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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78240 ***
+
+
+
+
+                            MANY INVENTIONS
+
+                             [Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                            MANY INVENTIONS
+
+                                   BY
+
+                            RUDYARD KIPLING
+
+
+      ‘Lo, this only have I found, that God hath made man upright; but
+    they have sought out many inventions.’--ECCLESIASTES vii. 29.
+
+
+                                 London
+
+                            MACMILLAN AND CO.
+
+                              AND NEW YORK
+
+                                  1893
+
+                          _All rights reserved_
+
+
+
+
+                 CONTENTS
+
+
+                                      PAGE
+
+ THE DISTURBER OF TRAFFIC                1
+
+ A CONFERENCE OF THE POWERS             22
+
+ MY LORD THE ELEPHANT                   41
+
+ ONE VIEW OF THE QUESTION               67
+
+ ‘THE FINEST STORY IN THE WORLD’        90
+
+ HIS PRIVATE HONOUR                    129
+
+ A MATTER OF FACT                      154
+
+ THE LOST LEGION                       172
+
+ IN THE RUKH                           189
+
+ ‘BRUGGLESMITH’                        226
+
+ ‘LOVE-O’-WOMEN’                       247
+
+ THE RECORD OF BADALIA HERODSFOOT      279
+
+ JUDSON AND THE EMPIRE                 309
+
+ THE CHILDREN OF THE ZODIAC            342
+
+
+
+
+                          TO THE TRUE ROMANCE.
+
+
+    _Thy face is far from this our war,
+      Our call and counter-cry,
+    I shall not find Thee quick and kind,
+      Nor know Thee till I die.
+    Enough for me in dreams to see
+      And touch Thy garments’ hem:
+    Thy feet have trod so near to God
+      I may not follow them._
+
+    Through wantonness if men profess
+      They weary of Thy parts,
+    E’en let them die at blasphemy
+      And perish with their arts;
+    But we that love, but we that prove
+      Thine excellence august,
+    While we adore discover more
+      Thee perfect, wise, and just.
+
+    Since spoken word Man’s spirit stirred
+      Beyond his belly-need,
+    What is is Thine of fair design
+      In thought and craft and deed;
+    Each stroke aright of toil and fight,
+      That was and that shall be,
+    And hope too high wherefore we die,
+      Has birth and worth in Thee.
+
+    Who holds by Thee hath Heaven in fee
+      To gild his dross thereby,
+    And knowledge sure that he endure
+      A child until he die--
+    For to make plain that man’s disdain
+      Is but new Beauty’s birth--
+    For to possess in loneliness
+      The joy of all the earth.
+
+    As Thou didst teach all lovers speech
+      And Life her mystery,
+    So shalt Thou rule by every school
+      Till love and longing die,
+    Who wast or yet the lights were set,
+      A whisper in the Void,
+    Who shalt be sung through planets young
+      When this is clean destroyed.
+
+    Beyond the bounds our staring rounds,
+      Across the pressing dark,
+    The children wise of outer skies
+      Look hitherward and mark
+    A light that shifts, a glare that drifts,
+      Rekindling thus and thus,
+    Not all forlorn, for Thou hast borne
+      Strange tales to them of us.
+
+    Time hath no tide but must abide
+      The servant of Thy will;
+    Tide hath no time, for to Thy rhyme
+      The ranging stars stand still--
+    Regent of spheres that lock our fears
+      Our hopes invisible,
+    Oh ’twas certes at Thy decrees
+      We fashioned Heaven and Hell!
+
+    Pure Wisdom hath no certain path
+      That lacks thy morning-eyne,
+    And captains bold by Thee controlled
+      Most like to Gods design;
+    Thou art the Voice to kingly boys
+      To lift them through the fight,
+    And Comfortress of Unsuccess,
+      To give the dead good-night--
+
+    A veil to draw ’twixt God His Law
+      And Man’s infirmity,
+    A shadow kind to dumb and blind
+      The shambles where we die;
+    A sum to trick th’ arithmetic
+      Too base of leaguing odds,
+    The spur of trust, the curb of lust,
+      Thou handmaid of the Gods!
+
+    Oh Charity, all patiently
+      Abiding wrack and scaith!
+    Oh Faith, that meets ten thousand cheats
+      Yet drops no jot of faith!
+    Devil and brute Thou dost transmute
+      To higher, lordlier show,
+    Who art in sooth that utter Truth
+      The careless angels know!
+
+    _Thy face is far from this our war,
+      Our call and counter-cry,
+    I may not find Thee quick and kind,
+      Nor know Thee till I die._
+
+    _Yet may I look with heart unshook
+      On blow brought home or missed--
+    Yet may I hear with equal ear
+      The clarions down the List;
+    Yet set my lance above mischance
+      And ride the barriere--
+    Oh, hit or miss, how little ’tis,
+      My Lady is not there!_
+
+
+
+
+                       THE DISTURBER OF TRAFFIC.
+
+
+    From the wheel and the drift of Things
+      Deliver us, good Lord;
+    And we will meet the wrath of kings,
+      The faggot, and the sword.
+
+    Lay not Thy toil before our eyes,
+      Nor vex us with Thy wars,
+    Lest we should feel the straining skies
+      O’ertrod by trampling stars.
+
+    A veil ’twixt us and Thee, dread Lord,
+      A veil ’twixt us and Thee:
+    Lest we should hear too clear, too clear,
+      And unto madness see!
+
+                                                           MIRIAM COHEN.
+
+
+The Brothers of the Trinity order that none unconnected with their
+service shall be found in or on one of their Lights during the hours
+of darkness; but their servants can be made to think otherwise. If you
+are fair-spoken and take an interest in their duties, they will allow
+you to sit with them through the long night and help to scare the ships
+into mid-channel.
+
+Of the English south-coast Lights, that of St. Cecilia-under-the-Cliff
+is the most powerful, for it guards a very foggy coast. When the
+sea-mist veils all, St. Cecilia turns a hooded head to the sea and
+sings a song of two words once every minute. From the land that
+song resembles the bellowing of a brazen bull; but off-shore they
+understand, and the steamers grunt gratefully in answer.
+
+Fenwick, who was on duty one night, lent me a pair of black glass
+spectacles, without which no man can look at the Light unblinded, and
+busied himself in last touches to the lenses before twilight fell.
+The width of the English Channel beneath us lay as smooth and as
+many-coloured as the inside of an oyster-shell. A little Sunderland
+cargo-boat had made her signal to Lloyd’s Agency, half a mile up the
+coast, and was lumbering down to the sunset, her wake lying white
+behind her. One star came out over the cliffs, the waters turned to
+lead colour, and St. Cecilia’s Light shot out across the sea in eight
+long pencils that wheeled slowly from right to left, melted into one
+beam of solid light laid down directly in front of the tower, dissolved
+again into eight, and passed away. The light-frame of the thousand
+lenses circled on its rollers, and the compressed-air engine that drove
+it hummed like a bluebottle under a glass. The hand of the indicator
+on the wall pulsed from mark to mark. Eight pulse-beats timed one
+half-revolution of the Light; neither more nor less.
+
+Fenwick checked the first few revolutions carefully; he opened the
+engine’s feed-pipe a trifle, looked at the racing governor, and again
+at the indicator, and said: ‘She’ll do for the next few hours. We’ve
+just sent our regular engine to London, and this spare one’s not by any
+manner so accurate.’
+
+‘And what would happen if the compressed air gave out?’ I asked.
+
+‘We’d have to turn the flash by hand, keeping an eye on the indicator.
+There’s a regular crank for that. But it hasn’t happened yet. We’ll
+need all our compressed air to-night.’
+
+‘Why?’ said I. I had been watching him for not more than a minute.
+
+‘Look,’ he answered, and I saw that the dead sea-mist had risen out
+of the lifeless sea and wrapped us while my back had been turned. The
+pencils of the Light marched staggeringly across tilted floors of white
+cloud. From the balcony round the light-room the white walls of the
+lighthouse ran down into swirling, smoking space. The noise of the tide
+coming in very lazily over the rocks was choked down to a thick drawl.
+
+‘That’s the way our sea-fogs come,’ said Fenwick, with an air of
+ownership. ‘Hark, now, to that little fool calling out ’fore he’s hurt.’
+
+Something in the mist was bleating like an indignant calf; it might
+have been half a mile or half a hundred miles away.
+
+‘Does he suppose we’ve gone to bed?’ continued Fenwick. ‘You’ll hear
+us talk to him in a minute. He knows puffickly where he is, and he’s
+carrying on to be told like if he was insured.’
+
+‘Who is “he”?’
+
+‘That Sunderland boat, o’ course. Ah!’
+
+I could hear a steam-engine hiss down below in the mist where the
+dynamos that fed the Light were clacking together. Then there came a
+roar that split the fog and shook the lighthouse.
+
+‘GIT-_toot_!’ blared the fog-horn of St. Cecilia. The bleating ceased.
+
+‘Little fool!’ Fenwick repeated. Then, listening: ‘Blest if that
+aren’t another of them! Well, well, they always say that a fog do draw
+the ships of the sea together. They’ll be calling all night, and so’ll
+the siren. We’re expecting some tea-ships up-Channel.... If you put my
+coat on that chair, you’ll feel more so-fash, sir.’
+
+It is no pleasant thing to thrust your company upon a man for the
+night. I looked at Fenwick, and Fenwick looked at me; each gauging the
+other’s capacities for boring and being bored. Fenwick was an old,
+clean-shaven, gray-haired man who had followed the sea for thirty
+years, and knew nothing of the land except the lighthouse in which he
+served. He fenced cautiously to find out the little that I knew, and
+talked down to my level till it came out that I had met a captain in
+the merchant service who had once commanded a ship in which Fenwick’s
+son had served; and further, that I had seen some places that Fenwick
+had touched at. He began with a dissertation on pilotage in the Hugli.
+I had been privileged to know a Hugli pilot intimately. Fenwick had
+only seen the imposing and masterful breed from a ship’s chains, and
+his intercourse had been cut down to ‘Quarter less five,’ and remarks
+of a strictly business-like nature. Hereupon he ceased to talk down
+to me, and became so amazingly technical that I was forced to beg him
+to explain every other sentence. This set him fully at his ease; and
+then we spoke as men together, each too interested to think of anything
+except the subject in hand. And that subject was wrecks, and voyages,
+and old-time trading, and ships cast away in desolate seas, steamers
+we both had known, their merits and demerits, lading, Lloyd’s, and,
+above all, Lights. The talk always came back to Lights: Lights of
+the Channel; Lights on forgotten islands, and men forgotten on them;
+Light-ships--two months’ duty and one month’s leave--tossing on kinked
+cables in ever-troubled tideways; and Lights that men had seen where
+never lighthouse was marked on the charts.
+
+Omitting all those stories, and omitting also the wonderful ways by
+which he arrived at them, I tell here, from Fenwick’s mouth, one that
+was not the least amazing. It was delivered in pieces between the
+roller-skate rattle of the revolving lenses, the bellowing of the
+fog-horn below, the answering calls from the sea, and the sharp tap of
+reckless night-birds that flung themselves at the glasses. It concerned
+a man called Dowse, once an intimate friend of Fenwick, now a waterman
+at Portsmouth, believing that the guilt of blood is on his head, and
+finding no rest either at Portsmouth or Gosport Hard.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+... ‘And if anybody was to come to you and say, “I know the Javva
+currents,” don’t you listen to him; for those currents is never yet
+known to mortal man. Sometimes they’re here, sometimes they’re there,
+but they never runs less than five knots an hour through and among
+those islands of the Eastern Archipelagus. There’s reverse currents
+in the Gulf of Boni--and that’s up north in Celebes--that no man can
+explain; and through all those Javva passages from the Bali Narrows,
+Dutch Gut, and Ombay, which I take it is the safest, they chop and they
+change, and they banks the tides fust on one shore and then on another,
+till your ship’s tore in two. I’ve come through the Bali Narrows, stern
+first, in the heart o’ the south-east monsoon, with a sou’-sou’-west
+wind blowing atop of the northerly flood, and our skipper said he
+wouldn’t do it again, not for all Jamrach’s. You’ve heard o’ Jamrach’s,
+sir?’
+
+‘Yes; and was Dowse stationed in the Bali Narrows?’ I said.
+
+‘No; he was not at Bali, but much more east o’ them passages, and
+that’s Flores Strait, at the east end o’ Flores. It’s all on the
+way south to Australia when you’re running through that Eastern
+Archipelagus. Sometimes you go through Bali Narrows if you’re
+full-powered, and sometimes through Flores Strait, so as to stand south
+at once, and fetch round Timor, keeping well clear o’ the Sahul Bank.
+Elseways, if you aren’t full-powered, why it stands to reason you go
+round by the Ombay Passage, keeping careful to the north side. You
+understand that, sir?’
+
+I was not full-powered, and judged it safer to keep to the north
+side--of Silence.
+
+‘And on Flores Strait, in the fairway between Adonare Island and the
+mainland, they put Dowse in charge of a screw-pile Light called the
+Wurlee Light. It’s less than a mile across the head of Flores Strait.
+Then it opens out to ten or twelve mile for Solor Strait, and then it
+narrows again to a three-mile gut, with a topplin’ flamin’ volcano
+by it. That’s old Loby Toby by Loby Toby Strait, and if you keep his
+Light and the Wurlee Light in a line you won’t take much harm, not on
+the darkest night. That’s what Dowse told me, and I can well believe
+him, knowing these seas myself; but you must ever be mindful of the
+currents. And there they put Dowse, since he was the only man that that
+Dutch government which owns Flores could find that would go to Wurlee
+and tend a fixed Light. Mostly they uses Dutch and Italians; Englishmen
+being said to drink when alone. I never could rightly find out what
+made Dowse accept of that position, but accept he did, and used to sit
+for to watch the tigers come out of the forests to hunt for crabs and
+such like round about the lighthouse at low tide. The water was always
+warm in those parts, as I know well, and uncommon sticky, and it ran
+with the tides as thick and smooth as hogwash in a trough. There was
+another man along with Dowse in the Light, but he wasn’t rightly a
+man. He was a Kling. No, nor yet a Kling he wasn’t, but his skin was
+in little flakes and cracks all over, from living so much in the salt
+water as was his usual custom. His hands was all webby-foot, too. He
+was called, I remember Dowse saying now, an Orange-Lord, on account of
+his habits. You’ve heard of an Orange-Lord, sir?’
+
+‘Orang-Laut?’ I suggested.
+
+‘That’s the name,’ said Fenwick, smacking his knee. ‘An Orang-Laut, of
+course, and his name was Challong; what they call a sea-gypsy. Dowse
+told me that that man, long hair and all, would go swimming up and down
+the straits just for something to do; running down on one tide and
+back again with the other, swimming side-stroke, and the tides going
+tremenjus strong. Elseways he’d be skipping about the beach along with
+the tigers at low tide, for he was most part a beast; or he’d sit in
+a little boat praying to old Loby Toby of an evening when the volcano
+was spitting red at the south end of the strait. Dowse told me that he
+wasn’t a companionable man, like you and me might have been to Dowse.
+
+‘Now I can never rightly come at what it was that began to ail Dowse
+after he had been there a year or something less. He was saving of all
+his pay and tending to his Light, and now and again he’d have a fight
+with Challong and tip him off the Light into the sea. Then, he told me,
+his head began to feel streaky from looking at the tide so long. He
+said there was long streaks of white running inside it; like wall-paper
+that hadn’t been properly pasted up, he said. The streaks, they would
+run with the tides, north and south, twice a day, accordin’ to them
+currents, and he’d lie down on the planking--it was a screw-pile
+Light--with his eye to a crack and watch the water streaking through
+the piles just so quiet as hogwash. He said the only comfort he got
+was at slack water. Then the streaks in his head went round and round
+like a sampan in a tide-rip; but that was heaven, he said, to the
+other kind of streaks,--the straight ones that looked like arrows on a
+wind-chart, but much more regular, and that was the trouble of it. No
+more he couldn’t ever keep his eyes off the tides that ran up and down
+so strong, but as soon as ever he looked at the high hills standing
+all along Flores Strait for rest and comfort his eyes would be pulled
+down like to the nesty streaky water; and when they once got there he
+couldn’t pull them away again till the tide changed. He told me all
+this himself, speaking just as though he was talking of somebody else.’
+
+‘Where did you meet him?’ I asked.
+
+‘In Portsmouth harbour, a-cleaning the brasses of a Ryde boat, but I’d
+known him off and on through following the sea for many years. Yes, he
+spoke about himself very curious, and all as if he was in the next
+room laying there dead. Those streaks, they preyed upon his intellecks,
+he said; and he made up his mind, every time that the Dutch gunboat
+that attends to the Lights in those parts come along, that he’d ask to
+be took off. But as soon as she did come something went click in his
+throat, and he was so took up with watching her masts, because they
+ran longways, in the contrary direction to his streaks, that he could
+never say a word until she was gone away and her masts was under sea
+again. Then, he said, he’d cry by the hour; and Challong swum round
+and round the Light, laughin’ at him and splashin’ water with his
+webby-foot hands. At last he took it into his pore sick head that the
+ships, and particularly the steamers that came by,--there wasn’t many
+of them,--made the streaks, instead of the tides as was natural. He
+used to sit, he told me, cursing every boat that come along,--sometimes
+a junk, sometimes a Dutch brig, and now and again a steamer rounding
+Flores Head and poking about in the mouth of the strait. Or there’d
+come a boat from Australia running north past old Loby Toby hunting for
+a fair current, but never throwing out any papers that Challong might
+pick up for Dowse to read. Generally speaking, the steamers kept more
+westerly, but now and again they came looking for Timor and the west
+coast of Australia. Dowse used to shout to them to go round by the
+Ombay Passage, and not to come streaking past him, making the water all
+streaky, but it wasn’t likely they’d hear. He says to himself after a
+month, “I’ll give them one more chance,” he says. “If the next boat
+don’t attend to my just representations,”--he says he remembers using
+those very words to Challong,--“I’ll stop the fairway.”
+
+‘The next boat was a Two-streak cargo-boat very anxious to make her
+northing. She waddled through under old Loby Toby at the south end of
+the strait, and she passed within a quarter of a mile of the Wurlee
+Light at the north end, in seventeen fathom o’ water, the tide against
+her. Dowse took the trouble to come out with Challong in a little prow
+that they had,--all bamboos and leakage,--and he lay in the fairway
+waving a palm branch, and, so he told me, wondering why and what for he
+was making this fool of himself. Up come the Two-streak boat, and Dowse
+shouts: “Don’t you come this way again, making my head all streaky!
+Go round by Ombay, and leave me alone.” Some one looks over the port
+bulwarks and shies a banana at Dowse, and that’s all. Dowse sits down
+in the bottom of the boat and cries fit to break his heart. Then he
+says, “Challong, what am I a-crying for?” and they fetches up by the
+Wurlee Light on the half-flood.
+
+‘“Challong,” he says, “there’s too much traffic here, and that’s why
+the water’s so streaky as it is. It’s the junks and the brigs and
+the steamers that do it,” he says; and all the time he was speaking
+he was thinking, “Lord, Lord, what a crazy fool I am!” Challong said
+nothing, because he couldn’t speak a word of English except say “dam,”
+and he said that where you or me would say “yes.” Dowse lay down on
+the planking of the Light with his eye to the crack, and he saw the
+muddy water streaking below, and he never said a word till slack water,
+because the streaks kept him tongue-tied at such times. At slack water
+he says, “Challong, we must buoy this fairway for wrecks,” and he holds
+up his hands several times, showing that dozens of wrecks had come
+about in the fairway; and Challong says, “Dam.”
+
+‘That very afternoon he and Challong rows to Wurlee, the village in
+the woods that the Light was named after, and buys canes,--stacks and
+stacks of canes, and coir rope thick and fine, all sorts,--and they
+sets to work making square floats by lashing of the canes together.
+Dowse said he took longer over those floats than might have been
+needed, because he rejoiced in the corners, they being square, and
+the streaks in his head all running longways. He lashed the canes
+together, criss-cross and thwartways,--any way but longways,--and
+they made up twelve-foot-square floats, like rafts. Then he stepped
+a twelve-foot bamboo or a bundle of canes in the centre, and to the
+head of that he lashed a big six-foot W letter, all made of canes, and
+painted the float dark green and the W white, as a wreck-buoy should be
+painted. Between them two they makes a round dozen of these new kind of
+wreck-buoys, and it was a two months’ job. There was no big traffic,
+owing to it being on the turn of the monsoon, but what there was Dowse
+cursed at, and the streaks in his head, they ran with the tides, as
+usual.
+
+‘Day after day, so soon as a buoy was ready, Challong would take it
+out, with a big rock that half sunk the prow and a bamboo grapnel, and
+drop it dead in the fairway. He did this day or night, and Dowse could
+see him of a clear night, when the sea brimed, climbing about the buoys
+with the sea-fire dripping off him. They was all put into place, twelve
+of them, in seventeen-fathom water; not in a straight line, on account
+of a well-known shoal there, but slantways, and two, one behind the
+other, mostly in the centre of the fairway. You must keep the centre
+of those Javva currents, for currents at the side is different, and in
+narrow water, before you can turn a spoke, you get your nose took round
+and rubbed upon the rocks and the woods. Dowse knew that just as well
+as any skipper. Likeways he knew that no skipper daren’t run through
+uncharted wrecks in a six-knot current. He told me he used to lie
+outside the Light watching his buoys ducking and dipping so friendly
+with the tide; and the motion was comforting to him on account of its
+being different from the run of the streaks in his head.
+
+‘Three weeks after he’d done his business up comes a steamer through
+Loby Toby Straits, thinking she’d run into Flores Sea before night. He
+saw her slow down; then she backed. Then one man and another come up
+on the bridge, and he could see there was a regular powwow, and the
+flood was driving her right on to Dowse’s wreck-buoys. After that she
+spun round and went back south, and Dowse nearly killed himself with
+laughing. But a few weeks after that a couple of junks came shouldering
+through from the north, arm in arm, like junks go. It takes a good
+deal to make a Chinaman understand danger. They junks set well in the
+current, and went down the fairway, right among the buoys, ten knots
+an hour, blowing horns and banging tin pots all the time. That made
+Dowse very angry; he having taken so much trouble to stop the fairway.
+No boats run Flores Straits by night, but it seemed to Dowse that if
+junks’d do that in the day, the Lord knew but what a steamer might
+trip over his buoys at night; and he sent Challong to run a coir rope
+between three of the buoys in the middle of the fairway, and he fixed
+naked lights of coir steeped in oil to that rope. The tides was the
+only things that moved in those seas, for the airs was dead still
+till they began to blow, and _then_ they would blow your hair off.
+Challong tended those lights every night after the junks had been so
+impident,--four lights in about a quarter of a mile hung up in iron
+skillets on the rope; and when they was alight,--and coir burns well,
+very like a lamp wick,--the fairway seemed more madder than anything
+else in the world. First there was the Wurlee Light, then these four
+queer lights, that couldn’t be riding-lights, almost flush with the
+water, and behind them, twenty mile off, but the biggest light of all,
+there was the red top of old Loby Toby volcano. Dowse told me that he
+used to go out in the prow and look at his handiwork, and it made him
+scared, being like no lights that ever was fixed.
+
+‘By and by some more steamers came along, snorting and snifting at
+the buoys, but never going through, and Dowse says to himself: “Thank
+goodness I’ve taught them not to come streaking through my water. Ombay
+Passage is good enough for them and the like of them.” But he didn’t
+remember how quick that sort of news spreads among the shipping. Every
+steamer that fetched up by those buoys told another steamer and all the
+port officers concerned in those seas that there was something wrong
+with Flores Straits that hadn’t been charted yet. It was block-buoyed
+for wrecks in the fairway, they said, and no sort of passage to use.
+Well, the Dutch, of course they didn’t know anything about it. They
+thought our Admiralty Survey had been there, and they thought it very
+queer but neighbourly. You understand us English are always looking up
+marks and lighting sea-ways all the world over, never asking with your
+leave or by your leave, seeing that the sea concerns us more than any
+one else. So the news went to and back from Flores to Bali, and Bali
+to Probolingo, where the railway is that runs to Batavia. All through
+the Javva seas everybody got the word to keep clear o’ Flores Straits,
+and Dowse, he was left alone except for such steamers and small craft
+as didn’t know. They’d come up and look at the straits like a bull
+over a gate, but those nodding wreck-buoys scared them away. By and by
+the Admiralty Survey ship--the _Britomarte_ I think she was--lay in
+Macassar Roads off Fort Rotterdam, alongside of the _Amboina_, a dirty
+little Dutch gunboat that used to clean there; and the Dutch captain
+says to our captain, “What’s wrong with Flores Straits?” he says.
+
+‘“Blowed if I know,” says our captain, who’d just come up from the
+Angelica Shoal.
+
+‘“Then why did you go and buoy it?” says the Dutchman.
+
+‘“Blowed if I have,” says our captain. “That’s your lookout.”
+
+‘“Buoyed it is,” says the Dutch captain, “according to what they tell
+me; and a whole fleet of wreck-buoys, too.”
+
+‘“Gummy!” says our captain. “It’s a dorg’s life at sea, any way. I must
+have a look at this. You come along after me as soon as you can;”
+and down he skimmed that very night, round the heel of Celebes, three
+days’ steam to Flores Head, and he met a Two-streak liner, very angry,
+backing out of the head of the strait; and the merchant captain gave
+our Survey ship something of his mind for leaving wrecks uncharted in
+those narrow waters and wasting his company’s coal.
+
+‘“It’s no fault o’ mine,” says our captain.
+
+‘“I don’t care whose fault it is,” says the merchant captain, who had
+come aboard to speak to him just at dusk. “The fairway’s choked with
+wreck enough to knock a hole through a dock-gate. I saw their big ugly
+masts sticking up just under my forefoot. Lord ha’ mercy on us!” he
+says, spinning round. “The place is like Regent Street of a hot summer
+night.”
+
+‘And so it was. They two looked at Flores Straits, and they saw lights
+one after the other stringing across the fairway. Dowse, he had seen
+the steamers hanging there before dark, and he said to Challong: “We’ll
+give ’em something to remember. Get all the skillets and iron pots you
+can and hang them up alongside o’ the regular four lights. We must
+teach ’em to go round by the Ombay Passage, or they’ll be streaking
+up our water again!” Challong took a header off the lighthouse, got
+aboard the little leaking prow, with his coir soaked in oil and all
+the skillets he could muster, and he began to show his lights, four
+regulation ones and half-a-dozen new lights hung on that rope which
+was a little above the water. Then he went to all the spare buoys with
+all his spare coir, and hung a skillet-flare on every pole that he
+could get at,--about seven poles. So you see, taking one with another,
+there was the Wurlee Light, four lights on the rope between the three
+centre fairway wreck-buoys that was hung out as a usual custom, six or
+eight extry ones that Challong had hung up on the same rope, and seven
+dancing flares that belonged to seven wreck-buoys,--eighteen or twenty
+lights in all crowded into a mile of seventeen-fathom water, where no
+tide ’d ever let a wreck rest for three weeks, let alone ten or twelve
+wrecks, as the flares showed.
+
+‘The Admiralty captain, he saw the lights come out one after another,
+same as the merchant skipper did who was standing at his side, and he
+said:--
+
+‘“There’s been an international cata-strophe here or elseways,” and
+then he whistled. “I’m going to stand on and off all night till the
+Dutchman comes,” he says.
+
+‘“I’m off,” says the merchant skipper. “My owners don’t wish for me to
+watch illuminations. That strait’s choked with wreck, and I shouldn’t
+wonder if a typhoon hadn’t driven half the junks o’ China there.”
+With that he went away; but the Survey ship, she stayed all night at
+the head o’ Flores Strait, and the men admired of the lights till the
+lights was burning out, and then they admired more than ever.
+
+‘A little bit before morning the Dutch gunboat come flustering up, and
+the two ships stood together watching the lights burn out and out, till
+there was nothing left ’cept Flores Straits, all green and wet, and a
+dozen wreck-buoys, and Wurlee Light.
+
+‘Dowse had slept very quiet that night, and got rid of his streaks by
+means of thinking of the angry steamers outside. Challong was busy,
+and didn’t come back to his bunk till late. In the gray early morning
+Dowse looked out to sea, being, as he said, in torment, and saw all
+the navies of the world riding outside Flores Strait fairway in a
+half-moon, seven miles from wing to wing, most wonderful to behold.
+Those were the words he used to me time and again in telling the tale.
+
+‘Then, he says, he heard a gun fired with a most tremenjus explosion,
+and all them great navies crumbled to little pieces of clouds, and
+there was only two ships remaining, and a man-o’-war’s boat rowing to
+the Light, with the oars going sideways instead o’ longways as the
+morning tides, ebb or flow, would continually run.
+
+‘“What the devil’s wrong with this strait?” says a man in the boat as
+soon as they was in hailing distance. “Has the whole English Navy sunk
+here, or what?”
+
+‘“There’s nothing wrong,” says Dowse, sitting on the platform outside
+the Light, and keeping one eye very watchful on the streakiness of the
+tide, which he always hated, ’specially in the mornings. “You leave
+me alone and I’ll leave you alone. Go round by the Ombay Passage,
+and don’t cut up my water. You’re making it streaky.” All the time
+he was saying that he kept on thinking to himself, “Now that’s
+foolishness,--now that’s nothing but foolishness;” and all the time he
+was holding tight to the edge of the platform in case the streakiness
+of the tide should carry him away.
+
+‘Somebody answers from the boat, very soft and quiet, “We’re going
+round by Ombay in a minute, if you’ll just come and speak to our
+captain and give him his bearings.”
+
+‘Dowse, he felt very highly flattered, and he slipped into the boat,
+not paying any attention to Challong. But Challong swum along to the
+ship after the boat. When Dowse was in the boat, he found, so he says,
+he couldn’t speak to the sailors ’cept to call them “white mice with
+chains about their neck,” and Lord knows he hadn’t seen or thought
+o’ white mice since he was a little bit of a boy with them in his
+hankerchief. So he kept himself quiet, and so they come to the Survey
+ship; and the man in the boat hails the quarter-deck with something
+that Dowse could not rightly understand, but there was one word he
+spelt out again and again,--m-a-d, mad,--and he heard some one behind
+him saying of it backwards. So he had two words,--m-a-d, mad, d-a-m,
+dam; and he put they two words together as he come on the quarter-deck,
+and he says to the captain very slowly, “I be damned if I am mad,” but
+all the time his eye was held like by the coils of rope on the belaying
+pins, and he followed those ropes up and up with his eye till he was
+quite lost and comfortable among the rigging, which ran criss-cross,
+and slopeways, and up and down, and any way but straight along under
+his feet north and south. The deck-seams, they ran _that_ way, and
+Dowse daresn’t look at them. They was the same as the streaks of the
+water under the planking of the lighthouse.
+
+‘Then he heard the captain talking to him very kind, and for the life
+of him he couldn’t tell why; and what he wanted to tell the captain was
+that Flores Strait was too streaky, like bacon, and the steamers only
+made it worse; but all he could do was to keep his eye very careful on
+the rigging and sing:--
+
+    “I saw a ship a-sailing,
+     A-sailing on the sea;
+     And oh, it was all lading
+     With pretty things for me!”
+
+Then he remembered that was foolishness, and he started off to say
+about the Ombay Passage, but all he said was: “The captain was a
+duck,--meaning no offence to you, sir,--but there was something on his
+back that I’ve forgotten.
+
+    “And when the ship began to move
+     The captain says, ‘Quack-quack!’”
+
+‘He notices the captain turns very red and angry, and he says to
+himself, “My foolish tongue’s run away with me again. I’ll go
+forward;” and he went forward, and catched the reflection of himself
+in the binnacle brasses; and he saw that he was standing there and
+talking mother-naked in front of all them sailors, and he ran into
+the fo’c’s’le howling most grievous. He must ha’ gone naked for weeks
+on the Light, and Challong o’ course never noticed it. Challong was
+swimmin’ round and round the ship, sayin’ “dam” for to please the men
+and to be took aboard, because he didn’t know any better.
+
+‘Dowse didn’t tell what happened after this, but seemingly our Survey
+ship lowered two boats and went over to Dowse’s buoys. They took one
+sounding, and then finding it was all correct they cut the buoys that
+Dowse and Challong had made, and let the tide carry ’em out through the
+Loby Toby end of the strait; and the Dutch gunboat, she sent two men
+ashore to take care o’ the Wurlee Light, and the _Britomarte_, she went
+away with Dowse, leaving Challong to try to follow them, a-calling
+“dam--dam” all among the wake of the screw, and half heaving himself
+out of water and joining his webby-foot hands together. He dropped
+astern in five minutes, and I suppose he went back to the Wurlee Light.
+You can’t drown an Orange-Lord, not even in Flores Strait on flood-tide.
+
+‘Dowse come across me when he came to England with the Survey ship,
+after being more than six months in her, and cured of his streaks by
+working hard and not looking over the side more than he could help.
+He told me what I’ve told you, sir, and he was very much ashamed of
+himself; but the trouble on his mind was to know whether he hadn’t sent
+something or other to the bottom with his buoyings and his lightings
+and such like. He put it to me many times, and each time more and more
+sure he was that something had happened in the straits because of him.
+I think that distructed him, because I found him up at Fratton one
+day, in a red jersey, a-praying before the Salvation Army, which had
+produced him in their papers as a Reformed Pirate. They knew from his
+mouth that he had committed evil on the deep waters,--that was what
+he told them,--and piracy, which no one does now except Chineses, was
+all they knew of. I says to him: “Dowse, don’t be a fool. Take off
+that jersey and come along with me.” He says: “Fenwick, I’m a-saving
+of my soul; for I do believe that I have killed more men in Flores
+Strait than Trafalgar.” I says: “A man that thought he’d seen all the
+navies of the earth standing round in a ring to watch his foolish false
+wreck-buoys” (those was my very words I used) “ain’t fit to have a
+soul, and if he did he couldn’t kill a louse with it. John Dowse, you
+was mad then, but you are a damn sight madder now. Take off that there
+jersey!”
+
+‘He took it off and come along with me, but he never got rid o’ that
+suspicion that he’d sunk some ships a-cause of his foolishnesses at
+Flores Straits; and now he’s a wherryman from Portsmouth to Gosport,
+where the tides run crossways and you can’t row straight for ten
+strokes together.... So late as all this! Look!’
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Fenwick left his chair, passed to the Light, touched something that
+clicked, and the glare ceased with a suddenness that was pain. Day had
+come, and the Channel needed St. Cecilia no longer. The sea-fog rolled
+back from the cliffs in trailed wreaths and dragged patches, as the sun
+rose and made the dead sea alive and splendid. The stillness of the
+morning held us both silent as we stepped on the balcony. A lark went
+up from the cliffs behind St. Cecilia, and we smelt a smell of cows in
+the lighthouse pastures below.
+
+Then we were both at liberty to thank the Lord for another day of clean
+and wholesome life.
+
+
+
+
+                      A CONFERENCE OF THE POWERS.
+
+
+    Life liveth but in life, and doth not roam
+    To other lands if all be well at home:
+    ‘Solid as ocean foam,’ quoth ocean foam.
+
+
+The room was blue with the smoke of three pipes and a cigar. The
+leave-season had opened in India, and the firstfruits on this side of
+the water were ‘Tick’ Boileau, of the 45th Bengal Cavalry, who called
+on me, after three years’ absence, to discuss old things which had
+happened. Fate, who always does her work handsomely, sent up the same
+staircase within the same hour The Infant, fresh from Upper Burma,
+and he and Boileau looking out of my window saw walking in the street
+one Nevin, late in a Gurkha regiment which had been through the Black
+Mountain Expedition. They yelled to him to come up, and the whole
+street was aware that they desired him to come up, and he came up, and
+there followed Pandemonium in my room because we had foregathered from
+the ends of the earth, and three of us were on a holiday, and none of
+us were twenty-five, and all the delights of all London lay waiting our
+pleasure.
+
+Boileau took the only other chair, The Infant, by right of his bulk,
+the sofa; and Nevin, being a little man, sat cross-legged on the top of
+the revolving bookcase, and we all said, ‘Who’d ha’ thought it!’ and
+‘What are you doing here?’ till speculation was exhausted and the talk
+went over to inevitable ‘shop.’ Boileau was full of a great scheme for
+winning a military _attaché_-ship at St. Petersburg; Nevin had hopes of
+the Staff College, and The Infant had been moving heaven and earth and
+the Horse Guards for a commission in the Egyptian army.
+
+‘What’s the use o’ that?’ said Nevin, twirling round on the bookcase.
+
+‘Oh, heaps! ’Course, if you get stuck with a Fellaheen regiment, you’re
+sold; but if you are appointed to a Soudanese lot, you’re in clover.
+They are first-class fighting-men--and just think of the eligible
+central position of Egypt in the next row.’
+
+This was putting the match to a magazine. We all began to explain the
+Central Asian question off-hand, flinging army corps from the Helmund
+to Kashmir with more than Russian recklessness. Each of the boys made
+for himself a war to his own liking, and when we had settled all
+the details of Armageddon, killed all our senior officers, handled
+a division apiece, and nearly torn the atlas in two in attempts to
+explain our theories, Boileau needs must lift up his voice above the
+clamour, and cry, ‘Anyhow it’ll be the Hell of a row!’ in tones that
+carried conviction far down the staircase.
+
+Entered, unperceived in the smoke, William the Silent. ‘Gen’elman to
+see you, sir,’ said he, and disappeared, leaving in his stead none
+other than Mr. Eustace Cleever. William would have introduced the
+Dragon of Wantley with equal disregard of present company.
+
+‘I--I beg your pardon. I didn’t know that there was anybody--with you.
+I----’
+
+But it was not seemly to allow Mr. Cleever to depart: he was a great
+man. The boys remained where they were, for any movement would have
+choked up the little room. Only when they saw his gray hairs they stood
+on their feet, and when The Infant caught the name, he said:
+
+‘Are you--did you write that book called _As it was in the Beginning_?’
+
+Mr. Cleever admitted that he had written the book.
+
+‘Then--then I don’t know how to thank you, sir,’ said The Infant,
+flushing pink. ‘I was brought up in the country you wrote about--all my
+people live there; and I read the book in camp on the Hlinedatalone,
+and I knew every stick and stone, and the dialect too; and, by Jove! it
+was just like being at home and hearing the country-people talk. Nevin,
+you know _As it was in the Beginning_? So does Ti--Boileau.’
+
+Mr. Cleever has tasted as much praise, public and private, as one man
+may safely swallow; but it seemed to me that the out-spoken admiration
+in The Infant’s eyes and the little stir in the little company came
+home to him very nearly indeed.
+
+‘Won’t you take the sofa?’ said The Infant. ‘I’ll sit on Boileau’s
+chair, and----’ here he looked at me to spur me to my duties as a host;
+but I was watching the novelist’s face. Cleever had not the least
+intention of going away, but settled himself on the sofa.
+
+Following the first great law of the Army, which says ‘all property is
+common except money, and you’ve only got to ask the next man for that,’
+The Infant offered tobacco and drink. It was the least he could do; but
+not the most lavish praise in the world held half as much appreciation
+and reverence as The Infant’s simple ‘Say when, sir,’ above the long
+glass.
+
+Cleever said ‘when,’ and more thereto, for he was a golden talker,
+and he sat in the midst of hero-worship devoid of all taint of
+self-interest. The boys asked him of the birth of his book and
+whether it was hard to write, and how his notions came to him; and
+he answered with the same absolute simplicity as he was questioned.
+His big eyes twinkled, he dug his long thin hands into his gray beard
+and tugged it as he grew animated. He dropped little by little from
+the peculiar pinching of the broader vowels--the indefinable ‘Euh,’
+that runs through the speech of the pundit caste--and the elaborate
+choice of words, to freely-mouthed ‘ows’ and ‘ois,’ and, for him at
+least, unfettered colloquialisms. He could not altogether understand
+the boys, who hung upon his words so reverently. The line of the
+chin-strap, that still showed white and untanned on cheek-bone and
+jaw, the steadfast young eyes puckered at the corners of the lids with
+much staring through red-hot sunshine, the slow, untroubled breathing,
+and the curious, crisp, curt speech seemed to puzzle him equally. He
+could create men and women, and send them to the uttermost ends of the
+earth, to help delight and comfort; he knew every mood of the fields,
+and could interpret them to the cities, and he knew the hearts of many
+in city and the country, but he had hardly, in forty years, come into
+contact with the thing which is called a Subaltern of the Line. He told
+the boys this in his own way.
+
+‘Well, how should you?’ said The Infant. ‘You--you’re quite different,
+y’ see, sir.’
+
+The Infant expressed his ideas in his tone rather than his words, but
+Cleever understood the compliment.
+
+‘We’re only Subs,’ said Nevin, ‘and we aren’t exactly the sort of men
+you’d meet much in your life, I s’pose.’
+
+‘That’s true,’ said Cleever. ‘I live chiefly among men who write,
+and paint, and sculp, and so forth. We have our own talk and our own
+interests, and the outer world doesn’t trouble us much.’
+
+‘That must be awfully jolly,’ said Boileau, at a venture. ‘We have our
+own shop, too, but ’tisn’t half as interesting as yours, of course. You
+know all the men who’ve ever done anything; and we only knock about
+from place to place, and we do nothing.’
+
+‘The Army’s a very lazy profession if you choose to make it so,’ said
+Nevin. ‘When there’s nothing going on, there is nothing going on, and
+you lie up.’
+
+‘Or try to get a billet somewhere, to be ready for the next show,’ said
+The Infant with a chuckle.
+
+‘To me,’ said Cleever softly, ‘the whole idea of warfare seems so
+foreign and unnatural, so essentially vulgar, if I may say so, that I
+can hardly appreciate your sensations. Of course, though, any change
+from life in garrison towns must be a godsend to you.’
+
+Like many home-staying Englishmen, Cleever believed that the newspaper
+phrase he quoted covered the whole duty of the Army whose toils enabled
+him to enjoy his many-sided life in peace. The remark was not a happy
+one, for Boileau had just come off the Frontier, The Infant had been on
+the warpath for nearly eighteen months, and the little red man Nevin
+two months before had been sleeping under the stars at the peril of
+his life. But none of them tried to explain, till I ventured to point
+out that they had all seen service and were not used to idling. Cleever
+took in the idea slowly.
+
+‘Seen service?’ said he. Then, as a child might ask, ‘Tell me. Tell me
+everything about everything.’
+
+‘How do you mean?’ said The Infant, delighted at being directly
+appealed to by the great man.
+
+‘Good Heavens! How am I to make you understand, if you can’t see. In
+the first place, what is your age?’
+
+‘Twenty-three next July,’ said The Infant promptly.
+
+Cleever questioned the others with his eyes.
+
+‘I’m twenty-four,’ said Nevin.
+
+‘And I’m twenty-two,’ said Boileau.
+
+‘And you’ve all seen service?’
+
+‘We’ve all knocked about a little bit, sir, but The Infant’s the
+war-worn veteran. He’s had two years’ work in Upper Burma,’ said Nevin.
+
+‘When you say work, what do you mean, you extraordinary creatures?’
+
+‘Explain it, Infant,’ said Nevin.
+
+‘Oh, keeping things in order generally, and running about after little
+_dakus_--that’s dacoits--and so on. There’s nothing to explain.’
+
+‘Make that young Leviathan speak,’ said Cleever impatiently, above his
+glass.
+
+‘How can he speak?’ said I. ‘He’s done the work. The two don’t go
+together. But, Infant, you’re ordered to _bukh_.’
+
+‘What about? I’ll try.’
+
+‘_Bukh_ about a _daur_. You’ve been on heaps of ’em,’ said Nevin.
+
+‘What in the world does that mean? Has the Army a language of its own?’
+
+The Infant turned very red. He was afraid he was being laughed at, and
+he detested talking before outsiders; but it was the author of _As it
+was in the Beginning_ who waited.
+
+‘It’s all so new to me,’ pleaded Cleever; ‘and--and you said you liked
+my book.’
+
+This was a direct appeal that The Infant could understand, and he began
+rather flurriedly, with much slang bred of nervousness--
+
+‘Pull me up, sir, if I say anything you don’t follow. About six months
+before I took my leave out of Burma, I was on the Hlinedatalone,
+up near the Shan States, with sixty Tommies--private soldiers,
+that is--and another subaltern, a year senior to me. The Burmese
+business was a subaltern’s war, and our forces were split up into
+little detachments, all running about the country and trying to keep
+the dacoits quiet. The dacoits were having a first-class time, y’
+know--filling women up with kerosine and setting ’em alight, and
+burning villages, and crucifying people.’
+
+The wonder in Eustace Cleever’s eyes deepened. He could not quite
+realise that the cross still existed in any form.
+
+‘Have you ever seen a crucifixion?’ said he.
+
+‘Of course not. ’Shouldn’t have allowed it if I had; but I’ve seen the
+corpses. The dacoits had a trick of sending a crucified corpse down
+the river on a raft, just to show they were keeping their tail up and
+enjoying themselves. Well, that was the kind of people I had to deal
+with.’
+
+‘Alone?’ said Cleever. Solitude of the soul he could understand--none
+better--but he had never in the body moved ten miles from his fellows.
+
+‘I had my men, but the rest of it was pretty much alone. The nearest
+post that could give me orders was fifteen miles away, and we used to
+heliograph to them, and they used to give us orders same way--too many
+orders.’
+
+‘Who was your C. O.?’ said Boileau.
+
+‘Bounderby--Major. _Pukka_ Bounderby; more Bounder than _pukka_. He
+went out up Bhamo way. Shot, or cut down, last year,’ said The Infant.
+
+‘What are these interludes in a strange tongue?’ said Cleever to me.
+
+‘Professional information--like the Mississippi pilots’ talk,’ said
+I. ‘He did not approve of his major, who died a violent death. Go on,
+Infant.’
+
+‘Far too many orders. You couldn’t take the Tommies out for a two days’
+_daur_--that’s expedition--without being blown up for not asking leave.
+And the whole country was humming with dacoits. I used to send out
+spies, and act on their information. As soon as a man came in and told
+me of a gang in hiding, I’d take thirty men with some grub, and go out
+and look for them, while the other subaltern lay doggo in camp.’
+
+‘Lay! Pardon me, but _how_ did he lie?’ said Cleever.
+
+‘Lay doggo--lay quiet, with the other thirty men. When I came back,
+he’d take out his half of the men, and have a good time of his own.’
+
+‘Who was he?’ said Boileau.
+
+‘Carter-Deecey, of the Aurungabadis. Good chap, but too _zubberdusty_,
+and went _bokhar_ four days out of seven. He’s gone out, too. Don’t
+interrupt a man.’
+
+Cleever looked helplessly at me.
+
+‘The other subaltern,’ I translated swiftly, ‘came from a native
+regiment, and was overbearing in his demeanour. He suffered much from
+the fever of the country, and is now dead. Go on, Infant.’
+
+‘After a bit, we got into trouble for using the men on frivolous
+occasions, and so I used to put my signaller under arrest to prevent
+him reading the helio-orders. Then I’d go out and leave a message
+to be sent an hour after I got clear of the camp, something like
+this: “Received important information; start in an hour unless
+countermanded.” If I was ordered back, it didn’t much matter. I swore
+the C. O.’s watch was wrong, or something, when I came back. The
+Tommies enjoyed the fun, and--Oh, yes, there was one Tommy who was the
+bard of the detachment. He used to make up verses on everything that
+happened.’
+
+‘What sort of verses?’ said Cleever.
+
+‘Lovely verses; and the Tommies used to sing ’em. There was one song
+with a chorus, and it said something like this.’ The Infant dropped
+into the true barrack-room twang:
+
+    ‘Theebaw, the Burma king, did a very foolish thing,
+      When ’e mustered ’ostile forces in ar-rai,
+    ’E little thought that _we_, from far across the sea,
+      Would send our armies up to Mandalai!’
+
+‘O gorgeous!’ said Cleever. ‘And how magnificently direct! The notion
+of a regimental bard is new to me, but of course it must be so.’
+
+‘He was awf’ly popular with the men,’ said The Infant. ‘He had them
+all down in rhyme as soon as ever they had done anything. He was a
+great bard. He was always ready with an elegy when we picked up a
+Boh--that’s a leader of dacoits.’
+
+‘How did you pick him up?’ said Cleever.
+
+‘Oh! shot him if he wouldn’t surrender.’
+
+‘You! Have you shot a man?’
+
+There was a subdued chuckle from all three boys, and it dawned on the
+questioner that one experience in life which was denied to himself, and
+he weighed the souls of men in a balance, had been shared by three very
+young gentlemen of engaging appearance. He turned round on Nevin, who
+had climbed to the top of the bookcase, and was sitting cross-legged as
+before.
+
+‘And have _you_, too?’
+
+‘’Think so,’ said Nevin sweetly. ‘In the Black Mountain. He was rolling
+cliffs on to my half-company, and spoiling our formation. I took a
+rifle from a man, and brought him down at the second shot.’
+
+‘Good heavens! And how did you feel afterwards?’
+
+‘Thirsty. I wanted a smoke, too.’
+
+Cleever looked at Boileau--the youngest. Surely his hands were
+guiltless of blood.
+
+Boileau shook his head and laughed. ‘Go on, Infant,’ said he.
+
+‘And you too?’ said Cleever.
+
+‘Fancy so. It was a case of cut, cut or be cut, with me; so I
+cut--One. I couldn’t do any more, sir.’
+
+Cleever looked as though he would like to ask many questions, but The
+Infant swept on, in the full tide of his tale.
+
+‘Well, we were called insubordinate young whelps at last, and strictly
+forbidden to take the Tommies out any more without orders. I wasn’t
+sorry, because Tommy is such an exacting sort of creature. He wants
+to live as though he were in barracks all the time. I was grubbing on
+fowls and boiled corn, but my Tommies wanted their pound of fresh meat,
+and their half ounce of this, and their two ounces of t’other thing,
+and they used to come to me and badger me for plug-tobacco when we were
+four days in jungle. I said: “I can get you Burma tobacco, but I don’t
+keep a canteen up my sleeve.” They couldn’t see it. They wanted all the
+luxuries of the season, confound ’em.’
+
+‘You were alone when you were dealing with these men?’ said Cleever,
+watching The Infant’s face under the palm of his hand. He was getting
+new ideas, and they seemed to trouble him.
+
+‘Of course, unless you count the mosquitoes. They were nearly as big as
+the men. After I had to lie doggo I began to look for something to do;
+and I was great pals with a man called Hicksey in the Police, the best
+man that ever stepped on earth; a first-class man.’
+
+Cleever nodded applause. He knew how to appreciate enthusiasm.
+
+‘Hicksey and I were as thick as thieves. He had some Burma mounted
+police--rummy chaps, armed with sword and snider carbine. They rode
+punchy Burma ponies, with string stirrups, red cloth saddles, and red
+bell-rope headstalls. Hicksey used to lend me six or eight of them
+when I asked him--nippy little devils, keen as mustard. But they told
+their wives too much, and all my plans got known, till I learned to
+give false marching orders over-night, and take the men to quite a
+different village in the morning. Then we used to catch the simple
+_daku_ before breakfast, and make him very sick. It’s a ghastly country
+on the Hlinedatalone; all bamboo jungle, with paths about four feet
+wide winding through it. The _dakus_ knew all the paths, and potted at
+us as we came round a corner; but the mounted police knew the paths as
+well as the _dakus_, and we used to go stalking ’em in and out. Once
+we flushed ’em, the men on the ponies had the advantage of the men on
+foot. We held all the country absolutely quiet, for ten miles round, in
+about a month. Then we took Boh Na-ghee, Hicksey and I and the Civil
+officer. That was a lark!’
+
+‘I think I am beginning to understand a little,’ said Cleever. ‘It was
+a pleasure to you to administer and fight?’
+
+‘Rather! There’s nothing nicer than a satisfactory little expedition,
+when you find your plans fit together, and your conformation’s
+_teek_--correct, you know, and the whole _sub-chiz_--I mean, when
+everything works out like formulæ on a blackboard. Hicksey had all the
+information about the Boh. He had been burning villages and murdering
+people right and left, and cutting up Government convoys and all that.
+He was lying doggo in a village about fifteen miles off, waiting to
+get a fresh gang together. So we arranged to take thirty mounted
+police, and turn him out before he could plunder into our newly-settled
+villages. At the last minute, the Civil officer in our part of the
+world thought he’d assist at the performance.’
+
+‘Who was he?’ said Nevin.
+
+‘His name was Dennis,’ said The Infant slowly. ‘And we’ll let it stay
+so. He’s a better man now than he was then.’
+
+‘But how old was the Civil power?’ said Cleever. ‘The situation is
+developing itself.’
+
+‘He was about six-and-twenty, and he was awf’ly clever. He knew a
+lot of things, but I don’t think he was quite steady enough for
+dacoit-hunting. We started overnight for Boh Na-ghee’s village, and we
+got there just before morning, without raising an alarm. Dennis had
+turned out armed to his teeth--two revolvers, a carbine, and all sorts
+of things. I was talking to Hicksey about posting the men, and Dennis
+edged his pony in between us, and said, “What shall I do? What shall I
+do? Tell me what to do, you fellows.” We didn’t take much notice; but
+his pony tried to bite me in the leg, and I said, “Pull out a bit, old
+man, till we’ve settled the attack.” He kept edging in, and fiddling
+with his reins and his revolvers, and saying, “Dear me! Dear me! Oh,
+dear me! What do you think I’d better do?” The man was in a deadly
+funk, and his teeth were chattering.’
+
+‘I sympathise with the Civil power,’ said Cleever. ‘Continue, young
+Clive.’
+
+‘The fun of it was, that he was supposed to be our superior officer.
+Hicksey took a good look at him, and told him to attach himself to
+my party. ’Beastly mean of Hicksey, that. The chap kept on edging in
+and bothering, instead of asking for some men and taking up his own
+position, till I got angry, and the carbines began popping on the
+other side of the village. Then I said, “For God’s sake be quiet, and
+sit down where you are! If you see anybody come out of the village,
+shoot at him.” I knew he couldn’t hit a hay-rick at a yard. Then I
+took my men over the garden wall--over the palisades, y’ know--somehow
+or other, and the fun began. Hicksey had found the Boh in bed under a
+mosquito-curtain, and he had taken a flying jump on to him.’
+
+‘A flying jump!’ said Cleever. ‘Is _that_ also war?’
+
+‘Yes,’ said The Infant, now thoroughly warmed. ‘Don’t you know how you
+take a flying jump on to a fellow’s head at school, when he snores in
+the dormitory? The Boh was sleeping in a bedful of swords and pistols,
+and Hicksey came down like Zazel through the netting, and the net got
+mixed up with the pistols and the Boh and Hicksey, and they all rolled
+on the floor together. I laughed till I couldn’t stand, and Hicksey
+was cursing me for not helping him; so I left him to fight it out and
+went into the village. Our men were slashing about and firing, and so
+were the dacoits, and in the thick of the mess, some ass set fire to a
+house, and we all had to clear out. I froze on to the nearest _daku_
+and ran to the palisade, shoving him in front of me. He wriggled loose,
+and bounded over the other side. I came after him; but when I had one
+leg one side and one leg the other of the palisade, I saw that the
+_daku_ had fallen flat on Dennis’s head. That man had never moved from
+where I left him. They rolled on the ground together, and Dennis’s
+carbine went off and nearly shot me. The _daku_ picked himself up and
+ran, and Dennis buzzed his carbine after him, and it caught him on the
+back of his head, and knocked him silly. You never saw anything so
+funny in your life. I doubled up on the top of the palisade and hung
+there, yelling with laughter. But Dennis began to weep like anything.
+“Oh, I’ve killed a man,” he said. “I’ve killed a man, and I shall never
+know another peaceful hour in my life! Is he dead? Oh, _is_ he dead?
+Good Lord, I’ve killed a man!” I came down and said, “Don’t be a fool;”
+but he kept on shouting, “Is he dead?” till I could have kicked him.
+The _daku_ was only knocked out of time with the carbine. He came to
+after a bit, and I said, “Are you hurt much?” He groaned and said “No.”
+His chest was all cut with scrambling over the palisade. “The white
+man’s gun didn’t do that,” he said, “I did that, and _I_ knocked the
+white man over.” Just like a Burman, wasn’t it? But Dennis wouldn’t be
+happy at any price. He said: “Tie up his wounds. He’ll bleed to death.
+Oh, he’ll bleed to death!” “Tie ’em up yourself,” I said, “if you’re so
+anxious.” “I can’t touch him,” said Dennis, “but here’s my shirt.” He
+took off his shirt, and fixed the braces again over his bare shoulders.
+I ripped the shirt up, and bandaged the dacoit quite professionally. He
+was grinning at Dennis all the time; and Dennis’s haversack was lying
+on the ground, bursting full of sandwiches. Greedy hog! I took some,
+and offered some to Dennis. “How can I eat?” he said. “How can you ask
+me to eat? His very blood is on your hands now, and you’re eating _my_
+sandwiches!” “All right,” I said; “I’ll give ’em to the _daku_.” So I
+did, and the little chap was quite pleased, and wolfed ’em down like
+one o’clock.’
+
+Cleever brought his hand down on the table with a thump that made the
+empty glasses dance. ‘That’s Art!’ he said. ‘Flat, flagrant mechanism!
+Don’t tell me that happened on the spot!’
+
+The pupils of The Infant’s eyes contracted to two pin-points. ‘I beg
+your pardon,’ he said, slowly and stiffly, ‘but I am telling this thing
+_as_ it happened.’
+
+Cleever looked at him a moment. ‘My fault entirely,’ said he; ‘I should
+have known. Please go on.’
+
+‘Hicksey came out of what was left of the village with his prisoners
+and captives, all neatly tied up. Boh Na-ghee was first, and one of the
+villagers, as soon as he found the old ruffian helpless, began kicking
+him quietly. The Boh stood it as long as he could, and then groaned,
+and we saw what was going on. Hicksey tied the villager up, and gave
+him a half-a-dozen, good, with a bamboo, to remind him to leave a
+prisoner alone. You should have seen the old Boh grin. Oh! but Hicksey
+was in a furious rage with everybody. He’d got a wipe over the elbow
+that had tickled up his funny-bone, and he was rabid with me for not
+having helped him with the Boh and the mosquito-net. I had to explain
+that I couldn’t do anything. If you’d seen ’em both tangled up together
+on the floor in one kicking cocoon, you’d have laughed for a week.
+Hicksey swore that the only decent man of his acquaintance was the Boh,
+and all the way to camp Hicksey was talking to the Boh, and the Boh
+was complaining about the soreness of his bones. When we got back, and
+had had a bath, the Boh wanted to know when he was going to be hanged.
+Hicksey said he couldn’t oblige him on the spot, but had to send him
+to Rangoon. The Boh went down on his knees, and reeled off a catalogue
+of his crimes--he ought to have been hanged seventeen times over, by
+his own confession--and implored Hicksey to settle the business out of
+hand. “If I’m sent to Rangoon,” said he, “they’ll keep me in jail all
+my life, and that is a death every time the sun gets up or the wind
+blows.” But we had to send him to Rangoon, and, of course, he was let
+off down there, and given penal servitude for life. When I came to
+Rangoon I went over the jail--I had helped to fill it, y’ know--and the
+old Boh was there, and he spotted me at once. He begged for some opium
+first, and I tried to get him some, but that was against the rules.
+Then he asked me to have his sentence changed to death, because he was
+afraid of being sent to the Andamans. I couldn’t do that either, but I
+tried to cheer him, and told him how things were going up-country, and
+the last thing he said was--“Give my compliments to the fat white man
+who jumped on me. If I’d been awake I’d have killed him.” I wrote that
+to Hicksey next mail, and--and that’s all. I’m ’fraid I’ve been gassing
+awf’ly, sir.’
+
+Cleever said nothing for a long time. The Infant looked uncomfortable.
+He feared that, misled by enthusiasm, he had filled up the novelist’s
+time with unprofitable recital of trivial anecdotes.
+
+Then said Cleever, ‘I can’t understand. Why should you have seen and
+done all these things before you have cut your wisdom-teeth?’
+
+‘Don’t know,’ said The Infant apologetically. ‘I haven’t seen
+much--only Burmese jungle.’
+
+‘And dead men, and war, and power, and responsibility,’ said Cleever,
+under his breath. ‘You won’t have any sensations left at thirty, if you
+go on as you have done. But I want to hear more tales--more tales!’ He
+seemed to forget that even subalterns might have engagements of their
+own.
+
+‘We’re thinking of dining out somewhere--the lot of us--and going on to
+the Empire afterwards,’ said Nevin, with hesitation. He did not like to
+ask Cleever to come too. The invitation might be regarded as perilously
+near to ‘cheek.’ And Cleever, anxious not to wag a gray beard unbidden
+among boys at large, said nothing on his side.
+
+Boileau solved the little difficulty by blurting out: ‘Won’t you come
+too, sir?’
+
+Cleever almost shouted ‘Yes,’ and while he was being helped into his
+coat, continued to murmur ‘Good heavens!’ at intervals in a way that
+the boys could not understand.
+
+‘I don’t think I’ve been to the Empire in my life,’ said he; ‘but--what
+_is_ my life after all? Let us go.’
+
+They went out with Eustace Cleever, and I sulked at home because they
+had come to see me but had gone over to the better man; which was
+humiliating. They packed him into a cab with utmost reverence, for was
+he not the author of _As it was in the Beginning_, and a person in
+whose company it was an honour to go abroad? From all I gathered later,
+he had taken less interest in the performance before him than in their
+conversations, and they protested with emphasis that he was ‘as good a
+man as they make. ’Knew what a man was driving at almost before he said
+it; and yet he’s so damned simple about things any man knows.’ That was
+one of many comments.
+
+At midnight they returned, announcing that they were ‘highly
+respectable gondoliers,’ and that oysters and stout were what they
+chiefly needed. The eminent novelist was still with them, and I think
+he was calling them by their shorter names. I am certain that he said
+he had been moving in worlds not realised, and that they had shown him
+the Empire in a new light.
+
+Still sore at recent neglect, I answered shortly, ‘Thank heaven we have
+within the land ten thousand as good as they,’ and when he departed,
+asked him what he thought of things generally.
+
+He replied with another quotation, to the effect that though singing
+was a remarkably fine performance, I was to be quite sure that few lips
+would be moved to song if they could find a sufficiency of kissing.
+
+Whereby I understood that Eustace Cleever, decorator and colourman in
+words, was blaspheming his own Art, and would be sorry for this in the
+morning.
+
+
+
+
+                         MY LORD THE ELEPHANT.
+
+
+    ’Less you want your toes trod off you’d better get back at once,
+          For the bullocks are walkin’ two by two,
+          The _byles_ are walkin’ two by two,
+          The bullocks are walkin’ two by two,
+    An’ the elephants bring the guns!
+                Ho! Yuss!
+    Great--big--long--black forty-pounder guns:
+          Jiggery-jolty to and fro,
+          Each as big as a launch in tow--
+    Blind--dumb--broad-breeched beggars o’ batterin’ guns!
+
+                                                  _Barrack-room Ballad._
+
+
+Touching the truth of this tale there need be no doubt at all, for
+it was told to me by Mulvaney at the back of the elephant-lines, one
+warm evening when we were taking the dogs out for exercise. The twelve
+Government elephants rocked at their pickets outside the big mud-walled
+stables (one arch, as wide as a bridge-arch, to each restless beast),
+and the _mahouts_ were preparing the evening meal. Now and again some
+impatient youngster would smell the cooking flour-cakes and squeal; and
+the naked little children of the elephant-lines would strut down the
+row shouting and commanding silence, or, reaching up, would slap at the
+eager trunks. Then the elephants feigned to be deeply interested in
+pouring dust upon their heads, but, so soon as the children passed, the
+rocking, fidgeting, and muttering broke out again.
+
+The sunset was dying, and the elephants heaved and swayed dead black
+against the one sheet of rose-red low down in the dusty gray sky. It
+was at the beginning of the hot weather, just after the troops had
+changed into their white clothes, so Mulvaney and Ortheris looked
+like ghosts walking through the dusk. Learoyd had gone off to another
+barrack to buy sulphur ointment for his last dog under suspicion of
+mange, and with delicacy had put his kennel into quarantine at the back
+of the furnace where they cremate the anthrax cases.
+
+‘_You_ wouldn’t like mange, little woman?’ said Ortheris, turning
+my terrier over on her fat white back with his foot. ‘You’re no end
+bloomin’ partic’lar, you are. ’Oo wouldn’t take no notice o’ me t’other
+day ’cause she was goin’ ’ome all alone in ’er dorg-cart, eh? Settin’
+on the box-seat like a bloomin’ little tart, you was, Vicy. Now you run
+along an’ make them ’uttees ’oller. Sick ’em, Vicy, loo!’
+
+Elephants loathe little dogs. Vixen barked herself down the pickets,
+and in a minute all the elephants were kicking and squealing and
+clucking together.
+
+‘Oh, you soldier-men,’ said a mahout angrily, ‘call off your she-dog.
+She is frightening our elephant-folk.’
+
+‘Rummy beggars!’ said Ortheris meditatively. ‘’Call ’em people, same as
+if they was. An’ they are too. Not so bloomin’ rummy when you come to
+think of it, neither.’
+
+Vixen returned yapping to show that she could do it again if she liked,
+and established herself between Ortheris’s knees, smiling a large smile
+at his lawful dogs who dared not fly at her.
+
+‘’Seed the battery this mornin’?’ said Ortheris. He meant the
+newly-arrived elephant-battery; otherwise he would have said simply
+‘guns.’ Three elephants harnessed tandem go to each gun, and those
+who have not seen the big forty-pounders of position trundling along
+in the wake of their gigantic team have yet something to behold. The
+lead-elephant had behaved very badly on parade; had been cut loose,
+sent back to the lines in disgrace, and was at that hour squealing and
+lashing out with his trunk at the end of the line; a picture of blind,
+bound, bad temper. His mahout, standing clear of the flail-like blows,
+was trying to soothe him.
+
+‘That’s the beggar that cut up on p’rade. ’E’s _must_,’ said Ortheris
+pointing. ‘There’ll be murder in the lines soon, and then, per’aps,
+’e’ll get loose an’ we’ll ’ave to be turned out to shoot ’im, same as
+when one o’ they native king’s elephants _musted_ last June. ’Ope ’e
+will.’
+
+‘_Must_ be sugared!’ said Mulvaney contemptuously from his
+resting-place on a pile of dried bedding. ‘He’s no more than in a
+powerful bad timper wid bein’ put upon. I’d lay my kit he’s new to the
+gun-team, an’ by natur’ he hates haulin’. Ask the mahout, sorr.’
+
+I hailed the old white-bearded mahout who was lavishing pet words on
+his sulky red-eyed charge.
+
+‘He is not _musth_,’ the man replied indignantly; ‘only his honour has
+been touched. Is an elephant an ox or a mule that he should tug at
+a trace? His strength is in his head--Peace, peace, my Lord! It was
+not _my_ fault that they yoked thee this morning!--Only a low-caste
+elephant will pull a gun, and _he_ is a Kumeria of the Doon. It cost
+a year and the life of a man to break him to burden. They of the
+Artillery put him in the gun-team because one of their base-born brutes
+had gone lame. No wonder that he was, and is wrath.’
+
+‘Rummy! Most unusual rum,’ said Ortheris. ‘Gawd, ’e is in a temper,
+though! S’pose ’e got loose!’
+
+Mulvaney began to speak but checked himself, and I asked the mahout
+what would happen if the heel-chains broke.
+
+‘God knows, who made elephants,’ he said simply. ‘In his now state
+peradventure he might kill you three, or run at large till his rage
+abated. He would not kill me, except he were _musth_. _Then_ would he
+kill me before any one in the world, because he loves me. Such is the
+custom of the elephant-folk; and the custom of us mahout-people matches
+it for foolishness. We trust each our own elephant, till our own
+elephant kills us. Other castes trust women, but we the elephant-folk.
+I have seen men deal with enraged elephants and live; but never was
+man yet born of woman that met my lord the elephant in his _musth_ and
+lived to tell of the taming. They are enough bold who meet him angry.’
+
+I translated. Then said Terence: ‘Ask the heathen if he iver saw a man
+tame an elephint,--anyways--a white man.’
+
+‘Once,’ said the mahout, ‘I saw a man astride of such a beast in the
+town of Cawnpore; a bare-headed man, a white man, beating it upon the
+head with a gun. It was said he was possessed of devils or drunk.’
+
+‘Is ut like, think you, he’d be doin’ it sober?’ said Mulvaney after
+interpretation, and the chained elephant roared.
+
+‘There’s only one man top of earth that would be the partic’lar kind
+o’ sorter bloomin’ fool to do it!’ said Ortheris. ‘When was that,
+Mulvaney?’
+
+‘As the naygur sez, in Cawnpore; an’ I was that fool--in the days av my
+youth. But it came about as naturil as wan thing leads to another,--me
+an’ the elephint, and the elephint and me; an’ the fight betune us was
+the most naturil av all.’
+
+‘That’s just wot it would ha’ been,’ said Ortheris. ‘Only you must ha’
+been more than usual full. You done one queer trick with an elephant
+that I know of, why didn’t you never tell us the other one?’
+
+‘Bekase, onless you had heard the naygur here say what he has said
+spontaneous, you’d ha’ called me for a liar, Stanley, my son, an’ it
+would ha’ bin my duty an’ my delight to give you the father an’ mother
+av a beltin’! There’s only wan fault about you, little man, an’ that’s
+thinking you know all there is in the world, an’ a little more. ’Tis a
+fault that has made away wid a few orf’cers I’ve served undher, not to
+spake av ivry man but two that I iver thried to make into a privit.’
+
+‘Ho!’ said Ortheris with ruffled plumes, ‘an’ ’oo was your two bloomin’
+little Sir Garnets, eh?’
+
+‘Wan was mesilf,’ said Mulvaney with a grin that darkness could not
+hide; ‘an’--seein’ that he’s not here there’s no harm speakin’ av
+him--t’other was Jock.’
+
+‘Jock’s no more than a ’ayrick in trousies. ’E be’aves _like_ one; an’
+’e can’t _’it_ one at a ’undred; ’e was born _on_ one, an’ s’welp
+me ’e’ll die _under_ one for not bein’ able to say wot ’e wants in a
+Christian lingo,’ said Ortheris, jumping up from the piled fodder only
+to be swept off his legs. Vixen leaped upon his stomach, and the other
+dogs followed and sat down there.
+
+‘I know what Jock is like,’ I said. ‘I want to hear about the elephant,
+though.’
+
+‘It’s another o’ Mulvaney’s bloomin’ panoramas,’ said Ortheris, gasping
+under the dogs. ‘’Im an’ Jock for the ’ole bloomin’ British Army!
+You’ll be sayin’ you won Waterloo next,--you an’ Jock. Garn!’
+
+Neither of us thought it worth while to notice Ortheris. The big
+gun-elephant threshed and muttered in his chains, giving tongue now
+and again in crashing trumpet-peals, and to this accompaniment Terence
+went on: ‘In the beginnin’,’ said he, ‘me bein’ what I was, there was a
+misunderstandin’ wid my sergeant that was then. He put his spite on me
+for various reasons,’--
+
+The deep-set eyes twinkled above the glow of the pipe-bowl, and
+Ortheris grunted, ‘Another petticoat!’
+
+‘For various an’ promiscuous reasons; an’ the upshot av it was that
+he come into barricks wan afternoon whin’ I was settlin’ my cowlick
+before goin’ walkin’, called me a big baboon (which I was not), an’ a
+demoralisin’ beggar (which I was), an’ bid me go on fatigue thin an’
+there, helpin’ shift E. P. tents, fourteen av thim from the rest-camps.
+At that, me bein’ set on my walk--’
+
+‘Ah!’ from under the dogs, ‘’e’s a Mormon, Vic. Don’t you ’ave nothin’
+to do with ’im, little dorg.’
+
+‘Set on my walk, I tould him a few things that came up in my mind, an’
+wan thing led on to another, an’ betune talkin’ I made time for to hit
+the nose av him so that he’d be no Venus to any woman for a week to
+come. ’Twas a fine big nose, and well it paid for a little groomin’.
+Afther that I was so well pleased wid my handicraftfulness that I niver
+raised fist on the gyard that came to take me to Clink. A child might
+ha’ led me along, for I knew old Kearney’s nose was ruined. That summer
+the Ould Rig’ment did not use their own Clink, bekase the cholera
+was hangin’ about there like mildew on wet boots, an’ ’twas murdher
+to confine in ut. We borrowed the Clink that belonged to the Holy
+Christians (the rig’ment that has never seen service yet), and that lay
+a matther av a mile away, acrost two p’rade-grounds an’ the main road,
+an’ all the ladies av Cawnpore goin’ out for their afternoon dhrive. So
+I moved in the best av society, my shadow dancin’ along forninst me,
+an’ the gyard as solemn as putty, the bracelets on my wrists, an’ my
+heart full contint wid the notion av Kearney’s pro--pro--probosculum in
+a shling.
+
+‘In the middle av ut all I perceived a gunner-orf’cer in full
+rig’mentals perusin’ down the road, hell-for-leather, wid his mouth
+open. He fetched wan woild despairin’ look on the dog-kyarts an’ the
+polite society av Cawnpore, an’ thin he dived like a rabbut into a
+dhrain by the side av the road.
+
+‘“Bhoys,” sez I, “that orf’cer’s dhrunk. ’Tis scand’lus. Let’s take him
+to Clink too.”
+
+‘The corp’ril of the gyard made a jump for me, unlocked my stringers,
+an’ he sez: “If it comes to runnin’, run for your life. If it doesn’t,
+I’ll trust your honour. Anyways,” sez he, “come to Clink whin you can.”
+
+‘Then I behild him runnin’ wan way, stuffin’ the bracelets in his
+pocket, they bein’ Gov’ment property, and the gyard runnin’ another,
+an’ all the dog-kyarts runnin’ all ways to wanst, an’ me alone lookin’
+down the red bag av a mouth av an elephint forty-two feet high at the
+shoulder, tin feet wide, wid tusks as long as the Ochterlony Monumint.
+That was my first reconnaissance. Maybe he was not quite so contagious,
+nor quite so tall, but I didn’t stop to throw out pickets. Mother av
+Hiven, how I ran down the road! The baste began to inveshtigate the
+dhrain wid the gunner-orf’cer in ut; an’ that was the makin’ av me. I
+tripped over wan of the rifles that my gyard had discarded (onsoldierly
+blackguards they was!), an’ whin I got up I was facin’ t’other way
+about an’ the elephint was huntin’ for the gunner-orf’cer. I can see
+his big fat back yet. Excipt that he didn’t dig, he car’ied on for all
+the world like little Vixen here at a rat-hole. He put his head down
+(by my sowl he nearly stood on ut!) to shquint down the dhrain; thin
+he’d grunt, and run round to the other ind in case the orf’cer was gone
+out by the backdoor; an’ he’d shtuff his trunk down the flue an’ get
+ut filled wid mud, an’ blow ut out, an’ grunt, an’ swear! My troth,
+he swore all hiven down upon that orf’cer; an’ what a commissariat
+elephint had to do wid a gunner-orf’cer passed me. Me havin’ nowhere to
+go except to Clink, I stud in the road wid the rifle, a Snider an’ no
+amm’nition, philosophisin’ upon the rear ind av the animal. All round
+me, miles and miles, there was howlin’ desolation, for ivry human sowl
+wid two legs, or four for the matther av that, was ambuscadin’, an’
+this ould rapparee stud on his head tuggin’ an’ gruntin’ above the
+dhrain, his tail stickin’ up to the sky, an’ he thryin’ to thrumpet
+through three feet av road-sweepin’s up his thrunk. Begad, ’twas wickud
+to behold!
+
+‘Subsequint he caught sight av me standin’ alone in the wide, wide
+world lanin’ on the rifle. That dishcomposed him, bekase he thought I
+was the gunner-orf’cer got out unbeknownst. He looked betune his feet
+at the dhrain, an’ he looked at me, an’ I sez to myself: “Terence, my
+son, you’ve been watchin’ this Noah’s ark too long. Run for your life!”
+Dear knows I wanted to tell him I was only a poor privit on my way to
+Clink, an’ no orf’cer at all, at all; but he put his ears forward av
+his thick head, an’ I rethreated down the road grippin’ the rifle, my
+back as cowld as a tombstone, an’ the slack av my trousies, where I
+made sure he’d take hould, crawlin’ wid,--wid invidjus apprehension.
+
+‘I might ha’ run till I dhropped, bekase I was betune the two straight
+lines av the road, an’ a man, or a thousand men for the matther av
+that, are the like av sheep in keepin’ betune right an’ left marks.’
+
+‘Same as canaries,’ said Ortheris from the darkness. ‘Draw a line on a
+bloomin’ little board, put their bloomin’ little beakses there; stay so
+for hever an’ hever, amen, they will. ’Seed a ’ole reg’ment, I ’ave,
+walk crabways along the edge of a two-foot water-cut ’stid o’ thinkin’
+to cross it. Men _is_ sheep--bloomin’ sheep. Go on.’
+
+‘But I saw his shadow wid the tail av my eye,’ continued the man of
+experiences, ‘an’ “Wheel,” I sez, “Terence, wheel!” an’ I wheeled.
+’Tis truth that I cud hear the shparks flyin’ from my heels; an’ I
+shpun into the nearest compound, fetched wan jump from the gate to
+the verandah av the house, an’ fell over a tribe of naygurs wid a
+half-caste boy at a desk, all manufacturin’ harness. ’Twas Antonio’s
+Carriage Emporium at Cawnpore. You know ut, sorr?
+
+‘Ould Grambags must ha’ wheeled abreast wid me, for his trunk came
+lickin’ into the verandah like a belt in a barrick-room row, before I
+was in the shop. The naygurs an’ the half-caste boy howled an’ wint out
+at the backdoor, an’ I stud lone as Lot’s wife among the harness. A
+powerful thirsty thing is harness, by reason av the smell to ut.
+
+‘I wint into the backroom, nobody bein’ there to invite, an’ I found
+a bottle av whisky and a goglet av wather. The first an’ the second
+dhrink I never noticed bein’ dhry, but the fourth an’ the fifth tuk
+good hould av me an’ I begun to think scornful av elephints. “Take the
+upper ground in manœ’vrin’, Terence,” I sez; “an’ you’ll be a gen’ral
+yet,” sez I. An’ wid that I wint up to the flat mud roof av the house
+an’ looked over the edge av the parapit, threadin’ delicate. Ould
+Barrel-belly was in the compound, walkin’ to an’ fro, pluckin’ a piece
+av grass here an’ a weed there, for all the world like our colonel that
+is now whin his wife’s given him a talkin’ down an’ he’s prom’nadin’ to
+ease his timper. His back was to me, an’ by the same token I hiccupped.
+He checked in his walk, wan ear forward like a deaf ould lady wid an
+ear-thrumpet, an’ his thrunk hild out in a kind av fore-reaching hook.
+Thin he wagged his ear sayin’, “Do my sinses deceive me?” as plain as
+print, an’ he recomminst promenadin’. You know Antonio’s compound?
+’Twas as full thin as ’tis now av new kyarts and ould kyarts, an’
+second-hand kyarts an’ kyarts for hire,--landos, an’ b’rooshes, an’
+brooms, an’ wag’nettes av ivry description. Thin I hiccupped again,
+an’ he began to study the ground beneath him, his tail whistlin’ wid
+emotion. Thin he lapped his thrunk round the shaft av a wag’nette an’
+dhrew it out circumspectuous an’ thoughtful. “He’s not there,” he sez,
+fumblin’ in the cushions wid his thrunk. Thin I hiccupped again, an’
+wid that he lost his patience good an’ all, same as this wan in the
+lines here.’
+
+The gun-elephant was breaking into peal after peal of indignant
+trumpetings, to the disgust of the other animals who had finished their
+food and wished to drowse. Between the outcries we could hear him
+picking restlessly at his ankle ring.
+
+‘As I was sayin’,’ Mulvaney went on, ‘he behaved dishgraceful. He let
+out wid his fore-fut like a steam-hammer, bein’ convinced that I was
+in ambuscade adjacent; an’ that wag’nette ran back among the other
+carriages like a field-gun in charge. Thin he hauled ut out again
+an’ shuk ut, an’ by nature it came all to little pieces. Afther that
+he went sheer damn, slam, dancin’, lunatic, double-shuffle demented
+wid the whole of Antonio’s shtock for the season. He kicked, an’ he
+straddled, and he stamped, an’ he pounded all at wanst, his big bald
+head bobbin’ up an’ down, solemn as a rigadoon. He tuk a new shiny
+broom an’ kicked ut on wan corner, an’ ut opened out like a blossomin’
+lily; an’ he shtuck wan fool-foot through the flure av ut an’ a wheel
+was shpinnin’ on his tusk. At that he got scared, an’ by this an’ that
+he fair sat down plump among the carriages, an’ they pricked ’im wid
+splinters till he was a boundin’ pincushin. In the middle av the mess,
+whin the kyarts was climbin’ wan on top av the other, an’ rickochettin’
+off the mud walls, an’ showin’ their agility, wid him tearin’ their
+wheels off, I heard the sound av distrestful wailin’ on the housetops,
+an’ the whole Antonio firm an’ fam’ly was cursin’ me an’ him from the
+roof next door; me bekase I’d taken refuge wid them, and he bekase he
+was playin’ shtep-dances wid the carriages av the aristocracy.
+
+‘“Divart his attention,” sez Antonio, dancin’ on the roof in his big
+white waistcoat. “Divart his attention,” he sez, “or I’ll prosecute
+you.” An’ the whole fam’ly shouts, “Hit him a kick, mister soldier.”
+
+‘“He’s divartin’ himself,” I sez, for it was just the worth av a man’s
+life to go down into the compound. But by way av makin’ show I threw
+the whisky-bottle (’twas not full whin I came there) at him. He shpun
+round from what was left av the last kyart, an’ shtuck his head into
+the verandah not three feet below me. Maybe ’twas the temptin’ness av
+his back or the whisky. Anyways, the next thing I knew was me, wid my
+hands full av mud an’ mortar, all fours on his back, an’ the Snider
+just slidin’ off the slope av his head. I grabbed that an’ scuffled
+on his neck, dhruv my knees undher his big flappin’ ears, an’ we wint
+to glory out av that compound wid a shqueal that crawled up my back
+an’ down my belly. Thin I remimbered the Snider, an’ I grup ut by
+the muzzle an’ hit him on the head. ’Twas most forlorn--like tappin’
+the deck av a throopship wid a cane to stop the engines whin you’re
+sea-sick. But I parsevered till I sweated, an’ at last from takin’ no
+notice at all he began to grunt. I hit wid the full strength that was
+in me in those days, an’ it might ha’ discommoded him. We came back
+to the p’rade-groun’ forty miles an hour, trumpetin’ vainglorious. I
+never stopped hammerin’ him for a minut’; ’twas by way av divartin’ him
+from runnin’ undher the trees an’ scrapin’ me off like a poultice. The
+p’rade-groun’ an’ the road was all empty, but the throops was on the
+roofs av the barricks, an’ betune Ould Thrajectory’s gruntin’ an’ mine
+(for I was winded wid my stone-breakin’), I heard them clappin’ an’
+cheerin’. He was growin’ more confused an’ tuk to runnin’ in circles.
+
+‘“Begad,” sez I to mysilf, “there’s dacincy in all things, Terence.
+’Tis like you’ve shplit his head, and whin you come out av Clink you’ll
+be put under stoppages for killin’ a Gov’ment elephint.” At that I
+caressed him.’
+
+‘’Ow the devil did you do that? Might as well pat a barrick,’ said
+Ortheris.
+
+‘Thried all manner av endearin’ epitaphs, but bein’ more than a little
+shuk up I disremimbered what the divil would answer to. So, “Good dog,”
+I sez; “Pretty puss,” sez I; “Whoa mare,” I sez; an’ at that I fetched
+him a shtroke av the butt for to conciliate him, an’ he stud still
+among the barricks.
+
+‘“Will no one take me off the top av this murderin’ volcano?” I sez at
+the top av my shout; an’ I heard a man yellin’, “Hould on, faith an’
+patience, the other elephints are comin’.” “Mother av Glory,” I sez,
+“will I rough-ride the whole stud? Come an’ take me down, ye cowards!”
+
+‘Thin a brace av fat she-elephints wid mahouts an’ a commissariat
+sergint came shuffling round the corner av the barricks; an’ the
+mahouts was abusin’ ould Potiphar’s mother an’ blood-kin.
+
+‘“Obsarve my reinforcemints,” I sez. “The’re goin’ to take you to
+Clink, my son;” an’ the child av calamity put his ears forward an’
+swung head on to those females. The pluck av him, afther my oratorio on
+his brain-pan, wint to the heart av me. “I’m in dishgrace mesilf,” I
+sez, “but I’ll do what I can for ye. Will ye go to Clink like a man, or
+fight like a fool whin there’s no chanst?” Wid that I fetched him wan
+last lick on the head, an’ he fetched a tremenjus groan an’ dhropped
+his thrunk. “Think,” sez I to him, an’ “Halt!” I sez to the mahouts.
+They was anxious so to do. I could feel the ould reprobit meditating
+undher me. At last he put his thrunk straight out an’ gave a most
+melancholious toot (the like av a sigh wid an elephint); an’ by that I
+knew the white flag was up an’ the rest was no more than considherin’
+his feelin’s.
+
+‘“He’s done,” I sez. “Kape open ordher left an’ right alongside. We’ll
+go to Clink quiet.”
+
+‘Sez the commissariat sergeant to me from his elephant, “Are you a man
+or a mericle?” sez he.
+
+‘“I’m betwixt an’ betune,” I sez, thryin’ to set up stiff-back. “An’
+what,” sez I, “may ha’ set this animal off in this opprobrious shtyle?”
+I sez, the gun-butt light an’ easy on my hip an’ my left hand dhropped,
+such as throopers behave. We was bowlin’ on to the elephint-lines under
+escort all this time.
+
+‘“I was not in the lines whin the throuble began,” sez the sergeant.
+“They tuk him off carryin’ tents an’ such like, an’ put him to the
+gun-team. I knew he would not like ut, but by token it fair tore his
+heart out.”
+
+‘“Faith, wan man’s meat is another’s poison,” I sez. “’Twas bein’ put
+on to carry tents that was the ruin av me.” An’ my heart warrumed to
+Ould Double Ends bekase he had been put upon.
+
+‘“We’ll close on him here,” sez the sergeant, whin we got to the
+elephint-lines. All the mahouts an’ their childher was round the
+pickets cursin’ my poney from a mile to hear. “You skip off on to my
+elephint’s back,” he sez. “There’ll be throuble.”
+
+‘“Sind that howlin’ crowd away,” I sez, “or he’ll thrample the life
+out av thim.” I cud feel his ears beginnin’ to twitch. “An’ do you an’
+your immoril she-elephints go well clear away. I will get down here.
+He’s an Irishman,” I sez, “for all his long Jew’s nose, an’ he shall be
+threated like an Irishman.”
+
+‘“Are ye tired av life?” sez the sergeant.
+
+‘“Divil a bit,” I sez; “but wan av us has to win, an’ I’m av opinion
+’tis me. Get back,” I sez.
+
+‘The two elephints wint off, an’ Smith O’Brine came to a halt dead
+above his own pickuts. “Down,” sez I, whackin’ him on the head, an’
+down he wint, shouldher over shouldher like a hill-side slippin’ afther
+rain. “Now,” sez I, slidin down his nose an’ runnin’ to the front av
+him, “you will see the man that’s betther than you.”
+
+‘His big head was down betune his big forefeet, an’ they was twisted
+in sideways like a kitten’s. He looked the picture av innocince an’
+forlornsomeness, an’ by this an’ that his big hairy undherlip was
+thremblin’, an’ he winked his eyes together to kape from cryin’. “For
+the love av God,” I sez, clean forgettin’ he was a dumb baste; “don’t
+take ut to heart so! Aisy, be aisy,” I sez; an’ wid that I rubbed his
+cheek an’ betune his eyes an’ the top av his thrunk, talkin’ all the
+time. “Now,” sez I, “I’ll make you comfortable for the night. Send wan
+or two childher here,” I sez to the sergeant who was watchin’ for to
+see me killed. “He’ll rouse at the sight av a man.”’
+
+‘You got bloomin’ clever all of a sudden,’ said Ortheris. ‘’Ow did you
+come to know ’is funny little ways that soon?’
+
+‘Bekase,’ said Terence with emphasis, ‘bekase I had conquered the
+beggar, my son.’
+
+‘Ho!’ said Ortheris between doubt and derision. ‘G’on.’
+
+‘His mahout’s child an’ wan or two other line-babies came runnin’ up,
+not bein’ afraid av anything, an’ some got wather, an’ I washed the
+top av his poor sore head (begad, I had done him to a turn!), an’
+some picked the pieces av carts out av his hide, an’ we scraped him,
+an’ handled him all over, an’ we put a thunderin’ big poultice av
+neem-leaves (the same that ye stick on a pony’s gall) on his head, an’
+it looked like a smokin’-cap, an’ we put a pile av young sugar-cane
+forninst him, an’ he began to pick at ut. “Now,” sez I, settin’ down
+on his fore-foot, “we’ll have a dhrink, an’ let bygones be.” I sent a
+naygur-child for a quart av arrack, an’ the sergeant’s wife she sint me
+out four fingers av whisky, an’ whin the liquor came I cud see by the
+twinkle in Ould Typhoon’s eye that he was no more a stranger to ut than
+me,--worse luck, than me! So he tuk his quart like a Christian, an’
+_thin_ I put his shackles on, chained him fore an’ aft to the pickets,
+an’ gave him my blessin’, an wint back to barricks.’
+
+‘And after?’ I said in the pause.
+
+‘Ye can guess,’ said Mulvaney. ‘There was confusion, an’ the colonel
+gave me ten rupees, an’ the adj’tant gave me five, an’ my comp’ny
+captain gave me five, an’ the men carried me round the barricks
+shoutin’.’
+
+‘Did you go to Clink?’ said Ortheris.
+
+‘I niver heard a word more about the misundherstandin’ wid Kearney’s
+beak, if that’s what you mane; but sev’ril av the bhoys was tuk off
+sudden to the Holy Christians’ Hotel that night. Small blame to
+thim,--they had twenty rupees in dhrinks. I wint to lie down an’ sleep
+ut off, for I was as done an’ double done as him there in the lines.
+’Tis no small thing to go ride elephants.
+
+‘Subsequint, me an’ the Venerable Father av Sin became mighty friendly.
+I wud go down to the lines, whin I was in dishgrace, an’ spend an
+afthernoon collogin’ wid him; he chewin’ wan stick av sugar-cane an’
+me another, as thick as thieves. He’d take all I had out av my pockets
+an’ put ut back again, an’ now an’ thin I’d bring him beer for his
+dijistin’, an’ I’d give him advice about bein’ well behaved an’ keepin’
+off the books. Afther that he wint the way av the Army, an’ that’s
+bein’ thransferred as soon as you’ve made a good friend.’
+
+‘So you never saw him again?’ I demanded.
+
+‘Do you belave the first half av the affair?’ said Terence.
+
+‘I’ll wait till Learoyd comes,’ I said evasively. Except when he was
+carefully tutored by the other two and the immediate money-benefit
+explained, the Yorkshireman did not tell lies; and Terence, I knew, had
+a profligate imagination.
+
+‘There’s another part still,’ said Mulvaney. ‘Ortheris was in that.’
+
+‘Then I’ll believe it all,’ I answered, not from any special belief in
+Ortheris’s word, but from desire to learn the rest. Ortheris stole a
+pup from me when our acquaintance was new, and with the little beast
+stifling under his overcoat, denied not only the theft, but that he
+ever was interested in dogs.
+
+‘That was at the beginnin’ av the Afghan business,’ said Mulvaney;
+‘years afther the men that had seen me do the thrick was dead or
+gone home. I came not to speak av ut at the last bekase,--bekase I
+do _not_ care to knock the face av ivry man that calls me a liar. At
+the very beginnin’ av the marchin’ I wint sick like a fool. I had a
+boot-gall, but I was all for keepin’ up wid the rig’mint and such
+like foolishness. So I finished up wid a hole in my heel that you cud
+ha’ dhruv a tent-peg into. Faith, how often have I preached that to
+recruities since, for a warnin’ to thim to look afther their feet! Our
+docthor, who knew our business as well as his own, he sez to me, in the
+middle av the Tangi Pass it was: “That’s sheer damned carelessness,”
+sez he. “How often have I tould you that a marchin’ man is no stronger
+than his feet,--his feet,--his feet!” he sez. “Now to hospital you
+go,” he sez, “for three weeks, an expense to your Quane an’ a nuisince
+to your counthry. Next time,” sez he, “perhaps you’ll put some av the
+whisky you pour down your throat, an’ some av the tallow you put into
+your hair, into your socks,” sez he. Faith he was a just man. So soon
+as we come to the head av the Tangi I wint to hospital, hoppin’ on wan
+fut, woild wid disappointment. ’Twas a field-hospital (all flies an’
+native apothecaries an’ liniment) dhropped, in a way av speakin’, close
+by the head av the Tangi. The hospital guard was ravin’ mad wid us
+sick for keepin’ thim there, an’ we was ravin’ mad at bein’ kept; an’
+through the Tangi, day an’ night an’ night an’ day, the fut an’ horse
+an’ guns an’ commissariat an’ tents an’ followers av the brigades was
+pourin’ like a coffee-mill. The doolies came dancin’ through, scores
+an’ scores av thim, an’ they’d turn up the hill to hospital wid their
+sick, an’ I lay in bed nursin’ my heel, an’ hearin’ the men bein’ tuk
+out. I remimber wan night (the time I was tuk wid fever) a man came
+rowlin’ through the tents an’, “Is there any room to die here?” he sez;
+“there’s none wid the columns”; an’ at that he dhropped dead acrost
+a cot, an’ thin the man in ut began to complain against dyin’ all
+alone in the dust undher dead men. Thin I must ha’ turned mad wid the
+fever, an’ for a week I was prayin’ the saints to stop the noise av the
+columns movin’ through the Tangi. Gun-wheels it was that wore my head
+thin. Ye know how ’tis wid fever?’
+
+We nodded; there was no need to explain.
+
+‘Gun-wheels an’ feet an’ people shoutin’, but mostly gun-wheels. ’Twas
+neither night nor day to me for a week. In the mornin’ they’d rowl up
+the tent-flies, an’ we sick cud look at the Pass an’ considher what was
+comin’ next. Horse, fut, or guns, they’d be sure to dhrop wan or two
+sick wid us an’ we’d get news. Wan mornin’, whin the fever hild off of
+me, I was watchin’ the Tangi, an’ ’twas just like the picture on the
+backside av the Afghan medal,--men an’ elephints an’ guns comin’ wan at
+a time crawlin’ out of a dhrain.’
+
+‘It were a dhrain,’ said Ortheris with feeling. ‘I’ve fell out an’ been
+sick in the Tangi twice; an’ wot turns my innards ain’t no bloomin’
+vi’lets neither.’
+
+‘The Pass give a twist at the ind, so everything shot out suddint an’
+they’d built a throop-bridge (mud an’ dead mules) over a nullah at the
+head av ut. I lay an’ counted the elephints (gun-elephints) thryin’
+the bridge wid their thrunks an’ rolling out sagacious. The fifth
+elephint’s head came round the corner, an’ he threw up his thrunk, an’
+he fetched a toot, an’ there he shtuck at the head of the Tangi like a
+cork in a bottle. “Faith,” thinks I to mysilf, “he will not thrust the
+bridge; there will be throuble.”’
+
+‘Trouble! My Gawd!’ said Ortheris. ‘Terence, _I_ was be’ind that
+blooming ’uttee up to my stock in dust. Trouble!’
+
+‘Tell on then, little man; I only saw the hospital ind av ut.’ Mulvaney
+knocked the ashes out of his pipe, as Ortheris heaved the dogs aside
+and went on.
+
+‘We was escort to them guns, three comp’nies of us,’ he said. ‘Dewcy
+was our major, an’ our orders was to roll up anything we come across in
+the Tangi an’ shove it out t’other end. Sort o’ pop-gun picnic, see?
+We’d rolled up a lot o’ lazy beggars o’ native followers, an’ some
+commissariat supplies that was bivoo-whackin’ for ever seemin’ly, an’
+all the sweepin’s of ’arf a dozen things what ought to ’ave bin at the
+front weeks ago, an’ Dewcy, he sez to us: “You’re most ’eart-breakin’
+sweeps,” ’e sez. “For ’eving’s sake,” sez ’e, “do a little sweepin’
+now.” So we swep’,--s’welp me, ’ow we did sweep ’em along! There was
+a full reg’ment be’ind us; most anxious to get on they was; an’ they
+kep’ on sendin’ to us with the colonel’s compliments, an’ what in ’ell
+was we stoppin’ the way for, please? Oh, they was partic’lar polite! So
+was Dewcy! ’E sent ’em back wot-for, an’ ’e give us wot-for, an’ we
+give the guns wot-for, an’ they give the commissariat wot-for, an’ the
+commissariat give first-class extry wot-for to the native followers,
+an’ on we’d go again till we was stuck, an’ the ’ole Pass ’ud be
+swimmin’ Allelujah for a mile an’ a ’arf. We ’adn’t no tempers, nor
+no seats to our trousies, an’ our coats an’ our rifles was chucked in
+the carts, so as we might ha’ been cut up any minute, an’ we was doin’
+drover-work. That was wot it was; drovin’ on the Islin’ton road!
+
+‘I was close up at the ’ead of the column when we saw the end of the
+Tangi openin’ out ahead of us, an’ I sez: “The door’s open, boys.
+’Oo’ll git to the gall’ry fust?” I sez. Then I saw Dewcy screwin’ ’is
+bloomin’ eyeglass in ’is eye an’ lookin’ straight on. “Propped,--_ther_
+beggar!” he sez; an’ the be’ind end o’ that bloomin’ old ’uttee was
+shinin’ through the dust like a bloomin’ old moon made ’o tarpaulin.
+Then we ’alted, all chock-a-block, one atop o’ the other, an’ right at
+the back o’ the guns there sails in a lot o’ silly grinnin’ camels,
+what the commissariat was in charge of--sailin’ away as if they was at
+the Zoological Gardens an’ squeezin’ our men most awful. The dust was
+that up you couldn’t see your ’and; an’ the more we ’it ’em on the ’ead
+the more their drivers sez, “Accha! Accha!” an’ by Gawd it was “at yer”
+before you knew where you was. An’ that ’uttee’s be’ind end stuck in
+the Pass good an’ tight, an’ no one knew wot for.
+
+‘Fust thing we ’ad to do was to fight they bloomin’ camels. I wasn’t
+goin’ to be eat by no bull-_oont_; so I ’eld up my trousies with one
+’and, standin’ on a rock, an’ ’it away with my belt at every nose I saw
+bobbin’ above me. Then the camels fell back, an’ they ’ad to fight
+to keep the rear-guard an’ the native followers from crushin’ into
+them; an’ the rear-guard ’ad to send down the Tangi to warn the other
+reg’ment that we was blocked. I ’eard the mahouts shoutin’ in front
+that the ’uttee wouldn’t cross the bridge; an’ I saw Dewcy skippin’
+about through the dust like a musquito worm in a tank. Then our
+comp’nies got tired o’ waitin’ an’ begun to mark time, an’ some goat
+struck up _Tommy, make room for your Uncle_. After _that_, you couldn’t
+neither see nor breathe nor ’ear; an’ there we was, singin’ bloomin’
+serenades to the end of a’ elephant that don’t care for tunes! I sung
+too; I couldn’t do nothin’ else. They was strengthenin’ the bridge in
+front, all for the sake of the ’uttee. By an’ by a’ orf’cer caught me
+by the throat an’ choked the sing out of me. So I caught the next man I
+could see by the throat an’ choked the sing out of _’im_.’
+
+‘What’s the difference between being choked by an officer and being
+hit?’ I asked, remembering a little affair in which Ortheris’s honour
+had been injured by his lieutenant.
+
+‘One’s a bloomin’ lark, an’ one’s a bloomin’ insult!’ said Ortheris.
+‘Besides, we was on service, an’ no one cares what an orf’cer does
+then, s’long as ’e gets our rations an’ don’t get us unusual cut up.
+After that we got quiet, an’ I ’eard Dewcy say that ’e’d court-martial
+the lot of us soon as we was out of the Tangi. Then we give three
+cheers for Dewcy an’ three more for the Tangi; an’ the ’uttee’s be’ind
+end was stickin’ in the Pass, so we cheered _that_. Then they said
+the bridge had been strengthened, an’ we give three cheers for the
+bridge; but the ’uttee wouldn’t move a bloomin’ hinch. Not ’im! Then
+we cheered ’im again, an’ Kite Dawson, that was corner-man at all the
+sing-songs (’e died on the way down) began to give a nigger lecture
+on the be’ind ends of elephants, an’ Dewcy, ’e tried to keep ’is face
+for a minute, but, Lord, you couldn’t do such when Kite was playin’
+the fool an’ askin’ whether ’e mightn’t ’ave leave to rent a villa
+an’ raise ’is orphan children in the Tangi, ’cos ’e couldn’t get ’ome
+no more. Then up come a orf’cer (mounted, like a fool, too) from the
+reg’mint at the back with some more of his colonel’s pretty little
+compliments, an’ what was this delay, please. We sung ’im _There’s
+another bloomin’ row downstairs_ till ’is ’orse bolted, an’ then we
+give ’im three cheers; an’ Kite Dawson sez ’e was goin’ to write to
+_The Times_ about the awful state of the streets in Afghanistan. The
+’uttee’s be’ind end was stickin’ in the Pass all the time. At last one
+o’ the mahouts came to Dewcy an’ sez something. “Oh Lord!” sez Dewcy,
+“_I_ don’t know the beggar’s visiting-list! I’ll give ’im another ten
+minutes an’ then I’ll shoot ’im.” Things was gettin’ pretty dusty in
+the Tangi, so we all listened. “’E wants to see a friend,” sez Dewcy
+out loud to the men, an’ ’e mopped ’is forehead an’ sat down on a
+gun-tail.
+
+‘I leave it to you to judge ’ow the reg’ment shouted. “That’s all
+right,” we sez. “Three cheers for Mister Winterbottom’s friend,”
+sez we. “Why didn’t you say so at first? Pass the word for old
+Swizzletail’s wife,”--and such like. Some o’ the men they didn’t laugh.
+They took it same as if it might have been a’ introduction like, ’cos
+they knew about ’uttees. Then we all run forward over the guns an’ in
+an’ out among the elephants’ legs,--Lord, I wonder ’arf the comp’nies
+wasn’t squashed--an’ the next thing I saw was Terence ’ere, lookin’
+like a sheet o’ wet paper, comin’ down the ’illside wid a sergeant.
+“’Strewth,” I sez. “I might ha’ knowed ’e’d be at the bottom of any
+cat’s trick,” sez I. Now you tell wot ’appened your end?’
+
+‘I lay be the same as you did, little man, listenin’ to the noises an’
+the bhoys singin’. Presintly I heard whisperin’ an’ the doctor sayin’,
+“Get out av this, wakin’ my sick wid your jokes about elephints.” An’
+another man sez, all angry: “’Tis a joke that is stoppin’ two thousand
+men in the Tangi. That son av sin av a haybag av an elephint sez, or
+the mahouts sez for him, that he wants to see a friend, an’ he’ll not
+lift hand or fut till he finds him. I’m wore out wid inthrojucin’
+sweepers an’ coolies to him, an’ his hide’s as full o’ bay’net pricks
+as a musquito-net av holes, an’ I’m here undher ordhers, docther dear,
+to ask if any one, sick or well, or alive or dead, knows an elephint.
+I’m not mad,” he sez, settin’ on a box av medical comforts. “’Tis my
+ordhers, an’ ’tis my mother,” he sez, “that would laugh at me for the
+father av all fools to-day. Does any wan here know an elephint?” We
+sick was all quiet.
+
+‘“Now you’ve had your answer,” sez the doctor. “Go away.”
+
+‘“Hould on,” I sez, thinkin’ mistiways in my cot, an’ I did not know my
+own voice. “I’m by way av bein’ acquainted wid an elephant, myself,” I
+sez.
+
+‘“That’s delirium,” sez the doctor. “See what you’ve done, sergeant.
+Lie down, man,” he sez, seein’ me thryin’ to get up.
+
+‘“’Tis not,” I sez. “I rode him round Cawnpore barricks. He will not
+ha’ forgotten. I bruk his head wid a rifle.”
+
+‘“Mad as a coot,” sez the doctor, an’ thin he felt my head. “It’s
+quare,” sez he. “Man,” he sez, “if you go, d’you know ’twill either
+kill or cure?”
+
+‘“What do I care?” sez I. “If I’m mad, ’tis better dead.”
+
+‘“Faith, that’s sound enough,” sez the doctor. “You’ve no fever on you
+now.”
+
+‘“Come on,” sez the sergeant. “We’re all mad to-day, an’ the throops
+are wantin’ their dinner.” He put his arm round av me an’ I came
+into the sun, the hills an’ the rocks skippin’ big giddy-go-rounds.
+“Seventeen years have I been in the army,” sez the sergeant, “an’ the
+days av mericles are not done. They’ll be givin’ us more pay next.
+Begad,” he sez, “the brute knows you!”
+
+‘Ould Obstructionist was screamin’ like all possist whin I came up, an’
+I heard forty million men up the Tangi shoutin’, “He knows him!” Thin
+the big thrunk came round me an’ I was nigh fainting wid weakness. “Are
+you well, Malachi?” I sez, givin’ him the name he answered to in the
+lines. “Malachi, my son, are you well?” sez I, “for I am not.” At that
+he thrumpeted again till the Pass rang to ut, an’ the other elephints
+tuk it up. Thin I got a little strength back. “Down, Malachi,” I sez,
+“an’ put me up, but touch me tendher for I am not good.” He was on
+his knees in a minut an’ he slung me up as gentle as a girl. “Go on
+now, my son,” I sez. “You’re blockin’ the road.” He fetched wan more
+joyous toot, an’ swung grand out av the head av the Tangi, his gun-gear
+clankin’ on his back; an’ at the back av him there wint the most
+amazin’ shout I iver heard. An’ thin I felt my head shpin, an’ a mighty
+sweat bruk out on me, an’ Malachi was growin’ taller an’ taller to me
+settin’ on his back, an’ I sez, foolish like an’ weak, smilin’ all
+round an’ about, “Take me down,” I sez, “or I’ll fall.”
+
+‘The next I remimber was lyin’ in my cot again, limp as a chewed rag
+but cured av the fever, an’ the Tangi as empty as the back av my hand.
+They’d all gone up to the front, an’ ten days later I wint up too,
+havin’ blocked an’ unblocked an entire army corps. What do you think av
+ut, sorr?’
+
+‘I’ll wait till I see Learoyd,’ I repeated.
+
+‘Ah’m here,’ said a shadow from among the shadows. ‘Ah’ve heard t’ tale
+too.’
+
+‘Is it true, Jock?’
+
+‘Ay; true as t’owd bitch has getten t’mange. Orth’ris, yo’ maun’t let
+t’dawgs hev owt to do wi’ her.’
+
+
+
+
+                       ONE VIEW OF THE QUESTION.
+
+
+_From Shafiz Ullah Khan, son of Hyat Ullah Khan, in the honoured
+  service of His Highness the Rao Sahib of Jagesur, which is in the
+  northern borders of Hindustan, and Orderly to his Highness, this to
+  Kazi Jamal-ud-Din, son of Kazi Ferisht-ud-Din Khan, in the service of
+  the Rao Sahib, a minister much honoured. From that place which they
+  call the Northbrook Club, in the town of London, under the shadow of
+  the Empress, it is written:_
+
+Between brother and chosen brother be no long protestations of Love
+  and Sincerity. Heart speaks naked to Heart, and the Head answers for
+  all. Glory and Honour on thy house till the ending of the years and a
+  tent in the borders of Paradise.
+
+
+MY BROTHER,--In regard to that for which I was despatched follows the
+account. I have purchased for the Rao Sahib, and paid sixty pounds
+in every hundred, the things he most desired. Thus; two of the great
+fawn-coloured tiger-dogs, male and female, their pedigree being written
+upon paper, and silver collars adorning their necks. For the Rao
+Sahib’s greater pleasure I send them at once by the steamer, in charge
+of a man who will render account of them at Bombay to the bankers
+there. They are the best of all dogs in this place. Of guns I have
+bought five--two silver-sprigged in the stock, with gold scroll-work
+about the hammer, both double-barrelled, hard-striking, cased in
+velvet and red leather; three of unequalled workmanship, but lacking
+adornment; a pump-gun that fires fourteen times--this when the Rao
+Sahib drives pig; a double-barrelled shell-gun for tiger, and that is a
+miracle of workmanship; and a fowling-piece no lighter than a feather,
+with green and blue cartridges by the thousand. Also a very small rifle
+for blackbuck, that yet would slay a man at four hundred paces. The
+harness with the golden crests for the Rao Sahib’s coach is not yet
+complete, by reason of the difficulty of lining the red velvet into
+leather; but the two-horse harness and the great saddle with the golden
+holsters that is for state use have been put with camphor into a tin
+box, and I have signed it with my ring. Of the grained leather case of
+women’s tools and tweezers for the hair and beard, of the perfumes and
+the silks, and all that was wanted by the women behind the curtains, I
+have no knowledge. They are matters of long coming, and the hawk-bells,
+hoods, and jesses with the golden lettering are as much delayed as
+they. Read this in the Rao Sahib’s ear, and speak of my diligence
+and zeal, that favour may not be abated by absence, and keep the eye
+of constraint upon that jesting dog without teeth--Bahadur Shah--for
+by thy aid and voice, and what I have done in regard to the guns, I
+look, as thou knowest, for the headship of the army of Jagesur. That
+conscienceless one desires it also, and I have heard that the Rao Sahib
+leans thatward. Have ye done, then, with the drinking of wine in your
+house, my brother, or has Bahadur Shah become a forswearer of brandy? I
+would not that drink should end him; but the well-mixed draught leads
+to madness. Consider.
+
+And now in regard to this land of the Sahibs, follows that thou hast
+demanded. God is my witness that I have striven to understand all that
+I saw and a little of what I heard. My words and intention are those of
+truth, yet it may be that I write of nothing but lies.
+
+Since the first wonder and bewilderment of my beholding is gone--we
+note the jewels in the ceiling-dome, but later the filth on the
+floor--I see clearly that this town, London, which is as large as
+all Jagesur, is accursed, being dark and unclean, devoid of sun, and
+full of low-born, who are perpetually drunk, and howl in the streets
+like jackals, men and women together. At nightfall it is the custom
+of countless thousands of women to descend into the streets and sweep
+them, roaring, making jests, and demanding liquor. At the hour of this
+attack it is the custom of the householders to take their wives and
+children to the playhouses and the places of entertainment; evil and
+good thus returning home together as do kine from the pools at sundown.
+I have never seen any sight like this sight in all the world, and I
+doubt that a double is to be found on the hither side of the gates of
+Hell. Touching the mystery of their craft, it is an ancient one, but
+the householders assemble in herds, being men and women, and cry aloud
+to their God that it is not there; the said women pounding at the doors
+without. Moreover, upon the day when they go to prayer the drink-places
+are only opened when the mosques are shut; as who should dam the
+Jumna river for Friday only. Therefore the men and women, being
+forced to accomplish their desires in the shorter space, become the
+more furiously drunk, and roll in the gutter together. They are there
+regarded by those going to pray. Further, and for visible sign that
+the place is forgotten of God, there falls upon certain days, without
+warning, a cold darkness, whereby the sun’s light is altogether cut off
+from all the city, and the people, male and female, and the drivers of
+the vehicles grope and howl in this Pit at high noon, none seeing the
+other. The air being filled with the smoke of Hell--sulphur and pitch
+as it is written--they die speedily with gaspings, and so are buried in
+the dark. This is a terror beyond the pen, but, by my head, I write of
+what I have seen!
+
+It is not true that the Sahibs worship one God, as do we of the Faith,
+or that the differences in their creed be like those now running
+between Shiah and Sunni. I am but a fighting man, and no darvesh,
+caring, as thou knowest, as much for Shiah as Sunni. But I have spoken
+to many people of the nature of their Gods. One there is who is the
+head of the Mukht-i-Fauj,[1] and he is worshipped by men in blood-red
+clothes, who shout and become without sense. Another is an image,
+before whom they burn candles and incense in just such a place as I
+have seen when I went to Rangoon to buy Burma ponies for the Rao.
+Yet a third has naked altars facing a great assembly of dead. To
+him they sing chiefly; and for others there is a woman who was the
+mother of the great prophet that was before Mahommed. The common folk
+have no God, but worship those who may speak to them hanging from
+the lamps in the street. The most wise people worship themselves and
+such things as they have made with their mouths and their hands, and
+this is to be found notably among the barren women, of whom there are
+many. It is the custom of men and women to make for themselves such
+God as they desire; pinching and patting the very soft clay of their
+thought into the acceptable mould of their lusts. So each is furnished
+with a Godling after his own heart; and this Godling is changed in a
+little, as the stomach turns or the health is altered. Thou wilt not
+believe this tale, my brother. Nor did I when I was first told, but
+now it is nothing to me; so greatly has the foot of travel let out the
+stirrup-holes of belief.
+
+But thou wilt say, ‘What matter to us whether Ahmed’s beard or Mahmud’s
+be the longer! Speak what thou canst of the Accomplishment of Desire.’
+Would that thou wert here to talk face to face and walk abroad with me
+and learn.
+
+To this people it is a matter of Heaven and Hell whether Ahmed’s beard
+and Mahmud’s tally or differ but by a hair. Thou knowest the system of
+their statecraft? It is this. Certain men, appointing themselves, go
+about and speak to the low-born, the peasants, the leather-workers,
+and the cloth-dealers, and the women, saying: ‘Give us leave by your
+favour to speak for you in the council.’ Securing that permission by
+large promises, they return to the council-place, and, sitting unarmed,
+some six hundred together, speak at random each for himself and his own
+ball of low-born. The viziers and dewans of the Empress must ever beg
+money at their hands, for unless more than a half of the six hundred
+be of one heart towards the spending of the revenues, neither horse can
+be shod, rifle loaded, nor man clothed throughout the land. Remember
+this very continually. The six hundred are above the Empress, above the
+Viceroy of India, above the Head of the Army and every other power that
+thou hast ever known. _Because they hold the revenues._
+
+They are divided into two hordes--the one perpetually hurling abuse at
+the other, and bidding the low-born hamper and rebel against all that
+the other may devise for government. Except that they are unarmed, and
+so call each other liar, dog, and bastard without fear, even under the
+shadow of the Empress’s throne, they are at bitter war which is without
+any end. They pit lie against lie, till the low-born and common folk
+grow drunk with lies, and in their turn begin to lie and refuse to pay
+the revenues. Further, they divide their women into bands, and send
+them into this fight with yellow flowers in their hands, and since the
+belief of a woman is but her lover’s belief stripped of judgment, very
+many wild words are added. Well said the slave-girl to Mámún in the
+delectable pages of the Son of Abdullah:--
+
+    ‘Oppression and the sword slay fast--
+     Thy breath kills slowly but at last.’
+
+If they desire a thing they declare that it is true. If they desire
+it not, though that were Death itself, they cry aloud, ‘It has never
+been.’ Thus their talk is the talk of children, and like children they
+snatch at what they covet, not considering whether it is their own or
+another’s. And in their councils, when the army of unreason has come
+to the defile of dispute, and there is no more talk left on either
+side, they, dividing, count heads, and the will of that side which has
+the larger number of heads makes that law. But the outnumbered side run
+speedily among the common people and bid them trample on that law, and
+slay the officers thereof. Follows slaughter by night of men unarmed,
+and the slaughter of cattle and insults to women. They do not cut off
+the noses of women, but they crop their hair and scrape the flesh with
+pins. Then those shameless ones of the council stand up before the
+judges wiping their mouths and making oath. They say: ‘Before God we
+are free from blame. Did we say “Heave that stone out of that road and
+kill that one and no other”?’ So they are not made shorter by the head
+because they said only: ‘Here are stones and yonder is such a fellow
+obeying the Law which is no law because we do not desire it.’
+
+Read this in the Rao Sahib’s ear, and ask him if he remembers that
+season when the Manglôt headmen refused revenue, not because they could
+not pay, but because they judged the cess extreme. I and thou went out
+with the troopers all one day and the black lances raised the thatch,
+so that there was hardly any need of firing; and no man was slain.
+But this land is at secret war and veiled killing. In five years of
+peace they have slain within their own borders and of their own kin
+more men than would have fallen had the ball of dissension been left
+to the mallet of the army. And yet there is no hope of peace, for soon
+the sides again divide, and then they will cause to be slain more men
+unarmed and in the fields. And so much for that matter, which is to our
+advantage. There is a better thing to be told, and one tending to the
+Accomplishment of Desire. Read here with a fresh mind after sleep. I
+write as I understand.
+
+Above all this war without honour lies that which I find hard to put
+into writing, and thou knowest I am unhandy of the pen. I will ride
+the steed of Inability sideways at the wall of Expression. The earth
+under foot is sick and sour with the much handling of man, as a grazing
+ground sours under cattle; and the air is sick too. Upon the ground
+they have laid in this town, as it were, the stinking boards of a
+stable, and through these boards, between a thousand thousand houses,
+the rank humours of the earth sweat through to the overburdened air
+that returns them to their breeding-place; for the smoke of their
+cooking fires keeps all in as the cover the juices of the sheep. And in
+like manner there is a green-sickness among the people, and especially
+among the six hundred men who talk. Neither winter nor autumn abates
+that malady of the soul. I have seen it among women in our own country,
+and in boys not yet blooded to the sword; but I have never seen so
+much thereof before. Through the peculiar operation of this thing the
+people, abandoning honour and steadfastness, question all authority,
+not as men question, but as girls, whimperingly, with pinching in the
+back when the back is turned and mowing. If one cries in the streets,
+‘There has been an injustice,’ they take him not to make complaint to
+those appointed, but all who pass, drinking his words, fly clamorously
+to the house of the accused and write evil things of him, his wives and
+his daughters; for they take no thought to the weighing of evidence,
+but are as women. And with one hand they beat their constables who
+guard the streets, and with the other beat the constables for resenting
+that beating, and fine them. When they have in all things made light of
+the State they cry to the State for help, and it is given, so that the
+next time they will cry more. Such as are oppressed riot through the
+streets, bearing banners that hold four days’ labour and a week’s bread
+in cost and toil; and when neither horse nor foot can pass by they
+are satisfied. Others, receiving wages, refuse to work till they get
+more, and the priests help them, and also men of the six hundred--for
+where rebellion is, one of those men will come as a kite to a dead
+bullock--and priests, talker, and men together declare that it is right
+because these will not work that no others may attempt. In this manner
+they have so confused the loading and the unloading of the ships that
+come to this town that, in sending the Rao Sahib’s guns and harness,
+I saw fit to send the cases by the train to another ship that sailed
+from another place. There is now no certainty in any sending. But who
+injures the merchants shuts the door of well-being on the city and the
+army. And ye know what Sa’adi saith:--
+
+    ‘How may the merchant westward fare
+     When he hears the tale of the tumults there?’
+
+No man can keep faith because he cannot tell how his underlings will
+go. They have made the servant greater than the master, for that he
+is the servant; not reckoning that each is equal under God to the
+appointed task. That is a thing to be put aside in the cupboard of the
+mind.
+
+Further, the misery and outcry of the common folk of whom the earth’s
+bosom is weary, has so wrought upon the minds of certain people who
+have never slept under fear nor seen the flat edge of the sword on the
+heads of a mob, that they cry out: ‘Let us abate everything that is,
+and altogether labour with our bare hands.’ Their hands in that employ
+would fester at the second stroke; and I have seen, for all their
+unrest at the agonies of others, they abandon no whit of soft living.
+Unknowing the common folk, or indeed the minds of men, they offer
+strong drink of words, such as they themselves use, to empty bellies;
+and that wine breeds drunkenness of soul. The distressful persons stand
+all day long at the door of the drink-places to the number of very many
+thousands. The well-wishing people of small discernment give them words
+or pitifully attempt in schools to turn them into craftsmen, weavers,
+or builders, of whom there be more than enough. Yet they have not
+the wisdom to look at the hands of the taught, whereon a man’s craft
+and that of his father is written by God and Necessity. They believe
+that the son of a drunkard shall drive a straight chisel and the
+charioteer do plaster-work. They take no thought in the dispensation of
+generosity, which is as the closed fingers of a water-scooping palm.
+Therefore the rough timber of a very great army drifts unhewn through
+the slime of their streets. If the Government, which is to-day and
+to-morrow changes, spent on these hopeless ones some money to clothe
+and equip, I should not write what I write. But these people despise
+the trade of arms, and rest content with the memory of old battles; the
+women and the talking men aiding them.
+
+Thou wilt say: ‘Why speak continually of women and fools?’ I answer by
+God, the Fashioner of the Heart, the fools sit among the six hundred,
+and the women sway their councils. Hast thou forgotten when the order
+came across the seas that rotted out the armies of the English with us,
+so that soldiers fell sick by the hundred where but ten had sickened
+before? That was the work of not more than twenty of the men and some
+fifty of the barren women. I have seen three or four of them, male and
+female, and they triumph openly, in the name of their God, because
+three regiments of the white troops are not. This is to our advantage;
+because the sword with the rust-spot breaks over the turban of the
+enemy. But if they thus tear their own flesh and blood ere their
+madness be risen to its height, what will they do when the moon is full?
+
+Seeing that power lay in the hands of the six hundred, and not in the
+Viceroy or elsewhere, I have throughout my stay sought the shadow
+of those among them who talk most and most extravagantly. They lead
+the common folk, and receive permission from their good will. It is
+the desire of some of these men--indeed, of almost as many as caused
+the rotting of the English army--that our lands and peoples should
+accurately resemble those of the English upon this very day. May God,
+the Contemner of Folly, forbid! I myself am accounted a show among
+them, and of us and ours they know naught, some calling me Hindu and
+others Rajput, and using towards me, in ignorance, slave-talk and
+expressions of great disrespect. Some of them are well-born, but
+the greater part are low-born, coarse-skinned, waving their arms,
+high-voiced, without dignity, slack in the mouth, shifty-eyed, and, as
+I have said, swayed by the wind of a woman’s cloak.
+
+Now this is a tale but two days old. There was a company at meat, and a
+high-voiced woman spoke to me, in the face of the men, of the affairs
+of our womankind. It was her ignorance that made each word an edged
+insult. Remembering this I held my peace till she had spoken a new law
+as to the control of our zenanas, and all who are behind the curtains.
+
+Then I--‘Hast thou ever felt the life stir under thy heart or laid a
+little son between thy breasts, O most unhappy?’ Thereto she hotly,
+with a haggard eye--‘No, for I am a free woman, and no servant of
+babes.’ Then I softly--‘God deal lightly with thee, my sister, for thou
+art in heavier bondage than any slave, and the fuller half of the earth
+is hidden from thee. The first ten years of the life of a man are his
+mother’s, and from the dusk to the dawn surely the wife may command the
+husband. Is it a great thing to stand back in the waking hours while
+the men go abroad unhampered by thy hands on the bridle-rein?’ Then she
+wondered that a heathen should speak thus: yet she is a woman honoured
+among these men, and openly professes that she hath no profession of
+faith in her mouth. Read this in the ear of the Rao Sahib, and demand
+how it would fare with me if I brought such a woman for his use. It
+were worse than that yellow desert-bred girl from Cutch, who set the
+girls to fighting for her own pleasure, and slippered the young prince
+across the mouth. Rememberest thou?
+
+In truth the fountain-head of power is putrid with long standing still.
+These men and women would make of all India a dung-cake, and would
+fain leave the mark of the fingers upon it. And they have power and
+the control of the revenues, and that is why I am so particular in
+description. _They have power over all India._ Of what they speak they
+understand nothing, for the low-born’s soul is bounded by his field,
+and he grasps not the connection of affairs from pole to pole. They
+boast openly that the Viceroy and the others are their servants. When
+the masters are mad, what shall the servants do?
+
+Some hold that all war is sin, and Death the greatest fear under God.
+Others declare with the Prophet that it is evil to drink, to which
+teaching their streets bear evident witness; and others there are,
+specially the low-born, who aver that all dominion is wicked and
+sovereignty of the sword accursed. These protested to me, making, as
+it were, an excuse that their kin should hold Hindustan, and hoping
+that upon a day they will depart. Knowing well the breed of white man
+in our borders I would have laughed, but forbore, remembering that
+these speakers had power in the counting of heads. Yet others cry aloud
+against the taxation of Hindustan under the Sahibs’ rule. To this I
+assent, remembering the yearly mercy of the Rao Sahib when the turbans
+of the troopers come through the blighted corn, and the women’s anklets
+go into the melting-pot. But I am no good speaker. _That_ is the duty
+of the boys from Bengal--hill asses with an eastern bray--Mahrattas
+from Poona, and the like. These, moving among fools, represent
+themselves as the sons of some one, being beggar-taught, offspring of
+grain-dealers, curriers, sellers of bottles, and money-lenders, as thou
+knowest. Now, we of Jagesur owe naught save friendship to the English
+who took us by the sword, and having taken us let us go, assuring the
+Rao Sahib’s succession for all time. But _these_ base-born, having won
+their learning through the mercy of the Government, attired in English
+clothes, forswearing the faith of their fathers for gain, spread rumour
+and debate against the Government, and are, therefore, very dear to
+certain of the six hundred. I have heard these cattle speak as princes
+and rulers of men, and I have laughed; but not altogether.
+
+Once it happened that a son of some grain-bag sat with me at meat,
+who was arrayed and speaking after the manner of the English. At each
+mouthful he committed perjury against the Salt that he had eaten; the
+men and women applauding. When, craftily falsifying, he had magnified
+oppression and invented untold wrong, together with the desecration
+of his tun-bellied gods, he demanded in the name of his people the
+government of all our land, and turning, laid palm to my shoulder,
+saying--‘Here is one who is with us, albeit he professes another faith;
+he will bear out my words.’ This he delivered in English, and, as it
+were, exhibited me to that company. Preserving a smiling countenance, I
+answered in our own tongue--‘Take away that hand, man without a father,
+or the folly of these folk shall not save thee, nor my silence guard
+thy reputation. Sit off, herd.’ And in their speech I said--‘He speaks
+truth. When the favour and wisdom of the English allows us yet a little
+larger share in the burden and the reward, the Mussalman will deal with
+the Hindu.’ He alone saw what was in my heart. I was merciful towards
+him because he was accomplishing our desires; but remember that his
+father is one Durga Charan Laha, in Calcutta. Lay thy hand upon _his_
+shoulder if ever chance sends. It is not good that bottle-dealers and
+auctioneers should paw the sons of princes. I walk abroad sometimes
+with the man that all this world may know the Hindu and Mussalman are
+one, but when we come to the unfrequented streets I bid him walk behind
+me and that is sufficient honour.
+
+And why did I eat dirt?
+
+Thus, my brother, it seems to my heart, which has almost burst in the
+consideration of these matters. The Bengalis and the beggar-taught
+boys know well that the Sahibs’ power to govern comes neither from the
+Viceroy nor the head of the army, but from the hands of the six hundred
+in this town, and peculiarly those who talk most. They will therefore
+yearly address themselves more and more to that protection, and working
+on the green-sickness of the land, as has ever been their custom, will
+in time cause, through the perpetually-instigated interference of the
+six hundred, the hand of the Indian Government to become inoperative,
+so that no measure nor order may be carried through without clamour and
+argument on their part; for that is the delight of the English at this
+hour. Have I overset the bounds of possibility? No. Even thou must have
+heard that one of the six hundred, having neither knowledge, fear, nor
+reverence before his eyes, has made in sport a new and a written scheme
+for the government of Bengal, and openly shows it abroad as a king
+might read his crowning proclamation. And this man, meddling in affairs
+of State, speaks in the council for an assemblage of leather-dressers,
+makers of boots and harness, and openly glories in that he has no God.
+Has either minister of the Empress, Empress, Viceroy, or any other
+raised a voice against this leather-man? Is not his power therefore to
+be sought, and that of his like-thinkers with it? Thou seest.
+
+The telegraph is the servant of the six hundred, and all the Sahibs in
+India, omitting not one, are the servants of the telegraph. Yearly,
+too, thou knowest, the beggar-taught will hold that which they call
+their Congress, first at one place and then at another, leavening
+Hindustan with rumour, echoing the talk among the low-born people here,
+and demanding that they, like the six hundred, control the revenues.
+And they will bring every point and letter over the heads of the
+Governors and the Lieutenant-Governors, and whoever hold authority, and
+cast it clamorously at the feet of the six hundred here; and certain
+of those word-confounders and the barren women will assent to their
+demands, and others will weary of disagreement. Thus fresh confusion
+will be thrown into the councils of the Empress even as the island
+near by is helped and comforted into the smothered war of which I have
+written. Then yearly, as they have begun and we have seen, the low-born
+men of the six hundred anxious for honour will embark for our land,
+and, staying a little while, will gather round them and fawn before
+the beggar-taught, and these departing from their side will assuredly
+inform the peasants, and the fighting men for whom there is no employ,
+that there is a change toward and a coming of help from over the seas.
+That rumour will not grow smaller in the spreading. And, most of all,
+the Congress, when it is not under the eye of the six hundred--who,
+though they foment dissension and death, pretend great reverence for
+the law which is no law--will, stepping aside, deliver uneasy words
+to the peasants, speaking, as it has done already, of the remission
+of taxation, and promising a new rule. That is to our advantage, but
+the flower of danger is in the seed of it. Thou knowest what evil a
+rumour may do; though in the Black Year when thou and I were young
+our standing to the English brought gain to Jagesur and enlarged our
+borders, for the Government gave us land on both sides. Of the Congress
+itself nothing is to be feared that ten troopers could not remove;
+but if its words too soon perturb the minds of those waiting or _of
+princes in idleness_, a flame may come before the time, and since there
+are now many white hands to quench it, all will return to the former
+condition. If the flame be kept under we need have no fear, because,
+sweating and panting, the one trampling on the other, the white people
+here are digging their own graves. The hand of the Viceroy will be
+tied, the hearts of the Sahibs will be downcast, and all eyes will turn
+to England disregarding any orders. Meantime, keeping tally on the
+sword-hilt against the hour when the score must be made smooth by the
+blade, it is well for us to assist and greatly befriend the Bengali
+that he may get control of the revenues and the posts. We must even
+write to England that we be of one blood with the school-men. It is
+not long to wait; by my head it is not long! This people are like the
+great king Ferisht, who, eaten with the scabs of long idleness, plucked
+off his crown and danced naked among the dung-hills. But I have not
+forgotten the profitable end of that tale. The vizier set him upon a
+horse and led him into battle. Presently his health returned, and he
+caused to be engraven on the crown:--
+
+    ‘Though I was cast away by the king
+      Yet, through God, I returned and he added to my brilliance
+      Two great rubies (Balkh and Iran).’
+
+If this people be purged and bled out by battle, their sickness may go
+and their eyes be cleared to the necessities of things. But they are
+now far gone in rottenness. Even the stallion, too long heel-roped,
+forgets how to fight: and these men are mules. I do not lie when I say
+that unless they are bled and taught with the whip, they will hear and
+obey all that is said by the Congress and the black men here, hoping to
+turn our land into their own orderless Jehannum. For the men of the six
+hundred, being chiefly low-born and unused to authority, desire much to
+exercise rule, extending their arms to the sun and moon, and shouting
+very greatly in order to hear the echo of their voices, each one saying
+some new strange thing and parting the goods and honour of others among
+the rapacious, that he may obtain the favour of the common folk. And
+all this is to our advantage.
+
+Therefore write, that they may read, of gratitude and of love and the
+law. I myself, when I return, will show how the dish should be dressed
+to take the taste here; for it is here that we must come. Cause to be
+established in Jagesur a newspaper, and fill it with translations of
+their papers. A beggar-taught may be brought from Calcutta for thirty
+rupees a month, and if he writes in Gurmukhi our people cannot read.
+Create, further, councils other than the panchayats of headmen, village
+by village and district by district, instructing them beforehand what
+to say according to the order of the Rao. Print all these things in
+a book in English, and send it to this place, and to every man of
+the six hundred. Bid the beggar-taught write in front of all that
+Jagesur follows fast on the English plan. If thou squeezest the Hindu
+shrine at Theegkot, and it is ripe, remit the head-tax, and perhaps
+the marriage-tax, with great publicity. But above all things keep the
+troops ready, and in good pay, even though we glean the stubble with
+the wheat and stint the Rao Sahib’s women. All must go softly. Protest
+thou thy love for the voice of the common people in all things, and
+affect to despise the troops. That shall be taken for a witness in this
+land. The headship of the troops must be mine. See that Bahadur Shah’s
+wits go wandering over the wine, but do not send him to God. I am an
+old man, but I may yet live to lead.
+
+If this people be not bled out and regain strength, we, watching how
+the tide runs, when we see that the shadow of their hand is all but
+lifted from Hindustan, must bid the Bengali demand the removal of the
+residue or set going an uneasiness to that end. We must have a care
+neither to hurt the life of the Englishmen nor the honour of their
+women, for in that case six times the six hundred here could not hold
+those who remain from making the land swim. We must care that they are
+not mobbed by the Bengalis, but honourably escorted, while the land is
+held down with the threat of the sword if a hair of their heads fall.
+Thus we shall gain a good name, and when rebellion is unaccompanied
+by bloodshed, as has lately befallen in a far country, the English,
+disregarding honour, call it by a new name: even one who has been a
+minister of the Empress, but is now at war against the law, praises
+it openly before the common folk. So greatly are they changed since
+the days of Nikhal Seyn![2] And then, if all go well and the Sahibs,
+who through continual checking and browbeating will have grown sick
+at heart, see themselves abandoned by their kin--for this people have
+allowed their greatest to die on dry sand through delay and fear of
+expense--we may go forward. This people are swayed by names. A new
+name therefore must be given to the rule of Hindustan (and that the
+Bengalis may settle among themselves), and there will be many writings
+and oaths of love, such as the little island over seas makes when it
+would fight more bitterly; and after that the residue are diminished
+the hour comes, and we must strike so that the sword is never any more
+questioned.
+
+By the favour of God and the conservation of the Sahibs these many
+years, Hindustan contains very much plunder, which we can in no way eat
+hurriedly. There will be to our hand the scaffolding of the house of
+state, for the Bengali shall continue to do our work, and must account
+to us for the revenue, and learn his seat in the order of things.
+Whether the Hindu kings of the west will break in to share that spoil
+before we have swept it altogether, thou knowest better than I; but
+be certain that, then, strong hands will seek their own thrones, and
+it may be that the days of the king of Delhi will return if we only,
+curbing our desires, pay due obedience to the outward appearances and
+the names. Thou rememberest the old song:--
+
+    ‘Hadst thou not called it Love, I had said it were a drawn sword,
+     But since thou hast spoken, I believe and--I die.’
+
+It is in my heart that there will remain in our land a few Sahibs
+undesirous of returning to England. These we must cherish and protect,
+that by their skill and cunning we may hold together and preserve unity
+in time of war. The Hindu kings will never trust a Sahib in the core of
+their counsels. I say again that if we of the Faith confide in them, we
+shall trample upon our enemies.
+
+Is all this a dream to thee, gray fox of my mother’s bearing? I have
+written of what I have seen and heard, but from the same clay two men
+will never fashion platters alike, nor from the same facts draw equal
+conclusions. Once more, there is a green-sickness upon all the people
+of this country. They eat dirt even now to stay their cravings. Honour
+and stability have departed from their councils, and the knife of
+dissension has brought down upon their heads the flapping tent-flies
+of confusion. The Empress is old. They speak disrespectfully of her
+and hers in the street. They despise the sword, and believe that the
+tongue and the pen sway all. The measure of their ignorance and their
+soft belief is greater than the measure of the wisdom of Solomon, the
+son of David. All these things I have seen whom they regard as a wild
+beast and a spectacle. By God the Enlightener of Intelligence, if
+the Sahibs in India could breed sons who lived so that their houses
+might be established, I would almost fling my sword at the Viceroy’s
+feet, saying: ‘Let us here fight for a kingdom together, thine and
+mine, disregarding the babble across the water. Write a letter to
+England, saying that we love them but would depart from their camps
+and make all clean under a new crown.’ But the Sahibs die out at
+the third generation in our land, and it may be that I dream dreams.
+Yet not altogether. Until a white calamity of steel and bloodshed,
+the bearing of burdens, the trembling for life, and the hot rage of
+insult--_for pestilence would unman them if eyes not unused to men
+see clear_--befall this people, our path is safe. They are sick. The
+Fountain of Power is a gutter which all may defile; and the voices of
+the men are overborne by the squealings of mules and the whinnying of
+barren mares. If through adversity they become wise, then, my brother,
+strike with and for them, and later, when thou and I are dead, and the
+disease grows up again (the young men bred in the school of fear and
+trembling and word-confounding have yet to live out their appointed
+span), those who have fought on the side of the English may ask and
+receive what they choose. At present seek quietly to confuse, and
+delay, and evade, and make of no effect. In this business four score of
+the six hundred are our true helpers.
+
+Now the pen, and the ink, and the hand weary together, as thy eyes will
+weary in this reading. Be it known to my house that I return soon, but
+do not speak of the hour. Letters without name have come to me touching
+my honour. The honour of my house is thine. If they be, as I believe,
+the work of a dismissed groom, Futteh Lal, that ran at the tail of
+my wine-coloured Katthiawar stallion, his village is beyond Manglôt;
+look to it that his tongue no longer lengthens itself on the names of
+those who are mine. If it be otherwise, put a guard upon my house till
+I come, and especially see that no sellers of jewellery, astrologers,
+or midwives have entrance to the women’s rooms. We rise by our
+slaves, and by our slaves we fall, as it was said. To all who are of
+my remembrance I bring gifts according to their worth. I have written
+twice of the gift that I would cause to be given to Bahadur Shah.
+
+The blessing of God and his Prophet on thee and thine till the end
+which is appointed. Give me felicity by informing me of the state of
+thy health. My head is at the Rao Sahib’s feet; my sword is at his left
+side, a little above my heart. Follows my seal.
+
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[1] Salvation Army.
+
+[2] Nicholson, a gentleman once of some notoriety in India.
+
+
+
+
+                    ‘THE FINEST STORY IN THE WORLD.’
+
+
+    ‘Or ever the knightly years were gone
+      With the old world to the grave,
+     I was a king in Babylon
+      And you were a Christian slave.’
+
+                                                           W. E. HENLEY.
+
+
+His name was Charlie Mears; he was the only son of his mother who was
+a widow, and he lived in the north of London, coming into the City
+every day to work in a bank. He was twenty years old and was full of
+aspirations. I met him in a public billiard-saloon where the marker
+called him by his first name, and he called the marker ‘Bullseye.’
+Charlie explained, a little nervously, that he had only come to the
+place to look on, and since looking on at games of skill is not a cheap
+amusement for the young, I suggested that Charlie should go back to his
+mother.
+
+That was our first step towards better acquaintance. He would call
+on me sometimes in the evenings instead of running about London with
+his fellow-clerks; and before long, speaking of himself as a young
+man must, he told me of his aspirations, which were all literary.
+He desired to make himself an undying name chiefly through verse,
+though he was not above sending stories of love and death to the
+penny-in-the-slot journals. It was my fate to sit still while Charlie
+read me poems of many hundred lines, and bulky fragments of plays that
+would surely shake the world. My reward was his unreserved confidence,
+and the self-revelations and troubles of a young man are almost as
+holy as those of a maiden. Charlie had never fallen in love, but was
+anxious to do so on the first opportunity; he believed in all things
+good and all things honourable, but at the same time, was curiously
+careful to let me see that he knew his way about the world as befitted
+a bank-clerk on twenty-five shillings a week. He rhymed ‘dove’ with
+‘love’ and ‘moon’ with ‘June,’ and devoutly believed that they had
+never so been rhymed before. The long lame gaps in his plays he filled
+up with hasty words of apology and description and swept on, seeing all
+that he intended to do so clearly that he esteemed it already done, and
+turned to me for applause.
+
+I fancy that his mother did not encourage his aspirations; and I know
+that his writing-table at home was the edge of his washstand. This he
+told me almost at the outset of our acquaintance--when he was ravaging
+my bookshelves, and a little before I was implored to speak the truth
+as to his chances of ‘writing something really great, you know.’ Maybe
+I encouraged him too much, for, one night, he called on me, his eyes
+flaming with excitement, and said breathlessly:--
+
+‘Do you mind--can you let me stay here and write all this evening? I
+won’t interrupt you, I won’t really. There’s no place for me to write
+in at my mother’s.’
+
+‘What’s the trouble?’ I said, knowing well what that trouble was.
+
+‘I’ve a notion in my head that would make the most splendid story that
+was ever written. Do let me write it out here. It’s _such_ a notion!’
+
+There was no resisting the appeal. I set him a table; he hardly
+thanked me, but plunged into his work at once. For half an hour the
+pen scratched without stopping. Then Charlie sighed and tugged his
+hair. The scratching grew slower, there were more erasures, and at last
+ceased. The finest story in the world would not come forth.
+
+‘It looks such awful rot now,’ he said mournfully. ‘And yet it seemed
+so good when I was thinking about it. What’s wrong?’
+
+I could not dishearten him by saying the truth. So I answered: ‘Perhaps
+you don’t feel in the mood for writing.’
+
+‘Yes I do--except when I look at this stuff. Ugh!’
+
+‘Read me what you’ve done,’ I said.
+
+He read, and it was wondrous bad, and he paused at all the specially
+turgid sentences, expecting a little approval; for he was proud of
+those sentences, as I knew he would be.
+
+‘It needs compression,’ I suggested cautiously.
+
+‘I hate cutting my things down. I don’t think you could alter a word
+here without spoiling the sense. It reads better aloud than when I was
+writing it.’
+
+‘Charlie, you’re suffering from an alarming disease afflicting a
+numerous class. Put the thing by, and tackle it again in a week.’
+
+‘I want to do it at once. What do you think of it?’
+
+‘How can I judge from a half-written tale? Tell me the story as it lies
+in your head.’
+
+Charlie told, and in the telling there was everything that his
+ignorance had so carefully prevented from escaping into the written
+word. I looked at him, wondering whether it were possible that he did
+not know the originality, the power of the notion that had come in his
+way? It was distinctly a Notion among notions. Men had been puffed
+up with pride by ideas not a tithe as excellent and practicable. But
+Charlie babbled on serenely, interrupting the current of pure fancy
+with samples of horrible sentences that he purposed to use. I heard him
+out to the end. It would be folly to allow his thought to remain in his
+own inept hands, when I could do so much with it. Not all that could be
+done indeed; but, oh so much!
+
+‘What do you think?’ he said at last. ‘I fancy I shall call it “The
+Story of a Ship.”’
+
+‘I think the idea’s pretty good; but you won’t be able to handle it for
+ever so long. Now I----’
+
+‘Would it be of any use to you? Would you care to take it? I should be
+proud,’ said Charlie promptly.
+
+There are few things sweeter in this world than the guileless,
+hot-headed, intemperate, open admiration of a junior. Even a woman
+in her blindest devotion does not fall into the gait of the man she
+adores, tilt her bonnet to the angle at which he wears his hat, or
+interlard her speech with his pet oaths. And Charlie did all these
+things. Still it was necessary to salve my conscience before I
+possessed myself of Charlie’s thoughts.
+
+‘Let’s make a bargain. I’ll give you a fiver for the notion,’ I said.
+
+Charlie became a bank-clerk at once.
+
+‘Oh, that’s impossible. Between two pals, you know, if I may call you
+so, and speaking as a man of the world, I couldn’t. Take the notion if
+it’s any use to you. I’ve heaps more.’
+
+He had--none knew this better than I--but they were the notions of
+other men.
+
+‘Look at it as a matter of business--between men of the world,’ I
+returned. ‘Five pounds will buy you any number of poetry-books.
+Business is business, and you may be sure I shouldn’t give that price
+unless----’
+
+‘Oh, if you put it _that_ way,’ said Charlie, visibly moved by the
+thought of the books. The bargain was clinched with an agreement that
+he should at unstated intervals come to me with all the notions that he
+possessed, should have a table of his own to write at, and unquestioned
+right to inflict upon me all his poems and fragments of poems. Then I
+said, ‘Now tell me how you came by this idea.’
+
+‘It came by itself.’ Charlie’s eyes opened a little.
+
+‘Yes, but you told me a great deal about the hero that you must have
+read before somewhere.’
+
+‘I haven’t any time for reading, except when you let me sit here, and
+on Sundays I’m on my bicycle or down the river all day. There’s nothing
+wrong about the hero, is there?’
+
+‘Tell me again and I shall understand clearly. You say that your hero
+went pirating. How did he live?’
+
+‘He was on the lower deck of this ship-thing that I was telling you
+about.’
+
+‘What sort of ship?’
+
+‘It was the kind rowed with oars, and the sea spurts through the
+oar-holes and the men row sitting up to their knees in water. Then
+there’s a bench running down between the two lines of oars and an
+overseer with a whip walks up and down the bench to make the men work.’
+
+‘How do you know that?’
+
+‘It’s in the tale. There’s a rope running overhead, looped to the upper
+deck, for the overseer to catch hold of when the ship rolls. When the
+overseer misses the rope once and falls among the rowers, remember the
+hero laughs at him and gets licked for it. He’s chained to his oar of
+course--the hero.’
+
+‘How is he chained?’
+
+‘With an iron band round his waist fixed to the bench he sits on, and a
+sort of handcuff on his left wrist chaining him to the oar. He’s on the
+lower deck where the worst men are sent, and the only light comes from
+the hatchways and through the oar-holes. Can’t you imagine the sunlight
+just squeezing through between the handle and the hole and wobbling
+about as the ship moves?’
+
+‘I can, but I can’t imagine your imagining it.’
+
+‘How could it be any other way? Now you listen to me. The long oars on
+the upper deck are managed by four men to each bench, the lower ones by
+three, and the lowest of all by two. Remember it’s quite dark on the
+lowest deck and all the men there go mad. When a man dies at his oar
+on that deck he isn’t thrown overboard, but cut up in his chains and
+stuffed through the oar-hole in little pieces.’
+
+‘Why?’ I demanded amazed, not so much at the information as the tone of
+command in which it was flung out.
+
+‘To save trouble and to frighten the others. It needs two overseers to
+drag a man’s body up to the top deck; and if the men at the lower deck
+oars were left alone, of course they’d stop rowing and try to pull up
+the benches by all standing up together in their chains.’
+
+‘You’ve a most provident imagination. Where have you been reading about
+galleys and galley-slaves?’
+
+‘Nowhere that I remember. I row a little when I get the chance. But,
+perhaps, if you say so, I may have read something.’
+
+He went away shortly afterwards to deal with booksellers, and I
+wondered how a bank-clerk aged twenty could put into my hands with a
+profligate abundance of detail, all given with absolute assurance, the
+story of extravagant and bloodthirsty adventure, riot, piracy, and
+death in unnamed seas. He had led his hero a desperate dance through
+revolt against the overseers, to command of a ship of his own, and at
+last to the establishment of a kingdom on an island ‘somewhere in the
+sea, you know;’ and, delighted with my paltry five pounds, had gone
+out to buy the notions of other men, that these might teach him how to
+write. I had the consolation of knowing that this notion was mine by
+right of purchase, and I thought that I could make something of it.
+
+When next he came to me he was drunk--royally drunk on many poets for
+the first time revealed to him. His pupils were dilated, his words
+tumbled over each other, and he wrapped himself in quotations--as a
+beggar would enfold himself in the purple of Emperors. Most of all was
+he drunk with Longfellow.
+
+‘Isn’t it splendid? Isn’t it superb?’ he cried, after hasty greetings.
+‘Listen to this--
+
+    ‘“Wouldst thou,”--so the helmsman answered,
+       “Know the secret of the sea?
+     Only those who brave its dangers
+       Comprehend its mystery.”
+
+By gum!
+
+    ‘“Only those who brave its dangers
+       Comprehend its mystery,”’
+
+he repeated twenty times, walking up and down the room and forgetting
+me. ‘But _I_ can understand it too,’ he said to himself. ‘I don’t know
+how to thank you for that fiver. And this; listen--
+
+    ‘“I remember the black wharves and the slips
+        And the sea-tides tossing free;
+      And the Spanish sailors with bearded lips,
+      And the beauty and mystery of the ships,
+        And the magic of the sea.”’
+
+I haven’t braved any dangers, but I feel as if I knew all about it.’
+
+‘You certainly seem to have a grip of the sea. Have you ever seen it?’
+
+‘When I was a little chap I went to Brighton once; we used to live in
+Coventry, though, before we came to London. I never saw it,
+
+    ‘“When descends on the Atlantic
+            The gigantic
+      Storm-wind of the Equinox.”’
+
+He shook me by the shoulder to make me understand the passion that was
+shaking himself.
+
+‘When that storm comes,’ he continued, ‘I think that all the oars in
+the ship that I was talking about get broken, and the rowers have their
+chests smashed in by the oar-heads bucking. By the way, have you done
+anything with that notion of mine yet?’
+
+‘No. I was waiting to hear more of it from you. Tell me how in the
+world you’re so certain about the fittings of the ship. You know
+nothing of ships.’
+
+‘I don’t know. It’s as real as anything to me until I try to write it
+down. I was thinking about it only last night in bed, after you had
+lent me _Treasure Island_; and I made up a whole lot of new things to
+go into the story.’
+
+‘What sort of things?’
+
+‘About the food the men ate; rotten figs and black beans and wine in a
+skin bag, passed from bench to bench.’
+
+‘Was the ship built so long ago as _that_?’
+
+‘As what? I don’t know whether it was long ago or not. It’s only a
+notion, but sometimes it seems just as real as if it was true. Do I
+bother you with talking about it?’
+
+‘Not in the least. Did you make up anything else?’
+
+‘Yes, but it’s nonsense.’ Charlie flushed a little.
+
+‘Never mind; let’s hear about it.’
+
+‘Well, I was thinking over the story, and after awhile I got out of bed
+and wrote down on a piece of paper the sort of stuff the men might be
+supposed to scratch on their oars with the edges of their handcuffs. It
+seemed to make the thing more life-like. It _is_ so real to me, y’know.’
+
+‘Have you the paper on you?’
+
+‘Ye--es, but what’s the use of showing it? It’s only a lot of
+scratches. All the same, we might have ’em reproduced in the book on
+the front page.’
+
+‘I’ll attend to those details. Show me what your men wrote.’
+
+He pulled out of his pocket a sheet of notepaper, with a single line of
+scratches upon it, and I put this carefully away.
+
+‘What is it supposed to mean in English?’ I said.
+
+‘Oh, I don’t know. I mean it to mean “I’m beastly tired.” It’s great
+nonsense,’ he repeated, ‘but all those men in the ship seem as real as
+real people to me. Do do something to the notion soon; I should like to
+see it written and printed.’
+
+‘But all you’ve told me would make a long book.’
+
+‘Make it then. You’ve only to sit down and write it out.’
+
+‘Give me a little time. Have you any more notions?’
+
+‘Not just now. I’m reading all the books I’ve bought. They’re splendid.’
+
+When he had left I looked at the sheet of notepaper with the
+inscription upon it. Then I took my head tenderly between both hands,
+to make certain that it was not coming off or turning round. Then
+... but there seemed to be no interval between quitting my rooms and
+finding myself arguing with a policeman outside a door marked _Private_
+in a corridor of the British Museum. All I demanded, as politely as
+possible, was ‘the Greek antiquity man.’ The policeman knew nothing
+except the rules of the Museum, and it became necessary to forage
+through all the houses and offices inside the gates. An elderly
+gentleman called away from his lunch put an end to my search by holding
+the notepaper between finger and thumb and sniffing at it scornfully.
+
+‘What does this mean? H’mm,’ said he. ‘So far as I can ascertain it
+is an attempt to write extremely corrupt Greek on the part’--here he
+glared at me with intention--‘of an extremely illiterate--ah--person.’
+He read slowly from the paper, ‘_Pollock_, _Erckmann_, _Tauchnitz_,
+_Henniker_’--four names familiar to me.
+
+‘Can you tell me what the corruption is supposed to mean--the gist of
+the thing?’ I asked.
+
+‘I have been--many times--overcome with weariness in this particular
+employment. That is the meaning.’ He returned me the paper, and I fled
+without a word of thanks, explanation, or apology.
+
+I might have been excused for forgetting much. To me of all men had
+been given the chance to write the most marvellous tale in the world,
+nothing less than the story of a Greek galley-slave, as told by
+himself. Small wonder that his dreaming had seemed real to Charlie.
+The Fates that are so careful to shut the doors of each successive
+life behind us had, in this case, been neglectful, and Charlie was
+looking, though that he did not know, where never man had been
+permitted to look with full knowledge since Time began. Above all, he
+was absolutely ignorant of the knowledge sold to me for five pounds;
+and he would retain that ignorance, for bank-clerks do not understand
+metempsychosis, and a sound commercial education does not include
+Greek. He would supply me--here I capered among the dumb gods of
+Egypt and laughed in their battered faces--with material to make my
+tale sure--so sure that the world would hail it as an impudent and
+vamped fiction. And I--I alone would know that it was absolutely and
+literally true. I--I alone held this jewel to my hand for the cutting
+and polishing! Therefore I danced again among the gods of the Egyptian
+court till a policeman saw me and took steps in my direction.
+
+It remained now only to encourage Charlie to talk, and here there
+was no difficulty. But I had forgotten those accursed books of
+poetry. He came to me time after time, as useless as a surcharged
+phonograph--drunk on Byron, Shelley, or Keats. Knowing now what the boy
+had been in his past lives, and desperately anxious not to lose one
+word of his babble, I could not hide from him my respect and interest.
+He misconstrued both into respect for the present soul of Charlie
+Mears, to whom life was as new as it was to Adam, and interest in his
+readings; and stretched my patience to breaking point by reciting
+poetry--not his own now, but that of others. I wished every English
+poet blotted out of the memory of mankind. I blasphemed the mightiest
+names of song because they had drawn Charlie from the path of direct
+narrative, and would, later, spur him to imitate them; but I choked
+down my impatience until the first flood of enthusiasm should have
+spent itself and the boy returned to his dreams.
+
+‘What’s the use of my telling you what _I_ think, when these chaps
+wrote things for the angels to read?’ he growled, one evening. ‘Why
+don’t you write something like theirs?’
+
+‘I don’t think you’re treating me quite fairly,’ I said, speaking under
+strong restraint.
+
+‘I’ve given you the story,’ he said shortly, replunging into ‘Lara.’
+
+‘But I want the details.’
+
+‘The things I make up about that damned ship that you call a galley?
+They’re quite easy. You can just make ’em up for yourself. Turn up the
+gas a little, I want to go on reading.’
+
+I could have broken the gas globe over his head for his amazing
+stupidity. I could indeed make up things for myself did I only know
+what Charlie did not know that he knew. But since the doors were shut
+behind me I could only wait his youthful pleasure and strive to keep
+him in good temper. One minute’s want of guard might spoil a priceless
+revelation: now and again he would toss his books aside--he kept them
+in my rooms, for his mother would have been shocked at the waste of
+good money had she seen them--and launched into his sea-dreams. Again I
+cursed all the poets of England. The plastic mind of the bank-clerk had
+been overlaid, coloured, and distorted by that which he had read, and
+the result as delivered was a confused tangle of other voices most like
+the mutter and hum through a City telephone in the busiest part of the
+day.
+
+He talked of the galley--his own galley had he but known it--with
+illustrations borrowed from the ‘Bride of Abydos.’ He pointed the
+experiences of his hero with quotations from ‘The Corsair,’ and threw
+in deep and desperate moral reflections from ‘Cain’ and ‘Manfred,’
+expecting me to use them all. Only when the talk turned on Longfellow
+were the jarring cross-currents dumb, and I knew that Charlie was
+speaking the truth as he remembered it.
+
+‘What do you think of this?’ I said one evening, as soon as I
+understood the medium in which his memory worked best, and, before he
+could expostulate, read him nearly the whole of ‘The Saga of King Olaf!’
+
+He listened open-mouthed, flushed, his hands drumming on the back of
+the sofa where he lay, till I came to the Song of Einar Tamberskelver
+and the verse:--
+
+    ‘Einar then, the arrow taking
+       From the loosened string,
+     Answered, “That was Norway breaking
+      ’Neath thy hand, O King.”’
+
+He gasped with pure delight of sound.
+
+‘That’s better than Byron, a little?’ I ventured.
+
+‘Better! Why it’s _true_! How could he have known?’
+
+I went back and repeated:--
+
+    ‘“What was that?” said Olaf, standing
+       On the quarter-deck,
+     “Something heard I like the stranding
+       Of a shattered wreck.”’
+
+‘How could he have known how the ships crash and the oars rip out and
+go _z-zzp_ all along the line? Why only the other night.... But go back
+please and read “The Skerry of Shrieks” again.’
+
+‘No, I’m tired. Let’s talk. What happened the other night?’
+
+‘I had an awful dream about that galley of ours. I dreamed I was
+drowned in a fight. You see we ran alongside another ship in harbour.
+The water was dead still except where our oars whipped it up. You know
+where I always sit in the galley?’ He spoke haltingly at first, under a
+fine English fear of being laughed at.
+
+‘No. That’s news to me,’ I answered meekly, my heart beginning to beat.
+
+‘On the fourth oar from the bow on the right side on the upper deck.
+There were four of us at that oar, all chained. I remember watching the
+water and trying to get my handcuffs off before the row began. Then we
+closed up on the other ship, and all their fighting men jumped over our
+bulwarks, and my bench broke and I was pinned down with the three other
+fellows on top of me, and the big oar jammed across our backs.’
+
+‘Well?’ Charlie’s eyes were alive and alight. He was looking at the
+wall behind my chair.
+
+‘I don’t know how we fought. The men were trampling all over my back,
+and I lay low. Then our rowers on the left side--tied to their oars,
+you know--began to yell and back water. I could hear the water sizzle,
+and we spun round like a cockchafer and I knew, lying where I was,
+that there was a galley coming up bow-on, to ram us on the left side.
+I could just lift up my head and see her sail over the bulwarks. We
+wanted to meet her bow to bow, but it was too late. We could only turn
+a little bit because the galley on our right had hooked herself on to
+us and stopped our moving. Then, by gum! there was a crash! Our left
+oars began to break as the other galley, the moving one y’know, stuck
+her nose into them. Then the lower-deck oars shot up through the deck
+planking, butt first, and one of them jumped clear up into the air and
+came down again close at my head.’
+
+‘How was that managed?’
+
+‘The moving galley’s bow was plunking them back through their own
+oar-holes, and I could hear no end of a shindy in the decks below.
+Then her nose caught us nearly in the middle, and we tilted sideways,
+and the fellows in the right-hand galley unhitched their hooks and
+ropes, and threw things on to our upper deck--arrows, and hot pitch or
+something that stung, and we went up and up and up on the left side,
+and the right side dipped, and I twisted my head round and saw the
+water stand still as it topped the right bulwarks, and then it curled
+over and crashed down on the whole lot of us on the right side, and I
+felt it hit my back, and I woke.’
+
+‘One minute, Charlie. When the sea topped the bulwarks, what did it
+look like?’ I had my reasons for asking. A man of my acquaintance had
+once gone down with a leaking ship in a still sea, and had seen the
+water-level pause for an instant ere it fell on the deck.
+
+‘It looked just like a banjo-string drawn tight, and it seemed to stay
+there for years,’ said Charlie.
+
+Exactly! The other man had said: ‘It looked like a silver wire laid
+down along the bulwarks, and I thought it was never going to break.’
+He had paid everything except the bare life for this little valueless
+piece of knowledge, and I had travelled ten thousand weary miles to
+meet him and take his knowledge at second hand. But Charlie, the
+bank-clerk on twenty-five shillings a week, who had never been out of
+sight of a made road, knew it all. It was no consolation to me that
+once in his lives he had been forced to die for his gains. I also must
+have died scores of times, but behind me, because I could have used my
+knowledge, the doors were shut.
+
+‘And then?’ I said, trying to put away the devil of envy.
+
+‘The funny thing was, though, in all the row I didn’t feel a bit
+astonished or frightened. It seemed as if I’d been in a good many
+fights, because I told my next man so when the row began. But that cad
+of an overseer on my deck wouldn’t unloose our chains and give us a
+chance. He always said that we’d all be set free after a battle, but we
+never were; we never were.’ Charlie shook his head mournfully.
+
+‘What a scoundrel!’
+
+‘I should say he was. He never gave us enough to eat, and sometimes
+we were so thirsty that we used to drink salt-water. I can taste that
+salt-water still.’
+
+‘Now tell me something about the harbour where the fight was fought.’
+
+‘I didn’t dream about that. I know it was a harbour, though; because we
+were tied up to a ring on a white wall and all the face of the stone
+under water was covered with wood to prevent our ram getting chipped
+when the tide made us rock.’
+
+‘That’s curious. Our hero commanded the galley, didn’t he?’
+
+‘Didn’t he just! He stood by the bows and shouted like a good ’un. He
+was the man who killed the overseer.’
+
+‘But you were all drowned together, Charlie, weren’t you?’
+
+‘I can’t make that fit quite,’ he said, with a puzzled look. ‘The
+galley must have gone down with all hands, and yet I fancy that the
+hero went on living afterwards. Perhaps he climbed into the attacking
+ship. I wouldn’t see that, of course. I was dead, you know.’
+
+He shivered slightly and protested that he could remember no more.
+
+I did not press him further, but to satisfy myself that he lay in
+ignorance of the workings of his own mind, deliberately introduced him
+to Mortimer Collins’s _Transmigration_, and gave him a sketch of the
+plot before he opened the pages.
+
+‘What rot it all is!’ he said frankly, at the end of an hour. ‘I don’t
+understand his nonsense about the Red Planet Mars and the King, and the
+rest of it. Chuck me the Longfellow again.’
+
+I handed him the book and wrote out as much as I could remember of
+his description of the sea-fight, appealing to him from time to time
+for confirmation of fact or detail. He would answer without raising
+his eyes from the book, as assuredly as though all his knowledge lay
+before him on the printed page. I spoke under the normal key of my
+voice that the current might not be broken, and I knew that he was not
+aware of what he was saying, for his thoughts were out on the sea with
+Longfellow.
+
+‘Charlie,’ I asked, ‘when the rowers on the galleys mutinied how did
+they kill their overseers?’
+
+‘Tore up the benches and brained ’em. That happened when a heavy sea
+was running. An overseer on the lower deck slipped from the centre
+plank and fell among the rowers. They choked him to death against the
+side of the ship with their chained hands quite quietly, and it was too
+dark for the other overseer to see what had happened. When he asked, he
+was pulled down too and choked, and the lower deck fought their way up
+deck by deck, with the pieces of the broken benches banging behind ’em.
+How they howled!’
+
+‘And what happened after that?’
+
+‘I don’t know. The hero went away--red hair and red beard and all. That
+was after he had captured our galley, I think.’
+
+The sound of my voice irritated him, and he motioned slightly with his
+left hand as a man does when interruption jars.
+
+‘You never told me he was red-headed before, or that he captured your
+galley,’ I said, after a discreet interval.
+
+Charlie did not raise his eyes.
+
+‘He was as red as a red bear,’ said he abstractedly. ‘He came from
+the north; they said so in the galley when he looked for rowers--not
+slaves, but free men. Afterwards--years and years afterwards--news came
+from another ship, or else he came back----’
+
+His lips moved in silence. He was rapturously retasting some poem
+before him.
+
+‘Where had he been, then?’ I was almost whispering that the sentence
+might come gently to whichever section of Charlie’s brain was working
+on my behalf.
+
+‘To the Beaches--the Long and Wonderful Beaches!’ was the reply after a
+minute of silence.
+
+‘To Furdurstrandi?’ I asked, tingling from head to foot.
+
+‘Yes, to Furdurstrandi,’ he pronounced the word in a new fashion. ‘And
+I too saw----’ The voice failed.
+
+‘Do you know what you have said?’ I shouted incautiously.
+
+He lifted his eyes, fully roused now. ‘No!’ he snapped. ‘I wish you’d
+let a chap go on reading. Hark to this:--
+
+    ‘“But Othere, the old sea captain,
+      He neither paused nor stirred
+        Till the king listened, and then
+        Once more took up his pen
+      And wrote down every word.
+
+    ‘“And to the King of the Saxons
+      In witness of the truth,
+        Raising his noble head,
+        He stretched his brown hand and said,
+     ‘Behold this walrus tooth.’”
+
+By Jove, what chaps those must have been, to go sailing all over the
+shop never knowing where they’d fetch the land! Hah!’
+
+‘Charlie,’ I pleaded, ‘if you’ll only be sensible for a minute or two
+I’ll make our hero in our tale every inch as good as Othere.’
+
+‘Umph! Longfellow wrote that poem. I don’t care about writing things
+any more. I want to read.’ He was thoroughly out of tune now, and
+raging over my own ill-luck, I left him.
+
+Conceive yourself at the door of the world’s treasure-house guarded by
+a child--an idle irresponsible child playing knuckle-bones--on whose
+favour depends the gift of the key, and you will imagine one-half my
+torment. Till that evening Charlie had spoken nothing that might not
+lie within the experiences of a Greek galley-slave. But now, or there
+was no virtue in books, he had talked of some desperate adventure of
+the Vikings, of Thorfin Karlsefne’s sailing to Wineland, which is
+America, in the ninth or tenth century. The battle in the harbour he
+had seen; and his own death he had described. But this was a much more
+startling plunge into the past. Was it possible that he had skipped
+half a dozen lives and was then dimly remembering some episode of a
+thousand years later? It was a maddening jumble, and the worst of it
+was that Charlie Mears in his normal condition was the last person in
+the world to clear it up. I could only wait and watch, but I went to
+bed that night full of the wildest imaginings. There was nothing that
+was not possible if Charlie’s detestable memory only held good.
+
+I might rewrite the Saga of Thorfin Karlsefne as it had never been
+written before, might tell the story of the first discovery of America,
+myself the discoverer. But I was entirely at Charlie’s mercy, and so
+long as there was a three-and-sixpenny Bohn volume within his reach
+Charlie would not tell. I dared not curse him openly; I hardly dared
+jog his memory, for I was dealing with the experiences of a thousand
+years ago, told through the mouth of a boy of to-day; and a boy of
+to-day is affected by every change of tone and gust of opinion, so that
+he must lie even when he most desires to speak the truth.
+
+I saw no more of Charlie for nearly a week. When next I met him it was
+in Gracechurch Street with a bill-book chained to his waist. Business
+took him over London Bridge, and I accompanied him. He was very full
+of the importance of that book and magnified it. As we passed over
+the Thames we paused to look at a steamer unloading great slabs of
+white and brown marble. A barge drifted under the steamer’s stern and
+a lonely ship’s cow in that barge bellowed. Charlie’s face changed
+from the face of the bank-clerk to that of an unknown and--though he
+would not have believed this--a much shrewder man. He flung out his arm
+across the parapet of the bridge and laughing very loudly, said:--
+
+‘When they heard _our_ bulls bellow the Skrœlings ran away!’
+
+I waited only for an instant, but the barge and the cow had disappeared
+under the bows of the steamer before I answered.
+
+‘Charlie, what do you suppose are Skrœlings?’
+
+‘Never heard of ’em before. They sound like a new kind of sea-gull.
+What a chap you are for asking questions!’ he replied. ‘I have to go to
+the cashier of the Omnibus Company yonder. Will you wait for me and we
+can lunch somewhere together? I’ve a notion for a poem.’
+
+‘No, thanks. I’m off. You’re sure you know nothing about Skrœlings?’
+
+‘Not unless he’s been entered for the Liverpool Handicap.’ He nodded
+and disappeared in the crowd.
+
+Now it is written in the Saga of Eric the Red or that of Thorfin
+Karlsefne, that nine hundred years ago when Karlsefne’s galleys
+came to Leif’s booths, which Leif had erected in the unknown land
+called Markland, which may or may not have been Rhode Island, the
+Skrœlings--and the Lord He knows who these may or may not have
+been--came to trade with the Vikings, and ran away because they were
+frightened at the bellowing of the cattle which Thorfin had brought
+with him in the ships. But what in the world could a Greek slave know
+of that affair? I wandered up and down among the streets trying to
+unravel the mystery, and the more I considered it, the more baffling it
+grew. One thing only seemed certain, and that certainty took away my
+breath for the moment. If I came to full knowledge of anything at all,
+it would not be one life of the soul in Charlie Mears’s body, but half
+a dozen--half a dozen several and separate existences spent on blue
+water in the morning of the world!
+
+Then I reviewed the situation.
+
+Obviously if I used my knowledge I should stand alone and
+unapproachable until all men were as wise as myself. That would be
+something, but manlike I was ungrateful. It seemed bitterly unfair that
+Charlie’s memory should fail me when I needed it most. Great Powers
+Above--I looked up at them through the fog-smoke--did the Lords of Life
+and Death know what this meant to me? Nothing less than eternal fame
+of the best kind, that comes from One, and is shared by one alone.
+I would be content--remembering Clive, I stood astounded at my own
+moderation--with the mere right to tell one story, to work out one
+little contribution to the light literature of the day. If Charlie were
+permitted full recollection for one hour--for sixty short minutes--of
+existences that had extended over a thousand years--I would forego
+all profit and honour from all that I should make of his speech. I
+would take no share in the commotion that would follow throughout the
+particular corner of the earth that calls itself ‘the world.’ The thing
+should be put forth anonymously. Nay, I would make other men believe
+that they had written it. They would hire bull-hided self-advertising
+Englishmen to bellow it abroad. Preachers would found a fresh conduct
+of life upon it, swearing that it was new and that they had lifted
+the fear of death from all mankind. Every Orientalist in Europe would
+patronise it discursively with Sanskrit and Pali texts. Terrible women
+would invent unclean variants of the men’s belief for the elevation of
+their sisters. Churches and religions would war over it. Between the
+hailing and re-starting of an omnibus I foresaw the scuffles that would
+arise among half a dozen denominations all professing ‘the doctrine of
+the True Metempsychosis as applied to the world and the New Era’; and
+saw, too, the respectable English newspapers shying, like frightened
+kine, over the beautiful simplicity of the tale. The mind leaped
+forward a hundred--two hundred--a thousand years. I saw with sorrow
+that men would mutilate and garble the story; that rival creeds would
+turn it upside down till, at last, the western world which clings to
+the dread of death more closely than the hope of life, would set it
+aside as an interesting superstition and stampede after some faith
+so long forgotten that it seemed altogether new. Upon this I changed
+the terms of the bargain that I would make with the Lords of Life and
+Death. Only let me know, let me write, the story with sure knowledge
+that I wrote the truth, and I would burn the manuscript as a solemn
+sacrifice. Five minutes after the last line was written I would destroy
+it all. But I must be allowed to write it with absolute certainty.
+
+There was no answer. The flaming colours of an Aquarium poster caught
+my eye, and I wondered whether it would be wise or prudent to lure
+Charlie into the hands of the professional mesmerist then, and whether,
+if he were under his power, he would speak of his past lives. If he
+did, and if people believed him ... but Charlie would be frightened and
+flustered, or made conceited by the interviews. In either case he would
+begin to lie, through fear or vanity. He was safest in my own hands.
+
+‘They are very funny fools, your English,’ said a voice at my elbow,
+and turning round I recognised a casual acquaintance, a young Bengali
+law student, called Grish Chunder, whose father had sent him to England
+to become civilised. The old man was a retired native official, and
+on an income of five pounds a month contrived to allow his son two
+hundred pounds a year, and the run of his teeth in a city where he
+could pretend to be the cadet of a royal house, and tell stories of the
+brutal Indian bureaucrats who ground the faces of the poor.
+
+Grish Chunder was a young, fat, full-bodied Bengali, dressed with
+scrupulous care in frock coat, tall hat, light trousers, and tan
+gloves. But I had known him in the days when the brutal Indian
+Government paid for his university education, and he contributed cheap
+sedition to the _Sachi Durpan_, and intrigued with the wives of his
+fourteen-year-old schoolmates.
+
+‘That is very funny and very foolish,’ he said, nodding at the poster.
+‘I am going down to the Northbrook Club. Will you come too?’
+
+I walked with him for some time. ‘You are not well,’ he said. ‘What is
+there on your mind? You do not talk.’
+
+‘Grish Chunder, you’ve been too well educated to believe in a God,
+haven’t you?’
+
+‘Oah, yes, _here_! But when I go home I must conciliate popular
+superstition, and make ceremonies of purification, and my women will
+anoint idols.’
+
+‘And hang up _tulsi_ and feast the _purohit_, and take you back into
+caste again and make a good _khuttri_ of you again, you advanced
+Freethinker. And you’ll eat _desi_ food, and like it all, from the
+smell in the courtyard to the mustard oil over you.’
+
+‘I shall very much like it,’ said Grish Chunder unguardedly. ‘Once a
+Hindu--always a Hindu. But I like to know what the English think they
+know.’
+
+‘I’ll tell you something that one Englishman knows. It’s an old tale to
+you.’
+
+I began to tell the story of Charlie in English, but Grish Chunder put
+a question in the vernacular, and the history went forward naturally
+in the tongue best suited for its telling. After all, it could never
+have been told in English. Grish Chunder heard me, nodding from time to
+time, and then came up to my rooms, where I finished the tale.
+
+‘_Beshak_,’ he said philosophically. ‘_Lekin darwaza band hai_.
+(Without doubt; but the door is shut.) I have heard of this remembering
+of previous existences among my people. It is of course an old tale
+with us, but, to happen to an Englishman--a cow-fed _Mlechh_--an
+outcast. By Jove, that is _most_ peculiar!’
+
+‘Outcast yourself, Grish Chunder! You eat cow-beef every day. Let’s
+think the thing over. The boy remembers his incarnations.’
+
+‘Does he know that?’ said Grish Chunder quietly, swinging his legs as
+he sat on my table. He was speaking in his English now.
+
+‘He does not know anything. Would I speak to you if he did? Go on!’
+
+‘There is no going on at all. If you tell that to your friends they
+will say you are mad and put it in the papers. Suppose, now, you
+prosecute for libel.’
+
+‘Let’s leave that out of the question entirely. Is there any chance of
+his being made to speak?’
+
+‘There is a chance. Oah, yess! But _if_ he spoke it would mean that all
+this world would end now--_instanto_--fall down on your head. These
+things are not allowed, you know. As I said, the door is shut.’
+
+‘Not a ghost of a chance?’
+
+‘How can there be? You are a Christi-án, and it is forbidden to eat, in
+your books, of the Tree of Life, or else you would never die. How shall
+you all fear death if you all know what your friend does not know that
+he knows? I am afraid to be kicked, but I am not afraid to die, because
+I know what I know. You are not afraid to be kicked, but you are afraid
+to die. If you were not, by God! you English would be all over the shop
+in an hour, upsetting the balances of power, and making commotions. It
+would not be good. But no fear. He will remember a little and a little
+less, and he will call it dreams. Then he will forget altogether. When
+I passed my First Arts Examination in Calcutta that was all in the
+cram-book on Wordsworth. “Trailing clouds of glory,” you know.’
+
+‘This seems to be an exception to the rule.’
+
+‘There are no exceptions to rules. Some are not so hard-looking as
+others, but they are all the same when you touch. If this friend of
+yours said so-and-so and so-and-so, indicating that he remembered all
+his lost lives, or one piece of a lost life, he would not be in the
+bank another hour. He would be what you called sack because he was mad,
+and they would send him to an asylum for lunatics. You can see that, my
+friend.’
+
+‘Of course I can, but I wasn’t thinking of him. His name need never
+appear in the story.’
+
+‘Ah! I see. That story will never be written. You can try.’
+
+‘I am going to.’
+
+‘For your own credit and for the sake of money, _of_ course?’
+
+‘No. For the sake of writing the story. On my honour that will be all.’
+
+‘Even then there is no chance. You cannot play with the gods. It is a
+very pretty story now. As they say, Let it go on that--I mean at that.
+Be quick; he will not last long.’
+
+‘How do you mean?’
+
+‘What I say. He has never, so far, thought about a woman.’
+
+‘Hasn’t he, though!’ I remembered some of Charlie’s confidences.
+
+‘I mean no woman has thought about him. When that comes;
+_bus_--_hogya_--all up! I know. There are millions of women here.
+Housemaids, for instance. They kiss you behind doors.’
+
+I winced at the thought of my story being ruined by a housemaid. And
+yet nothing was more probable.
+
+Grish Chunder grinned.
+
+‘Yes--also pretty girls--cousins of his house, and perhaps _not_ of his
+house. One kiss that he gives back again and remembers will cure all
+this nonsense, or else----’
+
+‘Or else what? Remember he does not know that he knows.’
+
+‘I know that. Or else, if nothing happens he will become immersed in
+the trade and the financial speculation like the rest. It must be so.
+You can see that it must be so. But the woman will come first, _I_
+think.’
+
+There was a rap at the door, and Charlie charged in impetuously. He
+had been released from office, and by the look in his eyes I could see
+that he had come over for a long talk; most probably with poems in his
+pockets. Charlie’s poems were very wearying, but sometimes they led him
+to speak about the galley.
+
+Grish Chunder looked at him keenly for a minute.
+
+‘I beg your pardon,’ Charlie said uneasily; ‘I didn’t know you had any
+one with you.’
+
+‘I am going,’ said Grish Chunder.
+
+He drew me into the lobby as he departed.
+
+‘That is your man,’ he said quickly. ‘I tell you he will never speak
+all you wish. That is rot--bosh. But he would be most good to make to
+see things. Suppose now we pretend that it was only play’--I had never
+seen Grish Chunder so excited--‘and pour the ink-pool into his hand.
+Eh, what do you think? I tell you that he could see _anything_ that a
+man could see. Let me get the ink and the camphor. He is a seer and he
+will tell us very many things.’
+
+‘He may be all you say, but I’m not going to trust him to your gods and
+devils.’
+
+‘It will not hurt him. He will only feel a little stupid and dull when
+he wakes up. You have seen boys look into the ink-pool before.’
+
+‘That is the reason why I am not going to see it any more. You’d better
+go, Grish Chunder.’
+
+He went, insisting far down the staircase that it was throwing away my
+only chance of looking into the future.
+
+This left me unmoved, for I was concerned for the past, and no peering
+of hypnotised boys into mirrors and ink-pools would help me to that.
+But I recognised Grish Chunder’s point of view and sympathised with it.
+
+‘What a big black brute that was!’ said Charlie, when I returned to
+him. ‘Well, look here, I’ve just done a poem; did it instead of playing
+dominoes after lunch. May I read it?’
+
+‘Let me read it to myself.’
+
+‘Then you miss the proper expression. Besides, you always make my
+things sound as if the rhymes were all wrong.’
+
+‘Read it aloud, then. You’re like the rest of ’em.’
+
+Charlie mouthed me his poem, and it was not much worse than the average
+of his verses. He had been reading his books faithfully, but he was not
+pleased when I told him that I preferred my Longfellow undiluted with
+Charlie.
+
+Then we began to go through the MS. line by line; Charlie parrying
+every objection and correction with:
+
+‘Yes, that may be better, but you don’t catch what I’m driving at.’
+
+Charlie was, in one way at least, very like one kind of poet.
+
+There was a pencil scrawl at the back of the paper and ‘What’s that?’ I
+said.
+
+‘Oh that’s not poetry at all. It’s some rot I wrote last night before I
+went to bed, and it was too much bother to hunt for rhymes; so I made
+it a sort of blank verse instead.
+
+Here is Charlie’s ‘blank verse’:--
+
+  ‘We pulled for you when the wind was against us and the sails were
+  low.
+
+  _Will you never let us go?_
+
+  We ate bread and onions when you took towns, or ran aboard quickly
+  when you were beaten back by the foe,
+
+  The captains walked up and down the deck in fair weather singing
+  songs, but we were below,
+
+  We fainted with our chins on the oars and you did not see that we
+  were idle for we still swung to and fro.
+
+  _Will you never let us go?_
+
+  The salt made the oar-handles like shark-skin; our knees were cut to
+  the bone with salt cracks; our hair was stuck to our foreheads; and
+  our lips were cut to our gums and you whipped us because we could not
+  row.
+
+  _Will you never let us go?_
+
+  But in a little time we shall run out of the portholes as the water
+  runs along the oar-blade, and though you tell the others to row after
+  us you will never catch us till you catch the oar-thresh and tie up
+  the winds in the belly of the sail. Aho!
+
+  _Will you never let us go?_’
+
+‘H’m. What’s oar-thresh, Charlie?’
+
+‘The water washed up by the oars. That’s the sort of song they might
+sing in the galley y’ know. Aren’t you ever going to finish that story
+and give me some of the profits?’
+
+‘It depends on yourself. If you had only told me more about your hero
+in the first instance it might have been finished by now. You’re so
+hazy in your notions.’
+
+‘I only want to give you the general notion of it--the knocking about
+from place to place and the fighting and all that. Can’t you fill in
+the rest yourself? Make the hero save a girl on a pirate-galley and
+marry her or do something.’
+
+‘You’re a really helpful collaborator. I suppose the hero went through
+some few adventures before he married.’
+
+‘Well then, make him a very artful card--a low sort of man--a sort
+of political man who went about making treaties and breaking them--a
+black-haired chap who hid behind the mast when the fighting began.’
+
+‘But you said the other day that he was red-haired.’
+
+‘I couldn’t have. Make him black-haired of course. You’ve no
+imagination.’
+
+Seeing that I had just discovered the entire principles upon which the
+half-memory falsely called imagination is based, I felt entitled to
+laugh, but forbore, for the sake of the tale.
+
+‘You’re right. _You’re_ the man with imagination. A black-haired chap
+in a decked ship,’ I said.
+
+‘No, an open ship--like a big boat.’
+
+This was maddening.
+
+‘Your ship has been built and designed, closed and decked in; you said
+so yourself,’ I protested.
+
+‘No, no, not that ship. That was open or half-decked because---- By
+Jove, you’re right. You made me think of the hero as a red-haired chap.
+Of course if he were red, the ship would be an open one with painted
+sails.’
+
+Surely, I thought, he would remember now that he had served in two
+galleys at least--in a three-decked Greek one under the black-haired
+‘political man,’ and again in a Viking’s open sea-serpent under the
+man ‘red as a red bear’ who went to Markland. The devil prompted me to
+speak.
+
+‘Why, “of course,” Charlie?’ said I.
+
+‘I don’t know. Are you making fun of me?’
+
+The current was broken for the time being. I took up a note-book and
+pretended to make many entries in it.
+
+‘It’s a pleasure to work with an imaginative chap like yourself,’ I
+said, after a pause. ‘The way that you’ve brought out the character of
+the hero is simply wonderful.’
+
+‘Do you think so?’ he answered, with a pleased flush. ‘I often tell
+myself that there’s more in me than my mo----than people think.’
+
+‘There’s an enormous amount in you.’
+
+‘Then, won’t you let me send an essay on The Ways of Bank-Clerks to
+_Tit-Bits_, and get the guinea prize?’
+
+‘That wasn’t exactly what I meant, old fellow: perhaps it would be
+better to wait a little and go ahead with the galley-story.’
+
+‘Ah, but I sha’n’t get the credit of that. _Tit-Bits_ would publish my
+name and address if I win. What are you grinning at? They _would_.’
+
+‘I know it. Suppose you go for a walk. I want to look through my notes
+about our story.’
+
+Now this reprehensible youth who left me, a little hurt and put back,
+might for aught he or I knew have been one of the crew of the Argo--had
+been certainly slave or comrade to Thorfin Karlsefne. Therefore
+he was deeply interested in guinea competitions. Remembering what
+Grish Chunder had said I laughed aloud. The Lords of Life and Death
+would never allow Charlie Mears to speak with full knowledge of his
+pasts, and I must even piece out what he had told me with my own poor
+inventions while Charlie wrote of the ways of bank-clerks.
+
+I got together and placed on one file all my notes; and the net
+result was not cheering. I read them a second time. There was nothing
+that might not have been compiled at second-hand from other people’s
+books--except, perhaps, the story of the fight in the harbour. The
+adventures of a Viking had been written many times before; the history
+of a Greek galley-slave was no new thing, and though I wrote both, who
+could challenge or confirm the accuracy of my details? I might as well
+tell a tale of two thousand years hence. The Lords of Life and Death
+were as cunning as Grish Chunder had hinted. They would allow nothing
+to escape that might trouble or make easy the minds of men. Though I
+was convinced of this, yet I could not leave the tale alone. Exaltation
+followed reaction, not once, but twenty times in the next few weeks.
+My moods varied with the March sunlight and flying clouds. By night or
+in the beauty of a spring morning I perceived that I could write that
+tale and shift continents thereby. In the wet windy afternoons, I saw
+that the tale might indeed be written, but would be nothing more than
+a faked, false-varnished, sham-rusted piece of Wardour Street work in
+the end. Then I blessed Charlie in many ways--though it was no fault of
+his. He seemed to be busy with prize competitions, and I saw less and
+less of him as the weeks went by and the earth cracked and grew ripe to
+spring, and the buds swelled in their sheaths. He did not care to read
+or talk of what he had read, and there was a new ring of self-assertion
+in his voice. I hardly cared to remind him of the galley when we met;
+but Charlie alluded to it on every occasion, always as a story from
+which money was to be made.
+
+‘I think I deserve twenty-five per cent, don’t I, at least?’ he said,
+with beautiful frankness. ‘I supplied all the ideas, didn’t I?’
+
+This greediness for silver was a new side in his nature. I assumed that
+it had been developed in the City, where Charlie was picking up the
+curious nasal drawl of the underbred City man.
+
+‘When the thing’s done we’ll talk about it. I can’t make anything of
+it at present. Red-haired or black-haired hero are equally difficult.’
+
+He was sitting by the fire staring at the red coals. ‘_I_ can’t
+understand what you find so difficult. It’s all as clear as mud to
+me,’ he replied. A jet of gas puffed out between the bars, took light,
+and whistled softly. ‘Suppose we take the red-haired hero’s adventures
+first, from the time that he came south to my galley and captured it
+and sailed to the Beaches.’
+
+I knew better now than to interrupt Charlie. I was out of reach of
+pen and paper, and dared not move to get them lest I should break the
+current. The gas-jet puffed and whinnied, Charlie’s voice dropped
+almost to a whisper, and he told a tale of the sailing of an open
+galley to Furdurstrandi, of sunsets on the open sea, seen under the
+curve of the one sail evening after evening when the galley’s beak was
+notched into the centre of the sinking disc, and ‘we sailed by that
+for we had no other guide,’ quoth Charlie. He spoke of a landing on an
+island and explorations in its woods, where the crew killed three men
+whom they found asleep under the pines. Their ghosts, Charlie said,
+followed the galley, swimming and choking in the water, and the crew
+cast lots and threw one of their number overboard as a sacrifice to
+the strange gods whom they had offended. Then they ate sea-weed when
+their provisions failed, and their legs swelled, and their leader, the
+red-haired man, killed two rowers who mutinied, and after a year spent
+among the woods they set sail for their own country, and a wind that
+never failed carried them back so safely that they all slept at night.
+This, and much more Charlie told. Sometimes the voice fell so low that
+I could not catch the words, though every nerve was on the strain. He
+spoke of their leader, the red-haired man, as a pagan speaks of his
+God; for it was he who cheered them and slew them impartially as he
+thought best for their needs; and it was he who steered them for three
+days among floating ice, each floe crowded with strange beasts that
+‘tried to sail with us,’ said Charlie, ‘and we beat them back with the
+handles of the oars.’
+
+The gas-jet went out, a burnt coal gave way, and the fire settled with
+a tiny crash to the bottom of the grate. Charlie ceased speaking, and I
+said no word.
+
+‘By Jove!’ he said at last, shaking his head. ‘I’ve been staring at the
+fire till I’m dizzy. What was I going to say?’
+
+‘Something about the galley-book.’
+
+‘I remember now. It’s twenty-five per cent of the profits, isn’t it?’
+
+‘It’s anything you like when I’ve done the tale.’
+
+‘I wanted to be sure of that. I must go now. I’ve--I’ve an
+appointment.’ And he left me.
+
+Had not my eyes been held I might have known that that broken muttering
+over the fire was the swan-song of Charlie Mears. But I thought it the
+prelude to fuller revelation. At last and at last I should cheat the
+Lords of Life and Death!
+
+When next Charlie came to me I received him with rapture. He was
+nervous and embarrassed, but his eyes were very full of light, and his
+lips a little parted.
+
+‘I’ve done a poem,’ he said; and then, quickly: ‘It’s the best I’ve
+ever done. Read it.’ He thrust it into my hand and retreated to the
+window.
+
+I groaned inwardly. It would be the work of half an hour to
+criticise--that is to say, praise--the poem sufficiently to please
+Charlie. Then I had good reason to groan, for Charlie, discarding his
+favourite centipede metres, had launched into shorter and choppier
+verse, and verse with a motive at the back of it. This is what I read:--
+
+    ‘The day is most fair, the cheery wind
+       Halloos behind the hill,
+     Where he bends the wood as seemeth good,
+       And the sapling to his will!
+     Riot, O wind; there is that in my blood
+       That would not have thee still!
+
+    ‘She gave me herself, O Earth, O Sky;
+       Gray sea, she is mine alone!
+     Let the sullen boulders hear my cry,
+       And rejoice tho’ they be but stone!
+
+    ‘Mine! I have won her, O good brown earth,
+       Make merry! ’Tis hard on Spring;
+     Make merry; my love is doubly worth
+       All worship your fields can bring!
+     Let the hind that tills you feel my mirth
+       At the early harrowing!’
+
+‘Yes, it’s the early harrowing, past a doubt,’ I said, with a dread at
+my heart. Charlie smiled, but did not answer.
+
+    ‘Red cloud of the sunset, tell it abroad;
+       I am victor. Greet me, O Sun,
+     Dominant master and absolute lord
+       Over the soul of one!’
+
+‘Well?’ said Charlie, looking over my shoulder.
+
+I thought it far from well, and very evil indeed, when he silently laid
+a photograph on the paper--the photograph of a girl with a curly head,
+and a foolish slack mouth.
+
+‘Isn’t it--isn’t it wonderful?’ he whispered, pink to the tips of his
+ears, wrapped in the rosy mystery of first love. ‘I didn’t know; I
+didn’t think--it came like a thunderclap.’
+
+‘Yes. It comes like a thunderclap. Are you very happy, Charlie?’
+
+‘My God--she--she loves me!’ He sat down repeating the last words to
+himself. I looked at the hairless face, the narrow shoulders already
+bowed by desk-work, and wondered when, where, and how he had loved in
+his past lives.
+
+‘What will your mother say?’ I asked cheerfully.
+
+‘I don’t care a damn what she says!’
+
+At twenty the things for which one does not care a damn should,
+properly, be many, but one must not include mothers in the list. I told
+him this gently; and he described Her, even as Adam must have described
+to the newly-named beasts the glory and tenderness and beauty of Eve.
+Incidentally I learned that She was a tobacconist’s assistant with a
+weakness for pretty dress, and had told him four or five times already
+that She had never been kissed by a man before.
+
+Charlie spoke on and on, and on; while I, separated from him by
+thousands of years, was considering the beginnings of things. Now I
+understood why the Lords of Life and Death shut the doors so carefully
+behind us. It is that we may not remember our first and most beautiful
+wooings. Were this not so, our world would be without inhabitants in a
+hundred years.
+
+‘Now, about that galley-story,’ I said still more cheerfully, in a
+pause in the rush of the speech.
+
+Charlie looked up as though he had been hit. ‘The galley--what galley?
+Good heavens, don’t joke, man! This is serious! You don’t know how
+serious it is!’
+
+Grish Chunder was right. Charlie had tasted the love of woman that
+kills remembrance, and the finest story in the world would never be
+written.
+
+
+
+
+                          HIS PRIVATE HONOUR.
+
+
+The autumn batch of recruits for the Old Regiment had just been
+uncarted. As usual they were said to be the worst draft that had ever
+come from the Depôt. Mulvaney looked them over, grunted scornfully, and
+immediately reported himself very sick.
+
+‘Is it the regular autumn fever?’ said the doctor, who knew something
+of Terence’s ways. ‘Your temperature’s normal.’
+
+‘’Tis wan hundred and thirty-seven rookies to the bad, sorr. I’m not
+very sick now, but I will be dead if these boys are thrown at me in my
+rejuced condition. Doctor, dear, supposin’ you was in charge of three
+cholera camps an’----’
+
+‘Go to hospital then, you old contriver,’ said the doctor, laughing.
+
+Terence bundled himself into a blue bedgown,--Dinah Shadd was away
+attending to a major’s lady, who preferred Dinah without a diploma to
+anybody else with a hundred,--put a pipe in his teeth, and paraded the
+hospital balcony, exhorting Ortheris to be a father to the new recruits.
+
+‘They’re mostly your own sort, little man,’ he said, with a grin; ‘the
+top-spit av Whitechapel. I’ll interogue them whin they’re more like
+something they never will be,--an’ that’s a good honest soldier like
+me.’
+
+Ortheris yapped indignantly. He knew as well as Terence what the coming
+work meant, and he thought Terence’s conduct mean. Then he strolled
+off to look at the new cattle, who were staring at the unfamiliar
+landscape with large eyes, and asking if the kites were eagles and the
+pariah-dogs jackals.
+
+‘Well, you are a holy set of bean-faced beggars, _you_ are,’ he said
+genially to a knot in the barrack-square. Then, running his eye over
+them,--‘Fried fish an’ whelks is about your sort. Blimy if they haven’t
+sent some pink-eyed Jews too. You chap with the greasy ’ed, which o’
+the Solomons was your father, Moses?’
+
+‘My name’s Anderson,’ said a voice sullenly.
+
+‘Oh, Samuelson! All right, Samuelson! An’ ’ow many o’ the likes o’ you
+Sheenies are comin’ to spoil B Company?’
+
+There is no scorn so complete as that of the old soldier for the new.
+It is right that this should be so. A recruit must learn first that he
+is not a man but a thing, which in time, and by the mercy of Heaven,
+may develop into a soldier of the Queen if it takes care and attends
+to good advice. Ortheris’s tunic was open, his cap overlopped one
+eye, and his hands were behind his back as he walked round, growing
+more contemptuous at each step. The recruits did not dare to answer,
+for they were new boys in a strange school, who had called themselves
+soldiers at the Depôt in comfortable England.
+
+‘Not a single pair o’ shoulders in the whole lot. I’ve seen some bad
+drafts in my time,--some bloomin’ bad drafts; but this ’ere draft
+beats any draft I’ve ever known. Jock, come an’ look at these squidgy,
+ham-shanked beggars.’
+
+Learoyd was walking across the square. He arrived slowly, circled round
+the knot as a whale circles round a shoal of small fry, said nothing,
+and went away whistling.
+
+‘Yes, you may well look sheepy,’ Ortheris squeaked to the boys. ‘It’s
+the likes of you breaks the ’earts of the likes of us. We’ve got to
+lick you into shape, and never a ha’penny extry do we get for so doin’,
+and you ain’t never grateful neither. Don’t you go thinkin’ it’s the
+Colonel nor yet the company orf’cer that makes you. It’s _us_, you
+Johnnie Raws--you Johnnie _bloomin’_ Raws!’
+
+A company officer had come up unperceived behind Ortheris at the end
+of this oration. ‘You may be right, Ortheris,’ he said quietly, ‘but
+I shouldn’t shout it.’ The recruits grinned as Ortheris saluted and
+collapsed.
+
+Some days afterwards I was privileged to look over the new batch,
+and they were everything that Ortheris had said, and more. B Company
+had been devastated by forty or fifty of them; and B Company’s drill
+on parade was a sight to shudder at. Ortheris asked them lovingly
+whether they had not been sent out by mistake, and whether they had not
+better post themselves back to their friends. Learoyd thrashed them
+methodically one by one, without haste but without slovenliness; and
+the older soldiers took the remnants from Learoyd and went over them in
+their own fashion. Mulvaney stayed in hospital, and grinned from the
+balcony when Ortheris called him a shirker and other worse names.
+
+‘By the grace av God we’ll brew men av them yet,’ Terence said one
+day. ‘Be vartuous an’ parsevere, me son. There’s the makin’s av
+colonels in that mob if we only go deep enough--wid a belt.’
+
+‘We!’ Ortheris replied, dancing with rage. ‘I just love you and your
+“we’s.” ’Ere’s B Company drillin’ like a drunk Militia reg’ment.’
+
+‘So I’ve been officially acquent,’ was the answer from on high; ‘but
+I’m too sick this tide to make certain.’
+
+‘An’ you, you fat H’irishman, shiftin’ an’ shirkin’ up there among the
+arrerroot an’ the sago!’
+
+‘_An’_ the port wine,--you’ve forgot the port wine, Orth’ris: ’tis none
+so bad.’ Terence smacked his lips provokingly.
+
+‘And we’re wore off our feet with these ’ere--kangaroos. Come out o’
+that, an’ earn your pay. Come on down outer that, an’ _do_ something
+’stead o’ grinnin’ up there like a Jew monkey, you frowsy-’eaded
+Fenian!’
+
+‘When I’m better av my various complaints I’ll have a little private
+talkin’ wid you. In the meanwhile,--duck!’
+
+Terence flung an empty medicine bottle at Ortheris’s head and dropped
+into a long chair, and Ortheris came to tell me his opinion of Mulvaney
+three times over,--each time entirely varying all the words.
+
+‘There’ll be a smash one o’ these days,’ he concluded. ‘Well, it’s none
+o’ my fault, but it’s ’ard on B Company.’
+
+It was very hard on B Company, for twenty seasoned men cannot push
+twice that number of fools into their places and keep their own
+places at the same time. The recruits should have been more evenly
+distributed through the regiment, but it seemed good to the Colonel
+to mass them in a company where there was a fair proportion of old
+soldiers. He found his reward early one morning when the battalion was
+advancing by companies in echelon from the right. The order was given
+to form company squares, which are compact little bricks of men very
+unpleasant for a line of charging cavalry to deal with. B Company was
+on the left flank, and had ample time to know what was going on. For
+that reason presumably it gathered itself into a thing like a decayed
+aloe-clump, the bayonets pointing anywhere in general and nowhere in
+particular; and in that clump, roundel, or mob, it stayed till the dust
+had gone down and the Colonel could see and speak. He did both, and
+the speaking part was admitted by the regiment to be the finest thing
+that the ‘old man’ had ever risen to since one delightful day at a
+sham-fight, when a cavalry division had occasion to walk over his line
+of skirmishers. He said, almost weeping, that he had given no order
+for rallying groups, and that he preferred to see a little dressing
+among the men occasionally. He then apologised for having mistaken B
+Company for men. He said that they were but weak little children, and
+that since he could not offer them each a perambulator and a nursemaid
+(this may sound comic to read, but B Company heard it by word of mouth
+and winced) perhaps the best thing for them to do would be to go back
+to squad-drill. To that end he proposed sending them, out of their
+turn, to garrison duty in Fort Amara, five miles away,--D Company were
+next for this detestable duty and nearly cheered the Colonel. There he
+devoutly hoped that their own subalterns would drill them to death, as
+they were of no use in their present life.
+
+It was an exceedingly painful scene, and I made haste to be near B
+Company barracks when parade was dismissed and the men were free to
+talk. There was no talking at first, because each old soldier took a
+new draft and kicked him very severely. The non-commissioned officers
+had neither eyes nor ears for these accidents. They left the barracks
+to themselves, and Ortheris improved the occasion by a speech. I
+did not hear that speech, but fragments of it were quoted for weeks
+afterwards. It covered the birth, parentage, and education of every man
+in the company by name: it gave a complete account of Fort Amara from
+a sanitary and social point of view; and it wound up with an abstract
+of the whole duty of a soldier, each recruit his use in life, and
+Ortheris’s views on the use and fate of the recruits of B Company.
+
+‘You can’t drill, you can’t walk, you can’t shoot,--you,--you awful
+rookies! Wot’s the good of you? You eats and you sleeps, and you eats,
+and you goes to the doctor for medicine when your innards is out o’
+order for all the world as if you was bloomin’ generals. An’ now you’ve
+topped it all, you bats’-eyed beggars, with getting us druv out to that
+stinkin’ Fort ’Ammerer. We’ll fort you when we get out there; yes, an’
+we’ll ’ammer you too. Don’t you think you’ve come into the H’army to
+drink Heno, an’ club your comp’ny, an’ lie on your cots an’ scratch
+your fat heads. You can do that at ’ome sellin’ matches, which is all
+you’re fit for, you keb-huntin’, penny-toy, bootlace, baggage-tout,
+’orse-’oldin’, sandwich-backed se-werss, you.[3] I’ve spoke you as
+fair as I know ’ow, and you give good ’eed, ’cause if Mulvaney stops
+skrimshanking--gets out o’ ’orspital--when we’re in the Fort, I lay
+your lives will be trouble to you.’
+
+That was Ortheris’s peroration, and it caused B Company to be
+christened the Boot-black Brigade. With this disgrace on their slack
+shoulders they went to garrison duty at Fort Amara with their officers,
+who were under instructions to twist their little tails. The army,
+unlike every other profession, cannot be taught through shilling
+books. First a man must suffer, then he must learn his work, and the
+self-respect that that knowledge brings. The learning is hard, in a
+land where the army is not a red thing that walks down the street to
+be looked at, but a living tramping reality that may be needed at the
+shortest notice, when there is no time to say, ‘Hadn’t you better?’ and
+‘Won’t you please?’
+
+The company officers divided themselves into three. When Brander the
+captain was wearied, he gave over to Maydew, and when Maydew was hoarse
+he ordered the junior subaltern Ouless to bucket the men through squad
+and company drill, till Brander could go on again. Out of parade hours
+the old soldiers spoke to the recruits as old soldiers will, and
+between the four forces at work on them, the new draft began to stand
+on their feet and feel that they belonged to a good and honourable
+service. This was proved by their once or twice resenting Ortheris’s
+technical lectures.
+
+‘Drop it now, lad,’ said Learoyd, coming to the rescue. ‘Th’ pups are
+biting back. They’re none so rotten as we looked for.’
+
+‘Ho! Yes. You think yourself soldiers now, ’cause you don’t fall over
+each other on p’rade, don’t you? You think ’cause the dirt don’t cake
+off you week’s end to week’s end that you’re clean men. You think
+’cause you can fire your rifle without more nor shuttin’ both eyes,
+you’re something to fight, don’t you? You’ll know later on,’ said
+Ortheris to the barrack-room generally. ‘Not but what you’re a little
+better than you was,’ he added, with a gracious wave of his cutty.
+
+It was in this transition-stage that I came across the new draft once
+more. Their officers, in the zeal of youth forgetting that the old
+soldiers who stiffened the sections must suffer equally with the raw
+material under hammering, had made all a little stale and unhandy
+with continuous drill in the square, instead of marching the men into
+the open and supplying them with skirmishing drill. The month of
+garrison-duty in the Fort was nearly at an end, and B Company were
+quite fit for a self-respecting regiment to drill with. They had
+no style or spring,--that would come in time,--but so far as they
+went they were passable. I met Maydew one day and inquired after
+their health. He told me that young Ouless was putting a polish on a
+half-company of them in the great square by the east bastion of the
+Fort that afternoon. Because the day was Saturday I went off to taste
+the full beauty of leisure in watching another man hard at work.
+
+The fat forty-pound muzzle-loaders on the east bastion made a very
+comfortable resting-place. You could sprawl full length on the iron
+warmed by the afternoon sun to blood heat, and command an easy view of
+the parade-ground which lay between the powder-magazine and the curtain
+of the bastion.
+
+I saw a half-company called over and told off for drill, saw Ouless
+come from his quarters, tugging at his gloves, and heard the first
+_’Shun!_ that locks the ranks and shows that work has begun. Then I
+went off on my own thoughts; the squeaking of the boots and the rattle
+of the rifles making a good accompaniment, and the line of red coats
+and black trousers a suitable background to them all. They concerned
+the formation of a territorial army for India,--an army of specially
+paid men enlisted for twelve years’ service in Her Majesty’s Indian
+possessions, with the option of extending on medical certificates for
+another five and the certainty of a pension at the end. They would
+be such an army as the world had never seen,--one hundred thousand
+trained men drawing annually five, no, fifteen thousand men from
+England, making India their home, and allowed to marry in reason. Yes,
+I thought, watching the line shift to and fro, break and re-form, we
+would buy back Cashmere from the drunken imbecile who was turning it
+into a hell, and there we would plant our much-married regiments,--the
+men who had served ten years of their time,--and there they should
+breed us white soldiers, and perhaps a second fighting-line of
+Eurasians. At all events Cashmere was the only place in India that the
+Englishman could colonise, and if we had foot-hold there we could....
+Oh, it was a beautiful dream! I left that territorial army swelled
+to a quarter of a million men far behind, swept on as far as an
+independent India, hiring war-ships from the mother-country, guarding
+Aden on the one side and Singapore on the other, paying interest on
+her loans with beautiful regularity, but borrowing no men from beyond
+her own borders--a colonised, manufacturing India with a permanent
+surplus and her own flag. I had just installed myself as Viceroy,
+and by virtue of my office had shipped four million sturdy thrifty
+natives to the Malayan Archipelago, where labour is always wanted and
+the Chinese pour in too quickly, when I became aware that things were
+not going smoothly with the half-company. There was a great deal too
+much shuffling and shifting and ‘as you were-ing.’ The non-commissioned
+officers were snapping at the men, and I fancied Ouless backed one of
+his orders with an oath. He was in no position to do this, because he
+was a junior who had not yet learned to pitch his word of command in
+the same key twice running. Sometimes he squeaked, and sometimes he
+grunted; and a clear full voice with a ring in it has more to do with
+drill than people think. He was nervous both on parade and in mess,
+because he was unproven and knew it. One of his majors had said in
+his hearing, ‘Ouless has a skin or two to slough yet, and he hasn’t
+the sense to be aware of it.’ That remark had stayed in Ouless’s mind
+and caused him to think about himself in little things, which is not
+the best training for a young man. He tried to be cordial at mess,
+and became over-effusive. Then he tried to stand on his dignity, and
+appeared sulky and boorish. He was only hunting for the just medium
+and the proper note, and had found neither because he had never faced
+himself in a big thing. With his men he was as ill at ease as he was
+with his mess, and his voice betrayed him. I heard two orders and
+then:--‘Sergeant, what _is_ that rear-rank man doing, damn him?’ That
+was sufficiently bad. A company officer ought not to ask sergeants for
+information. He commands, and commands are not held by syndicates.
+
+It was too dusty to see the drill accurately, but I could hear the
+excited little voice pitching from octave to octave, and the uneasy
+ripple of badgered or bad-tempered files running down the ranks. Ouless
+had come on parade as sick of his duty as were the men of theirs. The
+hot sun had told on everybody’s temper, but most of all on the youngest
+man’s. He had evidently lost his self-control, and not possessing the
+nerve or the knowledge to break off till he had recovered it again, was
+making bad worse by ill-language.
+
+The men shifted their ground and came close under the gun I was lying
+on. They were wheeling quarter-right and they did it very badly,
+in the natural hope of hearing Ouless swear again. He could have
+taught them nothing new, but they enjoyed the exhibition. Instead of
+swearing Ouless lost his head completely, and struck out nervously
+at the wheeling flank-man with a little Malacca riding-cane that he
+held in his hand for a pointer. The cane was topped with thin silver
+over lacquer, and the silver had worn through in one place, leaving a
+triangular flap sticking up. I had just time to see that Ouless had
+thrown away his commission by striking a soldier, when I heard the rip
+of cloth and a piece of gray shirt showed under the torn scarlet on the
+man’s shoulder. It had been the merest nervous flick of an exasperated
+boy, but quite enough to forfeit his commission, since it had been
+dealt in anger to a volunteer and no pressed man, who could not under
+the rules of the service reply. The effect of it, thanks to the natural
+depravity of things, was as though Ouless had cut the man’s coat off
+his back. Knowing the new draft by reputation, I was fairly certain
+that every one of them would swear with many oaths that Ouless had
+actually thrashed the man. In that case Ouless would do well to pack
+his trunk. His career as a servant of the Queen in any capacity was
+ended. The wheel continued, and the men halted and dressed immediately
+opposite my resting-place. Ouless’s face was perfectly bloodless. The
+flanking man was a dark red, and I could see his lips moving in wicked
+words. He was Ortheris! After seven years’ service and three medals,
+he had been struck by a boy younger than himself! Further, he was my
+friend and a good man, a proved man, and an Englishman. The shame of
+the thing made me as hot as it made Ouless cold, and if Ortheris had
+slipped in a cartridge and cleared the account at once I should have
+rejoiced. The fact that Ortheris, of all men, had been struck, proved
+that the boy could not have known whom he was hitting; but he should
+have remembered that he was no longer a boy. And then I was sorry for
+him, and then I was angry again, and Ortheris stared in front of him
+and grew redder and redder.
+
+The drill halted for a moment. No one knew why, for not three men could
+have seen the insult, the wheel being end-on to Ouless at the time.
+Then, led, I conceived, by the hand of Fate, Brander, the captain,
+crossed the drill-ground, and his eye was caught by not more than a
+square foot of gray shirt over a shoulder-blade that should have been
+covered by well-fitting tunic.
+
+‘Heavens and earth!’ he said, crossing in three strides. ‘Do you let
+your men come on parade in rags, sir? What’s that scare-crow doing
+here? Fall out, that flank-man. What do you mean by----_You_, Ortheris!
+of all men. What the deuce do you mean?’
+
+‘Beg y’ pardon, sir,’ said Ortheris. ‘I scratched it against the
+guard-gate running up to parade.’
+
+‘Scratched it! Ripped it up, you mean. It’s half off your back.’
+
+‘It was a little tear at first, sir, but in portin’ arms it got
+stretched, sir, an’--an’ I can’t look be’ind me. I felt it givin’, sir.’
+
+‘Hm!’ said Brander. ‘I should think you did feel it give. I thought it
+was one of the new draft. You’ve a good pair of shoulders. Go on!’
+
+He turned to go. Ouless stepped after him, very white, and said
+something in a low voice.
+
+‘Hey, what? What? Ortheris,’ the voice dropped. I saw Ortheris salute,
+say something, and stand at attention.
+
+‘Dismiss,’ said Brander curtly. The men were dismissed. ‘I can’t make
+this out. You say----?’ he nodded at Ouless, who said something again.
+Ortheris stood still, the torn flap of his tunic falling nearly to his
+waist-belt. He had, as Brander said, a good pair of shoulders, and
+prided himself on the fit of his tunic.
+
+‘Beg y’ pardon, sir,’ I heard him say, ‘but I think Lieutenant Ouless
+has been in the sun too long. He don’t quite remember things, sir. I
+come on p’rade with a bit of a rip, and it spread, sir, through portin’
+arms, as I ’ave said, sir.’
+
+Brander looked from one face to the other and I suppose drew his own
+conclusions, for he told Ortheris to go with the other men who were
+flocking back to barracks. Then he spoke to Ouless and went away,
+leaving the boy in the middle of the parade-ground fumbling with his
+sword-knot.
+
+He looked up, saw me lying on the gun, and came to me biting the back
+of his gloved forefinger, so completely thrown off his balance that he
+had not sense enough to keep his trouble to himself.
+
+‘I say, you saw that, I suppose?’ He jerked his head back to the
+square, where the dust left by the departing men was settling down in
+white circles.
+
+‘I did,’ I answered, for I was not feeling polite.
+
+‘What the devil ought I to do?’ He bit his finger again. ‘I told
+Brander what I had done. I hit him.’
+
+‘I’m perfectly aware of that,’ I said, ‘and I don’t suppose Ortheris
+has forgotten it already.’
+
+‘Ye--es; but I’m dashed if I know what I ought to do. Exchange into
+another company, I suppose. I can’t ask the man to exchange, I suppose.
+Hey?’
+
+The suggestion showed the glimmerings of proper sense, but he should
+not have come to me or any one else for help. It was his own affair,
+and I told him so. He seemed unconvinced, and began to talk of the
+possibilities of being cashiered. At this point the spirit moved me,
+on behalf of the unavenged Ortheris, to paint him a beautiful picture
+of his insignificance in the scheme of creation. He had a papa and a
+mamma seven thousand miles away, and perhaps some friends. They would
+feel his disgrace, but no one else would care a penny. He would be only
+Lieutenant Ouless of the Old Regiment dismissed the Queen’s service for
+conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman. The Commander-in-Chief,
+who would confirm the orders of the court-martial, would not know who
+he was; his mess would not speak of him; he would return to Bombay,
+if he had money enough to go home, more alone than when he had come
+out. Finally,--I rounded the sketch with precision,--he was only one
+tiny dab of red in the vast gray field of the Indian Empire. He must
+work this crisis out alone, and no one could help him, and no one
+cared--(this was untrue, because I cared immensely; he had spoken the
+truth to Brander on the spot)--whether he pulled through it or did not
+pull through it. At last his face set and his figure stiffened.
+
+‘Thanks, that’s quite enough. I don’t want to hear any more,’ he said
+in a dry grating voice, and went to his own quarters.
+
+Brander spoke to me afterwards and asked me some absurd
+question--whether I had seen Ouless cut the coat off Ortheris’s back.
+I knew that jagged sliver of silver would do its work well, but I
+contrived to impress on Brander the completeness, the wonderful
+completeness, of my disassociation from that drill. I began to tell him
+all about my dreams for the new territorial army in India, and he left
+me.
+
+I could not see Ortheris for some days, but I learnt that when he
+returned to his fellows he had told the story of the blow in vivid
+language. Samuelson, the Jew, then asserted that it was not good enough
+to live in a regiment where you were drilled off your feet and knocked
+about like a dog. The remark was a perfectly innocent one, and exactly
+tallied with Ortheris’s expressed opinions. Yet Ortheris had called
+Samuelson an unmentionable Jew, had accused him of kicking women on
+the head in London, and howling under the cat, had hustled him, as a
+bantam hustles a barn-door cock, from one end of the barrack-room to
+the other, and finally had heaved every single article of Samuelson’s
+valise and bedding-roll into the verandah and the outer dirt, kicking
+Samuelson every time that the bewildered creature stooped to pick
+anything up. My informant could not account for this inconsistency, but
+it seemed to me that Ortheris was working off his temper.
+
+Mulvaney had heard the story in hospital. First his face clouded, then
+he spat, and then laughed. I suggested that he had better return to
+active duty, but he saw it in another light, and told me that Ortheris
+was quite capable of looking after himself and his own affairs. ‘An’
+if I did come out,’ said Terence, ‘like as not I would be catchin’
+young Ouless by the scruff av his trousies an’ makin’ an example av him
+before the men. Whin Dinah came back I would be under court-martial,
+an’ all for the sake av a little bit av a bhoy that’ll make an orf’cer
+yet. What’s he goin’ to do, sorr, do ye know?’
+
+‘Which?’ said I.
+
+‘Ouless, av course. I’ve no fear for the _man_. Begad, tho’, if ut had
+come to me--but ut could not have so come--I’d ha’ made him cut his
+wisdom-teeth on his own sword-hilt.’
+
+‘I don’t think he knows himself what he means to do,’ I said.
+
+‘I should not wonder,’ said Terence. ‘There’s a dale av thinkin’ before
+a young man whin he’s done wrong an’ knows ut, an’ is studyin’ how to
+put ut right. Give the word from me to our little man there, that if he
+had ha’ told on his shuperior orf’cer I’d ha’ come out to Fort Amara to
+kick him into the Fort ditch, an’ that’s a forty-fut drop.’
+
+Ortheris was not in good condition to talk to. He wandered up and down
+with Learoyd brooding, so far as I could see, over his lost honour,
+and using, as I could hear, incendiary language. Learoyd would nod and
+spit and smoke and nod again, and he must have been a great comfort to
+Ortheris--almost as great a comfort as Samuelson, whom Ortheris bullied
+disgracefully. If the Jew opened his mouth in the most casual remark
+Ortheris would plunge down it with all arms and accoutrements, while
+the barrack-room stared and wondered.
+
+Ouless had retired into himself to meditate. I saw him now and again,
+and he avoided me because I had witnessed his shame and spoken my mind
+on it. He seemed dull and moody, and found his half-company anything
+but pleasant to drill. The men did their work and gave him very little
+trouble, but just when they should have been feeling their feet,
+and showing that they felt them by spring and swing and snap, the
+elasticity died out, and it was only drilling with war-game blocks.
+There is a beautiful little ripple in a well-made line of men, exactly
+like the play of a perfectly-tempered sword. Ouless’s half-company
+moved as a broomstick moves, and would have broken as easily.
+
+I was speculating whether Ouless had sent money to Ortheris, which
+would have been bad, or had apologised to him in private, which would
+have been worse, or had decided to let the whole affair slide, which
+would have been worst of all, when orders came to me to leave the
+station for a while. I had not spoken directly to Ortheris, for his
+honour was not my honour, and he was its only guardian, and he would
+not say anything except bad words.
+
+I went away, and from time to time thought a great deal of that
+subaltern and that private in Fort Amara, and wondered what would be
+the upshot of everything.
+
+When I returned it was early spring. B Company had been shifted from
+the Fort to regular duty in cantonments, the roses were getting
+ready to bud on the Mall, and the regiment, which had been at a
+camp of exercise among other things, was going through its spring
+musketry-course under an adjutant who had a notion that its shooting
+average was low. He had stirred up the company officers and they had
+bought extra ammunition for their men--the Government allowance is
+just sufficient to foul the rifling--and E Company, which counted
+many marksmen, was vapouring and offering to challenge all the other
+companies, and the third-class shots were very sorry that they had ever
+been born, and all the subalterns were a rich ripe saddle-colour from
+sitting at the butts six and eight hours a day.
+
+I went off to the butts after breakfast very full of curiosity to see
+how the new draft had come forward. Ouless was there with his men by
+the bald hillock that marks the six hundred yards’ range, and the men
+were in gray-green _khaki_, that shows the best points of a soldier
+and shades off into every background he may stand against. Before I
+was in hearing distance I could see, as they sprawled on the dusty
+grass, or stood up and shook themselves, that they were men made over
+again--wearing their helmets with the cock of self-possession, swinging
+easily, and jumping to the word of command. Coming nearer, I heard
+Ouless whistling _Ballyhooley_ between his teeth as he looked down the
+range with his binoculars, and the back of Lieutenant Ouless was the
+back of a free man and an officer. He nodded as I came up, and I heard
+him fling an order to a non-commissioned officer in a sure and certain
+voice. The flag ran up from the target, and Ortheris threw himself
+down on his stomach to put in his ten shots. He winked at me over the
+breechblock as he settled himself, with the air of a man who has to go
+through tricks for the benefit of children.
+
+‘Watch, you men,’ said Ouless to the squad behind. ‘He’s half your
+weight, Brannigan, but he isn’t afraid of his rifle.’
+
+Ortheris had his little affectations and pet ways as the rest of us
+have. He weighed his rifle, gave it a little kick-up, cuddled down
+again, and fired across the ground that was beginning to dance in the
+sun-heat.
+
+‘Miss!’ said a man behind.
+
+‘Too much bloomin’ background in front,’ Ortheris muttered.
+
+‘I should allow two feet for refraction,’ said Ouless.
+
+Ortheris fired again, made his outer, crept in, found the bull and
+stayed there; the non-commissioned officer pricking off the shots.
+
+‘Can’t make out ’ow I missed that first,’ he said, rising, and stepping
+back to my side, as Learoyd took his place.
+
+‘Is it company practice?’ I asked.
+
+‘No. Only just knockin’ about. Ouless, ’e’s givin’ ten rupees for
+second-class shots. I’m outer it, of course, but I come on to show ’em
+the proper style o’ doin’ things. Jock looks like a sea-lion at the
+Brighton Aquarium sprawlin’ an’ crawlin’ down there, don’t ’e? Gawd,
+what a butt this end of ’im would make.’
+
+‘B Company has come up very well,’ I said.
+
+‘They ’ad to. They’re none so dusty now, are they? Samuelson even, ’e
+can shoot sometimes. We’re gettin’ on as well as can be expected, thank
+you.’
+
+‘How do you get on with----?’
+
+‘Oh, _’im_! First-rate! There’s nothin’ wrong with ’im.’
+
+‘Was it all settled then?’
+
+‘’Asn’t Terence told you? I should say it was. ’E’s a gentleman, ’e is.’
+
+‘Let’s hear,’ I said.
+
+Ortheris twinkled all over, tucked his rifle across his knees and
+repeated, ‘’E’s a gentleman. ’E’s an officer too. You saw all that
+mess in Fort ’Ammerer. ’Twasn’t none o’ _my_ fault, as you can guess.
+Only some goat in the drill judged it was be’aviour or something to
+play the fool on p’rade. That’s why we drilled so bad. When ’e ’it me,
+I was so took aback I couldn’t do nothing, an’ when I wished for to
+knock ’im down the wheel ’ad gone on, an’ I was facin’ you there lyin’
+on the guns. After the captain had come up an’ was raggin’ me about
+my tunic bein’ tore, I saw the young beggar’s eye, an’ ’fore I could
+’elp myself I begun to lie like a good ’un. You ’eard that? It was
+quite instinkive, but, my! I was in a lather. Then _he_ said to the
+captain, “I struck ’im!” sez ’e, an’ I ’eard Brander whistle, an’ then
+I come out with a new set o’ lies all about portin’ arms an’ ’ow the
+rip growed, same as you ’eard. I done that too before I knew where I
+was. Then I give Samuelson what-for in barricks when he was dismissed.
+You should ha’ seen ’is kit by the time I’d finished with it. It was
+all over the bloomin’ Fort! Then me an’ Jock went off to Mulvaney in
+’orspital, five-mile walk, an’ I was hoppin’ mad. Ouless, ’e knowed it
+was court-martial for me if I ’it ’im back--’e _must_ ha’ knowed. Well,
+I sez to Terence, whisperin’ under the ’orspital balcony--“Terence,”
+sez I, “what in ’ell am I to do?” I told ’im all about the row same as
+you saw. Terence ’e whistles like a bloomin’ old bullfinch up there in
+’orspital, an’ ’e sez, “You ain’t to blame,” sez ’e. “’Strewth,” sez
+I, “d’you suppose I’ve come ’ere five mile in the sun to take blame?”
+I sez. “I want that young beggar’s hide took off. I ain’t a bloomin’
+conscrip’,” I sez. “I’m a private servin’ of the Queen, an’ as good
+a man as ’e is,” I sez, “for all ’is commission an’ ’is airs an’ ’is
+money,” sez I.’
+
+‘What a fool you were,’ I interrupted. Ortheris, being neither a menial
+nor an American, but a free man, had no excuse for yelping.
+
+‘That’s exactly what Terence said. I wonder you set it the same way so
+pat if ’e ’asn’t been talkin’ to you. ’E sez to me--“You ought to ’ave
+more sense,” ’e sez, “at your time of life. What differ do it make to
+you,” ’e sez, “whether ’e ’as a commission or no commission? That’s
+none o’ your affair. It’s between man an’ man,” ’e sez, “if ’e ’eld
+a general’s commission. Moreover,” ’e sez, “you don’t look ’andsome
+’oppin’ about on your ’ind legs like that. Take him away, Jock.” Then
+’e went inside, an’ that’s all I got outer Terence. Jock, ’e sez as
+slow as a march in slow time,--“Stanley,” ’e sez, “that young beggar
+didn’t _go_ for to ’it you.” “I don’t give a damn whether ’e did or
+’e didn’t. ’It me ’e did,” I sez. “Then you’ve only got to report to
+Brander,” sez Jock. “What d’yer take me for?” I sez, as I was so mad I
+nearly ’it Jock. An’ he got me by the neck an’ shoved my ’ead into a
+bucket o’ water in the cook-’ouse an’ then we went back to the Fort,
+an’ I give Samuelson a little more trouble with ’is kit. ’E sez to me,
+“_I_ haven’t been strook without ’ittin’ back.” “Well, you’re goin’ to
+be now,” I sez, an’ I give ’im one or two for ’isself, an’ arxed ’im
+very polite to ’it back, but he didn’t. I’d ha’ killed ’im if ’e ’ad.
+That done me a lot o’ good.
+
+‘Ouless ’e didn’t make no show for some days,--not till after you was
+gone; an’ I was feelin’ sick an’ miserable, an’ didn’t know what I
+wanted, ’cept to black his little eyes good. I ’oped ’e might send me
+some money for my tunic. Then I’d ha’ had it out with him on p’rade
+and took my chance. Terence was in ’orspital still, you see, an’ ’e
+wouldn’t give me no advice.
+
+‘The day after you left, Ouless come across me carrying a bucket on
+fatigue, an’ e’ sez to me very quietly, “Ortheris, you’ve got to come
+out shootin’ with me,” ’e sez. I felt like to bunging the bucket in ’is
+eye, but I didn’t. I got ready to go instead. Oh, ’e’s a gentleman! We
+went out together, neither sayin’ nothin’ to the other till we was well
+out into the jungle beyond the river with ’igh grass all round,--pretty
+near that place where I went off my ’ead with you. Then ’e puts his gun
+down an’ sez very quietly: “Ortheris, I strook you on p’rade,” ’e sez.
+“Yes, sir,” sez I, “you did.” “I’ve been studying it out by myself,”
+’e sez. “Oh, you ’ave, ’ave you?” sez I to myself, “an’ a nice time
+you’ve been about it, you bun-faced little beggar.” “Yes, sir,” sez I.
+“What made you screen me?” ’e sez. “I don’t know,” I sez, an’ no more I
+did, nor do. “I can’t ask you to exchange,” ’e sez. “An’ I don’t want
+to exchange myself,” sez ’e. “What’s comin’ now?” I thinks to myself.
+“Yes, sir,” sez I. He looks round at the ’igh grass all about, an’ ’e
+sez to himself more than to me,--“I’ve got to go through it alone, by
+myself!” ’E looked so queer for a minute that, s’elp me, I thought the
+little beggar was going to pray. Then he turned round again an’ ’e sez,
+“What do you think yourself?” ’e sez. “I don’t quite see what you mean,
+sir,” I sez. “What would you like?” ’e sez. An’ I thought for a minute
+’e was goin’ to give me money, but ’e run ’is ’and up to the top-button
+of ’is shootin’ coat an’ loosed it. “Thank you, sir,” I sez. “I’d like
+that very well,” I sez, an’ both our coats was off an’ put down.’
+
+‘Hooray!’ I shouted incautiously.
+
+‘Don’t make a noise on the butts,’ said Ouless from the shooting-place.
+‘It puts the men off.’
+
+I apologised, and Ortheris went on.
+
+‘Our coats was off, an’ ’e sez, “Are you ready?” sez ’e. “Come on
+then.” I come on, a bit uncertain at first, but he took me one under
+the chin that warmed me up. I wanted to mark the little beggar an’ I
+hit high, but he went an’ jabbed me over the heart like a good one. He
+wasn’t so strong as me, but he knew more, an’ in about two minutes I
+calls “Time.” ’E steps back,--it was in-fightin’ then: “Come on when
+you’re ready,” ’e sez; and when I had my wind I come on again, an’ I
+got ’im one on the nose that painted ’is little aristocratic white
+shirt for ’im. That fetched ’im, an’ I knew it quicker nor light. He
+come all round me, close-fightin’, goin’ steady for my heart. I held on
+all I could an’ split ’is ear, but then I began to hiccup, an’ the game
+was up. I come in to feel if I could throw ’im, an’ ’e got me one on
+the mouth that downed me an’--look ’ere!’
+
+Ortheris raised the left corner of his upper lip. An eye-tooth was
+wanting.
+
+‘’E stood over me an’ ’e sez, “Have you ’ad enough?” ’e sez. “Thank
+you, I ’ave,” sez I. He took my ’and an’ pulled me up, an’ I was pretty
+shook. “Now,” ’e sez, “I’ll apologise for ’ittin’ you. It was all my
+fault,” ’e sez, “an’ it wasn’t meant for you.” “I knowed that, sir,” I
+sez, “an’ there’s no need for no apology.” “Then it’s an accident,” ’e
+sez; “an’ you must let me pay for the coat. Else it’ll be stopped out
+o’ your pay.” I wouldn’t ha’ took the money before, but I did then.
+’E give me ten rupees,--enough to pay for a coat twice over, an’ we
+went down to the river to wash our faces, which was well marked. His
+was special. Then he sez to himself, sputterin’ the water out of ’is
+mouth, “I wonder if I done right,” ’e sez. “Yes, sir,” sez I. “There’s
+no fear about that.” “It’s all well for _you_,” ’e sez, “but what
+about the comp’ny?” “Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” I sez, “I don’t think
+the comp’ny will give no trouble.” Then we went shootin’, an’ when we
+come back I was feelin’ as chirpy as a cricket, an’ I took an’ rolled
+Samuelson up an’ down the verandah, an’ give out to the comp’ny that
+the difficulty between me an’ Lieutenant Ouless was satisfactory put a
+stop to. I told Jock, o’ course, an’ Terence. Jock didn’t say nothing,
+but Terence ’e sez: “You’re a pair, you two. An’, begad, I don’t know
+which was the better man.” There ain’t nothin’ wrong with Ouless. ’E’s
+a gentleman all over, an’ ’e’s come on as much as B Comp’ny. I lay ’e’d
+lose ’is commission, tho’, if it come out that ’e’d been fightin’ with
+a private. Ho! ho! Fightin’ all an afternoon with a bloomin’ private
+like me! What do you think?’ he added, brushing the breech of his rifle.
+
+‘I think what the umpires said at the sham-fight; both sides deserve
+great credit. But I wish you’d tell me what made you save him in the
+first place.’
+
+‘I was pretty sure that ’e ’adn’t meant it for me, though that wouldn’t
+ha’ made no difference if ’e’d been copped for it. An’ ’e was that
+young too that it wouldn’t ha’ been fair. Besides, if I had ha’ done
+that I’d ha’ missed the fight, and I’d ha’ felt bad all my time. Don’t
+you see it that way, sir?’
+
+‘It was your right to get him cashiered if you chose,’ I insisted.
+
+‘My right!’ Ortheris answered with deep scorn. ‘My right! I ain’t a
+recruity to go whinin’ about my rights to this an’ my rights to that,
+just as if I couldn’t look after myself. My rights! ’Strewth A’mighty!
+I’m a man.’
+
+The last squad were finishing their shots in a storm of low-voiced
+chaff. Ouless withdrew to a little distance in order to leave the men
+at ease, and I saw his face in the full sunlight for a moment, before
+he hitched up his sword, got his men together, and marched them back to
+barracks. It was all right. The boy was proven.
+
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[3] Ortheris meant _soors_--which means pigs.
+
+
+
+
+                           A MATTER OF FACT.
+
+
+    And if ye doubt the tale I tell,
+    Steer through the South Pacific swell;
+    Go where the branching coral hives
+    Unending strife of endless lives,
+    Where, leagued about the ’wildered boat,
+    The rainbow jellies fill and float;
+    And, lilting where the laver lingers,
+    The starfish trips on all her fingers;
+    Where, ’neath his myriad spines ashock,
+    The sea-egg ripples down the rock;
+    An orange wonder dimly guessed,
+    From darkness where the cuttles rest,
+    Moored o’er the darker deeps that hide
+    The blind white Sea-snake and his bride
+    Who, drowsing, nose the long-lost ships
+    Let down through darkness to their lips.
+
+                                                          --_The Palms._
+
+
+Once a priest, always a priest; once a mason, always a mason; but once
+a journalist, always and for ever a journalist.
+
+There were three of us, all newspaper men, the only passengers on a
+little tramp steamer that ran where her owners told her to go. She had
+once been in the Bilbao iron ore business, had been lent to the Spanish
+Government for service at Manilla; and was ending her days in the
+Cape Town coolie-trade, with occasional trips to Madagascar and even
+as far as England. We found her going to Southampton in ballast, and
+shipped in her because the fares were nominal. There was Keller, of an
+American paper, on his way back to the States from palace executions in
+Madagascar; there was a burly half-Dutchman, called Zuyland, who owned
+and edited a paper up-country near Johannesberg; and there was myself,
+who had solemnly put away all journalism, vowing to forget that I had
+ever known the difference between an imprint and a stereo advertisement.
+
+Ten minutes after Keller spoke to me, as the _Rathmines_ cleared Cape
+Town, I had forgotten the aloofness I desired to feign, and was in
+heated discussion on the immorality of expanding telegrams beyond a
+certain fixed point. Then Zuyland came out of his cabin, and we were
+all at home instantly, because we were men of the same profession
+needing no introduction. We annexed the boat formally, broke open
+the passengers’ bath-room door--on the Manilla lines the Dons do not
+wash--cleaned out the orange-peel and cigar-ends at the bottom of the
+bath, hired a Lascar to shave us throughout the voyage, and then asked
+each other’s names.
+
+Three ordinary men would have quarrelled through sheer boredom before
+they reached Southampton. We, by virtue of our craft, were anything
+but ordinary men. A large percentage of the tales of the world, the
+thirty-nine that cannot be told to ladies and the one that can, are
+common property coming of a common stock. We told them all, as a
+matter of form, with all their local and specific variants which are
+surprising. Then came, in the intervals of steady card-play, more
+personal histories of adventure and things seen and suffered: panics
+among white folk, when the blind terror ran from man to man on the
+Brooklyn Bridge, and the people crushed each other to death they knew
+not why; fires, and faces that opened and shut their mouths horribly
+at red-hot window frames; wrecks in frost and snow, reported from the
+sleet-sheathed rescue-tug at the risk of frost-bite; long rides after
+diamond thieves; skirmishes on the veldt and in municipal committees
+with the Boers; glimpses of lazy tangled Cape politics and the
+mule-rule in the Transvaal; card-tales, horse-tales, woman-tales, by
+the score and the half hundred; till the first mate, who had seen more
+than us all put together, but lacked words to clothe his tales with,
+sat open-mouthed far into the dawn.
+
+When the tales were done we picked up cards till a curious hand or a
+chance remark made one or other of us say, ‘That reminds me of a man
+who--or a business which--’ and the anecdotes would continue while the
+_Rathmines_ kicked her way northward through the warm water.
+
+In the morning of one specially warm night we three were sitting
+immediately in front of the wheel-house, where an old Swedish boatswain
+whom we called ‘Frithiof the Dane’ was at the wheel, pretending that
+he could not hear our stories. Once or twice Frithiof spun the spokes
+curiously, and Keller lifted his head from a long chair to ask, ‘What
+is it? Can’t you get any steerage-way on her?’
+
+‘There is a feel in the water,’ said Frithiof, ‘that I cannot
+understand. I think that we run downhills or somethings. She steers bad
+this morning.’
+
+Nobody seems to know the laws that govern the pulse of the big waters.
+Sometimes even a landsman can tell that the solid ocean is atilt, and
+that the ship is working herself up a long unseen slope; and sometimes
+the captain says, when neither full steam nor fair wind justifies the
+length of a day’s run, that the ship is sagging downhill; but how these
+ups and downs come about has not yet been settled authoritatively.
+
+‘No, it is a following sea,’ said Frithiof; ‘and with a following sea
+you shall not get good steerage-way.’
+
+The sea was as smooth as a duck-pond, except for a regular oily swell.
+As I looked over the side to see where it might be following us from,
+the sun rose in a perfectly clear sky and struck the water with its
+light so sharply that it seemed as though the sea should clang like a
+burnished gong. The wake of the screw and the little white streak cut
+by the log-line hanging over the stern were the only marks on the water
+as far as eye could reach.
+
+Keller rolled out of his chair and went aft to get a pine-apple from
+the ripening stock that was hung inside the after awning.
+
+‘Frithiof, the log-line has got tired of swimming. It’s coming home,’
+he drawled.
+
+‘What?’ said Frithiof, his voice jumping several octaves.
+
+‘Coming home,’ Keller repeated, leaning over the stern. I ran to his
+side and saw the log-line, which till then had been drawn tense over
+the stern railing, slacken, loop, and come up off the port quarter.
+Frithiof called up the speaking-tube to the bridge, and the bridge
+answered, ‘Yes, nine knots.’ Then Frithiof spoke again, and the answer
+was, ‘What do you want of the skipper?’ and Frithiof bellowed, ‘Call
+him up.’
+
+By this time Zuyland, Keller, and myself had caught something of
+Frithiof’s excitement, for any emotion on shipboard is most contagious.
+The captain ran out of his cabin, spoke to Frithiof, looked at the
+log-line, jumped on the bridge, and in a minute we felt the steamer
+swing round as Frithiof turned her.
+
+‘Going back to Cape Town?’ said Keller.
+
+Frithiof did not answer, but tore away at the wheel. Then he beckoned
+us three to help, and we held the wheel down till the _Rathmines_
+answered it, and we found ourselves looking into the white of our own
+wake, with the still oily sea tearing past our bows, though we were not
+going more than half steam ahead.
+
+The captain stretched out his arm from the bridge and shouted. A minute
+later I would have given a great deal to have shouted too, for one-half
+of the sea seemed to shoulder itself above the other half, and came on
+in the shape of a hill. There was neither crest, comb, nor curl-over to
+it; nothing but black water with little waves chasing each other about
+the flanks. I saw it stream past and on a level with the _Rathmines’_
+bow-plates before the steamer hove up her bulk to rise, and I argued
+that this would be the last of all earthly voyages for me. Then we
+lifted for ever and ever and ever, till I heard Keller saying in my
+ear, ‘The bowels of the deep, good Lord!’ and the _Rathmines_ stood
+poised, her screw racing and drumming on the slope of a hollow that
+stretched downwards for a good half-mile.
+
+We went down that hollow, nose under for the most part, and the air
+smelt wet and muddy, like that of an emptied aquarium. There was a
+second hill to climb; I saw that much: but the water came aboard and
+carried me aft till it jammed me against the wheel-house door, and
+before I could catch breath or clear my eyes again we were rolling
+to and fro in torn water, with the scuppers pouring like eaves in a
+thunderstorm.
+
+‘There were three waves,’ said Keller; ‘and the stoke-hold’s flooded.’
+
+The firemen were on deck waiting, apparently, to be drowned. The
+engineer came and dragged them below, and the crew, gasping, began to
+work the clumsy Board of Trade pump. That showed nothing serious, and
+when I understood that the _Rathmines_ was really on the water, and not
+beneath it, I asked what had happened.
+
+‘The captain says it was a blow-up under the sea--a volcano,’ said
+Keller.
+
+‘It hasn’t warmed anything,’ I said. I was feeling bitterly cold, and
+cold was almost unknown in those waters. I went below to change my
+clothes, and when I came up everything was wiped out in clinging white
+fog.
+
+‘Are there going to be any more surprises?’ said Keller to the captain.
+
+‘I don’t know. Be thankful you’re alive, gentlemen. That’s a tidal wave
+thrown up by a volcano. Probably the bottom of the sea has been lifted
+a few feet somewhere or other. I can’t quite understand this cold
+spell. Our sea-thermometer says the surface water is 44°, and it should
+be 68° at least.’
+
+‘It’s abominable,’ said Keller, shivering. ‘But hadn’t you better
+attend to the fog-horn? It seems to me that I heard something.’
+
+‘Heard! Good heavens!’ said the captain from the bridge, ‘I should
+think you did.’ He pulled the string of our fog-horn, which was a weak
+one. It sputtered and choked, because the stoke-hold was full of water
+and the fires were half-drowned, and at last gave out a moan. It was
+answered from the fog by one of the most appalling steam-sirens I have
+ever heard. Keller turned as white as I did, for the fog, the cold fog,
+was upon us, and any man may be forgiven for fearing a death he cannot
+see.
+
+‘Give her steam there!’ said the captain to the engine-room. ‘Steam for
+the whistle, if we have to go dead slow.’
+
+We bellowed again, and the damp dripped off the awnings on to the deck
+as we listened for the reply. It seemed to be astern this time, but
+much nearer than before.
+
+‘The _Pembroke Castle_ on us!’ said Keller; and then, viciously, ‘Well,
+thank God, we shall sink her too.’
+
+‘It’s a side-wheel steamer,’ I whispered. ‘Can’t you hear the paddles?’
+
+This time we whistled and roared till the steam gave out, and the
+answer nearly deafened us. There was a sound of frantic threshing in
+the water, apparently about fifty yards away, and something shot past
+in the whiteness that looked as though it were gray and red.
+
+‘The _Pembroke Castle_ bottom up,’ said Keller, who, being a
+journalist, always sought for explanations. ‘That’s the colours of a
+Castle liner. We’re in for a big thing.’
+
+‘The sea is bewitched,’ said Frithiof from the wheel-house. ‘There are
+_two_ steamers!’
+
+Another siren sounded on our bow, and the little steamer rolled in the
+wash of something that had passed unseen.
+
+‘We’re evidently in the middle of a fleet,’ said Keller quietly. ‘If
+one doesn’t run us down, the other will. Phew! What in creation is
+that?’
+
+I sniffed, for there was a poisonous rank smell in the cold air--a
+smell that I had smelt before.
+
+‘If I was on land I should say that it was an alligator. It smells like
+musk,’ I answered.
+
+‘Not ten thousand alligators could make that smell,’ said Zuyland; ‘I
+have smelt them.’
+
+‘Bewitched! Bewitched!’ said Frithiof. ‘The sea she is turned upside
+down, and we are walking along the bottom.’
+
+Again the _Rathmines_ rolled in the wash of some unseen ship, and a
+silver-gray wave broke over the bow, leaving on the deck a sheet of
+sediment--the gray broth that has its place in the fathomless deeps of
+the sea. A sprinkling of the wave fell on my face, and it was so cold
+that it stung as boiling water stings. The dead and most untouched
+deep water of the sea had been heaved to the top by the submarine
+volcano--the chill still water that kills all life and smells of
+desolation and emptiness. We did not need either the blinding fog or
+that indescribable smell of musk to make us unhappy--we were shivering
+with cold and wretchedness where we stood.
+
+‘The hot air on the cold water makes this fog,’ said the captain; ‘it
+ought to clear in a little time.’
+
+‘Whistle, oh! whistle, and let’s get out of it,’ said Keller.
+
+The captain whistled again, and far and far astern the invisible twin
+steam-sirens answered us. Their blasting shriek grew louder, till at
+last it seemed to tear out of the fog just above our quarter, and I
+cowered while the _Rathmines_ plunged bows under on a double swell that
+crossed.
+
+‘No more,’ said Frithiof, ‘it is not good any more. Let us get away, in
+the name of God.’
+
+‘Now if a torpedo-boat with a _City of Paris_ siren went mad and broke
+her moorings and hired a friend to help her, it’s just conceivable that
+we might be carried as we are now. Otherwise this thing is----’
+
+The last words died on Keller’s lips, his eyes began to start from his
+head, and his jaw fell. Some six or seven feet above the port bulwarks,
+framed in fog, and as utterly unsupported as the full moon, hung a
+Face. It was not human, and it certainly was not animal, for it did not
+belong to this earth as known to man. The mouth was open, revealing a
+ridiculously tiny tongue--as absurd as the tongue of an elephant; there
+were tense wrinkles of white skin at the angles of the drawn lips,
+white feelers like those of a barbel sprung from the lower jaw, and
+there was no sign of teeth within the mouth. But the horror of the face
+lay in the eyes, for those were sightless--white, in sockets as white
+as scraped bone, and blind. Yet for all this the face, wrinkled as the
+mask of a lion is drawn in Assyrian sculpture, was alive with rage
+and terror. One long white feeler touched our bulwarks. Then the face
+disappeared with the swiftness of a blindworm popping into its burrow,
+and the next thing that I remember is my own voice in my own ears,
+saying gravely to the mainmast, ‘But the air-bladder ought to have been
+forced out of its mouth, you know.’
+
+Keller came up to me, ashy white. He put his hand into his pocket,
+took a cigar, bit it, dropped it, thrust his shaking thumb into his
+mouth and mumbled, ‘The giant gooseberry and the raining frogs! Gimme
+a light--gimme a light! Say, gimme a light.’ A little bead of blood
+dropped from his thumb-joint.
+
+I respected the motive, though the manifestation was absurd. ‘Stop,
+you’ll bite your thumb off,’ I said, and Keller laughed brokenly as
+he picked up his cigar. Only Zuyland, leaning over the port bulwarks,
+seemed self-possessed. He declared later that he was very sick.
+
+‘We’ve seen it,’ he said, turning round. ‘That is it.’
+
+‘What?’ said Keller, chewing the unlighted cigar.
+
+As he spoke the fog was blown into shreds, and we saw the sea, gray
+with mud, rolling on every side of us and empty of all life. Then
+in one spot it bubbled and became like the pot of ointment that the
+Bible speaks of. From that wide-ringed trouble a Thing came up--a
+gray and red Thing with a neck--a Thing that bellowed and writhed in
+pain. Frithiof drew in his breath and held it till the red letters of
+the ship’s name, woven across his jersey, straggled and opened out as
+though they had been type badly set. Then he said with a little cluck
+in his throat, ‘Ah me! It is blind. _Hur illa!_ That thing is blind,’
+and a murmur of pity went through us all, for we could see that the
+thing on the water was blind and in pain. Something had gashed and cut
+the great sides cruelly and the blood was spurting out. The gray ooze
+of the undermost sea lay in the monstrous wrinkles of the back, and
+poured away in sluices. The blind white head flung back and battered
+the wounds, and the body in its torment rose clear of the red and
+gray waves till we saw a pair of quivering shoulders streaked with
+weed and rough with shells, but as white in the clear spaces as the
+hairless, maneless, blind, toothless head. Afterwards, came a dot on
+the horizon and the sound of a shrill scream, and it was as though a
+shuttle shot all across the sea in one breath, and a second head and
+neck tore through the levels, driving a whispering wall of water to
+right and left. The two Things met--the one untouched and the other in
+its death-throe--male and female, we said, the female coming to the
+male. She circled round him bellowing, and laid her neck across the
+curve of his great turtle-back, and he disappeared under water for an
+instant, but flung up again, grunting in agony while the blood ran.
+Once the entire head and neck shot clear of the water and stiffened,
+and I heard Keller saying, as though he was watching a street accident,
+‘Give him air. For God’s sake, give him air.’ Then the death-struggle
+began, with crampings and twistings and jerkings of the white bulk
+to and fro, till our little steamer rolled again, and each gray wave
+coated her plates with the gray slime. The sun was clear, there was no
+wind, and we watched, the whole crew, stokers and all, in wonder and
+pity, but chiefly pity. The Thing was so helpless, and, save for his
+mate, so alone. No human eye should have beheld him; it was monstrous
+and indecent to exhibit him there in trade waters between atlas degrees
+of latitude. He had been spewed up, mangled and dying from his rest on
+the sea-floor, where he might have lived till the Judgment Day, and we
+saw the tides of his life go from him as an angry tide goes out across
+rocks in the teeth of a landward gale. His mate lay rocking on the
+water a little distance off, bellowing continually, and the smell of
+musk came down upon the ship making us cough.
+
+At last the battle for life ended, in a batter of coloured seas. We
+saw the writhing neck fall like a flail, the carcase turn sideways,
+showing the glint of a white belly and the inset of a gigantic hind
+leg or flipper. Then all sank, and sea boiled over it, while the mate
+swam round and round, darting her head in every direction. Though we
+might have feared that she would attack the steamer, no power on earth
+could have drawn any one of us from our places that hour. We watched,
+holding our breaths. The mate paused in her search; we could hear the
+wash beating along her sides; reared her neck as high as she could
+reach, blind and lonely in all that loneliness of the sea, and sent one
+desperate bellow booming across the swells as an oyster-shell skips
+across a pond. Then she made off to the westward, the sun shining on
+the white head and the wake behind it, till nothing was left to see but
+a little pin point of silver on the horizon. We stood on our course
+again; and the _Rathmines_, coated with the sea-sediment, from bow to
+stern, looked like a ship made gray with terror.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+‘We must pool our notes,’ was the first coherent remark from Keller.
+‘We’re three trained journalists--we hold absolutely the biggest scoop
+on record. Start fair.’
+
+I objected to this. Nothing is gained by collaboration in journalism
+when all deal with the same facts, so we went to work each according
+to his own lights. Keller triple-headed his account, talked about
+our ‘gallant captain,’ and wound up with an allusion to American
+enterprise in that it was a citizen of Dayton, Ohio, that had seen the
+sea-serpent. This sort of thing would have discredited the Creation,
+much more a mere sea tale, but as a specimen of the picture-writing
+of a half-civilised people it was very interesting. Zuyland took a
+heavy column and a half, giving approximate lengths and breadths and
+the whole list of the crew whom he had sworn on oath to testify to his
+facts. There was nothing fantastic or flamboyant in Zuyland. I wrote
+three-quarters of a leaded bourgeois column, roughly speaking, and
+refrained from putting any journalese into it for reasons that had
+begun to appear to me.
+
+Keller was insolent with joy. He was going to cable from Southampton
+to the New York _World_, mail his account to America on the same day,
+paralyse London with his three columns of loosely knitted headlines,
+and generally efface the earth. ‘You’ll see how I work a big scoop when
+I get it,’ he said.
+
+‘Is this your first visit to England?’ I asked.
+
+‘Yes,’ said he. ‘You don’t seem to appreciate the beauty of our scoop.
+It’s pyramidal--the death of the sea-serpent! Good heavens alive, man,
+it’s the biggest thing ever vouchsafed to a paper!’
+
+‘Curious to think that it will never appear in any paper, isn’t it?’ I
+said.
+
+Zuyland was near me, and he nodded quickly.
+
+‘What do you mean?’ said Keller. ‘If you’re enough of a Britisher to
+throw this thing away, I shan’t. I thought you were a newspaper-man.’
+
+‘I am. That’s why I know. Don’t be an ass, Keller. Remember, I’m seven
+hundred years your senior, and what your grandchildren may learn five
+hundred years hence, I learned from my grandfathers about five hundred
+years ago. You won’t do it, because you can’t.’
+
+This conversation was held in open sea, where everything seems
+possible, some hundred miles from Southampton. We passed the Needles
+Light at dawn, and the lifting day showed the stucco villas on the
+green and the awful orderliness of England--line upon line, wall upon
+wall, solid stone dock and monolithic pier. We waited an hour in the
+Customs shed, and there was ample time for the effect to soak in.
+
+‘Now, Keller, you face the music. The _Havel_ goes out to-day. Mail by
+her, and I’ll take you to the telegraph-office,’ I said.
+
+I heard Keller gasp as the influence of the land closed about him,
+cowing him as they say Newmarket Heath cows a young horse unused to
+open courses.
+
+‘I want to retouch my stuff. Suppose we wait till we get to London?’ he
+said.
+
+Zuyland, by the way, had torn up his account and thrown it overboard
+that morning early. His reasons were my reasons.
+
+In the train Keller began to revise his copy, and every time that he
+looked at the trim little fields, the red villas, and the embankments
+of the line, the blue pencil plunged remorselessly through the slips.
+He appeared to have dredged the dictionary for adjectives. I could
+think of none that he had not used. Yet he was a perfectly sound
+poker-player and never showed more cards than were sufficient to take
+the pool.
+
+‘Aren’t you going to leave him a single bellow?’ I asked
+sympathetically. ‘Remember, everything goes in the States, from a
+trouser-button to a double-eagle.’
+
+‘That’s just the curse of it,’ said Keller below his breath. ‘We’ve
+played ’em for suckers so often that when it comes to the golden
+truth--I’d like to try this on a London paper. You have first call
+there, though.’
+
+‘Not in the least. I’m not touching the thing in our papers. I shall be
+happy to leave ’em all to you; but surely you’ll cable it home?’
+
+‘No. Not if I can make the scoop here and see the Britishers sit up.’
+
+‘You won’t do it with three columns of slushy headline, believe me.
+They don’t sit up as quickly as some people.’
+
+‘I’m beginning to think that too. Does _nothing_ make any difference
+in this country?’ he said, looking out of the window. ‘How old is that
+farmhouse?’
+
+‘New. It can’t be more than two hundred years at the most.’
+
+‘Um. Fields, too?’
+
+‘That hedge there must have been clipped for about eighty years.’
+
+‘Labour cheap--eh?’
+
+‘Pretty much. Well, I suppose you’d like to try the _Times_, wouldn’t
+you?’
+
+‘No,’ said Keller, looking at Winchester Cathedral. ‘Might as well try
+to electrify a hay-stack. And to think that the _World_ would take
+three columns and ask for more--with illustrations too! It’s sickening.’
+
+‘But the _Times_ might,’ I began.
+
+Keller flung his paper across the carriage, and it opened in its
+austere majesty of solid type--opened with the crackle of an
+encyclopædia.
+
+‘Might! You _might_ work your way through the bow-plates of a cruiser.
+Look at that first page!’
+
+‘It strikes you that way, does it?’ I said. ‘Then I’d recommend you to
+try a light and frivolous journal.’
+
+‘With a thing like this of mine--of ours? It’s sacred history!’
+
+I showed him a paper which I conceived would be after his own heart, in
+that it was modelled on American lines.
+
+‘That’s homey,’ he said, ‘but it’s not the real thing. Now, I should
+like one of these fat old _Times_ columns. Probably there’d be a bishop
+in the office, though.’
+
+When we reached London Keller disappeared in the direction of the
+Strand. What his experiences may have been I cannot tell, but it seems
+that he invaded the office of an evening paper at 11.45 a.m. (I told
+him English editors were most idle at that hour), and mentioned my name
+as that of a witness to the truth of his story.
+
+‘I was nearly fired out,’ he said furiously at lunch. ‘As soon as I
+mentioned you, the old man said that I was to tell you that they didn’t
+want any more of your practical jokes, and that you knew the hours to
+call if you had anything to sell, and that they’d see you condemned
+before they helped to puff one of your infernal yarns in advance. Say,
+what record do you hold for truth in this country, anyway?’
+
+‘A beauty. You ran up against it, that’s all. Why don’t you leave the
+English papers alone and cable to New York? Everything goes over there.’
+
+‘Can’t you see that’s just why?’ he repeated.
+
+‘I saw it a long time ago. You don’t intend to cable, then?’
+
+‘Yes I do,’ he answered, in the over-emphatic voice of one who does not
+know his own mind.
+
+That afternoon I walked him abroad and about, over the streets that run
+between the pavements like channels of grooved and tongued lava, over
+the bridges that are made of enduring stone, through subways floored
+and sided with yard-thick concrete, between houses that are never
+rebuilt, and by river-steps hewn, to the eye, from the living rock. A
+black fog chased us into Westminster Abbey, and, standing there in the
+darkness, I could hear the wings of the dead centuries circling round
+the head of Litchfield A. Keller, journalist, of Dayton, Ohio, U.S.A.,
+whose mission it was to make the Britishers sit up.
+
+He stumbled gasping into the thick gloom, and the roar of the traffic
+came to his bewildered ears.
+
+‘Let’s go to the telegraph-office and cable,’ I said. ‘Can’t you hear
+the New York _World_ crying for news of the great sea-serpent, blind,
+white, and smelling of musk, stricken to death by a submarine volcano,
+and assisted by his loving wife to die in mid-ocean, as visualised by
+an American citizen, the breezy, newsy, brainy newspaper-man of Dayton,
+Ohio? ’Rah for the Buckeye State. Step lively! Both gates! Szz! Boom!
+Aah!’ Keller was a Princeton man, and he seemed to need encouragement.
+
+‘You’ve got me on your own ground,’ said he, tugging at his overcoat
+pocket. He pulled out his copy, with the cable forms--for he had
+written out his telegram--and put them all into my hand, groaning, ‘I
+pass. If I hadn’t come to your cursed country--If I’d sent it off at
+Southampton--If I ever get you west of the Alleghannies, if----’
+
+‘Never mind, Keller. It isn’t your fault. It’s the fault of your
+country. If you had been seven hundred years older you’d have done what
+I am going to do.’
+
+‘What are you going to do?’
+
+‘Tell it as a lie.’
+
+‘Fiction?’ This with the full-blooded disgust of a journalist for the
+illegitimate branch of the profession.
+
+‘You can call it that if you like. I shall call it a lie.’
+
+And a lie it has become; for Truth is a naked lady, and if by accident
+she is drawn up from the bottom of the sea, it behoves a gentleman
+either to give her a print petticoat or to turn his face to the wall
+and vow that he did not see.
+
+
+
+
+                            THE LOST LEGION.
+
+
+When the Indian Mutiny broke out, and a little time before the siege of
+Delhi, a regiment of Native Irregular Horse was stationed at Peshawur
+on the frontier of India. That regiment caught what John Lawrence
+called at the time ‘the prevalent mania,’ and would have thrown in
+its lot with the mutineers, had it been allowed to do so. The chance
+never came, for, as the regiment swept off down south, it was headed
+up by a remnant of an English corps into the hills of Afghanistan, and
+there the newly-conquered tribesmen turned against it as wolves turn
+against buck. It was hunted for the sake of its arms and accoutrements
+from hill to hill, from ravine to ravine, up and down the dried beds
+of rivers and round the shoulders of bluffs, till it disappeared as
+water sinks in the sand--this officerless, rebel regiment. The only
+trace left of its existence to-day is a nominal roll drawn up in
+neat round hand and counter-signed by an officer who called himself
+‘Adjutant, late ---- Irregular Cavalry.’ The paper is yellow with
+years and dirt, but on the back of it you can still read a pencil note
+by John Lawrence; to this effect: ‘See that the two native officers
+who remained loyal are not deprived of their estates.--J. L.’ Of six
+hundred and fifty sabres only two stood strain, and John Lawrence in
+the midst of all the agony of the first months of the Mutiny found time
+to think about their merits.
+
+That was more than thirty years ago, and the tribesmen across the
+Afghan border who helped to annihilate the regiment are now old men.
+Sometimes a graybeard speaks of his share in the massacre. ‘They
+came,’ he will say, ‘across the border, very proud, calling upon us to
+rise and kill the English, and go down to the sack of Delhi. But we
+who had just been conquered by the same English knew that they were
+over bold, and that the Government could account easily for those
+down-country dogs. This Hindustani regiment, therefore, we treated
+with fair words, and kept standing in one place till the redcoats came
+after them very hot and angry. Then this regiment ran forward a little
+more into our hills to avoid the wrath of the English, and we lay upon
+their flanks watching from the sides of the hills till we were well
+assured that their path was lost behind them. Then we came down, for we
+desired their clothes, and their bridles, and their rifles, and their
+boots--more especially their boots. That was a great killing--done
+slowly.’ Here the old man will rub his nose, and shake his long snaky
+locks, and lick his bearded lips, and grin till the yellow tooth-stumps
+show. ‘Yes, we killed them because we needed their gear, and we
+knew that their lives had been forfeited to God on account of their
+sin--the sin of treachery to the salt which they had eaten. They rode
+up and down the valleys, stumbling and rocking in their saddles, and
+howling for mercy. We drove them slowly like cattle till they were all
+assembled in one place, the flat wide valley of Sheor Kôt. Many had
+died from want of water, but there still were many left, and they could
+not make any stand. We went among them pulling them down with our hands
+two at a time, and our boys killed them who were new to the sword.
+My share of the plunder was such and such--so many guns, and so many
+saddles. The guns were good in those days. Now we steal the Government
+rifles, and despise smooth barrels. Yes, beyond doubt we wiped that
+regiment from off the face of the earth, and even the memory of the
+deed is now dying. But men say----’
+
+At this point the tale would stop abruptly, and it was impossible to
+find out what men said across the border. The Afghans were always a
+secretive race, and vastly preferred doing something wicked to saying
+anything at all. They would be quiet and well-behaved for months, till
+one night without word or warning, they would rush a police-post, cut
+the throats of a constable or two, dash through a village, carry away
+three or four women, and withdraw, in the red glare of burning thatch,
+driving the cattle and goats before them to their own desolate hills.
+The Indian Government would become almost tearful on these occasions.
+First it would say, ‘Please be good and we’ll forgive you.’ The tribe
+concerned in the latest depredation would collectively put its thumb to
+its nose and answer rudely. Then the Government would say: ‘Hadn’t you
+better pay up a little money for those few corpses you left behind you
+the other night?’ Here the tribe would temporise, and lie and bully,
+and some of the younger men, merely to show contempt of authority,
+would raid another police-post and fire into some frontier mud fort,
+and, if lucky, kill a real English officer. Then the Government
+would say: ‘Observe; if you really persist in this line of conduct,
+you will be hurt.’ If the tribe knew exactly what was going on in
+India, it would apologise or be rude, according as it learned whether
+the Government was busy with other things or able to devote its full
+attention to their performances. Some of the tribes knew to one corpse
+how far to go. Others became excited, lost their heads, and told the
+Government to come on. With sorrow and tears, and one eye on the
+British taxpayer at home, who insisted on regarding these exercises as
+brutal wars of annexation, the Government would prepare an expensive
+little field-brigade and some guns, and send all up into the hills to
+chase the wicked tribe out of the valleys, where the corn grew, into
+the hill-tops where there was nothing to eat. The tribe would turn
+out in full strength and enjoy the campaign, for they knew that their
+women would never be touched, that their wounded would be nursed,
+not mutilated, and that as soon as each man’s bag of corn was spent
+they could surrender and palaver with the English General as though
+they had been a real enemy. Afterwards, years afterwards, they would
+pay the blood-money, driblet by driblet, to the Government and tell
+their children how they had slain the redcoats by thousands. The only
+drawback to this kind of picnic-war was the weakness of the redcoats
+for solemnly blowing up with powder their fortified towers and keeps.
+This the tribes always considered mean.
+
+Chief among the leaders of the smaller tribes--the little clans who
+knew to a penny the expense of moving white troops against them--was
+a priest-bandit-chief whom we will call the Gulla Kutta Mullah.
+His enthusiasm for border murder as an art was almost dignified. He
+would cut down a mail-runner from pure wantonness, or bombard a mud
+fort with rifle fire when he knew that our men needed to sleep. In
+his leisure moments he would go on circuit among his neighbours, and
+try to incite other tribes to devilry. Also, he kept a kind of hotel
+for fellow-outlaws in his own village, which lay in a valley called
+Bersund. Any respectable murderer on that section of the frontier was
+sure to lie up at Bersund, for it was reckoned an exceedingly safe
+place. The sole entry to it ran through a narrow gorge which could
+be converted into a death-trap in five minutes. It was surrounded by
+high hills, reckoned inaccessible to all save born mountaineers, and
+here the Gulla Kutta Mullah lived in great state, the head of a colony
+of mud and stone huts, and in each mud hut hung some portion of a
+red uniform and the plunder of dead men. The Government particularly
+wished for his capture, and once invited him formally to come out and
+be hanged on account of a few of the murders in which he had taken a
+direct part. He replied:--
+
+‘I am only twenty miles, as the crow flies, from your border. Come and
+fetch me.’
+
+‘Some day we will come,’ said the Government, ‘and hanged you will be.’
+
+The Gulla Kutta Mullah let the matter from his mind. He knew that the
+patience of the Government was as long as a summer day; but he did not
+realise that its arm was as long as a winter night. Months afterwards,
+when there was peace on the border, and all India was quiet, the
+Indian Government turned in its sleep and remembered the Gulla Kutta
+Mullah at Bersund, with his thirteen outlaws. The movement against him
+of one single regiment--which the telegrams would have translated as
+war--would have been highly impolitic. This was a time for silence and
+speed, and, above all, absence of bloodshed.
+
+You must know that all along the north-west frontier of India there is
+spread a force of some thirty thousand foot and horse, whose duty it is
+quietly and unostentatiously to shepherd the tribes in front of them.
+They move up and down, and down and up, from one desolate little post
+to another; they are ready to take the field at ten minutes’ notice;
+they are always half in and half out of a difficulty somewhere along
+the monotonous line; their lives are as hard as their own muscles, and
+the papers never say anything about them. It was from this force that
+the Government picked its men.
+
+One night at a station where the mounted Night Patrol fire as they
+challenge, and the wheat rolls in great blue-green waves under our cold
+northern moon, the officers were playing billiards in the mud-walled
+club-house, when orders came to them that they were to go on parade
+at once for a night-drill. They grumbled, and went to turn out their
+men--a hundred English troops, let us say, two hundred Goorkhas, and
+about a hundred cavalry of the finest native cavalry in the world.
+
+When they were on the parade-ground, it was explained to them in
+whispers that they must set off at once across the hills to Bersund.
+The English troops were to post themselves round the hills at the
+side of the valley; the Goorkhas would command the gorge and the
+death-trap, and the cavalry would fetch a long march round and get to
+the back of the circle of hills, whence, if there were any difficulty,
+they could charge down on the Mullah’s men. But orders were very strict
+that there should be no fighting and no noise. They were to return in
+the morning with every round of ammunition intact, and the Mullah and
+the thirteen outlaws bound in their midst. If they were successful, no
+one would know or care anything about their work; but failure meant
+probably a small border war, in which the Gulla Kutta Mullah would pose
+as a popular leader against a big bullying power, instead of a common
+border murderer.
+
+Then there was silence, broken only by the clicking of the compass
+needles and snapping of watch-cases, as the heads of columns compared
+bearings and made appointments for the rendezvous. Five minutes later
+the parade-ground was empty; the green coats of the Goorkhas and the
+overcoats of the English troops had faded into the darkness, and the
+cavalry were cantering away in the face of a blinding drizzle.
+
+What the Goorkhas and the English did will be seen later on. The
+heavy work lay with the horses, for they had to go far and pick their
+way clear of habitations. Many of the troopers were natives of that
+part of the world, ready and anxious to fight against their kin, and
+some of the officers had made private and unofficial excursions into
+those hills before. They crossed the border, found a dried river bed,
+cantered up that, walked through a stony gorge, risked crossing a
+low hill under cover of the darkness, skirted another hill, leaving
+their hoof-marks deep in some ploughed ground, felt their way along
+another watercourse, ran over the neck of a spur praying that no one
+would hear their horses grunting, and so worked on in the rain and
+the darkness, till they had left Bersund and its crater of hills a
+little behind them, and to the left, and it was time to swing round.
+The ascent commanding the back of Bersund was steep, and they halted
+to draw breath in a broad level valley below the height. That is to
+say, the men reined up, but the horses, blown as they were, refused to
+halt. There was unchristian language, the worse for being delivered in
+a whisper, and you heard the saddles squeaking in the darkness as the
+horses plunged.
+
+The subaltern at the rear of one troop turned in his saddle and said
+very softly:--
+
+‘Carter, what the blessed heavens are you doing at the rear? Bring your
+men up, man.’
+
+There was no answer, till a trooper replied:--
+
+‘Carter Sahib is forward--not there. There is nothing behind us.’
+
+‘There is,’ said the subaltern. ‘The squadron’s walking on its own
+tail.’
+
+Then the Major in command moved down to the rear swearing softly and
+asking for the blood of Lieutenant Halley--the subaltern who had just
+spoken.
+
+‘Look after your rearguard,’ said the Major. ‘Some of your infernal
+thieves have got lost. They’re at the head of the squadron, and you’re
+a several kinds of idiot.’
+
+‘Shall I tell off my men, sir?’ said the subaltern sulkily, for he was
+feeling wet and cold.
+
+‘Tell ’em off!’ said the Major. ‘_Whip_ ’em off, by Gad! You’re
+squandering them all over the place. There’s a troop behind you _now_!’
+
+‘So I was thinking,’ said the subaltern calmly. ‘I have all my men
+here, sir. Better speak to Carter.’
+
+‘Carter Sahib sends salaam and wants to know why the regiment is
+stopping,’ said a trooper to Lieutenant Halley.
+
+‘Where under heaven _is_ Carter?’ said the Major.
+
+‘Forward with his troop,’ was the answer.
+
+‘Are we walking in a ring, then, or are we the centre of a blessed
+brigade?’ said the Major.
+
+By this time there was silence all along the column. The horses were
+still; but, through the drive of the fine rain, men could hear the feet
+of many horses moving over stony ground.
+
+‘We’re being stalked,’ said Lieutenant Halley.
+
+‘They’ve no horses here. Besides they’d have fired before this,’ said
+the Major. ‘It’s--it’s villagers’ ponies.’
+
+‘Then our horses would have neighed and spoilt the attack long ago.
+They must have been near us for half an hour,’ said the subaltern.
+
+‘Queer that we can’t smell the horses,’ said the Major, damping his
+finger and rubbing it on his nose as he sniffed up wind.
+
+‘Well, it’s a bad start,’ said the subaltern, shaking the wet from his
+overcoat. ‘What shall we do, sir?’
+
+‘Get on,’ said the Major. ‘We shall catch it to-night.’
+
+The column moved forward very gingerly for a few paces. Then there
+was an oath, a shower of blue sparks as shod hooves crashed on small
+stones, and a man rolled over with a jangle of accoutrements that would
+have waked the dead.
+
+‘Now we’ve gone and done it,’ said Lieutenant Halley. ‘All the hillside
+awake, and all the hillside to climb in the face of musketry-fire. This
+comes of trying to do night-hawk work.’
+
+The trembling trooper picked himself up and tried to explain that his
+horse had fallen over one of the little cairns that are built of loose
+stones on the spot where a man has been murdered. There was no need
+for reasons. The Major’s big Australian charger blundered next, and
+the column came to a halt in what seemed to be a very graveyard of
+little cairns all about two feet high. The manœuvres of the squadron
+are not reported. Men said that it felt like mounted quadrilles without
+training and without the music; but at last the horses, breaking rank
+and choosing their own way, walked clear of the cairns, till every
+man of the squadron re-formed and drew rein a few yards up the slope
+of the hill. Then, according to Lieutenant Halley, there was another
+scene very like the one which has been described. The Major and Carter
+insisted that all the men had not joined rank, and that there were
+more of them in the rear clicking and blundering among the dead men’s
+cairns. Lieutenant Halley told off his own troopers again and resigned
+himself to wait. Later on he told me:--
+
+‘I didn’t much know, and I didn’t much care what was going on. The row
+of that trooper falling ought to have scared half the country, and I
+would take my oath that we were being stalked by a full regiment in the
+rear, and _they_ were making row enough to rouse all Afghanistan. I sat
+tight, but nothing happened.’
+
+The mysterious part of the night’s work was the silence on the
+hillside. Everybody knew that the Gulla Kutta Mullah had his outpost
+huts on the reverse side of the hill, and everybody expected by the
+time that the Major had sworn himself into a state of quiet that the
+watchmen there would open fire. When nothing occurred, they said that
+the gusts of the rain had deadened the sound of the horses, and thanked
+Providence. At last the Major satisfied himself (_a_) that he had left
+no one behind among the cairns, and (_b_) that he was not being taken
+in the rear by a large and powerful body of cavalry. The men’s tempers
+were thoroughly spoiled, the horses were lathered and unquiet, and one
+and all prayed for the daylight.
+
+They set themselves to climb up the hill, each man leading his
+mount carefully. Before they had covered the lower slopes or the
+breast-plates had begun to tighten, a thunderstorm came up behind,
+rolling across the low hills and drowning any noise less than that of
+cannon. The first flash of the lightning showed the bare ribs of the
+ascent, the hill-crest standing steely blue against the black sky,
+the little falling lines of the rain, and, a few yards to their left
+flank, an Afghan watch-tower, two-storied, built of stone, and entered
+by a ladder from the upper story. The ladder was up, and a man with a
+rifle was leaning from the window. The darkness and the thunder rolled
+down in an instant, and, when the lull followed, a voice from the
+watch-tower cried, ‘Who goes there?’
+
+The cavalry were very quiet, but each man gripped his carbine and
+stood beside his horse. Again the voice called, ‘Who goes there?’ and
+in a louder key, ‘O, brothers, give the alarm!’ Now, every man in the
+cavalry would have died in his long boots sooner than have asked for
+quarter; but it is a fact that the answer to the second call was a
+long wail of ‘Marf karo! Marf karo!’ which means, ‘Have mercy! Have
+mercy!’ It came from the climbing regiment.
+
+The cavalry stood dumbfoundered, till the big troopers had time to
+whisper one to another: ‘Mir Khan, was that thy voice? Abdullah, didst
+_thou_ call?’ Lieutenant Halley stood beside his charger and waited.
+So long as no firing was going on he was content. Another flash of
+lightning showed the horses with heaving flanks and nodding heads, the
+men, white eye-balled, glaring beside them, and the stone watch-tower
+to the left. This time there was no head at the window, and the rude
+iron-clamped shutter that could turn a rifle bullet was closed.
+
+‘Go on, men,’ said the Major. ‘Get up to the top at any rate.’ The
+squadron toiled forward, the horses wagging their tails and the men
+pulling at the bridles, the stones rolling down the hillside and
+the sparks flying. Lieutenant Halley declares that he never heard a
+squadron make so much noise in his life. They scrambled up, he said,
+as though each horse had eight legs and a spare horse to follow him.
+Even then there was no sound from the watch-tower, and the men stopped
+exhausted on the ridge that overlooked the pit of darkness in which the
+village of Bersund lay. Girths were loosed, curb-chains shifted, and
+saddles adjusted, and the men dropped down among the stones. Whatever
+might happen now, they had the upper ground of any attack.
+
+The thunder ceased, and with it the rain, and the soft thick darkness
+of a winter night before the dawn covered them all. Except for the
+sound of falling water among the ravines below, everything was still.
+They heard the shutter of the watch-tower below them thrown back with
+a clang, and the voice of the watcher calling: ‘Oh, Hafiz Ullah!’
+
+The echoes took up the call, ‘La-la-la!’ And an answer came from the
+watch-tower hidden round the curve of the hill, ‘What is it, Shahbaz
+Khan?’
+
+Shahbaz Khan replied in the high-pitched voice of the mountaineer:
+‘Hast thou seen?’
+
+The answer came back: ‘Yes. God deliver us from all evil spirits!’
+
+There was a pause, and then: ‘Hafiz Ullah, I am alone! Come to me!’
+
+‘Shahbaz Khan, I am alone also; but I dare not leave my post!’
+
+‘That is a lie; thou art afraid.’
+
+A longer pause followed, and then: ‘I am afraid. Be silent! They are
+below us still. Pray to God and sleep.’
+
+The troopers listened and wondered, for they could not understand what
+save earth and stone could lie below the watch-towers.
+
+Shahbaz Khan began to call again: ‘They are below us. I can see them.
+For the pity of God come over to me, Hafiz Ullah! My father slew ten of
+them. Come over!’
+
+Hafiz Ullah answered in a very loud voice, ‘Mine was guiltless. Hear,
+ye Men of the Night, neither my father nor my blood had any part in
+that sin. Bear thou they own punishment, Shahbaz Khan.’
+
+‘Oh, some one ought to stop those two chaps crowing away like cocks
+there,’ said Lieutenant Halley, shivering under his rock.
+
+He had hardly turned round to expose a new side of him to the rain
+before a bearded, long-locked, evil-smelling Afghan rushed up the hill,
+and tumbled into his arms. Halley sat upon him, and thrust as much of a
+sword-hilt as could be spared down the man’s gullet. ‘If you cry out, I
+kill you,’ he said cheerfully.
+
+The man was beyond any expression of terror. He lay and quaked,
+grunting. When Halley took the sword-hilt from between his teeth, he
+was still inarticulate, but clung to Halley’s arm, feeling it from
+elbow to wrist.
+
+‘The Rissala! The dead Rissala!’ he gasped. ‘It is down there!’
+
+‘No; the Rissala, the very much alive Rissala. It is up here,’ said
+Halley, unshipping his watering-bridle, and fastening the man’s hands.
+‘Why were you in the towers so foolish as to let us pass?’
+
+‘The valley is full of the dead,’ said the Afghan. ‘It is better to
+fall into the hands of the English than the hands of the dead. They
+march to and fro below there. I saw them in the lightning.’
+
+He recovered his composure after a little, and whispering, because
+Halley’s pistol was at his stomach, said: ‘What is this? There is no
+war between us now, and the Mullah will kill me for not seeing you
+pass!’
+
+‘Rest easy,’ said Halley; ‘we are coming to kill the Mullah, if God
+please. His teeth have grown too long. No harm will come to thee unless
+the daylight shows thee as a face which is desired by the gallows for
+crime done. But what of the dead regiment?’
+
+‘I only kill within my own border,’ said the man, immensely relieved.
+‘The Dead Regiment is below. The men must have passed through it on
+their journey--four hundred dead on horses, stumbling among their own
+graves, among the little heaps--dead men all, whom we slew.’
+
+‘Whew!’ said Halley. ‘That accounts for my cursing Carter and the Major
+cursing me. Four hundred sabres, eh? No wonder we thought there were a
+few extra men in the troop. Kurruk Shah,’ he whispered to a grizzled
+native officer that lay within a few feet of him, ‘hast thou heard
+anything of a dead Rissala in these hills?’
+
+‘Assuredly,’ said Kurruk Shah with a grim chuckle. ‘Otherwise, why did
+I, who have served the Queen for seven-and-twenty years, and killed
+many hill-dogs, shout aloud for quarter when the lightning revealed us
+to the watch-towers? When I was a young man I saw the killing in the
+valley of Sheor-Kôt there at our feet, and I know the tale that grew up
+therefrom. But how can the ghosts of unbelievers prevail against us who
+are of the Faith? Strap that dog’s hands a little tighter, Sahib. An
+Afghan is like an eel.’
+
+‘But a dead Rissala,’ said Halley, jerking his captive’s wrist. ‘That
+is foolish talk, Kurruk Shah. The dead are dead. Hold still, _sag_.’
+The Afghan wriggled.
+
+‘The dead are dead, and for that reason they walk at night. What need
+to talk? We be men; we have our eyes and ears. Thou canst both see and
+hear them, down the hillside,’ said Kurruk Shah composedly.
+
+Halley stared and listened long and intently. The valley was full of
+stifled noises, as every valley must be at night; but whether he saw or
+heard more than was natural Halley alone knows, and he does not choose
+to speak on the subject.
+
+At last, and just before the dawn, a green rocket shot up from the far
+side of the valley of Bersund, at the head of the gorge, to show that
+the Goorkhas were in position. A red light from the infantry at left
+and right answered it, and the cavalry burnt a white flare. Afghans in
+winter are late sleepers, and it was not till full day that the Gulla
+Kutta Mullah’s men began to straggle from their huts, rubbing their
+eyes. They saw men in green, and red, and brown uniforms, leaning on
+their arms, neatly arranged all round the crater of the village of
+Bersund, in a cordon that not even a wolf could have broken. They
+rubbed their eyes the more when a pink-faced young man, who was not
+even in the Army, but represented the Political Department, tripped
+down the hillside with two orderlies, rapped at the door of the Gulla
+Kutta Mullah’s house, and told him quietly to step out and be tied up
+for safe transport. That same young man passed on through the huts,
+tapping here one cateran, and there another lightly with his cane; and
+as each was pointed out, so he was tied up, staring hopelessly at the
+crowned heights around where the English soldiers looked down with
+incurious eyes. Only the Mullah tried to carry it off with curses and
+high words, till a soldier who was tying his hands said:--
+
+‘None o’ your lip! Why didn’t you come out when you was ordered,
+instead o’ keepin’ us awake all night? You’re no better than my own
+barrack-sweeper, you white-’eaded old polyanthus! Kim up!’
+
+Half an hour later the troops had gone away with the Mullah and his
+thirteen friends. The dazed villagers were looking ruefully at a
+pile of broken muskets and snapped swords, and wondering how in the
+world they had come so to miscalculate the forbearance of the Indian
+Government.
+
+It was a very neat little affair, neatly carried out, and the men
+concerned were unofficially thanked for their services.
+
+Yet it seems to me that much credit is also due to another regiment
+whose name did not appear in the brigade orders, and whose very
+existence is in danger of being forgotten.
+
+
+
+
+                              IN THE RUKH.
+
+
+    The Only Son lay down again and dreamed that he dreamed a dream.
+    The last ash dropped from the dying fire with the click of a falling
+       spark,
+    And the Only Son woke up again and called across the dark:--
+    ‘Now, was I born of womankind and laid in a mother’s breast?
+    For I have dreamed of a shaggy hide whereon I went to rest.
+    And was I born of womankind and laid on a father’s arm?
+    For I have dreamed of long white teeth that guarded me from harm.
+    Oh, was I born of womankind and did I play alone?
+    For I have dreamed of playmates twain that bit me to the bone.
+    And did I break the barley bread and steep it in the tyre?
+    For I have dreamed of a youngling kid new riven from the byre.
+    An hour it lacks and an hour it lacks to the rising of the moon--
+    But I can see the black roof-beams as plain as it were noon!
+    ’Tis a league and a league to the Lena Falls where the trooping
+       sambhur go,
+    But I can hear the little fawn that bleats behind the doe!
+    ’Tis a league and a league to the Lena Falls where the crop and the
+       upland meet,
+    But I can smell the warm wet wind that whispers through the wheat!’
+
+                                                         _The Only Son._
+
+
+Of the wheels of public service that turn under the Indian Government,
+there is none more important than the Department of Woods and Forests.
+The reboisement of all India is in its hands: or will be when
+Government has the money to spend. Its servants wrestle with wandering
+sand-torrents and shifting dunes: wattling them at the sides, damming
+them in front, and pegging them down atop with coarse grass and
+spindling pine after the rules of Nancy. They are responsible for all
+the timber in the State forests of the Himalayas, as well as for the
+denuded hillsides that the monsoons wash into dry gullies and aching
+ravines; each cut a mouth crying aloud what carelessness can do. They
+experiment with battalions of foreign trees, and coax the blue gum
+to take root and, perhaps, dry up the Canal fever. In the plains the
+chief part of their duty is to see that the belt fire-lines in the
+forest reserves are kept clean, so that when drought comes and the
+cattle starve, they may throw the reserve open to the villager’s herds
+and allow the man himself to gather sticks. They poll and lop for the
+stacked railway-fuel along the lines that burn no coal; they calculate
+the profit of their plantations to five points of decimals; they are
+the doctors and midwives of the huge teak forests of Upper Burma, the
+rubber of the Eastern Jungles, and the gall-nuts of the South; and they
+are always hampered by lack of funds. But since a Forest Officer’s
+business takes him far from the beaten roads and the regular stations,
+he learns to grow wise in more than wood-lore alone; to know the people
+and the polity of the jungle; meeting tiger, bear, leopard, wild-dog,
+and all the deer, not once or twice after days of beating, but again
+and again in the execution of his duty. He spends much time in saddle
+or under canvas--the friend of newly planted trees, the associate of
+uncouth rangers and hairy trackers--till the woods, that show his care,
+in turn set their mark upon him and he ceases to sing the naughty
+French songs he learned at Nancy, and grows silent with the silent
+things of the underbrush.
+
+Gisborne of the Woods and Forests had spent four years in the service.
+At first he loved it without comprehension, because it led him into the
+open on horseback and gave him authority. Then he hated it furiously,
+and would have given a year’s pay for one month of such society as
+India affords. That crisis over, the forests took him back again, and
+he was content to serve them, to deepen and widen his fire-lines, to
+watch the green mist of his new plantation against the older foliage,
+to dredge out the choked stream, and to follow and strengthen the
+last struggle of the forest where it broke down and died among the
+long pig-grass. On some still day that grass would be burned off, and
+a hundred beasts that had their homes there would rush out before
+the pale flames at high noon. Later, the forest would creep forward
+over the blackened ground in orderly lines of saplings, and Gisborne,
+watching, would be well pleased. His bungalow, a thatched white-walled
+cottage of two rooms, was set at one end of the great _rukh_ and
+overlooking it. He made no pretence at keeping a garden, for the _rukh_
+swept up to his door, curled over in a thicket of bamboo, and he rode
+from his verandah into its heart without the need of any carriage-drive.
+
+Abdul Gafur, his fat Mohammedan butler, fed him when he was at home,
+and spent the rest of the time gossiping with the little band of native
+servants whose huts lay behind the bungalow. There were two grooms,
+a cook, a water-carrier, and a sweeper, and that was all. Gisborne
+cleaned his own guns and kept no dog. Dogs scared the game, and it
+pleased the man to be able to say where the subjects of his kingdom
+would drink at moonrise, eat before dawn, and lie up in the day’s
+heat. The rangers and forest-guards lived in little huts far away in
+the _rukh_, only appearing when one of them had been injured by a
+falling tree or a wild beast. There Gisborne was alone.
+
+In spring the _rukh_ put out few new leaves, but lay dry and still
+untouched by the finger of the year, waiting for rain. Only there was
+then more calling and roaring in the dark on a quiet night; the tumult
+of a battle-royal among the tigers, the bellowing of arrogant buck, or
+the steady wood-chopping of an old boar sharpening his tushes against
+a bole. Then Gisborne laid aside his little-used gun altogether, for
+it was to him a sin to kill. In summer, through the furious May heats,
+the _rukh_ reeled in the haze, and Gisborne watched for the first sign
+of curling smoke that should betray a forest fire. Then came the Rains
+with a roar, and the _rukh_ was blotted out in fetch after fetch of
+warm mist, and the broad leaves drummed the night through under the big
+drops; and there was a noise of running water, and of juicy green stuff
+crackling where the wind struck it, and the lightning wove patterns
+behind the dense matting of the foliage, till the sun broke loose
+again and the _rukh_ stood with hot flanks smoking to the newly washed
+sky. Then the heat and the dry cold subdued everything to tiger-colour
+again. So Gisborne learned to know his _rukh_ and was very happy. His
+pay came month by month, but he had very little need for money. The
+currency notes accumulated in the drawer where he kept his home-letters
+and the recapping-machine. If he drew anything, it was to make a
+purchase from the Calcutta Botanical Gardens, or to pay a ranger’s
+widow a sum that the Government of India would never have sanctioned
+for her man’s death.
+
+Payment was good, but vengeance was also necessary, and he took that
+when he could. One night of many nights a runner, breathless and
+gasping, came to him with the news that a forest-guard lay dead by the
+Kanye stream, the side of his head smashed in as though it had been an
+egg-shell. Gisborne went out at dawn to look for the murderer. It is
+only travellers and now and then young soldiers who are known to the
+world as great hunters. The Forest Officers take their _shikar_ as part
+of the day’s work, and no one hears of it. Gisborne went on foot to the
+place of the kill: the widow was wailing over the corpse as it lay on
+a bedstead, while two or three men were looking at footprints on the
+moist ground. ‘That is the Red One,’ said a man. ‘I knew he would turn
+to man in time, but surely there is game enough even for him. This must
+have been done for devilry.’
+
+‘The Red One lies up in the rocks at the back of the _sal_ trees,’ said
+Gisborne. He knew the tiger under suspicion.
+
+‘Not now, Sahib, not now. He will be raging and ranging to and fro.
+Remember that the first kill is a triple kill always. Our blood makes
+them mad. He may be behind us even as we speak.’
+
+‘He may have gone to the next hut,’ said another. ‘It is only four
+_koss_. Wallah, who is this!’
+
+Gisborne turned with the others. A man was walking down the dried bed
+of the stream, naked except for the loin-cloth, but crowned with a
+wreath of the tasselled blossoms of the white convolvulus creeper. So
+noiselessly did he move over the little pebbles, that even Gisborne,
+used to the soft-footedness of trackers, started.
+
+‘The tiger that killed,’ he began, without any salute, ‘has gone to
+drink, and now he is asleep under a rock beyond that hill.’ His voice
+was clear and bell-like, utterly different from the usual whine of the
+native, and his face as he lifted it in the sunshine might have been
+that of an angel strayed among the woods. The widow ceased wailing
+above the corpse and looked round-eyed at the stranger, returning to
+her duty with double strength.
+
+‘Shall I show the Sahib?’ he said simply.
+
+‘If thou art sure--’ Gisborne began.
+
+‘Sure indeed. I saw him only an hour ago--the dog. It is before his
+time to eat man’s flesh. He has yet a dozen sound teeth in his evil
+head.’
+
+The men kneeling above the footprints slunk off quietly, for fear that
+Gisborne should ask them to go with him, and the young man laughed a
+little to himself.
+
+‘Come, Sahib,’ he cried, and turned on his heel, walking before his
+companion.
+
+‘Not so fast. I cannot keep that pace,’ said the white man. ‘Halt
+there. Thy face is new to me.’
+
+‘That may be. I am but newly come into this forest.’
+
+‘From what village?’
+
+‘I am without a village. I came from over there.’ He flung out his arm
+towards the north.
+
+‘A gipsy then?’
+
+‘No, Sahib. I am a man without caste, and for matter of that without a
+father.’
+
+‘What do men call thee?’
+
+‘Mowgli, Sahib. And what is the Sahib’s name?’
+
+‘I am the warden of this _rukh_--Gisborne is my name.’
+
+‘How? Do they number the trees and the blades of grass here?’
+
+‘Even so; lest such gipsy fellows as thou set them afire.’
+
+‘I! I would not hurt the jungle for any gift. That is my home.’
+
+He turned to Gisborne with a smile that was irresistible, and held up a
+warning hand.
+
+‘Now, Sahib, we must go a little quietly. There is no need to wake the
+dog, though he sleeps heavily enough. Perhaps it were better if I went
+forward alone and drove him down wind to the Sahib.’
+
+‘Allah! Since when have tigers been driven to and fro like cattle by
+naked men?’ said Gisborne, aghast at the man’s audacity.
+
+He laughed again softly. ‘Nay, then, come along with me and shoot him
+in thy own way with the big English rifle.’
+
+Gisborne stepped in his guide’s track, twisted, crawled, and clomb and
+stooped and suffered through all the many agonies of a jungle-stalk.
+He was purple and dripping with sweat when Mowgli at the last bade him
+raise his head and peer over a blue baked rock near a tiny hill pool.
+By the water-side lay the tiger extended and at ease, lazily licking
+clean again an enormous elbow and fore paw. He was old, yellow-toothed,
+and not a little mangy, but in that setting and sunshine, imposing
+enough.
+
+Gisborne had no false ideas of sport where the man-eater was concerned.
+This thing was vermin, to be killed as speedily as possible. He waited
+to recover his breath, rested the rifle on the rock and whistled. The
+brute’s head turned slowly not twenty feet from the rifle-mouth, and
+Gisborne planted his shots, business-like, one behind the shoulder and
+the other a little below the eye. At that range the heavy bones were no
+guard against the rending bullets.
+
+‘Well, the skin was not worth keeping at any rate,’ said he as the
+smoke cleared away and the beast lay kicking and gasping in the last
+agony.
+
+‘A dog’s death for a dog,’ said Mowgli quietly. ‘Indeed there is
+nothing in that carrion worth taking away.’
+
+‘The whiskers. Dost thou not take the whiskers?’ said Gisborne, who
+knew how the rangers valued such things.
+
+‘I? Am I a lousy _shikarri_ of the jungle to paddle with a tiger’s
+muzzle? Let him lie. Here come his friends already.’
+
+A dropping kite whistled shrilly overhead, as Gisborne snapped out the
+empty shells, and wiped his face.
+
+‘And if thou art not a _shikarri_, where didst thou learn thy knowledge
+of the tiger-folk?’ said he. ‘No tracker could have done better.’
+
+‘I hate all tigers,’ said Mowgli curtly. ‘Let the Sahib give me his gun
+to carry. Arré, it is a very fine one. And where does the Sahib go now?’
+
+‘To my house.’
+
+‘May I come? I have never yet looked within a white man’s house.’
+
+Gisborne returned to his bungalow, Mowgli striding noiselessly before
+him, his brown skin glistening in the sunlight.
+
+He stared curiously at the verandah and the two chairs there, fingered
+the split bamboo shade curtains with suspicion, and entered, looking
+always behind him. Gisborne loosed a curtain to keep out the sun. It
+dropped with a clatter, but almost before it touched the flagging of
+the verandah Mowgli had leaped clear and was standing with heaving
+chest in the open.
+
+‘It is a trap,’ he said quickly.
+
+Gisborne laughed. ‘White men do not trap men. Indeed thou art
+altogether of the jungle.’
+
+‘I see,’ said Mowgli, ‘it has neither catch nor fall. I--I never beheld
+these things till to-day.’
+
+He came in on tiptoe and stared with large eyes at the furniture of the
+two rooms. Abdul Gafur, who was laying lunch, looked at him with deep
+disgust.
+
+‘So much trouble to eat, and so much trouble to lie down after you have
+eaten!’ said Mowgli with a grin. ‘We do better in the jungle. It is
+very wonderful. There are very many rich things here. Is the Sahib not
+afraid that he may be robbed? I have never seen such wonderful things.’
+He was staring at a dusty Benares brass plate on a ricketty bracket.
+
+‘Only a thief from the jungle would rob here,’ said Abdul Gafur,
+setting down a plate with a clatter. Mowgli opened his eyes wide and
+stared at the white-bearded Mohammedan.
+
+‘In my country when goats bleat very loud we cut their throats,’ he
+returned cheerfully. ‘But have no fear, thou, I am going.’
+
+He turned and disappeared into the _rukh_. Gisborne looked after him
+with a laugh that ended in a little sigh. There was not much outside
+his regular work to interest the Forest Officer, and this son of the
+forest, who seemed to know tigers as other people know dogs, would have
+been a diversion.
+
+‘He’s a most wonderful chap,’ thought Gisborne; ‘he’s like the
+illustrations in the Classical Dictionary. I wish I could have made him
+a gun-boy. There’s no fun in shikarring alone, and this fellow would
+have been a perfect _shikarri_. I wonder what in the world he is.’
+
+That evening he sat on the verandah under the stairs smoking as he
+wondered. A puff of smoke curled from the pipe-bowl. As it cleared he
+was aware of Mowgli sitting with arms crossed on the verandah edge. A
+ghost could not have drifted up more noiselessly. Gisborne started and
+let the pipe drop.
+
+‘There is no man to talk to out there in the _rukh_,’ said Mowgli;
+‘I came here, therefore.’ He picked up the pipe and returned it to
+Gisborne.
+
+‘Oh,’ said Gisborne, and after a long pause, ‘What news is there in the
+_rukh_? Hast thou found another tiger?’
+
+‘The nilghai are changing their feeding-ground against the new moon, as
+is their custom. The pig are feeding near the Kanye river now, because
+they will not feed with the nilghai, and one of their sows has been
+killed by a leopard in the long grass at the water-head. I do not know
+any more.’
+
+‘And how didst thou know all these things?’ said Gisborne, leaning
+forward and looking at the eyes that glittered in the starlight.
+
+‘How should I not know? The nilghai has his custom and his use, and a
+child knows that pig will not feed with him.’
+
+‘I do not know this,’ said Gisborne.
+
+‘Tck! Tck! And thou art in charge--so the men of the huts tell me--in
+charge of all this _rukh_.’ He laughed to himself.
+
+‘It is well enough to talk and to tell child’s tales,’ Gisborne
+retorted, nettled at the chuckle. ‘To say that this and that goes on in
+the _rukh_. No man can deny thee.’
+
+‘As for the sow’s carcass, I will show thee her bones to-morrow,’
+Mowgli returned, absolutely unmoved. ‘Touching the matter of the
+nilghai, if the Sahib will sit here very still I will drive one nilghai
+up to this place, and by listening to the sounds carefully, the Sahib
+can tell whence that nilghai has been driven.’
+
+‘Mowgli, the jungle has made thee mad,’ said Gisborne. ‘Who can drive
+nilghai?’
+
+‘Still--sit still, then. I go.’
+
+‘Gad, the man’s a ghost!’ said Gisborne; for Mowgli had faded out into
+the darkness and there was no sound of feet. The _rukh_ lay out in
+great velvety folds in the uncertain shimmer of the star-dust--so still
+that the least little wandering wind among the tree-tops came up as the
+sigh of a child sleeping equably. Abdul Gafur in the cook-house was
+clicking plates together.
+
+‘Be still there!’ shouted Gisborne, and composed himself to listen as
+a man can who is used to the stillness of the _rukh_. It had been his
+custom, to preserve his self-respect in his isolation, to dress for
+dinner each night, and the stiff white shirt-front creaked with his
+regular breathing till he shifted a little sideways. Then the tobacco
+of a somewhat foul pipe began to purr, and he threw the pipe from him.
+Now, except for the night-breath in the _rukh_, everything was dumb.
+
+From an inconceivable distance, and drawled through immeasurable
+darkness, came the faint, faint echo of a wolf’s howl. Then silence
+again for, it seemed, long hours. At last, when his legs below the
+knees had lost all feeling, Gisborne heard something that might have
+been a crash far off through the undergrowth. He doubted till it was
+repeated again and yet again.
+
+‘That’s from the west,’ he muttered; ‘there’s something on foot there.’
+The noise increased--crash on crash, plunge on plunge--with the thick
+grunting of a hotly pressed nilghai, flying in panic terror and taking
+no heed to his course.
+
+A shadow blundered out from between the tree-trunks, wheeled back,
+turned again grunting, and with a clatter on the bare ground dashed up
+almost within reach of his hand. It was a bull nilghai, dripping with
+dew--his withers hung with a torn trail of creeper, his eyes shining
+in the light from the house. The creature checked at sight of the man,
+and fled along the edge of the _rukh_ till he melted in the darkness.
+The first idea in Gisborne’s bewildered mind was the indecency of
+thus dragging out for inspection the big blue bull of the _rukh_--the
+putting him through his paces in the night which should have been his
+own.
+
+Then said a smooth voice at his ear as he stood staring:
+
+‘He came from the water-head where he was leading the herd. From the
+west he came. Does the Sahib believe now, or shall I bring up the herd
+to be counted? The Sahib is in charge of this _rukh_.’
+
+Mowgli had reseated himself on the verandah, breathing a little
+quickly. Gisborne looked at him with open mouth. ‘How was that
+accomplished?’ he said.
+
+‘The Sahib saw. The bull was driven--driven as a buffalo is. Ho! ho! He
+will have a fine tale to tell when he returns to the herd.’
+
+‘That is a new trick to me. Canst thou run as swiftly as the nilghai,
+then?’
+
+‘The Sahib has seen. If the Sahib needs more knowledge at any time of
+the movings of the game, I, Mowgli, am here. This is a good _rukh_, and
+I shall stay.’
+
+‘Stay then, and if thou hast need of a meal at any time my servants
+shall give thee one.’
+
+‘Yes, indeed, I am fond of cooked food,’ Mowgli answered quickly. ‘No
+man may say that I do not eat boiled and roast as much as any other
+man. I will come for that meal. Now, on my part, I promise that the
+Sahib shall sleep safely in his house by night, and no thief shall
+break in to carry away his so rich treasures.’
+
+The conversation ended itself on Mowgli’s abrupt departure. Gisborne
+sat long smoking, and the upshot of his thoughts was that in Mowgli he
+had found at last that ideal ranger and forest-guard for whom he and
+the Department were always looking.
+
+‘I must get him into the Government service somehow. A man who can
+drive nilghai would know more about the _rukh_ than fifty men. He’s a
+miracle--a _lusus naturæ_--but a forest-guard he must be if he’ll only
+settle down in one place,’ said Gisborne.
+
+Abdul Gafur’s opinion was less favourable. He confided to Gisborne at
+bedtime that strangers from God-knew-where were more than likely to be
+professional thieves, and that he personally did not approve of naked
+outcastes who had not the proper manner of addressing white people.
+Gisborne laughed and bade him go to his quarters, and Abdul Gafur
+retreated growling. Later in the night he found occasion to rise up and
+beat his thirteen-year-old daughter. Nobody knew the cause of dispute,
+but Gisborne heard the cry.
+
+Through the days that followed Mowgli came and went like a shadow.
+He had established himself and his wild house-keeping close to the
+bungalow, but on the edge of the _rukh_, where Gisborne, going out
+on to the verandah for a breath of cool air, would see him sometimes
+sitting in the moonlight, his forehead on his knees, or lying out along
+the fling of a branch, closely pressed to it as some beast of the
+night. Thence Mowgli would throw him a salutation and bid him sleep at
+ease, or descending would weave prodigious stories of the manners of
+the beasts in the _rukh_. Once he wandered into the stables and was
+found looking at the horses with deep interest.
+
+‘That,’ said Abdul Gafur pointedly, ‘is sure sign that some day he
+will steal one. Why, if he lives about this house, does he not take
+an honest employment? But no, he must wander up and down like a loose
+camel, turning the heads of fools and opening the jaws of the unwise
+to folly.’ So Abdul Gafur would give harsh orders to Mowgli when they
+met, would bid him fetch water and pluck fowls, and Mowgli, laughing
+unconcernedly, would obey.
+
+‘He has no caste,’ said Abdul Gafur. ‘He will do anything. Look to
+it, Sahib, that he does not do too much. A snake is a snake, and a
+jungle-gipsy is a thief till the death.’
+
+‘Be silent, then,’ said Gisborne. ‘I allow thee to correct thy own
+household if there is not too much noise, because I know thy customs
+and use. My custom thou dost not know. The man is without doubt a
+little mad.’
+
+‘Very little mad indeed,’ said Abdul Gafur. ‘But we shall see what
+comes thereof.’
+
+A few days later on his business took Gisborne into the _rukh_ for
+three days. Abdul Gafur being old and fat was left at home. He did
+not approve of lying up in rangers’ huts, and was inclined to levy
+contributions in his master’s name of grain and oil and milk from those
+who could ill afford such benevolences. Gisborne rode off early one
+dawn a little vexed that his man of the woods was not at the verandah
+to accompany him. He liked him--liked his strength, fleetness, and
+silence of foot, and his ever-ready open smile; his ignorance of all
+forms of ceremony and salutations, and the child-like tales that he
+would tell (and Gisborne would credit now) of what the game was doing
+in the _rukh_. After an hour’s riding through the greenery, he heard a
+rustle behind him, and Mowgli trotted at his stirrup.
+
+‘We have a three days’ work toward,’ said Gisborne, ‘among the new
+trees.’
+
+‘Good,’ said Mowgli. ‘It is always good to cherish young trees. They
+make cover if the beasts leave them alone. We must shift the pig again.’
+
+‘Again? How?’ Gisborne smiled.
+
+‘Oh, they were rooting and tusking among the young _sal_ last night,
+and I drove them off. Therefore I did not come to the verandah this
+morning. The pig should not be on this side of the _rukh_ at all. We
+must keep them below the head of the Kanye river.’
+
+‘If a man could herd clouds he might do that thing; but, Mowgli, if
+as thou sayest, thou art herder in the _rukh_ for no gain and for no
+pay----’
+
+‘It is the Sahib’s _rukh_,’ said Mowgli, quickly looking up. Gisborne
+nodded thanks and went on: ‘Would it not be better to work for pay from
+the Government? There is a pension at the end of long service.’
+
+‘Of that I have thought,’ said Mowgli, ‘but the rangers live in huts
+with shut doors, and all that is all too much a trap to me. Yet I
+think----’
+
+‘Think well then and tell me later. Here we will stay for breakfast.’
+
+Gisborne dismounted, took his morning meal from his home-made
+saddle-bags, and saw the day open hot above the _rukh_. Mowgli lay in
+the grass at his side staring up to the sky.
+
+Presently he said in a lazy whisper: ‘Sahib, is there any order at the
+bungalow to take out the white mare to-day?’
+
+‘No, she is fat and old and a little lame beside. Why?’
+
+‘She is being ridden now and _not_ slowly on the road that runs to the
+railway line.’
+
+‘Bah, that is two _koss_ away. It is a wood-pecker.’
+
+Mowgli put up his forearm to keep the sun out of his eyes.
+
+‘The road curves in with a big curve from the bungalow. It is not more
+than a _koss_, at the farthest, as the kite goes; and sound flies with
+the birds. Shall we see?’
+
+‘What folly! To run a _koss_ in this sun to see a noise in the forest.’
+
+‘Nay, the pony is the Sahib’s pony. I meant only to bring her here. If
+she is not the Sahib’s pony, no matter. If she is, the Sahib can do
+what he wills. She is certainly being ridden hard.’
+
+‘And how wilt thou bring her here, madman?’
+
+‘Has the Sahib forgotten? By the road of the nilghai and no other.’
+
+‘Up then and run if thou art so full of zeal.’
+
+‘Oh, I do not run!’ He put out his hand to sign for silence, and still
+lying on his back called aloud thrice--with a deep gurgling cry that
+was new to Gisborne.
+
+‘She will come,’ he said at the end. ‘Let us wait in the shade.’ The
+long eyelashes drooped over the wild eyes as Mowgli began to doze in
+the morning hush. Gisborne waited patiently: Mowgli was surely mad, but
+as entertaining a companion as a lonely Forest Officer could desire.
+
+‘Ho! ho!’ said Mowgli lazily, with shut eyes. ‘He has dropped off.
+Well, first the mare will come and then the man.’ Then he yawned as
+Gisborne’s pony stallion neighed. Three minutes later Gisborne’s white
+mare, saddled, bridled, but riderless, tore into the glade where they
+were sitting, and hurried to her companion.
+
+‘She is not very warm,’ said Mowgli, ‘but in this heat the sweat comes
+easily. Presently we shall see her rider, for a man goes more slowly
+than a horse--especially if he chance to be a fat man and old.’
+
+‘Allah! This is the devil’s work,’ cried Gisborne leaping to his feet,
+for he heard a yell in the jungle.
+
+‘Have no care, Sahib. He will not be hurt. He also will say that it is
+devil’s work. Ah! Listen! Who is that?’
+
+It was the voice of Abdul Gafur in an agony of terror, crying out upon
+unknown things to spare him and his gray hairs.
+
+‘Nay, I cannot move another step,’ he howled. ‘I am old and my turban
+is lost. Arré! Arré! But I will move. Indeed I will hasten. I will run!
+Oh, Devils of the Pit, I am a Mussalman!’
+
+The undergrowth parted and gave up Abdul Gafur, turbanless, shoeless,
+with his waist-cloth unbound, mud and grass in his clutched hands, and
+his face purple. He saw Gisborne, yelled anew, and pitched forward,
+exhausted and quivering, at his feet. Mowgli watched him with a sweet
+smile.
+
+‘This is no joke,’ said Gisborne sternly. ‘The man is like to die,
+Mowgli.’
+
+‘He will not die. He is only afraid. There was no need that he should
+have come out of a walk.’
+
+Abdul Gafur groaned and rose up, shaking in every limb.
+
+‘It was witchcraft--witchcraft and devildom!’ he sobbed, fumbling with
+his hand in his breast. ‘Because of my sin I have been whipped through
+the woods by devils. It is all finished. I repent. Take them, Sahib!’
+He held out a roll of dirty paper.
+
+‘What is the meaning of this, Abdul Gafur?’ said Gisborne, already
+knowing what would come.
+
+‘Put me in the jail-khana--the notes are all here--but lock me up
+safely that no devils may follow. I have sinned against the Sahib and
+his salt which I have eaten; and but for those accursed wood-demons,
+I might have bought land afar off and lived in peace all my days.’ He
+beat his head upon the ground in an agony of despair and mortification.
+Gisborne turned the roll of notes over and over. It was his accumulated
+back-pay for the last nine months--the roll that lay in the drawer with
+the home-letters and the recapping-machine. Mowgli watched Abdul Gafur,
+laughing noiselessly to himself. ‘There is no need to put me on the
+horse again. I will walk home slowly with the Sahib, and then he can
+send me under guard to the jail-khana. The Government gives many years
+for this offence,’ said the butler sullenly.
+
+Loneliness in the _rukh_ affects very many ideas about very many
+things. Gisborne stared at Abdul Gafur, remembering that he was a very
+good servant, and that a new butler must be broken into the ways of the
+house from the beginning, and at the best would be a new face and a new
+tongue.
+
+‘Listen, Abdul Gafur,’ he said. ‘Thou hast done great wrong, and
+altogether lost thy _izzat_ and thy reputation. But I think that this
+came upon thee suddenly.’
+
+‘Allah! I had never desired the notes before. The Evil took me by the
+throat while I looked.’
+
+‘That also I can believe. Go then back to my house, and when I return
+I will send the notes by a runner to the Bank, and there shall be no
+more said. Thou art too old for the jail-khana. Also thy household is
+guiltless.’
+
+For answer Abdul Gafur sobbed between Gisborne’s cowhide riding-boots.
+
+‘Is there no dismissal then?’ he gulped.
+
+‘That we shall see. It hangs upon thy conduct when we return. Get upon
+the mare and ride slowly back.’
+
+‘But the devils! The _rukh_ is full of devils.’
+
+‘No matter, my father. They will do thee no more harm unless, indeed,
+the Sahib’s orders be not obeyed,’ said Mowgli. ‘Then, perchance, they
+may drive thee home--by the road of the nilghai.’
+
+Abdul Gafur’s lower jaw dropped as he twisted up his waist-cloth,
+staring at Mowgli.
+
+‘Are they _his_ devils? His devils! And I had thought to return and lay
+the blame upon this warlock!’
+
+‘That was well thought of, Huzrut; but before we make a trap we see
+first how big the game is that may fall into it. Now I thought no more
+than that a man had taken one of the Sahib’s horses. I did not know
+that the design was to make me a thief before the Sahib, or my devils
+had haled thee here by the leg. It is not too late now.’
+
+Mowgli looked inquiringly at Gisborne, but Abdul Gafur waddled hastily
+to the white mare, scrambled on her back and fled; the woodways
+crashing and echoing behind him.
+
+‘That was well done,’ said Mowgli. ‘But he will fall again unless he
+holds by the mane.’
+
+‘Now it is time to tell me what these things mean,’ said Gisborne a
+little sternly. ‘What is this talk of thy devils? How can men be driven
+up and down the _rukh_ like cattle? Give answer.’
+
+‘Is the Sahib angry because I have saved him his money?’
+
+‘No, but there is trick-work in this that does not please me.’
+
+‘Very good. Now if I rose and stepped three paces into the _rukh_ there
+is no one, not even the Sahib, could find me till I choose. As I would
+not willingly do this, so I would not willingly tell. Have patience a
+little, Sahib, and some day I will show thee everything, for, if thou
+wilt, some day we will drive the buck together. There is no devil-work
+in the matter at all. Only ... I know the _rukh_ as a man knows the
+cooking-place in his house.’
+
+Mowgli was speaking as he would speak to an impatient child. Gisborne,
+puzzled, baffled, and a great deal annoyed, said nothing, but stared on
+the ground and thought. When he looked up the man of the woods had gone.
+
+‘It is not good,’ said a level voice from the thicket, ‘for friends to
+be angry. Wait till the evening, Sahib, when the air cools.’
+
+Left to himself thus, dropped as it were in the heart of the _rukh_,
+Gisborne swore, then laughed, remounted his pony, and rode on. He
+visited a ranger’s hut, overlooked a couple of new plantations, left
+some orders as to the burning of a patch of dry grass, and set out
+for a camping-ground of his own choice, a pile of splintered rocks
+roughly roofed over with branches and leaves, not far from the banks
+of the Kanye stream. It was twilight when he came in sight of his
+resting-place, and the _rukh_ was waking to the hushed ravenous life of
+the night.
+
+A camp-fire flickered on the knoll, and there was the smell of a very
+good dinner in the wind.
+
+‘Um,’ said Gisborne, ‘that’s better than cold meat at any rate. Now the
+only man who’d be likely to be here’d be Muller, and, officially, he
+ought to be looking over the Changamanga _rukh_. I suppose that’s why
+he’s on my ground.’
+
+The gigantic German who was the head of the Woods and Forests of all
+India, Head Ranger from Burma to Bombay, had a habit of flitting
+bat-like without warning from one place to another, and turning up
+exactly where he was least looked for. His theory was that sudden
+visitations, the discovery of shortcomings and a word-of-mouth
+upbraiding of a subordinate were infinitely better than the slow
+processes of correspondence, which might end in a written and official
+reprimand--a thing in after years to be counted against a Forest
+Officer’s record. As he explained it: ‘If I only talk to my boys like a
+Dutch uncle, dey say, “It was only dot damned old Muller,” and dey do
+better next dime. But if my fat-head clerk he write and say dot Muller
+der Inspecdor-General fail to onderstand and is much annoyed, first dot
+does no goot because I am not dere, and, second, der fool dot comes
+after me he may say to my best boys: “Look here, you haf been wigged by
+my bredecessor.” I tell you der big brass-hat pizness does not make der
+trees grow.’
+
+Muller’s deep voice was coming out of the darkness behind the firelight
+as he bent over the shoulders of his pet cook. ‘Not so much sauce, you
+son of Belial! Worcester sauce he is a gondiment and not a fluid. Ah,
+Gisborne, you haf come to a very bad dinner. Where is your camp?’ and
+he walked up to shake hands.
+
+‘I’m the camp, sir,’ said Gisborne. ‘I didn’t know you were about here.’
+
+Muller looked at the young man’s trim figure. ‘Goot! That is very goot!
+One horse and some cold things to eat. When I was young I did my camp
+so. Now you shall dine with me. I went into Headquarters to make up
+my rebort last month. I haf written half--ho! ho!--and der rest I haf
+leaved to my glerks and come out for a walk. Der Government is mad
+about dose reborts. I dold der Viceroy so at Simla.’
+
+Gisborne chuckled, remembering the many tales that were told of
+Muller’s conflicts with the Supreme Government. He was the chartered
+libertine of all the offices, for as a Forest Officer he had no equal.
+
+‘If I find you, Gisborne, sitting in your bungalow und hatching reborts
+to me about der blantations instead of riding der blantations, I will
+dransfer you to der middle of der Bikaneer Desert to reforest _him_. I
+am sick of reborts und chewing paper when we should do our work.’
+
+‘There’s not much danger of my wasting time over my annuals. I hate
+them as much as you do, sir.’
+
+The talk went over at this point to professional matters. Muller had
+some questions to ask, and Gisborne orders and hints to receive, till
+dinner was ready. It was the most civilised meal Gisborne had eaten
+for months. No distance from the base of supplies was allowed to
+interfere with the work of Muller’s cook; and that table spread in the
+wilderness began with devilled small fresh-water fish, and ended with
+coffee and cognac.
+
+‘Ah!’ said Muller at the end, with a sigh of satisfaction as he lighted
+a cheroot and dropped into his much worn camp-chair. ‘When I am making
+reborts I am Freethinker und Atheist, but here in der _rukh_ I am
+more than Christian. I am Bagan also.’ He rolled the cheroot-butt
+luxuriously under his tongue, dropped his hands on his knees, and
+stared before him into the dim shifting heart of the _rukh_, full of
+stealthy noises; the snapping of twigs like the snapping of the fire
+behind him; the sigh and rustle of a heat-bended branch recovering
+her straightness in the cool night; the incessant mutter of the Kanye
+stream, and the undernote of the many-peopled grass uplands out of
+sight beyond a swell of hill. He blew out a thick puff of smoke, and
+began to quote Heine to himself.
+
+‘Yes, it is very goot. Very goot. “Yes, I work miracles, and, by
+Gott, dey come off too.” I remember when dere was no _rukh_ more big
+than your knee, from here to der plough-lands, und in drought-time
+der cattle ate bones of dead cattle up and down. Now der trees haf
+come back. Dey were planted by a Freethinker, because he know just de
+cause dot made der effect. But der trees dey had der cult of der old
+gods--“und der Christian Gods howl loudly.” Dey could not live in der
+_rukh_, Gisborne.’
+
+A shadow moved in one of the bridle-paths--moved and stepped out into
+the starlight.
+
+‘I haf said true. Hush! Here is Faunus himself come to see der
+Insbector-General. Himmel, he is der god! Look!’
+
+It was Mowgli, crowned with his wreath of white flowers and walking
+with a half-peeled branch--Mowgli, very mistrustful of the firelight
+and ready to fly back to the thicket on the least alarm.
+
+‘That’s a friend of mine,’ said Gisborne. ‘He’s looking for me. Ohé,
+Mowgli!’
+
+Muller had barely time to gasp before the man was at Gisborne’s side,
+crying: ‘I was wrong to go. I was wrong, but I did not know then that
+the mate of him that was killed by this river was awake looking for
+thee. Else I should not have gone away. She tracked thee from the
+back-range, Sahib.’
+
+‘He is a little mad,’ said Gisborne, ‘and he speaks of all the beasts
+about here as if he was a friend of theirs.’
+
+‘Of course--of course. If Faunus does not know, who should know?’ said
+Muller gravely. ‘What does he say about tigers--dis god who knows you
+so well?’
+
+Gisborne relighted his cheroot, and before he had finished the story of
+Mowgli and his exploits it was burned down to moustache-edge. Muller
+listened without interruption. ‘Dot is not madness,’ he said at last
+when Gisborne had described the driving of Abdul Gafur. ‘Dot is not
+madness at all.’
+
+‘What is it, then? He left me in a temper this morning because I asked
+him to tell how he did it. I fancy the chap’s possessed in some way.’
+
+‘No, dere is no bossession, but it is most wonderful. Normally they die
+young--dese beople. Und you say now dot your thief-servant did not say
+what drove der poney, and of course der nilghai he could not speak.’
+
+‘No, but, confound it, there wasn’t anything. I listened, and I can
+hear most things. The bull and the man simply came headlong--mad with
+fright.’
+
+For answer Muller looked Mowgli up and down from head to foot, then
+beckoned him nearer. He came as a buck treads a tainted trail.
+
+‘There is no harm,’ said Muller in the vernacular. ‘Hold out an arm.’
+
+He ran his hand down to the elbow, felt that, and nodded. ‘So I
+thought. Now the knee.’ Gisborne saw him feel the knee-cap and smile.
+Two or three white scars just above the ankle caught his eye.
+
+‘Those came when thou wast very young?’ he said.
+
+‘Ay,’ Mowgli answered with a smile. ‘They were love-tokens from the
+little ones.’ Then to Gisborne over his shoulder. ‘This Sahib knows
+everything. Who is he?’
+
+‘That comes after, my friend. Now where are _they_?’ said Muller.
+
+Mowgli swept his hand round his head in a circle.
+
+‘So! And thou canst drive nilghai? See! There is my mare in her
+pickets. Canst thou bring her to me without frightening her?’
+
+‘Can I bring the mare to the Sahib without frightening her!’ Mowgli
+repeated, raising his voice a little above its normal pitch. ‘What is
+more easy, if the heel-ropes are loose?’
+
+‘Loosen the head and heel-pegs,’ shouted Muller to the groom. They were
+hardly out of the ground before the mare, a huge black Australian,
+flung up her head and cocked her ears.
+
+‘Careful! I do not wish her driven into the _rukh_,’ said Muller.
+
+Mowgli stood still fronting the blaze of the fire--in the very form and
+likeness of that Greek god who is so lavishly described in the novels.
+The mare whickered, drew up one hind leg, found that the heel-ropes
+were free, and moved swiftly to her master, on whose bosom she dropped
+her head, sweating lightly.
+
+‘She came of her own accord. My horses will do that,’ cried Gisborne.
+
+‘Feel if she sweats,’ said Mowgli.
+
+Gisborne laid a hand on the damp flank.
+
+‘It is enough,’ said Muller.
+
+‘It is enough,’ Mowgli repeated, and a rock behind him threw back the
+word.
+
+‘That’s uncanny, isn’t it?’ said Gisborne.
+
+‘No, only wonderful--most wonderful. Still you do not know, Gisborne?’
+
+‘I confess I don’t.’
+
+‘Well then, I shall not tell. He says dot some day he will show you
+what it is. It would be gruel if I told. But why he is not dead I do
+not understand. Now listen thou.’ Muller faced Mowgli, and returned to
+the vernacular. ‘I am the head of all the _rukhs_ in the country of
+India and others across the Black Water. I do not know how many men be
+under me--perhaps five thousand, perhaps ten. Thy business is this,--to
+wander no more up and down the _rukh_ and drive beasts for sport or for
+show, but to take service under me, who am the Government in the matter
+of Woods and Forests, and to live in this _rukh_ as a forest-guard; to
+drive the villagers’ goats away when there is no order to feed them in
+the _rukh_; to admit them when there is an order; to keep down, as thou
+canst keep down, the boar and the nilghai when they become too many;
+to tell Gisborne Sahib how and where tigers move, and what game there
+is in the forests; and to give sure warning of all the fires in the
+_rukh_, for thou canst give warning more quickly than any other. For
+that work there is a payment each month in silver, and at the end, when
+thou hast gathered a wife and cattle and, may be, children, a pension.
+What answer?’
+
+‘That’s just what I----’ Gisborne began.
+
+‘My Sahib spoke this morning of such a service. I walked all day alone
+considering the matter, and my answer is ready here. I serve, _if_ I
+serve in this _rukh_ and no other: _with_ Gisborne Sahib and with no
+other.’
+
+‘It shall be so. In a week comes the written order that pledges the
+honour of the Government for the pension. After that thou wilt take up
+thy hut where Gisborne Sahib shall appoint.’
+
+‘I was going to speak to you about it,’ said Gisborne.
+
+‘I did not want to be told when I saw that man. Dere will never be a
+forest-guard like him. He is a miracle. I tell you, Gisborne, some day
+you will find it so. Listen, he is blood-brother to every beast in der
+_rukh_!’
+
+‘I should be easier in my mind if I could understand him.’
+
+‘Dot will come. Now I tell you dot only once in my service, and dot is
+thirty years, haf I met a boy dot began as this man began. Und he died.
+Sometimes you hear of dem in der census reports, but dey all die. Dis
+man haf lived, and he is an anachronism, for he is before der Iron Age,
+and der Stone Age. Look here, he is at der beginnings of der history
+of man--Adam in der Garden, und now we want only an Eva! No! He is
+older than dot child-tale, shust as der _rukh_ is older dan der gods.
+Gisborne, I am a Bagan now, once for all.’
+
+Through the rest of the long evening Muller sat smoking and smoking,
+and staring and staring into the darkness, his lips moving in
+multiplied quotations, and great wonder upon his face. He went to his
+tent, but presently came out again in his majestic pink sleeping-suit,
+and the last words that Gisborne heard him address to the _rukh_
+through the deep hush of midnight were these, delivered with immense
+emphasis:--
+
+    ‘Dough we shivt und bedeck und bedrape us,
+      Dou art noble und nude und andeek;
+    Libidina dy moder, Briapus
+      Dy fader, a God und a Greek.
+
+Now I know dot, Bagan _or_ Christian, I shall nefer know der inwardness
+of der _rukh_!’
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+It was midnight in the bungalow a week later when Abdul Gafur, ashy
+gray with rage, stood at the foot of Gisborne’s bed and whispering bade
+him awake.
+
+‘Up, Sahib,’ he stammered. ‘Up and bring thy gun. Mine honour is gone.
+Up and kill before any see.’
+
+The old man’s face had changed, so that Gisborne stared stupidly.
+
+‘It was for this, then, that that jungle outcaste helped me to polish
+the Sahib’s table, and drew water and plucked fowls. They have gone off
+together for all my beatings, and now he sits among his devils dragging
+her soul to the Pit. Up, Sahib, and come with me!’
+
+He thrust a rifle into Gisborne’s half-wakened hand and almost dragged
+him from the room on to the verandah.
+
+‘They are there in the _rukh_; even within gunshot of the house. Come
+softly with me.’
+
+‘But what is it? What is the trouble, Abdul?’
+
+‘Mowgli, and his devils. Also my own daughter,’ said Abdul Gafur.
+Gisborne whistled and followed his guide. Not for nothing, he knew,
+had Abdul Gafur beaten his daughter of nights, and not for nothing had
+Mowgli helped in the housework a man whom his own powers, whatever
+those were, had convicted of theft. Also, a forest wooing goes quickly.
+
+There was the breathing of a flute in the _rukh_, as it might have been
+the song of some wandering wood-god, and, as they came nearer, a murmur
+of voices. The path ended in a little semicircular glade walled partly
+by high grass and partly by trees. In the centre, upon a fallen trunk,
+his back to the watchers and his arm round the neck of Abdul Gafur’s
+daughter, sat Mowgli, newly crowned with flowers, playing upon a rude
+bamboo flute, to whose music four huge wolves danced solemnly on their
+hind legs.
+
+‘Those are his devils,’ Abdul Gafur whispered. He held a bunch of
+cartridges in his hand. The beasts dropped to a long-drawn quavering
+note and lay still with steady green eyes, glaring at the girl.
+
+‘Behold,’ said Mowgli, laying aside the flute. ‘Is there anything of
+fear in that? I told thee, little Stout-heart, that there was not, and
+thou didst believe. Thy father said--and oh, if thou couldst have seen
+thy father being driven by the road of the nilghai!--thy father said
+that they were devils; and by Allah, who is thy God, I do not wonder
+that he so believed.’
+
+The girl laughed a little rippling laugh, and Gisborne heard Abdul
+grind his few remaining teeth. This was not at all the girl that
+Gisborne had seen with a half-eye slinking about the compound veiled
+and silent; but another--a woman full blown in a night as the orchid
+puts out in an hour’s moist heat.
+
+‘But they are my playmates and my brothers; children of that mother
+that gave me suck, as I told thee behind the cook-house,’ Mowgli went
+on. ‘Children of the father that lay between me and the cold at the
+mouth of the cave when I was a little naked child. Look’--a wolf raised
+his gray jowl, slavering at Mowgli’s knee--‘my brother knows that I
+speak of them. Yes, when I was a little child he was a cub rolling with
+me on the clay.’
+
+‘But thou hast said that thou art human-born, cooed the girl, nestling
+closer to the shoulder. ‘Thou art human-born?’
+
+‘Said! Nay, I know that I am human born, because my heart is in thy
+hold, little one.’ Her head dropped under Mowgli’s chin. Gisborne put
+up a warning hand to restrain Abdul Gafur, who was not in the least
+impressed by the wonder of the sight.
+
+‘But I was a wolf among wolves none the less till a time came when
+Those of the jungle bade me go because I was a man.’
+
+‘Who bade thee go? That is not like a true man’s talk.’
+
+‘The very beasts themselves. Little one, thou wouldst never believe
+that telling, but so it was. The beasts of the jungle bade me go, but
+these four followed me because I was their brother. Then was I a
+herder of cattle among men, having learned their language. Ho! ho! The
+herds paid toll to my brothers, till a woman, an old woman, beloved,
+saw me playing by night with my brethren in the crops. They said that I
+was possessed of devils, and drove me from that village with sticks and
+stones, and the four came with me by stealth and not openly. That was
+when I had learned to eat cooked meat and to talk boldly. From village
+to village I went, heart of my heart, a herder of cattle, a tender of
+buffaloes, a tracker of game, but there was no man that dared lift a
+finger against me twice.’ He stooped down and patted one of the heads.
+‘Do thou also like this. There is neither hurt nor magic in them. See,
+they know thee.’
+
+‘The woods are full of all manner of devils,’ said the girl with a
+shudder.
+
+‘A lie. A child’s lie,’ Mowgli returned confidently. ‘I have lain out
+in the dew under the stars and in the dark night, and I know. The
+jungle is my house. Shall a man fear his own roof-beams or a woman her
+man’s hearth? Stoop down and pat them.’
+
+‘They are dogs and unclean,’ she murmured, bending forward with averted
+head.
+
+‘Having eaten the fruit, now we remember the Law!’ said Abdul Gafur
+bitterly. ‘What is the need of this waiting, Sahib? Kill!’
+
+‘H’sh, thou. Let us learn what has happened,’ said Gisborne.
+
+‘That is well done,’ said Mowgli, slipping his arm round the girl
+again. ‘Dogs or no dogs, they were with me through a thousand villages.’
+
+‘Ahi, and where was thy heart then? Through a thousand villages. Thou
+hast seen a thousand maids. I--that am--that am a maid no more, have I
+thy heart?’
+
+‘What shall I swear by? By Allah, of whom thou speakest?’
+
+‘Nay, by the life that is in thee, and I am well content. Where was thy
+heart in those days?’
+
+Mowgli laughed a little. ‘In my belly, because I was young and always
+hungry. So I learned to track and to hunt, sending and calling my
+brothers back and forth as a king calls his armies. Therefore I drove
+the nilghai for the foolish young Sahib, and the big fat mare for the
+big fat Sahib, when they questioned my power. It were as easy to have
+driven the men themselves. Even now,’ his voiced lifted a little--‘even
+now I know that behind me stand thy father and Gisborne Sahib. Nay, do
+not run, for no ten men dare move a pace forward. Remembering that thy
+father beat thee more than once, shall I give the word and drive him
+again in rings through the _rukh_?’ A wolf stood up with bared teeth.
+
+Gisborne felt Abdul Gafur tremble at his side. Next, his place was
+empty, and the fat man was skimming down the glade.
+
+‘Remains only Gisborne Sahib,’ said Mowgli, still without turning; ‘but
+I have eaten Gisborne Sahib’s bread, and presently I shall be in his
+service, and my brothers will be his servants to drive game and carry
+the news. Hide thou in the grass.’
+
+The girl fled, the tall grass closed behind her and the guardian wolf
+that followed, and Mowgli turning with his three retainers faced
+Gisborne as the Forest Officer came forward.
+
+‘That is all the magic,’ he said, pointing to the three. ‘The fat Sahib
+knew that we who are bred among wolves run on our elbows and our knees
+for a season. Feeling my arms and legs, he felt the truth which thou
+didst not know. Is it so wonderful, Sahib?’
+
+‘Indeed it is all more wonderful than magic. These then drove the
+nilghai?’
+
+‘Ay, as they would drive Eblis if I gave the order. They are my eyes
+and feet to me.’
+
+‘Look to it, then, that Eblis does not carry a double rifle. They have
+yet something to learn, thy devils, for they stand one behind the
+other, so that two shots would kill the three.’
+
+‘Ah, but they know they will be thy servants as soon as I am a
+forest-guard.’
+
+‘Guard or no guard, Mowgli, thou hast done a great shame to Abdul
+Gafur. Thou hast dishonoured his house and blackened his face.’
+
+‘For that, it was blackened when he took thy money, and made blacker
+still when he whispered in thy ear a little while since to kill a
+naked man. I myself will talk to Abdul Gafur, for I am a man of the
+Government service, with a pension. He shall make the marriage by
+whatsoever rite he will, or he shall run once more. I will speak to him
+in the dawn. For the rest, the Sahib has his house and this is mine. It
+is time to sleep again, Sahib.’
+
+Mowgli turned on his heel and disappeared into the grass, leaving
+Gisborne alone. The hint of the wood-god was not to be mistaken; and
+Gisborne went back to the bungalow, where Abdul Gafur, torn by rage and
+fear, was raving in the verandah.
+
+‘Peace, peace,’ said Gisborne, shaking him, for he looked as though
+he were going to have a fit. ‘Muller Sahib has made the man a
+forest-guard, and as thou knowest there is a pension at the end of that
+business, and it is Government service.’
+
+‘He is an outcaste--a _mlech_--a dog among dogs; an eater of carrion!
+What pension can pay for that?’
+
+‘Allah knows; and thou hast heard that the mischief is done. Wouldst
+thou blaze it to all the other servants? Make the _shadi_ swiftly,
+and the girl will make him a Mussalman. He is very comely. Canst thou
+wonder that after thy beatings she went to him?’
+
+‘Did he say that he would chase me with his beasts?’
+
+‘So it seemed to me. If he be a wizard, he is at least a very strong
+one.’
+
+Abdul Gafur thought awhile, and then broke down and howled, forgetting
+that he was a Mussalman:--
+
+‘Thou art a Brahmin. I am thy cow. Make thou the matter plain, and save
+my honour if it can be saved!’
+
+A second time then Gisborne plunged into the _rukh_ and called Mowgli.
+The answer came from high overhead, and in no submissive tones.
+
+‘Speak softly,’ said Gisborne, looking up. ‘There is yet time to strip
+thee of thy place and hunt thee with thy wolves. The girl must go back
+to her father’s house to-night. To-morrow there will be the _shadi_,
+by the Mussalman law, and then thou canst take her away. Bring her to
+Abdul Gafur.’
+
+‘I hear.’ There was a murmur of two voices conferring among the leaves.
+‘Also, we will obey--for the last time.’
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+A year later Muller and Gisborne were riding through the _rukh_
+together, talking of their business. They came out among the rocks near
+the Kanye stream; Muller riding a little in advance. Under the shade
+of a thorn thicket sprawled a naked brown baby, and from the brake
+immediately behind him peered the head of a gray wolf. Gisborne had
+just time to strike up Muller’s rifle, and the bullet tore spattering
+through the branches above.
+
+‘Are you mad?’ thundered Muller. ‘Look!’
+
+‘I see,’ said Gisborne quietly. ‘The mother’s somewhere near. You’ll
+wake the whole pack, by Jove!’
+
+The bushes parted once more, and a woman unveiled snatched up the child.
+
+‘Who fired, Sahib?’ she cried to Gisborne.
+
+‘This Sahib. He had not remembered thy man’s people.’
+
+‘Not remembered? But indeed it may be so, for we who live with them
+forget that they are strangers at all. Mowgli is down the stream
+catching fish. Does the Sahib wish to see him? Come out, ye lacking
+manners. Come out of the bushes, and make your service to the Sahibs.’
+
+Muller’s eyes grew rounder and rounder. He swung himself off the
+plunging mare and dismounted, while the jungle gave up four wolves who
+fawned round Gisborne. The mother stood nursing her child and spurning
+them aside as they brushed against her bare feet.
+
+‘You were quite right about Mowgli,’ said Gisborne. ‘I meant to have
+told you, but I’ve got so used to these fellows in the last twelve
+months that it slipped my mind.’
+
+‘Oh, don’t apologise,’ said Muller. ‘It’s nothing. Gott in Himmel! “Und
+I work miracles--und dey come off too!”’
+
+
+
+
+                            ‘BRUGGLESMITH.’
+
+
+  This day the ship went down, and all hands was drowned but me.
+
+                                                          CLARK RUSSELL.
+
+
+The first officer of the _Breslau_ asked me to dinner on board,
+before the ship went round to Southampton to pick up her passengers.
+The _Breslau_ was lying below London Bridge, her fore-hatches opened
+for cargo, and her deck littered with nuts and bolts, and screws and
+chains. The Black M‘Phee had been putting some finishing touches to his
+adored engines, and M‘Phee is the most tidy of chief engineers. If the
+leg of a cockroach gets into one of his slide-valves the whole ship
+knows it, and half the ship has to clean up the mess.
+
+After dinner, which the first officer, M‘Phee, and I ate in one little
+corner of the empty saloon, M‘Phee returned to the engine-room to
+attend to some brass-fitters. The first officer and I smoked on the
+bridge and watched the lights of the crowded shipping till it was time
+for me to go home. It seemed, in the pauses of our conversation, that I
+could catch an echo of fearful bellowings from the engine-room, and the
+voice of M‘Phee singing of home and the domestic affections.
+
+‘M‘Phee has a friend aboard to-night--a man who was a boiler-maker at
+Greenock when M‘Phee was a ’prentice,’ said the first officer. ‘I
+didn’t ask him to dine with us because----’
+
+‘I see--I mean I hear,’ I answered. We talked on for a few minutes
+longer, and M‘Phee came up from the engine-room with his friend on his
+arm.
+
+‘Let me present ye to this gentleman,’ said M‘Phee. ‘He’s a great
+admirer o’ your wor-rks. He has just hearrd o’ them.’
+
+M‘Phee could never pay a compliment prettily. The friend sat down
+suddenly on a bollard, saying that M‘Phee had under-stated the truth.
+Personally, he on the bollard considered that Shakespeare was trembling
+in the balance solely on my account, and if the first officer wished
+to dispute this he was prepared to fight the first officer then or
+later, ‘as per invoice.’ ‘Man, if ye only knew,’ said he, wagging his
+head, ‘the times I’ve lain in my lonely bunk reading _Vanity Fair_ an’
+sobbin’--ay, weepin’ bitterly, at the pure fascination of it.’
+
+He shed a few tears for guarantee of good faith, and the first officer
+laughed. M‘Phee resettled the man’s hat, that had tilted over one
+eyebrow.
+
+‘That’ll wear off in a little. It’s just the smell o’ the engine-room,’
+said M‘Phee.
+
+‘I think I’ll wear off myself,’ I whispered to the first officer. ‘Is
+the dinghy ready?’
+
+The dinghy was at the gangway, which was down, and the first officer
+went forward to find a man to row me to the bank. He returned with a
+very sleepy Lascar, who knew the river.
+
+‘Are you going?’ said the man on the bollard. ‘Well, I’ll just see
+ye home. M‘Phee, help me down the gangway. It has as many ends as a
+cat-o’-nine-tails, and--losh!--how innumerable are the dinghys!’
+
+‘You’d better let him come with you,’ said the first officer. ‘Muhammad
+Jan, put the drunk sahib ashore first. Take the sober sahib to the next
+stairs.’
+
+I had my foot in the bow of the dinghy, the tide was making up-stream,
+when the man cannoned against me, pushed the Lascar back on the
+gangway, cast loose the painter, and the dinghy began to saw,
+stern-first, along the side of the _Breslau_.
+
+‘We’ll have no exter-r-raneous races here,’ said the man. ‘I’ve known
+the Thames for thirty years----’
+
+There was no time for argument. We were drifting under the _Breslau’s_
+stern, and I knew that her propeller was half out of water, in the
+middle of an inky tangle of buoys, low-lying hawsers, and moored ships,
+with the tide ripping through them.
+
+‘What shall I do?’ I shouted to the first officer.
+
+‘Find the Police Boat as soon as you can, and for God’s sake get some
+way on the dinghy. Steer with the oar. The rudder’s unshipped and----’
+
+I could hear no more. The dinghy slid away, bumped on a mooring-buoy,
+swung round and jigged off irresponsibly as I hunted for the oar. The
+man sat in the bow, his chin on his hands, smiling.
+
+‘Row, you ruffian,’ I said. ‘Get her out into the middle of the
+river----’
+
+‘It’s a preevilege to gaze on the face o’ genius. Let me go on
+thinking. There was “Little Bar-rnaby Dorrit” and “The Mystery o’ the
+Bleak Druid.” I sailed in a ship called the _Druid_ once--badly found
+she was. It all comes back to me so sweet. It all comes back to me.
+Man, ye steer like a genius.’
+
+We bumped round another mooring-buoy and drifted on to the bows of a
+Norwegian timber-ship--I could see the great square holes on either
+side of the cutwater. Then we dived into a string of barges and scraped
+through them by the paint on our planks. It was a consolation to think
+that the dinghy was being reduced in value at every bump, but the
+question before me was when she would begin to leak. The man looked
+ahead into the pitchy darkness and whistled.
+
+‘Yon’s a Castle liner; her ties are black. She’s swinging across
+stream. Keep her port light on our starboard bow, and go large,’ he
+said.
+
+‘How can I keep anything anywhere? You’re sitting on the oars. Row,
+man, if you don’t want to drown.’
+
+He took the sculls, saying sweetly: ‘No harm comes to a drunken man.
+That’s why I wished to come wi’ _you_. Man, ye’re not fit to be alone
+in a boat.’
+
+He flirted the dinghy round the big ship, and for the next ten minutes
+I enjoyed--positively enjoyed--an exhibition of first-class steering.
+We threaded in and out of the mercantile marine of Great Britain as a
+ferret threads a rabbit-hole, and we, he that is to say, sang joyously
+to each ship till men looked over bulwarks and cursed us. When we came
+to some moderately clear water he gave the sculls to me, and said:
+
+‘If ye could row as ye write, I’d respect you for all your vices. Yon’s
+London Bridge. Take her through.’
+
+We shot under the dark ringing arch, and came out the other side,
+going up swiftly with the tide chanting songs of victory. Except that
+I wished to get home before morning, I was growing reconciled to the
+jaunt. There were one or two stars visible, and by keeping into the
+centre of the stream, we could not come to any very serious danger.
+
+The man began to sing loudly:--
+
+    ‘The smartest clipper that you could find,
+        Yo ho! Oho!
+    Was the _Marg’ret Evans_ of the Black X Line,
+        A hundred years ago!
+
+Incorporate that in your next book, which is marvellous.’ Here he stood
+up in the bows and declaimed:--
+
+    ‘Ye Towers o’ Julia, London’s lasting wrong,
+      By mony a foul an’ midnight murder fed--
+    Sweet Thames run softly till I end my song--
+      And yon’s the grave as little as my bed.
+
+I’m a poet mysel an’ I can feel for others.’
+
+‘Sit down,’ said I. ‘You’ll have the boat over.’
+
+‘Ay, I’m settin’--settin’ like a hen.’ He plumped down heavily, and
+added, shaking his forefinger at me:--
+
+    ‘Lear-rn, prudent, cautious self-control
+        Is wisdom’s root.
+
+How did a man o’ your parts come to be so drunk? Oh, it’s a sinfu’
+thing, an’ ye may thank God on all fours that I’m with you. What’s yon
+boat?’
+
+We had drifted far up the river, and a boat manned by four men, who
+rowed with a soothingly regular stroke, was overhauling us.
+
+‘It’s the River Police,’ I said, at the top of my voice.
+
+‘Oh ay! If your sin do not find you out on dry land, it will find you
+out in the deep waters. Is it like they’ll give us drink?’
+
+‘Exceedingly likely. I’ll hail them.’ I hailed.
+
+‘What are you doing?’ was the answer from the boat.
+
+‘It’s the _Breslau’s_ dinghy broken loose,’ I began.
+
+‘It’s a vara drunken man broke loose,’ roared my companion, ‘and I’m
+taking him home by water, for he cannot stand on dry land.’ Here he
+shouted my name twenty times running, and I could feel the blushes
+racing over my body three deep.
+
+‘You’ll be locked up in ten minutes, my friend,’ I said, ‘and I don’t
+think you’ll be bailed either.’
+
+‘H’sh, man, h’sh. They think I’m your uncle.’ He caught up a scull and
+began splashing the boat as it ranged alongside.
+
+‘You’re a nice pair,’ said the sergeant at last.
+
+‘I am anything you please so long as you take this fiend away. Tow us
+in to the nearest station, and I’ll make it worth your while,’ I said.
+
+‘Corruption--corruption,’ roared the man, throwing himself flat in the
+bottom of the boat. ‘Like unto the worms that perish, so is man! And
+all for the sake of a filthy half-crown to be arrested by the river
+police at my time o’ life!’
+
+‘For pity’s sake, row,’ I shouted. ‘The man’s drunk.’
+
+They rowed us to a flat--a fire or a police-station; it was too dark to
+see which. I could feel that they regarded me in no better light than
+the other man. I could not explain, for I was holding the far end of
+the painter, and feeling cut off from all respectability.
+
+We got out of the boat, my companion falling flat on his wicked face,
+and the sergeant asked us rude questions about the dinghy. My companion
+washed his hands of all responsibility. He was an old man; he had been
+lured into a stolen boat by a young man--probably a thief--he had saved
+the boat from wreck (this was absolutely true), and now he expected
+salvage in the shape of hot whisky and water. The sergeant turned to
+me. Fortunately I was in evening dress, and had a card to show. More
+fortunately still, the sergeant happened to know the _Breslau_ and
+M‘Phee. He promised to send the dinghy down next tide, and was not
+beyond accepting my thanks, in silver.
+
+As this was satisfactorily arranged, I heard my companion say angrily
+to a constable, ‘If you will not give it to a dry man, ye maun to a
+drookit.’ Then he walked deliberately off the edge of the flat into the
+water. Somebody stuck a boat-hook into his clothes and hauled him out.
+
+‘Now,’ said he triumphantly, ‘under the rules o’ the R-royal Humane
+Society, ye must give me hot whisky and water. Do not put temptation
+before the laddie. He’s my nephew an’ a good boy i’ the main. Tho’ why
+he should masquerade as Mister Thackeray on the high seas is beyond my
+comprehension. Oh the vanity o’ youth! M‘Phee told me ye were as vain
+as a peacock. I mind that now.’
+
+‘You had better give him something to drink and wrap him up for the
+night. I don’t know who he is,’ I said desperately, and when the man
+had settled down to a drink supplied on my representations, I escaped
+and found that I was near a bridge.
+
+I went towards Fleet Street, intending to take a hansom and go home.
+After the first feeling of indignation died out, the absurdity of the
+experience struck me fully and I began to laugh aloud in the empty
+streets, to the scandal of a policeman. The more I reflected the
+more heartily I laughed, till my mirth was quenched by a hand on my
+shoulder, and turning I saw him who should have been in bed at the
+river police-station. He was damp all over; his wet silk hat rode far
+at the back of his head, and round his shoulders hung a striped yellow
+blanket, evidently the property of the State.
+
+‘The crackling o’ thorns under a pot,’ said he, solemnly. ‘Laddie, have
+ye not thought o’ the sin of idle laughter? My heart misgave me that
+ever ye’d get home, an’ I’ve just come to convoy you a piece. They’re
+sore uneducate down there by the river. They wouldna listen to me when
+I talked o’ your worrks, so I e’en left them. Cast the blanket about
+you, laddie. It’s fine and cold.’
+
+I groaned inwardly. Providence evidently intended that I should frolic
+through eternity with M‘Phee’s infamous acquaintance.
+
+‘Go away,’ I said; ‘go home, or I’ll give you in charge!’
+
+He leaned against a lamp-post and laid his finger to his nose--his
+dishonourable, carnelian neb.
+
+‘I mind now that M‘Phee told me ye were vainer than a peacock, an’
+your castin’ me adrift in a boat shows ye were drunker than an owl. A
+good name is as a savoury bakemeat. I ha’ nane.’ He smacked his lips
+joyously.
+
+‘Well, I know that,’ I said.
+
+‘Ay, but _ye_ have. I mind now that M‘Phee spoke o’ your reputation
+that you’re so proud of. Laddie, if ye gie me in charge--I’m old enough
+to be your father--I’ll bla-ast your reputation as far as my voice
+can carry; for I’ll call you by name till the cows come hame. It’s no
+jestin’ matter to be a friend to me. If you discard my friendship, ye
+must come to Vine Street wi’ me for stealin’ the _Breslau’s_ dinghy.’
+
+Then he sang at the top of his voice:--
+
+                      ‘In the morrnin’
+    I’ the morrnin’ by the black van--
+    We’ll toodle up to Vine Street i’ the morrnin’!
+
+Yon’s my own composeetion, but _I’m_ not vain. We’ll go home together,
+laddie, we’ll go home together.’ And he sang ‘Auld Lang Syne’ to show
+that he meant it.
+
+A policeman suggested that we had better move on, and we moved on to
+the Law Courts near St. Clement Danes. My companion was quieter now,
+and his speech, which up till that time had been distinct--it was a
+marvel to hear how in his condition he could talk dialect--began to
+slur and slide and slummock. He bade me observe the architecture of
+the Law Courts and linked himself lovingly to my arm. Then he saw a
+policeman, and before I could shake him off, whirled me up to the man
+singing:--
+
+    ‘Every member of the Force,
+    Has a watch and chain of course--’
+
+and threw his dripping blanket over the helmet of the Law. In any
+other country in the world we should have run an exceedingly good
+chance of being shot, or dirked, or clubbed--and clubbing is worse
+than being shot. But I reflected in that wet-cloth tangle that this
+was England, where the police are made to be banged and battered and
+bruised, that they may the better endure a police-court reprimand next
+morning. We three fell in a festoon, he calling on me by name--that was
+the tingling horror of it--to sit on the policeman’s head and cut the
+traces. I wriggled clear first and shouted to the policeman to kill the
+blanket-man.
+
+Naturally the policeman answered: ‘You’re as bad as ’im,’ and chased
+me, as the smaller man, round St. Clement Danes into Holywell Street,
+where I ran into the arms of another policeman. That flight could not
+have lasted more than a minute and a half, but it seemed to me as
+long and as wearisome as the foot-bound flight of a nightmare. I had
+leisure to think of a thousand things as I ran; but most I thought of
+the great and god-like man who held a sitting in the north gallery of
+St. Clement Danes a hundred years ago. I know that he at least would
+have felt for me. So occupied was I with these considerations, that
+when the other policeman hugged me to his bosom and said: ‘What are you
+tryin’ to do?’ I answered with exquisite politeness: ‘Sir, let us take
+a walk down Fleet Street.’ ‘Bow Street’ll do _your_ business, I think,’
+was the answer, and for a moment I thought so too, till it seemed I
+might scuffle out of it. Then there was a hideous scene, and it was
+complicated by my companion hurrying up with the blanket and telling
+me--always by name--that he would rescue me or perish in the attempt.
+
+‘Knock him down,’ I pleaded. ‘Club his head open first and I’ll explain
+afterwards.’
+
+The first policeman, the one who had been outraged, drew his truncheon
+and cut at my companion’s head. The high silk hat crackled and the
+owner dropped like a log.
+
+‘Now you’ve done it,’ I said. ‘You’ve probably killed him.’
+
+Holywell Street never goes to bed. A small crowd gathered on the spot,
+and some one of German extraction shrieked: ‘You haf killed the man.’
+
+Another cried: ‘Take his bloomin’ number. I saw him strook cruel ’ard.
+Yah!’
+
+Now the street was empty when the trouble began, and, saving the two
+policemen and myself, no one had seen the blow. I said, therefore, in a
+loud and cheerful voice:--
+
+‘The man’s a friend of mine. He’s fallen down in a fit. Bobby, will you
+bring the ambulance?’ Under my breath I added: ‘It’s five shillings
+apiece, and the man didn’t hit you.’
+
+‘No, but ’im and you tried to scrob me,’ said the policeman.
+
+This was not a thing to argue about.
+
+‘Is Dempsey on duty at Charing Cross?’ I said.
+
+‘Wot d’you know of Dempsey, you bloomin’ garrotter?’ said the policeman.
+
+‘If Dempsey’s there, he knows me. Get the ambulance quick, and I’ll
+take him to Charing Cross.’
+
+‘You’re coming to Bow Street, _you_ are,’ said the policeman crisply.
+
+‘The man’s dying’--he lay groaning on the pavement--‘get the
+ambulance,’ said I.
+
+There is an ambulance at the back of St. Clement Danes, whereof I know
+more than most people. The policeman seemed to possess the keys of the
+box in which it lived. We trundled it out--it was a three-wheeled
+affair with a hood--and we bundled the body of the man upon it.
+
+A body in an ambulance looks very extremely dead. The policemen
+softened at the sight of the stiff boot-heels.
+
+‘Now then,’ said they, and I fancied that they still meant Bow Street.
+
+‘Let me see Dempsey for three minutes if he’s on duty,’ I answered.
+
+‘Very good. He is.’
+
+Then I knew that all would be well, but before we started I put my
+head under the ambulance-hood to see if the man were alive. A guarded
+whisper came to my ear.
+
+‘Laddie, you maun pay me for a new hat. They’ve broken it. Dinna desert
+me now, laddie. I’m o’er old to go to Bow Street in my gray hairs for a
+fault of yours. Laddie, dinna desert me.’
+
+‘You’ll be lucky if you get off under seven years,’ I said to the
+policeman.
+
+Moved by a very lively fear of having exceeded their duty, the two
+policemen left their beats, and the mournful procession wound down the
+empty Strand. Once west of the Adelphi, I knew I should be in my own
+country; and the policemen had reason to know that too, for as I was
+pacing proudly a little ahead of the catafalque, another policeman said
+‘Good-night, sir,’ to me as he passed.
+
+‘Now, you see,’ I said, with condescension. ‘I wouldn’t be in your
+shoes for something. On my word, I’ve a great mind to march you two
+down to Scotland Yard.’
+
+‘If the gentleman’s a friend o’ yours, per’aps--’ said the policeman
+who had given the blow, and was reflecting on the consequences.
+
+‘Perhaps you’d like me to go away and say nothing about it,’ I said.
+Then there hove into view the figure of Constable Dempsey, glittering
+in his oil-skins, and an angel of light to me. I had known him for
+months; he was an esteemed friend of mine, and we used to talk together
+in the early mornings. The fool seeks to ingratiate himself with
+Princes and Ministers; and courts and cabinets leave him to--perish
+miserably. The wise man makes allies among the police and the hansoms,
+so that his friends spring up from the round-house and the cab-rank,
+and even his offences become triumphal processions.
+
+‘Dempsey,’ said I, ‘have the police been on strike again? They’ve put
+some things on duty at St. Clement Danes that want to take me to Bow
+Street for garrotting.’
+
+‘Lor, sir!’ said Dempsey indignantly.
+
+‘Tell them I’m not a garrotter, nor a thief. It’s simply disgraceful
+that a gentleman can’t walk down the Strand without being man-handled
+by these roughs. One of them has done his best to kill my friend here;
+and I’m taking the body home. Speak for me, Dempsey.’
+
+There was no time for the much misrepresented policemen to say a word.
+Dempsey spoke to them in language calculated to frighten. They tried to
+explain, but Dempsey launched into a glowing catalogue of my virtues,
+as noted by gas in the early hours. ‘And,’ he concluded vehemently, ‘’e
+writes for the papers, too. How’d _you_ like to be written for in the
+papers--in verse, too, which is ’is ’abit. You leave ’im alone. ’Im
+an’ me have been friends for months.’
+
+‘What about the dead man?’ said the policeman who had not given the
+blow.
+
+‘I’ll tell you,’ I said relenting, and to the three policemen under
+the lights of Charing Cross assembled, I recounted faithfully and at
+length the adventures of the night, beginning with the _Breslau_ and
+ending at St. Clement Danes. I described the sinful old ruffian in the
+ambulance in words that made him wriggle where he lay, and never since
+the Metropolitan Police was founded did three policemen laugh as those
+three laughed. The Strand echoed to it, and the unclean birds of the
+night stood and wondered.
+
+‘Oh lor’!’ said Dempsey, wiping his eyes, ‘I’d ha’ given anything to
+see that old man runnin’ about with a wet blanket an’ all! Excuse me,
+sir, but you ought to get took up every night for to make us ’appy.’ He
+dissolved into fresh guffaws.
+
+There was a clinking of silver and the two policemen of St. Clement
+Danes hurried back to their beats, laughing as they ran.
+
+‘Take ’im to Charing Cross,’ said Dempsey between shouts. ‘They’ll send
+the ambulance back in the morning.’
+
+‘Laddie, ye’ve misca’ed me shameful names, but I’m o’er old to go to a
+hospital. Dinna desert me, laddie. Tak me home to my wife,’ said the
+voice in the ambulance.
+
+‘He’s none so bad. ’Is wife’ll comb ’is hair for ’im proper,’ said
+Dempsey, who was a married man.
+
+‘Where d’you live?’ I demanded.
+
+‘Brugglesmith,’ was the answer.
+
+‘What’s that?’ I said to Dempsey, more skilled than I in
+portmanteau-words.
+
+‘Brook Green, ’Ammersmith,’ Dempsey translated promptly.
+
+‘Of course,’ I said. ‘That’s just the sort of place he would choose to
+live in. I only wonder that it was not Kew.’
+
+‘Are you going to wheel him ’ome, sir,’ said Dempsey.
+
+‘I’d wheel him home if he lived in ---- Paradise. He’s not going to get
+out of this ambulance while I’m here. He’d drag me into a murder for
+tuppence.’
+
+‘Then strap ’im up an’ make sure,’ said Dempsey, and he deftly buckled
+two straps that hung by the side of the ambulance over the man’s body.
+Brugglesmith--I know not his other name--was sleeping deeply. He even
+smiled in his sleep.
+
+‘That’s all right,’ said Dempsey, and I moved off, wheeling my devil’s
+perambulator before me. Trafalgar Square was empty except for the few
+that slept in the open. One of these wretches ranged alongside and
+begged for money, asserting that he had been a gentleman once.
+
+‘So have I,’ I said. ‘That was long ago. I’ll give you a shilling if
+you’ll help me to push this thing.’
+
+‘Is it a murder?’ said the vagabond, shrinking back. ‘I’ve not got to
+_that_ yet.’
+
+‘No, it’s going to be one,’ I answered. ‘I have.’
+
+The man slunk back into the darkness and I pressed on, through Cockspur
+Street, and up to Piccadilly Circus, wondering what I should do with my
+treasure. All London was asleep, and I had only this drunken carcass
+to bear me company. It was silent--silent as chaste Piccadilly. A young
+man of my acquaintance came out of a pink brick club as I passed. A
+faded carnation drooped from his button-hole; he had been playing
+cards, and was walking home before the dawn, when he overtook me.
+
+‘What are you doing?’ he said.
+
+I was far beyond any feeling of shame. ‘It’s for a bet,’ said I. ‘Come
+and help.’
+
+‘Laddie, who’s yon?’ said the voice beneath the hood.
+
+‘Good Lord!’ said the young man, leaping across the pavement. Perhaps
+card-losses had told on his nerves. Mine were steel that night.
+
+‘The Lord, The Lord?’ the passionless, incurious voice went on. ‘Dinna
+be profane, laddie. He’ll come in His ain good time.’
+
+The young man looked at me with horror.
+
+‘It’s all part of the bet,’ I answered. ‘Do come and push!’
+
+‘W--where are you going to?’ said he.
+
+‘Brugglesmith,’ said the voice within. ‘Laddie, d’ye ken my wife?’
+
+‘No,’ said I.
+
+‘Well, she’s just a tremenjus wumman. Laddie, I want a drink. Knock at
+one o’ those braw houses, laddie, an’--an’--ye may kiss the girrl for
+your pains.’
+
+‘Lie still, or I’ll gag you,’ I said, savagely.
+
+The young man with the carnation crossed to the other side of
+Piccadilly, and hailed the only hansom visible for miles. What he
+thought I cannot tell.
+
+I pressed on--wheeling, eternally wheeling--to Brook Green,
+Hammersmith. There I would abandon Brugglesmith to the gods of that
+desolate land. We had been through so much together that I could not
+leave him bound in the street. Besides, he would call after me, and oh!
+it is a shameful thing to hear one’s name ringing down the emptiness of
+London in the dawn.
+
+So I went on, past Apsley House, even to the coffee-stall, but there
+was no coffee for Brugglesmith. And into Knightsbridge--respectable
+Knightsbridge--I wheeled my burden, the body of Brugglesmith.
+
+‘Laddie, what are ye going to do wi’ me?’ he said when opposite the
+barracks.
+
+‘Kill you,’ I said briefly, ‘or hand you over to your wife. Be quiet.’
+
+He would not obey. He talked incessantly--sliding in one sentence from
+clear cut dialect to wild and drunken jumble. At the Albert Hall he
+said that I was the ‘Hattle Gardle buggle,’ which I apprehend is the
+Hatton Garden burglar. At Kensington High Street he loved me as a son,
+but when my weary legs came to the Addison Road Bridge he implored
+me with tears to unloose the straps and to fight against the sin
+of vanity. No man molested us. It was as though a bar had been set
+between myself and all humanity till I had cleared my account with
+Brugglesmith. The glimmering of light grew in the sky; the cloudy brown
+of the wood pavement turned to heather-purple; I made no doubt that I
+should be allowed vengeance on Brugglesmith ere the evening.
+
+At Hammersmith the heavens were steel-gray, and the day came weeping.
+All the tides of the sadness of an unprofitable dawning poured into the
+soul of Brugglesmith. He wept bitterly, because the puddles looked
+cold and houseless. I entered a half-waked public-house--in evening
+dress and an ulster, I marched to the bar--and got him whisky on
+condition that he should cease kicking at the canvas of the ambulance.
+Then he wept more bitterly, for that he had ever been associated with
+me, and so seduced into stealing the _Breslau’s_ dinghy.
+
+The day was white and wan when I reached my long journey’s end, and,
+putting back the hood, bade Brugglesmith declare where he lived.
+His eyes wandered disconsolately round the red and gray houses till
+they fell on a villa in whose garden stood a staggering board with
+the legend ‘To Let.’ It needed only this to break him down utterly,
+and with the breakage fled his fine fluency in his guttural northern
+tongue; for liquor levels all.
+
+‘Olely lil while,’ he sobbed. ‘Olely lil while. Home--falmy--besht
+of falmies--wife too--_you_ dole know my wife! Left them all a lill
+while ago. Now everything’s sold--all sold. Wife--falmy--all sold.
+Lemmegellup!’
+
+I unbuckled the straps cautiously. Brugglesmith rolled off his
+resting-place and staggered to the house.
+
+‘Wattle I do?’ he said.
+
+Then I understood the baser depths in the mind of Mephistopheles.
+
+‘Ring,’ I said; ‘perhaps they are in the attic or the cellar.’
+
+‘You do’ know my wife. She shleeps on soful in the dorlin’ room,
+waiting meculhome. _You_ do’ know my wife.’
+
+He took off his boots, covered them with his tall hat, and craftily
+as a Red Indian picked his way up the garden path and smote the bell
+marked ‘Visitors’ a severe blow with the clenched fist.
+
+‘Bell sole too. Sole electick bell! Wassor bell this? I can’t riggle
+bell,’ he moaned despairingly.
+
+‘You pull it--pull it hard,’ I repeated, keeping a wary eye down the
+road. Vengeance was coming and I desired no witnesses.
+
+‘Yes, I’ll pull it hard.’ He slapped his forehead with inspiration.
+‘I’ll pull it out.’
+
+Leaning back he grasped the knob with both hands and pulled. A wild
+ringing in the kitchen was his answer. Spitting on his hands he pulled
+with renewed strength, and shouted for his wife. Then he bent his
+ear to the knob, shook his head, drew out an enormous yellow and red
+handkerchief, tied it round the knob, turned his back to the door, and
+pulled over his shoulder.
+
+Either the handkerchief or the wire, it seemed to me, was bound to give
+way. But I had forgotten the bell. Something cracked in the kitchen,
+and Brugglesmith moved slowly down the doorsteps, pulling valiantly.
+Three feet of wire followed him.
+
+‘Pull, oh pull!’ I cried. ‘It’s coming now.’
+
+‘Qui’ ri’,’ he said. ‘_I’ll_ riggle bell.’
+
+He bowed forward, the wire creaking and straining behind him, the
+bell-knob clasped to his bosom, and from the noises within I fancied
+the bell was taking away with it half the wood-work of the kitchen and
+all the basement banisters.
+
+‘Get a purchase on her,’ I shouted, and he spun round, lapping that
+good copper wire about him. I opened the garden gate politely, and he
+passed out, spinning his own cocoon. Still the bell came up, hand over
+hand, and still the wire held fast. He was in the middle of the road
+now, whirling like an impaled cockchafer, and shouting madly for his
+wife and family. There he met with the ambulance, the bell within the
+house gave one last peal, and bounded from the far end of the hall to
+the inner side of the hall-door, where it stayed fast. So did not my
+friend Brugglesmith. He fell upon his face, embracing the ambulance
+as he did so, and the two turned over together in the toils of the
+never-sufficiently-to-be-advertised copper wire.
+
+‘Laddie,’ he gasped, his speech returning, ‘have I a legal remedy?’
+
+‘I will go and look for one,’ I said, and, departing, found two
+policemen. These I told that daylight had surprised a burglar in Brook
+Green while he was engaged in stealing lead from an empty house.
+Perhaps they had better take care of that bootless thief. He seemed to
+be in difficulties.
+
+I led the way to the spot, and behold! in the splendour of the dawning,
+the ambulance, wheels uppermost, was walking down the muddy road on
+two stockinged feet--was shuffling to and fro in a quarter of a circle
+whose radius was copper wire, and whose centre was the bell-plate of
+the empty house.
+
+Next to the amazing ingenuity with which Brugglesmith had contrived to
+lash himself under the ambulance, the thing that appeared to impress
+the constables most was the fact of the St. Clement Danes ambulance
+being at Brook Green, Hammersmith.
+
+They even asked me, of all people in the world, whether I knew anything
+about it!
+
+They extricated him; not without pain and dirt. He explained that he
+was repelling boarding-attacks by a ‘Hattle Gardle buggle’ who had
+sold his house, wife, and family. As to the bell-wire, he offered
+no explanation, and was borne off shoulder-high between the two
+policemen. Though his feet were not within six inches of the ground,
+they paddled swiftly, and I saw that in his magnificent mind he was
+running--furiously running.
+
+Sometimes I have wondered whether he wished to find me.
+
+
+
+
+                            ‘LOVE-O’-WOMEN.’
+
+
+            ‘A lamentable tale of things
+    Done long ago, and ill done.’
+
+
+The horror, the confusion, and the separation of the murderer from
+his comrades were all over before I came. There remained only on the
+barrack-square the blood of man calling from the ground. The hot sun
+had dried it to a dusky goldbeater-skin film, cracked lozenge-wise by
+the heat; and as the wind rose, each lozenge, rising a little, curled
+up at the edges as if it were a dumb tongue. Then a heavier gust blew
+all away down wind in grains of dark coloured dust. It was too hot
+to stand in the sunshine before breakfast. The men were in barracks
+talking the matter over. A knot of soldiers’ wives stood by one of the
+entrances to the married quarters, while inside a woman shrieked and
+raved with wicked filthy words.
+
+A quiet and well-conducted sergeant had shot down, in broad daylight
+just after early parade, one of his own corporals, had then returned
+to barracks and sat on a cot till the guard came for him. He would,
+therefore, in due time be handed over to the High Court for trial.
+Further, but this he could hardly have considered in his scheme of
+revenge, he would horribly upset my work; for the reporting of that
+trial would fall on me without a relief. What that trial would be like
+I knew even to weariness. There would be the rifle carefully uncleaned,
+with the fouling marks about breech and muzzle, to be sworn to by half
+a dozen superfluous privates; there would be heat, reeking heat, till
+the wet pencil slipped sideways between the fingers; and the punkah
+would swish and the pleaders would jabber in the verandahs, and his
+Commanding Officer would put in certificates to the prisoner’s moral
+character, while the jury would pant and the summer uniforms of the
+witnesses would smell of dye and soaps; and some abject barrack-sweeper
+would lose his head in cross-examination, and the young barrister who
+always defended soldiers’ cases for the credit that they never brought
+him, would say and do wonderful things, and would then quarrel with me
+because I had not reported him correctly. At the last, for he surely
+would not be hanged, I might meet the prisoner again, ruling blank
+account-forms in the Central Jail, and cheer him with the hope of his
+being made a warder in the Andamans.
+
+The Indian Penal Code and its interpreters do not treat murder, under
+any provocation whatever, in a spirit of jest. Sergeant Raines would
+be very lucky indeed if he got off with seven years, I thought. He had
+slept the night upon his wrongs, and killed his man at twenty yards
+before any talk was possible. That much I knew. Unless, therefore,
+the case was doctored a little, seven years would be his least; and I
+fancied it was exceedingly well for Sergeant Raines that he had been
+liked by his Company.
+
+That same evening--no day is so long as the day of a murder--I met
+Ortheris with the dogs, and he plunged defiantly into the middle of the
+matter. ‘I’ll be one o’ the witnesses,’ said he. ‘I was in the verandah
+when Mackie come along. ’E come from Mrs. Raines’s quarters. Quigley,
+Parsons, an’ Trot, they was in the inside verandah, so _they_ couldn’t
+’ave ’eard nothing. Sergeant Raines was in the verandah talkin’ to me,
+an’ Mackie ’e come along acrost the square an’ ’e sez, “Well,” sez ’e,
+“’ave they pushed your ’elmet off yet, Sergeant?” ’e sez. An’ at that
+Raines ’e catches ’is breath an’ ’e sez, “My Gawd, I can’t stand this!”
+sez ’e, an’ ’e picks up my rifle an’ shoots Mackie. See?’
+
+‘But what were you doing with your rifle in the outer verandah an hour
+after parade?’
+
+‘Cleanin’ ’er,’ said Ortheris, with the sullen brassy stare that always
+went with his choicer lies.
+
+He might as well have said that he was dancing naked, for at no time
+did his rifle need hand or rag on her twenty minutes after parade.
+Still, the High Court would not know his routine.
+
+‘Are you going to stick to that--on the Book?’ I asked.
+
+‘Yes. Like a bloomin’ leech.’
+
+‘All right, I don’t want to know any more. Only remember that Quigley,
+Parsons, and Trot couldn’t have been where you say without hearing
+something; and there’s nearly certain to be a barrack-sweeper who was
+knocking about the square at the time. There always is.’
+
+‘’Twasn’t the sweeper. It was the beastie. ’E’s all right.’
+
+Then I knew that there was going to be some spirited doctoring,
+and I felt sorry for the Government Advocate who would conduct the
+prosecution.
+
+When the trial came on I pitied him more, for he was always quick to
+lose his temper and made a personal matter of each lost cause. Raines’s
+young barrister had for once put aside his unslaked and welling passion
+for alibis and insanity, had forsworn gymnastics and fireworks, and
+worked soberly for his client. Mercifully the hot weather was yet
+young, and there had been no flagrant cases of barrack-shootings up to
+the time; and the jury was a good one, even for an Indian jury, where
+nine men out of every twelve are accustomed to weighing evidence.
+Ortheris stood firm and was not shaken by any cross-examination. The
+one weak point in his tale--the presence of his rifle in the outer
+verandah--went unchallenged by civilian wisdom, though some of the
+witnesses could not help smiling. The Government Advocate called for
+the rope, contending throughout that the murder had been a deliberate
+one. Time had passed, he argued, for that reflection which comes so
+naturally to a man whose honour is lost. There was also the Law,
+ever ready and anxious to right the wrongs of the common soldier if,
+indeed, wrong had been done. But he doubted much whether there had been
+any sufficient wrong. Causeless suspicion over-long brooded upon had
+led, by his theory, to deliberate crime. But his attempts to minimise
+the motive failed. The most disconnected witness knew--had known for
+weeks--the causes of offence; and the prisoner, who naturally was the
+last of all to know, groaned in the dock while he listened. The one
+question that the trial circled round was whether Raines had fired
+under sudden and blinding provocation given that very morning; and
+in the summing-up it was clear that Ortheris’s evidence told. He had
+contrived most artistically to suggest that he personally hated the
+Sergeant, who had come into the verandah to give him a talking to for
+insubordination. In a weak moment the Government Advocate asked one
+question too many. ’Beggin’ _your_ pardon, sir,’ Ortheris replied,
+‘’e was callin’ me a dam’ impudent little lawyer.’ The Court shook.
+The jury brought it in a killing, but with every provocation and
+extenuation known to God or man, and the Judge put his hand to his brow
+before giving sentence, and the Adam’s apple in the prisoner’s throat
+went up and down like mercury pumping before a cyclone.
+
+In consideration of all considerations, from his Commanding Officer’s
+certificate of good conduct to the sure loss of pension, service,
+and honour, the prisoner would get two years, to be served in India,
+and--there need be no demonstration in Court. The Government Advocate
+scowled and picked up his papers; the guard wheeled with a clash, and
+the prisoner was relaxed to the Secular Arm, and driven to the jail in
+a broken down _ticca-gharri_.
+
+His guard and some ten or twelve military witnesses, being less
+important, were ordered to wait till what was officially called the
+cool of the evening before marching back to cantonments. They gathered
+together in one of the deep red brick verandahs of a disused lock-up
+and congratulated Ortheris, who bore his honours modestly. I sent my
+work into the office and joined them. Ortheris watched the Government
+Advocate driving off to lunch.
+
+‘That’s a nasty little bald-’eaded little butcher, that is,’ he said.
+‘’E don’t please me. ’E’s got a colley dog wot do, though. I’m goin’ up
+to Murree in a week. That dawg’ll bring fifteen rupees anywheres.’
+
+‘You had better spend ut in Masses,’ said Terence, unbuckling his belt;
+for he had been on the prisoner’s guard, standing helmeted and bolt
+upright for three long hours.
+
+‘Not me,’ said Ortheris cheerfully. ‘Gawd’ll put it down to B Comp’ny’s
+barrick-damages one o’ these days. You look strapped, Terence.’
+
+‘Faith, I’m not so young as I was. That guard-mountin’ wears on the
+sole av the fut, and this’--he sniffed contemptuously at the brick
+verandah--‘is as hard setting as standin’!’
+
+‘Wait a minute. I’ll get the cushions out of my cart,’ I said.
+
+‘’Strewth--sofies. We’re going it gay,’ said Ortheris, as Terence
+dropped himself section by section on the leather cushions, saying
+prettily, ‘May ye niver want a soft place wheriver you go, an’ power
+to share ut wid a frind. Another for yourself? That’s good. It lets me
+sit longways. Stanley, pass me a pipe. Augrrh! An’ that’s another man
+gone all to pieces bekaze av a woman. I must ha’ been on forty or fifty
+prisoners’ gyards, first an’ last; an’ I hate ut new ivry time.’
+
+‘Let’s see. You were on Losson’s, Lancey’s, Dugard’s, and Stebbins’s,
+that I can remember,’ I said.
+
+‘Ay, an’ before that an’ before that--scores av thim,’ he answered with
+a worn smile. ’Tis better to die than to live for them, though. Whin
+Raines comes out--he’ll be changin’ his kit at the jail now--he’ll
+think that too. He shud ha’ shot hemself an’ the woman by rights an’
+made a clean bill av all. Now he’s left the woman--she tuk tay wid
+Dinah Sunday gone last--an’ he’s left himself. Mackie’s the lucky man.’
+
+‘He’s probably getting it hot where he is,’ I ventured, for I knew
+something of the dead Corporal’s record.
+
+‘Be sure av that,’ said Terence, spitting over the edge of the
+verandah. ‘But fwhat he’ll get there is light marchin’-ordher to fwhat
+he’d ha’ got here if he’d lived.’
+
+‘Surely not. He’d have gone on and forgotten--like the others.’
+
+‘Did ye know Mackie well, sorr?’ said Terence.
+
+‘He was on the Pattiala guard of honour last winter, and I went out
+shooting with him in an _ekka_ for the day, and I found him rather an
+amusing man.’
+
+‘Well, he’ll ha’ got shut av amusemints, excipt turnin’ from wan side
+to the other, these few years to come. I knew Mackie, an’ I’ve seen
+too many to be mistuk in the muster av wan man. He might ha’ gone on
+an’ forgot as you say, sorr, but he was a man wid an educashin, an’
+he used ut for his schames; an’ the same educashin, an’ talkin’, an’
+all that made him able to do fwhat he had a mind to wid a woman, that
+same wud turn back again in the long-run an’ tear him alive. I can’t
+say fwhat that I mane to say bekaze I don’t know how, but Mackie was
+the spit an’ livin’ image av a man that I saw march the same march
+_all but_; an’ ’twas worse for him that he did not come by Mackie’s
+ind. Wait while I remember now. ’Twas whin I was in the Black Tyrone,
+an’ he was drafted us from Portsmouth; an’ fwhat was his misbegotten
+name? Larry--Larry Tighe ut was; an’ wan of the draft said he was a
+gentleman-ranker, an’ Larry tuk an’ three-parts killed him for saying
+so. An’ he was a big man, an’ a strong man, an’ a handsome man, an’
+that tells heavy in practice wid some women, but, takin’ them by an’
+large, not wid all. Yet ’twas wid all that Larry dealt--_all_--for he
+cud put the comether on any woman that trod the green earth av God,
+an’ he knew ut. Like Mackie that’s roastin’ now, he knew ut, an’ niver
+did he put the comether on any woman save an’ excipt for the black
+shame. ’Tis not me that shud be talkin’, dear knows, dear knows, but
+the most av my mis--misallinces was for pure devilry, an’ mighty sorry
+I have been whin harm came; an’ time an’ again wid a girl, ay, an’ a
+woman too, for the matter av that, whin I have seen by the eyes av
+her that I was makin’ more throuble than I talked, I have hild off
+an’ let be for the sake av the mother that bore me. But Larry, I’m
+thinkin’, he was suckled by a she-divil, for he never let wan go that
+came nigh to listen to him. ’Twas his business, as if it might ha’ ben
+sinthry-go. He was a good soldier too. Now there was the Colonel’s
+governess--an’ he a privit too!--that was never known in barricks; an’
+wan av the Major’s maids, and she was promised to a man; an’ some more
+outside; an’ fwhat ut was amongst _us_ we’ll never know till Judgment
+Day. ’Twas the nature av the baste to put the comether on the best av
+thim--not the prettiest by any manner av manes--but the like av such
+women as you cud lay your hand on the Book an’ swear there was niver
+thought av foolishness in. An’ for that very reason, mark you, he was
+niver caught. He came close to ut wanst or twice, but caught he niver
+was, an’ that cost him more at the ind than the beginnin’. He talked
+to me more than most, bekaze he tould me, barrin’ the accident av
+my educashin, I’d av been the same kind av divil he was. “An’ is ut
+like,” he wud say, houldin’ his head high--“is ut like that I’d iver be
+thrapped? For fwhat am I when all’s said an’ done?” he sez. “A damned
+privit,” sez he. “An’ is ut like, think you, that thim I know wud be
+connect wid a privit like me? Number tin thousand four hundred an’
+sivin,” he sez grinnin’. I knew by the turn av his spache when he was
+not takin’ care to talk rough-shod that he was a gentleman-ranker.
+
+‘“I do not undherstan’ ut at all,” I sez; “but I know,” sez I, “that
+the divil looks out av your eyes, an’ I’ll have no share wid you. A
+little fun by way av amusemint where ’twill do no harm, Larry, is right
+and fair, but I am mistook if ’tis any amusemint to you,” I sez.
+
+‘“You are much mistook,” he sez. “An’ I counsel you not to judge your
+betters.”
+
+‘“My betthers!” I sez. “God help you, Larry. There’s no betther in
+this; ’tis all bad, as ye will find for yoursilf.”
+
+‘“You’re not like me,” he says, tossin’ his head.
+
+‘“Praise the Saints, I am not,” I sez. “Fwhat I have done I have
+done an’ been crool sorry for. Fwhin your time comes,” sez I, “ye’ll
+remimber fwhat I say.”
+
+‘“An’ whin that time comes,” sez he, “I’ll come to you for ghostly
+consolation, Father Terence,” an’ at that he wint off afther some
+more divil’s business--for to get expayrience, he tould me. He was
+wicked--rank wicked--wicked as all Hell! I’m not construct by nature to
+go in fear av any man, but, begad, I was afraid av Larry. He’d come in
+to barricks wid his cap on three hairs, an’ lie on his cot and stare at
+the ceilin’, and now an’ again he’d fetch a little laugh, the like av a
+splash in the bottom av a well, an’ by that I knew he was schamin’ new
+wickedness, an’ I’d be afraid. All this was long an’ long ago, but ut
+hild me straight--for a while.
+
+‘I tould you, did I not, sorr, that I was caressed an’ pershuaded to
+lave the Tyrone on account av a throuble?’
+
+‘Something to do with a belt and a man’s head wasn’t it?’ Terence had
+never given the tale in full.
+
+‘It was. Faith, ivry time I go on prisoner’s gyard in coort I wondher
+fwhy I was not where the pris’ner is. But the man I struk tuk it in
+fair fight an’ he had the good sinse not to die. Considher now, fwhat
+wud ha’ come to the Arrmy if he had! I was enthreated to exchange, an’
+my Commandin’ Orf’cer pled wid me. I wint, not to be disobligin’, an’
+Larry tould me he was powerful sorry to lose me, though fwhat I’d done
+to make him sorry I do not know. So to the Ould Reg’mint I came, lavin’
+Larry to go to the divil his own way, an’ niver expectin’ to see him
+again excipt as a shootin’-case in barracks.... Who’s that quittin’
+the compound?’ Terence’s quick eye had caught sight of a white uniform
+skulking behind the hedge.
+
+‘The Sergeant’s gone visiting,’ said a voice.
+
+‘Thin I command here, an’ I will have no sneakin’ away to the bazar,
+an’ huntin’ for you wid a pathrol at midnight. Nalson, for I know ut’s
+you, come back to the verandah.’
+
+Nalson, detected, slunk back to his fellows. There was a grumble that
+died away in a minute or two, and Terence turning on the other side
+went on:--
+
+‘That was the last I saw av Larry for a while. Exchange is the same as
+death for not thinkin’, an’ by token I married Dinah, an’ that kept me
+from remimberin’ ould times. Thin we went up to the Front, an’ ut tore
+my heart in tu to lave Dinah at the Depôt in Pindi. Consequint, whin I
+was at the Front I fought circumspectuous till I warrmed up, an’ thin I
+fought double tides. You remember fwhat I tould you in the gyard-gate
+av the fight at Silver’s Theatre?’
+
+‘Wot’s that about Silver’s Theayter?’ said Ortheris quickly, over his
+shoulder.
+
+‘Nothin’, little man. A tale that ye know. As I was sayin’, afther that
+fight, us av the Ould Rig’mint an’ the Tyrone was all mixed together
+takin’ shtock av the dead, an’ av coorse I wint about to find if there
+was any man that remembered me. The second man I came acrost--an’ how
+I’d missed him in the fight I do not know--was Larry, an’ a fine man he
+looked, but oulder, by reason that he had fair call to be. “Larry,” sez
+I, “how is ut wid you?”
+
+‘“Ye’re callin’ the wrong man,” he sez, wid his gentleman’s smile,
+“Larry has been dead these three years. They call him ‘Love-o’-Women’
+now,” he sez. By that I knew the ould divil was in him yet, but the ind
+av a fight is no time for the beginnin’ av confession, so we sat down
+an’ talked av times.
+
+‘“They tell me you’re a married man,” he sez, puffin’ slow at his
+poipe. “Are ye happy?”
+
+‘“I will be whin I get back to Depôt,” I sez. “’Tis a
+reconnaissance-honeymoon now.”
+
+‘“I’m married too,” he sez, puffin’ slow an’ more slow, an’ stopperin’
+wid his forefinger.
+
+‘“Send you happiness,” I sez. “That’s the best hearin’ for a long time.”
+
+‘“Are ye av that opinion?” he sez; an’ thin he began talkin’ av the
+campaign. The sweat av Silver’s Theatre was not dhry upon him an’ he
+was prayin’ for more work. I was well contint to lie and listen to the
+cook-pot lids.
+
+‘Whin he got up off the ground he shtaggered a little, an’ laned over
+all twisted.
+
+‘“Ye’ve got more than ye bargained for,” I sez. “Take an inventory,
+Larry. ’Tis like you’re hurt.”
+
+‘He turned round stiff as a ramrod an’ damned the eyes av me up an’
+down for an impartinent Irish-faced ape. If that had been in barracks,
+I’d ha’ stretched him an’ no more said; but ’twas at the Front, an’
+afther such a fight as Silver’s Theatre I knew there was no callin’
+a man to account for his tempers. He might as well ha’ kissed me.
+Aftherwards I was well pleased I kept my fists home. Thin our Captain
+Crook--Cruik-na-bulleen--came up. He’d been talkin’ to the little
+orf’cer bhoy av the Tyrone. “We’re all cut to windystraws,” he sez,
+“but the Tyrone are damned short for noncoms. Go you over there,
+Mulvaney, an’ be Deputy-Sergeant, Corp’ral, Lance, an’ everything else
+ye can lay hands on till I bid you stop.”
+
+‘I wint over an’ tuk hould. There was wan sergeant left standin’, an’
+they’d pay no heed to him. The remnint was me, an’ ’twas full time I
+came. Some I talked to, an’ some I did not, but before night the bhoys
+av the Tyrone stud to attention, by gad, if I sucked on my poipe above
+a whishper. Betune you an’ me an’ Bobbs I was commandin’ the company,
+an’ that was what Crook had thransferred me for; an’ the little orf’cer
+bhoy knew ut, and I knew ut, but the comp’ny did not. And _there_, mark
+you, is the vartue that no money an’ no dhrill can buy--the vartue av
+the ould soldier that knows his orf’cer’s work an’ does ut for him at
+the salute!
+
+‘Thin the Tyrone, wid the Ould Rig’mint in touch, was sint maraudin’
+an’ prowlin’ acrost the hills promishcuous an’ onsatisfactory. ’Tis my
+privit opinion that a gin’ral does not know half his time fwhat to do
+wid three-quarthers his command. So he shquats on his hunkers an’ bids
+them run round an’ round forninst him while he considhers on it. Whin
+by the process av nature they get sejuced into a big fight that was
+none av their seekin’, he sez: “Obsarve my shuperior janius. I meant ut
+to come so.” We ran round an’ about, an’ all we got was shootin’ into
+the camp at night, an’ rushin’ empty _sungars_ wid the long bradawl,
+an’ bein’ hit from behind rocks till we was wore out--all excipt
+Love-o’-Women. That puppy-dog business was mate an’ dhrink to him.
+Begad he cud niver get enough av ut. Me well knowin’ that it is just
+this desultorial campaignin’ that kills the best men, an’ suspicionin’
+that if I was cut, the little orf’cer bhoy wud expind all his men in
+thryin’ to get out, I wud lie most powerful doggo whin I heard a shot,
+an’ curl my long legs behind a bowlder, an’ run like blazes whin the
+ground was clear. Faith, if I led the Tyrone in rethreat wanst I led
+thim forty times! Love-o’-Women wud stay pottin’ an’ pottin’ from
+behind a rock, and wait till the fire was heaviest, an’ thin stand
+up an’ fire man-height clear. He wud lie out in camp too at night,
+snipin’ at the shadows, for he never tuk a mouthful av slape. My
+commandin’ orf’cer--save his little soul!--cud not see the beauty av my
+strategims, an’ whin the Ould Rig’mint crossed us, an’ that was wanst
+a week, he’d throt off to Crook, wid his big blue eyes as round as
+saucers, an’ lay an information against me. I heard thim wanst talkin’
+through the tent-wall, an’ I nearly laughed.
+
+‘“He runs--runs like a hare,” sez the little orf’cer bhoy. “’Tis
+demoralisin’ my men.”
+
+‘“Ye damned little fool,” sez Crook laughin’. “He’s larnin’ you your
+business. Have ye been rushed at night yet?”
+
+‘“No,” sez that child; wishful he had been.
+
+‘“Have you any wounded?” sez Crook.
+
+‘“No,” he sez. “There was no chanst for that. They follow Mulvaney too
+quick,” he sez.
+
+‘“Fwhat more do you want, thin?” sez Crook. “Terence is bloodin’ you
+neat an’ handy,” he sez. “He knows fwhat you do not, an’ that’s that
+there’s a time for ivrything. He’ll not lead you wrong,” he sez, “but
+I’d give a month’s pay to larn fwhat he thinks av you.”
+
+‘That kept the babe quiet, but Love-o’-Women was pokin’ at me for
+ivrything I did, an’ specially my manœuvres.
+
+‘“Mr. Mulvaney,” he sez wan evenin’, very contempshus, “you’re growin’
+very _jeldy_ on your feet. Among gentlemen,” he sez, “among gentlemen
+that’s called no pretty name.”
+
+‘“Among privits ’tis different,” I sez. “Get back to your tent. I’m
+sergeant here,” I sez.
+
+‘There was just enough in the voice av me to tell him he was playin’
+wid his life betune his teeth. He wint off, an’ I noticed that this man
+that was contempshus set off from the halt wid a shunt as tho’ he was
+bein’ kicked behind. That same night there was a Paythan picnic in tha
+hills about, an’ firin’ into our tents fit to wake the livin’ dead.
+“Lie down all,” I sez. “Lie down an’ kape still. They’ll no more than
+waste ammunition.”
+
+‘I heard a man’s feet on the ground, an’ thin a ’Tini joinin’ in the
+chorus. I’d been lyin’ warm, thinkin’ av Dinah an’ all, but I crup
+out wid the bugle for to look round in case there was a rush; an’ the
+’Tini was flashin’ at the fore-ind av the camp, an’ the hill near by
+was fair flickerin’ wid long-range fire. Undher the starlight I behild
+Love-o’-Women settin’ on a rock wid his belt and helmet off. He shouted
+wanst or twice, an’ thin I heard him say: “They shud ha’ got the range
+long ago. Maybe they’ll fire at the flash.” Thin he fired again, an’
+that dhrew a fresh volley, and the long slugs that they chew in their
+teeth came floppin’ among the rocks like tree-toads av a hot night.
+“That’s better,” sez Love-o’-Women. “Oh Lord, how long, how long!” he
+sez, an’ at that he lit a match an’ held ut above his head.
+
+‘“Mad,” thinks I, “mad as a coot,” an’ I tuk wan stip forward, an’
+the nixt I knew was the sole av my boot flappin’ like a cavalry gydon
+an’ the funny-bone av my toes tinglin’. ’Twas a clane-cut shot--a
+slug--that niver touched sock or hide, but set me bare-fut on the
+rocks. At that I tuk Love-o’-Women by the scruff an’ threw him under a
+bowlder, an’ whin I sat down I heard the bullets patterin’ on that same
+good stone.
+
+‘“Ye may dhraw your own wicked fire,” I sez, shakin’ him, “but I’m not
+goin’ to be kilt too.”
+
+‘“Ye’ve come too soon,” he sez. “Ye’ve come too soon. In another minute
+they cudn’t ha’ missed me. Mother av’ God,” he sez, “fwhy did ye not
+lave me be? Now ’tis all to do again,” an’ he hides his face in his
+hands.
+
+‘“So that’s it,” I sez, shakin’ him again. “That’s the manin’ av your
+disobeyin’ ordhers.”
+
+‘“I dare not kill meself,” he sez, rockin’ to and fro. “My own hand wud
+not let me die, and there’s not a bullet this month past wud touch me.
+I’m to die slow,” he sez. “I’m to die slow. But I’m in hell now,” he
+sez, shriekin’ like a woman. “I’m in hell now!”
+
+‘“God be good to us all,” I sez, for I saw his face. “Will ye tell a
+man the throuble? If ’tis not murder, maybe we’ll mend it yet.”
+
+‘At that he laughed. “D’you remember fwhat I said in the Tyrone
+barricks about comin’ to you for ghostly consolation. I have not
+forgot,” he sez. “That came back, and the rest av my time is on me now,
+Terence. I’ve fought ut off for months an’ months, but the liquor will
+not bite any more. Terence,” he sez, “I can’t get dhrunk!”
+
+‘Thin I knew he spoke the truth about bein’ in hell, for whin liquor
+does not take hould the sowl av a man is rotten in him. But me bein’
+such as I was, fwhat could I say to him?
+
+‘“Di’monds an’ pearls,” he begins again. “Di’monds an’ pearls I have
+thrown away wid both hands--an’ fwhat have I left? Oh, fwhat have I
+left?”
+
+‘He was shakin’ an’ thremblin’ up against my shouldher, an’ the slugs
+were singin’ overhead, an’ I was wonderin’ whether my little bhoy wud
+have sinse enough to kape his men quiet through all this firin’.
+
+‘“So long as I did not think,” sez Love-o’-Women, “so long I did not
+see--I wud not see, but I can now, what I’ve lost. The time an’ the
+place,” he sez, “an’ the very words I said whin ut pleased me to go off
+alone to hell. But thin, even thin,” he sez, wrigglin’ tremenjous, “I
+wud not ha’ been happy. There was too much behind av me. How cud I ha’
+believed her sworn oath--me that have bruk mine again an’ again for the
+sport av seein’ thim cry? An’ there are the others,” he sez. “Oh, what
+will I do--what will I do?” He rocked back an’ forward again, an’ I
+think he was cryin’ like wan av the women he talked av.
+
+‘The full half of fwhat he said was Brigade Ordhers to me, but from the
+rest an’ the remnint I suspicioned somethin’ av his throuble. ’Twas the
+judgmint av God had grup the heel av him, as I tould him ’twould in the
+Tyrone barricks. The slugs was singin’ over our rock more an’ more, an’
+I sez for to divart him: “Let bad alone,” I sez. “They’ll be tryin’ to
+rush the camp in a minut’.”
+
+‘I had no more than said that whin a Paythan man crep’ up on his belly
+wid his knife betune his teeth, not twinty yards from us. Love-o’-Women
+jumped up an’ fetched a yell, an’ the man saw him an’ ran at him (he’d
+left his rifle under the rock) wid the knife. Love-o’-Women niver
+turned a hair, but by the Living Power, for I saw ut, a stone twisted
+under the Paythan man’s feet an’ he came down full sprawl, an’ his
+knife wint tinkling acrost the rocks! “I tould you I was Cain,” sez
+Love-o’-Women. “Fwhat’s the use av killin’ him? He’s an honust man--by
+compare.”
+
+‘I was not dishputin’ about the morils av Paythans that tide, so I
+dhropped Love-o’-Women’s butt acrost the man’s face, an’ “Hurry into
+camp,” I sez, “for this may be the first av a rush.”
+
+‘There was no rush after all, though we waited undher arms to give
+them a chanst. The Paythan man must ha’ come alone for the mischief,
+an’ afther a while Love-o’-Women wint back to his tint wid that quare
+lurchin’ sind-off in his walk that I cud niver understand. Begad, I
+pitied him, an’ the more bekase he made me think for the rest av the
+night av the day whin I was confirmed Corp’ril, not actin’ Lef’tinant,
+an’ my thoughts was not good to me.’
+
+‘Ye can ondersthand that afther that night we came to talkin’ a dale
+together, an’ bit by bit ut came out fwhat I’d suspicioned. The whole
+av his carr’in’s on an’ divilments had come back on him hard, as liquor
+comes back whin you’ve been on the dhrink for a wake. All he’d said an’
+all he’d done, an’ only he cud tell how much that was, come back, and
+there was niver a minut’s peace in his sowl. ’Twas the Horrors widout
+any cause to see, an’ yet, an’ yet--fwhat am I talkin’ av? He’d ha’
+taken the Horrors wid thankfulness. Beyon’ the repentince av the man,
+an’ that was beyon’ the nature av man--awful, awful, to behould!--there
+was more that was worst than any repentince. Av the scores an’ scores
+that he called over in his mind (an’ they were drivin’ him mad), there
+was, mark you, wan woman av all an’ she was not his wife, that cut him
+to the quick av his marrow. ’Twas there he said that he’d thrown away
+di’monds an’ pearls past count, an’ thin he’d begin again like a blind
+_byle_ in an oil-mill, walkin’ round and round, to considher (him that
+was beyond all touch av bein’ happy this side hell!) how happy he wud
+ha’ been wid _her_. The more he considhered, the more he’d consate
+himself that he’d lost mighty happiness, an’ thin he wud work ut all
+backwards, an’ cry that he niver cud ha’ been happy anyway.
+
+‘Time an’ time an’ again in camp, on p’rade, ay, an’ in action, I’ve
+seen that man shut his eyes an’ duck his head as ye wud duck to the
+flicker av a bay’nit. For ’twas thin, he tould me, that the thought
+av all he’d missed came an’ stud forninst him like red-hot irons. For
+what he’d done wid the others he was sorry, but he did not care; but
+this wan woman that I’ve tould of, by the Hilts av God, she made him
+pay for all the others twice over! Niver did I know that a man cud
+enjure such tormint widout his heart crackin’ in his ribs, an’ I have
+been’--Terence turned the pipe-stem slowly between his teeth--‘I have
+been in some black cells. All I iver suffered tho’ was not to be talked
+of alongside av _him_ ... an’ what could I do? Paternosters was no more
+than peas on plates for his sorrows.
+
+‘Evenshually we finished our prom’nade acrost the hills, and, thanks to
+me for the same, there was no casualties an’ no glory. The campaign was
+comin’ to an ind, an’ all the rig’mints was being drawn together for
+to be sint back home. Love-o’-Women was mighty sorry bekaze he had no
+work to do, an’ all his time to think in. I’ve heard that man talkin’
+to his belt-plate an’ his side-arms while he was soldierin’ thim, all
+to prevent himself from thinkin’, an’ ivry time he got up afther he had
+been settin’ down or wint on from the halt, he’d start wid that kick
+an’ traverse that I tould you of--his legs sprawlin’ all ways to wanst.
+He wud niver go see the docthor, tho’ I tould him to be wise. He’d
+curse me up an’ down for my advice; but I knew he was no more a man to
+be reckoned wid than the little bhoy was a commandin’ orf’cer, so I let
+his tongue run if it aised him.
+
+‘Wan day--’twas on the way back--I was walkin’ round camp wid him, an’
+he stopped an’ struck ground wid his right fut three or four times
+doubtful. “Fwhat is ut?” I sez. “Is that ground?” sez he; an’ while
+I was thinkin’ his mind was goin’, up comes the docthor, who’d been
+anatomisin’ a dead bullock. Love-o’-Women starts to go on quick, an’
+lands me a kick on the knee while his legs was gettin’ into marchin’
+ordher.
+
+‘“Hould on there,” sez the docthor; an’ Love-o’-Women’s face, that was
+lined like a gridiron, turns red as brick.
+
+‘“’Tention,” says the docthor; an’ Love-o’-Women stud so. “Now shut
+your eyes,” sez the docthor. “No, ye must not hould by your comrade.”
+
+‘“Tis all up,” sez Love-o’-Women, thrying to smile. “I’d fall, docthor,
+an’ you know ut.”
+
+“Fall?” I sez. “Fall at attention wid your eyes shut! Fwhat do you
+mane?”
+
+‘“The docthor knows,” he sez. “I’ve hild up as long as I can, but
+begad I’m glad ’tis all done. But I will die slow,” he sez, “I will die
+very slow.”
+
+‘I cud see by the docthor’s face that he was mortial sorry for the
+man, an’ he ordered him to hospital. We wint back together, an’ I was
+dumb-struck. Love-o’-Women was cripplin’ and crumblin’ at ivry step.
+He walked wid a hand on my shoulder all slued sideways, an’ his right
+leg swingin’ like a lame camel. Me not knowin’ more than the dead fwhat
+ailed him, ’twas just as though the docthor’s word had done ut all--as
+if Love-o’-Women had but been waitin’ for the word to let go.
+
+‘In hospital he sez somethin’ to the docthor that I could not catch.
+
+‘“Holy Shmoke!” sez the docthor, “an’ who are you, to be givin’ names
+to your diseases? ’Tis agin all the reg’lations.”
+
+‘“I’ll not be a privit much longer,” sez Love-o’-Women in his
+gentleman’s voice, an’ the docthor jumped.
+
+“Thrate me as a study, Doctor Lowndes,” he sez; an’ that was the first
+time I’d iver heard a docthor called his name.
+
+‘“Good-bye, Terence,” sez Love-o’-Women. “’Tis a dead man I am widout
+the pleasure av dyin’. You’ll come an’ set wid me sometimes for the
+peace av my sowl.”
+
+‘Now I had been minded for to ask Crook to take me back to the Ould
+Rig’mint; the fightin’ was over, an’ I was wore out wid the ways av the
+bhoys in the Tyrone; but I shifted my will, an’ hild on, and wint to
+set wid Love-o’-Women in the hospital. As I have said, sorr, the man
+bruk all to little pieces under my hand. How long he had hild up an’
+forced himself fit to march I cannot tell, but in hospital but two days
+later he was such as I hardly knew. I shuk hands wid him, an’ his grip
+was fair strong, but his hands wint all ways to wanst, an’ he cud not
+button his tunic.
+
+‘“I’ll take long an’ long to die yet,” he sez, “for the wages av sin
+they’re like interest in the rig’mintal savin’s-bank--sure, but a
+damned long time bein’ paid.”
+
+‘The docthor sez to me, quiet one day, “Has Tighe there anythin’ on his
+mind?” he sez. “He’s burnin’ himself out.”
+
+‘“How shud I know, sorr?” I sez, as innocint as putty.
+
+‘“They call him Love-o’-Women in the Tyrone, do they not?” he sez. “I
+was a fool to ask. Be wid him all you can. He’s houldin’ on to your
+strength.”
+
+‘“But fwhat ails him, docthor?” I sez.
+
+‘“They call ut Locomotus attacks us,” he sez, “bekaze,” sez he,
+“ut attacks us like a locomotive, if ye know fwhat that manes.
+An’ ut comes,” sez he, lookin’ at me, “ut comes from bein’ called
+Love-o’-Women.”
+
+‘“You’re jokin’, docthor,” I sez.
+
+‘“Jokin’!” sez he. “If iver you feel that you’ve got a felt sole in
+your boot instid av a Government bull’s-wool, come to me,” he sez, “an’
+I’ll show you whether ’tis a joke.”
+
+‘You would not belave ut, sorr, but that, an’ seein’ Love-o’-Women
+overtuk widout warnin’, put the cowld fear av Attacks us on me so
+strong that for a week an’ more I was kickin’ my toes against stones
+an’ stumps for the pleasure av feelin’ thim hurt.
+
+‘An’ Love-o’-Women lay in the cot (he might have gone down wid the
+wounded before an’ before, but he asked to stay wid me), and fwhat
+there was in his mind had full swing at him night an’ day an’ ivry hour
+av the day an’ the night, and he shrivelled like beef-rations in a hot
+sun, an’ his eyes was like owls’ eyes, an’ his hands was mut’nous.
+
+‘They was gettin’ the rig’mints away wan by wan, the campaign bein’
+inded, but as ushuil they was behavin’ as if niver a rig’mint had been
+moved before in the mem’ry av man. Now, fwhy is that, sorr? There’s
+fightin’, in an’ out, nine months av the twelve somewhere in the army.
+There has been--for years an’ years an’ years; an’ I wud ha’ thought
+they’d begin to get the hang av providin’ for throops. But no! Ivry
+time ’tis like a girls’ school meetin’ a big red bull whin they’re
+goin’ to church; an’ “Mother av God,” sez the Commissariat an’ the
+Railways an’ the Barrick-masters, “fwhat will we do now?” The ordhers
+came to us av the Tyrone an’ the Ould Rig’mint an’ half a dozen more
+to go down, an’ there the ordhers stopped dumb. We wint down, by the
+special grace av God--down the Khaiber anyways. There was sick wid us,
+an’ I’m thinkin’ that some av thim was jolted to death in the doolies,
+but they was anxious to be kilt so if they cud get to Peshawur alive
+the sooner. I walked by Love-o’-Women--there was no marchin’, an’
+Love-o’-Women was not in a stew to get on. “If I’d only ha’ died up
+there,” sez he through the dooli-curtains, an’ thin he’d twist up his
+eyes an’ duck his head for the thoughts that come an’ raked him.
+
+‘Dinah was in Depôt at Pindi, but I wint circumspectuous, for well I
+knew ’tis just at the rump-ind av all things that his luck turns on a
+man. By token I had seen a dhriver of a batthery goin’ by at a trot
+singin’ “Home, swate home” at the top av his shout, and takin’ no heed
+to his bridle-hand--I had seen that man dhrop under the gun in the
+middle of a word, and come out by the limber like--like a frog on a
+pavestone. No. I wud _not_ hurry, though, God knows, my heart was all
+in Pindi. Love-o’-Women saw fwhat was in my mind, an’ “Go on, Terence,”
+he sez, “I know fwhat’s waitin’ for you.” “I will not,” I sez. “’Twill
+kape a little yet.”
+
+‘Ye know the turn of the pass forninst Jumrood and the nine-mile road
+on the flat to Peshawur? All Peshawur was along that road day and
+night waitin’ for frinds--men, women, childer, and bands. Some av the
+throops was camped round Jumrood, an’ some wint on to Peshawur to get
+away down to their cantonmints. We came through in the early mornin’,
+havin’ been awake the night through, and we dhruv sheer into the middle
+av the mess. Mother av Glory, will I iver forget that comin’ back? The
+light was not fair lifted, and the first we heard was “For ’tis my
+delight av a shiny night,” frum a band that thought we was the second
+four comp’nies av the Lincolnshire. At that we was forced to sind them
+a yell to say who we was, an’ thin up wint “The wearin’ av the Green.”
+It made me crawl all up my backbone, not havin’ taken my brequist.
+Then right smash into our rear came fwhat was left av the Jock
+Elliott’s--wid four pipers an’ not half a kilt among thim, playing’ for
+the dear life, an’ swingin’ their rumps like buck-rabbits, an’ a native
+rig’mint shriekin’ blue murther. Ye niver heard the like! There was
+men cryin’ like women that did--an’ faith I do not blame them! Fwhat
+bruk me down was the Lancers’ Band--shinin’ an’ spick like angils, wid
+the ould dhrum-horse at the head an’ the silver kettle-dhrums an’ all
+an’ all, waitin’ for their men that was behind us. They shtruck up the
+Cavalry Canter; an’ begad those poor ghosts that had not a sound fut
+in a throop they answered to ut; the men rockin’ in their saddles.
+We thried to cheer them as they wint by, but ut came out like a big
+gruntin’ cough, so there must have been many that was feelin’ like
+me. Oh, but I’m forgettin’! The Fly-by-Nights was waitin’ for their
+second battalion, an’ whin ut came out, there was the Colonel’s horse
+led at the head--saddle-empty. The men fair worshipped him, an’ he’d
+died at Ali Musjid on the road down. They waited till the remnint av
+the battalion was up, and thin--clane against ordhers, for who wanted
+_that_ chune that day?--they wint back to Peshawur slow-time an’
+tearin’ the bowils out av ivry man that heard, wid “The Dead March.”
+Right acrost our line they wint, an’ ye know their uniforms are as
+black as the Sweeps, crawlin’ past like the dead, an’ the other bands
+damnin’ them to let be.
+
+‘Little they cared. The carpse was wid them, an’ they’d ha taken ut so
+through a Coronation. Our ordhers was to go into Peshawur, an’ we wint
+hot-fut past The Fly-by-Nights, not singin’, to lave that chune behind
+us. That was how we tuk the road of the other corps.
+
+‘’Twas ringin’ in my ears still whin I felt in the bones of me that
+Dinah was comin’, an’ I heard a shout, an’ thin I saw a horse an’ a
+tattoo latherin’ down the road, hell-to-shplit, under women. I knew--I
+knew! Wan was the Tyrone Colonel’s wife--ould Beeker’s lady--her gray
+hair flyin’ an’ her fat round carkiss rowlin’ in the saddle, an’ the
+other was Dinah, that shud ha’ been at Pindi. The Colonel’s lady she
+charged the head av our column like a stone wall, an’ she all but
+knocked Beeker off his horse, throwin’ her arms round his neck an’
+blubberin’, “Me bhoy! me bhoy!” an’ Dinah wheeled left an’ came down
+our flank, an’ I let a yell that had suffered inside av me for months
+and--Dinah came! Will I iver forget that while I live! She’d come on
+pass from Pindi, an’ the Colonel’s lady had lint her the tattoo. They’d
+been huggin’ an’ cryin’ in each other’s arms all the long night.
+
+‘So she walked along wid her hand in mine, asking forty questions to
+wanst, an’ beggin’ me on the Virgin to make oath that there was not a
+bullet consaled in me, unbeknownst somewhere, an’ thin I remembered
+Love-o’-Women. He was watchin’ us, an’ his face was like the face av
+a divil that has been cooked too long. I did not wish Dinah to see
+ut, for whin a woman’s runnin’ over with happiness she’s like to be
+touched, for harm afterwards, by the laste little thing in life. So I
+dhrew the curtain, an’ Love-o’-Women lay back and groaned.
+
+‘Whin we marched into Peshawur Dinah wint to barracks to wait for me,
+an’, me feelin’ so rich that tide, I wint on to take Love-o’-Women to
+hospital. It was the last I cud do, an’ to save him the dust an’ the
+smother I turned the dooli-men down a road well clear av the rest av
+the throops, an’ we wint along, me talkin’ through the curtains. Av a
+sudden I heard him say:
+
+‘“Let me look. For the mercy av Hiven, let me look.” I had been so tuk
+up wid gettin’ him out av the dust an’ thinkin’ av Dinah that I had not
+kept my eyes about me. There was a woman ridin’ a little behind av us;
+an’, talkin’ ut over wid Dinah afterwards, that same woman must ha’ rid
+out far on the Jumrood road. Dinah said that she had been hoverin’ like
+a kite on the left flank av the columns.
+
+‘I halted the dooli to set the curtains, an’ she rode by, walkin’ pace,
+an’ Love-o’-Women’s eyes wint afther her as if he wud fair haul her
+down from the saddle.
+
+‘“Follow there,” was all he sez, but I niver heard a man speak in that
+voice before or since; an’ I knew by those two wan words an’ the look
+in his face that she was Di’monds-an’-Pearls that he’d talked av in his
+disthresses.
+
+‘We followed till she turned into the gate av a little house that stud
+near the Edwardes’ Gate. There was two girls in the verandah, an’ they
+ran in whin they saw us. Faith, at long eye-range it did not take me
+a wink to see fwhat kind av house ut was. The throops bein’ there an’
+all, there was three or four such; but aftherwards the polis bade thim
+go. At the verandah Love-o’-Women sez, catchin’ his breath, “Stop
+here,” an’ thin, an’ thin, wid a grunt that must ha’ tore the heart up
+from his stomick, he swung himself out av the dooli, an’ my troth he
+stud up on his feet wid the sweat pourin’ down his face! If Mackie was
+to walk in here now I’d be less tuk back than I was thin. Where he’d
+dhrawn his power from, God knows--or the Divil--but ’twas a dead man
+walkin’ in the sun, wid the face av a dead man and the breath av a dead
+man, hild up by the Power, an’ the legs an’ the arms av the carpse
+obeyin’ ordhers.
+
+‘The woman stud in the verandah. She’d been a beauty too, though her
+eyes was sunk in her head, an’ she looked Love-o’-Women up an’ down
+terrible. “An’,” she sez, kicking back the tail av her habit,--“An’,”
+she sez, “fwhat are you doin’ _here_, married man?”
+
+‘Love-o’-Women said nothin’, but a little froth came to his lips, an’
+he wiped ut off wid his hand an’ looked at her an’ the paint on her,
+an’ looked, an’ looked, an’ looked.
+
+‘“An’ yet,” she sez, wid a laugh. (Did you hear Raines’ wife laugh whin
+Mackie died? Ye did not? Well for you.) “An’ yet,” she sez, “who but
+you have betther right,” sez she. “You taught me the road. You showed
+me the way,” she sez. “Ay, look,” she sez, “for ’tis your work; you
+that tould me--d’you remimber it?--that a woman who was false to wan
+man cud be false to two. I have been that,” she sez, “that an’ more,
+for you always said I was a quick learner, Ellis. Look well,” she
+sez, “for it is me that you called your wife in the sight av God long
+since.” An’ she laughed.
+
+‘Love-o’-Women stud still in the sun widout answerin’. Thin he groaned
+an coughed to wanst, an’ I thought ’twas the death-rattle, but he
+niver tuk his eyes off her face, not for a blink. Ye cud ha’ put her
+eyelashes through the flies av an E.P. tent, they were so long.
+
+‘“Fwhat do you do here?” she sez, word by word, “that have taken away
+my joy in my man this five years gone--that have broken my rest an’
+killed my body an’ damned my soul for the sake av seein’ how ’twas
+done. Did your expayrience aftherwards bring you acrost any woman that
+give you more than I did? Wud I not ha’ died for you, an’ wid you,
+Ellis? Ye know that, man! If iver your lyin’ sowl saw truth in uts life
+ye know that.”
+
+‘An’ Love-o’-Women lifted up his head and said, “I knew,” an’ that was
+all. While she was spakin’ the Power hild him up parade-set in the sun,
+an’ the sweat dhripped undher his helmet. ’Twas more an’ more throuble
+for him to talk, an’ his mouth was running twistways.
+
+‘“Fwhat do you do _here_?” she sez, an’ her voice wint up. ’Twas
+like bells tollin’ before. “Time was whin you were quick enough wid
+your words,--you that talked me down to hell. Are ye dumb now?” An’
+Love-o’-Women got his tongue, an’ sez simple, like a little child, “May
+I come in?” he sez.
+
+‘“The house is open day an’ night,” she sez, wid a laugh; an’
+Love-o’-Women ducked his head an’ hild up his hand as tho’ he was
+gyardin’. The Power was on him still--it hild him up still, for, by my
+sowl, as I’ll never save ut, he walked up the verandah steps that had
+been a livin’ carpse in hospital for a month!
+
+‘“An’ now?” she sez, lookin’ at him; an’ the red paint stud lone on the
+white av her face like a bull’s-eye on a target.
+
+‘He lifted up his eyes, slow an’ very slow, an’ he looked at her long
+an’ very long, an’ he tuk his spache betune his teeth wid a wrench that
+shuk him.
+
+‘“I’m dyin’, Aigypt--dyin’,” he sez. Ay, those were his words, for
+I remimber the name he called her. He was turnin’ the death-colour,
+but his eyes niver rowled. They were set--set on her. Widout word or
+warnin’ she opened her arms full stretch, an’ “Here!” she sez. (Oh,
+fwhat a golden mericle av a voice ut was!) “Die here!” she sez; an’
+Love-o’-Women dhropped forward, an’ she hild him up, for she was a fine
+big woman.
+
+‘I had no time to turn, bekaze that minut I heard the sowl quit
+him--tore out in the death-rattle--an’ she laid him back in a long
+chair, an’ she sez to me, “Misther soldier,” she sez, “will ye not wait
+an’ talk to wan av the girls? This sun’s too much for him.”
+
+‘Well I knew there was no sun he’d iver see, but I cud not spake,
+so I wint away wid the empty dooli to find the docthor. He’d been
+breakfastin’ an’ lunchin’ iver since we’d come in, an’ he was full as a
+tick.
+
+‘“Faith, ye’ve got dhrunk mighty soon,” he sez, whin I’d tould him,
+“to see that man walk. Barrin’ a puff or two av life, he was a carpse
+before we left Jumrood. I’ve a great mind,” he sez, “to confine you.”
+
+‘“There’s a dale av liquor runnin’ about, docthor,” I sez, solemn as
+a hard-boiled egg. “Maybe ’tis so; but will ye not come an’ see the
+carpse at the house?”
+
+‘“’Tis dishgraceful,” he sez, “that I would be expected to go to a
+place like that. Was she a pretty woman?” he sez, an’ at that he set
+off double-quick.
+
+‘I cud see that the two was in the verandah where I’d left them,
+an’ I knew by the hang av her head an’ the noise av the crows fwhat
+had happened. ’Twas the first and the last time that I’d iver
+known woman to use the pistol. They fear the shot as a rule, but
+Di’monds-an’-Pearls she did not--she did not.
+
+‘The docthor touched the long black hair av her head (’twas all
+loose upon Love-o’-Women’s tunic), an’ that cleared the liquor out
+av him. He stud considherin’ a long time, his hands in his pockets,
+an’ at last he sez to me, “Here’s a double death from naturil causes,
+most naturil causes; an’ in the present state av affairs the rig’mint
+will be thankful for wan grave the less to dig. _Issiwasti_,” he sez.
+“_Issiwasti_, Privit Mulvaney, these two will be buried together in the
+Civil Cemet’ry at my expinse; an’ may the good God,” he sez, “make it
+so much for me whin my time comes. Go you to your wife,” he sez. “Go
+an’ be happy. I’ll see to this all.”
+
+‘I left him still considherin’. They was buried in the Civil Cemet’ry
+together, wid a Church av England service. There was too many buryin’s
+thin to ask questions, an’ the docthor--he ran away wid Major--Major
+Van Dyce’s lady that year--he saw to ut all. Fwhat the right an’ the
+wrong av Love-o’-Women an’ Di’monds-an’-Pearls was I niver knew, an’ I
+will niver know; but I’ve tould ut as I came acrost ut--here an’ there
+in little pieces. _So_, being fwhat I am, an’ knowin’ fwhat I knew,
+that’s fwhy I say in this shootin’-case here, Mackie’s that dead an’ in
+hell is the lucky man. There are times, sorr, whin ’tis better for the
+man to die than to live, an’ by consequince forty million times betther
+for the woman.’
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+‘H’up there!’ said Ortheris. ‘It’s time to go.’
+
+The witnesses and guard formed up in the thick white dust of the
+parched twilight and swung off, marching easy and whistling. Down
+the road to the green by the church I could hear Ortheris, the black
+Book-lie still uncleansed on his lips, setting, with a fine sense of
+the fitness of things, the shrill quickstep that runs--
+
+    ‘Oh, do not despise the advice of the wise,
+       Learn wisdom from those that are older,
+     And don’t try for things that are out of your reach--
+       An’ that’s what the Girl told the Soldier!
+                  Soldier! soldier!
+       Oh, that’s what the Girl told the Soldier!’
+
+
+
+
+                   THE RECORD OF BADALIA HERODSFOOT.
+
+
+    The year’s at the spring
+    And day’s at the dawn;
+    Morning’s at seven;
+    The hill-side’s dew-pearled;
+    The lark’s on the wing;
+    The snail’s on the thorn:
+    God’s in his heaven--
+    All’s right with the world!--_Pippa Passes._
+
+
+This is not that Badalia whose spare names were Joanna, Pugnacious, and
+M‘Canna, as the song says, but another and a much nicer lady.
+
+In the beginning of things she had been unregenerate; had worn the
+heavy fluffy fringe which is the ornament of the costermonger’s girl,
+and there is a legend in Gunnison Street that on her wedding-day she,
+a flare-lamp in either hand, danced dances on a discarded lover’s
+winkle-barrow, till a policeman interfered, and then Badalia danced
+with the Law amid shoutings. Those were her days of fatness, and they
+did not last long, for her husband after two years took to himself
+another woman, and passed out of Badalia’s life, over Badalia’s
+senseless body; for he stifled protest with blows. While she was
+enjoying her widowhood the baby that the husband had not taken away
+died of croup, and Badalia was altogether alone. With rare fidelity
+she listened to no proposals for a second marriage according to the
+customs of Gunnison Street, which do not differ from those of the
+Barralong. ‘My man,’ she explained to her suitors, ‘’e’ll come back
+one o’ these days, an’ then, like as not, ’e’ll take an’ kill me if I
+was livin’ ’long o’ you. You don’t know Tom; I do. Now you go. I can do
+for myself--not ’avin’ a kid.’ She did for herself with a mangle, some
+tending of babies, and an occasional sale of flowers. This latter trade
+is one that needs capital, and takes the vendor very far westward,
+insomuch that the return journey from, let us say, the Burlington
+Arcade to Gunnison Street, E., is an excuse for drink, and then, as
+Badalia pointed out, ‘You come ’ome with your shawl arf off of your
+back, ’an your bonnick under your arm, and the price of nothing-at-all
+in your pocket, let alone a slop takin’ care o’ you.’ Badalia did
+not drink, but she knew her sisterhood, and gave them rude counsel.
+Otherwise she kept herself to herself, and meditated a great deal upon
+Tom Herodsfoot, her husband, who would come back some day, and the baby
+who would never return. In what manner these thoughts wrought upon her
+mind will not be known.
+
+Her entry into society dates from the night when she rose literally
+under the feet of the Reverend Eustace Hanna, on the landing of No. 17
+Gunnison Street, and told him that he was a fool without discernment in
+the dispensation of his district charities.
+
+‘You give Lascar Loo custids,’ said she, without the formality of
+introduction; ‘give her pork-wine. Garn! Give ’er blankits. Garn ’ome!
+’Er mother, she eats ’em all, and drinks the blankits. Gits ’em back
+from the shop, she does, before you come visiting again, so as to
+’ave ’em all handy an’ proper; an’ Lascar Loo she sez to you, “Oh, my
+mother’s that good to me!” she do. Lascar Loo ’ad better talk so, bein’
+sick abed, ’r else ’er mother would kill ’er. Garn! you’re a bloomin’
+gardener--you an’ yer custids! Lascar Loo don’t never smell of ’em
+even.’
+
+Thereon the curate, instead of being offended, recognised in the
+heavy eyes under the fringe the soul of a fellow-worker, and so bade
+Badalia mount guard over Lascar Loo, when the next jelly or custard
+should arrive, to see that the invalid actually ate it. This Badalia
+did, to the disgust of Lascar Loo’s mother, and the sharing of a black
+eye between the three; but Lascar Loo got her custard, and coughing
+heartily, rather enjoyed the fray.
+
+Later on, partly through the Reverend Eustace Hanna’s swift recognition
+of her uses, and partly through certain tales poured out with moist
+eyes and flushed cheeks by Sister Eva, youngest and most impressionable
+of the Little Sisters of the Red Diamond, it came to pass that Badalia,
+arrogant, fluffy-fringed, and perfectly unlicensed in speech, won a
+recognised place among such as labour in Gunnison Street.
+
+These were a mixed corps, zealous or hysterical, faint-hearted or only
+very wearied of battle against misery, according to their lights. The
+most part were consumed with small rivalries and personal jealousies,
+to be retailed confidentially to their own tiny cliques in the pauses
+between wrestling with death for the body of a moribund laundress,
+or scheming for further mission-grants to resole a consumptive
+compositor’s very consumptive boots. There was a rector that lived
+in dread of pauperising the poor, would fain have held bazaars for
+fresh altar-cloths, and prayed in secret for a large new brass bird,
+with eyes of red glass, fondly believed to be carbuncles. There was
+Brother Victor, of the Order of Little Ease, who knew a great deal
+about altar-cloths but kept his knowledge in the background while he
+strove to propitiate Mrs. Jessel, the Secretary of the Tea Cup Board,
+who had money to dispense but hated Rome--even though Rome would, on
+its honour, do no more than fill the stomach, leaving the dazed soul to
+the mercies of Mrs. Jessel. There were all the Little Sisters of the
+Red Diamond, daughters of the horseleech, crying ‘Give’ when their own
+charity was exhausted, and pitifully explaining to such as demanded
+an account of their disbursements in return for one half-sovereign,
+that relief-work in a bad district can hardly be systematised on the
+accounts’ side without expensive duplication of staff. There was the
+Reverend Eustace Hanna, who worked impartially with Ladies’ Committees,
+Androgynous Leagues and Guilds, Brother Victor, and anybody else who
+could give him money, boots, or blankets, or that more precious help
+that allows itself to be directed by those who know. And all these
+people learned, one by one, to consult Badalia on matters of personal
+character, right to relief, and hope of eventual reformation in
+Gunnison Street. Her answers were seldom cheering, but she possessed
+special knowledge and complete confidence in herself.
+
+‘I’m Gunnison Street,’ she said to the austere Mrs. Jessel. ‘I know
+what’s what, _I_ do, an’ they don’t want your religion, Mum, not a
+single ----. Excuse me. It’s all right when they comes to die, Mum, but
+till they die what they wants is things to eat. The men they’ll shif’
+for themselves. That’s why Nick Lapworth sez to you that ’e wants to be
+confirmed an’ all that. ’E won’t never lead no new life, nor ’is wife
+won’t get no good out o’ all the money you gives ’im. No more you can’t
+pauperise them as ’asn’t things to begin with. They’re bloomin’ well
+pauped. The women they can’t shif’ for themselves--’specially bein’
+always confined. ’Ow should they? They wants things if they can get ’em
+anyways. If not they dies, and a good job too, for women is cruel put
+upon in Gunnison Street.’
+
+‘Do you believe that--that Mrs. Herodsfoot is altogether a proper
+person to trust funds to?’ said Mrs. Jessel to the curate after this
+conversation. ‘She seems to be utterly godless in her speech at least.’
+
+The curate agreed. She was godless according to Mrs. Jessel’s views,
+but did not Mrs. Jessel think that since Badalia knew Gunnison Street
+and its needs, as none other knew it, she might in a humble way be, as
+it were, the scullion of charity from purer sources, and that if, say,
+the Tea Cup Board could give a few shillings a week, and the Little
+Sisters of the Red Diamond a few more, and, yes, he himself could
+raise yet a few more, the total, not at all likely to be excessive,
+might be handed over to Badalia to dispense among her associates.
+Thus Mrs. Jessel herself would be set free to attend more directly
+to the spiritual wants of certain large-limbed hulking men who sat
+picturesquely on the lower benches of her gatherings and sought for
+truth--which is quite as precious as silver, when you know the market
+for it.
+
+‘She’ll favour her own friends,’ said Mrs. Jessel. The curate refrained
+from mirth, and, after wise flattery, carried his point. To her
+unbounded pride Badalia was appointed the dispenser of a grant--a
+weekly trust, to be held for the benefit of Gunnison Street.
+
+‘I don’t know what we can get together each week,’ said the curate to
+her. ‘But here are seventeen shillings to start with. You do what you
+like with them among your people, only let me know how it goes so that
+we shan’t get muddled in the accounts. D’you see?’
+
+‘Ho yuss! ’Taint much though, is it?’ said Badalia, regarding the
+white coins in her palm. The sacred fever of the administrator, only
+known to those who have tasted power, burned in her veins. ‘Boots is
+boots, unless they’re give you, an’ then they ain’t fit to wear unless
+they’re mended top an’ bottom; an’ jellies is jellies; an’ I don’t
+think anything o’ that cheap pork-wine, but it all comes to something.
+It’ll go quicker ’n a quartern of gin--seventeen bob. An’ I’ll keep a
+book--same as I used to do before Tom went an’ took up ’long o’ that
+pan-faced slut in Hennessy’s Rents. We was the only barrer that kep’
+regular books, me an’--’im.’
+
+She bought a large copy-book--her unschooled handwriting demanded
+room--and in it she wrote the story of her war; boldly, as befits a
+general, and for no other eyes than her own and those of the Reverend
+Eustace Hanna. Long ere the pages were full the mottled cover had been
+soaked in kerosene--Lascar Loo’s mother, defrauded of her percentage
+on her daughter’s custards, invaded Badalia’s room in 17 Gunnison
+Street, and fought with her to the damage of the lamp and her own hair.
+It was hard, too, to carry the precious ‘pork-wine’ in one hand and the
+book in the other through an eternally thirsty land; so red stains were
+added to those of the oil. But the Reverend Eustace Hanna, looking at
+the matter of the book, never objected. The generous scrawls told their
+own tale, Badalia every Saturday night supplying the chorus between the
+written statements thus:--
+
+_Mrs. Hikkey, very ill brandy 3d. Cab for hospital, she had to go, 1s.
+Mrs. Poone confined. In money for tea (she took it I know, sir) 6d. Met
+her husband out looking for work._
+
+‘I slapped ’is face for a bone-idle beggar! ’E won’t get no work becos
+’e’s--excuse me, sir. Won’t you go on?’ The curate continued--
+
+_Mrs. Vincent. Confid. No linning for baby. Most untidy. In money 2s.
+6d. Some cloths from Miss Evva._
+
+‘Did Sister Eva do that?’ said the curate very softly. Now charity was
+Sister Eva’s bounden duty, yet to one man’s eyes each act of her daily
+toil was a manifestation of angelic grace and goodness--a thing to
+perpetually admire.
+
+‘Yes, sir. She went back to the Sisters’ ’Ome an’ took ’em off ’er own
+bed. Most beautiful marked too. Go on, sir. That makes up four and
+thruppence.’
+
+_Mrs. Junnet to keep good fire coals is up. 7d._
+
+_Mrs. Lockhart took a baby to nurse to earn a triffle but mother can’d
+pay husband summons over and over. He won’t help. Cash 2s. 2d. Worked
+in a ketchin but had to leave. Fire, tea, and shin of beef 1s. 7½d._
+
+‘There was a fight there, sir,’ said Badalia, ‘Not me, sir. ’Er
+’usband, o’ course ’e come in at the wrong time, was wishful to ’ave
+the beef, so I calls up the next floor an’ down comes that mulatter man
+wot sells the sword-stick canes, top o’ Ludgate-’ill. “Muley,” sez I,
+“you big black beast, you, take an’ kill this big white beast ’ere.”
+I knew I couldn’t stop Tom Lockart ’alf drunk, with the beef in ’is
+’ands. “I’ll beef ’m,” sez Muley, an’ ’e did it, with that pore woman
+a-cryin’ in the next room, an’ the top banisters on that landin’ is
+broke out, but she got ’er beef-tea, an’ Tom ’e’s got ’is gruel. Will
+you go on, sir?’
+
+‘No, I think it will be all right. I’ll sign for the week,’ said
+the curate. One gets so used to these things profanely called human
+documents.
+
+‘Mrs. Churner’s baby’s got diptheery,’ said Badalia, turning to go.
+
+‘Where’s that? The Churners of Painter’s Alley, or the other Churners
+in Houghton Street?’
+
+‘Houghton Street. The Painter’s Alley people, they’re sold out an’
+left.’
+
+‘Sister Eva’s sitting one night a week with old Mrs. Probyn in Houghton
+Street--isn’t she?’ said the curate uneasily.
+
+‘Yes; but she won’t sit no longer. _I’ve_ took up Mrs. Probyn. I can’t
+talk ’er no religion, but she don’t want it; an’ Miss Eva she don’t
+want no diptheery, tho’ she sez she does. Don’t _you_ be afraid for
+Miss Eva.’
+
+‘But--but you’ll get it, perhaps.’
+
+‘Like as not.’ She looked the curate between the eyes, and her own eyes
+flamed under the fringe. ‘Maybe I’d like to get it, for aught you know.’
+
+The curate thought upon these words for a little time till he began to
+think of Sister Eva in the gray cloak with the white bonnet ribbons
+under the chin. Then he thought no more of Badalia.
+
+What Badalia thought was never expressed in words, but it is known in
+Gunnison Street that Lascar Loo’s mother, sitting blind drunk on her
+own doorstep, was that night captured and wrapped up in the war-cloud
+of Badalia’s wrath, so that she did not know whether she stood on her
+head or her heels, and after being soundly bumped on every particular
+stair up to her room, was set down on Badalia’s bed, there to whimper
+and quiver till the dawn, protesting that all the world was against
+her, and calling on the names of children long since slain by dirt and
+neglect. Badalia, snorting, went out to war, and since the hosts of the
+enemy were many, found enough work to keep her busy till the dawn.
+
+As she had promised, she took Mrs. Probyn into her own care, and began
+by nearly startling the old lady into a fit with the announcement that
+‘there ain’t no God like as not, an’ if there _is_ it don’t matter to
+you or me, an’ any’ow you take this jelly.’ Sister Eva objected to
+being shut off from her pious work in Houghton Street, but Badalia
+insisted, and by fair words and the promise of favours to come so
+prevailed on three or four of the more sober men of the neighbourhood
+that they blockaded the door whenever Sister Eva attempted to force an
+entry, and pleaded the diphtheria as an excuse. ‘I’ve got to keep ’er
+out o’ ’arm’s way,’ said Badalia, ‘an’ out she keeps. The curick won’t
+care a ---- for me, but--he wouldn’t any’ow.’
+
+The effect of that quarantine was to shift the sphere of Sister Eva’s
+activity to other streets, and notably those most haunted by the
+Reverend Eustace Hanna and Brother Victor, of the Order of Little Ease.
+There exists, for all their human bickerings, a very close brotherhood
+in the ranks of those whose work lies in Gunnison Street. To begin
+with, they have seen pain--pain that no word or deed of theirs can
+alleviate--life born into Death, and Death crowded down by unhappy
+life. Also they understand the full significance of drink, which is a
+knowledge hidden from very many well-meaning people, and some of them
+have fought with the beasts at Ephesus. They meet at unseemly hours
+in unseemly places, exchange a word or two of hasty counsel, advice,
+or suggestion, and pass on to their appointed toil, since time is
+precious and lives hang in the balance of five minutes. For many, the
+gas-lamps are their sun, and the Covent Garden wains the chariots of
+the twilight. They have all in their station begged for money, so that
+the freemasonry of the mendicant binds them together.
+
+To all these influences there was added in the case of two workers
+that thing which men have agreed to call Love. The chance that Sister
+Eva might catch diphtheria did not enter into the curate’s head till
+Badalia had spoken. Then it seemed a thing intolerable and monstrous
+that she should be exposed not only to this risk, but any accident
+whatever of the streets. A wain coming round a corner might kill
+her; the rotten staircases on which she trod daily and nightly might
+collapse and maim her; there was danger in the tottering coping-stones
+of certain crazy houses that he knew well; danger more deadly within
+those houses. What if one of a thousand drunken men crushed out that
+precious life? A woman had once flung a chair at the curate’s head.
+Sister Eva’s arm would not be strong enough to ward off a chair. There
+were also knives that were quick to fly. These and other considerations
+cast the soul of the Reverend Eustace Hanna into torment that no
+leaning upon Providence could relieve. God was indubitably great and
+terrible--one had only to walk through Gunnison Street to see that
+much--but it would be better, vastly better, that Eva should have the
+protection of his own arm. And the world that was not too busy to watch
+might have seen a woman, not too young, light-haired and light-eyed,
+slightly assertive in her speech, and very limited in such ideas as lay
+beyond the immediate sphere of her duty, where the eyes of the Reverend
+Eustace Hanna turned to follow the footsteps of a Queen crowned in a
+little gray bonnet with white ribbons under the chin.
+
+If that bonnet appeared for a moment at the bottom of a courtyard,
+or nodded at him on a dark staircase, then there was hope yet for
+Lascar Loo, living on one lung and the memory of past excesses, hope
+even for whining sodden Nick Lapworth, blaspheming, in the hope of
+money, over the pangs of a ‘true conversion this time, s’elp me Gawd,
+sir.’ If that bonnet did not appear for a day, the mind of the curate
+was filled with lively pictures of horror, visions of stretchers,
+a crowd at some villainous crossing, and a policeman--he could see
+that policeman--jerking out over his shoulder the details of the
+accident, and ordering the man who would have set his body against the
+wheels--heavy dray wheels, he could see them--to ‘move on.’ Then there
+was less hope for the salvation of Gunnison Street and all in it.
+
+This agony Brother Victor beheld one day when he was coming from
+a death-bed. He saw the light in the eye, the relaxing muscles of
+the mouth, and heard a new ring in the voice that had told flat all
+the forenoon. Sister Eva had turned into Gunnison Street after a
+forty-eight hours’ eternity of absence. She had not been run over.
+Brother Victor’s heart must have suffered in some human fashion, or
+he would never have seen what he saw. But the Law of his Church made
+suffering easy. His duty was to go on with his work until he died,
+even as Badalia went on. She, magnifying her office, faced the drunken
+husband; coaxed the doubly shiftless, thriftless girl-wife into a
+little forethought, and begged clothes when and where she could for the
+scrofulous babes that multiplied like the green scum on the untopped
+water-cisterns.
+
+The story of her deeds was written in the book that the curate signed
+weekly, but she never told him any more of fights and tumults in the
+street. ‘Mis’ Eva does ’er work ’er way. I does mine mine. But I do
+more than Mis’ Eva ten times over, an’ “Thank yer, Badalia,” sez ’e,
+“that’ll do for this week.” I wonder what Tom’s doin’ now long o’
+that--other woman. ’Seems like as if I’d go an’ look at ’im one o’
+these days. But I’d cut ’er liver out--couldn’t ’elp myself. Better not
+go, p’raps.’
+
+Hennessy’s Rents lay more than two miles from Gunnison Street, and were
+inhabited by much the same class of people. Tom had established himself
+there with Jenny Wabstow, his new woman, and for weeks lived in great
+fear of Badalia’s suddenly descending upon him. The prospect of actual
+fighting did not scare him: but he objected to the police-court that
+would follow, and the orders for maintenance and other devices of a
+law that cannot understand the simple rule that ‘when a man’s tired
+of a woman ’e ain’t such a bloomin’ fool as to live with ’er no more,
+an’ that’s the long an’ short of it.’ For some months his new wife
+wore very well, and kept Tom in a state of decent fear and consequent
+orderliness. Also work was plentiful. Then a baby was born, and,
+following the law of his kind, Tom, little interested in the children
+he helped to produce, sought distraction in drink. He had confined
+himself, as a rule, to beer, which is stupefying and comparatively
+innocuous: at least, it clogs the legs, and though the heart may
+ardently desire to kill, sleep comes swiftly, and the crime often
+remains undone. Spirits, being more volatile, allow both the flesh and
+the soul to work together--generally to the inconvenience of others.
+Tom discovered that there was merit in whisky--if you only took enough
+of it--cold. He took as much as he could purchase or get given him, and
+by the time that his woman was fit to go abroad again, the two rooms of
+their household were stripped of many valuable articles. Then the woman
+spoke her mind, not once, but several times, with point, fluency, and
+metaphor; and Tom was indignant at being deprived of peace at the end
+of his day’s work, which included much whisky. He therefore withdrew
+himself from the solace and companionship of Jenny Wabstow, and she
+therefore pursued him with more metaphors. At the last, Tom would turn
+round and hit her--sometimes across the head, and sometimes across the
+breast, and the bruises furnished material for discussion on doorsteps
+among such women as had been treated in like manner by their husbands.
+They were not few.
+
+But no very public scandal had occurred till Tom one day saw fit to
+open negotiations with a young woman for matrimony according to the
+laws of free selection. He was getting very tired of Jenny, and the
+young woman was earning enough from flower-selling to keep him in
+comfort, whereas Jenny was expecting another baby and most unreasonably
+expected consideration on this account. The shapelessness of her figure
+revolted him, and he said as much in the language of his breed. Jenny
+cried till Mrs. Hart, lineal descendant, and Irish of the ‘mother
+to Mike of the donkey-cart,’ stopped her on her own staircase and
+whispered: ‘God be good to you, Jenny, my woman, for I see how ’tis
+with you.’ Jenny wept more than ever, and gave Mrs. Hart a penny and
+some kisses, while Tom was conducting his own wooing at the corner of
+the street.
+
+The young woman, prompted by pride, not by virtue, told Jenny of his
+offers, and Jenny spoke to Tom that night. The altercation began in
+their own rooms, but Tom tried to escape; and in the end all Hennessy’s
+Rents gathered themselves upon the pavement and formed a court to which
+Jenny appealed from time to time, her hair loose on her neck, her
+raiment in extreme disorder, and her steps astray from drink. ‘When
+your man drinks, you’d better drink too! It don’t ’urt so much when ’e
+’its you then,’ says the Wisdom of the Women. And surely they ought to
+know.
+
+‘Look at ’im!’ shrieked Jenny. ‘Look at ’im, standin’ there without any
+word to say for himself, that ’ud smitch off and leave me an’ never
+so much as a shillin’ lef’ be’ind! You call yourself a man--you call
+yourself the bleedin’ shadow of a man? I’ve seen better men than you
+made outer chewed paper and spat out arterwards. Look at ’im! ’E’s been
+drunk since Thursday last, an’ ’e’ll be drunk s’ long’s ’e can get
+drink. ’E’s took all I’ve got, an’ me--an’ me--as you see----’
+
+A murmur of sympathy from the women.
+
+‘Took it all, he did, an’ atop of his blasted pickin’ an’
+stealin’--yes, you, you thief--’e goes off an’ tries to take up long
+o’ that’--here followed a complete and minute description of the young
+woman. Luckily, she was not on the spot to hear. ‘’E’ll serve ’er as ’e
+served me! ’E’ll drink every bloomin’ copper she makes an’ then leave
+’er alone, same as ’e done me! O women, look you, I’ve bore ’im one an’
+there’s another on the way, an’ ’e’d up an’ leave me as I am now--the
+stinkin’ dorg. An’ you _may_ leave me. I don’t want none o’ your
+leavin’s. Go away. Get away!’ The hoarseness of passion overpowered the
+voice. The crowd attracted a policeman as Tom began to slink away.
+
+‘Look at ’im,’ said Jenny, grateful for the new listener. ‘Ain’t there
+no law for such as ’im? ’E’s took all my money, ’e’s beat me once,
+twice an’ over. ’E’s swine drunk when ’e ain’t mad drunk, an’ now, an’
+now ’e’s trying to pick up along o’ another woman. ’Im I give up a four
+times better man for. Ain’t there no law?’
+
+‘What’s the matter now? You go into your ’ouse. I’ll see to the man.
+’As ’e been ’itting you?’ said the policeman.
+
+‘’Ittin’ me? ’E’s cut my ’eart in two, an’ ’e stands there grinnin’ as
+tho’ ’twas all a play to ’im.’
+
+‘You go on into your ’ouse an’ lie down a bit.’
+
+‘I’m a married woman, I tell you, an’ I’ll ’ave my ’usband!’
+
+‘I ain’t done her no bloomin’ ’arm,’ said Tom from the edge of the
+crowd. He felt that public opinion was running against him.
+
+‘You ain’t done me any bloomin’ good, you dorg. I’m a married woman, I
+am, an’ I won’t ’ave my ’usband took from me.’
+
+‘Well, if you _are_ a married woman, cover your breasts,’ said the
+policeman soothingly. He was used to domestic brawls.
+
+‘Shan’t--thank you for your impidence. Look ’ere!’ She tore open her
+dishevelled bodice and showed such crescent-shaped bruises as are made
+by a well-applied chair-back. ‘That’s what ’e done to me acause my
+heart wouldn’t break quick enough! ’E’s tried to get in an’ break it.
+Look at that, Tom, that you gave me last night; an’ I made it up with
+you. But that was before I knew what you were tryin’ to do long o’ that
+woman----’
+
+‘D’you charge ’im?’ said the policeman. ‘’E’ll get a month for it,
+per’aps.’
+
+‘No’ said Jenny firmly. It was one thing to expose her man to the scorn
+of the street, and another to lead him to jail.
+
+‘Then you go in an’ lie down, and you’--this to the crowd--‘pass along
+the pavement, there. Pass along. ’Taint nothing to laugh at.’ To Tom,
+who was being sympathised with by his friends, ‘It’s good for you she
+didn’t charge you, but mind this now, the next time,’ etc.
+
+Tom did not at all appreciate Jenny’s forbearance, nor did his friends
+help to compose his mind. He had whacked the woman because she was a
+nuisance. For precisely the same reason he had cast about for a new
+mate. And all his kind acts had ended in a truly painful scene in
+the street, a most unjustifiable exposure by and of his woman, and a
+certain loss of caste--this he realised dimly--among his associates.
+Consequently, all women were nuisances, and consequently whisky was a
+good thing. His friends condoled with him. Perhaps he had been more
+hard on his woman than she deserved, but her disgraceful conduct under
+provocation excused all offence.
+
+‘I wouldn’t ’ave no more to do with ’er--a woman like that there,’ said
+one comforter.
+
+‘Let ’er go an’ dig for her bloomin’ self. A man wears ’isself out
+to ’is bones shovin’ meat down their mouths, while they sit at ’ome
+easy all day; an’ the very fust time, mark you, you ’as a bit of a
+difference, an’ very proper too for a man as _is_ a man, she ups an’
+’as you out into the street, callin’ you Gawd knows what all. What’s
+the good o’ that, I arx you?’ So spoke the second comforter.
+
+The whisky was the third, and his suggestion struck Tom as the best
+of all. He would return to Badalia his wife. Probably she would have
+been doing something wrong while he had been away, and he could then
+vindicate his authority as a husband. Certainly she would have money.
+Single women always seemed to possess the pence that God and the
+Government denied to hard-working men. He refreshed himself with more
+whisky. It was beyond any doubt that Badalia would have done something
+wrong. She might even have married another man. He would wait till the
+new husband was out of the way, and, after kicking Badalia, would get
+money and a long absent sense of satisfaction. There is much virtue in
+a creed or a law, but when all is prayed and suffered, drink is the
+only thing that will make clean all a man’s deeds in his own eyes. Pity
+it is that the effects are not permanent.
+
+Tom parted with his friends, bidding them tell Jenny that he was going
+to Gunnison Street, and would return to her arms no more. Because
+this was the devil’s message, they remembered and severally delivered
+it, with drunken distinctness, in Jenny’s ears. Then Tom took more
+drink till his drunkenness rolled back and stood off from him as a
+wave rolls back and stands off the wreck it will swamp. He reached
+the traffic-polished black asphalte of a side-street and trod warily
+among the reflections of the shop-lamps that burned in gulfs of pitchy
+darkness, fathoms beneath his boot-heels. He was very sober indeed.
+Looking down his past, he beheld that he was justified of all his
+actions so entirely and perfectly that if Badalia had in his absence
+dared to lead a blameless life he would smash her for not having gone
+wrong.
+
+Badalia at that moment was in her own room after the regular nightly
+skirmish with Lascar Loo’s mother. To a reproof as stinging as a
+Gunnison Street tongue could make it, the old woman, detected for the
+hundredth time in the theft of the poor delicacies meant for the
+invalid, could only cackle and answer--
+
+‘D’you think Loo’s never bilked a man in ’er life? She’s dyin’
+now--on’y she’s so cunning long about it. Me! I’ll live for twenty
+years yet.’
+
+Badalia shook her, more on principle than in any hope of curing her,
+and thrust her into the night, where she collapsed on the pavement and
+called upon the devil to slay Badalia.
+
+He came upon the word in the shape of a man with a very pale face who
+asked for her by name. Lascar Loo’s mother remembered. It was Badalia’s
+husband--and the return of a husband to Gunnison Street was generally
+followed by beatings.
+
+‘Where’s my wife?’ said Tom. ‘Where’s my slut of a wife?’
+
+‘Upstairs an’ be ---- to her,’ said the old woman, falling over on her
+side. ‘’Ave you come back for ’er, Tom?’
+
+‘Yes. ’Oo’s she took up while I bin gone?’
+
+‘All the bloomin’ curicks in the parish. She’s that set up you wouldn’t
+know ’er.’
+
+‘’Strewth she is!’
+
+‘Oh, yuss. Mor’n that, she’s always round an’ about with them
+sniffin’ Sisters of Charity an’ the curick. Mor’n that, ’e gives ’er
+money--pounds an’ pounds a week. Been keepin’ her that way for months,
+’e ’as. No wonder you wouldn’t ’ave nothin’ to do with ’er when you
+left. An’ she keeps me outer the food-stuff they gets for me lyin’
+dyin’ out ’ere like a dorg. She’s been a blazin’ bad un has Badalia
+since you lef’.’
+
+‘Got the same room still, ’as she?’ said Tom, striding over Lascar
+Loo’s mother, who was picking at the chinks between the pave-stones.
+
+‘Yes, but so fine you wouldn’t know it.’
+
+Tom went up the stairs and the old lady chuckled. Tom was angry.
+Badalia would not be able to bump people for some time to come, or to
+interfere with the heaven-appointed distribution of custards.
+
+Badalia, undressing to go to bed, heard feet on the stair that she knew
+well. Ere they stopped to kick at her door she had, in her own fashion,
+thought over very many things.
+
+‘Tom’s back,’ she said to herself. ‘An’ I’m glad ... spite o’ the
+curick an’ everythink.’
+
+She opened the door, crying his name.
+
+The man pushed her aside.
+
+‘I don’t want none o’ your kissin’s an’ slaverin’s. I’m sick of ’em,’
+said he.
+
+‘You ain’t ’ad so many neither to make you sick these two years past.’
+
+‘I’ve ’ad better. Got any money?’
+
+‘On’y a little--orful little.’
+
+‘That’s a ---- lie, an’ you know it.’
+
+‘’Taint--and, oh Tom, what’s the use o’ talkin’ money the minute you
+come back? Didn’t you like Jenny? I knowed you wouldn’t.’
+
+‘Shut your ’ead. Ain’t you got enough to make a man drunk fair?’
+
+‘You don’t want bein’ made more drunk any. You’re drunk a’ready. You
+come to bed, Tom.’
+
+‘To you?’
+
+‘Ay, to me. Ain’t I nothin’--spite o’ Jenny?’
+
+She put out her arms as she spoke. But the drink held Tom fast.
+
+‘Not for me,’ said he, steadying himself against the wall. ‘Don’t I
+know ’ow you’ve been goin’ on while I was away, yah!’
+
+‘Arsk about!’ said Badalia indignantly, drawing herself together. ‘’Oo
+sez anythink agin me ’ere?’
+
+‘’Oo sez? W’y, everybody. I ain’t come back more’n a minute fore I
+finds you’ve been with the curick Gawd knows where. Wot curick was ’e?’
+
+‘The curick that’s ’ere always,’ said Badalia hastily. She was thinking
+of anything rather than the Rev. Eustace Hanna at that moment. Tom
+sat down gravely in the only chair in the room. Badalia continued her
+arrangements for going to bed.
+
+‘Pretty thing that,’ said Tom, ‘to tell your own lawful married
+’usband--an’ I guv five bob for the weddin’-ring. Curick that’s ’ere
+always! Cool as brass you are. Ain’t you got no shame? Ain’t ’e under
+the bed now?’
+
+‘Tom, you’re bleedin’ drunk. I ain’t done nothin’ to be ’shamed of.’
+
+‘You! You don’t know wot shame is. But I ain’t come ’ere to mess with
+you. Give me wot you’ve got, an’ then I’ll dress you down an’ go to
+Jenny.’
+
+‘I ain’t got nothin’ ’cept some coppers an’ a shillin’ or so.’
+
+‘Wot’s that about the curick keepin’ you on five poun’ a week?’
+
+‘’Oo told you that?’
+
+‘Lascar Loo’s mother, lyin’ on the pavemint outside, an’ more honest
+than you’ll ever be. Give me wot you’ve got!’
+
+Badalia passed over to a little shell pin-cushion on the mantelpiece,
+drew thence four shillings and threepence--the lawful earnings of her
+trade--and held them out to the man who was rocking in his chair and
+surveying the room with wide-opened rolling eyes.
+
+‘That ain’t five poun’,’ said he drowsily.
+
+‘I ain’t got no more. Take it an’ go--if you won’t stay.’
+
+Tom rose slowly, gripping the arms of the chair. ‘Wot about the
+curick’s money that ’e guv you?’ said he. ‘Lascar Loo’s mother told me.
+You give it over to me now, or I’ll make you.’
+
+‘Lascar Loo’s mother don’t know anything about it.’
+
+‘She do, an’ more than you want her to know.’
+
+‘She don’t. I’ve bumped the ’eart out of ’er, and I can’t give you
+the money. Anythin’ else but that, Tom, an’ everythin’ else but that,
+Tom, I’ll give willin’ and true. ’Taint my money. Won’t the dollar be
+enough? That money’s my trust. There’s a book along of it too.’
+
+‘Your trust? Wot are you doin’ with any trust that your ’usband don’t
+know of? You an’ your trust! Take you that!’
+
+Tom stepped towards her and delivered a blow of the clenched fist
+across the mouth. ‘Give me wot you’ve got,’ said he, in the thick
+abstracted voice of one talking in dreams.
+
+‘I won’t,’ said Badalia, staggering to the washstand. With any other
+man than her husband she would have fought savagely as a wild cat; but
+Tom had been absent two years, and, perhaps, a little timely submission
+would win him back to her. None the less, the weekly trust was sacred.
+
+The wave that had so long held back descended on Tom’s brain. He
+caught Badalia by the throat and forced her to her knees. It seemed
+just to him in that hour to punish an erring wife for two years of
+wilful desertion; and the more, in that she had confessed her guilt by
+refusing to give up the wage of sin.
+
+Lascar Loo’s mother waited on the pavement without for the sounds
+of lamentation, but none came. Even if Tom had released her gullet,
+Badalia would not have screamed.
+
+‘Give it up, you slut!’ said Tom. ‘Is that ’ow you pay me back for all
+I’ve done?’
+
+‘I can’t. ’Tain’t my money. Gawd forgive you, Tom, for wot you’re----,’
+the voice ceased as the grip tightened, and Tom heaved Badalia against
+the bed. Her forehead struck the bed-post, and she sank, half kneeling,
+on the floor. It was impossible for a self-respecting man to refrain
+from kicking her: so Tom kicked with the deadly intelligence born of
+whisky. The head drooped to the floor, and Tom kicked at that till the
+crisp tingle of hair striking through his nailed boot with the chill of
+cold water, warned him that it might be as well to desist.
+
+‘Where’s the curick’s money, you kep’ woman?’ he whispered in the
+blood-stained ear. But there was no answer--only a rattling at the
+door, and the voice of Jenny Wabstow crying ferociously, ‘Come out o’
+that, Tom, an’ come ’ome with me! An’ you, Badalia, I’ll tear your face
+off its bones!’
+
+Tom’s friends had delivered their message, and Jenny, after the first
+flood of passionate tears, rose up to follow Tom, and, if possible, to
+win him back. She was prepared even to endure an exemplary whacking
+for her performances in Hennessy’s Rents. Lascar Loo’s mother guided
+her to the chamber of horrors, and chuckled as she retired down the
+staircase. If Tom had not banged the soul out of Badalia, there would
+at least be a royal fight between that Badalia and Jenny. And Lascar
+Loo’s mother knew well that Hell has no fury like a woman fighting
+above the life that is quick in her.
+
+Still there was no sound audible in the street. Jenny swung back the
+unbolted door, to discover her man stupidly regarding a heap by the
+bed. An eminent murderer has remarked that if people did not die so
+untidily, most men, and all women, would commit at least one murder
+in their lives. Tom was reflecting on the present untidiness, and the
+whisky was fighting with the clear current of his thoughts.
+
+‘Don’t make that noise,’ he said. ‘Come in quick.’
+
+‘My Gawd!’ said Jenny, checking like a startled wild beast. ‘Wot’s all
+this ’ere? You ain’t----’
+
+‘Dunno. ’Spose I did it.’
+
+‘Did it! You done it a sight too well this time.’
+
+‘She was aggravatin’,’ said Tom thickly, dropping back into the chair.
+‘That aggravatin’ you’d never believe. Livin’ on the fat o’ the land
+among these aristocratic parsons an’ all. Look at them white curtings
+on the bed. _We_ ain’t got no white curtings. What I want to know
+is----’ The voice died as Badalia’s had died, but from a different
+cause. The whisky was tightening its grip after the accomplished deed,
+and Tom’s eyes were beginning to close. Badalia on the floor breathed
+heavily.
+
+‘No, nor like to ’ave,’ said Jenny. ‘You’ve done for ’er this time. You
+go!’
+
+‘Not me. She won’t hurt. Do ’er good. I’m goin’ to sleep. Look at those
+there clean sheets! Aint you comin’ too?’
+
+Jenny bent over Badalia, and there was intelligence in the battered
+woman’s eyes--intelligence and much hate.
+
+‘I never told ’im to do such,’ Jenny whispered. ‘’Twas Tom’s own
+doin’--none o’ mine. Shall I get ’im took, dear?’
+
+The eyes told their own story. Tom, who was beginning to snore, must
+not be taken by the Law.
+
+‘Go,’ said Jenny. ‘Get out! Get out of ’ere.’
+
+‘You--told--me--that--this afternoon,’ said the man very sleepily.
+‘Lemme go asleep.’
+
+‘That wasn’t nothing. You’d only ’it me. This time it’s
+murder--murder--murder! Tom, you’ve killed ’er now.’ She shook the man
+from his rest, and understanding with cold terror filled his fuddled
+brain.
+
+‘I done it for your sake, Jenny,’ he whimpered feebly, trying to take
+her hand.
+
+‘You killed ’er for the money, same as you would ha’ killed me. Get out
+o’ this. Lay ’er on the bed first, you brute!’
+
+They lifted Badalia on to the bed, and crept forth silently.
+
+‘I can’t be took along o’ you--and if you was took you’d say I made you
+do it, an’ try to get me ’anged. Go away--anywhere outer ’ere,’ said
+Jenny, and she dragged him down the stairs.
+
+‘Goin’ to look for the curick?’ said a voice from the pavement. Lascar
+Loo’s mother was still waiting patiently to hear Badalia squeal.
+
+‘Wot curick?’ said Jenny swiftly. There was a chance of salving her
+conscience yet in regard to the bundle upstairs.
+
+‘’Anna--63 Roomer Terrace--close ’ere,’ said the old woman. She had
+never been favourably regarded by the curate. Perhaps, since Badalia
+had not squealed, Tom preferred smashing the man to the woman. There
+was no accounting for tastes.
+
+Jenny thrust her man before her till they reached the nearest main
+road. ‘Go away, now,’ she gasped. ‘Go off anywheres, but don’t come
+back to me. I’ll never go with you again; an’, Tom--Tom, d’you ’ear
+me?--clean your boots.’
+
+Vain counsel. The desperate thrust of disgust which she bestowed upon
+him sent him staggering face-down into the kennel, where a policeman
+showed interest in his welfare.
+
+‘Took for a common drunk. Gawd send they don’t look at ’is boots!
+’Anna, 63 Roomer Terrace!’ Jenny settled her hat and ran.
+
+The excellent housekeeper of the Roomer Chambers still remembers how
+there arrived a young person, blue-lipped and gasping, who cried only:
+‘Badalia, 17 Gunnison Street. Tell the curick to come at once--at
+once--at once!’ and vanished into the night. This message was borne to
+the Rev. Eustace Hanna, then enjoying his beauty-sleep. He saw there
+was urgency in the demand, and unhesitatingly knocked up Brother Victor
+across the landing. As a matter of etiquette, Rome and England divided
+their cases in the district according to the creeds of the sufferers;
+but Badalia was an institution, and not a case, and there was no
+district-relief etiquette to be considered. ‘Something has happened to
+Badalia,’ the curate said, ‘and it’s your affair as well as mine. Dress
+and come along.’
+
+‘I am ready,’ was the answer. ‘Is there any hint of what’s wrong?’
+
+‘Nothing beyond a runaway-knock and a call.’
+
+‘Then it’s a confinement or a murderous assault. Badalia wouldn’t wake
+us up for anything less. I’m qualified for both, thank God.’
+
+The two men raced to Gunnison Street, for there were no cabs abroad,
+and under any circumstances a cab-fare means two days’ good firing
+for such as are perishing with cold. Lascar Loo’s mother had gone to
+bed, and the door was naturally on the latch. They found considerably
+more than they had expected in Badalia’s room, and the Church of Rome
+acquitted itself nobly with bandages, while the Church of England could
+only pray to be delivered from the sin of envy. The Order of Little
+Ease, recognising that the soul is in most cases accessible through the
+body, take their measures and train their men accordingly.
+
+‘She’ll do now,’ said Brother Victor, in a whisper. ‘It’s internal
+bleeding, I fear, and a certain amount of injury to the brain. She has
+a husband, of course?’
+
+‘They all have, more’s the pity.’
+
+‘Yes, there’s a domesticity about these injuries that shows their
+origin.’ He lowered his voice. ‘It’s a perfectly hopeless business, you
+understand. Twelve hours at the most.’
+
+Badalia’s right hand began to beat on the counterpane, palm down.
+
+‘I think you are wrong,’ said the Church of England. ‘She is going.’
+
+‘No, that’s not the picking at the counterpane,’ said the Church of
+Rome. ‘She wants to say something; you know her better than I.’
+
+The curate bent very low.
+
+‘Send for Miss Eva,’ said Badalia, with a cough.
+
+‘In the morning. She will come in the morning,’ said the curate, and
+Badalia was content. Only the Church of Rome, who knew something of the
+human heart, knitted his brows and said nothing. After all, the law of
+his order was plain. His duty was to watch till the dawn while the moon
+went down.
+
+It was a little before her sinking that the Rev. Eustace Hanna said,
+‘Hadn’t we better send for Sister Eva? She seems to be going fast.’
+
+Brother Victor made no answer, but as early as decency admitted there
+came one to the door of the house of the Little Sisters of the Red
+Diamond and demanded Sister Eva, that she might soothe the pain of
+Badalia Herodsfoot. That man, saying very little, led her to Gunnison
+Street, No. 17, and into the room where Badalia lay. Then he stood on
+the landing, and bit the flesh of his fingers in agony, because he was
+a priest trained to know, and knew how the hearts of men and women beat
+back at the rebound, so that Love is born out of horror, and passion
+declares itself when the soul is quivering with pain.
+
+Badalia, wise to the last, husbanded her strength till the coming of
+Sister Eva. It is generally maintained by the Little Sisters of the Red
+Diamond that she died in delirium, but since one Sister at least took
+a half of her dying advice, this seems uncharitable.
+
+She tried to turn feebly on the bed, and the poor broken human
+machinery protested according to its nature.
+
+Sister Eva started forward, thinking that she heard the dread
+forerunner of the death-rattle. Badalia lay still conscious, and spoke
+with startling distinctness, the irrepressible irreverence of the
+street-hawker, the girl who had danced on the winkle-barrow, twinkling
+in her one available eye.
+
+‘Sounds jest like Mrs. Jessel, don’t it? Before she’s ’ad ’er lunch an’
+’as been talkin’ all the mornin’ to her classes.’
+
+Neither Sister Eva nor the curate said anything. Brother Victor stood
+without the door, and the breath came harshly between his teeth, for he
+was in pain.
+
+‘Put a cloth over my ’ead,’ said Badalia. ‘I’ve got it good, an’ I
+don’t want Miss Eva to see. I ain’t pretty this time.’
+
+‘Who was it?’ said the curate.
+
+‘Man from outside. Never seed ’im no more’n Adam. Drunk, I s’pose.
+S’elp me Gawd that’s truth! Is Miss Eva ’ere? I can’t see under the
+towel. I’ve got it good, Miss Eva. Excuse my not shakin’ ’ands with
+you, but I’m not strong, an’ it’s fourpence for Mrs. Imeny’s beef-tea,
+an’ wot you can give ’er for baby-linning. Allus ’avin’ kids, these
+people. I ’adn’t oughter talk, for _my_ ’usband ’e never come a-nigh
+me these two years, or I’d a-bin as bad as the rest; but ’e never come
+a-nigh me.... A man come and ’it me over the ’ead, an’ ’e kicked me,
+Miss Eva; so it was just the same’s if I had ha’ had a ’usband, ain’t
+it? The book’s in the drawer, Mister ’Anna, an’ it’s all right, an’ I
+never guv up a copper o’ the trust money--not a copper. You look under
+the chist o’ drawers--all wot isn’t spent this week is there.... An’,
+Miss Eva, don’t you wear that gray bonnick no more. I kep’ you from the
+diptheery, an’--an’ I didn’t want to keep you so, but the curick said
+it ’ad to be done. I’d a sooner ha’ took up with ’im than any one, only
+Tom ’e come, an’ then--you see, Miss Eva, Tom ’e never come a-nigh me
+for two years, nor I ’aven’t seen ’im yet. S’elp me ----, I ’aven’t. Do
+you ’ear? But you two go along, and make a match of it. I’ve wished
+otherways often, but o’ course it was not for the likes o’ me. If Tom
+’ad come back, which ’e never did, I’d ha’ been like the rest--sixpence
+for beef-tea for the baby, an’ a shilling for layin’ out the baby.
+You’ve seen it in the books, Mister ’Anna. That’s what it is; an’ o’
+course, you couldn’t never ’ave nothing to do with me. But a woman she
+wishes as she looks, an’ never you ’ave no doubt about ’im, Miss Eva.
+I’ve seen it in ’is face time an’ agin--time an’ agin.... Make it a
+four pound ten funeral--with a pall.’
+
+It was a seven pound fifteen shilling funeral, and all Gunnison Street
+turned out to do it honour. All but two; for Lascar Loo’s mother saw
+that a Power had departed, and that her road lay clear to the custards.
+Therefore, when the carriages rattled off, the cat on the doorstep
+heard the wail of the dying prostitute who could not die--
+
+‘Oh, mother, mother, won’t you even let me lick the spoon!’
+
+
+
+
+                         JUDSON AND THE EMPIRE.
+
+
+    Gloriana! The Don may attack us
+    Whenever his stomach be fain;
+    He must reach us before he can rack us....
+    And where are the galleons of Spain?
+
+                                                                 DOBSON.
+
+
+One of the many beauties of a democracy is its almost superhuman skill
+in developing troubles with other countries and finding its honour
+abraded in the process. A true democracy has a large contempt for all
+other lands that are governed by Kings and Queens and Emperors; and
+knows little and thinks less of their internal affairs. All it regards
+is its own dignity, which is its King, Queen, and Knave. So, sooner or
+later, its international differences end in the common people, who have
+no dignity, shouting the common abuse of the street, which also has no
+dignity, across the seas in order to vindicate their new dignity. The
+consequences may or may not be war; but the chances do not favour peace.
+
+One advantage in living in a civilised land which is really governed
+lies in the fact that all the Kings and Queens and Emperors of the
+Continent are closely related by blood or marriage; are, in fact,
+one large family. A wise head among them knows that what appears to
+be a studied insult may be no more than some man’s indigestion or
+woman’s indisposition, to be treated as such, and explained by quiet
+talk. Again, a popular demonstration, headed by King and Court, may
+mean nothing more than that so-and-so’s people are out of hand for
+the minute. When a horse falls to kicking in a hunt-crowd at a gate,
+the rider does not dismount, but puts his open hand behind him, and
+the others draw aside. It is so with the rulers of men. In the old
+days they cured their own and their people’s bad temper with fire and
+slaughter; but now that the fire is so long of range and the slaughter
+so large, they do other things; and few among their people guess how
+much they owe of mere life and money to what the slang of the minute
+calls ‘puppets’ and ‘luxuries.’
+
+Once upon a time there was a little Power, the half-bankrupt wreck of a
+once great empire, that lost its temper with England, the whipping-boy
+of all the world, and behaved, as every one said, most scandalously.
+But it is not generally known that that Power fought a pitched battle
+with England and won a glorious victory. The trouble began with the
+people. Their own misfortunes had been many, and for private rage it
+is always refreshing to find a vent in public swearing. Their national
+vanity had been deeply injured, and they thought of their ancient
+glories and the days when their fleets had first rounded the Cape of
+Storms, and their own newspapers called upon Camoens and urged them
+to extravagances. It was the gross, smooth, sleek, lying England that
+was checking their career of colonial expansion. They assumed at once
+that their ruler was in league with England, so they cried with great
+heat that they would forthwith become a Republic and colonially expand
+themselves as a free people should. This made plain, the people threw
+stones at the English Consuls and spat at English ladies, and cut off
+drunken sailors of Our fleet in their ports and hammered them with
+oars, and made things very unpleasant for tourists at their customs,
+and threatened awful deaths to the consumptive invalids of Madeira,
+while the junior officers of the Army drank fruit-extracts and entered
+into most blood-curdling conspiracies against their monarch; all with
+the object of being a Republic. Now the history of the South American
+Republics shows that it is not good that Southern Europeans should be
+also Republicans. They glide too quickly into military despotism; and
+the propping of men against walls and shooting them in detachments
+can be arranged much more economically and with less effect on the
+death-rate by a hide-bound monarchy. Still the performances of the
+Power as represented by its people were extremely inconvenient. It was
+the kicking horse in the crowd, and probably the rider explained that
+he could not check it. So the people enjoyed all the glory of war with
+none of the risks, and the tourists who were stoned in their travels
+returned stolidly to England and told the _Times_ that the police
+arrangements of foreign towns were defective.
+
+This, then, was the state of affairs north the Line. South it was
+more strained, for there the Powers were at direct issue: England,
+unable to go back because of the pressure of adventurous children
+behind her, and the actions of far-away adventurers who would not
+come to heel, but offering to buy out her rival; and the other Power,
+lacking men or money, stiff in the conviction that three hundred
+years of slave-holding and intermingling with the nearest natives
+gave an inalienable right to hold slaves and issue half-castes to all
+eternity. They had built no roads. Their towns were rotting under
+their hands; they had no trade worth the freight of a crazy steamer;
+and their sovereignty ran almost one musket-shot inland when things
+were peaceful. For these very reasons they raged all the more, and the
+things that they said and wrote about the manners and customs of the
+English would have driven a younger nation to the guns with a long red
+bill for wounded honour.
+
+It was then that Fate sent down in a twin-screw shallow-draft gunboat,
+of some 270 tons displacement, designed for the defence of rivers,
+Lieutenant Harrison Edward Judson, to be known for the future as
+Bai-Jove-Judson. His type of craft looked exactly like a flat-iron with
+a match stuck up in the middle; it drew five feet of water or less;
+carried a four-inch gun forward, which was trained by the ship; and, on
+account of its persistent rolling, was, to live in, three degrees worse
+than a torpedo-boat. When Judson was appointed to take charge of the
+thing on her little trip of six or seven thousand miles southward, his
+first remark as he went to look her over in dock was, ‘Bai Jove, that
+topmast wants staying forward!’ The topmast was a stick about as thick
+as a clothes-prop; but the flat-iron was Judson’s first command, and he
+would not have exchanged his position for second post on the _Anson_
+or the _Howe_. He navigated her, under convoy, tenderly and lovingly
+to the Cape (the story of the topmast came with him), and he was so
+absurdly in love with his wallowing wash-tub when he reported himself,
+that the Admiral of the station thought it would be a pity to kill a
+new man on her, and allowed Judson to continue in his unenvied rule.
+
+The Admiral visited her once in Simon’s Bay, and she was bad, even
+for a flat-iron gunboat, strictly designed for river and harbour
+defence. She sweated clammy drops of dew between decks in spite of a
+preparation of powdered cork that was sprinkled over her inside paint.
+She rolled in the long Cape swell like a buoy; her foc’s’le was a
+dog-kennel; Judson’s cabin was practically under the water-line; not
+one of her dead-lights could ever be opened; and her compasses, thanks
+to the influence of the four-inch gun, were a curiosity even among
+Admiralty compasses. But Bai-Jove-Judson was radiant and enthusiastic.
+He had even contrived to fill Mr. Davies, the second-class engine-room
+artificer, who was his chief engineer, with the glow of his passion.
+The Admiral, who remembered his own first command, when pride forbade
+him to slack off a single rope on a dewy night, and he had racked his
+rigging to pieces in consequence, looked at the flat-iron keenly.
+Her fenders were done all over with white sennit, which was truly
+white; her big gun was varnished with a better composition than the
+Admiralty allowed; the spare sights were cased as carefully as the
+chronometers; the chocks for spare spars, two of them, were made of
+four-inch Burma teak carved with dragons’ heads (that was one result of
+Bai-Jove-Judson’s experiences with the naval brigade in the Burmese
+war), the bow-anchor was varnished instead of being painted, and there
+were charts other than the Admiralty scale supplied. The Admiral was
+well pleased, for he loved a ship’s husband--a man who had a little
+money of his own and was willing to spend it on his command. Judson
+looked at him hopefully. He was only a Junior Navigating Lieutenant
+under eight years’ standing. He might be kept in Simon’s Bay for six
+months, and his ship at sea was his delight. The dream of his heart
+was to enliven her dismal official gray with a line of gold-leaf and,
+perhaps, a little scroll-work at her blunt barge-like bows.
+
+‘There’s nothing like a first command, is there?’ said the Admiral,
+reading his thoughts. ‘You seem to have rather queer compasses though.
+Better get them adjusted.’
+
+‘It’s no use, sir,’ said Judson. ‘The gun would throw out the Pole
+itself. But--but I’ve got the hang of most of the weaknesses.’
+
+‘Will you be good enough to lay that gun over thirty degrees, please?’
+The gun was put over. Round and round and round went the needle
+merrily, and the Admiral whistled.
+
+‘You must have kept close to your convoy?’
+
+‘Saw her twice between here and Madeira, sir,’ said Judson with a
+flush, for he resented the slur on his steamship. ‘She’s--she’s a
+little out of hand now, but she will settle down after a while.’
+
+The Admiral went over the side, according to the rules of the Service,
+but the Staff-Captain must have told the other men of the squadron in
+Simon’s Bay, for they one and all made light of the flat-iron for many
+days. ‘What can you shake out of her, Judson?’ said the Lieutenant of
+the _Mongoose_, a real white-painted ram-bow gunboat with quick-firing
+guns, as he came into the upper verandah of the little naval Club
+overlooking the dockyard one hot afternoon. It is in that club, as the
+captains come and go, that you hear all the gossip of all the Seven
+Seas.
+
+‘Ten point four,’ said Bai-Jove-Judson.
+
+‘Ah! That was on her trial trip. She’s too much by the head now. I told
+you staying that topmast would throw her out.’
+
+‘You leave my top-hamper alone,’ said Judson, for the joke was
+beginning to pall on him.
+
+‘Oh, my soul! Listen to him. Juddy’s top-hamper. Keate, have you heard
+of the flat-iron’s top-hamper? You’re to leave it alone. Commodore
+Judson’s feelings are hurt.’
+
+Keate was the Torpedo Lieutenant of the big _Vortigern_, and he
+despised small things. ‘His top-hamper,’ said he slowly. ‘Oh, ah yes,
+of course. Juddy, there’s a shoal of mullet in the bay, and I think
+they’re foul of your screws. Better go down, or they’ll carry away
+something.’
+
+‘I don’t let things carry away as a rule. You see _I’ve_ no Torpedo
+Lieutenant aboard, thank God.’
+
+Keate within the past week had so managed to bungle the slinging-in of
+a small torpedo-boat on the _Vortigern_, that the boat had broken the
+crutches on which she rested, and was herself being repaired in the
+dockyard under the Club windows.
+
+‘One for you, Keate. Never mind, Juddy, you’re hereby appointed
+dockyard-tender for the next three years, and if you’re very good and
+there’s no sea on, you shall take me round the harbour. Waitabeechee,
+Commodore. What’ll you take? Vanderhum for the “Cook and the captain
+bold, And the mate o’ the _Nancy_ brig, And the bo’sun tight” [Juddy,
+put that cue down or I’ll put you under arrest for insulting the
+lieutenant of a real ship], “And the midshipmite, And the crew of the
+captain’s gig.”’
+
+By this time Judson had pinned him in a corner, and was prodding him
+with the half-butt. The Admiral’s Secretary entered, and saw the
+scuffle from the door.
+
+‘Ouch! Juddy, I apologise. Take that--er--topmast of yours away! Here’s
+the man with the bow-string. I wish I were a Staff-captain instead of a
+bloody lootenant. Sperril sleeps below every night. That’s what makes
+Sperril tumble home from the waist upwards. Sperril, I defy you to
+touch me. I’m under orders for Zanzibar. Probably I shall annex it!’
+
+‘Judson, the Admiral wants to see you!’ said the Staff-Captain,
+disregarding the scoffer of the _Mongoose_.
+
+‘I told you you’d be a dockyard-tender yet, Juddy. A side of fresh
+beef to-morrow and three dozen snapper on ice. On ice, you understand,
+Juddy?’
+
+Bai-Jove-Judson and the Staff-Captain went out together.
+
+‘Now, what does the old man want with Judson?’ said Keate from the bar.
+
+‘Don’t know. Juddy’s a damned good fellow, though. I wish to goodness
+he was on the _Mongoose_ with us.’
+
+The Lieutenant of the _Mongoose_ dropped into a chair and read the
+mail-papers for an hour. Then he saw Bai-Jove-Judson in the street and
+shouted to him. Judson’s eyes were very bright, and his figure was held
+very straight, and he moved joyously. Except for the Lieutenant of the
+_Mongoose_, the Club was empty.
+
+‘Juddy, there will be a beautiful row,’ said that young man when he
+had heard the news delivered in an undertone. ‘You’ll probably have to
+fight, and yet I can’t see what the old man’s thinking of to----’
+
+‘My orders are not to row under any circumstances,’ said Judson.
+
+‘Go-look-see? That all? When do you go?’
+
+‘To-night if I can. I must go down and see about things. I say, I may
+want a few men for the day.’
+
+‘Anything on the _Mongoose_ is at your service. There’s my gig come
+over now. I know that coast, dead, drunk, or asleep, and you’ll need
+all the knowledge you can get. If it had only been us two together!
+Come along with me.’
+
+For one whole hour Judson remained closeted in the stern cabin of the
+_Mongoose_, listening, poring over chart upon chart and taking notes,
+and for an hour the marine at the door heard nothing but things like
+these: ‘Now you’ll have to lie in here if there’s any sea on. That
+current is ridiculously under-estimated, and it sets _west_ at this
+season of the year, remember. Their boats never come south of this,
+see? So it’s no good looking out for them.’ And so on and so forth,
+while Judson lay at length on the locker by the three-pounder, and
+smoked and absorbed it all.
+
+Next morning there was no flat-iron in Simon’s Bay; only a little
+smudge of smoke off Cape Hangklip to show that Mr. Davies, the
+second-class engine-room artificer, was giving her all she could carry.
+At the Admiral’s house the ancient and retired bo’sun who had seen many
+admirals come and go, brought out his paint and brushes and gave a new
+coat of pure raw pea-green to the two big cannon balls that stood one
+on each side of the Admiral’s entrance-gate. He felt dimly that great
+events were stirring.
+
+And the flat-iron, constructed, as has been before said, solely for
+the defence of rivers, met the great roll off Cape Agulhas and was
+swept from end to end and sat upon her twin screws and leaped as
+gracefully as a cow in a bog from one sea to another, till Mr. Davies
+began to fear for the safety of his engines, and the Kroo boys that
+made the majority of the crew were deathly sick. She ran along a
+very badly-lighted coast, past bays that were no bays, where ugly
+flat-topped rocks lay almost level with the water, and very many
+extraordinary things happened that have nothing to do with the story,
+but they were all duly logged by Bai-Jove-Judson.
+
+At last the coast changed and grew green and low and exceedingly
+muddy, and there were broad rivers whose bars were little islands
+standing three or four miles out at sea, and Bai-Jove-Judson hugged
+the shore more closely than ever, remembering what the lieutenant of
+the _Mongoose_ had told him. Then he found a river full of the smell
+of fever and mud, with green stuff growing far into its waters, and a
+current that made the flat-iron gasp and grunt.
+
+‘We will turn up here,’ said Bai-Jove-Judson, and they turned up
+accordingly; Mr. Davies wondering what in the world it all meant,
+and the Kroo boys grinning merrily. Bai-Jove-Judson went forward to
+the bows and meditated, staring through the muddy waters. After two
+hours of rooting through this desolation at an average rate of five
+miles an hour, his eyes were cheered by the sight of one white buoy in
+the coffee-hued mid-stream. The flat-iron crept up to it cautiously,
+and a leadsman took soundings all round it from a dinghy, while
+Bai-Jove-Judson smoked and thought, with his head on one side.
+
+‘About seven feet, isn’t there?’ said he. ‘That must be the tail-end
+of the shoal. There’s four fathom in the fairway. Knock that buoy
+down with axes. I don’t think it’s picturesque, somehow.’ The Kroo
+men hacked the wooden sides to pieces in three minutes, and the
+mooring-chain sank with the last splinters of wood. Bai-Jove-Judson
+laid the flat-iron carefully over the site, while Mr. Davies watched,
+biting his nails nervously.
+
+‘Can you back her against this current?’ said Bai-Jove-Judson. Mr.
+Davies could, inch by inch, but only inch by inch, and Bai-Jove-Judson
+stood in the bows and gazed at various things on the bank as they came
+into line or opened out. The flat-iron dropped down over the tail of
+the shoal, exactly where the buoy had been, and backed once more before
+Bai-Jove-Judson was satisfied. Then they went up-stream for half an
+hour, put into shoal-water by the bank and waited, with a slip-rope on
+the anchor.
+
+‘Seems to me,’ said Mr. Davies deferentially, ‘like as if I heard some
+one a-firing off at intervals, so to say.’
+
+There was beyond doubt a dull mutter in the air.
+
+‘Seems to me,’ said Bai-Jove-Judson, ‘as if I heard a screw. Stand by
+to slip her moorings.’
+
+Another ten minutes passed and the beat of engines grew plainer.
+Then round the bend of the river came a remarkably prettily-built
+white-painted gunboat with a blue and white flag bearing a red boss in
+the centre.
+
+‘Unshackle abaft the windlass! Stream both buoys! Easy astern. Let go,
+all!’ The slip-rope flew out, the two buoys bobbed in the water to mark
+where anchor and cable had been left, and the flat-iron waddled out
+into mid-stream with the white ensign at her one mast-head.
+
+‘Give her all you can. That thing has the legs of us,’ said Judson.
+‘And down we go.’
+
+‘It’s war--bloody war! He’s going to fire,’ said Mr. Davies, looking up
+through the engine-room hatch.
+
+The white gunboat without a word of explanation fired three guns
+at the flat-iron, cutting the trees on the banks into green chips.
+Bai-Jove-Judson was at the wheel, and Mr. Davies and the current helped
+the boat to an almost respectable degree of speed.
+
+It was an exciting chase, but it did not last for more than five
+minutes. The white gunboat fired again, and Mr. Davies in his
+engine-room gave a wild shout.
+
+‘What’s the matter? Hit?’ said Bai-Jove-Judson.
+
+‘No, I’ve just seized of your roos-de-gare. Beg y’ pardon, sir.’
+
+‘Right O! Just the half a fraction of a point more.’ The wheel turned
+under the steady hand, as Bai-Jove-Judson watched his marks on the bank
+falling in line swiftly as troops anxious to aid. The flat-iron smelt
+the shoal-water under her, checked for an instant, and went on. ‘Now
+we’re over. Come along, you thieves, there!’ said Judson.
+
+The white gunboat, too hurried even to fire, was storming in the wake
+of the flat-iron, steering as she steered. This was unfortunate,
+because the lighter craft was dead over the missing buoy.
+
+‘What you do here?’ shouted a voice from the bows.
+
+‘I’m going on. Sit tight. Now you’re arranged for.’
+
+There was a crash and a clatter as the white gun-boat’s nose took the
+shoal, and the brown mud boiled up in oozy circles under her forefoot.
+Then the current caught her stern on the starboard side and drove her
+broadside on to the shoal, slowly and gracefully. There she heeled at
+an undignified angle, and her crew yelled aloud.
+
+‘Neat! Oh, damn neat!’ quoth Mr. Davies, dancing on the engine-room
+plates, while the Kroo stokers beamed.
+
+The flat-iron turned up-stream again, and passed under the hove-up
+starboard side of the white gunboat, to be received with howls and
+imprecations in a strange tongue. The stranded boat, exposed even to
+her lower strakes, was as defenceless as a turtle on its back, without
+the advantage of the turtle’s plating. And the one big bluff gun in the
+bows of the flat-iron was unpleasantly near.
+
+But the captain was valiant and swore mightily. Bai-Jove-Judson took no
+sort of notice. His business was to go up the river.
+
+‘We will come in a flotilla of boats and ecrazer your vile tricks,’
+said the captain, with language that need not be published.
+
+Then said Bai-Jove-Judson, who was a linguist: ‘You stayo where you
+areo, or I’ll leave a holo in your bottomo that will make you muchos
+perforatados.’
+
+There was a great deal of mixed language in reply, but Bai-Jove-Judson
+was out of hearing in a few minutes, and Mr. Davies, himself a man of
+few words, confided to one of his subordinates that Lieutenant Judson
+was ‘a most remarkable prompt officer in a way of putting it.’
+
+For two hours the flat-iron pawed madly through the muddy water, and
+that which had been at first a mutter became a distinct rumble.
+
+‘Was war declared?’ said Mr. Davies, and Bai-Jove-Judson laughed.
+‘Then, damn his eyes, he might have spoilt my pretty little engines.
+There’s war up there, though.’
+
+The next bend brought them full in sight of a small but lively village,
+built round a whitewashed mud house of some pretensions. There were
+scores and scores of saddle-coloured soldiery in dirty white uniforms
+running to and fro and shouting round a man in a litter, and on a
+gentle slope that ran inland for four or five miles something like a
+brisk battle was raging round a rude stockade. A smell of unburied
+carcasses floated through the air and vexed the sensitive nose of Mr.
+Davies, who spat over the side.
+
+‘I want to get this gun on that house,’ said Bai-Jove-Judson,
+indicating the superior dwelling over whose flat roof floated the blue
+and white flag. The little twin screws kicked up the water exactly as
+a hen’s legs kick in the dust before she settles down to a bath. The
+little boat moved uneasily from left to right, backed, yawed again,
+went ahead, and at last the gray, blunt gun’s nose was held as straight
+as a rifle-barrel on the mark indicated. Then Mr. Davies allowed the
+whistle to speak as it is not allowed to speak in Her Majesty’s service
+on account of waste of steam. The soldiery of the village gathered into
+knots and groups and bunches, and the firing up the hill ceased, and
+every one except the crew of the flat-iron yelled aloud. Something like
+an English cheer came down wind.
+
+‘Our chaps in mischief for sure, probably,’ said Mr. Davies. ‘They must
+have declared war weeks ago, in a kind of way, seems to me.’
+
+‘Hold her steady, you son of a soldier!’ shouted Bai-Jove-Judson, as
+the muzzle fell off the white house.
+
+Something rang as loudly as a ship’s bell on the forward plates of the
+flat-iron, something spluttered in the water, and another thing cut a
+groove in the deck planking an inch in front of Bai-Jove-Judson’s left
+foot. The saddle-coloured soldiery were firing as the mood took them,
+and the man in the litter waved a shining sword. The muzzle of the big
+gun kicked down a fraction as it was laid on the mud wall at the bottom
+of the house garden. Ten pounds of gun-powder shut up in a hundred
+pounds of metal was its charge. Three or four yards of the mud wall
+jumped up a little, as a man jumps when he is caught in the small of
+the back with a knee-cap, and then fell forward, spreading fan-wise in
+the fall. The soldiery fired no more that day, and Judson saw an old
+black woman climb to the flat roof of the house. She fumbled for a time
+with the flag halliards, then, finding that they were jammed, took off
+her one garment, which happened to be an Isabella-coloured petticoat,
+and waved it impatiently. The man in the litter flourished a white
+handkerchief, and Bai-Jove-Judson grinned. ‘Now we’ll give ’em one up
+the hill. Round with her, Mr. Davies. Curse the man who invented those
+floating gun-platforms! When can I pitch in a notice without slaying
+one of those little devils?’
+
+The side of the slope was speckled with men returning in a disorderly
+fashion to the river-front. Behind them marched a small but very
+compact body of men who had filed out of the stockade. These last
+dragged quick-firing guns with them.
+
+‘Bai Jove, it’s a regular army. I wonder whose,’ said Bai-Jove-Judson,
+and he waited developments. The descending troops met and mixed with
+the troops in the village, and, with the litter in the centre, crowded
+down to the river, till the men with the quick-firing guns came up
+behind them. Then they divided left and right and the detachment
+marched through.
+
+‘Heave these damned things over!’ said the leader of the party, and one
+after another ten little gatlings splashed into the muddy water. The
+flat-iron lay close to the bank.
+
+‘When you’re _quite_ done,’ said Bai-Jove-Judson politely, ‘would you
+mind telling me what’s the matter? I’m in charge here.’
+
+‘We’re the Pioneers of the General Development Company,’ said the
+leader. ‘These little bounders have been hammering us in lager for
+twelve hours, and we’re getting rid of their gatlings. Had to climb out
+and take them; but they’ve snaffled the lock-actions. Glad to see you.’
+
+‘Any one hurt?’
+
+‘No one killed exactly; but we’re very dry.’
+
+‘Can you hold your men?’
+
+The man turned round and looked at his command with a grin. There were
+seventy of them, all dusty and unkempt.
+
+‘We shan’t sack this ash-bin, if that’s what you mean. We’re mostly
+gentlemen here, though we don’t look it.’
+
+‘All right. Send the head of this post, or fort, or village, or
+whatever it is, aboard, and make what arrangements you can for your
+men.’
+
+‘We’ll find some barrack accommodation somewhere. Hullo! You in the
+litter there, go aboard the gunboat.’ The command wheeled round, pushed
+through the dislocated soldiery, and began to search through the
+village for spare huts.
+
+The little man in the litter came aboard smiling nervously. He was in
+the fullest of full uniform, with many yards of gold lace and dangling
+chains. Also he wore very large spurs; the nearest horse being not more
+than four hundred miles away. ‘My children,’ said he, facing the silent
+soldiery, ‘lay aside your arms.’
+
+Most of the men had dropped them already and were sitting down to
+smoke. ‘Let nothing,’ he added in his own tongue, ‘tempt you to kill
+these who have sought your protection.’
+
+‘Now,’ said Bai-Jove-Judson, on whom the last remark was lost, ‘will
+you have the goodness to explain what the deuce you mean by all this
+nonsense?’
+
+‘It was of a necessitate,’ said the little man. ‘The operations of war
+are unconformible. I am the Governor and I operate Captain. Be’old my
+little sword!’
+
+‘Confound your little sword, sir. I don’t want it. You’ve fired on our
+flag. You’ve been firing at our people here for a week, and I’ve been
+fired at coming up the river.’
+
+‘Ah! The _Guadala_. She have misconstrued you for a slaver possibly.
+How are the _Guadala_?’
+
+‘Mistook a ship of Her Majesty’s navy for a slaver! _You_ mistake _any_
+craft for a slaver. Bai Jove, sir, I’ve a good mind to hang you at the
+yard-arm!’
+
+There was nothing nearer that terrible spar than the walking-stick in
+the rack of Judson’s cabin. The Governor looked at the one mast and
+smiled a deprecating smile.
+
+‘The position is embarrassment,’ he said. ‘Captain, do you think those
+illustrious traders burn my capital? My people will give them beer.’
+
+‘Never mind the traders, I want an explanation.’
+
+‘Hum! There are popular uprising in Europe, Captain--in my country.’
+His eye wandered aimlessly round the horizon.
+
+‘What has that to do with----’
+
+‘Captain, you are very young. There is still uproariment. But I,’--here
+he slapped his chest till his epaulets jingled--‘I am loyalist to pits
+of _all_ my stomachs.’
+
+‘Go on,’ said Judson, and his mouth quivered.
+
+‘An order arrive to me to establish a custom-houses here, and to
+collect of the taximent from the traders when she are come here
+necessarily. That was on account of political understandings with your
+country and mine. But to that arrangement there was no money also. Not
+one damn little cowrie! I desire damnably to extend all commercial
+things, and why? I am loyalist and there is rebellion--yes, I tell
+you--Republics in my country for to just begin. You do not believe?
+See some time how it exist. I cannot make this custom-houses and pay
+so the high-paid officials. The people too in my country they say the
+King she has no regardance into Honour of her nation. He throw away
+everything--Gladstone her all, you say, hey?’
+
+‘Yes, that’s what we say,’ said Judson with a grin.
+
+‘Therefore they say, let us be Republics on hot cakes. But I--I am
+loyalist to all my hands’ ends. Captain, once I was attaché at Mexico.
+I say the Republics are no good. The peoples have her stomach high.
+They desire--they desire--Oh, course for the bills.’
+
+‘What on earth is that?’
+
+‘The cock-fight for pay at the gate. You give something, pay for see
+bloody-row. Do I make my comprehension?’
+
+‘A run for their money--is that what you mean? Gad, you’re a sporting
+Governor!’
+
+‘So I say. I am loyalist too.’ He smiled more easily. ‘Now how can
+anything do herself for the customs-houses; but when the Company’s
+mens she arrives, _then_ a cock-fight for pay-at-gate that is quite
+correct. My army he says it will Republic and shoot me off upon walls
+if I have not give her blood. An army, Captain, are terrible in her
+angries--especialment when she are not paid. I know too,’ here he
+laid his hand on Judson’s shoulder, ‘I know too we are old friends.
+Yes! Badajos, Almeida, Fuentes d’Onor--time ever since; and a little,
+little cock-fight for pay-at-gate that is good for my King. More sit
+her tight on throne behind, you see? Now,’ he waved his free hand round
+the decayed village, ‘I say to my armies, Fight! Fight the Company’s
+men when she come, but fight not so very strong that you are any dead.
+It is all in the raporta that I send. But you understand, Captain, we
+are good friends all the time. Ah! Ciudad Rodrigo, you remember? No?
+Perhaps your father then? So you see no one are dead, and we fight
+a fight, and it is all in the raporta, to please the people in our
+country; and my armies they do not put me against the walls, you see?’
+
+‘Yes; but the _Guadala_. She fired on us. Was that part of your game,
+my joker?’
+
+‘The _Guadala_. Ah! No, I think not. Her captain he is too big fool.
+But I thought she have gone down the coast. Those your gunboats poke
+her nose and shove her oar in every place. How is _Guadala_?’
+
+‘On a shoal. Stuck till I take her off.’
+
+‘There are any deads?’
+
+‘No.’
+
+The Governor drew a breath of deep relief. ‘There are no deads here. So
+you see none are deads anywhere, and nothing is done. Captain, you talk
+to the Company’s mens. I think they are not pleased.’
+
+‘Naturally.’
+
+‘They have no senses. I thought to go backwards again they would. I
+leave her stockade alone all night to let them out, but they stay and
+come facewards to me, not backwards. They did not know we must conquer
+much in all these battles, or the King, he is kicked off her throne.
+Now we have won this battle--this great battle,’ he waved his arms
+abroad, ‘and I think you will say so that we have won, Captain. You are
+loyalist also? You would not disturb to the peaceful Europe? Captain, I
+tell you this. Your Queen she know too. She would not fight her cousin.
+It is a--a hand-up thing.’
+
+‘What?’
+
+‘Hand-up thing. Jobe you put. How you say?’
+
+‘Put-up job?’
+
+‘Yes. Put-up job. Who is hurt? We win. You lose. All righta!’
+
+Bai-Jove-Judson had been exploding at intervals for the last five
+minutes. Here he broke down completely and roared aloud.
+
+‘But look here, Governor,’ he said at last, ‘I’ve got to think of other
+things than your riots in Europe. You’ve fired on our flag.’
+
+‘Captain, if you are me, you would have done how? And also, and
+also,’ he drew himself up to his full height, ‘we are both brave men
+of bravest countries. Our honour is the honour of our King,’ here he
+uncovered, ‘and of our Queen,’ here he bowed low. ‘Now, Captain, you
+shall shell my palace and I will be your prisoner.’
+
+‘Skittles!’ said Bai-Jove-Judson. ‘I can’t shell that old hencoop.’
+
+‘Then come to dinner. Madeira, she are still to us, and I have of the
+best she manufac.’
+
+He skipped over the side beaming, and Bai-Jove-Judson went into the
+cabin to laugh his laugh out. When he had recovered a little he
+sent Mr. Davies to the head of the Pioneers, the dusty man with the
+gatlings, and the troops who had abandoned the pursuit of arms watched
+the disgraceful spectacle of two men reeling with laughter on the
+quarter-deck of a gunboat.
+
+‘I’ll put my men to build him a custom-house,’ said the head of the
+Pioneers gasping. ‘We’ll make him one decent road at least. That
+Governor ought to be knighted. I’m glad now that we didn’t fight ’em in
+the open, or we’d have killed some of them. So he’s won great battles,
+has he? Give him the compliments of the victims, and tell him I’m
+coming to dinner. You haven’t such a thing as a dress-suit, have you? I
+haven’t seen one for six months.’
+
+That evening there was a dinner in the village--a general and
+enthusiastic dinner, whose head was in the Governor’s house, and whose
+tail threshed at large throughout all the streets. The Madeira was
+everything that the Governor had said, and more, and it was tested
+against two or three bottles of Bai-Jove-Judson’s best Vanderhum, which
+is Cape brandy ten years in the bottle, flavoured with orange-peel and
+spices. Before the coffee was removed (by the lady who had made the
+flag of truce) the Governor had given the whole of his governorship and
+its appurtenances, once to Bai-Jove-Judson for services rendered by
+Judson’s grandfather in the Peninsular War, and once to the head of the
+Pioneers, in consideration of that gentleman’s good friendship. After
+the negotiation he retreated for a while into an inner apartment, and
+there evolved a true and complete account of the defeat of the English
+arms, which he read with his cocked hat over one eye to Judson and his
+companion. It was Judson who suggested the sinking of the flat-iron
+with all hands, and the head of the Pioneers who supplied the list of
+killed and wounded (not more than two hundred) in his command.
+
+‘Gentlemen,’ said the Governor from under his cocked hat, ‘the peace
+of Europe are saved by this raporta. You shall all be Knights of the
+Golden Hide. She shall go by the _Guadala_.’
+
+‘Great Heavens!’ said Bai-Jove-Judson, flushed but composed, ‘That
+reminds me that I’ve left that boat stuck on her broadside down the
+river. I must go down and sooth the commandante. He’ll be blue with
+rage. Governor, let us go a sail on the river to cool our heads. A
+picnic, you understand.’
+
+‘Ya--as: everything I understand. Ho! A picnica! You are all my
+prisoner, but I am a good gaoler. We shall picnic on the river, and we
+shall take _all_ the girls. Come on, my prisoners.’
+
+‘I do hope,’ said the head of the Pioneers, staring from the verandah
+into the roaring village, ‘that my chaps won’t set the town alight by
+accident. Hullo! Hullo! A guard of honour for His Excellency, the most
+illustrious Governor!’
+
+Some thirty men answered the call, made a swaying line upon a more
+swaying course, and bore the Governor most swayingly of all high in
+their arms as they staggered down to the river. And the song that
+they sang bade them, ‘Swing, swing together, their body between their
+knees’; and they obeyed the words of the song faithfully, except that
+they were anything but ‘steady from stroke to bow.’ His Excellency the
+Governor slept on his uneasy litter, and did not wake when the chorus
+dropped him on the deck of the flat-iron.
+
+‘Good-night and good-bye,’ said the head of the Pioneers to Judson.
+‘I’d give you my card if I had it, but I’m so damned drunk I hardly
+know my own Club. Oh yes! It’s the Travellers. If ever we meet in town,
+remember me. I must stay here and look after my fellows. We’re all
+right in the open, now. I s’pose you’ll return the Governor some time.
+This is a political crisis. Good-night.’
+
+The flat-iron went down-stream through the dark. The Governor slept on
+deck, and Judson took the wheel, but how he steered, and why he did
+not run into each bank many times, that officer does not remember.
+Mr. Davies did not note anything unusual, for there are two ways of
+taking too much, and Judson was only ward-room, not fo’c’s’le drunk.
+As the night grew colder the Governor woke up, and expressed a desire
+for whisky and soda. When that came they were nearly abreast of the
+stranded _Guadala_, and His Excellency saluted the flag that he could
+not see with loyal and patriotic strains.
+
+‘They do not see. They do not hear,’ he cried. ‘Ten thousand saints!
+They sleep, and I have won battles! Ha!’
+
+He started forward to the gun, which, very naturally, was loaded,
+pulled the lanyard, and woke the dead night with the roar of the full
+charge behind a common shell. That shell, mercifully, just missed the
+stern of the _Guadala_, and burst on the bank. ‘Now you shall salute
+your Governor,’ said he, as he heard feet running in all directions
+within the iron skin. ‘Why you demand so base a quarter? I am here
+with all my prisoners.’
+
+In the hurly-burly and the general shriek for mercy his reassurances
+were not heard.
+
+‘Captain,’ said a grave voice from the ship, ‘we have surrendered. Is
+it the custom of the English to fire on a helpless ship?’
+
+‘Surrendered! Holy Virgin! I go to cut off all their heads. You shall
+be ate by wild ants--flog and drowned! Throw me a balcony. It is I,
+the Governor! You shall never surrender. Judson of my soul, ascend her
+inside, and send me a bed, for I am sleepy; but, oh, I will multiple
+time kill that captain!’
+
+‘Oh!’ said the voice in the darkness, ‘I begin to comprehend.’ And a
+rope-ladder was thrown, up which the Governor scrambled, with Judson at
+his heels.
+
+‘Now we will enjoy executions,’ said the Governor on the deck. ‘All
+these Republicans shall be shot. Little Judson, if I am _not_ drunk,
+why are so sloping the boards which do not support?’
+
+The deck, as I have said, was at a very stiff cant. His Excellency sat
+down, slid to leeward, and fell asleep again.
+
+The captain of the _Guadala_ bit his moustache furiously, and muttered
+in his own tongue: ‘“This land is the father of great villains and the
+step-father of honest men.” You see our material, Captain. It is so
+everywhere with us. You have killed some of the rats, I hope?’
+
+‘Not a rat,’ said Judson genially.
+
+‘That is a pity. If they were dead, our country might send us men, but
+our country is dead too, and I am dishonoured on a mud-bank through
+your English treachery.’
+
+‘Well, it seems to me that firing on a little tub of our size without
+a word of warning when you knew that the countries were at peace is
+treachery enough in a small way.’
+
+‘If one of my guns had touched you, you would have gone to the bottom,
+all of you. I would have taken the risk with my Government. By that
+time it would have been----’
+
+‘A Republic. So you really _did_ mean fighting on your own hook! You’re
+rather a dangerous officer to cut loose in a navy like yours. Well,
+what are you going to do now?’
+
+‘Stay here. Go away in boats. What does it matter? That drunken
+cat’--he pointed to the shadow in which the Governor slept--‘is here. I
+must take him back to his hole.’
+
+‘Very good. I’ll tow you off at daylight if you get steam up.’
+
+‘Captain, I warn you that as soon as she floats again I will fight you.’
+
+‘Humbug! You’ll have lunch with me, and then you’ll take the Governor
+up the river.’
+
+The captain was silent for some time. Then he said: ‘Let us drink. What
+must be, must be, and after all we have not forgotten the Peninsular.
+You will admit, Captain, that it is bad to be run upon a shoal like a
+mud-dredger?’
+
+‘Oh, we’ll pull you off before you can say knife. Take care of His
+Excellency. I shall try to get a little sleep now.’
+
+They slept on both ships till the morning, and then the work of towing
+off the _Guadala_ began. With the help of her own engines, and the
+tugging and puffing of the flat-iron, she slid off the mud-bank
+sideways into deep water, the flat-iron immediately under her stern,
+and the big eye of the four-inch gun almost peering through the window
+of the captain’s cabin.
+
+Remorse in the shape of a violent headache had overtaken the Governor.
+He was uneasily conscious that he might perhaps have exceeded his
+powers, and the captain of the _Guadala_, in spite of all his patriotic
+sentiments, remembered distinctly that no war had been declared between
+the two countries. He did not need the Governor’s repeated reminders
+that war, serious war, meant a Republic at home, possible supersession
+in his command, and much shooting of living men against dead walls.
+
+‘We have satisfied our honour,’ said the Governor in confidence. ‘Our
+army is appeased, and the raporta that you take home will show that
+we were loyal and brave. That other captain? Bah! He is a boy. He
+will call this a--a--Judson of my soul, how you say this is--all this
+affairs which have transpirated between us?’
+
+Judson was watching the last hawser slipping through the fairlead.
+‘Call it? Oh, I should call it rather a lark. Now your boat’s all
+right, captain. When will you come to lunch?’
+
+‘I told you,’ said the Governor, ‘it would be a larque to him.’
+
+‘Mother of the Saints! then what is his seriousness?’ said the captain.
+‘We shall be happy to come when you will. Indeed, we have no other
+choice,’ he added bitterly.
+
+‘Not at all,’ said Judson, and as he looked at the three or four shot
+blisters on the bows of his boat a brilliant idea took him. ‘It is we
+who are at your mercy. See how His Excellency’s guns knocked us about.’
+
+‘Senor Capitan,’ said the Governor pityingly, ‘that is very sad. You
+are most injured, and your deck too, it is all shot over. We shall not
+be too severe on a beat man, shall we, captain?’
+
+‘You couldn’t spare us a little paint, could you? I’d like to patch up
+a little after the--action,’ said Judson meditatively, fingering his
+upper lip to hide a smile.
+
+‘Our storeroom is at your disposition,’ said the captain of the
+_Guadala_, and his eye brightened; for a few lead splashes on gray
+paint make a big show.
+
+‘Mr. Davies, go aboard and see what they have to spare--to spare,
+remember. Their spar-colour with a little working up should be just our
+free-board tint.’
+
+‘Oh yes. I’ll spare them,’ said Mr. Davies savagely. ‘I don’t
+understand this how-d’you-do and damn-your-eyes business coming one
+atop of the other, in a manner o’ speaking! By all rights, they’re our
+lawful prize, after a manner o’ sayin’.’
+
+The Governor and the captain came to lunch in the absence of Mr.
+Davies. Bai-Jove-Judson had not much to offer them, but what he had was
+given as by a beaten foeman to a generous conqueror. When they were a
+little warmed--the Governor genial and the captain almost effusive--he
+explained quite casually over the opening of a bottle that it would not
+be to his interest to report the affair seriously, and it was in the
+highest degree improbable that the Admiral would treat it in any grave
+fashion.
+
+‘When my decks are cut up’ (there was one groove across four planks),
+‘and my plates buckled’ (there were five lead patches on three plates),
+‘and I meet such a boat as the _Guadala_, and a mere accident saves me
+from being blown out of the water----’
+
+‘Yes. A mere accident, Captain. The shoal-buoy has been lost,’ said the
+captain of the _Guadala_.
+
+‘Ah? I do not know this river. That was very sad. But as I was
+saying, when an accident saves me from being sunk, what can I do but
+go away--if that is possible? But I fear that I have no coal for the
+sea-voyage. It is very sad.’ Judson had compromised on what he knew of
+the French tongue as a medium of communication.
+
+‘It is enough,’ said the Governor, waving a generous hand. ‘Judson of
+my soul, the coal is yours and you shall be repaired--yes, repaired
+all over, of your battle’s wounds. You shall go with all the honours
+of all the wars. Your flag shall fly. Your drum shall beat. Your,
+ah!--jolly-boys shall spoke their bayonets! Is it not so, captain?’
+
+‘As you say, Excellency. But those traders in the town. What of them?’
+
+The Governor looked puzzled for an instant. He could not quite remember
+what had happened to those jovial men who had cheered him overnight.
+Judson interrupted swiftly: ‘His Excellency has set them to forced
+works on barracks and magazines, and, I think, a custom-house. When
+that is done they will be released, I hope, Excellency.’
+
+‘Yes, they shall be released for your sake, little Judson of my heart.’
+Then they drank the health of their respective sovereigns, while
+Mr. Davies superintended the removal of the scarred plank and the
+shot-marks on the deck and the bow-plates.
+
+‘Oh, this is too bad,’ said Judson when they went on deck. ‘That idiot
+has exceeded his instructions, but--but you must let me pay for this!’
+
+Mr. Davies, his legs in the water as he sat on a staging slung over
+the bows, was acutely conscious that he was being blamed in a foreign
+tongue. He twisted uneasily, and went on with his work.
+
+‘What is it?’ said the Governor.
+
+‘That thick-head has thought that we needed some gold-leaf, and he has
+borrowed that from your storeroom, but I must make it good.’ Then in
+English, ‘Stand up, Mr. Davies! What the Furnace in Tophet do you mean
+by taking their gold-leaf? My ----, are we a set of hairy pirates to
+scoff the storeroom out of a painted Levantine bumboat. Look contrite,
+you butt-ended, broad-breeched, bottle-bellied, swivel-eyed son of a
+tinker, you! My Soul alive, can’t I maintain discipline in my own ship
+without a hired blacksmith of a boiler-rivetter putting me to shame
+before a yellow-nosed picaroon! Get off the staging, Mr. Davies, and
+go to the engine-room! Put down that leaf first, though, and leave the
+books where they are. I’ll send for you in a minute. Go aft!’
+
+Now, only the upper half of Mr. Davies’s round face was above the
+bulwarks when this torrent of abuse descended upon him; and it rose
+inch by inch as the shower continued, blank amazement, bewilderment,
+rage, and injured pride chasing each other across it till he saw
+his superior officer’s left eyelid flutter on the cheek twice. Then
+he fled to the engine-room, and wiping his brow with a handful of
+cotton-waste, sat down to overtake circumstances.
+
+‘I am desolated,’ said Judson to his companions, ‘but you see the
+material that they give us. This leaves me more in your debt than
+before. The stuff I can replace’ [gold-leaf is never carried on
+floating gun-platforms], ‘but for the insolence of that man how shall I
+apologise?’
+
+Mr. Davies’s mind moved slowly, but after a while he transferred the
+cotton-waste from his forehead to his mouth and bit on it to prevent
+laughter. He began a second dance on the engine-room plates. ‘Neat!
+Oh, damned neat!’ he chuckled. ‘I’ve served with a good few, but there
+never was one so neat as him. And I thought he was the new kind that
+don’t know how to throw a few words, as it were.’
+
+‘Mr. Davies, you can continue your work,’ said Judson down the
+engine-room hatch. ‘These officers have been good enough to speak in
+your favour. Make a thorough job of it while you are about it. Slap on
+every man you have. Where did you get hold of it?’
+
+‘Their storeroom is a regular theatre, sir. You couldn’t miss it.
+There’s enough for two first-rates, and I’ve scoffed the best half of
+it.’
+
+‘Look sharp then. We shall be coaling from her this afternoon. You’ll
+have to cover it all up.’
+
+‘Neat! Oh, damned neat!’ said Mr. Davies under his breath, as he
+gathered his subordinates together, and set about accomplishing the
+long-deferred wish of Judson’s heart.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+It was the _Martin Frobisher_, the flagship, a great war-boat when she
+was new, in the days when men built for sail as well as for steam. She
+could turn twelve knots under full sail, and it was under that that
+she stood up the mouth of the river, a pyramid of silver beneath the
+moon. The Admiral, fearing that he had given Judson a task beyond his
+strength, was coming to look for him, and incidentally to do a little
+diplomatic work along the coast. There was hardly wind enough to move
+the _Frobisher_ a couple of knots an hour, and the silence of the land
+closed about her as she entered the fairway. Her yards sighed a little
+from time to time, and the ripple under her bows answered the sigh. The
+full moon rose over the steaming swamps, and the Admiral gazing upon it
+thought less of Judson and more of the softer emotions. In answer to
+the very mood of his mind there floated across the silver levels of the
+water, mellowed by distance to a most poignant sweetness, the throb of
+a mandolin, and the voice of one who called upon a genteel Julia--upon
+Julia, and upon Love. The song ceased, and the sighing of the yards was
+all that broke the silence of the big ship.
+
+Again the mandolin began, and the commander on the lee side of the
+quarter-deck grinned a grin that was reflected in the face of the
+signal-midshipman. Not a word of the song was lost, and the voice of
+the singer was the voice of Judson.
+
+    ‘Last week down our alley came a toff,
+     Nice old geyser with a nasty cough,
+     Sees my missus, takes his topper off,
+     Quite in a gentlemanly way’--
+
+and so on to the end of the verse. The chorus was borne by several
+voices, and the signal-midshipman’s foot began to tap the deck
+furtively.
+
+    ‘“What cheer!” all the neighbours cried.
+     “Oo are you goin’ to meet, Bill?
+     ’Ave you bought the street, Bill?”
+     Laugh?--I thought I should ha’ died
+     When I knocked ’em in the Old Kent Road.’
+
+It was the Admiral’s gig, rowing softly, that came into the midst of
+that merry little smoking-concert. It was Judson, with the beribboned
+mandolin round his neck, who received the Admiral as he came up the
+side of the _Guadala_, and it may or may not have been the Admiral
+who stayed till three in the morning and delighted the hearts of the
+Captain and the Governor. He had come as an unbidden guest, and he
+departed as an honoured one, but strictly unofficial throughout. Judson
+told his tale next day in the Admiral’s cabin as well as he could in
+the face of the Admiral’s gales of laughter; but the most amazing tale
+was that told by Mr. Davies to his friends in the dockyard at Simon’s
+Town from the point of view of a second-class engine-room artificer,
+all unversed in diplomacy.
+
+And if there be no truth either in my tale, which is Judson’s tale,
+or the tales of Mr. Davies, you will _not_ find in harbour at Simon’s
+Town to-day a flat-bottomed, twin-screw gunboat, designed solely for
+the defence of rivers, about two hundred and seventy tons displacement
+and five feet draught, wearing in open defiance of the rules of the
+Service a gold line on her gray paint. It follows also that you will
+be compelled to credit that version of the fray which, signed by His
+Excellency the Governor and despatched in the _Guadala_, satisfied the
+self-love of a great and glorious people, and saved a monarchy from the
+ill-considered despotism which is called a Republic.
+
+
+
+
+                      THE CHILDREN OF THE ZODIAC.
+
+
+    Though thou love her as thyself,
+    As a self of purer clay,
+    Though her parting dim the day,
+    Stealing grace from all alive,
+        Heartily know
+        When half Gods go
+    The Gods arrive.       EMERSON.
+
+
+Thousands of years ago, when men were greater than they are to-day,
+the Children of the Zodiac lived in the world. There were six Children
+of the Zodiac--the Ram, the Bull, Leo, the Twins, and the Girl; and
+they were afraid of the Six Houses which belonged to the Scorpion,
+the Balance, the Crab, the Fishes, the Archer, and the Waterman. Even
+when they first stepped down upon the earth and knew that they were
+immortal Gods, they carried this fear with them; and the fear grew as
+they became better acquainted with mankind and heard stories of the Six
+Houses. Men treated the Children as Gods and came to them with prayers
+and long stories of wrong, while the Children of the Zodiac listened
+and could not understand.
+
+A mother would fling herself before the feet of the Twins, or the Bull,
+crying: ‘My husband was at work in the fields and the Archer shot him
+and he died; and my son will also be killed by the Archer. Help me!’
+The Bull would lower his huge head and answer: ‘What is that to me?’
+Or the Twins would smile and continue their play, for they could not
+understand why the water ran out of people’s eyes. At other times a man
+and a woman would come to Leo or the Girl crying: ‘We two are newly
+married and we are very happy. Take these flowers.’ As they threw the
+flowers they would make mysterious sounds to show that they were happy,
+and Leo and the Girl wondered even more than the Twins why people
+shouted ‘Ha! ha! ha!’ for no cause.
+
+This continued for thousands of years by human reckoning, till on a
+day, Leo met the Girl walking across the hills and saw that she had
+changed entirely since he had last seen her. The Girl, looking at Leo,
+saw that he too had changed altogether. Then they decided that it would
+be well never to separate again, in case even more startling changes
+should occur when the one was not at hand to help the other. Leo kissed
+the Girl and all Earth felt that kiss, and the Girl sat down on a hill
+and the water ran out of her eyes; and this had never happened before
+in the memory of the Children of the Zodiac.
+
+As they sat together a man and a woman came by, and the man said to the
+woman:
+
+‘What is the use of wasting flowers on those dull Gods? They will never
+understand, darling.’
+
+The Girl jumped up and put her arms round the woman, crying, ‘I
+understand. Give me the flowers and I will give you a kiss.’
+
+Leo said beneath his breath to the man: ‘What was the new name that I
+heard you give to your woman just now?’
+
+The man answered, ‘Darling, of course.’
+
+‘Why “of course”?’ said Leo; ‘and if of course, what does it mean?’
+
+‘It means “very dear,” and you have only to look at your wife to see
+why.’
+
+‘I see,’ said Leo; ‘you are quite right’; and when the man and the
+woman had gone on he called the Girl ‘darling wife’; and the Girl wept
+again from sheer happiness.
+
+‘I think,’ she said at last, wiping her eyes, ‘I think that we two have
+neglected men and women too much. What did you do with the sacrifices
+they made to you, Leo?’
+
+‘I let them burn,’ said Leo; ‘I could not eat them. What did you do
+with the flowers?’
+
+‘I let them wither. I could not wear them, I had so many of my own,’
+said the Girl, ‘and now I am sorry.’
+
+‘There is nothing to grieve for,’ said Leo; ‘we belong to each other.’
+
+As they were talking the years of men’s life slipped by unnoticed, and
+presently the man and the woman came back, both white-headed, the man
+carrying the woman.
+
+‘We have come to the end of things,’ said the man quietly. ‘This that
+was my wife--’
+
+‘As I am Leo’s wife,’ said the Girl quickly, her eyes staring.
+
+‘--was my wife, has been killed by one of your Houses.’ The man set
+down his burden, and laughed.
+
+‘Which House?’ said Leo angrily, for he hated all the Houses equally.
+
+‘You are Gods, you should know,’ said the man. ‘We have lived together
+and loved one another, and I have left a good farm for my son. What
+have I to complain of except that I still live?’
+
+As he was bending over his wife’s body there came a whistling through
+the air, and he started and tried to run away, crying, ‘It is the arrow
+of the Archer. Let me live a little longer--only a little longer!’ The
+arrow struck him and he died. Leo looked at the Girl and she looked at
+him, and both were puzzled.
+
+‘He wished to die,’ said Leo. ‘He said that he wished to die, and when
+Death came he tried to run away. He is a coward.’
+
+‘No, he is not,’ said the Girl; ‘I think I feel what he felt. Leo, we
+must learn more about this for their sakes.’
+
+‘For _their_ sakes,’ said Leo, very loudly.
+
+‘Because _we_ are never going to die,’ said the Girl and Leo together,
+still more loudly.
+
+‘Now sit you still here, darling wife,’ said Leo, ‘while I go to the
+Houses whom we hate, and learn how to make these men and women live as
+we do.’
+
+‘And love as we do,’ said the Girl.
+
+‘I do not think they need to be taught that,’ said Leo, and he strode
+away very angry, with his lion-skin swinging from his shoulder, till he
+came to the House where the Scorpion lives in the darkness, brandishing
+his tail over his back.
+
+‘Why do you trouble the children of men?’ said Leo, with his heart
+between his teeth.
+
+‘Are you so sure that I trouble the children of men alone?’ said the
+Scorpion. ‘Speak to your brother the Bull, and see what he says.’
+
+‘I come on behalf of the children of men,’ said Leo. ‘I have learned to
+love as they do, and I wish them to live as I--as we do.’
+
+‘Your wish was granted long ago. Speak to the Bull. He is under my
+special care,’ said the Scorpion.
+
+Leo dropped back to the earth again, and saw the great star Aldebaran,
+that is set in the forehead of the Bull, blazing very near to the
+earth. When he came up to it he saw that his brother the Bull, yoked to
+a countryman’s plough, was toiling through a wet rice-field with his
+head bent down, and the sweat streaming from his flanks. The countryman
+was urging him forward with a goad.
+
+‘Gore that insolent to death,’ cried Leo, ‘and for the sake of our
+honour come out of the mire.’
+
+‘I cannot,’ said the Bull, ‘the Scorpion has told me that some day, of
+which I cannot be sure, he will sting me where my neck is set on my
+shoulders, and that I shall die bellowing.’
+
+‘What has that to do with this disgraceful work?’ said Leo, standing on
+the dyke that bounded the wet field.
+
+‘Everything. This man could not plough without my help. He thinks that
+I am a stray beast.’
+
+‘But he is a mud-crusted cottar with matted hair,’ insisted Leo. ‘We
+are not meant for his use.’
+
+‘You may not be; I am. I cannot tell when the Scorpion may choose to
+sting me to death--perhaps before I have turned this furrow.’ The Bull
+flung his bulk into the yoke, and the plough tore through the wet
+ground behind him, and the countryman goaded him till his flanks were
+red.
+
+‘Do you like this?’ Leo called down the dripping furrows.
+
+‘No,’ said the Bull over his shoulder as he lifted his hind legs from
+the clinging mud and cleared his nostrils.
+
+Leo left him scornfully and passed to another country, where he found
+his brother the Ram in the centre of a crowd of country-people who were
+hanging wreaths round his neck and feeding him on freshly-plucked green
+corn.
+
+‘This is terrible,’ said Leo. ‘Break up that crowd and come away, my
+brother. Their hands are spoiling your fleece.’
+
+‘I cannot,’ said the Ram. ‘The Archer told me that on some day of which
+I had no knowledge, he would send a dart through me, and that I should
+die in very great pain.’
+
+‘What has that to do with this disgraceful show?’ said Leo, but he did
+not speak as confidently as before.
+
+‘Everything in the world,’ said the Ram. ‘These people never saw a
+perfect sheep before. They think that I am a stray, and they will carry
+me from place to place as a model to all their flocks.’
+
+‘But they are greasy shepherds; we are not intended to amuse them,’
+said Leo.
+
+‘You may not be, I am,’ said the Ram. ‘I cannot tell when the Archer
+may choose to send his arrow at me--perhaps before the people a mile
+down the road have seen me.’ The Ram lowered his head that a yokel
+newly arrived might throw a wreath of wild garlic-leaves over it, and
+waited patiently while the farmers tugged his fleece.
+
+‘Do you like this?’ cried Leo over the shoulders of the crowd.
+
+‘No,’ said the Ram, as the dust of the trampling feet made him sneeze,
+and he snuffed at the fodder piled before him.
+
+Leo turned back intending to retrace his steps to the Houses, but as
+he was passing down a street he saw two small children, very dusty,
+rolling outside a cottage door, and playing with a cat. They were the
+Twins.
+
+‘What are you doing here?’ said Leo, indignant.
+
+‘Playing,’ said the Twins calmly.
+
+‘Cannot you play on the banks of the Milky Way?’ said Leo.
+
+‘We did,’ said they, ‘till the Fishes swam down and told us that some
+day they would come for us and not hurt us at all and carry us away. So
+now we are playing at being babies down here. The people like it.’
+
+‘Do you like it?’ said Leo.
+
+‘No,’ said the Twins, ‘but there are no cats in the Milky Way,’ and
+they pulled the cat’s tail thoughtfully. A woman came out of the
+doorway and stood behind them, and Leo saw in her face a look that he
+had sometimes seen in the Girl’s.
+
+‘She thinks that we are foundlings,’ said the Twins, and they trotted
+indoors to the evening meal.
+
+Then Leo hurried as swiftly as possible to all the Houses one after
+another; for he could not understand the new trouble that had come
+to his brethren. He spoke to the Archer, and the Archer assured him
+that so far as that House was concerned Leo had nothing to fear. The
+Waterman, the Fishes, and the Scorpion gave the same answer. They knew
+nothing of Leo, and cared less. They were the Houses, and they were
+busied in killing men.
+
+At last he came to that very dark House where Cancer the Crab lies
+so still that you might think he was asleep if you did not see the
+ceaseless play and winnowing motion of the feathery branches round his
+mouth. That movement never ceases. It is like the eating of a smothered
+fire into rotten timber in that it is noiseless and without haste.
+
+Leo stood in front of the Crab, and the half darkness allowed him a
+glimpse of that vast blue-black back, and the motionless eyes. Now and
+again he thought that he heard some one sobbing, but the noise was very
+faint.
+
+‘Why do you trouble the children of men?’ said Leo. There was no
+answer, and against his will Leo cried, ‘Why do you trouble us? What
+have we done that you should trouble us?’
+
+This time Cancer replied, ‘What do I know or care? You were born into
+my House, and at the appointed time I shall come for you.’
+
+‘When is the appointed time?’ said Leo, stepping back from the restless
+movement of the mouth.
+
+‘When the full moon fails to call the full tide,’ said the Crab, ‘I
+shall come for the one. When the other has taken the earth by the
+shoulders, I shall take that other by the throat.’
+
+Leo lifted his hand to the apple of his throat, moistened his lips, and
+recovering himself, said:
+
+‘Must I be afraid for two, then?’
+
+‘For two,’ said the Crab, ‘and as many more as may come after.’
+
+‘My brother, the Bull, had a better fate,’ said Leo, sullenly; ‘he is
+alone.’
+
+A hand covered his mouth before he could finish the sentence, and he
+found the Girl in his arms. Womanlike, she had not stayed where Leo had
+left her, but had hastened off at once to know the worst, and passing
+all the other Houses, had come straight to Cancer.
+
+‘That is foolish,’ said the Girl, whispering. ‘I have been waiting in
+the dark for long and long before you came. _Then_ I was afraid. But
+now----’ She put her head down on his shoulder and sighed a sigh of
+contentment.
+
+‘I am afraid now,’ said Leo.
+
+‘That is on my account,’ said the Girl. ‘I know it is, because I am
+afraid for your sake. Let us go, husband.’
+
+They went out of the darkness together and came back to the Earth, Leo
+very silent, and the Girl striving to cheer him. ‘My brother’s fate is
+the better one,’ Leo would repeat from time to time, and at last he
+said: ‘Let us each go our own way and live alone till we die. We were
+born into the House of Cancer, and he will come for us.’
+
+‘I know; I know. But where shall I go? And where will you sleep in the
+evening? But let us try. I will stay here. Do you go on?’
+
+Leo took six steps forward very slowly, and three long steps backward
+very quickly, and the third step set him again at the Girl’s side. This
+time it was she who was begging him to go away and leave her, and he
+was forced to comfort her all through the night. That night decided
+them both never to leave each other for an instant, and when they had
+come to this decision they looked back at the darkness of the House of
+Cancer high above their heads, and with their arms round each other’s
+necks laughed, ‘Ha! ha! ha!’ exactly as the children of men laughed.
+And that was the first time in their lives that they had ever laughed.
+
+Next morning they returned to their proper home, and saw the flowers
+and the sacrifices that had been laid before their doors by the
+villagers of the hills. Leo stamped down the fire with his heel and
+the Girl flung the flower-wreaths out of sight, shuddering as she did
+so. When the villagers returned, as of custom, to see what had become
+of their offerings, they found neither roses nor burned flesh on the
+altars, but only a man and a woman, with frightened white faces,
+sitting hand-in-hand on the altar-steps.
+
+‘Are you not Virgo?’ said a woman to the Girl. ‘I sent you flowers
+yesterday.’
+
+‘Little sister,’ said the Girl, flushing to her forehead, ‘do not send
+any more flowers, for I am only a woman like yourself.’ The man and the
+woman went away doubtfully.
+
+‘Now, what shall we do?’ said Leo.
+
+‘We must try to be cheerful, I think,’ said the Girl. ‘We know the very
+worst that can happen to us, but we do not know the best that love can
+bring us. We have a great deal to be glad of.’
+
+‘The certainty of death,’ said Leo.
+
+‘All the children of men have that certainty also; yet they laughed
+long before we ever knew how to laugh. We must learn to laugh, Leo. We
+have laughed once already.’
+
+People who consider themselves Gods, as the Children of the Zodiac
+did, find it hard to laugh, because the Immortals know nothing worth
+laughter or tears. Leo rose up with a very heavy heart, and he and the
+girl together went to and fro among men; their new fear of death behind
+them. First they laughed at a naked baby attempting to thrust its fat
+toes into its foolish pink mouth; next they laughed at a kitten chasing
+her own tail; and then they laughed at a boy trying to steal a kiss
+from a girl, and getting his ears boxed. Lastly, they laughed because
+the wind blew in their faces as they ran down a hill-side together, and
+broke panting and breathless into a knot of villagers at the bottom.
+The villagers laughed too at their flying clothes and wind-reddened
+faces; and in the evening gave them food and invited them to a dance on
+the grass, where everybody laughed through the mere joy of being able
+to dance.
+
+That night Leo jumped up from the Girl’s side crying: ‘Every one of
+those people we met just now will die----’
+
+‘So shall we,’ said the Girl sleepily. ‘Lie down again, dear.’ Leo
+could not see that her face was wet with tears.
+
+But Leo was up and far across the fields, driven forward by the fear of
+death for himself and for the Girl, who was dearer to him than himself.
+Presently he came across the Bull drowsing in the moonlight after a
+hard day’s work, and looking through half-shut eyes at the beautiful
+straight furrows that he had made.
+
+‘Ho!’ said the Bull, ‘so you have been told these things too. Which of
+the Houses holds your death?’
+
+Leo pointed upwards to the dark House of the Crab and groaned. ‘And he
+will come for the Girl too,’ he said.
+
+‘Well,’ said the Bull, ‘what will you do?’
+
+Leo sat down on the dyke and said that he did not know.
+
+‘You cannot pull a plough,’ said the Bull, with a little touch of
+contempt. ‘I can, and that prevents me from thinking of the Scorpion.’
+
+Leo was angry and said nothing till the dawn broke, and the cultivator
+came to yoke the Bull to his work.
+
+‘Sing,’ said the Bull, as the stiff muddy ox-bow creaked and strained.
+‘My shoulder is galled. Sing one of the songs that we sang when we
+thought we were all Gods together.’
+
+Leo stepped back into the cane-brake and lifted up his voice in a song
+of the Children of the Zodiac--the war-whoop of the young Gods who are
+afraid of nothing. At first he dragged the song along unwillingly, and
+then the song dragged him, and his voice rolled across the fields, and
+the Bull stepped to the tune and the cultivator banged his flanks out
+of sheer light-heartedness, and the furrows rolled away behind the
+plough more and more swiftly. Then the Girl came across the fields
+looking for Leo and found him singing in the cane. She joined her voice
+to his, and the cultivator’s wife brought her spinning into the open
+and listened with all her children round her. When it was time for the
+nooning, Leo and the Girl had sung themselves both thirsty and hungry,
+but the cultivator and his wife gave them rye-bread and milk, and many
+thanks, and the Bull found occasion to say: ‘You have helped me to do a
+full half-field more than I should have done. But the hardest part of
+the day is to come, brother.’
+
+Leo wished to lie down and brood over the words of the Crab. The Girl
+went away to talk to the cultivator’s wife and baby, and the afternoon
+ploughing began.
+
+‘Help us now,’ said the Bull. ‘The tides of the day are running down.
+My legs are very stiff. Sing if you never sang before.’
+
+‘To a mud-spattered villager?’ said Leo.
+
+‘He is under the same doom as ourselves. Are you a coward?’ said the
+Bull. Leo flushed and began again with a sore throat and a bad temper.
+Little by little he dropped away from the songs of the Children and
+made up a song as he went along; and this was a thing he could never
+have done had he not met the Crab face to face. He remembered facts
+concerning cultivators, and bullocks, and rice-fields, that he had
+not particularly noticed before the interview, and he strung them
+all together, growing more interested as he sang, and he told the
+cultivator much more about himself and his work than the cultivator
+knew. The Bull grunted approval as he toiled down the furrows for the
+last time that day, and the song ended, leaving the cultivator with a
+very good opinion of himself in his aching bones. The Girl came out
+of the hut where she had been keeping the children quiet, and talking
+woman-talk to the wife, and they all ate the evening meal together.
+
+‘Now yours must be a very pleasant life,’ said the cultivator, ‘sitting
+as you do on a dyke all day and singing just what comes into your head.
+Have you been at it long, you two--gipsies?’
+
+‘Ah!’ lowed the Bull from his byre. ‘That’s all the thanks you will
+ever get from men, brother.’
+
+‘No. We have only just begun it,’ said the Girl; ‘but we are going to
+keep to it as long as we live. Are we not, Leo?’
+
+‘Yes,’ said he, and they went away hand-in-hand.
+
+‘You can sing beautifully, Leo,’ said she, as a wife will to her
+husband.
+
+‘What were you doing?’ said he.
+
+‘I was talking to the mother and the babies,’ she said. ‘You would not
+understand the little things that make us women laugh.’
+
+‘And--and I am to go on with this--this gipsy-work?’ said Leo.
+
+‘Yes, dear, and I will help you.’
+
+There is no written record of the life of Leo and of the Girl, so we
+cannot tell how Leo took to his new employment which he detested. We
+are only sure that the Girl loved him when and wherever he sang; even
+when, after the song was done, she went round with the equivalent of
+a tambourine, and collected the pence for the daily bread. There were
+times too when it was Leo’s very hard task to console the Girl for the
+indignity of horrible praise that people gave him and her--for the
+silly wagging peacock feathers that they stuck in his cap, and the
+buttons and pieces of cloth that they sewed on his coat. Womanlike,
+she could advise and help to the end, but the meanness of the means
+revolted.
+
+‘What does it matter,’ Leo would say, ‘so long as the songs make them
+a little happier?’ And they would go down the road and begin again on
+the old old refrain: that whatever came or did not come the children
+of men must not be afraid. It was heavy teaching at first, but in
+process of years Leo discovered that he could make men laugh and hold
+them listening to him even when the rain fell. Yet there were people
+who would sit down and cry softly, though the crowd was yelling with
+delight, and there were people who maintained that Leo made them do
+this; and the Girl would talk to them in the pauses of the performance
+and do her best to comfort them. People would die too, while Leo was
+talking, and singing, and laughing, for the Archer, and the Scorpion,
+and the Crab, and the other Houses were as busy as ever. Sometimes the
+crowd broke, and were frightened, and Leo strove to keep them steady
+by telling them that this was cowardly; and sometimes they mocked at
+the Houses that were killing them, and Leo explained that this was even
+more cowardly than running away.
+
+In their wanderings they came across the Bull, or the Ram, or the
+Twins, but all were too busy to do more than nod to each other across
+the crowd, and go on with their work. As the years rolled on even that
+recognition ceased, for the Children of the Zodiac had forgotten that
+they had ever been Gods working for the sake of men. The Star Aldebaran
+was crusted with caked dirt on the Bull’s forehead, the Ram’s fleece
+was dusty and torn, and the Twins were only babies fighting over the
+cat on the doorstep. It was then that Leo said: ‘Let us stop singing
+and making jokes.’ And it was then that the girl said: ‘No--’ but she
+did not know why she said ‘No’ so energetically. Leo maintained that
+it was perversity, till she herself, at the end of a dusty day, made
+the same suggestion to him, and he said ‘most certainly not,’ and they
+quarrelled miserably between the hedgerows, forgetting the meaning of
+the stars above them. Other singers and other talkers sprang up in the
+course of the years, and Leo, forgetting that there could never be too
+many of these, hated them for dividing the applause of the children of
+men, which he thought should be all his own. The Girl would grow angry
+too, and then the songs would be broken, and the jests fall flat for
+weeks to come, and the children of men would shout: ‘Go home, you two
+gipsies. Go home and learn something worth singing!’
+
+After one of these sorrowful shameful days, the Girl, walking by Leo’s
+side through the fields, saw the full moon coming up over the trees,
+and she clutched Leo’s arm, crying: ‘The time has come now. Oh, Leo,
+forgive me!’
+
+‘What is it?’ said Leo. He was thinking of the other singers.
+
+‘My husband!’ she answered, and she laid his hand upon her breast,
+and the breast that he knew so well was hard as stone. Leo groaned,
+remembering what the Crab had said.
+
+‘Surely we were Gods once,’ he cried.
+
+‘Surely we are Gods still,’ said the Girl. ‘Do you not remember when
+you and I went to the house of the Crab and--were not very much afraid?
+And since then ... we have forgotten what we were singing for--we sang
+for the pence, and, oh, we fought for them!--We, who are the Children
+of the Zodiac.’
+
+‘It was my fault,’ said Leo.
+
+‘How can there be any fault of yours that is not mine too?’ said the
+Girl. ‘My time has come, but you will live longer, and....’ The look in
+her eyes said all she could not say.
+
+‘Yes, I will remember that we are Gods,’ said Leo.
+
+It is very hard, even for a child of the Zodiac, who has forgotten his
+Godhead, to see his wife dying slowly and to know that he cannot help
+her. The Girl told Leo in those last months of all that she had said
+and done among the wives and the babies at the back of the roadside
+performances, and Leo was astonished that he knew so little of her who
+had been so much to him. When she was dying she told him never to fight
+for pence or quarrel with the other singers; and, above all, to go on
+with his singing immediately after she was dead.
+
+Then she died, and after he had buried her he went down the road to
+a village that he knew, and the people hoped that he would begin
+quarrelling with a new singer that had sprung up while he had been
+away. But Leo called him ‘my brother.’ The new singer was newly
+married--and Leo knew it--and when he had finished singing, Leo
+straightened himself and sang the ‘Song of the Girl,’ which he had made
+coming down the road. Every man who was married or hoped to be married,
+whatever his rank or colour, understood that song--even the bride
+leaning on the new husband’s arm understood it too--and presently when
+the song ended, and Leo’s heart was bursting in him, the men sobbed.
+‘That was a sad tale,’ they said at last, ‘now make us laugh.’ Because
+Leo had known all the sorrow that a man could know, including the full
+knowledge of his own fall who had once been a God--he, changing his
+song quickly, made the people laugh till they could laugh no more. They
+went away feeling ready for any trouble in reason, and they gave Leo
+more peacock feathers and pence than he could count. Knowing that pence
+led to quarrels and that peacock feathers were hateful to the Girl, he
+put them aside and went away to look for his brothers, to remind them
+that they too were Gods.
+
+He found the Bull goring the undergrowth in a ditch, for the Scorpion
+had stung him, and he was dying, not slowly, as the Girl had died, but
+quickly.
+
+‘I know all,’ the Bull groaned, as Leo came up. ‘I had forgotten
+too, but I remember now. Go and look at the fields I ploughed. The
+furrows are straight. I forgot that I was a God, but I drew the plough
+perfectly straight, for all that. And you, brother?’
+
+‘I am not at the end of the ploughing,’ said Leo. ‘Does Death hurt?’
+
+‘No, but dying does,’ said the Bull, and he died. The cultivator who
+then owned him was much annoyed, for there was a field still unploughed.
+
+It was after this that Leo made the Song of the Bull who had been a God
+and forgotten the fact, and he sang it in such a manner that half the
+young men in the world conceived that they too might be Gods without
+knowing it. A half of that half grew impossibly conceited, and died
+early. A half of the remainder strove to be Gods and failed, but the
+other half accomplished four times more work than they would have done
+under any other delusion.
+
+Later, years later, always wandering up and down and making the
+children of men laugh, he found the Twins sitting on the bank of a
+stream waiting for the Fishes to come and carry them away. They were
+not in the least afraid, and they told Leo that the woman of the House
+had a real baby of her own, and that when that baby grew old enough to
+be mischievous he would find a well-educated cat waiting to have its
+tail pulled. Then the Fishes came for them, but all that the people saw
+was two children drowned in a brook; and though their foster-mother was
+very sorry, she hugged her own real baby to her breast and was grateful
+that it was only the foundlings.
+
+Then Leo made the Song of the Twins, who had forgotten that they were
+Gods and had played in the dust to amuse a foster-mother. That song was
+sung far and wide among the women. It caused them to laugh and cry and
+hug their babies closer to their hearts all in one breath; and some of
+the women who remembered the Girl said: ‘Surely that is the voice of
+Virgo. Only she could know so much about ourselves.’
+
+After those three songs were made, Leo sang them over and over again
+till he was in danger of looking upon them as so many mere words, and
+the people who listened grew tired, and there came back to Leo the old
+temptation to stop singing once and for all. But he remembered the
+Girl’s dying words and persisted.
+
+One of his listeners interrupted him as he was singing. ‘Leo,’ said he,
+‘I have heard you telling us not to be afraid for the past forty years.
+Can you not sing something new now?’
+
+‘No,’ said Leo, ‘it is the only song that I am allowed to sing. You
+must not be afraid of the Houses, even when they kill you.’ The man
+turned to go, wearily, but there came a whistling through the air, and
+the arrow of the Archer was seen skimming low above the earth, pointing
+to the man’s heart. He drew himself up, and stood still waiting till
+the arrow struck home.
+
+‘I die,’ he said quietly. ‘It is well for me, Leo, that you sang for
+forty years.’
+
+‘Are you afraid?’ said Leo, bending over him.
+
+‘I am a man, not a God,’ said the man. ‘I should have run away but for
+your songs. My work is done, and I die without making a show of my
+fear.’
+
+‘I am very well paid,’ said Leo to himself. ‘Now that I see what my
+songs are doing, I will sing better ones.’
+
+He went down the road, collected his little knot of listeners, and
+began the Song of the Girl. In the middle of his singing he felt the
+cold touch of the Crab’s claw on the apple of his throat. He lifted his
+hand, choked, and stopped for an instant.
+
+‘Sing on, Leo,’ said the crowd. ‘The old song runs as well as ever it
+did.’
+
+Leo went on steadily till the end with the cold fear at his heart. When
+his song was ended, he felt the grip on his throat tighten. He was old,
+he had lost the Girl, he knew that he was losing more than half his
+power to sing, he could scarcely walk to the diminishing crowds that
+waited for him, and could not see their faces when they stood about
+him. None the less, he cried angrily to the Crab:
+
+‘Why have you come for me _now_?’
+
+‘You were born under my care. How can I help coming for you?’ said the
+Crab wearily. Every human being whom the Crab killed had asked that
+same question.
+
+‘But I was just beginning to know what my songs were doing,’ said Leo.
+
+‘Perhaps that is why,’ said the Crab, and the grip tightened.
+
+‘You said you would not come till I had taken the world by the
+shoulders,’ gasped Leo, falling back.
+
+‘I always keep my word. You have done that three times with three
+songs. What more do you desire?’
+
+‘Let me live to see the world know it,’ pleaded Leo. ‘Let me be sure
+that my songs----’
+
+‘Make men brave?’ said the Crab. ‘Even then there would be one man who
+was afraid. The Girl was braver than you are. Come.’
+
+Leo was standing close to the restless insatiable mouth.
+
+‘I forgot,’ said he simply. ‘The Girl was braver. But I am a God too,
+and I am not afraid.’
+
+‘What is that to me?’ said the Crab.
+
+Then Leo’s speech was taken from him and he lay still and dumb,
+watching Death till he died.
+
+Leo was the last of the Children of the Zodiac. After his death there
+sprang up a breed of little mean men, whimpering and flinching and
+howling because the Houses killed them and theirs, who wished to live
+for ever without any pain. They did not increase their lives but they
+increased their own torments miserably, and there were no Children of
+the Zodiac to guide them; and the greater part of Leo’s songs were lost.
+
+Only he had carved on the Girl’s tombstone the last verse of the Song
+of the Girl, which stands at the head of this story.
+
+One of the children of men, coming thousands of years later, rubbed
+away the lichen, read the lines, and applied them to a trouble other
+than the one Leo meant. Being a man, men believed that he had made the
+verses himself; but they belong to Leo, the Child of the Zodiac, and
+teach, as he taught, that whatever comes or does not come we men must
+not be afraid.
+
+
+
+
+                                 ENVOY.
+
+
+    Heh! Walk her round. Heave, ah heave her short again!
+      Over, snatch her over, there, and hold her on the pawl.
+    Loose all sail, and brace your yards aback and full--
+      Ready jib to pay her off and heave short all!
+        Well, ah fare you well; we can stay no more with you, my love--
+          Down, set down your liquor and your girl from off your knee;
+                For the wind has come to say:
+                ‘You must take me while you may,
+         If you’d go to Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at sea!’
+
+    Heh! Walk her round. Break, ah break it out o’ that!
+      Break our starboard bower out, apeak, awash, aclear!
+    Port--port she casts, with the harbour-roil beneath her foot,
+      And that’s the last o’ bottom we shall see this year!
+        Well, ah fare you well, for we’ve got to take her out again--
+          Take her out in ballast, riding light and cargo-free.
+                And it’s time to clear and quit
+                When the hawser grips the bitt,
+         So we’ll pay you with the foresheet and a promise from the sea!
+
+    Heh! Tally on. Aft and walk away with her!
+      Handsome to the cathead, now; O tally on the fall!
+    Stop, seize and fish, and easy on the davit-guy.
+      Up, well up the fluke of her, and inboard haul!
+        Well, ah fare you well, for the Channel wind’s took hold of us,
+          Choking down our voices as we snatch the gaskets free.
+                And it’s blowing up for night,
+                And she’s dropping Light on Light,
+          And she’s snorting under bonnets for a breath of open sea.
+
+    Wheel, full and by; but she’ll smell her road alone to-night.
+      Sick she is and harbour-sick--O sick to clear the land!
+    Roll down to Brest with the old Red Ensign over us--
+      Carry on and thrash her out with all she’ll stand!
+        Well, ah fare you well, and it’s Ushant gives the door to us,
+          Whirling like a windmill on the dirty sand to lea:
+                Till the last, last flicker goes
+                From the tumbling water-rows,
+          And we’re off to Mother Carey
+            (Walk her down to Mother Carey!)
+         Oh, we’re bound for Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at
+           sea!
+
+
+                                THE END
+
+
+                 _Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, _Edinburgh_
+
+
+
+
+              MESSRS. MACMILLAN AND CO.’S POPULAR NOVELS.
+
+                          _BY THE SAME AUTHOR._
+
+                          Crown 8vo. 6s. each.
+
+
+THE LIGHT THAT FAILED. Re-written and considerably enlarged.
+
+  _ACADEMY._--“Whatever else be true of Mr. Kipling; it is the first
+  truth about him that he has power, real intrinsic power.... Mr.
+  Kipling’s work has innumerable good qualities.”
+
+  _GLASGOW HERALD._--“The power and interest are sustained throughout,
+  and there is nowhere any indication of flagging or of a second
+  breath.... It carries on the tradition of the author’s picturesque
+  freshness and inexhaustible resources.”
+
+  _MANCHESTER COURIER._--“The story is a brilliant one and full of
+  vivid interest.”
+
+
+PLAIN TALES FROM THE HILLS.
+
+  _SATURDAY REVIEW._--“Mr. Kipling knows and appreciates the English
+  in India, and is a born story-teller and a man of humour into the
+  bargain.... It would be hard to find better reading.”
+
+  _DUBLIN EVENING MAIL._--“This is a delightful book.... Mr. Kipling is
+  a man of genius, and prefers quality to quantity. Many of his stories
+  are profoundly pathetic. We think the dominant note of his genius is
+  pathos, but there is humour, rich and racy humour, in all of them.”
+
+  _GLASGOW HERALD._--“That the book will at least be as popular here
+  as it has been and is in India we have no doubt. Possibly even a
+  greater success is in store for it, seeing that for us it possesses
+  rare qualities of freshness, of strange and brilliant colouring,
+  of curious characterisation, and of unusual incident, which to the
+  Anglo-Indian were probably familiar enough, though even in that case
+  the genius of the writer must have lifted them out of the region
+  of everyday life. One of the first things that strikes the reader
+  is the exceptional excellence of the tales.... The man who wrote
+  these tales has manifestly numberless others to tell.... Character,
+  situation, incident, humour, pathos, tragic force, are all in
+  abundance; words alone are at a minimum. Of course these are ‘plain’
+  tales,--lightning-flash tales. A gleam, and there the whole tragedy
+  or comedy is before you--elaborate it for yourself afterwards.”
+
+  _SCOTTISH REVIEW._--“... Whatever may be Mr. Kipling’s ability in
+  the higher walks of fiction, his ability as a story-teller or for
+  narrating such incidents, whether real or fictitious, as are here
+  put together is beyond question. They are told with ease, force,
+  and directness. The humorous stories are probably the best, but
+  whether humorous or grave--and there are both in the volume--they
+  throw considerable light upon certain phases of European society in
+  India and on numerous aspects of native Indian life. There is not an
+  uninteresting story in the volume, and one closes the book with the
+  desire to read the ‘other stories’ Mr. Kipling so often alludes to,
+  and somewhat tantalisingly passes over.”
+
+  _BROAD ARROW._--“Mr. Kipling is accomplished beyond all recent
+  standards of comparison, and his forty stories are all readable
+  and clever. There is a freshness about them rare in such delicious
+  morsels of satire and sentiment ... and there is not a dull page in
+  the three hundred and ten.”
+
+
+LIFE’S HANDICAP. Stories of Mine own People.
+
+  _BLACK AND WHITE._--“‘Life’s Handicap’ contains much of the best
+  work hitherto accomplished by the author, and taken as a whole is a
+  complete advance upon its predecessors....”
+
+  _OBSERVER._--“The stories are as good as ever, and are quite as well
+  told.... ‘Life’s Handicap’ is a volume that can be read with pleasure
+  and interest under almost any circumstances.”
+
+
+                          BY ROLF BOLDREWOOD.
+
+        New and Uniform Edition. Crown 8vo. Cloth. 3s. 6d. each.
+
+
+ROBBERY UNDER ARMS.
+
+  A STORY OF LIFE AND ADVENTURE IN THE BUSH
+    AND IN THE GOLD-FIELDS OF AUSTRALIA.
+
+  _GUARDIAN._--“A singularly spirited and stirring tale of Australian
+  life, chiefly in the remoter settlements.... Altogether it is a
+  capital story, full of wild adventure, and startling incidents, and
+  told with a genuine simplicity and quiet appearance of truth, as
+  if the writer were really drawing upon his memory rather than his
+  imagination.”
+
+  _SPECTATOR._--“We have nothing but praise for this story. Of
+  adventure of the most stirring kind there is, as we have said,
+  abundance. But there is more than this. The characters are drawn
+  with great skill. Every one of the gang of bush-rangers is strongly
+  individualised. This is a book of no common literary force.”
+
+  _WORLD._--“An uncommonly good thing.... The book, in short, has the
+  natural touch, both of place and person, on every page.”
+
+  _MORNING POST._--“As a picture of the earlier days of our Australian
+  Colonies and as an absorbing story ‘Robbery at Arms’ has few equals.”
+
+  _GRAPHIC._--“That Mr. Boldrewood knows his subject through and
+  through is as certain as his picture of the breaking-out of the first
+  gold fever in Australia is the best ever written.”
+
+
+THE SQUATTER’S DREAM.
+
+
+THE MINER’S RIGHT.
+
+   A TALE OF THE AUSTRALIAN GOLD-FIELDS.
+
+  _WORLD._--“Full of good passages, passages abounding in vivacity,
+  in the colour and play of life.... The pith of the book lies in
+  its singularly fresh and vivid pictures of the humours of the
+  gold-fields,--tragic humours enough they are, too, here and again....”
+
+  _MANCHESTER EXAMINER._--“The characters are sketched with real life
+  and picturesqueness. The book is lively and readable from first to
+  last.”
+
+
+A COLONIAL REFORMER.
+
+  _ATHENÆUM._--“A series of natural and entertaining pictures of
+  Australian life, which are, above all things, readable.”
+
+  _GLASGOW HERALD._--“One of the most interesting books about Australia
+  we have ever read.”
+
+  _SATURDAY REVIEW._--“Mr. Boldrewood can tell what he knows with great
+  point and vigour, and there is no better reading than the adventurous
+  parts of his books.”
+
+
+A SYDNEY-SIDE SAXON.
+
+  _GLASGOW HERALD._--“The interest never flags, and altogether ‘A
+  Sydney-Side Saxon’ is a really refreshing book.”
+
+  _ANTI-JACOBIN._--“Thoroughly well worth reading.... A clever book,
+  admirably written.... Brisk in incident, truthful and life-like in
+  character.... Beyond and above all it has that stimulating hygienic
+  quality, that cheerful, unconscious healthfulness, which makes
+  a story like ‘Robinson Crusoe,’ or ‘The Vicar of Wakefield,’ so
+  unspeakably refreshing after a course of even good contemporary
+  fiction.”
+
+
+NEVERMORE.
+
+  _ACADEMY._--“Is perhaps the best story of the Rolf Boldrewood Series.
+  Must be allowed to be one of the best works of the period.”
+
+
+                           BY MRS. OLIPHANT.
+
+                    Crown 8vo. Cloth. 3s. 6d. each.
+
+
+NEIGHBOURS ON THE GREEN.
+
+KIRSTEEN.
+
+  _SCOTSMAN._--“One of the most powerful stories Mrs. Oliphant has ever
+  written.”
+
+  _MURRAY’S MAGAZINE._--“One of the best books which Mrs. Oliphant’s
+  fertile pen has within recent years produced.”
+
+  _WORLD._--“Mrs. Oliphant has written many novels, and many good ones;
+  but if she has hitherto written one so good as _Kirsteen_, we have
+  not read it.... It is the highest praise we can give, when we say
+  that there are passages in it which, as pictures of Scottish life and
+  character, it would be difficult, perhaps impossible, to match out of
+  Sir Walter’s pages.”
+
+  _NATIONAL OBSERVER._--“Seldom, if ever, has Mrs. Oliphant done better
+  than in _Kirsteen_.... There is humour, there is pathos, there is
+  tragedy, there is even crime--in short, there is human life.”
+
+
+JOYCE.
+
+  _GUARDIAN._--“It has seldom been our lot to fall in with so
+  engrossing a story.”
+
+
+A BELEAGUERED CITY.
+
+  _TIMES._--“The story is a powerful one and very original to boot.”
+
+
+HESTER.
+
+  _ACADEMY._--“At her best, she is, with one or two exceptions, the
+  best of living English novelists. She is at her best in _Hester_.”
+
+
+HE THAT WILL NOT WHEN HE MAY.
+
+  _SCOTSMAN._--“The workmanship of the book is simply admirable.”
+
+
+THE RAILWAY MAN AND HIS CHILDREN.
+
+  _ANTI-JACOBIN._--“An extremely interesting story, and a perfectly
+  satisfactory achievement of literary art.”
+
+  _MORNING POST._--“Mrs. Oliphant has never written a simpler, and at
+  the same time a better conceived story. An excellent example of pure
+  and simple fiction, which is also of the deepest interest.”
+
+
+THE MARRIAGE OF ELINOR.
+
+  _NATIONAL OBSERVER._--“In spite of yourself and of them, you become
+  interested in uninteresting people, annoyed at their follies, and
+  sympathetic with their trifling sorrows and joys. This is Mrs.
+  Oliphant’s secret.”
+
+
+SIR TOM.
+
+  _SATURDAY REVIEW._--“Has the charm of style, the literary quality and
+  flavour that never fail to please.”
+
+
+                          Globe 8vo. 2s. each.
+
+A SON OF THE SOIL.
+
+THE CURATE IN CHARGE.
+
+YOUNG MUSGRAVE.
+
+THE WIZARD’S SON.
+
+  _SPECTATOR._--“We have read it twice, once in snippets, and once as a
+  whole, and our interest has never flagged.”
+
+
+A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN AND HIS FAMILY.
+
+  _ACADEMY._--“Never has her workmanship been surer, steadier, or more
+  masterly.”
+
+
+THE SECOND SON.
+
+  _MORNING POST._--“Mrs. Oliphant has never shown herself more
+  completely mistress of her art.... The entire story is clever and
+  powerful.”
+
+
+                    Crown 8vo. Cloth. 3s. 6d. each.
+
+BY J. H. SHORTHOUSE.
+
+ _ANTI-JACOBIN._--“Powerful, striking, and fascinating romances.”
+
+  JOHN INGLESANT.
+
+  SIR PERCIVAL.
+
+  THE LITTLE SCHOOLMASTER MARK.
+
+  A TEACHER OF THE VIOLIN.
+
+  THE COUNTESS EVE.
+
+
+BY MRS. CRAIK.
+
+  (The Author of “JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.”)
+
+  OLIVE. With Illustrations by G. BOWERS.
+
+  THE OGILVIES. With Illustrations by J. MCL. RALSTON.
+
+  AGATHA’S HUSBAND. With Illustrations by WALTER CRANE.
+
+  HEAD OF THE FAMILY. With Illustrations by WALTER CRANE.
+
+  TWO MARRIAGES.
+
+  THE LAUREL BUSH.
+
+  MY MOTHER AND I. With Illustrations by J. MCL. RALSTON.
+
+  MISS TOMMY: A Mediæval Romance. With Illustrations by FREDERICK NOEL
+  PATON.
+
+  KING ARTHUR: Not a Love Story.
+
+
+BY CHARLES KINGSLEY.
+
+  WESTWARD HO!
+
+  HYPATIA; or, New Foes with an Old Face.
+
+  YEAST. A Problem.
+
+  ALTON LOCKE; Tailor and Poet.
+
+  TWO YEARS AGO.
+
+  HEREWARD THE WAKE.
+
+
+                            =By HUGH CONWAY.=
+
+  _MORNING POST._--“Life-like and full of individuality.”
+
+  _DAILY NEWS._--“Throughout written with spirit, good feeling, and
+  ability and a certain dash of humour.”
+
+  LIVING OR DEAD?
+  A FAMILY AFFAIR.
+
+
+                   =By SIR HENRY CUNNINGHAM, K.C.I.E.=
+
+  _ST. JAMES’S GAZETTE._--“Interesting as specimens of romance, the
+  style of writing is so excellent--scholarly and at the same time
+  easy and natural--that the volumes are worth reading on that account
+  alone. But there is also a masterly description of persons, places,
+  and things; skilful analysis of character; a constant play of wit and
+  humour; and a happy gift of instantaneous portraiture.”
+
+  THE CŒRULEANS.
+  THE HERIOTS.
+  WHEAT AND TARES.
+
+
+                           =By THOMAS HARDY.=
+
+  _TIMES._--“There is hardly a novelist, dead or living, who so
+  skilfully harmonises the poetry of rural life with its penury. Just
+  as Millet could in the figure of a solitary peasant toiling on a
+  plain, convey a world of pathetic meaning, so Mr. Hardy with his
+  yeomen and villagers. Their occupations in his hands wear a pathetic
+  dignity, which not even the encomiums of a Ruskin could heighten.”
+
+  THE WOODLANDERS.
+  WESSEX TALES.
+
+
+                         =By W. CLARK RUSSELL.=
+
+  _TIMES._--“Mr. Clark Russell is one of those writers who have set
+  themselves to revive the British sea story in all its glorious
+  excitement. Mr. Russell has made a considerable reputation in this
+  line. His plots are well conceived, and that of _Marooned_ is no
+  exception to this rule.”
+
+  MAROONED.
+  A STRANGE ELOPEMENT.
+
+
+                         =By VARIOUS WRITERS.=
+
+  LOUISIANA; and THAT LASS O’ LOWRIE’S. By FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT.
+
+  CECILIA DE NOEL. By LANOE FALCONER.
+
+  FAITHFUL AND UNFAITHFUL. By MARGARET LEE.
+
+  REUBEN SACHS. By AMY LEVY.
+
+  THE RING OF AMASIS. By Lord LYTTON.
+
+  MRS. LORIMER. By LUCAS MALET.
+
+  MISS BRETHERTON. By Mrs. HUMPHRY WARD.
+
+  MUCKLE JOCK AND OTHER STORIES. By M. M‘LENNAN.
+
+
+                    Crown 8vo. Cloth. 3s. 6d. each.
+
+                          =By CHARLES DICKENS.=
+
+  THE PICKWICK PAPERS. With 50 Illustrations.
+
+  OLIVER TWIST. 27 Illustrations.
+
+  NICHOLAS NICKELBY. 44 Illustrations.
+
+  MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 41 Illustrations.
+
+  THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 97 Illustrations.
+
+  BARNABY RUDGE. 76 Illustrations.
+
+  DOMBEY AND SON. 40 Illustrations.
+
+  CHRISTMAS BOOKS. 65 Illustrations.
+
+  SKETCHES BY BOZ. 44 Illustrations.
+
+  DAVID COPPERFIELD. 41 Illustrations.
+
+  AMERICAN NOTES AND PICTURES FROM ITALY. 4 Illustrations.
+
+  THE LETTERS OF CHARLES DICKENS.
+
+
+                            =By BRET HARTE.=
+
+  _SPEAKER._--“The best work of Mr. Bret Harte stands entirely alone
+  ... marked on every page by distinction and quality.... Strength and
+  delicacy, spirit and tenderness, go together in his best work.”
+
+      CRESSY.
+      THE HERITAGE OF DEDLOW MARSH.
+      A FIRST FAMILY OF TASAJARA.
+
+
+                            =By HENRY JAMES.=
+
+  _SATURDAY REVIEW._--“He has the power of seeing with the artistic
+  perception of the few, and of writing about what he has seen, so that
+  the many can understand and feel with him.”
+
+  _WORLD._--“His touch is so light, and his humour, while shrewd and
+  keen, so free from bitterness.”
+
+  A LONDON LIFE.
+  THE ASPERN PAPERS.
+  THE TRAGIC MUSE.
+
+
+                            =By ANNIE KEARY.=
+
+  _SPECTATOR._--“In our opinion there have not been many novels
+  published better worth reading. The literary workmanship is
+  excellent, and all the windings of the stories are worked with
+  patient fulness and a skill not often found.”
+
+  CASTLE DALY.
+  A YORK AND A LANCASTER ROSE.
+  JANET’S HOME.
+  OLDBURY.
+  A DOUBTING HEART.
+
+
+                        =By D. CHRISTIE MURRAY.=
+
+  _SPECTATOR._--“Mr. Christie Murray has more power and genius for
+  the delineation of English rustic life than any half-dozen of our
+  surviving novelists put together.”
+
+  _SATURDAY REVIEW._--“Few modern novelists can tell a story of English
+  country life better than Mr. D. Christie Murray.”
+
+  AUNT RACHEL.
+  JOHN VALE’S GUARDIAN.
+  SCHWARTZ.
+  THE WEAKER VESSEL.
+  HE FELL AMONG THIEVES. By D. C. MURRAY and H. HERMAN.
+
+
+                       MACMILLAN AND CO., LONDON.
+
+
+
+
+Transcriber’s Note:
+
+
+ Obvious errors in spelling, hyphenation and punctuation have been
+silently corrected in this version, but minor inconsistencies and
+archaic forms have been retained as printed.
+
+ The footnotes have been relocated to the end of their respective
+stories and renumbered to better fit the ebook format.
+
+ In addition, the following changes have been made:
+
+ On page 43: harnassed _to_ harnessed, in the phrase: Three elephants
+harnessed tandem go to each gun.
+
+ On page 250: Welling _to_ welling, in the phrase: Raines’s young
+barrister had for once put aside his unslaked and welling passion for
+alibis and insanity,(...)
+
+ On page 315: _Mungoose_ _to_ _Mongoose_, in the phrase: (...)said the
+Lieutenant of the _Mongoose_, a real white-painted ram-bow gunboat(...)
+
+ On page 348: come _to_ came, in the phrase: A woman came out of the
+doorway (...)
+
+ On page 365: sand to lea _to_ scud to lee, in the line[4]:
+Whirling like a windmill on the dirty scud to lee
+
+[4] This change is found in most other editions of this poem.
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78240 ***