CORNELL
UNIVERSITY
LIBRARY

 

FROM THE BOOKS OF

GEORGE MORGAN WELCH ’03
COLONEL

Judge Advocate General's Department
Army of the United States

~~

Goldwin Sm.

 

 

 

 
‘ornell University Library

Soldiers

HNN
 

 

 

 

 

Rupyarp Kipuine.
 

 

cM CALDWELL-~”

\ COMPAN YA 7
» NEW YORKBOSTON
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SOLDIERS THREE.
PREFACE.

Tuts small book contains, for the most
part, the further adventures of my esteemed
friends and sometime allies, Privates Mulva-
ney, Ortheris, and Learoyd, who have already
been introduced to the public. Those anx-
ious to know how the three most cruelly
maltreated a Member of Parliament; how
Ortheris went mad for a space; how Mul-
vaney and some friends took the town of
Lungtungpen; and how little Jhansi Mc-
Kenna helped the regiment when it was
smitten with cholera, must refer to a book:
called Plain Tales from the Hills. 1
would have reprinted the four stories in this
place, but Dinah Shadd says that “ tearin’
the tripes out av a book wid a pictur’ on the
back, all to make Terence proud past
PREFACE,

reasonin’,” is wasteful, and Mulvaney himself
says that he prefers to have his fame
‘“‘dishpersed most notoriously in sev’ril vol-
umes.” I can only hope that his desire will

be gratified.
RUDYARD KIPLING.
CONTENTS.

paca
fHE Gop FROM THE MACHINE . .- 6 « « 9

Privaté LEARoyD’s STORY. . . 2 © «© «© © 29
Tue Bic Drunk Drar’. . . 6 1 ee ee) 46
Tue Sotip MULDOON... we 6 ee (O66
WITH THE Main GuaRD .... 6 « « © = 86
IN THE MATTER OF A PRIVATE ~ « . © «© + FIZ
Brack JACK. « «6 6 ee © © oe ww «138

-
ONLY A SUBALTERN . . 6 « © @ © © © 3 197

 
THE GOD FROM THE MACHINE.

fir a man an’ help a woman, an’ ye can’t be far wrong
anyways. — Maxims of Private Mulvaney.

THE Inexpressibles gave a ball. They
borrowed a seven-pounder from the Gunners,
and wreathed it with laurels, and made the
dancing-floor plate-glass, and provided a
supper, the like of which had never been
eaten before, and set two sentries at the door
of the room to hold the trays of programme-
cards. My friend, Private Mulvaney, was
one of the sentries, because he was the
tallest man in the regiment. When the
dance was fairly started the sentries were
released, and Private Mulvaney fled to curry
favor with the Mess Sergeant in charge of
the supper. Whether the Mess Sergeant
gave or Mulvaney took, I cannot say. All
that I am certain of is that, at supper-time, I
10 SOLDIERS THREE.

found Mulvaney with Private Ortheris, two-
thirds of a ham, a loaf of bread, half a paté-de-
foie-gras, and two magnums of champagne,
sitting on the roof of my carriage. As |
came up I heard him saying, —

“Praise be a danst doesn’t come as often
as Ord'ly-room, or, by this an’ that, Orth’ris,
me son, I wud be the dishgrace av the
rig’mint instid av the brightest jool in uts
crown.”

“Hand the Colonel’s pet noosince,” said
Ortheris, who was a Londoner. ‘ But wot
makes you curse your rations? ‘This ’ere
fizzy stuff’s good enough,”

“Stuff, ye oncivilized pagin! ’Tis cham-
pagne we're dhrinkin’ now. ’Tisn’t that I am
set ag’in. "Tis this quare stuff wid the little
bits av black leather in it. I misdoubt I will
be distressin’ly sick wid it in the mornin’,
Fwhat is ut?”

“Goose liver,” I said, climbing on the top
of the carriage, for | knew that it was better
to sit out with Mulvaney than to dance many
dances.
THE GOD FROM THE MACHINE, in

“Goose liver is ut?” said Mulvaney
“ Faith, I’m thinkin’ thim that makes it wud
do betther to cut up the Colonel. He carries
a power av liver undher his right arrum whin
the days are warm an’ the nights chill. He
wud give thim tons an’ tons av liver. "Tis
he sez so. ‘I’m all liver to-day,’ sez he;
an’ wid that he ordhers me ten days C. B. for
as moild a dhrink as iver a good sodger tuk
betune his teeth.”

“That was when ’e wanted for to wash
’isself in the Fort Ditch,” Ortheris explained.
‘‘Said there was too much beer in the Bar-
rack water-butts for a God-fearing man.
You was lucky in gittin’ orf with wot you
did, Mulvaney.”

“You say so? Now I’m pershuaded I was
cruel hard trated, seein’ fwhat I’ve done for
the likes av him in the days whin my eyes
were wider opin than they are now. Man
alive, for the Colonel to whip me on the peg
in that way! Me that have saved the repita-
tion av a ten times better man than him!
’Twas ne-farious, an’ that manes a power av

evil!” :
12 SOLDIERS THREE.

“Never mind the nefariousness,” I said,
“Whose reputation did you save?”

“More’s the pity, ’twasn’t my own, but I
tuk more trouble wid ut than av ut was.
‘Twas just my way, messin’ wid fwhat was
no business av mine. Hear now!” He
settled himself at ease on the top of the
carriage. “I'll tell you all about ut. Av
coorse I will name no names, for there’s wan
that’s an orf’cer’s lady now, that was in ut,
and no more will J name places, for a man is
thracked by a place.”

““Eyah!” said Ortheris lazily, “but this is
a mixed story wot’s comin’.”

“‘Wanst upon a time, as the childer-books
say, I was a recruity.”

“Was you though?” said Ortheris; “now
that’s extryordinary!”

“ Orth’ris,” said Mulvaney, “av you opin
thim lips av yours again, I will, savin’ your
presince, Sorr, take you by the slack av your
trousers an’ heave you.”

“Tm mum,” said Ortheris. ‘Wot ‘’ap-
pened when you was a recruity?”
THE GOD FRO THE MACHINE. 13

“T was a betther recruity than you iver
was or will be, but that's neither here nor
there. Thin I became a man, an’ the divil of
aman Iwas fifteen years ago. They called
me Buck Mulvaney in thim days, an’, begad,
1 tuk a woman’s eye. I did that! Ortheris,
ye scrub, fwhat are ye sniggerin’ at? Do
you misdoubt me?”

“Devil a doubt!” said Ortheris; “ but
I’ve ’eard summat like that before!”

Mulvaney dismissed the impertinence with
a lofty wave of his hand and continued, —

“‘An’ the orf’cers av the rig’mint I was in
in thim days was orf'cers— gran’ men, wid a
manner on ’em, an’ a way wid ’em such as is
not made these days — all but wan — wan 0’
the capt’ns. A bad dhrill, a wake voice, an’
a limp leg —thim three things are the signs
av a bad man. You bear that in your hid,
Orth’ris, me son.

“ An’ the Colonel av the rig’mint had a
daughter —wan av thim lamblike, bleatin’,
pick-me-up-an’-carry-me-or-I'll-die gurls such
as was made for the natural prey av men like
14 SOLDIERS THREE.

the Capt’n who was iverlastin’ payin’ coort to
her, though the Colonel he said time an’
over, ‘Kape out av the brute’s way, my
dear. But he niver had the heart for to
send her away from the throuble, bein’ as he
was a widower, an’ she their wan child.”

“Stop a minute, Mulvaney,” said I;
“how in the world did you come to’ know
these things?”

“How did I come?” said Mulvaney, with
a scornful grunt; ‘“ bekase I’m turned durin’
the Quane’s pleasure to a lump av wood,
lookin’ out straight forninst me, wid a— a —
candelabbrum in my hand, for you to pick
your cards out av, must I not see nor feel?
Av coorse I du! Up my back, an’ in my
bocts, an’ in the short hair av the neck —
that’s where I kape my eyes whin I’m on
duty an’ the reg’lar wans are fixed. Know!
Take my word for it, Sorr, ivrything an’ a
great dale more is known in a rig’mint; or
fwhat wud be the use av a Mess Sargint, or
a Sargint’s wife doin’ wet-nurse to the

Major’s baby? To reshume. He was a bad
THE GOD FROM THE MACHINE. 15

dhrill was this Capt'n —a rotten bad dhrill
—.an’ whin first I ran me eye over him, I sez
to myself: ‘My Militia bantam!’ I sez, ‘my
cock av a Gosport dunghill’ —’twas from
Portsmouth he came to us — ‘there’s combs
to be cut,’ sez I, ‘an’ by the grace av God,
*tis Terence Mulvaney will cut thim.’

“So he wint menowderin’, and minan-
derin’, an’ blandandhering roun’ an’ about
the Colonel’s daughter, an’ she, poor inno-
cint, lookin’ at him like a Comm’ssariat bull-
ock looks at the Comp’ny cook. He'd a
dhirty little scrub av a black mustache, an’
he twisted an’ turned ivry wurrd he used as
av he found ut too sweet for to spit out.
Eyah! He was a tricky man an’a liar by
natur’. Some are born so. He was wan.
I knew he was over his belt in money bor-
rowed from natives; besides a lot av other
mathers which, in regard for your presince,
Sorr, I will oblitherate. A little av fwhat I
knew, the Colonel knew, for he wud have
none av him, an’ that, I’m thinkin’, by fwhac
happened aftherwards, the Capt'n knew.
16 SCLDIEKS THREE,

“Wan day, bein’ mortial idle, or they wud
never ha’ thried ut, the rig’mint gave am-
shure theatricals — orfcers an’ orf cers’
ladies. You've seen the likes time an’ agin,
Sorr, an’ poor fun ’tis for them that sit in
the back row an’ stamp wid their boots for
the honor av the rig’mint. I was told off
for to shif’ the scenes, haulin’ up this an’
draggin’ down that. Light work ut was, wid
lashins av beer and the gurl that dhressed
the orf’cers’ ladies . . . but she died in Aggra
twelve years gone, an’ my tongue’s gettin’
the betther av me. They was actin’ a play
thing called Sweethearts, which you may ha’
heard av, an’ the Colonel’s daughter she was
a lady’s maid. The Capt'n was a boy called
Broom — Spread Broom was his name in the
play. Thin I saw — ut come out in the
actin — fwhat I niver saw before, an’ that
was that he was no gentleman. They was
too much together, thim two, a-whishperin’
behind the scenes I shifted, an’ some av
what they said I heard; for I was death —
blue death an’ ivy —on the comb-cuttin’.
THE GOD FROM THE MACHINE. 17

He was iverlastin’ly oppressing her to fall in
wid some sneakin’ schame av his, an’ she
was thryin’ to stand out against him, but not
as though she was set in her will. I wonder
now in thim days that my ears did not grow
a yard on me head wid list’nin’. But I
looked straight forninst me, an’ hauled up
this an’ dragged down that, such as was my
duty, an’ the orf’cers’ ladies sez one to an-
other, thinkin’ I was out av listen-reach:
‘Fwhat an obligin’ young man is this Corp’-
ril Mulvaney!’ I was a Corp’ril then. I
was rejuced aftherwards, but, no matther,
I was a Corp’ril wanst.

“Well, this Sweethearts’ business wint on
like most amshure theatricals, an’ barrin’
fwhat I suspicioned, ’twasn’t till the dhress-
rehearsal that I saw for certain that thim two
—he the blackguard, an’ she no wiser than
she should ha’ been — had put up an
evasion.”

‘A what?” said I.

“E-vasion! Fwhat you lorruds an’ ladies
call an elopemint. E-vasion I calls it, be-
18 SOLDIERS rHREE.

kaze, exceptin’ whin ’tis right an’ natural an’
proper, ‘tis wrong an’ dhirty to steal a man’s
wan child not knowin’ her own mind.
There was a Sargint in the Comm’ssariat
who set my face upon e-vasions. I'll tell
you about that —”

“Stick to the bloomin’ Captains, Mul-
vaney,” said Ortheris; ‘‘ Comm’ssariat Sar-
gints is low.” .

Mulvaney accepted the emendation and
went on:—

‘Now I knew that the Colonel was no
fool, any more than me, for I was hild the
smartest man in the rig’mint, an’ the Colonel
was the best orf’cer commandin’ in Asia; so
fwhat he said an’ I said was a mortial truth.
We knew that the Capt'n was bad, but, for
reasons which I have already oblitherated, I
knew more than me Colonel. I wud _ ha’
rolled out his face wid the butt av my gun
before permittin’ av him to steal the gurl.
Saints knew av he wud ha’ married her, and
av he didn’t she wud be in great tormint, an’
the divil av what you, Sorr, call a ‘ scandal.’
THE GOD FROM THE MACHINE. 19

But I niver sthruck, niver raised me hand on
my shuperior orf’cer ; an’ that was a merricle
now I come to considher it.”

‘“* Mulvaney, the dawn’s risin’,” said Orthe-
ris, ‘an’ we’re no nearer ’ome than we was
at the beginnin’. Lend me your pouch.
Mine’s all dust.”

Mulvaney pitched his pouch across, and
filled his pipe afresh.

‘So the dhress-rehearsal came to an end,
an’, bekaze I was curious, I stayed behind
whin the scene-shiftin’ was ended, an’ I shud
ha’ been in barricks, lyin’ as flat as a toad
under a painted cottage thing. They was
talkin’ in whispers, an’ she was shiverin’ an’
gaspin’ like a fresh-hukked fish. ‘Are you
sure you've got the hang av the manew-
vers ?’ sez he, or wurrds to that effec’, as the
coort-martial sez. ‘Sure as death,’ sez she,
‘but I misdoubt ’tis cruel hard on my father.’
‘Damn your father,’ sez he, or anyways ’twas
fwhat he thought, ‘the arrangement is as
clear as mud. Jungi will drive the carri’ge
afther all's over, an’ you come to the station,
20 SOLDIERS THREE.

cool an’ aisy, in time for the two o'clock
thrain, where I'll be wid your kit.’ ‘ Faith,’
thinks I to myself, ‘ thin there’s a ayah in the
business tu !’

‘A powerful bad thing is a ayah. Don’t
you niver have any thruck wid wan. Thin
he began sootherin’ her, an’ all the orf’cers
an’ orf’cers’ ladies left, an’ they put out the
lights. To explain the theory av the flight,
as they say at Muskthry, you must under-
stand that afther this Sweethearts’ nonsinse
was ended, there was another little bit av a
play called Cowples —some kind av couple
or another. The gurl was actin’ in this, but
not the man. I suspicioned he’d go to the
station wid the gurl’s kit at the end av the
first piece. “Iwas the kit that flusthered me,
for I knew for a Capt'n to go trapesing
about the impire wid the Lord knew what av
a ¢truso on his arrum was nefarious, an’ wud
be worse than easin’ the flag, so far as the
talk aftherwards wint.”

‘’Old on, Mulvaney. Wot’s ¢ruse?”
said Ortheris.
THE GOD FROM THE MACHINE. 2t

“You're an oncivilized man, me_ son.
Whin a gurl’s married, all her kit an’
*coutrements are ¢7wso, which manes wed-
din’-portion. An’ ’tis the same whin she’s
runnin’ away, even wid the biggest black-
guard on the Arrmy List.

‘So I made my plan av campaign. The
Colonel’s house was a good two miles away.
‘Dennis,’ sez I to my color-sargint, ‘av you
love me lend me your kyart, for me heart is
bruk an’ me feet is sore wid trampin’ to and
from this foolishness at the Gaff’ An’
Dennis lent ut, wid a rampin’, stampin’ red
stallion in the shafts. Whin they was all
settled down to their Sweethearts for the
first scene, which was a long wan, I slips
outside and into the kyart. Mother av
Hivin! but I made that horse walk, an’ we
came into the Colonel’s compound as the
divil wint through Athlone—in_ standin’
leps. There was no one there excipt the
servints, an’ I wim round to the back an’
tound the girl’s ayah.

“Ye black brazen ‘ezebel,’ sez I, ‘sellin’
22 SOLDIERS THREE.

your masther’s honor for five rupees — pack
up all the Miss Sahib’s kit an’ look slippy!
Capi'n Sahib’s order, sez 1; ‘going to the
station we are,’ I sez, an’ wid that I laid my
finger to my nose an’ looked the schamin’
sinner I was.

““*« Bote acchy, says she; so I knew she
was in the business, an’ I piled up all the
sweet talk I’d iver learnt in the bazars on to
this she-bullock, an’ prayed av her to put all
the quick she knew into the thing. While
she packed, I stud outside an’ sweated, for
I was wanted for to shif’ the second scene.
I tell you, a young gurl’s e-vasion manes as
much baggage as a rig’mint on the line av
march! ‘Saints help Dennis’s springs,’
thinks I, as I bundled the stuff into the
thrap, ‘for I'll have no mercy!’

““«T'm comin’ too,’ says the ayah.

“*No, you don’t,’ sez I, ‘later —pechy!
You Jazto where you are. I'll pechy come
an’ bring you sat, along with me, you
maraudip’’—niver mind fwhat I called
her.
YHE GOD FROM THE MACHINE. — 23

“Thin I wint for the Gaff, an’ by the
special ordher av Providence, for I was
doin’ a good work you will ondersthand,
Dennis’s springs hild toight. ‘Now, whin
the Capt'n goes for that kit,’ thinks I, ‘he'll
be throubled.’ At the end av Sweethearts
off the Capt’n runs in his kyart to the
Colonel’s house, an’ I sits down on the
steps and laughs. Wanst an’ again I
slipped in to see how the little piece was
goin’, an’ whin ut was near endin’ I stepped
out all among the carriages an’ sings out
very softly, ‘Jungi!’ Wid that a carr’ge
began to move, an’ I waved to the dhriver.
‘ Hitherao!’ sez I, an’ he hitheraoed till I
judged he was at proper distance, an’
thin I tuk him, fair an’ square betune the
eyes, all I knew for good or bad, an’ he
dhropped wid a guggle like the canteen
beer-engine whin ut’s runnin’ low. Thin I
ran to the kyart an’ tuk out all the kit an’
piled it into the carr’ge, the sweat runnin’
down my face in dhrops. ‘Go home,’ sez
I, to the sazs; ‘you'll find a man close here.
24 SOLDIERS THREE.

Very sick he is. Take him away, an’ av you
iver say wan wurrd about fwhat you've
dekkoed, Vl marrow you till your own wife
won't suwmjao who you are!’ Thin I heard
the stampin’ av feet at the ind av the play.
an’ I ran in to let down the curtain. Whin
they all came out the gurl thried to hide
herself behind wan av the pillars, an’ sez
‘Jungi’ in a voice that wudn’t ha’ scared a
hare. I run over to Jungi’s carr’ge an’ tuk
up the lousy old horse-blanket on the box,
wrapped my head an’ the rest av me in ut,
an’ dhrove up tc where she was.

““*Miss Sahib, sez I; ‘going to the
station? Captain Sahib’s order!’ an’ wid-
out a sign she jumped in all among her
own kit.

“I laid to an’ dhruv like steam to the
Colonel’s house before the Colonel was
there, an’ she screamed an’ I thought she
was goin’ off. Out comes the ayah, saying
all sorts av things about the Capt’n havin’
come for the kit an’ gone to the station.

«Take out the luggage, you divil,’ sez I,
‘or I'll murther you !’
THE GOD FROM THE MACHINE. 25

“The lights av the thraps people comin’
from the Gaff was showin’ acrost the parade
ground, an’, by this an’ that, the way thim
two women worked at the bundles an’
thrunks was a caution! I was dyin’ to help,
but, seein’ I didn’t want to be known, I sat
wid the blanket roun’ me an’ coughed an’
thanked the Saints there was no moon that
night.

‘“Whin all was in the house again, I niver
asked for dukshish but dhruv tremenjus in
the opp’site way from the other carr’ge an’
put out my lights. Presintly, ] saw a nay-
gur man wallowin’ in the road. I slipped
down before I got to him, for I suspicioned
Providence was wid me all through that
night. "Iwas Jungi, his nose smashed in
flat, all dumb sick as you please. Dennis's
man must have tilted him out av the thrap.
Whin he came to, ‘Hutt!’ sez I, but he
began to howl.

“Vou black lump av dirt,’ I sez, ‘is this
the way you dhrive your gharri? That
tikka has been owtn’ an’ fere-owin’ all over
26 SOLDIERS THREE.

the bloomin’ country this whole bloomin’
night, an’ you as mut-walla as Davey’s sow.
Get up, you hog!’ sez I, louder, for I heard
the wheels av a thrap in the dark; * get up
an’ light your lamps, or you'll be run into!’
This was on the road to the Railway
Station.

“«« Fwhat the divil’s this?’ sez the Capt’n’s
voice in the dhark, an’ I could judge he was
in a lather av rage.

“« Gharré dhriver here, dhrunk, Sorr,’ sez
I; ‘I’ve found his gharri sthrayin’ about
cantonmints, an’ now I’ve found zm.’

“*QOh!’ sez the Capt’n; ‘fwhat’s his
name?’ I stooped down an’ pretended to
listen.

“«He sez his name’s Jungi, Sorr,’
sez I,

“« Hould my harse,’ sez the Capt'n to his
man, an’ wid that he gets down wid the
whip an’ lays into Jungi, just mad wid rage
an’ swearin’ like the scutt he was.

“J thought, afther a while, he wud kill the
man, so J sez:——‘Stovo, Sorr. or you'll mur-

‘
THE GOD FROM THE MACHINE. 27

dher him!’ That dhrew all his fire on me,
an’ he cursed me into Blazes, an’ out again.
I stud to attenshin an’ saluted : —‘ Sorr,’ sez
I, ‘av ivry man in this wurruld had his
rights, I’m thinkin’ that more than wan wud
be beaten to a shakin’ jelly for this night’s
work —that never came off at all, Sorr, as
you see?’ ‘Now,’ thinks I to myself,
‘Terence Mulvaney, you’ve cut your own
throat, for he’ll sthrike, an’ you'll knock him
down for the good av his sowl an’ your own
iverlastin’ dishgrace !’

‘But the Capt'n never said a single wurrd.
He choked where he stud, an’ thin he went
into his thrap widout sayin’ good-night, an’
I wint back to barricks.”

“And then?” said Ortheris and I to-
gether.

“That was all,” said Mulvaney; “ niver
another word did I hear av the whole thing.
All I know was that there was no e-vasion,
an’ that was fwhat I wanted. Now, I put ut
to you, Sorr, is ten days’ C. Boa fit an’a
proper tratement for a man who has behaved

as me?”
28 SOLDIERS THREE.

“Well, any’ow,” said Ortheris, “ tweren’t
this ’ere Colonel’s daughter, an’ you was
blazin’ copped when you tried to wash in the
Fort Ditch.”

“That,” said Mulvaney, finishing the
champagne, “is a shuparfluous an’ impert’-
nint observation.”
PRIVATE LEAROYD'S STORY.

AnD he told a tale. — Chronicles of Gautama Buddha.

Far from the haunts of Company Officers
who insist upon kit-inspections, far from
keen-nosed Sergeants who sniff the pipe
stuffed into the bedding-roll, two miles from
the tumult of the barracks, lies the Trap. It
is an old dry well, shadowed by a twisted
ptpal tree and fenced with high grass.
Here, in the years gone by, did Private
Ortheris establish his depot and menagerie
for such possessions, living and dead, as
could not safely be introduced to the barrack-
room. Here were gathered Houdin pullets,
and fox-terriers of undoubted pedigree and
more than doubtful ownership, for Ortheris
was an inveterate poacher and pre-eminent
among a regiment of neat-handed dog-
stealers.
30 SOLDIERS THREE.

Never again will the long lazy evenings
return wherein Ortheris, whistling softly,
moved surgeon-wise among the captives of
his craft at the bottom of the well; when
Learoyd sat in the niche, giving sage coun-
sel on the management of ‘“tykes,” and
Mulvaney, from the crook of the overhang-
ing pipal, waved his enormous boots in
benediction above our heads, delighting us
with tales of Love and War, and strange
experiences of cities and men.

Ortheris — landed at last in the “little
stuff bird-shop ” for which your soul longed ;
Learoyd — back again in the smoky, stone-
ribbed North, amid the clang of the Bradford
looms ; Mulvaney — grizzled, tender, and very
wise Ulysses, sweltering on the earthwork of
a Central India line —judge if I have for-
gotten old days in the Trap!

Orth’ris, as allus thinks he knaws more
than other foaks, said she wasn’t a real laady,
but nobbut a Hewrasian. I don’t gainsay as
her culler was a bit doosky like. But she
PRIVATE LEAROYD'S STORY. 31

was a laady. Why, she rode iv a carriage,
an’ good ’osses, too, an’ her ’air was that
oiled as you could see your faice in it, an’
she wore dimond rings an’ a goold chain, an’
silk an’ satin dresses as mun ’a’ cost a deal,
for it isn’t a cheap shop as keeps enough o’
one pattern to fit a figure like hers. Her
name was Mrs. DeSussa, an’ t’ waay I coom
to be acquainted wi’ her was along of our
Colonel’s Laady’s dog Rip.

I've seen a vast o’ dogs, but Rip was t’
prettiest picter of a cliver fox-tarrier ’at iver I
. set eyes on. He could do owt you like but
speeak, an’ t’ Colonel’s Laady set more store
by him than if he had been a Christian. She
hed bairns of her awn, but they was 7’ Eng-
land, and Rip seemed to get all t’ coodlin’
and pettin’ as belonged to a bairn by good
right.

But Rip were a bit on a rover, an’ hed a
habit o’ breakin’ out o’ barricks like, and
trottin’ round t’ plaice as if he were t’ Can-
tonment Magistrate coom round inspectin’.
The Colonel leathers him once or twice, but
32 SOLDIERS THREE.

Rip didn’t care an’ kept on gooin’ his rounds,
wi’ his taail a-waggin’ as if he were flag-sig-
nallin’ to t’ world at large ‘at he was “ gettin’
on nicely, thank yo, and how’s yo’sen?”
An’ then t’ Colonel, as was noa sort of a
hand wi’ a dog, tees him oop. A real clip-
per of a dog, an’ it’s noa wonder yon laady,’
Mrs. DeSussa, should tek a fancy tiv him.
Theer’s one o’ t' Ten Commandments says
yo maun’t cuvvet your neebor’s ox nor his
jackass, but it doesn't say nowt about his
tarrier dogs, an’ happen thot’s t’ reason why
Mrs. DeSussa cuvveted Rip, tho’ she went -
to church reg’lar along wi’ her husband who
was so mich darker ’at if he hedn’t such a
good coaat tiv’ his back yo might ha’ called
him a black man and nut tell a lee nawther.
They said he addled his brass i’ jute, an’ he’d
a rare lot on it.

Well, you seen, when they teed Rip up, t’
poor awd lad didn’t enjoy very good ’elth.
So t’ Colonel’s Laady sends for me as ’ad a
naame for bein’ knowledgeable about a dog,
an’ axes what’s ailin’ wi’ him,
PRIVATE LEAROYD'S STORY. 33

“Why,” says I, “ he’s getten t’ mopes, an’
what he wants is his libbaty an’ coompany
like t’ rest on us; wal happen a rat or two
‘ud liven him oop. It’s low, mum,” says J,
“is rats, but it’s t’ nature of a dog; an’ soa’s
cuttin’ round an’ meetin’ another dog or two
an’ passin’ t’ time o’ day, an’ hevvin’ a bit of
a turn-up wi’ him like a Christian.”

So she says Aer dog maunt niver fight an’
noa Christians iver fought.

“Then what’s a soldier for?” says I; an’
I explains to her t’ contrairy qualities of a
dog, ’at, when yo’ coom to think on’t, is one
ot’ curusest things as is. For they larn to
behave theirsens like gentlemen born, fit for
t’ fost o’ coompany —they tell me t’ Widdy
herself is fond of a good dog and knaws one
when she sees it as well as onny body: then
on t’ other hand a-tewin’ round after cats an’
gettin’ mixed oop 7 all manners o’ black-
guardly street rows, an’ killin’ rats, an’
fightin’ like divils.

T’ Colonel’s Laady says : — “ Well, Lea-
royd, I doan’t agree wi’ you, but you're right
ay SOLDIERS THREE.

L

in a way o’ speeakin’, an’ I should like yo’ to
tek Rip out a-walkin’ wi’ you sometimes ;
but yo’ maun’t let him fight, nor chase cats,
aor de nowt ’orrid”: an’ them was her very
wods.

Soa Rip an’ me gooes out a-walkin’ o’
evenin’s, he bein’ a dog as did credit tiv’ a
man, an’ I catches a lot o’ rats an’ we hed a
bit of a match on in an awd dry swimmin’-
bath at back o’ t’ cantonments, an’ it was
none so long afore he was as bright as a
button again. He hed a way c’ flyin’ at them
big yaller pariah dogs as if he was a harrow
offan a bow, an’ though his weight were nowt,
he tuk ’em so suddint-like they rolled over
like skittles in a halley, an’ when they coot
he stretched after ’em as if he were rabbit-
runnin’. Saame with cats when he cud get
t’ cat agaate o’ runnin’.

One evenin’, him an’ me was trespassin’
ovver a compound wall after one of them
mongooses ‘at he'd started, an’ we was busy
grubbin’ round a prickle-bush, an’ when we
looks*up there was Mrs. DeSussa wi’ a
PRIVATE LEAROYD'S STORY. 35

parasel ovver her shoulder, a-watchin’ us.
“Oh my!” she sings out; “there’s that
lovelee dog! Would he let me stroke him,
Mister Soldier ?”

“Ay, he would, mum,” sez I, “for he’s
fond o’ laady’s coompany. Coom here, Rip,
an’ speeak to this kind laady.” An’ Rip,
seein’ ’at t’ mongoose hed getten clean
awaay, cooms up like t’ gentleman he was,
nivver a hauporth shy nor okkord.

“Oh, you beautiful— you prettee dog!”
she says, clippin’ an’ chantin’ her speech in a
way them sooart has o’ their awn; “I would
like a dog like you. You are so verree
lovelee—so awfullee prettee,” an’ all thot
sort 0’ talk, ’at a dog o’ sense mebbe thinks
nowt on, tho’ he bides it by reason o’ his
breedin’.

An’ then J meks him joomp ovver my
swagger-cane, an’ shek hands, an’ beg, an’
lie dead, an’ a lot o’ them tricks as laadies
teeaches dogs, though I doan’t haud with it
mysen, for it’s makin’ a fool 0’ a good dog to
do such like.
36 _ SOLDIERS THREE.

An’ at lung length it cooms out ’at she’d
been thrawin’ sheep’s eyes, as t’ sayin’ is, at
Rip for many a day. Yo’ see, her childer
was grown up, an’ she’d nowt mich to do, an’
were allus fond of a dog. Soa she axes me
if I'd tek somethin’ to dhrink. An’ we goes
into t’ drawn-room wheer her ’usband was
a-settin. They meks a gurt fuss ovver
t’ dog an’ I has a bottle o’ aale an’ he gave
me a handful o’ cigars.

Soa I coomed away, but t’ awd lass sings
out — ‘Oh, Mister Soldier, please coom
again and bring that prettee dog.”

I didn’t let on to t’ Colonel’s Laady about
Mrs. DeSussa, and Rip, he says nowt
nawther; an’ I gooes again, an’ ivry time
there was a good dhrink an’ a handful o’
good smooaks. An’ I telled t’ awd lass a
heeap more about Rip than I’d ever heeared ;
how he tuk t’ fost prize at Lunnon dog-show
and cost thotty-three pounds fower shillin’
from t’ man as bred him; ’at his own brother
was t’ propputty o’ t’ Prince o’ Wailes, an’ ’at
he had a pedigree as long as a Dook’s. An’
PPIVATE LEAROYD'S STORY. 37

she lapped it all oop an’ were niver tired o’
admirin’ him. But when t’ awd lass took to
givin’ me money an’ I seed ’at she were
gettin’ fair fond about t’ dog, I began to
suspicion summat. Onny body may give a
soldier t’ price of a pint in a friendly way
an’ theer’s no ’arm done, but when it cooms
to five rupees slipt into your hand, sly like,
why, it’s what t’ ‘lectioneerin’ fellows calls
bribery an’ corruption. Specially when Mrs.
DeSussa threwed hints how t’ cold weather
would soon be ovver an’ she was goin’ to
Munsooree Pahar an’ we was goin’ to Rawal-
pindi, an’ she would niver see Rip any more
onless somebody she knowed on would be
kind tiv her.

Soa I tells Mulvaney an’ Ortheris all t’
taale thro’, beginnin’ to end.

“Tis larceny that wicked ould laady
manes,” says t’ Irishman, “’tis felony she is
sejuicin’ ye into, my frind Learoyd, but I'll
purtect your innocince. I'll save ye from the
wicked wiles av that wealthy ould woman,
an’ I’ll go wid ye this evenin’ and spake to
38 SOLDIERS THREE.

her the wurrds av truth an’ honesty. But
Jock,” says he, waggin’ his heead, “twas not
like ye to kape all that good dhrink an’ thim
fine cigars to yerself, while Orth’ris here an’
me have been prowlin’ round wid throats as
dry as lime-kilns, and nothin’ to smoke but
Canteen plug. "Iwas a dhirty thrick to play
on a comrade, for why should you, Learoyd,
be balancin’ yourself on the butt av a satin
chair, as if Terence Mulvaney was not the
aquil av anybody who thrades in jute!”

“Let alone me,” sticks in Orth’ris, “but
that’s like life. Them wot’s really fitted to
decorate society get no show while a blun-
derin’ Yorkshireman like you —”

“Nay,” says I, “it’s none o’ t’ blunderin’
Yorkshireman she wants, it’s Rip. He's t’
gentleman this journey.”

Soa t’ next day, Mulvaney an’ Rip an’ me
goes to Mrs. DeSussa’s, an’ t’ Irishman bein’
a strainger she wor a bit shy at fost. But
yo've heeard Mulvaney talk, an’ yo’ may
believe as he fairly bewitched t’ awd lass wal
she let out ’at she wanted to tek Rip away
PRIVATE LEAROYD'S STORY. 39

wi’ her to Munsooree Pahar. Then Mul-
vaney changes his tune an’ axes her solemn-
like if she’d thought o’ t’ consequences 0’
gettin’ two poor but honest soldiers sent t’
Andamning Islands. Mrs. DeSussa began
to cry, so Mulvaney turns round oppen
t’ other tack and smooths her down, allowin’
‘at Rip ud be a vast better off in t’ hills than
down i’ Bengal, and ’twas a pity he shouldn’t
go wheer he was so well beliked. And soa
he went on, backin’ an’ fillin’ an’ workin’ up
t’ awd lass wal she felt as if her life warn’t
worth nowt if she didn’t heve t’ dog.

Then all of a suddint he says: — “ But ye
shall have him, marm, for I’ve a feelin’ heart,
not like this could-blooded Yorkshireman ;
but ’twill cost ve not a penny less than three
hundher rupees.”

‘Don’t yo’ believe him, mum,” says ie ee
Colonel’s Laady wouldn’t tek five hundred
for him.”

“Who said she would?” says Mulvaney ;
“it’s not buyin’ him I mane, but for the
sake o’ this kind, good laady, I'll do what I
4o SOLDIERS THREE.

never dreamt to do in my life. I'll stale
him!”

“Don’t say steal,” says Mrs. DeSussa;
“he shall have the happiest home. Dogs
often get lost, you know, and then they
stray, an’ he likes me and I like him as I
niver liked a dog yet, an’ I must hev him.
If I got him at t’ last minute I could carry
him off to Munsooree Pahar and nobody
would niver knaw.”

Now an’ again Mulvaney looked acrost at
me, an’ though I could mak nowt o’ what he
was after, I concluded to take his leead.

‘Well, mum,” I says, “I never thowt to
coom down to dog-steealin’, but if my com-
rade sees how it could be done to oblige
a laady like yo’sen, I’m nut t’ man to hod
back, tho’ it’s a bad business I’m thinkin’, an’
three hundred rupees is a poor set-off again
t’ chance of them Damning Islands as
Mulvaney talks on.”

“Tll mek it three fifty,” says Mrs. De-
Sussa; “only let me hev t’ dog!”

So we let her persuade us, an’ she teks
PRIVATE LEAROYD'S STORY. 41

Rip’s measure theer an’ then, an’ sent to
Hamilton’s to order a silver collar again t’
time when he was to be her awn, which was
to be t’ day she set off for Munsooree Pahar.
““Sitha, Mulvaney,” says I, when we was
outside, “you're niver goin’ to let her hev
Rip!”
“An’ would ye disappoint a poor old
woman?” says he; “she shall have @ Rip.”
‘An’ wheer’s he to come through?” says I.
“‘Learoyd, my man,” he sings out, “ you’re
a pretty man av your inches an’ a good com-
rade, but your head is made av duff. Isn’t
our friend Orth’ris a Taxidermist, an’ a rale
artist wid his nimble white fingers? An’
what’s a Taxidermist but a man who can
thrate shkins? Do ye mind the white dog
that belongs to the Canteen Sargint, bad cess
to him—he that’s lost half his time an’
snarlin’ the rest? He shall be lost for g00d
now; an’ do ye mind that he’s the very spit
in shape an’ size av the Colonel’s, barrin’ that
his tail is an inch too long, an’ he has none
av the color that divarsifies the rale Rip, an’
42 SOLDIERS THREE,

his timper is that av his masther an’ worse.
But fwhat is an inch on a dog’s tail? An’
fwhat to a professional like Orth’ris is a
few ringstraked shpots av black, brown, an’
white? Nothin’ at all, at all.”

Then we meets Orth’ris, an’ that little man,
bein’ sharp as a needle, seed his way through
t’ business in a minute. An’ he went to
work a-practisin’ ’air-dyes the very next day,
beginnin’ on some white rabbits he had, an’
then he drored all Rip’s markin’s on t’ back
of a white Commissariat bullock, so as to get
his ’and in an’ be sure of his colors; shadin’
off brown into black as nateral as life. If
Rip hed a fault it was too mich markin’, but
it was straingely reg’lar an’ Orth’ris settled
himself to make a fost-rate job on it when he
got haud o’ t’ Canteen Sargint’s dog. Theer
niver was sich a dog as thot for bad temper,
an’ it did nut get no better when his tail hed
to be fettled an inch an’ a half shorter. But
they may talk o’ theer Royal Academies
as they like. JZ niver seed a bit o’ animal
paintin’ to beat t’ copy as Orth’ris made of
PRIVATE LEAROYD’S STORY. 43

fRip’s marks, wal t’ picter itself was snarlin’
all t’ time an’ tryin’ to get at Rip standin’
theer to be copied as good as goold.

Orth’ris allus hed as mich conceit on him-
sen as would lift a balloon, an’ he wor so
pleeased wi’ his sham Rip he wor for tekking
him to Mrs. DeSussa before she went away.
But Mulvaney an’ me stopped thot, knowin’
Orth’ris’s work, though niver so cliver, was
nobbut skin-deep.

An’ at last Mrs. DeSussa fixed t’ day for
startin’ to Munsooree Pahar. We was to tek
Rip to t’ stayshun 7’ a basket an’ hand him
ovver just when they was ready to start, an’
then she’d give us t’ brass—as was agreed
upon.

An’ my wod! It were high time she were
off, for them ’air-dyes upon t’ cur’s back took
a vast of paintin’ to keep t’ reet culler, tho’
Orth’ris spent a matter o’ seven rupees six
annas i’ t’ best drooggist shops i’ Calcutta.

An’ t’ Canteen Sargint was lookin’ for ’is
dog everywheer; an’, wi bein’ tied up, t’
beast’s timper got waur nor ever.
44 SOLDIERS THREE.

It wor i’ t’ evenin’ when t’ train started
thro’ Howrah, an’ we ’elped Mrs. DeSussa
wi’ about sixty boxes, an’ then we gave her
t’ basket. Orth’ris, for pride av his work,
axed us to let him coom along wi’ us, an’ he
couldn’t help liftin’ t’ lid an’ showin’ t’ cur as
he lay coiled oop.

“Oh!” says t’ awd lass; “the beautee !
How sweet he looks!” An’ just then t’
beauty snarled an’ showed his teeth, so
Mulvaney shuts down t’ lid and says: “ Ye'll
be careful, marm, whin ye tek him out. He’s
disaccustomed to travelling by t’ railway, an’
he’ll be sure to want his rale mistress an’ his
friend Learoyd, so ye’ll make allowance for
his feelings at fost.”

She would do all thot an’ more for the
dear, good Rip, an’ she would nut oppen ¢’
basket till they were miles away, for fear
anybody should recognize him, an’ we were
real good and kind soldier-men, we were, an’
she honds me a bundle o’ notes, an’ then
cooms up a few of her relations an’ friends
to say good-by—not more than seventy-
five there wasn’t—an’ we cuts away.
PRIVATE LEAROYD'S STORY. 45

What coom to t’ three hundred and fifty
rupees? Thot’s what I can scarcelins tell you,
but we melted it. It was share an’ share
alike, for Mulvaney said: “If Learoyd got
hold of Mrs. DeSussa first, sure ‘twas I that
remimbered the Sargint’s dog just in the nick
av time, an’ Orth’ris was the artist av janius
that made a work av art out av that ugly
piece av ill-nature. Yet, by way av a thank-
offerin’ that I was not led into felony by
that wicked ould woman, I'll send a thrifle
to Father Victor for the poor people he’s
always beggin’ for.”

But me an’ Orth’ris, he bein’ Cockney an’
I bein’ pretty far north, did nut see it it’
saame way. We'd getten t’ brass, an’ we
meaned to keep it. An’ soa we did— fora
short time.

Noa, noa, we niver heeard a wod more 0’
t’ awd lass. Our rig’mint went to Pindi, an’
t’ Canteen Sargint he got himself another
tyke insteead o’ t’ one ’at got lost so reg’lar,
an’ was lost for good at last.
THE BIG DRUNK DRAF.

WE'RE goin’ ’ome, we’re goin’ ’ome—
Our ship is a¢ the shore,
An’ you mus’ pack your ‘aversack,
For we won’t come back no more.
Ho, don’t you grieve for me,
My lovely Mary Ann,
For I’ll marry you yet on a fourp’ny bit,
As a time-expired ma-a-an !
Barrack-room Ballad.

An awful thing has happened! My friend,
Private Mulvaney, who went home in the
Serapis, time-expired, not very long ago,
has come back to India as a civilian! It was
all Dinah Shadd’s fault. She could not stand
the poky little lodgings, and she missed her
servant Abdullah more than words could
tell. The fact was that the Mulvaneys had
been out here too long, and had lost touch
of England.

Mulvaney knew a contractor on one of the

new Central India lines, and wrote to him for
THE BIG DRUNK DRAF’. 47

some sort of work. The contractor said that
if Mulvaney could pay the passage he would
give him command of a gang of coolies for
old sake’s sake. The pay was eighty-five
rupees a month, and Dinah Shadd said that
if Terence did not accept she would make
his life a ‘“‘basted purgathory.” Therefore
the Mulvaneys came out as “ civilians,” which
was a great and terrible fall; though Mul-
vaney tried to disguise it, by saying that he
was “Kernel on the railway line, an’ a
consequinshal man.”

He wrote me an invitation, on a tool-indent
form, to visit him; and I came down to the
funny little “construction” bungalow at the
side of the line. Dinah Shadd had planted
peas about and about, and nature had spread
all manner of green stuff round the place.
There was no change in Mulvaney except the
change of raiment, which was deplorable, but
could not be helped. He was standing upon
his trolly, haranguing a gang-man, and his
shoulders were as well drilled, and his big,
thick chin was as clean-shaven as ever.
48 SOLDIERS THREE.

“T’m a civilian now,” said Mulvaney.
“Cud you tell that I was iver a martial man?
Don’t answer, Sorr, av you're strainin’ betune
a complimint an’ a lie. There’s no houldin’
Dinah Shadd now she’s got a house av her
own. Go inside, an’ dhrink tay out av chiny
in the drrrrawin’-room, an’ thin we'll dhrink
like Christians undher the tree here. Scutt,
ye naygur-folk! There’s a Sahib come to
call on me, an’ that’s more than he’ll iver do
for you onless you run! Get out, an’ go on
pilin’ up the earth, quick, till sundown.”

When we three were comfortably settled
under the big s¢sham in front of the bunga-
low, and the first rush of questions and
answers about Privates Ortheris and Learoyd
and old times and places had died away,
Mulvaney said, _reflectively, —‘‘Glory be
there’s no p'rade to-morrow, an’ no bun-
headed Corp’ril-bhoy to give you his lip.
An’ yit I don’t know. ’Tis harrd to be some-
thing ye niver were an’ niver meant to be,
an’ all the ould days shut up along wid your
papers. Eyah! I’m growin’ rusty, an’ ’tis
THE BIG DRUNK DRAF’. 49

the will av God that a man mustn’t serve his
Quane for time an’ all.”

He helped himself to a fresh peg, and
sighed furiously.

‘Let your beard grow, Mulvaney,” said I,
‘(and then you won’t be troubled with those
notions. You'll be a real civilian.”

Dinah Shadd had confided to me in the
drawing-room her desire to coax Mulvaney
into letting his beard grow. ‘Twas so
civilian-like,” said poor Dinah, who hated
her husband’s hankering for his old life.

“Dinah Shadd, you're a dishgrace to an
honust, clane-scraped man!” said Mulvaney,
without replying to me. ‘Grow a beard on
your own chin, darlint, and lave my razors
alone. They’re all that stand betune me and
dis-ris-pect-ability. Av I didn’t shave, I wud
be torminted wid an outrajis thurrst; for
there’s nothin’ so dhryin’ to the throat as a
big billy-goat beard waggin’ undher the chin.
Ye wudn’t have me dhrink always, Dinah
Shadd? By the same toker, you’re kapir’
me crool dhry now. Let me look at th.
whiskey.”
50 SOLDIERS THREE.

The whiskey was lent and returned, but
Dinah Shadd, who had been just as eager as
her husband in asking after old friends, rent
me with, —

“I take shame for you, Sorr, comin’ down
here—though the Saints know you're as
welkim as the daylight whin you do come —
an’ upsettin’ Terence’s head wid your non-
sense about— about fwhat’s much better
forgotten. He bein’ a civilian now, an’ you
niver was aught else. Can you not let the
Arrmy rest? "Tis not good for Terence.”

I took refuge by Mulvaney, for Dinah
Shadd has a temper of her own.

“Let be —let be,” said Mulvaney. ‘“’Tis
only wanst in a way I can talk about the ould
days.” Then to me:—‘“ Ye say Dhrum-
shticks is well, an’ his lady tu? I niver
knew how I liked the gray garron till I was
shut av him an’ Asia.” — “ Dhrumshticks”
was the nickname of the Colonel command-
ing Mulvaney’s old regiment. — “ Will you
be seein’ him again? You will. Thin tell
him” — Mulvaney’s eyes began to twinkle —
“tell him wid Privit —”
THE BIG DRUNK DRAF’. 51

“ Mister, Terence,” interrupted Dinah
Shadd.

‘Now the Divil an’ all his angels an’ the
firmament av Hiven fly away wid the ‘ Mister,’
an’ the sin av makin’ me swear be on your
confession, Dinah Shadd! Prév7t,1 tell ye.
Wid Privit Mulvaney’s best obedience, that
but for me the last time-expired wud be still
pullin’ hair on their way to the sea.”

He threw himself back in the chair,
chuckled, and was silent.

‘Mrs. Mulvaney,” I said, “ please take up
the whiskey, and don’t let him have it until he
has told the story.”

Dinah Shadd dexterously whipped the
bottle away, saying at the same time, “Tis
nothing to be proud av,” and thus captured
by the enemy, Mulvaney spake : —

“’Twas on Chuseday week. I was be-
haderin’ round wid the gangs on the ’bank-
mint — I’ve taught the hoppers how to kape
step an’ stop screechin’ — whin a head-gang-
man comes up to me, wid about two inches
av shirt-tail hanging round his neck an’ a
52 SOLDIERS THREE.

disthressful light in his oi. ‘Sahib,’ sez he,
‘there’s a reg’mint an’ a half av soldiers up
at the junction, knockin’ red cinders out av
ivrything an’ ivrybody! They thried to
hang me in my cloth,’ he sez, ‘an’ there will
be murder an’ ruin an’ rape in the place
before nightfall! They say they’re comin’
down here to wake us up. What will we do
wid our women-folk ?’

““« Fetch my throlly!’ sez I; ‘my heart’s
sick in my ribs for a wink at anything wid
the Quane’s uniform on ut. Fetch my
throlly, an’ six av the jildiest men, and run
me up in shtyle.’”

“ He tuk his best coat,” said Dinah Shadd
reproachfully.

“Twas to do honor to the Widdy. I cud
ha’ done no less, Dinah Shadd. You and
your digresshins interfere wid the coorse av
the narrative. Have you iver considhered
fwhat I wud look like wid me head shaved
as well as my chin? You bear that in your
mind, Dinah darlin’.

“] was throllied up six miles, all to get a
THE BIG DRUNK DRAF’. 53

shquint at that draf’. I knew "twas a spring
draf’ goin’ home, for there’s no rig’mint here-
abouts, more’s the pity.”

“Praise the Virgin!” murmured Dinah
Shadd. But Mulvaney did not hear.

“Whin I was about three-quarters av a
mile off the rest-camp, powtherin’ along fit
to burrst, I heard the noise av the men, an’,
on my sowl, Sorr, I cud catch the voice av
Peg Barney bellowin’ like a bison wid the
belly-ache. You remimber Peg Barney that
was in D Comp’ny—a red, hairy scraun,
wid a scar on his jaw? Peg Barney that
cleared out the Blue Lights’ Jubilee meeting
wid the cook-room mop last year?

“Thin I knew ut was a draf’ of the ould
rig’mint, an’ I was conshumed wid sorrow for
the bhoy that was in charge. We was harrd
scrapin’s at any time. Did I iver tell you
how Horker Kelley went into clink nakid as
Phoebus Apollonius, wid the shirts av the
Corp’ril an’ file undher his arrum? An’ he
was a moild man! But I’m digreshin’. "Tis
a shame both to the rig’mints and the Arrmy
54 SOLDIERS THREE.

sendin’ down littie orf’cer bhoys wid a draf’ av
strong men mad wid liquor an’ the chanst av
gettin’ shut av India, an’ xéver a punish-
ment that’s fit to be given right down an'
away from cantonmints to the dock! "Tis
this nonsince. Whin I am servin’ my time,
I’m undher the Articles av War, an’ can be
whipped on the peg for ¢h¢m. But whin
I’ve served my time, I’m a Reserve man, an’
the Articles av War haven’t any hould on
me. An orf’cer can’t do anythin’ to a time-
expired savin’ confinin’ him to barricks. ’Tis
a wise rig’lation bekaze a time-expired does
not have any barricks; bein’ on the move all
the time. "Tis a Solomon av a rig’lation, is
that. I wud like to be inthroduced to the
man who secreted ut. "Tis easier to get
colts from a Kibbereen horse-fair into Gal-
way than to take a bad draf’ over ten miles
av country. Consiquintly that rig’lation —
for fear that the men wud be hurt by the
little orf’cer bhoy. Nomatther. The nearer
my throlly came to the rest-camp, the woilder
was the shine, an’ the louder was the voice
THE BIG DRUNK DRA F’. 55

av Peg Barney. ‘’Tis good I am here,’
thinks I to myself, ‘ for Peg alone is employ-
mint to two or three.’ He bein’, I well knew,
as copped as a dhrover.

‘Faith, that rest-camp was a sight! The
tent-ropes was all skew-nosed, an’ the pegs
looked as dhrunk as the men — fifty av
thim —the scourin’s, an’ rinsin’s, an’ Divil’s
lavin’s av the Ould Rig’mint. I tell you,
Sorr, they were dhrunker than any men
you've ever seen in your mortial life. How
does a draf’ get dhrunk? How does a frog
get fat? They suk ut in through their
shkins.

“There was Peg Barney sittin’ on the
groun’ in his shirt— wan shoe off an’ wan
shoe on—whackin’ a tent-peg over the
head wid his boot, an’ singin’ fit to wake the
dead. ’Twas no clane song that he sung,
though. "Twas the Divil’s Mass.”

“What's that?” I asked.

““Whin a bad egg is shut av the Army, he
sings the Divil’s Mass for a good -riddance ;
an’ that manes swearin’ at ivrything from the
36 SOLDIERS THREE.

Commandher-in-Chief down to the Room-
Corp’ril, such as you niver in your days
heard. Some men can swear so as to make
green turf crack! Have you iver heard the
Curse in an Orange Lodge? The Divil’s
Mass is ten times worse, an’ Peg Barney was
singin’ ut, whackin’ the tent-peg on the
head wid his boot for each man that he
cursed. A powerful big voice had Peg
Barney, an’ a hard swearer he was whin
sober. I stood forninst him, an’ ’twas not
me oi alone that cud tell Peg was dhrunk as
a coot.

“*Good mornin’, Peg,’ I sez, whin he
dhrew breath afther cursin’ the Adj’tint-Gen’-
ral; ‘I’ve put on my best coat to see you,
Peg Barney,’ sez I.

“«Thin take ut off again,’ sez Peg Barney,
latherin’ away wid the boot; ‘take ut off an’
dance, ye lousy civilian!’

“Wid that he begins cursin’ ould Dhrum-
shticks, being so full he clean misremimbers
the Brigade-Major an’ the Judge Advokit
Gen'ral.
THE BIG DRUNK DRAP*’. 57

*+Do you not know me, Peg?’ sez I,
though me blood was hot in me wid being
called a civilian.”

“ An’ him a decent married man!” wailed
Dinah Shadd.

“*«T do not, sez Peg, ‘but dhrunk or
sober I'll tear the hide off your back wid a
shovel whin I’ve stopped singin’.’

““«Say you so, Peg Barney?’ sez I. ‘’Tis
clear as mud you've forgotten me. I'll assist
your autobiography.’ Wid that I stretched
Peg Barney, boot an’ all, an’ wint into the
camp. An awful sight ut was!

““*Where’s the orf’cer in charge av the
detachment?’ sez I to Scrub Greene — the
manest little worm that ever walked.

““«There’s no orf’cer, ye ould cook,’ sez
Scrub ; ‘ we're a bloomin’ Republic.’

““« Are you that?’ sez I; ‘thin I’m O’Con-
nell the Dictator, an’ by this you will larn to
kape a civil tongue in your rag-box.’

“Wid that I stretched Scrub Greene an’
wint to the orf’cer’s tent. "Twas a new
little bhoy —not wan I'd iver seen before.
58 SOLDIERS THREE.

He was sittin’ in his tent, purtendin’ not to
‘ave ear av the racket.

‘7 saluted — but for the life av me I mint
to shake hands whin I went in. "Twas the
sword hangin’ on the tent-pole changed my
will.

“«Can’t I help, Sorr?’ sez 1; ‘’tis a strong
man’s job they’ve given you, an’ you'll be
wantin’ help by sundown.’ He was a bhoy
wid bowils, that child, an’ a rale gintle-
man.

««« Sit down,’ sez he.

““*Not before my orf’cer,’ sez I; an’ I
tould him fwhat my service was.

“«[ve heard av you,’ sez he. ‘ You tuk
the town av Lungtungpen nakid.’

“<¢ Faith, thinks I, ‘that’s Honor an’
Glory ;’ for ’twas Lift’nint Brazenose did that
job. ‘I’m wid ye, Sorr,’ sez I, ‘if I’m av
use. They shud niver ha’ sent you down
wid the draf’. Savin’ your presince, Sorr,’ I
sez, ‘’tis only Lift’nint Hackerston in the
Ould Rig’mint can manage a Home draf’.’

“T’ve niver had charge of men like this
THE BIG DRUNK DRAP. 59

before,’ sez he, playin’ wid the pens on the
table ; ‘an’ I see by the Rig’lations —’

“«Shut your oi to the Rig’lations, Sorr,’
I sez, ‘till the throoper’s into blue wather.
By the Rig’lations you’ve got to tuck thim
up for the night, or they'll be runnin’ foul av
my coolies an’ makin’ a_ shiverarium half
through the country. Can you trust your
non-coms, Sorr ?’

““« Ves,’ sez he.

“« Good,’ sez I; ‘there'll be throuble
before the night. Are you marchin’, Sorr?’

““¢To the next station,’ sez he.

“«Better still,’ sez I; ‘there'll be big
throuble.’

“«Can’t be too hard on a Home draf’,’ sez
he; ‘the great thing is to get thim in-
ship.’

“« Faith you've larnt the half av your les-
son, Sorr,’ sez I, ‘but av you shtick to the
Rig’lations you'll niver get thim in-ship at all,
at all. Or there won't be a rag av kit betune
thim whin you do.’

“*Twas a dear little orf’cer bhoy, an’ by
60 SOLDIERS THREE.

way av kapin’ his heart up, I tould him fwhat
I saw wanst in a draf’ in Egypt.”

“What was that, Mulvaney ?” said I.

 Sivin an’ fifty men sittin’ on the bank av
a canal, laughin’ at a poor little squidgereen
av an orf’cer that they'd made wade into the
slush an’ pitch the things out av the boats
for their Lord High Mightinesses. That
made me orfcer bhoy woild wid indignation.

“* Soft an’ aisy, Sorr,’ sez I; ‘ you’ve niver
had your draf’ in hand since you left canton-
mints. Wait till the night, an’ your work
will be ready to you. Wid your permission,
Sorr, I will investigate the camp, an’ talk to
my ould frinds. "Tis no manner av use thry-
in’ to shtop the divilmint zow.’

“Wid that I wint out into the camp an’
inthrojuced mysilf to ivry man sober enough
to remimber me. I was some wan in the
ould days, an’ the bhoys was glad to see me
—all excipt Peg Barney wid a eye like a
tomata five days in the bazar, an’ a nose to
correspon’. They come round me an’ shuk
me, an’ I tould thim I was in privit employ
THE BIG DRUNK DRAFP. 61

wid an income av me own, an’ a drrrawin’-
room fit to bate the Quane’s; an’ wid me
lies an’ me shtories an’ nonsinse gin’rally, I
kept ’em quiet in wan way an’ another,
knockin’ roun’ the camp. "Twas dad even
thin whin I was the Angil av Peace.

“T talked to me ould non-coms — ¢hey
was sober — an’ betune me an’ thim we wore
the draf’ over into their tents at the proper
time. The little orfcer bhoy he comes
round, decint an’ civil-spoken as might be.

“« Rough quarters, men,’ sez he, ‘but you
can’t look to be as comfortable as in barricks.
We must make the best av things. I’ve
shut my eyes to a dale av dog’s trick to-day,
an’ now there must be no more av ut.’

“*No more we will. Come an’ have a
dhrink, me son,’ sez Peg Barney, staggerin’
where he stud. Me little orf’cer bhoy kep’
his timper.

““ You're a sulky swine, you are,’ sez Peg
Barney, an’ at that the men in the tent began
to laugh.

“I tould you me orf’cer bhoy had bowils.
62 SOLDIERS THREE.

He cut Peg Barney as near as might be on
the oi that I’d squshed whin we first met.
Peg wint spinnin’ acrost the tent.

““«Peg him out, Sorr,’ sez I, in a whishper.

“«Peg him out!’ sez me orf’cer bhoy, up
loud, just as if ‘twas battalion-p’rade an’ he
pickin’ his wurrds from the Sargint.

“The non-coms tuk Peg Barney —a
howlin’ handful he was — an’ in three minuts
he was pegged out — chin down, tight-
dhrawn — on his stummick, a peg to each
arm an’ leg, swearin’ fit to turn a naygur
white.

“TI tuk a peg an’ jammed ut into his ugly
jaw. — ‘ Bite on that, Peg Barney,’ I sez;
‘the night is settin’ frosty, an’ you'll be want-
in’ divarsion before the mornin’. But for the
Rig’lations you'd be bitin’ on a bullet now at
the thriangles, Peg Barney,’ sez I.

“All the draf’ was out av their tents
watchin’ Barney bein’ pegged.

“Tis agin the Rig’lations! He strook
him!’ screeches out Scrub Greene, who was
always a lawyer; an’ some of the men tuk
up the shoutin’.
THE BIG DRUNK DRAF’. 63

“« Peg out that man!’ sez my orf’cer bhoy,
niver losin’ his timper; an’ the non-coms
wint in and pegged out Scrub Greene by the
side av Peg Barney.

“T cud see that the draf’ was comin’
roun’.. The men stud not knowin’ fwhat to
do.

““*Get to your tents!’ sez me orf’cer bhoy.
‘Sargint, put a sintry over these two men.’

‘““The men wint back into the tents like
jackals, an’ the rest av the night there was
no noise at all excipt the stip av the sintry
over the two, an’ Scrub Greene blubberin’
like a child. "Twas a chilly night, an’ faith,
ut sobered Peg Barney.

“Just before Revelly, my orf’cer bhoy
comes out an’ sez: ‘Loose those men an’
send thim to their tents!’ Scrub Greene
wint away widout a word, but Peg Barney,
stiff wid the cowld, stud like a sheep, thryin’
to make his orf’cer understhand he was sorry
for playin’ the goat.

“There was no tucker in the draf’ whin ut
fell in for the march, an’ divil a wurrd about
‘illegality’ cud I hear,
64 SOLDIERS THREE. a

“T wint to the ould Color Sargint and I
sez:— ‘Let me die in glory, sez I. ‘I’ve
seen a man this day!’

‘“* A man he is,’ sez ould Hother; ‘the
draf’s as sick as a herrin’. They'll all go
down to the sea like lambs. That bhoy has
the bowils av a cantonmint av Gin’rals.’

“« Amin,’ sez I, ‘an’ good luck go wid him,
wheriver he be, by land or by sea. Let me
know how the draf gets clear.’

‘An’ do you know how they did ? That
bhoy, so I was tould by letter from Bombay,
bullydamned ’em down to the dock, till they
cudn’t call their sowls their own. From the
time they left me oi till they was tween
decks, not wan av thim was more than
dacintly dhrunk. An’, by the Holy Articles
av War, whin they wint aboard they cheered
him till they cudn’t spake, an’ ¢ka?, mark
you, has not come about wid a draf’ in the
mim’ry av livin’ man! You look to that
little orftcer bhoy. He has bowils. ’Tis not
ivry child that wud chuck the Rig’lations to
Flanders an’ stretch Peg Barney on a wink
THE BIG DRUNK DRAF. aS

from a brokin an’ dilapidated ould carkiss
like mesilf. I'd be proud to serve —”

‘Terence, you're a civilian,” said Dinah
Shadd warningly.

“So Iam—so I am. Is ut likely I wud
forget ut? But he was a gran’ bhoy all the
same, an’ I’m only a mudtipper wid a hod
on my shoulthers. The whiskey’s in the heel
av your hand, Sorr. Wid your good lave
we'll dhrink to the Ould Rig’mint — three
fingers — standin’ up!”

And we drank.
THE SOLID MULDOON.

Dip ye see John Malone, wid his shinin’, brand-new hat?
Did ye see how he walked like a grand aristocrat ?
There was flags an’ banners wavin’ high, an’ dhress and
shtyle were shown,
But the best av all the company was Misther John Malone.
John Malone.

Tuts befell in the old days and, as my
friend Private Mulvaney was specially careful
to make clear, the Unregenerate.

There had been a royal dog-fight in the
ravine at the back of the rifle-butts, between
Learoyd’s jock and Ortheris’s Blue Rot—
both mongrel Rampur hounds, chiefly ribs
and teeth. It lasted for twenty happy, howl-
ing minutes, and then Blue Rot collapsed
and Ortheris paid Learoyd three rupees, and
we were all very thirsty. A dog-fight is a
most heating entertainment, quite apart from
the shouting, because Rampurs fight over a
couple of acres of ground. Later, when the
THE SOLID MULDOON. 67

sound of belt-badges clinking against the
necks of beer-bottles had died away, conver-
sation drifted from dog to man-fights of all
kinds. Humans resemble red-deer in some
respects. Any talk of fighting seems to
wake up a sort of imp in their breasts, and
they bell one to the other, exactly like chal-
lenging bucks. This is noticeable even in
men who consider themselves superior to
Privates of the Line: it shows the Refining
Influence of ‘Civilization and the March of
Progress.

Tale provoked tale, aud each tale more
beer. Even dreamy Learoyd’s eyes began
to brighten, and he unburdened himself of a
long history in which a trip to Malham Cove,
a girl at Pateley Brigg, a ganger, himself
and a pair of clogs were mixed in drawling
tangle.

‘An’ so Ah coot’s yead oppen from t’ chin
to t’ hair, an’ he was abed for t’ matter’ a
month,” concluded Learoyd pensively.

Mulvaney came out of a reverie — he was
lying down —and flourished his heels in the
68 SOLDIERS TIikEE.

air. ‘ You're a man, Learoyd,” said he crit-
ically, “but you’ve only fought wid men, an’
that’s an ivry-day expayrience; but I’ve stud
up toa ghost, an’ that was zo¢ an ivry-day
expayrience.”

“No?” said Ortheris, throwing a cork at
him. ‘You git up an’ address the ’ouse —
you an’ yer expayriences. Is it a bigger one
nor usual?”

"!” answered Mulva-
ney, stretching out a huge arm and catching

“?Twas the livin’ trut

Ortheris by the collar. ‘ Now where are ye,
me son? Will ye take the wurrud av the
Lorrd out av my mouth another time?” He
shook him to emphasize the question.

‘No, somethin’ else, though,” said Orthe-
ris, making a dash at Mulvaney’s pipe, cap-
turing it and holding it at arm’s length; “ I'll
chuck it acrost the ditch if you don’t let me
go!”

“You maraudin’ hathen! ’Tis the only
eutty I iver loved. Handle her tinder or I’ll
chuck you acrost the nullah. If that poipe
was bruk —— Ah! Give her back to me, Ser!”
THE SOLID MULDOON. 69

Ortheris had passed the treasure to my
hand. It was an absolutely perfect clay, as
shiny as the black ball at Pool. I took *
reverently, but I was firm.

‘Will you tell us about the ghost-fight if I
do?” I said.

“Is ut the shtory that’s troublin’ you? Av
course I will. I mint to all along. I was
only gettin’ at ut my own way, as Popp
Doggle said whin they found him thrying to
ram a cartridge down the muzzle. Orth’ris,
fall away!”

He released the little Lundoner, took back
his pipe, filled it, and his eyes twinkled. He
has the most eloquent eyes of any one that I
know.

“Did I iver tell you,” he began, “ that I
was wanst the divil av a man?”

“You did,” said Learoyd with a childish
gravity that made Ortheris yell with laughter,
for Mulvaney was always impressing upon us
his merits in the old days.

“Did I iver tell you,” Mulvaney continued
calmly. “that I was wanst more av a divil
than t am now?”
790 SOLDIERS THREE.

“Mer—ria! You don’t mean it?” said
Ortheris.

“Whin I was Corp’ril—I was rejuced
aftherwards — but, as I say, whzn I was Cor-
pril, I was a divil of a man.”

He was silent for nearly a minute, while
his mind rummaged among old memories and
his eye glowed. He bit upon the pipe-stem
and charged into his tale.

‘“Eyah! They was great times. I’m ould
now; me hide’s wore off in patches; sinthry-
go has disconceited me, an’ I’m a married
man tu. But I’ve had my day, I’ve had my
day, an’ nothin’ can take away the taste av
that! Oh my time past, whin I put me fut
through ivry livin’ wan av the Tin Command-
mints between Revelly and Lights Out, blew
the froth off a pewter, wiped me mustache
wid the back av me hand, an’ slept on ut all
as quiet as a little child! But ut’s over—
ut’s over, an’ ’twill niver come back to me;
not though I prayed for a week av Sundays.
Was there any wan in the Ould Rig’mint to
touch Corp’ril Terence Mulvaney whin that
THE SOLID MULDOON. 71

same was turned out for sedukshin? I niver
met him. Ivry woman that was not a witch
was worth the runnin’ afther in those days,
an’ ivry man was my dearest frind or — I had
stripped to him an’ we knew which was the
betther av the tu.

“Whin I was Corp’ril I wud not ha’
changed wid the Colonel — no, nor yet the
Commandher-in-Chief. I wud be a Sargint.
There was nothin’ I wud not be! Mother av
Hivin, look at me! FwhatamI xzow? But
no matther! I must get to the other ghosts
— not the wans in my ouid head.

“We was quartered in a big cantonmint
— ’tis no manner av use namin’ names, for
ut might give the barricks disrepitation — an’
I was the Imperor av the Earth to my own
mind, an’ wan or tu women thought the
same. Small blame to thim. Afther we had
lain there a year, Bragin, the Color Sargint
av E Comp’ny, wint an’ took a wife that was
lady’s maid to some big lady in the Station.
She’s dead now is Annie Bragin— died in
child-bed at Kirpa Tal, or ut may ha’ been
72 SOLDIERS THREE.

Almorah — seven — nine years gone, an
Bragin he married agin. But she was a
pretty woman whin Bragin inthrojuced her
to cantonmint society. She had eyes like
the brown av a buttherfly’s wing whin the sun
catches ut, an’ a waist no thicker than my
arm, an’ a little sof’ button av a mouth I wud
ha’ gone through all Asia bristlin’ wid bay’nits
to get the kiss av. An’ her hair was as long
as the tail av the Colonel’s charger— forgive
me mintionin’ that blunderin’ baste in the
same mouthful with Annie Bragin — but
‘twas all shpun gold, an’ time was whin a
lock av ut was more than di’monds. to me.
There was niver pretty woman yet, an’ I’ve
had thruck wid a few, cud open the door to
Annie Bragin.

“’Twas in the Carth’lic Chapel I saw her
first, me oi rolling round as usual to see
fwhat was to be seen. ‘ You're too good for
Bragin, my love,’ thinks I to mesilf, ‘but
that’s a mistake I can put straight, or my
name is not Terence Mulvaney.’

“ Now take my wurrd for ut, you Orth’ris
THE SOLID MULDOON, 78

there an’ Learoyd, an’ kape out av the Mar-
ried Quarters —as I did not. No good iver
comes av ut, an’ there’s always the chance av
your bein’ found wid your face in the dirt, a.
long picket in the back av your head, an’
your hands playing the fifes on the tread av
another man’s doorstep. “Twas so we found
O’Hara, he that Rafferty killed six years
gone, when he wint to his death wid his hair
oiled, whistlin’ Larry O'Rourke betune his
teeth. Kape out av the Married Quarters, I
say, as I did not. "Tis onwholesim, ’tis dan-
gerous, an’ ’tis ivrything else that’s bad, but
—O my sowl, ’tis swate while ut lasts!

“T was always hangin’ about there whin I
was off duty an’ Bragin wasn’t, but niver a
sweet word beyon’ ordinar’ did I get from
Annie Bragin. ‘’Tis the pervarsity av the
sect, sez I to mesilf, an’ gave my cap
another cock on my head an’ straightened
my back —’twas the back av a Dhrum Major
in those days — an’ wint off as tho’ I did not
care, wid all the women in the Married Quar-
ters laughin’. I was pershuaded — most
74 SOLDIERS THREE.

bhoys ave I’m thinkin’ —that no woman
born av woman cud stand against me av I
hild up me little finger. I had reason for
thinkin’ that way — till I met Annie Bragin.

“Time an’ agin whin I was blandandherin’
in the dusk a man wud go past me as quiet
asacat. ‘That's quare,’ thinks I, ‘for I am,
or I should be, the only man in these parts.
Now what divilment can Annie be up to?’
Thin I called myself a blayguard for thinkin’
such things; but I thought thim all the
same. An’ that, mark you, is the way ava
man.

“Wan evenin’ I said: —‘Mrs. Bragin,
manin’ no disrespect to you, who is that Cor-
p’ril man’—I had seen the stripes though I
cud niver get sight av his face—‘who is
that Corp’ril man that comes in always whin
I’m goin’ away ?’

“*Mother av God!’ sez she, turnin’ as
white as my belt; ‘have you seen him too?’

“*Seen him!’ sez I; ‘av coorse I have.
Did ye want me not to see him, for’— we
were standin’ talkin’ in the dhark, outside the
THE SOLID MULDOON. 75

veranda av Bragin’s quarters —‘ you'd bet-
ther tell me to shut me eyes. Onless ]'m
mistaken, he’s come now.’

“ An’, sure enough, the Corp’ril man was
walkin’ to us, hangin’ his head down as
though he was ashamed av himsilf.

“*Good-night, Mrs. Bragin,’ sez I, very
cool; ‘’tis not for me to interfere wid your
a-moors; but you might manage these
things wid more dacincy. I’m off to can-
teen,’ I sez.

“TI turned on my heel an’ wint away,
swearin’ ] wud give that man a dhressin’ that
wud shtop him messin’ about the Married
Quarters for a month an’ a week. I had not
tuk ten paces before Annie Bragin was
hangin’ on to my arm, an’ I cud feel that she
was shakin’ all over.

“«Stay wid me, Mister Mulvaney,’ sez
she; ‘you're flesh an’ blood, at the least —
are ye not?’

“<«T'm all that,’ sez I, an’ my anger wint
away in a flash. ‘Will I want to be asked
twice, Annie?’
76 SOLDIERS THREE.

“Wid that I slipped my arm round her
waist, for, begad, I fancied she had surrin-
dered at discretion, an’ the honors av war
were mine.

“«Fwhat nonsinse is this?’ sez she,
dhrawin’ hersilf up on the tips av her dear
little toes. ‘Wid the mother’s milk not dhry
on your impident mouth? Let go!” she sez.

«Did ye not say just now that I was flesh
and blood?’ sez I. ‘I have not changed
since,’ I sez; an’ I kep’ my arm where ut was.

“« Your arms to yoursilf!’ sez she, an’ her
eyes sparkild.

«Sure, ’tis only human nature,’ sez I; an’
I kep’ my arm where ut was.

““* Nature or no nature,’ sez she, ‘ you take
your arm away or I'll tell Bragin, an’ he'll
alter the nature av your head. Fwhat d’you
take me for?’ she sez.

“«A woman,’ sez 1; ‘the prettiest in bar-
ricks.’

“‘A wife, sez she; ‘the straightest in
cantonmints !’

“ Wid that I dropped my arm, fell back tu
THE SOLID MULDOON, 77

paces, an’ saluted, for I saw that she mint
_fwhat she said.”

“Then you know something that some
men would give a good deal to be certain of.
How could you tell?” I demanded in the
interests of Science.

““*Watch the hand,’ said Mulvaney; ‘av
she shuts her hand tight, thumb down over
the knuckle, take up your hat an’ go. You'll
only make a fool av yoursilf av you shtay.
But av the hand lies opin on the lap, or av
you see her thryin’ to shut ut, an’ she can’t,
—goon! She’s not past reasonin’ wid.’

“Well, as I was sayin’, I fell back, saluted,
an’ was goin’ away.

‘“«« Shtay wid me,’ she sez. ‘Look! He’s
comin’ again.’

‘She pointed to the veranda, an’ by the
Hoight av Impart’nince, the Corp’ril man was
comin’ out av Bragin’s quarters.

‘:* He’s done that these five evenin’s past,’
sez Annie Bragin. ‘Oh, fwhat will I do!’

“«He'll not do ut again,’ sez I, for I was
fightin’ mad.
78 SOLDIERS THREE.

‘‘Kape away from a man that has been a
thrifle crossed in love till the fever’s died
down. He rages like a brute beast.

“T wint up to the man in the veranda,
manin’, as sure as J sit, to knock the life out
av him. He slipped into the open. ‘ Fwhat
are you doin’ philanderin’ about here, ye
scum av the gutter?’ sez I polite, to give
him his warnin’, for I wanted him ready.

“He niver lifted his head, but sez, all
mournful an’ melancolius, as if he thought I
wud be sorry for him: ‘I can’t find her,’ sez
he.

“* My troth,’ sez I, ‘ you’ve lived too long
—you an’ your seekin’s an’ findin’s in a
dacint married woman’s quarters! Hould
up your head, ye frozen thief av Genesis,’ sez
I, ‘an’ you'll find all you want an’ more!’

“But he niver hild up, an’ I let go from
the shoulder to where the hair is short over
the eyebrows.

«That'll do your business,’ sez I, but it
nearly did mine instid. I put my body-
weight behind the blow, but I hit nothing at
THE SOLID MULDOON. 79

all, an’ near put my shoulther out. The
Corp’ril man was not there, an’ Annie Bragin,
who had been watchin’ from the veranda,
throws up her heels, an’ carries on like a cock
whin his neck’s wrung by the dhrummier-
bhoy. I wint back to her, for a livin’ woman,
an’ a woman like Annie Bragin, is more than
a prade-groun’ full av ghosts. I’d never
seen a woman faint before, an’ 1 stud like a
shtuck calf, askin’ her whether she was dead,
an prayin’ her for the love av me, an’ the
love av her husband, an’ the love av the
Virgin, to opin her blessed eyes again, an’
callin’ mesilf all the names undher the canopy
av Hivin for plaguin’ her wid my miserable
a-moors whin I ought to ha’ stud betune her
an’ this Corp’ril man that had lost the number
av his mess.

“J misremimber fwhat nonsinse I said,
but I was not so far gone that I cud not hear
a fut on the dirt outside. "Twas Bragin
comin’ in, an’ by the same token Annie wa3
comin’ to. I jumped to the far end av the
veranda an’ looked as if butter wudn’s meit
80 SOLDIERS THREE.

in my mouth. But Mrs. Quinn, the Quarter
Master’s wife that was, had tould Bragin
about my hangin’ round Annie.

“«Ym not pleased wid you, Mulvaney,’ sez
Bragin, unbucklin’ his sword, for he had
been on duty.

“¢That’s bad hearin’, I sez, an’ I knew
that the pickets were dhriven in. ‘What for,
Sargint ?’ sez I.

“«Come outside,’ sez he, ‘an’ I'll show
you why.’

“«[m willin’,” I sez; ‘but my stripes are
none so ould that I can afford to lose thim.
Tell me now, who do I go out wid?’ sez I.

“He was a quick man an’ a just, an’ saw
fwhat I wud be afther. ‘Wid Mrs. Bragin’s
husband,’ sez he. He might ha’ known by
me askin’ that favor that I had done him no
wrong.

“‘We wint to the back av the arsenal an’ I
stripped to him, an’ for ten minutes ’twas all
I cud do to prevent him killin’ himself
against my fistes. He was mad as a dumb

dog —just frothing wid rage; but he had ne
THE SOLID MULDOON. 81

chanst wid me in reach, or learnin’, or any-
thing else.

““«Will ye hear reason?’ sez I, whin his
first wind was runnin’ out.

‘““« Not whoile I can see,’ sez he. Wid that
I gave him both, one after the other, smash
through the low gyard that he’d been taught
whin he was a boy, an’ the eyebrow shut
down on the cheek-bone like the wing av a
sick crow.

“«Will you hear reason now, ye brave
man ?’ sez I.

‘““*Not whoile I can speak,’ sez he, stag-
gerin’ up blind as a stump. I was loath to do
ut, but I wint round an’ swung into the jaw
side-on an’ shifted ut a half pace to the lef’.

«Will ye hear reason now?’ sez I; ‘I
can’t keep my timper much longer, an’ ’tis
like I will hurt you.’

“‘« Not whoile I can stand,’ he mumbles out
av one corner av his mouth. So I closed an’
threw him—blind, dumb, an’ sick, an’
jammed the jaw straight.

“*YVou're an ould fool, Aster Bragin,’
sez J.
82 SOLDIERS THREE,

“ «You're a young thief,’ sez he, ‘an’ you’ve
bruk my heart, you an’ Annie betune you!’
“Thin he began cryin’ like a child as he
lay. I was sorry as I had niver been before.
"Tis an awful thing to see a strong man cry.

‘“«« [ll swear on the Cross!’ sez I.

“«T care for none av your oaths,’ sez he.

‘““«Come back to your quarters,’ sez I, ‘an’
if you don’t believe the livin’, begad, you
shall listen to the dead,’ I sez.

“T hoisted him an’ tuk him back to his
quarters. ‘Mrs. Bragin,’ sez I, ‘ here’s a man
that you can cure quicker than me.’

““« You've shamed me before my wife,’ he
whimpers.

“*Have I so?’ sez J. ‘By the look on
Mrs. Bragin’s face I think I’m for a dhressin’-
down worse than I gave you.’

“ An’ Iwas! Annie Bragin was woild wid
indignation. There was not a name that a
dacint woman cud use that was not given my
way. I’ve had my Colonel walk roun’ me
like a cooper roun’ a cask for fifteen minuts
in Ord’ly Room, bekaze I wint into the Cor-
THE SOLID MULDOON. 83

ner Shop an unstrapped lewnatic, but all that
I iver tuk from his rasp av a tongue was
ginger-pop to fwhat Annie tould me. An’
that, mark you, is the way av a woman.

“Whin ut was done for want av breath,
an’ Annie was bendin’ over her husband, I
sez: ‘’Tis all thrue, an’ ’'m a blayguard an’
you're an honest woman; but will you tell
him of wan service that I did you?’

‘“AsI finished speakin’ the Corp’ril man
came up to the veranda, an’ Annie Bragin
shquealed. The moon was up, an’ we cud
see his face.

“T can’t find her,’ sez the Corp’ril man,
an’ wint out like the puff av a candle.

“«Saints stand betune us an’ evil!’ sez
Bragin, crossin’ himself; ‘that’s Flahy av the
Tyrone Rig’mint.’

“«*« Who was he?’ I sez, ‘for he has given
me a dale av fightin’ this day.’

“ Bragin tould us that Flahy was a Corp’-
ril who lost his wife av cholera in those quar-
ters three years gone, an’ wint mad, an’
walked afther they buried him, huntin’ for
her.
84 SOLDIERS THREE.

“*Well,” sez I to Bragin, ‘he’s been
hookin’ out av Purgathory to kape company
wid Mrs. Bragin ivry evenin’ for the last
fortnight. You may tell Mrs. Quinn, wid
my love, for I know that she’s been talkin’ to
you, an’ you've been listenin’, that she ought
to ondherstand the differ ’twixt a man an’ a
ghost. She’s had three husbands,’ sez I,
‘an’ you've got a wife too good for you.
Instid av which you lave her to be boddered
by ghosts an’ — an’ all manner av evil spir-
ruts. I'll niver go talkin’ in the way av
politeness to a man’s wife again. Good-
night to you both,’ sez I; an’ wid that I wint
away, havin’ fought wid woman, man and
Divil all in the heart av an hour. By the
same token I gave Father Victor wan rupee
to say a mass for Flahy’s soul, me havin’ dis-
commoded him by shticking my fist into his
systim.”

“Your ideas of politeness seem rather
large, Mulvaney,” I said.

“That’s as you look at ut,” said Mulvaney
calmly; “ Annie Bragin niver cared for me.
THE SOLID MULDOON. 85

For all that, I did not want to leave anything
behin’ me that Bragin could take hould av to
be angry wid her about—whin an honust
wurrd cud ha’ cleared all up. There’s noth-
ing like opin-speakin’. Ort’hris, ye scutt, let
me put me oi to that bottle, for my throat’s
as dhry as whin I thought I wud get a kiss
from Annie Bragir. An’ that’s fourteen
years gone! Eyah! Cork’s own city an’
the blue sky above ut—an’ the times that
was — the times that was!”
WITH THE MAIN GUARD.

DER jungere Uhlanen

Sit round mit open mouth

While Breitmann tell dem stdories

Of fightin’ in the South ;

Und gif dem moral lessons,

How before der battle pops,

Take a little prayer to Himmel

Und a goot long drink of Schnapps.
Hans Breitmann’s Ballads.

“Mary, Mother av Mercy, fwhat the divil
possist us to take an’ kape this melancolious
counthry? Answer me that, Sorr.”

It was Mulvaney who was speaking. The
hour was one o'clock of a stifling hot June
night, and the place was the main gate of
Fort Amara, most desolate and least desir-
able of all fortresses in India. What I was
doing there at that hour is a question which
only concerns McGrath the Sergeant of the
Guard, and the men on the gate.
WITH THE MAIN GUARD. 87

*Slape,” said Mulvaney, “is a shuparflu-
ous necessity. This gyard’ll shtay lively till
relieved.” He himself was stripped to the
waist; Learoyd on the next bedstead was
dripping from the skinful of water which
Ortheris, arrayed only in white trousers, had
just sluiced over his shoulders ; and a fourth
private was muttering uneasily as he dozed
open-mouthed in the glare of the great
guard-lantern. The heat under the bricked
archway was terrifying.

“The worrst night that iver I remimber.
Eyah! Is all Hell loose this tide?” said
Mulvaney. A puff of burning wind lashed
through the wicket-gate like a wave of the
sea, and Ortheris swore.

«Are ye more heasy, Jock?” he said to
Learoyd. ‘Put yer ’ead between your legs.
It'll go orf in a minute.”

“Ah don’t care. Ah would not care, but
ma heart is plaayin’ tivvy-tivvy on ma ribs.
Let me die! Oh, leave me die!” groaned
the huge Yorkshireman, who was feeling the
heat acutely, being of fleshly build.
88 SOLDIERS THREE.

The sleeper under the lantern roused for a
moment and raised himself on his elbow. —-
“ Die and be damned then!” he said. ‘ /’m
damned and I can’t die!”

“Who's that?” I whispered, for the voice
was new to me.

‘Gentleman born,” said Mulvaney ; “ Cor-
pil wan year, Sargint nex’. Red-hot on his
C’mission, but dhrinks like a fish. He'll be
gone before the cowld weather’s here.
So!”

He slipped his boot, and with the naked
toe just touched the trigger of his Martini.
Ortheris misunderstood the movement, and
the next instant the Irishman’s rifle was
dashed aside, while Ortheris stood before
him, his eyes blazing with reproof.

“You!” said Ortheris. ‘ My Gawd, you!
If it was you, wot would we do?”

“Kape quiet, little man,” said Mulvaney,
putting him aside, but very gently; “’tis not
me, nor will ut be me whoile Dinah Shadd’s
here. 1 was but showin’ something.”

Learoyd, bowed on his bedstead, groaned,
WITH THE MAIN GUARD. 89

and the gentleman ranker sighed in his
sleep. Ortheris took Mulvaney’s tendered
pouch, and we three smoked gravely for a
space while the dust-devils danced on the
glacis and scoured the red-hot plain without.

“Pop?” said Ortheris, wiping his fore-
head.

“Don’t tantalize wid talkin’ av dhrink, or
I'll shtuff you into your own breech-block
an’ — fire you off!” grunted Mulvaney.

Ortheris chuckled, and from a niche in the
veranda produced six bottles of gingerade.

‘Where did ye get ut, ye Machiavel?”

said Mulvaney. “‘’Tis no bazar pop.”

“’Ow do Hz know wot the Orf’cers
drink?” answered Ortheris. ‘“Arst the
mess-man.”

“Ye'll have a  Disthrict Coort-martial
settin’on ye yet, me son,” said Mulvaney,
‘‘but””—he opened a bottle — ‘I will not
report ye this time. Fwhat’s in the mess
kid is mint for the belly, as they say, ’spe
cially whin that mate is dhrink. Here’s
luck! A bloody war or a—no, we've got
go SOLDIERS THREE.

the sickly season. War, thin!””—he waved
the innocent “ pop” to the four quarters of
Heaven. ‘ Bloody war! North, East, South,
an’ West! Jock, ye quakin’ hayrick, come
an’ dhrink.”

But Lgaroyd, half mad with the fear of
death presaged in the swelling veins of his
neck, was imploring his Maker to strike him
dead, and fighting for more air between his
prayers. A second time Ortheris drenched
the quivering body with water, and the| giant
revived.

“ An’ Ah divn’t see thot a mon is ?’ fettle
for gooin’ on to live; an’ Ah divn’t see thot
there is owt for t’ livin’ for. Hear now, lads!
Ah’m tired —tired. There’s nobbut watter 7’
ma bones. Let me die!”

The hollow of the arch gave back
Learoyd’s broken whisper in a bass boom.
Mulvaney looked at me hopelessly, but. I
remembered how the madness of despair had
once fallen upon Ortheris, that weary, weary
afternoon in the banks of the Khemi River,
and how it had been exorcised by the skilful
magician Mulvaney.
WITH THE MAIN GUARD. 91

“Talk, Terence!” I said, “or we shall
have Learoyd slinging loose, and he'll be
worse than Ortheris was. Talk! He'll an-
swer to your voice.”

Almost before Ortheris had deftly thrown
all the rifles of the Guard on Mulvaney’s
bedstead, the Irishman’s voice was uplifted
as that of one in the middle of a story, and,
turning to me, he said, —

“Tn barricks or out of it, as yow say, Sorr,
an Ojirish rig’mint is the divil an’ more. ’Tis
only fit for a young man wid eddicated
fisteses. Oh the crame av disruption is an
Oirish rig’mint, an’ rippin’, tearin’, ragin’
scattherers in the field av war! My first
rig’mint was Oirish —Faynians an’ rebils to
the heart av their marrow was they, an’ so
they fought for the Widdy betther than most,
bein’ contrairy—Oirish. They was the
Black Tyrone. You've heard av thim,
Sorr?”

Heard of them! I knew the Black
Tyrone for the choicest collection of unmiti-
gated blackguards, dog-stealers, robbers of
92 SOLDIERS THREE.

hen-roosts, assaulters of innocent citizens,
and recklessly daring heroes in the Army
List. Half Europe and half Asia has had
cause to know the Black Tyrone — good luck
be with their tattered Colors as Glory has
ever been!

“ They was hot pickils an’ ginger! I cut
a man’s head tu deep wid my belt in the
days av my youth, an’, afther some circum-
stances which I will oblitherate, I came to
the Ould Rig’mint, bearin’ the character av a
man wid hands an’ feet. But, as I was goin’
to tell you, I fell acrost the Black Tyrone
agin wan day whin we wanted thim powerful
bad. Orth’ris, me son, fwhat was the name
av that place where they sint wan comp’ny
av us an’ wan av the Tyrone roun’ a hill an’
down again, all for to tache the Paythans
something they'd niver learned before?
Afther Ghuzni ’twas.”

‘Don’t know what the bloomin’ Paythans
called it. We called it Silver's Theayter.
You know that, sure!”

“Silver's Theatre — so ’twas. A gut be-
WITH THE MAIN GUARD, 93

tune two hills, as black as a bucket, an’ as
thin as a gurl’s waist. There was over-many
Paythans for our convaynience in the gut,
an’ begad they called thimselves a Reserve
— bein’ impident by natur! Our Scotchies
an’ lashins av Gurkys was poundin’ into
some Paythan rig’ments, I think ’twas.
Scotchies an’ Gurkys are twins bekaze
they’re so onlike, an’ they get dhrunk to-
gether whin God plases. Well, as I was
sayin’, they sint wan comp’ny av the Ould
an’ wan av the Tyrone to double up the hill
an’ clane out the Paythan Reserve. Orf’cers
was scarce in thim days, fwhat wid dysintry
an’ not takin’ care av thimselves, an’ we was
sint out wid only wan orf’cer for the com-
pny; but he was a Man that had his feet
beneath him, an’ all his teeth in their
sockuts.”

“Who was he ?” I asked.

“Captain O’Neil— Old Crook — Cruik-
na-bulleen — him that I tould ye that tale av
whin he was in Burma. Hah! He was a
Man. The Tyrone tuk a little orf’cer bhoy,
94 SOLDIERS THREE.

but divil a bit was he in command, as I'll
dimonstrate presintly. We an’ they came
over the brow av the hill, wan on each side
av the gut, an’ there was that ondacint
Reserve waitin’ down below like rats in a pit.

“ * Howld on, men,’ sez Crook, who tuk a
mother’s care av us always. ‘ Rowl some
rocks on thim by way av visitin’-kyards.’
We hadn’t rowled more than twinty bowl-
ders, an’ the Paythans was beginnin’ to swear
tremenjus, whin the little orf’cer bhoy av the
Tyrone shqueaks out acrost the valley: —
‘Fwhat the devil an’ all are you doin’, shpoil-
in’ the fun for my men? Do ye not see
they'll stand ?’

“*Paith, that’s a rare pluckt wan!’ sez
Crook. ‘Niver mind the rocks, men.
Come along down an’ take tay wid thim!’

““«There’s damned little sugar in ut!’ sez
my rear-rank man; but Crook heard.

“*Have ye not all got spoons ?’ he sez,
laughin’, an’ down we wint as fast as we cud.
Learoyd bein’ sick at the Base, he, av coorse,
was not there.”
WITH THE MAIN GUARD. 95

“Thot’s a lie!” said Learoyd, dragging
his bedstead nearer. ‘Ah gotten thot
theer, an’ you knaw it, Mulvaney.” He
threw up his arms, and from the right arm-
pit ran, diagonally through the fell of his
chest, a thin white line terminating near the
fourth left rib.

‘““My mind’s goin’,” said Mulvaney, the
unabashed. ‘‘ Ye were there. Fwhat I was
thinkin’ of! "Iwas another man, av coorse.
Well, you'll remimber thin, Jock, how we an’
the Tyrone met wid a bang at the bottom an’
got jammed past all movin’ among the
Paythans.”

“Ow! It wos a tight ole. Hi was
squeeged till I thought Pd bloomin’ well
bust,” said Ortheris, rubbing his stomach
meditatively.

‘°?Twas no place for a little man, but waz
little man” — Mulvaney put his hand on
Ortheris’s shoulder — “ saved the life av me.
There we shtuck, for divil a bit did the Pay-
thans flinch, an’ divil a bit dare we; our
business bein’ to clear ’>m out. An’ the
96 SOLDIERS THREE.

most exthryordinar’ thing av all was that
we an’ they just rushed into each other's
arrums, an’ there was no firing for a long
time. Nothin’ but knife an’ bay’nit when we
cud get our hands free: that was not often.
We was breast on to thim, an’ the Tyrone
was yelpin’ behind av us in a way I didn’t
see the lean av at first. But I knew later,
an’ so did the Paythans.

““« Knee to knee!’ sings out Crook, wid a
laugh whin the rush av our comin’ into the
gut shtopped, an’ he was huggin’ a hairy
great Paythan, neither bein’ able to do any-
thing to the other, tho’ both was wishful.

‘“« Breast to breast!’ he says, as the Tyrone
was pushin’ us forward closer an’ closer.

““« An’ hand over back!’ sez a Sargint that
was behin’. I saw a sword lick out past
Crook’s ear like a snake’s tongue, an’ the
Paythan was tuk in the apple av his throat
like a pig at Dromeen fair.

“«Thank ye, Brother Inner Guard,’ sez
Crook, cool as a cucumber widout salt. ‘1
wanted that room,’ An’ he wint forward by
WITH THE MAIN GUARD. 97

the thickness av a man’s body, havin’ turned
the Paythan undher him. The man bit the
heel off Crook’s boot in his death-bite.

“«Push, men!’ sez Crook. ‘Push, ye
paper-backed beggars!’ he sez. ‘Am I to
pull ye through?’ So we pushed, an’ we
kicked, an’ we swung, an’ we swore, an’ the
grass bein’ slippery, our heels wouldn't bite,
an’ God help the front-rank man that wint
down that day!”

“’Ave you ever bin in the Pit hentrance
o’ the Vic. on a thick night?” interrupted
Ortheris. ‘It was worse nor that, for they
was goin’ one way, an’ we wouldn’t ’ave it.
Leastaways, Hi ’adn’t much to say.”

“Faith, me son, ye said ut, thin. I kep’
the little man betune my knees as long as I
cud, but he was pokin’ roun’ wid his bay’nit,
blindin’ an’ stiffin’ feroshus. The devil of a
man is Orth’ris in a ruction—aren’t ye?”
said Mulvaney.

“Don't make game!” said the Cockney.
‘©T knowed I wasn’t no good then, but I gu.
‘em compot from the lef’ flank when we
98 SOLDIERS THREE.

opened out. No!” he said, bringing down
his hand with a thump on the bedstead, ‘a
bay’nit ain’t no good to a little man — might
as well ’ave a bloomin’ fishin’ rod! I’ate a
clawin’, maulin’ mess, but gimme a breech
that’s wore out a bit, an’ hamminition one
year in store, to let the powder kiss the
bullet, an’ put me somewheres where I ain't
trod on by ’ulkin swine like you, an’ s’elp me
Gawd, I could bowl you over five times outer
seven at height ’undred. Would yer try, you
lumberin’ Hirishman ?”

“No, ye wasp. I’ve seen ye do ut. I say
there’s nothin’ better than the bay’nit, wid a
long reach, a double twist av ye can, an’ a
slow recover.”

“Dom the bay’nit,” said Learoyd, who had
been listening intently. ‘Look a-here!”
He picked up a rifle an inch below the fore-
sight with an underhanded action, and used
it exactly as a man would use a dagger.

‘ Sitha,” said he softly, “ thot’s better than
owt, for a mon can bash t’ faace wi’ thot, an’,
if he divn’t, he can breeak t’ forearm o’ t'
WITH THE MAIN GUARD. 99

gaard. "Tis not i’ t’ books, though. Gie me
t’ butt.”

“Each does ut his own way, like makin’
love,” said Mulvaney quietly ; “the butt or
the bay’nit or the bullet accordin’ to the
natur’ av the man. Well, as I was sayin’,
we shtuck there breathin’ in each other’s
faces an’ swearin’ powerful; Orth’ris cursin’
the mother that bore him bekaze he was not
three inches taller.

“Prisintly he sez:—‘ Duck, ye lump, an’
I can get at a man over your shouldher!’

“¢ Vou’ll blow me head off,’ I sez, throwin’
my arm clear; ‘go through under my arm-
pit, ye bloodthirsty little scutt,’ sez I, ‘ but
don’t shtick me or I'll wring your ears
round.’

‘‘Fwhat was ut ye gave the Paythan man
forninst me, him that cut at me whin I cudn’t
move hand or foot? Hot or cowld was ut?”

“Cold,” said Ortheris, “ up an’ under the
rib-jint. ’E come down flat. Best for you
’e did.”

“Thrue, my son! This jam thing that
100 SOLDIERS THREE.

'm talkin’ about lasted for five minutes good,
an’ thin we got our arms clear an’ wint in. |]
misremimber exactly fwhat I did, but I didn’t
want Dinah to be a widdy at the Depot..
Thin, after some promishkuous hackin’ we
shtuck again, an’ the Tyrone behin’ was
callin’ us dogs an’ cowards an’ all manner av
names; we barrin’ their way.

“«Fwhat ails the Tyrone?’ thinks I;
‘they've the makin’s av a most convanient
fight here.’

‘A man behind me sez beseechful an’ in a
whisper: — ‘Let me get at thim! For the
Love av Mary give me room beside ye, ye
tall man!’

“«« An’ who are you that’s so anxious to be
kilt?’ sez I, widout turnin’ my head, for the
long knives was dancin’ in front like the sun
on Donegal Bay whin ut’s rough.

“We've seen our dead,’ he sez, squeezin’
into me; ‘our dead that was men two days
gone! An’ me that was his cousin by blood
could not bring Tim Coulan off! Let me
get on,’ he sez, ‘let me get to thim or I'll
run ye through the back!’
WITH THE MAIN GUARD. IOI

“« My troth,’ thinks I, ‘if the Tyrone have
seen their dead, God help the Paythans this
day!’ An’ thin I knew why the Oirish was
ragin’ behind us as they was.

“T gave room to the man, an’ he ran
forward wid the Haymakers’ Lift on his
bay’nit an’ swung a Paythan clear off his
feet by the belly-band av the brute, an’ the
iron bruk at the lockin’-ring.

“¢Tim Coulan ‘Il slape easy to-night,’ sez
he wid a grin; an’ the next minut his head
was in two halves and he wint down grinnin’
by sections.

“The Tyrone was pushin’ an’ pushin’ ix,
an’ our men was swearin’ at thim, an’ Crook
was workin’ away in front av us all, his
sword-arm swingin’ like a pump-handle an’
his revolver spittin’ like a cat. But the
strange thing av ut was the quiet that lay
upon. "Twas like a fight in a drame —
except for thim that was dead.

“Whin I gave room to the Oirishman i
was expinded an’ forlorn in my inside. “Tis
a way I have, savin’ your presince, Sorr, in
102 SOLDIERS THREE.

action. ‘Let me out, bhoys,’ sez I, backin’
in among thim. ‘I’m goin’ to be onwell!’
Faith they gave me room at the wurrud,
though they would not ha’ given room for all
Hell wid the chill off. When I got clear, I
was, savin’ your presince, Sorr, outragis sick
bekaze I had dhrunk heavy that day.

‘Well an’ far out av harm was a Sargint
av the Tyrone sittin’ on the little orf’cer bhoy
who had stopped Crook from rowlin’ the
rocks. Oh, he was a beautiful bhoy, an’ the
long black curses was sliding out av his
innocint mouth like mornin’-jew from a rose! .

““«Pwhat have you got there?’ sez I to the
Sargint.

““*Wan av Her Majesty’s bantams wid his
spurs up,’ sez he. ‘He’s goin’ to Coort-
martial me.’

“*Tet me go!’ sez the little orf’cer bhoy.
‘Let me go and command my men!’ manin’
thereby the Black Tyrone which was beyond
any command — ay, even av they had made
the Divil a Field-orf’cer.

«His father howlds my mother’s cow-feed
WITH THE MAIN GUARD. 103

in Clonmel,’ sez the man that was sittin’ on
him. ‘Will I go back to 42s mother an’ tell
her that I’ve let him throw himself away ?
Lie still, ye little pinch av dynamite, an’
Coort-martial me aftherwards.’

“«Good, sez I; ‘’tis the likes av him
makes the likes av the Commandher-in-
Chief, but we must presarve thim. Fwhat
d’ you want to do, Sorr?’ sez I, very
politeful.

“« Kill the beggars — kill the beggars!’ he
shqueaks ; his big blue eyes fairly brimmin’
wid tears.

““* An’ how'll ye do that?’ sez I. ‘You've
shquibbed off your revolver like a child wid a
cracker; you can make no play wid that fine
large sword av yours; an’ your hand’s shakin’
like an asp on a leaf. Lie still and grow,’
sez I.

«Get back to your comp’ny,’ sez he;
‘you're insolint !’

«« All in good time,’ sez I, ‘but I'll have a
dhrink first.’

“Just thin Crook comes up, blue an’ white
all over where he wasn’t red.
{04 SOLDIERS THREE.

“«¢Wather!’ sez he; ‘I’m dead wid
drouth! Oh, but it’s a gran’ day!’

“He dhrank half a skinful, and the rest
he tilts into his chest, an’ it fair hissed on the
hairy hide av him. He sees the little orf’cer
bhoy undher the Sargint.

‘““« Fwhat’s yonder?’ sez he.

““*Mutiny, Sorr,’ sez the Sargint, an’ the
orfcer bhoy begins pleadin’ pitiful to Crook
to be let go: but divil a bit wud Crook
budge.

““« Kape him there,’ he sez, ‘’tis no child’s
work this day. By the same token,’ sez he,
‘Tl confishcate that iligant nickel-plated
scent-sprinkler av yours, for my own has
been vomitin’ dishgraceful !’

“The fork av his hand was black wid the
back-spit av the machine. So he tuk the
orf’cer bhoy’s revolver. Ye may look, Sorr,
but, by my faith, ¢here’s a dale more done
tn the field than iver gets into Field
Ordhers !

“*Come on, Mulvaney,’ sez Crook; ‘is
this a Coort-martial?’ The two av us wint
WITH TPs MAIN GUARD. 105

back together into the mess an’ the Paythans
were still standin’ up. They was not Zoo
impart’nint though, for the Tyrone was callin’
wan to another to remimber Tim Coulan.

‘“Crook stopped outside av the strife an’
looked anxious, his eyes rowlin’ roun’.

“«Fwhat is ut, Sorr?’ sez I; ‘can I get
ye anything ?’

““«Where’s a bugler?’ sez he.

“JT wint into the crowd—our men was
dhrawin’ breath behin’ the Tyrone who was
fightin’ like sowls in tormint— an’ prisintly
I came acrost little Frehan, our bugler bhoy,
pokin’ roun’ among the best wid a rifle an’
bay’nit. :

“«Ts amusin’ yoursilf fwhat you're paid for,
ye limb?’ sez I, catchin’ him by the scruff.
‘Come out av that an’ attind to your duty,’ |
sez; but the bhoy was not pleased.

“<«T’ve got wan,’ sez he, grinnin’, ‘big as
you, Mulvaney, an’ fair half as ugly. Let
me go get another.’

“‘j was dishpleased at the personability av
that remark, so I tucks him under, my arm:
106 SOLDIERS THREE,

an’ carries him to Crook who was watchin’
how the fight wint. Crook cuffs him till the
bhoy cries, an’ thin sez nothin’ for a whoile.

“The Paythans began to flicker onaisy, an’
our men roared. ‘Opin ordher! Double!’
sez Crook. ‘ Blow, child, blow for the honor
av the British Arrmy!’

“That bhoy blew like a typhoon, an’ the
Tyrone an’ we opined out as the Paythans
broke, an’ I saw that fwhat had gone before
wud be kissin’ an’ huggin’ to fwhat was to
come. We'd dhruv thim into a broad part
av the gut whin they gave, an’ thin we
opined out an’ fair danced down the valley,
dhrivin’ thim before us. Oh, ’twas lovely, an’
stiddy, too! There was the Sargints on the
flanks av what was left av us, kapin’ touch,
an’ the fire was runnin’ from flank to flank,
an’ the Paythans was dhroppin’, We opined
out wid the widenin’ av the valley, an’ whin
the valley narrowed we closed again like the
shticks on a lady’s fan, an’ at the far ind av
the gut where they thried to stand, we fair
blew them off their feet, for we had expinded
WITH THE MAIN GUARD. 107

very little ammunition by reason av the knife
work.”

‘“Hi used thirty rounds goin’ down that
valley,” said Ortheris, “an’ it was gentle-
man’s work. Might ’a’ done it in a white
’andkerchief an’ pink silk stockin’s, that part.
Hi was on in that piece.”

“You could ha’ heard the Tyrone yellin’ a

’ ,

mile away,” said Mulvaney, “an’ ’twas all
their Sargints cud do to get thim off. They
was mad—mad—mad! Crook sits dowr
in the quiet that fell whin we had gone down
the valley, an’ covers his face wid his hands.
Prisintly we all came back again accordin’ to
our natures and disposishins, for they, mark
you, show through the hide av a man in that
hour.

‘““«Bhoys! bhoys!’ sez Crook to himself.
‘I misdoubt we could ha’ engaged at long
range an’ saved betther men than me.’ He
looked at our dead an’ said no more.

‘“« Captain dear,’ sez a man av the Tyrone,
comin’ up wid his mouth bigger than iver
his mother kissed ut, spittin’ blood like a
108 SOLDIERS THREE.

whale; ‘Captain dear,’ sez he, ‘if wan or
two in the shtalls have been discommoded,
the gallery have enjoyed the performinces av
a Roshus.’

“Thin I knew that man for the Dublin
dock-rat he was—wan av the bhoys that
made the lessee av Silver's Theatre gray
before his time wid tearin’ out the bowils av
the benches an’ t’rowin’ thim into the pit.
So I passed the wurrud that I knew when I
was in the Tyrone an’ we lay in Dublin.
‘I don’t know who ’twas,’ I whispers, ‘an’ I
don’t care, but anyways I'll knock the face av
you, Tim Kelly.’

“«Eyah !’ sez the man, ‘was you there
too? We'll call ut Silver's Theatre.’ Half
the Tyrone, knowin’ the ould place, tuk ut
up: so we called ut Silver's Theatre.

“The little orf’cer bhoy av the Tyrone was
thrimblin’ an’ cryin’. He had no heart for
the Coort Martials that he talked so big
upon. ‘Ye'll do well later,’ sez Crook, very
quiet, ‘for not bein’ allowed to kill yourself
for amusemint.’
WITH THE MAIN GUARD. 109

**T’m a dishgraced man!’ sez the little
orf'cer bhoy.

‘““« Put me undher arrest, Sorr, if you will,
but, by my sewl, I’d do ut again sooner than
face your mother wid you dead,’ sez the Sar-
gint that had sat on his head, standin’ to
attention an’ salutin’. But the young wan
only cried as tho’ his little heart was breakin’,

‘““Thin another man av the Tyrone came
up, wid the fog av fightin’ on him.”

“The what, Mulvaney ?”’

“Fog av fightin’. You know, Sorr, tha.
like makin’ love, ut takes each man diff’rint.
Now I can’t help bein’ powerful sick whin
I’m in action. Orth’ris, here, niver stops
swearin’ from ind to ind, an’ the only time
that Learoyd opins his mouth to sing is whin
he is messin’ wid other people’s heads; for
he’s a dhirty fighter is Jock Learoyd. Re-
cruities sometime cry, an’ sometime they
don’t know fwhat they do, an’ sometime they
are all for cuttin’ throats an’ such like dirti-
ness ; but some men get heavy-dead-dhrunk
on the fightin’. This man was. He was
110 SOLDIERS THREE.

staggerin’, an’ his eyes were half shut, an’ we
cud hear him dhraw breath twinty yards
away. He sees the little orf’cer bhoy, an’
comes up, talkin’ thick an’ drowsy to himsilf.
‘Blood the young whelp!’ he sez; ‘blood
the young whelp ;’ an’ wid that he threw up
his arms, shpun roun’, an’ dropped at our
feet, dead as a Paythan, an’ there was niver
sign or scratch on him. They said ’twas his
heart was rotten, but oh, ’twas a quare thing
to see |

“Thin we wint to bury our dead, for we
wud not lave thim to the Paythans, an’ in
movin’ among the haythen we nearly lost
that little orf’cer bhoy. He was for givin’
wan divil wather and layin’ him aisy against a
rock. ‘Be careful, Sorr,’ sez I; ‘a wounded
Paythan’s worse than a live wan.’ My troth,
before the words was out of my mouth, the
man on the ground fires at the orf’cer bhoy
lanin’ over him, an’ I saw the helmit fly. I
dropped the butt on the face av the man an’
tuk his pistol. The little orf’cer bhoy turned
very white, for the hair av half his head was
singed away.
WITH THE MAIN GUARD. Ill

“*T tould you so, Sorr!’ sez I; an’, afther
that, whin he wanted to help a Paythan I stud
wid the muzzle contagious to the ear. They
dare not do anythin’ but curse. The Tyrone
was growlin’ like dogs over a bone that has
been taken away too soon, for they had seen
their dead an’ they wanted to kill ivry sowl
on the ground. Crook tould thim that he’d
blow the hide off any man that misconducted
himself; but, seeing that ut was the first
time the Tyrone had iver seen their dead, I
do not wondher they were on the sharp.
Tis a shameful sight! Whin I first saw ut I
wud niver ha’ given quarter to any man north
of the Khaibar — no, nor woman either, for
the women used to come out afther dhark —
Auggrh !

“ Well, evenshually we buried our dead an’
tuk away our wounded, an come over the
brow av the hills to see the Scotchies an’ the
Gurkys taking tay with the Paythans in
bucketsfuls. We were a gang av dissolute
ruffians, for the blood had caked the dust, an’
the sweat had cut the cake, an’ our bay’nits
112 SOLDIERS THREE,

was hangin’ like butchers’ steels betune ur
legs, an’ most av us were marked one way or
another.

“A Staff Orf’cer man, clean as a new
rifle, rides up an’ sez:—‘ What damned
scarecrows are you ?’

“«A comp’ny av Her Majesty’s Black
Tyrone an’ wan av the Ould Rig’mint,’ sez
Crook very quiet, givin’ our visitors the flure
as ’twas.

“*Qh!’ sez the Staff Orf’cer; ‘did you
dislodge that Reserve ?’

“*No!’ sez Crook, an’ the Tyrone
laughed.

“« Thin fwhat the divil have ye done?’

“« Disthroyed ut,’ sez Crook, an’ he took
us on, but not before Toomey that was in the
Tyrone sez aloud, his voice somewhere in his
stummick : — ‘ Fwhat in the name av misfor-
tune does this parrit widout a tail mane by
shtoppin’ the road av his betthers?’ =~

“The Staff Orf’cer wint blue, an’ Toomey
makes him pink by changin’ to the voice av
a minowderin’ woman an’ sayin’; —-‘ Come
WITH THE MAIN GUARD. 113

an’ kiss me, Major dear, for me husband’s at
the wars an’ I’m all alone at the Depot.’

“The Staff Orf'cer wint away, an’ I cud
see Crook’s shoulthers shakin’.

‘His Corp’ril checks Toomey. ‘Lave me
alone,’ sez Toomey, widout a wink. ‘I was
his batman before he was married an’ he
knows fwhat I mane, av you don’t. There’s
nothin’ like livin’ in the hoight av society.’
D’you remimber that, Orth’ris !”

“Hi do. Toomey, ’e died in ’orspital,
next week it was, ’cause I bought ’arf his
kit ; an’ I remember after that —”

‘‘ GUARRD, TURN OUT!”

The Relief had come; it was four o'clock.
“Tl catch a kyart for you, Sorr,” said
Mulvaney, diving hastily into his accoutre-
ments. “Come up to the top av the Fort
an’ we'll pershue our invistigations into
McGrath’s shtable.” The relieved Guard
strolled round the main bastion on its way
to the swimming-bath, and Learoyd grew
almost talkative. Ortheris looked into the
Fort ditch and across the plain. “Ho! it’s
114 SOLDIERS THREE.

weary waitin’ for Ma-ary!” he hummed;
“but I’d like to kill some more bloomin’
Paythans before my time’s up. War!
Bloody war! North, East, South, and
West.”

“Amen,” said Learoyd slowly.

‘‘Fwhat’s here?” said Mulvaney, checking
at a blur of white by the foot of the old
sentry-box. He stooped and touched it.
“It's Norah — Norah McTaggart! Why,
Nonie darlin’, fwhat are ye doin’ out av your
mother’s bed at this time ?”

The two-year-old child of Sergeant
McTaggart must have wandered for a breath
of cool air to the very verge of the parapet
of the Fort ditch. Her tiny night-shift was
gathered into a wisp round her neck and she
moaned in her sleep. ‘See there!” said
Mulvaney; “poor lamb! Look at the
heat-rash on the innocint skin av her. ’Tis
hard — crool hard even for us. Fwhat must
it be for these? Wake up, Nonie, your
mother will be woild about you. Begad, the
child might ha’ fallen into the ditch!”
WITH THE MAIN GUARD. 115

He picked her up in the growing light,
and set her on his shoulder, and her fair
curls touched the grizzled stubble of his
temples. Ortheris and Learoyd followed
snapping their fingers, while Norah smiled
at them a sleepy smile. Then carolled
Mulvaney, clear as a lark, dancing the baby
on his arm, —

“If any young man should marry you,
Say nothin’ about the joke ;

That iver ye slep’ in a sinthry-box,
Wrapped up in a soldier’s cloak.”

“Though, on my sowl, Nonie,” he said
gravely, “there was not much cloak about
you. Niver mind, you won't dhress like this
ten years to come. Kiss your friends an’
run along to your mother.”

Nonie, set down close to the Married
Quarters, nodded with the quiet obedience
of the soldier’s child, but, ere she pattered
off over the flagged path, held up her lips to
be kissed by the Three Musketeers. Orthe-
ris wiped his mouth with the back of his
hand and swore sentimentally; Learoyd
116 SOLDIERS THREE.

turned pink; and the two walked away to-
gether. The Yorkshireman lifted up his
voice and gave in thunder the chorus of Zhe
Sentry-Box, while Ortheris piped at his side.
‘“’Bin to a bloomin’ sing-song, you two?”
said the Artilleryman, who was taking his
cartridge down to the Morning Gun
“You're over merry for these dashed days.”

“T bid ye take care o’ the brat, said he,
For it comes of a noble race,”

bellowed Learoyd. The voices died out in
the swimming-bath.

“Oh, Terence!” I said, dropping into
Mulvaney’s speech, when we were alone,
“it’s you that have the Tongue!”

He looked at me wearily; his eyes were
sunk in his head, and his face was drawn and
white. ‘“Eyah!” said he; “I’ve blandan-
dhered thim through the night somehow,
but can thim that helps others help thim-
selves? Answer me that, Sorr!”

And over the bastions of Fort Amara
broke the pitiless day
IN THE MATTER OF A PRIVATE.

Hurrau ! hurrah ! a soldier’s life for me!
Shout, boys, shout ! for it makes you jolly and free.
The Ramrod Corps.

PEopLeE who have seen, state that one of
the quaintest spectacles of human frailty is
an outbreak of hysterics in a girls’ school.
It starts without warning, generally on a hot
afternoon, among the elder pupils. A girl
giggles till the giggle gets beyond control.
Then she throws up her head, and cries,
“ Honk, honk, honk,” like a wild goose, and
tears mix with the laughter. If the mistress
be wise, she will say something severe at this
point to check matters. If she be tender-
hearted, and send for a drink of water, the
chances are largely in favor of another girl
laughing at the afflicted one and herself col-
lapsing. Thus the trouble spreads, and may
end in half of what answers to the Lower
118 SOLDIERS THREE.

Sixth of a boys’ school rocking and whooping
together. Given a week of warm weather,
two stately promenades per diem, a heavy
mutton and rice meal in the middle of the
day, a certain amount of nagging from the
teachers, and a few other things, some really
amazing effects can be secured. At least, this
is what folk say who have had experience.

Now, the Mother Superior of a Convent
and the Colonel of a British Infantry Regi-
ment would be justly shocked at any compar-
ison being made between their respective
charges. But it is a fact that, under certain
circumstances, Thomas in bulk can be worked
up into ditthering, rippling hysteria. He
does not weep, but he shows his trouble
unmistakably, and the consequences get into
the newspapers, and all the good and virtu-
ous people who hardly know a Martini from
a Snider say: ‘Take away the brute’s am-
munition ! ”

Thomas isn’t a brute, and his business,
which is to look after the virtuous people,
demands that he shall have his ammunition
IN THE MATTER OF A PRIVATE. 119

to his hand. He doesn’t wear silk stockings,
and he really ought to be supplied with a new
Adjective to help him to express his opinions:
but, for all that, he is a great man. If you
call him “the heroic defender of the national
honor” one day, and ‘a brutal and licentious
soldiery” the next, you naturally bewilder
him, and he looks upon you with suspicion.
There is nobody to speak for Thomas except
people who have theories to work off on
him; and nobody understands Thomas ex-
cept Thomas, and he does not know what is
the matter with himself.

That is the prologue. This is the story: —

Corporal Slane was engaged to be married
to Miss Jhansi McKenna, whose history is
well known in the regiment and elsewhere.
He had secured his Colonel’s leave, and,
being popular with the men, every arrange-
ment had been made to give the wedding
what Private Ortheris called ‘“eeklar.” It
fell in the heart of the hot weather, and, after
the wedding, Slane was going up to the
Hills with the bride. Neve the less, Slane’s
120 SOLDIERS THREE,

grievance was that the «air would be only
a hired carriage wedding, and he felt that
the “eeklar” of that was meagre. Miss
McKenna did not care so much. The Ser-
geant’s wife was helping her to make her
wedding-dress, and she was very busy.
Slane was, just then, the only moderately
contented man in barracks. All the rest
were more or less miserable.

And they had so much to make them
happy, too! All their work was over at
eight in the morning, and for the rest of
the day they could lie on their backs and
smoke Canteen plug and swear at the
punkah-coolies. They enjoyed a fine, full
flesh meal in the middle of the day, and
then threw themselves down on their cots
and sweated and slept till it was cool enough
to go out with their “ towny,” whose vocab-
ulary contained less than six hundred words,
and the Adjective, and whose views on every
conceivable question they had heard many,
months before.

There was the Canteen of course, and
IN THE MATTER OF A PRIVATE. 121

there was the Temperance room with the
second-hand papers in it; but a man of any
profession cannot read for eight hours a day
in a temperature of 96° or 98° in the shade,
running up sometimes to 103° at midnight.
Very few men, even though they get a
pannikin of flat, stale, .nuddy beer and hide
it under their cots, can continue drinking for
six hours a day. One man tried, but he
died, and nearly the whole regiment went to
his funeral because it gave them something
to do. It was too early for the modified
excitement of fever or cholera. The men
could only wait and wait and wait, and watch
the shadow of the barrack creeping across
the blinding white dust. That was a gay
life !

They lounged about cantonments -— it was
too hot for any sort of game, and almost too
hot for vice — and fuddled themselves in the
evening, and filled themselves to distension
with the healthy nitrogenous food provided
for them, and the more they stoked the less
exercise they took and more explosive they
122 SOLDIERS THREE.

grew. Then the tempers began to weat
away, and men fell a-brooding over insults
real or imaginary. They had nothing else
to think of. The tone of the “ repartees”
changed, and instead of saying light-heart-
edly: “Tl knock your silly face in,” men
grew laboriously polite and hinted that the
cantonments were not big enough for them-
selves and their enemy, and that there would
be more space for one of the two ina Place
which it is not polite to mention.

It may have been the Devil who arranged
the thing, but the fact of the case is that
Losson had for a long time been worrying
Simmons in an aimless way. It gave him
occupation. The two men had their cots
side by side, and would sometimes spend a
long afternoon swearing at each other; but
Simmons was afraid of Losson and dared not
challenge him to a fight. He thought over
the words in the hot still nights, and half the
hate he felt towards Losson he vented on the
wretched punkah-coolie.

Losson bought a parrot in the bazar, and
IN THE MATTER OF A PRIVATE, 123

put it into a little cage, and lowered the cage
into the cool darkness of a well, and sat on
the well-curb, shouting bad language down
to the parrot. He taught it to say: ‘“ Sim-
mons, ye so-oor,” which means swine, and
several other things entirely unfit for pub-
lication. He was a big gross man, and he
shook like a jelly when the parrot caught
the sentence correctly. Simmons, however,
shook with rage, for all the room were
laughing at him—the parrot was such a
disreputable puff of green feathers and
looked so human when it chattered. Losson
used to sit, swinging his fat legs, on the
side of the cot, and ask the parrot what it
thought of Simmons. The parrot would
answer :— ‘Simmons, ye so-oor.” ‘Good
boy,” Losson used to say, scratching the
parrot’s head; “ye ’ear that, Sim?” And
Simmons used to turn over on his stomach
and make answer: “I ’ear. Take ’eed you
don’t ’ear something one of these days.”

In the restless nights, after he had been
asleep all day, fits of blind rage came upon
124 SOLDIERS THREE.

Simmons and held him till he trembled all
over, while he thought in how many different
ways he would slay Losson. Sometimes he
would picture himself trampling the life out
of the man, with heavy ammunition boots,
and at others smashing in his face with the
butt, and at others jumping on his shoulders
and dragging the head back till the neck-
bone cracked. Then his mouth would feel
hot and fevered, and he would reach out for
another sup of the beer in the pannikin.

But the fancy that came to him most
frequently and stayed with him longest was
one connected with the great roll of fat under
Losson’s right ear. He noticed it first ona
moonlight night, and thereafter it was always
before his eyes. It was a fascinating roll of
fat. A man could get his hand upon it and
tear away one side of the neck; or he could
place the muzzle of a rifle on it and blow
away all the head in a flash. Losson had no
right to be sleek and contented and well-to-
do, when he, Simmons, was the butt of the
room, Some day, perhaps, he would show
IN THE MATTER OF A PRIVATE. 125

those who laughed at the “Simmons, ye
so-oor” joke, that he was as good as the
rest, and held a man’s life in the crook of his
forefinger. When Losson snored, Simmons
hated him more bitterly than ever. Why
should Losson be able to sleep when Sim-
mons had to stay awake hour after hour,
tossing and turning on the tapes, with the
dull pain gnawing into his right side and his
head throbbing and aching after Canteen?
He thought over this for many many nights,
and the world became unprofitable to him.
He even blunted his naturally fine appetite
with beer and tobacco; and all the while the
parrot talked at and made a mock of him.

The heat continued and the tempers wore
away more quickly than before. A Ser-
geant’s wife died of heat-apoplexy in the
night, and the rumor ran abroad that it was
cholera. Men rejoiced openly, hoping that
it would spread and send them into camp.
But that was a false alarm.

It was late on a Tuesday evening, and the
men were waiting in the deep double veran-
126 SOLDIERS THREE.

das for “ Last Posts,” when Simmons went
to the box at the foot of his bed, took out
his pipe, and slammed the lid down with a
bang that echoed through the deserted bar-
rack like the crack of a rifle. Ordinarily
speaking, the men would have taken no
notice; but their nerves were fretted to
fiddle-strings. They jumped up, and three
or four clattered into the barrack-room only
to find Simmons kneeling by his box.

“Ow! It’s you, is it?” they said and
laughed foolishly ; ‘we thought ’twas —”

Simmons rose slowly. If the accident had
so shaken his fellows, what would not the
reality do?

“You thought it was—did you? And
what makes you think?” he said, lashing
himself into madness as he went on; “to
Hell with your thinking, ye dirty spies.”

“Simmons, ye so-oor,” chuckled the parrot
in the veranda sleepily, recognizing a well-
known voice. And that was absolutely all.

The tension snapped. Simmons fell back
on the arm-rack deliberately, — the men were
IN THE MATTER OF A PRIVATE, 127

at the far end of the room,—and took out
nis rifle and packet of ammunition. ‘“ Don’t
go playing the goat, Sim!” said Losson ;
“put it down,” but there was a quaver in his
voice. Another man stooped, slipped his
boot and hurled it at Simmons’s head. The
prompt answer was a shot which, fired at
random, found its billet in Losson’s throat.
Losson fell forward without a word, and the
others scattered.

“You thought it was!” yelled Simmons.
“You're drivin’ me to it! I tell you you're
drivin’ me to it! Get up, Losson, an’ don’t
lie shammin’ there — you an’ your blasted
parrit that druv me to it!”

But there was an unaffected reality about
Losson’s pose that showed Simmons what
he had done. The men were still clamoring
in the veranda. Simmons appropriated two
more packets of ammunition and ran into the
moonlight, muttering: “I'll make a night of
it. Thirty roun’s, an’ the last for myself.
Take you that, you dogs!”

He dropped on one knee and fired into
128 SOLDIERS THREE.

the brown of the men in the veranda, but
the bullet flew high, and landed in the brick-
work with a vicious Phw7t that made some
of the younger men turn pale. It is, as
musketry theorists observe, one thing to fire
and another to be fired at.

Then the instinct of the chase flared up.
The news spread from barrack to barrack,
and the men doubled out intent on the cap-
ture of Simmons, the wild beast, wha was
heading for the Cavalry parade-ground, stop-
ping now and again to send back a shot and
a curse in the direction of his pursuers.

“Tl learn you to spy on me!” he shouted;
“T’ll learn you to give me dorg’s names!
Come on the ’ole lot o’ you! Colonel John
Anthony Deever, C.B.!”—he turned towards
the Infantry Mess and shook his rifle —
“you think yourself the devil of a man—
but I tell you that if you put your ugly old
carcass outside o’ that door, I'll make you
the poorest-lookin’ man in the army. Come
out, Colonel John Anthony Decver, C.B.!
Come ot and sce me practiss on the rainye.
IN THE Maiti&éR OF A PRIVATE. 129

I’m the crack shot of the ’ole bloomin’ battal-
ion.” In proof of which statement Simmons
fired at the lighted windows of the mess-
house. ©

“Private Simmons, E Comp’ny, on the
Cavalry p’rade-ground, Sir, with — thirty
rounds,” said a Sergeant breathlessly to
the Colonel. ‘Shootin’ right and lef’, Sir.
Shot Private Losson. What’s to be done,
Sir?”

Colonel John Anthony Deever, C. B.,
sallied out, only to be saluted by a spurt of
dust at his feet. .

“Pull up!” said the Second in Command ;
“T don’t want my step in that way, Colonel.
He’s as dangerous as a mad dog.”

“Shoot him like one, then,” said the
Colonel bitterly, “if he won’t take his chance.
My regiment, too! If it had been the Tow-
heads I could have understood.”

Private Simmons had occupied a strong
position near a well on the edge of the
parade-ground, and was defying the regiment
to come on, The regiment was not anxious
[30 SOLDIERS THREE.

to comply with the request, for there is small
honor in being shot by a fellow-private.
Only Corporal Slane, rifle in hand, threw
himself down on the ground, and wormed his
way towards the well.

“Don’t shoot,” said he to the men round
him; “like as not you'll ‘it me. I'll catch
the beggar, livin’.”

Simmons ceased shouting for a while, and
the noise of trap-wheels could be heard
across the plain. Major Oldyne, Command-
ing the Horse Battery, was coming back from
a dinner in the Civil Lines; was driving after
his usual custom — that is to say, as fast as
the horse could go.

“A orf’cer! A blooming spangled orf’-
cer!” shrieked Simmons; “I'll make a
scarecrow of that orf’cer!” The trap stopped.

“What's this?” demanded the Major of
Gunners. “You there, drop your rifle.”

“Why, it’s Jerry Blazes! I aim’t got no
quarrel with you, Jerry Blazes. Pass frien’,
an’ all’s well!”

But Jerry Blazes had not the faintest
IN THE MATTER OF A PRIVATE. 131

intention of passing a dangerous murderer.
He was, as his adoring Battery swore long
and fervently, without knowledge of fear, and
they were surely the best judges, for Jerry
Blazes, it was notorious, had done his
possible to kill a man each time the Battery
went out.

He walked towards Simmons, with the
intention of rushing him, and knocking him
down.

“Don’t make me do it, Sir,” said Simmons;
“JT ain't got nothing agin you. Ah! you
would?” —the Major broke into a run—
“Take that then!”

The Major dropped with a bullet through
his shoulder, and Simmons stood over him.
He had lost the satisfaction of killing Losson
in the desired way: but here was a helpless
body to his hand. Should he slip in another
cartridge, and blow off the head, or with the
butt smash in the white face? He stopped
to consider, and a cry went up from the far
side of the parade-ground: —“ He's killed
Jerry Blazes!” But in the shelter of the
132 SOLDIERS TiiREé.

well-pillars Simmons was safe, except when
he stepped out to fire. “I'll blow yer ’and-
some ’ead off, Jerry Blazes,” said Simmons
reflectively : ‘six an’ three is nine an’ one is
ten, an’ that leaves me another nineteen, an’
one for myself.” He tugged at the string of
the second packet of ammunition. Corporal
Slane crawled out of the shadow of a bank
into the moonlight.

“T see you!” said Simmons; “come a bit
furder on an’ I'll do for you.”

“I’m comin,” said Corporal Slane briefly;
“you done a bad day’s work, Sim. Come
out ’ere an’ come back with me.”

“Come to —,” laughed Simmons, sending
a cartridge home with his thumb. ‘Not
before I’ve settled you an’ Jerry Blazes.”

The Corporal was lying at full length in
the dust of the parade-ground, a rifle under
him. Some of the less cautious men in the
distance shouted : —‘“ Shoot ’im! Shoot ’im,
Slane!”

“You move ’and or foot, Slane,” said Sim-
mons, “an’ I'll kick Jerry Blazes’ ’ead in, and
shoot you after.”

,
IN THE MAITER OF A PRIVATE. 133

“T ain’t movin’,” said the Corporal, raising
his head; “ you daren’t ’it a man on ’is legs.
Let go o’ Jerry Blazes an’ come out o’ that
with your fistes. Come an’ ’it me. You
daren’t, you bloomin’ dog-shooter! ”

“T dare.”

“You lie, you man-sticker. You sneakin’,
sheeny butcher, you lie. See there!” Slane
kicked the rifle away, and stood up in the
peril of his life. ‘Come on, now!”

The temptation was more than Simmons
could resist, for the Corporal in his white
clothes offered a perfect mark.

‘Don’t misname me,” shouted Simmons,
firing as he spoke. The shot missed, and
the shooter, blind with rage, threw his rifle
down and rushed at Slane from the protec-
tion of the well. Within striking distance,
he kicked savagely at Slane’s stomach, but
the weedy Corporal knew something of Sim-
mons’s weakness, and knew, too, the deadly
guard for that kick. Bowing forward and
drawing up his right leg till the heel of the
right foot was set some three inches above
134 SOLDIERS THREE.

the inside of the left knee-cap, he met the
blow standing on one leg — exactly as Gonds
stand when they meditate—and ready for
the fall that would follow. There was an
oath, the Corporal fell over to his own left
as shinbone met shinbone, and the Private
collapsed, his right leg broken an inch above
the ankle.

“Pity you don’t know that guard, Sim,”
said Slane, spitting out the dust as he rose.
Then raising his voice — ‘‘ Come an’ take him
orf. I’ve bruk ’is leg.” This was not strictly
true, for the Private had accomplished his
own downfall, since it is the special merit of
that leg-guard that the harder the kick the
greater the kicker’s discomfiture.

Slane walked to Jerry Blazes and hung
over him with exaggerated solicitude, while

”

Simmons, weeping with pain, was carried
away. ‘’Ope you ain’t ’urt badly, Sir,” said
Slane. The Major had fainted, and there
was an ugly, ragged hole through the top
of his arm. Slane knelt down and mur-
mured:—‘“‘S'elp me, I believe ’e’s dead.
IN THE MATTER OF A PRIVATE. 135

Well, if that ain’t my blooming luck all
over!”

But the Major was destined to lead his
Battery afield for many a long day with un-
shaken nerve. He was removed, and nursed
and petted into convalescence, while the
Battery discussed the wisdom of capturing
Simmons, and blowing him from a gun.
They idolized their Major, and his re-
appearance on parade resulted in a scene
nowhere provided for in the Army Regu-
lations.

Great, too, was the glory that fell to
Slane’s share. The Gunners would have
made him drunk thrice a day for at least
a fortnight. Even the Colonel of his cwn
regiment complimented him upon his cool-
ness, and the local paper called him a hero.
Which things did not puff him up. When
the Major proffered him money and thanks,
the virtuous Corporal took the one and put
aside the other. But he had a request to
make and prefaced it with many a “ Beg y’
pardon, Sir.” Could the Major see his way
136 SOLDIERS THREE.

to letting the Slane-McKenna wedding be
adorned by the presence of four Battery
horses to pull a hired barouche? The Major
could, and so could the Battery. Exces-
sively so. It was a gorgeous wedding.

“Wot did I do it for?” said Corporal
Slane. ‘For the ’orses o’ course. Jhansi
ain’t a beauty to look at, but I wasn’t goin’
to ave a hired turn-out. Jerry Blazes? IfI
‘adn’t ’a’ wanted something, Sim might ha’
blowed Jerry Blazes’ blooming ’ead into
Hirish stew for aught I’d ’a’ cared.”

And they hanged Private Simmons—
hanged him as high as Haman in hollow
square of the regiment; and the Colonel
said it was Drink; and the Chaplain was
sure it was the Devil; and Simmons fancied
it was both, but he didn’t know, and only
hoped his fate would be a warning to his
companions ; and half a dozen “ intelligent
publicists” wrote six beautiful leading arti-
cles on “The Prevalence of Crime in the
Army.”
IN THE MATTER OF A PRIVATE. 137

But not a soul thought of comparing the
“ bloody-minded Simmons” to the squawk-
ing, gaping schoolgirl with which this story
opens.

That would have been too absurd!
BLACK JACK.

 

To the wake av Tim O’Hara
Came company,
All St. Patrick’s Alley
Was there to see.
The Wake of Tim O'Hara,

Tuere is a writer called Mr. Robert Louis
Stevenson, who makes most delicate inlay-
work in black and white, and files out to the
fraction of a hair. He has written a story
about a Suicide Club, wherein men gambled
for Death, because other amusements did
not bite sufficiently. My friend Private Mul-
vaney knows nothing about Mr. Stevenson,
but he once assisted informally at a meeting
of almost such a club as that gentleman has
described ; and his words are true.

As the Three Musketeers share their silver,
tobacco, and liquor together, as they protect
each other in barracks or camp, and as they
rejoice together over the joy of one, so do
BLACK JACK. 130

they divide their sorrows. When Ortheris’s
irrepressible tongue has brought him into
cells for a season, or Learoyd has run amok
through his kit and accoutrements, or Mul-
vaney has indulged in strong waters, and
under their influence reproved his Com-
manding Officer, you can see the trouble in
the faces of the untouched twain. And the
rest of the regiment know that comment or
jest is unsafe. Generally the three avoid
Orderly Room and the Corner Shop that
follows, leaving both to the young bloods
who have not sown their wild oats; but there
are occasions .. .

For instance, Ortheris was sitting on the
drawbridge of the main gate of Fort Amara,
with his hands in his pockets and his pipe,
bowl down, in his mouth. Learoyd was
lying at full length on the turf of the glacis,
kicking his heels in the air, and I came round
the corner and asked for Mulvaney.

Ortheris spat into the ditch and shook his
head. ‘No good seein’ ‘im now,” said
Ortheris; ‘“’ce’s a bloomin’ camel. Listen.”
140 SOLDIERS THREE.

I heard on the flags of the veranda oppo-
site to the cells, which are close to the Guard
Room, a measured step that I could have
identified in the tramp of an army. There
were twenty paces crescendo, a pause, and
then twenty diminuendo.

“That’s ’im,” said Ortheris; “my Gawd,
that’s ’im! All for a bloomin’ button you
could see your face in an’ a bit o’ lip that a
bloomin’ Harkangel would ’a’ guv back.”

Mulvaney was doing pack-drill— was com-
pelled, that is to say, to walk up and down
for certain hours in full marching order, with
rifle, bayonet, ammunition, knapsack, and
overcoat. And his offence was being dirty
on parade! I nearly fell into the Fort Ditch
with astonishment and wrath, for Mulvaney
is the smartest man that ever mounted guard,
and would as soon think of turning out un-
cleanly as of dispensing with his trousers.

‘““Who was the Sergeant that checked
him?” I asked.

“Mullins, o course,” said Ortheris.
“There ain’t no other man would whip ’im
BLACK JACK. 14!

on the peg so. But Mullins ain’t a man.
’E’s a dirty little pigscraper, that’s wot ’e is.”

‘“What did Mulvaney say? He’s not the
make of man to take that quietly.”

“Said! Bin better for ’im if ’e’d shut ’is
mouth. Lord, ’ow we laughed! ‘Sargint,’
’e sez, ‘ye say I’m dirty. Well,’ sez ’e, ‘ when
your wife lets you blow your own nose for
yourself, perhaps you'll know wot dirt is.
You're himperfectly eddicated, Sargint,’ sez
’e, an’ then we fell in. But after p’rade, ’e
was up an’ Mullins was swearin’ ’imself black
in the face at Ord’ly Room that Mulvaney
’ad called ’im a swine an’ Lord knows wot all.
You know Mullins. ’E’ll ave ’is ’ead broke
in one o’ these days. ’E’s too big a bloomin’
liar for ord’nary consumption. ‘Three hours’
can an’ kit,’ sez the Colonel; ‘not for bein’
dirty on p’rade, but for ’avin’ said somethin’
to Mullins, tho’ I do not believe,’ sez ’e, ‘ you
said wot ’e said you said.’ An’ Mulvaney
fell away sayin’ nothin’. You know ’e never
speaks to the Colonel for fear o’ gettin’
‘imself fresh copped.”
142 SOLDIERS THREE.

Mullins, a very young and very much
married Sergeant, whose manners were
partly the result of innate depravity and
partly of imperfectly digested Board School,
came over the bridge, and most rudely asked
Ortheris what he was doing.

“Me?” said Ortheris. “Ow! I’m wait-
ing for my C’mission. ’Seed it comin’ along
yit?”

Mullins turned purple and passed on.
There was the sound of a gentle chuckle
from the glacis where Learoyd lay.

‘°E expects to get his Cmission some
day,” explained Orth’ris; “Gawd ’elp the
Mess that ’ave to put their ’ands into the
same kiddy as’im! Wot time d’you make
it, Sir? Fower! Mulvaney ’Il be out in ’arf
an hour. You don’t want to buy a dorg,
Sir, do you? A pup you can trust —’arf
Rampore by the Colonel's grey’ound.”

“ Ortheris,” I answered sternly, for I knew
what was in his mind, ‘‘do you mean to say
that —”

“T didn’t mean to arx money o’ you, any-
BLACK JACK. 143

‘ow,” said Ortheris; “I'd ’a’ sold you the
dorg good an’ cheap, but—but—I know
Mulvaney ’ll want somethin’ after we've
walked ’im orf, an’ I ain’t got nothin’, nor ’e
’asn’t neither. I’d sooner sell you the dorg,
Sir. ’S trewth I would!”

A shadow fell on the drawbridge, and
Ortheris began to rise into the air, lifted by
a huge hand upon his collar.

“Onything but t’ braass,” said Learoyd
quietly, as he held the Londoner over the
ditch. ‘“Onything but t’ braass, Orth’ris, ma
son! Ah’ve got one rupee eight annas of
ma own.” He showed two coins, and re-
placed Ortheris on the drawbridge rail.

“Very good,” I said; “where are you
going to?”

‘Goin’ to walk ’im orf wen ’e comes out
~—two miles or three or fower,” said Ortheris.

The footsteps within ceased. I heard the
dull thud of a knapsack falling on a bed-
stead, followed by the rattle of arms. Ten
minutes later, Mulvaney, faultlessly attired,
his lips compressed and his face as black as
144 SOLDIERS THREE.

a thunderstorm, stalked into the sunshine on
the drawbridge. Learoyd and Ortheris
sprang from my side and closed in upon him,
both leaning towards as horses lean upon
the pole. In an instant they had disap-
peared down the sunken road to the canton-,
ments, and I was left alone. Mulvaney had
not seen fit to recognize me; wherefore, I
felt that his trouble must be heavy upon him.

I climbed one of the bastions and watched
the figures of the Three Musketeers grow
smaller and smaller across the plain. They
were walking as fast as they could put foot
to the ground, and their heads were bowed.
They fetched a great compass round the
parade-ground, skirted the Cavalry lines, and
vanished in the belt of trees that fringes the
low land by the river.

I followed slowly, and sighted them —
dusty, sweating, but still keeping up their
long, swinging tramp —on the river bank.
They crashed through the Forest Reserve.
headed towards the Bridge of Boats, and
presently established themselves on the bow
BLACK JACK. 145

of one of the pontoons. I rode cautiously
till I saw three puffs of white smoke rise and
die out in the clear evening air, and knew
that peace had come again. At the bridge-
head they waved me forward with gestures
of welcome.

“Tie up your ’orse,” shouted Ortheris,
‘an’ come on, sir. We're all goin’ ome in
this ’ere bloomin’ boat.”

From the bridge-head to the Forest Offi-
cer’s bungalow is but a step. The mess-man
was there, and would see that a man held my
horse. Did the Sahib require aught else —
a peg, or beer? Ritchie Sahib had left half
a dozen bottles of the latter, but since the
Sahib was a friend of Ritchie Sahib, and he,
the mess-man, was a poor man —

I gave my order quietly, and returned to
the bridge. Mulvaney had taken off his
boots, and was dabbling his toes in the
water; Learoyd was lying on his back on the
pontoon; and Ortheris was pretending to
row with a big bamboo.

“Tm an ould fool,” said Mulvaney, reflec-
146 SOLDIERS THREE.

tively, ““dhraggin’ you two out here bekase
i was undher the Black Dog — sulkin’ like a
child. Me that was soldierin’ when Mullins,
an’ be damned to him, was shquealin’ on a
counterpin for foive shillin’s a week, an’ that
not paid! Bhoys, I’ve took you foive miles
out av natural pevarsity. Phew!”

‘“Wot’s the odds as long as you're ’appy?”
said Ortheris, applying himself afresh to the
bamboo. “As well ’ere as anywhere else.”

Learoyd held up a rupee and an eight-
anna bit, and shook his head sorrowfully.
“Five mile from t’ Canteen, all along o’
Mulvaney’s blaasted pride.”

“JT know ut,” said Mulvaney penitently.
“Why will ye come wia me? An’ yet I wud
be mortial sorry if ye did not — any time —
though I am ould enough to know betther.
But I will do penance. I will take a dhrink
av wather.”

Ortheris squeakec shrilly. The 5utler of
the Forest bungalow was stanaing near the
railings with a basket, uncertain how te
clamber down to the pontoon.
BLACK JACK. 147

“ Might ’a’ know’d you'd ’a’ got liquor out
o’ bloomin’ desert, sir,” said Ortheris, grace-
fully, to me. Then to the mess-man: “ Easy
with them there bottles. They’re worth their
weight in gold. Jock, ye long-armed beg-
gar, get out o’ that an’ hike ’em down.”

Learoyd had the basket on the pontoon in
an instant, and the Three Musketeers gath-
ered round it with dry lips. They drank my
health in due and ancient form, and there-
after tobacco tasted sweeter than ever.
They absorbed all the beer, and disposed
themselves in picturesque attitudes to ad-
mire the setting sun, — no man speaking for
a while.

Mulvaney’s head dropped upon his chest,
and we thought that he was asleep.

“What on earth did you come so far for?”
I whispered to Ortheris.

“To walk ’im orf, 0’ course. When ’e’s
been checked we allus walks ’im orf. ’E
ain’t fit to be spoke to those times — nor ’e
ain’t fit to leave alone neither. So we takes
‘im till ’e is.”
148 SOLDIERS THREE.

Mulvaney raised his head, and _ stared
straight into the sunset. “I had my rifle.”
said he dreamily, ‘an’ I had my baynit,
an’ Mullins came round the corner, an’ he
looked in my face an’ grinned dishpiteful.
‘You can’t blow your own nose,’ sez
he. Now, I cannot tell fwhat Mullins’s
expayrience may ha’ been, but, Mother
av God, he was nearer to his death that
minut’ than I have iver been to mine — and
that’s less than the thicknuss av a hair!”

‘“Yes,” said Ortheris calmly, “‘ you’d look
fine with all your buttons took orf, an’ the
Band in front 0’ you, walkin’ roun’ slow time.
We're both front-rank men, me an’ Jock,
when the rig’ment’s in ’ollow square.
Bloomin’ fine you'd look. ‘The Lord giveth
an’ the Lord taketh awai,— Heasy with that
there drop!— Blessed be the naime o’ the
Lord.’” He gulped in a quaint and suggest-
ive fashion.

“Mullins! Wot’s Mullins ?” said Learoyd
slowly. ‘ Ah’d take a coomp’ny o’ Mullinses
—ma hand behind me. Sitha, Mulvaney,
dunnot be a iool.”
BLACK JACK. 149

“ You were not checked for fwhat you did
not do, an’ made a mock av afther. “Twas
for less than that the Tyrone wud ha’ sent
O’Hara to hell, instid av lettin’ him go by his
own choosin’, whin Rafferty shot him,”

“retorted Mulvaney.

‘And who stopped the Tyrone from doing
it?” I asked.

“That ould fool who’s sorry he didn’t
stick the pig Mullins.” His head dropped
again. When he raised it he shivered and
put his hands on the shoulders of his two
companions.

“YVe’ve walked the Divil out av me,
bhoys,” said he.

Ortheris shot out the red-hot dottel of his
pipe on the back of the hairy fist. ‘They
say ’Ell’s ’otter than that,” said he, as Mul-

vaney swore aloud. ‘You be warned so.
Look yonder!” — he pointed across the river
‘> a ruined temple — “Me an’ you an’ ’¢m”

.--- he indicated me by a jerk of his head —
‘“was there one day when Hi made a

bloomin’ show o’ myself. You an’ ‘im
150 SOLDIERS THREE.

stopped me doin’ such—an’ Hi was on’y
wishful for to desert. You are makin a big-
ger bloomin’ show o’ yourself now.”

“Don't mind him, Mulvaney,” I said;
“Dinah Shadd won't let you hang yourself
yet awhile, and you don’t intend to try it
either. Let's hear about the Tyrone and
O’Hara. Rafferty shot him for fooling with
his wife. What happened before that ?”

“There’s no fool like an ould fool. You
know you can do anythin’ wid me whin I’m
talkin’. Did I say I wud like to cut Mullins’s
liver out? I deny the imputashin, for fear
that Orth’ris here wud report me — Ah‘
You wud tip me into the river, wud you?
Sit quiet, little man. Anyways, Mullins is
not worth the trouble av an extry p’rade, an’
I will trate him wid outrajis contimpt. The
Tyrone an’ O'Hara! O’Hara an’ the Ty-
rone, begad! Ould days are hard to bring
back into the mouth, but they’re always inside
the head.”

Followed a long pause.

“O'Hara was a Divil. Though I saved
BLACK JACK. ISI

him, for the honor av the rig’mint, from his
death that time, I say it now. He was a
Divil —a long, bould, black-haired Divil.”

“Which way?” asked Ortheris.

“Women.”

“Then I know another.”

“Not more than in reason, if you mane
me, ye warped walkin’-shtick. I have been
young, an’ for why should I not have tuk
what I cud? Did I iver, whin I was Corp’ril,
use the rise av my rank — wan step an’ that
taken away, more’s the sorrow an’ the fault
av me! —to prosecute a nefarious inthrigue,
as O’Hara did? Did I, whin I was Corp’ril,
lay my spite upon a man an’ make his life a
dog’s life from day to day? Did I lie, as
O’Hara lied, till the young wans in the
Tyrone turned white wid the fear av the
Judgment av God killin’ thim all in a lump,
as ut killed the woman at Devizes? I did
not! I have sinned my sins an’ I have made
my confesshin, an’ Father Victor knows the
worst av me. O’Hara was tuk, before he
cud spake, on Rafflerty’s doorstep, an’ no
182 SOLDIL YS THREE.

man knows the worst av him. But this much
I know!

‘The Tyrone was recruited any fashion in
the ould days. A draf’ from Connemara —
a draf’ from Portsmouti,—a draf’ from
Kerry, an’ that was a blazin’ bad draf’ —
here, there and iverywhere —but the large
av thim was Ojirish— Black Oirish. Now
there are Oirish an’ Oirish. The good are
good as the best, but the bad are wurrst than
the wurrst. "Tis this way. They clog to-
gether in pieces as fast as thieves, an’ no wan
knows fwhat they will do till wan turns in-
former an’ the gang is bruk. But ut begins
again, a day later, meetin’ in holes an’ cor-
ners an’ swearin’ bloody oaths an’ shtickin’ a
man in the back an’ runnin’ away, an’ thin
waitin’ for the blood-money on the reward
papers — to see if ut’s worth enough. Those
are the Black Ojirish, an’ ’tis they that bring
dishgrace upon the name av Oireland, an’ thim
I wud kill — as I nearly killed wan wanst.

“But to reshume. My room — ’twas
before I was married — was wid twelve av
BLACK JACK 153

the scum av the earth — the pickin’s av the
gutter— mane men that wud neither laugh
nor talk nor yet get dhrunk ai 2 man shud.
They thried some av their dog’: thricks on
me, but I dhrew a line round my cot, an’ the
man that thransgressed ut wint into hospital
for three days good.

‘‘O’Hara had put his spite on the. room —
he was my Color Sargint—an’ notin’ cud
we do to plaze him. I was younger than I
am now, an’ I tuk what I got in the way av
dressing down and punishmint-dhrill wid my
tongue in my cheek. But it was diff’rint wid
the others, an’ why I cannot say, excipt that
some men are borrun mane an’ go to dhirly
murdher where a fist is more than enough.
Afther a whoile, they changed their chune tc
me an’ was desp’rit frien’ly —all twelve av
thim cursin’ O’Hara in chorus.

‘““« Fyah,’ sez I, ‘ O’Hara’s a divil and I’m
not for denyin’ ut, but is he the only man in
the wurruld? Let him go. He'll get tired
av findin’ our kit foul an’ our ’coutrements
onproperly kep’,’
184 SOLDIERS THREE.

“«« We will zo¢ let him go,’ sez they.

“ «Thin take him,’ sez I, ‘an’ a dashed
poor yield you will get for your throuble.’

“*TIs he not misconductin’ himself wid
Slimmy’s wife ?’ sez another.

““«She’s common to the rig’mint,’ sez
I. ‘Fwhat has made ye this partic’lar on a
suddint ?’

““« Has he not put his spite on the roomful
av us? Can we do anythin’ that he will not
check us for?’ sez another.

“«That’s thrue,’ sez I.

«Will ye not help us to do aught,’ sez
another —‘ a big bould man like you ?’

“«T will break his head upon his shoul-
thers av he puts hand on me,’ sez J. ‘I will
give him the lie av he says that I’m dhirty,
an’ J wud not mind duckin’ him in the Artil-
lery troughs if ut was not that I’m thryin’ for
my shtripes.’

“<«Ts that all ye will do?’ sez another.
‘Have ye no more spunk than that, ye
blood-dhrawn calf?’

“* Blood-dhrawn I may be,’ says I, gettin’
BLACK JACK. 155

back to my cot an’ makin’ my line round ut;
‘but ye know that the man who comes acrost
this mark will be more blood-dhrawn than
me. No man gives me the name in my
mouth,’ I sez. ‘ Ondersthand, I will have no
part wid you in anythin’ ye do, nor will I
raise my fist to my shuperior. Is any wan
comin’ on ?’ sez I.

“They made no move, tho’ I gave thim
full time, but stud growlin’ an’ snarlin’
together at wan ind av the room. I tuck up
my cap and wint out to Canteen, thinkin’ no
little av mesilf, an’ there I grew most onda-
cintly dhrunk in my legs. My head was all
reasonable.

“« Houligan,’ I sez to a man in E Com-
pny that was by way av bein’ a frind av
mine; ‘I’m overtuk from the belt down.
Do you give me the touch av your shoulther
to presarve my formation an’ march me
acrost the ground into the high grass. I'll
sleep ut off there,’ sez I; an’ Houligan —
he’s dead now, but good he was while he
lasted — walked wid me, givin’ me the touch
156 SOLDIERS THREE.

whin I wint wide, ontil we came to the high
grass, an’, my faith, the sky an’ the earth
was fair rowlin’ undher me. 1 made for
where the grass was thickust, an’ there |
slep’ off my liquor wid an easy conscience,
I did not desire to come on books too fre-
quint ; my characther havin’ been shpotless
for the good half av a year.

“ Whin I roused, the dhrink was dyin’ out
in me, an’ I] felt as though a she-cat had
littered in my mouth, I had not learned to
hould my liquor wid comfort in thim days.
"Tis little betther I am now. ‘I will get
Houligan to pour a bucket over my head,’
thinks I, an’ I wud ha’ risen, but J heard
some wan say:—‘ Mulvaney can take the
blame av ut for the backslidin’ hound he is.’

‘“«Qho!’ sez I, an’ my head rang like a
guard-room gong: ‘ fwhat is the blame that
this young man must take to oblige Tim
Vulmea?’ For ‘twas Tim Vulmea that
shpoke.

“T turned on my belly an’ crawled through
the grass, a bit at a time, to where the
BLACK JACK. 157

spache came from. There was the twelve
av my room sittin’ down in a little patch, the
dhry grass wavin’ above their heads an’ the
sin av black murdher in their hearts. I put
the stuff aside to get clear view.

““« Fwhat’s that?’ sez wan man, jumpin’
up.

“*A dog,’ says Vulmea. ‘You're a nice
hand to this job! As I said, Mulvaney will
take the blame — av ut comes to a pinch.’

“Tis harrd to swear a man’s life away,’
sez a young wan.

“«Thank ye for that,’ thinks I. ‘Now,
fwhat the divil are you paragins conthrivin’
against me?’

“Tis as easy as dhrinkin’ your quart,’ sez
Vulmea. ‘At seven or thereon, O'Hara will
come acrost to the Married Quarters, goin’ to
call on Slimmy’s wife, the swine! Wan av
us'll pass the wurrd to the room an’ we
shtart the divil an’ all av a shine — laughin’
an’ crackin’ on an’ t’rowin’ our boots about.
Thin O'Hara will come to give us the ordher
to be quiet, the more by token bekaze the
158 SOLDIERS THREE.

room-lamp will be knocked over in the
larkin’. He will take the straight road to
the ind door where there’s the lamp in the
veranda, an’ that'll bring him clear against
the light as he sthands. He will not be able
to look into the dhark. Wan av us will
loose off, an’ a close shot ut will be, an’
shame to the man that misses. “Twill be
Mulvaney’s rifle, she that is at the head av
the rack-~—there’s no mistakin’ that long-
shtocked, cross-eyed bitch even in the
dhark.’

“The thief misnamed my ould firin’-piece
put av jealousy —I was pershuaded av that
—an’ ut made me more angry than all.

“But Vulmea goes on: — ‘ O'Hara will
dhrop, an’ by the time the light’s lit again,
there’ll be some six av us on the chest av
Mulvaney, cryin’ murdher an’ rape. Mulva-
ney’s cot is near the ind door, an’ the shmok-
in’ rifle will be lyin’ undher him whin we’ve
knocked him over. We know, an’ all the
rig’mint knows, that Mulvaney has given
O’Hara more lip than any man av us. Will
BLACK JACK. 159

there be any doubt at the Coort-Martial ?
Wud twelve honust sodger-bhoys swear
away the life av a dear, quiet, swate-timpered
man such as is Mulvaney — wid his line av
pipe-clay roun’ his cot, threatenin’ us wid
murdher av we overshtepped ut, as we can
truthful testify ?’

““«Mary, Mother av Mercy!’ thinks I to
mesilf; ‘it is this to have an unruly mimber
an’ fistes fit to use! O the sneakin’ hounds!’

“The big dhrops ran down my face, for I
was wake wid the liquor an’ had not the full
av my wits about me. [I laid shtill an’ heard
thim workin’ themselves up to swear my life
by tellin’ tales av ivry time I had put my
mark on wan or another; an’ my faith, they
was few that was not so dishtinguished.
’Twas all in the way av fair fight, though, for
niver did I raise my hand excipt whin they
had provoked me to ut.

“Tis all well,’ sez wan av thim, ‘but
who’s to do this shootin’ ?’

“«Fwhat matther?’ sez Vulmea. ‘’Tis
Mulvaney will do that —at the Coort-

fartial,’
160 SOLDIERS THREE.

“¢He will so,’ sez the man, ‘but whose
hand is put to the trigger — zm the room?’

“«Who'll do ut?’ sez Vulmea, lookin’
round, but divil a man answeared. They
began to dishpute till Kiss, that was always
playin’ Shpoil Five, sez:—‘Thry the
kyards!’ Wid that he opined his jackut an’
tuk out the greasy palammers, an’ they all
fell in wid the notion.

““« Deal on!’ sez Vulmea, wid a big rattlin’
oath, ‘an’ the Black Curse av Shielygh come
to the man that will not do his duty as the
kyards say. Amin!’

‘““*« Black Jack is the masther,’ sez Kiss,
dealin’. Black Jack, Sorr, I shud expaytiate
to you, is the Ace av Shpadas which from
time immimorial has been intimately connect
wid battle, murdher an’ suddin death.

‘“ Wanst Kiss dealt an’ there wes no sign,
but the men was whoite wid the workin’s av
their sowls. Zwzce Kiss dealt, an’ there
was a gray shine on their cheeks like the
mess av anegg. Three times Kiss dealt an’
they was blue ; ‘ Have ye not lost him ?’ sez
BLACK JACK. 161

Vulmea, wipin’ the sweat on him; ‘ Let’s ha’
done quick!’ ‘Quick ut is,’ sez Kiss t’row-
in’ him the kyard ; an’ ut fell face up on his
knee — Black Jack !

“Thin they all cackled wid laughin’.
‘Duty thrippence,’ sez wan av thim, ‘an’
damned cheap at that price!’ But I cud see
they all dhrew a little away from Vulmea an’
lef’ him sittin’ playin’ wid the kyard. Vul-
mea sez no word for a whoile but licked his
lips — cat-ways. Thin he threw up his head
an’ made the men swear by ivry oath known
an’ unknown to stand by him not alone in
the room but at the Coort-Martial that was
to seton me! He tould off five av the big-
gest to stretch me on my cot whin the shot
was fired, an’ another man he tould off to
put out the light, an’ yet another to load my
rifle. He wud not do that himself; an’
that was quare, for ’twas but a little thing.

“Thin they swore over again that they
wud not bethray wan another, an’ crep’ out
av the grass in diff’rint ways, two by two. A
mercy ut was that they did not come on me,
162 SOLDIERS THREE.

I was sick wid fear in the pit av my stum.
mick — sick, sick, sick! Afther they was all
gone, I wint back to Canteen an’ called for a
quart to put a thought in me. Vulmea was
there, dhrinkin’ heavy, an’ politeful to me
beyond reason. ‘Fwhat will I do— fwhat
will I do?’ thinks I to mesilf whin Vulmea
wint away.

“Presintly the Arm’rer Sargint comes in
stiffin’ an’ crackin’ on, not pleased wid any
wan, bekaze the Martini Henri bein’ new to
the rig’mint in those days we used to play
the mischief wid her arrangemints.. "Twas a
long time before I cud get out av the way av
thryin’ to pull back the back-sight an’ turnin’
her over afther firin’ — as if she was a Snider.

““«Fwhat tailor-men do they give me to
work wid?’ sez the Arm’rer Sargint. ‘Here’s
Hogan, his nose flat as a table, laid by fora
week, an’ ivry Comp’ny sendin’ their arrums
in knocked to small shivreens.’

“«FPwhat’s wrong wid Hogan, Sargint?’
sez I.

““*Wrong!’ sez the Arm’rer Sargint; ‘I
BLACK JACK. 165

bosom for the biggest divils that iver cheated
halter.” I wud have no mercy on Vulmea.
His oi or his life — little I cared!

‘“At dusk they came back, the twelve av
thim, an’ they had all been dhrinkin’. I was
shammin’ sleep on the cot. Wan man wint
outside in the veranda. Whin he whishtled
they began to rage roun’ the room an’ carry
on tremenjus. But I niver want to hear men
laugh as they did — skylarkin’ too! “Twas
like mad jackals.

““« Shtop that blasted noise!’ sez O'Hara
in the dark, an’ pop goes the room lamp. I
cud hear O’Hara runnin’ up an’ the rattlin’ av
my rifle in the rack an’ the men breathin’
heavy as they stud roun’ my cot. I cud see
O’Hara in the light av the veranda lamp,
an’ thin I heard the crack av my rifle. She
cried loud, poor darlint, bein’ mishandled.
Next minut’ five men were houldin’ me
down. ‘Go easy,’ I sez; ‘fwhat’s ut all
about ?’

“Thin Vulmea, on the flure, raised a howl
you cud hear from wan ing 4." “antonmints to
164 SOLDIERS THREE.

‘‘T wint outside an’ I could ha’ danced wid
delight for the grandeur av ut. ‘They will
joad my rifle, good luck to thim, whoile I’m
away,’ thinks I, and back I wint to the Can-
teen to give them their clear chanst.

‘“The Canteen was fillin’ wid men at the
ind av the day. I made feign to be far gone
in dhrink, an’, wan by wan, all my roomful
came in wid Vulmea. I wint away, walkin’
thick and heavy, but not so thick an’ heavy
that any wan cud ha’ tuk me. Sure and
thrue, there was a kyartridge gone from my
pouch an’ lyin’ snug in my rifle. I was hot wid
rage against thim all, and I worried the bullet
out wid my teeth as fast as I cud, the room bein’
empty. Then I tuk my boot un’ the clanin’-
rod and knocked out the pin av the fallin’-
block. Oh, ’twas music when that pin rowled
on the flure! I put ut into my pouch an’
stuck a dab av dirt on the holes in the plate,
puttin’ the fallin’-block back. ‘That'll do
your business, Vulmea,’ sez I, lyin’ easy on
the cot. ‘Come an’ sit on my chest the
whole room av you. an’ I will take you to my
BLACK JACK. 193

showed him, as though I had been his mother,
the way av shtrippin’ a ’Tini, an’ he shtrup her
clane an’ easy. I tould him to put her to
again an’ fire a blank into the blow-pit to
show how the dirt hung on the groovin’. He
did that, but he did not put in the pin av the
fallin’-block, an’ av coorse whin he fired he
was strook by the block jumpin’ clear. Well
for him ‘twas but a blank—a full charge
wud ha’ cut his oi out.’

“T looked a trifle wiser than a boiled
sheep’s head. ‘How’s that, Sargint?’ sez I.

“This way, ye blundherin’ man, an’ don’t
you be doin’ ut,’ sez he. Wid that he shows
me a Waster action —the breech av her all
cut away to show the inside —an’ so plazed
was he to grumble that he dimonstrated
fwhat Hogan had done twice over. An’ that
comes av not knowin’ the wepping you're
purvided wid,’ sez he.

“«Thank ye, Sargint,’ sez I; ‘I will come
to you again for further information.’

“« Ye will not,’ sez he. ‘ Kape your clanin’-
rod away from the breech-pin or you will get
into throuble,’
166 SOLDIERS THREE.

the other. ‘I’m dead, I’m butchered, I’m
blind!’ sez he. ‘Saints have mercy on my
sinful sowl! Sind for Father Constant! Oh,
sind for Father Constant an’ let me go
clean!’ By that I knew he was not so dead
as I cud ha’ wished.

‘O'Hara picks up the lamp in the veran-
da wid a hand as stiddy as a rest. ‘ Fwhat
damned dog’s thrick is this av yours?’ sez
he, and turns the light on Tim Vulmea that
was shwimmin’ in blood from top to toe.
The fallin’-block had sprung free behin’ a full
charge av powther — good care I tuk to bite
down the brass afther takin’ out the bullet
that there might be somethin’ to give ut full
worth — an’ had cut Tim from the lip to the
corner av the right eye, lavin’ the eyelid in
tatthers, an’ so up an’ along by the forehead
to the hair. “Twas more av a rakin’ plough,
if you wil! ondherstand, than a clean cut; an’
niver did I see a man bleed as Vulmea did.
The dhrink an’ the stew that he was in
pumped the blood strong. The minut’ the
men sittin’ on my chest heard O’Hara
BLACK JACK. 167

spakin’ they scatthered each wan to his cot,
an’ cried out very politeful: ‘Fwhat is ut,
Sargint ?’

‘“«« Fwhat is ut!’ sez O’Hara, shakin’ Tim.
‘Well an’ good do you know fwhat ut is, ye
skulkin’ ditch-lurkin’ dogs! Get a doolde,
an’ take this whimperin’ scutt away. There
will be more heard av ut than any av you will
care for.’

““Vulmea sat up rockin’ his head in his
hand an’ moanin’ for Father Constant.

““*Be done!’ sez O'Hara, dhraggin’. him
up by the hair. ‘ You're none so dead that
you cannot go fifteen years for thryin’ to
shoot me.’

‘““«T did not,’ sez Vulmea ; ‘I was shootin’
mesilf.’

“««That’s quare,’ sez O’Hara, ‘ for the front
av my jackut is black wid your powther.’
He tuk up the rifle that was still warm an’
began to laugh. ‘I'll make your life Hell to
you, sez he, ‘for attempted murdher ar’
kapin’ your rifle onproperly. You'll be
hanged first an’ thin put undher stoppagey
168 SOLDIERS THREE,

for four fifteen. The rifle’s done for,’ sea
he.

“«Why, ’tis my rifle!’ sez I, comin’ up to
look ; * Vulmea ye divil, fwhat were you doin’
wid her — answer me that ?’

‘“«* Lave me alone,’ sez Vulmea; ‘I’m dyin’!'

“«T'll wait till you’re betther,’ sez I, ‘an’
thin we two will talk ut out umbrageous.’

“O'Hara pitched Tim into the doolie,
none too tinder, but all the bhoys kep’ by
their cots, which was not the sign av inno-
cint men. I was huntin’ ivrywhere for my
fallin’-block, but not findin’ ut at all. I niver
found ut.

“* Now fwhat will I do?’ sez O’Hara,
swinging the veranda light in his hand an’
lookin’ down the room. I had hate and con-
timpt av O’Hara an’! have now, dead tho’
he is, but, for all that, will I say he was a
brave man. He is baskin’ in Purgathory
this tide, but I wish he cud hear that, whin
he stud lookin’ down the room an’ the bhoys
shivered before the oi av him, 1 knew him
for a brave man an’ I liked him so.
BLACK JACR. 169

“« Fwhat will I do?’ sez O'Hara agin, an’
we heard the voice av a woman low an’ sc?’
in the veranda. “Twas Slimmy’s wife, come
over at the shot, sittin’ on wan av the
benches an’ scarce able to walk.

“«Oh, Denny — Denny, dear,’ sez she,
‘have they kilt you ?’

‘O’Hara looked down the room again an’
showed his teeth to the gum. Then he spat
on the flure.

“*You’re not worth ut,’ sez he. ‘Light
that lamp, ye dogs,’ an’ wid that he turned
away, an’ I saw him walkin’ off wid Slimmy’s
wife; she thryin’ to wipe off the powther-
black on the front av his jackut wid her
handkerchief. ‘A brave man you are,’
thinks I —‘a brave man an’ a bad woman.’

“No wan said a word for a time. They
was all ashamed, past spache.

“«Pwhat d’you think he will do?’ sez
wan av thim at last. ‘He knows we're all
in ut.’

«Are we so?’ sez I from my cot. ‘The
man that sez that to me will be hurt. I do
170 SOABIERS OTRAS.

not know,’ sez I, ‘fwhat onderiaud diviimint
you have conthrived, but by what I’ve seen I
know that you cannot commit murdher wic
another man’s rifle—such shakin’ cowards
you are. I’m goin’ to slape,’ I sez, ‘an’ you
can blow my head off whoile I lay.’ I did
not slape, though, for a long time. Can ye
wonder ?

‘Next morn the news was through all the
rig’mint, an’ there was nothin’ that the men
did not tell. O'Hara reports, fair an’ easy,
that Vulmea was come to grief through tam-
perin’ wid his rifle in barricks, all for to show
the mechanism. An’ by my sowl, he had the’
impart’nince to say that he was on the shpot
at the time an’ cud certify that ut wag an
accidint! You might ha’ knocked my roun-
ful down wid a straw whin they heard that.
"Twas lucky for thim that the bhoys wert
always thryin’ to find out how the new rifle
was made, an’ a lot av thim had come up foi
easin’ the pull by shtickin’ bits av grass an’
such in the part av the lock that showed near
the thrigger. The first issues of the ’Tinis
BLACK: JACK, 171

was not covered in, an’ I mesilf have eased
the pull av mine time an’ agin. A light pull
is ten points on the range to me. —

“«T will not have this foolishness!’ sez
the Colonel. ‘I will twist the tail off Vul-
mea!’ sez he; but whin he saw him, all tied
up an’ groanin’ in hospital, he changed his
will. ‘“* Make him an early convalescint,’ sez
he to the Doctor, an’ Vulmea was made so
for a warnin’. His big bloody bandages an’
face puckered up to wan side did more to
kape the bhoys from messin’ wid the insides
av their rifles than any punishmint.

“O’Hara gave no reason for fwhat he’d
said, an’ all my roomful were too glad to
inquire, tho’ he put his spite upon thim
more wearin’ than before. Wan day, how-
iver, he tuk me apart very polite, for he cud
be that at the choosin’.

“«You're a good sodger, tho’ you're a
damned insolint man,’ sez he.

“Fair words, Sargint,’ sez I, ‘or I may be
insolent again.’

“«’Tis not like you, sez he, *tu lave your
172 SOLDIERS THREB.

rifle in the rack widout the breech-pin, for
widout the breech-pin she was whin Vulmea
fired. I should ha’ found the break av ut in
the eyes av the holes, else,’ he sez.

“« Sargint,’ sez I, ‘ fwhat wud ycur life ha’
been worth av the breech-pin had been in
place, for, on my sowl, my life wud be worth
just as much to me avI tould you whether
ut was or was not. Be thankful the bullet
was not there,’ I sez.

“«That’s thrue,’ sez he, pulling his mus-
tache ; ‘but I do not believe that you, for all
your lip, was in that business.’

“«Sargint,’ sez I, ‘I cud hammer the life
out av a man in ten minuts wid my fistes if
that man dishpleased me; for I am a good
sodger, an’ I will be threated as such, an’
whoile my fistes are my own they’re strong
enough for all work I have todo. They do
not fly back towards me!’ sez I, lookin’ him
betune the eyes.

“« You're a good man,’ sez he, lookin’ me
betune the eyes—an’ oh, he was a gran’-built
man to see—‘ you're a good man,’ he sez,
BLACK JACK. 173

‘an’ I cud wish, for the pure frolic av ut, that
I was not a Sargint, or that you were not a
Privit ; an’ you will think me no coward whin
I say this thing.’

“*T do not,’ sez I. ‘I saw you whin
Vulmea mishandled the rifle. But, Sargint,’
I sez, ‘take the wurrd from me now, spakin’
as man to man wid the shtripes off, tho’ ’tis
little right I have to talk, me being fwhat I
am by natur’. This time ye tuk no harm,
an’ next time ye may not, but, in the ind, so
sure as Slimmy’s wife came into the veranda,
so sure will ye take harm—an’ bad harm.
Have thought, Sargint,’ sez I. ‘Is ut
worth ut?’

“*Ve’re a bould man,’ sez he, breathin’
harrd. ‘A very bould man. But I am a
bould man tu. Do you go your way, Privit
Mulvaney, an’ I will go mine.’

‘We had no further spache thin or afther,
but, wan by another, he drafted the twelve
av my room out into other rooms an’ got
thim spread among the Comp’nies, for they
was not a good breed to live together, an’
174 SOLDIERS THREE,

the Comp’ny orf’cers saw ut. They wud ha
shot me in the night av they had known
fwhat I knew; but that they did not.

“ An’, in the ind, as I said, O’Hara met his
death from Rafferty for foolin’ wid his wife.
He wint his own way too well— Eyah, too
well! Shtraight to that affair, widout turnin’
to the right or to the lef’, he wint, an’ may
the Lord have mercy on his sowl. Amin!”

‘Ear! ’Ear!” said Ortheris, pointing the
moral with a wave of his pipe. ‘An’ this is
’im ‘oo would be a bloomin’ Vulmea all for
the sake of Mullins an’ a bloomin’ button!
Mullins never went after a woman in his life.
Mrs. Mullins, she saw ’im one day —”

“ Ortheris,” I said, hastily, for the romances
of Private Ortheris are slightly too daring for
publication, “look at the sun. It’s a quarter
past six!”

‘Oh, Lord! Three quarters of an hour for
five an’ a’arf miles! We'll ’ave to run like
Jimmy O.”

The Three Musketeers clambered on to
the bridge, and departed hastily in the
BLACK JACK. 175

direction of the cantonment road. When I
overtook them I offered them two stirrups
and a tail, which they accepted enthusias-
tically. Ortheris held the tail, and in this
manner we trotted steadily through the
shadows by an unfrequented road.

At the turn into the cantonments we heard
carriage wheels. It was the Colonel’s
barouche, and in it sat the Colonel’s wife
and daughter. I caught a suppressed
chuckle, and my beast sprang forward with
a lighter step.

The Three Musketeers had vanished into
the night.

 

L’ENVOI.

Anp they were stronger hands than mine
That digged the Ruly from the earth—.
More cunning brains that made it worth

The large desire of a King;
And bolder hearts that through the brine
Went down the Perfect Pearl to bring.
176 SOLDIERS THREE.

Lo, I have wrought in common clay
Rude figures of a rough-hewn race;
For Pearls strew not the market-place
In this my town of banishment,
Where with the shifting dust I play
And eat the bread of Discontent.

Yet is there life in that I make, —
Oh, Thou who knowest, turn and see,
As Thou hast power over me,
So have I power over these,
Because I wrought them for Thy sake,
And breathed in them mine agonies.

Small mirth was in the making. Now
I lift the cloth that cloaks the clay,
And, wearied, at Thy feet I lay
My wares ere I go forth to sell.
The long dezar will praise — but Thou —
Heart of my heart, have I done weil?
ONLY A SUBALTERN.

- « » Nor only to enforce by command but to encourage
by example the energetic discharge of duty and the steady
endurance of the difficulties and privations inseparable from
Military Service. — Bengal Army Regulations.

THEY made Bobby Wick pass an examina-
tion at Sandhurst. He was a gentleman
before he was gazetted, so, when the Em-
press announced that ‘“ Gentleman-Cadet
Robert Hanna Wick” was posted as Second
Lieutenant to the Tyneside Tail Twisters at
Krab Bokhar, he became an officer avd a
gentleman, which is an enviable thing; and
there was joy in the house of Wick where
Mamma Wick and all the little Wicks fell
upon their knees and offered incense to
Bobby by virtue of his achievements.

Papa Wick had been a Commissioner in
his day, holding authority over three millions
of men in the Chota-Buldana Division, build-
178 SCLDIERS THREE.

ing great works for the good of the land, and
doing his best to make two blades of grass
grow where there was but one before. Of
course, nobody knew anything about this in
the little English village where he was just
“old Mr. Wick” and had forgotten that he
was a Companion of the Order of the Star of
India.

He patted Bobby on the shoulder and
said : — “ Well done, my boy !”

There followed, while the uniform was
being prepared, an interval of pure delight,
during which Bobby took brevet-rank as a
‘‘man ” at the women-swamped tennis parties
and tea-fights of the village, and, I dare say,
had his joining-time been extended, would
have fallen in love with several girls at once.
Little country villages at Home are very full
of nice girls, because all the young men come
out here to make their fortunes.

“India,” said Papa Wick, “is the place.
I've had thirty years of it and, begad, I’d like
to go back again. When you join the Tail
Twisters you'll be among friends, if every
ONLY A SUBALTERN. 179

one hasn’t forgotten Wick of Chota-Buldana,
and a lot of people will be kind to you for
our sakes. The mother will tell you more
about outfit than I can; but remember this.
Stick to your Regiment, Bobby — stick to
your Regiment. You'll see men all round
you going into the Staff Corps, and doing
every possible sort of duty but regimental,
and you may be tempted to follow suit.
Now so long as you keep within your allow-
ance, and I haven’t stinted you there, stick
to the Line—the whole Line and nothing
but the Line. Be careful how you back
another young fool’s bill, and if you fall in
love with a woman twenty years older than
yourself, don’t tell #ze about it, that’s all.”
With these counsels, and many others
equally valuable, did Papa Wick fortify
Bobby ere that last awful night at Ports-
mouth when the Officers’ Quarters held more
inmates than were provided for by the Regu-
lations, and the liberty-men of the ships fell
foul of the drafts for India, and the battle
raged long and loud from the Dockyard
180 SOLDIERS THREE.

Gates even to the slums of Longport, while
the drabs of Fratton came down and scratched
the faces of the Queen’s Officers.

Bobby Wick, with an ugly bruise on his
‘freckled nose, a sick and shaky detachment
to manceuvre in-ship and the comfort of fifty
scornful females to attend to, had no time to
feel homesick till the Malabar reached mid-
Channel, when he combined his emotions
with a little guard-visiting and a great deal of
nausea.

The Tail Twisters were a most particular
Regiment. Those who knew them least
said that they were eaten up with “side.”
But their reserve and their internal arrange-
ments generally were merely protective
diplomacy. Some five years before, the
colonel commanding had looked into the
fourteen fearless eyes of seven plump and
juicy subalterns who had all applied to enter
the Staff Corps, and had asked them why
the three stars should he, a colonel of the
Line, command a dashed nursery for double-
dashed bottle-suckers who put on condemned
ONLY A SUBALTERN. 181

tin spurs and rode qualified mokes at the
hiatused heads of forsaken Black Regiments.
He was a rude man and a terrible. Where-
fore the remnant took measures [with the
half-butt as an engine of public opinion] till
the rumor went abroad that young men who
used the Tail Twisters as a crutch to the
Staff Corps, had many and varied trials to
endure. However, a regiment had just as
much right to its own secrets as a woman.
When Bobby came up from Deolali and
took his place among the Tail Twisters, it
was gently but firmly borne in upon him that
the Regiment was his father and his mother
and his indissolubly wedded wife, and that
there was no crime under the canopy of
heaven blacker than that of bringing shame
on the Regiment, which was the best-shoot-
ing, best-drilled, best set-up, bravest, most
illustrious, and in all respects most desirable
Regiment within the compass of the Seven
Seas. He was taught the legends of the
Mess Plate, from the great grinning Golden
Gods that had come out of the Summer
182 SOLDIERS THREE.

Palace in Pekin to the silver mounted mark
hor-horn snuff-mull presented by the last
C. O. [he who spake to the seven subal-
terns]. And every one of those legends
told him of battles fought at long odds, with-
out fear as without support; of hospitality
catholic as an Arab’s; of friendships deep as
the sea and steady as the fighting-line ; ‘of
honor won by hard roads for honor’s
sake; and of instant and unquestioning
devotion to the Regiment — the Regiment
that claims the lives of all and lives forever.

More than once, too, he came officially
into contact with the Regimental colors,
which looked like the lining of a bricklayer’s
hat on the end of a chewed stick. Bobby
did not kneel and worship them, because
British subalterns are not constructed in that
manner. Indeed, he condemned them for
their weight at the very moment that they
were filling with awe and other more noble
sentiments.

But best of all was the occasion when he
moved with the Tail Twisters in review order
ONLY A SUBALTERN, 183

at the breaking of a November day. Allow-
ing for duty-men and sick, the Regiment was
one thousand and eighty strong, and Bobby
belonged to them; for was he not a Subal-
tern of the Line — the whole Line and noth-
ing but the Line—as the tramp of two
thousand one hundred and sixty sturdy
ammunition boots attested? He would not
have changed places with Deighton of the
Horse Battery, whirling by in a pillar of
cloud to a chorus of “ Strong right! Strong
left!” or Hogan-Yale of the White Hussars,
leading his squadron for all it was worth,
with the price of horseshoes thrown in; or
“Tick” Boileau, trying to live up to his
fierce blue and gold turban while the wasps
of the Bengal Cavalry stretched to a gallop
in the wake of the long, lollopping Walers
of the White Hussars.

They fought through the clear cool day,
and Bobby felt a little thrill run down his
spine when he heard the ¢inkle-tinkle-
tinkle of the empty cartridge-cases hopping
from the breech-blocks after the roar of the
184 SOLDIERS THREE.

volleys ; for he knew that he should live to
hear that sound in action. The review
ended in a glorious chase across the plain—
batteries thundering after cavalry to the
huge disgust of the White Hussars, and the
Tyneside Tail Twisters hunting a Sikh Regi-
ment, till the lean lathy Singhs panted with
exhaustion. Bobby was dusty and dripping
long before noon, but his enthusiasm was
merely focussed — not diminished.

He returned to sit at the feet of Revere,
his “ skipper,” that is to say, the Captain of
his Company, and to be instructed in the
dark art and mystery of managing men,
which is a very large part of the Profession
of Arms.

“If you haven't a taste that way,” said Re-
vere between his puffs of his cheroot, “ you'll
never be able to get the hang of it, but
remember, Bobby, ’t isn’t the best drill,
though drill is nearly everything, that hauls a
Regiment through Hell and out on the other
side. It’s the man who knows how to
handle men — goat-men, swine-men, dog-
men, and so ony’.
ONLY A SUBALTERN. 185

“Dormer, for instance,” said Bobby, “I
think he comes under the head of fool-men.
He mopes like a sick owl.”

‘“‘That’s where you make your mistake, my
son. Dormer isn’t a fool yet, but he’s a
dashed dirty soldier, and his room corporal
makes fun of his socks before kit-inspection.
Dormer, being two-thirds pure brute, goes
into a corner and growls.”

“How do you know?” said Bobby ad-
miringly.

‘‘Because a Company commander has to
know these things — because, if he does zot
know, he may have crime — ay, murder —
brewing under his very nose and yet not see
that it’s there. Dormer is being badgered
out of his mind—big as he is—and he
hasn’t intellect enough to resent it. He’s
taken to quiet boozing. Bobby, when the
butt of a room goes on the drink, or takes to
moping by himself, measures are necessary
to yank him out of himself.”

‘“What measures? ’Man can’t run round
coddling his men forever.”
186 SOLDIERS THREE.

“No. The men would precious soon
show him that he was not wanted. You've
got to—”

Here the color-sergeant entered with some
papers ; Bobby reflected for a while as Revere
looked through the Company forms.

‘Does Dormer do anything, Sergeant?”
Bobby asked with the air of one continuing
an interrupted conversation.

“No, sir. Does ’is dooty like a hortom-
said the Sergeant, who delighted in
long words. ‘A dirty soldier, and ’e’s under
full stoppages for new kit. It’s covered with

”

ato,

scales, sir.”

“Scales? What scales?”

“Fish-scales, sir. "E’s always pokin’ in
the mud by the river an’ a-cleanin’ them
muchly-fish with ’is thumbs.” Revere was
still absorbed in the Company papers, and. the
Sergeant, who was grimly fond of Bobby,
continued, — “’E generally goes down there
wher ’e’s got ’is skinful, beggin’ your pardon,
sir, an’ they do say that the more lush — in-
he-briated ’e is, the more fish ’e catches
ONLY A SUBALTERN. 287

They call ’im the Looney Fishmonger in the
Comp’ny, sir.”

Revere signed the last paper and the Ser
geant retreated.

“Tt’s a filthy amusement,” sighed Bobby
to himself. Then aloud to Revere, —“ A:
you really worried about Dormer ?”

“A little. You see he’s never mad
enough to send to hospital, or drunk enovgh
to run in, but at any minute he may flare up,
brooding and sulking as he does. He re-
sents any interest being shown in him, and
the only time I took him out shooting 1}. all
but shot me by accident.”

“] fish,” said Bobby with a wry face “I
hire a country-boat and go down the river
from Thursday to Sunday, and the amiable
Dormer goes with me — if you can spare us
both.”

“You blazing young fool!” said Revere,
but his heart was full of much more pleasant
words.

Bobby, the Captain ot a dhonz, with Pri-
vate Dormer for mate, dropped down the
183 SOLDIERS THREE.

river on Thursday morning — the Private at
the bow, the Subaltern at the helm. The
Private glared uneasily at the Subaltern, who
respected the reserve of the Private.

After six hours, Dormer paced to the
stern, saluted, and said: —‘ Beg y’ pardon,
sir, but was you ever on the Durh’m
Canal?”

“No,” said Bobby Wick. ‘Come and
have some tiffin.”

They ate in silence. As the evening fell,
Private Dormer broke forth, speaking to
himself : —

“Hi was on the Durh’m Canal, jes’ such a
night, come next week twelve month, a-trail-
in’ of my toes in the water.” He smoked
and said no more till bedtime.

The witchery of the dawn turned the gray
river-reaches to purple, gold, and opal; and
it was as though the lumbering dhon? crepi
across the splendors of a new heaven.

Private Dormer popped his head out of his
blanket and gazed at the glory below and
around.
ONLY A SUBALTERN, 189

“Well — damn — my eyes!” said Private
Dormer in an awed whisper. “This ’ere is
like a bloomin’ gallantry-show!” For the
rest of the day he was dumb, but achieved
an ensanguined filthiness through the clean-
ing of big fish.

The boat returned on Saturday evening.
Dormer had been struggling with speech
since noon. As the lines and luggage were
being disembarked, he found tongue.

“Beg y’ pardon, sir,” he said, “ but would
you — would you min’ shakin’ ’ands with me,
sir?”

“Of course not,” said Bobby, and he
shook accordingly. Dormer returned to
barracks and Bobby to mess.

“He wanted a little quiet and some fish-
ing, I think,” said Bobby. “My aunt, but
he’s a filthy sort of animal! Have you ever
seen him clean ‘them muchly-fish with ‘is
thumbs’?”

“ Anyhow,’
“hes doing his best to keep his things
clean.”

7

said Revere three weeks later,
190 SOLDIERS THREE.

When the spring died, Bobby joined in
the general scramble for Hill leave, and to
his surprise and delight secured three
months.

‘““As good a boy as I want,” said Revere,
the admiring skipper.

“The best of the batch,” said the Adjutant
to the Colonel. ‘Keep back that young
skrimshanker Porkiss, sir, and let Revere
make him sit up.”

So Bobby departed joyously to Simla
Pahar with a tin box of gorgeous raiment.

“Son of Wick — old Wick: of Chota-Bul-
dana? Ask him to dinner, dear,” said the
aged men. :

«What a nice boy!” said the matrons and
the maids.

“First-class place, Simla. Oh, ri—ip-
ping!” said Bobby Wick, and ordered new
cord breeches on the strength of it.

“We're in a bad way,” wrote Revere to
Bobby at the end of two months. “Since
you left, the Regiment has taken to fever and
is fairly rotten with it--- two hundred in hos.
ONLY A SUBALTERN, 191

pital, about a hundred in cells — drinking to
keep off fever —and the Companies on
parade fifteen file strong at the outside
There’s rather more sickness in the out-vil
lages than I care for, but then I’m so blis-
tered with prickly-heat that I’m ready to hang
myself. What’s the yarn about your mashing
a Miss Haverley up there? Not serious, I
hope? You're over-young to hang mill-
stones round your neck, and the Colonel will
turf you out of that in double-quick time if
you attempt it.”

It was not the Colonel that brought Bobby
out of Simla, but a much more to be
respected Commandant. The sickness in
the out-villages spread, the Bazar was put
out of bounds, and then came the news that
the Tail Twisters must go into camp. The
message flashed to the Hill stations: —
“Cholera— Leave stopped— Officers _ re-
called.” Alas, for the white gloves in the
neatly soldered boxes, the rides and the
dances and picnics that were to be, the love
half spoken, and the debt unpaid! Without
192 SOLDIERS THREE.

demur and without question, fast as tong2
could fly or pony gallop, back to their Regi-
ments and their Batteries, as though they
were hastening to their weddings, fled the
subalterns.

Bobby received his mandate on returning
from a dance at Viceregal Lodge where he
had... but only the Haverley girl knows
what Bobby had said or how many waltzes
he had claimed for the next ball. Six in the
morning saw Bobby at the Tonga Office in
the drenching rain, the whirl of the last waltz
still in his ears, and an intoxication due
neither to wine nor waltzing in his brain.

“Good man!” shouted Deighton of the
Horse Battery through the mists. ‘“ Whar
you raise dat tonga? I’m coming with you.
Ow! But I’ve a head and half. JZ didn’t sit
out all night. They say the Battery’s awful
bad,” and he hummed dolorously : —

“Leave the what at the what’s-its-name,
Leave the flock without shelter,
Leave the corpse uninterred,

Leave the bride at the altar!
ONLY A SUBALTERN. 193

“My faith! It'll be more bally corpse than
bride, though, this journey. Jump in, Bobby.
Chalo Coachwan !”

On the Umballa platform waited a detach-
ment of officers discussing the latest news
from the stricken cantonment, and it was
here that Bobby learned the real condition
of the Tail Twisters.

“They went into camp,” said an elderly
Major recalled from the whist-tables at
Mussoorie to a sickly Native Regiment,
“they went into camp with two hundred and
ten sick in carts. Two hundred and ten
fever cases only, and the balance looking like
so many ghosts with sore eyes. A Madras
Regiment could have walked through ’em.”

“ But they were as fit as be-damned when
I left them!” said Bobby.

‘Then you’d better make them as fit as
be-damned when you rejoin,” said the Major
brutally.

Bobby pressed his forehead against the
rain-splashed window pane as the train lum-

bered across the sodden Doab, and prayed
194 SO’ DIERKS THREE.

for the iiealth of the Tyneside Tail Twisters.
Naini Tal had sent down her contingent
with all speed; the lathering ponies of the
Dalhousie Road staggered into Pathankot,
taxed to the full stretch of their strength;
while from cloudy Darjiling the Calcutta
Mail whirled up the last straggler of the little
army that was to fight a fight, in which was
neither medal nor honor for the winning,
against an enemy none other than “ the sick-
ness that destroyeth in the noonday.”

And as each man reported himself, he
said: — “ This is a bad business,” and went
about his own forthwith, for every Regiment
and Battery in the cantonment was under
canvas, the sickness bearing them company.

Bobby fought his way through the rain
to the Tail Twisters’ temporary mess, and
Revere could have fallen on the boy’s neck
for the joy of seeing that ugly, wholesome
phiz once more.

“Keep ’em amused and interested,” said
Revere. ‘They went on the drink, poor
fools, after the first two cases, and there was
ONLY A SUBALTERI. 198

no improvement. Oh, it’s good to have you
back, Bobby! Porkiss is a— never mind.”

Deighton came over frdm the Artillery
camp to attend a dreary mess dinner, and
contributed to the general gloom by nearly
weeping over the condition of his beloved
Battery. Porkiss so far forgot himself as to
insinuate that the presence of the officers
could do no earthly good, and that the best
thing would be to send the entire Regiment
into hospital and “let the doctors look after
them.” Porkiss was demoralized with fear,
nor was his peace of mind restored when
Revere said coldly : —

“Oh! The sooner you go out the better,
if that’s your way of thinking. Any public
school could send us fifty good men in your
place, but it takes time, time, Porkiss, and
money, and a certain amount of trouble, to
make a Regiment. ’S’pose you're the person
we go into camp for, eh?”

Whereupon Porkiss was overtaken with a
great and chilly fear which a drenching in

the rain did not allay, and, two days later,
’
196 SOLDIERS THREE.

quitted this world for another where, men do
fondly hope, allowances are made for the
weaknesses of the flesh. The Regimental
Sergeant-Major looked wearily across the
Sergeants’ Mess tent when the news was
announced.

“There goes the worst of them,” he said.
“Tell take the best, and then, please God,
it'll stop.” The Sergeants were silent till one
said: — ‘It couldn't be Aém!” and all knew
of whom Travis was thinking.

Bobby Wick stormed through the tents of
his Company, rallying, rebuking, mildly, as is
consistent with the Regulations, chaffing
the faint-hearted; haling the sound into the
watery sunlight when there was a break in the
weather, and bidding them be of good cheer
for their trouble was nearly at an end; scut-
tling on his dun pony round the outskirts of
the camp and heading back men who, with
the innate perversity of British soldiers, were
always wandering into infected villages, or
drinking deeply from rain-flooded marshes;
comforting the panic-stricken with rude
ONLY A SUBALTERN, 197

speech, and more than once tending the
dying who had no friends—the men with-
out “ townies;” organizing, with banjos and
burnt cork, Sing-songs which should allow
the talent of the Regiment full play; and
generally, as he explained, “playing the
giddy garden goat all round.”

“You're worth half a dozen of us, Bobby,”
said his skipper in a moment of enthusiasm.
“‘ How the devil do you keep it up?”

Bobby made no answer, but had Revere
looked into the breast-pocket of his coat he
might have seen there a sheaf of badly
written letters which perhaps accounted for
the power that possessed the boy. A letter
came to Bobby every other day. The spell-
ing was not above reproach, but the senti-
ments must have been most satisfactory, for
on receipt Bobby’s eyes softened marvel-
lously, and he was wont to fall into a tender
abstraction for a while ere, shaking his cropped
head, he charged into his work anew.

By what power he drew after him the
hearts of the roughest, and the Tail Twisters
198 SOLDIERS THREE.

counted in their ranks some rough diamonds
indeed, was a mystery to both skipper and
C.O., who learned from the regimental
chaplain that Bobby was considerably more
in request in the hospital tents than the
Reverend John Emery.

“The men seem fond of you. Are you in
the hospitals much?” said the Colonel, who
did his daily round and ordered the men te
get well with a grimness that did not cover
his bitter grief.

“A little, sir,” said Bobby.

“’Shouldn’t go there too often if I were
you. They say it’s not contagious, but
there’s no use in running unnecessary risks
We can’t afford to have you down, y'know.”

Six days later, it was with the utmost diff-
culty that the post-runner plashed his way
out to the camp with the mail-bags, for the
rain was falling in torrents. Bobby received
a letter, bore it off to his tent, and, the pro-
gramme for the next week’s Sing-song being
satisfactorily disposed of, sat down tu answer
it. For an hour the unhandy pen toiled
ONLY A SUBALTERN. 199

over the paper, and where sentiment rose to
more than normal tide-level, Bobby Wick
stuck out his tongue and breathed heavily.
He was not used to letter-writing.

‘“Beg y’ pardon, sir,” said a voice at the
tent door; ‘‘but Dormer’s ’orrid bad, sir,
an’ they’ve taken him orf, sir.”

“Damn Private Dormer and you too!”
said Bobby Wick, running the blotter over
the half-finished letter. “Tell him I'll come
in the morning.”

“’E’s awful bad, sir,” said the voice
hesitatingly. There was an_ undecided
squelching of heavy boots.

“Well?” said Bobby impatiently.

“ Excusin’ ’imself before’and for takin’ the
liberty, ’e says it would be a comfort for to
assist ’im, sir, if—”

“Tattoo lao! Here, come in out of the
rain till I’m ready. What blasted nuisances
you are! That's brandy. Drink some.
You want it. Hang on to my stirrup and
tell me if I go too fast.”

Strengthened by a four-finger “ nip”

'
200 SOLDIERS THREE.

which he absorbed without a wink, the Hos:
pital Orderly kept up with the slipping,
mud-stained, and very disgusted pony as it
shambled to the hospital tent.

Private Dormer was certainly ‘’orrid bad.”
He had all but reached the stage of collapse
and was not pleasant to look upon.

““What’s this, Dormer ?” said Bobby, bend-
ing over the man. ‘You're not going out
this time. You've got to come fishing with
me once or twice more yet.”

The blue lips parted and in the ghost of a
whisper said, — ‘Beg y’ pardon, sir, dis-
turbin’ of you now, but would you min’
‘oldin’ my ’and, sir?”

Bobby sat on the side of the bed, and
the icy cold hand closed on his own like a
vise, forcing a lady’s ring which was on the
little finger deep into the flesh. Bobby set
his lips and waited, the water dripping from
the hem of his trousers. An hour passed
and the grasp of the hand did not relax, nor
did the expression of the drawn face change.
Bobby with infinite craft lit himself a cheroot
ONLY A SUBALTERN. 201

with the left hand, his right arm was numbed
to the elbow, and resigned himself to a night
of pain.

Dawn showed a very white-faced Subal-
tern sitting on the side of a sick man’s cot,
and a Doctor in the doorway using language
unfit for publication.

“Have you been here all night, you
young ass?” said the Doctor.

“There or thereabouts,” said Bobby rue-
fully. ‘‘ He’s frozen on to me.”

Dormer’s mouth shut with a click. He
turned his head and sighed. The clinging
hand opened, and Bobby’s arm fell useless at
his side.

‘He'll do,” said the Doctor quietly. ‘It
must have been a toss-up all through the
night. “Think you're to be congratulated on
this case.”

“Oh, bosh!” said Bobby. ‘1 thought
the man had gone out long ago— only —
only I didn’t care to take my hand away.
Rub my arm down, there’s a good chap.
What a grip the brute has! I’m chilled to
202 SOLDIERS THREE.

the marrow!” He passed out of the tent
shivering.

Private Dormer was allowed to celebrate
his repulse of Death by strong waters. Four
days later, he sat on the side of his cot and
said to the patients mildly: —‘“ I'd’ a’ liken
to ’a’ spoken to ’im —so I should.”

But at that time Bobby was reading yet
another letter—he had the most persistent
correspondent of any man in camp—and
was even then about to write that the sick-
ness had abated, and in another week at the
outside would be gone. He did not intend
to say that the chill of a sick man’s hand
seemed to have struck into the heart whose
capacities for affection he dwelt on at such
length. He did intend to enclose the illus-
trated programme of the forthcoming Sing-
song whereof he was not a little proud. He
also intended to write on many other matters
which do not concern us, and doubtless
would have done so but for the slight fever-
ish headache which made him dull and un-
responsive at mess.
ONLY A SUbALTERN. 203

“You are overdoing it, Bobby,” said his
skipper ; ‘’might give the rest of us credit
of doing a little work. You go on as if you
were the whole mess rolled into one. ‘lake
it easy.”

“T will,” said Bobby. ‘I’m feeling done
up, somehow.” Revere looked at him anx-
iously and said nothing.

There was a flickering of lanterns about
the camp that night, and a rumor that
brought men out of their cots to the tent
doors, a paddling of the naked feet of doolie-
bearers and the rush of a galloping horse.

“Wot's up?” asked twenty tents; and
through twenty tents ran the answer—
“Wick, ’e’s down.” '

They brought the news to Revere and
he groaned. ‘Any one but Bobby and I
shouldn’t have caved! The Sergeant-Major
was right.”

“Not going out this journey,” gasped
Bobby, as he was lifted from the doolie.
“Not going out this journey.” Then with
an air of supreme corv’-t'cn:—“I can't,

you see.”
204 SOLDIERS THREE.

‘Not if I can do anything!” said the
Surgeon-Major, who had hastened over from
the mess where he had been dining.

He and the Regimental Surgeon fought
together with Death for the life of Bobby.
Wick. Their ministrations were interrupted
by a hairy apparition in a blue-gray dressing-
gown who stared in round-eyed horror at
the bed and cried: —‘‘Ow my Gawd! It
can’t be '¢m!/” until an indignant Hospital
Orderly whisked him away.

If care of man and desire to live could
have done aught, Bobby would have been
saved. As it was, he made a fight of three
days, and the Surgeon-Major’s brow un-
creased. ‘We'll save him yet,” he said;
and the Surgeon, who, though he ranked
with the Captain, had a very youthful heart,
went out upon the word and pranced joy-
ously in the mud.

“Not going out this journey,” whispered
Bobby Wick gallantly, at the end of the third
day.

“Bravo!” said the Surgeon-Major. ‘“That’s
the way to look at it, Bobby.”
ONLY A SUBALTERN. 205

As evening fell a gray shade gathered
‘round Bobby’s mouth, and he turned his face
to the tent wall wearily. The Surgeon-Major
frowned.

‘“T’m awfully tired,” said Bobby, very
faintly. ‘‘What’s the use of bothering me
with medicine? I—don’t—want— it. Let
me alone.”

The desire for life had departed, and
Bobby was content to drift away on the easy
tide of Death.

“It’s no good,” said the Surgeon-Major.
“He doesn’t want to live. He’s meeting it,
poor child.” And he blew his nose.

Half a mile away, the regimental band was
playing the overture to the Sing-song, for
the men had been told that Bobby was out
of danger. The clash of the brass and the
wail of the horns reached Bobby’s ears.

“Ts there a single joy or pain,
That I should never kno—ow?

You do not love me, ’tis in vain,
Bid me good-by and go!”

An expression of hopeless irritation crossed
206 SOLDIERS THREE.

the boy’s face, and he tried to shake his
head.

The Surgeon-Major bent down : — “ What
is it, Bobby?” “Not that waltz,” muttered
Bobby. ‘ That’s our own — our very ownest
own... Mummy dear.”

With this oracular sentence he sank into
the stupor that gave place to death early
next morning.

Revere, his eyes red at the rims and his
nose very white, went into Bobby’s tent to
write a letter to Papa Wick which should
bow the white head of the ex-Commissioner
of Chota-Buldana in the keenest sorrow of
his life. Bobby’s litle store of papers lay in
confusion on the table, and among them a
half-finished letter. The last sentence ran: —
‘So you see, darling, there is really no fear,
because as long as I know you care for me
and I care for you, nothing can touch me.”

Revere stayed in the tent for an hour.
When he came out, his eyes were redder
than ever.

e e e e e e e °
ONLY A SUBALTERN. 207

Private Conklin sat on a turned-down
bucket, and listened to a not unfamiliar tune.
Private Conklin was a convalescent and
should have been tenderly treated.

“Ho!” said Private Conklin. ‘“There’s
another bloomin’ orf’cer da—ed.”

The bucket shot from under him, and his
eyes filled with a smithyful of sparks. A tall
man in a blue-gray bed-gown was regarding
him with deep disfavor.

“You ought to take shame tor yourself,
Conky! Orf’cer?— Bloomin’ orf’cer? I'll
learn you to misname the likes of ’im. Han-
gel! Bloomin’ Hangel! That's wot ’e is!”

And the Hospital Orderly was so satisfied
with the justice of the punishment that he
did not even order Private Dormer back to

his cot.
IN BLACK AND WHITE.

BY

RUDY ARD KIPLING
THE DEDICATION.

To My Moft Deare Father, — When I was
in your Houfe and we went abroade to-
gether, in the outfkirtes of the Citie, among
the Gentoo Wreftlours, you had poynted me
how in all Empryzes he gooing forth flang
backe alwaies a Word to hym that had
-aftruct hym in his Crafte to the better
Sneckynge of a Victorie or at the leafte the
auoidance of anie greate Defeate: And pre-
fentlie each man wolde run to his V/tad
(which is as we shoulde fay Ma/ter) and geat
fuch as he deferued of Admonefhment, Re-
prouf and Council, concernynge the Gripp,
the Houlde, Crofs-buttock and Fall, and
then lay to afrefhe.

‘ In lyke maner IJ, drawynge back a lytel,
212 THE DEDICATIOL’.

from this my Rabble and Encompafment of
Labour, have runn afyde to you who were
euer my V/tad and Speake as it were in
your priuie Eare [yet that others may
knowe] that if I have here done aught of
Faire Crafte and Reverentiall it is come from
your hande as trewly [but by i. Degree re-
mouen] as though it had been the coperture
of thys Booke that you haue made for me in
loue. How may I here tell of that Tender
Diligence which in my wauerynge and incon-
{tante viages was in all tymes about me to
showe the Pafsions and Occafions, Shifts,
Humours, and Sports that in due proporcicn
combinate haue bred that Rare and Terrible
Myftery the which, for lacke of a more com-
pleat Venderftandinge, the Worlde has cauled
Man: aswel the maner in which you shoulde
goo about to pourtraie the same, a lytel at a
tyme in Feare and Decencie. By what
hand, when I wolde have dabbled a Greene
and unvefed Pen in all Earthe Heauen and
Hell, bicaufe of the pitiful Confidence of
Youthe, was I bounde in and reftrict to
THE DEDICATION. ‘ 213

wayte tyl I coulde in fome fort difcerne from
the Shadowe, that is not by any peynes to be
toucht, the small Kernel and Subftance that
mighte conforme to the sclendernefs of my
Capacitie. All thys and other Council (that,
though I dyd then not followe, Tyme hath
since fadlie prouen trewe) is my unpayable
Debt to you (moft deare Father) and for
marke I have set afyde for you, if you will
take it, thys my thirde Booke. The more
thys and no other fenfe it is of common
knowledge that Men do rather efteem a
Pebble gathered under the Burnynge Lyne
(or anie place that they haue gone farr to
travel in) then the Paue-way of theyr owne
Citie, though that may be the better wrought.
Your Charitie and the large Tendernefs that
I haue nowhere founde fenfe I haue gone
from your Houfe shall look upon it fauorably
and ouerpafs the Blemyfhes, Spottes, Foul
Crafte, and Maculations that do as throughly -
aarke it as anie Toil of Me. None the lefs
it is fett prefomptuoufly before that Wilde
Beafte the Publick which, though when aparte
214 THE DEDICATION.

and one by one examined is but compoft
of such meere Men and Women as you in
theyr outwarde form peynt and I would fayne
peynt in theyr inward workynges, yet in
totalitie, is a Great and thanklefse God (like
unto Dagon) upon whofe Altars a man muft
offer of his Befte alone or the Prieftes
(which they caul Mewéewers) pack him
emptie awai. If I faile in thys Seruyce you
shall take me afyde and giue me more In-
{truction, which is but the olde Counfel unre-
guarded and agayne made playne: As our
Vftads take hym whofe Nofe is rubben in
the dyrte and speak in hys Eare. But thys
I knowe, that if I fail or if I geat my Wage
from the God aforefayd; and thus dance
perpetually before that Altar till He be
wearyed, the Wifdom that made in my
Vfe, when I was neere to liften, and the
Sweep and Swing temperate of the Pen that,
when I was: afarr, gaue me alwaies and un-
tyryng the most delectable Tillage of that
Wifdom shall neuer be lackynge to me in
Lyfe.
THE DEDICATION. 218

And though I am more rich herein than
the richeft, my prefent Pouertie can but
make return in thys lytel Booke which your
owne Toil has nobilitated beyon the deferu-
ynge of the Writer your Son.
INTRODUCTION,

By KADIR BAKSH, KHITMATGAR

Hazur,— Through your favor this is a
book written by my Sahib. I know that he
wrote it, because it was his custom to write
far into the night; I greatly desiring to go to
my house. But there was no order: there-
fore it was my fate to sit without the door
until the work was accomplished. Then
came I and made shut all the papers in the
office-box, and these papers, by the peculiar
operation of Time and owing to the skilful
manner in which I picked them up from the
floor, became such a book as you now see.
God alone knows what is written therein, for
1 am a poor man and the Sahib is my father
and my mother, and I have no concern with
uis writings until he has left his table and
gone to bed.
218 INTRODUCTION.

Nabi Baksh, clerk, says that it is a book
about the black men — common _ people.
This is a manifest lie, for by what road can
my Sahib have acquired knowledge of the
common people? Have I not, for several
years, been perpetually with the Sahib: and
throughout that time have I not stood be-
tween him and the other servants who would
persecute him with complaints or vex him
with idle tales about my work? Did I not
smite Dunnoo, the groom, only yesterday in
the matter of the badness of the harness-
composition which I had procured? I am
the head of the Sahib’s household and hold
his purse. Without me he does not know
where are his rupees or his clean collars. So
great is my power over the Sahib and the
love that he bears to me! Have J ever told
the Sahib about the customs of servants or
black men? Am I a fool? I have said
“very good talk” upon all occasions. I have
always cut smooth his wristbands with scis-
sors, and timely warned him of the passing
INTRODUCTION. 219

away of his tobacco that he might not be
left smokeless upon a Sunday. More than
this I have not done. The Sahib cannot go
out to dinner lacking my aid. How then
should he know aught that I did not tell him ?
Certainly Nabi Baksh is a liar.

None the less this is a book, and the
Sahib wrote it, for his name is in it, and it is
not his washing-book. Now, such is the
wisdom of the Sahib-log, that, upon opening
this thing, they will instantly discover the
purport. Yet I would of their favor beg
them to observe how correct is the order of
the pages, which I have counted, from the
first to the last. Thus, One is followed by
Two and Two by Three, and so forward to
the end of the book. Even as I picked
the pages one by one with great trouble from
the floor, when the Sahib had gone to bed,
so have they been placed: and there is not a
fault in the whole account. And this is my
work. It was a great burden, but I accom-
plished it; and if the Sabib gains honor by
220 "NTRODUCTION.

that which he has written — and God knows
what he is always writing about —I, Kadir
Baksh, his servant, also have a claim te
honor,
CONTENTS

PAGE
Dray Wara Yow DEE. . 2. 2 « 2 © 4 * 223

THE JUDGMENT oF DUNGARA. 2. « 2 6 © « 244
AT How! '1HANA 2. ow «1 ew we oe et ew 263
GEMINI . . 6 6 ee © © oe we oe ew 274
At TwENnTy-Two . . 2. 6 « © © © e © « 293
In PLoop TIME . . . 6 0 © © © we © 316
Tue SENDING OF Dana DA . . 2 0 «© «© © 337

Om THE Crry WALL. . . 2 6 © © © «© © 809
DRAY WARA YOW DEE.

“ For jealousy is the rage of a man: therefore he will not
spare in the day of vengeance.” — Prov. vii. 34.

Aumonps and raisins, Sahib? Grapes from
Cabul? Ora pony of the rarest if the Sahib
will only come with me. He is thirteen
three, Sahib, plays polo, goes in a cart, car-
ries a lady and—Holy Kurshed and the
Blessed Imams, it is the Sahib himself! My
heart is made fat and my eye glad. May
you never be tired! As is cold water in the
Tirah, so is the sight of a friend in a far
place. And what do yow in this accursed
land? South of Delhi, Sahib, you know the
saying — “Rats are the men and trulls the
women.” It was an order? Ahoo! An
order is an order till one is strong enough to
disobey. O my brother, O my friend, we
have met in an auspicious hour! Is all well
224 IN BLACK AND WHITE,

in the heart and the body and the house ?
In a lucky day have we two come together
again.

I am to go with you? Your favor is great.
Will there be picket-room in the compound ?
I have three horses and the bundles and the
horse-boy. Moreover, remember that the
police here hold me a horse-thief. What
do these Lowland bastards know of horse-
thieves? Do you remember that time in
Peshawur when Kamal hammered on the
gates of Jumrud— mountebank that he was
—and lifted the Colonel’s horses all in one
night? Kamal is dead now, but his nephew
has taken up the matter, and there will be
more horses a-missing if the Khaiber Levies
do not look to it.

The Peace of God and the favor of his
Prophet be upon this house and all that
is in it! Shafiz-ullah, rope the mottled mare
under the tree and draw water. The horses
can stand in the sun, but double the felts
over the loins. Nay, my friend, do not
trouble to look them over. They are to sell
DRAY WARA YOW DEE. 225

to the Officer fools who know so many things
of the horse. The mare is heavy in foal;
the gray is a devil unlicked; and the dun —
but you know the trick of the peg. When
they are sold I go back to Pubbi, or, it may
be, the Valley of Peshawur.

O friend of my heart, it is good to see you
again. I have been bowing and lying all
day to the Officer-Sahibs in respect to those
horses; and my mouth is dry for straight
talk. Auggrh! Before a meal tobacco is
good. Do not join me, for we are not in
our own country. Sit in the veranda and I
will spread my cloth here. But first I will
drink. Jn the name of God returning
thanks, thrice! This is sweet water, indeed
— sweet as the water of Sheoran when it
comes from the snows.

They are all well and pleased in the North
— Khoda Baksh and the others. Yar Khan
has come down with the horses from Kurdis-
tan—six and thirty head only, and a full
half pack-ponies—and has said openly in
the Kashmir Serai that you English should
226 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

send guns and blow the Amir into Heli.
There are fifteen tolls now on the Kabul
road; and at Dakka, when he thought he
was clear, Yar Khan was stripped of all his
Balkh stallions by the Governor! This is a
great injustice, and Yar Khan is hot with
rage. And of the others: Mahbub Ali is
still at Pubbi, writing God knows what.
Tugluq Khan is in jail for the business of the
Kohat Police Post. Faiz Beg came down
from Ismail-ki-Dhera with a Bokhariot belt
for thee, my brother, at the closing of the
year, but none knew whither thou hadst
gone: there was no news left behind. The
Cousins have taken a new run near Pakpat-
tan to breed mules for the Government carts,
and there is a story in Bazar of a priest.
Oho! Such a salt tale! Listen. . .
Sahib, why do you ask that? My clothes
are fouled because of the dust on the road.
My eyes are sad because of the glare of the
sun. My feet are swollen because I have
washed them in bitter water, and my cheeks
are hollow because the food here is bad.
DRAY WARA YOW DEE. 227

Fire burn your money! What do I want
with it? Iam rich and I thought you were
my friend; but you are like the others—a
Sahib. Is a man sad? Give him money,
say the Sahibs. Is he dishonored? Give
him money, say the Sahibs. Hath he a
wrong upon his head? Give him money,
say the Sahibs. Such are the Sahibs, and
such art thou — even thou.

Nay, do not look at the feet of the dun.
Pity it is that I ever taught you to know the
legs of a horse. Foot-sore? Be it so.
What of that? The roads are hard. And
the mare foot-sore? She bears a double
burden, Sahib.

And now I pray you, give me permission
to depart. Great favor and honor has the
Sahib done me, and graciously has he
shown his belief that the horses are stolen.
Will it please him to send me to the
Thana? To call a sweeper and have me led
away by one of these lizard-men? I am the
Sahib’s friend. I have drunk water in the
shadow of his house, and he has blackened
228 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

my face. Remains there anything more to
do? Will the Sahib give me eight annas to
make smooth the injury and—complete the
insult? ....

Forgive me, my brother. I knew not —I
know not now— what I say. Yes, I lied to
you! I will put dust on my head—and I
am an Afridi! The horses have been
marched foot-sore from the Valley to this
place, and my eyes are dim, my body aches
for the want of sleep, and my heart is dried
up with sorrow and shame. But, as it was
my shame, so by God the Dispenser of Just-
ice — by Allah-al-Mumit, it shall be my own
revenge!

We have spoken together with naked
hearts before this, and our hands have
dipped into the same dish and thou hast been
to me as a brother. Therefore I pay thee
back with lies and ingratitude ...as a
Pathan. Listen now! When the grief of
the soul is too heavy for endurance it may
be a little eased by speech; and, moreover,
the mind of a true man is as a well, and the
DRAY WARA YOW DEE. 229

pebble of confession dropped therein sinks
and is no more seen. From the Valley have
I come on foot, league by league with a fire
in my chest like the fire of the Pit. And
why? Hast thou, then, so quickly forgotten
our customs, among this folk who sell their
wives and their daughters for silver? Come
back with me to the North and be among
men once more. Come back, when this
matter is accomplished and I call for thee!
The bloom of the peach-orchards is upon all
the Valley, and here is only dust and a great
stink. There is a pleasant wind among the
mulberry trees, and the streams are bright
with snow-water, and the caravans go up and
the caravans go down, and a hundred fires
sparkle in the gut of the Pass, and tent-
peg answers hammer-nose, and pack-horse
squeals to pack-horse across the drift smoke
of the evening. It is good in the North now.
Come back with me. Let us return to our
own people! Come!

Whence is my sorrow? Does a man tear
230 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

out his heart and make fritters thereof over a
slow fire for aught other than a woman?
Do not laugh, friend of mine, for your time
will also be. A woman of the Abazai was
she, and I took her to wife to stanch the
feud between our village and the men of
Ghor. I am no longer young. The lime
has touched my beard. True. I had no
need of the wedding? Nay, but I loved her.
What saith Rahman :— ‘Into whose heart
Love enters, there is Folly axd naught else.
By a glance of the eye she hath blinded thee;
and by the eyelids and the fringe of the eye-
lids taken thee into the captivity without ran-
som, and naught else.’ Dost thou remem-
ber that song at the sheep-roasting in the
Pindi camp among the Uzbegs of the Amir?

The Abazai are dogs and their women the
servants of sin. There was a lover of her
own pecple, but of that her father told me
naught. My friend, curse for me in your
prayers, as I curse at each praying from the
Fakr to the Isha, the name of Daoud Shah,
Abazai, whose head is still upon his neck,
DRAY WARA YOW DEE. 231

whose hands are still upon his wrists, who
has done me dishonor, who has made my
name a laughing-stock among the women of
Little Malikand.

I went into Hindustan at the end of two
months —to Cherat. I was gone twelve
days only; but I had said that I would be
fifteen days absent. This I did to try her,
for it is written: — ‘Trust not the inca-
pable.” Coming up the gorge alone in the
falling of the light, I heard the voice of a
man singing at the door of my house; and
it was the voice of Daoud Shah, and the
song that he sang was “ Dray wara yow
dee” — all three are one. It was as though
a heel-rope had been slipped round my heart
and all the Devils were drawing it tight past
endurance. I crept silently up the hill-road,
but the fuse of my matchlock was wetted
with the rain, and I could not slay Daoud
Shah from afar. Moreover, it was in my
mind to kill the woman also. Thus he sang,
sitting outside my house, and, anon, the
woman opened the door, and I came nearer,
232 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

crawling on my belly among the rocks. I
had only my knife to my hand. Buta stone
slipped under my foot, and the two looked
down the hillside, and he, leaving his match-
lock, fled from my anger, because he was
afraid for the life that was in him. But the
woman moved not till I stood in front of
her, crying :—‘‘O woman, what is this that
thou hast done?” And she, void of fear,
though she knew my thought, laughed, say-
ing: — “It is a little thing. I loved him,
and ¢how art a dog and cattle-thief coming
by night. Strike!” And I, being still
blinded by her beauty, for, O my friend, the
women of the Abazai are very fair, said : —
“Hast thou no fear?” And she answered:
— ‘“ None — but only the fear that I do not
die.” Then said I] :— ‘“ Have no fear.”
And she bowed her head, and I smote it off
at the neck-bone so that it leaped between
my feet. Thereafter the rage of our people
came upon me, and I hacked off the breasts,
that the men of Little Malikand might know
the crime, and cast the body into the water-
DRAY WARA VOW DEE. 233

course that flows to the Kabul river. Dray
wara yow dee! Dray wara yow dee!
The body without the head, the soul without
light, and my own darkling heart —all three
are one — all three are one!

That night, making no halt, I went to
Ghor and demanded news of Daoud Shah.
Men said : —“ He is gone to Pubbi for
horses. What wouldst thou of him? There
is peace between the villages.” I made
answer: — ‘‘Ay! The peace of treachery
and the love that the Devil Atala bore to
Gurel.” And I fired thrice into the gate and
laughed and went my way.

In those hours, brother and friend of my
heart’s heart, the moon and the stars were as
blood above me, and in my mouth was the
taste of dry earth. Also, I broke no bread,
and my drink was the rain of the Valley of
Ghor upon my face.

At Pubbi I found Mahbub Ali, the writer,
sitting upon his charpoy and gave up my
arms according to your Law. But I was not
zrieved, for it was in my heart that I should
234 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

kill Daoud Shah with my bare hands thus —
as a man strips a bunch of raisins. Mahbub
Ali said :— “ Daoud Shah has even now gone
hot-foot to Peshawur, and he will pick up his
horses upon the road to Delhi, for it is said
that the Bombay’ Tramway Company are
buying horses there by the truck-load ; eight
horses to the truck.” And that was a true
saying.

Then I saw that the hunting would be no
little thing, for the man was gone into your
borders to save himself against my wrath.
And shail he save himself so? Am I not
alive? Though he run northward to the
Dora and the snow, or southerly to the
Black Water, I will follow him, as a lover
follows the footsteps of his mistress, and
coming upon him I will take him tenderly
— Aho! so tenderly !—in my arms, saying:
“Well hast thou done and well shalt thou
be repaid.” And out of that embrace Daoud
Shah shall not go forth with the breath in his
nostrils. Auggrh! Where is the pitcher?
I am as thirsty as a mother-mare in the first,
month.
DRAY WARA YOW DEE. 238

Your Law! What is your Law to me?
When the horses fight on the runs do they
regard the boundary pillars; or do the kites
of Ali Musjid forbear because the carrion lies
under the shadow of the Ghor Kuttri? The
matter began across the Border. It shall
finish where God pleases. Here, in my own
country, or in Hell. All three are one.

Listen now, sharer of the sorrow of my
heart, and I will tell of the hunting. I fol-
lowed to Peshawur from Pubbi, and I went to
and fro about the streets of Peshawur like a
houseless dog, seeking for my enemy. Once
I thought that I saw him washing his mouth
in the conduit in the big square, but when I
came up he was gone. It may be that it was
he, and, seeing my face, he had fled.

A girl of the bazar said that he would go
to Nowshera. I said: —‘O heart’s heart,
does Daoud Shah visit thee?” And she
said: — “Even so.” I said: —‘‘I would fain
see him, for we be friends parted for two
years. Hide me, I pray, here in the shadow
of the window shutter, and I will wait for his
236 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

coming.” And the girl said: —‘“ O Pathan,
look into my eyes!” And I turned, leaning
upon her breast, and looked into her eyes,
swearing that I spoke the very Truth of God.
But she answered : — “ Never friend waited
friend with such eyes. Lie to God and the
Prophet, but to a woman ye cannot lie. Get
hence! There shall no harm befall Daoud
Shah by cause of me.”

I would have strangled that girl but for the
fear of your Police; and thus the hunting
would have come to naught. Therefore I
only laughed and departed, and she leaned
over the window-bar in the night and mocked
me down the street. Her name is Jamun.
When I have made my account with the man
I will return to Peshawur and—her lovers
shall desire her no more for her beauty’s
sake. She shall not be Jamun but AZ, the
cripple among trees. Ho! Ho! <Aé& shall
she be!

At Peshawur I bought the horses and
grapes, and the almonds and dried fruits,
that the reason of my wanderings might be
‘ DRAY WARA YOW DEE. 237

open to the Government, and that there
might be no hindrance upon the road. But
when I came to Nowshera he was gone, and
I knew not where to go. I stayed one day
at Nowshera, and in the night a Voice spoke
in my ears as I slept among the horses. All
night it flew round my head and would not
cease from whispering. I was upon my
belly, sleeping as the Devils sleep, and it
may have been that the Voice was the voice
of a Devil. It said: ‘‘Go south, and thou
shalt come upon Daoud Shah.” Listen, my
brother and chiefest among friends — listen !
Is the tale a long one? Think how it was
long to me. I have trodden every league of
the road from Pubbi to this place; and from
Nowshera my guide was only the Voice and
the lust of vengeance.

To the Uttock I went, but that was no
hindrance tome. Ho! Ho! A man may
turn the word twice, even in his trouble.
The Uttock was no w¢tock (obstacle) to me,
and I heard the Voice above the noise of the
waters beating on the big rock, saying : ~
238 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

“Go to the right.” So I went to Pindigheb,
and in those days my sleep was taken from
me utterly, and the head of the woman of
the Abazai was before me night and day,
even as it had fallen between my feet. Dray
wara yow dee! Dray wara yow dee!
Fire, ashes, and my couch, all three are one
—all three are one!

Now I was far from the winter path of
the dealers who had gone to Sialkot and so
south by the rail and the Big Road to the
line of cantonments ; but there was a Sahib
in camp at Pindigheb who bought from me
a white mare at a good price, and told me
that one Daoud Shah had passed to Shahpur
with horses. Then I saw that the warning
of the Voice was true, and made swift to
come to the Salt Hills. The Jhelum was
in flood, but I could not wait, and, in the
crossing, a bay stallion was washed down and
drowned. Herein was God hard to me—
not in respect of the beast, of that I had no
care — but in this snatching. While I was
upon the right bank urging the horses inte
DRAY WARA YOW DEE. 239

the water, Daoud Shah was upon the left ;
for — Alghias! Alghias!—the hoofs of
my mare scattered the hot ashes of his fires
when we came up the hither bank in the
light of morning. But he had fled. His
feet were made swift by the terror of Death.
And I went south from Shahpur as the kite
flies. I dared not turn aside, lest I should
miss my vengeance —which is my right.
From Shahpur I skirted by the Jhelum, for I
thought that he would avoid the Desert of
the Rechna. But, presently, at Sahiwal, I
turned away upon the road to Jhang, Sa-
mundri, and Gugera, till, upon a night, the
mottled mare breasted the fence of the rail
that runs to Montgomery. And that place
was Okara, and the head of the woman of
the Abazai lay upon the sand between my
feet.

Thence I went to Fazilka, and they said
that I was mad to bring starved horses there.
The Voice was with me, and I was zof¢ mad,
but only wearied, because I could not find
Daoud Shah. It was written that I should
240 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

not find him at Rania nor Bahadurgarh, and
I came into Delhi from the west, and there
also I found him not. My friend, I have
seen many strange things in my wanderings.
I have seen Devils rioting across the Rechna
as the stallions riot in spring. I have heard
the Djinns calling to each other from holes
in the sand, and I have seen them pass before
my face. There are no Devils, say the
Sahibs? They are very wise, but they do
not know all things about devils or — horses.
Ho! Ho! I say to you who are laughing
at my misery, that I have seen the Devils at
high noon whooping and leaping on the
shoals of the Chenab. And was I afraid?
My brother, when the desire of a man is set
upon one thing alone, he fears neither God
nor Man nor Devil. If my vengeance failed,
I would splinter the Gates of Paradise with
the butt of my gun, or I would cut my way
into Hell with my knife, and I would call
upon Those who Govern there for the body
of Daoud Shah. What love so deep as
hate?
DRAY WARA YOW DEE. 241

Do not speak. I know the thought in
your heart. Is the white of this eye clouded?
How does the blood beat at the wrist?
There is no madness in my flesh, but only
the vehemence of the desire that has eaten
me up. Listen!

South of Delhi I knew not the country at
all. Therefore I cannot say where I went,
but I passed through many cities. I knew
only that it was laid upon me to go south.
When the horses could march no more, I
threw myself upon the earth, and waited till
the day. There was no sleep with me in that
journeying; and that was a heavy burden.
Dost thou know, brother of mine, the evil of
wakefulness that cannot break— when the
bones are sore for lack of sleep, and the
skin of the temples twitches with weariness,
and yet . . . there is no sleep —there is no
sleep? Dray wara yow dee! Dray wara
yow dee! The eye of the Sun, the eye of
the Moon, and my own unrestful eyes —all
three are one —all three are one!

There was a city the name whereof | have
242 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

forgotten, and there the Voice called all
night. That was ten days ago. It has
cheated me afresh.

I have come hither from a place called
Hamirpur, and, behold, it is my Fate that I
should meet with thee to my comfort, and the
increase of friendship. This is a good omen.
By the joy of looking upon thy face the
weariness has gone from my feet, and the
sorrow of my so long travel is forgotten.
Also my heart is peaceful; for I know that
the end is near.

It may be that I shail find Daoud Shah in
this city going northward, since a Hillman
will ever head back to his Hills when the
spring warns. And shall he see those hills
of our country? Surely I shall overtake him!
Surely my vengeance is safe! Surely God
hath him in the hollow of His hand against
my claiming. There shall no harm befall
Daoud Shah till I come; for I would fain kill
him quick and whole with the life sticking
firm in his body. A pomegranate is sweetest
when the cloves break away unwilling from
DRAY WARA YOW DEE. 243

the rind. Let it be in the daytime, that I
may see his face, and my delight may be
crowned.

And when I have accomplished the matter
and my Honor is made clean, I shall return
thanks unto God, the Holder of the Scale of
the Law, and I shall sleep. From the night, .
through the day, and into the night again I
shall sleep; and no dream shall trouble me.

And now, O my brother, the tale is all]
told. AA¢! Ahi! Alghias! Ahi!
THE JUDGMENT OF DUNGARA.

“ SEE the pale martyr with his shirt on fire.” — Printer’s
Error.

Tuey tell the tale even now among the sal
groves of the Berbulda Hill, and for corrob-
oration point to the roofless and windowless
Mission-house. The great God Dungara,
the God of Things as They Are, Most Terri-
ble, One-eyed, Bearing the Red Elephant
Tusk, did it all; and he who refuses to be-
lieve in Dungara will assuredly be smitten
by the Madness of Yat— the madness that
fell upon the sons and the daughters of the
Buria Kol when they turned aside from
Dungara and put on clothes. So says
Athon Dazé, who is High Priest of the
shrine and Warden of the Red Elephant
Tusk. But if you ask the Assistant Col-
lector and Agent in Charge of the Buria
THE JUDGMENT OF DUNGARA. — 245

Kol, he will laugh — not because he bears
any malice against missions, but because he
himself saw the vengeance of Dungara exe-
cuted upon the spiritual children of the Rev-
erend Justus Krenk, Pastor of the Tubingen
Mission, and upon Lotta, his virtuous wife.
Yet if ever a man merited good treatment
of the Gods it was the Reverend Justus, one
time of Heidelberg, who, on the faith of a
call, went into the wilderness and took the
blonde, blue-eyed Lotta with him. ‘“ We
will these Heathen now by idolatrous prac-
tices so darkened better make,” said Justus
in the early days of his career. ‘ Yes,” he
added with conviction, ‘they shall be good
and shall with their hands to work learn.
For all good Christians must work.” And
upon a stipend more modest even than that
of an English lay-reader, Justus Krenk kept
house beyond Kamala and the gorge of
Malair, beyond the Berbulda River close to
the foot of the blue hill of Panth on whose
summit stands the Temple of Dungara — in
the heart of the country of the Buria Kol ~
246 ' IN BLACK AND WHITE.

the naked, good-tempered, timid, shameless,
lazy Buria Kol.

Do you know what life at a Mission out-
post means? Try to imagine a loneliness
exceeding that of the smallest station to
which Government has ever sent you — iso-
lation that weighs upon the waking eyelids
and drives you perforce headlong into the
labors of the day. There is no post, there is
no one of your own color to speak to, there
are no roads: there is, indeed, food to keep
you alive, but it is not pleasant to eat; and
whatever of good or beauty or interest there
is in your life, must come from yourself and
the grace that may be planted in you.

In the morning, with a patter of soft feet,
the converts, the doubtful, and the open
scoffers, troop up to the veranda. You
must be infinitely kind and patient, and,
above all, clear-sighted, for you deal with
the simplicity of childhood, the experience
of man, and the subtlety of the savage.
Your congregation have a hundred material
wants to be considered; and it is for you,
THE JUDGMENT OF DUNGARA. 247

as you believe in your personal responsibility
to your Maker, to pick out of the clamoring
crowd any grain of spirituality that may lie
therein. If to the cure of souls you add
that of bodies, your task will be all the more
difficult, for the sick and the maimed will
profess any and every creed for the sake of
healing, and will laugh at you because you
are simple enough to believe them.

As the day wears and the impetus of the
morning dies away, there will come upon
you an overwhelming sense of the useless-
ness of your toil. This must be striven
against, and the only spur in your side will
be the belief that you are playing against the
Devil for the living soul. It is a great, a
joyous belief; but he who can hold it un-
wavering for four and twenty consecutive
hours, must be blessed with an abundantly
strong physique and equable nerve.

Ask the gray heads of the Bannockburn
Medical Crusade what manner of life their
preachers lead; speak to the Racine Gospel
Agency, those lean Americans whose boast
248 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

is that they go where no Englishman dare
follow; get a Pastor of the Tubingen Mis-
sion to talk of his experiences — if you can.
You will be referred to the printed reports,
but these contain no mention of the men
who have lost youth and health, all that a
man may lose except faith, in the wilds; of
English maidens who have gone forth and
died in the fever-stricken jungle of the Panth
Hills, knowing from the first that death was
almost a certainty. Few Pastors will tell you
of these things any more than they will speak
of that young David of St. Bees, who, set
apart for the Lord’s work, broke down in the
utter desolation, and returned half distraught
to the Head Mission, crying: — ‘There is
no God, but I have walked with the Devil!”

The reports are silent here, because hero-
ism, failure, doubt, despair and self-abnega-
tion on the part of a mere cultured white
man are things of no weight as compared to
the saving of one half-human soul from a
fantastic faith in wood-spirits, goblins of the
rock, and river-fiends.
THE JUDGMENT OF DUNGARA. 249

And Gallio, the Assistant Collector of the
country side, “cared for none of these
things.” He had been long in the district,
and the Buria Kol loved him and brought
him offerings of speared fish, orchids from
the dim moist heart of the forests, and as
much game as he could eat. In return, he
gave them quinine, and with Athon Dazé,
the High Priest, controlled their simple
policies.

‘When you have been some years in the
country,” said Gallio at the Krenks’ table,
“you grow to find one creed as good as
another. I'll give you all the assistance in
my power, of course, but don’t hurt my
Buria Kol. They are a good people and
they trust me.”

‘“‘T will them the Word of the Lord teach,”
said Justus, his round face beaming with
enthusiasm, “and I will assuredly to their
prejudices no wrong hastily without thinking
make. But, O my friend, this in the mind
impartiality - of - creed -juagment - belooking is
very bad.”
250 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

“ Heigh-ho!” said Gallio, “I have their
bodies and the district to see to, but you can
try what you can do for their souls. Only
don’t behave as your predecessor did, or I’m
afraid that I can’t guarantee your life.”

“And that?” said Lotta sturdily, handing
him a cup of tea.

“He went up to the Temple of Dungara
—to be sure he was new to the country —
and began hammering old Dungara over the
head with an umbrella; so the Buria Kol
turned out and hammered hzm rather sav-
agely. I was in the district, and he sent a
runner to me with a note saying : —‘ Perse-
cuted for the Lord’s sake. Send wing of
regiment.’ The nearest troops were about
two hundred miles off, but I guessed what
he had been doing. I rode to Panth and
talked to old Athon Dazé like a father, tell-
ing him that a man of his wisdom ought to
have known that the Sahib had sunstroke
and was mad. You never saw a people
more sorry in your life. Athon Dazé apolo-
gized, sent wood and milk and fowls and all
THE JUDGMENT OF DUNGARA. 251

sorts of things: and I gave five rupees to
the shrine and told Macnamara that he had
been injudicious. He said that I had bowed
down in the House of Rimmon; but if he
had only just gone over the brow of the hill
and insulted Palin Deo, the idol of the Suria
Kol, he would have been impaled on a
charred bamboo long before I could have
done anything, and then I should have had
to have hanged some of the poor brutes.
Be gentle with them, Padri ... but I
don’t think you'll do much.”

“Not I,” said Justus, “but my Master.
We will with the little children begin. Many
of them will be sick — that is so. After the
children the mothers; and then the men.
But I would greatly that you were in internal
sympathies with us prefer.”

Gallio departed to risk his life in mending
the rotten bamboo bridges of his people, in
killing a too persistent tiger here or there, in
sleeping out in the reeking jungle, or in
tracking the Suria Kol raiders who had taken
a few heads from their brethren of the Buria
252 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

clan. A knock-kneed shambling young man
was Gallio, naturally devoid of creed or
reverence, with a longing for absolute power
which his undesirable district gratified.

‘“No one wants my post,” he used to say
grimly, “and my Collector only pokes his
nose in when he’s quite certain that there is
no fever. I’m monarch of all I survey, and
Athon Dazé is my viceroy.”

Because Gallio prided himself on his su-
preme disregard of human life— though he
never extended the theory beyond his own
—he naturally rode forty miles to the Mis-
sion with a tiny brown baby on his saddle-
bow.

“Here is something for you, Padri,” said
he. ‘The Kols leave their surplus children
to die. "Don’t see why they shouldn't, but
you may rear this one. I picked it up be-
yond the Berbulda fork. I’ve a notion that
the mother has been following me through
the woods ever since.”

“It is the first of the fold,” said- Justus,
and Lotta caught up the screaming morsel
THE JUDGMENT OF DUNGARA. 253

to her bosom and hushed it craftily ; while,
as a wolf hangs in the field, Matui, who had
borne it and in accordance with the law of
her tribe had exposed it to die, panted weary
and footsore in the bamboo-brake, watching
the house with hungry mother-eyes. What
would the omnipotent Assistant Collector
do? Would the little man in the black coat
eat her daughter alive as Athon Dazé said
was the custom of all men in black coats ?
Matui waited among the bamboos through
the long night; and, in the morning, there
came forth a fair white woman, the like of
whom Matui had never seen, and in her
arms was Matui’s daughter clad in spotless
raiment. Lotta knew little of the tongue
of the Buria Kol, but when mother calls to
mother, speech is easy to understand. By
the hands stretched timidly to the hem of
her gown, by the passionate gutturals and
the longing eyes, Lotta understood with
whom she had to deal. So Matui took her
child again— would be a servant, even a
slave, to this wonderful white woman, for her
284 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

own tribe would recognize her no more,
And Lotta wept with her exhaustively, after
the German fashion, which includes much
blowing of the nose.

‘First the child, then the mother, and last
the man, and to the Glory of God all,” said
Justus the Hopeful. And the man came,
with a bow and arrows, very angry indeed,
for there was no one to cook for him.

But the tale of the Mission is a long one,
and I have no space to show how Justus, for-
getful of his injudicious predecessor, griev-
ously smote Moto, the husband of Matui, for
his brutality; how Moto was startled, but
being released from the fear of instant death,
took heart and became the faithful ally and
first convert of Justus; how the little gather-
ing grew, to the huge disgust of Athon
Dazé; how the Priest of the God of Things
as They Are argued subtilely with the Priest
of the God of Things as They Should Be,
and was worsted; how the dues of the
temple of Dungara fell away in fowls and
fish and honeycomb; how Lotta lightened
THE JUDGMENT OF DUNGARA. 255

the Curse of Eve among the women, and
how Justus did his best to introduce the
Curse of Adam; how the Buria Kol rebelled
at this, saying that their God was an idle
God, and how Justus partially overcame their
scruples against work, and taught them that
the black earth was rich in other produce
than pig-nuts only.

All these things belong to the history of
many months, and throughout those months
the white-haired Athon Dazé meditated re-
venge for the tribal neglect of Dungara.
With savage cunning he feigned friendship
towards Justus, even hinting at his own con-
version; but to the congregation of Dun-
gara he said darkly: — “They of the Padri’s
flock have put on clothes and worship a busy
(God. Therefore Dungara will afflict them
grievously till they throw themselves, howl-
ing, into ‘the waters of the Berbulda.” At
night the Red Elephant Tusk boomed and
groaned among the hills, and the faithful
waked and said: — ‘The God of Things as
They Are matures revenge against the back.
256 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

sliders. Be merciful, Dungara, to us Thy
children, and give us all their crops!”

Late in the cold weather, the Collector and
his wife came into the Buria Kol country.
“Go and look at Krenk’s mission,” said
Gallio. ‘He is doing good work in his own
way, and I think he’d be pleased if you
opened the bamboo chapel that he has man-
aged to run up. At any rate, you'll see a
civilized Buria Kol.”

Great was the stir in the Mission. ‘ Now
he and the gracious lady will that we have
done good work with their own eyes see, and
— yes — we will him our converts in all their
new clothes by their own hands constructed
exhibit. It will a great day be—for the
Lord always,” said Justus; and Lotta said
“ Amen.”

Justus had, in his quiet way, felt jealous of
the Basel Weaving Mission, his own converts
being unhandy ; but Athon Dazé had latterly
induced some of them to hackle the glossy
silky fibres of a plant that grew plenteously
on the Panth Hill. It yiclded a cloth white
THE SUOGMENT OF DUNGARA., 257

and smooth almost as the fappa of the
South Seas, and that day the converts were
to wear for the first time clothes made there-
from. Justus was proud of his work.

“They shall in white clothes clothed to
meet the Collector and his well-born lady
come down, singing ‘Vow thank we all our
God. Then he wilt the Chapel open, and —
yes—even Gallio to believe will begin.
Stand so, my children, two by two, and —
Lotta, why do they thus themselves _be-
scratch? It is not seemly to wriggle, Nala,
my child. The Collector will be here and be
pained.”

The Collector, his wife, and Gallio climbed
the hill to the Mission station. The converts
were drawn up in two lines, a shining band
nearly forty strong. ‘ Hah!” said the Col-
lector, whose acquisitive bent of mind led
him to believe that he had fostered the inst:-
tution from the first.

“ Advancing, I see, by leaps and bounds.

Never was truer word spoken! The Mis
sion was advancing exactly as he had said ~
258 IN BLACF AND WHITE.

at first py little hops and shuffles of shame-
faced uneasiness, but soon by the leaps of
. fly-stung horses and the bounds of maddened
kangaroos. From the hill of Panth the Red
Elephant Tusk delivered a dry and anguished
blare. The ranks of the converts wavered,
broke and scattered with yells and shrieks of
pain, while Justus and Lotta stood horror-

stricken.

“It is the Judgment of Dungara!” shouted
avoice. “I burn! I burn! To the river
or we die!”

The mob wheeled and headed for the rocks
that overhung the Berbulda, writhing, stamp-
ing, twisting and shedding its garments as it
ran, pursued by the thunder of the trumpet
of Dungara. Justus and Lotta fled to the
Collector almost in tears.

‘“‘Tcannot understand! Yesterday,” panted
Justus, ‘they had the Ten Commandments,
... What is this? Praise the Lord all
good spirits by land or by sea. Nala! Oh,
shame!”

With a bound and a scream there alighted
THE JUDGMENT OF DUNGARA. 259

on the rocks above their heads, Nala, once
the pride of the Mission, a maiden of four-
teen summers, good, docile, and virtuous —
now naked as the dawn and spitting like a
wild-cat.

“Was it for this!” she raved, hurling her
petticoat at Justus; “was it for this I left
my people and Dungara—for the fires of
your Bad Place? Blind ape, little earth-
worm, dried fish that you are, you said that
I should never burn! O Dungara, I burn
now! I burn now! Have mercy, God of
Things as They Are!”

She turned and flung herself into the Ber-
bulda, and the trumpet of Dungara bellowed
jubilantly. The last of the converts of the
Tubingen Mission had put a quarter of a
mile of rapid river between herself and her
teachers.

“Yesterday,” gulped Justus, “she taught
in the school A, B, C, D.—Oh! It is the
work of Satan!”

But Gallio was curiously regarding the
maiden’s petticoat where it had fallen at his
260 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

feet. He felt its texture, drew back his
shirt-sleeve beyond the deep tan of his
hand and pressed a fold of the cloth against
the flesh. A blotch of angry red rose on the
white skin.

“Ah!” said Gallio calmly, “I thought
so.”

“What is it?” said Justus.

“T should call it the Shirt of Nessus, but
..+ Where did you get the fibre of this
cloth from?”

“Athon Dazé,” said Justus. ‘‘ He showed
the boys how it should manufactured be.”

“The old fox! Do you know that he has
given you the Nilgiri Nettle — scorpion —
Girardenia heterophylla —to work up. No
wonder they squirmed! Why, it stings even
when they make bridge-ropes of it, unless
it's soaked for six weeks. The cunning
brute! It would take about half an hour to
burn through their thick hides, and
thems... 1"

Gallio burst into laughter, but Lotta was
weeping in the arms of the Collector's wife,
THE JUDGMENT OF DUNGARA. 261

and Justus had covered his face with his
hands.

“ Gtrardenia heterophylla!” repeated
Gallio. “Krenk, why dzdv’t you tell me?
I could have saved you this. Woven fire!
Anybody but a naked Kol would have
known it, and, if I’m a judge of their ways,
you'll never get them back.” |

He looked across the river to where the
converts were still wallowing and wailing in
the shallows, and the laughter died out of his
eyes, for he saw that the Tubingen Mission
to the Buria Kol was dead.

Never again, though they hung mournfully
round the deserted school for three months,
could Lotta or Justus coax back even the
most promising of their flock. No! The
end of conversion was the fire of the Bad
Place — fire that ran through the limbs and
gnawed into the bones. Who dare a second
time tempt the anger of Dungara? Let the
little man and his wife go elsewhere. The
Buria Kol would have none of them. An
unofficial message to Athon Dazé that if a
262 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

hair of their heads were touched, Athon
Dazé and the priests of Dungara would be
hanged by Gallio at the temple shrine, pro-
tected Justus and Lotta from the stumpy
poisoned arrows of the Buria Kol, but
neither fish nor fowl, honeycomb, salt nor
young pig were brought to their doors any
more. And, alas! man cannot live by grace
alone if meat be wanting.

“Let us go, mine wife,” said Justus;
“there is no good here, and the Lord has
willed that some other man shall the work
take—in good time—in His own good
time. We will go away, and I will—yes—
some botany bestudy.”

If any one is anxious to convert the Buria
Kol afresh, there lies at least the core of a
mission-house under the hill of Panth. But
the chapel and school have long since fallen
back into jungle.
AT HOWLI THANA.

“His own shoe, his own head.’ — WVative Proverb,

As a messenger, if the heart of the Pres-
ence be moved to so great favor. And on
six rupees. Yes, Sahib, for I have three
little little children whose stomachs are
always empty, and corn is now but twenty
pounds to the rupee. I will make so clever
a messenger that you shall all day long be
pleased with me, and, at the end of the year,
bestow a turban. I know all the roads of
the Station and many other things. Aha,
Sahib! I am clever. Give me service. I
was aforetime in the Police. A bad charac-
ter? Now without doubt an enemy has toid
this tale. Never was I a scamp. I am a
man of clean heart, and all my words are
true. They knew this when I was in the
264 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

Police. They said: —“ Afzal Khan is a true
speaker in whose words men may trust.” I
am a Delhi Pathan, Sahib — all Delhi
Pathans are good men. You have seen
Delhi? Yes, it is true that there be many
scamps among the Delhi Pathans. How
wise is the Sahib! Nothing is hid from his
eyes, and he will make me his messenger,
and I will take all his notes secretly and
without ostentation. Nay, Sahib, God is my
witness that I meant no evil. I have long
desired to serve under a true Sahib —a vir-
tuous Sahib. Many young Sahibs are as
devils unchained. With these Sahibs I
would take no service — not though all the
stomachs of my little children were crying
for bread.

Why am I not still in the Police? I will
speak true talk. An evil came to the Thana
—-to Ram Baksh, the Havildar, and Maula
Baksh, and Juggut Ram and Bhim Singh and
Suruj Bul. Ram Baksh is in the jail fora
space, and so also is Maula Baksh,

It was at the Thana of Howli, on the road
AT HOWLI THANA. 265

that leads to Gokral-Seetarun wherein are
many dacoits. We were all brave men—
Rustums. Wherefore we were sent to that
Thana which was eight miles from the next
Thana. All day and all night we watched for
dacoits. Why does the Sahib laugh? Nay,
I will make a confession. The dacoits were
too clever, and, seeing this, we made no
further trouble. It was in the hot weather.
What can a man do in the hot days? Is the
Sahib who is so strong—is he, even, vigor-
ous in that hour? We made an arrangement
with the dacoits for the sake of peace. That
was the work of the Havildar who was fat.
Ho! Ho! Sahib, he is now getting thin in
the jail among the carpets. The Havildar
said: — ‘Give us no trouble, and we will
give you no trouble. At the end of the
reaping send us a man to lead before the
judge, a man of infirm mind against whom
the trumped-up case will break down. Thus
we shall save our honor.” To this talk the
dacoits agreed, and we had no trouble at the
Thana, and could eat melons in peace, sitting
266 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

upon our charpoys all day long. Sweet as
sugar-cane are the melons of Howili.

Now there was an assistant commissioner
—a Stunt Sahib, in that district, called Yun-
kum Sahib. Aha! He was hard—hard
even as is the Sahib who, without doubt,
will give me the shadow of his protection.
Many eyes had Yunkum Sahib, and moved
quickly through his district. Men called him
The Tiger of Gokral-Seetarun, because he
would arrive unannounced and make his kill,
and, before sunset, would be giving trouble
to the Tehsildars thirty miles away. No one
knew the comings or the goings of Yunkum
Sahib. He had no camp, and when his
horse was weary he rode upon a devil-
carriage. I do not know its name, but the
Sahib sat in the midst of three silver wheels
that made no creaking, and drave them with
his legs, prancing like a bean-fed horse —
thus. A shadow of a hawk upon the fields
was not more without noise than the devil-
carriage of Yunkum Sahib. It was here: it
was there: it was gone: and the rapport
AT HOWLI THANA., 267

was made, and there was trouble. Ask the
Tehsildar of Rohestri how the hen-stealing
came to be known, Sahib.

It fell upon a night that we of the Thana
slept according to custom upon our charpoys,
having eaten the evening meal and drunk
tobacco. When we awoke in the morning,
behold, of our six rifles not one remained!
Also, the big Police-book that was in the
Havildar’s charge was gone. Seeing these
things, we were very much afraid, thinking
on our parts that the dacoits, regardless of
honor, had come by night, and put us to
shame. Then said Ram Baksh, the Havil-
dar: —‘‘Be silent! The business is an evil
business, but it may yet go well. Let us
make. the case complete. Bring a kid and
my tulwar. See you not zow, O fools? A
kick for a horse, but a word is enough for a
man.”

We of the Thana, perceiving quickly what
was in the mind of the Havildar, and greatly
fearing that the service would be lost, made
haste to take the kid into the inner room,
268 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

and attended to the words of the Havildar.
“Twenty dacoits came,” said the Havildar,
and we, taking his words, repeated after him
according to custom. ‘There was a great
fight,” said the Havildar, “and of us no man
escaped unhurt. The bars of the window
were broken. Suruj Bul, see thou to that;
and, O men, put speed into your work, for
a runner must go with the news to The Tiger
of Gokral-Seetarun.” Thereon, Suruj Bul,
leaning with his shoulder, brake in the bars
of the window, and I, beating her with a
whip, made the Havildar’s mare skip among
the melon-beds till they were much trodden
with hoof-prints.

These things being made, I returned to
the Thana, and the goat was slain, and cer-
tain portions of the walls were blackened
with fire, and each man dipped his clothes a
little into the blood of the goat. Know, O
Sahib, that a wound made by man upon his
own body can, by those skilled, be easily
discerned from a wound wrought by another
man. Therefore, the Havildar, taking his
AT HOWLI THANA. 269

tulwar, smote one of us lightly on the fore-
arm in the fat, and another on the leg, and a
third on the back of the hand. Thus dealt
he with all of us till the blood came; and
Suruj Bul, more eager than the others, took
out much hair. O Sahib, never was so
perfect an arrangement. Yea, even I would
have sworn that the Thana had been treated
as we said. There was smoke and breaking
and blood and trampled earth.

“ Ride now, Maula Baksh,” said the Havil-
dar, ‘‘to the house of the Stunt Sahib, and
carry the news of the dacoity. Do you also,
O Afzal Khan, run there, and take heed
that you are mired with sweat and dust on
your in-coming. The blood will be dry on
the clothes. I will stay and send a straight
report to the Dipty Sahib, and we will catch
certain that ye know of, villagers, so that all
may be ready against the Dipty Sahib’s
arrival.”

Thus Maula Baksh rode and I ran hanging
on the stirrup, and together we came in an
evil plight before The Tiger of Gokral-
270 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

Seetarun in the Rohestri tehsil. Our tale
was long and correct, Sahib, for we gave
even the names of the dacoits and the issue
of the fight and besought him to come. But
The Tiger made no sign, and only smiled
after the manner of Sahibs when they have a
wickedness in their hearts. ‘“ Swear ye to
the rapport?” said he, and we said : — ‘“‘ Thy
servants swear. The blood of the fight is
but newly dry upon us. Judge thou if it
be the blood of the servants of the Presence,
or not.” And he said:—‘“I see. Ye have
done well.” But he did not call for his horse
or his devil-carriage, and scour the land as
was his custom. He said:— ‘“ Rest now
and eat bread, for ye be wearied men. I will
wait the coming of the Dipty Sahib.”

Now it is the order that the Havildar of
the Thana should send a straight report of
all dacoities to the Dipty Sahib. At noon
came he, a fat man and an old, and over-
bearing withal, but we of the Thana had no
fear of his anger; dreading more the silences
of The Tiger of Gokral-Seetarun. With him
AT HOWL! THANA. 271

came Ram Baksh, the Havildar, and the
others, guarding ten men of the village of
Howli—all men evil affected towards the
Police of the Sirkar. As prisoners they
came, the irons upon their hands, crying for
mercy—Imam Baksh, the farmer, who had
denied his wife to the Havildar, and others,
ill-conditioned rascals against whom we of
the Thana bore spite. It was well done, and
the Havildar was proud. But the Dipty
Sahib was angry with the Stunt for lack of
zeal, and said ‘‘Dam-Dam” after the custom
of the English people, and extolled the
Havildar. Yunkum Sahib lay still in his
long chair. ‘(Have the men sworn?” said
Yunkum Sahib. “ Ay, and captured ten evil-
doers,” said the Dipty Sahib. ‘There be
more abroad in your charge. Take horse —
ride, and go in the name of the Sirkar!”
“Truly there be more evil-doers abroad,”
said Yunkum Sahib, “but there is no need
ofa horse. Come all men with me.”

I saw the mark of a string on the temples
of Imam Baksh. Does the Presence know
272 IN BLACK AND WH-r/E.

the torture of the Cold Draw? I saw also the
face of The Tiger of Gokral-Seetarun, the evil
smile was upon it, and I stood back ready for
what might befall. Well it was, Sahib, -hat
I did this thing, Yunkum Sahib unlocked
the door of his bath-room, and smiled anew.
Within lay the six rifles and the big Police.
book of the Thana of Howli! He had come
by night in the devil-carriage that is noiseless
as a ghoul, and moving among us asleep,
had taken away both the guns and the book!
Twice had he come to the Thana, taking
each time three rifles. The liver of the
Havildar was turned to water, and he fell
scrabbling in the dirt about the boots of
Yunkum Sahib, crying, —‘‘ Have mercy!”

And 1? Sahib, Iam a Delhi Pathan, and
a young man with little children. The
Havildar’s mare was in the compound. I
ran to her and rode: the black wrath of the
Sirkar was behind me, and I knew not
whither to go. Till she dropped and died I
rode the red mare; and by the blessing of
God, who is without doubt on the side of all
AT HOWLI THANA. 273

just men, I escaped. But the Havildar and
the rest are now in jail. . . . I ama scamp!
It is as the Presence pleases. God will make
the Presence a Lord, and give him a rich
Memsahié as fair as a Peri to wife, and many
strong sons, if he makes me his orderly.
The Mercy of Heaven be upon the Sahib!
Yes, I will only go to the bazar and bring
my children to these so-palace-like quarters,
and then—the Presence is my Father and
my Mother, and I, Afzal Khan, am his slave.

Ohe, Strdarzz! also am of the house-
hold of the Sahib.
GEMINI.

 

“Great is the justice of the White Man—greater the
power of a lie.” — Vative Proverb

Tuts is your English Justice, Protector of
the Poor. Look at my back and loins which
are beaten with sticks — heavy sticks! I am
a poor man, and there is no justice in Courts.

There were two of us, and we were born
of one birth, but I swear to you that I was
born the first, and Ram Dass is the younger
by three full breaths. The astrologer said
so, and it is written in my horoscope — the
horoscope of Durga Dass.

But we were alike—lI and my brother who
is a beast without honor — so alike that none
knew, together or apart, which was Durga
Dass. I am a Mahajun of Pali in Marwar,
and an honest man. This is true talk.
GEMINI. 275

When we were men, we left our father’s
house in Pali, and went to the Punjab, where
all the people are mud-heads and sons of
asses. We took shop together in Isser Jang
—JIand my brother— near the big well where
the Governor’s camp draws water. But Ram
Dass, who is without truth, made quarrel
with me, and we were divided. He took his
books, and his pots, and his Mark, and
became a d6unnta—a money-lender — in the
long street of Isser Jang, near the gateway of
the road that goes to Montgomery. It was
not my fault that we pulled each other’s tur-
bans. I ama Mahajun of Pali, and I always
speak true talk. Ram Dass was the thief and
the liar.

Now no man, not even the little children,
could at one glance see which was Ram Dass
and which was Durga Dass. But all the
people of Isser Jang — may they die without
sons!—said that we were thieves. They
used much bad talk, but I took money on
their bedsteads and their cooking-pots and
the standing crop and the calf unborn, from
276 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

the well in the big square to the gate of the
Montgomery road. They were fools, these
people — unfit to cut the toe-nails of a Mar-
wari from Pali. I lent money to them all.
A little, very little only—here a pice and
there a pice. God is my witness that ] ama
poor man! The money is all with Ram Dass
—may his sons turn Christian, and his
daughter be a burning fire and a shame in
the house from generation to generation!
May she die unwed, and be the mother of a
multitude of bastards! Let the light go out
in the house of Ram Dass, my brother. This
I pray daily twice—with offerings and
charms. Thus the trouble began. We
divided the town of Isser Jang between us —
I and my brother. There was a landholder
beyond the gates, living but one short mile
out, on the road that leads to Montgomery,
and his name was Muhammad Shah, son of a
Nawab. He was a great devil and drank
wine. So long as there were women in his
house, and wine and money for the marriage-
feasts, he was merry and wiped his mouth.
GEMINI. 277

Ram Dass lent him the money, a lakh or half
a lakh —how do I know ?—and so long as
the money was lent, the landholder cared
not what he signed.

The people of Isser Jang were my portion,
and the landholder and the out-town was
the portion of Ram Dass; for so we had ar-
ranged. I was the poor man, for the people
of Isser Jang were without wealth. I did
what I could, but Ram Dass had only to wait
without the door of the landholder’s garden-
court, and to lend him the money; taking
the bonds from the hand of the Steward.

In the autumn of the year after the lend-
ing, Ram Dass said to the landholder:—
“Pay me my money,” but the landholder
gave him abuse. But Ram Dass went into
the Courts with the papers and the bonds —
all correct—and took out decrees against
the landholder; and the name of the Gov-
ernment was across the stamps of the decrees.
Ram Dass took field by field, and mango-tree
by mango-tree, and well by well; putting in
ais own men—debtors of the out-town of
278 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

Isser Jang —to cultivate the crops. So he
crept up across the land, for he had the
yapers, and the name of the Government
was across the stamps, till his men held the
crops for him on all sides of the big white
house of the landholder. It was well done;
but when the landholder saw these things he
was very angry and cursed Ram Dass after
the manner of the Muhammadans.

And thus the landholder was angry, but
Ram Dass laughed and claimed more fields,
as was written upon the bonds. This was in
the month of Phagun. I took my horse
and went out to speak to the man who makes
lac-bangles upon the road that leads to Mont-
gomery, because he owed me a debt. There
was in front of me, upon his horse, my
brother Ram Dass. And when he saw me,
he turned aside into the high crops, because
there was hatred between us. And I went
forward till I came to the orange-bushes by
the landholder’s house. The bats were flying,
and the evening smoke was low down upon
the land. Here met me four men — swash-
GEMINI. 279

bucklers and Muhammadans — with their
faces bound up, laying hold of my horse’s
bridle and crying out: — “ This is Ram Dass!
Beat!” Me they beat with their staves —
heavy staves bound about with wire at the
end, such weapons as those swine of Punjabis
use — till, having cried for mercy, I fell down
senseless. But these shameless ones still
beat me, saying:—‘O Ram Dass, this is
your interest—well weighed and counted
into your hand, Ram Dass.” I cried aloud
that I was not Ram Dass but Durga Dass,
his brother, yet they only beat me the more,
and when I could make no more outcry they
left me. But I saw their faces. There was
Elahi Baksh who runs by the side of the
landholder’s white horse, and Nur Ali the
keeper of the door, and Wajib Ali the very
strong cook, and Abdul Latif the messenger
—all of the household of the landholder.
These things I can swear on the Cow's Tail
if need be, but—Ah7z! Ahi !—it has been
already sworn, and I am a poor man whose
honor is lost.
280 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

When these four had gone away laughing,
my brother Ram Dass came out of the crops
and mourned over me as one dead. But |
opened my eyes, and prayed him to get me
water. When I had drunk, he carried me on
his back, and by by-ways brought me into
the town of Isser Jang. My heart was
turned to Ram Dass, my brother, in that
hour, because of his kindness, and I lost my
enmity.

But a snake is a snake till it is dead; and
a liar is a liar till the Judgment of the Gods
takes hold of his heel. I was wrong in that
I trusted my brother — the son of my mother.

When we had come to his house and I was
a little restored, I told him my tale, and he
said : — “‘ Without doubt, it is me whom they
would have beaten. But the Law Courts are
open, and there is the Justice of the Sirkar
above all; and to the Law Courts do thou
go when this sickness is overpast.”

Now when we two had left Pali in the
old years, there fell a famine that ran from
Jeysulmir to Gurgaon and touched Gogunda
GEMINI. 281

in the south. At that time the sister of my
father came away and lived with us in Isser
Jang; for a man must above all see that his
folk do not die of want. When the quarrel
between us twain came about, the sister of
my father —a lean she-dog without teeth —
said that Ram Dass had the right, and went
with him. Into her hands— because she
knew medicines and many cures — Ram
Dass, my brother, put me faint with the
beating and much bruised even to the pour-
ing of blood from the mouth. When I had
two days’ sickness the fever came upon me;
and I set aside the fever to the account
written in my mind against the landholder.

The Punjabis of Isser Jang are all the sons
of Belial and a she-ass, but they are very
good witnesses, bearing testimony unshak-
enly whatever the pleaders may say. I would
purchase witnesses by the score, and each
man should give evidence, not only against
Nur Ali, Wajib Ali, Abdul Latif and Elahi
Baksh, but against the landholder, saying
that he upon his white horse had called his
282 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

men to beat me; and, further, that they had
robbed me of two hundred rupees. For the
latter testimony, I would remit a little of the
debt of the man who sold the lac-bangles,
and he should say that he had put the money
into my hands, and had seen the robbery
from afar, but, being afraid, had run away.
This plan I told to my brother Ram Dass;
and he said that the arrangement was good,
and bade me take comfort and make swift
work to be abroad again. My heart was
opened to my brother in my sickness, and I
told him the names of those whom I would
call as witnesses —all men in my debt, but
of that the Magistrate Sahib could have
no knowledge, nor the landholder. The
fever stayed with me, and after the fever, I
was taken with colic, and gripings very terri-
ble. In that day I thought that my end was
at hand, but I know now that she who gave
me the medicines, the sister of my father —
a widow with a widow’s heart — had brought
about my second sickness. Ram Dass, my
brother, said that my house was shut and
GEMINI. 283

locked, and brought me the big door-key
and my books, together with all the moneys
that were in my house—even the money
that was buried under the floor; for I was in
great fear lest thieves should break in and
dig. I speak true talk; there was but very
little money in my house. Perhaps ten
rupees — perhaps twenty. How can I tell?
God is my witness that I am a poor man.
One night, when I had told Ram Dass all
that was in my heart of the lawsuit that I would
bring against the landholder, and Ram Dass
had said that he had made the arrangements
with the witnesses, giving me their names
written, I was taken with a new great sick-
ness, and they put me on the bed. When I
was a little recovered-—I cannot tell how
many days afterwards —I made inquiry for
Ram Dass, and the sister of my father said
that he had gone to Montgomery upon a
lawsuit. I took medicine and slept very
heavily without waking. When my eyes
were opened, there was a great stillness in
the house of Ram Dass, and none answered
284 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

when I called — not even the sister of my
father. This filled me with fear, for I knew
not what had happened.

Taking a stick in my hand, I went out
slowly, till I came to the great square by the
well, and my heart was hot in me against the
landholder because of the pain of every step
{ took.

I called for Jowar Singh, the carpenter,
whose name was first upon the list of those
who should bear evidence against the land-
holder, saying : — “ Are all things ready, and
do you know what should be said ?”

Jowar Singh answered : — ‘‘ What is this,
and whence do you come, Durga Dass ?”

I said : —“‘ From my bed, where I have so
long lain sick because of the landholder.
Where is Ram Dass, my brother, who was to
have made the arrangement for the witnesses?
Surely you and yours know these things!”

Then Jowar Singh said : — ‘ What has this
to do with us, O Liar? I have borne wit-
ness and I have been paid, and the landholder
has, by the order cf the Court, paid both the
GEMINI. 28s

five hundred rupees that he robbed fro:1 Ram
Dass and yet other five hundred because of
the great injury he did to your brother.”

The well and the jujube-tree above it and
the square of Isser Jang became dark in my
eyes, but I leaned on my stick and said: —
‘Nay! This is child’s talk and senseless.
It was I who suffered at the hands of the
landholder, and I am come to make ready the
case. Where is my brother Ram Dass?”

But Jowar Singh shook his head, and a
woman cried :— ‘‘ What lie is here? What
quarrel had the landholder with you, dun-
nia? It is only a shameless one and one
without faith who profits by his brother's
smarts. Have these dunnz¢as no bowels ?”

I cried again, saying: — ‘‘ By the Cow—
by the Oath of the Cow, by the Temple of
the Blue-throated Mahadeo, I and I only was
beaten — beaten to the death! Let your talk
be straight, O people of Isser Jang, and I will
pay for the witnesses.” And I tottered where
I stood, for the sickness and the pain of the
beating were heavy upon me.
286 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

Thess Ram Narain, who has his carpet
spread under the jujube-tree by the well, and
writes all letters for the men of the town,
came up and said : — ‘‘ To-day is the one and
fortieth day since the beating, and since these
six days the case has been judged in the
Court, and the Assistant Commissioner Sahib
has given it for your brother Ram Dass,
allowing the robbery, to which, too, I bore
witness, and all things else as the witnesses
said. There were many witnesses, and twice
Ram Dass became senseless in the Court
because of his wounds, and the Stunt Sahib
—the dada Stunt Sahib — gave him a chair
before all the pleaders. Why do you howi,
Durga Dass? These things fell as I have
said. Was it not so?”

And Jowar Singh said :— “ That is truth,
I was there, and there was a red cushion in
the chair.”

And Ram Narain said: — ‘Great shame
has come upon the landholder because of this
judgment, and fearing his anger, Ram Dass
and all his house have gone back to Pali.
GEMINI. 287

Ram Dass told us that you also had gone
first, the enmity being healed between you,
to open a shop in Pali. Indeed, it were well
for you that you go even now, for the land-
holder has sworn that if he catch any one of
your house, he will hang him by the heels
from the well-beam, and, swinging him to
and fro, will beat him with staves till the
blood runs from his ears. What I have said
in respect to the case is true as these men
here can testify—even to the five hundred
rupees.”

I said: —‘“ Was it five hundred?” And
Kirpa Ram, the at, said: — “ Five hundred ;
for I bore witness also.”

And I groaned, for it had been in my heart
to have said two hundred only.

Then a new fear came upon me and my
bowels turned to water, and, running swiftly
to the house of Ram Dass, I sought for my
books and my money in the great wooden
chest under my bedstead. There remained
nothing: not even acowrie’s value. All had
been taken by the devil who said. he was my
288 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

brother. I went to my own house also and
opened the boards of the shutters; but there
also was nothing save the rats among the
grain-baskets. In that hour my senses left
me, and, tearing my clothes, I ran to the
well-place, crying out for the Justice of the
English on my brother Ram Dass, and, in
my madness, telling all that the books were
lost. When men saw that I would have
jumped down the well, they believed the
truth of my talk; more especially because
upon my back and bosom were still the marks
of the staves of the landholder.

Jowar Singh the carpenter withstood me,
and turning me in his hands—for he is a
very strong man — showed the scars upon
my body, and bowed down with laughter
upon the well-curb. He cried aloud so that
all heard him, from the well-square to the
Caravanserai of the Pilgrims: — ‘‘Oho! The
jackals have quarrelled, and the gray one has
been caught in the trap. In truth, this man
has been grievously beaten, and his brother
has taken the money which the Court decreed!
GEMINI, 289

Oh, bunnia, this shall be told for years against
you! The jackals have quarrelled, and,
moreover, the books are burned. O people
indebted to Durga Dass—and I know that
ye be many — the books are burned!”

Then all Isser Jang took up the cry that
the books were burned — Afi! Ahi! that
in my folly I had let that escape my mouth
—and they laughed throughout the city.
They gave me the abuse of the Punjabi,
which is a terrible abuse and very ¢ez; pelt-
ing me also with sticks and cow-dung till I
fell down and cried for mercy.

Ram Narain, the letter-writer, bade the
people cease, for fear that the news should
get into Montgomery, and the Policemen
might come down to inquire. He said, using
many bad words : — “ This much mercy will I
do to you, Durga Dass, though there was no
mercy in your dealings with my sister’s son
over the matter of the dun heifer. Has any
man a pony on which he sets no store, that
this fellow may escape? If the landholder
hears that one of the twain (and God knows
290 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

whether he beat one or both, but this man is
certainly beaten) be in the city, there will be
a murder done, and then will come the Police,
making inquisition into each man’s house and
eating the sweet-seller’s stuff all day long.”

Kirpa Ram, the jat, said: —‘I have a
pony very sick. But with beating he can be
made to walk for two miles. If he dies, the
hide-sellers will have the body.”

Then Chumbo, the hide-seller, said: — ‘I
will pay three annas for the body, and will
walk by this man’s side till such time as the
pony dies. If it be more than two miles, I
will pay two annas only.” -

Kirpa Ram said: — ‘Be it so.” Men
brought out the pony, and I asked leave to
draw a little water from the well, because I
was dried up with fear.

Then Ram Narain said: — “ Here be four
annas. God has brought you very low,
Durga Dass, and I would not send you
away empty, even though the matter of my
sister's son’s dun heifer be an open sore
between us. It is a long way to your own
GEMINI, 291

country. Go, and if it be so willed, live;
but, above all, do not take the pony’s bridle,
for that is mine.”

And I went out of Isser Jang, amid the
laughing of the huge-thighed Jats, and the
hide-seller walked by my side waiting for the
pony to fall dead. In one mile it died, and
being full of fear of the landholder, I ran till
I could run no more and came to this place.

But I swear by the Cow, I swear by all
things whereon Hindus and Musalmans, and
even the Sahibs swear, that I, and not
my brother, was beaten by the landholder.
But the case is shut and the doors of the
Law Courts are shut, and God knows where
the daa Stunt Sahib — the mother’s milk is
not dry upon his hairless lip—is gone.
Ahil Ahil J have no witnesses, and the
scars will heal, and I am a poor man. But,
on my Father’s Soul, on the oath of a Maha-
jun from Pali, I, and not my brother, was
beaten by the landholder!

What canI do? The Justice of the Eng
lish is as a great river, Having gone for-
292 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

ward, it does not return. Howbeit, do you,
Sahib, take a pen and write clearly what I
have said, that the Dipty Sahib may see, and
reprove the Stunt Sahib, who is a colt yet
unlicked by the mare, so young is he. I,
and not my brother, was beaten, and he is
gone to the west —I do not know where.

But, above all things, write —so that
Sahibs may read, and his disgrace be accom-
plished —that Ram Dass, my brother, son
of Purun Dass, Mahajun of Pali, is a swine
and a night-thief, a taker of life, an eater of
flesh, a jackal-spawn without beauty, or faith,
or “-anliness, or honor !
AT TWENTY-TWO.

«“ NARROW as the womb, deep as the Pit, and dark as‘ -
heart of a man.” — Sonthal Miner’s Proverb.

“A WEAVER went out to reap but stayed to
unravel the corn-stalks. Ha! Ha! Ha 's
there any sense in a weaver?”

The never-ending tussle had recommenced.
Janki Meah glared at Kundoo, but, as Janki
Meah was blind, Kundoo was not impressed.
He had come to argue with Janki Meah, and,
if chance favored, to make love to the old
man’s beautiful young wife.

This was Kundoo’s grievance, and he
spoke in the name of all the five men who,
with Janki Meah, composed the gang in No.
7 gallery of Twenty-Two. Janki Meah had
been blind for the thirty years during whica
he had served the Jimahari Collieries with pic‘:
294 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

and crowbar. All through those thirty years
he had regularly, every morning be‘oze going
Cown, drawn from the overseer his allowance
of lamp-oil —just as if he had been an eyed
miner. What Kundoo’s gang resented, as
hundreds of gangs had resented before, was
Janki Meah’s selfishness. He would not add
the oil to the common stock of his gang, but
would save and sell it.

‘‘] knew these workings before you were
born,” Janki Meah used to reply: “I don’t
want the light to get my coal out by, and I
am not going to help you. The oil is mine,
and I intend to keep it.”

A strange man in many ways was Janki
Meah, the white-haired, hot-tempered, sight-
less weaver who had turned pitman. All
day long — except on Sundays and Mondays
when he was usually drunk — he worked in
the Twenty-Two shaft of the Jimahari Col-
iiery as cleverly as a man with all the senses.
At evening he went up in the great steam-
hauled cage to the pit-bank, and there called
for his pony—a rusty, coal-dusty beast,
AT TWENTY TWo. 208

nearly as old as Janki Meah. The pony
would come to his side, and Janki Meah
would clamber on to its back and be taken
at once to the plot of land which he, like
the other miners, received from the Jimahari
Company. The pony knew that place, and
when, after six years, the Company changed
all the allotments to prevent the miners
acquiring proprietary rights, Janki Meah rep-
resented, with tears in his eyes, that were his
holding shifted, he would never be able to
find his way to the new one. ‘ My horse
only knows that place,” pleaded Janki Meah,
and so he was allowed to keep his land.

On the strength of this concession and his
accumulated oil-savings, Janki Meah took a
second wife—a girl of the /olaha main
stock of the Meahs, and singularly beautiful.
Janki Meah could not see her beauty;
wherefore he took her on trust, and forbade
her to go down the pit. He had not worked
for thirty years in the dark without knowing
that the pit was no place for pretty women.
He loaded her with ornaments— not brass
296 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

or pewter, but real siiver ones—and she
rewarded him by flirting outrageously with
Kundoo of No.7 gallery gang. Kundoo was
really the gang head, but Janki Meah in-
sisted upon all the work being entered in his
own name, and chose the men that he worked
with. Custom — stronger even than the
Jimahari Company — dictated that Janki, by
right of his years, should manage these
things, and should, also, work despite his
blindness. In Indian mines where they cut
into the solid coal with the pick and clear it
out from floor to ceiling, he could come to
no great harm. At Home, where they un-
dercut the coal and bring it down in crashing
avalanches from the roof, he would never
have been allowed to set foot in a pit. He
was not a popular man, because of his oil-
savings; but all the gangs admitted that
Janki knew all the £hads, or workings, that
had ever been sunk or worked since the Jim-
ahari Company first started operations on
the Tarachunda fields.

Pretty little Unda only knew that her old
AT TWENTY-TWO. 297

husband was a fool who could be managed.
She took no interest in the collieries except
in so far as they swallowed up Kundoo five
days out of the seven, and covered him with
coal-dust. Kundoo was a great workman,
and did his best not to get drunk, because,
when he had saved forty rupees, Unda was
to steal everything that she could find in
Janki’s house and run with Kundoo “ over
the hills and far away” to countries where
there were no mines, and every one kept
three fat bullocks and a _ milch-buffalo.
While this scheme was maturing it was his
amiable custom to drop in upon Janki and
worry him about the oil-savings. Unda sat
in a corner and nodded approval. On the
night when Kundoo had quoted that objec-
tionable proverb about weavers, Janki grew
angry.

“Listen, you pig,” said he, “blind I am,
and old I am, but, before ever you were
born, I was gray among the coal. Even in
the days when the Twenty-Two khad was
unsunk and thcre were not two thousand
298 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

men here, I was known to have all knowl-
edge of the pits. What &had is there that
I do not know, from the bottom of the shaft
to the end of the last drive? Is it the
Baromba khad, the oldest, or the Twenty-
Two where Tibu’s gallery runs up to Num-
ber Five ?”

‘Hear the old fool talk!” said Kundoo,
nodding to Unda. “No gallery of Twenty-
Two will cut into Five before the end of the
Rains. We have a month’s solid coal before
us. The Babuji says so.”

“ Babuji! Pigji! Dogji! What do these
fat slugs from Calcutta know? He draws
and draws and draws, and talks and talks
and talks, and his maps are all wrong. I,
Janki, know that this is so. When a man
has been shut up in the dark for thirty years,
God gives him knowledge. The old gallery
that Tibu’s gang made is not six feet from
Number Five.”

‘“Without doubt God gives the blind
knowledge,” said Kundoo, with a look at
Unda. “Let it be as you say. I, for my
AT TWENTY-TWO. 299

pert, ao not know where lies the gallery of
Tibu’s gang, but J am not a withered monkey
who needs oil to grease his joints with.”

Kundoo swung out of the hut laughing,
and Unda giggled. Janki turned his sight-
less eyes towards his wife and swore. “I
have land, and I have sold a great deal of
lamp-oil,” mused Janki; ‘but I was a fool to
marry this child.”

A week later the Rains set in with a
vengeance, and the gangs paddled about in
coal-slush at the pit-banks. Then the big
mine-pumps were made ready, and the Man-
ager of the Colliery ploughed through the
wet towards the Tarachunda River swelling
between its soppy banks. “Lord send that
this beastly beck doesn’t misbehave,” said
the Manager piously, and he went and took
counsel with his Assistant about the pumps.

But the Tarachunda misbehaved very
much indeed. After a fall of three inches
of rain in an hour it was obliged to do some-
thing. It topped its bank and joined the
tlood-water that. was hemmed between two
300 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

low hills just where the embankment of the
Colliery main line crossed. When a good
part of a rain-fed river, and a few acres of
flood-water, make a dead set for a nine-foot
culvert, the culvert may spout its finest, but
the water cannot a// get out. The Manager
pranced upon one leg with excitement, and
his language was improper.

He had reason to swear, because he knew
that one inch of water on land meant a
pressure of one hundred tons to the acre;
and here were about five feet of water form-
ing, behind the railway embankment, over
the shallower workings of Twenty-Two.
You must understand that, in a coal-mine,
the coal nearest the surface is worked first
from the central shaft. That is to say, the
miners may clear out the stuff to within ten,
twenty, or thirty feet of the surface, and,
when all is worked out, leave only a skin of
earth upheld by some few pillars of coal.
In a deep mine where they know that they
have any amount of material at hand, men
prefer to get all their mineral out at one
AT TWENTY-TWO. 301

shaft, rather than make a number of little
holes to tap the comparatively unimportant
surface-coal.

And the Manager watched the flood.

The culvert spouted a nine-foot gush; but
the water still formed, and word was sent to
clear the men out of Twenty-Two. The
cages came up crammed and crammed again
with the men nearest the pit-eye, as they
call the place where you can see daylight
from the bottom of the main shaft. All
away and away, up the long black galleries
the flare-lamps were winking and dancing
like so many fire-flies, and the men and the
women waited for the clanking, rattling,
thundering cages to come down and fly up
again. But the out-workings were very far
off, and the word could not be passed
quickly, though the heads of the gangs and
the Assistant shouted and swore and
tramped and stumbled. The Manager kept
one eye on the great troubled pool behind
the embankment, and prayed that the cul-
vert would give way and let the water
302 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

through in time. With the other eye he
watched the cages come up and saw the
headmen counting the roll of the gangs.
With all his heart and soul he swore at the
winder who controlled the iron drum that
wound up the wire rope on which hung the
cages.

In a little time there was a down-draw in
the water behind the embankment — a suck-
ing whirlpool, all yellow and yeasty. The
water had smashed through the skin of the
earth and was pouring into the old shallow
workings of Twenty-Two.

Deep down below, a rush of black water
caught the last gang waiting for the cage,
and as they clambered in, the whirl was
about their waists. The cage reached the
pit-bank, and the Manager called the roll.
The gangs were all safe except Gang Janki,
Gang Mogul, and Gang Rahim, eighteen
men, with perhaps ten basket-women who
loaded the coal into the little iron carriages
that ran on the tramways of the main gal-
leries. These gangs were in the out-work-
~

AT TWENTY-TWO. 303

ings, three-quarters of a mile away, on the
extreme fringe of the mine. Once more the
cage went down, but with only two English-
men in it, and dropped into a swirling, roar-
ing current that had almost touched the roof
of some of the lower side-galleries. One
of the wooden balks with which they had
propped the old workings shot past on the
current, just missing the cage.

“If we don’t want our ribs knocked out,
we'd better go,” said the Manager. ‘We
can’t even save the Company’s props.”

The cage drew out of the water with a
splash, and a few minutes later, it was offi-
cially reported that there were at least ten
feet of water in the pit’s-eye. Now ten feet
of water there meant that all other places in
the mine were flooded except such galleries
as were more than ten feet above the level
of the bottom of the shaft. The deep
workings would be full, the main galleries
would be full, but in the high workings
reached by inclines from the main roads,
there would be a certain amount of air cut
304 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

off, so to speak, by the water and squeezed
up by it. The little science-primers explain
how water behaves when you pour it down
test-tubes. The flooding of Twenty-Two
was an illustration on a large scale.

“By the Holy Grove, what has happened
to the air!” It was a Sonthal gangman of
Gang Mogul in No. 9 gallery, and he was
driving a six-foot way through the coal.
Then there was a rush from the other gal-
leries, and Gang Janki and Gang Rahim
stumbled up with their basket-women.

““Water has come in the mine,” they said,
‘and there is no way of getting out.”

“T went down,” said Janki— ‘down the
slope of my gallery, and I felt the water.”

‘‘There has been no water in the cutting
in our time,” clamored the women. ‘“ Why
cannot we go away?”

‘Be silent,” said Janki; “long ago, when
my father was here, water came to Ten—
no, Eleven— cutting, and there was great
trouble. Let us get away to where the air
is better.”
AT TWENTY-TWO. 305

The three gangs and the basket-women
left No. 9 gallery and went further up No.
16. At one turn of the road they could see
the pitchy black water lapping on the coal.
It had touched the roof of a gallery that they
knew well—a gallery where they used to
smoke their Awgas and conduct their flirta-
tions. Seeing this, they called aloud upon
their Gods, and the AMeahs, who are thrice
bastered Muhammadans, strove to recollect
the name of the Prophet. They came to a
great open square whence nearly all the coal
had been extracted. It was the end of the
out-workings, and the end of the mine.

Far away down the gallery a small pump-
ing-engine, used for keeping dry a deep
working and fed with steam from above,
was faithfully throbbing. They heard it
cease.

“They have cut off the steam,” said
Kundoo hopefully. ‘They have given the
order to use all the steam for the pit-bank
fumps. They will clear out the water.”

“If the water has reached the smoking-
306 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

gallery,” said Janki, ‘all the Company’s
pumps can do nothing for three days.”

“It is very hot,” moaned Jasoda, the Meah
basket-woman. ‘There is a very bad air
here because of the lamps.”

“Put them out,” said Janki; ‘why do you
want lamps?” The lamps were put out
amid protests, and the company sat still in
the utter dark. Somebody rose quietly and
began walking over the coals. It was Janki,
who was touching the walls with his hands.
‘“Where is the ledge?” he murmured to
himself.

“Sit, sit!” said Kundoo. ‘If we die,
we die. The air is very bad.”

But Janki still stumbled and crept and
tapped with his pick upon the walls. The
women rose to their feet.

“Stay all where you are. Without the
lamps you cannot see, and I—I am always
seeing,” said Janki. Then he paused, and
called out: —‘“ Oh, you who have been in
the cutting more than ten years, what is the
name of this open place? JT aman cold man
and I have forgotten,”
AT TWENTY-TWO. 307

* Bullia’s Room,” answered the Sonthal
who had complained of the vileness of the air.

‘“ Again,” said Janki.

“ Bullia’s Room.”

“Then I have found it,” said Janki. ‘The
name only had slipped my memory. Tibu’s
gang’s gallery is here.”

“ A lie,” said Kundoo. ‘There have been
no galleries in this place since my day.”

“Three paces was the depth of the ledge,”
muttered Janki without heeding — “and —
oh, my poor bones! —I have found it! It
is here, up this ledge. Come all you, one
by one, to the place of my voice, and I will
count you.”

There was a rush in the dark, and Janki
felt the first man’s face hit his knees as the
Sonthal scrambled up the ledge

“Who?” cried Janki.

“J, Sunua Manji.”

“Sit you down,” said Janki. ‘Who next?”

One by one the women and the men
crawled up the ledge which ran along one

side of ‘“Bulliass Room.” Degraded Mu-
308 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

hammadan, pig-eating Musahr and wild Son-
thal, Janki ran his hand over them all.

‘““Now follow after,” said he, “catching
hold of my heel, and the women catching
the men’s clothes.” He did not ask whether
the men had brought their picks with them.
A miner, black or white, does not drop his
pick. One by one, Janki leading, they crept
into the old gallery —a six-foot way with a
scant four feet from thill to roof.

“The air is better here,” said Jasoda.
‘fhey could hear her heart beating in thick,
sick bumps.

“Slowly, slowly,” said Janki. ‘I am an
old man, and I forget many things. This is
Tibu’s gallery, but where are the four bricks
where they used to put their Auga fire on
when the Sahibs never saw? Slowly, slowly,
O you people behind.”

They heard his hands disturbing the small
coal on the floor of the gallery and then a
dull sound. “This is one unbaked brick,
and this is another and another. Kundoo is
a young man — let tim come forward. Put
AT TWENTY-TWO. 309

a knee upon this brick and strike here.
When Tibu's gang were at dinner on the last
day before the good coal ended, they heard
the men of Five on the other side, and Five
worked ¢hecr gallery two Sundays later —
or it may have been one. Strike there,
Kundoo, but give me room to go back.”

KXundoo, doubting, drove the pick, but the
first soft crush of the coal was a call to him.
He was fighting for his life and for Unda —
pretty littke Unda with rings on all her toes
—for Unda and the forty rupees. The
women sang the Song of the Pick — the ter-
rible, slow, swinging melody with the mut-
tered chorus that repeats the sliding of the
loosened coal, and, to each cadence, Kundoo
smote in the black dark. When he could do
no more, Sunua Manji took the pick, and
struck for his life and his wife, and his village
beyond the blue hills over the Tarachunda
River. An hour the men worked, and then
the women cleared away the coal.

“Tt is further than I thought,” said Janki.
“The air is very bad; but strike, Kundoo,
strike hard,”
310 £ wLACK AND WHITE.

For the fifth time Kundoo took up the
pick as the Sonthal crawled back. The song
had scarcely recommenced when it was
broken by a yell from Kundoo that echoed
down the gallery: —‘“ Par hua! Par hua!
We are through, we are through!” The
imprisoned air in the mine shot through the
opening, and the women at the far end of
the gallery heard the water rush through the
pillars of ‘“ Bullia’s Room” and roar against
the ledge. Having fulfilled the law under
which it worked, it rose no further. The
women screamed and pressed forward. ‘“‘ The
water has come —we sha!l be killed! Let
us go.”

Kundoo crawled through the gap and
found himself in a propped gallery by the
simple process of hitting his head against a
beam.

“Do I know the pits or do I not?”
chuckled Janki. ‘This is the number five;
go you out slowly, giving me your names.
Ho! Rahim, count your gang! Now let us
go forward, each catching hold of the other
as before.”
AT TWENTY-TWO. 311

They formed a line in the darkness and
Janki led them — for a pit-man in a strange
pit is only one degree less liable to err than
an ordinary mortal underground for the first
time. At last they saw a flare-lamp, and
Gangs Janki, Mogul and Rahim of Twenty-
Two stumbled dazed into the glare of the
draught-furnace at the bottom of Five: Janki
feeling his way and the rest behind.

““Water has come into Twenty-Two. God
knows where are the others. I have brought
these men from Tibu’s gallery in our cutting ;
making connection through the north side of
the gallery. Take us to the cage,” said Janki
Meah.

At the pit-bank of Twenty-Two, some
thousand people clamored and wept and
shouted. One hundred men—one thou-
sand men— had been drowned in the cutting.
They would all go to their homes to-morrow.
Where were their men? Little Unda, her
scarf drenched with the rain, stood at the
pit-mouth calling down the shaft for Kundoo.
$2 IN BLACK AND WHITE,

They had swung the cages clear of the
mouth, and her only answer was the murmur
of the flood in the pit’s-eye two hundred and
sixty feet below.

‘Look after that woman! She'll chuck
herself down the shaft in a minute,” shouted
the Manager.

But he need not have troubled’; Unda was
afraid of Death. She wanted Kundoo. The
Assistant was watching the flood and seeing
how far he could wade into it. There was
a lull in the water, and the whirlpool had
slackened. The mine was full, and the people
at the pit-bank howled.

“My faith, we shall be lucky if we have
five hundred hands in the place to-morrow!”
said the Manager. ‘There’s some chance
yet of running a temporary dam across
that water. Shove in anything —tubs and
bullock-carts if you haven’t enough bricks.
Make them work zow if they never worked
before. Hi! you gangers, make them work.”

Little by little the crowd was broken into
detachments, and pushed towards the water
AT TWENTY-TWO. 4315

with promises of overtime. The dam-making
began, and when it was fairly under way, the
Manager thought that the hour had come for
the pumps. There was no fresh inrush into
the mine. The tall, red, iron-clamped pump-
beam rose and fell, and the pumps snored
and guttered and shrieked as the first water
poured out of the pipe.

“We must run her all to-night,” said the
Manager wearily, “but there’s no hope for
the poor devils down below. Look here,
Gur Sahai, if you are proud of your engines,
show me what they can do now.”

Gur Sahai grinned and nodded, with his
right hand upon the lever and an oil-can in
his left. He could do no more than he was
doing, but he could keep that up till the
dawn. Were the Company’s pumps to be
beaten by the vagaries of that troublesome
Tarachunda River? Never, never! And the
pumps sobbed and panted:— “ Never, never!”
The Manager sat in the shelter of the pit-
bank roofing, trying to dry himself by the
pump-boiler fire, and, in the dreary dusk,
314 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

he saw the crowds on the dam scatte~ and
fly.

“That’s the end,” he groaned. * ’Twiil
take us six weeks to persuade ’em that we
haven’t tried to drown their mates on pur-
pose. Oh, for a decent, rational Geordie!”

But the flight had no panic in it. Men
had run over from Five with astounding
news, and the foremen could not hold their
gangs together. Presently, surrounded by a
clamorous crew, Gangs Rahim, Mogul, and
Janki, and ten basket-women, walked up to
report themselves, and pretty little Unda
stole away to Janki’s hut to prepare his
evening meal.

’

‘Alone I found the way,” explained Janki
Meah, ‘‘and now will the Company give m2
pension?”

The simple pit-folk shouted and leaped
and went back to the dam, reassured in their
old belief that, whatever happened, so great
was the power of the Company whose salt
they ate, none of them could be killed. But

Gur Sahai only bared his white teeth and
AT TWENTY-TWO. 318

kept his hand upon the lever and proved his
pumps to the uttermost.

“T say,” said the Assistant to the Man-
ager, a week later, “do you recollect Ger-
minal?”

“Yes. "Queer thing. I thought of it in
the cage when that balk went by. Why?”

“Qh, this business seems to be Germinal
upside down. Janki was in my veranda all
this morning, telling me that Kundoo had
eloped with his wife -— Unda or Anda, I
think her name was.”

“Hillo! And those were the cattle that
you risked your life to clear out of Twenty-
Two!”

“No—I was thinking of the Company's
props, not the Company’s men.” |

‘‘Sounds better to say so zow; but I
don’t believe you, old fellow.”
IN FLOOD TIME.

TWEED said tae Till: ~

“ What gars ye rin sae still ?*
Till said tae Tweed : —

“ Though ye rin wi’ speed

An I rin slaw —

Yet where ye droon ae man

I droon twa.”

THERE is no getting over the river to-
night, Sahib. They say that a bullock-cart
has been washed down already, and the
ekka that went over a half-hour before you
came, has not yet reached the far side. Is
the Sahib in haste? I will drive the ford-
elephant in to show him. Ohe, mahout
there in the shed! Bring out Ram Pershad,
and if he will face the current, good. An
elephant never lies, Sahib, and Ram Pershad
is separated from his friend Kala Nag. He,
IN FLOOD TIME. 317

too, wishes to cross to the far side. Well
done! Well done! my King! Go half-way
across, mahoutjz, and see what the river
says. Well done, Ram Pershad! Pearl
among elephants, go into the river! Hit
him on the head, fool! Was the goad made
only to scratch thy own fat back with, bas-
tard? Strike! Strike! What are the bowl-
ders to thee, Ram Pershad, my Rustum, my
mountain of strength? Goin! Go in!

No, Sahib! It is useless. You can hear
him trumpet. He is telling Kala Nag that
he cannot come over. See! He has swung
round and is shaking his head. He is no
fool. He knows what the Barhwi means
when it is angry. Aha! Indeed, thou art
no fool, my child! Salaam, Ram Pershad,
Bahadur! Take him under the trees, ma-
hout, and see that he gets his spices. Well
done, thou chiefest among tuskers. Salaam
to the Sirkar and go to sleep.

What is to be done? The Sahib must
wait till the river goes down. It will shrink
to-morrow morning, if God pleases, or the
318 IN BLACK AND WHITE,

day after at the latest. Now why does the
Sahib get so angry? Iamhisservant. Before
God, / did not create this stream! What
can I do? My hut and all that is therein is
at the service of the Sahib, and it is begin-
ning to rain. Come away, my Lord. How
will the river go down for your throwing abuse
at it? In the old days the English people
were not thus. The fire-carriage has made
them soft. In the old days, when they drave
behind horses by day or by night, they said
naught if a river barred the way, or a carriage
sat down in the mud. It was the will of God
—not like a fire-carriage which goes and
goes and goes, and would go though all the
devils in the land hung on to its tail. The
fire-carriage hath spoiled the English people.
After all, what is a day lost, or, for that mat-
ter, what are two days? Is the Sahib going
to his own wedding, that he is so mad with
haste? Ho! Ho! Ho! I am an old
man and see few Sahibs. Forgive me if I
have forgotten the respect that is due to
them. The Sahib is not angry?
IN FLOD TIME. 319

His own wedding! Ho! Ho! Ho!
The mind of an old man is like the xumah-
tree. Fruit, bud, blossom, and the dead
leaves of all the years of the past flourish
together. Old and new and that which is
gone out of remembrance, all three are
there! Sit on the bedstead, Sahib, and drink
milk. Or... would the Sahib in truth
care to drink my tobacco? It is good. It
is the tobacco of Nuklao. My son, who is in
service there, sent it to me. Drink, then,
Sahib, if you know how to handle the tube.
The Sahib takes it like a Musalman. Wah!
Wah! Where did he learn that? His own
wedding! Ho! Ho! Ho! The Sahib says
that there is no wedding in the matter at all?
Now Zs it likely that the Sahib would speak
true talk to me who am only a black man?
Small wonder, then, that he is in haste.
Thirty years have I beaten the gong at this
ford, but never have I seen a Sahib in such
haste. Thirty years, Sahib! That is a very
long time. Thirty years ago this ford was
on the track of the duxzjaras, and } have
320 IN BLACK AND WHITE,

seen two thousand pack-bullocks cross in
one night. Now the rail has come, and the
fire-carriage says buz-buz-buz, and a hun-
dred lakhs of maunds slide across that big
bridge. It is very wonderful; but the ford
is lonely now that there are no dunjaras to
camp under the trees.

Nay, do not trouble to look at the sky
without. It will rain till the dawn. Listen!
The bowlders are talking to-night in the bed
of the river. Hear them! They would be
husking your bones, Sahib, had you tried to
cross. See, I will shut the door and no rain
can enter. Wahi! Ahi! Ugh! Thirty
years on the banks of the ford! An old
man amJand... where is the oil for the
lamp?

Your parden, but, because of my years, I
sleep no sounder than a dog; and you
moved to the door. Look then, Sahib.
Look and listen. A full half 40s from bank
to bank is the stream now — you can see it
under the stars—-and tuere are ten feet af
IN FLOOD TIME. 321

water therein. It will not shrink because of
the anger in your eyes, and it will not be
quiet on account of your curses. Which is
iouder, Sahib— your voice or the voice of
the river? Call to it—perhaps it will be
ashamed. Lie down and sleep afresh, Sahib.
I know the anger of the Barhwi when there
nas fallen rain in the foot-hills. I swam the
flood, once, on a night tenfold worse than
this, and by the Favor of God I was released
from Death when I had come to the very
gates thereof.

May I tell the tale? Very good talk. I
will fill the pipe anew.

Thirty years ago it was, when I was a
young man and had but newly come to the
ford. I was strong then, and the dunjaras
had no doubt when I said “this ford is
clear.” I have toiled all night up to my
shoulder-blades in running water amid a
hundred bullocks mad with fear, and have
brought them across losing not a_ hoof.
When all was done I fetched the shiver-
ing men, and they gave me for reward the
322 “N BLACK AND WHITE.

pick of their cattle —the bell-bullock of the
drove. So great was the honor in which }
was held! But, to-day when the rain falls
and the river rises, ] creep into my hut and
whimper like a dog. The strength is gone
from me. I am an old man and the fire-
carriage has made the ford desolate. They
were wont to call me the Strong One of the
Barhwi.

Behold my face, Sahib. It is the face of a
monkey. And my arm. It is the arm of an
old woman. I swear to you, Sahib, that a
woman has loved this face and has rested in
the hollow of this arm. Twenty years ago,
Sahib. Believe me, this was true talk...
twenty years ago.

Come to the door and look across. Can
you see a thin fire very far away down the
stream? That is the temple-fire, in the
shrine of Hanuman, of the village of Pateera.
North, under the big star, is the village it-
self, but it is hidden by a bend of the river.
Is that far to swim, Sahib? Would you take
off your clothes and adventure? Yet ]
IN FLOOD TIME. 323

swam to Pateera — not once but many times;
and there are mug gers in the river too.

Love knows no caste; else why should I,
a Musalman and the son of a Musalman,
have sought a Hindu woman —a widow of
the Hindus—the sister of the headman of
Pateera? But it was even so. They of
the headman’s household came on a pilgrim-
age to Muttra when She was but newly a
bride. Silver tires were upon the wheels of
the bullock-cart, and silken curtains hid the
woman. Sahib, I made no haste in their
conveyance, for the wind parted the curtains
and I saw Her. When they returned from
pilgrimage the boy that was Her husband
had died, and I saw her again in the bullock-
cart. By God, these Hindus are fools!
What was it to me whether She was Hindu
or Jain—scavenger, leper or whole? I
would have married Her and made Her a
home by the ford. The Seventh of the Nine
bars says that a man may not marry one of
the idolaters? Is that truth? Both Shiahs
and Sunnis say that a Musalman may not
324 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

marry one of the idolaters? Is the Sahib
a priest, then, that he knows so much? I
will tell him something that he does not
know. There is neither Shiah nor Sunni,
forbidden nor idolater, in Love ; and the Nine
Bars are but nine little fagots that the flame
of Love utterly burns away. In truth, I would
have taken Her; but what could Ido? The
headman would have sent his men to break
my head with staves. I am not—I was not
— afraid of any five men; but against half
a village who can prevail ?

Therefore it was my custom, these things
having been arranged between us twain, to
go by night to the village of Pateera, and
there we met among the cross; no man
knowing aught of the matter. Behold, now!
I was wont to cross here, skirting the jungle
to the river bend where the railway bridge is,
and thence across the elbow of land to Pa-
teera. The light of the shrine was my guide
when the nights were dark. That jungle
near the river is very full of snakes — little
karatts that sleep on the sand—and more-
IN FLOOD TIME. 325

over, Her brothers would have slain me had
they found me in the crops. But none knew
— none knew save She and I; and the blown
sand of the river-bed covered the track of my
feet. In the hot months it was an easy thing
to pass from the ford to Pateera, and in the
first Rains, when the river rose slowly, it was
an easy thing also. I set the strength of my
body against the strength of the stream, and
nightly I ate in my hut here and drank at
Pateera yonder. She had said that one
Hirnam Singh, a scamp, had sought Her,
and he was of a village up the river but on
the same bank. All Sikhs are dogs, and
they have refused in their folly that good gift
of God —tobacco. I was ready to destroy
Hirnam Singh that ever he had come nigh
Her; and the more because he had sworn to
Her that She had a lover, and that he would
lie in wait and give the name to the headman
unless She went away with him. What curs
are these Sikhs!

After that news, I swam always with a little
sharp knife in my belt, and evil would it have
326 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

been for a man had he stayed me. I knew
not the face of Hirnam Singh, but I would
have killed any who came between me and
Her.

Upon a night in the beginning of the
Rains, I was minded to go across to Pateera,
albeit the river was angry. Now the nature
of the Barhwi is this, Sahib. In twenty
breaths it comes down from the Hills, a wall
three feet high, and I have seen it, between
the lighting of a fire and the cooking of a
flapjack, grow from a runnel to a sister of the
Jumna.

When I left this bank there was a shoal a
half-mile down, and I made shift to fetch it
and draw breath there ere going forward ; for
I felt the hands of the river heavy upon my
heels. Yet what will a young man not do
for Love’s sake? There was but little light
from the stars, and midway to the shoal a
branch of the stinking deodar tree brushed
my mouth as I swam. That was a sign of
heavy rain in the foot-hills and beyond, for
the deodar is a strong tree, not easily shaken
IN FLOOD TIME. 227

from the nillsides. I made haste, the river
aiding me, but ere I had touched the shoal,
the pulse of the stream beat, as it were,
within me and around, and, behold, the shoal
was gone and I rode high on the crest ofa
wave that ran from bank to bank. Has the
Sahib ever been cast into much water that
fights and will not let: man use his limbs?
To me, my head up on the water, it seemed
as though there were naught but water to the
world’s end, and the rivei arave imc with its
driftwood. A man is a very little thing in
the belly of a flood. And ¢hzs flood, though
IT knew it not, was the Great Flood about
which men talk still. My liver was dissolved
and I lay like a log upon my back in the fear
of Death. There were living things fi wc
watei, cryin, and howling grievously —beasis
of the forest ana 2atiie, and once the voice 0:
é man asking for help. But the rain cari.
‘nd lashea the water white, and 1 heara nc
more save the roar of the bowiders below and
tne toar of the rain above. Thus f was
“whirled down stream, wrestling for the breath
328 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

inme. It is very hard to die when one is
yeung. Can the Sahib, standing here, see
the railway bridge? Look, there are the
lights of the mail-train going to Peshawur!
The bridge is now twenty feet above the
river, but upon that night the water was roar-
ing against the lattice-work and against the
lattice came I feet first. But much driftwood
was piled there and upon the piers, and I]
took no great hurt. Only the river pressed
me as a strong man presses a weaker.
Scarcely could I take hold of the lattice-work
and crawl to the upper boom. Sahib, the
water was foaming across the rails a foot
deep! Judge therefore what manner of
flood it must have been. I could not hear.
I could not see. I could but lie on the boom
and pant for breath.

After a while the rain ceased and there
came out in the sky certain new washed
stars, and by their light I saw that there was
no end to the black water as far as the eye
could travel, and the water had risen upon
the rails. There were dead beasts in the
IN FLOOD TIME. 329

driftwood on the piers, and others caught by
the neck in the lattice-work, and others not
yet drowned who strove to find a foothold
on the lattice-work — buffaloes and kine, and
wild pig, and deer one or two, and snakes
and jackals past all counting. Their bodies
were black upon the left side of the bridge,
but the smaller of them were forced through
the lattice-work and whirled down-stream.
Thereafter the stars died and the rain came
down afresh and the river rose yet more, and
I felt the bridge begin to stir under me asa.
man stirs in his sleep ere he wakes. But I
was not afraid, Sahib. I swear to you that I
was not afraid, though I had no power in my
limbs. I knew that I should not die till I
had seen Her once more. But I was very
cold, and I felt that the bridge must go.
There was a trembling in the water, such a
trembling as goes before the coming of a
great wave, and the bridge lifted its flank to
the rush of that coming so that the right
lattice dipped under water and the left rose
clear. On my beard, Sahib, I am speaking
330 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

God’s truth! As a Mirzapore stone-boat
careens to the wind, so the Barhwi Bridge
turned. Just thus and in no other manner.

I slid from the boom into deep water, and
behind me came the wave of the wrath of the
river. I heard its voice and the scream of
the middle part of the bridge as it moved
from the piers and sank, and I knew no more
till I rose in the middle of the great flood. I
put forth my hand to swim, and lo! it fell
upon the knotted hair of the head of a man.
He was dead, for no one but I, the Strong
One of Barhwi, could have lived in that race.
He had been dead full two days, for he
rode high, wallowing, and was an aid to me.
I laughed then, knowing for a surety that I
should yet see Her and take no harm; and I
twisted my fingers in the hair of the man, for
I was far spent, and together we went down
the stream —he the dead and I the living.
Lacking that help I should have sunk: the
cold was in my marrow, and my flesh was
ribbed and sodden on my bones. But he
had no fear who had known the uttermost of
IN FLOOD TIME. 331

the power of the river; and I let him go
where he chose. At last we came into the
power of a side-current that set to the right
bank, and I strove with my feet to draw ‘vith
it. But the dead man swung heavily in the
whirl, and I feared that some branch had
struck him and that he would sink. The tops
of the tamarisk brushed my knees, so I knew
we were come into flood-water above the
crops, and, after, I let down my legs and felt
bottom —the ridge of a field —and, after,
the dead man stayed upon a knoll under a
fig-tree, and I drew my body from the water
rejoicing.

Does the Sahib know whither the back-
wash of the flood had borne me? To the
knoll which is the eastern boundary-mark of
the village of Pateera! No other place. I
drew the dead man up on the grass for the
service that he had done me, and also
because I knew not whether I should need
him again. Then I went, crying thrice like a
jackal, to the appointed place which was near
the byre of the headman’s house. But my
332 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

Love was already there, weeping upon Her
knees. She feared that the flood had swept
my hut at the Barhwi Ford. When I came
softly through the ankle-deep water, She
thought it was a ghost and would have fled,
but I put my arms round Her, and... I
was no ghost in those days, though I am an
old man now. Ho! Ho! Dried corn, in
truth. Maize without juice. Ho! Ho! !

I told Her the story of the breaking of the
Barhwi Bridge, and She said that I was
greater than mortal man, for none may cross
the Barhwi in full flood, and I had seen what
never man had seen before. Hand in hand
we went to the knoll where the dead lay, and
I showed Her by what help I had made the
ford. She looked also upon the body under
the stars, for the latter end of the night was
clear, and hid Her face in Her hands, cry-
ing: — “It is the body of Hirnam Singh!”
I said: —‘‘ The swine is of more use dead
than living, my Beloved,” and She said: —

1] grieve to say that the Warden of the Barhwi Ford is
responsible here for two very bad puns in the vernacular.—2. &.
IN FLOOD TIME. 333

“ Surely, for he has saved the dearest life in
‘he world to my love. None the less, he
annot stay here, for that would bring shame
upon me.” The body was not a gunshot
from Her door.

Then said I, rolling the body with my
hands: — ‘God hath judged between us,
Hirnam Singh, that thy blood might not be
upon my head. Now, whether I have done
thee a wrong in keeping thee from the
burning-ghat, do thou and the crows settle
together.”- So I cast him adrift into the
flood-water, and he was drawn out to the
open, ever wagging his thick black beard like
a priest under the pulpit-board. And I saw
no more of Hirnam Singh.

Before the breaking of the day we two
parted, and I moved towards such of the
jungle as was not flooded. With the full
light I saw what I had done in the darkness,
and the bones of my body were loosened in
my flesh, for there ran two kos of raging water
between the village of Pateera and the trees
of the far bank, and, in the middle, the piers
334 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

of the Barhwi Bridge showed like broken
teeth in the jaw of an old man. Nor was
there any life upon the waters — neither birds
nor boats, but only an army of drowned
things — bullocks and horses and men-—and
the river was redder than blood from the clay
of the foot-hills. Never had I seen such a
flood — never since that year have I seen the
like —and, O Sahib, no man living had done
what I had done. There was no return for
me that day. Not for all the lands of the
headman would I venture a second time
without the shield of darkness that cloaks
danger. I went a os up the river to the
house of a blacksmith, saying that the flood
had swept me from my hut, and they gave
me food. Seven days I stayed with the
blacksmith, till a boat came and I returned
to my house. There was no trace of wall, or
roof, or floor-— naught but a patch of slimy
mud. Judge, therefore, Sahib, how far the
river must have risen.

It was written that I should not die either
in my house, or in the heart of the Barhwi,
IN FLOOD TIME. 338

or under the wreck of the Barhwi Bridge, for
God sent down Hirnam Singh two days dead,
though I know not how the man died, to be
my buoy and support. Hirnam Singh has
been in Hell these twenty years, and the
thought of that night must be the flower of
his torment.

Listen, Sahib! The river has changed its
voice. It is going to sleep before the dawn,
to which there is yet one hour. With the
light it will come down afresh. How do I
know? Havel been here thirty years with-
out knowing the voice of the river as a father
knows the voice of his son? Every moment
it is talking less angrily. I swear that there
will be no danger for one hour or, perhaps,
two. I cannot answer for the morning. Be
quick, Sahib ! I will call Ram Pershad, and
he will not turn back this time. Is the paulin
tightly corded upon all the baggage? Oke,
mahout with a mud head, the elephant for
the Sahib, and tell them on the far side that
there will be no crossing after daylight.

Money? Nay, Sahib, J am not of that
336 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

kind. No, not even to give sweetmeats to
the baby-folk. My house, look you, is empty,
and I am an old man.

Dutt, Ram Pershad! Dutt ! Dutt! Dutt!
Good-luck go with you, Sanib.
THE SENDING OF DANA DA.

“WHEN the Devil rides on your chest remember the
chamar.” — Native Proverb.

ONcE upon a time, some people in India
made a new Heaven and a new Earth out of
broken tea-cups, a missing brooch or two,
and a hair-brush. These were hidden under
bushes, or stuffed into holes in the hillside,
and an entire Civil Service of subordinate
Gods used to find or mend them again; and
every one said: —“ There are more things
in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in
our philosophy.” Several other things
happened also, but the Religion never
seemed to get much beyond its first manifes-
tations; though it added an air-line postal
dak, and orchestral effects in order to keep
abreast of the times, and stall off competition.

This Religion was too elastic for ordinary
338 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

use. It stretched itself and embraced pieces
of everything that medicine-men of all ages
have manufactured. It approved of and
stole from Freemasonry; looted the Latter-
day Rosicrucians of half their pet words;
took any fragments of Egyptian philosophy
that it found in the Encyclopedia Britannica ;
annexed as many of the Vedas as had been
translated into French or English, and talked
of all the rest; built in the German versions
of what is left of the Zend Avesta; encour-
aged White, Gray and Black Magic, including
spiritualism, palmistry, fortune-telling by
cards, hot chestnuts, double-kernelled nuts
and tallow droppings; would have adopted
Voodoo and Oboe had it known anything
about them, and showed itself, in every way,
one of the most accommodating arrange-
ments that had ever been invented since the
birth of the Sea. —

When it was in thorough working order,
with all the machinery down to the subscrip-
tions complete, Dana Da came from no-
where, with nothing in his hands, and wrote
THE SENDING OF DANA DA. 339

a chapter in its history which has hitherto
been unpublished. He said that his first
name was Dana, and his second was Da.
Now, setting aside Dana of the New York
Sun, Dana is a Bhil name, and Da fits no
native of India unless you accept the Bengali
Dé as the original spelling. Da is Lap or
Finnish; and Dana Da was neither Finn,
Chin, Bhil, Bengali, Lap, Nair, Gond, Roma-
ney, Magh, Bokhariot, Kurd, Armenian,
Levantine, Jew, Persian, Punjabi, Madrasi,
Parsee, nor anything else known to ethnol-
ogists. He was simply Dana Da, and de-
clined to give further information. For the
sake of brevity and as roughly indicating his
origin, he was called “The Native.” He
might have been the original Old Man of
the Mountains, who is said to be the only
authorized head of the Tea-cup Creed. Some
people said that he was; but Dana Da used
to smile and deny any connection with the
cult; explaining that he was an “ Independ-
ent Experimenter.”

As I have said, he came from nowhere,
340 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

with his hands behind his back, and studied
the Creed for three weeks ; sitting at the feet
of those best competent to explain its mys-
teries. Then he laughed aloud and went
away, but the laugh might have been either
of devotion or derision.

When he returned he was without money,
but his pride was unabated. He declared
that he knew more about the Things in
Heaven and Earth than those who taught
him, and for this contumacy was abandoned
altogether.

His next appearance in public life was at a
big cantonment in Upper India, and he was
then telling fortunes with the help of three
leaden dice, a very dirty old cloth, and a little
tin box of opium pills. He told better fort-
unes when he was allowed half a bottle of
whiskey; but the things which he invented
on the opium were quite worth the money.
He was in reduced circumstances. Among
other people’s he told the fortune of an
Englishman who had once been interested
in the Simla Creed, but who, later on, had
THE SENDING OF DANA DA. 34°

married and forgotten all his old knowledge
in the study ot babies and Exchange. The
Englishman allowed Dana Da to tell a fort-
une for charity's sake, and gave him five
rupees, a dinner, and some old clothes.
When he had eaten, Dana Da professed
gratitude, and asked if there were anything
he could do for his host— in the esoteric
line.

“Is there any one that you love?” said
Dana Da. The Englishman loved his wife,
but had no desire to drag her name into the
conversation. He therefore shook his head.

“Ts there any one that you hate?” said
Dana Da. The Englishman said that there
were several men whom he hated deeply.

“Very good,” said Dana Da, upon whom
the whiskey and the opium were beginning
to tell. “Only give me their names, and I
will despatch a Sending to them and kill
them.”

Now a Sending is a horrible arrangement,
first invented, they say, in Iceland. It is a
Thing sent by a wizard, and may take any
342 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

form, but, most generally, wanders about the
Jand in the shape of a little purple cloud till
it finds the Sendee, and him it kills by
changing into the form of a horse, or a cat,
or a man without a face. It is not strictly a
native patent, though chamars can, if irri-
tated, despatch a Sending which sits on the
breast of their enemy by night and nearly
kills him. Very few natives care to irritate
chamars for this reason.

“Let me despatch a Sending,” said Dana
Da; “I am nearly dead now with want, and
drink, and opium ; but I should like to killa
man before I die. I can send a Sending
anywhere you choose, and in any form
except in the shape of a man.”

The Englishman had no friends that he
wished to kill, but partly to soothe Dana Da,
whose eyes were rolling, and partly to see
what would be done, he asked whether a
modified Sending could not be arranged for
— such a Sending as should make a man’s
life a burden to him, and yet do him no
harm. If this were possible, he notified his
THE SENDING OF DANA DA. 343

willingness to give Dana Da ten rupees for
the job.

“T am not what I was once,” said Dana
Da, ‘and I must take the money because I
am poor. To what Englishman shall I send
a

“Send a Sending to Lone Sahib,” said the
Englishman, naming a man who had been
most bitter in rebuking him for his apostasy
from the Tea-cup Creed. Dana Da laughed
and nodded.

“T could have chosen no better man my-
self,” said he. ‘I will see that he finds the
Sending about his path and about his bed.”

He lay down on the hearth-rug, turned up
the whites of his eyes, shivered all over and
began to snort. This was Magic, or Opium,
or the Sending, or all three. When he
opened his eyes he vowed that the Sending
had started upon the war-path, and was at
that moment flying up to the town where
Lone Sahib lives.

‘Give me my ten rupees,” said Dana Da
wearily, ‘and write a letter to Lone Sahib,
‘344 IN BLACK AND WHE.

telling him, and all who believe with him,
that you and a friend are using a powe:
preater than theirs. They will see that you
are speaking the truth.”

He departed unsteadily, with the promise
of some more rupees if anything came of
the Sending.

The Englishman sent a letter to Lone
Sahib, couched in what he remembered of
the terminology of the Creed. He wrote :—
‘‘T also, in the days of what you held to be
my backsliding, have obtained Enlightenment,
and with Enlightenment has come Power.”
Then he grew so deeply mysterious that the
recipient of the letter could make neither
head nor tail of it, and was proportionately
impressed ; for he fancied that his friend had
become a “ fifth-rounder.” When a man is a
“fifth-rounder” he can do more than Slade
and Houdin combined.

Lone Sahib read the letter in five different
fashions, and was beginning a sixth interpre-
tation when his bearer dashed in with the
news that there was a cat on the bed. Now
THE SKANDING OF DANA DA. 345

if there was one “hing that Lone Sahib hated
more than another, it was a cat. He rated
the bearer for not turning it out of the house.
The bearer said that he was afraid. All the
doors of the bedroom had been shut through-
out the morning, and no ead cat could pos-
sibly have entered the ‘eom. He would
prefer not to meddle with the creature.
Lone Sahib entered the room gingerly,
and there, on the pillow of his bed, sprawled
and whimpered a wee white kitten, not a
jumpsome, frisky little beast, but 2 slug-like
crawler with its eyes barely opened and its
paws lacking strength or direction— a kitten
that ought to have been in a basket with its
mamma. Lone Sahib caught it by the scruff
of its neck, handed it over to the sweepcr to
be drowned, and fined the bearer four anras.
That evening, as he was reading in his
room, he fancied that he saw something
moving about on the hearth-rug, outside
the circle of light from his reading-lamp.
When the thing began to myowl, he real-
ized that it was a kitten—a wee white
346 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

kitten, nearly blind and very miserable. He
was seriously angry, and spoke bitterly to his
bearer, who said that there was no kitten in
the room when he brought in the lamp, and
real kittens of tender age generally had
mother-cats in attendance.

“Tf the Presence will go out into the
veranda and listen,” said the bearer, ‘ he will
hear no cats. How, therefore, can the
kitten on the bed and the kitten on the
hearth-rug be real kittens?”

Lone Sahib went out to listen, and the
bearer followed him, but there was no sound
of Rachel mewing for her children. He re-
turned to his room, having hurled the kitten
down the hillside, and wrote out the inci-
dents of the day for the benefit of his co-re-
ligionists. Those people were so absolutely
free from superstition that they ascribed any-
thing a little out of the common to Agen-
cies. As it was their business to know all
about the Agencies, they were on terms of
almost indecent familiarity with Manifesta-
tions of every kind. Their letters dropped
THE SENDING OF DANA DA. 349

from the ceiling — unstamped —and Spirits
used to squatter up and down their stair-
cases all night. But they had never come
into contact with kittens. Lone Sahib wrote
out the facts, noting the hour and the
minute, as every Psychical Observer is
bound to do, and appending the English-
man’s letter because it was the most mysteri-
ous document and might have had a bearing
upon anything in this world or the next.
An outsider would have translated all the
tangle thus:—‘‘Look out! You laughed
at me once, and now I am going to make
you sit up.”

Lone Sahib’s co-religionists found that
meaning in it; but their translation was re-
fined and full of four-syllable words. They
held a sederunt, and were filled with tremu-
lous joy, for, in spite of their familiarity with
all the other worlds and cycles, they had a
very human awe of things sent from Ghost-
land. They met in Lone Sahib’s room in
shrouded and sepulchral gloom, and their
conclave was broken up by a clinking among
348 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

the photo-frames on the mantel-piece. A
wee white kitten, nearly blind, was looping
and writhing itself between the clock and
the candlesticks. That stopped all investi-
gations or doubtings. Here was the Mani-
festation in the flesh. It was, so far as could
be seen, devoid of purpose, but it was a
Manifestation of undoubted authenticity.

They drafted a Round Robin to the Eng-
lishman, the backslider of old days, adjuring
him in the interests of the Creed to explain
whether there was any connection between
the embodiment of some Egyptian God or
other [I have forgotten the name] and his
communication. They called the kitten Ra,
or Toth, or Shem, or Noah, or something ;
and when Lone Sahib confessed that the first
one had, at his most misguided instance,
been drowned by the sweeper, they said con-
solingly that in his next life he would be a
“ bounder,” and not even a “rounder” of
the lowest grade. These words may not be
quite correct, but they express the sense of
the house accurately.
THE SENDING OF DANA DA. 349

When the Englishman received the
Round Robin—it came by post—he was
startled and bewildered. He sent into the
bazar for Dana Da, who read the letter and
laughed. ‘That is my Sending,” said he.
“T told you I would work well. Now give
me another ten rupees.”

‘‘But what in the world is this gibberish
about Egyptian Gods?” asked the English-
man.

“ Cats,” said Dana Da with a hiccough,
for he had discovered the Englishman’s
whiskey bottle. ‘Cats, and cats, and cats!
Never was such a Sending. A hundred of
cats. Now give me ten more rupees and
write as I dictate.”

Dana Da’s letter was a curiosity. It bore
the Englishman’s signature, and hinted at
cats—at a Sending of Cats. The mere
words on paper were creepy and uncanny to
behold.

‘““What have you done, though?” said the
Englishman ; ‘“‘I am as much in the dark as
ever. Do you mean to say that you can
350 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

actually send this absurd Sending you talk
about ?”

“Judge for yourself,” said Dana Da.
“What does that letter mean? In a little
time they will all be at my feet and yours,
and I, O Glory, will be drugged or drunk
all day long.”

Dana Da knew his people.

When a man who hates cats wakes up in
the morning and finds a little squirming
kitten on his breast, or puts his hand into
his ulster-pocket and finds a little half-dead
kitten where his gloves should be, or opens
his trunk and finds a vile kitten among his
dress-shirts, or goes for a long ride with his
mackintosh strapped on his saddle-bow and
shakes a little squawling kitten from its folds
when he opens it, or goes out to dinner and
finds a little blind kitten under his chair, or
stays at home and finds a writhing kitten
under the quilt, or wriggling among his
boots, or hanging, head downwards, in his
tobacco-jar, or being mangled by his terrier
in the veranda,n—when such a man finds
THE SENDING OF DANA DA. 351

one kitten, neither more nor less, once a day
in a place where no kitten rightly could or
should be, he is naturally upset. When he
dare not murder his daily trove because he
believes it to be a Manifestation, an Emis-
sary, an Embodiment, and half a dozen
other things all out of the regular course of
nature, he is more than upset. He is actu-
ally distressed. Some of Lone Sahib’s co-
religionists thought that he was a highly
favored individual; but many said that if he
had treated the first kitten with proper re-
spect —as suited a Toth-Ra-Tum-Sennach-
erib Embodiment —all this trouble would
have been averted. They compared him to
the Ancient Mariner, but none the less they
were proud of him and proud of the Eng-
lishman who had sent the Manifestation.
They did not call it a Sending because Ice-
landic magic was not in their programme.
After sixteen kittens, that is to say after
one fortnight, for there were three kittens on
the first day to impress the fact of the Send-
ing, the whole camp was uplifted by a letter
352 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

—it came flying through a window — from
the Old Man of the Mountains—the Head
of all the Creed — explaining the Manifesta-
tion in the most beautiful language and
soaking up all the credit of it for himself.
The Englishman, said the letter, was not
there at all. He was a backslider without
Power or Asceticism, who couldn’t even raise
a table by force of volition, much less pro-
ject an army of kittens through space. The
entire arrangement, said the letter, was
strictly orthodox, worked and sanctioned by
the highest Authorities within the pale of the
Creed. There was great joy at this, for
some of the weaker brethren seeing that an
outsider who had been working on independ-
ent lines could create kittens, whereas their
own rulers had never gone beyond crockery
— and broken at that— were showing a de-
sire to break line on their own trail. In fact,
there was the promise of a schism. A
second Round Robin was drafted to the
Englishman, beginning: —‘“O Scoffer,” and
ending with a selection of curses from the
THE SENDING OF DANA DA. 353

Rites of Mizraim and Memphis and the
Commination of Jugana who was a “ fifth-
rounder,” upon whose name an_ upstart
“ third-rounder” once traded. A papal ex-
communication is a dz//et-doux compared to
the Commination of Jugana. The English-
man had been proved under the hand and
seal of the Old Man of the Mountains, to
have appropriated Virtue and pretended to
have Power which, in reality, belonged only
to the Supreme Head. Naturally the
Round Robin did not spare him.

He handed the letter to Dana Da to trans-
late into decent English. The effect on
Dana Da was curious. At first he was
furiously angry, and then he laughed for five
minutes.

“TI had thought,” he said, “that they
would have come to me. In another week
I would have shown that I sent the Sending,
and they would have discrowned the Old
Man of the Mountains who has sent this
Sending of mine. Do you do nothing?
The time has come for me to act, Write as
354 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

I dictate, and I will put them to shame. But
give me ten more rupees.”

At Dana Da’s dictation the Englishman
wrote nothing less than a formal challenge
to the Old Man of the Mountains. It wound
up:— ‘And if this Manifestation be from
your hand, then let it go forward; but if it
be from my hand, I will that the Sending
shall cease in two days’ time. On that day
there shall be twelve kittens and thencefor-
ward none at all. The people shall judge
between us.” This was signed by Dana Da,
who added pentacles and pentagrams, and a
crux ansata, and half a dozen swasttkas,
and a Triple Tau to his name, just to show
that he was all he laid claim to be.

The challenge was read out to the gentle-
men and ladies, and they remembered then
that Dana Da had laughed at them some
years ago. It was officially announced that
the Old Man of. the Mountains would treat
the matter with contempt; Dana Da being
an Independent Investigator without a single
“round” at the back of him. But this did
THE SENDING OF DANA DA. 355

not soothe his people. They wanted to see
a fight. They were very human for all their
spirituality. Lone Sahib, who was really
being worn out with kittens, submitted
meekly to his fate. He felt that he was
being ‘“ kittened to prove the power of Dana
Da,” as the poet says.

When the stated day dawned, the shower
of kittens began. Some were white and
some were tabby, and all were about the
same loathsome age. Three were on his
hearth-rug, three in his bath-room, and the
other six turned up at intervals among the
visitors who came to see the prophecy break
down. Never was a more satisfactory Send-
ing. On the next day there were no kittens,
and the next day and all the other days were
kittenless and quiet. The people murmured
and looked to the Old Man of the Mount-
ains for an explanation. A letter, written
on a palm-leaf, dropped from the ceiling, but
every one except Lone Sahib felt that let-
ters were not what the occasion demanded.

There should have been cats, there should
356 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

have been cats,— full-grown ones. The
letter proved conclusively that there had
been a hitch in the Psychic Current which,
colliding with a Dual Identity, had inter-
fered with the Percipient Activity all along
the main line. The kittens were still going
on, but owing to some failure in the Devel-
oping Fluid, they were not materialized.
The air was thick with letters for a few days
afterwards. Unseen hands played Gliick and
Beethoven on finger-bowls and clock-shades ;
but all men felt that Psychic Life was a
mockery without Materialized Kittens. Even
Lone Sahib shouted with the majority on
this head. Dana Da’s letters were very
insulting, and if he had then offered to lead
a new departure, there is no knowing what
might not have happened.

But Dana Da was dying of whiskey and
opium in the Englishman’s godown, and had
small heart for new creeds.

“They have been put to shame,” said

he. ‘Never was such a Sending. It has
killed me,”
THE SENDING OF DANA DA. 357

“Nonsense,” said the Englishman, “ you
are going to die, Dana Da, and that sort of
stuff must be left behind. I'll admit that you
have made some queer things come about.
Tell me honestly, now, how was it done ?”

‘“Give me ten more rupees,” said Dana
Da faintly, “and if I die before I spend
them, bury them with me.” The silver was
counted out while Dana Da was fighting
with Death. His hand closed upon the
money and he smiled a grim smile.

‘Bend low,” he whispered. The English-
man bent.

‘“‘ Bunnia — Mission-school — expelled —
box-wallah (peddler) — Ceylon pearl-mer-
chant —all mine English education — out-
casted, and made up name Dana Da—
England with American thought-reading
man and—and—you gave me ten rupees
several times—I gave the Sahib’s bearer
two-eight a month for cats —little, little cats,
I wrote, and he put them about—very clever
man. Very few kittens now in the dazar

Ask Lone Sahib’s sweeper’s wife.”
358 IN BLACK AND WHITE,

So saying, Dana Da gasped and passed
away into a land where, if all be true, there
are no materializations and the making of
new creeds is discouraged.

But consider the gorgeous simplicity of
it all!
ON THE CITY WALL.

“TEN she let them down by a cord through the window:
for her house was upon the town wall, and she dwelt upon
the wall.” — Joshua ii. 15.

LaLtun is a member of the most ancient
profession in the world. Lilith was her very-
great-grandmamma, and that was before the
days of Eve as every one knows. In the
West, people say rude things about Lalun’s
profession, and write lectures about it, and
distribute the lectures to young persons in
order that Morality may be preserved. In
the East where the profession is hereditary,
descending from mother to daughter, nobody
writes lectures or takes any notice, and that
is a distinct proof of the inability of the
East to manage its own affairs.

Lalun’s real husband, for even ladies of
360 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

Lalun’s profession in the East must have
husbands, was a great, big jujube-tree. Her
mamma, who had married a fig, spent ten
thousand rupees on Lalun’s wedding, which
was blessed by forty-seven clergymen of
Mamma’s church, and distributed five thou-
sand rupees in charity to the poor. And
that was the custom of the land. The
advantages of having a jujube-tree for a
husband are obvious. You cannot hurt his
feelings, and he looks imposing.

Lalun’s husband stood on the plain outside
the City walls, and Lalun’s house was upon
the east wall facing the river. If you fell
from the broad window-seat you dropped
thirty feet sheer into the City Ditch. But if
you stayed where you should and looked
forth, you saw all the cattle of the City being
driven down to water, the students of the
Government College playing cricket, the
high grass and trees that fringed the river-
bank, the great sand-bars that ribbed the
river, the red tombs of dead Emperors be-
yond the river, and very far away through the
ON THE CITY WALL. 361

blue heat-haze, a glint of the snows of the
Himalayas.

Wali Dad used to lie in the window-seat
for hours at a time watching this view. He
was a young Muhammadan who was suffer-
ing acutely from education of the English
variety and knew it. His father had sent
him toa Mission-school to get wisdom, and
Wali Dad had absorbed more than ever his
father or the Missionaries intended he should.
When his father died, Wali Dad was inde-
pendent and spent two years experimenting
with the creeds of the Earth and reading
books that are of no use to anybody.

Afterhe had made an unsuccessful attempt
to enter the Roman Catholic Church and the
Presbyterian fold at the same time (the Mis-
sionaries found him out and called him names,
but they didn’t understand his trouble), he
discovered Lalun on the City wall and be-
came the most constant of her few admirers.
He possessed a head that English artists at
home would rave over and paint amid im-
possible surroundings —a face that female
362 IN BLACK AND WHITE,

aovelists would use with delight through nine
hundred pages. In reality he was only a
clean-bred young Muhammadan, with pen-
cilled eyebrows, small-cut nostrils, little feet
and hands, and a very tired look in his eyes,
By virtue of his twenty-two years he had
grown a neat black beard which he stroked
with pride and kept delicately scented. His
life seemed to be divided between borrowing
books from me and making love to Lalun in
the window-seat. He composed songs about
her, and some of the songs are sung to this
day in the City from the Street of the Mutton-
Butchers to the Copper-Smiths’ ward.

One song, the prettiest of all, says that
the beauty of Lalun was so great that it
troubled the hearts of the British Govern-
ment and caused them to lose their peace of
mind. That is the way the song is sung in
the streets; but, if you examine it carefully
and know the key to the explanation, you
will find that there are three puns in it— on
“beauty,” “heart,” and “ peace of mind,” —
so that it runs: — “ By the subtlety of Lalun
ON THE ClTY WALL. 363

the administration of the Government was
troubled and it lost such and such a man.”
When Wali Dad sings that song his eyes
glow like hot coals, and Lalun leans back
among the cushions and throws bunches of
jasmine-buds at Wali Dad.

But first it is necessary to explain some-
thing about the Supreme Government which
is above all and below all and behind all.
Gentlemen come from England, spend a few
weeks in India, walk round this great Sphinx
of the Plains, and write books upon its ways
and its works, denouncing or praising it as
their own ignorance prompts. Consequently
all the world knows how the Supreme Gov-
ernment conducts itself. But no one, not
even the Supreme Government, knows every-
thing about the administration of the Empire.
Year by year England sends out fresh drafts
for the first fighting-line, which is officially
called the Indian Civil Service. These die,
or kill themselves by overwork, or are worried
to death or broken in health and hope in
order that the land may be protected from
364 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

death and sickness, famine and war, and may
eventually become capable of standing alone.
It will never stand alone, but the idea is a
pretty one, and men are willing to die for it,
and yearly the work of pushing and coaxing
and scolding and petting the country into
good living goes forward. If an advance be
made all credit is given to the native, while
the Englishmen stand back and wipe their
foreheads. If a failure occurs the English-
men step forward and take the blame. Over-
much tenderness of this kind has bred a
strong belief among many natives that the
native is capable of administering the coun-
try, and many devout Englishmen believe
this also, because the theory is stated in
beautiful English with all the latest political
garnish.

There be other men who, though unedu-
cated, see visions and dream dreams, and
they, too, hope to administer the country in
their own way — that is to say, with a gar-
nish of Red Sauce. Such men must exist
among two hundred miilion people, and, if
ON THE CITY WALL. 365

they are not attended to, may cause trouble
and even break the great idol called Pax
Britannic, which, as the newspapers say,
lives between Peshawur and Cape Comorin.
Were the Day of Doom to dawn to-morrow,
you would find the Supreme Government
‘taking measures to allay popular excite-
ment” and putting guards upon the grave-
yards that the Dead might troop forth
orderly. The youngest Civilian would arrest
Gabriel on his own responsibility if the Arch-
angel could not produce a Deputy Commis-
sioner’s permission to “make music or other
noises” as the form says.

Whence it is easy to see that mere men of
the flesh who would create a tumult must
fare badly at the hands of the Supreme
Government. And they do. There is no
outward sign of excitement; there is no
confusion; there is no knowledge. When
due and sufficient reasons have been given,
weighed and approved, the machinery moves
forward, and the dreamer of dreams and the
seer of visions is gone from his friends and
366 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

following. He enjoys the hospitality of Gov:
ernment; there is no restriction upon his
movements within certain limits; but he
must not confer any more with his brother
dreamers. Once in every six months the
Supreme Government assures itself that he
is well and takes formal acknowledgment of
his existence. No one protests against his
detention, because the few people who know
about it are in deadly fear of seeming to
know him; and never a single newspaper
“takes up his case” or organizes demonstra-
tions on his behalf, because the newspapers
of India have got behind that lying proverb
which says the Pen is mightier than the
Sword, and can walk delicately and with
circumspection.

So now you know as much as you ought
about Wali Dad, the educational mixture,
and the Supreme Government.

Lalun has not yet been described. She
would need, so Wali Dad says, a thousand
pens of gold and ink scented with musk.
She has been variously compared to the
ON THE CITY WALL. 367

Moon, the Dil Sagar Lake, a spotted quail,
a gazelle, the Sun on the Desert of Kutch,
the Dawn, the Stars, and the young bamboo.
These comparisons imply that she is beauti-
ful exceedingly according to the native stand-
ards, which are practically the same as those
of the West. Her eyes are black and her
hair is black, and her eyebrows are black as
leeches; her mouth is tiny and says witty
things; her hands are tiny and have saved
much money; her feet are tiny and have
trodden on the naked hearts of many men.
But, as Wali Dad sings: — “ Lalun zs Lalun,
and when you have said that, you. have only
come to the Beginnings of Knowledge.”

The little house on the City wall was just
big enough to hold Lalun, and her maid, and
a pussy-cat with a silver collar. A big pink
and blue cut-glass chandelier hung from the
ceiling of the reception room. A petty Nawab
had given Lalun the horror, and she kept it for
politeness’ sake. The floor of the room was
of polished chunam, white as curds. A lat-
ticed window of carved wood was set in one
368 iN BLACK AND WHITE.

wall; there was a profusion of squabby pluffy
cushions and fat carpets everywhere, and
Lalun’s silver huga, studded with turquoises,
had a special little carpet all to its shining
self. Wali Dad was nearly as permanent a
fixture as the chandelier. As I have said,
he lay in the window-seat and meditated on
Life and Death and Lalun —’specially Lalun.
The feet of the young men of the City
tended to her doorways and then — retired,
for Lalun was a particular maiden, slow of
speech, reserved of mind, and not in the
least inclined to orgies which were nearly
certain to end in strife. “If I am of no
value, I am unworthy of this honor,” said
Lalun. “If I am of value, they are unworthy
of Me.” And that was a crooked sentence.
In the long hot nights of latter April and
May all the City seemed to assemble in
Lalun’s little white room to smoke and to
talk. Shiahs of the grimmest and most
uncompromising persuasion; Sufis who had
lost all belief in the Prophet and retained
but little in God; wandering Hindu priests
ON THE CITY WALL. 369

passing southward on their way to the Cen-
tral India fairs and other affairs; Pundits in
black gowns, with spectacles on their noses
and undigested wisdom in their insides;
bearded headmen of the wards; Sikhs with
all the details of the latest ecclesiastical
scandal in the Golden Temple; red-eyed
priests from beyond the Border, looking
like trapped wolves and talking like ravens;
M.A.’s of the University, very superior and
very voluble —all these people and more
also you might find in the white room.
Wali Dad lay in the window-seat and lis-
tened to the talk.

“Tt is Lalun’s salon,” said Wali Dad to
me, ‘and it is electic — is not that the word ?
Outside of a Freemason’s Lodge I have
never seen such gatherings. There I dined
once with a Jew—a Yahoudi!” He spat
into the City Ditch with apologies for allow-
ing national feelings to overcome him.
“Though I have lost every belief in the
world,” said he, ‘and try to be proud of my
losing, I cannot help hating a Jew. Lalun
admits no Jews here.”
370 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

“But what in the world do all these men
do?” I asked.

“The curse of our country,” said Wali
Dad. “They talk. It is like the Athenians
—always hearing and telling some new
thing. Ask the Pearl and she will show you
how much she knows of the news of the
City and the Province. Lalun knows every-
thing.”

‘“Lalun,” I said at random — she was talk-
ing to a gentleman of the Kurd persuasion
who had come in from God-knows-where —
‘when does the 175th Regiment go to
Agra?”

“It does not go at all,” said Lalun, with-
out turning her head. ‘“ They have ordered
the 118th to go in its stead. That Regi-
ment goes to Lucknow in three months,
unless they give a fresh order.”

“That is so,” said Wali Dad, without a
shade of doubt. ‘Can you, with your tele-
grams and your newspapers, do better?
Always hearing and telling some new thing,”
he went on. “My friend, has your God
ON THE CITY WALL. 371

ever smitten a European nation for gossiping
in the bazars? India has gossiped for cent-
uries — always standing in the bazars until
the soldiers go by. Therefore ... you are
here to-day instead of starving in your own
country, and I am not a Muhammadan — I
am a Product—a Demnition Product. That
also I owe to you and yours: that I cannot
make an end to my sentence without quoting
from your authors.” He pulled at the huga
and mourned, half feelingly, half in earnest,
for the shattered hopes of his youth. Wali
Dad was always mourning over something or
other — the country of which he despaired,
or the creed in which he had lost faith,
or the life of the English which he could by
no means understand.

Lalun never mourned. She played little
songs on the szfar, and to hear her sing, ““ O
Peacock, cry again,” was always a fresh
pleasure. She knew all the songs that have
ever been sung, from the war-songs of the
South that make the old men angry with the
young men and the young men angry with
372 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

the State, to the love-songs of the North
where the swords whinny-whicker like angry
kites in the pauses between the kisses, and
the Passes fill with armed men, and the
Lover is torn from his Beloved and cries,
Ai, At, Az! evermore. She knew how to
make up tobacco for the Auga so that it
smelt like the Gates of Paradise and wafted
you gently through them. She could em-
broider strange things in gold and silver, and
dance softly with the moonlight when it
came in at the window. Also she knew the
hearts of men, and the heart of the City,
and whose wives were faithful and whose
untrue, and more of the secrets of the Gov-
ernment Offices than are good to be set
down in this place. Nasiban, her maid, said
that her jewelry was worth ten thousand
pounds, and that, some night, a thief would
enter and murder her for its possession ; but
Lalun said that all the City would tear that
thief limb from limb, and that he, whoever
he was,’ knew it.

So she took her s¢#ar and sat in the win-
C” THE CITY WALL. 373

dow-seat and sang a song of old days that
had been sung by a girl of her profession in
an armed camp on the eve of a great battle
—the day before the Fords of the Jumna
ran red and Sivaji fled fifty miles to Delhi
with a Toorkh stallion at his horse’s tail and
another Lalun on his saddle-bow. It was
what men call a Mahratta /aonee, and it
said : —
Their warrior forces Chimnajee
Before the Peishwa led,

The Children of the Sun and Fire
Behind him turned and fled.

And the chorus said : ~-

With them there fought who rides so free
With sword and turban red,

The warrior-youth who earns his fee
At peril of his head.

“ At peril of his head,” said Wali Dad in
English to me. ‘“ Thanks to your Govern-
ment, all our heads are protected, and with
the educational facilities at my command” —
his eyes twinkled wickedly — “I might be a
distinguished member of the local administra-
374 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

tion. Perhaps, in time, I might even be a
member of a Legislative Council.”

“Don’t speak English,” said Lalun, bend-
ing over her sztar afresh. The chorus went
out from the City wall to the blackened wall
of Fort Amara which dominates the City.
No man knows the precise extent of Fort
Amara. Three kings built it hundreds of
years ago, and they say that there are miles of
underground rooms beneath its walls. It is
peopled with many ghosts, a detachment of
Garrison Artillery and a Company of Infan-
try. In its prime it held ten thousand men
and filled its ditches with corpses.

“At peril of his head,” sang Lalun again
and again.

A head moved on one of the Ramparts —
the gray head of an old man—and a voice,
rough as shark-skin on a sword-hilt, sent
back the last line of the chorus and broke
into a song that I could not understand,
though Lalun and Wali Dad listened
intently.

“ What is it?” Iasked. ‘Who is it?”
ON THE CITY WALL. 375

“A consistent man,” said Wali Dad.
“He fought you in ’46, when he was a
warrior-youth ; re-fought you in ’57, and he
tried to fight you in ’71, but you had learned
the trick of blowing men from guns too
well. Now he is old; but he would still
fight if he could.”

‘Ts he a Wahabi, then? Why should he
answer toa Mahratta /aonee if he be Wahabi
— or Sikh?” said I.

“J do not know,” said Wali Dad. ‘He
has lost, perhaps, his religion. Perhaps he
wishes to be a King. Perhaps he is a King.
I do not know his name.” .

“That is a lie, Wali Dad. If you know
his career you must know his name.”

“That is quite true. I belong to a nation
of liars. I would rather not tell you his
name. Think for yourself.”

Lalun finished her song, pointed to the
Fort and said simply : — ‘‘ Khem Singh.”

“Hm,” said Wali Dad. “If the Pearl
chooses to tell you the Pearl is a fool.”

I translated to Lalun, who laughed. “J
346 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

choose to tell what I chocse to tell. They
kept Khem Singh in Burma,” said she.
“They kept him there for many years until
his mind was changed in him. So great was
the kindness of the Government. Finding
this, they sent him back to his own country
that he might look upon it before he died.
He is an old man, but when he looks upon
this his country his memory will. come.
Moreover, there be many who remember
him.”

“ He is an Interesting Survival,” said Wali
Dad, pulling at the Auga. “ He returns toa
country now full of educational and political
reform, but, as the Pearl says, there are
many who remember him. He was once a
great man. There will never be any more
great men in India. They will all, when
they are boys, go whoring after strange
gods, and they will become citizens—
‘ fellow-citizens’ —‘illustrious fellow-citizens.’
What is it that the native papers call them?”

Wali Dad seemed to be in a very bad
temper. Lalun looked out of the window
ON THE CITY WALL. 377

and smiled into the dust-haze. I went away
thinking about Khem Singh who had once
made history with a thousand followers, and
would have been a princeling but for the
power of the Supreme Government aforesaid.

The Senior Captain Commanding Fort
Amara was away on leave, but the Subaltern,
his Deputy, had drifted down to the Club
where I found him and inquired of him
whether it was really true that a political
prisoner had been added to the attractions of
the Fort. The Subaltern explained at great
length, for this was the first time that he had
held Command of the Fort and his glory lay
heavy upon him.

“Yes,” said he, ‘‘a man was sent in to me
about a week ago from down the line—a
thorough gentleman whoever he is. Of
course I did all I could for him. He had his
two servants and some silver cooking-pots,
and he looked for all the world like a native
officer. I called him Subadar Sahib ; just as
well to be on the safe side, y'know. ‘Look
here, Subadar Sahib,’ I said, ‘ you’re handed
378 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

over to my authority, and I’m supposed to
guard you. Now] don’t want to make your
life hard, but you must make things easy for
me. All the Fort is at your disposal, from
the flagstaff to the dry ditch, and I shall be
happy to entertain you in any way I can, but
you mustn’t take advantage of it. Give me
your word that you won't try to escape, Su-
badar Sahib, and I'll give you my word that
you shall have no heavy guard put over you.’
I thought the best way of getting at him was
by going at him straight, y’know ; and it was,
by Jove! The old man gave me his word,
and moved about the Fort as contented as a
sick crow. He’s a rummy chap—always
asking to be told where he is and what the
buildings about him are. I had to sign a
slip of blue paper when he turned up, ac-
knowledging receipt of his body and all that.
and I’m responsible, y'know, that he doesn’t
get away. Queer thing, though, looking
after a Johnnie old enough to be your grand-
father, isn’t it? Come to the Fort one of
these days and see him?”
ON THE CITY WALL. 379

For reasons which will appear, I never
went to the Fort while Khem Singh was then
within its walls. I knew him only as a gray
head seen from Lalun’s window—a gray
head and a harsh voice. But natives told
me that, day by day, as he looked upon the
fair lands round Amara, his memory came
back to him and, with it, the old hatred
against the Government that had been nearly
effaced in far-off Burma. So he raged up
and down the West face of the Fort from
morning till noon and from evening till the
night, devising vain things in his heart and
croaking war-songs when Lalun sang on the
City wall. As he grew more acquainted
with the Subaltern he unburdened his old
heart of some of the passions that had with-
ered it. “Sahib,” he used to say, tapping
his stick against the parapet, ‘‘ when I was a
young man I was one of twenty thousand
horsemen who came out of the City and
rode round the plain here. Sahib, I was
the leader of a hundred, then of a thousand,
then of five thousand, and now!”—he
380 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

pointed to his two servants. ‘“ But from the
beginning to to-day I would cut the throats
of all the Sahibs in the land if I could.
Hold me fast, Sahib, lest I get away and
return to those who would follow me. I
forgot them when I was in Burma, but now
that I am in my own country again, I re-
member everything.”

‘‘Do you remember that you have given
me your Honor not to make your tendance
a hard matter?” said the Subaltern.

“Yes, to you, only to you, Sahib,” said
Khem Singh. ‘To you because you are of
a pleasant countenance. If my turn comes
again, Sahib, I will not hang you nor cut
your throat.”

“ Thank you,” said the Subaltern gravely,
as he looked along the line of guns that
could pound the City to powder in half an
hour. ‘Let us go into our own quarters,
Khem Singh. Come and talk with me after
dinner.”

Khem Singh would sit on his own cushion
at the Subaltern’s feet, drinking heavy,
ON THE CITY WALL. 381

scented anise-seed brandy in great gulps, and
telling strange stories of Fort Amara, which
had been a palace in the old days, of Begums
and Ranees tortured to death---ay, in the
very vaulted chamber that now served asa
Mess-room; would tell stories of Sobraon
that made the Subaltern’s cheeks fiush and
tingle with pride of race, and of the Kuka
rising from which so much was expected and
the foreknowledge of which was shared by a
hundred thousand souls. But he never told
tales of ’57 because, as he said, he was the
Subaltern’s guest, and ’57 is a year that no
man, Black or White, cares to speak of.
Once only, when the anise-seed brandy had
slightly affected his head, he said : — ‘‘ Sahib,
speaking now of a matter which lay between
Sobraon and the affair of the Kukas, it was
ever a wonder to us that you stayed your hand
at all, and that, having stayed it, you did not
make the land one prison. Now I hear from
without that you do great honor to all men
of our country and by your own hands are
destroying the Terror of your Name which
382 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

is your strong rock and defence. This is a
foolish thing. Will oil and water mix? Now
in 57 =

“T was not born then, Subadar Sahib,”
said the Subaltern, and Khem Singh reeled
to his quarters.

The Subaltern would tell me of these con-
versations at the Club, and my desire to see
Khem Singh increased. But Wali Dad, sit-
ting in the window-seat of the house on the
City wall, said that it would be a cruel thing
to do, and Lalun pretended that I preferred
the society of a grizzled old Sikh to hers.

‘‘Here is tobacco, here is talk, here are
many friends and all the news of the City,
and, above all, here is myself. I will tell
you stories and sing you songs, and Wali
Dad will talk his English nonsense in your
ears. Is that worse than watching the caged
animal yonder? Go to-morrow then, if you
must, but to-day such and such an one will
be here, and he will speak of wonderful
things.”

It happened that To-morrow never came,
S85

ON THE CITY WALL. 383

and the warm heat of the latter Rains gave
place to the chill of early October almost
before I was aware of the flight of the year.
The Captain commanding the Fort returned
from leave and took over charge of Khem
Singh according to the laws of seniority.
The Captain was not a nice man. He called
all natives “ niggers,” which, besides being
extreme bad form, shows gross ignorance.

‘What's the use of telling off two Tom-
mies to watch that old nigger?” said he.

“T fancy it soothes his vanity,” said the
Subaltern. ‘The men are ordered to keep
well out of his way, but he takes them as a
tribute to his importance, poor old beast.”

‘““T won't have Line men taken off regular
guards in this way. Put on a couple of
Native Infantry.”

“ Sikhs?” said the Subaltern, lifting his
eyebrows.

“Sikhs, Pathans, Dogras—they’re all alike,
these black vermin,” and the Captain talked
to Khem Singh in a manner which hurt that
old gentleman’s feelings. Fifteen years
384 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

before, when he had been caught for the
second time, every one looked upon him as a
sort of tiger. He liked being regarded in
this light. But he forgot that the world
goes forward in fifteen years, and many Sub-
alterns are promoted to Captaincies.

“The Captain-pig is in charge of the
Fort ?” said Khem Singh to his native guard
every morning. And the native guard said:
— “Yes, Subadar Sahib,” in deference to his
age and his air of distinction; but they did
not know who he was.

In those days the gathering in Lalun’s
little white room was always large and
talked more mightily than before.

“The Greeks,” said Wali Dad who had
been borrowing my books, “ the inhabitants
of the city of Athens, where they were
always hearing and telling some new thing,
rigorously secluded their women — who were
mostly fools. Hence the glorious institution
of the heterodox women — is it not ?— who
were amusing and wo? fools. All the Greek
philosophers delighted in their company.
ON THE CITY WALL. 385

Tell me, my friend, how it goes now in
Greece and the other places upon the Con-
tinent of Europe. Are your women-folk also
fools?”

“Wali Dad,” I said, “ you never speak to
us about your women-folk and we never
speak about ours to you. That is the bar
between us.”

“Yes,” said Wali Dad, “it is curious to
think that our common meeting-place should
be here, in the house of a common-— how
do you call ker?” He pointed with the
pipe-mouth to Lalun.

‘“‘Lalun is nothing else but Lalun,” I said,
and that was perfectly true. ‘But if you
took your place in the world, Wal: Dad, and
gave up dreaming dreams —"

‘“T might wear an English coat and trouser.
I might be a leading Muhammadan pleader.
I might even be received at the Commission-
er’s tennis-parties where the English stand
on one side and the natives on the other, in
order to promote social intercourse through-
out the Empire. Heart's Heart,” said he ta
386 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

Lalun quickly, “the Sahib says that I ougit

to quit you.”
“ The Sahib is always talking stupid talk,”
returned Lalun witha laugh. “ In this house

I am a Queen and thou art a King. The
Sahib” — she put her arms above her head
and thought for a moment— ‘the Sahib
shall be our Vizier—thine and mine, Wali
Dad, because he has said that thou shouldst
leave me.”

Wali Dad laughed immoderately, and I
laughed too. “Be it so,” said he. “ My
friend, are you willing to take this lucrative
Government appointment? lLalun, what
shall his pay be?”

But Lalun began to sing, and for the rest
of the time there was no hope of getting a
sensible answer from her or Wali Dad. When
the one stopped, the other began to quote
Persian poetry with a ‘<riple pun in every
other line. Some of it was not. strictly
proper, but it was all very funny, and it
only came to an end when a fat person in
black, with gold pznce-nez, sent up his name
ON THE CITY WALL. 387

to Lalun, and Wali Dad dragged me into the
twinkling night to walk in a big rose-garden
and talk heresies about Religion and Gov-
ernments and a man’s Career in life.

The Mohurrum, the great mourning-festival
of the Muhammadans, was close at hand, and
the things that Wali Dad said about religious
fanaticism would have secured his expulsion
from the loosest-thinking Muslim sect. There
were the rose-bushes round us, the stars
above us, and from every quarter of the City
came the boom of the big Mohurrum drums.
You must know that the City is divided in
fairly equal proportions between the Hindus
and the Musalmans, and where both creeds
belong to the fighting races, a big religious
festival gives ample chance for trouble.
When they can—that is to say when the
authorities are weak enough to allow it—
the Hindus do their best to arrange some
minor feast-day of their own in time to clash
with the period of general mourning for the
martyrs Hasan and Hussain, the heroes of
the Mohurrum. Gilt and painted paper

A
388 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

presentations of their tombs are borne with
shouting and wailing, music, torches and
yells, through the principal thoroughfares
of the City; which fakements are called
taztas. Their passage is rigorousty laid
down beforehand by the Police, and detach-
ments of Police accompany each fazza, lest
the Hindus should throw bricks at it and
the peace of the Queen and the heads of
Her loyal subjects should thereby be broken.
Mohurrum time in a “ fighting” town means
anxiety to all the officials, because, if a riot
breaks out, the officials and not the rioters
are held responsible. The former must fore-
see everything, and while not making their
precautions ridiculously elaborate, must see
that they are at least adequate.

“Listen to the drums!” said Wali Dad.
“That is the heart of the people — empty
and making much noise. How, think you,
will the Mchurrum go this year? J think
that there will be trouble.”

He turned down a side-street and left me
alone with the stars and a sleepy Police
ON THE CITY WALL. 389

patrel. Then I went to bed and dreamed
that Wali Dad had sacked the City and I
was made Vizier, with Lalun’s silver huga
for mark of office.

All day the Mohurrum drums beat in the
City, and all day deputations of tearful Hindu
gentlemen besieged the Deputy Commis-
sioner with assurances that they would be
murdered ere next dawning by the Muham-
madans. ‘ Which,” said the Deputy Com-
missioner, in confidence to the Head of
Police, ‘is a pretty fair indication that the
Hindus are going to make ’emselves unpleas-
ant. I think we can arrange a little surprise
for them. I have given the heads of both
Creeds fair warning. If they choose to
disregard it, so much the worse for them.”

There was a large gathering in Lalun’s
house that night, but of men that I had never
seen before, if I except the fat gentleman in
black with the gold pzmce-nez. Wali Dad
lay in the window-seat, more bitterly scornful
of his Faith and its manifestations than I had
ever known him. Lalun’s maid was very
390 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

busy cutting up and mixing tobacco for the
guests. We could hear the thunder of the
drums as the processions accompanying each
tazia marched to the central gathering-placc
in the plain outside the City, preparatory to
their triumphant re-entry and circuit within
the walls. All the streets seemed ablaze with
torches, and only Fort Amara was black and
silent.

When the noise of the drums ceased, no
one in the white room spoke for a time.
“The first ¢aziza has moved off,” said Wali
Dad, looking to the plain.

“That is very early,” said the man with
the pince-nez. ‘It is only half-past eight.”
The company rose and departed.

“Some of them were men from Ladakh,”
said Lalun, when the last had gone. ‘ They
brought me brick-tea such as the Russians
sell, and a tea-urn from Peshawur. Show
me, now, how the English AZemsahtbs make
tea.”

The brick-tea was abominable. When it
was finished Wali Dad suggested a descent
ON THE CITY WALL. 391

into the streets. “I am nearly sure that
there will be trouble to-night,” he said. “All
the City thinks so, and Vin Populi is Vox
Dez, as the Babus say. }.ow I tell you that
at the corner of the Padshahi Gate you will
find my horse all this night if you want to go
about and to see things. It is a most dis-
graceful exhibition. Where is the pleasure
of saying ‘ Yaz Hasan, Ya Hussain’ twenty
thousand times in a night?”

All the processions — there were two and
twenty of them — were now well within the
City walls. The drums were beating afresh,
the crowd were howling “?a@ “Hasan! Ya
flassain!” and beating their breasts, the
brass bands were playing their loudest, and
at every corner where space allowed, Muham-
madan preachers were telling the lamentable
story of the death of the Martyrs. It was
impossible to move except with the crowd,
for the streets were not more than twenty
feet wide. In the Hindu quarters the shut-
ters of all the shops were up and cross-
barred. As the first ¢azia, a gorgeous
392 IN BLACK AND WHITE,

erection ten feet high, was borne aloft on
the shoulders of a score of stout men into
the semi-darkness of the Gully of the Horse-
men, a brickbat crashed through its talc and
tinsel sides.

“Into thy hands, O Lord!” murmured
Wali Dad profanely, as a yell went up from
behind, and a native officer of Police jammed
his horse through the crowd. Another
brickbat followed, and the ¢faz¢a staggered
and swayed where it had stopped.

“Goon! Inthe name of the Szrkar, go
forward!” shouted the Policeman, but there
was an ugly cracking and splintering of
shutters, and the crowd halted, with oaths
and growlings, before the house whence the
brickbat had been thrown.

Then, without any warning, broke the
storm — not only in the Gully of the Horse-
men, but in half a dozen other places. The
tazias rocked like ships at sea, the long pole-
torches dipped and rose round them while
the men shouted:—‘“ The Hindus are dis-
honoring the ¢azéas! Strike! Strike! Into
ON THE CITY WALL. 393

their temples for the Faith!” The six or
eight Policemen with each ¢azza drew their
batons, and struck as long as they could ir.
the hope of forcing the mob forward, but
they were overpowered, and as contingents
of Hindus poured into the streets, the fight
became general. Half a mile away where
the ¢az¢as were yet untouched the drums and
the shrieks of “?@ Hasan! Ya Hussain!”
continued, but not for long. The priests at
the corners of the streets knocked the legs
from the bedsteads that supported their
pulpits and smote for the Faith, while stones
fell from the silent houses upon friend and
foe, and the packed streets bellowed :—
“Dintl Din! Din!” A tazia caught fire,
and was dropped for a flaming barrier
between Hindu and Musalman at the corner
of the Gully. Then the crowd surged
forward, and Wali Dad drew me close tc
the stone pillar of a well.

“It was intended from the beginning!” he
shouted in my ear, with more heat than

blank unbelief should be guilty of, ‘The
394 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

bricks were carried up to the houses before-
hand. These swine of Hindus! We shall
be gutting kine in their temples to-night!”

Tazia after tazta, some burning, others
torn to pieces, hurried past us and the mob
with them, howling, shrieking, and striking at
the house doors in their flight. At last we
saw the reason of the rush. Hugonin, the
Assistant District Superintendent of Police, a
boy of twenty, had got together thirty con-
stables and was forcing the crowd through
the streets. His old gray Police-horse
showed no sign of uneasiness as it was
spurred breast-on into the crowd, and the
long dog-whip with which he had armed
himself was never still.

“They know we haven’t enough Police to
hold ’em,” he cried as he passed me, mop-
ping a cut on his face. “They now we
haven’t! Aren't any of the men from the
Club coming down to help? Get on, you
sons of burnt fathers!” The dog-whip
cracked across the writhing backs, and the
constables smote afresh with baton and gun-
ON THE CITY WALL. 395

butt. With these passed the lights and the
shouting, and Wali Dad began to swear
under his breath. From Fort Amara shot
up a single rocket; then two side by side.
It was the signal for troops.

Petitt, the Deputy Commissioner, covered
with dust and sweat, but calm and gently
smiling, cantered up the clean-swept street
in rear of the main body of the rioters.
“No one killed yet,” he shouted. “I'll
keep ’em on the run till dawn! Don’t let
‘em halt, Hugonin! Trot ’em about till the
troops come.”

The science of the defence lay solely in
keeping the mob on the move. If they had
breathing-space they would halt and fire a
house, and then the work of restoring order
would be more difficult, to say the least of it.
Flames have the same effect on a crowd as
blood has on a wild beast.

Word had reached the Club and men in
evening-dress were beginning to show them-
selves and lend a hand in heading off and
breaking up the shouting masses with stir-
396 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

rup-leathers, whips, or. chance-found staves
They were not very often attacked, for the
rioters had sense enough to know that the
death of a European would not mean one
hanging but many, and possibly the appear-
ance of the thrice-dreaded Artillery. The
clamor in the City redoubled. The Hindus
had descended into the streets in real earnest
and ere long the mob returned. It was a
strange sight. There were no faz?as— only
their riven platforms—and there were no
Police. Here and there a City dignitary,
Hindu or Muhammadan, was vainly imploring
his co-religionists to keep quiet and behave
themselves — advice for which his white
beard was pulled with contumely. Then a
native officer of Police, unhorsed but still
using his spurs with effect, would be seen
borne along in the throng, warning all the
world of the danger of insulting the Govern-
ment. Everywhere were men striking aim-
‘assly with sticks, grasping each other by the
throat, howling and foaming with rage, or
beating with their bare hands on the doors of
the houses.
ON THE CITY WALL. 397

“Tt is a lucky thing that they are fighting
with natural weapons,” I said to Wali Dad,
“else we should have half the City killed.”

I turned as I spoke and looked at his face.
His nostrils were distended, his eyes were
fixed, and he was smiting himself softly on
the breast. The crowd poured by with re-
newed riot—a gang of Musalmans hard-
pressed by some hundred Hindu fanatics.
Wali Dad left my side with an oath, and
shouting: —“ Ya Hasan! Ya Hussain!”
plunged into the thick of the fight where I
lost sight of him.

I fled by a side alley to the Padshahi Gate
where I found Wali Dad’s house, and thence
rode to the Fort. Once outside the City
wall, the tumult sank to a dull roar, very
impressive under the stars and _ reflecting
great credit on the fifty thousand angry
able-bodied men who were making it. The
troops who, at the Deputy Commissioner's
instance, had been ordered to rendezvous
quietly near the Fort, showed no signs of
being impressed, Two companies of Native
308 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

infantry, a squadron of Native Cavalry and a
company of British Infantry were kicking
their heels in the shadow of the East face,
waiting for orders to march in. I am sorry
to say that they were all pleased, unholily
pleased, at the chance of what they called
‘a little fun.” The senior officers, to be
sure, grumbled at having been kept out of
bed, and the English troops pretended to be
sulky, but there was joy in the hearts of all
the subalterns, and whispers ran up and
down the line: — “ No ball-cartridge — what
a beastly shame!” ‘“ D’you think the beg-
gars will really stand up to us?” ‘“’ Hope |
shall meet my money-lender there. I owe
him more than I can afford.” ‘Oh, they
won't let us even unsheath swords.” “ Hur-
rah! Up goes the fourth rocket. Fall in,
there!”

The Garrison Artillery, who to the last
cherished a wild hope that they might be
allowed to bombard the City at a hundred
yards’ range, lined the parapet above the
East gateway and cheered themselves hoarse
ON THE CITY WALL. 399

as the British Infantry doubled along the
road to the Main Gate of the City. The
Cavalry cantered on to the Padshahi Gate,
and the Native Infantry marched slowly to
the Gate of the Butchers. The surprise was
intended to be of a distinctly unpleasant nat-
ure, and to come on top of the defeat of
the Police who had been just able to keep
the Muhammadans from firing the houses of
a few leading Hindus. The bulk of the riot
lay in the north and northwest wards. The
east and southeast were by this time dark
and silent, and I rode hastily to Lalun’s
house, for I wished to tell her to send some
one in search of Wali Dad. The house was
unlighted, but the door was open, and I
climbed up-stairs in the darkness. One small
lamp in the white room showed Lalun and
her maid leaning half out of the window,
breathing heavily and evidently pulling at
something that refused to come.

‘Thou art late — very late,” gasped Lalun
without turning her head. “Help us now,
O Fool, if thou hast not spent thy strength
400 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

howling among the fazzas. Pull! Nasiban
and I can do no more! O Sahib, is it you?
The Hindus have been hunting an old Mu-
hammadan round the Ditch with clubs. It
they find him again they will kill him. Help
us to pull him up.”

I laid my hands to the long red silk waist-
cloth that was hanging out of the window,
and we three pulled and pulled with all the
strength at our command. There was some-
thing very heavy at the end, and it was
swearing in an unknown tongue as it kicked
against the City wall.

“Pull, oh, pull!” said Lalun at the last. A
pair of brown hands grasped the window-sill
and a venerable Muhammadan tumbled upon
the floor, very much out of breath. His jaws
were tied up, and his turban had fallen over
one eye. He was dusty and angry.

Lalun hid her face. in her hands for an
instant and said something about Wali Dad
that I could not catch.

Then, to my extreme gratification, she
threw her arms round my neck and mur-
ON THE CITY WALL. 401

mured pretty things. I was in no haste to
stop her; and Nasiban, being a hand-maiden
of tact, turned to the big jewel-chest that
stands in the corner of the white room and
rummaged among the contents. The Mu-
hammadan sat on the floor and glared.

“One service more, Sahib, since thou hast
come so opportunely,” said Lalun. ‘“ Wilt
thou” — it is very nice to be thou-ed by
Lalun — ‘take this old man across the City
— the troops are everywhere, and they might
hurt him for he is old —to the Kumharsen
Gate? There I think he may find a carriage
to take him to his house. He is a friend of
mine, and thou art— more than a friend...
therefore I ask this.”

Nasiban bent over the old man, tucked
something into his belt, and I raised him up,
and led him into the streets. In crossing
from the east to the west of the City there
was no chance of avoiding the troops and the
crowd. Long before I reached the Gully of
the Horsemen I heard the shouts of the Brit-
ish Infantry crying cheerily:—‘ Hutt, ye
402 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

beggars! Hutt, ye devils! Get along! Go
forward, there!” Then followed the ringing
of rifle-butts and shrieks of pain. The troops
were banging the bare toes of the mob with
their butts— not a bayonet had been fixed.
My companion mumbled and jabbered as we
walked on until we were carried back by the
crowd and had to force our way to the troops.
I caught him by the wrist and felt a bangle
thereon — the iron bangle of the Sikhs—
but I had no suspicions, for Lalun had only
ten minutes before put her arms round me.
Thrice we were carried back by the crowd,
and when we won our way past the British
Infantry it was to meet the Sikh Cavalry
driving another mob before them with the
butts of their lances.

“What are these dogs?” said the old man.

“Sikhs of the Cavalry, Father,” I said, and
we edged our way up the line of horses two
abreast and found the Deputy Commissioner,
his helmet smashed on his head, surrounded
by a knot of men who had come down from
the Club as amateur constables and had
helped the Police mightily.
ON THE CITY WALL. 403

“We'll keep ’em on the run till dawn,”
said Petitt. “ Who's your villainous friend ?”

I had only time to say :—“ The Protection.
of the Szrkar!” when a fresh crowd flying
before the Native Infantry carried us a hun-
dred yards nearer to the Kumharsen Gate,
and Petitt was swept away like a shadow.

“T do not know —I cannot see — it is all
new to me!” moaned my companion. “ How
many troops are there in the City?”

‘Perhaps five hundred,” I said.

“A lakh of men beaten by five hundred
—and Sikhs among them! | Surely, surely,
I am an old man, but —the Kumharsen Gate
is new. Who pulled down the stone lions?
Where is the conduit? Sahib, I am a very
old man, and, alas, I—I cannot stand.” He
dropped in the shadow of the Kumharsen
Gate where there was no disturbance. A
fat gentleman wearing gold pince-mez came
out of the darkness.

“You are most kind to bring my old
friend,” he said suavely. ‘He is a land-
holder ef Akala. He should not. be-in.a big
404' IN BLACK AND WHITE.

City when there is religious excitement.
But I have a carriage here. You are quite
truly kind. Will you help me to put him
into the carriage? It is very late.”

We bundled the old man into a hired
victoria that stood close to the gate, and I
turned back to the house on the City wall.
The troops were driving the people to and
fro, while the Police shouted, “To your
houses! Get to your houses!” and the
dog-whip of the Assistant District Super-
intendent cracked remorselessly. Terror-
stricken dunnéas clung to the stirrups of the
cavalry, crying that their houses had been
robbed (which was a lie), and the burly Sikh
horsemen patted them on the shoulder and
bade them return to those houses lest a worse
thing should happen. Parties of five or six
British soldiers, joining arms, swept down
the side-gullies, their rifles on their backs,
stamping, with shouting and song, upon the
toes of Hindu and Musalman. Never was
religious enthusiasm more systematically
squashed ; and never were poor breakers of
ON THE CITY WALL. 405

the peace more utterly weary and foot-sore.
They were routed out of holes and corners,
from behind well-pillars and byres, and
bidden to go to their houses. If they had no
houses to go to, so much the worse for their
toes.

On returning to Lalun’s door I stumbled
over a man at the threshold. He was sob-
bing hysterically and his arms flapped like
the wings of a goose. It was Wali Dad,
Agnostic and Unbeliever, shoeless, turban-
less, and frothing at the mouth, the flesh on
his chest bruised and bleeding from the
vehemence with which he had smitten him-
self. A broken torch-handle lay by his
side, and his quivering lips murmured, “ 7a
Hasan! Ya Hussain!” as 1 stooped over
him. I pushed him a few steps up the stair-
case, threw a pebble at Lalun’s City window
and hurried home.

Most of the streets were very still, and
the cold wind that comes before the dawn
whistled down them. In the centre of the
Square of the Mosque a man was bending
406 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

over a corpse. The skull had been smashed
in by gun-butt or bamboo stave.

“It is expedient that one man should die
for the people,” said Petitt grimly, raising
the shapeless head. ‘These brutes were
beginning to show their teeth too much.”

And from afar we could hear.the soldiers
singing : —

“Two Lovely Black Eyes,” as they drove.
the remnant of the rioters within doors.

Of course you can guess what happened ?
I was not so clever. When the news went
abroad that Khem Singh had escaped from
the Fort, I did not, since I was then living
the story, not writing it, connect myself, or
Lalun, or the fat gentleman of the gold
pince-nez, with his disappearance. Nor did
it strike me that Wali Dad was the man who
should have steered him across the City, or
that Lalun’s arms round my neck were put
there to hide the money that Nasiban gave
to him, and that Lalun had used me and my
white face as even a better safeguard. than
ON THE CITY WALL. 40?

Wali Dad who proved himself so untrust-
worthy. All that I knew at the time was
that, when Fort Amara was taken up with
the riots, Khem Singh profited by the con-
fusion to get away, and that his two Sikh
guards also escaped.

But later on I received full enlightenment ;
and so did Khem Singh. He fled to those
who knew him in the old days, but many of
them were dead and more were changed,
and all knew something of the Wrath of the
Government. He went to the young men,
but the glamour of his name had passed away,
and they were entering native regiments or
Government offices, and Khem Singh ‘could
give them neither pension, decorations, nor
influence — nothing but a glorious death
with their backs to the mouth of a gun. He
wrote létters and made promises, and the
letters fell into bad hands, and a wholly in-
significant subordinate officer of Police
tracked them down and gained promotion
thereby. Moreover, Khem Singh was old,
and anise-seed brandy was scarce, and he had
408 IN BLACK AND WHITE.

left his silver cooking-pots in Fort Amara
with his nice warm bedding, and the gentle-
man with the gold pimce-nez was told by
those who had employed him that Khem
Singh as a popular leader was not worth the
money paid.

“Great is the mercy of these fools of
English,” said Khem Singh when the situa-
tion was explained. ‘I will go back to
Fort Amara of my own free will and gain
honor. Give me good clothes to return in.”

So, upon a day, Khem Singh knocked at
the wicket-gate of the Fort and walked to
the Captain and the Subaltern who were
nearly gray-headed on account of corre-
spondence that daily arrived from Simla
marked “ Private.”

“T have come back, Captain Sahib,” said
Khem Singh. ‘Put no more guards over
me. It is no good out yonder.”

A week later I saw him for the first time
to my knowledge, and he made as though
there were an understanding between us.

“Tt was well done, Sahib,” said he, “and
ON THE CITY WALL. 409

greatly I admired your astuteness in thus
boldly facing the troops when I, whom they
would have doubtless torn to pieces, was
with you. Now there is a man in Fort
Ooltagarh whom a bold man could with ease
help to escape. This is the position of the
Fort as I draw it on the sand” .. .

But I was thinking how I had become
Lalun’s Vizier aiter all.