leaned against the camel and pointed\nto a corner of the Serai where a lamp was burning.\n\n\"I live there,\" said he, \"and I should be extremely obliged if you would\nbe good enough to help my mutinous feet thither; for I am more than\nusually drunk--most--most phenomenally tight But not in respect to my\nhead. 'My brain cries out against'--how does it go? But my head rides on\nthe--rolls on the dunghill I should have said, and controls the qualm.\"\n\nI helped him through the gangs of tethered horses and he collapsed on the\nedge of the veranda in front of the line of native quarters.\n\n\"Thanks--a thousand thanks! O Moon and little, little Stars! To think that\na man should so shamelessly ... Infamous liquor too. Ovid in exile drank\nno worse. Better. It was frozen. Alas! I had no ice. Good-night. I would\nintroduce you to my wife were I sober--or she civilized.\"\n\nA native woman came out of the darkness of the room, and began calling the\nman names; so I went away. He was the most interesting loafer that I had\nhad the pleasure of knowing for a long time; and later on, he became a\nfriend of mine. He was a tall, well-built, fair man, fearfully shaken with\ndrink, and he looked nearer fifty than the thirty-five which, he said, was\nhis real age. When a man begins to sink in India, and is not sent Home by\nhis friends as soon as may be, he falls very low from a respectable point\nof view. By the time that he changes his creed, as did McIntosh, he is\npast redemption.\n\nIn most big cities, natives will tell you of two or three _Sahibs_,\ngenerally low-caste, who have turned Hindu or Mussulman, and who live more\nor less as such, But it is not often that you can get to know them. As\nMcIntosh himself used to say, \"If I change my religion for my stomach's\nsake, I do not seek to become a martyr to missionaries, nor am I anxious\nfor notoriety.\"\n\nAt the outset of acquaintance McIntosh warned me, \"Remember this. I am not\nan object for charity, I require neither your money, your food, nor your\ncast-off raiment. I am that rare animal, a self-supporting drunkard. If\nyou choose, I will smoke with you, for the tobacco of the bazars does not,\nI admit, suit my palate; and I will borrow any books which you may not\nspecially value. It is more than likely that I shall sell them for bottles\nof excessively filthy country liquors, In return, you shall share such\nhospitality as my house affords. Here is a charpoy on which two can sit,\nand it is possible that there may, from time to time, be food in that\nplatter. Drink, unfortunately, you will find on the premises at any hour:\nand thus I make you welcome to all my poor establishment.\"\n\nI was admitted to the McIntosh household--I and my good tobacco. But\nnothing else. Unluckily, one cannot visit a loafer in the Serai by day.\nFriends buying horses would not understand it. Consequently, I was obliged\nto see McIntosh after dark. He laughed at this, and said simply, \"You are\nperfectly right. When I enjoyed a position in society, rather higher than\nyours, I should have done exactly the same thing. Good heavens! I was\nonce\"--he spoke as though he had fallen from the Command of a\nRegiment--\"an Oxford Man!\" This accounted for the reference to Charley\nSymonds' stable.\n\n\"You,\" said McIntosh, slowly, \"have not had that advantage; but, to\noutward appearance, you do not seem possessed of a craving for strong\ndrinks. On the whole, I fancy that you are the luckier of the two. Yet I\nam not certain. You are--forgive my saying so even while I am smoking your\nexcellent tobacco--painfully ignorant of many things.\"\n\nWe were sitting together on the edge of his bedstead, for he owned no\nchairs, watching the horses being watered for the night, while the native\nwoman was preparing dinner. I did not like being patronized by a loafer,\nbut I was his guest for the time being, though he owned only one very torn\nalpaca-coat and a pair of trousers made out of gunny-bags. He took the\npipe out of his mouth, and went on judicially, \"All things considered, I\ndoubt whether you are the luckier. I do not refer to your extremely\nlimited classical attainments, or your excruciating quantities, but to\nyour gross ignorance of matters more immediately under your notice. That,\nfor instance,\" he pointed to a woman cleaning a samovar near the well in\nthe centre of the Serai. She was flicking the water out of the spout in\nregular cadenced jerks.\n\n\"There are ways and ways of cleaning samovars. If you knew why she was\ndoing her work in that particular fashion, you would know what the Spanish\nMonk meant when he said--\n\n   I the Trinity illustrate,\n       Drinking watered orange-pulp--\n   In three sips the Arian frustrate,\n       While he drains his at one gulp--\n\nand many other things which now are hidden from your eyes. However, Mrs.\nMcIntosh has prepared dinner. Let us come and eat after the fashion of the\npeople of the country--of whom, by the way, you know nothing.\"\n\nThe native woman dipped her hand in the dish with us. This was wrong. The\nwife should always wait until the husband has eaten. McIntosh Jellaludin\napologized, saying--\n\n\"It is an English prejudice which I have not been able to overcome; and\nshe loves me. Why, I have never been able to understand. I foregathered\nwith her at Jullundur, three years ago, and she has remained with me ever\nsince. I believe her to be moral, and know her to be skilled in cookery.\"\n\nHe patted the woman's head as he spoke, and she cooed softly. She was not\npretty to look at.\n\nMcIntosh never told me what position he had held before his fall. He was,\nwhen sober, a scholar and a gentleman. When drunk, he was rather more of\nthe first than the second. He used to get drunk about once a week for two\ndays. On those occasions the native woman tended him while he raved in all\ntongues except his own. One day, indeed, he began reciting _Atalanta in\nCalydon_, and went through it to the end, beating time to the swing of the\nverse with a bedstead-leg. But he did most of his ravings in Greek or\nGerman. The man's mind was a perfect rag-bag of useless things. Once, when\nhe was beginning to get sober, he told me that I was the only rational\nbeing in the Inferno into which he had descended--a Virgil in the Shades,\nhe said--and that, in return for my tobacco, he would, before he died,\ngive me the materials of a new Inferno that should make me greater than\nDante. Then he fell asleep on a horse-blanket and woke up quite calm.\n\n\"Man,\" said he, \"when you have reached the uttermost depths of\ndegradation, little incidents which would vex a higher life, are to you of\nno consequence. Last night, my soul was among the Gods; but I make no\ndoubt that my bestial body was writhing down here in the garbage.\"\n\n\"You were abominably drunk if that's what you mean,\" I said,\n\n\"I _was_ drunk--filthily drunk. I who am the son of a man with whom you\nhave no concern--I who was once Fellow of a College whose buttery-hatch\nyou have not seen. I was loathsomely drunk. But consider how lightly I am\ntouched. It is nothing to me. Less than nothing; for I do not even feel\nthe headache which should be my portion. Now, in a higher life, how\nghastly would have been my punishment, how bitter my repentance! Believe\nme my friend with the neglected education, the highest is as the\nlowest--always supposing each degree extreme.\"\n\nHe turned round on the blanket, put his head between his fists and\ncontinued--\n\n\"On the Soul which I have lost and on the Conscience which I have killed,\nI tell you that I cannot feel! I am as the Gods, knowing good and evil,\nbut untouched by either. Is this enviable or is it not?\"\n\nWhen a man has lost the warning of \"next morning's head,\" he must be in a\nbad state. I answered, looking at McIntosh on the blanket, with his hair\nover his eyes and his lips blue-white, that I did not think the\ninsensibility good enough.\n\n\"For pity's sake, don't say that! I tell you, it _is_ good and most\nenviable. Think of my consolations!\"\n\n\"Have you so many, then, McIntosh?\"\n\n\"Certainly; your attempts at sarcasm which is essentially the weapon of a\ncultured man, are crude. First, my attainments, my classical and literary\nknowledge, blurred, perhaps, by immoderate drinking--which reminds me that\nbefore my soul went to the Gods last night, I sold the Pickering Horace\nyou so kindly loaned me. Ditta Mull the clothesman has it. It fetched ten\nannas, and may be redeemed for a rupee--but still infinitely superior to\nyours. Secondly, the abiding affection of Mrs. McIntosh, best of wives.\nThirdly, a monument, more enduring than brass, which I have built up in\nthe seven years of my degradation.\"\n\nHe stopped here, and crawled across the room for a drink of water. He was\nvery shaky and sick.\n\nHe referred several times to his \"treasure\"--some great possession that he\nowned--but I held this to be the raving of drink. He was as poor and as\nproud as he could be. His manner was not pleasant, but he knew enough\nabout the natives, among whom seven years of his life had been spent, to\nmake his acquaintance worth having. He used actually to laugh at\nStrickland as an ignorant man--\"ignorant West and East\"--he said. His\nboast was, first, that he was an Oxford Man of rare and shining parts,\nwhich may or may not have been true--I did not know enough to check his\nstatements--and, secondly, that he \"had his hand on the pulse of native\nlife\"--which was a fact. As an Oxford Man, he struck me as a prig: he was\nalways throwing his education about. As a Mohammedan _faquir_--as McIntosh\nJellaludin--he was all that I wanted for my own ends. He smoked several\npounds of my tobacco, and taught me several ounces of things worth\nknowing; but he would never accept any gifts, not even when the cold\nweather came, and gripped the poor thin chest under the poor thin\nalpaca-coat. He grew very angry, and said that I had insulted him, and\nthat he was not going into hospital. He had lived like a beast and he\nwould die rationally, like a man.\n\nAs a matter of fact, he died of pneumonia; and on the night of his death\nsent over a grubby note asking me to come and help him to die.\n\nThe native woman was weeping by the side of the bed. McIntosh, wrapped in\na cotton cloth, was too weak to resent a fur coat being thrown over him.\nHe was very active as far as his mind was concerned, and his eyes were\nblazing. When he had abused the Doctor who came with me, so foully that\nthe indignant old fellow left, he cursed me for a few minutes and calmed\ndown.\n\nThen he told his wife to fetch out \"The Book\" from a hole in the wall. She\nbrought out a big bundle, wrapped in the tail of a petticoat, of old\nsheets of miscellaneous note-paper, all numbered and covered with fine\ncramped writing. McIntosh ploughed his hand through the rubbish and\nstirred it up lovingly.\n\n\"This,\" he said, \"is my work--the Book of McIntosh Jellaludin, showing\nwhat he saw and how he lived, and what befell him and others; being also\nan account of the life and sins and death of Mother Maturin. What Mirza\nMurad Ali Beg's book is to all other books on native life, will my work be\nto Mirza Murad Ali Beg's!\"\n\nThis, as will be conceded by any one who knows Mirza Murad Ali Beg's book,\nwas a sweeping statement. The papers did not look specially valuable; but\nMcIntosh handled them as if they were currency-notes. Then said he\nslowly--\n\n\"In despite the many weaknesses of your education, you have been good to\nme. I will speak of your tobacco when I reach the Gods. I owe you much\nthanks for many kindnesses. But I abominate indebtedness. For this reason,\nI bequeath to you now the monument more enduring than brass--my one\nbook--rude and imperfect in parts, but oh how rare in others! I wonder if\nyou will understand it. It is a gift more honorable than.... Bah! where is\nmy brain rambling to? You will mutilate it horribly. You will knock out\nthe gems you call Latin quotations, you Philistine, and you will butcher\nthe style to carve into your own jerky jargon; but you cannot destroy the\nwhole of it. I bequeath it to you. Ethel.... My brain again! ... Mrs.\nMcIntosh, bear witness that I give the _Sahib_ all these papers. They\nwould be of no use to you, Heart of my Heart; and I lay it upon you,\" he\nturned to me here, \"that you do not let my book die in its present form.\nIt is yours unconditionally--the story of McIntosh Jellaludin, which is\n_not_ the story of McIntosh Jellaludin, but of a greater man than he, and\nof a far greater woman. Listen now! I am neither mad nor drunk! That book\nwill make you famous.\"\n\nI said, \"Thank you,\" as the native woman put the bundle into my arms.\n\n\"My only baby!\" said McIntosh, with a smile. He was sinking fast, but he\ncontinued to talk as long as breath remained. I waited for the end;\nknowing that, in six cases out of ten a dying man calls for his mother. He\nturned on his side and said--\n\n\"Say how it came into your possession. No one will believe you, but my\nname, at least, will live. You will treat it brutally, I know you will.\nSome of it must go; the public are fools and prudish fools. I was their\nservant once. But do your mangling gently--very gently. It is a great\nwork, and I have paid for it in seven years' damnation.\"\n\nHis voice stopped for ten or twelve breaths, and then he began mumbling a\nprayer of some kind in Greek. The native woman cried very bitterly.\nLastly, he rose in bed and said, as loudly as slowly--\"Not guilty, my\nLord!\"\n\nThen he fell back, and the stupor held him till he died. The native woman\nran into the Serai among the horses, and screamed and beat her breasts;\nfor she had loved him.\n\nPerhaps his last sentence in life told what McIntosh had once gone\nthrough; but, saving the big bundle of old sheets in the cloth, there was\nnothing in his room to say who or what he had been.\n\nThe papers were in a hopeless muddle.\n\nStrickland helped me to sort them, and he said that the writer was either\nan extreme liar or a most wonderful person. He thought the former. One of\nthese days, you may be able to judge for yourselves. The bundle needed\nmuch expurgation and was full of Greek nonsense, at the head of the\nchapters, which has all been cut out.\n\nIf the thing is ever published, some one may perhaps remember this story,\nnow printed as a safeguard to prove that McIntosh Jellaludin and not I\nmyself wrote the Book of Mother Maturin.\n\nI don't want the _Giant's Robe_ to come true in my case.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING\n\n\n\"Brother to a Prince and fellow to a beggar if he be found worthy.\"\n\nThe Law, as quoted, lays down a fair conduct of life, and one not easy to\nfollow. I have been fellow to a beggar again and again under circumstances\nwhich prevented either of us finding out whether the other was worthy. I\nhave still to be brother to a Prince, though I once came near to kinship\nwith what might have been a veritable King and was promised the reversion\nof a Kingdom--army, law-courts, revenue and policy all complete. But,\nto-day, I greatly fear that my King is dead, and if I want a crown I must\ngo and hunt it for myself.\n\nThe beginning of everything was in a railway train upon the road to Mhow\nfrom Ajmir. There had been a Deficit in the Budget, which necessitated\ntraveling, not Second-class, which is only half as dear as First-class,\nbut by Intermediate, which is very awful indeed. There are no cushions in\nthe Intermediate class, and the population are either Intermediate, which\nis Eurasian, or native, which for a long night journey is nasty, or\nLoafer, which is amusing though intoxicated. Intermediates do not\npatronize refreshment-rooms. They carry their food in bundles and pots,\nand buy sweets from the native sweetmeat-sellers, and drink the roadside\nwater. That is why in the hot weather Intermediates are taken out of the\ncarriages dead, and in all weathers are most properly looked down upon.\n\nMy particular Intermediate happened to be empty till I reached Nasirabad,\nwhen a huge gentleman in shirt-sleeves entered, and, following the custom\nof Intermediates, passed the time of day. He was a wanderer and a vagabond\nlike myself, but with an educated taste for whiskey. He told tales of\nthings he had seen and done, of out-of-the-way corners of the Empire into\nwhich he had penetrated, and of adventures in which he risked his life for\na few days' food. \"If India was filled with men like you and me, not\nknowing more than the crows where they'd get their next day's rations, it\nisn't seventy millions of revenue the land would be paying--it's seven\nhundred millions,\" said he: and as I looked at his mouth and chin I was\ndisposed to agree with him. We talked politics--the politics of Loaferdom\nthat sees things from the underside where the lath and plaster is not\nsmoothed off--and we talked postal arrangements because my friend wanted\nto send a telegram back from the next station to Ajmir, which is the\nturning-off place from the Bombay to the Mhow line as you travel westward.\nMy friend had no money beyond eight annas which he wanted for dinner, and\nI had no money at all, owing to the hitch in the Budget before mentioned.\nFurther, I was going into a wilderness where, though I should resume touch\nwith the Treasury, there were no telegraph offices. I was, therefore,\nunable to help him in any way.\n\n\"We might threaten a Station-master, and make him send a wire on tick,\"\nsaid my friend, \"but that'd mean inquiries for you and for me, and I've\ngot my hands full these days. Did you say you are traveling back along\nthis line within any days?\"\n\n\"Within ten,\" I said.\n\n\"Can't you make it eight?\" said he. \"Mine is rather urgent business.\"\n\n\"I can send your telegram within ten days if that will serve you,\" I said.\n\n\"I couldn't trust the wire to fetch him now I think of it. It's this way.\nHe leaves Delhi on the 23d for Bombay. That means he'll be running through\nAjmir about the night of the 23d.\"\n\n\"But I'm going into the Indian Desert,\" I explained.\n\n\"Well _and_ good,\" said he. \"You'll be changing at Marwar Junction to get\ninto Jodhpore territory--you must do that--and he'll be coming through\nMarwar Junction in the early morning of the 24th by the Bombay Mail. Can\nyou be at Marwar Junction on that time? 'Twon't be inconveniencing you\nbecause I know that there's precious few pickings to be got out of these\nCentral India States--even though you pretend to be correspondent of the\n_Backwoodsman_.\"\n\n\"Have you ever tried that trick?\" I asked.\n\n\"Again and again, but the Residents find you out, and then you get\nescorted to the Border before you've time to get your knife into them. But\nabout my friend here. I _must_ give him a word o' mouth to tell him what's\ncome to me or else he won't know where to go. I would take it more than\nkind of you if you was to come out of Central India in time to catch him\nat Marwar junction, and say to him:--'He has gone South for the week.'\nHe'll know what that means. He's a big man with a red beard, and a great\nswell he is. You'll find him sleeping like a gentleman with all his\nluggage round him in a Second-class compartment. But don't you be afraid.\nSlip down the window, and say:--'He has gone South for the week,' and\nhe'll tumble. It's only cutting your time of stay in those parts by two\ndays. I ask you as a stranger--going to the West,\" he said, with emphasis.\n\n\"Where have _you_ come from?\" said I.\n\n\"From the East,\" said he, \"and I am hoping that you will give him the\nmessage on the Square--for the sake of my Mother as well as your own.\"\n\nEnglishmen are not usually softened by appeals to the memory of their\nmothers, but for certain reasons, which will be fully apparent, I saw fit\nto agree.\n\n\"It's more than a little matter,\" said he, \"and that's why I ask you to do\nit--and now I know that I can depend on you doing it. A Second-class\ncarriage at Marwar Junction, and a red-haired man asleep in it. You'll be\nsure to remember. I get out at the next station, and I must hold on there\ntill he comes or sends me what I want.\"\n\n\"I'll give the message if I catch him,\" I said, \"and for the sake of your\nMother as well as mine I'll give you a word of advice. Don't try to run\nthe Central India States just now as the correspondent of the\n_Backwoodsman_. There's a real one knocking about here, and it might lead\nto trouble.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said he, simply, \"and when will the swine be gone? I can't\nstarve because he's ruining my work. I wanted to get hold of the Degumber\nRajah down here about his father's widow, and give him a jump.\"\n\n\"What did he do to his father's widow then?\"\n\n\"Filled her up with red pepper and slippered her to death as she hung from\na beam. I found that out myself and I'm the only man that would dare going\ninto the State to get hush-money for it. They'll try to poison me, same as\nthey did in Chortumna when I went on the loot there. But you'll give the\nman at Marwar Junction my message?\"\n\nHe got out at a little roadside station, and I reflected. I had heard,\nmore than once, of men personating correspondents of newspapers and\nbleeding small Native States with threats of exposure, but I had never met\nany of the caste before. They lead a hard life, and generally die with\ngreat suddenness. The Native States have a wholesome horror of English\nnewspapers, which may throw light on their peculiar methods of government,\nand do their best to choke correspondents with champagne, or drive them\nout of their mind with four-in-hand barouches. They do not understand that\nnobody cares a straw for the internal administration of Native States so\nlong as oppression and crime are kept within decent limits, and the ruler\nis not drugged, drunk, or diseased from one end of the year to the other.\nNative States were created by Providence in order to supply picturesque\nscenery, tigers, and tall-writing. They are the dark places of the earth,\nfull of unimaginable cruelty, touching the Railway and the Telegraph on\none side, and, on the other, the days of Harun-al-Raschid. When I left the\ntrain I did business with divers Kings, and in eight days passed through\nmany changes of life. Sometimes I wore dress-clothes and consorted with\nPrinces and Politicals, drinking from crystal and eating from silver.\nSometimes I lay out upon the ground and devoured what I could get, from a\nplate made of a flapjack, and drank the running water, and slept under the\nsame rug as my servant. It was all in the day's work.\n\nThen I headed for the Great Indian Desert upon the proper date, as I had\npromised, and the night Mail set me down at Marwar Junction, where a funny\nlittle, happy-go-lucky, native-managed railway runs to Jodhpore. The\nBombay Mail from Delhi makes a short halt at Marwar. She arrived as I got\nin, and I had just time to hurry to her platform and go down the\ncarriages. There was only one Second-class on the train. I slipped the\nwindow and looked down upon a flaming red beard, half covered by a railway\nrug. That was my man, fast asleep, and I dug him gently in the ribs. He\nwoke with a grunt and I saw his face in the light of the lamps. It was a\ngreat and shining face.\n\n\"Tickets again?\" said he.\n\n\"No,\" said I. \"I am to tell you that he is gone South for the week. He is\ngone South for the week!\"\n\nThe train had begun to move out. The red man rubbed his eyes. \"He has gone\nSouth for the week,\" he repeated. \"Now that's just like his impidence. Did\nhe say that I was to give you anything?--'Cause I won't.\"\n\n\"He didn't,\" I said, and dropped away, and watched the red lights die out\nin the dark. It was horribly cold because the wind was blowing off the\nsands. I climbed into my own train--not an Intermediate Carriage this\ntime--and went to sleep.\n\nIf the man with the beard had given me a rupee I should have kept it as a\nmemento of a rather curious affair. But the consciousness of having done\nmy duty was my only reward.\n\nLater on I reflected that two gentlemen like my friends could not do any\ngood if they foregathered and personated correspondents of newspapers, and\nmight, if they \"stuck up\" one of the little rat-trap states of Central\nIndia or Southern Rajputana, get themselves into serious difficulties. I\ntherefore took some trouble to describe them as accurately as I could\nremember to people who would be interested in deporting them: and\nsucceeded, so I was later informed, in having them headed back from the\nDegumber borders.\n\nThen I became respectable, and returned to an Office where there were no\nKings and no incidents except the daily manufacture of a newspaper. A\nnewspaper office seems to attract every conceivable sort of person, to the\nprejudice of discipline. Zenana-mission ladies arrive, and beg that the\nEditor will instantly abandon all his duties to describe a Christian\nprize-giving in a back-slum of a perfectly inaccessible village; Colonels\nwho have been overpassed for commands sit down and sketch the outline of a\nseries of ten, twelve, or twenty-four leading articles on Seniority\n_versus_ Selection; missionaries wish to know why they have not been\npermitted to escape from their regular vehicles of abuse and swear at a\nbrother-missionary under special patronage of the editorial We; stranded\ntheatrical companies troop up to explain that they cannot pay for their\nadvertisements, but on their return from New Zealand or Tahiti will do so\nwith interest; inventors of patent punkah-pulling machines, carriage\ncouplings and unbreakable swords and axle-trees call with specifications\nin their pockets and hours at their disposal; tea-companies enter and\nelaborate their prospectuses with the office pens; secretaries of\nball-committees clamor to have the glories of their last dance more fully\nexpounded; strange ladies rustle in and say:--\"I want a hundred lady's\ncards printed _at once_, please,\" which is manifestly part of an Editor's\nduty; and every dissolute ruffian that ever tramped the Grand Trunk Road\nmakes it his business to ask for employment as a proofreader. And, all the\ntime, the telephone-bell is ringing madly, and Kings are being killed on\nthe Continent, and Empires are saying--\"You're another,\" and Mister\nGladstone is calling down brimstone upon the British Dominions, and the\nlittle black copy-boys are whining, \"_kaa-pi-chay-ha-yeh_\" (copy wanted)\nlike tired bees, and most of the paper is as blank as Modred's shield,\n\nBut that is the amusing part of the year. There are six other months\nwherein none ever come to call, and the thermometer walks inch by inch up\nto the top of the glass, and the office is darkened to just above\nreading-light, and the press machines are red-hot of touch, and nobody\nwrites anything but accounts of amusements in the Hill-stations or\nobituary notices. Then the telephone becomes a tinkling terror, because it\ntells you of the sudden deaths of men and women that you knew intimately,\nand the prickly-heat covers you as with a garment, and you sit down and\nwrite:--\"A slight increase of sickness is reported from the Khuda Janta\nKhan District. The outbreak is purely sporadic in its nature, and, thanks\nto the energetic efforts of the District authorities, is now almost at an\nend. It is, however, with deep regret we record the death, etc.\"\n\nThen the sickness really breaks out, and the less recording and reporting\nthe better for the peace of the subscribers. But the Empires and the Kings\ncontinue to divert themselves as selfishly as before, and the Foreman\nthinks that a daily paper really ought to come out once in twenty-four\nhours, and all the people at the Hill-stations in the middle of their\namusements say:--\"Good gracious! Why can't the paper be sparkling? I'm\nsure there's plenty going on up here.\"\n\nThat is the dark half of the moon, and, as the advertisements say, \"must\nbe experienced to be appreciated.\"\n\nIt was in that season, and a remarkably evil season, that the paper began\nrunning the last issue of the week on Saturday night, which is to say\nSunday morning, after the custom of a London paper. This was a great\nconvenience, for immediately after the paper was put to bed, the dawn\nwould lower the thermometer from 96\u00b0 to almost 84\u00b0 for half an hour, and\nin that chill--you have no idea how cold is 84\u00b0 on the grass until you\nbegin to pray for it--a very tired man could set off to sleep ere the heat\nroused him.\n\nOne Saturday night it was my pleasant duty to put the paper to bed alone.\nA King or courtier or a courtesan or a community was going to die or get a\nnew Constitution, or do something that was important on the other side of\nthe world, and the paper was to be held open till the latest possible\nminute in order to catch the telegram. It was a pitchy black night, as\nstifling as a June night can be, and the _loo_, the red-hot wind from the\nwestward, was booming among the tinder-dry trees and pretending that the\nrain was on its heels. Now and again a spot of almost boiling water would\nfall on the dust with the flop of a frog, but all our weary world knew\nthat was only pretence. It was a shade cooler in the press-room than the\noffice, so I sat there, while the type ticked and clicked, and the\nnight-jars hooted at the windows, and the all but naked compositors wiped\nthe sweat from their foreheads and called for water. The thing that was\nkeeping us back, whatever it was, would not come off, though the _loo_\ndropped and the last type was set, and the whole round earth stood still\nin the choking heat, with its finger on its lip, to wait the event. I\ndrowsed, and wondered whether the telegraph was a blessing, and whether\nthis dying man, or struggling people was aware of the inconvenience the\ndelay was causing. There was no special reason beyond the heat and worry\nto make tension, but, as the clock hands crept up to three o'clock and the\nmachines spun their fly-wheels two and three times to see that all was in\norder, before I said the word that would set them off, I could have\nshrieked aloud.\n\nThen the roar and rattle of the wheels shivered the quiet into little\nbits. I rose to go away, but two men in white clothes stood in front of\nme. The first one said:--\"It's him!\" The second said:--\"So it is!\" And\nthey both laughed almost as loudly as the machinery roared, and mopped\ntheir foreheads. \"We see there was a light burning across the road and we\nwere sleeping in that ditch there for coolness, and I said to my friend\nhere, The office is open. Let's come along and speak to him as turned us\nback from the Degumber State,\" said the smaller of the two. He was the man\nI had met in the Mhow train, and his fellow was the red-bearded man of\nMarwar Junction. There was no mistaking the eyebrows of the one or the\nbeard of the other.\n\nI was not pleased, because I wished to go to sleep, not to squabble with\nloafers. \"What do you want?\" I asked.\n\n\"Half an hour's talk with you cool and comfortable, in the office,\" said\nthe red-bearded man. \"We'd _like_ some drink--the Contrack doesn't begin\nyet, Peachey, so you needn't look--but what we really want is advice. We\ndon't want money. We ask you as a favor, because you did us a bad turn\nabout Degumber.\"\n\nI led from the press-room to the stifling office with the maps on the\nwalls, and the red-haired man rubbed his hands. \"That's something like,\"\nsaid he, \"This was the proper shop to come to. Now, Sir, let me introduce\nto you Brother Peachey Carnehan, that's him, and Brother Daniel Dravot,\nthat is _me_, and the less said about our professions the better, for we\nhave been most things in our time. Soldier, sailor, compositor,\nphotographer, proof-reader, street-preacher, and correspondents of the\n_Backwoodsman_ when we thought the paper wanted one. Carnehan is sober,\nand so am I. Look at us first and see that's sure. It will save you\ncutting into my talk. We'll take one of your cigars apiece, and you shall\nsee us light.\"\n\nI watched the test. The men were absolutely sober, so I gave them each a\ntepid peg.\n\n\"Well _and_ good,\" said Carnehan of the eyebrows, wiping the froth from\nhis moustache. \"Let me talk now, Dan, We have been all over India, mostly\non foot. We have been boiler-fitters, engine-drivers, petty contractors,\nand all that, and we have decided that India isn't big enough for such as\nus.\"\n\nThey certainly were too big for the office. Dravot's beard seemed to fill\nhalf the room and Carnehan's shoulders the other half, as they sat on the\nbig table. Carnehan continued:--\"The country isn't half worked out because\nthey that governs it won't let you touch it. They spend all their blessed\ntime in governing it, and you can't lift a spade, nor chip a rock, nor\nlook for oil, nor anything like that without all the Government\nsaying--'Leave it alone and let us govern.' Therefore, such as it is, we\nwill let it alone, and go away to some other place where a man isn't\ncrowded and can come to his own. We are not little men, and there is\nnothing that we are afraid of except Drink, and we have signed a Contrack\non that. _Therefore_, we are going away to be Kings.\"\n\n\"Kings in our own right,\" muttered Dravot.\n\n\"Yes, of course,\" I said. \"You've been tramping in the sun, and it's a\nvery warm night, and hadn't you better sleep over the notion? Come\nto-morrow.\"\n\n\"Neither drunk nor sunstruck,\" said Dravot. \"We have slept over the notion\nhalf a year, and require to see Books and Atlases, and we have decided\nthat there is only one place now in the world that two strong men can\nSar-a-_whack_. They call it Kafiristan. By my reckoning it's the top\nright-hand corner of Afghanistan, not more than three hundred miles from\nPeshawur. They have two and thirty heathen idols there, and we'll be the\nthirty-third. It's a mountaineous country, and the women of those parts\nare very beautiful.\"\n\n\"But that is provided against in the Contrack,\" said Carnehan. \"Neither\nWomen nor Liquor, Daniel.\"\n\n\"And that's all we know, except that no one has gone there, and they\nfight, and in any place where they fight a man who knows how to drill men\ncan always be a King. We shall go to those parts and say to any King we\nfind--'D'you want to vanquish your foes?' and we will show him how to\ndrill men; for that we know better than anything else. Then we will\nsubvert that King and seize his Throne and establish a Dy-nasty.\"\n\n\"You'll be cut to pieces before you're fifty miles across the Border,\" I\nsaid. \"You have to travel through Afghanistan to get to that country. It's\none mass of mountains and peaks and glaciers, and no Englishman has been\nthrough it. The people are utter brutes, and even if you reached them you\ncouldn't do anything.\"\n\n\"That's more like,\" said Carnehan. \"If you could think us a little more\nmad we would be more pleased. We have come to you to know about this\ncountry, to read a book about it, and to be shown maps. We want you to\ntell us that we are fools and to show us your books.\" He turned to the\nbookcases.\n\n\"Are you at all in earnest?\" I said.\n\n\"A little,\" said Dravot, sweetly. \"As big a map as you have got, even if\nit's all blank where Kafiristan is, and any books you've got. We can read,\nthough we aren't very educated.\"\n\nI uncased the big thirty-two-miles-to-the-inch map of India, and two\nsmaller Frontier maps, hauled down volume INF-KAN of the _Encyclopaedia\nBritannica_, and the men consulted them.\n\n\"See here!\" said Dravot, his thumb on the map. \"Up to Jagdallak, Peachey\nand me know the road. We was there with Roberts's Army. We'll have to turn\noff to the right at Jagdallak through Laghmann territory. Then we get\namong the hills--fourteen thousand feet--fifteen thousand--it will be cold\nwork there, but it don't look very far on the map.\"\n\nI handed him Wood on the _Sources of the Oxus_. Carnehan was deep in the\n_Encyclopaedia_.\n\n\"They're a mixed lot,\" said Dravot, reflectively; \"and it won't help us to\nknow the names of their tribes. The more tribes the more they'll fight,\nand the better for us. From Jagdallak to Ashang. H'mm!\"\n\n\"But all the information about the country is as sketchy and inaccurate as\ncan be,\" I protested. \"No one knows anything about it really. Here's the\nfile of the _United Services Institute_. Read what Bellew says.\"\n\n\"Blow Bellew!\" said Carnehan. \"Dan, they're an all-fired lot of heathens,\nbut this book here says they think they're related to us English.\"\n\nI smoked while the men pored over _Raverty_, _Wood_, the maps and the\n_Encyclopaedia_.\n\n\"There is no use your waiting,\" said Dravot, politely, \"It's about four\no'clock now. We'll go before six o'clock if you want to sleep, and we\nwon't steal any of the papers. Don't you sit up. We're two harmless\nlunatics, and if you come, to-morrow evening, down to the Serai we'll say\ngood-bye to you.\"\n\n\"You _are_ two fools,\" I answered, \"You'll be turned back at the Frontier\nor cut up the minute you set foot in Afghanistan. Do you want any money or\na recommendation down-country? I can help you to the chance of work next\nweek.\"\n\n\"Next week we shall be hard at work ourselves, thank you,\" said Dravot.\n\"It isn't so easy being a King as it looks. When we've got our Kingdom in\ngoing order we'll let you know, and you can come up and help us to govern\nit.\"\n\n\"Would two lunatics make a Contrack like that?\" said Carnehan, with\nsubdued pride, showing me a greasy half-sheet of note-paper on which was\nwritten the following. I copied it, then and there, as a curiosity:\n\n_This Contract between me and you persuing witnesseth in the name of\nGod--Amen and so forth.\n\n   (One) That me and you will settle this matter together: _i.e._,\n     to be Kings of Kafiristan.\n\n   (Two) That you and me will not, while this matter is being settled,\n     look at any Liquor, nor any Woman, black, white or brown, so\n     as to get mixed up with one or the other harmful.\n\n   (Three) That we conduct ourselves with dignity and discretion, and\n     if one of us gets into trouble the other will stay by him.\n\n   Signed by you and me this day.\n\n   Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan.\n\n   Daniel Dravot.\n\n   Both Gentlemen at Large._\n\n\"There was no need for the last article,\" said Carnehan, blushing\nmodestly; \"but it looks regular. Now you know the sort of men that loafers\nare--we _are_ loafers, Dan, until we get out of India--and _do_ you think\nthat we would sign a Contrack like that unless we was in earnest? We have\nkept away from the two things that make life worth having.\"\n\n\"You won't enjoy your lives much longer if you are going to try this\nidiotic adventure. Don't set the office on fire,\" I said, \"and go away\nbefore nine o'clock.\"\n\nI left them still poring over the maps and making notes on the back of the\n\"Contrack.\" \"Be sure to come down to the Serai to-morrow,\" were their\nparting words.\n\nThe Kumharsen Serai is the great four-square sink of humanity where the\nstrings of camels and horses from the North load and unload. All the\nnationalities of Central Asia may be found there, and most of the folk of\nIndia proper. Balkh and Bokhara there meet Bengal and Bombay, and try to\ndraw eye-teeth. You can buy ponies, turquoises, Persian pussy-cats,\nsaddle-bags, fat-tailed sheep and musk in the Kumharsen Serai, and get\nmany strange things for nothing. In the afternoon I went down there to see\nwhether my friends intended to keep their word or were lying about drunk.\n\nA priest attired in fragments of ribbons and rags stalked up to me,\ngravely twisting a child's paper whirligig. Behind him was his servant\nbending under the load of a crate of mud toys, The two were loading up two\ncamels, and the inhabitants of the Serai watched them with shrieks of\nlaughter.\n\n\"The priest is mad,\" said a horse-dealer to me, \"He is going up to Kabul\nto sell toys to the Amir. He will either be raised to honor or have his\nhead cut off. He came in here this morning and has been behaving madly\never since.\"\n\n\"The witless are under the protection of God,\" stammered a flat-cheeked\nUsbeg in broken Hindi. \"They foretell future events.\"\n\n\"Would they could have foretold that my caravan would have been cut up by\nthe Shinwaris almost within shadow of the Pass!\" grunted the Eusufzai\nagent of a Rajputana trading-house whose goods had been feloniously\ndiverted into the hands of other robbers just across the Border, and whose\nmisfortunes were the laughing-stock of the bazar. \"Oh\u00e9, priest, whence\ncome you and whither do you go?\"\n\n\"From Roum have I come,\" shouted the priest, waving his whirligig; \"from\nRoum, blown by the breath of a hundred devils across the sea! O thieves,\nrobbers, liars, the blessing of Pir Khan on pigs, dogs, and perjurers! Who\nwill take the Protected of God to the North to sell charms that are never\nstill to the Amir? The camels shall not gall, the sons shall not fall\nsick, and the wives shall remain faithful while they are away, of the men\nwho give me place in their caravan. Who will assist me to slipper the King\nof the Roos with a golden slipper with a silver heel? The protection of\nPir Khan be upon his labors!\" He spread out the skirts of his gaberdine\nand pirouetted between the lines of tethered horses.\n\n\"There starts a caravan from Peshawur to Kabul in twenty days, _Huzrut_,\"\nsaid the Eusufzai trader, \"My camels go therewith. Do thou also go and\nbring us good luck.\"\n\n\"I will go even now!\" shouted the priest, \"I will depart upon my winged\ncamels, and be at Peshawur in a day! Ho! Hazar Mir Khan,\" he yelled to his\nservant, \"drive out the camels, but let me first mount my own.\"\n\nHe leaped on the back of his beast as it knelt, and, turning round to me,\ncried:--\"Come thou also, Sahib, a little along the road, and I will sell\nthee a charm--an amulet that shall make thee King of Kafiristan.\"\n\nThen the light broke upon me, and I followed the two camels out of the\nSerai till we reached open road and the priest halted.\n\n\"What d' you think o' that?\" said he in English. \"Carnehan can't talk\ntheir patter, so I've made him my servant. He makes a handsome servant,\n'Tisn't for nothing that I've been knocking about the country for fourteen\nyears. Didn't I do that talk neat? We'll hitch on to a caravan at Peshawur\ntill we get to Jagdallak, and then we'll see if we can get donkeys for our\ncamels, and strike into Kafiristan. Whirligigs for the Amir, O Lor! Put\nyour hand under the camel-bags and tell me what you feel.\"\n\nI felt the butt of a Martini, and another and another.\n\n\"Twenty of 'em,\" said Dravot, placidly. \"Twenty of 'em, and ammunition to\ncorrespond, under the whirligigs and the mud dolls.\"\n\n\"Heaven help you if you are caught with those things!\" I said. \"A Martini\nis worth her weight in silver among the Pathans.\"\n\n\"Fifteen hundred rupees of capital--every rupee we could beg, borrow, or\nsteal--are invested on these two camels,\" said Dravot. \"We won't get\ncaught. We're going through the Khaiber with a regular caravan. Who'd\ntouch a poor mad priest?\"\n\n\"Have you got everything you want?\" I asked, overcome with astonishment.\n\n\"Not yet, but we shall soon. Give us a memento of your kindness,\n_Brother_. You did me a service yesterday, and that time in Marwar. Half\nmy Kingdom shall you have, as the saying is.\" I slipped a small charm\ncompass from my watch-chain and handed it up to the priest.\n\n\"Good-bye,\" said Dravot, giving me hand cautiously. \"It's the last time\nwe'll shake hands with an Englishman these many days. Shake hands with\nhim, Carnehan,\" he cried, as the second camel passed me.\n\nCarnehan leaned down and shook hands. Then the camels passed away along\nthe dusty road, and I was left alone to wonder. My eye could detect no\nfailure in the disguises. The scene in Serai attested that they were\ncomplete to the native mind. There was just the chance, therefore, that\nCarnehan and Dravot would be able to wander through Afghanistan without\ndetection. But, beyond, they would find death, certain and awful death.\n\nTen days later a native friend of mine, giving me the news of the day from\nPeshawur, wound up his letter with:--\"There has been much laughter here on\naccount of a certain mad priest who is going in his estimation to sell\npetty gauds and insignificant trinkets which he ascribes as great charms\nto H.H. the Amir of Bokhara. He passed through Peshawur and associated\nhimself to the Second Summer caravan that goes to Kabul. The merchants are\npleased because through superstition they imagine that such mad fellows\nbring good-fortune.\"\n\nThe two, then, were beyond the Border. I would have prayed for them, but,\nthat night, a real King died in Europe, and demanded on obituary notice.\n\n\n       *\n       *\n       *\n       *\n       *\n\nThe wheel of the world swings through the same phases again and again.\nSummer passed and winter thereafter, and came and passed again. The daily\npaper continued and I with it, and upon the third summer there fell a hot\nnight, a night-issue, and a strained waiting for something to be\ntelegraphed from the other side of the world, exactly as had happened\nbefore. A few great men had died in the past two years, the machines\nworked with more clatter, and some of the trees in the Office garden were\na few feet taller. But that was all the difference.\n\nI passed over to the press-room, and went through just such a scene as I\nhave already described. The nervous tension was stronger than it had been\ntwo years before, and I felt the heat more acutely. At three o'clock I\ncried, \"Print off,\" and turned to go, when there crept to my chair what\nwas left of a man. He was bent into a circle, his head was sunk between\nhis shoulders, and he moved his feet one over the other like a bear. I\ncould hardly see whether he walked or crawled--this rag-wrapped, whining\ncripple who addressed me by name, crying that he was come back. \"Can you\ngive me a drink?\" he whimpered. \"For the Lord's sake, give me a drink!\"\n\nI went back to the office, the man following with groans of pain, and I\nturned up the lamp.\n\n\"Don't you know me?\" he gasped, dropping into a chair, and he turned his\ndrawn face, surmounted by a shock of grey hair, to the light.\n\nI looked at him intently. Once before had I seen eyebrows that met over\nthe nose in an inch-broad black band, but for the life of me I could not\ntell where.\n\n\"I don't know you,\" I said, handing him the whiskey. \"What can I do for\nyou?\"\n\nHe took a gulp of the spirit raw, and shivered in spite of the suffocating\nheat.\n\n\"I've come back,\" he repeated; \"and I was the King of Kafiristan--me and\nDravot--crowned Kings we was! In this office we settled it--you setting\nthere and giving us the books. I am Peachey--Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan,\nand you've been setting here ever since--O Lord!\"\n\nI was more than a little astonished, and expressed my feelings\naccordingly,\n\n\"It's true,\" said Carnehan, with a dry cackle, nursing his feet, which\nwere wrapped in rags. \"True as gospel. Kings we were, with crowns upon our\nheads--me and Dravot--poor Dan--oh, poor, poor Dan, that would never take\nadvice, not though I begged of him!\"\n\n\"Take the whiskey,\" I said, \"and take your own time. Tell me all you can\nrecollect of everything from beginning to end. You got across the border\non your camels, Dravot dressed as a mad priest and you his servant. Do you\nremember that?\"\n\n\"I ain't mad--yet, but I shall be that way soon. Of course I remember.\nKeep looking at me, or maybe my words will go all to pieces. Keep looking\nat me in my eyes and don't say anything.\"\n\nI leaned forward and looked into his face as steadily as I could. He\ndropped one hand upon the table and I grasped it by the wrist. It was\ntwisted like a bird's claw, and upon the back was a ragged, red,\ndiamond-shaped scar.\n\n\"No, don't look there. Look at _me_,\" said Carnehan.\n\n\"That comes afterward, but for the Lord's sake don't distrack me. We left\nwith that caravan, me and Dravot playing all sorts of antics to amuse the\npeople we were with. Dravot used to make us laugh in the evenings when all\nthe people was cooking their dinners--cooking their dinners, and ... what\ndid they do then? They lit little fires with sparks that went into\nDravot's beard, and we all laughed--fit to die. Little red fires they was,\ngoing into Dravot's big red beard--so funny.\" His eyes left mine and he\nsmiled foolishly.\n\n\"You went as far as Jagdallak with that caravan,\" I said, at a venture,\n\"after you had lit those fires. To Jagdallak, where you turned off to try\nto get into Kafiristan.\"\n\n\"No, we didn't neither. What are you talking about? We turned off before\nJagdallak, because we heard the roads was good. But they wasn't good\nenough for our two camels--mine and Dravot's. When we left the caravan,\nDravot took off all his clothes and mine too, and said we would be\nheathen, because the Kafirs didn't allow Mohammedans to talk to them. So\nwe dressed betwixt and between, and such a sight as Daniel Dravot I never\nsaw yet nor expect to see again. He burned half his beard, and slung a\nsheep-skin over his shoulder, and shaved his head into patterns. He shaved\nmine, too, and made me wear outrageous things to look like a heathen. That\nwas in a most mountaineous country, and our camels couldn't go along any\nmore because of the mountains. They were tall and black, and coming home I\nsaw them fight like wild goats--there are lots of goats in Kafiristan. And\nthese mountains, they never keep still, no more than the goats. Always\nfighting they are, and don't let you sleep at night.\"\n\n\"Take some more whiskey,\" I said, very slowly. \"What did you and Daniel\nDravot do when the camels could go no further because of the rough roads\nthat led into Kafiristan?\"\n\n\"What did which do? There was a party called Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan\nthat was with Dravot. Shall I tell you about him? He died out there in the\ncold. Slap from the bridge fell old Peachey, turning and twisting in the\nair like a penny whirligig that you can sell to the Amir.--No; they was\ntwo for three ha'pence, those whirligigs, or I am much mistaken and woful\nsore. And then these camels were no use, and Peachey said to Dravot--'For\nthe Lord's sake, let's get out of this before our heads are chopped off,'\nand with that they killed the camels all among the mountains, not having\nanything in particular to eat, but first they took off the boxes with the\nguns and the ammunition, till two men came along driving four mules.\nDravot up and dances in front of them, singing,--'Sell me four Mules.'\nSays the first man,--'If you are rich enough to buy, you are rich enough\nto rob;' but before ever he could put his hand to his knife, Dravot breaks\nhis neck over his knee, and the other party runs away. So Carnehan loaded\nthe mules with the rifles that was taken off the camels, and together we\nstarts forward into those bitter cold mountaineous parts, and never a road\nbroader than the back of your hand.\"\n\nHe paused for a moment, while I asked him if he could remember the nature\nof the country through which he had journeyed.\n\n\"I am telling you as straight as I can, but my head isn't as good as it\nmight be. They drove nails through it to make me hear better how Dravot\ndied. The country was mountaineous and the mules were most contrary, and\nthe inhabitants was dispersed and solitary. They went up and up, and down\nand down, and that other party, Carnehan, was imploring of Dravot not to\nsing and whistle so loud, for fear of bringing down the tremenjus\navalanches. But Dravot says that if a King couldn't sing it wasn't worth\nbeing King, and whacked the mules over the rump, and never took no heed\nfor ten cold days. We came to a big level valley all among the mountains,\nand the mules were near dead, so we killed them, not having anything in\nspecial for them or us to eat. We sat upon the boxes, and played odd and\neven with the cartridges that was jolted out,\n\n\"Then ten men with bows and arrows ran down that valley, chasing twenty\nmen with bows and arrows, and the row was tremenjus. They was fair\nmen--fairer than you or me--with yellow hair and remarkable well built.\nSays Dravot, unpacking the guns--'This is the beginning of the business.\nWe'll fight for the ten men,' and with that he fires two rifles at the\ntwenty men, and drops one of them at two hundred yards from the rock where\nwe was sitting. The other men began to run, but Carnehan and Dravot sits\non the boxes picking them off at all ranges, up and down the valley. Then\nwe goes up to the ten men that had run across the snow too, and they fires\na footy little arrow at us. Dravot he shoots above their heads and they\nall falls down flat. Then he walks over them and kicks them, and then he\nlifts them up and shakes hands all round to make them friendly like. He\ncalls them and gives them the boxes to carry, and waves his hand for all\nthe world as though he was King already. They takes the boxes and him\nacross the valley and up the hill into a pine wood on the top, where there\nwas half a dozen big stone idols. Dravot he goes to the biggest--a fellow\nthey call Imbra--and lays a rifle and a cartridge at his feet, rubbing his\nnose respectful with his own nose, patting him on the head, and saluting\nin front of it. He turns round to the men and nods his head, and\nsays,--'That's all right. I'm in the know too, and all these old jim-jams\nare my friends.' Then he opens his mouth and points down it, and when the\nfirst man brings him food, he says--'No;' and when the second man brings\nhim food, he says--'No;' but when one of the old priests and the boss of\nthe village brings him food, he says--'Yes;' very haughty, and eats it\nslow. That was how we came to our first village, without any trouble, just\nas though we had tumbled from the skies. But we tumbled from one of those\ndamned rope-bridges, you see, and you couldn't expect a man to laugh much\nafter that.\"\n\n\"Take some more whiskey and go on,\" I said. \"That was the first village\nyou came into. How did you get to be King?\"\n\n\"I wasn't King,\" said Carnehan. \"Dravot he was the King, and a handsome\nman he looked with the gold crown on his head and all. Him and the other\nparty stayed in that village, and every morning Dravot sat by the side of\nold Imbra, and the people came and worshipped. That was Dravot's order.\nThen a lot of men came into the valley, and Carnehan and Dravot picks them\noff with the rifles before they knew where they was, and runs down into\nthe valley and up again the other side, and finds another village, same as\nthe first one, and the people all falls down flat on their faces, and\nDravot says, 'Now what is the trouble between you two villages?' and the\npeople points to a woman, as fair as you or me, that was carried off, and\nDravot takes her back to the first village and counts up the dead--eight\nthere was. For each dead man Dravot pours a little milk on the ground and\nwaves his arms like a whirligig and 'That's all right,' says he. Then he\nand Carnehan takes the big boss of each village by the arm and walks them\ndown into the valley, and shows them how to scratch a line with a spear\nright down the valley, and gives each a sod of turf from both sides o' the\nline. Then all the people comes down and shouts like the devil and all,\nand Dravot says,--'Go and dig the land, and be fruitful and multiply,'\nwhich they did, though they didn't understand. Then we asks the names of\nthings in their lingo--bread and water and fire and idols and such, and\nDravot leads the priest of each village up to the idol, and says he must\nsit there and judge the people, and if anything goes wrong he is to be\nshot.\n\n\"Next week they was all turning up the land in the valley as quiet as bees\nand much prettier, and the priests heard all the complaints and told\nDravot in dumb show what it was about. 'That's just the beginning,' says\nDravot. 'They think we're Gods.' He and Carnehan picks out twenty good men\nand shows them how to click off a rifle, and form fours, and advance in\nline, and they was very pleased to do so, and clever to see the hang of\nit. Then he takes out his pipe and his baccy-pouch and leaves one at one\nvillage and one at the other, and off we two goes to see what was to be\ndone in the next valley. That was all rock, and there was a little village\nthere, and Carnehan says,--'Send 'em to the old valley to plant,' and\ntakes 'em there and gives 'em some land that wasn't took before. They were\na poor lot, and we blooded 'em with a kid before letting 'em into the new\nKingdom. That was to impress the people, and then they settled down quiet,\nand Carnehan went back to Dravot who had got into another valley, all snow\nand ice and most mountaineous. There was no people there and the Army got\nafraid, so Dravot shoots one of them, and goes on till he finds some\npeople in a village, and the Army explains that unless the people wants to\nbe killed they had better not shoot their little matchlocks; for they had\nmatchlocks. We makes friends with the priest and I stays there alone with\ntwo of the Army, teaching the men how to drill, and a thundering big Chief\ncomes across the snow with kettle-drums and horns twanging, because he\nheard there was a new God kicking about. Carnehan sights for the brown of\nthe men half a mile across the snow and wings one of them. Then he sends a\nmessage to the Chief that, unless he wished to be killed, he must come and\nshake hands with me and leave his arms behind. The chief comes alone\nfirst, and Carnehan shakes hands with him and whirls his arms about, same\nas Dravot used, and very much surprised that Chief was, and strokes my\neyebrows. Then Carnehan goes alone to the Chief, and asks him in dumb show\nif he had an enemy he hated. 'I have,' says the Chief. So Carnehan weeds\nout the pick of his men, and sets the two of the Army to show them drill\nand at the end of two weeks the men can manoeuvre about as well as\nVolunteers. So he marches with the Chief to a great big plain on the top\nof a mountain, and the Chief's men rushes into a village and takes it; we\nthree Martinis firing into the brown of the enemy. So we took that village\ntoo, and I gives the Chief a rag from my coat and says, 'Occupy till I\ncome:' which was scriptural. By way of a reminder, when me and the Army\nwas eighteen hundred yards away, I drops a bullet near him standing on the\nsnow, and all the people falls flat on their faces. Then I sends a letter\nto Dravot, wherever he be by land or by sea.\"\n\nAt the risk of throwing the creature out of train I interrupted,--\"How\ncould you write a letter up yonder?\"\n\n\"The letter?--Oh!--The letter! Keep looking at me between the eyes,\nplease. It was a string-talk letter, that we'd learned the way of it from\na blind beggar in the Punjab.\"\n\nI remember that there had once come to the office a blind man with a\nknotted twig and a piece of string which he wound round the twig according\nto some cypher of his own. He could, after the lapse of days or hours,\nrepeat the sentence which he had reeled up. He had reduced the alphabet to\neleven primitive sounds; and tried to teach me his method, but failed.\n\n\"I sent that letter to Dravot,\" said Carnehan; \"and told him to come back\nbecause this Kingdom was growing too big for me to handle, and then I\nstruck for the first valley, to see how the priests were working. They\ncalled the village we took along with the Chief, Bashkai, and the first\nvillage we took, Er-Heb. The priests at Er-Heb was doing all right, but\nthey had a lot of pending cases about land to show me, and some men from\nanother village had been firing arrows at night. I went out and looked for\nthat village and fired four rounds at it from a thousand yards. That used\nall the cartridges I cared to spend, and I waited for Dravot, who had been\naway two or three months, and I kept my people quiet.\n\n\"One morning I heard the devil's own noise of drums and horns, and Dan\nDravot marches down the hill with his Army and a tail of hundreds of men,\nand, which was the most amazing--a great gold crown on his head. 'My Gord,\nCarnehan,' says Daniel, 'this is a tremenjus business, and we've got the\nwhole country as far as it's worth having. I am the son of Alexander by\nQueen Semiramis, and you're my younger brother and a God too! It's the\nbiggest thing we've ever seen. I've been marching and fighting for six\nweeks with the Army, and every footy little village for fifty miles has\ncome in rejoiceful; and more than that, I've got the key of the whole\nshow, as you'll see, and I've got a crown for you! I told 'em to make two\nof 'em at a place called Shu, where the gold lies in the rock like suet in\nmutton. Gold I've seen, and turquoise I've kicked out of the cliffs, and\nthere's garnets in the sands of the river, and here's a chunk of amber\nthat a man brought me. Call up all the priests and, here, take your\ncrown.'\n\n\"One of the men opens a black hair bag and I slips the crown on. It was\ntoo small and too heavy, but I wore it for the glory. Hammered gold it\nwas--five pound weight, like a hoop of a barrel.\n\n\"'Peachey,' says Dravot, 'we don't want to fight no more. The Craft's the\ntrick so help me!' and he brings forward that same Chief that I left at\nBashkai--Billy Fish we called him afterward, because he was so like Billy\nFish that drove the big tank-engine at Mach on the Bolan in the old days.\n'Shake hands with him,' says Dravot, and I shook hands and nearly dropped,\nfor Billy Fish gave me the Grip. I said nothing, but tried him with the\nFellow Craft Grip. He answers, all right, and I tried the Master's Grip,\nbut that was a slip. 'A Fellow Craft he is!' I says to Dan. 'Does he know\nthe word?' 'He does,' says Dan, 'and all the priests know. It's a miracle!\nThe Chiefs and the priests can work a Fellow Craft Lodge in a way that's\nvery like ours, and they've cut the marks on the rocks, but they don't\nknow the Third Degree, and they've come to find out. It's Gord's Truth.\nI've known these long years that the Afghans knew up to the Fellow Craft\nDegree, but this is a miracle. A God and a Grand-Master of the Craft am I,\nand a Lodge in the Third Degree I will open, and we'll raise the head\npriests and the Chiefs of the villages.'\n\n\"'It's against all the law,' I says, 'holding a Lodge without warrant from\nany one; and we never held office in any Lodge.'\n\n\"'It's a master-stroke of policy,' says Dravot. 'It means running the\ncountry as easy as a four-wheeled bogy on a down grade. We can't stop to\ninquire now, or they'll turn against us. I've forty Chiefs at my heel, and\npassed and raised according to their merit they shall be. Billet these men\non the villages and see that we run up a Lodge of some kind. The temple of\nImbra will do for the Lodge-room. The women must make aprons as you show\nthem. I'll hold a levee of Chiefs to-night and Lodge to-morrow.'\n\n\"I was fair run off my legs, but I wasn't such a fool as not to see what a\npull this Craft business gave us. I showed the priests' families how to\nmake aprons of the degrees, but for Dravot's apron, the blue border and\nmarks was made of turquoise lumps on white hide, not cloth. We took a\ngreat square stone in the temple for the Master's chair, and little stones\nfor the officers' chairs, and painted the black pavement with white\nsquares, and did what we could to make things regular.\n\n\"At the levee which was held that night on the hillside with big bonfires,\nDravot gives out that him and me were Gods and sons of Alexander, and Past\nGrand-Masters in the Craft, and was come to make Kafiristan a country\nwhere every man should eat in peace and drink in quiet, and specially obey\nus. Then the Chiefs come round to shake hands, and they was so hairy and\nwhite and fair it was just shaking hands with old friends. We gave them\nnames according as they was like men we had known in India--Billy Fish,\nHolly Dilworth, Pikky Kergan that was Bazar-master when I was at Mhow, and\nso on and so on.\n\n\"_The_ most amazing miracle was at Lodge next night. One of the old\npriests was watching us continuous, and I felt uneasy, for I knew we'd\nhave to fudge the Ritual, and I didn't know what the men knew. The old\npriest was a stranger come in from beyond the village of Bashkai. The\nminute Dravot puts on the Master's apron that the girls had made for him,\nthe priest fetches a whoop and a howl, and tries to overturn the stone\nthat Dravot was sitting on. 'It's all up now,' I says. 'That comes of\nmeddling with the Craft without warrant!' Dravot never winked an eye, not\nwhen ten priests took and tilted over the Grand-Master's chair--which was\nto say the stone of Imbra. The priest begins rubbing the bottom end of it\nto clear away the black dirt, and presently he shows all the other priests\nthe Master's Mark, same as was on Dravot's apron, cut into the stone. Not\neven the priests of the temple of Imbra knew it was there. The old chap\nfalls flat on his face at Dravot's feet and kisses 'em. 'Luck again,' says\nDravot, across the Lodge to me, 'they say it's the missing Mark that no\none could understand the why of. We're more than safe now.' Then he bangs\nthe butt of his gun for a gavel and says:--'By virtue of the authority\nvested in me by my own right hand and the help of Peachey, I declare\nmyself Grand-Master of all Freemasonry in Kafiristan in this the Mother\nLodge o' the country, and King of Kafiristan equally with Peachey!' At\nthat he puts on his crown and I puts on mine--I was doing Senior\nWarden--and we opens the Lodge in most ample form. It was a amazing\nmiracle! The priests moved in Lodge through the first two degrees almost\nwithout telling, as if the memory was coming back to them. After that,\nPeachey and Dravot raised such as was worthy--high priests and Chiefs of\nfar-off villages. Billy Fish was the first, and I can tell you we scared\nthe soul out of him. It was not in any way according to Ritual, but it\nserved our turn. We didn't raise more than ten of the biggest men because\nwe didn't want to make the Degree common. And they was clamoring to be\nraised.\n\n\"'In another six months,' says Dravot, 'we'll hold another Communication\nand see how you are working.' Then he asks them about their villages, and\nlearns that they was fighting one against the other and were fair sick and\ntired of it. And when they wasn't doing that they was fighting with the\nMohammedans. 'You can fight those when they come into our country,' says\nDravot. 'Tell off every tenth man of your tribes for a Frontier guard, and\nsend two hundred at a time to this valley to be drilled. Nobody is going\nto be shot or speared any more so long as he does well, and I know that\nyou won't cheat me because you're white people--sons of Alexander--and not\nlike common, black Mohammedans. You are _my_ people and by God,' says he,\nrunning off into English at the end--'I'll make a damned fine Nation of\nyou, or I'll die in the making!'\n\n\"I can't tell all we did for the next six months because Dravot did a lot\nI couldn't see the hang of, and he learned their lingo in a way I never\ncould. My work was to help the people plough, and now and again go out\nwith some of the Army and see what the other villages were doing, and make\n'em throw rope-bridges across the ravines which cut up the country horrid.\nDravot was very kind to me, but when he walked up and down in the pine\nwood pulling that bloody red beard of his with both fists I knew he was\nthinking plans I could not advise him about, and I just waited for orders.\n\n\"But Dravot never showed me disrespect before the people. They were afraid\nof me and the Army, but they loved Dan. He was the best of friends with\nthe priests and the Chiefs; but any one could come across the hills with a\ncomplaint and Dravot would hear him out fair, and call four priests\ntogether and say what was to be done. He used to call in Billy Fish from\nBashkai, and Pikky Kergan from Shu, and an old Chief we called\nKafuzelum--it was like enough to his real name--and hold councils with 'em\nwhen there was any fighting to be done in small villages. That was his\nCouncil of War, and the four priests of Bashkai, Shu, Khawak, and Madora\nwas his Privy Council. Between the lot of 'em they sent me, with forty men\nand twenty rifles, and sixty men carrying turquoises, into the Ghorband\ncountry to buy those hand-made Martini rifles, that come out of the Amir's\nworkshops at Kabul, from one of the Amir's Herati regiments that would\nhave sold the very teeth out of their mouths for turquoises.\n\n\"I stayed in Ghorband a month, and gave the Governor there the pick of my\nbaskets for hush-money, and bribed the Colonel of the regiment some more,\nand, between the two and the tribespeople, we got more than a hundred\nhand-made Martinis, a hundred good Kohat Jezails that'll throw to six\nhundred yards, and forty man-loads of very bad ammunition for the rifles.\nI came back with what I had, and distributed 'em among the men that the\nChiefs sent to me to drill. Dravot was too busy to attend to those things,\nbut the old Army that we first made helped me, and we turned out five\nhundred men that could drill, and two hundred that knew how to hold arms\npretty straight. Even those cork-screwed, hand-made guns was a miracle to\nthem. Dravot talked big about powder-shops and factories, walking up and\ndown in the pine wood when the winter was coming on.\n\n\"'I won't make a Nation,' says he. 'I'll make an Empire! These men aren't\nniggers; they're English! Look at their eyes--look at their mouths. Look\nat the way they stand up. They sit on chairs in their own houses. They're\nthe Lost Tribes, or something like it, and they've grown to be English.\nI'll take a census in the spring if the priests don't get frightened.\nThere must be a fair two million of 'em in these hills. The villages are\nfull o' little children. Two million people--two hundred and fifty\nthousand fighting men--and all English! They only want the rifles and a\nlittle drilling. Two hundred and fifty thousand men, ready to cut in on\nRussia's right flank when she tries for India! Peachey, man,' he says,\nchewing his beard in great hunks, 'we shall be Emperors--Emperors of the\nEarth! Rajah Brooke will be a suckling to us. I'll treat with the Viceroy\non equal terms. I'll ask him to send me twelve picked English--twelve that\nI know of--to help us govern a bit. There's Mackray, Sergeant-pensioner at\nSegowli--many's the good dinner he's given me, and his wife a pair of\ntrousers. There's Donkin, the Warder of Tounghoo Jail; there's hundreds\nthat I could lay my hand on if I was in India. The Viceroy shall do it for\nme. I'll send a man through in the spring for those men, and I'll write\nfor a dispensation from the Grand Lodge for what I've done as\nGrand-Master. That--and all the Sniders that'll be thrown out when the\nnative troops in India take up the Martini. They'll be worn smooth, but\nthey'll do for fighting in these hills. Twelve English, a hundred thousand\nSniders run through the Amir's country in driblets--I'd be content with\ntwenty thousand in one year--and we'd be an Empire. When everything was\nshipshape, I'd hand over the crown--this crown I'm wearing now--to Queen\nVictoria on my knees, and she'd say: \"Rise up, Sir Daniel Dravot.\" Oh,\nit's big! It's big, I tell you! But there's so much to be done in every\nplace--Bashkai, Khawak, Shu, and everywhere else.'\n\n\"'What is it?' I says. 'There are no more men coming in to be drilled this\nautumn. Look at those fat, black clouds. They're bringing the snow.'\n\n\"'It isn't that,' says Daniel, putting his hand very hard on my shoulder;\n'and I don't wish to say anything that's against you, for no other living\nman would have followed me and made me what I am as you have done. You're\na first-class Commander-in-Chief, and the people know you; but--it's a big\ncountry, and somehow you can't help me, Peachey, in the way I want to be\nhelped.'\n\n\"'Go to your blasted priests, then!' I said, and I was sorry when I made\nthat remark, but it did hurt me sore to find Daniel talking so superior\nwhen I'd drilled all the men, and done all he told me.\n\n\"'Don't let's quarrel, Peachey,' says Daniel, without cursing. 'You're a\nKing too, and the half of this Kingdom is yours; but can't you see,\nPeachey, we want cleverer men than us now--three or four of 'em, that we\ncan scatter about for our Deputies. It's a hugeous great State, and I\ncan't always tell the right thing to do, and I haven't time for all I want\nto do, and here's the winter coming on and all.' He put half his beard\ninto his mouth, and it was as red as the gold of his crown.\n\n\"'I'm sorry, Daniel,' says I, 'I've done all I could. I've drilled the men\nand shown the people how to stack their oats better; and I've brought in\nthose tinware rifles from Ghorband--but I know what you're driving at. I\ntake it Kings always feel oppressed that way.'\n\n\"'There's another thing too,' says Dravot, walking up and down, 'The\nwinter's coming and these people won't be giving much trouble, and if they\ndo we can't move about. I want a wife.'\n\n\"'For Gord's sake leave the women alone!' I says. 'We've both got all the\nwork we can, though I _am_ a fool. Remember the Contrack, and keep clear\no' women.'\n\n\"'The Contrack only lasted till such time as we was Kings; and Kings we\nhave been these months past,' says Dravot, weighing his crown in his hand.\n'You go get a wife too, Peachey--a nice, strappin', plump girl that'll\nkeep you warm in the winter. They're prettier than English girls, and we\ncan take the pick of 'em. Boil 'em once or twice in hot water, and they'll\ncome as fair as chicken and ham.'\n\n\"'Don't tempt me!' I says. 'I will not have any dealings with a woman not\ntill we are a dam' side more settled than we are now. I've been doing the\nwork o' two men, and you've been doing the work o' three. Let's lie off a\nbit, and see if we can get some better tobacco from Afghan country and run\nin some good liquor; but no women.'\n\n\"'Who's talking o' _women_?' says Dravot. 'I said _wife_--a Queen to breed\na King's son for the King. A Queen out of the strongest tribe, that'll\nmake them your blood-brothers, and that'll lie by your side and tell you\nall the people thinks about you and their own affairs. That's what I\nwant.'\n\n\"'Do you remember that Bengali woman I kept at Mogul Serai when I was a\nplate-layer?' says I. 'A fat lot o' good she was to me. She taught me the\nlingo and one or two other things; but what happened? She ran away with\nthe Station Master's servant and half my month's pay. Then she turned up\nat Dadur Junction in tow of a half-caste, and had the impidence to say I\nwas her husband--all among the drivers in the running-shed!'\n\n\"'We've done with that,' says Dravot. 'These women are whiter than you or\nme, and a Queen I will have for the winter months.'\n\n\"'For the last time o' asking, Dan, do not,' I says. 'It'll only bring us\nharm. The Bible says that Kings ain't to waste their strength on women,\n'specially when they've got a new raw Kingdom to work over.'\n\n\"'For the last time of answering I will,' said Dravot, and he went away\nthrough the pine-trees looking like a big red devil. The low sun hit his\ncrown and beard on one side and the two blazed like hot coals.\n\n\"But getting a wife was not as easy as Dan thought. He put it before the\nCouncil, and there was no answer till Billy Fish said that he'd better ask\nthe girls. Dravot damned them all round. 'What's wrong with me?' he\nshouts, standing by the idol Imbra. 'Am I a dog or am I not enough of a\nman for your wenches? Haven't I put the shadow of my hand over this\ncountry? Who stopped the last Afghan raid?' It was me really, but Dravot\nwas too angry to remember. 'Who brought your guns? Who repaired the\nbridges? Who's the Grand-Master of the sign cut in the stone?' and he\nthumped his hand on the block that he used to sit on in Lodge, and at\nCouncil, which opened like Lodge always. Billy Fish said nothing and no\nmore did the others. 'Keep your hair on, Dan,' said I; 'and ask the girls.\nThat's how it's done at Home, and these people are quite English.'\n\n\"'The marriage of the King is a matter of State,' says Dan, in a white-hot\nrage, for he could feel, I hope, that he was going against his better\nmind. He walked out of the Council-room, and the others sat still, looking\nat the ground.\n\n\"'Billy Fish,' says I to the Chief of Bashkai, 'what's the difficulty\nhere? A straight answer to a true friend.' 'You know,' says Billy Fish.\n'How should a man tell you who know everything? How can daughters of men\nmarry Gods or Devils? It's not proper.'\n\n\"I remembered something like that in the Bible; but if, after seeing us as\nlong as they had, they still believed we were Gods, it wasn't for me to\nundeceive them.\n\n\"'A God can do anything,' says I. 'If the King is fond of a girl he'll not\nlet her die.' 'She'll have to,' said Billy Fish. 'There are all sorts of\nGods and Devils in these mountains, and now and again a girl marries one\nof them and isn't seen any more. Besides, you two know the Mark cut in the\nstone. Only the Gods know that. We thought you were men till you showed\nthe sign of the Master.'\n\n\"I wished then that we had explained about the loss of the genuine secrets\nof a Master-Mason at the first go-off; but I said nothing. All that night\nthere was a blowing of horns in a little dark temple half-way down the\nhill, and I heard a girl crying fit to die. One of the priests told us\nthat she was being prepared to marry the King.\n\n\"'I'll have no nonsense of that kind,' says, Dan. 'I don't want to\ninterfere with your customs, but I'll take my own wife.' 'The girl's a\nlittle bit afraid,' says the priest. 'She thinks she's going to die, and\nthey are a-heartening of her up down in the temple.'\n\n\"'Hearten her very tender, then,' says Dravot, 'or I'll hearten you with\nthe butt of a gun so that you'll never want to be heartened again.' He\nlicked his lips, did Dan, and stayed up walking about more than half the\nnight, thinking of the wife that he was going to get in the morning. I\nwasn't any means comfortable, for I knew that dealings with a woman in\nforeign parts, though you was a crowned King twenty times over, could not\nbut be risky. I got up very early in the morning while Dravot was asleep,\nand I saw the priests talking together in whispers, and the Chiefs talking\ntogether too, and they looked at me out of the corners of their eyes.\n\n\"'What is up, Fish?' I says to the Bashkai man, who was wrapped up in his\nfurs and looking splendid to behold.\n\n\"'I can't rightly say,' says he; 'but if you can induce the King to drop\nall this nonsense about marriage, you'll be doing him and me and yourself\na great service.'\n\n\"'That I do believe,' says I. 'But sure, you know, Billy, as well as me,\nhaving fought against and for us, that the King and me are nothing more\nthan two of the finest men that God Almighty ever made. Nothing more, I do\nassure you.'\n\n\"'That may be,' says Billy Fish, 'and yet I should be sorry if it was.' He\nsinks his head upon his great fur cloak for a minute and thinks. 'King,'\nsays he, 'be you man or God or Devil, I'll stick by you to-day. I have\ntwenty of my men with me, and they will follow me. We'll go to Bashkai\nuntil the storm blows over.'\n\n\"A little snow had fallen in the night, and everything was white except\nthe greasy fat clouds that blew down and down from the north. Dravot came\nout with his crown on his head, swinging his arms and stamping his feet,\nand looking more pleased than Punch.\n\n\"'For the last time, drop it, Dan,' says I, in a whisper. 'Billy Fish here\nsays that there will be a row.'\n\n\"'A row among my people!' says Dravot. 'Not much. Peachey, you're a fool\nnot to get a wife too. Where's the girl?' says he, with a voice as loud as\nthe braying of a jackass. 'Call up all the Chiefs and priests, and let the\nEmperor see if his wife suits him.'\n\n\"There was no need to call anyone. They were all there leaning on their\nguns and spears round the clearing in the centre of the pine wood. A\ndeputation of priests went down to the little temple to bring up the girl,\nand the horns blew up fit to wake the dead. Billy Fish saunters round and\ngets as close to Daniel as he could, and behind him stood his twenty men\nwith matchlocks. Not a man of them under six feet. I was next to Dravot,\nand behind me was twenty men of the regular Army. Up comes the girl, and a\nstrapping wench she was, covered with silver and turquoises but white as\ndeath, and looking back every minute at the priests.\n\n\"'She'll do,' said Dan, looking her over. 'What's to be afraid of, lass?\nCome and kiss me.' He puts his arm round her. She shuts her eyes, gives a\nbit of a squeak, and down goes her face in the side of Dan's flaming red\nbeard.\n\n\"'The slut's bitten me!' says he, clapping his hand to his neck, and, sure\nenough, his hand was red with blood. Billy Fish and two of his\nmatchlock-men catches hold of Dan by the shoulders and drags him into the\nBashkai lot, while the priests howls in their lingo,--'Neither God nor\nDevil but a man!' I was all taken aback, for a priest cut at me in front,\nand the Army behind began firing into the Bashkai men.\n\n\"'God A-mighty!' says Dan, 'What is the meaning o' this?'\n\n\"'Come back! Come away!' says Billy Fish. 'Ruin and Mutiny is the matter.\nWe'll break for Bashkai if we can.'\n\n\"I tried to give some sort of orders to my men--the men o' the regular\nArmy--but it was no use, so I fired into the brown of 'em with an English\nMartini and drilled three beggars in a line. The valley was full of\nshouting, howling creatures, and every soul was shrieking, 'Not a God nor\na Devil but only a man!' The Bashkai troops stuck to Billy Fish all they\nwere worth, but their matchlocks wasn't half as good as the Kabul\nbreech-loaders, and four of them dropped. Dan was bellowing like a bull,\nfor he was very wrathy; and Billy Fish had a hard job to prevent him\nrunning out at the crowd.\n\n\"'We can't stand,' says Billy Fish. 'Make a run for it down the valley!\nThe whole place is against us.' The matchlock-men ran, and we went down\nthe valley in spite of Dravot's protestations. He was swearing horribly\nand crying out that he was a King. The priests rolled great stones on us,\nand the regular Army fired hard, and there wasn't more than six men, not\ncounting Dan, Billy Fish, and Me, that came down to the bottom of the\nvalley alive.\n\n\"Then they stopped firing and the horns in the temple blew again. 'Come\naway--for Gord's sake come away!' says Billy Fish. 'They'll send runners\nout to all the villages before ever we get to Bashkai. I can protect you\nthere, but I can't do anything now.'\n\n\"My own notion is that Dan began to go mad in his head from that hour. He\nstared up and down like a stuck pig. Then he was all for walking back\nalone and killing the priests with his bare hands; which he could have\ndone. 'An Emperor am I,' says Daniel, 'and next year I shall be a Knight\nof the Queen.'\n\n\"'All right, Dan,' says I; 'but come along now while there's time.'\n\n\"'It's your fault,' says he, 'for not looking after your Army better.\nThere was mutiny in the midst, and you didn't know--you damned\nengine-driving, plate-laying, missionary's-pass-hunting hound!' He sat\nupon a rock and called me every foul name he could lay tongue to. I was\ntoo heart-sick to care, though it was all his foolishness that brought the\nsmash.\n\n\"'I'm sorry, Dan,' says I, 'but there's no accounting for natives. This\nbusiness is our Fifty-Seven. Maybe we'll make something out of it yet,\nwhen we've got to Bashkai.'\n\n\"'Let's get to Bashkai, then,' says Dan, 'and, by God, when I come back\nhere again I'll sweep the valley so there isn't a bug in a blanket left!'\n\n\"We walked all that day, and all that night Dan was stumping up and down\non the snow, chewing his beard and muttering to himself.\n\n\"'There's no hope o' getting clear,' said Billy Fish. 'The priests will\nhave sent runners to the villages to say that you are only men. Why didn't\nyou stick on as Gods till things was more settled? I'm a dead man,' says\nBilly Fish, and he throws himself down on the snow and begins to pray to\nhis Gods.\n\n\"Next morning we was in a cruel bad country--all up and down, no level\nground at all, and no food either. The six Bashkai men looked at Billy\nFish hungry-wise as if they wanted to ask something, but they said never a\nword. At noon we came to the top of a flat mountain all covered with snow,\nand when we climbed up into it, behold, there was an Army in position\nwaiting in the middle!\n\n\"'The runners have been very quick,' says Billy Fish, with a little bit of\na laugh. 'They are waiting for us.'\n\n\"Three or four men began to fire from the enemy's side, and a chance shot\ntook Daniel in the calf of the leg. That brought him to his senses. He\nlooks across the snow at the Army, and sees the rifles that we had brought\ninto the country.\n\n\"'We're done for,' says he. 'They are Englishmen, these people,--and it's\nmy blasted nonsense that has brought you to this. Get back, Billy Fish,\nand take your men away; you've done what you could, and now cut for it.\nCarnehan,' says he, 'shake hands with me and go along with Billy. Maybe\nthey won't kill you. I'll go and meet 'em alone. It's me that did it. Me,\nthe King!'\n\n\"'Go!' says I. 'Go to Hell, Dan. I'm with you here. Billy Fish, you clear\nout, and we two will meet those folk.'\n\n\"'I'm a Chief,' says Billy Fish, quite quiet. 'I stay with you. My men can\ngo.'\n\n\"The Bashkai fellows didn't wait for a second word but ran off, and Dan\nand Me and Billy Fish walked across to where the drums were drumming and\nthe horns were horning, It was cold--awful cold. I've got that cold in the\nback of my head now. There's a lump of it there.\"\n\nThe punkah-coolies had gone to sleep. Two kerosene lamps were blazing in\nthe office, and the perspiration poured down my face and splashed on the\nblotter as I leaned forward. Carnehan was shivering, and I feared that his\nmind might go. I wiped my face, took a fresh grip of the piteously mangled\nhands, and said:--\"What happened after that?\"\n\nThe momentary shift of my eyes had broken the clear current.\n\n\"What was you pleased to say?\" whined Carnehan. \"They took them without\nany sound. Not a little whisper all along the snow, not though the King\nknocked down the first man that set hand on him--not though old Peachey\nfired his last cartridge into the brown of 'em. Not a single solitary\nsound did those swines make. They just closed up tight, and I tell you\ntheir furs stunk. There was a man called Billy Fish, a good friend of us\nall, and they cut his throat, Sir, then and there, like a pig; and the\nKing kicks up the bloody snow and says:--'We've had a dashed fine run for\nour money. What's coming next?' But Peachey, Peachey Taliaferro, I tell\nyou, Sir, in confidence as betwixt two friends, he lost his head, Sir. No,\nhe didn't neither. The King lost his head, so he did, all along o' one of\nthose cunning rope-bridges. Kindly let me have the paper-cutter, Sir. It\ntilted this way. They marched him a mile across that snow to a rope-bridge\nover a ravine with a river at the bottom. You may have seen such. They\nprodded him behind like an ox. 'Damn your eyes!' says the King. 'D'you\nsuppose I can't die like a gentleman?' He turns to Peachey--Peachey that\nwas crying like a child. 'I've brought you to this, Peachey,' says he.\n'Brought you out of your happy life to be killed in Kafiristan, where you\nwas late Commander-in-Chief of the Emperor's forces. Say you forgive me,\nPeachey.' 'I do,' says Peachey. 'Fully and freely do I forgive you, Dan.'\n'Shake hands, Peachey,' says he. 'I'm going now.' Out he goes, looking\nneither right nor left, and when he was plumb in the middle of those dizzy\ndancing ropes, 'Cut, you beggars,' he shouts; and they cut, and old Dan\nfell, turning round and round and round twenty thousand miles, for he took\nhalf an hour to fall till he struck the water, and I could see his body\ncaught on a rock with the gold crown close beside.\n\n\"But do you know what they did to Peachey between two pine trees? They\ncrucified him, Sir, as Peachey's hand will show. They used wooden pegs for\nhis hands and his feet; and he didn't die. He hung there and screamed, and\nthey took him down next day, and said it was a miracle that he wasn't\ndead. They took him down--poor old Peachey that hadn't done them any\nharm--that hadn't done them any....\"\n\nHe rocked to and fro and wept bitterly, wiping his eyes with the back of\nhis scarred hands and moaning like a child for some ten minutes.\n\n\"They was cruel enough to feed him up in the temple, because they said he\nwas more of a God than old Daniel that was a man. Then they turned him out\non the snow, and told him to go home, and Peachey came home in about a\nyear, begging along the roads quite safe: for Daniel Dravot he walked\nbefore and said:--'Come along, Peachey. It's a big thing we're doing.' The\nmountains they danced at night, and the mountains they tried to fall on\nPeachey's head, but Dan he held up his hand, and Peachey came along bent\ndouble. He never let go of Dan's hand, and he never let go of Dan's head.\nThey gave it to him as a present in the temple, to remind him not to come\nagain, and though the crown was pure gold, and Peachey was starving, never\nwould Peachey sell the same. You knew Dravot, Sir! You knew Right\nWorshipful Brother Dravot! Look at him now!\"\n\nHe fumbled in the mass of rags round his bent waist; brought out a black\nhorsehair bag embroidered with silver thread; and shook therefrom on to my\ntable--the dried, withered head of Daniel Dravot! The morning sun that had\nlong been paling the lamps struck the red beard and blind sunken eyes;\nstruck, too, a heavy circlet of gold studded with raw turquoises, that\nCarnehan placed tenderly on the battered temples.\n\n\"You behold now,\" said Carnehan, \"the Emperor in his habit as he\nlived--the King of Kafiristan with his crown upon his head. Poor old\nDaniel that was a monarch once!\"\n\nI shuddered, for, in spite of defacements manifold, I recognized the head\nof the man of Marwar Junction. Carnehan rose to go. I attempted to stop\nhim. He was not fit to walk abroad. \"Let me take away the whiskey, and\ngive me a little money,\" he gasped, \"I was a King once. I'll go to the\nDeputy Commissioner and ask to set in the Poorhouse till I get my health.\nNo, thank you, I can't wait till you get a carriage for me, I've urgent\nprivate affairs--in the south--at Marwar.\"\n\nHe shambled out of the office and departed in the direction of the Deputy\nCommissioner's house. That day at noon I had occasion to go down the\nblinding hot Mall, and I saw a crooked man crawling along the white dust\nof the roadside, his hat in his hand, quavering dolorously after the\nfashion of street-singers at Home. There was not a soul in sight, and he\nwas out of all possible earshot of the houses. And he sang through his\nnose, turning his head from right to left:\n\n  \"The Son of Man goes forth to war,\n     A golden crown to gain;\n   His blood-red banner streams afar--\n     Who follows in his train?\"\n\nI waited to hear no more, but put the poor wretch into my carriage and\ndrove him off to the nearest missionary for eventual transfer to the\nAsylum. He repeated the hymn twice while he was with me whom he did not in\nthe least recognize, and I left him singing it to the missionary.\n\nTwo days later I inquired after his welfare of the Superintendent of the\nAsylum.\n\n\"He was admitted suffering from sunstroke. He died early yesterday\nmorning,\" said the Superintendent. \"Is it true that he was half an hour\nbareheaded in the sun at midday?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said I, \"but do you happen to know if he had anything upon him by\nany chance when he died?\"\n\n\"Not to my knowledge,\" said the Superintendent.\n\nAnd there the matter rests.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GATE OF THE HUNDRED SORROWS\n\n\nIf I can attain Heaven for a pice, why should you be envious?--_Opium\nSmoker's Proverb_.\n\nThis is no work of mine. My friend, Gabral Misquitta, the half-caste,\nspoke it all, between moonset and morning, six weeks before he died; and I\ntook it down from his mouth as he answered my questions. So:\n\nIt lies between the Coppersmith's Gully and the pipe-stem sellers'\nquarter, within a hundred yards, too, as the crow flies, of the Mosque of\nWazir Khan. I don't mind telling any one this much, but I defy him to find\nthe Gate, however well he may think he knows the City. You might even go\nthrough the very gully it stands in a hundred times, and be none the\nwiser. We used to call the gully, \"The Gully of the Black Smoke,\" but its\nnative name is altogether different of course. A loaded donkey couldn't\npass between the walls; and, at one point, just before you reach the Gate,\na bulged house-front makes people go along all sideways.\n\nIt isn't really a gate though. It's a house. Old Fung-Tching had it first\nfive years ago. He was a boot-maker in Calcutta. They say that he murdered\nhis wife there when he was drunk. That was why he dropped bazar-rum and\ntook to the Black Smoke instead. Later on, he came up north and opened the\nGate as a house where you could get your smoke in peace and quiet. Mind\nyou, it was a _pukka_, respectable opium-house, and not one of those\nstifling, sweltering _chandoo-khanas_, that you can find all over the\nCity. No; the old man knew his business thoroughly, and he was most clean\nfor a Chinaman. He was a one-eyed little chap, not much more than five\nfeet high, and both his middle fingers were gone. All the same, he was the\nhandiest man at rolling black pills I have ever seen. Never seemed to be\ntouched by the Smoke, either; and what he took day and night, night and\nday, was a caution. I've been at it five years, and I can do my fair share\nof the Smoke with any one; but I was a child to Fung-Tching that way. All\nthe same, the old man was keen on his money: very keen; and that's what I\ncan't understand. I heard he saved a good deal before he died, but his\nnephew has got all that now; and the old man's gone back to China to be\nburied.\n\nHe kept the big upper room, where his best customers gathered, as neat as\na new pin. In one corner used to stand Fung-Tching's Joss--almost as ugly\nas Fung-Tching--and there were always sticks burning under his nose; but\nyou never smelled 'em when the pipes were going thick. Opposite the joss\nwas Fung-Tching's coffin. He had spent a good deal of his savings on that,\nand whenever a new man came to the Gate he was always introduced to it. It\nwas lacquered black, with red and gold writings on it, and I've heard that\nFung-Tching brought it out all the way from China. I don't know whether\nthat's true or not, but I know that, if I came first in the evening, I\nused to spread my mat just at the foot of it. It was a quiet corner, you\nsee, and a sort of breeze from the gully came in at the window now and\nthen. Besides the mats, there was no other furniture in the room--only the\ncoffin, and the old joss all green and blue and purple with age and\npolish.\n\nFung-Tching never told us why he called the place \"The Gate of the Hundred\nSorrows.\" (He was the only Chinaman I know who used bad-sounding fancy\nnames. Most of them are flowery. As you'll see in Calcutta.) We used to\nfind that out for ourselves. Nothing grows on you so much, if you're\nwhite, as the Black Smoke. A yellow man is made different. Opium doesn't\ntell on him scarcely at all; but white and black suffer a good deal. Of\ncourse, there are some people that the Smoke doesn't touch any more than\ntobacco would at first. They just doze a bit, as one would fall asleep\nnaturally, and next morning they are almost fit for work. Now, I was one\nof that sort when I began, but I've been at it for five years pretty\nsteadily, and it's different now. There was an old aunt of mine, down Agra\nway, and she left me a little at her death. About sixty rupees a month\nsecured. Sixty isn't much. I can recollect a time, 'seems hundreds and\nhundreds of years ago, that I was getting my three hundred a month, and\npickings, when I was working on a big timber-contract in Calcutta.\n\nI didn't stick to that work for long. The Black Smoke does not allow of\nmuch other business; and even though I am very little affected by it, as\nmen go I couldn't do a day's work now to save my life. After all, sixty\nrupees is what I want. When old Fung-Tching was alive he used to draw the\nmoney for me, give me about half of it to live on (I eat very little), and\nthe rest he kept himself. I was free of the Gate at any time of the day\nand night, and could smoke and sleep there when I liked, so I didn't care.\nI know the old man made a good thing out of it; but that's no matter.\nNothing matters much to me; and besides, the money always came fresh and\nfresh each month.\n\nThere was ten of us met at the Gate when the place was first opened. Me,\nand two Baboos from a Government Office somewhere in Anarkulli, but they\ngot the sack and couldn't pay (no man who has to work in the daylight can\ndo the Black Smoke for any length of time straight on); a Chinaman that\nwas Fung-Tching's nephew; a bazar-woman that had got a lot of money\nsomehow; an English loafer--Mac-Somebody I think, but I have\nforgotten,--that smoked heaps, but never seemed to pay anything (they said\nhe had saved Fung-Tching's life at some trial in Calcutta when he was a\nbarrister); another Eurasian, like myself, from Madras; a half-caste\nwoman, and a couple of men who said they had come from the North. I think\nthey must have been Persians or Afghans or something. There are not more\nthan five of us living now, but we come regular. I don't know what\nhappened to the Baboos; but the bazar-woman she died after six months of\nthe Gate, and I think Fung-Tching took her bangles and nose-ring for\nhimself. But I'm not certain. The Englishman, he drank as well as smoked,\nand he dropped off. One of the Persians got killed in a row at night by\nthe big well near the mosque a long time ago, and the Police shut up the\nwell, because they said it was full of foul air. They found him dead at\nthe bottom of it. So you see, there is only me, the Chinaman, the\nhalf-caste woman that we call the _Memsahib_ (she used to live with\nFung-Tching), the other Eurasian, and one of the Persians. The _Memsahib_\nlooks very old now. I think she was a young woman when the Gate was\nopened; but we are all old for the matter of that. Hundreds and hundreds\nof years old. It is very hard to keep count of time in the Gate, and,\nbesides, time doesn't matter to me. I draw my sixty rupees fresh and fresh\nevery month. A very, very long while ago, when I used to be getting three\nhundred and fifty rupees a month, and pickings, on a big timber-contract\nat Calcutta, I had a wife of sorts. But she's dead now. People said that I\nkilled her by taking to the Black Smoke. Perhaps I did, but it's so long\nsince that it doesn't matter. Sometimes when I first came to the Gate, I\nused to feel sorry for it; but that's all over and done with long ago, and\nI draw my sixty rupees fresh and fresh every month, and am quite happy.\nNot _drunk_ happy, you know, but always quiet and soothed and contented.\n\nHow did I take to it? It began at Calcutta. I used to try it in my own\nhouse, just to see what it was like. I never went very far, but I think my\nwife must have died then. Anyhow, I found myself here, and got to know\nFung-Tching. I don't remember rightly how that came about; but he told me\nof the Gate and I used to go there, and, somehow, I have never got away\nfrom it since. Mind you, though, the Gate was a respectable place in\nFung-Tching's time where you could be comfortable, and not at all like the\n_chandoo-khanas_ where the niggers go. No; it was clean and quiet, and not\ncrowded. Of course, there were others beside us ten and the man; but we\nalways had a mat apiece, with a wadded woolen headpiece, all covered with\nblack and red dragons and things; just like the coffin in the corner.\n\nAt the end of one's third pipe the dragons used to move about and fight.\nI've watched 'em many and many a night through. I used to regulate my\nSmoke that way, and now it takes a dozen pipes to make 'em stir. Besides,\nthey are all torn and dirty, like the mats, and old Fung-Tching is dead.\nHe died a couple of years ago, and gave me the pipe I always use now--a\nsilver one, with queer beasts crawling up and down the receiver-bottle\nbelow the cup. Before that, I think, I used a big bamboo stem with a\ncopper cup, a very small one, and a green jade mouthpiece. It was a little\nthicker than a walking-stick stem, and smoked sweet, very sweet. The\nbamboo seemed to suck up the smoke. Silver doesn't, and I've got to clean\nit out now and then, that's a great deal of trouble, but I smoke it for\nthe old man's sake. He must have made a good thing out of me, but he\nalways gave me clean mats and pillows, and the best stuff you could get\nanywhere.\n\nWhen he died, his nephew Tsin-ling took up the Gate, and he called it the\n\"Temple of the Three Possessions\"; but we old ones speak of it as the\n\"Hundred Sorrows,\" all the same. The nephew does things very shabbily, and\nI think the _Memsahib_ must help him. She lives with him; same as she used\nto do with the old man. The two let in all sorts of low people, niggers\nand all, and the Black Smoke isn't as good as it used to be. I've found\nburned bran in my pipe over and over again. The old man would have died if\nthat had happened in his time. Besides, the room is never cleaned, and all\nthe mats are torn and cut at the edges. The coffin is gone--gone to China\nagain--with the old man and two ounces of Smoke inside it, in case he\nshould want 'em on the way.\n\nThe Joss doesn't get so many sticks burned under his nose as he used to;\nthat's a sign of ill-luck, as sure as Death. He's all brown, too, and no\none ever attends to him. That's the _Memsahib's_ work, I know; because,\nwhen Tsin-ling tried to burn gilt paper before him, she said it was a\nwaste of money, and, if he kept a stick burning very slowly, the Joss\nwouldn't know the difference. So now we've got the sticks mixed with a lot\nof glue, and they take half an hour longer to burn, and smell stinky. Let\nalone the smell of the room by itself. No business can get on if they try\nthat sort of thing. The Joss doesn't like it. I can see that. Late at\nnight, sometimes, he turns all sorts of queer colors--blue and green and\nred--just as he used to do when old Fung-Tching was alive; and he rolls\nhis eyes and stamps his feet like a devil.\n\nI don't know why I don't leave the place and smoke quietly in a little\nroom of my own in the bazar. Most like, Tsin-ling would kill me if I went\naway--he draws my sixty rupees now--and besides, it's so much trouble, and\nI've grown to be very fond of the Gate. It's not much to look at. Not what\nit was in the old man's time, but I couldn't leave it. I've seen so many\ncome in and out. And I've seen so many die here on the mats that I should\nbe afraid of dying in the open now. I've seen some things that people\nwould call strange enough; but nothing is strange when you're on the Black\nSmoke, except the Black Smoke. And if it was, it wouldn't matter.\nFung-Tching used to be very particular about his people, and never got in\nany one who'd give trouble by dying messy and such. But the nephew isn't\nhalf so careful. He tells everywhere that he keeps a \"first-chop\" house.\nNever tries to get men in quietly, and make them comfortable like\nFung-Tching did. That's why the Gate is getting a little bit more known\nthan it used to be. Among the niggers of course. The nephew daren't get a\nwhite, or, for matter of that, a mixed skin into the place. He has to keep\nus three of course--me and the _Memsahib_ and the other Eurasian. We're\nfixtures. But he wouldn't give us credit for a pipeful--not for anything.\n\nOne of these days, I hope, I shall die in the Gate. The Persian and the\nMadras man are terribly shaky now. They've got a boy to light their pipes\nfor them. I always do that myself. Most like, I shall see them carried out\nbefore me. I don't think I shall ever outlive the _Memsahib_ or Tsin-ling.\nWomen last longer than men at the Black Smoke, and Tsin-ling has a deal of\nthe old man's blood in him, though he does smoke cheap stuff. The\nbazar-woman knew when she was going two days before her time; and she died\non a clean mat with a nicely wadded pillow, and the old man hung up her\npipe just above the Joss. He was always fond of her, I fancy. But he took\nher bangles just the same.\n\nI should like to die like the bazar-woman--on a clean, cool mat with a\npipe of good stuff between my lips. When I feel I'm going, I shall ask\nTsin-ling for them, and he can draw my sixty rupees a month, fresh and\nfresh, as long as he pleases. Then I shall lie back, quiet and\ncomfortable, and watch the black and red dragons have their last big fight\ntogether; and then.... Well, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters much to\nme--only I wish Tsin-ling wouldn't put bran into the Black Smoke.\n\n\n\nTHE INCARNATION OF KRISHNA MULVANEY\n\n   Wohl auf, my bully cavaliers,\n     We ride to church to-day,\n   The man that hasn't got a horse\n     Must steal one straight away.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n   Be reverent, men, remember\n     This is a Gottes haus.\n   Du, Conrad, cut along der aisle\n     And schenck der whiskey aus.\n\n_Hans Breitmann's Ride to Church._\n\nOnce upon a time, very far from England, there lived three men who loved\neach other so greatly that neither man nor woman could come between them.\nThey were in no sense refined, nor to be admitted to the outer-door mats\nof decent folk, because they happened to be private soldiers in Her\nMajesty's Army; and private soldiers of our service have small time for\nself-culture. Their duty is to keep themselves and their accoutrements\nspecklessly clean, to refrain from getting drunk more often than is\nnecessary, to obey their superiors, and to pray for a war. All these\nthings my friends accomplished; and of their own motion threw in some\nfighting-work for which the Army Regulations did not call. Their fate sent\nthem to serve in India, which is not a golden country, though poets have\nsung otherwise. There men die with great swiftness, and those who live\nsuffer many and curious things. I do not think that my friends concerned\nthemselves much with the social or political aspects of the East. They\nattended a not unimportant war on the northern frontier, another one on\nour western boundary, and a third in Upper Burma. Then their regiment sat\nstill to recruit, and the boundless monotony of cantonment life was their\nportion. They were drilled morning and evening on the same dusty\nparade-ground. They wandered up and down the same stretch of dusty white\nroad, attended the same church and the same grog-shop, and slept in the\nsame lime-washed barn of a barrack for two long years. There was Mulvaney,\nthe father in the craft, who had served with various regiments from\nBermuda to Halifax, old in war, scarred, reckless, resourceful, and in his\npious hours an unequalled soldier. To him turned for help and comfort six\nand a half feet of slow-moving, heavy-footed Yorkshireman, born on the\nwolds, bred in the dales, and educated chiefly among the carriers' carts\nat the back of York railway-station. His name was Learoyd, and his chief\nvirtue an unmitigated patience which helped him to win fights. How\nOrtheris, a fox-terrier of a Cockney, ever came to be one of the trio, is\na mystery which even to-day I cannot explain. \"There was always three av\nus,\" Mulvaney used to say. \"An' by the grace av God, so long as our\nservice lasts, three av us they'll always be. 'Tis betther so.\"\n\nThey desired no companionship beyond their own, and it was evil for any\nman of the regiment who attempted dispute with them. Physical argument was\nout of the question as regarded Mulvaney and the Yorkshireman; and assault\non Ortheris meant a combined attack from these twain--a business which no\nfive men were anxious to have on their hands. Therefore they flourished,\nsharing their drinks, their tobacco, and their money; good luck and evil;\nbattle and the chances of death; life and the chances of happiness from\nCalicut in southern, to Peshawur in northern India.\n\nThrough no merit of my own it was my good fortune to be in a measure\nadmitted to their friendship--frankly by Mulvaney from the beginning,\nsullenly and with reluctance by Learoyd, and suspiciously by Ortheris, who\nheld to it that no man not in the Army could fraternize with a red-coat.\n\"Like to like,\" said he. \"I'm a bloomin' sodger--he's a bloomin' civilian.\n'Tain't natural--that's all.\"\n\nBut that was not all. They thawed progressively, and in the thawing told\nme more of their lives and adventures than I am ever likely to write.\n\nOmitting all else, this tale begins with the Lamentable Thirst that was at\nthe beginning of First Causes. Never was such a thirst--Mulvaney told me\nso. They kicked against their compulsory virtue, but the attempt was only\nsuccessful in the case of Ortheris. He, whose talents were many, went\nforth into the highways and stole a dog from a \"civilian\"--_videlicet_,\nsome one, he knew not who, not in the Army. Now that civilian was but\nnewly connected by marriage with the colonel of the regiment, and outcry\nwas made from quarters least anticipated by Ortheris, and, in the end, he\nwas forced, lest a worse thing should happen, to dispose at ridiculously\nunremunerative rates of as promising a small terrier as ever graced one\nend of a leading string. The purchase-money was barely sufficient for one\nsmall outbreak which led him to the guard-room. He escaped, however, with\nnothing worse than a severe reprimand, and a few hours of punishment\ndrill. Not for nothing had he acquired the reputation of being \"the best\nsoldier of his inches\" in the regiment. Mulvaney had taught personal\ncleanliness and efficiency as the first articles of his companions' creed.\n\"A dhirty man,\" he was used to say, in the speech of his kind, \"goes to\nClink for a weakness in the knees, an' is coort-martialled for a pair av\nsocks missin'; but a clane man, such as is an ornament to his service--a\nman whose buttons are gold, whose coat is wax upon him, an' whose\n'coutrements are widout a speck--that man may, spakin' in reason, do fwhat\nhe likes an' dhrink from day to divil. That's the pride av bein' dacint.\"\n\nWe sat together, upon a day, in the shade of a ravine far from the\nbarracks, where a watercourse used to run in rainy weather. Behind us was\nthe scrub jungle, in which jackals, peacocks, the grey wolves of the\nNorthwestern Provinces, and occasionally a tiger estrayed from Central\nIndia, were supposed to dwell. In front lay the cantonment, glaring white\nunder a glaring sun; and on either side ran the broad road that led to\nDelhi.\n\nIt was the scrub that suggested to my mind the wisdom of Mulvaney taking a\nday's leave and going upon a shooting-tour. The peacock is a holy bird\nthroughout India, and he who slays one is in danger of being mobbed by the\nnearest villagers; but on the last occasion that Mulvaney had gone forth,\nhe had contrived, without in the least offending local religious\nsusceptibilities, to return with six beautiful peacock skins which he sold\nto profit. It seemed just possible then--\n\n\"But fwhat manner av use is ut to me goin' out widout a dhrink? The\nground's powdher-dhry underfoot, an' ut gets unto the throat fit to kill,\"\nwailed Mulvaney, looking at me reproachfully. \"An' a peacock is not a bird\nyou can catch the tail av onless ye run. Can a man run on wather--an'\njungle-wather too?\"\n\nOrtheris had considered the question in all its bearings. He spoke,\nchewing his pipe-stem meditatively the while:\n\n   \"Go forth, return in glory,\n   To Clusium's royal 'ome:\n   An' round these bloomin' temples 'ang\n   The bloomin' shields o' Rome.\n\nYou better go. You ain't like to shoot yourself--not while there's a\nchanst of liquor. Me an' Learoyd 'll stay at 'ome an' keep shop--'case o'\nanythin' turnin' up. But you go out with a gas-pipe gun an' ketch the\nlittle peacockses or somethin'. You kin get one day's leave easy as\nwinkin'. Go along an' get it, an' get peacockses or somethin'.\"\n\n\"Jock,\" said Mulvaney, turning to Learoyd, who was half asleep under the\nshadow of the bank. He roused slowly.\n\n\"Sitha, Mulvaaney, go,\" said he.\n\nAnd Mulvaney went; cursing his allies with Irish fluency and barrack-room\npoint.\n\n\"Take note,\" said he, when he had won his holiday, and appeared dressed in\nhis roughest clothes with the only other regimental fowling piece in his\nhand. \"Take note, Jock, an' you Orth'ris, I am goin' in the face av my own\nwill--all for to please you. I misdoubt anythin' will come av permiscuous\nhuntin' afther peacockses in a desolit lan'; an' I know that I will lie\ndown an' die wid thirrrst. Me catch peacockses for you, ye lazy\nscutts--an' be sacrificed by the peasanthry--Ugh!\"\n\nHe waved a huge paw and went away.\n\nAt twilight, long before the appointed hour, he returned empty-handed,\nmuch begrimed with dirt.\n\n\"Peacockses?\" queried Ortheris from the safe rest of a barrack-room table\nwhereon he was smoking cross-legged, Learoyd fast asleep on a bench.\n\n\"Jock,\" said Mulvaney, without answering, as he stirred up the sleeper.\n\"Jock, can ye fight? Will ye fight?\"\n\nVery slowly the meaning of the words communicated itself to the\nhalf-roused man. He understood--and again--what might these things mean?\nMulvaney was shaking him savagely. Meantime the men in the room howled\nwith delight. There was war in the confederacy at last--war and the\nbreaking of bonds.\n\nBarrack-room etiquette is stringent. On the direct challenge must follow\nthe direct reply. This is more binding than the ties of tried friendship.\nOnce again Mulvaney repeated the question. Learoyd answered by the only\nmeans in his power, and so swiftly that the Irishman had barely time to\navoid the blow. The laughter around increased. Learoyd looked bewilderedly\nat his friend--himself as greatly bewildered. Ortheris dropped from the\ntable because his world was falling.\n\n\"Come outside,\" said Mulvaney, and as the occupants of the barrack-room\nprepared joyously to follow, he turned and said furiously, \"There will be\nno fight this night--onless any wan av you is wishful to assist. The man\nthat does, follows on.\"\n\nNo man moved. The three passed out into the moonlight, Learoyd fumbling\nwith the buttons of his coat. The parade-ground was deserted except for\nthe scurrying jackals. Mulvaney's impetuous rush carried his companions\nfar into the open ere Learoyd attempted to turn round and continue the\ndiscussion.\n\n\"Be still now. 'Twas my fault for beginnin' things in the middle av an\nend, Jock. I should ha' comminst wid an explanation; but Jock, dear, on\nyour sowl are ye fit, think you, for the finest fight that iver\nwas--betther than fightin' me? Considher before ye answer.\"\n\nMore than ever puzzled, Learoyd turned round two or three times, felt an\narm, kicked tentatively, and answered, \"Ah'm fit.\" He was accustomed to\nfight blindly at the bidding of the superior mind.\n\nThey sat them down, the men looking on from afar, and Mulvaney untangled\nhimself in mighty words.\n\n\"Followin' your fools' scheme I wint out into the thrackless desert beyond\nthe barricks. An' there I met a pious Hindu dhriving a bullock-kyart. I\ntuk ut for granted he wud be delighted for to convoy me a piece, an' I\njumped in\"--\n\n\"You long, lazy, black-haired swine,\" drawled Ortheris, who would have\ndone the same thing under similar circumstances.\n\n\"'Twas the height av policy. That naygur-man dhruv miles an' miles--as far\nas the new railway line they're buildin' now back av the Tavi river. ''Tis\na kyart for dhirt only,' says he now an' again timoreously, to get me out\nav ut. 'Dhirt I am,' sez I, 'an' the dhryest that you iver kyarted. Dhrive\non, me son, an' glory be wid you.' At that I wint to slape, an' took no\nheed till he pulled up on the embankmmt av the line where the coolies were\npilin' mud. There was a matther av two thousand coolies on that line--you\nremimber that. Prisintly a bell rang, an' they throops off to a big\npay-shed. 'Where's the white man in charge?' sez I to my kyart-dhriver.\n'In the shed,' sez he, 'engaged on a riffle,'--'A fwhat?' sez I. 'Riffle,'\nsez he, 'You take ticket. He take money. You get nothin'.--'Oho!' sez I,\n'that's fwhat the shuperior an' cultivated man calls a raffle, me\nmisbeguided child av darkness an' sin. Lead on to that raffle, though\nfwhat the mischief 'tis doin' so far away from uts home--which is the\ncharity-bazaar at Christmas, an' the colonel's wife grinnin' behind the\ntea-table--is more than I know.' Wid that I wint to the shed an' found\n'twas payday among the coolies. Their wages was on a table forninst a big,\nfine, red buck av a man--sivun fut high, four fut wide, an' three fut\nthick, wid a fist on him like a corn-sack. He was payin' the coolies fair\nan' easy, but he wud ask each man If he wud raffle that month, an' each\nman sez, 'Yes,' av course. Thin he wud deduct from their wages accordin'.\nWhin all was paid, he filled an ould cigar-box full av gun-wads an'\nscatthered ut among the coolies. They did not take much joy av that\nperformince, an' small wondher. A man close to me picks up a black gun-wad\nan' sings out, 'I have ut,'--'Good may ut do you.' sez I. The coolie wint\nforward to this big, fine, red man, who threw a cloth off av the most\nsumpshus, jooled, enamelled an' variously bedivilled sedan-chair I iver\nsaw.\"\n\n\"Sedan-chair! Put your 'ead in a bag. That was a palanquin. Don't yer know\na palanquin when you see it?\" said Ortheris with great scorn.\n\n\"I chuse to call ut sedan chair, an' chair ut shall be, little man,\"\ncontinued the Irishman. \"Twas a most amazin' chair--all lined wid pink\nsilk an' fitted wid red silk curtains. 'Here ut is,' sez the red man.\n'Here ut is,' sez the coolie, an' he grinned weakly-ways. 'Is ut any use\nto you?' sez the red man. 'No,' sez the coolie; 'I'd like to make a\npresint av ut to you.'--'I am graciously pleased to accept that same,' sez\nthe red man; an' at that all the coolies cried aloud in fwhat was mint for\ncheerful notes, an' wint back to their diggin', lavin' me alone in the\nshed. The red man saw me, an' his face grew blue on his big, fat neck.\n'Fwhat d'you want here?' sez he. 'Standin'-room an' no more,' sez I,\n'onless it may be fwhat ye niver had, an' that's manners, ye rafflin'\nruffian,' for I was not goin' to have the Service throd upon. 'Out of\nthis,' sez he. 'I'm in charge av this section av construction.'--'I'm in\ncharge av mesilf,' sez I, 'an' it's like I will stay a while. D'ye raffle\nmuch in these parts?'--'Fwhat's that to you?' sez he. 'Nothin',' sez I,\n'but a great dale to you, for begad I'm thinkin' you get the full half av\nyour revenue from that sedan-chair. Is ut always raffled so?' I sez, an'\nwid that I wint to a coolie to ask questions. Bhoys, that man's name is\nDearsley, an' he's been rafflin' that ould sedan-chair monthly this\nmatther av nine months. Ivry coolie on the section takes a ticket--or he\ngives 'em the go--wanst a month on pay-day. Ivry coolie that wins ut gives\nut back to him, for 'tis too big to carry away, an' he'd sack the man that\nthried to sell ut. That Dearsley has been makin' the rowlin' wealth av\nRoshus by nefarious rafflin'. Think av the burnin' shame to the sufferin'\ncoolie-man that the army in Injia are bound to protect an' nourish in\ntheir bosoms! Two thousand coolies defrauded wanst a month!\"\n\n\"Dom t' coolies. Has't gotten t' cheer, man?\" said Learoyd.\n\n\"Hould on. Havin' onearthed this amazin' an' stupenjus fraud committed by\nthe man Dearsley, I hild a council av war; he thryin' all the time to\nsejuce me into a fight wid opprobrious language. That sedan-chair niver\nbelonged by right to any foreman av coolies. 'Tis a king's chair or a\nquane's. There's gold on ut an' silk an' all manner av trapesemints.\nBhoys, 'tis not for me to countenance any sort av wrong-doin'--me bein'\nthe ould man--but--anyway he has had ut nine months, an' he dare not make\nthrouble av ut was taken from him. Five miles away, or ut may be six\"--\n\nThere was a long pause, and the jackals howled merrily. Learoyd bared one\narm, and contemplated it in the moonlight. Then he nodded partly to\nhimself and partly to his friends. Ortheris wriggled with suppressed\nemotion.\n\n\"I thought ye wud see the reasonableness av ut,\" said Mulvaney. \"I make\nbould to say as much to the man before. He was for a direct front\nattack--fut, horse, an' guns--an' all for nothin', seein' that I had no\nthransport to convey the machine away. 'I will not argue wid you,' sez I,\n'this day, but subsequintly, Mister Dearsley, me rafflin' jool, we talk ut\nout lengthways. 'Tis no good policy to swindle the naygur av his\nhard-earned emolumints, an' by presint informa-shin'--'twas the kyart man\nthat tould me--'ye've been perpethrating that same for nine months. But\nI'm a just man,' sez I, 'an' over-lookin' the presumpshin that yondher\nsettee wid the gilt top was not come by honust'--at that he turned\nsky-green, so I knew things was more thrue than tellable--'not come by\nhonust. I'm willin' to compound the felony for this month's winnin's.'\"\n\n\"Ah! Ho!\" from Learoyd and Ortheris.\n\n\"That man Dearsley's rushin' on his fate,\" continued Mulvaney, solemnly\nwagging his head. \"All Hell had no name bad enough for me that tide.\nFaith, he called me a robber! Me! that was savin' him from continuin' in\nhis evil ways widout a remonstrince--an' to a man av conscience a\nremonstrince may change the chune av his life. ''Tis not for me to argue,'\nsez I, 'fwhatever ye are, Mister Dearsley, but, by my hand, I'll take away\nthe temptation for you that lies in that sedan-chair.'--'You will have to\nfight me for ut,' sez he, 'for well I know you will never dare make report\nto any one.'--'Fight I will,' sez I, 'but not this day, for I'm rejuced\nfor want av nourishment.'--'Ye're an ould bould hand,' sez he, sizin' me\nup an' down; 'an' a jool av a fight we will have. Eat now an' dhrink, an'\ngo your way.' Wid that he gave me some hump an' whisky--good whisky--an'\nwe talked av this an' that the while. 'It goes hard on me now,' sez I,\nwipin' my mouth, 'to confiscate that piece av furniture, but justice is\njustice.'--'Ye've not got ut yet,' sez he; 'there's the fight\nbetween.'--'There is,' sez I, 'an' a good fight. Ye shall have the pick av\nthe best quality in my rigimint for the dinner you have given this day.'\nThin I came hot-foot to you two. Hould your tongue, the both. 'Tis this\nway. To-morrow we three will go there an' he shall have his pick betune me\nan' Jock. Jock's a deceivin' fighter, for he is all fat to the eye, an' he\nmoves slow. Now I'm all beef to the look, an' I move quick. By my\nreckonin' the Dearsley man won't take me; so me an' Orth'ris 'll see fair\nplay. Jock, I tell you, 'twill be big fightin'--whipped, wid the cream\nabove the jam. Afther the business 'twill take a good three av us--Jock\n'll be very hurt--to haul away that sedan-chair.\"\n\n\"Palanquin.\" This from Ortheris.\n\n\"Fwhatever ut is, we must have ut. Tis the only sellin' piece av property\nwidin reach that we can get so cheap. An' fwhat's a fight afther all? He\nhas robbed the naygur-man, dishonust. We rob him honust for the sake av\nthe whisky he gave me.\"\n\n\"But wot'll we do with the bloomin' article when we've got it? Them\npalanquins are as big as 'ouses, an' uncommon 'ard to sell, as McCleary\nsaid when ye stole the sentry-box from the Curragh.\"\n\n\"Who's goin' to do t' fightin'?\" said Learoyd, and Ortheris subsided. The\nthree returned to barracks without a word. Mulvaney's last argument\nclinched the matter. This palanquin was property, vendible, and to be\nattained in the simplest and least embarrassing fashion. It would\neventually become beer. Great was Mulvaney.\n\nNext afternoon a procession of three formed itself and disappeared into\nthe scrub in the direction of the new railway line. Learoyd alone was\nwithout care, for Mulvaney dived darkly into the future, and little\nOrtheris feared the unknown, What befell at that interview in the lonely\npay-shed by the side of the half-built embankment, only a few hundred\ncoolies know, and their tale is a confusing one, running thus--\n\n\"We were at work. Three men in red coats came. They saw the\nSahib--Dearsley Sahib. They made oration; and noticeably the small man\namong the red-coats. Dearsley Sahib also made oration, and used many very\nstrong words, Upon this talk they departed together to an open space, and\nthere the fat man in the red coat fought with Dearsley Sahib after the\ncustom of white men--with his hands, making no noise, and never at all\npulling Dearsley Sahib's hair. Such of us as were not afraid beheld these\nthings for just so long a time as a man needs to cook the midday meal. The\nsmall man in the red coat had possessed himself of Dearsley Sahib's watch.\nNo, he did not steal that watch. He held it in his hand, and at certain\nseasons made outcry, and the twain ceased their combat, which was like the\ncombat of young bulls in spring. Both men were soon all red, but Dearsley\nSahib was much more red than the other. Seeing this, and fearing for his\nlife--because we greatly loved him--some fifty of us made shift to rush\nupon the red-coats. But a certain man--very black as to the hair, and in\nno way to be confused with the small man, or the fat man who fought--that\nman, we affirm, ran upon us, and of us he embraced some ten or fifty in\nboth arms, and beat our heads together, so that our livers turned to\nwater, and we ran away. It is not good to interfere in the fightings of\nwhite men. After that Dearsley Sahib fell and did not rise, these men\njumped upon his stomach and despoiled him of all his money, and attempted\nto fire the pay-shed, and departed. Is it true that Dearsley Sahib makes\nno complaint of these latter things having been done? We were senseless\nwith fear, and do not at all remember. There was no palanquin near the\npay-shed. What do we know about palanquins? Is it true that Dearsley Sahib\ndoes not return to this place, on account of his sickness, for ten days?\nThis is the fault of those bad men in the red coats, who should be\nseverely punished; for Dearsley Sahib is both our father and mother, and\nwe love him much. Yet, if Dearsley Sahib does not return to this place at\nall, we will speak the truth. There was a palanquin, for the up-keep of\nwhich we were forced to pay nine-tenths of our monthly wage. On such\nmulctings Dearsley Sahib allowed us to make obeisance to him before the\npalanquin. What could we do? We were poor men. He took a full half of our\nwages. Will the Government repay us those moneys? Those three men in red\ncoats bore the palanquin upon their shoulders and departed. All the money\nthat Dearsley Sahib had taken from us was in the cushions of that\npalanquin. Therefore they stole it. Thousands of rupees were there--all\nour money. It was our bank-box, to fill which we cheerfully contributed to\nDearsley Sahib three-sevenths of our monthly wage. Why does the white man\nlook upon us with the eye of disfavor? Before God, there was a palanquin,\nand now there is no palanquin; and if they send the police here to make\ninquisition, we can only say that there never has been any palanquin. Why\nshould a palanquin be near these works? We are poor men, and we know\nnothing.\"\n\nSuch is the simplest version of the simplest story connected with the\ndescent upon Dearsley. From the lips of the coolies I received it.\nDearsley himself was in no condition to say anything, and Mulvaney\npreserved a massive silence, broken only by the occasional licking of the\nlips. He had seen a fight so gorgeous that even his power of speech was\ntaken from him. I respected that reserve until, three days after the\naffair, I discovered in a disused stable in my quarters a palanquin of\nunchastened splendor--evidently in past days the litter of a queen. The\npole whereby it swung between the shoulders of the bearers was rich with\nthe painted _papier-mach\u00e9_ of Cashmere. The shoulder-pads were of yellow\nsilk. The panels of the litter itself were ablaze with the loves of all\nthe gods and goddesses of the Hindu Pantheon--lacquer on cedar. The cedar\nsliding doors were fitted with hasps of translucent Jaipur enamel and ran\nin grooves shod with silver. The cushions were of brocaded Delhi silk, and\nthe curtains which once hid any glimpse of the beauty of the king's palace\nwere stiff with gold. Closer investigation showed that the entire fabric\nwas everywhere rubbed and discolored by time and wear; but even thus it\nwas sufficiently gorgeous to deserve housing on the threshold of a royal\nzenana. I found no fault with it, except that it was in my stable. Then,\ntrying to lift it by the silver-shod shoulder-pole, I laughed. The road\nfrom Dearsley's pay-shed to the cantonment was a narrow and uneven one,\nand, traversed by three very inexperienced palanquin-bearers, one of whom\nwas sorely battered about the head, must have been a path of torment.\nStill I did not quite recognize the right of the three musketeers to turn\nme into a \"fence\" for stolen property.\n\n\"I'm askin' you to warehouse ut,\" said Mulvaney when he was brought to\nconsider the question. \"There's no steal in ut. Dearsley tould us we cud\nhave ut if we fought. Jock fought--an', oh, sorr, when the throuble was at\nuts finest an' Jock was bleedin' like a stuck pig, an' little Orth'ris was\nshquealin' on one leg chewin' big bites out av Dearsley's watch, I wud ha'\ngiven my place at the fight to have had you see wan round. He tuk Jock, as\nI suspicioned he would, an' Jock was deceptive. Nine roun's they were even\nmatched, an' at the tenth--About that palanquin now, There's not the least\nthrouble in the world, or we wud not ha' brought ut here. You will\nondherstand that the Queen--God bless her!--does not reckon for a privit\nsoldier to kape elephints an' palanquins an' sich in barricks. Afther we\nhad dhragged ut down from Dearsley's through that cruel scrub that near\nbroke Orth'ris's heart, we set ut in the ravine for a night; an' a thief\nav a porcupine an' a civet-cat av a jackal roosted in ut, as well we knew\nin the mornin'. I put ut to you, sorr, is an elegint palanquin, fit for\nthe princess, the natural abidin' place av all the vermin in cantonmints?\nWe brought ut to you, afther dhark, and put ut in your shtable. Do not let\nyour conscience prick. Think av the rejoicin' men in the pay-shed\nyonder--lookin' at Dearsley wid his head tied up in a towel--an' well\nknowin' that they can dhraw their pay ivry month widout stoppages for\nriffles. Indirectly, sorr, you have rescued from an onprincipled son av a\nnight-hawk the peasanthry av a numerous village. An' besides, will I let\nthat sedan-chair rot on our hands? Not I. Tis not every day a piece av\npure joolry comes into the market. There's not a king widin these forty\nmiles\"--he waved his hand round the dusty horizon--\"not a king wud not be\nglad to buy ut. Some day meself, whin I have leisure, I'll take ut up\nalong the road an' dishpose av ut.\"\n\n\"How?\" said I, for I knew the man was capable of anything.\n\n\"Get into ut, av coorse, and keep wan eye open through the curtains. Whin\nI see a likely man av the native persuasion, I will descind blushin' from\nmy canopy and say, 'Buy a palanquin, ye black scutt?' I will have to hire\nfour men to carry me first, though; and that's impossible till next\npay-day.\"\n\nCuriously enough, Learoyd, who had fought for the prize, and in the\nwinning secured the highest pleasure life had to offer him, was altogether\ndisposed to undervalue it, while Ortheris openly said it would be better\nto break the thing up. Dearsley, he argued, might be a many-sided man,\ncapable, despite his magnificent fighting qualities, of setting in motion\nthe machinery of the civil law--a thing much abhorred by the soldier.\nUnder any circumstances their fun had come and passed; the next pay-day\nwas close at hand, when there would be beer for all. Wherefore longer\nconserve the painted palanquin?\n\n\"A first-class rifle-shot an' a good little man av your inches you are,\"\nsaid Mulvaney. \"But you niver had a head worth a soft-boiled egg. 'Tis me\nhas to lie awake av nights schamin' an' plottin' for the three av us.\nOrth'ris, me son, 'tis no matther av a few gallons av beer--no, nor twenty\ngallons--but tubs an' vats an' firkins in that sedan-chair. Who ut was,\nan' what ut was, an' how ut got there, we do not know; but I know in my\nbones that you an' me an' Jock wid his sprained thumb will get a fortune\nthereby. Lave me alone, an' let me think.\"\n\nMeantime the palanquin stayed in my stall, the key of which was in\nMulvaney's hands.\n\nPay-day came, and with it beer. It was not in experience to hope that\nMulvaney, dried by four weeks' drought, would avoid excess. Next morning\nhe and the palanquin had disappeared. He had taken the precaution of\ngetting three days' leave \"to see a friend on the railway,\" and the\ncolonel, well knowing that the seasonal outburst was near, and hoping it\nwould spend its force beyond the limits of his jurisdiction, cheerfully\ngave him all he demanded. At this point Mulvaney's history, as recorded in\nthe mess-room, stopped.\n\nOrtheris carried it not much further. \"No, 'e wasn't drunk,\" said the\nlittle man loyally, \"the liquor was no more than feelin' its way round\ninside of 'im; but 'e went an' filled that 'ole bloomin' palanquin with\nbottles 'fore 'e went off. 'E's gone an' 'ired six men to carry 'im, an' I\n'ad to 'elp 'im into 'is nupshal couch, 'cause 'e wouldn't 'ear reason.\n'E's gone off in 'is shirt an' trousies, swearin' tremenjus--gone down the\nroad in the palanquin, wavin' 'is legs out o' windy.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said I, \"but where?\"\n\n\"Now you arx me a question. 'E said 'e was goin' to sell that palanquin,\nbut from observations what happened when I was stuffin' 'im through the\ndoor, I fancy 'e's gone to the new embankment to mock at Dearsley. 'Soon\nas Jock's off duty I'm goin' there to see if 'e's safe--not Mulvaney, but\nt'other man. My saints, but I pity 'im as 'elps Terence out o' the\npalanquin when 'e's once fair drunk!\"\n\n\"He'll come back without harm,\" I said.\n\n\"'Corse 'e will. On'y question is, what 'll 'e be doin' on the road?\nKilling Dearsley, like as not. 'E shouldn't 'a gone without Jock or me.\"\n\nReinforced by Learoyd, Ortheris sought the foreman of the coolie-gang.\nDearsley's head was still embellished with towels. Mulvaney, drunk or\nsober, would have struck no man in that condition, and Dearsley\nindignantly denied that he would have taken advantage of the intoxicated\nbrave.\n\n\"I had my pick o' you two,\" he explained to Learoyd, \"and you got my\npalanquin--not before I'd made my profit on it. Why'd I do harm when\neverything's settled? Your man _did_ come here--drunk as Davy's sow on a\nfrosty night--came a-purpose to mock me--stuck his head out of the door\nan' called me a crucified hodman. I made him drunker, an' sent him along.\nBut I never touched him.\"\n\nTo these things Learoyd, slow to perceive the evidences of sincerity,\nanswered only, \"If owt comes to Mulvaaney 'long o' you, I'll gripple you,\nclouts or no clouts on your ugly head, an' I'll draw t' throat twistyways,\nman. See there now.\"\n\nThe embassy removed itself, and Dearsley, the battered, laughed alone over\nhis supper that evening.\n\nThree days passed--a fourth and a fifth. The week drew to a close and\nMulvaney did not return. He, his royal palanquin, and his six attendants,\nhad vanished into air. A very large and very tipsy soldier, his feet\nsticking out of the litter of a reigning princess, is not a thing to\ntravel along the ways without comment. Yet no man of all the country round\nhad seen any such wonder. He was, and he was not; and Learoyd suggested\nthe immediate smashment of Dearsley as a sacrifice to his ghost. Ortheris\ninsisted that all was well, and in the light of past experience his hopes\nseemed reasonable.\n\n\"When Mulvaney goes up the road,\" said he, \"'e's like to go a very long\nways up, specially when 'e's so blue drunk as 'e is now. But what gits me\nis 'is not bein' 'eard of pullin' wool off the niggers somewheres about.\nThat don't look good. The drink must ha' died out in 'im by this, unless\ne's broke a bank, an' then--Why don't 'e come back? 'E didn't ought to ha'\ngone off without us.\"\n\nEven Ortheris's heart sank at the end of the seventh day, for half the\nregiment were out scouring the countryside, and Learoyd had been forced to\nfight two men who hinted openly that Mulvaney had deserted. To do him\njustice, the colonel laughed at the notion, even when it was put forward\nby his much-trusted adjutant.\n\n\"Mulvaney would as soon think of deserting as you would,\" said he. \"No;\nhe's either fallen into a mischief among the villagers--and yet that isn't\nlikely, for he'd blarney himself out of the Pit; or else he is engaged on\nurgent private affairs--some stupendous devilment that we shall hear of at\nmess after it has been the round of the barrack-rooms. The worst of it is\nthat I shall have to give him twenty-eight days' confinement at least for\nbeing absent without leave, just when I most want him to lick the new\nbatch of recruits into shape. I never knew a man who could put a polish on\nyoung soldiers as quickly as Mulvaney can. How does he do it?\"\n\n\"With blarney and the buckle-end of a belt, sir,\" said the adjutant. \"He\nis worth a couple of non-commissioned officers when we are dealing with an\nIrish draft, and the London lads seem to adore him. The worst of it is\nthat if he goes to the cells the other two are neither to hold nor to bind\ntill he comes out again. I believe Ortheris preaches mutiny on those\noccasions, and I know that the mere presence of Learoyd mourning for\nMulvaney kills all the cheerfulness of his room, The sergeants tell me\nthat he allows no man to laugh when he feels unhappy. They are a queer\ngang.\"\n\n\"For all that, I wish we had a few more of them. I like a well-conducted\nregiment, but these pasty-faced, shifty-eyed, mealy-mouthed young\nslouchers from the dep\u00f4t worry me sometimes with their offensive virtue.\nThey don't seem to have backbone enough to do anything but play cards and\nprowl round the married quarters. I believe I'd forgive that old villain\non the spot if he turned up with any sort of explanation that I could in\ndecency accept.\"\n\n\"Not likely to be much difficulty about that, sir,\" said the adjutant.\n\"Mulvaney's explanations are only one degree less wonderful than his\nperformances. They say that when he was in the Black Tyrone, before he\ncame to us, he was discovered on the banks of the Liffey trying to sell\nhis colonel's charger to a Donegal dealer as a perfect lady's hack.\nShackbolt commanded the Tyrone then.\"\n\n\"Shackbolt must have had apoplexy at the thought of his ramping war-horses\nanswering to that description. He used to buy unbacked devils, and tame\nthem on some pet theory of starvation. What did Mulvaney say?\"\n\n\"That he was a member of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to\nAnimals, anxious to 'sell the poor baste where he would get something to\nfill out his dimples.' Shackbolt laughed, but I fancy that was why\nMulvaney exchanged to ours.\"\n\n\"I wish he were back,\" said the colonel; \"for I like him and believe he\nlikes me.\"\n\nThat evening, to cheer our souls, Learoyd, Ortheris, and I went into the\nwaste to smoke out a porcupine. All the dogs attended, but even their\nclamor--and they began to discuss the shortcomings of porcupines before\nthey left cantonments--could not take us out of ourselves. A large, low\nmoon turned the tops of the plume-grass to silver, and the stunted\ncamel-thorn bushes and sour tamarisks into the likenesses of trooping\ndevils. The smell of the sun had not left the earth, and little aimless\nwinds blowing across the rose-gardens to the southward brought the scent\nof dried roses and water. Our fire once started, and the dogs craftily\ndisposed to wait the dash of the porcupine, we climbed to the top of a\nrain-scarred hillock of earths and looked across the scrub seamed with\ncattle paths, white with the long grass, and dotted with spots of level\npond-bottom, where the snipe would gather in winter.\n\n\"This,\" said Ortheris, with a sigh, as he took in the unkempt desolation\nof it all, \"this is sanguinary. This is unusually sanguinary. Sort o' mad\ncountry. Like a grate when the fire's put out by the sun.\" He shaded his\neyes against the moonlight. \"An' there's a loony dancin' in the middle of\nit all. Quite right. I'd dance too if I wasn't so downheart.\"\n\nThere pranced a Portent in the face of the moon--a huge and ragged spirit\nof the waste, that flapped its wings from afar. It had risen out of the\nearth; it was coming toward us, and its outline was never twice the same.\nThe toga, table-cloth, or dressing-gown, whatever the creature wore, took\na hundred shapes. Once it stopped on a neighboring mound and flung all its\nlegs and arms to the winds.\n\n\"My, but that scarecrow 'as got 'em bad!\" said Ortheris. \"Seems like if 'e\ncomes any furder we'll 'ave to argify with 'im.\"\n\nLearoyd raised himself from the dirt as a bull clears his flanks of the\nwallow. And as a bull bellows, so he, after a short minute at gaze, gave\ntongue to the stars.\n\n\"MULVAANEY! MULVAANEY! A-hoo!\"\n\nOh then it was that we yelled, and the figure dipped into the hollow,\ntill, with a crash of rending grass, the lost one strode up to the light\nof the fire, and disappeared to the waist in a wave of joyous dogs! Then\nLearoyd and Ortheris gave greeting, bass and falsetto together, both\nswallowing a lump in the throat.\n\n\"You damned fool!\" said they, and severally pounded him with their fists.\n\n\"Go easy!\" he answered; wrapping a huge arm around each. \"I would have you\nto know that I am a god, to be treated as such--tho', by my faith, I fancy\nI've got to go to the guardroom just like a privit soldier.\"\n\nThe latter part of the sentence destroyed the suspicions raised by the\nformer. Any one would have been justified in regarding Mulvaney as mad. He\nwas hatless and shoeless, and his shirt and trousers were dropping off\nhim. But he wore one wondrous garment--a gigantic cloak that fell from\ncollar-bone to heel--of pale pink silk, wrought all over in cunningest\nneedlework of hands long since dead, with the loves of the Hindu gods. The\nmonstrous figures leaped in and out of the light of the fire as he settled\nthe folds round him.\n\nOrtheris handled the stuff respectfully for a moment while I was trying to\nremember where I had seen it before. Then he screamed, \"What _'ave_ you\ndone with the palanquin? You're wearin' the linin'.\"\n\n\"I am,\" said the Irishman, \"an' by the same token the 'broidery is\nscrapin' my hide off. I've lived in this sumpshus counterpane for four\ndays. Me son, I begin to ondherstand why the naygur is no use, Widout me\nboots, an' me trousies like an openwork stocking on a gyurl's leg at a\ndance, I begin to feel like a naygur-man--all fearful an' timoreous. Give\nme a pipe an' I'll tell on.\"\n\nHe lit a pipe, resumed his grip of his two friends, and rocked to and fro\nin a gale of laughter.\n\n\"Mulvaney,\" said Ortheris sternly, \"'tain't no time for laughin'. You've\ngiven Jock an' me more trouble than you're worth. You 'ave been absent\nwithout leave an' you'll go into cells for that; an' you 'ave come back\ndisgustin'ly dressed an' most improper in the linin' o' that bloomin'\npalanquin, Instid of which you laugh. An' we thought you was dead all the\ntime.\"\n\n\"Bhoys,\" said the culprit, still shaking gently, \"whin I've done my tale\nyou may cry if you like, an' little Orth'ris here can thrample my inside\nout. Ha' done an' listen. My performinces have been stupenjus: my luck has\nbeen the blessed luck av the British Army--an' there's no betther than\nthat. I went out dhrunk an' dhrinkin' in the palanquin, and I have come\nback a pink god. Did any of you go to Dearsley afther my time was up? He\nwas at the bottom of ut all.\"\n\n\"Ah said so,\" murmured Learoyd. \"Tomorrow ah'll smash t' face in upon his\nheead.\"\n\n\"Ye will not. Dearsley's a jool av a man. Afther Ortheris had put me into\nthe palanquin an' the six bearer-men were gruntin' down the road, I tuk\nthought to mock Dearsley for that fight. So I tould thim, 'Go to the\nembankmint,' and there, bein' most amazin' full, I shtuck my head out av\nthe concern an' passed compliments wid Dearsley. I must ha' miscalled him\noutrageous, for whin I am that way the power av the tongue comes on me. I\ncan bare remimber tellin' him that his mouth opened endways like the mouth\nav a skate, which was thrue afther Learoyd had handled ut; an' I clear\nremimber his takin' no manner nor matter av offence, but givin' me a big\ndhrink of beer. Twas the beer did the thrick, for I crawled back into the\npalanquin, steppin' on me right ear wid me left foot, an' thin slept like\nthe dead. Wanst I half-roused, an' begad the noise in my head was\ntremenjus--roarin' and rattlin' an' poundin', such as was quite new to me.\n'Mother av Mercy,' thinks I, 'phwat a concertina I will have on my\nshoulders whin I wake!' An' wid that I curls mysilf up to sleep before ut\nshould get hould on me. Bhoys, that noise was not dhrink, 'twas the rattle\nav a thrain!\"\n\nThere followed an impressive pause.\n\n\"Yes, he had put me on a thrain--put me, palanquin an' all, an' six black\nassassins av his own coolies that was in his nefarious confidence, on the\nflat av a ballast-thruck, and we were rowlin' an' bowlin' along to\nBenares. Glory be that I did not wake up thin an' introjuce mysilf to the\ncoolies. As I was sayin', I slept for the betther part av a day an' a\nnight. But remimber you, that that man Dearsley had packed me off on wan\nav his material-thrains to Benares, all for to make me overstay my leave\nan' get me into the cells.\"\n\nThe explanation was an eminently rational one. Benares lay at least ten\nhours by rail from the cantonments, and nothing in the world could have\nsaved Mulvaney from arrest as a deserter had he appeared there in the\napparel of his orgies. Dearsley had not forgotten to take revenge.\nLearoyd, drawing back a little, began to place soft blows over selected\nportions of Mulvaney's body. His thoughts were away on the embankment, and\nthey meditated evil for Dearsley. Mulvaney continued--\n\n\"Whin I was full awake the palanquin was set down in a street, I\nsuspicioned, for I cud hear people passin' an' talkin'. But I knew well I\nwas far from home. There is a queer smell upon our cantonments--a smell av\ndried earth and brick-kilns wid whiffs av cavalry stable-litter. This\nplace smelt marigold flowers an' bad water, an' wanst somethin' alive came\nan' blew heavy with his muzzle at the chink av the shutter. 'It's in a\nvillage I am,' thinks I to myself, 'an' the parochial buffalo is\ninvestigatin' the palanquin.' But anyways I had no desire to move. Only\nlie still whin you're in foreign parts an' the standin' luck av the\nBritish Army will carry ye through. That is an epigram. I made ut.\n\n\"Thin a lot av whishperin' divils surrounded the palanquin. 'Take ut up,'\nsez wan man. 'But who'll pay us?' sez another. 'The Maharanee's minister,\nav coorse,' sez the man. 'Oho!' sez I to mysilf, 'I'm a quane in me own\nright, wid a minister to pay me expenses. I'll be an emperor if I lie\nstill long enough; but this is no village I've found.' I lay quiet, but I\ngummed me right eye to a crack av the shutters, an' I saw that the whole\nstreet was crammed wid palanquins an' horses, an' a sprinklin' av naked\npriests all yellow powder an' tigers' tails. But I may tell you, Orth'ris,\nan' you, Learoyd, that av all the palanquins ours was the most imperial\nan' magnificent Now a palanquin means a native lady all the world over,\nexcept whin a soldier av the Quane happens to be takin' a ride. 'Women an'\npriests!' sez I. 'Your father's son is in the right pew this time,\nTerence. There will be proceedin's. Six black divils in pink muslin tuk up\nthe palanquin, an' oh! but the rowlin' an' the rockin' made me sick. Thin\nwe got fair jammed among the palanquins--not more than fifty av them--an'\nwe grated an' bumped like Queenstown potato-smacks in a runnin' tide. I\ncud hear the women gigglin' and squirkin' in their palanquins, but mine\nwas the royal equipage. They made way for ut, an', begad, the pink muslin\nmen o' mine were howlin', 'Room for the Maharanee av Gokral-Seetarun.' Do\nyou know aught av the lady, sorr?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said I, \"She is a very estimable old queen of the Central Indian\nStates, and they say she is fat. How on earth could she go to Benares\nwithout all the city knowing her palanquin?\"\n\n\"'Twas the eternal foolishness av the naygur-man. They saw the palanquin\nlying loneful an' forlornsome, an' the beauty av ut, after Dearsley's men\nhad dhropped ut and gone away, an' they gave ut the best name that\noccurred to thim. Quite right too. For aught we know the ould lady was\ntravelin' _incog_--like me. I'm glad to hear she's fat. I was no light\nweight mysilf, an' my men were mortial anxious to dhrop me under a great\nbig archway promiscuously ornamented wid the most improper carvin's an'\ncuttin's I iver saw. Begad! they made me blush--like a--like a Maharanee.\"\n\n\"The temple of Prithi-Devi,\" I murmured, remembering the monstrous horrors\nof that sculptured archway at Benares.\n\n\"Pretty Devilskins, savin' your presence, sorr! There was nothin' pretty\nabout ut, except me. Twas all half dhark, an' whin the coolies left they\nshut a big black gate behind av us, an' half a company av fat yellow\npriests began pully-haulin' the palanquins into a dharker place yet--a big\nstone hall full av pillars, an' gods, an' incense, an' all manner av\nsimilar thruck. The gate disconcerted me, for I perceived I wud have to go\nforward to get out, my retreat bein' cut off. By the same token a good\npriest makes a bad palanquin-coolie. Begad! they nearly turned me inside\nout draggin' the palanquin to the temple. Now the disposishin av the\nforces inside was this way. The Maharanee av Gokral-Seetarun--that was\nme--lay by the favor av Providence on the far left flank behind the dhark\nav a pillar carved with elephints' heads, The remainder av the palanquins\nwas in a big half circle facing in to the biggest, fattest, an' most\namazin' she-god that iver I dreamed av. Her head ran up into the black\nabove us, an' her feet stuck out in the light av a little fire av melted\nbutter that a priest was feedin' out av a butter-dish. Thin a man began to\nsing an' play on somethin' back in the dhark, an' 'twas a queer song. Ut\nmade my hair lift on the back av my neck, Thin the doors av all the\npalanquins slid back, an' the women bundled out, I saw what I'll niver see\nagain. Twas more glorious than transformations at a pantomime, for they\nwas in pink an' blue an' silver an' red an' grass green, wid di'monds an'\nim'ralds an' great red rubies all over thim. But that was the least part\nav the glory. O bhoys, they were more lovely than the like av any\nloveliness in hiven; ay, their little bare feet were better than the white\nhands av a lord's lady, an' their mouths were like puckered roses, an'\ntheir eyes were bigger an' dharker than the eyes av any livin' women I've\nseen. Ye may laugh, but I'm speakin' truth. I niver saw the like, an'\nniver I will again.\"\n\n\"Seeing that in all probability you were watching the wives and daughters\nof most of the kings of India, the chances are that you won't,\" I said,\nfor it was dawning on me that Mulvaney had stumbled upon a big Queens'\nPraying at Benares.\n\n\"I niver will,\" he said, mournfully. \"That sight doesn't come twist to any\nman. It made me ashamed to watch. A fat priest knocked at my door. I\ndidn't think he'd have the insolince to disturb the Maharanee av\nGokral-Seetarun, so I lay still. 'The old cow's asleep,' sez he to\nanother. 'Let her be,' sez that. ''Twill be long before she has a calf!' I\nmight ha' known before he spoke that all a woman prays for in Injia--an'\nfor matter o' that in England too--is childher. That made me more sorry\nI'd come, me bein', as you well know, a childless man.\"\n\nHe was silent for a moment, thinking of his little son, dead many years\nago.\n\n\"They prayed, an' the butter-fires blazed up an' the incense turned\neverything blue, an' between that an' the fires the women looked as tho'\nthey were all ablaze an' twinklin'. They took hold av the she-god's knees,\nthey cried out an' they threw themselves about, an' that\nworld-without-end-amen music was dhrivin' thim mad. Mother av Hiven! how\nthey cried, an' the ould she-god grinnin' above thim all so scornful! The\ndhrink was dyin' out in me fast, an' I was thinkin' harder than the\nthoughts wud go through my head-thinkin' how to get out, an' all manner of\nnonsense as well. The women were rockin' in rows, their di'mond belts\nclickin', an' the tears runnin' out betune their hands, an' the lights\nwere goin' lower an' dharker. Thin there was a blaze like lightnin' from\nthe roof, an' that showed me the inside av the palanquin, an' at the end\nwhere my foot was, stood the livin' spit an' image o' mysilf worked on the\nlinin'. This man here, ut was.\"\n\nHe hunted in the folds of his pink cloak, ran a hand under one, and thrust\ninto the firelight a foot-long embroidered presentment of the great god\nKrishna, playing on a flute. The heavy jowl, the staring eye, and the\nblue-black moustache of the god made up a far-off resemblance to Mulvaney.\n\n\"The blaze was gone in a wink, but the whole schame came to me thin, I\nbelieve I was mad too. I slid the off-shutter open an' rowled out into the\ndhark behind the elephint-head pillar, tucked up my trousies to my knees,\nslipped off my boots an' tuk a general hould av all the pink linin' av the\npalanquin. Glory be, ut ripped out like a woman's dhriss whin you tread on\nut at a sergeants' ball, an' a bottle came with ut. I tuk the bottle an'\nthe next minut I was out av the dhark av the pillar, the pink linin'\nwrapped round me most graceful, the music, thunderin' like kettledrums,\nan' a could draft blowin' round my bare legs. By this hand that did ut, I\nwas Khrishna tootlin' on the flute--the god that the rig'mental chaplain\ntalks about. A sweet sight I must ha' looked. I knew my eyes were big, and\nmy face was wax-white, an' at the worst I must ha' looked like a ghost.\nBut they took me for the livin' god. The music stopped, and the women were\ndead dumb an' I crooked my legs like a shepherd on a china basin, an' I\ndid the ghost-waggle with my feet as I had done ut at the rig'mental\ntheatre many times, an' I slid acrost the width av that temple in front av\nthe she-god tootlin' on the beer bottle.\"\n\n\"Wot did you toot?\" demanded Ortheris the practical.\n\n\"Me? Oh!\" Mulvaney sprang up, suiting the action to the word, and sliding\ngravely in front of us, a dilapidated but imposing deity in the half\nlight. \"I sang--\n\n   \"Only say\n     You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan.\n   Don't say nay,\n     Charmin' Judy Callaghan.\"\n\nI didn't know me own voice when I sang. An' oh! 'twas pitiful to see the\nwomen. The darlin's were down on their faces. Whin I passed the last wan I\ncud see her poor little fingers workin' one in another as if she wanted to\ntouch my feet. So I dhrew the tail av this pink overcoat over her head for\nthe greater honor, an' I slid into the dhark on the other side av the\ntemple, and fetched up in the arms av a big fat priest. All I wanted was\nto get away clear. So I tak him by his greasy throat an' shut the speech\nout av him, 'Out!' sez I. 'Which way, ye fat heathen?'--'Oh!' sez he.\n'Man,' sez I. 'White man, soldier man, common soldier man. Where in the\nname av confusion is the back door?' The women in the temple were still on\ntheir faces, an' a young priest was holdin' out his arms above their\nheads.\n\n\"'This way,' sez my fat friend, duckin' behind a big bull-god an' divin'\ninto a passage, Thin I remimbered that I must ha' made the miraculous\nreputation av that temple for the next fifty years. 'Not so fast,' I sez,\nan' I held out both my hands wid a wink. That ould thief smiled like a\nfather. I tuk him by the back av the neck in case he should be wishful to\nput a knife into me unbeknownst, an' I ran him up an' down the passage\ntwice to collect his sensibilities! 'Be quiet,' sez he, in English. 'Now\nyou talk sense,' I sez. 'Fwhat'll you give me for the use av that most\niligant palanquin I have no time to take away?'--'Don't tell,' sez he, 'Is\nut like?' sez I, 'But ye might give me my railway fare. I'm far from my\nhome an' I've done you a service.' Bhoys, 'tis a good thing to be a\npriest. The ould man niver throubled himself to dhraw from a bank. As I\nwill prove to you subsequint, he philandered all round the slack av his\nclothes an' began dribblin' ten-rupee notes, old gold mohurs, and rupees\ninto my hand till I could hould no more.\"\n\n\"You lie!\" said Ortheris. \"You're mad or sunstrook. A native don't give\ncoin unless you cut it out o' 'im. 'Tain't nature.\"\n\n\"Then my lie an' my sunstroke is concealed under that lump av sod yonder,\"\nretorted Mulvaney, unruffled, nodding across the scrub. \"An' there's a\ndale more in nature than your squidgy little legs have iver taken you to,\nOrth'ris, me son. Four hundred an' thirty-four rupees by my reckoning\n_an'_ a big fat gold necklace that I took from him as a remimbrancer, was\nour share in that business.\"\n\n\"An' 'e give it you for love?\" said Ortheris.\n\n\"We were alone in that passage. Maybe I was a trifle too pressin', but\nconsidher fwhat I had done for the good av the temple and the iverlastin'\njoy av those women. Twas cheap at the price. I wud ha' taken more if I cud\nha' found ut. I turned the ould man upside down at the last, but he was\nmilked dhry. Thin he opened a door in another passage an' I found mysilf\nup to my knees in Benares river-water, an' bad smellin' ut is. More by\ntoken I had come out on the river-line close to the burnin' ghat and\ncontagious to a cracklin' corpse. This was in the heart av the night, for\nI had been four hours in the temple. There was a crowd av boats tied up,\nso I tuk wan an' wint across the river, Thin I came home acrost country,\nlyin' up by day.\"\n\n\"How on earth did you manage?\" I said.\n\n\"How did Sir Frederick Roberts get from Cabul to Candahar? He marched an'\nhe niver tould how near he was to breakin' down. That's why he is fwhat he\nis. An' now\"--Mulvaney yawned portentously, \"Now I will go an' give myself\nup for absince widout leave. It's eight an' twenty days an' the rough end\nof the colonel's tongue in orderly room, any way you look at ut. But 'tis\ncheap at the price.\"\n\n\"Mulvaney,\" said I, softly. \"If there happens to be any sort of excuse\nthat the colonel can in any way accept, I have a notion that you'll get\nnothing more than the dressing-down, The new recruits are in, and\"--\n\n\"Not a word more, sorr. Is ut excuses the old man wants? Tis not my way,\nbut he shall have thim. I'll tell him I was engaged in financial\noperations connected wid a church,\" and he flapped his way to cantonments\nand the cells, singing lustily--\n\n   \"So they sent a corp'ril's file,\n   And they put me in the gyard-room\n   For conduck unbecomin' of a soldier.\"\n\nAnd when he was lost in the midst of the moonlight we could hear the\nrefrain--\n\n   \"Bang upon the big drum, bash upon the cymbals,\n   As we go marchin' along, boys, oh!\n   For although in this campaign\n   There's no whisky nor champagne,\n   We'll keep our spirits goin' with a song, boys!\"\n\nTherewith he surrendered himself to the joyful and almost weeping guard,\nand was made much of by his fellows. But to the colonel he said that he\nhad been smitten with sunstroke and had lain insensible on a villager's\ncot for untold hours; and between laughter and good-will the affair was\nsmoothed over, so that he could, next day, teach the new recruits how to\n\"Fear God, Honor the Queen, Shoot Straight, and Keep Clean.\"\n\n\n\n\nHIS MAJESTY THE KING\n\n\n\"Where the word of a King is, there is power: And who may say unto\nhim--What doest thou?\"\n\n\"Yeth! And Chimo to sleep at ve foot of ve bed, and ve pink pikky-book,\nand ve bwead--'cause I will be hungwy in ve night--and vat's all, Miss\nBiddums. And now give me one kiss and I'll go to sleep.--So! Kite quiet.\nOw! Ve pink pikky-book has slidded under ve pillow and ve bwead is\ncwumbling! Miss Biddums! Miss _Bid_dums! I'm _so_ uncomfy! Come and tuck\nme up, Miss Biddums.\"\n\nHis Majesty the King was going to bed; and poor, patient Miss Biddums, who\nhad advertised herself humbly as a \"young person, European, accustomed to\nthe care of little children,\" was forced to wait upon his royal caprices.\nThe going to bed was always a lengthy process, because His Majesty had a\nconvenient knack of forgetting which of his many friends, from the\n_mehter's_ son to the Commissioner's daughter, he had prayed for, and,\nlest the Deity should take offence, was used to toil through his little\nprayers, in all reverence, five times in one evening. His Majesty the King\nbelieved in the efficacy of prayer as devoutly as he believed in Chimo the\npatient spaniel, or Miss Biddums, who could reach him down his gun--\"with\ncursuffun caps--_reel_ ones\"--from the upper shelves of the big nursery\ncupboard.\n\nAt the door of the nursery his authority stopped. Beyond lay the empire of\nhis father and mother--two very terrible people who had no time to waste\nupon His Majesty the King. His voice was lowered when he passed the\nfrontier of his own dominions, his actions were fettered, and his soul was\nfilled with awe because of the grim man who lived among a wilderness of\npigeon-holes and the most fascinating pieces of red tape, and the\nwonderful woman who was always getting into or stepping out of the big\ncarriage.\n\nTo the one belonged the mysteries of the \"_duftar_-room\"; to the other the\ngreat, reflected wilderness of the \"Memsahib's room\" where the shiny,\nscented dresses hung on pegs, miles and miles up in the air, and the\njust-seen plateau of the toilet-table revealed an acreage of speckly\ncombs, broidered \"hanafitch bags,\" and \"white-headed\" brushes.\n\nThere was no room for His Majesty the King either in official reserve or\nmundane gorgeousness. He had discovered that, ages and ages ago--before\neven Chimo came to the house, or Miss Biddums had ceased grizzling over a\npacket of greasy letters which appeared to be her chief treasure on earth.\nHis Majesty the King, therefore, wisely confined himself to his own\nterritories, where only Miss Biddums, and she feebly, disputed his sway.\n\nFrom Miss Biddums he had picked up his simple theology and welded it to\nthe legends of gods and devils that he had learned in the servants'\nquarters.\n\nTo Miss Biddums he confided with equal trust his tattered garments and his\nmore serious griefs. She would make everything whole. She knew exactly how\nthe Earth had been born, and had reassured the trembling soul of His\nMajesty the King that terrible time in July when it rained continuously\nfor seven days and seven nights, and--there was no Ark ready and all the\nravens had flown away! She was the most powerful person with whom he was\nbrought into contact--always excepting the two remote and silent people\nbeyond the nursery door.\n\nHow was His Majesty the King to know that, six years ago, in the summer of\nhis birth, Mrs. Austell, turning over her husband's papers, had come upon\nthe intemperate letter of a foolish woman who had been carried away by the\nsilent man's strength and personal beauty? How could he tell what evil the\noverlooked slip of note-paper had wrought in the mind of a desperately\njealous wife? How could he, despite his wisdom, guess that his mother had\nchosen to make of it excuse for a bar and a division between herself and\nher husband, that strengthened and grew harder to break with each year;\nthat she, having unearthed this skeleton in the cupboard, had trained it\ninto a household God which should be about their path and about their bed,\nand poison all their ways?\n\nThese things were beyond the province of His Majesty the King. He only\nknew that his father was daily absorbed in some mysterious work for a\nthing called the _Sirkar_ and that his mother was the victim alternately\nof the _Nautch_ and the _Burrakhana_. To these entertainments she was\nescorted by a Captain-Man for whom His Majesty the King had no regard.\n\n\"He _doesn't_ laugh,\" he argued with Miss Biddums, who would fain have\ntaught him charity. \"He only makes faces wiv his mouf, and when he wants\nto o-muse me I am _not_ o-mused.\" And His Majesty the King shook his head\nas one who knew the deceitfulness of this world.\n\nMorning and evening it was his duty to salute his father and mother--the\nformer with a grave shake of the hand, and the latter with an equally\ngrave kiss. Once, indeed, he had put his arms round his mother's neck, in\nthe fashion he used toward Miss Biddums. The openwork of his sleeve-edge\ncaught in an earring, and the last stage of His Majesty's little overture\nwas a suppressed scream and summary dismissal to the nursery.\n\n\"It's w'ong,\" thought His Majesty the King, \"to hug Memsahibs wiv fings in\nveir ears. I will amember.\" He never repeated the experiment.\n\nMiss Biddums, it must be confessed, spoiled him as much as his nature\nadmitted, in some sort of recompense for what she called \"the hard ways of\nhis Papa and Mamma.\" She, like her charge, knew nothing of the trouble\nbetween man and wife--the savage contempt for a woman's stupidity on the\none side, or the dull, rankling anger on the other. Miss Biddums had\nlooked after many little children in her time, and served in many\nestablishments. Being a discreet woman, she observed little and said less,\nand, when her pupils went over the sea to the Great Unknown which she,\nwith touching confidence in her hearers, called \"Home,\" packed up her\nslender belongings and sought for employment afresh, lavishing all her\nlove on each successive batch of ingrates. Only His Majesty the King had\nrepaid her affection with interest; and in his uncomprehending ears she\nhad told the tale of nearly all her hopes, her aspirations, the hopes that\nwere dead, and the dazzling glories of her ancestral home in \"_Cal_cutta,\nclose to Wellington Square.\"\n\nEverything above the average was in the eyes of His Majesty the King\n\"Calcutta good.\" When Miss Biddums had crossed his royal will, he reversed\nthe epithet to vex that estimable lady, and all things evil were, until\nthe tears of repentance swept away spite, \"Calcutta bad.\"\n\nNow and again Miss Biddums begged for him the rare pleasure of a day in\nthe society of the Commissioner's child--the wilful four-year-old Patsie,\nwho, to the intense amazement of His Majesty the King, was idolized by her\nparents. On thinking the question out at length, by roads unknown to those\nwho have left childhood behind, he came to the conclusion that Patsie was\npetted because she wore a big blue sash and yellow hair.\n\nThis precious discovery he kept to himself. The yellow hair was absolutely\nbeyond his power, his own tousled wig being potato-brown; but something\nmight be done toward the blue sash. He tied a large knot in his\nmosquito-curtains in order to remember to consult Patsie on their next\nmeeting. She was the only child he had ever spoken to, and almost the only\none that he had ever seen. The little memory and the very large and ragged\nknot held good.\n\n\"Patsie, lend me your blue wiband,\" said His Majesty the King.\n\n\"You'll bewy it,\" said Patsie, doubtfully, mindful of certain fearful\natrocities committed on her doll.\n\n\"No, I won't--twoofanhonor. It's for me to wear.\"\n\n\"Pooh!\" said Patsie. \"Boys don't wear sa-ashes. Zey's only for dirls.\"\n\n\"I didn't know.\" The face of His Majesty the King fell.\n\n\"Who wants ribands? Are you playing horses, chickabiddies?\" said the\nCommissioner's wife, stepping into the veranda.\n\n\"Toby wanted my sash,\" explained Patsie.\n\n\"I don't now,\" said His Majesty the King, hastily, feeling that with one\nof these terrible \"grown-ups\" his poor little secret would be shamelessly\nwrenched from him, and perhaps--most burning desecration of all--laughed\nat.\n\n\"I'll give you a cracker-cap,\" said the Commissioner's wife. \"Come along\nwith me, Toby, and we'll choose it.\"\n\nThe cracker-cap was a stiff, three-pointed vermilion-and-tinsel splendor.\nHis Majesty the King fitted it on his royal brow. The Commissioner's wife\nhad a face that children instinctively trusted, and her action, as she\nadjusted the toppling middle spike, was tender.\n\n\"Will it do as well?\" stammered His Majesty the King.\n\n\"As what, little one?\"\n\n\"As ve wiban?\"\n\n\"Oh, quite. Go and look at yourself in the glass.\"\n\nThe words were spoken in all sincerity and to help forward any absurd\n\"dressing-up\" amusement that the children might take into their minds. But\nthe young savage has a keen sense of the ludicrous. His Majesty the King\nswung the great cheval-glass down, and saw his head crowned with the\nstaring horror of a fool's cap--a thing which his father would rend to\npieces if it ever came into his office. He plucked it off, and burst into\ntears.\n\n\"Toby,\" said the Commissioner's wife, gravely, \"you shouldn't give way to\ntemper. I am very sorry to see it. It's wrong.\"\n\nHis Majesty the King sobbed inconsolably, and the heart of Patsie's mother\nwas touched. She drew the child on to her knee. Clearly it was not temper\nalone.\n\n\"What is it, Toby? Won't you tell me? Aren't you well?\"\n\nThe torrent of sobs and speech met, and fought for a time, with chokings\nand gulpings and gasps. Then, in a sudden rush, His Majesty the King was\ndelivered of a few inarticulate sounds, followed by the words:--\"Go a--way\nyou--dirty--little debbil!\"\n\n\"Toby! What do you mean?\"\n\n\"It's what he'd say. I _know_ it is! He said vat when vere was only a\nlittle, little eggy mess, on my t-t-unic; and he'd say it again, and\nlaugh, if I went in wif vat on my head.\"\n\n\"Who would say that?\"\n\n\"M-m-my Papa! And I fought if I had ve blue wiban, he'd let me play in ve\nwaste-paper basket under ve table.\"\n\n\"_What_ blue riband, childie?\"\n\n\"Ve same vat Patsie had--ve big blue wiban w-w-wound my t-ttummy!\"\n\n\"What is it, Toby? There's something on your mind. Tell me all about it,\nand perhaps I can help.\"\n\n\"Isn't anyfing,\" sniffed His Majesty, mindful of his manhood, and raising\nhis head from the motherly bosom upon which it was resting. \"I only fought\nvat you--you petted Patsie 'cause she had ve blue wiban, and--and if I'd\nhad ve blue wiban too, m-my Papa w-would pet me.\"\n\nThe secret was out, and His Majesty the King sobbed bitterly in spite of\nthe arms round him, and the murmur of comfort on his heated little\nforehead.\n\nEnter Patsie tumultuously, embarrassed by several lengths of the\nCommissioner's pet _mahseer_-rod. \"Tum along, Toby! Zere's a _chu-chu_\nlizard in _ze chick_, and I've told Chimo to watch him till we turn. If we\npoke him wiz zis his tail will go _wiggle-wiggle_ and fall off. Tum along!\nI can't weach.\"\n\n\"I'm comin',\" said His Majesty the King, climbing down from the\nCommissioner's wife's knee after a hasty kiss.\n\nTwo minutes later, the _chu-chu_ lizard's tail was wriggling on the\nmatting of the veranda, and the children were gravely poking it with\nsplinters from the _chick_, to urge its exhausted vitality into \"just one\nwiggle more, 'cause it doesn't hurt _chu-chu_.\"\n\nThe Commissioner's wife stood in the doorway and watched:--\"Poor little\nmite! A blue sash ... and my own precious Patsie! I wonder if the best of\nus, or we who love them best, ever understand what goes on in their\ntopsy-turvy little heads.\"\n\nA big tear splashed on the Commissioner's wife's wedding-ring, and she\nwent indoors to devise a tea for the benefit of His Majesty the King.\n\n\"Their souls aren't in their tummies at that age in this climate,\" said\nthe Commissioner's wife, \"but they are not far off. I wonder if I could\nmake Mrs. Austell understand. Poor little fellow!\"\n\nWith simple craft, the Commissioner's wife called on Mrs. Austell and\nspoke long and lovingly about children; inquiring specially for His\nMajesty the King.\n\n\"He's with his governess,\" said Mrs. Austell, and the tone intimated that\nshe was not interested.\n\nThe Commissioner's wife, unskilled in the art of war, continued her\nquestionings. \"I don't know,\" said Mrs. Austell. \"These things are left to\nMiss Biddums, and, of course, she does not ill-treat the child.\"\n\nThe Commissioner's wife left hastily. The last sentence jarred upon her\nnerves. \"Doesn't _ill-treat_ the child! As if that were all! I wonder what\nTom would say if I only 'didn't ill-treat' Patsie!\"\n\nThenceforward, His Majesty the King was an honored guest at the\nCommissioner's house, and the chosen friend of Patsie, with whom he\nblundered into as many scrapes as the compound and the servants' quarters\nafforded. Patsie's Mamma was always ready to give counsel, help, and\nsympathy, and, if need were and callers few, to enter into their games\nwith an _abandon_ that would have shocked the sleek-haired subalterns who\nsquirmed painfully in their chairs when they came to call on her whom they\nprofanely nicknamed \"Mother Bunch.\"\n\nYet, in spite of Patsie and Patsie's Mamma, and the love that these two\nlavished upon him, His Majesty the King fell grievously from grace, and\ncommitted no less a sin than that of theft--unknown, it is true, but\nburdensome.\n\nThere came a man to the door one day, when His Majesty was playing in the\nhall and the bearer had gone to dinner, with a packet for his Majesty's\nMamma. And he put it upon the hall-table, said that there was no answer,\nand departed.\n\nPresently, the pattern of the dado ceased to interest His Majesty, while\nthe packet, a white, neatly wrapped one of fascinating shape, interested\nhim very much indeed. His Mamma was out, so was Miss Biddums, and there\nwas pink string round the packet. He greatly desired pink string. It would\nhelp him in many of his little businesses--the haulage across the floor of\nhis small cane-chair, the torturing of Chimo, who could never understand\nharness--and so forth. If he took the string it would be his own, and\nnobody would be any the wiser. He certainly could not pluck up sufficient\ncourage to ask Mamma for it. Wherefore, mounting upon a chair, he\ncarefully untied the string and, behold, the stiff white paper spread out\nin four directions, and revealed a beautiful little leather box with gold\nlines upon it! He tried to replace the string, but that was a failure. So\nhe opened the box to get full satisfaction for his iniquity, and saw a\nmost beautiful Star that shone and winked, and was altogether lovely and\ndesirable.\n\n\"Vat,\" said His Majesty, meditatively, \"is a 'parkle cwown, like what I\nwill wear when I go to heaven. I will wear it on my head--Miss Biddums\nsays so. I would like to wear it _now_. I would like to play wiv it. I\nwill take it away and play wiv it, very careful, until Mamma asks for it.\nI fink it was bought for me to play wiv--same as my cart.\"\n\nHis Majesty the King was arguing against his conscience, and he knew it,\nfor he thought immediately after: \"Never mind. I will keep it to play wiv\nuntil Mamma says where is it, and then I will say:--'I tookt it and I am\nsorry.' I will not hurt it because it is a 'parkle cwown. But Miss Biddums\nwill tell me to put it back. I will not show it to Miss Biddums.\"\n\nIf Mamma had come in at that moment all would have gone well. She did not,\nand His Majesty the King stuffed paper, case, and jewel into the breast of\nhis blouse and marched to the nursery.\n\n\"When Mamma asks I will tell,\" was the salve that he laid upon his\nconscience. But Mamma never asked, and for three whole days His Majesty\nthe King gloated over his treasure. It was of no earthly use to him, but\nit was splendid, and, for aught he knew, something dropped from the\nheavens themselves. Still Mamma made no inquiries, and it seemed to him,\nin his furtive peeps, as though the shiny stones grew dim. What was the\nuse of a 'parkle cwown if it made a little boy feel all bad in his inside?\nHe had the pink string as well as the other treasure, but greatly he\nwished that he had not gone beyond the string. It was his first experience\nof iniquity, and it pained him after the flush of possession and secret\ndelight in the \"'parkle cwown\" had died away.\n\nEach day that he delayed rendered confession to the people beyond the\nnursery doors more impossible. Now and again he determined to put himself\nin the path of the beautifully attired lady as she was going out, and\nexplain that he and no one else was the possessor of a \"'parkle cwown,\"\nmost beautiful and quite uninquired for. But she passed hurriedly to her\ncarriage, and the opportunity was gone before His Majesty the King could\ndraw the deep breath which clinches noble resolve. The dread secret cut\nhim off from Miss Biddums, Patsie, and the Commissioner's wife,\nand--doubly hard fate--when he brooded over it Patsie said, and told her\nmother, that he was cross.\n\nThe days were very long to His Majesty the King, and the nights longer\nstill. Miss Biddums had informed him, more than once, what was the\nultimate destiny of \"fieves,\" and when he passed the interminable mud\nflanks of the Central Jail, he shook in his little strapped shoes.\n\nBut release came after an afternoon spent in playing boats by the edge of\nthe tank at the bottom of the garden. His Majesty the King went to tea,\nand, for the first time in his memory, the meal revolted him. His nose was\nvery cold, and his cheeks were burning hot. There was a weight about his\nfeet, and he pressed his head several times to make sure that it was not\nswelling as he sat.\n\n\"I feel vevy funny,\" said His Majesty the King, rubbing his nose. \"Vere's\na buzz-buzz in my head.\"\n\nHe went to bed quietly. Miss Biddums was out and the bearer undressed him.\n\nThe sin of the \"'parkle cwown\" was forgotten in the acuteness of the\ndiscomfort to which he roused after a leaden sleep of some hours, He was\nthirsty, and the bearer had forgotten to leave the drinking-water. \"Miss\nBiddums! Miss Biddums! I'm so kirsty!\"\n\nNo answer, Miss Biddums had leave to attend the wedding of a Calcutta\nschoolmate. His Majesty the King had forgotten that.\n\n\"I want a dwink of water!\" he cried, but his voice was dried up in his\nthroat. \"I want a dwink! Vere is ve glass?\"\n\nHe sat up in bed and looked round. There was a murmur of voices from the\nother side of the nursery door. It was better to face the terrible unknown\nthan to choke in the dark. He slipped out of bed, but his feet were\nstrangely wilful, and he reeled once or twice. Then he pushed the door\nopen and staggered--a puffed and purple-faced little figure--into the\nbrilliant light of the dining-room full of pretty ladies.\n\n\"I'm vevy hot! I'm vevy uncomfitivle,\" moaned His Majesty the King,\nclinging to the porti\u00e8re, \"and vere's no water in ve glass, and I'm _so_\nkirsty. Give me a dwink of water.\"\n\nAn apparition in black and white--His Majesty the King could hardly see\ndistinctly--lifted him up to the level of the table, and felt his wrists\nand forehead. The water came, and he drank deeply, his teeth chattering\nagainst the edge of the tumbler. Then every one seemed to go away--every\none except the huge man in black and white, who carried him back to his\nbed; the mother and father following. And the sin of the \"'parkle cwown\"\nrushed back and took possession of the terrified soul.\n\n\"I'm a fief!\" he gasped. \"I want to tell Miss Biddums vat I'm a fief. Vere\nis Miss Biddums?\"\n\nMiss Biddums had come and was bending over him. \"I'm a fief,\" he\nwhispered. \"A fief--like ve men in the pwison. But I'll tell now, I\ntookt ... I tookt ve 'parkle cwown when the man that came left it in ve hall. I\nbwoke ve paper and ve little bwown box, and it looked shiny, and I tookt\nit to play wif, and I was afwaid. It's in ve dooly-box at ve bottom. No\none _never_ asked for it, but I was afwaid. Oh, go an' get ve dooly-box!\"\n\nMiss Biddums obediently stooped to the lowest shelf of the _almirah_ and\nunearthed the big paper box in which His Majesty the King kept his dearest\npossessions. Under the tin soldiers, and a layer of mud pellets for a\npellet-bow, winked and blazed a diamond star, wrapped roughly in a\nhalf-sheet of note-paper whereon were a few words.\n\nSomebody was crying at the head of the bed, and a man's hand touched the\nforehead of His Majesty the King, who grasped the packet and spread it on\nthe bed.\n\n\"Vat is ve 'parkle cwown,\" he said, and wept bitterly; for now that he had\nmade restitution he would fain have kept the shining splendor with him.\n\n\"It concerns you too,\" said a voice at the head of the bed. \"Read the\nnote. This is not the time to keep back anything.\"\n\nThe note was curt, very much to the point, and signed by a single initial.\n\"_If you wear this to-morrow night I shall know what to expect._\" The date\nwas three weeks old.\n\nA whisper followed, and the deeper voice returned: \"And you drifted as far\napart as _that!_ I think it makes us quits now, doesn't it? Oh, can't we\ndrop this folly once and for all? Is it worth it, darling?\"\n\n\"Kiss me too,\" said His Majesty the King, dreamily. \"You isn't _vevy_\nangwy, is you?\"\n\nThe fever burned itself out, and His Majesty the King slept.\n\nWhen he waked, it was in a new world--peopled by his father and mother as\nwell as Miss Biddums: and there was much love in that world and no morsel\nof fear, and more petting than was good for several little boys. His\nMajesty the King was too young to moralize on the uncertainty of things\nhuman, or he would have been impressed with the singular advantages of\ncrime--ay, black sin. Behold, he had stolen the \"'parkle cwown,\" and his\nreward was Love, and the right to play in the waste-paper basket under the\ntable \"for always\".\n\n\n       *\n       *\n       *\n       *\n       *\n\nHe trotted over to spend an afternoon with Patsie, and the Commissioner's\nwife would have kissed him. \"No, not vere,\" said His Majesty the King,\nwith superb insolence, fencing one corner of his mouth with his hand,\n\"Vat's my Mamma's place--vere _she_ kisses me,\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said the Commissioner's wife, briefly. Then to herself: \"Well, I\nsuppose I ought to be glad for his sake. Children are selfish little grubs\nand--I've got my Patsie.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE STRANGE RIDE OF MORROWBIE JUKES\n\n\nAlive or dead--there is no other way.--_Native Proverb_.\n\nThere is, as the conjurers say, no deception about this tale. Jukes by\naccident stumbled upon a village that is well known to exist, though he is\nthe only Englishman who has been there. A somewhat similar institution\nused to flourish on the outskirts of Calcutta, and there is a story that\nif you go into the heart of Bikanir, which is in the heart of the Great\nIndian Desert, you shall come across not a village but a town where the\nDead who did not die but may not live have established their headquarters.\nAnd, since it is perfectly true that in the same Desert is a wonderful\ncity where all the rich moneylenders retreat after they have made their\nfortunes (fortunes so vast that the owners cannot trust even the strong\nhand of the Government to protect them, but take refuge in the waterless\nsands), and drive sumptuous C-spring barouches, and buy beautiful girls\nand decorate their palaces with gold and ivory and Minton tiles and\nmother-o'-pearl, I do not see why Jukes's tale should not be true. He is a\nCivil Engineer, with a head for plans and distances and things of that\nkind, and he certainly would not take the trouble to invent imaginary\ntraps. He could earn more by doing his legitimate work. He never varies\nthe tale in the telling, and grows very hot and indignant when he thinks\nof the disrespectful treatment he received. He wrote this quite\nstraightforwardly at first, but he has since touched it up in places and\nintroduced Moral Reflections, thus:\n\nIn the beginning it all arose from a slight attack of fever. My work\nnecessitated my being in camp for some months between Pakpattan and\nMubarakpur--a desolate sandy stretch of country as every one who has had\nthe misfortune to go there may know. My coolies were neither more nor less\nexasperating than other gangs, and my work demanded sufficient attention\nto keep me from moping, had I been inclined to so unmanly a weakness.\n\nOn the 23d December, 1884, I felt a little feverish. There was a full moon\nat the time, and, in consequence, every dog near my tent was baying it.\nThe brutes assembled in twos and threes and drove me frantic. A few days\npreviously I had shot one loud-mouthed singer and suspended his carcass\n_in terrorem_ about fifty yards from my tent-door. But his friends fell\nupon, fought for, and ultimately devoured the body: and, as it seemed to\nme, sang their hymns of thanksgiving afterward with renewed energy.\n\nThe light-headedness which accompanies fever acts differently on different\nmen. My irritation gave way, after a short time, to a fixed determination\nto slaughter one huge black and white beast who had been foremost in song\nand first in flight throughout the evening. Thanks to a shaking hand and a\ngiddy head I had already missed him twice with both barrels of my shotgun,\nwhen it struck me that my best plan would be to ride him down in the open\nand finish him off with a hog-spear. This, of course, was merely the\nsemi-delirious notion of a fever patient; but I remember that it struck me\nat the time as being eminently practical and feasible.\n\nI therefore ordered my groom to saddle Pornic and bring him round quietly\nto the rear of my tent. When the pony was ready, I stood at his head\nprepared to mount and dash out as soon as the dog should again lift up his\nvoice. Pornic, by the way, had not been out of his pickets for a couple of\ndays; the night air was crisp and chilly; and I was armed with a specially\nlong and sharp pair of persuaders with which I had been rousing a sluggish\ncob that afternoon. You will easily believe, then, that when he was let go\nhe went quickly. In one moment, for the brute bolted as straight as a die,\nthe tent was left far behind, and we were flying over the smooth sandy\nsoil at racing speed. In another we had passed the wretched dog, and I had\nalmost forgotten why it was that I had taken horse and hog-spear.\n\nThe delirium of fever and the excitement of rapid motion through the air\nmust have taken away the remnant of my senses. I have a faint recollection\nof standing upright in my stirrups, and of brandishing my hog-spear at the\ngreat white Moon that looked down so calmly on my mad gallop; and of\nshouting challenges to the camel-thorn bushes as they whizzed past. Once\nor twice, I believe, I swayed forward on Pornic's neck, and literally hung\non by my spurs--as the marks next morning showed.\n\nThe wretched beast went forward like a thing possessed, over what seemed\nto be a limitless expanse of moonlit sand. Next, I remember, the ground\nrose suddenly in front of us, and as we topped the ascent I saw the waters\nof the Sutlej shining like a silver bar below. Then Pornic blundered\nheavily on his nose, and we rolled together down some unseen slope.\n\nI must have lost consciousness, for when I recovered I was lying on my\nstomach in a heap of soft white sand, and the dawn was beginning to break\ndimly over the edge of the slope down which I had fallen. As the light\ngrew stronger I saw that I was at the bottom of a horseshoe-shaped crater\nof sand, opening on one side directly on to the shoals of the Sutlej. My\nfever had altogether left me, and, with the exception of a slight\ndizziness in the head, I felt no bad effects from the fall over night.\n\nPornic, who was standing a few yards away, was naturally a good deal\nexhausted, but had not hurt himself in the least. His saddle, a favorite\npolo one, was much knocked about, and had been twisted under his belly. It\ntook me some time to put him to rights, and in the meantime I had ample\nopportunities of observing the spot into which I had so foolishly dropped.\n\nAt the risk of being considered tedious, I must describe it at length;\ninasmuch as an accurate mental picture of its peculiarities will be of\nmaterial assistance in enabling the reader to understand what follows.\n\nImagine then, as I have said before, a horseshoe-shaped crater of sand\nwith steeply graded sand walls about thirty-five feet high. (The slope, I\nfancy, must have been about 65\u00b0.) This crater enclosed a level piece of\nground about fifty yards long by thirty at its broadest part, with a rude\nwell in the centre. Round the bottom of the crater, about three feet from\nthe level of the ground proper, ran a series of eighty-three\nsemi-circular, ovoid, square, and multilateral holes, all about three feet\nat the mouth. Each hole on inspection showed that it was carefully shored\ninternally with driftwood and bamboos, and over the mouth a wooden\ndrip-board projected, like the peak of a jockey's cap, for two feet. No\nsign of life was visible in these tunnels, but a most sickening stench\npervaded the entire amphitheatre--a stench fouler than any which my\nwanderings in Indian villages have introduced me to.\n\nHaving remounted Pornic, who was as anxious as I to get back to camp, I\nrode round the base of the horseshoe to find some place whence an exit\nwould be practicable. The inhabitants, whoever they might be, had not\nthought fit to put in an appearance, so I was left to my own devices. My\nfirst attempt to \"rush\" Pornic up the steep sand-banks showed me that I\nhad fallen into a trap exactly on the same model as that which the\nant-lion sets for its prey. At each step the shifting sand poured down\nfrom above in tons, and rattled on the drip-boards of the holes like small\nshot. A couple of ineffectual charges sent us both rolling down to the\nbottom, half choked with the torrents of sand; and I was constrained to\nturn my attention to the river-bank.\n\nHere everything seemed easy enough. The sand hills ran down to the river\nedge, it is true, but there were plenty of shoals and shallows across\nwhich I could gallop Pornic, and find my way back to _terra firma_ by\nturning sharply to the right or the left. As I led Pornic over the sands I\nwas startled by the faint pop of a rifle across the river; and at the same\nmoment a bullet dropped with a sharp \"_whit_\" close to Pornic's head.\n\nThere was no mistaking the nature of the missile--a regulation\nMartini-Henry \"picket.\" About five hundred yards away a country-boat was\nanchored in midstream; and a jet of smoke drifting away from its bows in\nthe still morning air showed me whence the delicate attention had come.\nWas ever a respectable gentleman in such an _impasse?_ The treacherous\nsand slope allowed no escape from a spot which I had visited most\ninvoluntarily, and a promenade on the river frontage was the signal for a\nbombardment from some insane native in a boat. I'm afraid that I lost my\ntemper very much indeed.\n\nAnother bullet reminded me that I had better save my breath to cool my\nporridge; and I retreated hastily up the sands and back to the horseshoe,\nwhere I saw that the noise of the rifle had drawn sixty-five human beings\nfrom the badger-holes which I had up till that point supposed to be\nuntenanted. I found myself in the midst of a crowd of spectators--about\nforty men, twenty women, and one child who could not have been more than\nfive years old. They were all scantily clothed in that salmon-colored\ncloth which one associates with Hindu mendicants, and, at first sight,\ngave me the impression of a band of loathsome _fakirs_. The filth and\nrepulsiveness of the assembly were beyond all description, and I shuddered\nto think what their life in the badger-holes must be.\n\nEven in these days, when local self-government has destroyed the greater\npart of a native's respect for a Sahib, I have been accustomed to a\ncertain amount of civility from my inferiors, and on approaching the crowd\nnaturally expected that there would be some recognition of my presence. As\na matter of fact there was; but it was by no means what I had looked for.\n\nThe ragged crew actually laughed at me--such laughter I hope I may never\nhear again. They cackled, yelled, whistled, and howled as I walked into\ntheir midst: some of them literally throwing themselves down on the ground\nin convulsions of unholy mirth. In a moment I had let go Pornic's head,\nand, irritated beyond expression at the morning's adventure, commenced\ncuffing those nearest to me with all the force I could. The wretches\ndropped under my blows like nine-pins, and the laughter gave place to\nwails for mercy; while those yet untouched clasped me round the knees,\nimploring me in all sorts of uncouth tongues to spare them.\n\nIn the tumult, and just when I was feeling very much ashamed of myself for\nhaving thus easily given way to my temper, a thin, high voice murmured in\nEnglish from behind my shoulder:--\"Sahib! Sahib! Do you not know me?\nSahib, it is Gunga Dass, the telegraph-master.\"\n\nI spun round quickly and faced the speaker.\n\nGunga Dass (I have, of course, no hesitation in mentioning the man's real\nname) I had known four years before as a Deccanee Brahmin loaned by the\nPunjab Government to one of the Khalsia States. He was in charge of a\nbranch telegraph-office there, and when I had last met him was a jovial,\nfull-stomached, portly Government servant with a marvelous capacity for\nmaking bad puns in English--a peculiarity which made me remember him long\nafter I had forgotten his services to me in his official capacity. It is\nseldom that a Hindu makes English puns.\n\nNow, however, the man was changed beyond all recognition. Caste-mark,\nstomach, slate-colored continuations, and unctuous speech were all gone. I\nlooked at a withered skeleton, turbanless and almost naked, with long\nmatted hair and deep-set codfish-eyes. But for a crescent-shaped scar on\nthe left cheek--the result of an accident for which I was responsible--I\nshould never have known him. But it was indubitably Gunga Dass, and--for\nthis I was thankful--an English-speaking native who might at least tell me\nthe meaning of all that I had gone through that day.\n\nThe crowd retreated to some distance as I turned toward the miserable\nfigure, and ordered him to show me some method of escaping from the\ncrater. He held a freshly plucked crow in his hand, and in reply to my\nquestion climbed slowly on a platform of sand which ran in front of the\nholes, and commenced lighting a fire there in silence. Dried bents,\nsand-poppies, and driftwood burn quickly; and I derived much consolation\nfrom the fact that he lit them with an ordinary sulphur-match. When they\nwere in a bright glow, and the crow was neatly spitted in front thereof,\nGunga Dass began without a word of preamble:\n\n\"There are only two kinds of men, Sar. The alive and the dead. When you\nare dead, you are dead, but when you are alive you live.\" (Here the crow\ndemanded his attention for an instant as it twirled before the fire in\ndanger of being burned to a cinder.) \"If you die at home and do not die\nwhen you come to the gh\u00e2t to be burned you come here.\"\n\nThe nature of the reeking village was made plain now, and all that I had\nknown or read of the grotesque and the horrible paled before the fact just\ncommunicated by the ex-Brahmin. Sixteen years ago, when I first landed in\nBombay, I had been told by a wandering Armenian of the existence,\nsomewhere in India, of a place to which such Hindus as had the misfortune\nto recover from trance or catalepsy were conveyed and kept, and I\nrecollect laughing heartily at what I was then pleased to consider a\ntraveler's tale. Sitting at the bottom of the sand-trap, the memory of\nWatson's Hotel, with its swinging punkahs, white-robed attendants, and the\nsallow-faced Armenian, rose up in my mind as vividly as a photograph, and\nI burst into a loud fit of laughter. The contrast was too absurd!\n\nGunga Dass, as he bent over the unclean bird, watched me curiously. Hindus\nseldom laugh, and his surroundings were not such as to move Gunga Dass to\nany undue excess of hilarity. He removed the crow solemnly from the wooden\nspit and as solemnly devoured it. Then he continued his story, which I\ngive in his own words:\n\n\"In epidemics of the cholera you are carried to be burned almost before\nyou are dead. When you come to the riverside the cold air, perhaps, makes\nyou alive, and then, if you are only little alive, mud is put on your nose\nand mouth and you die conclusively. If you are rather more alive, more mud\nis put; but if you are too lively they let you go and take you away. I was\ntoo lively, and made protestation with anger against the indignities that\nthey endeavored to press upon me. In those days I was Brahmin and proud\nman. Now I am dead man and eat\"--here he eyed the well-gnawed breast bone\nwith the first sign of emotion that I had seen in him since we\nmet--\"crows, and other things. They took me from my sheets when they saw\nthat I was too lively and gave me medicines for one week, and I survived\nsuccessfully. Then they sent me by rail from my place to Okara Station,\nwith a man to take care of me; and at Okara Station we met two other men,\nand they conducted we three on camels, in the night, from Okara Station to\nthis place, and they propelled me from the top to the bottom, and the\nother two succeeded, and I have been here ever since two and a half years.\nOnce I was Brahmin and proud man, and now I eat crows.\"\n\n\"There is no way of getting out?\"\n\n\"None of what kind at all. When I first came I made experiments frequently\nand all the others also, but we have always succumbed to the sand which is\nprecipitated upon our heads.\"\n\n\"But surely,\" I broke in at this point, \"the river-front is open, and it\nis worth while dodging the bullets; while at night\"--\n\nI had already matured a rough plan of escape which a natural instinct of\nselfishness forbade me sharing with Gunga Dass. He, however, divined my\nunspoken thought almost as soon as it was formed; and, to my intense\nastonishment, gave vent to a long low chuckle of derision--the laughter,\nbe it understood, of a superior or at least of an equal.\n\n\"You will not\"--he had dropped the Sir completely after his opening\nsentence--\"make any escape that way. But you can try. I have tried. Once\nonly.\"\n\nThe sensation of nameless terror and abject fear which I had in vain\nattempted to strive against overmastered me completely. My long fast--it\nwas now close upon ten o'clock, and I had eaten nothing since tiffin on\nthe previous day--combined with the violent and unnatural agitation of the\nride had exhausted me, and I verily believe that, for a few minutes, I\nacted as one mad. I hurled myself against the pitiless sand-slope. I ran\nround the base of the crater, blaspheming and praying by turns. I crawled\nout among the sedges of the river-front, only to be driven back each time\nin an agony of nervous dread by the rifle-bullets which cut up the sand\nround me--for I dared not face the death of a mad dog among that hideous\ncrowd--and finally fell, spent and raving, at the curb of the well. No one\nhad taken the slightest notice of an exhibition which makes me blush hotly\neven when I think of it now.\n\nTwo or three men trod on my panting body as they drew water, but they were\nevidently used to this sort of thing, and had no time to waste upon me.\nThe situation was humiliating, Gunga Dass, indeed, when he had banked the\nembers of his fire with sand, was at some pains to throw half a cupful of\nfetid water over my head, an attention for which I could have fallen on my\nknees and thanked him, but he was laughing all the while in the same\nmirthless, wheezy key that greeted me on my first attempt to force the\nshoals. And so, in a semi-comatose condition, I lay till noon. Then, being\nonly a man after all, I felt hungry, and intimated as much to Gunga Dass,\nwhom I had begun to regard as my natural protector. Following the impulse\nof the outer world when dealing with natives, I put my hand into my pocket\nand drew out four annas. The absurdity of the gift struck me at once, and\nI was about to replace the money.\n\nGunga Dass, however, was of a different opinion, \"Give me the money,\" said\nhe; \"all you have, or I will get help, and we will kill you!\" All this as\nif it were the most natural thing in the world!\n\nA Briton's first impulse, I believe, is to guard the contents of his\npockets; but a moment's reflection convinced me of the futility of\ndiffering with the one man who had it in his power to make me comfortable;\nand with whose help it was possible that I might eventually escape from\nthe crater. I gave him all the money in my possession, Rs. 9-8-5--nine\nrupees eight annas and five pie--for I always keep small change as\n_bakshish_ when I am in camp. Gunga Dass clutched the coins, and hid them\nat once in his ragged loin-cloth, his expression changing to something\ndiabolical as he looked round to assure himself that no one had observed\nus.\n\n\"_Now_ I will give you something to eat,\" said he.\n\nWhat pleasure the possession of my money could have afforded him I am\nunable to say; but inasmuch as it did give him evident delight I was not\nsorry that I had parted with it so readily, for I had no doubt that he\nwould have had me killed if I had refused. One does not protest against\nthe vagaries of a den of wild beasts; and my companions were lower than\nany beasts. While I devoured what Gunga Dass had provided, a coarse\n_chapatti_ and a cupful of the foul well-water, the people showed not the\nfaintest sign of curiosity--that curiosity which is so rampant, as a rule,\nin an Indian village.\n\nI could even fancy that they despised me. At all events they treated me\nwith the most chilling indifference, and Gunga Dass was nearly as bad. I\nplied him with questions about the terrible village, and received\nextremely unsatisfactory answers. So far as I could gather, it had been in\nexistence from time immemorial--whence I concluded that it was at least a\ncentury old--and during that time no one had ever been known to escape\nfrom it. [I had to control myself here with both hands, lest the blind\nterror should lay hold of me a second time and drive me raving round the\ncrater.] Gunga Dass took a malicious pleasure in emphasizing this point\nand in watching me wince. Nothing that I could do would induce him to tell\nme who the mysterious \"They\" were.\n\n\"It is so ordered,\" he would reply, \"and I do not yet know any one who has\ndisobeyed the orders.\"\n\n\"Only wait till my servants find that I am missing,\" I retorted, \"and I\npromise you that this place shall be cleared off the face of the earth,\nand I'll give you a lesson in civility, too, my friend.\"\n\n\"Your servants would be torn in pieces before they came near this place;\nand, besides, you are dead, my dear friend. It is not your fault, of\ncourse, but none the less you are dead _and_ buried.\"\n\nAt irregular intervals supplies of food, I was told, were dropped down\nfrom the land side into the amphitheatre, and the inhabitants fought for\nthem like wild beasts. When a man felt his death coming on he retreated to\nhis lair and died there. The body was sometimes dragged out of the hole\nand thrown on to the sand, or allowed to rot where it lay.\n\nThe phrase \"thrown on to the sand\" caught my attention, and I asked Gunga\nDass whether this sort of thing was not likely to breed a pestilence.\n\n\"That,\" said he, with another of his wheezy chuckles, \"you may see for\nyourself subsequently. You will have much time to make observations.\"\n\nWhereat, to his great delight, I winced once more and hastily continued\nthe conversation:--\"And how do you live here from day to day? What do you\ndo?\" The question elicited exactly the same answer as before--coupled with\nthe information that \"this place is like your European heaven; there is\nneither marrying nor giving in marriage.\"\n\nGunga Dass has been educated at a Mission School, and, as he himself\nadmitted, had he only changed his religion \"like a wise man,\" might have\navoided the living grave which was now his portion. But as long as I was\nwith him I fancy he was happy.\n\nHere was a Sahib, a representative of the dominant race, helpless as a\nchild and completely at the mercy of his native neighbors, In a deliberate\nlazy way he set himself to torture me as a schoolboy would devote a\nrapturous half-hour to watching the agonies of an impaled beetle, or as a\nferret in a blind burrow might glue himself comfortably to the neck of a\nrabbit. The burden of his conversation was that there was no escape \"of no\nkind whatever,\" and that I should stay here till I died and was \"thrown on\nto the sand.\" If it were possible to forejudge the conversation of the\nDamned on the advent of a new soul in their abode, I should say that they\nwould speak as Gunga Dass did to me throughout that long afternoon. I was\npowerless to protest or answer; all my energies being devoted to a\nstruggle against the inexplicable terror that threatened to overwhelm me\nagain and again. I can compare the feeling to nothing except the struggles\nof a man against the overpowering nausea of the Channel passage--only my\nagony was of the spirit and infinitely more terrible.\n\nAs the day wore on, the inhabitants began to appear in full strength to\ncatch the rays or the afternoon sun, which were now sloping in at the\nmouth of the crater. They assembled in little knots, and talked among\nthemselves without even throwing a glance in my direction. About four\no'clock, as far as I could judge, Gunga Dass rose and dived into his lair\nfor a moment, emerging with a live crow in his hands. The wretched bird\nwas in a most draggled and deplorable condition, but seemed to be in no\nway afraid of its master. Advancing cautiously to the river front, Gunga\nDass stepped from tussock to tussock until he had reached a smooth patch\nof sand directly in the line of the boat's fire. The occupants of the boat\ntook no notice. Here he stopped, and, with a couple of dexterous turns of\nthe wrist, pegged the bird on its back with outstretched wings. As was\nonly natural, the crow began to shriek at once and beat the air with its\nclaws. In a few seconds the clamor had attracted the attention of a bevy\nof wild crows on a shoal a few hundred yards away, where they were\ndiscussing something that looked like a corpse. Half a dozen crows flew\nover at once to see what was going on, and also, as it proved, to attack\nthe pinioned bird. Gunga Dass, who had lain down on a tussock, motioned to\nme to be quiet, though I fancy this was a needless precaution. In a\nmoment, and before I could see how it happened, a wild crow, who had\ngrappled with the shrieking and helpless bird, was entangled in the\nlatter's claws, swiftly disengaged by Gunga Dass, and pegged down beside\nits companion in adversity. Curiosity, it seemed, overpowered the rest of\nthe flock, and almost before Gunga Dass and I had time to withdraw to the\ntussock, two more captives were struggling in the upturned claws of the\ndecoys. So the chase--if I can give it so dignified a name--continued\nuntil Gunga Dass had captured seven crows. Five of them he throttled at\nonce, reserving two for further operations another day. I was a good deal\nimpressed by this, to me, novel method of securing food, and complimented\nGunga Dass on his skill.\n\n\"It is nothing to do,\" said he. \"To-morrow you must do it for me. You are\nstronger than I am.\"\n\nThis calm assumption of superiority upset me not a little, and I answered\nperemptorily;--\"Indeed, you old ruffian! What do you think I have given\nyou money for?\"\n\n\"Very well,\" was the unmoved reply. \"Perhaps not to-morrow, nor the day\nafter, nor subsequently; but in the end, and for many years, you will\ncatch crows and eat crows, and you will thank your European God that you\nhave crows to catch and eat.\"\n\nI could have cheerfully strangled him for this; but judged it best under\nthe circumstances to smother my resentment. An hour later I was eating one\nof the crows; and, as Gunga Dass had said, thanking my God that I had a\ncrow to eat. Never as long as I live shall I forget that evening meal. The\nwhole population were squatting on the hard sand platform opposite their\ndens, huddled over tiny fires of refuse and dried rushes. Death, having\nonce laid his hand upon these men and forborne to strike, seemed to stand\naloof from them now; for most of our company were old men, bent and worn\nand twisted with years, and women aged to all appearance as the Fates\nthemselves. They sat together in knots and talked--God only knows what\nthey found to discuss--in low equable tones, curiously in contrast to the\nstrident babble with which natives are accustomed to make day hideous. Now\nand then an access of that sudden fury which had possessed me in the\nmorning would lay hold on a man or woman; and with yells and imprecations\nthe sufferer would attack the steep slope until, baffled and bleeding, he\nfell back on the platform incapable of moving a limb. The others would\nnever even raise their eyes when this happened, as men too well aware of\nthe futility of their fellows' attempts and wearied with their useless\nrepetition. I saw four such outbursts in the course of that evening.\n\nGunga Dass took an eminently business-like view of my situation, and while\nwe were dining--I can afford to laugh at the recollection now, but it was\npainful enough at the time--propounded the terms on which he would consent\nto \"do\" for me. My nine rupees eight annas, he argued, at the rate of\nthree annas a day, would provide me with food for fifty-one days, or about\nseven weeks; that is to say, he would be willing to cater for me for that\nlength of time. At the end of it I was to look after myself. For a further\nconsideration--_videlicet_ my boots--he would be willing to allow me to\noccupy the den next to his own, and would supply me with as much dried\ngrass for bedding as he could spare.\n\n\"Very well, Gunga Dass,\" I replied; \"to the first terms I cheerfully\nagree, but, as there is nothing on earth to prevent my killing you as you\nsit here and taking everything that you have\" (I thought of the two\ninvaluable crows at the time), \"I flatly refuse to give you my boots and\nshall take whichever den I please.\"\n\nThe stroke was a bold one, and I was glad when I saw that it had\nsucceeded, Gunga Dass changed his tone immediately, and disavowed all\nintention of asking for my boots. At the time it did not strike me as at\nall strange that I, a Civil Engineer, a man of thirteen years' standing in\nthe Service, and, I trust, an average Englishman, should thus calmly\nthreaten murder and violence against the man who had, for a consideration\nit is true, taken me under his wing. I had left the world, it seemed, for\ncenturies. I was as certain then as I am now of my own existence, that in\nthe accursed settlement there was no law save that of the strongest; that\nthe living dead men had thrown behind them every canon of the world which\nhad cast them out; and that I had to depend for my own life on my strength\nand vigilance alone. The crew of the ill-fated Mignonette are the only men\nwho would understand my frame of mind. \"At present,\" I argued to myself,\n\"I am strong and a match for six of these wretches. It is imperatively\nnecessary that I should, for my own sake, keep both health and strength\nuntil the hour of my release comes--if it ever does.\"\n\nFortified with these resolutions, I ate and drank as much as I could, and\nmade Gunga Dass understand that I intended to be his master, and that the\nleast sign of insubordination on his part would be visited with the only\npunishment I had it in my power to inflict--sudden and violent death.\nShortly after this I went to bed. That is to say, Gunga Dass gave me a\ndouble armful of dried bents which I thrust down the mouth of the lair to\nthe right of his, and followed myself, feet foremost; the hole running\nabout nine feet into the sand with a slight downward inclination, and\nbeing neatly shored with timbers. From my den, which faced the\nriver-front, I was able to watch the waters of the Sutlej flowing past\nunder the light of a young moon and compose myself to sleep as best I\nmight.\n\nThe horrors of that night I shall never forget. My den was nearly as\nnarrow as a coffin, and the sides had been worn smooth and greasy by the\ncontact of Innumerable naked bodies, added to which it smelled abominably.\nSleep was altogether out of question to one in my excited frame of mind.\nAs the night wore on, it seemed that the entire amphitheatre was filled\nwith legions of unclean devils that, trooping up from the shoals below,\nmocked the unfortunates in their lairs.\n\nPersonally I am not of an imaginative temperament,--very few Engineers\nare,--but on that occasion I was as completely prostrated with nervous\nterror as any woman. After half an hour or so, however, I was able once\nmore to calmly review my chances of escape. Any exit by the steep sand\nwalls was, of course, impracticable. I had been thoroughly convinced of\nthis some time before. It was possible, just possible, that I might, in\nthe uncertain moonlight, safely run the gauntlet of the rifle shots. The\nplace was so full of terror for me that I was prepared to undergo any risk\nin leaving it. Imagine my delight, then, when after creeping stealthily to\nthe river-front I found that the infernal boat was not there. My freedom\nlay before me in the next few steps!\n\nBy walking out to the first shallow pool that lay at the foot of the\nprojecting left horn of the horseshoe, I could wade across, turn the flank\nof the crater, and make my way inland. Without a moment's hesitation I\nmarched briskly past the tussocks where Gunga Dass had snared the crows,\nand out in the direction of the smooth white sand beyond. My first step\nfrom the tufts of dried grass showed me how utterly futile was any hope of\nescape; for, as I put my foot down, I felt an indescribable drawing,\nsucking motion of the sand below. Another moment and my leg was swallowed\nup nearly to the knee. In the moonlight the whole surface of the sand\nseemed to be shaken with devilish delight at my disappointment. I\nstruggled clear, sweating with terror and exertion, back to the tussocks\nbehind me and fell on my face.\n\nMy only means of escape from the semicircle was protected with a\nquicksand!\n\nHow long I lay I have not the faintest idea; but I was roused at last by\nthe malevolent chuckle of Gunga Dass at my ear. \"I would advise you,\nProtector of the Poor\" (the ruffian was speaking English) \"to return to\nyour house. It is unhealthy to lie down here. Moreover, when the boat\nreturns, you will most certainly be rifled at.\" He stood over me in the\ndim light, of the dawn, chuckling and laughing to himself.\n\nSuppressing my first impulse to catch the man by the neck and throw him on\nto the quicksand, I rose sullenly and followed him to the platform below\nthe burrows.\n\nSuddenly, and futilely as I thought while I spoke, I asked:--\"Gunga Dass,\nwhat is the good of the boat if I can't get out _anyhow?_\" I recollect\nthat even in my deepest trouble I had been speculating vaguely on the\nwaste of ammunition in guarding an already well protected foreshore.\n\nGunga Dass laughed again and made answer:--\"They have the boat only in\ndaytime. It is for the reason that _there is a way_. I hope we shall have\nthe pleasure of your company for much longer time. It is a pleasant spot\nwhen you have been here some years and eaten roast crow long enough.\"\n\nI staggered, numbed and helpless, toward the fetid burrow allotted to me,\nand fell asleep. An hour or so later I was awakened by a piercing\nscream--the shrill, high-pitched scream of a horse in pain. Those who have\nonce heard that will never forget the sound. I found some little\ndifficulty in scrambling out of the burrow. When I was in the open, I saw\nPornic, my poor old Pornic, lying dead on the sandy soil. How they had\nkilled him I cannot guess. Gunga Dass explained that horse was better than\ncrow, and \"greatest good of greatest number is political maxim. We are now\nRepublic, Mister Jukes, and you are entitled to a fair share of the beast.\nIf you like, we will pass a vote of thanks. Shall I propose?\"\n\nYes, we were a Republic indeed! A Republic of wild beasts penned at the\nbottom of a pit, to eat and fight and sleep till we died. I attempted no\nprotest of any kind, but sat down and stared at the hideous sight in front\nof me. In less time almost than it takes me to write this, Pornic's body\nwas divided, in some unclean way or other; the men and women had dragged\nthe fragments on to the platform and were preparing their morning meal.\nGunga Dass cooked mine. The almost irresistible impulse to fly at the sand\nwalls until I was wearied laid hold of me afresh, and I had to struggle\nagainst it with all my might. Gunga Dass was offensively jocular till I\ntold him that if he addressed another remark of any kind whatever to me I\nshould strangle him where he sat. This silenced him till silence became\ninsupportable, and I bade him say something.\n\n\"You will live here till you die like the other Feringhi,\" he said,\ncoolly, watching me over the fragment of gristle that he was gnawing.\n\n\"What other Sahib, you swine? Speak at once, and don't stop to tell me a\nlie.\"\n\n\"He is over there,\" answered Gunga Dass, pointing to a burrow-mouth about\nfour doors to the left of my own. \"You can see for yourself. He died in\nthe burrow as you will die, and I will die, and as all these men and women\nand the one child will also die.\"\n\n\"For pity's sake tell me all you know about him. Who was he? When did he\ncome, and when did he die?\"\n\nThis appeal was a weak step on my part. Gunga Dass only leered and\nreplied:--\"I will not--unless you give me something first.\"\n\nThen I recollected where I was, and struck the man between the eyes,\npartially stunning him. He stepped down from the platform at once, and,\ncringing and fawning and weeping and attempting to embrace my feet, led me\nround to the burrow which he had indicated.\n\n\"I know nothing whatever about the gentleman, Your God be my witness that\nI do not He was as anxious to escape as you were, and he was shot from the\nboat, though we all did all things to prevent him from attempting. He was\nshot here.\" Gunga Dass laid his hand on his lean stomach and bowed, to the\nearth.\n\n\"Well, and what then? Go on!\"\n\n\"And then--and then, Your Honor, we carried him into his house and gave\nhim water, and put wet cloths on the wound, and he laid down in his house\nand gave up the ghost.\"\n\n\"In how long? In how long?\"\n\n\"About half an hour, after he received his wound. I call Vishnu to\nwitness,\" yelled the wretched man, \"that I did everything for him.\nEverything which was possible, that I did!\"\n\nHe threw himself down on the ground and clasped my ankles. But I had my\ndoubts about Gunga Dass's benevolence, and kicked him off as he lay\nprotesting.\n\n\"I believe you robbed him of everything he had. But I can find out in a\nminute or two. How long was the Sahib here?\"\n\n\"Nearly a year and a half. I think he must have gone mad. But hear me\nswear, Protector of the Poor! Won't Your Honor hear me swear that I never\ntouched an article that belonged to him? What is Your Worship going to\ndo?\"\n\nI had taken Gunga Dass by the waist and had hauled him on to the platform\nopposite the deserted burrow. As I did so I thought of my wretched\nfellow-prisoner's unspeakable misery among all these horrors for eighteen\nmonths, and the final agony of dying like a rat in a hole, with a\nbullet-wound in the stomach. Gunga Dass fancied I was going to kill him\nand howled pitifully. The rest of the population, in the plethora that\nfollows a full flesh meal, watched us without stirring.\n\n\"Go inside, Gunga Dass,\" said I, \"and fetch it out.\"\n\nI was feeling sick and faint with horror now. Gunga Dass nearly rolled off\nthe platform and howled aloud.\n\n\"But I am Brahmin, Sahib--a high-caste Brahmin. By your soul, by your\nfather's soul, do not make me do this thing!\"\n\n\"Brahmin or no Brahmin, by my soul and my father's soul, in you go!\" I\nsaid, and, seizing him by the shoulders, I crammed his head into the mouth\nof the burrow, kicked the rest of him in, and, sitting down, covered my\nface with my hands.\n\nAt the end of a few minutes I heard a rustle and a creak; then Gunga Dass\nin a sobbing, choking whisper speaking to himself; then a soft thud--and I\nuncovered my eyes.\n\nThe dry sand had turned the corpse entrusted to its keeping into a\nyellow-brown mummy. I told Gunga Dass to stand off while I examined it.\nThe body--clad in an olive-green hunting-suit much stained and worn, with\nleather pads on the shoulders--was that of a man between thirty and forty,\nabove middle height, with light, sandy hair, long mustache, and a rough\nunkempt beard. The left canine of the upper jaw was missing, and a portion\nof the lobe of the right ear was gone. On the second finger of the left\nhand was a ring--a shield-shaped bloodstone set in gold, with a monogram\nthat might have been either \"B.K.\" or \"B.L.\" On the third finger of the\nright hand was a silver ring in the shape of a coiled cobra, much worn and\ntarnished. Gunga Dass deposited a handful of trifles he had picked out of\nthe burrow at my feet, and, covering the face of the body with my\nhandkerchief, I turned to examine these. I give the full list in the hope\nthat it may lead to the identification of the unfortunate man:\n\n1. Bowl of a briarwood pipe, serrated at the edge; much worn and\nblackened; bound with string at the screw.\n\n2. Two patent-lever keys; wards of both broken.\n\n3. Tortoise-shell-handled penknife, silver or nickel, name-plate, marked\nwith monogram \"B.K.\"\n\n4. Envelope, postmark undecipherable, bearing a Victorian stamp, addressed\nto \"Miss Mon----\" (rest illegible)--\"ham\"--\"nt.\"\n\n5. Imitation crocodile-skin notebook with pencil. First forty-five pages\nblank; four and a half illegible; fifteen others filled with private\nmemoranda relating chiefly to three persons--a Mrs. L. Singleton,\nabbreviated several times to \"Lot Single,\" \"Mrs. S. May,\" and \"Garmison,\"\nreferred to in places as \"Jerry\" or \"Jack.\"\n\n6. Handle of small-sized hunting-knife. Blade snapped short. Buck's horn,\ndiamond cut, with swivel and ring on the butt; fragment of cotton cord\nattached.\n\nIt must not be supposed that I inventoried all these things on the spot as\nfully as I have here written them down. The notebook first attracted my\nattention, and I put it in my pocket with a view to studying it later on.\nThe rest of the articles I conveyed to my burrow for safety's sake, and\nthere, being a methodical man, I inventoried them. I then returned to the\ncorpse and ordered Gunga Dass to help me to carry it out to the\nriver-front. While we were engaged in this, the exploded shell of an old\nbrown cartridge dropped out of one of the pockets and rolled at my feet.\nGunga Dass had not seen it; and I fell to thinking that a man does not\ncarry exploded cartridge-cases, especially \"browns,\" which will not bear\nloading twice, about with him when shooting. In other words, that\ncartridge-case has been fired inside the crater. Consequently there must\nbe a gun somewhere. I was on the verge of asking Gunga Dass, but checked\nmyself, knowing that he would lie. We laid the body down on the edge of\nthe quicksand by the tussocks. It was my intention to push it out and let\nit be swallowed up--the only possible mode of burial that I could think\nof. I ordered Gunga Dass to go away.\n\nThen I gingerly put the corpse out on the quicksand. In doing so, it was\nlying face downward, I tore the frail and rotten khaki shooting-coat open,\ndisclosing a hideous cavity in the back. I have already told you that the\ndry sand had, as it were, mummified the body. A moment's glance showed\nthat the gaping hole had been caused by a gun-shot wound; the gun must\nhave been fired with the muzzle almost touching the back. The\nshooting-coat, being intact, had been drawn over the body after death,\nwhich must have been instantaneous. The secret of the poor wretch's death\nwas plain to me in a flash. Some one of the crater, presumably Gunga Dass,\nmust have shot him with his own gun--the gun that fitted the brown\ncartridges. He had never attempted to escape in the face of the rifle-fire\nfrom the boat.\n\nI pushed the corpse out hastily, and saw it sink from sight literally in a\nfew seconds. I shuddered as I watched. In a dazed, half-conscious way I\nturned to peruse the notebook. A stained and discolored slip of paper had\nbeen inserted between the binding and the back, and dropped out as I\nopened the pages. This is what it contained:--_\"Four out from crow-clump:\nthree left; nine out; two right; three back; two left; fourteen out; two\nleft; seven out; one left; nine back; two right; six back; four right;\nseven back_.\" The paper had been burned and charred at the edges. What it\nmeant I could not understand. I sat down on the dried bents turning it\nover and over between my fingers, until I was aware of Gunga Dass standing\nimmediately behind me with glowing eyes and outstretched hands.\n\n\"Have you got it?\" he panted. \"Will you not let me look at it also? I\nswear that I will return it.\"\n\n\"Got what? Return what?\" I asked.\n\n\"That which you have in your hands. It will help us both.\" He stretched\nout his long, bird-like talons, trembling with eagerness,\n\n\"I could never find it,\" he continued. \"He had secreted it about his\nperson. Therefore I shot him, but nevertheless I was unable to obtain it.\"\n\nGunga Dass had quite forgotten his little fiction about the rifle-bullet.\nI received the information perfectly calmly. Morality is blunted by\nconsorting with the Dead who are alive.\n\n\"What on earth are you raving about? What is it you want me to give you?\"\n\n\"The piece of paper in the notebook. It will help us both. Oh, you fool!\nYou fool! Can you not see what it will do for us? We shall escape!\"\n\nHis voice rose almost to a scream, and he danced with excitement before\nme. I own I was moved at the chance of getting away.\n\n\"Don't skip! Explain yourself. Do you mean to say that this slip of paper\nwill help us? What does it mean?\"\n\n\"Read it aloud! Read it aloud! I beg and I pray you to read it aloud.\"\n\nI did so. Gunga Dass listened delightedly, and drew an irregular line in\nthe sand with his fingers.\n\n\"See now! It was the length of his gun-barrels without the stock. I have\nthose barrels. Four gun-barrels out from the place where I caught crows.\nStraight out; do you follow me? Then three left--Ah! how well I remember\nwhen that man worked it out night after night. Then nine out, and so on.\nOut is always straight before you across the quicksand. He told me so\nbefore I killed him.\"\n\n\"But if you knew all this why didn't you get out before?\"\n\n\"I did _not_ know it. He told me that he was working it out a year and a\nhalf ago, and how he was working it out night after night when the boat\nhad gone away, and he could get out near the quicksand safely. Then he\nsaid that we would get away together. But I was afraid that he would leave\nme behind one night when he had worked it all out, and so I shot him.\nBesides, it is not advisable that the men who once get in here should\nescape. Only I, and _I_ am a Brahmin.\"\n\nThe prospect of escape had brought Gunga Dass's caste back to him. He\nstood up, walked about and gesticulated violently. Eventually I managed to\nmake him talk soberly, and he told me how this Englishman had spent six\nmonths night after night in exploring, inch by inch, the passage across\nthe quicksand; how he had declared it to be simplicity itself up to within\nabout twenty yards of the river bank after turning the flank of the left\nhorn of the horseshoe. This much he had evidently not completed when Gunga\nDass shot him with his own gun,\n\nIn my frenzy of delight at the possibilities of escape I recollect shaking\nhands effusively with Gunga Dass, after we had decided that we were to\nmake an attempt to get away that very night. It was weary work waiting\nthroughout the afternoon.\n\nAbout ten o'clock, as far as I could judge, when the Moon had just risen\nabove the lip of the crater, Gunga Dass made a move for his burrow to\nbring out the gun-barrels whereby to measure our path. All the other\nwretched inhabitants had retired to their lairs long ago. The guardian\nboat drifted down-stream some hours before, and we were utterly alone by\nthe crow-clump. Gunga Dass, while carrying the gun-barrels, let slip the\npiece of paper which was to be our guide. I stooped down hastily to\nrecover it, and, as I did so, I was aware that the diabolical Brahmin was\naiming a violent blow at the back of my head with the gun-barrels. It was\ntoo late to turn round. I must have received the blow somewhere on the\nnape of my neck. A hundred thousand fiery stars danced before my eyes, and\nI fell forward senseless at the edge of the quicksand.\n\nWhen I recovered consciousness, the Moon was going down, and I was\nsensible of intolerable pain in the back of my head. Gunga Dass had\ndisappeared and my mouth was full of blood. I lay down again and prayed\nthat I might die without more ado. Then the unreasoning fury which I have\nbefore mentioned laid hold upon me, and I staggered inland toward the\nwalls of the crater. It seemed that some one was calling to me in a\nwhisper--\"Sahib! Sahib! Sahib!\" exactly as my bearer used to call me in\nthe mornings. I fancied that I was delirious until a handful of sand fell\nat my feet, Then I looked up and saw a head peering down into the\namphitheatre--the head of Dunnoo, my dog-boy, who attended to my collies.\nAs soon as he had attracted my attention, he held up his hand and showed a\nrope. I motioned, staggering to and fro the while, that he should throw it\ndown. It was a couple of leather punkah-ropes knotted together, with a\nloop at one end. I slipped the loop over my head and under my arms; heard\nDunnoo urge something forward; was conscious that I was being dragged,\nface downward, up the steep sand slope, and the next instant found myself\nchoked and half fainting on the sand hills overlooking the crater. Dunnoo,\nwith his face ashy grey in the moonlight, implored me not to stay but to\nget back to my tent at once.\n\nIt seems that he had tracked Pornic's footprints fourteen miles across the\nsands to the crater; had returned and told my servants, who flatly refused\nto meddle with any one, white or black, once fallen into the hideous\nVillage of the Dead; whereupon Dunnoo had taken one of my ponies and a\ncouple of punkah-ropes, returned to the crater, and hauled me out as I\nhave described.\n\nTo cut a long story short, Dunnoo is now my personal servant on a gold\nmohur a month--a sum which I still think far too little for the services\nhe has rendered. Nothing on earth will induce me to go near that devilish\nspot again, or to reveal its whereabouts more clearly than I have done. Of\nGunga Dass I have never found a trace, nor do I wish to do. My sole motive\nin giving this to be published is the hope that some one may possibly\nidentify, from the details and the inventory which I have given above, the\ncorpse of the man in the olive-green hunting-suit.\n\n\n\nIN THE HOUSE OF SUDDHOO\n\n   A stone's throw out on either hand\n   From that well-ordered road we tread,\n     And all the world is wild and strange;\n   _Churel_ and ghoul and _Djinn_ and sprite\n   Shall bear us company to-night,\n   For we have reached the Oldest Land\n     Wherein the Powers of Darkness range.\n\n--_From the Dusk to the Dawn_.\n\nThe house of Suddhoo, near the Taksali Gate, is two-storied, with four\ncarved windows of old brown wood, and a flat roof. You may recognize it by\nfive red hand-prints arranged like the Five of Diamonds on the whitewash\nbetween the upper windows. Bhagwan Dass the grocer and a man who says he\ngets his living by seal-cutting live in the lower story with a troop of\nwives, servants, friends, and retainers. The two upper rooms used to be\noccupied by Janoo and Azizun and a little black-and-tan terrier that was\nstolen from an Englishman's house and given to Janoo by a soldier. To-day,\nonly Janoo lives in the upper rooms. Suddhoo sleeps on the roof generally,\nexcept when he sleeps in the street. He used to go to Peshawar in the\ncold, weather to visit his son who sells curiosities near the Edwardes'\nGate, and then he slept under a real mud roof. Suddhoo is a great friend\nof mine, because his cousin had a son who secured, thanks to my\nrecommendation, the post of head-messenger to a big firm in the Station.\nSuddhoo says that God will make me a Lieutenant-Governor one of these\ndays. I dare say his prophecy will come true. He is very, very old, with\nwhite hair and no teeth worth showing, and he has outlived his\nwits--outlived nearly everything except his fondness for his son at\nPeshawar. Janoo and Azizun are Kashmiris, Ladies of the City, and theirs\nwas an ancient and more or less honorable profession; but Azizun has since\nmarried a medical student from the Northwest and has settled down to a\nmost respectable life somewhere near Bareilly. Bhagwan Dass is an\nextortionate and an adulterator. He is very rich. The man who is supposed\nto get his living by seal-cutting pretends to be very poor. This lets you\nknow as much as is necessary of the four principal tenants in the house of\nSuddhoo. Then there is Me of course; but I am only the chorus that comes\nin at the end to explain things. So I do not count.\n\nSuddhoo was not clever. The man who pretended to cut seals was the\ncleverest of them all--Bhagwan Dass only knew how to lie--except Janoo.\nShe was also beautiful, but that was her own affair.\n\nSuddhoo's son at Peshawar was attacked by pleurisy, and old Suddhoo was\ntroubled. The seal-cutter man heard of Suddhoo's anxiety and made capital\nout of it. He was abreast of the times. He got a friend in Peshawar to\ntelegraph daily accounts of the son's health. And here the story begins.\n\nSuddhoo's cousin's son told me, one evening, that Suddhoo wanted to see\nme; that he was too old and feeble to come personally, and that I should\nbe conferring an everlasting honor on the House of Suddhoo if I went to\nhim. I went; but I think, seeing how well off Suddhoo was then, that he\nmight have sent something better than an _ekka_, which jolted fearfully,\nto haul out a future Lieutenant-Governor to the City on a muggy April\nevening. The _ekka_ did not run quickly. It was full dark when we pulled\nup opposite the door of Ranjit Singh's Tomb near the main gate of the\nFort. Here was Suddhoo, and he said that, by reason of my condescension,\nit was absolutely certain that I should become a Lieutenant-Governor while\nmy hair was yet black. Then we talked about the weather and the state of\nmy health, and the wheat crops, for fifteen minutes in the Huzuri Bagh,\nunder the stars.\n\nSuddhoo came to the point at last. He said that Janoo had told him that\nthere was an order of the _Sirkar_ against magic, because it was feared\nthat magic might one day kill the Empress of India. I didn't know anything\nabout the state of the law; but I fancied that something interesting was\ngoing to happen. I said that so far from magic being discouraged by the\nGovernment it was highly commended. The greatest officials of the State\npracticed it themselves. (If the Financial Statement isn't magic, I don't\nknow what is.) Then, to encourage him further, I said that, if there was\nany _jadoo_ afoot, I had not the least objection to giving it my\ncountenance and sanction, and to seeing that it was clean _jadoo_--white\nmagic, as distinguished from the unclean _jadoo_ which kills folk. It took\na long time before Suddhoo admitted that this was just what he had asked\nme to come for. Then he told me, in jerks and quavers, that the man who\nsaid he cut seals was a sorcerer of the cleanest kind; that every day he\ngave Suddhoo news of the sick son in Peshawar more quickly than the\nlightning could fly, and that this news was always corroborated by the\nletters. Further, that he had told Suddhoo how a great danger was\nthreatening his son, which could be removed by clean _jadoo_; and, of\ncourse, heavy payment. I began to see exactly how the land lay, and told\nSuddhoo that I also understood a little _jadoo_ in the Western line, and\nwould go to his house to see that everything was done decently and in\norder. We set off together; and on the way Suddhoo told me that he had\npaid the seal-cutter between one hundred and two hundred rupees already;\nand the _jadoo_ of that night would cost two hundred more. Which was\ncheap, he said, considering the greatness of his son's danger; but I do\nnot think he meant it.\n\nThe lights were all cloaked in the front of the house when we arrived. I\ncould hear awful noises from behind the seal-cutter's shop-front, as if\nsome one were groaning his soul out. Suddhoo shook all over, and while we\ngroped our way upstairs told me that the _jadoo_ had begun, Janoo and\nAzizun met us at the stair-head, and told us that the _jadoo_-work was\ncoming off in their rooms, because there was more space there. Janoo is a\nlady of a freethinking turn of mind. She whispered that the _jadoo_ was an\ninvention to get money out of Suddhoo, and that the seal-cutter would go\nto a hot place when he died. Suddhoo was nearly crying with fear and old\nage. He kept walking up and down the room in the half-light, repeating his\nson's name over and over again, and asking Azizun if the seal-cutter ought\nnot to make a reduction in the case of his own landlord. Janoo pulled me\nover to the shadow in the recess of the carved bow-windows. The boards\nwere up, and the rooms were only lit by one tiny oil-lamp. There was no\nchance of my being seen if I stayed still.\n\nPresently, the groans below ceased, and we heard steps on the staircase.\nThat was the seal-cutter. He stopped outside the door as the terrier\nbarked and Azizun fumbled at the chain, and he told Suddhoo to blow out\nthe lamp. This left the place in jet darkness, except for the red glow\nfrom the two _huqas_ that belonged to Janoo and Azizun. The seal-cutter\ncame in, and I heard Suddhoo throw himself down on the floor and groan.\nAzizun caught her breath, and Janoo backed on to one of the beds with a\nshudder. There was a clink of something metallic, and then shot up a pale\nblue-green flame near the ground. The light was just enough to show\nAzizun, pressed against one corner of the room with the terrier between\nher knees; Janoo, with her hands clasped, leaning forward as she sat on\nthe bed; Suddhoo, face down, quivering, and the seal-cutter.\n\nI hope I may never see another man like that seal-cutter. He was stripped\nto the waist, with a wreath of white jasmine as thick as my wrist round\nhis forehead, a salmon colored loin-cloth round his middle, and a steel\nbangle on each ankle. This was not awe-inspiring. It was the face of the\nman that turned me cold. It was blue-grey in the first place. In the\nsecond, the eyes were rolled back till you could only see the whites of\nthem; and, in the third, the face was the face of a demon--a\nghoul--anything you please except of the sleek, oily old ruffian who sat\nin the daytime over his turning-lathe downstairs. He was lying on his\nstomach with his arms turned and crossed behind him, as if he had been\nthrown down pinioned. His head and neck were the only parts of him off the\nfloor. They were nearly at right angles to the body, like the head of a\ncobra at spring. It was ghastly. In the centre of the room, on the bare\nearth floor, stood a big, deep, brass basin, with a pale blue-green light\nfloating in the centre like a night-light. Round that basin the man on the\nfloor wriggled himself three times. How he did it I do not know. I could\nsee the muscles ripple along his spine and fall smooth again; but I could\nnot see any other motion. The head seemed the only thing alive about him,\nexcept that slow curl and uncurl of the laboring back-muscles, Janoo from\nthe bed was breathing seventy to the minute; Azizun held her hands before\nher eyes; and old Suddhoo, fingering at the dirt that had got into his\nwhite beard, was crying to himself. The horror of it was that the\ncreeping, crawly thing made no sound--only crawled! And, remember, this\nlasted for ten minutes, while the terrier whined, and Azizun shuddered,\nand Janoo gasped, and Suddhoo cried.\n\nI felt the hair lift at the back of my head, and my heart thump like a\nthermantidote paddle. Luckily, the seal-cutter betrayed himself by his\nmost impressive trick and made me calm again. After he had finished that\nunspeakable triple crawl, he stretched his head away from the floor as\nhigh as he could, and sent out a jet of fire from his nostrils. Now I knew\nhow fire-spouting is done--I can do it myself--so I felt at ease. The\nbusiness was a fraud. If he had only kept to that crawl without trying to\nraise the effect, goodness knows what I might not have thought. Both the\ngirls shrieked at the jet of fire and the head dropped, chin-down on the\nfloor, with a thud; the whole body lying then like a corpse with its arms\ntrussed. There was a pause of five full minutes after this, and the\nblue-green flame died down. Janoo stooped to settle one of her anklets,\nwhile Azizun turned her face to the wall and took the terrier in her arms.\nSuddhoo put out an arm mechanically to Janoo's _huqa_, and she slid it\nacross the floor with her foot. Directly above the body and on the wall,\nwere a couple of flaming portraits, in stamped-paper frames, of the Queen\nand the Prince of Wales. They looked down on the performance, and to my\nthinking, seemed to heighten the grotesqueness of it all.\n\nJust when the silence was getting unendurable, the body turned over and\nrolled away from the basin to the side of the room, where it lay\nstomach-up. There was a faint \"plop\" from the basin--exactly like the\nnoise a fish makes when it takes a fly--and the green light in the centre\nrevived.\n\nI looked at the basin, and saw, bobbing in the water, the dried,\nshrivelled, black head of a native baby--open eyes, open mouth, and shaved\nscalp. It was worse, being so very sudden, than the crawling exhibition.\nWe had no time to say anything before it began to speak.\n\nRead Poe's account of the voice that came from the mesmerized dying man,\nand you will realize less than one half of the horror of that head's\nvoice.\n\nThere was an interval of a second or two between each word, and a sort of\n\"ring, ring, ring,\" in the note of the voice, like the timbre of a bell.\nIt pealed slowly, as if talking to itself, for several minutes before I\ngot rid of my cold sweat. Then the blessed solution struck me. I looked at\nthe body lying near the doorway, and saw, just where the hollow of the\nthroat joins on the shoulders, a muscle that had nothing to do with any\nman's regular breathing twitching away steadily. The whole thing was a\ncareful reproduction of the Egyptian teraphin that one reads about\nsometimes; and the voice was as clever and as appalling a piece of\nventriloquism as one could wish to hear. All this time the head was\n\"lip-lip-lapping\" against the side of the basin, and speaking. It told\nSuddhoo, on his face again whining, of his son's illness and of the state\nof the illness up to the evening of that very night. I always shall\nrespect the seal-cutter for keeping so faithfully to the time of the\nPeshawar telegrams. It went on to say that skilled doctors were night and\nday watching over the man's life; and that he would eventually recover if\nthe fee to the potent sorcerer, whose servant was the head in the basin,\nwere doubled.\n\nHere the mistake from the artistic point of view came in. To ask for twice\nyour stipulated fee in a voice that Lazarus might have used when he rose\nfrom the dead, is absurd. Janoo, who is really a woman of masculine\nintellect, saw this as quickly as I did. I heard her say \"_Asli nahin!\nFareib!_\" scornfully under her breath; and just as she said so, the light\nin the basin died out, the head stopped talking, and we heard the room\ndoor creak on its hinges. Then Janoo struck a match, lit the lamp, and we\nsaw that head, basin, and seal-cutter were gone. Suddhoo was wringing his\nhands and explaining to any one who cared to listen, that, if his chances\nof eternal salvation depended on it, he could not raise another two\nhundred rupees. Azizun was nearly in hysterics in the corner; while Janoo\nsat down composedly on one of the beds to discuss the probabilities of the\nwhole thing being a _bunao_, or \"make-up.\"\n\nI explained as much as I knew of the seal-cutter's way of _jadoo_; but her\nargument was much more simple--\"The magic that is always demanding gifts\nis no true magic,\" said she. \"My mother told me that the only potent\nlove-spells are those which are told you for love. This seal-cutter man is\na liar and a devil. I dare not tell, do anything, or get anything done,\nbecause I am in debt to Bhagwan Dass the bunnia for two gold rings and a\nheavy anklet. I must get my food from his shop. The seal-cutter is the\nfriend of Bhagwan Dass, and he would poison my food. A fool's _jadoo_ has\nbeen going on for ten days, and has cost Suddhoo many rupees each night.\nThe seal-cutter used black hens and lemons and _mantras_ before. He never\nshowed us anything like this till to-night. Azizun is a fool, and will be\na _purdahnashin_ soon. Suddhoo has lost his strength and his wits. See\nnow! I had hoped to get from Suddhoo many rupees while he lived, and many\nmore after his death; and behold, he is spending everything on that\noffspring of a devil and a she-ass, the seal-cutter!\"\n\nHere I said, \"But what induced Suddhoo to drag me into the business? Of\ncourse I can speak to the seal-cutter, and he shall refund. The whole\nthing is child's talk--shame--and senseless.\"\n\n\"Suddhoo _is_ an old child,\" said Janoo. \"He has lived on the roofs these\nseventy years and is as senseless as a milch-goat. He brought you here to\nassure himself that he was not breaking any law of the _Sirkar_, whose\nsalt he ate many years ago. He worships the dust off the feet of the\nseal-cutter, and that cow-devourer has forbidden him to go and see his\nson. What does Suddhoo know of your laws or the lightning-post? I have to\nwatch his money going day by day to that lying beast below.\"\n\nJanoo stamped her foot on the floor and nearly cried with vexation; while\nSuddhoo was whimpering under a blanket in the corner, and Azizun was\ntrying to guide the pipe-stem to his foolish old mouth.\n\n\n       *\n       *\n       *\n       *\n       *\n\nNow, the case stands thus. Unthinkingly, I have laid myself open to the\ncharge of aiding and abetting the seal-cutter in obtaining money under\nfalse pretences, which is forbidden by Section 420 of the Indian Penal\nCode. I am helpless in the matter for these reasons. I cannot inform the\nPolice. What witnesses would support my statements? Janoo refuses flatly,\nand Azizun is a veiled woman somewhere near Bareilly--lost in this big\nIndia of ours. I dare not again take the law into my own hands, and speak\nto the seal-cutter; for certain am I that, not only would Suddhoo\ndisbelieve me, but this step would end in the poisoning of Janoo, who is\nbound hand and foot by her debt to the _bunnia_. Suddhoo is an old dotard;\nand whenever we meet mumbles my idiotic joke that the _Sirkar_ rather\npatronizes the Black Art than otherwise. His son is well now; but Suddhoo\nis completely under the influence of the seal-cutter, by whose advice he\nregulates the affairs of his life. Janoo watches daily the money that she\nhoped to wheedle out of Suddhoo taken by the seal-cutter, and becomes\ndaily more furious and sullen.\n\nShe will never tell, because she dare not; but, unless something happens\nto prevent her, I am afraid that the seal-cutter will die of cholera--the\nwhite arsenic kind--about the middle of May. And thus I shall be privy to\na murder in the House of Suddhoo.\n\n\n\nBLACK JACK\n\n   To the wake av Tim O'Hara\n     Came company,\n   All St. Patrick's Alley\n     Was there to see.\n       _Robert Buchanan._\n\nAs the Three Musketeers share their silver, tobacco, and liquor together,\nas they protect each other in barracks or camp, and as they rejoice\ntogether over the joy of one, so do they divide their sorrows. When\nOrtheris's irrepressible tongue has brought him into cells for a season,\nor Learoyd has run amok through his kit and accoutrements, or Mulvaney has\nindulged in strong waters, and under their influence reproved his\nCommanding Officer, you can see the trouble in the faces of the untouched\ntwo. And the rest of the regiment know that comment or jest is unsafe.\nGenerally the three avoid Orderly Room and the Corner Shop that follows,\nleaving both to the young bloods who have not sown their wild oats; but\nthere are occasions--\n\nFor instance, Ortheris was sitting on the drawbridge of the main gate of\nFort Amara, with his hands in his pockets and his pipe, bowl down, in his\nmouth. Learoyd was lying at full length on the turf of the glacis, kicking\nhis heels in the air, and I came round the corner and asked for Mulvaney.\n\nOrtheris spat into the ditch and shook his head. \"No good seein' 'im now,\"\nsaid Ortheris; \"'e's a bloomin' camel. Listen.\"\n\nI heard on the flags of the veranda opposite to the cells, which are close\nto the Guard-Room, a measured step that I could have identified in the\ntramp of an army. There were twenty paces _crescendo_, a pause, and then\ntwenty _diminuendo_.\n\n\"That's 'im,\" said Ortheris; \"my Gawd, that's 'im! All for a bloomin'\nbutton you could see your face in an' a bit o' lip that a bloomin'\nHark-angel would 'a' guv back.\"\n\nMulvaney was doing pack-drill--was compelled, that is to say, to walk up\nand down for certain hours in full marching order, with rifle, bayonet,\nammunition, knapsack, and overcoat. And his offence was being dirty on\nparade! I nearly fell into the Fort Ditch with astonishment and wrath, for\nMulvaney is the smartest man that ever mounted guard, and would as soon\nthink of turning out uncleanly as of dispensing with his trousers.\n\n\"Who was the Sergeant that checked him?\" I asked.\n\n\"Mullins, o' course,\" said Ortheris. \"There ain't no other man would whip\n'im on the peg so. But Mullins ain't a man. 'E's a dirty little\npigscraper, that's wot 'e is.\"\n\n\"What did Mulvaney say? He's not the make of man to take that quietly.\"\n\n\"Said! Bin better for 'im if 'e'd shut 'is mouth. Lord, 'ow we laughed!\n'Sargint,' 'e sez, 'ye say I'm dirty. Well,' sez 'e, 'when your wife lets\nyou blow your own nose for yourself, perhaps you'll know wot dirt is.\nYou're himperfectly eddicated, Sargint,' sez 'e, an' then we fell in. But\nafter p'rade, 'e was up an' Mullins was swearin' 'imself black in the face\nat Ord'ly Room that Mulvaney 'ad called 'im a swine an' Lord knows wot\nall. You know Mullins. 'E'll 'ave 'is 'ead broke in one o' these days.\n'E's too big a bloomin' liar for ord'nary consumption. 'Three hours' can\nan' kit,' sez the Colonel; 'not for bein' dirty on p'rade, but for 'avin'\nsaid somthin' to Mullins, tho' I do not believe,' sez 'e, 'you said wot 'e\nsaid you said.' An' Mulvaney fell away sayin' nothin'. You know 'e never\nspeaks to the Colonel for fear o' gettin' 'imself fresh copped.\"\n\nMullins, a very young and very much married Sergeant, whose manners were\npartly the result of innate depravity and partly of imperfectly digested\nBoard School, came over the bridge, and most rudely asked Ortheris what he\nwas doing.\n\n\"Me?\" said Ortheris, \"Ow! I'm waiting for my C'mission. 'Seed it comin'\nalong yit?\"\n\nMullins turned purple and passed on. There was the sound of a gentle\nchuckle from the glacis where Learoyd lay.\n\n\"'E expects to get 'is C'mission some day,\" explained Orth'ris; \"Gawd 'elp\nthe Mess that 'ave to put their 'ands into the same kiddy as 'im! Wot time\nd'you make it, sir? Fower! Mulvaney 'll be out in 'arf an hour. You don't\nwant to buy a dorg, sir, do you? A pup you can trust--'arf Rampore by the\nColonel's grey'ound.\"\n\n\"Ortheris,\" I answered, sternly, for I knew what was in his mind, \"do you\nmean to say that\"--\n\n\"I didn't mean to arx money o' you, any'ow,\" said Ortheris; \"I'd 'a' sold\nyou the dorg good an' cheap, but--but--I know Mulvaney 'll want somethin'\nafter we've walked 'im orf, an' I ain't got nothin', nor 'e 'asn't\nneither, I'd sooner sell you the dorg, sir. 'S'trewth! I would!\"\n\nA shadow fell on the drawbridge, and Ortheris began to rise into the air,\nlifted by a huge hand upon his collar.\n\n\"Onything but t' braass,\" said Learoyd, quietly, as he held the Londoner\nover the ditch. \"Onything but t' braass, Orth'ris, ma son! Ah've got one\nrupee eight annas of ma own.\" He showed two coins, and replaced Ortheris\non the drawbridge rail.\n\n\"Very good,\" I said; \"where are you going to?\"\n\n\"Goin' to walk 'im orf wen 'e comes out--two miles or three or fower,\"\nsaid Ortheris.\n\nThe footsteps within ceased. I heard the dull thud of a knapsack falling\non a bedstead, followed by the rattle of arms. Ten minutes later,\nMulvaney, faultlessly dressed, his lips tight and his face as black as a\nthunderstorm, stalked into the sunshine on the drawbridge. Learoyd and\nOrtheris sprang from my side and closed in upon him, both leaning toward\nas horses lean upon the pole. In an instant they had disappeared down the\nsunken road to the cantonments, and I was left alone. Mulvaney had not\nseen fit to recognize me; so I knew that his trouble must be heavy upon\nhim.\n\nI climbed one of the bastions and watched the figures of the Three\nMusketeers grow smaller and smaller across the plain. They were walking as\nfast as they could put foot to the ground, and their heads were bowed.\nThey fetched a great compass round the parade-ground, skirted the Cavalry\nlines, and vanished in the belt of trees that fringes the low land by the\nriver.\n\nI followed slowly, and sighted them--dusty, sweating, but still keeping up\ntheir long, swinging tramp--on the river bank. They crashed through the\nForest Reserve, headed toward the Bridge of Boats, and presently\nestablished themselves on the bow of one of the pontoons. I rode\ncautiously till I saw three puffs of white smoke rise and die out in the\nclear evening air, and knew that peace had come again. At the bridge-head\nthey waved me forward with gestures of welcome.\n\n\"Tie up your 'orse,\" shouted Ortheris, \"an' come on, sir. We're all goin'\n'ome in this 'ere bloomin' boat.\"\n\nFrom the bridge-head to the Forest Officer's bungalow is but a step. The\nmess-man was there, and would see that a man held my horse. Did the Sahib\nrequire aught else--a peg, or beer? Ritchie Sahib had left half a dozen\nbottles of the latter, but since the Sahib was a friend of Ritchie Sahib,\nand he, the mess-man, was a poor man--\n\nI gave my order quietly, and returned to the bridge. Mulvaney had taken\noff his boots, and was dabbling his toes in the water; Learoyd was lying\non his back on the pontoon; and Ortheris was pretending to row with a big\nbamboo.\n\n\"I'm an ould fool,\" said Mulvaney, reflectively, \"dhraggin' you two out\nhere bekaze I was undher the Black Dog--sulkin' like a child. Me that was\nsoldierin' when Mullins, an' be damned to him, was shquealin' on a\ncounterpin for five shillin' a week--an' that not paid! Bhoys, I've took\nyou five miles out av natural pervarsity. Phew!\"\n\n\"Wot's the odds so long as you're 'appy?\" said Ortheris, applying himself\nafresh to the bamboo. \"As well 'ere as anywhere else.\"\n\nLearoyd held up a rupee and an eight-anna bit, and shook his head\nsorrowfully. \"Five mile from t'Canteen, all along o' Mulvaney's blasted\npride.\"\n\n\"I know ut,\" said Mulvaney, penitently. \"Why will ye come wid me? An' yet\nI wud be mortial sorry if ye did not--any time--though I am ould enough to\nknow betther. But I will do penance. I will take a dhrink av wather.\"\n\nOrtheris squeaked shrilly. The butler of the Forest bungalow was standing\nnear the railings with a basket, uncertain how to clamber down to the\npontoon. \"Might 'a' know'd you'd 'a' got liquor out o' bloomin' desert,\nsir,\" said Ortheris, gracefully, to me. Then to the mess-man: \"Easy with\nthem there bottles. They're worth their weight in gold. Jock, ye\nlong-armed beggar, get out o' that an' hike 'em down.\"\n\nLearoyd had the basket on the pontoon in an instant, and the Three\nMusketeers gathered round it with dry lips. They drank my health in due\nand ancient form, and thereafter tobacco tasted sweeter than ever. They\nabsorbed all the beer, and disposed themselves in picturesque attitudes to\nadmire the setting sun--no man speaking for a while.\n\nMulvaney's head dropped upon his chest, and we thought that he was asleep.\n\n\"What on earth did you come so far for?\" I whispered to Ortheris.\n\n\"To walk 'im orf, o' course. When 'e's been checked we allus walks 'im\norf, 'E ain't fit to be spoke to those times--nor 'e ain't fit to leave\nalone neither. So we takes 'im till 'e is.\"\n\nMulvaney raised his head, and stared straight into the sunset. \"I had my\nrifle,\" said he, dreamily, \"an' I had my bay'nit, an' Mullins came round\nthe corner, an' he looked in my face an' grinned dishpiteful. '_You_ can't\nblow your own nose,' sez he. Now, I cannot tell fwhat Mullins's\nexpayrience may ha' been, but, Mother av God, he was nearer to his death\nthat minut' than I have iver been to mine--and that's less than the\nthicknuss av a hair!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Ortheris, calmly, \"you'd look fine with all your buttons took\norf, an' the Band in front o' you, walkin' roun' slow time. We're both\nfront-rank men, me an' Jock, when the rig'ment's in 'ollow square,\nBloomin' fine you'd look. 'The Lord giveth an' the Lord taketh\nawai,--Heasy with that there drop!--Blessed be the naime o' the Lord,'\" he\ngulped in a quaint and suggestive fashion.\n\n\"Mullins! Wot's Mullins?\" said Learoyd, slowly. \"Ah'd take a coomp'ny o'\nMullinses--ma hand behind me. Sitha, Mulvaney, don't be a fool.\"\n\n\"_You_ were not checked for fwhat you did not do, an' made a mock av\nafther. 'Twas for less than that the Tyrone wud ha' sent O'Hara to hell,\ninstid av lettin' him go by his own choosin', whin Rafferty shot him,\"\nretorted Mulvaney.\n\n\"And who stopped the Tyrone from doing it?\" I asked.\n\n\"That ould fool who's sorry he didn't stick the pig Mullins.\" His head\ndropped again. When he raised it he shivered and put his hands on the\nshoulders of his two companions.\n\n\"Ye've walked the Divil out av me, bhoys,\" said he.\n\nOrtheris shot out the red-hot dottel of his pipe on the back of the hairy\nfist. \"They say 'Ell's 'otter than that,\" said he, as Mulvaney swore\naloud. \"You be warned so. Look yonder!\"--he pointed across the river to a\nruined temple--\"Me an' you an' _'im_\"-he indicated me by a jerk of his\nhead--\"was there one day when Hi made a bloomin' show o' myself. You an'\n'im stopped me doin' such--an' Hi was on'y wishful for to desert. You are\nmakin' a bigger bloomin' show o' yourself now.\"\n\n\"Don't mind him, Mulvaney,\" I said; \"Dinah Shadd won't let you hang\nyourself yet awhile, and you don't intend to try it either. Let's hear\nabout the Tyrone and O'Hara. Rafferty shot him for fooling with his wife.\nWhat happened before that?\"\n\n\"There's no fool like an ould fool. You know you can do anythin' wid me\nwhin I'm talkin'. Did I say I wud like to cut Mullins's liver out? I deny\nthe imputashin, for fear that Orth'ris here wud report me--Ah! You wud tip\nme into the river, wud you? Sit quiet, little man. Anyways, Mullins is not\nworth the trouble av an extry p'rade, an' I will trate him wid outrajis\ncontimpt. The Tyrone an' O'Hara! O'Hara an' the Tyrone, begad! Ould days\nare hard to bring back into the mouth, but they're always inside the\nhead.\"\n\nFollowed a long pause.\n\n\"O'Hara was a Divil. Though I saved him, for the honor av the rig'mint,\nfrom his death that time, I say it now. He was a Divil--a long, bould,\nblack-haired Divil.\"\n\n\"Which way?\" asked Ortheris,\n\n\"Women.\"\n\n\"Then I know another.\"\n\n\"Not more than in reason, if you mane me, ye warped walkin'-shtick. I have\nbeen young, an' for why should I not have tuk what I cud? Did I iver, whin\nI was Corp'ril, use the rise av my rank--wan step an' that taken away,\nmore's the sorrow an' the fault av me!--to prosecute a nefarious\ninthrigue, as O'Hara did? Did I, whin I was Corp'ril, lay my spite upon a\nman an' make his life a dog's life from day to day? Did I lie, as O'Hara\nlied, till the young wans in the Tyrone turned white wid the fear av the\nJudgment av God killin' thim all in a lump, as ut killed the woman at\nDevizes? I did not! I have sinned my sins an' I have made my confesshin,\nan' Father Victor knows the worst av me. O'Hara was tuk, before he cud\nspake, on Rafferty's doorstep, an' no man knows the worst av him. But this\nmuch I know!\n\n\"The Tyrone was recruited any fashion in the ould days. A draf from\nConnemara--a draf from Portsmouth--a draf from Kerry, an' that was a\nblazin' bad draf--here, there and iverywhere--but the large av thim was\nOirish--Black Oirish. Now there are Oirish an' Oirish. The good are good\nas the best, but the bad are wurrst than the wurrst. 'Tis this way. They\nclog together in pieces as fast as thieves, an' no wan knows fwhat they\nwill do till wan turns informer an' the gang is bruk. But ut begins again,\na day later, meetin' in holes an' corners an' swearin' bloody oaths an'\nshtickin' a man in the back an' runnin' away, an' thin waitin' for the\nblood-money on the reward papers--to see if ut's worth enough. Those are\nthe Black Oirish, an' 'tis they that bring dishgrace upon the name av\nOireland, an' thim I wud kill--as I nearly killed wan wanst.\n\n\"But to reshume. My room--'twas before I was married--was wid twelve av\nthe scum av the earth--the pickin's av the gutter--mane men that wud\nneither laugh nor talk nor yet get dhrunk as a man shud. They thried some\nav their dog's thricks on me, but I dhrew a line round my cot, an' the man\nthat thransgressed ut wint into hospital for three days good.\n\n\"O'Hara had put his spite on the room--he was my Color Sargint--an'\nnothin' cud we do to plaze him. I was younger than I am now, an' I tuk\nwhat I got in the way av dressing down and punishmint-dhrill wid my tongue\nin my cheek. But it was diff'rint wid the others, an' why I cannot say,\nexcipt that some men are borrun mane an' go to dhirty murdher where a fist\nis more than enough. Afther a whoile, they changed their chune to me an'\nwas desp'rit frien'ly--all twelve av thim cursin' O'Hara in chorus.\n\n\"'Eyah,' sez I, 'O'Hara's a divil an' I'm not for denyin' ut, but is he\nthe only man in the wurruld? Let him go. He'll get tired av findin' our\nkit foul an' our 'coutrements onproperly kep'.'\n\n\"'We will _not_ let him go,' sez they.\n\n\"'Thin take him,' sez I, 'an' a dashed poor yield you will get for your\nthrouble.'\n\n\"'Is he not misconductin' himself wid Slimmy's wife?' sez another.\n\n\"'She's common to the rig'mint,' sez I. 'Fwhat has made ye this partic'lar\non a suddint?'\n\n\"'Has he not put his spite on the roomful av us? Can we do anythin' that\nhe will not check us for?' sez another.\n\n\"'That's thrue,' sez I.\n\n\"'Will ye not help us to do aught,' sez another--'a big bould man like\nyou?'\n\n\"'I will break his head upon his shoulthers av he puts hand on me,' sez I.\n'I will give him the lie av he says that I'm dhirty, an' I wud not mind\nduckin' him in the Artillery troughs if ut was not that I'm thryin' for my\nshtripes.'\n\n\"'Is that all ye will do?' sez another. 'Have ye no more spunk than that,\nye blood-dhrawn calf?'\n\n\"'Blood-dhrawn I may be,' sez I, gettin' back to my cot an' makin' my line\nround ut; 'but ye know that the man who comes acrost this mark will be\nmore blood-dhrawn than me. No man gives me the name in my mouth,' I sez.\n'Ondersthand, I will have no part wid you in anythin' ye do, nor will I\nraise my fist to my shuperior. Is any wan comin' on?' sez I.\n\n\"They made no move, tho' I gave them full time, but stud growlin' an'\nsnarlin' together at wan ind av the room. I tuk up my cap and wint out to\nCanteen, thinkin' no little av mesilf, and there I grew most ondacintly\ndhrunk in my legs. My head was all reasonable.\n\n\"'Houligan,' I sez to a man in E Comp'ny that was by way av bein' a frind\nav mine; 'I'm overtuk from the belt down. Do you give me the touch av your\nshoulther to presarve my formation an' march me acrost the ground into the\nhigh grass. I'll sleep ut off there,' sez I; an' Houligan--he's dead now,\nbut good he was while he lasted--walked wid me, givin' me the touch whin I\nwint wide, ontil we came to the high grass, an', my faith, the sky an' the\nearth was fair rowlin' undher me. I made for where the grass was thickust,\nan' there I slep' off my liquor wid an easy conscience. I did not desire\nto come on books too frequent; my characther havin' been shpotless for the\ngood half av a year.\n\n\"Whin I roused, the dhrink was dyin' out in me, an' I felt as though a\nshe-cat had littered in my mouth. I had not learned to hould my liquor wid\ncomfort in thim days. 'Tis little betther I am now. 'I will get Houligan\nto pour a bucket over my head,' thinks I, an' I wud ha' risen, but I heard\nsome wan say: 'Mulvaney can take the blame av ut for the backslidin' hound\nhe is.'\n\n\"'Oho!' sez I, an' my head rang like a guard-room gong: 'fwhat is the\nblame that this young man must take to oblige Tim Vulmea?' For 'twas Tim\nVulmea that shpoke.\n\n\"I turned on my belly an' crawled through the grass, a bit at a time, to\nwhere the spache came from. There was the twelve av my room sittin' down\nin a little patch, the dhry grass wavin' above their heads an' the sin av\nblack murdher in their hearts. I put the stuff aside to get a clear view.\n\n\"'Fwhat's that?' sez wan man, jumpin' up.\n\n\"'A dog,' says Vulmea. 'You're a nice hand to this job! As I said,\nMulvaney will take the blame--av ut comes to a pinch.'\n\n\"''Tis harrd to swear a man's life away,' sez a young wan.\n\n\"'Thank ye for that,' thinks I. 'Now, fwhat the divil are you paragins\nconthrivin' against me?'\n\n\"''Tis as easy as dhrinkin' your quart,' sez Vulmea. 'At seven or thereon,\nO'Hara will come acrost to the Married Quarters, goin' to call on Slimmy's\nwife, the swine! Wan av us'll pass the wurrd to the room an' we shtart the\ndivil an' all av a shine--laughin' an' crackin' on an' t'rowin' our boots\nabout. Thin O'Hara will come to give us the ordher to be quiet, the more\nby token bekaze the room-lamp will be knocked over in the larkin'. He will\ntake the straight road to the ind door where there's the lamp in the\nveranda, an' that'll bring him clear against the light as he shtands. He\nwill not be able to look into the dhark. Wan av us will loose off, an' a\nclose shot ut will be, an' shame to the man that misses. 'Twill be\nMulvaney's rifle, she that that is at the head av the rack--there's no\nmistakin' long-shtocked, cross-eyed bitch even in the dhark.'\n\n\"The thief misnamed my ould firin'-piece out av jealousy--I was pershuaded\nav that--an' ut made me more angry than all.\n\n\"But Vulmea goes on: 'O'Hara will dhrop, an' by the time the light's lit\nagain, there'll be some six av us on the chest av Mulvaney, cryin' murdher\nan' rape. Mulvaney's cot is near the ind door, an' the shmokin' rifle will\nbe lyin' undher him whin we've knocked him over. We know, an' all the\nrig'mint knows, that Mulvaney has given O'Hara more lip than any man av\nus. Will there be any doubt at the Coort-martial? Wud twelve honust\nsodger-bhoys swear away the life av a dear, quiet, swate-timpered man such\nas is Mulvaney--wid his line av pipe-clay roun' his cot, threatenin' us\nwid murdher av we overshtepped ut, as we can truthful testify?'\n\n\"'Mary, Mother av Mercy!' thinks I to mesilf; 'it is this to have an\nunruly number an' fistes fit to use! Oh the sneakin' hounds!'\n\n\"The big dhrops ran down my face, for I was wake wid the liquor an' had\nnot the full av my wits about me. I laid shtill an' heard thim workin'\nthemselves up to swear my life by tellin' tales av ivry time I had put my\nmark on wan or another; an' my faith, they was few that was not so\ndishtinguished. 'Twas all in the way av fair fight, though, for niver did\nI raise my hand excipt whin they had provoked me to ut.\n\n\"'Tis all well,' sez wan av thim, 'but who's to do this shootin'?'\n\n\"'Fwhat matther?' sez Vulmea. 'Tis Mulvaney will do that--at the\nCoort-martial.'\n\n\"'He will so,' sez the man, 'but whose hand is put to the trigger--_in the\nroom?'_\n\n\"'Who'll do ut?' sez Vulmea, lookin' round, but divil a man answeared.\nThey began to dishpute till Kiss, that was always playin' Shpoil Five,\nsez: 'Thry the kyards!' Wid that he opined his tunic an' tuk out the\ngreasy palammers, an' they all fell in wid the notion.\n\n\"'Deal on!' sez Vulmea, wid a big rattlin' oath, 'an' the Black Curse av\nShielygh come to the man that will not do his duty as the kyards say.\nAmin!'\n\n\"'Black Jack is the masther,' sez Kiss, dealin'. 'Black Jack, sorr, I shud\nexpaytiate to you, is the Ace av Shpades which from time immimorial has\nbeen intimately connect wid battle, murdher an' suddin death.\n\n\"_Wanst_ Kiss dealt an' there was no sign, but the men was whoite wid the\nworkin's av their sowls. _Twice_ Kiss dealt, an' there was a grey shine on\ntheir cheeks like the mess av an egg. _Three_ times Kiss dealt an' they\nwas blue. 'Have ye not lost him?' sez Vulmea, wipin' the sweat on him;\n'Let's ha' done quick!' 'Quick ut is,' sez Kiss t'rowin' him the kyard;\nan' ut fell face up on his knee--Black Jack!\n\n\"Thin they all cackled wid laughin'. 'Duty thrippence,' sez wan av thim,\n'an' damned cheap at that price!' But I cud see they all dhrew a little\naway from Vulmea an' lef' him sittin' playin' wid the kyard. Vulmea sez no\nword for a whoile but licked his lips--cat-ways. Thin he threw up his head\nan' made the men swear by ivry oath known to stand by him not alone in the\nroom but at the Coort-martial that was to set on _me!_ He tould off five\nav the biggest to stretch me on my cot whin the shot was fired, an'\nanother man he tould off to put out the light, an' yet another to load my\nrifle. He wud not do that himself; an' that was quare, for 'twas but a\nlittle thing considerin'.\n\n\"Thin they swore over again that they wud not bethray wan another, an'\ncrep' out av the grass in diff'rint ways, two by two. A mercy ut was that\nthey did not come on me. I was sick wid fear in the pit av my\nstummick--sick, sick, sick! Afther they was all gone, I wint back to\nCanteen an' called for a quart to put a thought in me. Vulmea was there,\ndhrinkin' heavy, an' politeful to me beyond reason. 'Fwhat will I\ndo--fwhat will I do?' thinks I to mesilf whin Vulmea wint away.\n\n\"Presintly the Arm'rer Sargint comes in stiffin' an' crackin' on, not\npleased wid any wan, bekaze the Martini-Henry bein' new to the rig'mint in\nthose days we used to play the mischief wid her arrangemints. 'Twas a long\ntime before I cud get out av the way av thryin' to pull back the\nback-sight an' turnin' her over afther firin'--as if she was a Snider.\n\n\"'Fwhat tailor-men do they give me to work wid?' sez the Arm'rer Sargint.\n'Here's Hogan, his nose flat as a table, laid by for a week, an' ivry\nComp'ny sendin' their arrums in knocked to small shivreens.'\n\n\"'Fwhat's wrong wid Hogan, Sargint?' sez I.\n\n\"'Wrong!' sez the Arm'rer Sargint; 'I showed him, as though I had been his\nmother, the way av shtrippin' a 'Tini, an' he shtrup her clane an' easy. I\ntould him to put her to again an' fire a blank into the blow-pit to show\nhow the dirt hung on the groovin'. He did that, but he did not put in the\npin av the fallin'-block, an' av coorse whin he fired he was strook by the\nblock jumpin' clear. Well for him 'twas but a blank--a full charge wud ha'\ncut his oi out,\"\n\n\"I looked a thrifle wiser than a boiled sheep's head. 'How's that,\nSargint?' sez I.\n\n\"'This way, ye blundherin' man, an' don't you be doin' ut,' sez he. Wid\nthat he shows me a Waster action--the breech av her all cut away to show\nthe inside--an' so plazed he was to grumble that he dimonstrated fwhat\nHogan had done twice over. 'An' that comes av not knowin' the wepping\nyou're purvided wid,' sez he.\n\n\"'Thank ye, Sargint,' sez I; 'I will come to you again for further\ninformation.'\n\n\"'Ye will not,' sez he, 'Kape your clanin'-rod away from the breech-pin or\nyou will get into throuble.'\n\n\"I wint outside an' I could ha' danced wid delight for the grandeur av ut.\n'They will load my rifle, good luck to thim, whoile I'm away,' thinks I,\nand back I wint to the Canteen to give them their clear chanst.\n\n\"The Canteen was fillin' wid men at the ind av the day. I made feign to be\nfar gone in dhrink, an', wan by wan, all my roomful came in wid Vulmea. I\nwint away, walkin' thick an' heavy, but not so thick an' heavy that any\nwan cud ha' tuk me. Sure and thrue, there was a kyartridge gone from my\npouch an' lyin' snug in my rifle. I was hot wid rage against thim all, an'\nI worried the bullet out wid my teeth as fast as I cud, the room bein'\nempty. Then I tuk my boot an' the clanin'-rod and knocked out the pin av\nthe fallin'-block. Oh, 'twas music when that pin rowled on the flure! I\nput ut into my pouch an' stuck a dab av dirt on the holes in the plate,\nputtin' the fallin'-block back. 'That'll do your business, Vulmea,' sez I,\nlyin' easy on the cot. 'Come an' sit on my chest the whole room av you,\nan' I will take you to my bosom for the biggest divils that iver cheated\nhalter.' I would have no mercy on Vulmea. His oi or his life--little I\ncared!\n\n\"At dusk they came back, the twelve av thim, an' they had all been\ndhrinkin'. I was shammin' sleep on the cot. Wan man wint outside in the\nveranda. Whin he whishtled they began to rage roun' the room an' carry on\ntremenjus. But I niver want to hear men laugh as they did--sky-larkin'\ntoo! 'Twas like mad jackals.\n\n\"'Shtop that blasted noise!' sez O'Hara in the dark, an' pop goes the room\nlamp. I cud hear O'Hara runnin' up an' the rattlin' av my rifle in the\nrack an' the men breathin' heavy as they stud roun' my cot. I cud see\nO'Hara in the light av the veranda lamp, an' thin I heard the crack av my\nrifle. She cried loud, poor darlint, bein' mishandled. Next minut' five\nmen were houldin' me down. 'Go easy,' I sez; 'fwhat's ut all about?'\n\n\"Thin Vulmea, on the flure, raised a howl you cud hear from wan ind av\ncantonmints to the other. 'I'm dead, I'm butchered, I'm blind!' sez he.\n'Saints have mercy on my sinful sowl! Sind for Father Constant! Oh sind\nfor Father Constant an' let me go clean!' By that I knew he was not so\ndead as I cud ha' wished.\n\n\"O'Hara picks up the lamp in the veranda wid a hand as stiddy as a rest.\n'Fwhat damned dog's thrick is this av yours?' sez he, and turns the light\non Tim Vulmea that was shwimmin' in blood from top to toe. The\nfallin'-block had sprung free behin' a full charge av powther--good care I\ntuk to bite down the brass afther takin' out the bullet that there might\nbe somethin' to give ut full worth--an' had cut Tim from the lip to the\ncorner av the right eye, lavin' the eyelid in tatthers, an' so up an'\nalong by the forehead to the hair. 'Twas more av a rakin' plough, if you\nwill ondherstand, than a clean cut; an' niver did I see a man bleed as\nVulmea did, The dhrink an' the stew that he was in pumped the blood\nstrong. The minut' the men sittin' on my chest heard O'Hara spakin' they\nscatthered each wan to his cot, an' cried out very politeful: 'Fwhat is\nut, Sargint?'\n\n\"'Fwhat is ut!' sez O'Hara. shakin' Tim. 'Well an' good do you know fwhat\nut is, ye skulkin' ditch-lurkin' dogs! Get a _doolie_, an' take this\nwhimperin' scutt away. There will be more heard av ut than any av you will\ncare for.'\n\n\"Vulmea sat up rockin' his head in his hand an' moanin' for Father\nConstant.\n\n\"'Be done!' sez O'Hara, dhraggin' him up by the hair. 'You're none so dead\nthat you cannot go fifteen years for thryin' to shoot me.'\n\n\"'I did not,' sez Vulmea; 'I was shootin' mesilf.'\n\n\"'That's quare,' sez O'Hara, 'for the front av my jackut is black wid your\npowther.' He tuk up the rifle that was still warm an' began to laugh.\n'I'll make your life Hell to you,' sez he, 'for attempted murdher an'\nkapin' your rifle onproperly. You'll be hanged first an' thin put undher\nstoppages for four fifteen. The rifle's done for,' sez he.\n\n\"'Why, 'tis my rifle!' sez I, comin' up to look; 'Vulmea, ye divil, fwhat\nwere you doin' wid her--answer me that?'\n\n\"'Lave me alone,' sez Vulmea; 'I'm dyin'!'\n\n\"'I'll wait till you're betther,' sez I, 'an' thin we two will talk ut out\numbrageous.'\n\n\"O'Hara pitched Tim into the _doolie_, none too tinder, but all the bhoys\nkep' by their cots, which was not the sign av innocint men. I was huntin'\nivrywhere for my fallin'-block, but not findin' ut at all. I niver found\nut.\n\n\"'_Now_ fwhat will I do?' sez O'Hara, swinging the veranda light in his\nhand an' lookin' down the room. I had hate and contimpt av O'Hara an' I\nhave now, dead tho' he is, but, for all that, will I say he was a brave\nman. He is baskin' in Purgathory this tide, but I wish he cud hear that,\nwhin he stud lookin' down the room an' the bhoys shivered before the oi av\nhim, I knew him for a brave man an' I liked him _so_.\n\n\"'Fwhat will I do?' sez O'Hara agin, an' we heard the voice av a woman low\nan' sof' in the veranda. 'Twas Slimmy's wife, come over at the shot,\nsittin' on wan av the benches an' scarce able to walk.\n\n\"'O Denny!--Denny, dear,' sez she, 'have they kilt you?'\n\n\"O'Hara looked down the room again an' showed his teeth to the gum. Then\nhe spat on the flare.\n\n\"'You're not worth ut,' sez he. 'Light that lamp, ye dogs,' an' wid that\nhe turned away, an' I saw him walkin' off wid Slimmy's wife; she thryin'\nto wipe off the powther-black on the front av his jackut wid her\nhandkerchief. 'A brave man you are,' thinks I--'a brave man an' a bad\nwoman.'\n\n\"No wan said a word for a time. They was all ashamed, past spache,\n\n\"'Fwhat d'you think he will do?' sez wan av thim at last. 'He knows we're\nall in ut.'\n\n\"'Are we so?' sez I from my cot. 'The man that sez that to me will be\nhurt. I do not know,' sez I, 'fwhat onderhand divilmint you have\nconthrived, but by what I've seen I know that you cannot commit murdher\nwid another man's rifle--such shakin' cowards you are. I'm goin' to\nslape,' I sez, 'an' you can blow my head off whoile I lay.' I did not\nslape, though, for a long time. Can ye wonder?\n\n\"Next morn the news was through all the rig'mint, an' there was nothin'\nthat the men did not tell. O'Hara reports, fair an' easy, that Vulmea was\ncome to grief through tamperin' wid his rifle in barricks, all for to show\nthe mechanism. An' by my sowl, he had the impart'nince to say that he was\non the sphot at the time an' cud certify that ut was an accidint! You\nmight ha' knocked my roomful down wid a straw whin they heard that. 'Twas\nlucky for thim that the bhoys were always thryin' to find out how the new\nrifle was made, an' a lot av thim had come up for easin' the pull by\nshtickin' bits av grass an' such in the part av the lock that showed near\nthe thrigger. The first issues of the 'Tinis was not covered in, an' I\nmesilf have eased the pull av mine time an' agin. A light pull is ten\npoints on the range to me.\n\n\"'I will not have this foolishness!' sez the Colonel, 'I will twist the\ntail off Vulmea!' sez he; but whin he saw him, all tied up an' groanin' in\nhospital, he changed his will. 'Make him an early convalescint' sez he to\nthe Doctor, an' Vulmea was made so for a warnin'. His big bloody bandages\nan' face puckered up to wan side did more to kape the bhoys from messin'\nwid the insides av their rifles than any punishmint.\n\n\"O'Hara gave no reason for fwhat he'd said, an' all my roomful were too\nglad to inquire, tho' he put his spite upon thim more wearin' than before.\nWan day, howiver, he tuk me apart very polite, for he cud be that at the\nchoosin'.\n\n\"'You're a good sodger, tho' you're a damned insolint man,' sez he.\n\n\"'Fair words, Sargint,' sez I, 'or I may be insolint again,'\n\n\"'Tis not like you,' sez he, 'to lave your rifle in the rack widout the\nbreech-pin, for widout the breech-pin she was whin Vulmea fired. I should\nha' found the break av ut in the eyes av the holes, else,' he sez.\n\n\"'Sargint,' sez I, 'fwhat wud your life ha' been worth av the breech-pin\nhad been in place, for, on my sowl, my life wud be worth just as much to\nme av I tould you whether ut was or was not. Be thankful the bullet was\nnot there,' I sez.\n\n\"'That's thrue,' sez he, pulling his moustache; 'but I do not believe that\nyou, for all your lip, was in that business.'\n\n\"'Sargint,' sez I, 'I cud hammer the life out av a man in ten minuts wid\nmy fistes if that man dishpleased me; for I am a good sodger, an' I will\nbe threated as such, an' whoile my fistes are my own they're strong enough\nfor all work I have to do. They do not fly back toward me!' sez I, lookin'\nhim betune the eyes.\n\n\"'You're a good man,' sez he, lookin' me betune the eyes--an' oh he was a\ngran'-built man to see!--'you're a good man,' he sez, 'an' I cud wish, for\nthe pure frolic av ut, that I was not a Sargint, or that you were not a\nPrivit; an' you will think me no coward whin I say this thing.'\n\n\"'I do not,' sez I. 'I saw you whin Vulmea mishandled the rifle. But,\nSargint,' I sez, 'take the wurrd from me now, spakin' as man to man wid\nthe shtripes off, tho' 'tis little right I have to talk, me being fwhat I\nam by natur'. This time ye tuk no harm, an' next time ye may not, but, in\nthe ind, so sure as Slimmy's wife came into the veranda, so sure will ye\ntake harm--an' bad harm. Have thought, Sargint,' sez I. 'Is ut worth ut?'\n\n\"'Ye're a bould man,' sez he, breathin' harrd. 'A very bould man. But I am\na bould man tu. Do you go your way, Privit Mulvaney, an' I will go mine.'\n\n\"We had no further spache thin or afther, but, wan by another, he drafted\nthe twelve av my room out into other rooms an' got thim spread among the\nComp'nies, for they was not a good breed to live together, an' the Comp'ny\norf'cers saw ut. They wud ha' shot me in the night av they had known fwhat\nI knew; but that they did not.\n\n\"An', in the ind, as I said, O'Hara met his death from Rafferty for\nfoolin' wid his wife. He wint his own way too well--Eyah, too well!\nShtraight to that affair, widout turnin' to the right or to the lef', he\nwint, an' may the Lord have mercy on his sowl. Amin!\"\n\n\"'Ear! 'Ear!\" said Ortheris, pointing the moral with a wave of his pipe,\n\"An' this is 'im 'oo would be a bloomin' Vulmea all for the sake of\nMullins an' a bloomin' button! Mullins never went after a woman in his\nlife. Mrs. Mullins, she saw 'im one day\"--\n\n\"Ortheris,\" I said, hastily, for the romances of Private Ortheris are all\ntoo daring for publication, \"look at the sun. It's quarter past six!\"\n\n\"O Lord! Three quarters of an hour for five an' a 'arf miles! We'll 'ave\nto run like Jimmy-O.\"\n\nThe Three Musketeers clambered on to the bridge, and departed hastily in\nthe direction of the cantonment road. When I overtook them I offered them\ntwo stirrups and a tail, which they accepted enthusiastically. Ortheris\nheld the tail, and in this manner we trotted steadily through the shadows\nby an unfrequented road.\n\nAt the turn into the cantonments we heard carriage wheels. It was the\nColonel's barouche, and in it sat the Colonel's wife and daughter. I\ncaught a suppressed chuckle, and my beast sprang forward with a lighter\nstep.\n\nThe Three Musketeers had vanished into the night.\n\n\n\nTHE TAKING OF LUNGTUNGPEN\n\n  So we loosed a bloomin' volley,\n     An' we made the beggars cut,\n   An' when our pouch was emptied out.\n     We used the bloomin' butt,\n       Ho! My!\n       Don't yer come anigh,\n   When Tommy is a playin' with the baynit an' the butt.\n _--Barrack Room Ballad_.\n\nMy friend Private Mulvaney told me this, sitting on the parapet of the\nroad to Dagshai, when we were hunting butterflies together. He had\ntheories about the Army, and colored clay pipes perfectly. He said that\nthe young soldier is the best to work with, \"on account av the surpassing\ninnocinse av the child.\"\n\n\"Now, listen!\" said Mulvaney, throwing himself full length on the wall in\nthe sun. \"I'm a born scutt av the barrick-room! The Army's mate an' dhrink\nto me, bekaze I'm wan av the few that can't quit ut. I've put in sivinteen\nyears, an' the pipeclay's in the marrow av me. Av I cud have kept out av\nwan big dhrink a month, I wud have been a Hon'ry Lift'nint by this time--a\nnuisince to my betthers, a laughin'-shtock to my equils, an' a curse to\nmeself. Bein' fwhat I am, I'm Privit Mulvaney, wid no good-conduc' pay an'\na devourin' thirst. Always barrin' me little frind Bobs Bahadur, I know as\nmuch about the Army as most men.\"\n\nI said something here.\n\n\"Wolseley be shot! Betune you an' me an' that butterfly net, he's a\nramblin', incoherint sort av a divil, wid wan oi on the Quane an' the\nCoort, an' the other on his blessed silf--everlastin'ly playing Saysar an'\nAlexandrier rowled into a lump. Now Bobs is a sinsible little man. Wid\nBobs an' a few three-year-olds, I'd swape any army av the earth into a\ntowel, an' throw it away aftherward. Faith, I'm not jokin'! Tis the\nbhoys--the raw bhoys--that don't know fwhat a bullut manes, an' wudn't\ncare av they did--that dhu the work. They're crammed wid bull-mate till\nthey fairly _ramps_ wid good livin'; and thin, av they don't fight, they\nblow each other's hids off. 'Tis the trut' I'm tellin' you. They shud be\nkept on water an' rice in the hot weather; but there'd be a mut'ny av\n'twas done.\n\n\"Did ye iver hear how Privit Mulvaney tuk the town av Lungtungpen? I\nthought not! 'Twas the Lift'nint got the credit; but 'twas me planned the\nschame. A little before I was inviladed from Burma, me an' four-an'-twenty\nyoung wans undher a Lift'nint Brazenose, was ruinin' our dijeshins thryin'\nto catch dacoits. An' such double-ended divils I niver knew! Tis only a\n_dah_ an' a Snider that makes a dacoit, Widout thim, he's a paceful\ncultivator, an' felony for to shoot. We hunted, an' we hunted, an' tuk\nfever an' elephints now an' again; but no dacoits, Evenshually, we\n_puckarowed_ wan man, 'Trate him tinderly,' sez the Lift'nint. So I tuk\nhim away into the jungle, wid the Burmese Interprut'r an' my clanin'-rod.\nSez I to the man, 'My paceful squireen,' sez I, 'you shquot on your\nhunkers an' dimonstrate to _my_ frind here, where _your_ frinds are whin\nthey're at home?' Wid that I introjuced him to the clanin'-rod, an' he\ncomminst to jabber; the Interprut'r interprutin' in betweens, an' me\nhelpin' the Intilligince Departmint wid my clanin'-rod whin the man\nmisremimbered.\n\n\"Prisintly, I learn that, acrost the river, about nine miles away, was a\ntown just dhrippin' wid dahs, an' bohs an' arrows, an' dacoits, and\nelephints, an' _jingles_. 'Good!' sez I; 'this office will now close!'\n\n\"That night, I went to the Lift'nint an' communicates my information. I\nnever thought much of Lift'nint Brazenose till that night. He was shtiff\nwid books an' theouries, an' all manner av thrimmin's no manner av use.\n'Town did ye say?' sez he. 'Accordin' to the theouries av War, we shud\nwait for reinforcemints.'--'Faith!' thinks I, 'we'd betther dig our graves\nthin;' for the nearest throops was up to their shtocks in the marshes out\nMimbu way. 'But,' says the Lift'nint, 'since 'tis a speshil case, I'll\nmake an excepshin. We'll visit this Lungtungpen to-night.'\n\n\"The bhoys was fairly woild wid deloight whin I tould 'em; an', by this\nan' that, they wint through the jungle like buck-rabbits. About midnight\nwe come to the shtrame which I had clane forgot to minshin to my orficer.\nI was on, ahead, wid four bhoys, an' I thought that the Lift'nint might\nwant to theourise. 'Shtrip boys!' sez I. 'Shtrip to the buff, an' shwim in\nwhere glory waits!'--'But I _can't_ shwim!' sez two av thim. 'To think I\nshould live to hear that from a bhoy wid a board-school edukashin!' sez I.\n'Take a lump av timber, an' me an' Conolly here will ferry ye over, ye\nyoung ladies!'\n\n\"We got an ould tree-trunk, an' pushed off wid the kits an' the rifles on\nit. The night was chokin' dhark, an' just as we was fairly embarked, I\nheard the Lift'nint behind av me callin' out. 'There's a bit av a _nullah_\nhere, sorr,' sez I, 'but I can feel the bottom already.' So I cud, for I\nwas not a yard from the bank.\n\n\"'Bit av a _nullah!_ Bit av an eshtuary!' sez the Lift'nint. 'Go on, ye\nmad Irishman! Shtrip bhoys!' I heard him laugh; an' the bhoys begun\nshtrippin' an' rollin' a log into the wather to put their kits on. So me\nan' Conolly shtruck out through the warm wather wid our log, an' the rest\ncome on behind.\n\n\"That shtrame was miles woide! Orth'ris, on the rear-rank log, whispers we\nhad got into the Thames below Sheerness by mistake. 'Kape on shwimmin', ye\nlittle blayguard,' sez I, 'an' don't go pokin' your dirty jokes at the\nIrriwaddy,'--'Silince, men!' sings out the Lift'nint. So we shwum on into\nthe black dhark, wid our chests on the logs, trustin' in the Saints an'\nthe luck av the British Army.\n\n\"Evenshually, we hit ground--a bit av sand--an' a man. I put my heel on\nthe back av him. He skreeched an' ran.\n\n\"'_Now_ we've done it!' sez Lift'nint Brazenose. 'Where the Divil _is_\nLungtungpen?' There was about a minute and a half to wait. The bhoys laid\na hould av their rifles an' some thried to put their belts on; we was\nmarchin' wid fixed baynits av coorse. Thin we knew where Lungtungpen was;\nfor we had hit the river-wall av it in the dhark, an' the whole town\nblazed wid thim messin' _jingles_ an' Sniders like a cat's back on a\nfrosty night. They was firin' all ways at wanst, but over our hids into\nthe shtrame.\n\n\"'Have you got your rifles?' sez Brazenose. 'Got 'em!' sez Orth'ris. 'I've\ngot that thief Mulvaney's for all my back-pay, an' she'll kick my heart\nsick wid that blunderin' long shtock av hers.'--'Go on!' yells Brazenose,\nwhippin' his sword out. 'Go on an' take the town! An' the Lord have mercy\non our sowls!'\n\n\"Thin the bhoys gave wan divastatin' howl, an' pranced into the dhark,\nfeelin' for the town, an' blindin' an' stiffin' like Cavalry Ridin'\nMasters whin the grass pricked their bare legs. I hammered wid the butt at\nsome bamboo-thing that felt wake, an' the rest come an' hammered\ncontagious, while the _jingles_ was jingling, an' feroshus yells from\ninside was shplittin' our ears. We was too close under the wall for thim\nto hurt us.\n\n\"Evenshually, the thing, whatever ut was, bruk; an' the six-and-twinty av\nus tumbled, wan after the other, naked as we was borrun, into the town of\nLungtungpen. There was a _melly_ av a sumpshus kind for a whoile; but\nwhether they tuk us, all white an' wet, for a new breed av divil, or a new\nkind av dacoit, I don't know. They ran as though we was both, an' we wint\ninto thim, baynit an' butt, shriekin' wid laughin'. There was torches in\nthe shtreets, an' I saw little Orth'ris rubbin' his showlther ivry time he\nloosed my long-shtock Martini; an' Brazenose walkin' into the gang wid his\nsword, like Diarmid av the Gowlden Collar--barring he hadn't a stitch av\nclothin' on him. We diskivered elephints wid dacoits under their bellies,\nan', what wid wan thing an' another, we was busy till mornin' takin'\npossession av the town of Lungtungpen.\n\n\"Thin we halted an' formed up, the wimmen howlin' in the houses an'\nLift'nint Brazenose blushin' pink in the light av the mornin' sun. 'Twas\nthe most ondasint p'rade I iver tuk a hand in. Foive-and-twenty privits\nan' a orficer av the Line in review ordher, an' not as much as wud dust a\nfife betune 'em all in the way of clothin'! Eight av us had their belts\nan' pouches on; but the rest had gone in wid a handful av cartridges an'\nthe skin God gave thim. _They_ was as nakid as Vanus.\n\n\"'Number off from the right!' sez the Lift'nint. 'Odd numbers fall out to\ndress; even numbers pathrol the town till relieved by the dressing party.'\nLet me tell you, pathrollin' a town wid nothing on is an ex_pay_rience. I\npathrolled for tin minutes, an' begad, before 'twas over, I blushed. The\nwomen laughed so. I niver blushed before or since; but I blushed all over\nmy carkiss thin. Orth'ris didn't pathrol. He sez only, 'Portsmith Barricks\nan' the 'Ard av a Sunday! Thin he lay down an' rowled any ways wid\nlaughin'.\n\n\"Whin we was all dhressed, we counted the dead--sivinty-foive dacoits\nbesides wounded. We tuk five elephints, a hunder' an' sivinty Sniders, two\nhunder' dahs, and a lot av other burglarious thruck. Not a man av us was\nhurt--excep' maybe the Lift'nint, an' he from the shock to his dasincy.\n\n\"The Headman av Lungtungpen, who surrinder'd himself, asked the\nInterprut'r--''Av the English fight like that wid their clo'es off, what\nin the wurruld do they do wid their clo'es on?' Orth'ris began rowlin' his\neyes an' crackin' his fingers an' dancin' a step-dance for to impress the\nHeadman. He ran to his house; an' we spint the rest av the day carryin'\nthe Lift'nint on our showlthers round the town, an' playin' wid the\nBurmese babies--fat, little, brown little divils, as pretty as picturs.\n\n\"Whin I was inviladed for the dysent'ry to India, I sez to the Lift'nint,\n'Sorr,' sez I, 'you've the makin's in you av a great man; but, av you'll\nlet an ould sodger spake, you're too fond of the-ourisin'.' He shuk hands\nwid me and sez, 'Hit high, hit low, there's no plasin' you, Mulvaney.\nYou've seen me waltzin' through Lungtungpen like a Red Injin widout the\nwarpaint, an' you say I'm too fond av the-ourisin'?'--'Sorr,' sez I, for I\nloved the bhoy; 'I wud waltz wid you in that condishin through _Hell_, an'\nso wud the rest av the men!' Thin I wint downshtrame in the flat an' left\nhim my blessin'. May the Saints carry ut where ut shud go, for he was a\nfine upstandin' young orficer,\n\n\"To reshume. Fwhat I've said jist shows the use av three-year-olds. Wud\nfifty seasoned sodgers have taken Lungtungpen in the dhark that way? No!\nThey'd know the risk av fever and chill. Let alone the shootin'. Two\nhundher' might have done ut. But the three-year-olds know little an' care\nless; an' where there's no fear, there's no danger. Catch thim young, feed\nthim high, an' by the honor av that great, little man Bobs, behind a good\norficer 'tisn't only dacoits they'd smash wid their clo'es off--'tis\nCon-ti-nental Ar-r-r-mies! They tuk Lungtungpen nakid; an' they'd take St.\nPethersburg in their dhrawers! Begad, they would that!\n\n\"Here's your pipe, sorr. Shmoke her tinderly wid honey-dew, afther letting\nthe reek av the Canteen plug die away. But 'tis no good, thanks to you all\nthe same, fillin' my pouch wid your chopped hay. Canteen baccy's like the\nArmy. It shpoils a man's taste for moilder things.\"\n\nSo saying, Mulvaney took up his butterfly-net, and returned to barracks.\n\n\n\nTHE PHANTOM RICKSHAW\n\n   May no ill dreams disturb my rest,\n   Nor Powers of Darkness me molest.\n\n--Evening Hymn.\n\nOne of the few advantages that India has over England is a great\nKnowability. After five years' service a man is directly or indirectly\nacquainted with the two or three hundred Civilians in his Province, all\nthe Messes of ten or twelve Regiments and Batteries, and some fifteen\nhundred other people of the non-official caste, in ten years his knowledge\nshould be doubled, and at the end of twenty he knows, or knows something\nabout, every Englishman in the Empire, and may travel anywhere and\neverywhere without paying hotel-bills.\n\nGlobe-trotters who expect entertainment as a right, have, even within my\nmemory, blunted this open-heartedness, but none the less to-day, if you\nbelong to the Inner Circle and are neither a Bear nor a Black Sheep, all\nhouses are open to you, and our small world is very, very kind and\nhelpful.\n\nRickett of Kamartha stayed with Polder of Kumaon some fifteen years ago.\nHe meant to stay two nights, but was knocked down by rheumatic fever, and\nfor six weeks disorganized Polder's establishment, stopped Polder's work,\nand nearly died in Polder's bedroom. Polder behaves as though he had been\nplaced under eternal obligation by Rickett, and yearly sends the little\nRicketts a box of presents and toys. It is the same everywhere. The men\nwho do not take the trouble to conceal from you their opinion that you are\nan incompetent ass, and the women who blacken your character and\nmisunderstand your wife's amusements, will work themselves to the bone in\nyour behalf if you fall sick or into serious trouble,\n\nHeatherlegh, the Doctor, kept, in addition to his regular practice, a\nhospital on his private account--an arrangement of loose boxes for\nIncurables, his friend called it--but it was really a sort of fitting-up\nshed for craft that had been damaged by stress of weather. The weather in\nIndia is often sultry, and since the tale of bricks is always a fixed\nquantity, and the only liberty allowed is permission to work overtime and\nget no thanks, men occasionally break down and become as mixed as the\nmetaphors in this sentence.\n\nHeatherlegh is the dearest doctor that ever was, and his invariable\nprescription to all his patients is, \"lie low, go slow, and keep cool.\" He\nsays that more men are killed by overwork than the importance of this\nworld justifies. He maintains that overwork slew Pansay, who died under\nhis hands about three years ago. He has, of course, the right to speak\nauthoritatively, and he laughs at my theory that there was a crack in\nPansay's head and a little bit of the Dark World came through and pressed\nhim to death. \"Pansay went off the handle,\" says Heatherlegh, \"after the\nstimulus of long leave at Home. He may or he may not have behaved like a\nblackguard to Mrs. Keith-Wessington. My notion is that the work of the\nKatabundi Settlement ran him off his legs, and that he took to brooding\nand making much of an ordinary P. & O. flirtation. He certainly was\nengaged to Miss Mannering, and she certainly broke off the engagement.\nThen he took a feverish chill and all that nonsense about ghosts\ndeveloped. Overwork started his illness, kept it alight, and killed him,\npoor devil. Write him off to the System--one man to take the work of two\nand a half men.\"\n\nI do not believe this. I used to sit up with Pansay sometimes when\nHeatherlegh was called out to patients, and I happened to be within claim.\nThe man would make me most unhappy by describing in a low, even voice, the\nprocession that was always passing at the bottom of his bed. He had a sick\nman's command of language. When he recovered I suggested that he should\nwrite out the whole affair from beginning to end, knowing that ink might\nassist him to ease his mind. When little boys have learned a new bad word\nthey are never happy till they have chalked it up on a door. And this also\nis Literature.\n\nHe was in a high fever while he was writing, and the blood-and-thunder\nMagazine diction he adopted did not calm him. Two months afterward he was\nreported fit for duty, but, in spite of the fact that he was urgently\nneeded to help an undermanned Commission stagger through a deficit, he\npreferred to die; vowing at the last that he was hag-ridden. I got his\nmanuscript before he died, and this is his version of the affair, dated\n1885:\n\nMy doctor tells me that I need rest and change of air. It is not\nimprobable that I shall get both ere long--rest that neither the\nred-coated messenger nor the midday gun can break, and change of air far\nbeyond that which any homeward-bound steamer can give me. In the meantime\nI am resolved to stay where I am; and, in flat defiance of my doctor's\norders, to take all the world into my confidence. You shall learn for\nyourselves the precise nature of my malady; and shall, too, judge for\nyourselves whether any man born of woman on this weary earth was ever so\ntormented as I.\n\nSpeaking now as a condemned criminal might speak ere the drop-bolts are\ndrawn, my story, wild and hideously improbable as it may appear, demands\nat least attention. That it will ever receive credence I utterly\ndisbelieve. Two months ago I should have scouted as mad or drunk the man\nwho had dared tell me the like. Two months ago I was the happiest man in\nIndia. To-day, from Peshawur to the sea, there is no one more wretched. My\ndoctor and I are the only two who know this. His explanation is, that my\nbrain, digestion, and eyesight are all slightly affected; giving rise to\nmy frequent and persistent \"delusions.\" Delusions, indeed! I call him a\nfool; but he attends me still with the same unwearied smile, the same\nbland professional manner, the same neatly trimmed red whiskers, till I\nbegin to suspect that I am an ungrateful, evil-tempered invalid. But you\nshall judge for yourselves.\n\nThree years ago it was my fortune--my great misfortune--to sail from\nGravesend to Bombay, on return from long leave, with one Agnes\nKeith-Wessington, wife of an officer on the Bombay side. It does not in\nthe least concern you to know what manner of woman she was. Be content\nwith the knowledge that, ere the voyage had ended, both she and I were\ndesperately and unreasoningly in love with one another. Heaven knows that\nI can make the admission now without one particle of vanity. In matters of\nthis sort there is always one who gives and another who accepts. From the\nfirst day of our ill-omened attachment, I was conscious that Agnes's\npassion was a stronger, a more dominant, and--if I may use the\nexpression--a purer sentiment than mine. Whether she recognized the fact\nthen, I do not know. Afterward it was bitterly plain to both of as.\n\nArrived at Bombay in the spring of the year, we went our respective ways,\nto meet no more for the next three or four months, when my leave and her\nlove took us both to Simla. There we spent the season together; and there\nmy fire of straw burned itself out to a pitiful end with the closing year.\nI attempt no excuse. I make no apology. Mrs. Wessington had given up much\nfor my sake, and was prepared to give up all. From my own lips, in August,\n1882, she learned that I was sick of her presence, tired of her company,\nand weary of the sound of her voice. Ninety-nine women out of a hundred\nwould have wearied of me as I wearied of them; seventy-five of that number\nwould have promptly avenged themselves by active and obtrusive flirtation\nwith other men. Mrs. Wessington was the hundredth. On her neither my\nopenly expressed aversion nor the cutting brutalities with which I\ngarnished our interviews had the least effect.\n\n\"Jack, darling!\" was her one eternal cuckoo cry: \"I'm sure it's all a\nmistake--a hideous mistake; and we'll be good friends again some day.\n_Please_ forgive me, Jack, dear.\"\n\nI was the offender, and I knew it. That knowledge transformed my pity into\npassive endurance, and, eventually, into blind hate--the same instinct, I\nsuppose, which prompts a man to savagely stamp on the spider he has but\nhalf killed. And with this hate in my bosom the season of 1882 came to an\nend.\n\nNext year we met again at Simla--she with her monotonous face and timid\nattempts at reconciliation, and I with loathing of her in every fibre of\nmy frame. Several times I could not avoid meeting her alone; and on each\noccasion her words were identically the same. Still the unreasoning wail\nthat it was all a \"mistake\"; and still the hope of eventually \"making\nfriends.\" I might have seen had I cared to look, that that hope only was\nkeeping her alive. She grew more wan and thin month by month. You will\nagree with me, at least, that such conduct would have driven any one to\ndespair. It was uncalled for; childish; unwomanly. I maintain that she was\nmuch to blame. And again, sometimes, in the black, fever-stricken\nnight-watches, I have begun to think that I might have been a little\nkinder to her. But that really _is_ a \"delusion.\" I could not have\ncontinued pretending to love her when I didn't, could I? It would have\nbeen unfair to us both.\n\nLast year we met again--on the same terms as before. The same weary\nappeals, and the same curt answers from my lips. At least I would make her\nsee how wholly wrong and hopeless were her attempts at resuming the old\nrelationship. As the season wore on, we fell apart--that is to say, she\nfound it difficult to meet me, for I had other and more absorbing\ninterests to attend to. When I think it over quietly in my sick-room, the\nseason of 1884 seems a confused nightmare wherein light and shade were\nfantastically intermingled--my courtship of little Kitty Mannering; my\nhopes, doubts, and fears; our long rides together; my trembling avowal of\nattachment; her reply; and now and again a vision of a white face flitting\nby in the 'rickshaw with the black and white liveries I once watched for\nso earnestly; the wave of Mrs. Wessington's gloved hand; and, when she met\nme alone, which was but seldom, the irksome monotony of her appeal. I\nloved Kitty Mannering; honestly, heartily loved her, and with my love for\nher grew my hatred for Agnes. In August Kitty and I were engaged. The next\nday I met those accursed \"magpie\" _jhampanies_ at the back of Jakko, and,\nmoved by some passing sentiment of pity, stopped to tell Mrs. Wessington\neverything. She knew it already.\n\n\"So I hear you're engaged, Jack dear.\" Then, without a moment's\npause:--\"I'm sure it's all a mistake--a hideous mistake. We shall be as\ngood friends some day, Jack, as we ever were.\"\n\nMy answer might have made even a man wince. It cut the dying woman before\nme like the blow of a whip. \"Please forgive me, Jack; I didn't mean to\nmake you angry; but it's true, it's true!\"\n\nAnd Mrs. Wessington broke down completely. I turned away and left her to\nfinish her journey in peace, feeling, but only for a moment or two, that I\nhad been an unutterably mean hound. I looked back, and saw that she had\nturned her 'rickshaw with the idea, I suppose, of overtaking me.\n\nThe scene and its surroundings were photographed on my memory. The\nrain-swept sky (we were at the end of the wet weather), the sodden, dingy\npines, the muddy road, and the black powder-riven cliffs formed a gloomy\nbackground against which the black and white liveries of the _jhampanies_,\nthe yellow-paneled 'rickshaw and Mrs. Wessington's down-bowed golden head\nstood out clearly. She was holding her handkerchief in her left hand and\nwas leaning back exhausted against the 'rickshaw cushions. I turned my\nhorse up a bypath near the Sanjowlie Reservoir and literally ran away.\nOnce I fancied I heard a faint call of \"Jack!\" This may have been\nimagination. I never stopped to verify it. Ten minutes later I came across\nKitty on horseback; and, in the delight of a long ride with her, forgot\nall about the interview.\n\nA week later Mrs. Wessington died, and the inexpressible burden of her\nexistence was removed from my life. I went Plainsward perfectly happy.\nBefore three months were over I had forgotten all about her, except that\nat times the discovery of some of her old letters reminded me unpleasantly\nof our bygone relationship. By January I had disinterred what was left of\nour correspondence from among my scattered belongings and had burned it. At\nthe beginning of April of this year, 1885, I was at Simla--semi-deserted\nSimla--once more, and was deep in lover's talks and walks with Kitty. It\nwas decided that we should be married at the end of June. You will\nunderstand, therefore, that, loving Kitty as I did, I am not saying too\nmuch when I pronounce myself to have been, at that time, the happiest man\nin India.\n\nFourteen delightful days passed almost before I noticed their flight.\nThen, aroused to the sense of what was proper among mortals circumstanced\nas we were, I pointed out to Kitty that an engagement ring was the outward\nand visible sign of her dignity as an engaged girl; and that she must\nforthwith come to Hamilton's to be measured for one. Up to that moment, I\ngive you my word, we had completely forgotten so trivial a matter. To\nHamilton's we accordingly went on the 15th of April, 1885. Remember\nthat--whatever my doctor may say to the contrary--I was then in perfect\nhealth, enjoying a well-balanced mind and an _absolutely_ tranquil spirit.\nKitty and I entered Hamilton's shop together, and there, regardless of the\norder of affairs, I measured Kitty for the ring in the presence of the\namused assistant. The ring was a sapphire with two diamonds. We then rode\nout down the slope that leads to the Combermere Bridge and Peliti's shop.\n\nWhile my Waler was cautiously feeling his way over the loose shale, and\nKitty was laughing and chattering at my side--while all Simla, that is to\nsay as much of it as had then come from the Plains, was grouped round the\nReading-room and Peliti's veranda,--I was aware that some one, apparently\nat a vast distance, was calling me by my Christian name. It struck me that\nI had heard the voice before, but when and where I could not at once\ndetermine. In the short space it took to cover the road between the path\nfrom Hamilton's shop and the first plank of the Combermere Bridge I had\nthought over half a dozen people who might have committed such a solecism,\nand had eventually decided that it must have been singing in my ears.\nImmediately opposite Peliti's shop my eye was arrested by the sight of\nfour _jhampanies_ in \"magpie\" livery, pulling a yellow-paneled, cheap,\nbazar 'rickshaw. In a moment my mind flew back to the previous season and\nMrs. Wessington with a sense of irritation and disgust. Was it not enough\nthat the woman was dead and done with, without her black and white\nservitors reappearing to spoil the day's happiness? Whoever employed them\nnow I thought I would call upon, and ask as a personal favor to change her\n_jhampanies'_ livery. I would hire the men myself, and, if necessary, buy\ntheir coats from off their backs. It is impossible to say here what a\nflood of undesirable memories their presence evoked.\n\n\"Kitty,\" I cried, \"there are poor Mrs. Wessington's _jhampanies_ turned up\nagain! I wonder who has them now?\"\n\nKitty had known Mrs. Wessington slightly last season, and had always been\ninterested in the sickly woman.\n\n\"What? Where?\" she asked. \"I can't see them anywhere.\"\n\nEven as she spoke, her horse, swerving from a laden mule, threw himself\ndirectly in front of the advancing 'rickshaw. I had scarcely time to utter\na word of warning when, to my unutterable horror, horse and rider passed\n_through_ men and carriage as if they had been thin air.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" cried Kitty; \"what made you call out so foolishly,\nJack? If I _am_ engaged I don't want all creation to know about it. There\nwas lots of space between the mule and the veranda; and, if you think I\ncan't ride--There!\"\n\nWhereupon wilful Kitty set off, her dainty little head in the air, at a\nhand-gallop in the direction of the Band-stand; fully expecting, as she\nherself afterward told me, that I should follow her. What was the matter?\nNothing indeed. Either that I was mad or drunk, or that Simla was haunted\nwith devils. I reined in my impatient cob, and turned round. The 'rickshaw\nhad turned too, and now stood immediately facing me, near the left railing\nof the Combermere Bridge.\n\n\"Jack! Jack, darling!\" (There was no mistake about the words this time:\nthey rang through my brain as if they had been shouted in my ear.) \"It's\nsome hideous mistake, I'm sure. _Please_ forgive me, Jack, and let's be\nfriends again.\"\n\nThe 'rickshaw-hood had fallen back, and inside, as I hope and pray daily\nfor the death I dread by night, sat Mrs. Keith-Wessington, handkerchief in\nhand, and golden head bowed on her breast,\n\nHow long I stared motionless I do not know. Finally, I was aroused by my\nsyce taking the Waler's bridle and asking whether I was ill. From the\nhorrible to the commonplace is but a step. I tumbled off my horse and\ndashed, half fainting, into Peliti's for a glass of cherry-brandy. There\ntwo or three couples were gathered round the coffee-tables discussing the\ngossip of the day. Their trivialities were more comforting to me just then\nthan the consolations of religion could have been. I plunged into the\nmidst of the conversation at once; chatted, laughed, and jested with a\nface (when I caught a glimpse of it in a mirror) as white and drawn as\nthat of a corpse. Three or four men noticed my condition; and, evidently\nsetting it down to the results of over-many pegs, charitably endeavored to\ndraw me apart from the rest of the loungers. But I refused to be led away,\nI wanted the company of my kind--as a child rushes into the midst of the\ndinner-party after a fright in the dark. I must have talked for about ten\nminutes or so, though it seemed an eternity to me, when I heard Kitty's\nclear voice outside inquiring for me. In another minute she had entered\nthe shop, prepared to roundly upbraid me for failing so signally in my\nduties. Something in my face stopped her.\n\n\"Why, Jack,\" she cried, \"what _have_ you been doing? What _has_ happened?\nAre you ill?\" Thus driven into a direct lie, I said that the sun had been\na little too much for me. It was close upon five o'clock of a cloudy April\nafternoon, and the sun had been hidden all day. I saw my mistake as soon\nas the words were out of my mouth: attempted to recover it; blundered\nhopelessly and followed Kitty in a regal rage, out of doors, amid the\nsmiles of my acquaintances. I made some excuse (I have forgotten what) on\nthe score of my feeling faint; and cantered away to my hotel, leaving\nKitty to finish the ride by herself.\n\nIn my room I sat down and tried calmly to reason out the matter. Here was\nI, Theobald Jack Pansay, a well-educated Bengal Civilian in the year of\ngrace 1885, presumably sane, certainly healthy, driven in terror from my\nsweetheart's side by the apparition of a woman who had been dead and\nburied eight months ago. These were facts that I could not blink. Nothing\nwas further from my thought than any memory of Mrs. Wessington when Kitty\nand I left Hamilton's shop. Nothing was more utterly commonplace than the\nstretch of wall opposite Peliti's. It was broad daylight. The road was\nfull of people; and yet here, look you, in defiance of every law of\nprobability, in direct outrage of Nature's ordinance, there had appeared\nto me a face from the grave.\n\nKitty's Arab had gone _through_ the 'rickshaw: so that my first hope that\nsome woman marvelously like Mrs. Wessington had hired the carriage and the\ncoolies with their old livery was lost. Again and again I went round this\ntreadmill of thought; and again and again gave up baffled and in despair.\nThe voice was as inexplicable as the apparition, I had originally some\nwild notion of confiding it all to Kitty; of begging her to marry me at\nonce; and in her arms defying the ghostly occupant of the 'rickshaw.\n\"After all,\" I argued, \"the presence of the 'rickshaw is in itself enough\nto prove the existence of a spectral illusion. One may see ghosts of men\nand women, but surely never of coolies and carriages. The whole thing is\nabsurd. Fancy the ghost of a hillman!\"\n\nNext morning I sent a penitent note to Kitty, imploring her to overlook my\nstrange conduct of the previous afternoon. My Divinity was still very\nwroth, and a personal apology was necessary. I explained, with a fluency\nborn of nightlong pondering over a falsehood, that I had been attacked\nwith a sudden palpitation of the heart--the result of indigestion. This\neminently practical solution had its effect; and Kitty and I rode out that\nafternoon with the shadow of my first lie dividing us.\n\nNothing would please her save a canter round Jakko. With my nerves still\nunstrung from the previous night I feebly protested against the notion,\nsuggesting Observatory Hill, Jutogh, the Boileaugunge road--anything\nrather than the Jakko round. Kitty was angry and a little hurt: so I\nyielded from fear of provoking further misunderstanding, and we set out\ntogether toward Chota Simla. We walked a greater part of the way, and,\naccording to our custom, cantered from a mile or so below the Convent to\nthe stretch of level road by the Sanjowlie Reservoir. The wretched horses\nappeared to fly, and my heart beat quicker and quicker as we neared the\ncrest of the ascent. My mind had been full of Mrs. Wessington all the\nafternoon; and every inch of the Jakko road bore witness to our old-time\nwalks and talks. The bowlders were full of it; the pines sang it aloud\noverhead; the rain-fed torrents giggled and chuckled unseen over the\nshameful story; and the wind in my ears chanted the iniquity aloud.\n\nAs a fitting climax, in the middle of the level men call the Ladies' Mile\nthe Horror was awaiting me. No other 'rickshaw was in sight--only the four\nblack and white _jhampanies_, the yellow-paneled carriage, and the golden\nhead of the woman within--all apparently just as I had left them eight\nmonths and one fortnight ago! For an instant I fancied that Kitty _must_\nsee what I saw--we were so marvelously sympathetic in all things. Her next\nwords undeceived me--\"Not a soul in sight! Come along, Jack, and I'll race\nyou to the Reservoir buildings!\" Her wiry little Arab was off like a bird,\nmy Waler following close behind, and in this order we dashed under the\ncliffs. Half a minute brought us within fifty yards of the 'rickshaw, I\npulled my Waler and fell back a little. The 'rickshaw was directly in the\nmiddle of the road; and once more the Arab passed through it, my horse\nfollowing. \"Jack! Jack dear! _Please_ forgive me,\" rang with a wail in my\nears, and, after an interval:--\"It's all a mistake, a hideous mistake!\"\n\nI spurred my horse like a man possessed. When I turned my head at the\nReservoir works, the black and white liveries were still\nwaiting--patiently waiting--under the grey hillside, and the wind brought\nme a mocking echo of the words I had just heard. Kitty bantered me a good\ndeal on my silence throughout the remainder of the ride, I had been\ntalking up till then wildly and at random. To save my life I could not\nspeak afterward naturally, and from Sanjowlie to the Church wisely held my\ntongue.\n\nI was to dine with the Mannerings that night, and had barely time to\ncanter home to dress. On the road to Elysium Hill I overheard two men\ntalking together in the dusk.--\"It's a curious thing,\" said one, \"how\ncompletely all trace of it disappeared. You know my wife was insanely fond\nof the woman ('never could see anything in her myself), and wanted me to\npick up her old 'rickshaw and coolies if they were to be got for love or\nmoney. Morbid sort of fancy I call it; but I've got to do what the\n_Memsahib_ tells me. Would you believe that the man she hired it from\ntells me that all four of the men--they were brothers--died of cholera on\nthe way to Hard-war, poor devils; and the 'rickshaw has been broken up by\nthe man himself. 'Told me he never used a dead _Memsahib's_ 'rickshaw.\n'Spoiled his luck. Queer notion, wasn't it? Fancy poor little Mrs.\nWessington spoiling any one's luck except her own!\" I laughed aloud at\nthis point; and my laugh jarred on me as I uttered it. So there _were_\nghosts of 'rickshaws after all, and ghostly employments in the other\nworld! How much did Mrs. Wessington give her men? What were their hours?\nWhere did they go?\n\nAnd for visible answer to my last question I saw the infernal Thing\nblocking my path in the twilight. The dead travel fast, and by short cuts\nunknown to ordinary coolies. I laughed aloud a second time and checked my\nlaughter suddenly, for I was afraid I was going mad. Mad to a certain\nextent I must have been, for I recollect that I reined in my horse at the\nhead of the 'rickshaw, and politely wished Mrs. Wessington \"Good-evening,\"\nHer answer was one I knew only too well. I listened to the end; and\nreplied that I had heard it all before, but should be delighted if she had\nanything further to say. Some malignant devil stronger than I must have\nentered into me that evening, for I have a dim recollection of talking the\ncommonplaces of the day for five minutes to the Thing in front of me.\n\n\"Mad as a hatter, poor devil--or drunk. Max, try and get him to come\nhome.\"\n\nSurely _that_ was not Mrs. Wessington's voice! The two men had overheard\nme speaking to the empty air, and had returned to look after me. They were\nvery kind and considerate, and from their words evidently gathered that I\nwas extremely drunk, I thanked them confusedly and cantered away to my\nhotel, there changed, and arrived at the Mannerings' ten minutes late. I\npleaded the darkness of the night as an excuse; was rebuked by Kitty for\nmy unlover-like tardiness; and sat down.\n\nThe conversation had already become general; and under cover of it, I was\naddressing some tender small talk to my sweetheart when I was aware that\nat the further end of the table a short red-whiskered man was describing,\nwith much embroidery, his encounter with a mad unknown that evening.\n\nA few sentences convinced me that he was repeating the incident of half an\nhour ago. In the middle of the story he looked round for applause, as\nprofessional story-tellers do, caught my eye, and straightway collapsed.\nThere was a moment's awkward silence, and the red-whiskered man muttered\nsomething to the effect that he had \"forgotten the rest,\" thereby\nsacrificing a reputation as a good story-teller which he had built up for\nsix seasons past. I blessed him from the bottom of my heart, and--went on\nwith my fish.\n\nIn the fulness of time that dinner came to an end; and with genuine regret\nI tore myself away from Kitty--as certain as I was of my own existence\nthat It would be waiting for me outside the door. The red-whiskered man,\nwho had been introduced to me as Doctor Heatherlegh of Simla, volunteered\nto bear me company as far as our roads lay together. I accepted his offer\nwith gratitude.\n\nMy instinct had not deceived me. It lay in readiness in the Mall, and, in\nwhat seemed devilish mockery of our ways, with a lighted headlamp. The\nred-whiskered man went to the point at once, in a manner that showed he\nhad been thinking over it all dinner time.\n\n\"I say, Pansay, what the deuce was the matter with you this evening on the\nElysium road?\" The suddenness of the question wrenched an answer from me\nbefore I was aware.\n\n\"That!\" said I, pointing to It.\n\n\"_That_ may be either D.T. or Eyes for aught I know. Now you don't liquor.\nI saw as much at dinner, so it can't be _D.T_. There's nothing whatever\nwhere you're pointing, though you're sweating and trembling with fright\nlike a scared pony. Therefore, I conclude that it's Eyes. And I ought to\nunderstand all about them. Come along home with me. I'm on the Blessington\nlower road.\"\n\nTo my intense delight the 'rickshaw instead of waiting for us kept about\ntwenty yards ahead--and this, too, whether we walked, trotted, or\ncantered. In the course of that long night ride I had told my companion\nalmost as much as I have told you here.\n\n\"Well, you've spoiled one of the best tales I've ever laid tongue to,\"\nsaid he, \"but I'll forgive you for the sake of what you've gone through.\nNow come home and do what I tell you; and when I've cured you, young man,\nlet this be a lesson to you to steer clear of women and indigestible food\ntill the day of your death.\"\n\nThe 'rickshaw kept steady in front; and my red-whiskered friend seemed to\nderive great pleasure from my account of its exact whereabouts.\n\n\"Eyes, Pansay--all Eyes, Brain, and Stomach. And the greatest of these\nthree is Stomach. You've too much conceited Brain, too little Stomach, and\nthoroughly unhealthy Eyes. Get your Stomach straight and the rest follows.\nAnd all that's French for a liver pill. I'll take sole medical charge of\nyou from this hour! for you're too interesting a phenomenon to be passed\nover.\"\n\nBy this time we were deep in the shadow of the Blessington lower road and\nthe 'rickshaw came to a dead stop under a pine-clad, overhanging shale\ncliff. Instinctively I halted too, giving my reason. Heatherlegh rapped\nout an oath.\n\n\"Now, if you think I'm going to spend a cold night on the hillside for the\nsake of a Stomach-_cum_-Brain-_cum_-Eye illusion ... Lord, ha' mercy!\nWhat's that?\"\n\nThere was a muffled report, a blinding smother of dust just in front of\nus, a crack, the noise of rent boughs, and about ten yards of the\ncliff-side--pines, undergrowth, and all--slid down into the road below,\ncompletely blocking it up. The uprooted trees swayed and tottered for a\nmoment like drunken giants in the gloom, and then fell prone among their\nfellows with a thunderous crash. Our two horses stood motionless and\nsweating with fear. As soon as the rattle of falling earth and stone had\nsubsided, my companion muttered:--\"Man, if we'd gone forward we should\nhave been ten feet deep in our graves by now. 'There are more things in\nheaven and earth.' ... Come home, Pansay, and thank God. I want a peg\nbadly.\"\n\nWe retraced our way over the Church Ridge, and I arrived at Dr.\nHeatherlegh's house shortly after midnight.\n\nHis attempts toward my cure commenced almost immediately, and for a week I\nnever left his sight. Many a time in the course of that week did I bless\nthe good-fortune which had thrown me in contact with Simla's best and\nkindest doctor. Day by day my spirits grew lighter and more equable. Day\nby day, too, I became more and more inclined to fall in with Heatherlegh's\n\"spectral illusion\" theory, implicating eyes, brain, and stomach. I wrote\nto Kitty, telling her that a slight sprain caused by a fall from my horse\nkept me indoors for a few days; and that I should be recovered before she\nhad time to regret my absence.\n\nHeatherlegh's treatment was simple to a degree. It consisted of liver\npills, cold-water baths, and strong exercise, taken in the dusk or at\nearly dawn--for, as he sagely observed:--\"A man with a sprained ankle\ndoesn't walk a dozen miles a day, and your young woman might be wondering\nif she saw you.\"\n\nAt the end of the week, after much examination of pupil and pulse, and\nstrict injunctions as to diet and pedestrianism, Heatherlegh dismissed me\nas brusquely as he had taken charge of me. Here is his parting\nbenediction:--\"Man, I certify to your mental cure, and that's as much as\nto say I've cured most of your bodily ailments. Now, get your traps out of\nthis as soon as you can; and be off to make love to Miss Kitty.\"\n\nI was endeavoring to express my thanks for his kindness. He cut me short.\n\n\"Don't think I did this because I like you. I gather that you've behaved\nlike a blackguard all through. But, all the same, you're a phenomenon, and\nas queer a phenomenon as you are a blackguard. No!\"--checking me a second\ntime--\"not a rupee please. Go out and see if you can find the\neyes-brain-and-stomach business again. I'll give you a lakh for each time\nyou see it.\"\n\nHalf an hour later I was in the Mannerings' drawing-room with Kitty--drunk\nwith the intoxication of present happiness and the foreknowledge that I\nshould never more be troubled with Its hideous presence. Strong in the\nsense of my new-found security, I proposed a ride at once; and, by\npreference, a canter round Jakko.\n\nNever had I felt so well, so overladen with vitality and mere animal\nspirits, as I did on the afternoon of the 30th of April. Kitty was\ndelighted at the change in my appearance, and complimented me on it in her\ndelightfully frank and outspoken manner. We left the Mannerings' house\ntogether, laughing and talking, and cantered along the Chota Simla road as\nof old.\n\nI was in haste to reach the Sanjowlie Reservoir and there make my\nassurance doubly sure. The horses did their best, but seemed all too slow\nto my impatient mind, Kitty was astonished at my boisterousness. \"Why,\nJack!\" she cried at last, \"you are behaving like a child, What are you\ndoing?\"\n\nWe were just below the Convent, and from sheer wantonness I was making my\nWaler plunge and curvet across the road as I tickled it with the loop of\nmy riding-whip.\n\n\"Doing?\" I answered; \"nothing, dear. That's just it. If you'd been doing\nnothing for a week except lie up, you'd be as riotous as I.\n\n   \"'Singing and murmuring in your feastful mirth,\n     Joying to feel yourself alive;\n   Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible Earth,\n     Lord of the senses five.'\"\n\nMy quotation was hardly out of my lips before we had rounded the corner\nabove the Convent; and a few yards further on could see across to\nSanjowlie. In the centre of the level road stood the black and white\nliveries, the yellow-paneled 'rickshaw, and Mrs. Keith-Wessington. I\npulled up, looked, rubbed my eyes, and, I believe, must have said\nsomething. The next thing I knew was that I was lying face downward on the\nroad, with Kitty kneeling above me in tears.\n\n\"Has it gone, child!\" I gasped. Kitty only wept more bitterly.\n\n\"Has what gone, Jack dear? what does it all mean? There must be a mistake\nsomewhere, Jack. A hideous mistake.\" Her last words brought me to my\nfeet--mad--raving for the time being.\n\n\"Yes, there _is_ a mistake somewhere,\" I repeated, \"a hideous mistake.\nCome and look at It.\"\n\nI have an indistinct idea that I dragged Kitty by the wrist along the road\nup to where It stood, and implored her for pity's sake to speak to It; to\ntell It that we were betrothed; that neither Death nor Hell could break\nthe tie between us: and Kitty only knows how much more to the same effect.\nNow and again I appealed passionately to the Terror in the 'rickshaw to\nbear witness to all I had said, and to release me from a torture that was\nkilling me. As I talked I suppose I must have told Kitty of my old\nrelations with Mrs. Wessington, for I saw her listen intently with white\nface and blazing eyes.\n\n\"Thank you, Mr. Pansay,\" she said, \"that's _quite_ enough. _Syce ghora\nlao_.\"\n\nThe syces, impassive as Orientals always are, had come up with the\nrecaptured horses; and as Kitty sprang into her saddle I caught hold of\nthe bridle, entreating her to hear me out and forgive. My answer was the\ncut of her riding-whip across my face from mouth to eye, and a word or two\nof farewell that even now I cannot write down. So I judged, and judged\nrightly, that Kitty knew all; and I staggered back to the side of the\n'rickshaw. My face was cut and bleeding, and the blow of the riding-whip\nhad raised a livid blue wheal on it. I had no self-respect. Just then,\nHeatherlegh, who must have been following Kitty and me at a distance,\ncantered up.\n\n\"Doctor,\" I said, pointing to my face, \"here's Miss Mannering's signature\nto my order of dismissal and ... I'll thank you for that lakh as soon as\nconvenient.\"\n\nHeatherlegh's face, even in my abject misery, moved me to laughter.\n\n\"I'll stake my professional reputation\"--he began. \"Don't be a fool,\" I\nwhispered. \"I've lost my life's happiness and you'd better take me home.\"\n\nAs I spoke the 'rickshaw was gone. Then I lost all knowledge of what was\npassing. The crest of Jakko seemed to heave and roll like the crest of a\ncloud and fall in upon me.\n\nSeven days later (on the 7th of May, that is to say) I was aware that I\nwas lying in Heatherlegh's room as weak as a little child. Heatherlegh was\nwatching me intently from behind the papers on his writing-table. His\nfirst words were not encouraging; but I was too far spent to be much moved\nby them.\n\n\"Here's Miss Kitty has sent back your letters. You corresponded a good\ndeal, you young people. Here's a packet that looks like a ring, and a\ncheerful sort of a note from Mannering Papa, which I've taken the liberty\nof reading and burning. The old gentleman's not pleased with you.\"\n\n\"And Kitty?\" I asked, dully.\n\n\"Rather more drawn than her father from what she says. By the same token\nyou must have been letting out any number of queer reminiscences just\nbefore I met you. 'Says that a man who would have behaved to a woman as\nyou did to Mrs. Wessington ought to kill himself out of sheer pity for his\nkind. She's a hotheaded little virago, your mash. 'Will have it too that\nyou were suffering from D. T. when that row on the Jakko road turned up,\n'Says she'll die before she ever speaks to you again.\"\n\nI groaned and turned over on the other side.\n\n\"Now you've got your choice, my friend. This engagement has to be broken\noff; and the Mannerings don't want to be too hard on you. Was it broken\nthrough D, T. or epileptic fits? Sorry I can't offer you a better exchange\nunless you'd prefer hereditary insanity. Say the word and I'll tell 'em\nit's fits. All Simla knows about that scene on the Ladies' Mile. Come!\nI'll give you five minutes to think over it.\"\n\nDuring those five minutes I believe that I explored thoroughly the lowest\ncircles of the Inferno which it is permitted man to tread on earth. And at\nthe same time I myself was watching myself faltering through the dark\nlabyrinths of doubt, misery, and utter despair. I wondered, as Heatherlegh\nin his chair might have wondered, which dreadful alternative I should\nadopt. Presently I heard myself answering in a voice that I hardly\nrecognized,--\n\n\"They're confoundedly particular about morality in these parts. Give 'em\nfits, Heatherlegh, and my love. Now let me sleep a bit longer.\"\n\nThen my two selves joined, and it was only I (half crazed, devil-driven I)\nthat tossed in my bed, tracing step by step the history of the past month.\n\n\"But I am in Simla,\" I kept repeating to myself. \"I, Jack Pansay, am in\nSimla, and there are no ghosts here. It's unreasonable of that woman to\npretend there are. Why couldn't Agnes have left me alone? I never did her\nany harm. It might just as well have been me as Agnes. Only I'd never have\ncome back on purpose to kill _her_. Why can't I be left alone--left alone\nand happy?\"\n\nIt was high noon when I first awoke: and the sun was low in the sky before\nI slept--slept as the tortured criminal sleeps on his rack, too worn to\nfeel further pain.\n\nNext day I could not leave my bed. Heatherlegh told me in the morning that\nhe had received an answer from Mr. Mannering, and that, thanks to his\n(Heatherlegh's) friendly offices, the story of my affliction had traveled\nthrough the length and breadth of Simla, where I was on all sides much\npitied.\n\n\"And that's rather more than you deserve,\" he concluded, pleasantly,\n\"though the Lord knows you've been going through a pretty severe mill.\nNever mind; we'll cure you yet, you perverse phenomenon.\"\n\nI declined firmly to be cured, \"You've been much too good to me already,\nold man,\" said I; \"but I don't think I need trouble you further.\"\n\nIn my heart I knew that nothing Heatherlegh could do would lighten the\nburden that had been laid upon me.\n\nWith that knowledge came also a sense of hopeless, impotent rebellion\nagainst the unreasonableness of it all. There were scores of men no better\nthan I whose punishments had at least been reserved for another world; and\nI felt that it was bitterly, cruelly unfair that I alone should have been\nsingled out for so hideous a fate. This mood would in time give place to\nanother where it seemed that the 'rickshaw and I were the only realities\nin a world of shadows; that Kitty was a ghost; that Mannering,\nHeatherlegh, and all the other men and women I knew were all ghosts; and\nthe great, grey hills themselves but vain shadows devised to torture me.\nFrom mood to mood I tossed backward and forward for seven weary days; my\nbody growing daily stronger and stronger, until the bedroom looking-glass\ntold me that I had returned to everyday life, and was as other men once\nmore. Curiously enough my face showed no signs of the struggle I had gone\nthrough. It was pale indeed, but as expressionless and commonplace as\never. I had expected some permanent alteration--visible evidence of the\ndisease that was eating me away. I found nothing.\n\nOn the 15th of May I left Heatherlegh's house at eleven o'clock in the\nmorning; and the instinct of the bachelor drove me to the Club. There I\nfound that every man knew my story as told by Heatherlegh, and was, in\nclumsy fashion, abnormally kind and attentive. Nevertheless I recognized\nthat for the rest of my natural life I should be among but not of my\nfellows; and I envied very bitterly indeed the laughing coolies on the\nMall below. I lunched at the Club, and at four o'clock wandered aimlessly\ndown the Mall in the vague hope of meeting Kitty. Close to the Band-stand\nthe black and white liveries joined me; and I heard Mrs. Wessington's old\nappeal at my side. I had been expecting this ever since I came out; and\nwas only surprised at her delay. The phantom 'rickshaw and I went side by\nside along the Chota Simla road in silence. Close to the bazar, Kitty and\na man on horseback overtook and passed us. For any sign she gave I might\nhave been a dog in the road. She did not even pay me the compliment of\nquickening her pace; though the rainy afternoon had served for an excuse.\n\nSo Kitty and her companion, and I and my ghostly Light-o'-Love, crept\nround Jakko in couples. The road was streaming with water; the pines\ndripped like roof-pipes on the rocks below, and the air was full of fine,\ndriving rain. Two or three times I found myself saying to myself almost\naloud: \"I'm Jack Pansay on leave at Simla--_at Simla!_ Everyday, ordinary\nSimla. I mustn't forget that--I mustn't forget that.\" Then I would try to\nrecollect some of the gossip I had heard at the Club: the prices of\nSo-and-So's horses--anything, in fact, that related to the workaday\nAnglo-Indian world I knew so well. I even repeated the multiplication-\ntable rapidly to myself, to make quite sure that I was not taking leave\nof my senses. It gave me much comfort; and must have prevented my hearing\nMrs. Wessington for a time.\n\nOnce more I wearily climbed the Convent slope and entered the level road.\nHere Kitty and the man started off at a canter, and I was left alone with\nMrs. Wessington. \"Agnes,\" said I, \"will you put back your hood and tell me\nwhat it all means?\" The hood dropped noiselessly, and I was face to face\nwith my dead and buried mistress. She was wearing the dress in which I had\nlast seen her alive; carried the same tiny handkerchief in her right hand;\nand the same cardcase in her left. (A woman eight months dead with a\ncardcase!) I had to pin myself down to the multiplication-table, and to\nset both hands on the stone parapet of the road, to assure myself that\nthat at least was real.\n\n\"Agnes,\" I repeated, \"for pity's sake tell me what it all means.\" Mrs.\nWessington leaned forward, with that odd, quick turn of the head I used to\nknow so well, and spoke.\n\nIf my story had not already so madly overleaped the bounds of all human\nbelief I should apologize to you now. As I know that no one--no, not even\nKitty, for whom it is written as some sort of justification of my\nconduct--will believe me, I will go on. Mrs. Wessington spoke and I walked\nwith her from the Sanjowlie road to the turning below the\nCommander-in-Chief's house as I might walk by the side of any living\nwoman's 'rickshaw, deep in conversation. The second and most tormenting of\nmy moods of sickness had suddenly laid hold upon me, and like the Prince\nin Tennyson's poem, \"I seemed to move amid a world of ghosts.\" There had\nbeen a garden-party at the Commander-in-Chief's, and we two joined the\ncrowd of homeward-bound folk. As I saw them then it seemed that _they_\nwere the shadows--impalpable, fantastic shadows--that divided for Mrs.\nWessington's 'rickshaw to pass through. What we said during the course of\nthat weird interview I cannot--indeed, I dare not--tell. Heatherlegh's\ncomment would have been a short laugh and a remark that I had been\n\"mashing a brain-eye-and-stomach chimera.\" It was a ghastly and yet in\nsome indefinable way a marvelously dear experience. Could it be possible,\nI wondered, that I was in this life to woo a second time the woman I had\nkilled by my own neglect and cruelty?\n\nI met Kitty on the homeward road--a shadow among shadows.\n\nIf I were to describe all the incidents of the next fortnight in their\norder, my story would never come to an end; and your patience would be\nexhausted. Morning after morning and evening after evening the ghostly\n'rickshaw and I used to wander through Simla together. Wherever I went\nthere the four black and white liveries followed me and bore me company to\nand from my hotel. At the Theatre I found them amid the crowd of yelling\n_jhampanies_; outside the Club veranda, after a long evening of whist; at\nthe Birthday Ball, waiting patiently for my reappearance; and in broad\ndaylight when I went calling. Save that it cast no shadow, the 'rickshaw\nwas in every respect as real to look upon as one of wood and iron. More\nthan once, indeed, I have had to check myself from warning some\nhard-riding friend against cantering over it. More than once I have walked\ndown the Mall deep in conversation with Mrs. Wessington to the unspeakable\namazement of the passers-by.\n\nBefore I had been out and about a week I learned that the \"fit\" theory had\nbeen discarded in favor of insanity. However, I made no change in my mode\nof life. I called, rode, and dined out as freely as ever. I had a passion\nfor the society of my kind which I had never felt before; I hungered to be\namong the realities of life; and at the same time I felt vaguely unhappy\nwhen I had been separated too long from my ghostly companion. It would be\nalmost impossible to describe my varying moods from the 15th of May up to\nto-day.\n\nThe presence of the 'rickshaw filled me by turns with horror, blind fear,\na dim sort of pleasure, and utter despair. I dared not leave Simla; and I\nknew that my stay there was killing me. I knew, moreover, that it was my\ndestiny to die slowly and a little every day. My only anxiety was to get\nthe penance over as quietly as might be. Alternately I hungered for a\nsight of Kitty and watched her outrageous flirtations with my\nsuccessor--to speak more accurately, my successors--with amused interest.\nShe was as much out of my life as I was out of hers. By day I wandered\nwith Mrs. Wessington almost content. By night I implored Heaven to let me\nreturn to the world as I used to know it. Above all these varying moods\nlay the sensation of dull, numbing wonder that the Seen and the Unseen\nshould mingle so strangely on this earth to hound one poor soul to its\ngrave.\n\n\n       *\n       *\n       *\n       *\n       *\n\n_August 27._--Heatherlegh has been indefatigable in his attendance on me;\nand only yesterday told me that I ought to send in an application for sick\nleave. An application to escape the company of a phantom! A request that\nthe Government would graciously permit me to get rid of five ghosts and an\nairy 'rickshaw by going to England! Heatherlegh's proposition moved me to\nalmost hysterical laughter. I told him that I should await the end quietly\nat Simla; and I am sure that the end is not far off. Believe me that I\ndread its advent more than any word can say; and I torture myself nightly\nwith a thousand speculations as to the manner of my death.\n\nShall I die in my bed decently and as an English gentleman should die; or,\nin one last walk on the Mall, will my soul be wrenched from me to take its\nplace forever and ever by the side of that ghastly phantasm? Shall I\nreturn to my old lost allegiance in the next world, or shall I meet Agnes\nloathing her and bound to her side through all eternity? Shall we two\nhover over the scene of our lives till the end of Time? As the day of my\ndeath draws nearer, the intense horror that all living flesh feels toward\nescaped spirits from beyond the grave grows more and more powerful. It is\nan awful thing to go down quick among the dead with scarcely one-half of\nyour life completed. It is a thousand times more awful to wait as I do in\nyour midst, for I know not what unimaginable terror. Pity me, at least on\nthe score of my \"delusion,\" for I know you will never believe what I have\nwritten here. Yet as surely as ever a man was done to death by the Powers\nof Darkness I am that man.\n\nIn justice, too, pity her. For as surely as ever woman was killed by man,\nI killed Mrs. Wessington. And the last portion of my punishment is even\nnow upon me.\n\n\n\n\nON THE STRENGTH OF A LIKENESS\n\n\nIf your mirror be broken, look into still water; but have a care that you\ndo not fall in.--_Hindu Proverb._\n\nNext to a requited attachment, one of the most convenient things that a\nyoung man can carry about with him at the beginning of his career, is an\nunrequited attachment. It makes him feel important and business-like, and\n_blas\u00e9_, and cynical; and whenever he has a touch of fever, or suffers\nfrom want of exercise, he can mourn over his lost love, and be very happy\nin a tender, twilight fashion,\n\nHannasyde's affair of the heart had been a godsend to him. It was four\nyears old, and the girl had long since given up thinking of it. She had\nmarried and had many cares of her own. In the beginning, she had told\nHannasyde that, \"while she could never be anything more than a sister to\nhim, she would always take the deepest interest in his welfare.\" This\nstartlingly new and original remark gave Hannasyde something to think over\nfor two years; and his own vanity filled in the other twenty-four months.\nHannasyde was quite different from Phil Garron, but, none the less, had\nseveral points in common with that far too lucky man.\n\nHe kept his unrequited attachment by him as men keep a well-smoked\npipe--for comfort's sake, and because it had grown dear in the using. It\nbrought him happily through one Simla season. Hannasyde was not lovely.\nThere was a crudity in his manners, and a roughness in the way in which he\nhelped a lady on to her horse, that did not attract the other sex to him.\nEven if he had cast about for their favor, which he did not. He kept his\nwounded heart all to himself for a while.\n\nThen trouble came to him. All who go to Simla know the slope from the\nTelegraph to the Public Works Office. Hannasyde was loafing up the hill,\none September morning between calling hours, when a 'rickshaw came down in\na hurry, and in the 'rickshaw sat the living, breathing image of the girl\nwho had made him so happily unhappy. Hannasyde leaned against the railings\nand gasped. He wanted to run downhill after the 'rickshaw, but that was\nimpossible; so he went forward with most of his blood in his temples. It\nwas impossible, for many reasons, that the woman in the 'rickshaw could be\nthe girl he had known. She was, he discovered later, the wife of a man\nfrom Dindigul, or Coimbatore, or some out-of-the-way place, and she had\ncome up to Simla early in the season for the good of her health. She was\ngoing back to Dindigul, or wherever it was, at the end of the season; and\nin all likelihood would never return to Simla again; her proper\nHill-station being Ootacamund. That night Hannasyde, raw and savage from\nthe raking up of all old feelings, took counsel with himself for one\nmeasured hour. What he decided upon was this; and you must decide for\nyourself how much genuine affection for the old Love, and how much a very\nnatural inclination to go abroad and enjoy himself, affected the decision.\nMrs. Landys-Haggert would never in all human likelihood cross his path\nagain. So whatever he did didn't much matter. She was marvelously like the\ngirl who \"took a deep interest\" and the rest of the formula. All things\nconsidered, it would be pleasant to make the acquaintance of Mrs.\nLandys-Haggert, and for a little time--only a very little time--to make\nbelieve that he was with Alice Chisane again. Every one is more or less\nmad on one point. Hannasyde's particular monomania was his old love, Alice\nChisane.\n\nHe made it his business to get introduced to Mrs. Haggert, and the\nintroduction prospered. He also made it his business to see as much as he\ncould of that lady. When a man is in earnest as to interviews, the\nfacilities which Simla offers are startling. There are garden-parties, and\ntennis-parties, and picnics, and luncheons at Annandale, and\nrifle-matches, and dinners and balls; besides rides and walks, which are\nmatters of private arrangement. Hannasyde had started with the intention\nof seeing a likeness, and he ended by doing much more. He wanted to be\ndeceived, he meant to be deceived, and he deceived himself very\nthoroughly. Not only were the face and figure the face and figure of Alice\nChisane, but the voice and lower tones were exactly the same, and so were\nthe turns of speech; and the little mannerisms, that every woman has, of\ngait and gesticulation, were absolutely and identically the same. The turn\nof the head was the same; the tired look in the eyes at the end of a long\nwalk was the same; the stoop-and-wrench over the saddle to hold in a\npulling horse was the same; and once, most marvelous of all, Mrs.\nLandys-Haggert singing to herself in the next room, while Hannasyde was\nwaiting to take her for a ride, hummed, note for note, with a throaty\nquiver of the voice in the second line, \"Poor Wandering One!\" exactly as\nAlice Chisane had hummed it for Hannasyde in the dusk of an English\ndrawing-room. In the actual woman herself--in the soul of her--there was\nnot the least likeness; she and Alice Chisane being cast in different\nmoulds. But all that Hannasyde wanted to know and see and think about, was\nthis maddening and perplexing likeness of face and voice and manner. He\nwas bent on making a fool of himself that way; and he was in no sort\ndisappointed.\n\nOpen and obvious devotion from any sort of man is always pleasant to any\nsort of woman; but Mrs. Landys-Haggert, being a woman of the world, could\nmake nothing of Hannasyde's admiration.\n\nHe would take any amount of trouble--he was a selfish man habitually--to\nmeet and forestall, if possible, her wishes. Anything she told him to do\nwas law; and he was, there could be no doubting it, fond of her company so\nlong as she talked to him, and kept on talking about trivialities. But\nwhen she launched into expression of her personal views and her wrongs,\nthose small social differences that make the spice of Simla life,\nHannasyde was neither pleased nor interested. He didn't want to know\nanything about Mrs. Landys-Haggert, or her experiences in the past--she\nhad traveled nearly all over the world, and could talk cleverly--he wanted\nthe likeness of Alice Chisane before his eyes and her voice in his ears.\nAnything outside that, reminding him of another personality, jarred, and\nhe showed that it did.\n\nUnder the new Post Office, one evening, Mrs. Landys-Haggert turned on him,\nand spoke her mind shortly and without warning. \"Mr. Hannasyde,\" said she,\n\"will you be good enough to explain why you have appointed yourself my\nspecial _cavalier servente?_ I don't understand it. But I am perfectly\ncertain, somehow or other, that you don't care the least little bit in the\nworld for _me_.\" This seems to support, by the way, the theory that no man\ncan act or tell lies to a woman without being found out. Hannasyde was\ntaken off his guard. His defence never was a strong one, because he was\nalways thinking of himself, and he blurted out, before he knew what he was\nsaying, this inexpedient answer, \"No more I do.\"\n\nThe queerness of the situation and the reply, made Mrs. Landys-Haggert\nlaugh. Then it all came out; and at the end of Hannasyde's lucid\nexplanation Mrs. Haggert said, with the least little touch of scorn in her\nvoice, \"So I'm to act as the lay-figure for you to hang the rags of your\ntattered affections on, am I?\"\n\nHannasyde didn't see what answer was required, and he devoted himself\ngenerally and vaguely to the praise of Alice Chisane, which was\nunsatisfactory. Now it is to be thoroughly made clear that Mrs. Haggert\nhad not the shadow of a ghost of an interest in Hannasyde. Only ... only\nno woman likes being made love through instead of to--specially on behalf\nof a musty divinity of four years' standing.\n\nHannasyde did not see that he had made any very particular exhibition of\nhimself. He was glad to find a sympathetic soul in the arid wastes of\nSimla.\n\nWhen the season ended, Hannasyde went down to his own place and Mrs.\nHaggert to hers, \"It was like making love to a ghost,\" said Hannasyde to\nhimself, \"and it doesn't matter; and now I'll get to my work.\" But he\nfound himself thinking steadily of the Haggert-Chisane ghost; and he could\nnot be certain whether it was Haggert or Chisane that made up the greater\npart of the pretty phantom.\n\n\n       *\n       *\n       *\n       *\n       *\n\nHe got understanding a month later.\n\nA peculiar point of this peculiar country is the way in which a heartless\nGovernment transfers men from one end of the Empire to the other. You can\nnever be sure of getting rid of a friend or an enemy till he or she dies.\nThere was a case once--but that's another story.\n\nHaggert's Department ordered him up from Dindigul to the Frontier at two\ndays' notice, and he went through, losing money at every step, from\nDindigul to his station. He dropped Mrs. Haggert at Lucknow, to stay with\nsome friends there, to take part in a big ball at the Chutter Munzil, and\nto come on when he had made the new home a little comfortable. Lucknow was\nHannasyde's station, and Mrs. Haggert stayed a week there. Hannasyde went\nto meet her. As the train came in, he discovered what he had been thinking\nof for the past month. The unwisdom of his conduct also struck him. The\nLucknow week, with two dances, and an unlimited quantity of rides\ntogether, clinched matters; and Hannasyde found himself pacing this circle\nof thought:--He adored Alice Chisane, at least he _had_ adored her. _And_\nhe admired Mrs. Landys-Haggert because she was like Alice Chisane. _But_\nMrs. Landys-Haggert was not in the least like Alice Chisane, being a\nthousand times more adorable. _Now_ Alice Chisane was \"the bride of\nanother,\" and so was Mrs. Landys-Haggert, and a good and honest wife too.\n_Therefore_ he, Hannasyde, was ... here he called himself several hard\nnames, and wished that he had been wise in the beginning.\n\nWhether Mrs. Landys-Haggert saw what was going on in his mind, she alone\nknows. He seemed to take an unqualified interest in everything connected\nwith herself, as distinguished from the Alice-Chisane likeness, and he\nsaid one or two things which, if Alice Chisane had been still betrothed to\nhim, could scarcely have been excused, even on the grounds of the\nlikeness. But Mrs. Haggert turned the remarks aside, and spent a long time\nin making Hannasyde see what a comfort and a pleasure she had been to him\nbecause of her strange resemblance to his old love. Hannasyde groaned in\nhis saddle and said, \"Yes, indeed,\" and busied himself with preparations\nfor her departure to the Frontier, feeling very small and miserable.\n\nThe last day of her stay at Lucknow came, and Hannasyde saw her off at the\nRailway Station. She was very grateful for his kindness and the trouble he\nhad taken, and smiled pleasantly and sympathetically as one who knew the\nAlice-Chisane reason of that kindness. And Hannasyde abused the coolies\nwith the luggage, and hustled the people on the platform, and prayed that\nthe roof might fall in and slay him.\n\nAs the train went out slowly, Mrs. Landys-Haggert leaned out of the window\nto say good-bye--\"On second thoughts _au revoir_, Mr. Hannasyde. I go Home\nin the Spring, and perhaps I may meet you in Town.\"\n\nHannasyde shook hands, and said very earnestly and adoringly--\"I hope to\nHeaven I shall never see your face again!\"\n\nAnd Mrs. Haggert understood.\n\n\n\n\nPRIVATE LEAROYD'S STORY\n\n\nAnd he told a tale.--_Chronicles of Gautama Buddha._\n\nFar from the haunts of Company Officers who insist upon kit-inspections,\nfar from keen-nosed Sergeants who sniff the pipe stuffed into the\nbedding-roll, two miles from the tumult of the barracks, lies the Trap. It\nis an old dry well, shadowed by a twisted _pipal_ tree and fenced with\nhigh grass. Here, in the years gone by, did Private Ortheris establish his\ndep\u00f4t and menagerie for such possessions, dead and living, as could not\nsafely be introduced to the barrack-room. Here were gathered Houdin\npullets, and fox-terriers of undoubted pedigree and more than doubtful\nownership, for Ortheris was an inveterate poacher and pre\u00ebminent among a\nregiment of neat-handed dog-stealers.\n\nNever again will the long lazy evenings return wherein Ortheris, whistling\nsoftly, moved surgeon-wise among the captives of his craft at the bottom\nof the well; when Learoyd sat in the niche, giving sage counsel on the\nmanagement of \"tykes,\" and Mulvaney, from the crook of the overhanging\n_pipal_, waved his enormous boots in benediction above our heads,\ndelighting us with tales of Love and War, and strange experiences of\ncities and men.\n\nOrtheris--landed at last in the \"little stuff bird-shop\" for which your\nsoul longed; Learoyd--back again in the smoky, stone-ribbed North, amid\nthe clang of the Bradford looms; Mulvaney--grizzled, tender, and very wise\nUlysses, sweltering on the earthwork of a Central India line--judge if I\nhave forgotten old days in the Trap!\n\nOrth'ris, as allus thinks he knaws more than other foaks, said she wasn't\na real laady, but nobbut a Hewrasian. I don't gainsay as her culler was a\nbit doosky like. But she _was_ a laady. Why, she rode iv a carriage, an'\ngood 'osses, too, an' her 'air was that oiled as you could see your faice\nin it, an' she wore di'mond rings an' a goold chain, an' silk an' satin\ndresses as mun 'a' cost a deal, for it isn't a cheap shop as keeps enough\no' one pattern to fit a figure like hers. Her name was Mrs. DeSussa, an'\nt' waay I coom to be acquainted wi' her was along of our Colonel's Laady's\ndog Rip.\n\nI've seen a vast o' dogs, but Rip was t' prettiest picter of a cliver\nfox-tarrier 'at iver I set eyes on. He could do owt you like but speeak,\nan' t' Colonel's Laady set more store by him than if he hed been a\nChristian. She hed bairns of her awn, but they was i' England, and Rip\nseemed to get all t' coodlin' and pettin' as belonged to a bairn by good\nright.\n\nBut Rip were a bit on a rover, an' hed a habit o' breakin' out o' barricks\nlike, and trottin' round t' plaice as if he were t' Cantonment Magistrate\ncoom round inspectin'. The Colonel leathers him once or twice, but Rip\ndidn't care an' kept on gooin' his rounds, wi' his taail a-waggin' as if\nhe were flag-signallin' to t' world at large 'at he was \"gettin' on\nnicely, thank yo', and how's yo'sen?\" An' then t' Colonel, as was noa sort\nof a hand wi' a dog, tees him oop. A real clipper of a dog, an' it's noa\nwonder yon laady, Mrs. DeSussa, should tek a fancy tiv him. Theer's one o'\nt' Ten Commandments says yo maun't cuvvet your neebor's ox nor his\njackass, but it doesn't say nowt about his tarrier dogs, an' happen thot's\nt' reason why Mrs. DeSussa cuvveted Rip, tho' she went to church reg'lar\nalong wi' her husband who was so mich darker 'at if he hedn't such a good\ncoaat tiv his back yo' might ha' called him a black man and nut tell a lee\nnawther. They said he addled his brass i' jute, an' he'd a rare lot on it.\n\nWell, you seen, when they teed Rip up, t' poor awd lad didn't enjoy very\ngood 'elth. So t' Colonel's Laady sends for me as 'ad a naame for bein'\nknowledgeable about a dog, an' axes what's ailin' wi' him.\n\n\"Why,\" says I, \"he's getten t' mopes, an' what he wants is his libbaty an'\ncoompany like t' rest on us; wal happen a rat or two 'ud liven him oop.\nIt's low, mum,\" says I, \"is rats, but it's t' nature of a dog; an' soa's\ncuttin' round an' meetin' another dog or two an' passin' t' time o' day,\nan' hevvin' a bit of a turn-up wi' him like a Christian.\"\n\nSo she says _her_ dog maun't niver fight an' noa Christians iver fought.\n\n\"Then what's a soldier for?\" says I; an' I explains to her t' contrairy\nqualities of a dog, 'at, when yo' coom to think on't, is one o' t'\ncurusest things as is. For they larn to behave theirsens like gentlemen\nborn, fit for t' fost o' coompany--they tell me t' Widdy herself is fond\nof a good dog and knaws one when she sees it as well as onny body: then on\nt' other hand a-tewin' round after cats an' gettin' mixed oop i' all\nmanners o' blackguardly street-rows, an' killin' rats, an' fightin' like\ndivils.\n\nT' Colonel's Laady says:--\"Well, Learoyd, I doan't agree wi' you, but\nyou're right in a way o' speeakin', an' I should like yo' to tek Rip out\na-walkin' wi' you sometimes; but yo' maun't let him fight, nor chase cats,\nnor do nowt 'orrid;\" an' them was her very wods.\n\nSoa Rip an' me gooes out a-walkin' o' evenin's, he bein' a dog as did\ncredit tiv a man, an' I catches a lot o' rats an' we hed a bit of a match\non in an awd dry swimmin'-bath at back o' t' cantonments, an' it was none\nso long afore he was as bright as a button again. He hed a way o' flyin'\nat them big yaller pariah dogs as if he was a harrow offan a bow, an'\nthough his weight were nowt, he tuk 'em so suddint-like they rolled over\nlike skittles in a halley, an' when they coot he stretched after 'em as if\nhe were rabbit-runnin'. Saame with cats when he cud get t' cat agaate o'\nrunnin'.\n\nOne evenin', him an' me was trespassin' ovver a compound wall after one of\nthem mongooses 'at he'd started, an' we was busy grubbin' round a\nprickle-bush, an' when we looks up there was Mrs. DeSussa wi' a parasel\novver her shoulder, a-watchin' us. \"Oh my!\" she sings out; \"there's that\nlovelee dog! Would he let me stroke him, Mister Soldier?\"\n\n\"Ay, he would, mum,\" sez I, \"for he's fond o' laady's coompany. Coom here,\nRip, an' speeak to this kind laady.\" An' Rip, seein' 'at t' mongoose hed\ngetten clean awaay, cooms up like t' gentleman he was, nivver a hauporth\nshy or okkord.\n\n\"Oh, you beautiful--you prettee dog!\" she says, clippin' an' chantin' her\nspeech in a way them sooart has o' their awn; \"I would like a dog like\nyou. You are so verree lovelee--so awfullee prettee,\" an' all thot sort o'\ntalk, 'at a dog o' sense mebbe thinks nowt on, tho' he bides it by reason\no' his breedin'.\n\nAn' then I meks him joomp ovver my swagger-cane, an' shek hands, an' beg,\nan' lie dead, an' a lot o' them tricks as laadies teeaches dogs, though I\ndoan't haud with it mysen, for it's makin' a fool o' a good dog to do such\nlike.\n\nAn' at lung length it cooms out 'at she'd been thrawin' sheep's eyes, as\nt' sayin' is, at Rip for many a day. Yo' see, her childer was grown up,\nan' she'd nowt mich to do, an' were allus fond of a dog. Soa she axes me\nif I'd tek somethin' to dhrink. An' we goes into t' drawn-room wheer her\n'usband was a-settin'. They meks a gurt fuss ovver t' dog an' I has a\nbottle o' aale, an' he gave me a handful o' cigars.\n\nSoa I coomed away, but t' awd lass sings out--\"Oh, Mister Soldier, please\ncoom again and bring that prettee dog.\"\n\nI didn't let on to t' Colonel's Laady about Mrs. DeSussa, and Rip, he says\nnowt nawther, an' I gooes again, an' ivry time there was a good dhrink an'\na handful o' good smooaks. An' I telled t' awd lass a heeap more about Rip\nthan I'd ever heeared; how he tuk t' lost prize at Lunnon dog-show and\ncost thotty-three pounds fower shillin' from t' man as bred him; 'at his\nown brother was t' propputty o' t' Prince o' Wailes, an' 'at he had a\npedigree as long as a Dook's. An' she lapped it all oop an' were niver\ntired o' admirin' him. But when t' awd lass took to givin' me money an' I\nseed 'at she were gettin' fair fond about t' dog, I began to suspicion\nsummat. Onny body may give a soldier t' price of a pint in a friendly way\nan' theer's no 'arm done, but when it cooms to five rupees slipt into your\nhand, sly like, why, it's what t' 'lectioneerin' fellows calls bribery an'\ncorruption. Specially when Mrs. DeSussa threwed hints how t' cold weather\nwould soon be ovver an' she was goin' to Munsooree Pahar an' we was goin'\nto Rawalpindi, an' she would niver see Rip any more onless somebody she\nknowed on would be kind tiv her.\n\nSoa I tells Mulvaney an' Ortheris all t' taale thro', beginnin' to end.\n\n\"'Tis larceny that wicked ould laady manes,\" says t' Irishman, \"'tis\nfelony she is sejuicin' ye into, my frind Learoyd, but I'll purtect your\ninnocince. I'll save ye from the wicked wiles av that wealthy ould woman,\nan' I'll go wid ye this evenin' and spake to her the wurrds av truth an'\nhonesty. But Jock,\" says he, waggin' his heead, \"'twas not like ye to kape\nall that good dhrink an' thim fine cigars to yerself, while Orth'ris here\nan' me have been prowlin' round wid throats as dry as lime-kilns, and\nnothin' to smoke but Canteen plug. 'Twas a dhirty thrick to play on a\ncomrade, for why should you, Learoyd, be balancin' yourself on the butt av\na satin chair, as if Terence Mulvaney was not the aquil av anybody who\nthrades in jute!\"\n\n\"Let alone me,\" sticks in Orth'ris, \"but that's like life. Them wot's\nreally fitted to decorate society get no show while a blunderin'\nYorkshireman like you\"--\n\n\"Nay,\" says I, \"it's none o' t' blunderin' Yorkshireman she wants; it's\nRip. He's t' gentleman this journey.\"\n\nSoa t' next day, Mulvaney an' Rip an' me goes to Mrs. DeSussa's, an' t'\nIrishman bein' a strainger she wor a bit shy at fost. But yo've heeard\nMulvaney talk, an' yo' may believe as he fairly bewitched t' awd lass wal\nshe let out 'at she wanted to tek Rip away wi' her to Munsooree Pahar.\nThen Mulvaney changes his tune an' axes her solemn-like if she'd thought\no' t' consequences o' gettin' two poor but honest soldiers sent t'\nAndamning Islands. Mrs. DeSussa began to cry, so Mulvaney turns round\noppen t' other tack and smooths her down, allowin' 'at Rip ud be a vast\nbetter off in t' Hills than down i' Bengal, and 'twas a pity he shouldn't\ngo wheer he was so well beliked. And soa he went on, backin' an' fillin'\nan' workin' up t'awd lass wal she fell as if her life warn't worth nowt if\nshe didn't hev t' dog.\n\nThen all of a suddint he says:--\"But ye _shall_ have him, marm, for I've a\nfeelin' heart, not like this could-blooded Yorkshireman; but 'twill cost\nye not a penny less than three hundher rupees.\"\n\n\"Don't yo' believe him, mum,\" says I; \"t' Colonel's Laady wouldn't tek\nfive hundred for him.\"\n\n\"Who said she would?\" says Mulvaney; \"it's not buyin' him I mane, but for\nthe sake o' this kind, good laady, I'll do what I never dreamt to do in my\nlife. I'll stale him!\"\n\n\"Don't say steal,\" says Mrs. DeSussa; \"he shall have the happiest home.\nDogs often get lost, you know, and then they stray, an' he likes me and I\nlike him as I niver liked a dog yet, an' I _must_ hev him. If I got him at\nt' last minute I could carry him off to Munsooree Pahar and nobody would\nniver knaw.\"\n\nNow an' again Mulvaney looked acrost at me, an' though I could mak nowt o'\nwhat he was after, I concluded to take his leead.\n\n\"Well, mum,\" I says, \"I never thowt to coom down to dog-steealin', but if\nmy comrade sees how it could be done to oblige a laady like yo'-sen, I'm\nnut t' man to hod back, tho' it's a bad business I'm thinkin', an' three\nhundred rupees is a poor set-off again t' chance of them Damning Islands\nas Mulvaney talks on.\"\n\n\"I'll mek it three fifty,\" says Mrs. DeSussa; \"only let me hev t' dog!\"\n\nSo we let her persuade us, an' she teks Rip's measure theer an' then, an'\nsent to Hamilton's to order a silver collar again t' time when he was to\nbe her awn, which was to be t' day she set off for Munsooree Pahar.\n\n\"Sitha, Mulvaney,\" says I, when we was outside, \"you're niver goin' to let\nher hev Rip!\"\n\n\"An' would ye disappoint a poor old woman?\" says he; \"she shall have _a_\nRip.\"\n\n\"An' wheer's he to come through?\" says I.\n\n\"Learoyd, my man,\" he sings out, \"you're a pretty man av your inches an' a\ngood comrade, but your head is made av duff. Isn't our friend Orth'ris a\nTaxidermist, an' a rale artist wid his nimble white fingers? An' what's a\nTaxidermist but a man who can thrate shkins? Do ye mind the white dog that\nbelongs to the Canteen Sargint, bad cess to him---he that's lost half his\ntime an' snarlin' the rest? He shall be lost for _good_ now; an' do ye\nmind that he's the very spit in shape an' size av the Colonel's, barrin'\nthat his tail is an inch too long, an' he has none av the color that\ndivarsifies the rale Rip, an' his timper is that av his masther an' worse.\nBut fwhat is an inch on a dog's tail? An' fwhat to a professional like\nOrth'ris is a few ringstraked shpots av black, brown, an' white? Nothin'\nat all, at all.\"\n\nThen we meets Orth'ris, an' that little man, bein' sharp as a needle, seed\nhis way through t' business in a minute. An' he went to work a-practicin'\n'air-dyes the very next day, beginnin' on some white rabbits he had, an'\nthen he drored all Rip's markin's on t' back of a white Commissariat\nbullock, so as to get his 'and in an' be sure of his colors; shadin' off\nbrown into black as nateral as life. If Rip _hed_ a fault it was too mich\nmarkin', but it was straingely reg'lar an' Orth'ris settled himself to\nmake a fost-rate job on it when he got haud o' t' Canteen Sargint's dog.\nTheer niver was sich a dog as thot for bad temper, an' it did nut get no\nbetter when his tail hed to be fettled an inch an' a half shorter. But\nthey may talk o' theer Royal Academies as they like. _I_ niver seed a bit\no' animal paintin' to beat t' copy as Orth'ris made of Rip's marks, wal t'\npicter itself was snarlin' all t' time an' tryin' to get at Rip standin'\ntheer to be copied as good as goold.\n\nOrth'ris allus hed as mich conceit on himsen as would lift a balloon, an'\nhe wor so pleeased wi' his sham Rip he wor for tekking him to Mrs. DeSussa\nbefore she went away. But Mulvaney an' me stopped thot, knowin' Orth'ris's\nwork, though niver so cliver, was nobbut skin-deep.\n\nAn' at last Mrs. DeSussa fixed t' day for startin' to Munsooree Pahar. We\nwas to tek Rip to t' stayshun i' a basket an' hand him ovver just when\nthey was ready to start, an' then she'd give us t' brass--as was agreed\nupon.\n\nAn' my wod! It were high time she were off, for them 'air-dyes upon t'\ncur's back took a vast of paintin' to keep t' reet culler, tho' Orth'ris\nspent a matter o' seven rupees six annas i' t' best drooggist shops i'\nCalcutta.\n\nAn' t' Canteen Sargint was lookin' for 'is dog everywheer; an', wi' bein'\ntied up, t' beast's timper got waur nor ever.\n\nIt wor i' t' evenin' when t' train started thro' Howrah, an' we 'elped\nMrs. DeSussa wi' about sixty boxes, an' then we gave her t' basket.\nOrth'ris, for pride av his work, axed us to let him coom along wi' us, an'\nhe couldn't help liftin' t' lid an' showin' t' cur as he lay coiled oop.\n\n\"Oh!\" says t' awd lass; \"the beautee! How sweet he looks!\" An' just then\nt' beauty snarled an' showed his teeth, so Mulvaney shuts down t' lid and\nsays: \"Ye'll be careful, marm, whin ye tek him out. He's disaccustomed to\ntraveling by t' railway, an' he'll be sure to want his rale mistress an'\nhis friend Learoyd, so ye'll make allowance for his feelings at fost.\"\n\nShe would do all thot an' more for the dear, good Rip, an' she would nut\noppen t' basket till they were miles away, for fear anybody should\nrecognize him, an' we were real good and kind soldier-men, we were, an'\nshe honds me a bundle o' notes, an' then cooms up a few of her relations\nan' friends to say good-bye--not more than seventy-five there wasn't--an'\nwe cuts away.\n\nWhat coom to t' three hundred and fifty rupees? Thot's what I can\nscarcelins tell yo', but we melted it--we melted it. It was share an'\nshare alike, for Mulvaney said: \"If Learoyd got hold of Mrs. DeSussa\nfirst, sure, 'twas I that remimbered the Sargint's dog just in the nick av\ntime, an' Orth'ris was the artist av janius that made a work av art out av\nthat ugly piece av ill-nature. Yet, by way av a thank-offerin' that I was\nnot led into felony by that wicked ould woman, I'll send a thrifle to\nFather Victor for the poor people he's always beggin' for.\"\n\nBut me an' Orth'ris, he bein' Cockney, an' I bein' pretty far north, did\nnut see it i' t' saame way. We'd getten t' brass, an' we meaned to keep\nit. An' soa we did--for a short time.\n\nNoa, noa, we niver heeard a wod more o' t' awd lass. Our rig'mint went to\nPindi, an' t' Canteen Sargint he got himself another tyke insteead o' t'\none 'at got lost so reg'lar, an' was lost for good at last.\n\n\n\nWRESSLEY OF THE FOREIGN OFFICE\n\n   I closed and drew for my Love's sake,\n       That now is false to me,\n   And I slew the Riever of Tarrant Moss,\n       And set Dumeny free.\n\n   And ever they give me praise and gold,\n       And ever I moan my loss;\n   For I struck the blow for my false Love's sake,\n       And not for the men of the Moss!\n\n_--Tarrant Moss._\n\nOne of the many curses of our life in India is the want of atmosphere in\nthe painter's sense. There are no half-tints worth noticing. Men stand out\nall crude and raw, with nothing to tone them down, and nothing to scale\nthem against. They do their work, and grow to think that there is nothing\nbut their work, and nothing like their work, and that they are the real\npivots on which the Administration turns. Here is an instance of this\nfeeling. A half-caste clerk was ruling forms in a Pay Office. He said to\nme, \"Do you know what would happen if I added or took away one single line\non this sheet?\" Then, with the air of a conspirator, \"It would disorganize\nthe whole of the Treasury payments throughout the whole of the Presidency\nCircle! Think of that!\"\n\nIf men had not this delusion as to the ultra-importance of their own\nparticular employments, I suppose that they would sit down and kill\nthemselves. But their weakness is wearisome, particularly when the\nlistener knows that he himself commits exactly the same sin.\n\nEven the Secretariat believes that it does good when it asks an\nover-driven Executive Officer to take a census of wheat-weevils through a\ndistrict of five thousand square miles.\n\nThere was a man once in the Foreign Office--a man who had grown\nmiddle-aged in the Department, and was commonly said, by irreverent\njuniors, to be able to repeat Aitchison's _Treaties and Sunnuds_ backward\nin his sleep. What he did with his stored knowledge only the Secretary\nknew; and he, naturally, would not publish the news abroad. This man's\nname was Wressley, and it was the Shibboleth, in those days, to\nsay--\"Wressley knows more about the Central Indian States than any living\nman.\" If you did not say this, you were considered one of mean\nunderstanding.\n\nNowadays, the man who says that he knows the ravel of the inter-tribal\ncomplications across the Border is more of use; but, in Wressley's time,\nmuch attention was paid to the Central Indian States. They were called\n\"foci\" and \"factors,\" and all manner of imposing names.\n\nAnd here the curse of Anglo-Indian life fell heavily. When Wressley lifted\nup his voice, and spoke about such-and-such a succession to such-and-such\na throne, the Foreign Office were silent, and Heads of Departments\nrepeated the last two or three words of Wressley's sentences, and tacked\n\"yes, yes,\" on to them, and knew that they were assisting the Empire to\ngrapple with serious political contingencies. In most big undertakings,\none or two men do the work while the rest sit near and talk till the ripe\ndecorations begin to fall.\n\nWressley was the working-member of the Foreign Office firm, and, to keep\nhim up to his duties when he showed signs of flagging, he was made much of\nby his superiors and told what a fine fellow he was. He did not require\ncoaxing, because he was of tough build, but what he received confirmed him\nin the belief that there was no one quite so absolutely and imperatively\nnecessary to the stability of India as Wressley of the Foreign Office.\nThere might be other good men, but the known, honored and trusted man\namong men was Wressley of the Foreign Office. We had a Viceroy in those\ndays who knew exactly when to \"gentle\" a fractious big man, and to\nhearten-up a collar-galled little one, and so keep all his team level. He\nconveyed to Wressley the impression which I have just set down; and even\ntough men are apt to be disorganized by a Viceroy's praise. There was a\ncase once--but that is another story.\n\nAll India knew Wressley's name and office--it was in Thacker and Spink's\nDirectory--but who he was personally, or what he did, or what his special\nmerits were, not fifty men knew or cared. His work filled all his time,\nand he found no leisure to cultivate acquaintances beyond those of dead\nRajput chiefs with _Ahir_ blots in their scutcheons. Wressley would have\nmade a very good Clerk in the Herald's College had he not been a Bengal\nCivilian.\n\nUpon a day, between office and office, great trouble came to\nWressley--overwhelmed him, knocked him down, and left him gasping as\nthough he had been a little schoolboy. Without reason, against prudence,\nand at a moment's notice, he fell in love with a frivolous, golden-haired\ngirl who used to tear about Simla Mall on a high, rough waler, with a blue\nvelvet jockey-cap crammed over her eyes. Her name was Venner--Tillie\nVenner--and she was delightful. She took Wressley's heart at a\nhand-gallop, and Wressley found that it was not good for man to live\nalone; even with half the Foreign Office Records in his presses.\n\nThen Simla laughed, for Wressley in love was slightly ridiculous. He did\nhis best to interest the girl in himself--that is to say, his work--and\nshe, after the manner of women, did her best to appear interested in what,\nbehind his back, she called \"Mr. Wressley's Wajahs\"; for she lisped very\nprettily. She did not understand one little thing about them, but she\nacted as if she did. Men have married on that sort of error before now.\n\nProvidence, however, had care of Wressley, He was immensely struck with\nMiss Venner's intelligence. He would have been more impressed had he heard\nher private and confidential accounts of his calls. He held peculiar\nnotions as to the wooing of girls. He said that the best work of a man's\ncareer should be laid reverently at their feet. Ruskin writes something\nlike this somewhere, I think; but in ordinary life a few kisses are better\nand save time.\n\nAbout a month after he had lost his heart to Miss Venner, and had been\ndoing his work vilely in consequence, the first idea of his _Native Rule\nin Central India_ struck Wressley and filled him with joy. It was, as he\nsketched it, a great thing--the work of his life--a really comprehensive\nsurvey of a most fascinating subject--to be written with all the special\nand laboriously acquired knowledge of Wressley of the Foreign Office--a\ngift fit for an Empress.\n\nHe told Miss Venner that he was going to take leave, and hoped, on his\nreturn, to bring her a present worthy of her acceptance. Would she wait?\nCertainly she would. Wressley drew seventeen hundred rupees a month. She\nwould wait a year for that. Her Mamma would help her to wait.\n\nSo Wressley took one year's leave and all the available documents, about a\ntruck-load, that he could lay hands on, and went down to Central India\nwith his notion hot in his head. He began his book in the land he was\nwriting of. Too much official correspondence had made him a frigid\nworkman, and he must have guessed that he needed the white light of local\ncolor on his palette. This is a dangerous paint for amateurs to play with.\n\nHeavens, how that man worked! He caught his Rajahs, analyzed his Rajahs,\nand traced them up into the mists of Time and beyond, with their queens\nand their concubines. He dated and cross-dated, pedigreed and\ntriple-pedigreed, compared, noted, connoted, wove, strung, sorted,\nselected, inferred, calendared and counter-calendared for ten hours a day.\nAnd, because this sudden and new light of Love was upon him, he turned\nthose dry bones of history and dirty records of misdeeds into things to\nweep or to laugh over as he pleased. His heart and soul were at the end of\nhis pen, and they got into the ink. He was dowered with sympathy, insight,\nhumor, and style for two hundred and thirty days and nights; and his book\nwas a Book. He had his vast special knowledge with him, so to speak; but\nthe spirit, the woven-in human Touch, the poetry and the power of the\noutput, were beyond all special knowledge. But I doubt whether he knew the\ngift that was in him then, and thus he may have lost some happiness. He\nwas toiling for Tillie Venner, not for himself. Men often do their best\nwork blind, for some one else's sake.\n\nAlso, though this has nothing to do with the story, in India where every\none knows every one else, you can watch men being driven, by the women who\ngovern them, out of the rank-and-file and sent to take up points alone. A\ngood man, once started, goes forward; but an average man, so soon as the\nwoman loses interest in his success as a tribute to her power, comes back\nto the battalion and is no more heard of.\n\nWressley bore the first copy of his book to Simla, and, blushing and\nstammering, presented it to Miss Venner. She read a little of it. I give\nher review _verbatim_--\"Oh your book? It's all about those howwid Wajahs.\nI didn't understand it.\"\n\n\n       *\n       *\n       *\n       *\n       *\n\nWressley of the Foreign Office was broken, smashed,--I am not\nexaggerating--by this one frivolous little girl. All that he could say\nfeebly was--\"But--but it's my _magnum opus!_ The work of my life.\" Miss\nVenner did not know what _magnum opus_ meant; but she knew that Captain\nKerrington had won three races at the last Gymkhana. Wressley didn't press\nher to wait for him any longer. He had sense enough for that.\n\nThen came the reaction after the year's strain, and Wressley went back to\nthe Foreign Office and his \"Wajahs,\" a compiling, gazetteering,\nreport-writing hack, who would have been dear at three hundred rupees a\nmonth. He abided by Miss Venner's review. Which proves that the\ninspiration in the book was purely temporary and unconnected with himself.\nNevertheless, he had no right to sink, in a hill-tarn, five packing-cases,\nbrought up at enormous expense from Bombay, of the best book of Indian\nhistory ever written.\n\nWhen he sold off before retiring, some years later, I was turning over his\nshelves, and came across the only existing copy of _Native Rule in Central\nIndia_--the copy that Miss Venner could not understand. I read it, sitting\non his mule-trunks, as long as the light lasted, and offered him his own\nprice for it. He looked over my shoulder for a few pages and said to\nhimself drearily--\n\n\"Now, how in the world did I come to write such damned good stuff as\nthat?\"\n\nThen to me--\n\n\"Take it and keep it. Write one of your penny-farthing yarns about its\nbirth. Perhaps--perhaps--the whole business may have been ordained to that\nend.\"\n\nWhich, knowing what Wressley of the Foreign Office was once, struck me as\nabout the bitterest thing that I had ever heard a man say of his own work.\n\n\n\nTHE SOLID MULDOON\n\n  Did ye see John Malone, wid his shinin', brand-new hat?\n  Did ye see how he walked like a grand aristocrat?\n  There was flags an' banners wavin' high,\n    an' dhress and shtyle were shown,\n  But the best av all the company was Misther John Malone.\n\n  _John Malone._\n\nThere had been a royal dog-fight in the ravine at the back of the\nrifle-butts, between Learoyd's _Jock_ and Ortheris's _Blue Rot_--both\nmongrel Rampur hounds, chiefly ribs and teeth. It lasted for twenty happy,\nhowling minutes, and then Blue Rot collapsed and Ortheris paid Learoyd\nthree rupees, and we were all very thirsty. A dog-fight is a most heating\nentertainment, quite apart from the shouting, because Rampurs fight over a\ncouple of acres of ground. Later, when the sound of belt-badges clicking\nagainst the necks of beer-bottles had died away, conversation drifted from\ndog to man-fights of all kinds. Humans resemble red-deer in some respects.\nAny talk of fighting seems to wake up a sort of imp in their breasts, and\nthey bell one to the other, exactly like challenging bucks. This is\nnoticeable even in men who consider themselves superior to Privates of the\nLine: it shows the Refining Influence of Civilization and the March of\nProgress.\n\nTale provoked tale, and each tale more beer. Even dreamy Learoyd's eyes\nbegan to brighten, and he unburdened himself of a long history in which a\ntrip to Malham Cove, a girl at Pateley Brigg, a ganger, himself and a pair\nof clogs were mixed in drawling tangle.\n\n\"An' so Ah coot's yead oppen from t' chin to t' hair, an' he was abed for\nt' matter o' a month,\" concluded Learoyd, pensively.\n\nMulvaney came out of a revery--he was lying down--and flourished his heels\nin the air. \"You're a man, Learoyd,\" said he, critically, \"but you've only\nfought wid men, an' that's an ivry-day expayrience; but I've stud up to a\nghost, an' that was _not_ an ivry-day expayrience.\"\n\n\"No?\" said Ortheris, throwing a cork at him. \"You git up an' address the\n'ouse--you an' yer expayriences. Is it a bigger one nor usual?\"\n\n\"Twas the livin' trut'!\" answered Mulvaney, stretching out a huge arm and\ncatching Ortheris by the collar. \"Now where are ye, me son? Will ye take\nthe wurrud av the Lorrd out av my mouth another time?\" He shook him to\nemphasize the question.\n\n\"No, somethin' else, though,\" said Ortheris, making a dash at Mulvaney's\npipe, capturing it and holding it at arm's length; \"I'll chuck it acrost\nthe ditch if you don't let me go!\"\n\n\"You maraudin' hathen! Tis the only cutty I iver loved. Handle her tinder\nor I'll chuck _you_ acrost the nullah. If that poipe was bruk--Ah! Give\nher back to me, sorr!\"\n\nOrtheris had passed the treasure to my hand. It was an absolutely perfect\nclay, as shiny as the black ball at Pool. I took it reverently, but I was\nfirm.\n\n\"Will you tell us about the ghost-fight if I do?\" I said.\n\n\"Is ut the shtory that's troublin' you? Av course I will. I mint to all\nalong. I was only gettin' at ut my own way, as Popp Doggle said whin they\nfound him thrying to ram a cartridge down the muzzle. Orth'ris, fall\naway!\"\n\nHe released the little Londoner, took back his pipe, filled it, and his\neyes twinkled. He has the most eloquent eyes of any one that I know.\n\n\"Did I iver tell you,\" he began, \"that I was wanst the divil of a man?\"\n\n\"You did,\" said Learoyd, with a childish gravity that made Ortheris yell\nwith laughter, for Mulvaney was always impressing upon us his great merits\nin the old days.\n\n\"Did I iver tell you,\" Mulvaney continued, calmly, \"that I was wanst more\nav a divil than I am now?\"\n\n\"Mer--ria! You don't mean it?\" said Ortheris.\n\n\"Whin I was Corp'ril--I was rejuced aftherward--but, as I say, _whin_ I\nwas Corp'ril, I was a divil of a man.\"\n\nHe was silent for nearly a minute, while his mind rummaged among old\nmemories and his eye glowed. He bit upon the pipe-stem and charged into\nhis tale.\n\n\"Eyah! They was great times, I'm ould now; me hide's wore off in patches;\nsinthrygo has disconceited me, an' I'm a married man tu. But I've had my\nday--I've had my day, an' nothin' can take away the taste av that! Oh my\ntime past, whin I put me fut through ivry livin' wan av the Tin\nCommandmints between Revelly and Lights Out, blew the froth off a pewter,\nwiped me moustache wid the back av me hand, an' slept on ut all as quiet\nas a little child! But ut's over--ut's over, an' 'twill niver come back to\nme; not though I prayed for a week av Sundays. Was there _any_ wan in the\nOuld Rig'mint to touch Corp'ril Terence Mulvaney whin that same was turned\nout for sedukshin? I niver met him. Ivry woman that was not a witch was\nworth the runnin' afther in those days, an' ivry man was my dearest frind\nor--I had stripped to him an' we knew which was the betther av the tu.\n\n\"Whin I was Corp'ril I wud not ha' changed wid the Colonel--no, nor yet\nthe Commandher-in-Chief. I wud be a Sargint. There was nothin' I wud not\nbe! Mother av Hivin, look at me! Fwhat am I _now?_\n\n\"We was quartered in a big cantonmint--'tis no manner av use namin' names,\nfor ut might give the barricks disrepitation--an' I was the Imperor av the\nEarth to my own mind, an' wan or tu women thought the same. Small blame to\nthim. Afther we had lain there a year, Bragin, the Color Sargint av E\nComp'ny, wint an' took a wife that was lady's maid to some big lady in the\nStation. She's dead now is Annie Bragin--died in child-bed at Kirpa Tal,\nor ut may ha' been Almorah--seven--nine years gone, an' Bragin he married\nagin. But she was a pretty woman whin Bragin inthrojuced her to cantonmint\nsociety. She had eyes like the brown av a buttherfly's wing whin the sun\ncatches ut, an' a waist no thicker than my arm, an' a little sof button av\na mouth I would ha' gone through all Asia bristlin' wid bay'nits to get\nthe kiss av. An' her hair was as long as the tail av the Colonel's\ncharger--forgive me mentionin' that blunderin' baste in the same mouthful\nwith Annie Bragin--but 'twas all shpun gold, an' time was when ut was more\nthan di'monds to me. There was niver pretty woman yet, an' I've had thruck\nwid a few, cud open the door to Annie Bragin.\n\n\"'Twas in the Cath'lic Chapel I saw her first, me oi roiling round as\nusual to see fwhat was to be seen, 'You're too good for Bragin, my love,'\nthinks I to mesilf, 'but that's a mistake I can put straight, or my name\nis not Terence Mulvaney.'\n\n\"Now take my wurrd for ut, you Orth'ris there an' Learoyd, an' kape out av\nthe Married Quarters--as I did not. No good iver comes av ut, an' there's\nalways the chance av your bein' found wid your face in the dirt, a long\npicket in the back av your head, an' your hands playing the fifes on the\ntread av another man's doorstep.\n\n\"Twas so we found O'Hara, he that Rafferty killed six years gone, when he\nwint to his death wid his hair oiled, whistlin' _Larry O'Rourke_ betune\nhis teeth. Kape out av the Married Quarters, I say, as I did not, 'Tis\nonwholesim, 'tis dangerous, an' 'tis ivrything else that's bad, but--O my\nsowl, 'tis swate while ut lasts!\n\n\"I was always hangin' about there whin I was off duty an' Bragin wasn't,\nbut niver a sweet word beyon' ordinar' did I get from Annie Bragin. ''Tis\nthe pervarsity av the sect,' sez I to mesilf, an' gave my cap another cock\non my head an' straightened my back--'twas the back av a Dhrum Major in\nthose days--an' wint off as tho' I did not care, wid all the women in the\nMarried Quarters laughin'. I was pershuaded--most bhoys _are_, I'm\nthinkin'--that no women born av woman cud stand against me av I hild up my\nlittle finger. I had reason fer thinkin' that way--till I met Annie\nBragin.\n\n\"Time an' agin whin I was blandandherin' in the dusk a man wud go past me\nas quiet as a cat. 'That's quare,' thinks I, 'for I am, or I should be,\nthe only man in these parts. Now what divilment can Annie be up to?' Thin\nI called myself a blayguard for thinkin' such things; but I thought thim\nall the same. An' that, mark you, is the way av a man.\n\n\"Wan evenin' I said:--'Mrs. Bragin, manin' no disrespect to you, who is\nthat Corp'ril man'--I had seen the stripes though I cud niver get sight av\nhis face--'_who_ is that Corp'ril man that comes in always whin I'm goin'\naway?'\n\n\"'Mother av God!' sez she, turnin' as white as my belt; 'have _you_ seen\nhim too?'\n\n\"'Seen him!' sez I; 'av coorse I have. Did ye want me not to see him,\nfor'--we were standin' talkin' in the dhark, outside the veranda av\nBragin's quarters--'you'd betther tell me to shut me eyes. Onless I'm\nmistaken, he's come now.'\n\n\"An', sure enough, the Corp'ril man was walkin' to us, hangin' his head\ndown as though he was ashamed av himsilf.\n\n\"'Good-night, Mrs. Bragin,' sez I, very cool; ''tis not for me to\ninterfere wid your _a-moors;_ but you might manage some things wid more\ndacincy. I'm off to canteen', I sez.\n\n\"I turned on my heel an' wint away, swearin' I wud give that man a\ndhressin' that wud shtop him messin' about the Married Quarters for a\nmonth an' a week. I had not tuk ten paces before Annie Bragin was hangin'\non to my arm, an' I cud feel that she was shakin' all over.\n\n\"'Stay wid me, Mister Mulvaney,' sez she; 'you're flesh an' blood, at the\nleast--are ye not?'\n\n\"'I'm _all_ that,' sez I, an' my anger wint away in a flash. 'Will I want\nto be asked twice, Annie?'\n\n\"Wid that I slipped my arm round her waist, for, begad, I fancied she had\nsurrindered at discretion, an' the honors av war were mine,\n\n\"'Fwhat nonsinse is this?' sez she, dhrawin' hersilf up on the tips av her\ndear little toes. 'Wid the mother's milk not dhry on your impident mouth?\nLet go!' she sez,\n\n\"Did ye not say just now that I was flesh and blood?' sez I. 'I have not\nchanged since,' I sez; an' I kep' my arm where ut was.\n\n\"'Your arms to yoursilf!' sez she, an' her eyes sparkild.\n\n\"'Sure, 'tis only human nature,' sez I, an' I kep' my arm where ut was.\n\n\"'Nature or no nature,' sez she, 'you take your arm away or I'll tell\nBragin, an' he'll alter the nature av your head. Fwhat d'you take me for?'\nshe sez.\n\n\"'A woman,' sez I; 'the prettiest in barricks.'\n\n\"'A _wife_,' sez she; 'the straightest in cantonmints!'\n\n\"Wid that I dropped my arm, fell back tu paces, an' saluted, for I saw\nthat she mint fwhat she said.\"\n\n\"Then you know something that some men would give a good deal to be\ncertain of. How could you tell?\" I demanded in the interests of Science.\n\n\"Watch the hand,\" said Mulvaney; \"av she shut her hand tight, thumb down\nover the knuckle, take up your hat an' go. You'll only make a fool av\nyoursilf av you shtay. But av the hand lies opin on the lap, or av you see\nher thryin' to shut ut, an' she can't,--go on! She's not past reasonin'\nwid.\n\n\"Well, as I was sayin', I fell back, saluted, an' was goin' away.\n\n\"'Shtay wid me,' she sez. 'Look! He's comin' again.'\n\n\"She pointed to the veranda, an' by the Hoight av Impart'nince, the\nCorp'ril man was comin' out av Bragin's quarters.\n\n\"'He's done that these five evenin's past,' sez Annie Bragin. 'Oh, fwhat\nwill I do!'\n\n\"'He'll not do ut again,' sez I, for I was fightin' mad.\n\n\"Kape way from a man that has been a thrifle crossed in love till the\nfever's died down. He rages like a brute beast.\n\n\"I wint up to the man in the veranda, manin', as sure as I sit, to knock\nthe life out av him. He slipped into the open. 'Fwhat are you doin'\nphilanderin' about here, ye scum av the gutter?' sez I polite, to give him\nhis warnin', for I wanted him ready.\n\n\"He niver lifted his head, but sez, all mournful an' melancolius, as if he\nthought I wud be sorry for him: 'I can't find her,' sez he.\n\n\"'My troth,' sez I, 'you've lived too long--you an' your seekin's an'\nfindin's in a dacint married woman's quarters! Hould up your head, ye\nfrozen thief av Genesis,' sez I, 'an' you'll find all you want an' more!'\n\n\"But he niver hild up, an' I let go from the shoulder to where the hair is\nshort over the eyebrows.\n\n\"'That'll do your business,\" sez I, but it nearly did mine instid. I put\nmy bodyweight behind the blow, but I hit nothing at all, an' near put my\nshoulther out. The Corp'ril man was not there, an' Annie Bragin, who had\nbeen watchin' from the veranda, throws up her heels, an' carries on like a\ncock whin his neck's wrung by the dhrummer-bhoy. I wint back to her, for a\nlivin' woman, an' a woman like Annie Bragin, is more than a p'rade-groun'\nfull av ghosts. I'd never seen a woman faint before, an' I stud like a\nshtuck calf, askin' her whether she was dead, an' prayin' her for the love\nav me, an' the love av her husband, an' the love av the Virgin, to opin\nher blessed eyes again, an' callin' mesilf all the names undher the canopy\nav Hivin for plaguin' her wid my miserable _a-moors_ whin I ought to ha'\nstud betune her an' this Corp'ril man that had lost the number av his\nmess.\n\n\"I misremimber fwhat nonsinse I said, but I was not so far gone that I cud\nnot hear a fut on the dirt outside. 'Twas Bragin comin' in, an' by the\nsame token Annie was comin' to. I jumped to the far end av the veranda an'\nlooked as if butter wudn't melt in my mouth. But Mrs. Quinn, the\nQuarter-Master's wife that was, had tould Bragin about my hangin' round\nAnnie.\n\n\"'I'm not pleased wid you, Mulvaney,' sez Bragin, unbucklin' his sword,\nfor he had been on duty.\n\n\"'That's bad hearin',' I sez, an' I knew that the pickets were dhriven in.\n'What for, Sargint?' sez I.\n\n\"'Come outside,' sez he, 'an' I'll show you why.'\n\n\"'I'm willin',' I sez; 'but my stripes are none so ould that I can afford\nto lose thim. Tell me now, _who_ do I go out wid?' sez I.\n\n\"He was a quick man an' a just, an' saw fwhat I wud be afther. 'Wid Mrs.\nBragin's husband,' sez he. He might ha' known by me askin' that favor that\nI had done him no wrong.\n\n\"We wint to the back av the arsenal an' I stripped to him, an' for ten\nminutes 'twas all I cud do to prevent him killin' himself against my\nfistes. He was mad as a dumb dog--just frothing wid rage; but he had no\nchanst wid me in reach, or learnin', or anything else.\n\n\"'Will ye hear reason?' sez I, whin his first wind was run out.\n\n\"'Not whoile I can see,' sez he. Wid that I gave him both, one after the\nother, smash through the low gyard that he'd been taught whin he was a\nboy, an' the eyebrow shut down on the cheek-bone like the wing av a sick\ncrow.\n\n\"'Will you hear reason now, ye brave man?' sez I.\n\n\"'Not whoile I can speak,' sez he, staggerin' up blind as a stump. I was\nloath to do ut, but I wint round an' swung into the jaw side-on an'\nshifted ut a half pace to the lef'.\n\n\"'Will ye hear reason now?' sez I; 'I can't keep my timper much longer, an\n'tis like I will hurt you.'\n\n\"'Not whoile I can stand,' he mumbles out av one corner av his mouth. So I\nclosed an' threw him--blind, dumb, an' sick, an' jammed the jaw straight.\n\n\"'You're an ould fool, _Mister_ Bragin,' sez I.\n\n\"'You're a young thief,' sez he, 'an' you've bruk my heart, you an' Annie\nbetune you!'\n\n\"Thin he began cryin' like a child as he lay. I was sorry as I had niver\nbeen before. 'Tis an awful thing to see a strong man cry.\n\n\"'I'll swear on the Cross!' sez I.\n\n\"'I care for none av your oaths,' sez he.\n\n\"'Come back to your quarters,' sez I, 'an' if you don't believe the\nlivin', begad, you shall listen to the dead,' I sez.\n\n\"I hoisted him an' tuk him back to his quarters. 'Mrs. Bragin,' sez I,\n'here's a man that you can cure quicker than me.'\n\n\"'You've shamed me before my wife,' he whimpers.\n\n\"'Have I so?' sez I. 'By the look on Mrs. Bragin's face I think I'm for a\ndhressin'-down worse than I gave you.'\n\n\"An' I was! Annie Bragin was woild wid indignation. There was not a name\nthat a dacint woman cud use that was not given my way. I've had my Colonel\nwalk roun' me like a cooper roun' a cask for fifteen minutes in Ord'ly\nRoom, bekaze I wint into the Corner Shop an unstrapped lewnatic; but all\nthat I iver tuk from his rasp av a tongue was ginger-pop to fwhat Annie\ntould me, An' that, mark you, is the way av a woman,\n\n\"Whin ut was done for want av breath, an' Annie was bendin' over her\nhusband, I sez; ''Tis all thrue, an' I'm a blayguard an' you're an honest\nwoman; but will you tell him of wan service that I did you?'\n\n\"As I finished speakin' the Corp'ril man came up to the veranda, an' Annie\nBragin shquealed. The moon was up, an' we cud see his face.\n\n\"'I can't find her,' sez the Corp'ril man, an' wint out like the puff av a\ncandle.\n\n\"'Saints stand betune us an' evil!' sez Bragin, crossin' himself; 'that's\nFlahy av the Tyrone.'\n\n\"'Who was he?' I sez, 'for he has given me a dale av fightin' this day.'\n\n\"Bragin tould us that Flahy was a Corp'ril who lost his wife av cholera in\nthose quarters three years gone, an' wint mad, an' _walked_ afther they\nburied him, huntin' for her.\n\n\"'Well,' sez I to Bragin, 'he's been hookin' out av Purgathory to kape\ncompany wid Mrs. Bragin ivry evenin' for the last fortnight. You may tell\nMrs. Quinn, wid my love, for I know that she's been talkin' to you, an'\nyou've been listenin', that she ought to ondherstand the differ 'twixt a\nman an' a ghost. She's had three husbands,' sez I, 'an' _you_'ve, got a\nwife too good for you. Instid av which you lave her to be boddered by\nghosts an'--an' all manner av evil spirruts. I'll niver go talkin' in the\nway av politeness to a man's wife again. Good-night to you both,' sez I;\nan' wid that I wint away, havin' fought wid woman, man and Divil all in\nthe heart av an hour. By the same token I gave Father Victor wan rupee to\nsay a mass for Flahy's soul, me havin' discommoded him by shticking my\nfist into his systim.\"\n\n\"Your ideas of politeness seem rather large, Mulvaney,\" I said.\n\n\"That's as you look at ut,\" said Mulvaney, calmly; \"Annie Bragin niver\ncared for me. For all that, I did not want to leave anything behin' me\nthat Bragin could take hould av to be angry wid her about--whin an honust\nwurrd cud ha' cleared all up. There's nothing like opin-speakin'.\nOrth'ris, ye scutt, let me put me oi to that bottle, for my throat's as\ndhry as whin I thought I wud get a kiss from Annie Bragin. An' that's\nfourteen years gone! Eyah! Cork's own city an' the blue sky above ut--an'\nthe times that was--the times that was!\"\n\n\n\nTHE THREE MUSKETEERS\n\n   An' when the war began, we chased the bold Afghan,\n   An' we made the bloomin' Ghazi for to flee, boys O!\n   An' we marched into Kabul, an' we tuk the Balar 'Issar\n   An' we taught 'em to respec' the British Soldier.\n   _Barrack Room Ballad._\n\nMulvaney, Ortheris and Learoyd are Privates in B Company of a Line\nRegiment, and personal friends of mine. Collectively I think, but am not\ncertain, they are the worst men in the regiment so far as genial\nblackguardism goes.\n\nThey told me this story, in the Umballa Refreshment Room while we were\nwaiting for an up-train. I supplied the beer. The tale was cheap at a\ngallon and a half.\n\nAll men know Lord Benira Trig. He Is a Duke, or an Earl, or something\nunofficial; also a Peer; also a Globe-trotter. On all three counts, as\nOrtheris says, \"'e didn't deserve no consideration.\" He was out in India\nfor three months collecting materials for a book on \"Our Eastern\nImpedimenta,\" and quartering himself upon everybody, like a Cossack in\nevening-dress.\n\nHis particular vice--because he was a Radical, men said--was having\ngarrisons turned out for his inspection. He would then dine with the\nOfficer Commanding, and insult him, across the Mess table, about the\nappearance of the troops. That was Benira's way.\n\nHe turned out troops once too often. He came to Helanthami Cantonment on a\nTuesday. He wished to go shopping in the bazars on Wednesday, and he\n\"desired\" the troops to be turned out on a Thursday. _On--a--Thursday._\nThe Officer Commanding could not well refuse; for Benira was a Lord. There\nwas an indignation-meeting of subalterns in the Mess Room, to call the\nColonel pet names.\n\n\"But the rale dimonstrashin,\" said Mulvaney, \"was in B Comp'ny barrick; we\nthree headin' it.\"\n\nMulvaney climbed on to the refreshment-bar, settled himself comfortably by\nthe beer, and went on, \"Whin the row was at ut's foinest an' B Comp'ny was\nfur goin' out to murther this man Thrigg on the p'rade-groun', Learoyd\nhere takes up his helmut an' sez--fwhat was ut ye said?\"\n\n\"Ah said,\" said Learoyd, \"gie us t' brass. Tak oop a subscripshun, lads,\nfor to put off t' p'rade, an' if t' p'rade's not put off, ah'll gie t'\nbrass back agean. Thot's wot ah said. All B Coomp'ny knawed me. Ah took\noop a big subscripshun--fower rupees eight annas 'twas--an' ah went oot to\nturn t' job over. Mulvaney an' Orth'ris coom with me.\"\n\n\"We three raises the Divil In couples gin'rally,\" explained Mulvaney.\n\nHere Ortheris interrupted. \"'Ave you read the papers?\" said he.\n\n\"Sometimes,\" I said,\n\n\"We 'ad read the papers, an' we put hup a faked decoity, a--a sedukshun.\"\n\n\"_Ab_dukshin, ye cockney,\" said Mulvaney.\n\n\"_Ab_dukshin or _se_dukshun--no great odds. Any'ow, we arranged to taik\nan' put Mister Benhira out o' the way till Thursday was hover, or 'e too\nbusy to rux 'isself about p'raids. _Hi_ was the man wot said, 'We'll make\na few rupees off o' the business.'\"\n\n\"We hild a Council av War,\" continued Mulvaney, \"walkin' roun' by the\nArtill'ry Lines. I was Prisidint, Learoyd was Minister av Finance, an'\nlittle Orth'ris here was\"--\n\n\"A bloomin' Bismarck! _Hi_ made the 'ole show pay.\"\n\n\"This interferin' bit av a Benira man,\" said Mulvaney, \"did the thrick for\nus himself; for, on me sowl, we hadn't a notion av what was to come afther\nthe next minut. He was shoppin' in the bazar on fut. Twas dhrawin' dusk\nthin, an' we stud watchin' the little man hoppin' in an' out av the shops,\nthryin' to injuce the naygurs to _mallum_ his _bat_. Prisintly, he sthrols\nup, his arrums full av thruck, an' he sez in a consiquinshal way,\nshticking out his little belly, 'Me good men,' sez he, 'have ye seen the\nKernel's b'roosh?'--'B'roosh?' says Learoyd. 'There's no b'roosh\nhere--nobbut a _hekka_.'--'Fwhat's that?' sez Thrigg. Learoyd shows him\nwan down the sthreet, an' he sez, 'How thruly Orientil! I will ride on a\n_hekka_.' I saw thin that our Rigimintal Saint was for givin' Thrigg over\nto us neck an' brisket. I purshued a _hekka_, an' I sez to the\ndhriver-divil, I sez, 'Ye black limb, there's a _Sahib_ comin' for this\n_hekka_. He wants to go _jildi_ to the Padsahi Jhil'--'twas about tu\nmoiles away--'to shoot snipe--_chirria_. You dhrive _Jehannum ke marfik,\nmallum_--like Hell? 'Tis no manner av use _bukkin'_ to the _Sahib_, bekaze\nhe doesn't _samjao_ your talk. Av he _bolos_ anything, just you _choop_\nand _chel_. _Dekker?_ Go _arsty_ for the first _arder_-mile from\ncantonmints. Thin _chel, Shaitan ke marfik_, an' the _chooper_ you\n_choops_ an' the _jildier_ you _chels_ the better _kooshy_ will that\n_Sahib_ be; an' here's a rupee for ye?'\n\n\"The _hekka_-man knew there was somethin' out av the common in the air. He\ngrinned an' sez, '_Bote achee!_ I goin' damn fast.' I prayed that the\nKernel's b'roosh wudn't arrive till me darlin' Benira by the grace av God\nwas undher weigh. The little man puts his thruck into the _hekka_ an'\nscuttles in like a fat guinea-pig; niver offerin' us the price av a dhrink\nfor our services in helpin' him home, 'He's off to the Padsahi _jhil_,'\nsez I to the others.\"\n\nOrtheris took up the tale--\n\n\"Jist then, little Buldoo kim up, 'oo was the son of one of the Artillery\ngrooms--'e would 'av made a 'evinly newspaper-boy in London, bein' sharp\nan' fly to all manner o' games, 'E 'ad bin watchin' us puttin' Mister\nBenhira into 'is temporary baroush, an' 'e sez, 'What _'ave_ you been a\ndoin' of, _Sahibs?_' sez 'e. Learoyd 'e caught 'im by the ear an 'e sez\"--\n\n\"Ah says,' went on Learoyd, 'Young mon, that mon's gooin' to have t' goons\nout o' Thursday--to-morrow--an' thot's more work for you, young mon. Now,\nsitha, tak' a _tat_ an' a _lookri_, an' ride tha domdest to t' Padsahi\nJhil. Cotch thot there _hekka_, and tell t' driver iv your lingo thot\nyou've coorn to tak' his place. T' _Sahib_ doesn't speak t' _bat_, an'\nhe's a little mon. Drive t' _hekka_ into t' Padsahi Jhil into t' waiter.\nLeave t' _Sahib_ theer an' roon hoam; an' here's a rupee for tha,'\"\n\nThen Mulvaney and Ortheris spoke together in alternate fragments: Mulvaney\nleading [You must pick out the two speakers as best you can]:--\"He was a\nknowin' little divil was Bhuldoo,--'e sez _bote achee_ an' cuts--wid a\nwink in his oi--but _Hi_ sez there's money to be made--an' I wanted to see\nthe ind av the campaign--so _Hi_ says we'll double hout to the Padsahi\nJhil--an' save the little man from bein' dacoited by the murtherin'\nBhuldoo--an' turn hup like reskooers in a Vic'oria Melodrama-so we doubled\nfor the _jhil_, an' prisintly there was the divil av a hurroosh behind us\nan' three bhoys on grasscuts' ponies come by, poundin' along for the dear\nlife--s'elp me Bob, hif Buldoo 'adn't raised a rig'lar _harmy_ of\ndecoits--to do the job in shtile. An' we ran, an' they ran, shplittin'\nwith laughin', till we gets near the _jhil_--and 'ears sounds of distress\nfloatin' molloncolly on the hevenin' hair.\" [Ortheris was growing poetical\nunder the influence of the beer. The duet recommenced: Mulvaney leading\nagain.]\n\n\"Thin we heard Bhuldoo, the dacoit, shoutin' to the _hekka_ man, an' wan\nof the young divils brought his stick down on the top av the\n_hekka_-cover, an' Benira Thrigg inside howled 'Murther an' Death.' Buldoo\ntakes the reins and dhrives like mad for the _jhil_, havin' dishpersed the\n_hekka_-dhriver--'oo cum up to us an' 'e sez, sez 'e, 'That _Sahib's_ nigh\nmad with funk! Wot devil's work 'ave you led me into?'--'Hall right,' sez\nwe, 'you catch that there pony an' come along. This _Sahib's_ been\ndecoited, an' we're going to resky 'im!' Says the driver, 'Decoits! Wot\ndecoits? That's Buldoo the _budmash_'--'Bhuldoo be shot!' sez we, ''Tis a\nwoild dissolute Pathan frum the hills. There's about eight av thim\ncoercin' the _Sahib_. You remimber that an you'll get another rupee!' Thin\nwe heard the _whop-whop-whop_ av the _hekka_ turnin' over, an' a splash av\nwater an' the voice av Benira Thrigg callin' upon God to forgive his\nsins--an' Buldoo an' 'is friends squotterin' in the water like boys in the\nSerpentine.\"\n\nHere the Three Musketeers retired simultaneously into the beer.\n\n\"Well? What came next?\" said I.\n\n\"Fwhat nex'?\" answered Mulvaney, wiping his mouth. \"Wud ye let three bould\nsodger-bhoys lave the ornamint av the House av Lords to be dhrowned an'\ndacoited in a _jhil?_ We formed line av quarther-column an' we discinded\nupon the inimy. For the better part av tin minutes you could not hear\nyerself spake. The _tattoo_ was screamin' in chune wid Benira Thrigg an'\nBhuldoo's army, an' the shticks was whistlin' roun' the _hekka_, an'\nOrth'ris was beatin' the _hekka_-cover wid his fistes, an' Learoyd\nyellin', 'Look out for their knives!' an' me cuttin' into the dark, right\nan' lef', dishpersin' arrmy corps av Pathans. Holy Mother av Moses! 'twas\nmore disp'rit than Ahmid Kheyl wid Maiwund thrown in. Afther a while\nBhuldoo an' his bhoys flees. Have ye iver seen a rale live Lord thryin' to\nhide his nobility undher a fut an' a half av brown swamp-wather? Tis the\nlivin' image av a water-carrier's goatskin wid the shivers. It tuk toime\nto pershuade me frind Benira he was not disimbowilled: an' more toime to\nget out the _hekka_. The dhriver come up afther the battle, swearin' he\ntuk a hand in repulsin' the inimy. Benira was sick wid the fear. We\nescorted him back, very slow, to cantonmints, for that an' the chill to\nsoak into him. It suk! Glory be to the Rigimintil Saint, but it suk to the\nmarrow av Lord Benira Thrigg!\"\n\nHere Ortheris, slowly, with immense pride--\"'E sez, 'You har my noble\npreservers,' sez 'e. 'You har a _h_onor to the British Harmy,' sez 'e.\nWith that e' describes the hawful band of dacoits wot set on 'im. There\nwas about forty of 'em an' 'e was hoverpowered by numbers, so 'e was; but\n'e never lorst 'is presence of mind, so 'e didn't. 'E guv the\n_hekka_-driver five rupees for 'is noble assistance, an' 'e said 'e would\nsee to us after 'e 'ad spoken to the Kernul. For we was a _h_onor to the\nRegiment, we was.\"\n\n\"An' we three,\" said Mulvaney, with a seraphic smile, \"have dhrawn the\npar-ti-cu-lar attinshin av Bobs Bahadur more than wanst. But he's a rale\ngood little man is Bobs. Go on, Orth'ris, my son.\"\n\n\"Then we leaves 'im at the Kernul's 'ouse, werry sick, an' we cuts hover\nto B Comp'ny barrick an' we sez we 'ave saved Benira from a bloody doom,\nan' the chances was agin there bein' p'raid on Thursday. About ten minutes\nlater come three envelicks, one for each of us. S'elp me Bob, if the old\nbloke 'adn't guv us a fiver apiece--sixty-four rupees in the bazar! On\nThursday 'e was in 'orspital recoverin' from 'is sanguinary encounter with\na gang of Pathans, an' B Comp'ny was drinkin' 'emselves into Clink by\nsquads. So there never was no Thursday p'raid. But the Kernal, when 'e\n'eard of our galliant conduct, 'e sez, 'Hi know there's been some devilry\nsomewheres,' sez 'e, 'but I can't bring it 'ome to you three.'\"\n\n\"An' my privit imprisshin is,\" said Mulvaney, getting off the bar and\nturning his glass upside down, \"that, av they had known they wudn't have\nbrought ut home. 'Tis flyin' in the face, firstly av Nature, secon' av the\nRig'lations, an' third the will av Terence Mulvaney, to hold p'rades av\nThursdays.\"\n\n\"Good, ma son!\" said Learoyd; \"but, young mon, what's t' notebook for?\"\n\n\"'Let be,\" said Mulvaney; \"this time next month we're in the _Sherapis_.\n'Tis immortial fame the gentleman's goin' to give us. But kape it dhark\ntill we're out av the range av me little frind Bobs Bahadur.\"\n\nAnd I have obeyed Mulvaney's order.\n\n\n\n\nBEYOND THE PALE\n\n\nLove heeds not caste nor sleep a broken bed. I went in search of love and\nlost myself.--_Hindu Proverb_.\n\nA man should, whatever happens, keep to his own caste, race and breed. Let\nthe White go to the White and the Black to the Black. Then, whatever\ntrouble falls is in the ordinary course of things--neither sudden, alien\nnor unexpected.\n\nThis is the story of a man who wilfully stepped beyond the safe limits of\ndecent everyday society, and paid for it heavily.\n\nHe knew too much in the first instance; and he saw too much in the second.\nHe took too deep an interest in native life; but he will never do so\nagain.\n\nDeep away in the heart of the City, behind Jitha Megji's _bustee_, lies\nAmir Nath's Gully, which ends in a dead-wall pierced by one grated window.\nAt the head of the Gully is a big cow-byre, and the walls on either side\nof the Gully are without windows. Neither Suchet Singh nor Gaur Chand\napprove of their womenfolk looking into the world. If Durga Charan had\nbeen of their opinion, he would have been a happier man to-day, and little\nBisesa would have been able to knead her own bread. Her room looked out\nthrough the grated window into the narrow dark Gully where the sun never\ncame and where the buffaloes wallowed in the blue slime. She was a widow,\nabout fifteen years old, and she prayed the Gods, day and night, to send\nher a lover; for she did not approve of living alone.\n\nOne day, the man--Trejago his name was--came into Amir Nath's Gully on an\naimless wandering; and, after he had passed the buffaloes, stumbled over a\nbig heap of cattle-food.\n\nThen he saw that the Gully ended in a trap, and heard a little laugh from\nbehind the grated window. It was a pretty little laugh, and Trejago,\nknowing that, for all practical purposes, the old _Arabian Nights_ are\ngood guides, went forward to the window, and whispered that verse of \"The\nLove Song of Har Dyal\" which begins:\n\n  Can a man stand upright in the face of the naked Sun;\n    or a Lover in the Presence of his Beloved?\n\n  If my feet fail me, O Heart of my Heart, am I to blame,\n    being blinded by the glimpse of your beauty?\n\nThere came the faint _tchink_ of a woman's bracelets from behind the\ngrating, and a little voice went on with the song at the fifth verse:\n\n   Alas! alas! Can the Moon tell the Lotus of her love\n     when the Gate of Heaven is shut and the clouds gather for the rains?\n   They have taken my Beloved, and driven her\n     with the pack-horses to the North.\n   There are iron chains on the feet that were set on my heart.\n   Call to the bowmen to make ready--\n\nThe voice stopped suddenly, and Trejago walked out of Amir Nath's Gully,\nwondering who in the world could have capped \"The Love Song of Har Dyal\"\nso neatly.\n\nNext morning, as he was driving to office, an old woman threw a packet\ninto his dog-cart. In the packet was the half of a broken glass-bangle,\none flower of the blood-red _dhak_, a pinch of _bhusa_ or cattle-food, and\neleven cardamoms. That packet was a letter--not a clumsy compromising\nletter, but an innocent unintelligible lover's epistle.\n\nTrejago knew far too much about these things, as I have said. No\nEnglishman should be able to translate object-letters. But Trejago spread\nall the trifles on the lid of his office-box and began to puzzle them out.\n\nA broken glass-bangle stands for a Hindu widow all India over; because,\nwhen her husband dies, a woman's bracelets are broken on her wrists.\nTrejago saw the meaning of the little bit of the glass. The flower of the\n_dhak_ means diversely \"desire,\" \"come,\" \"write,\" or \"danger,\" according\nto the other things with it. One cardamom means \"jealousy\"; but when any\narticle is duplicated in an object-letter, it loses its symbolic meaning\nand stands merely for one of a number indicating time, or, if incense,\ncurds, or saffron be sent also, place. The message ran then--\"A\nwidow--_dhak_ flower and _bhusa_,--at eleven o'clock.\" The pinch of\n_bhusa_ enlightened Trejago. He saw--this kind of letter leaves much to\ninstinctive knowledge--that the _bhusa_ referred to the big heap of\ncattle-food over which he had fallen in Amir Nath's Gully, and that the\nmessage must come from the person behind the grating; she being a widow.\nSo the message ran then--\"A widow, in the Gully in which is the heap of\n_bhusa_, desires you to come at eleven o'clock.\"\n\nTrejago threw all the rubbish into the fireplace and laughed. He knew that\nmen in the East do not make love under windows at eleven in the forenoon,\nnor do women fix appointments a week in advance. So he went, that very\nnight at eleven, into Amir Nath's Gully, clad in a _boorka_, which cloaks\na man as well as a woman. Directly the gongs of the City made the hour,\nthe little voice behind the grating took up \"The Love Song of Har Dyal\" at\nthe verse where the Panthan girl calls upon Har Dyal to return. The song\nis really pretty in the Vernacular. In English you miss the wail of it. It\nruns something like this--\n\n   Alone upon the housetops, to the North\n   I turn and watch the lightning in the sky,--\n   The glamour of thy footsteps in the North,\n   _Come back to me, Beloved, or I die!_\n\n   Below my feet the still bazar is laid\n   Far, far, below the weary camels lie,--\n   The camels and the captives of thy raid.\n   _Come back to me, Beloved, or I die!_\n\n   My father's wife is old and harsh with years,\n   And drudge of all my father's house am I.--\n   My bread is sorrow and my drink is tears,\n   _Come back to me, Beloved, or I die!_\n\nAs the song stopped, Trejago stepped up under the grating and\nwhispered--\"I am here.\"\n\nBisesa was good to look upon.\n\nThat night was the beginning of many strange things, and of a double life\nso wild that Trejago to-day sometimes wonders if it were not all a dream.\nBisesa, or her old handmaiden who had thrown the object-letter, had\ndetached the heavy grating from the brick-work of the wall; so that the\nwindow slid inside, leaving only a square of raw masonry into which an\nactive man might climb.\n\nIn the daytime, Trejago drove through his routine of office-work, or put\non his calling-clothes and called on the ladies of the Station; wondering\nhow long they would know him if they knew of poor little Bisesa. At night,\nwhen all the City was still, came the walk under the evil-smelling\n_boorka_, the patrol through Jitha Megji's _bustee_, the quick turn into\nAmir Nath's Gully between the sleeping cattle and the dead walls, and\nthen, last of all, Bisesa, and the deep, even breathing of the old woman\nwho slept outside the door of the bare little room that Durga Charan\nallotted to his sister's daughter. Who or what Durga Charan was, Trejago\nnever inquired; and why in the world he was not discovered and knifed\nnever occurred to him till his madness was over, and Bisesa ... But this\ncomes later.\n\nBisesa was an endless delight to Trejago. She was as ignorant as a bird;\nand her distorted versions of the rumors from the outside world that had\nreached her in her room, amused Trejago almost as much as her lisping\nattempts to pronounce his name--\"Christopher.\" The first syllable was\nalways more than she could manage, and she made funny little gestures with\nher roseleaf hands, as one throwing the name away, and then, kneeling\nbefore Trejago, asked him, exactly as an Englishwoman would do, if he were\nsure he loved her. Trejago swore that he loved her more than any one else\nin the world. Which was true.\n\nAfter a month of this folly, the exigencies of his other life compelled\nTrejago to be especially attentive to a lady of his acquaintance. You may\ntake it for a fact that anything of this kind is not only noticed and\ndiscussed by a man's own race but by some hundred and fifty natives as\nwell. Trejago had to walk with this lady and talk to her at the\nBand-stand, and once or twice to drive with her; never for an instant\ndreaming that this would affect his dearer, out-of-the-way life. But the\nnews flew, in the usual mysterious fashion, from mouth to mouth, till\nBisesa's duenna heard of it and told Bisesa. The child was so troubled\nthat she did the household work evilly, and was beaten by Durga Charan's\nwife in consequence.\n\nA week later, Bisesa taxed Trejago with the flirtation. She understood no\ngradations and spoke openly. Trejago laughed and Bisesa stamped her little\nfeet--little feet, light as marigold flowers, that could lie in the palm\nof a man's one hand.\n\nMuch that is written about Oriental passion and impulsiveness is\nexaggerated and compiled at second-hand, but a little of it is true; and\nwhen an Englishman finds that little, it is quite as startling as any\npassion in his own proper life. Bisesa raged and stormed, and finally\nthreatened to kill herself if Trejago did not at once drop the alien\n_Memsahib_ who had come between them. Trejago tried to explain, and to\nshow her that she did not understand these things from a Western\nstandpoint. Bisesa drew herself up, and said simply--\n\n\"I do not. I know only this--it is not good that I should have made you\ndearer than my own heart to me, _Sahib_. You are an Englishman. I am only\na black girl\"--she was fairer than bar-gold in the Mint,--\"and the widow\nof a black man.\"\n\nThen she sobbed and said--\"But on my soul and my Mother's soul, I love\nyou. There shall no harm come to you, whatever happens to me.\"\n\nTrejago argued with the child, and tried to soothe her, but she seemed\nquite unreasonably disturbed. Nothing would satisfy her save that all\nrelations between them should end. He was to go away at once. And he went.\nAs he dropped out of the window, she kissed his forehead twice, and he\nwalked home wondering.\n\nA week, and then three weeks, passed without a sign from Bisesa. Trejago,\nthinking that the rupture had lasted quite long enough, went down to Amir\nNath's Gully for the fifth time in the three weeks, hoping that his rap at\nthe sill of the shifting grating would be answered. He was not\ndisappointed.\n\nThere was a young moon, and one stream of light fell down into Amir Nath's\nGully, and struck the grating which was drawn away as he knocked. From the\nblack dark, Bisesa held out her arms into the moonlight. Both hands had\nbeen cut off at the wrists, and the stumps were nearly healed.\n\nThen, as Bisesa bowed her head between her arms and sobbed, some one in\nthe room grunted like a wild beast, and something sharp--knife, sword, or\nspear,--thrust at Trejago in his _boorka_. The stroke missed his body, but\ncut into one of the muscles of the groin, and he limped slightly from the\nwound for the rest of his days.\n\nThe grating went into its place. There was no sign whatever from inside\nthe house,--nothing but the moonlight strip on the high wall, and the\nblackness of Amir Nath's Gully behind.\n\nThe next thing Trejago remembers, after raging and shouting like a madman\nbetween those pitiless walls, is that he found himself near the river as\nthe dawn was breaking, threw away his _boorka_ and went home bareheaded.\n\n\n       *\n       *\n       *\n       *\n       *\n\nWhat was the tragedy--whether Bisesa had, in a fit of causeless despair,\ntold everything, or the intrigue had been discovered and she tortured to\ntell; whether Durga Charan knew his name and what became of\nBisesa--Trejago does not know to this day. Something horrible had\nhappened, and the thought of what it must have been, comes upon Trejago in\nthe night now and again, and keeps him company till the morning. One\nspecial feature of the case is that he does not know where lies the front\nof Durga Charan's house. It may open on to a courtyard common to two or\nmore houses, or it may lie behind any one of the gates of Jitha Megji's\n_bustee_. Trejago cannot tell. He cannot get Bisesa--poor little\nBisesa--back again. He has lost her in the City where each man's house is\nas guarded and as unknowable as the grave; and the grating that opens into\nAmir Nath's Gully has been walled up.\n\nBut Trejago pays his calls regularly, and is reckoned a very decent sort\nof man.\n\nThere is nothing peculiar about him, except a slight stiffness, caused by\na riding-strain, in the right leg.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GOD FROM THE MACHINE\n\n\nHit a man an' help a woman, an' ye can't be far wrong anyways.--_Maxims of\nPrivate Mulvaney._\n\nThe Inexpressibles gave a ball. They borrowed a seven-pounder from the\nGunners, and wreathed it with laurels, and made the dancing-floor\nplate-glass and provided a supper, the like of which had never been eaten\nbefore, and set two sentries at the door of the room to hold the trays of\nprogramme-cards. My friend, Private Mulvaney, was one of the sentries,\nbecause he was the tallest man in the regiment. When the dance was fairly\nstarted the sentries were released, and Private Mulvaney went to curry\nfavor with the Mess Sergeant in charge of the supper. Whether the Mess\nSergeant gave or Mulvaney took, I cannot say. All that I am certain of is\nthat, at supper-time, I found Mulvaney with Private Ortheris, two-thirds\nof a ham, a loaf of bread, half a _p\u00e2t\u00e9-de-foie-gras_, and two magnums of\nchampagne, sitting on the roof of my carriage. As I came up I heard him\nsaying--\n\n\"Praise be a danst doesn't come as often as Ord'ly-room, or, by this an'\nthat, Orth'ris, me son, I wud be the dishgrace av the rig'mint instid av\nthe brightest jool in uts crown.\"\n\n\"_Hand_ the Colonel's pet noosance,\" said Ortheris, \"But wot makes you\ncurse your rations? This 'ere fizzy stuff's good enough.\"\n\n\"Stuff, ye oncivilized pagin! 'Tis champagne we're dhrinkin' now. 'Tisn't\nthat I am set ag'in. 'Tis this quare stuff wid the little bits av black\nleather in it. I misdoubt I will be distressin'ly sick wid it in the\nmornin'. Fwhat is ut?\"\n\n\"Goose liver,\" I said, climbing on the top of the carriage, for I knew\nthat it was better to sit out with Mulvaney than to dance many dances.\n\n\"Goose liver is ut?\" said Mulvaney. \"Faith, I'm thinkin' thim that makes\nit wud do betther to cut up the Colonel. He carries a power av liver\nundher his right arrum whin the days are warm an' the nights chill. He wud\ngive thim tons an' tons av liver. 'Tis he sez so. 'I'm all liver to-day,'\nsez he; an' wid that he ordhers me ten days C.B. for as moild a dhrink as\niver a good sodger took betune his teeth.\"\n\n\"That was when 'e wanted for to wash 'isself in the Fort Ditch,\" Ortheris\nexplained. \"Said there was too much beer in the Barrack water-butts for a\nGod-fearing man. You was lucky in gettin' orf with wot you did, Mulvaney.\"\n\n\"Say you so? Now I'm pershuaded I was cruel hard trated, seein' fwhat I've\ndone for the likes av him in the days whin my eyes were wider opin than\nthey are now. Man alive, for the Colonel to whip _me_ on the peg in that\nway! Me that have saved the repitation av a ten times better man than him!\nTwas ne-farious--an' that manes a power av evil!\"\n\n\"Never mind the nefariousness,\" I said. \"Whose reputation did you save?\"\n\n\"More's the pity, 'twasn't my own, but I tuk more trouble wid ut than av\nut was. 'Twas just my way, messin' wid fwhat was no business av mine. Hear\nnow!\" He settled himself at ease on the top of the carriage. \"I'll tell\nyou all about ut. Av coorse I will name no names, for there's wan that's\nan orf'cer's lady now, that was in ut, and no more will I name places, for\na man is thracked by a place.\"\n\n\"Eyah!\" said Ortheris, lazily, \"but this is a mixed story wot's comin'.\"\n\n\"Wanst upon a time, as the childer-books say, I was a recruity.\"\n\n\"Was you though?\" said Ortheris; \"now that's extryordinary!\"\n\n\"Orth'ris,\" said Mulvaney, \"av you opin thim lips av yours again, I will,\nsavin' your presince, sorr, take you by the slack av your trousers an'\nheave you.\"\n\n\"I'm mum,\" said Ortheris. \"Wot 'appened when you was a recruity?\"\n\n\"I was a betther recruity than you iver was or will be, but that's neither\nhere nor there. Thin I became a man, an' the divil of a man I was fifteen\nyears ago. They called me Buck Mulvaney in thim days, an', begad, I tuk a\nwoman's eye. I did that! Ortheris, ye scrub, fwhat are ye sniggerin' at?\nDo you misdoubt me?\"\n\n\"Devil a doubt!\" said Ortheris; \"but I've 'eard summat like that before!\"\n\nMulvaney dismissed the impertinence with a lofty wave of his hand and\ncontinued--\n\n\"An' the orf'cers av the rig'mint I was in in thim days _was_\norfcers--gran' men, wid a manner on 'em, an' a way wid 'em such as is not\nmade these days--all but wan--wan o' the capt'ns. A bad dhrill, a wake\nvoice, an' a limp leg--thim three things are the signs av a bad man. You\nbear that in your mind, Orth'ris, me son.\n\n\"An' the Colonel av the rig'mint had a daughter--wan av thim lamblike,\nbleatin', pick-me-up-an'-carry-me-or-I'll-die gurls such as was made for\nthe natural prey av men like the Capt'n, who was iverlastin' payin' coort\nto her, though the Colonel he said time an' over, 'Kape out av the brute's\nway, my dear.' But he niver had the heart for to send her away from the\nthrouble, bein' as he was a widower, an' she their wan child.\"\n\n\"Stop a minute, Mulvaney,\" said I; \"how in the world did you come to know\nthese things?\"\n\n\"How did I come?\" said Mulvaney, with a scornful grunt; \"bekaze I'm turned\ndurin' the Quane's pleasure to a lump av wood, lookin' out straight\nforninst me, wid a--a--candelabbrum in my hand, for you to pick your cards\nout av, must I not see nor feel? Av coorse I du! Up my back, an' in my\nboots, an' in the short hair av the neck--that's where I kape my eyes whim\nI'm on duty an' the reg'lar wans are fixed. Know! Take my word for it,\nsorr, ivrything an' a great dale more is known in a rig'mint; or fwhat wud\nbe the use av a Mess Sargint, or a Sargint's wife doin' wet-nurse to the\nMajor's baby? To reshume. He was a bad dhrill was this Capt'n--a rotten\nbad dhrill--an' whin first I ran me eye over him, I sez to myself: 'My\nMilitia bantam!' I sez, 'My cock av a Gosport dunghill'--'twas from\nPortsmouth he came to us--'there's combs to be cut,' sez I, 'an' by the\ngrace av God, 'tis Terence Mulvaney will cut thim.'\n\n\"So he wint menowderin', and minanderin', an' blandandhering roun' an'\nabout the Colonel's daughter, an' she, poor innocint, lookin' at him like\na Comm'ssariat bullock looks at the Comp'ny cook. He'd a dhirty little\nscrub av a black moustache, an' he twisted an' turned ivry wurrd he used\nas av he found ut too sweet for to spit out.\n\n\"Eyah! He was a tricky man an' a liar by natur'. Some are born so. He was\nwan. I knew he was over his belt in money borrowed from natives; besides a\nlot av other matthers which, in regard for your presince, sorr, I will\noblitherate. A little av fwhat I knew, the Colonel knew, for he wud have\nnone av him, an' that, I'm thinkin', by fwhat happened aftherward, the\nCapt'in knew.\n\n\"Wan day, bein' mortial idle, or they wud never ha' thried ut, the\nrig'mint gave amsure theatricals--orf'cers an' orfcers' ladies. You've\nseen the likes time an' again, sorr, an' poor fun 'tis for them that sit\nin the back row an' stamp wid their boots for the honor av the rig'mint. I\nwas told off for to shif' the scenes, haulin' up this an' draggin' down\nthat. Light work ut was, wid lashins av beer and the gurl that dhressed\nthe orf'cers' ladies--but she died in Aggra twelve years gone, an' my\ntongue's gettin' the betther av me. They was actin' a play thing called\n_Sweethearts_, which you may ha' heard av, an' the Colonel's daughter she\nwas a lady's maid. The Capt'n was a boy called Broom--Spread Broom was his\nname in the play. Thin I saw--ut come out in the actin'--fwhat I niver saw\nbefore, an' that was that he was no gentleman. They was too much together,\nthim two, a-whishperin' behind the scenes I shifted, an' some av what they\nsaid I heard; for I was death--blue death an' ivy--on the comb-cuttin'. He\nwas iverlastin'ly oppressing her to fall in wid some sneakin' schame av\nhis, an' she was thryin' to stand out against him, but not as though she\nwas set in her will. I wonder now in thim days that my ears did not grow a\nyard on me head wid list'nin'. But I looked straight forninst me an'\nhauled up this an' dragged down that, such as was my duty, an' the\norf'cers' ladies sez one to another, thinkin' I was out av listen-reach:\n'Fwhat an obligin' young man is this Corp'ril Mulvaney!' I was a Corp'ril\nthen. I was rejuced aftherward, but, no matther, I was a Corp'ril wanst.\n\n\"Well, this _Sweethearts'_ business wint on like most amshure theatricals,\nan' barrin' fwhat I suspicioned, 'twasn't till the dhress-rehearsal that I\nsaw for certain that thim two--he the blackguard, an' she no wiser than\nshe should ha' been--had put up an evasion.\"\n\n\"A what?\" said I.\n\n\"E-vasion! Fwhat you call an elopemint. E-vasion I calls it, bekaze,\nexceptin' whin 'tis right an' natural an' proper, 'tis wrong an' dhirty to\nsteal a man's wan child, she not knowin' her own mind. There was a Sargint\nin the Comm'ssariat who set my face upon e-vasions. I'll tell you about\nthat\"--\n\n\"Stick to the bloomin' Captains, Mulvaney,\" said Ortheris; \"Comm'ssariat\nSargints is low.\"\n\nMulvaney accepted the amendment and went on:--\n\n\"Now I knew that the Colonel was no fool, any more than me, for I was hild\nthe smartest man in the rig'mint, an' the Colonel was the best orf'cer\ncommandin' in Asia; so fwhat he said an' _I_ said was a mortial truth. We\nknew that the Capt'n was bad, but, for reasons which I have already\noblitherated, I knew more than me Colonel. I wud ha' rolled out his face\nwid the butt av my gun before permittin' av him to steal the gurl. Saints\nknew av he wud ha' married her, and av he didn't she wud be in great\ntormint, an' the divil av a 'scandal.' But I niver sthruck, niver raised\nme hand on my shuperior orf'cer; an' that was a merricle now I come to\nconsidher it.\"\n\n\"Mulvaney, the dawn's risin',\" said Ortheris, \"an' we're no nearer 'ome\nthan we was at the beginnin'. Lend me your pouch. Mine's all dust.\"\n\nMulvaney pitched his pouch over, and filled his pipe afresh.\n\n\"So the dhress-rehearsal came to an end, an', bekaze I was curious, I\nstayed behind whin the scene-shiftin' was ended, an' I shud ha' been in\nbarricks, lyin' as flat as a toad under a painted cottage thing. They was\ntalkin' in whispers, an' she was shiverin' an' gaspin' like a fresh-hukked\nfish. 'Are you sure you've got the hang av the manewvers?' sez he, or\nwurrds to that effec', as the coort-martial sez. 'Sure as death,' sez she,\n'but I misdoubt 'tis cruel hard on my father.' 'Damn your father,' sez he,\nor anyways 'twas fwhat he thought, 'the arrangement is as clear as mud.\nJungi will drive the carri'ge afther all's over, an' you come to the\nstation, cool an' aisy, in time for the two o'clock thrain, where I'll be\nwid your kit.' 'Faith,' thinks I to myself, 'thin there's a ayah in the\nbusiness tu!'\n\n\"A powerful bad thing is a ayah. Don't you niver have any thruck wid wan.\nThin he began sootherin' her, an' all the orfcers an' orfcers' ladies\nleft, an' they put out the lights. To explain the theory av the flight, as\nthey say at Muskthry, you must understand that afther this _Sweethearts'_\nnonsinse was ended, there was another little bit av a play called\n_Couples_--some kind av couple or another. The gurl was actin' in this,\nbut not the man. I suspicioned he'd go to the station wid the gurl's kit\nat the end av the first piece. Twas the kit that flusthered me, for I knew\nfor a Capt'n to go trapesing about the impire wid the Lord knew what av a\n_truso_ on his arrum was nefarious, an' wud be worse than easin' the flag,\nso far as the talk aftherward wint.\"\n\n'\"Old on, Mulvaney. Wot's _truso_?\" said Ortheris.\n\n\"You're an oncivilized man, me son. Whin a gurl's married, all her kit an'\n'coutrements are _truso_, which manes weddin'-portion. An' 'tis the same\nwhin she's runnin' away, even wid the biggest blackguard on the Arrmy\nList.\n\n\"So I made my plan av campaign. The Colonel's house was a good two miles\naway. 'Dennis,' sez I to my color-sargint, 'av you love me lend me your\nkyart, for me heart is bruk an' me feet is sore wid trampin' to and from\nthis foolishness at the Gaff.' An' Dennis lent ut, wid a rampin', stampin'\nred stallion in the shafts. Whin they was all settled down to their\n_Sweethearts_ for the first scene, which was a long wan, I slips outside\nand into the kyart. Mother av Hivin! but I made that horse walk, an' we\ncame into the Colonel's compound as the divil wint through Athlone--in\nstandin' leps. There was no one there excipt the sarvints, an' I wint\nround to the back an' found the girl's ayah.\n\n\"'Ye black brazen Jezebel,' sez I, 'sellin' your masther's honor for five\nrupees--pack up all the Miss Sahib's kit an' look slippy! _Capt'n Sahib's_\norder,' sez I, 'Going to the station we are,' I sez, an' wid that I laid\nmy finger to my nose an' looked the schamin' sinner I was.\n\n\"'_Bote acchy_,' says she; so I knew she was in the business, an' I piled\nup all the sweet talk I'd iver learned in the bazars on to this\nshe-bullock, an' prayed av her to put all the quick she knew into the\nthing. While she packed, I stud outside an' sweated, for I was wanted for\nto shif' the second scene. I tell you, a young gurl's e-vasion manes as\nmuch baggage as a rig'mint on the line av march! 'Saints help Dennis's\nsprings,' thinks I, as I bundled the stuff into the thrap, 'for I'll have\nno mercy!'\n\n\"'I'm comin' too,' says the ayah.\n\n\"'No, you don't,' sez I, 'later--_pechy_! You _baito_ where you are. I'll\n_pechy_ come an' bring you _sart_, along with me, you maraudin''--niver\nmind fwhat I called her.\n\n\"Thin I wint for the Gaff, an' by the special ordher av Providence, for I\nwas doin' a good work you will ondersthand, Dennis's springs hild toight.\n'Now, whin the Capt'n goes for that kit,' thinks I, 'he'll be throubled.'\nAt the end av _Sweethearts_ off the Capt'n runs in his kyart to the\nColonel's house, an' I sits down on the steps and laughs. Wanst an' again\nI slipped in to see how the little piece was goin', an' whin ut was near\nendin' I stepped out all among the carriages an' sings out very softly,\n'Jungi!' Wid that a carr'ge began to move, an' I waved to the dhriver.\n'_Hitherao!_' sez I, an' he _hitheraoed_ till I judged he was at proper\ndistance, an' thin I tuk him, fair an' square betune the eyes, all I knew\nfor good or bad, an' he dhropped wid a guggle like the canteen beer-engine\nwhin ut's runnin' low, Thin I ran to the kyart an' tuk out all the kit an'\npiled it into the carr'ge, the sweat runnin' down my face in dhrops, 'Go\nhome,' sez I, to the _sais;_ 'you'll find a man close here. Very sick he\nis. Take him away, an' av you iver say wan wurrd about fwhat you've\n_dekkoed_, I'll _marrow_ you till your own wife won't _sumjao_ who you\nare!' Thin I heard the stampin' av feet at the ind av the play, an' I ran\nin to let down the curtain. Whin they all came out the gurl thried to hide\nherself behind wan av the pillars, an' sez 'Jungi' in a voice that\nwouldn't ha' scared a hare. I run over to Jungi's carr'ge an' tuk up the\nlousy old horse-blanket on the box, wrapped my head an' the rest av me in\nut, an' dhrove up to where she was.\n\n\"'Miss Sahib,' sez I; 'going to the station? _Captain Sahib's_ order!' an'\nwidout a sign she jumped in all among her own kit.\n\n\"I laid to an' dhruv like steam to the Colonel's house before the Colonel\nwas there, an' she screamed an' I thought she was goin' off. Out comes the\nayah, saying all sorts av things about the Capt'n havin' come for the kit\nan' gone to the station.\n\n\"'Take out the luggage, you divil,' sez I, 'or I'll murther you!'\n\n\"The lights av the thraps people comin' from the Gaff was showin' across\nthe parade ground, an', by this an' that, the way thim two women worked at\nthe bundles an' thrunks was a caution! I was dyin' to help, but, seein' I\ndidn't want to be known, I sat wid the blanket roun' me an' coughed an'\nthanked the Saints there was no moon that night.\n\n\"Whin all was in the house again, I niver asked for _bukshish_ but dhruv\ntremenjus in the opp'site way from the other carr'ge an' put out my\nlights. Presintly, I saw a naygur-man wallowin' in the road. I slipped\ndown before I got to him, for I suspicioned Providence was wid me all\nthrough that night. 'Twas Jungi, his nose smashed in flat, all dumb sick\nas you please. Dennis's man must have tilted him out av the thrap. Whin he\ncame to, 'Hutt!' sez I, but he began to howl.\n\n\"'You black lump av dirt,' I sez, 'is this the way you dhrive your\n_gharri_? That _tikka_ has been _owin'_ an' _fere-owin'_ all over the\nbloomin' country this whole bloomin' night, an' you as _mut-walla_ as\nDavey's sow. Get up, you hog!' sez I, louder, for I heard the wheels av a\nthrap in the dark; 'get up an' light your lamps, or you'll be run into!'\nThis was on the road to the Railway Station.\n\n\"'Fwhat the divil's this?' sez the Capt'n's voice in the dhark, an' I\ncould judge he was in a lather av rage.\n\n\"'_Gharri_ dhriver here, dhrunk, sorr,' sez I; 'I've found his _gharri_\nsthrayin' about cantonmints, an' now I've found him.'\n\n\"'Oh!' sez the Capt'n; 'fwhat's his name?' I stooped down an' pretended to\nlisten.\n\n\"'He sez his name's Jungi, sorr,' sez I.\n\n\"'Hould my harse,' sez the Capt'n to his man, an' wid that he gets down\nwid the whip an' lays into Jungi, just mad wid rage an' swearin' like the\nscutt he was.\n\n\"I thought, afther a while, he wud kill the man, so I sez:--'Stop, sorr,\nor you'll murdher him!' That dhrew all his fire on me, an' he cursed me\ninto Blazes, an' out again. I stud to attenshin an' saluted:--'Sorr,' sez\nI, 'av ivry man in this wurruld had his rights, I'm thinkin' that more\nthan wan wud be beaten to a jelly for this night's work--that niver came\noff at all, sorr, as you see?' 'Now,' thinks I to myself, 'Terence\nMulvaney, you've cut your own throat, for he'll sthrike, an' you'll knock\nhim down for the good av his sowl an' your own iverlastin' dishgrace!'\n\n\"But the Capt'n never said a single wurrd. He choked where he stud, an'\nthin he went into his thrap widout sayin' good-night, an' I wint back to\nbarricks.\"\n\n\"And then?\" said Ortheris and I together.\n\n\"That was all,\" said Mulvaney, \"niver another word did I hear av the whole\nthing. All I know was that there was no e-vasion, an' that was fwhat I\nwanted. Now, I put ut to you, sorr, Is ten days' C.B. a fit an' a proper\ntratement for a man who has behaved as me?\"\n\n\"Well, any'ow,\" said Ortheris, \"tweren't this 'ere Colonel's daughter, an'\nyou _was_ blazin' copped when you tried to wash in the Fort Ditch.\"\n\n\"That,\" said Mulvaney, finishing the champagne, \"is a shuparfluous an'\nimpert'nint observation.\"\n\n\n\nTHE DAUGHTER OF THE REGIMENT\n\n   Jain 'Ardin' was a Sarjint's wife,\n     A Sarjint's wife wus she,\n   She married of 'im in Orldershort\n     An' comed across the sea.\n         (_Chorus_)\n   'Ave you never 'eard tell o' Jain 'Ardin'?\n                                Jain 'Ardin'?\n                                Jain 'Ardin'?\n   'Ave you never 'eard tell o' Jain 'Ardin'?\n     The pride o' the Companee?\n\n_Old Barrack Room Ballad._\n\n\"A gentleman who doesn't know the Circasian Circle ought not to stand up\nfor it--puttin' everybody out.\" That was what Miss McKenna said, and the\nSergeant who was my _vis-\u00e0-vis_ looked the same thing. I was afraid of\nMiss McKenna. She was six feet high, all yellow freckles and red hair, and\nwas simply clad in white satin shoes, a pink muslin dress, an apple-green\nstuff sash, and black silk gloves, with yellow roses in her hair.\nWherefore I fled from Miss McKenna and sought my friend Private Mulvaney,\nwho was at the cant--refreshment-table.\n\n\"So you've been dancin' with little Jhansi McKenna, sorr--she that's goin'\nto marry Corp'ril Slane? Whin you next conversh wid your lorruds an' your\nladies, tell thim you've danced wid little Jhansi. 'Tis a thing to be\nproud av.\"\n\nBut I wasn't proud. I was humble. I saw a story in Private Mulvaney's eye;\nand besides, if he stayed too long at the bar, he would, I knew, qualify\nfor more pack-drill. Now to meet an esteemed friend doing pack-drill\noutside the guardroom is embarrassing, especially if you happen to be\nwalking with his Commanding Officer.\n\n\"Come on to the parade-ground, Mulvaney, it's cooler there, and tell me\nabout Miss McKenna. What is she, and who is she, and why is she called\n'Jhansi'?\"\n\n\"D'ye mane to say you've niver heard av Ould Pummeloe's daughter? An' you\nthinkin' you know things! I'm wid ye in a minut whin me poipe's lit.\"\n\nWe came out under the stars. Mulvaney sat down on one of the artillery\nbridges, and began in the usual way: his pipe between his teeth, his big\nhands clasped and dropped between his knees, and his cap well on the back\nof his head--\n\n\"Whin Mrs. Mulvaney, that is, was Miss Shadd that was, you were a dale\nyounger than you are now, an' the Army was dif'rint in sev'ril e-senshuls.\nBhoys have no call for to marry nowadays, an' that's why the Army has so\nfew rale good, honust, swearin', strapagin', tinder-hearted, heavy-futted\nwives as ut used to have whin I was a Corp'ril. I was rejuced\naftherward--but no matther--I was a Corp'ril wanst. In thim times, a man\nlived _an'_ died wid his regiment; an' by natur', he married whin he was a\n_man_. Whin I was Corp'ril--Mother av Hivin, how the rigimint has died an'\nbeen borrun since that day!--my Color-Sar'jint was Ould McKenna--an' a\nmarried man tu. An' his woife--his first woife, for he married three times\ndid McKenna--was Bridget McKenna, from Portarlington, like mesilf. I've\nmisremembered fwhat her first name was; but in B Comp'ny we called her\n'Ould Pummeloe,' by reason av her figure, which was entirely\ncir-cum-fe-renshill. Like the big dhrum! Now that woman--God rock her sowl\nto rest in glory!--was for everlastin' havin' childher; an' McKenna, whin\nthe fifth or sixth come squallin' on to the musther-roll, swore he wud\nnumber thim off in future. But Ould Pummeloe she prayed av him to christen\nthem after the names av the stations they was borrun in. So there was\nColaba McKenna, an' Muttra McKenna, an' a whole Presidincy av other\nMcKennas, an' little Jhansi, dancin' over yonder. Whin the childher wasn't\nbornin', they was dying; for, av our childher die like sheep in these\ndays, they died like flies thin, I lost me own little Shadd--but no\nmatther. 'Tis long ago, and Mrs. Mulvaney niver had another.\n\n\"I'm digresshin. Wan divil's hot summer, there come an order from some mad\nijjit, whose name I misremember, for the rigimint to go up-country. Maybe\nthey wanted to know how the new rail carried throops. They knew! On me\nsowl, they knew before they was done! Old Pummeloe had just buried Muttra\nMcKenna; an', the season bein' onwholesim, only little Jhansi McKenna, who\nwas four year ould thin, was left on hand.\n\n\"Five children gone in fourteen months. 'Twas harrd, wasn't ut?\n\n\"So we wint up to our new station in that blazin' heat--may the curse av\nSaint Lawrence conshume the man who gave the ordher! Will I iver forget\nthat move? They gave us two wake thrains to the rigimint; an' we was eight\nhundher' and sivinty strong. There was A, B, C, an' D Companies in the\nsecon' thrain, wid twelve women, no orficers' ladies, an' thirteen\nchildher. We was to go six hundher' miles, an' railways was new in thim\ndays. Whin we had been a night in the belly av the thrain--the men ragin'\nin their shirts an' dhrinkin' anything they cud find, an' eatin' bad\nfruit-stuff whin they cud, for we cudn't stop 'em--I was a Corp'ril\nthin--the cholera bruk out wid the dawnin' av the day.\n\n\"Pray to the Saints, you may niver see cholera in a throop-thrain! 'Tis\nlike the judgmint av God hittin' down from the nakid sky! We run into a\nrest-camp--as ut might have been Ludianny, but not by any means so\ncomfortable. The Orficer Commandin' sent a telegrapt up the line, three\nhundher' mile up, askin' for help. Faith, we wanted ut, for ivry sowl av\nthe followers ran for the dear life as soon as the thrain stopped; an' by\nthe time that telegrapt was writ, there wasn't a naygur in the station\nexceptin' the telegrapt-clerk--an' he only bekaze he was held down to his\nchair by the scruff av his sneakin' black neck. Thin the day began wid the\nnoise in the carr'ges, an' the rattle av the men on the platform fallin'\nover, arms an' all, as they stud for to answer the Comp'ny muster-roll\nbefore goin' over to the camp. 'Tisn't for me to say what like the cholera\nwas like. Maybe the Doctor cud ha' tould, av he hadn't dropped on to the\nplatform from the door av a carriage where we was takin' out the dead. He\ndied wid the rest. Some bhoys had died in the night. We tuk out siven, and\ntwenty more was sickenin' as we tuk thim. The women was huddled up\nanyways, screamin' wid fear.\n\n\"Sez the Commandin' Orficer whose name I misremember, 'Take the women over\nto that tope av trees yonder. Get thim out av the camp. 'Tis no place for\nthim.'\n\n\"Ould Pummeloe was sittin' on her beddin'-rowl, thryin' to kape little\nJhansi quiet. 'Go off to that tope!' sez the Orficer. 'Go out av the men's\nway!'\n\n\"'Be damned av I do!' sez Ould Pummeloe, an' little Jhansi, squattin' by\nher mother's side, squeaks out, 'Be damned av I do,' tu. Thin Ould\nPummeloe turns to the women an' she sez, 'Are ye goin' to let the bhoys\ndie while you're picnickin', ye sluts?' sez she. 'Tis wather they want.\nCome on an' help.'\n\n\"Wid that, she turns up her sleeves an' steps out for a well behind the\nrest-camp--little Jhansi trottin' behind wid a _lotah_ an' string, an' the\nother women followin' like lambs, wid horse-buckets and cookin' pots. Whin\nall the things was full, Ould Pummeloe marches back into camp--'twas like\na battlefield wid all the glory missin'--at the hid av the rigimint av\nwomen.\n\n\"'McKenna, me man!' she sez, wid a voice on her like grand-roun's\nchallenge, 'tell the bhoys to be quiet. Ould Pummeloe's comin' to look\nafther thim--wid free dhrinks.'\n\n\"Thin we cheered, an' the cheerin' in the lines was louder than the noise\nav the poor divils wid the sickness on thim. But not much.\n\n\"You see, we was a new an' raw rigimint in those days, an' we cud make\nneither head nor tail av the sickness; an' so we was useless. The men was\ngoin' roun' an' about like dumb sheep, waitin' for the nex' man to fall\nover, an' sayin' undher their spache, 'Fwhat is ut? In the name av God,\n_fwhat_ is ut?' 'Twas horrible. But through ut all, up an' down, an' down\nan' up, wint Ould Pummeloe an' little Jhansi--all we cud see av the baby,\nundher a dead man's helmut wid the chin-strap swingin' about her little\nstummick--up an' down wid the wather an' fwhat brandy there was.\n\n\"Now an' thin Ould Pummeloe, the tears runnin' down her fat, red face,\nsez, 'Me bhoys, me poor, dead, darlin' bhoys!' But, for the most, she was\nthryin' to put heart into the men an' kape thim stiddy; and little Jhansi\nwas tellin' thim all they wud be 'betther in the mornin'.' 'Twas a thrick\nshe'd picked up from hearin' Ould Pummeloe whin Muttra was burnin' out wid\nfever. In the mornin'! 'Twas the iverlastin' mornin' at St. Pether's Gate\nwas the mornin' for seven-an'-twenty good men; and twenty more was sick to\nthe death in that bitter, burnin' sun. But the women worked like angils as\nI've said, an' the men like divils, till two doctors come down from above,\nand we was rescued.\n\n\"But, just before that, Ould Pummeloe, on her knees over a bhoy in my\nsquad--right-cot man to me he was in the barrick--tellin' him the worrud\nav the Church that niver failed a man yet, sez, 'Hould me up, bhoys! I'm\nfeelin' bloody sick!' 'Twas the sun, not the cholera, did ut. She\nmis-remembered she was only wearin' her ould black bonnet, an' she died\nwid 'McKenna, me man,' houldin' her up, an' the bhoys howled whin they\nburied her.\n\n\"That night, a big wind blew, an' blew, an' blew, an' blew the tents flat.\nBut it blew the cholera away an' niver another case there was all the\nwhile we was waitin'--ten days in quarintin'. Av you will belave me, the\nthrack av the sickness in the camp was for all the wurruld the thrack av a\nman walkin' four times in a figur-av-eight through the tents. They say\n'tis the Wandherin' Jew takes the cholera wid him. I believe ut.\n\n\"An' _that_,\" said Mulvaney, illogically, \"is the cause why little Jhansi\nMcKenna is fwhat she is. She was brought up by the Quartermaster\nSergeant's wife whin McKenna died, but she b'longs to B Comp'ny; and this\ntale I'm tellin' you-_wid_ a proper appreciashin av Jhansi McKenna--I've\nbelted into ivry recruity av the Comp'ny as he was drafted. 'Faith, 'twas\nme belted Corp'ril Slane into askin' the girl!\"\n\n\"Not really?\"\n\n\"Man, I did! She's no beauty to look at, but she's Ould Pummeloe's\ndaughter, an' 'tis my juty to provide for her. Just before Slane got his\npromotion I sez to him, 'Slane,' sez I, 'to-morrow 'twill be\ninsubordinashin av me to chastise you; but, by the sowl av Ould Pummeloe,\nwho is now in glory, av you don't give me your wurrud to ask Jhansi\nMcKenna at wanst, I'll peel the flesh off yer bones wid a brass huk\nto-night, 'Tis a dishgrace to B Comp'ny she's been single so long!' sez I.\nWas I goin' to let a three-year-ould preshume to discoorse wid me--my will\nbein' set? No! Slane wint an' asked her. He's a good bhoy is Slane. Wan av\nthese days he'll get into the Com'ssariat an' dhrive a buggy wid\nhis--savin's. So I provided for Ould Pummeloe's daughter; an' now you go\nalong an' dance agin wid her.\"\n\nAnd I did.\n\nI felt a respect for Miss Jhansi McKenna; and I went to her wedding later\non.\n\nPerhaps I will tell you about that one of these days.\n\n\n\nTHE MADNESS OF PRIVATE ORTHERIS\n\n   Oh! Where would I be when my froat was dry?\n   Oh! Where would I be when the bullets fly?\n   Oh! Where would I be when I come to die?\n\n     Why,\n\n   Somewheres anigh my chum.\n       If 'e's liquor 'e'll give me some,\n       If I'm dyin' 'e'll 'old my 'ead,\n       An' 'e'll write 'em 'Ome when I'm dead.--\n       Gawd send us a trusty chum!\n_Barrack Room Ballad._\n\nMy friends Mulvaney and Ortheris had gone on a shooting-expedition for one\nday. Learoyd was still in hospital, recovering from fever picked up in\nBurma. They sent me an invitation to join them, and were genuinely pained\nwhen I brought beer--almost enough beer to satisfy two Privates of the\nLine  ... and Me.\n\n\"'Twasn't for that we bid you welkim, sorr,\" said Mulvaney, sulkily. \"Twas\nfor the pleasure av your comp'ny.\"\n\nOrtheris came to the rescue with--\"Well, 'e won't be none the worse for\nbringin' liquor with 'im. We ain't a file o' Dooks. We're bloomin'\nTommies, ye cantankris Hirishman; an' 'eres your very good 'ealth!\"\n\nWe shot all the forenoon, and killed two pariah-dogs, four green parrots,\nsitting, one kite by the burning-ghaut, one snake flying, one mud-turtle,\nand eight crows. Game was plentiful. Then we sat down to\ntiffin--\"bull-mate an' bran-bread,\" Mulvaney called it--by the side of the\nriver, and took pot shots at the crocodiles in the intervals of cutting up\nthe food with our only pocket-knife. Then we drank up all the beer, and\nthrew the bottles into the water and fired at them. After that, we eased\nbelts and stretched ourselves on the warm sand and smoked. We were too\nlazy to continue shooting.\n\nOrtheris heaved a big sigh, as he lay on his stomach with his head between\nhis fists. Then he swore quietly into the blue sky.\n\n\"Fwhat's that for?\" said Mulvaney, \"Have ye not drunk enough?\"\n\n\"Tott'nim Court Road, an' a gal I fancied there. Wot's the good of\nsodgerin'?\"\n\n\"Orth'ris, me son,\" said Mulvaney, hastily, \"'tis more than likely you've\ngot throuble in your inside wid the beer. I feel that way mesilf whin my\nliver gets rusty.\"\n\nOrtheris went on slowly, not heeding the interruption--\n\n\"I'm a Tommy--a bloomin', eight-anna, dog-stealin' Tommy, with a number\ninstead of a decent name. Wot's the good o' me? If I 'ad a stayed at 'Ome,\nI might a married that gal and a kep' a little shorp in the 'Ammersmith\n'Igh.--'S. Orth'ris, Prac-ti-cal Taxi-der-mist.' With a stuff' fox, like\nthey 'as in the Haylesbury Dairies, in the winder, an' a little case of\nblue and yaller glass-heyes, an' a little wife to call 'shorp!' 'shorp!'\nwhen the door-bell rung. As it _his_, I'm on'y a Tommy--a Bloomin',\nGawd-forsaken, Beer-swillin' Tommy. 'Rest on your harms--_'versed_, Stan'\nat--_hease; 'Shun_. 'Verse--_harms_. Right an' lef--_tarrn_.\nSlow--_march_. 'Alt--_front_. Rest on your harms--_'versed_. With\nblank-cartridge--_load_.' An' that's the end o' me.\" He was quoting\nfragments from Funeral Parties' Orders.\n\n\"Stop ut!\" shouted Mulvaney. \"Whin you've fired into nothin' as often as\nme, over a better man than yoursilf, you will not make a mock av thim\norders. 'Tis worse than whistlin' the _Dead March_ in barricks. An' you\nfull as a tick, an' the sun cool, an' all an' all! I take shame for you.\nYou're no better than a Pagin--you an' your firin'-parties an' your\nglass-eyes. Won't _you_ stop ut, sorr?\"\n\nWhat could I do? Could I tell Ortheris anything that he did not know of\nthe pleasures of his life? I was not a Chaplain nor a Subaltern, and\nOrtheris had a right to speak as he thought fit.\n\n\"Let him run, Mulvaney,\" I said. \"It's the beer.\"\n\n\"'No! 'Tisn't the beer,\" said Mulvaney. \"I know fwhat's comin'. He's tuk\nthis way now an' agin, an' it's bad--it's bad--for I'm fond av the bhoy.\"\n\nIndeed, Mulvaney seemed needlessly anxious; but I knew that he looked\nafter Ortheris in a fatherly way.\n\n\"Let me talk, let me talk,\" said Ortheris, dreamily. \"D'you stop your\nparrit screamin' of a 'ot day, when the cage is a-cookin' 'is pore little\npink toes orf, Mulvaney?\"\n\n\"Pink toes! D'ye mane to say you've pink toes undher your bullswools, ye\nblandanderin',\"--Mulvaney gathered himself together for a terrific\ndenunciation--\"school-misthress! Pink toes! How much Bass wid the label\ndid that ravin' child dhrink?\"\n\n\"'Tain't Bass,\" said Ortheris, \"It's a bitterer beer nor that. It's\n'omesickness!\"\n\n\"Hark to him! An' he goin' Home in the _Sherapis_ in the inside av four\nmonths!\"\n\n\"I don't care. It's all one to me. 'Ow d'you know I ain't 'fraid o' dyin'\n'fore I gets my discharge paipers?\" He recommenced, in a sing-song voice,\nthe Orders.\n\nI had never seen this side of Ortheris' character before, but evidently\nMulvaney had, and attached serious importance to it. While Ortheris\nbabbled, with his head on his arms, Mulvaney whispered to me--\n\n\"He's always tuk this way whin he's been checked overmuch by the childher\nthey make Sarjints nowadays. That an' havin' nothin' to do. I can't make\nut out anyways.\"\n\n\"Well, what does it matter? Let him talk himself through.\"\n\nOrtheris began singing a parody of \"The Ramrod Corps,\" full of cheerful\nallusions to battle, murder, and sudden death. He looked out across the\nriver as he sang; and his face was quite strange to me. Mulvaney caught me\nby the elbow to ensure attention.\n\n\"Matther? It matthers everything! 'Tis some sort av fit that's on him.\nI've seen ut. 'Twill hould him all this night, an' in the middle av it\nhe'll get out av his cot an' go rakin' in the rack for his 'coutremints.\nThin he'll come over to me an' say, 'I'm goin' to Bombay. Answer for me in\nthe mornin'.' Thin me an' him will fight as we've done before--him to go\nan' me to hould him--an' so we'll both come on the books for disturbin' in\nbarricks. I've belted him, an' I've bruk his head, an' I've talked to him,\nbut 'tis no manner av use whin the fit's on him. He's as good a bhoy as\never stepped whin his mind's clear. I know fwhat's comin', though, this\nnight in barricks. Lord send he doesn't loose on me whin I rise to knock\nhim down. 'Tis that that's in my mind day an' night.\"\n\nThis put the case in a much less pleasant light, and fully accounted for\nMulvaney's anxiety. He seemed to be trying to coax Ortheris out of the\nfit; for he shouted down the bank where the boy was lying--\n\n\"Listen now, you wid the 'pore pink toes' an' the glass eyes! Did you\nshwim the Irriwaddy at night, behin' me, as a bhoy shud; or were you\nhidin' under a bed, as you was at Ahmid Kheyl?\"\n\nThis was at once a gross insult and a direct lie, and Mulvaney meant it to\nbring on a fight. But Ortheris seemed shut up in some sort of trance. He\nanswered slowly, without a sign of irritation, in the same cadenced voice\nas he had used for his firing-party orders--\n\n\"_Hi_ swum the Irriwaddy in the night, as you know, for to take the town\nof Lungtungpen, nakid an' without fear. _Hand_ where I was at Ahmed Kheyl\nyou know, and four bloomin' Pathans know too. But that was summat to do,\nan' didn't think o' dyin'. Now I'm sick to go 'Ome--go 'Ome--go 'Ome! No,\nI ain't mammy-sick, because my uncle brung me up, but I'm sick for London\nagain; sick for the sounds of 'er, an' the sights of 'er, and the stinks\nof 'er; orange peel and hasphalte an' gas comin' in over Vaux'all Bridge.\nSick for the rail goin' down to Box'Ill, with your gal on your knee an' a\nnew clay pipe in your face. That, an' the Stran' lights where you knows\nev'ry one, an' the Copper that takes you up is a old friend that tuk you\nup before, when you was a little, smitchy boy lying loose 'tween the\nTemple an' the Dark Harches. No bloomin' guard-mountin', no bloomin'\nrotten-stone, nor khaki, an' yourself your own master with a gal to take\nan' see the Humaners practicin' a-hookin' dead corpses out of the\nSerpentine o' Sundays. An' I lef' all that for to serve the Widder beyond\nthe seas, where there ain't no women and there ain't no liquor worth\n'avin', and there ain't nothin' to see, nor do, nor say, nor feel, nor\nthink. Lord love you, Stanley Orth'ris, but you're a bigger bloomin' fool\nthan the rest o' the reg'ment and Mulvaney wired together! There's the\nWidder sittin' at 'Ome with a gold crownd on 'er 'ead; and 'ere am Hi,\nStanley Orth'ris, the Widder's property, a rottin' FOOL!\"\n\nHis voice rose at the end of the sentence, and he wound up with a six-shot\nAnglo-Vernacular oath. Mulvaney said nothing, but looked at me as if he\nexpected that I could bring peace to poor Ortheris' troubled brain.\n\nI remembered once at Rawal Pindi having seen a man, nearly mad with drink,\nsobered by being made a fool of. Some regiments may know what I mean. I\nhoped that we might slake off Ortheris in the same way, though he was\nperfectly sober. So I said--\n\n\"What's the use of grousing there, and speaking against The Widow?\"\n\n\"I didn't!\" said Ortheris, \"S'elp me, Gawd, I never said a word agin 'er,\nan' I wouldn't--not if I was to desert this minute!\"\n\nHere was my opening. \"Well, you meant to, anyhow. What's the use of\ncracking-on for nothing? Would you slip it now if you got the chance?\"\n\n\"On'y try me!\" said Ortheris, jumping to his feet as if he had been stung.\n\nMulvaney jumped too. \"Fwhat are you going to do?\" said he.\n\n\"Help Ortheris down to Bombay or Karachi, whichever he likes. You can\nreport that he separated from you before tiffin, and left his gun on the\nbank here!\"\n\n\"I'm to report that--am I?\" said Mulvaney, slowly. \"Very well. If Orth'ris\nmanes to desert now, and will desert now, an' you, sorr, who have been a\nfrind to me an' to him, will help him to ut, I, Terence Mulvaney, on my\noath which I've never bruk yet, will report as you say, But\"--here he\nstepped up to Ortheris, and shook the stock of the fowling-piece in his\nface--\"your fists help you, Stanley Orth'ris, if ever I come across you\nagin!\"\n\n\"I don't care!\" said Ortheris. \"I'm sick o' this dorg's life. Give me a\nchanst. Don't play with me. Le' me go!\"\n\n\"Strip,\" said I, \"and change with me, and then I'll tell you what to do.\"\n\nI hoped that the absurdity of this would check Ortheris; but he had kicked\noff his ammunition-boots and got rid of his tunic almost before I had\nloosed my shirt-collar. Mulvaney gripped me by the arm--\n\n\"The fit's on him: the fit's workin' on him still! By my Honor and Sowl,\nwe shall be accessiry to a desartion yet. Only, twenty-eight days, as you\nsay, sorr, or fifty-six, but think o' the shame--the black shame to him\nan' me!\" I had never seen Mulvaney so excited.\n\nBut Ortheris was quite calm, and, as soon as he had exchanged clothes with\nme, and I stood up a Private of the Line, he said shortly, \"Now! Come on.\nWhat nex'? D'ye mean fair. What must I do to get out o' this 'ere a-Hell?\"\n\nI told him that, if he would wait for two or three hours near the river, I\nwould ride into the Station and come back with one hundred rupees. He\nwould, with that money in his pocket, walk to the nearest side-station on\nthe line, about five miles away, and would there take a first-class ticket\nfor Karachi. Knowing that he had no money on him when he went out\nshooting, his regiment would not immediately wire to the seaports, but\nwould hunt for him in the native villages near the river. Further, no one\nwould think of seeking a deserter in a first-class carriage. At Karachi,\nhe was to buy white clothes and ship, if he could, on a cargo-steamer.\n\nHere he broke in. If I helped him to Karachi, he would arrange all the\nrest. Then I ordered him to wait where he was until it was dark enough for\nme to ride into the station without my dress being noticed. Now God in His\nwisdom has made the heart of the British Soldier, who is very often an\nunlicked ruffian, as soft as the heart of a little child, in order that he\nmay believe in and follow his officers into tight and nasty places. He\ndoes not so readily come to believe in a \"civilian,\" but, when he does, he\nbelieves implicitly and like a dog. I had had the honor of the friendship\nof Private Ortheris, at intervals, for more than three years, and we had\ndealt with each other as man by man, Consequently, he considered that all\nmy words were true, and not spoken lightly.\n\nMulvaney and I left him in the high grass near the river-bank, and went\naway, still keeping to the high grass, toward my horse. The shirt\nscratched me horribly.\n\nWe waited nearly two hours for the dusk to fall and allow me to ride off.\nWe spoke of Ortheris in whispers, and strained our ears to catch any sound\nfrom the spot where we had left him. But we heard nothing except the wind\nin the plume-grass.\n\n\"I've bruk his head,\" said Mulvaney, earnestly, \"time an' agin. I've\nnearly kilt him wid the belt, an' _yet_ I can't knock thim fits out av his\nsoft head. No! An' he's not soft, for he's reasonable an' likely by\nnatur'. Fwhat is ut? Is ut his breedin' which is nothin', or his edukashin\nwhich he niver got? You that think ye know things, answer me that.\"\n\nBut I found no answer. I was wondering how long Ortheris, in the bank of\nthe river, would hold out, and whether I should be forced to help him to\ndesert, as I had given my word.\n\nJust as the dusk shut down and, with a very heavy heart, I was beginning\nto saddle up my horse, we heard wild shouts from the river.\n\nThe devils had departed from Private Stanley Ortheris, No. 22639, B\nCompany. The loneliness, the dusk, and the waiting had driven them out as\nI had hoped. We set off at the double and found him plunging about wildly\nthrough the grass, with his coat off--my coat off, I mean. He was calling\nfor us like a madman.\n\nWhen we reached him he was dripping with perspiration, and trembling like\na startled horse. We had great difficulty in soothing him. He complained\nthat he was in civilian kit, and wanted to tear my clothes off his body. I\nordered him to strip, and we made a second exchange as quickly as\npossible.\n\nThe rasp of his own \"greyback\" shirt and the squeak of his boots seemed to\nbring him to himself. He put his hands before his eyes and said--\n\n\"Wot was it? I ain't mad, I ain't sunstrook, an' I've bin an' gone an'\nsaid, an' bin an' gone an' done.... _Wot_ 'ave I bin an' done!\"\n\n\"Fwhat have you done?\" said Mulvaney. \"You've dishgraced yourself--though\nthat's no matter. You've dishgraced B Comp'ny, an' worst av all, you've\ndishgraced _Me!_ Me that taught you how for to walk abroad like a\nman--whin you was a dhirty little, fish-backed little, whimperin' little\nrecruity. As you are now, Stanley Orth'ris!\"\n\nOrtheris said nothing for a while, Then he unslung his belt, heavy with\nthe badges of half a dozen regiments that his own had lain with, and\nhanded it over to Mulvaney.\n\n\"I'm too little for to mill you, Mulvaney,\" he, \"an' you've strook me\nbefore; but you can take an' cut me in two with this 'ere if you like.\"\n\nMulvaney turned to me.\n\n\"Lave me to talk to him, sorr,\" said Mulvaney.\n\nI left, and on my way home thought a good deal over Ortheris in\nparticular, and my friend Private Thomas Atkins whom I love, in general.\n\nBut I could not come to any conclusion of any kind whatever.\n\n\n\n\nL'ENVOI\n\n\n   And they were stronger hands than mine\n   That digged the Ruby from the earth--\n   More cunning brains that made it worth\n   The large desire of a King;\n   And bolder hearts that through the brine\n   Went down the Perfect Pearl to bring.\n\n   Lo, I have wrought in common clay\n   Rude figures of a rough-hewn race;\n   For Pearls strew not the market-place\n   In this my town of banishment,\n   Where with the shifting dust I play\n   And eat the bread of Discontent.\n   Yet is there life in that I make,--\n   Oh, Thou who knowest, turn and see.\n   As Thou hast power over me,\n   So have I power over these,\n   Because I wrought them for Thy sake,\n   And breathe in them mine agonies.\n\n   Small mirth was in the making. Now\n   I lift the cloth that cloaks the clay,\n   And, wearied, at Thy feet I lay\n   My wares ere I go forth to sell.\n   The long bazar will praise--but Thou--\n   Heart of my heart, have I done well?","title":"Indian Tales","tradition":"folklore-oral-tradition","translated_text":null,"word_count":168272}