iiiil|ii!i 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 on 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 now if they never worked before. Hi! you gangers, make them work." Little by little the crowd was broken into de- tachments, and pushed toward the water 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 Man- ager, 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 At Twenty-Two 123 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 shel- ter of the pit-bank roofing, trying to dry him- self by the pump-boiler fire, and, in the dreary dusk, he saw the crov^ds on the dam scatter and fly. "That's the end," he groaned. '"Twill take us six weeks to persuade 'em that we haven't tried to drown their mates on purpose. 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 1 found the way," explained Janki Meah, "and now will the Company give me pension ?" The simple pit-folk shouted and leaped and went back to the dam, reassured in their old be- lief 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 kept his hand 124 Indian Tales upon the lever and proved his pumps to the ut- termost. "I say," said the Assistant to the Manager, a week latei, "do you recollect Germinal ? " "Yes. 'Queer thing. 1 thought of it in the cage when that balk went by. Why ? " "Oh, this business seems to be Germinal up- side 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 now; but 1 don't be- lieve you, old fellow." THE COURTING OF DINAH SHADD What did the colonel's lady think ? Nobody never knew. Somebody asked the sergeant's wife An' she told 'em true. When you git to a man in the case They're like a row o' pins, For the colonel's lady an' Judy O'Grady Are sisters under their skins. Barrack Room Ballad. ALL day I had followed at the heels of a pur- suing arrny engaged on one of the finest battles that ever camp of exercise beheld. Thirty thousand troops had by the wisdom of the Gov- ernment of India been turned loose over a few thousand square miles of country to practice in peace what they would nevei attempt in war. Consequently cavalry charged unshaken infantry at the trot. Infantry captured artillery by frontal attacks delivered in line of quarter columns, and mounted infantry skirmished up to the wheels of an armored train which carried nothing more deadly than a twenty-five pounder Armstrong, two Nordenfeldts, and a few score volunteers all cased in three-eighths-inch boiler-plate. Yet it 12; 1 26 Indian Tales was a very lifelike camp. Operations did not cease at sundown; nobody knew the country and nobody spared man or horse. There was unending cavalry scouting and almost unending forced work ov6r broken ground. The Army of the South had finally pierced the centre of the Army of the North, and was pouring through the gap hot-foot to capture a city of strategic im- portance. Its front extended fanwise, the sticks being represented by regiments strung out along the line of route backward to the divisional transport columns and all the lumber that trails behind an army on the move. On its right the broken left of the Army of the North was flying in mass, chased by the Southern horse and ham- mered by the Southern guns till these had been pushed far beyond the limitsof their last support. Then the flying sat down to rest, while the elated commandant of the pursuing force telegraphed that he held all in check and observation. Unluckily he did not observe that three miles to his right flank a flying column of Northern horse with a detachment of Ghoorkhas and British troops had been pushed round, as fast as the failing light allowed, to cut across the entire rear of the Southern Army, to break, as it were, all the ribs of the fan where they converged by striking at the transport, reserve ammunition, and artillery supplies. Their instructions were to go The Courting of Dinah Shadd 127 in, avoiding tlie few scouts wiio migbit not liave been drawn off by tlie pursuit, and create sutfi- cient excitement to impress the Southern Army with the wisdom of guarding their own flank and rear before they captured cities. It was a pretty manoeuvre, neatly carried out. Speaking for the second division of the South- ern Army, our first intimation of the attack was at twilight, when the artillery were laboring in deep sand, most of the escort were trying to help them out, and the main body of the infantry had gone on. A Noah's Ark of elephants, camels, and the mixed menagerie of an Indian transport- train bubbled and squealed behind the guns, when there appeared from nowhere in particular British infantry to the extent of three companies, who sprang to the heads of the gun-horses and brought all to a standstill amid oaths and cheers. "How's that, umpire.?" said the major com- manding the attack, and with one voice the drivers and limber gunners answered "Hout!" while the colonel of artillery sputtered. " All your scouts are charging our main body," said the major. "Your flanks are unprotected for two miles. I think we've broken the back of this division. And listen, — there go the Ghoor- khas!" A weak fire broke from the rear-guard more than a mile away, and was answered by cheerful 128 Indian Tales bowlings. The Ghoorkhas, who should have swung clear of the second division, had stepped on its tail in the dark, but drawing off hastened to reach the next line of attack, which lay almost parallel to us five or six miles away. Our column swayed and surged irresolutely, — three batteries, the divisional ammunition reserve, the baggage, and a section of the hospital and bearer corps. The commandant ruefully prom- ised to report himself "cut up "to the nearest umpire, and commending his cavalry and all other cavalry to the special care of Eblis, toiled on to resume touch with the rest of the division. "We'll bivouac here to-night," said the major, "I have a notion that the Ghoorkhas will get caught. They may want us to re-form on. Stand easy till the transport gets away." A hand caught my beast's bridle and led him out of the choking dust; a larger hand deftly canted me out of the saddle; and two of the hugest hands in the world received me sliding. Pleasant is the lot of the special correspondent who falls into such hands as those of Privates Mulvaney, Ortheris, and Learoyd. " An' that's all right," said the Irishman, calmly. "We thought we'd find you somewheres here by. Is there anything av yours in the transport? Orth'ris'll fetch ut out." Ortheris did "fetch ut out," from under the The Courting of Dinah Shadd 129 trunk of an elephant, in the shape of a servant and an animal both laden with medical comforts. The little man's eyes sparkled. •' If the brutil an' licentious soldiery av these parts gets sight av the thruck," said Mulvaney, making practiced investigation, "they'll loot ev'rything. They're bein' fed on iron-filin's an' dog-biscuit these days, but glory's no compensa- tion for a belly-ache. Praise be, we're here to protect you, sorr. Beer, sausage, bread (soft an' that's a cur'osity), soup in 2 tin, whisky by the smell av ut, an' fowls! Mother av Moses, but ye take the field like a confectioner! 'Tis scan- d'lus." " 'Ere's a orficer," said Ortheris, significantly. "When the sergent's done lushin' the privit rnay clean the pot." I bundled several things into Mulvaney's haver- sack before the major's hand fell on my shoulder and he said, tenderly, " Requisitioned for the Queen's service Wolseley was quite wrong about special correspondents: they are the sol- dier's best friends. Come and take pot-luck with us to-night." And so it happened amid laughter and shout- ings that my well-considered commissariat melted away to reappear later at the mess-table, which was a waterproof sheet spread on the ground. The flying column had taken three days' rations I30 Indian Tales with it, and there be few things nastier than government rations — especially when govern- ment is experimenting with German toys. Erbsenwurst, tinned beef of surpassing tin- niness^ compressed vegetables, and meat-bis- cuits may be nourishing, but what Thomas Atkins needs is bulk in his inside. The major, assisted by his brother officers, purchased goats for the camp and so made the experiment of no effect. Long before the fatigue-party sent to collect brushwood had returned, the men were settled down by their valises, kettles and pots had appeared from the surrounding country and were dangling over fires as the kid and the com- pressed vegetable bubbled together; there rose a cheerful clinking of mess-tins; outrageous de- mands for "a little more stuffm' with that there liver-wing; " and gust on gust of chaff as pointed as a bayonet and as delicate as a gun-butt. "The boys are in a good temper," said the major. " They'll be singing presently. Well, a night like this is enough to keep them happy." Over our heads burned the wonderful Indian stars, which are not all pricked in on one plane, but, preserving an orderly perspective, draw the eye through the velvet darkness of the void up to the barred doors of heaven itself. The earth was a grey shadow more unreal than the sky. We could hear her breathing lightly in the pauses The Courting of Dinah Shadd 131 between the howling of the jackals, the move- ment of the wind in the tamarisks, and the fitful mutter of musketry-fire leagues away to the left. A native woman from some unseen hut began to sing, the mail-train thundered past on its way to Delhi, and a roosting crow cawed drowsily. Then there was a belt-loosening silence about the fires, and the even breathing of the crowded earth took up the story. The men, full fed, turned to tobacco and song, — their officers with them. The subaltern is happy who can win the approval of the musical critics in his regiment, and is honored among the more intricate step-dancers. By him, as by him who plays cricket cleverly, Thomas Atkins will stand in time of need, when he will let a better officer go on alone. The ruined tombs of for- gotten Mussulman saints heard the ballad of Agra Town, The Buffalo Battery, Marching to Kabul, The long, long Indian Day, The Place where the Punkah-coolie died, and that crashing chorus which announces, Youth's daring spirit, manhood's fire, Firm hand and eagle eye, Must he acquire who would aspire To see the grey boar die. To-day, of all those jovial thieves who appro- priated my commissariat and lay and laughed round that waterproof sheet, not one remains. ^32 Indian Tales They went to camps that were not of exercise and battles without umpires. Burmah, the Sou- dan, and the frontier, — fever and fight, — took them in their time. I drifted across to the men's fires in search of Mulvaney, whom I found strategically greasing his feet by the blaze. There is nothing particu- larly lovely in the sight of a private thus engaged after a long day's march, but when you reflect on the exact proportion of the "might, majesty, dominion, and power" of the British Empire which stands on those feet you take an interest in the proceedings. " There's a blister, bad luck to ut, on the heel," said Mulvaney. " I can't touch ut. Prick ut out, little man." Ortheris took out his house-wife, eased the trouble with a needle, stabbed Mulvaney in the calf with the same weapon, and was swiftly kicked into the fire. " I've bruk the best av my toes over you, ye grinnin' child av disruption," said Mulvaney, sit- ting cross-legged and nursing his feet; then see- ing me, "Oh, ut's you, sorr! Be welkim, an' take that maraudin' scutt's place. Jock, hold him down on the cindhers for a bit." But Ortheris escaped and went elsewhere, as I took possession of the hollow he had scraped for himself and lined with his greatcoat. Learoyd The Courting of Dinah Shadd 133 on the other side of the fire grinned affably and in a minute fell fast asleep. "There's the height av politeness for you," said Mulvaney, lighting his pipe with a flaming branch. "But Jock's eaten half a box av your sardines at wan gulp, an' 1 think the tin too. What's the best wid you, sorr, an' how did you happen to be on the losin' side this day whin we captured you ? " "The Army of the South is winning all along the line," 1 said. "Then that line's the hangman's rope, savin' your presence. You'll learn to-morrow how we rethreated to dhraw thim on before we made thim trouble, an' that's what a woman does. By the same tokin, we'll be attacked before the dawnin' an' ut would be betther not to slip your boots. How do I knov/ that } By the light av pure reason. Here are three companies av us ever so far inside av the enemy's flank an' a crowd av roarin', tarin', squealin' cavalry gone on just to turn out the whole hornet's nest av them. Av course the enemy will pursue, by brigades like as not, an' thin we'll have to run for ut. Mark my words. I am av the opinion av Polonius whin he said, ' Don't fight wid ivry scutt for the pure joy av fightin', but if you do, knock the nose av him first an' frequint.' We ought to ha' gone on an' helped the Ghoorkhas." 134 Indian Tales " But what do you know about Polonius?" 1 demanded. This was a new side of Mulvaney's character. "All that Shakespeare iver wrote an' a dale more that the gallery shouted," said the man of war, carefully lacing his boots. " Did I not tell you av Silver's theatre in Dublin, whin I was younger than 1 am now an' a patron av the drama ? Ould Silver wud never pay actor-man or woman their just dues, an' by consequince his comp'nies was collapsible at the last minut. Thin the bhoys wud clamor to take a part, an" oft as not ould Silver made them pay for the fun. Faith, I've seen Hamlut played wid a new black eye an' the queen as full as a cornucopia. I re- mimber wanst Hogin that 'listed in the Black Tyrone an' was shot in South Africa, he sejuced ould Silver into givin' him Hamlut's part instid av me that had a fine fancy for rhetoric in those days. Av course 1 wint into the gallery an' be- gan to fill the pit wid other people's hats, an' I passed the time av day to Hogin walkin' through Denmark like a hamstrung mule wid a pall on his back. 'Hamlut,' sez I, 'there's a hole in your heel. Pull up your shtockin's, Hamlut,' sez I. ' Hamlut, Hamlut, for the love av decincy dhrop that skull an' pull up your shtockin's.' The whole house begun to tell him that. He stopped his soliloquishms mid-between. ' My shtockin's The Courting of Dinah Shadd 135 may be comin' down or they may not,' sez he, screwin' his eye into the gallery, for well he knew who I was. ' But afther this performince is over me an' the Ghost '11 trample the tripes out av you, Terence, wid your ass's bray!' An' that's how I come to know about Hamlut. Eyah! Those days, those days! Did you iver have onendin' devilmint an' nothin' to pay for it in your life, sorr ? " "Never, without having to pay," 1 said. " That's thrue! 'Tis mane whin you considher en ut; but ut's the same wid horse or fut. A headache if you dhrink, an' a belly-ache if you eat too much, an' a heart-ache to kape all down. Faith, the beast only gets the colic, an' he's the lucky man." He dropped his head and stared into the fire, fingering his moustache the while. From the far side of the bivouac the voice of Corbet-Nolan, senior subaltern of B Company, uplifted itself in an ancient and much appreciated song of senti- ment, the men moaning melodiously behind him. The north wind blew coldly, she dropped from that hour. My own little Kathleen, my sweet little Kathleen, Kathleen, my Kathleen, Kathleen O'Moore ! With forty-five O's in the last word: even at that distance you might have cut the soft South Irish accent with a shovel. 1 36 Indian Tales " For all we take we must pay, but the price is cruel high," murmured Mulvaney when the chorus had ceased. "What's the trouble?" 1 said gently, for 1 knew that he was a man of an inextinguishable sorrow. " Hear now," said he. " Ye know what I am now. / know what I mint to be at the beginnin' av my service. I've tould you tim.e an' again, an* what I have not Dinah Shadd has. An' what am 1 ? Oh, Mary Mother av Hiven, an ould dhrunken, untrustable baste av a privit that has seen the reg'ment change out from colonel to drummer- boy, not wanst or twice, but scores av times! Ay, scores! An' me not so near gettin' promo- tion as in the first! An' me livin' on an' kapin' clear av clink, not by my own good conduck, but the kindness av some orf'cer-bhoy young enough to be son to me! Do 1 not know ut.^ Can I not tell whin I'm passed over at p'rade, tho' I'm rockin' full av liquor an' ready to fall all in wan piece, such as even a suckin' child might see, be-. kaze, 'Oh, 'tis only ould Mulvaney!' An' whin I'm let off in ord'ly-room through some thrick of the tongue an' a ready answer an' the ould man's mercy, is ut smilin' I feel whin I fall away an' go back to Dinah Shadd, thryin' to carry ut all off as a joke? Not I! 'Tis hell to me, dumb hell through ut all; an' next time whin the fit comes The Courting of Dinah Shadd 137 I will be as bad again. Good cause the reg'ment has to know me for the best soldier in ut. Bet- ter cause have I to know mesilf for the worst man. I'm only fit to tache the new drafts what I'll niver learn mesilf; an' I am sure, as tho' I heard ut, that the minut wan av these pink-eyed recruities gets away from my ' Mind ye now,' an' 'Listen to this, Jim, bhoy,' — sure I am that the sergint houlds me up to him for a warnin'. So I tache, as they say at musketry-instruction, by di- rect and ricochet fire. Lord be good to me, for I have stud some throuble! " " Lie down and go to sleep," said 1, not being able to comfort or advise. " You're the best man in the regiment, and, next to Ortheris, the biggest fool. Lie down and wait till we're at- tacked. What force will they turn out.? Guns, think you .?" "Try that wid your lorrds an' ladies, twistin' an' turnin' the talk, tho' you mint ut well. Ye cud say nothin' to help me, an' yet ye niver knew what cause 1 had to be what 1 am." "Begin at the beginning and go on to the end," I said, royally. " But rake up the fire a bit first." 1 passed Ortheris's bayonet for a poker. "That shows how little we know what v/e do," said Mulvaney, putting it aside. "Fire takes all the heart out av the steel, an' the next 138 Indian Tales time, may be, that our little man is fighting for his life his bradawl '11 break, an' so you'll ha' killed him, manin' no more than to kape yourself warm. 'Tis a recruity's thrick that. Pass the clanin'-rod, sorr." I snuggled down abased ; and after an interval the voice of Mulvaney began. " Did 1 iver tell you how Dinah Shadd came to be wife av mine } " I dissembled a burning anxiety that I had felt for some months — ever since Dinah Shadd, the strong, the patient, and the infinitely tender, had of her own good love and free will washed a shirt for me, moving in a barren land where washing was not. "I can't remember," I said, casually. "Was it before or after you made love to Annie Bragin, and got no satisfaction ? " The story of Annie Bragin is written in another place. It is one of the many less respectable episodes in Mulvaney's checkered career. "Before — before — long before, was that busi- ness av Annie Bragin an' the corp'ril's ghost. Niver woman was the worse for me whin I had married Dinah. There's a time for all things, an' I know how to kape all things in place — barrin' the dhrink, that kapes me in my place wid no hope av comin' to be aught else." ''Begin at the beginning," I insisted. "Mrs. The Courting of Dinah Shadd 139 Mulvaney told me that you married her when you were quartered in Krab Bokhar barracks." "An' the same is a cess-pit," said Mulvaney, piously. "She spoke thrue, did Dinah. 'Twas this way. Talkin' av that, have ye iver fallen in love, sorr?" 1 preserved the silence of the damned. Mul- vaney continued — "Thin I will assume that ye have not. / did. In the days av my youth, as I have more than wanst tould you, I was a man that filled the eye an' delighted the sowl av women. Niver man was hated as 1 have bin. Niver man was loved as 1 — no, not within half a day's march av ut! For the first five years av my service, whin I was what I wud give my sowl to be now, I tuk whatever was within my reach an' digested ut — an' that's more than most men can say. Dhrink I tuk, an' ut did me no harm. By the Hollow av Hiven, I cud play wid four women at wanst, an' kape them from findin' out any- thin' about the other three, an' smile like a full- blown marigold through ut all. Dick Coulhan, av the battery we'll have down on us to-night, could drive his team no better than I mine, an' I hild the worser cattle! An' so I lived, an' so I was happy till afther that business wid Annie Bragin — she that turned me off as cool as a meat-safe, an' taught me where I stud in the 140 Indian Tales mind av an honest woman. 'Twas no sweet dose to swallow. " Afther that 1 sickened awhile an' tuk thought to my reg'mental work; conceiting mesilf 1 wud study an' be a sargint, an' a major-gineral twinty minutes afther that. But on top av my ambi- tiousness there was an empty place in my sowl, an' me own opinion av mesilf cud not fill ut. Sez I to mesilf, ' Terence, you're a great man an' the best set-up in the reg'mint. Go on an' get promotion.' Sez mesilf to me, 'What for.''' Sez I to mesilf, ' For the glory av ut! ' Sez me- silf to me, ' Will that fill these two strong arrums av yours, Terence?' 'Go to the devil,' sez I to mesilf. 'Go to the married lines,' sez mesilf to me. ' 'Tis the same thing,' sez I to mesilf. ' Av you're the same man, ut is,' said mesilf to me; an' wid that I considhered on ut a long while. Did you iver feel that way, sorr.?" I snored gently, knowing that if Mulvaney were uninterrupted he would go on. The clamor from the bivouac fires beat up to the stars, as the rival singers of the companies were pitted against each other. "So I felt that way an' a bad time ut was. Wanst, bein' a fool, I wint into the married lines more for the sake av spakin' to our ould color- sergint Shadd than for any thruck wid women- folk. I was a corp'ril then — rejuced aftherward. Th^ Courting of Dinah Shadd 141 but a corp'ril then. I've got a photograft av me- silf to prove ut. ' You'll take a cup av tay wid us?' sez Shadd. '1 will that,' 1 sez, 'tho' tay is not my divarsion.' " ' 'Twud be better for you if ut were,' sez ould Mother Shadd, an' she had ought to know, for Shadd, in the ind av his service, dhrank bung-full each night. "Wid that I tuk off my gloves — there was pipe-clay in thim, so that they stud alone— an' pulled up my chair, lookin' round at the china ornaments an' bits av things in the Shadds' quar- ters. They were things that belonged to a man, an' no camp-kit, here to-day an' dishipated next. 'You're comfortable in this place, sergint,' sez 1. 'Tis the wife that did ut, boy,' sez he, pointin' the stem av his pipe to ould Mother Shadd, an' she smacked the top av his bald head apon the compliment. 'That manes you want money,' sez she. "An' thin — an' thin whin the kettle was to be filled, Dinah came in — my Dinah — her sleeves fowled up to the elbow an' her hair in a winkin' glory over her forehead, the big blue eyes be- neath twinklin' like stars on a frosty night, an' the tread av her two feet lighter than waste- paper from the colonel's basket in ord'Iy-room whin ut's emptied. Bein' but a shlip av a girl she went pink at seein' me, an' I twisted me 142 Indian Tales moustache an' looked at a picture forninst the wall. Niver show a woman that ye care the snap av a finger for her, an' begad she'll come bleatin' to your boot-heels! " "I suppose that's why you followed Annie Bragin till everybody in the married quarters laughed at you," said I, remembering that un- hallowed wooing and casting off the disguise of drowsiness. "I'm layin' down the gin'ral theory av the at- tack," said Mulvaney, driving his boot into the dying fire. "If you read the Soldier's Pocket Book, which niver any soldier reads, you'll see that there are exceptions. Whin Dinah was out av the door (an' 'twas as tho' the sunlight had shut too) — ' Mother av Hiven, sergint,' sez I, ' but is that your daughter?' — ' I've believed that way these eighteen years,' sez ould Shadd, his eyes twinklin'; 'but Mrs. Shadd has her own opinion, like iv'ry woman.' — ' 'Tis wid yours this time, for a mericle,' sez Mother Shadd. 'Thin why in the name av fortune did I niver see her before ?' sez I. * Bekaze you've been thrapesin' round wid the married women these three years past. She was a bit av a child till last year, an' she shot up wid the spring,' sez ould Mother Shadd. ' I'll thrapese no more,' sez I. 'D'you mane that?' sez ould Mother Shadd, lookin' at me side-ways like a hen looks at a hawk whin the chickens are runnin' The Courting of Dinah Shadd 143 free. 'Try me, an' tell,' sez I, Wid that I pulled on my gloves, dhrank off the tay, an' went out av the house as stiff as at gin'ral p'rade, for well I knew that Dinah Shadd's eyes were in the small av my back out av the scullery window. Faith! that was the only time 1 mourned 1 was not a cav'lry man for the pride av the spurs to jingle. ' ' 1 wint out to think, an' 1 did a powerful lot av thinkin', but ut all came round to that shlip av a girl in the dotted blue dhress, wid the blue eyes an' the sparkil in them. Thin I kept off canteen, an' I kept to the married quarthers, or near by, on the chanst av meetin' Dinah. Did I meet her? Oh, my time past, did I not; wid a lump in my throat as big as my valise an' my heart goin' like a farrier's forge on a Saturday morning ? 'Twas 'Good day to ye, Miss Dinah,' an' 'Good day t'you, corp'ril,' for a week or two, and divil a bit further could I get bekaze av the respect I had to that girl that 1 cud ha' broken betune finger an' thumb." Here I giggled as I recalled the gigantic figure of Dinah Shadd when she handed me my shirt. "Ye may laugh," grunted Mulvaney. "But I'm speakin' the trut', an' 'tis you that are in fault. Dinah was a girl that wud ha' taken the imperi- ousness out av the Duchess av Clonmel in those days. Flower hand, foot av shod air, an' the eyes av the livin' mornin' she had that is my wife 144 Indian Tales to-day — ould Dinah, and niver aught else than Dinah Shadd to me. " 'Twas after three weeks standin' ofif an' on, an' niver rnakin' headway excipt through the eyes, that a little drummer boy grinned in me face whin 1 had admonished him wid the buckle av my belt for riotin' all over the place. 'An' I'm not the only wan that doesn't kape to bar- ricks,' sez he. I tuk him by the scruff av his neck, — my heart was hung on a hair-thrigger those days, you will onderstand — an' 'Out wid ut,' sez 1, 'or I'll lave no bone av you unbreak- able.' — 'Speak to Dempsey,' sez he howlin'. ' Dempsey which } ' sez I, ' ye unwashed limb av Satan.' — 'Avthe Bob-tailed Dhragoons,' sez he. ' He's seen her home from her aunt's house in the civil lines four times this fortnight. ' — ' Child ! ' sez I, dhroppin' him, * your tongue's stronger than your body. Go to your quarters. I'm sorry I dhressed you down.' "At that I went four ways to wanst huntin* Dempsey. I was mad to think that wid all my airs among women I shud ha' been chated by a basin-faced fool av a cav'lryman not fit to trust on a trunk. Presintly I found him in our lines — the Bobtails was quartered next us — an' a tallowy, topheavy son av a she-mule he was wid his big brass spurs an' his plastrons on his epigastrons an' all. But he niver flinched a hair. The Courting of Dinah ShaJd 145 " ' A word wid you, Dempsey,' sez I. * You've walked wid Dinah Shadd four times this fort- night gone.' " ' What's that to you ? ' sez he. ' I'll walk forty times more, an' forty on top av that, ye shovel- futted clod-breakin' infantry lance-corp'ril.' "Before I cud gyard he had his gloved fist home on my cheek an' down 1 went full-sprawl. 'Will that content you.?' sez he, blowin' on his knuckles for all the world like a Scots Greys orf'cer. ' Content! ' sez I. ' For your own sake, man, take off your spurs, peel your jackut, an' onglove. 'Tis the beginnin' av the overture; stand up! ' " He stud all he know, but he niver peeled his jacket, an' his shoulders had no fair play. I was fightin' for Dinah Shadd an' that cut on my cheek. What hope had he forninst me.? 'Stand up,' sez 1, time an' again whin he was beginnin' to quar- ter the ground an' gyard high an' go large. ' This isn't ridin'-school,' I sez. 'O man, stand up an' let me get in at ye.' But whin I saw he wud be runnin' about, I grup his shtock in my left an' his waist-belt in my right an' swung him clear to my right front, head undher, he hammerin' my nose till the wind was knocked out av him on the bare ground. ' Stand up,' sez I, ' or I'll kick your head into your chest!' and 1 wud ha' done ut too, so ragin' mad I was. ^4€> Indian Tales •''My collar-bone's bruk,' sez he. 'Help me back to lines. I'll walk wid her no more.' So I helped him back." "And was his collar-bone broken?"! asked, for I fancied that only Learoyd could neatly ac- complish that terrible throw. "He pitched on his left shoulder point. Ut was. Next day the news was in both barricks, an' whin I met Dinah Shadd wid a cheek on me like all the reg'mintal tailor's samples there was no 'Good mornin', corp'ril,' or aught else. 'An' what have I done, Miss Shadd,' sez 1, very bould, plantin' mesilf forninst her, 'that ye should not pass the time of day }' " ' Ye've half-killed rough-rider Dempsey,' sez she, her dear blue eyes fillin' up. " ' May be,' sez I. ' Was he a friend av yours that saw ye home four times in the fortnight ? ' " 'Yes,' sez she, but her mouth was down at the corners. ' An' — an' what's that to you } ' she sez. " ' Ask Demsey,' sez I, purtendin' to go away. " 'Did you fight for me then, ye silly man?' she sez, tho' she knew ut all along. " ' Who else ?' sez I, an' I tuk wan pace to the front. " ' I wasn't worth ut,' sez she, fingerin' in her apron. ' ' ' That's for me to say, ' sez I. ' Shall I say ut ? * The Courting of Dinah Shadd 147 "'Yes/sez she, in a saint's whisper, an' at that I explained mesilf ; and she tould me what ivry man that is a man, an' many that is a woman, hears wanst in his life. '"But what made ye cry at startin', Dinah, darlin' ?' sez I. " 'Your — your bloody cheek,' sez she, duckin' her little head down on my sash (I was on duty for the day) an' whimperin' like a sorrowful angil. " Now a man cud take that two ways. I tuk ut as pleased me best an' my first kiss wid ut. Mother av Innocence! but I kissed her on the tip av the nose and undher the eye ; an' a girl that let's a kiss come tumble-ways like that has never been kissed before. Take note av that, sorr. Thin we wint hand in hand to ould Mother Shadd like two little childher, an' she said 'twas no bad thing, an' ould Shadd nodded behind his pipe, an' Dinah ran away to her own room. That day I throd on rollin' clouds. All earth was too small to hould me. Begad, I cud ha' hiked the sun out av the sky for a live coal to my pipe, so magnif- icent 1 was. But I tuk recruities at squad-drill instid, an' began wid general battalion advance whin I shud ha' been balance-steppin' them. Eyah ! that day ! that day ! " A very long pause. " Well ?" said I. "'Twas all wrong," said Mulvaney, with an 1 48 Indian Tales enormous sigh. "An' I know that ev'ry bit av ut was my own foolishness. That night 1 tuk maybe the half av three pints — not enough to turn the hair of a man in his natural senses. But I was more than half drunk wid pure joy, an' that canteen beer was so much whisky to me. I can't tell how it came about, but bekaie I had no thought for anywan except Dinah, behave I hadn't slipped her little white arms from my neck five minuts, bekaie the breath of her kiss was not gone from my mouth, I must go through the married lines on my way to quarters an' I must stay talkin' to a red-headed Mullingar heifer av a girl, Judy Sheehy, that was daughter to Mother Sheehy, the wife of Nick Sheehy, the canteen- sergint — the Black Curse av Shielygh be on the whole brood that are above groun' this day ! "'An' what are ye houldin' your head that high for, corp'ril .?' sez Judy. ' Come in an' thry a cup av tay,' she sez, standin' in the doorway. Bein' an ontrustable fool, an' thinkin' av anything but tay, I wint. "'Mother's at canteen,' sez Judy, smoothin' the hair av hers that was like red snakes, an' lookin' at me corner-ways out av her green cats' eyes. 'Ye will not mind, corp'ril.?' "'I can endure,' sez I ; ould Mother Sheehy bein' no divarsion av mine, nor her daughter too. Judy fetched the tea things an' put thim on the The Courting of Dinah Shadd 149 table, leanin' over me very close to get thim square. I dhrew back, thinkin' av Dinah. " ' Is ut afraid you are av a girl alone?' sez Judy. "'No,' sez I. 'Why should I be.?' " 'That rests wid the girl,' sez Judy, dhrawin' her chair next to mine. "'Thin there let ut rest,' sez I ; an' thinkin' I'd been a trifle onpolite, I sez, ' The tay's not quite sweet enough for my taste. Put your little finger in the cup, Judy. 'Twill make ut necthar.' " ' What's necthar }' sez she. " ' Somethin' very sweet,' sez I; an' for the sinful life av me I cud not help lookin' at her out av the corner av my eye, as I was used to look at a woman. " ' Go on wid ye, corp'ril,' sez she. ' You're a flirrt.' " 'On me sowl I'm not,' sez I. "'Then you're a cruel handsome man, an' that's worse,' sez she, heaving big sighs an' lookin' crossways. " ' You know your own mind,' sez I. " ' 'Twud be better for me if 1 did not,' she sez. " 'There's a dale to be said on both sides av that,' sez I, unthinkin'. "'Say your own part av ut, then, Terence, darlin',' sez she ; ' for begad I'm thinkin' I've said too much or too little for an honest girl,' an' wid 150 Indian Tales that she put her arms round my neck an' kissed me. " 'There's no more to be said afther that,' sez ii, kissin' her back again — Oh the mane scutt that 1 was, my head ringin' wid Dinah Shadd ! How does ut come about, sorr, that when a man has put the comether on wan woman, he's sure bound to put it on another ? 'Tis the same thing at musketry. Wan day ivry shot goes wide or into the bank, an' the next, lay high lay low, sight or snap, ye can't get off the bull's-eye for ten shots runnin'." "That only happens to a man who has had a good deal of experience. He does it without thinking," 1 replied. "Thankin' you for the complimint, sorr, ut may be so. But I'm doubtful whether you mint ut for a complimint. Hear now ; I sat there wid Judy on my knee tellin' me all manner av non- sinse an' only sayin' 'yes' an' 'no,' when I'd much better ha' kept tongue betune teeth. An' that was not an hour afther I had left Dinah! What I was thinkin' avi cannot say. Presintly, quiet as a cat, ould Mother Sheehy came in vel- vet-dhrunk. She had her daughter's red hair, but 'twas bald in patches, an' I cud see in her wicked ould face, clear as lightnin', what Judy wud be twenty years to come. 1 was for jumpin' up, but Judy niver moved. The Courting of Dinah Shadd 151 "'Terence has promust, mother/ sez she, an' the could sweat bruk out all over me. Ould Mother Sheehy sat down of a heap an' began playin' wid the cups. * Thin you're a well- matched pair,' she sez, very thick. 'For he's the biggest rogue that iver spoiled the queen's shoe-leather,' an' — "'I'm off, Judy,' sez I. 'Ye should not talk nonsinse to your mother. Get her to bed, girl.' " ' Nonsinse ! ' sez the ould woman, prickin' up her ears like a cat an' grippin' the table-edge. ' 'Twill be the most nonsinsical nonsinse for you, ye grinnin' badger, if nonsinse 'tis. Git clear, you. I'm goin' to bed.' "I ran out into the dhark, my head in a stew an' my heart sick, but I had sinse enough to see that I'd brought ut all on mysilf. ' It's this to pass the time av day to a panjandhrum av hell- cats,' sez 1. 'What I've said, an' what I've not said do not matther. Judy an' her dam will hould me for a promust man, an' Dinah will give me the go, an' I desarve ut. I will go an' get dhrunk,' sez I, 'an' forget about ut, for 'tis plain I'm not a marrin' man.' " On my way to canteen I ran agamst Las- celles, color-sergeant that was av E Comp'ny, a hard, hard man, wid a torment av a wife. 'You've the head av a drov/ned man on your shoulders,' sez he; 'an' you're goin' where you'll 152 Indian Tales get a worse wan. Come back,' sez he. ' Let me go,' sez I. M've thrown my luck over the wall wid my own hand! ' — 'Then that's not the way to get ut back again,' sez he. 'Have out wid your throuble, ye fool-bhoy.' An' 1 tould him how the matther was. "He sucked in his lower lip. 'You've been thrapped,' sez he. 'Ju Sheehy wud be the bet- ther for a man's name to hers as soon as can. An ye thought ye'd put the comether on her, — that's the natural vanity of the baste. Terence, you're a big born fool, but you're not bad enough to marry into that comp'ny. If you said anythin', an' for all your protestations I'm sure ye did — or did not, which is worse, — eat ut all — lie like the father of all lies, but come out av ut free av Judy. Do I not know what ut is to marry a woman that was the very spit an' image av Judy whin she was young.? I'm gettin' old an' I've larnt pa- tience, but you, Terence, you'd raise hand on Judy an' kill her in a year. Never mind if Dinah gives you the go, you've desarved ut; never mind if the whole reg'mint laughs you all day. Get shut av Judy an' her mother. They can't dhrag you to church, but if they do. they'll dhrag you to hell. Go back to your quarters and lie down,' sez he. Thin over his shoulder, ' You must ha' done with thim.' "Next day I wint to see Dinah, but there was The Courting of Dinah Shadd 153 no tucker in me as I walked. I knew the throuble wud come soon enough widout any handlin' av mine, an' I dreaded ut sore. " I heard Judy callin' me, but I hild straight on to the Shadds' quarthers, an' Dinah wud ha' kissed me but I put her back. "'Whin all's said, darlin','sez I, 'you can give ut me if ye will, tho' I misdoubt 'twill be so easy to come by then.' "1 had scarce begun to put the explanation into shape before Judy an' her mother came to the door. I think there was a veranda, but I'm forgettin'. " 'Will ye not step in .?' sez Dinah, pretty and polite, though the Shadds had no dealin's with the Sheehys. Old Mother Shadd looked up quick, an' she was the fust to see the throuble; for Dinah was her daughter. "'I'm pressed for time to-day,' sez Judy as bould as brass; 'an' I've only come for Terence, — my promust man. 'Tis strange to find him here the day afther the day.' "Dinah looked at me as though I had hit her, an' I answered straight. "'There was some nonsinse last night at the Sheehys' quarthers, an' Judy's carryin' on the joke, darlin',' sez I. " ' At the Sheehys' quarthers } ' sez Dinah very slow, an' Judy cut in wid: 'He was there from 154 Indian Tales nine till ten, Dinah Shadd, an' the betther half av that time I was sittin' on his knee, Dinah Shadd. Ye may look and ye may look an' ye may look me up an' down, but ye won't look away that Terence is my promust man. Terence, darlin', 'tis time for us to be comin' home.' " Dinah Shadd niver said word to Judy. ' Ye left me at half-past eight,' she sez to me, 'an' I niver thought that yed leave me for Judy, — promises or no promises. Go back wid her, you that have to be fetched by a girl! I'm done with you,' sez she, and she ran into her own room, her mother followin'. So i was alone wid those two women and at liberty to spake my senti- ments. " ' Judy Sheehy,' sez I, ' if you made a fool av me betune the lights you shall not do ut in the day. I niver promised you words or lines.' " ' You lie,' sez ould Mother Sheehy, 'an' may ut choke you wnere you stand ! ' She was far gone in dhrink. " 'An' tho' ut choked me where 1 stud I'd not change,' sez I. 'Go home, Judy. I take shame for a decent girl like you dhraggin' your mother out bareheaded on this errand. Hear now, and have ut for an answer. 1 gave my word to Dinah Shadd yesterday, an', more blame to me, I was wid you last night talkin' nonsinse but nothin' more. You've chosen to thry to hould The Cou rting of Dinah Shadd 155 me on ut. I will not be held thereby for anythin' in the world. Is that enough ? ' "Judy wint pink all over. 'An' I wish you joy av the perjury,' sez she, duckin' a curtsey. ' You've lost a woman that would ha' wore her hand to the bone for your pleasure; an' 'deed, Ter- ence, ye were not thrapped. . . .' Lascelles must ha' spoken plain to her. ' 1 am such as Dinah is— 'deed I am ! Ye've lost a fool av a girl that'll niver look at you again, an' ye've lost what he niver had, — your common honesty. If you man- age your men as you manage your love-makin', small wondher they call you the worst corp'ril in the comp'ny. Come away, mother,' sez she. " But divil a fut would the ould woman budge! ' D'you hould by that ?' sez she, peerin' up under her thick grey eyebrows. "'Ay, an' wud,' sez I, ' tho' Dinah give me the go twinty times. I'll have no thruck with you or yours,' sez I. 'Take your child away, ye shameless woman.' " ' An' am I shameless ?' sez she, bringin' her hands up above her head. 'Thin what are you, ye lyin', schamin', weak-kneed, dhirty-souled son av a sutler ? Am / shameless ? Who put the open shame on me an' my child that we shud go beggin' through the lines in the broad daylight for the broken word of a man } Double portion of my shame be on you, Terence Mulvaney, that 156 Indian Tales think yourself so strong! By Mary and the saints, by blood and water an' by ivry sorrow that came into the world since the beginnin', the black blight fall on you and yours, so that you may niver be free from pain for another when ut's not your own! May your heart bleed in your breast drop by drop wid all your friends laughin' at the bleedin'! Strong you think your- self ? May your strength be a curse to you to dhrive you into the divil's hands against your own will! Clear-eyed you are ? May your eyes see clear evry step av the dark path you take till the hot cindhers av hell put thim out! May the ragin' dry thirst in my own ould bones go to you that you shall niver pass bottle full nor glass empty. God preserve the light av your onder- standin' to you, my jewel av a bhoy, that ye may niver forget what you mint to be an' do, whin you're wallowin' in the muck! May ye seethe betther and follow the worse as long as there's breath in your body; an' may ye die quick in a strange land, watchin' your death before ut takes you, an' onable to stir hand or foot! ' " 1 heard a scufflin' in the room behind, and thin Dinah Shadd's hand dhropped into mine like a rose-leaf into a muddy road. " ' The half av that I'll take,' sez she, ' an' more too if I can. Go home, ye silly talkin' woman, — go home an' confess.' The Courting of Dinah Shadd 1 57 "'Come away! Come away!' sez Judy, pullin' her mother by the shawl. ''Twas none av Terence's fault. For the love av Mary stop the talkin'!' " ' An' you! ' said ould Mother Sheehy, spinnin' round forninst Dinah. ' Will ye take the half av that man's load.? Stand off from him, Dinah Shadd, before he takes you down too — you that look to be a quarther-master-sergeant's wife in five years. You look too high, child. You shall wash for the quarther-master-sergeant, whin he plases to give you the job out av charity; but a privit's wife you shall be to the end, an' evry sorrow of a privit's wife you shall know and nivir a joy but wan, that shall go from you like the running tide from a rock. The pain av bearin' you shall know but niver the pleasure av giving the breast; an' you shall put away a man- child into the common ground wid never a priest to say a prayer over him, an' on that man-child ye shall think ivry day av your life. Think long, Dinah Shadd, for you'll niver have another tho' you pray till your knees are bleedin'. The mothers av childer shall mock you behind your back when you're wringing over the washtub. You shall know what ut is to help a dhrunken husband home an' see him go to thegyard-room. Will that plase you, Dinah Shadd, that won't be seen talkin' to my daughter ? You shall talk to 158 Indian Tales worse than Judy before all's over. The sergints' wives shall look down on you contemptuous, daughter av a sergint, an' you shall cover ut all up wid a smiling face when your heart's burstin'. Stand off av him, Dinah Shadd, for I've put the Black Curse of Shielygh upon him an' his own mouth shall make ut good.' "She pitched forward on her head an' began foamin' at the mouth. Dinah Shadd ran out wid water, an' Judy dhragged the ould v/oman into the veranda till she sat up. " 'I'm old an' forlore,' she sez, thremblin' an' cryin', ' and 'tis like I say a dale more than I mane.' " ' When you're able to M^alk, — go,' says ould Mother Shadd. 'This house has no place for the likes av you that have cursed my daughter.' " ' Eyah ! ' said the ould woman. ' Hard words break no bones, an' Dinah Shadd '11 keep the love av her husband till my bones are green corn. Judy darlin', I misremember what 1 came here for. Can you lend us the bottom av a taycup av tay, Mrs. Shadd .^ ' " But Judy dhragged her off cryin' as tho' her heart wud break. An' Dinah Shadd an' I, in ten minutes we had forgot ut all." "Then why do you remember it now?" said I. " Is ut like I'd forget ? Ivry word that wicked The Courting of Dinah Shadd j^g ould woman spoke fell thrue in my life afther- ward, an' I cud ha' stud ut all — stud ut all — ex- cipt when my little Shadd was born. That was on the line av march three months afther the regiment was taken with cholera. We were betune Umballa an' Kalka thin, an' I was on picket. Whin I came off duty the women showed me the child, an' ut turned out uts side an' died as ! looked. We buried him by the road, an' Father Victor was a day's march behind wid the heavy baggage, so the comp'ny captain read a prayer. An' since then I've been a child- less man, an' all else that ould Mother Sheehy put upon me an' Dinah Shadd. What do you think, sorr } " I thought a good deal, but it seemed better then to reach out for Mulvaney's hand. The demonstration nearly cost me the use of three fingers. Whatever he knows of his weaknesses, Mulvaney is entirely ignorant of his strength. "But what do you think?" he repeated, as I was straightening out the crushed lingers. My reply was drowned in yells and outcries from the next fire, where ten men were shouting for "Orth'ris," " Privit Orth'ris," " Mistah Or— ther — ris!" '' Deah boy," " Cap'n Orth'ris," "Field-Marshal Orth'ris," "Stanley, you pen'- north o' pop, come 'ere to your own comp'ny!" And the cockney, who had been delighting an- i6o Indian Tales other audience with recondite and Rabelaisian yarns, was shot down among his admirers by the major force. " You've crumpled my dress-shirt 'orrid," said he, "an' I shan't sing no more to this 'ere bloomin' drawin'-room." Learoyd, roused by the confusion, uncoiled himself, crept behind Ortheris, and slung him aloft on his shoulders. "Sing, ye bloomin' hummin' bird!" said he, and Ortheris, beating time on Learoyd's skull, delivered himself, in the raucous voice of the Ratcliffe Highway, of this song: — My girl she give me the go onst, When I was a London lad, An' I went on the drink for a fortnight, An' then I went to the bad. The Queen she give me a shillin' To fight for 'er over the seas ; But Guv'ment built me a fever-trap. An' Injia give me disease. Chorus. Ho ! don't you 'eed what a girl says, An' don't you go for the beer ; But I was an ass when I was at grass. An' that is why I'm here. I fired a shot at a Afghan, The beggar 'e fired again, An' I lay on my bed with a 'ole in my 'ed, An' missed the next campaign ! The Courting of Dinah Shadd i6i I up with my gun at a Burman Who carried a bloomin' da/i, But the cartridge stuck and the bay'nit bruk, An' all I got was the scar. Chorus. Ho ! don't you aim at a Afghan When you stand on tUe sky-line clear; An' don't you go for a Burman If none o' your friends is near. I served my time for a corp'ral, An' wetted my stripes with pop, For I went on the bend with a intimate friend. An' finished the night in the " shop." I served my time for a sergeant ; The colonel 'e sez " No ! The most you'll see is a full C, B." ' An' . . . very next night 'twas so. Chorus. Ho ! don't you go for a corp'ral Unless your 'ed is clear ; But I was an ass when I was at grass, An' that is why I'm 'ere. I've tasted the luck o' the army In barrack an' camp an' cHnk, An' I lost my tip through the bloomin' trip Along o' the women an' drink. I'm down at the heel o' my service An' when I am laid on the shelf, My very wust friend from beginning to end By the blood of a mouse was myself ! ' Confined to barracks. 1 62 Indian Tales Chorus. Ho ! don't you 'eed what a girl says, An' don't you go for the beer : But 1 was an ass when I was at grass, An' that is why I'm 'ere. "Ay, listen to our little man now, singin' an' shoutin' as tho' trouble had niver touched him. D' you remember when he went mad with the homesickness ? " said Mulvaney, recalling a never-to-be-forgotten season when Ortheris waded through the deep waters of affliction and behaved abominably. " But he's talkin' bitter truth, though. Eyah! " My very worst frind from beginnin' to ina By the blood av a mouse was mesilf ! " When I woke I saw Mulvaney, the night-dew gemming his moustache, leaning on his rifle at picket, lonely as Prometheus on his rock, with I know not what vultures tearing his liver. THE STORY OF MUHAMMAD DIN Who is the happy man ? He that sees in his own house at home, little children crowned with dust, leaping and falling and crying. — Munichandra, translated by Professor Peterson. THE polo-ball was an old one, scarred, chipped, and dinted, it stood on the mantelpiece among the pipe-stems which Imam Din, khitmat- gar, was cleaning for me. "Does the Heaven-born want this ball?" said Imam Din, deferentially. The Heaven-born set no particular store by it ; but of what use was a polo-ball to a khimatgar ? "By your Honor's favor, I have a little son. He has seen this ball, and desires it to play with. I do not want it for myself." No one would for an instant accuse portly old Imam Din of wanting to play with polo-balls. He carried out the battered thing into the veranda; and there followed a hurricane of joyful squeaks, a patter of small feet, and the thiid-thud-thud oi the ball rolling along the ground. Evidently the little son had been waiting outside the door to secure his treasure. But how had he managed to see that polo-ball ? Next day, coming back from office half an hour 163 1 64 Indian Tales earlier than usual, I was aware of a small figure in the dining-room — a tiny, plump figure in a ridiculously inadequate shirt which came, per- haps, half-way down the tubby stomach. It wandered round the room, thumb in mouth, crooning to itself as it took stock of the pictures. Undoubtedly this was the "little son." He had no business in my room, of cours-^; but was so deeply absorbed in his discoveries that he never noticed me in the doorway. I stepped into the room and startled him nearly into a fit. He sat down on the ground with a gasp. His eyes opened, and his mouth followed suit. I knew what was coming, and fled, followed by a long, dry howl which reached the servants' quarters far more quickly than any command of mine had ever done. In ten seconds Imam Din was in the dining-r jom. Then despairing sobs arose, and I returned to find Imam Din admonishing the small sinner who was using most of his shirt as a hand- kerchief. "This boy," said Imam Din, judicially, "is a biidmash — a big biidmash. He will, without doubt, go to the jail-hhana for his behavior." Renewed yells from the penitent, and an elab- orate apology to myself from Imam Din. "Tell the baby," said I, "that the Sahib is not angry, and take him away," Imam Din conveyed my forgiveness to the offender, who had now The Story of Muhammad Din 165 gathered all his shirt round his neck, stringwise, and the yell subsided into a sob. The two set off for the door. "His name," said Imam Din, as though the name were part of the crime, "is Muhammad Din, and he is a budmash." Freed from present danger, Muhammad Din turned round in his father's arms, and said gravely, "It is true that my name is Muhammad Din, Tahib, but 1 am not a budmash. 1 am a man ! " From that day dated my acquaintance with Muhammad Din. Never again did he come into my dining-room, but on the neutral ground of the garden, we greeted each other with much state, though our conversation was confined to " Talaam, Tahib" from his side, and ''Salaam, Muhammad Din " from mine. Daily on my re- turn from office, the little white shirt, and the fat little body used to rise from the shade of the creeper-covered trellis where they had been hid ; and daily I checked my horse here, that my salu- tation might not be slurred over or given un- seemly. Muhammad Din never had any companions. He used to trot about the compound, in and out of the castor-oil bushes, on mysterious errands of his own. One day I stumbled upon some of his handiwork far down the grounds. He had half buried the polo-ball in dust, and stuck six shriv- eled old marigold flowers in a circle round it. 1 66 Indian Tales Outside that circle again was a rude square, traced out in bits of red brick alternating with fragments of broken china; the whole bounded by a little bank of dust. The water-man from the well- curb put in a plea for the small architect, saying that it was only the play of a baby and did not much disfigure my garden. Heaven knows that 1 had no intention of touch- ing the child's work then or later; but, that even- ing, a stroll through the garden brought me una- wares full on it; so that 1 trampled, before I knew, marigold-heads, dust-bank, and fragments of broken soap-dish into confusion past all hope of mending. Next morning, I came upon Muham- mad Din crying softly to himself over the ruin I had wrought. Some one had cruelly told him that the Sahib was very angry with him for spoil- ing the garden, and had scattered his rubbish, using bad language the while. Muhammad Din labored for an hour at effacing every trace of the dust-bank and pottery fragments, and it was with a tearful and apologetic face that he said " Talaam, Tahib," when I came home from office. A hasty inquiry resulted in Imam Din informing Muham- mad Din that, by my singular favor, he was per- mitted to disport himself as he pleased. Whereat the child took heart and fell to tracing the ground- plan of an edifice v/hich was to eclipse the mari- gold-polo-ball creation. 7he Story of Muhammad Din 167 For some months, the chubby little eccentricity revolved in his humble orbit among the castor- oil bushes and in the dust; always fashioning magnificent palaces from stale flowers thrown away by the bearer, smooth water-worn pebbles, bits of broken glass, and feathers pulled, 1 fancy, from my fowls — always alone, and always crooning to himself. A gaily-spotted sea-shell was dropped one day close to the last of his little buildings; and I looked that Muhammad Din should build some- thing more than ordinarily splendid on the strength of it. Nor was I disappointed. He meditated for the better part of an hour, and his crooning rose to a jubilant song. Then he began tracing in the dust, it would certainly be a wondrous palace, this one, for it was two yards long and a yard broad in ground-plan. But the palace was never completed. Next day there was no Muhammad Din at the head of the carriage-drive, and no " Talaam, Tahib" to welcome my return. I had grown accustomed to the greeting, and its omission troubled me. Next day Imam Din told me that the child was suffering slightly from fever and needed quinine. He got the medicine, and an English Doctor. "They have no stamina, these brats," said the Doctor, as he left Imam Din's quarters. i68 Indian Tales A week later, though I would have given much to have avoided it, 1 met on the road to the Mussulman burying-ground Imam Din, accom- panied by one other friend, carrying in his arms, wrapped in a white cloth, all that was left of little Muhammad Din. 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 ? 1 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, too, wishes to cross to the far side. Well done! Well done! my King! Go half way across, mahoutji, 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, bastard.^ Strike! Strike! What are the i6q 1 70 Indian Tales boulders to thee, Ram Pershad, my Rustum, my mountain of strength ? Go in!" Go in! No, Sahib! It is useless. You can hear him trumpet. He is telling Kala Nag ihat 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, mahout, and see that he gets his spices. Well done, thou chief est 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 day after at the latest. Now why does the Sahib get so angry ? I am his servant. 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 beginning to rain. Come away, my Lord. How will the river go dov/n 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 In Flood Time 171 on to its tail. The fire-carriage hath spoiled the English people. After all, what is a day lost, or, for that matter, 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 1 have forgotten the respect that is due to them. The Sahib is not angry } His own wedding! Ho! Ho! Ho! The mind of an old man is like the nnmah-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 is it likely that the Sahib would speak true talk to me who am only a black man ? Sm.all 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 172 Indian Tales track of the bunjaras, and I have seen two thou- sand pack-bullocks cross in one night. Now the rai\ has come, and the fire-carriage says bui-bui- bu^, and a hundred lakhs of maunds slide across that big bridge. It is very wonderful; but the ford is lonely now that there are no bunjaras to camp under the trees. Nay, do not trouble to look at the sky without. It will rain till the dawn. Listen! The boulders are talking to-night in the bed of the river. Hear them! They would be husking your bones. Sa- hib, had you tried to cross. See, I will shut the door and no rain can enter. IVahi! Ahi! Ugh! Thirty years on the banks of the ford! An old man am I and — where is the oil for the lamp ? Your pardon, 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 kos from bank to bank is the stream now — you can see it under the stars — and there are ten feet of 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 louder, 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 has fallen rain In Flood Time 173 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 1 was a young man and had but newly come to the ford. 1 was strong then, and the buiijaras had no doubt when I said "this ford is clear." 1 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 shivering men, and they gave me for reward the pick of their cattle — the bell-bullock of the drove. So great was the honor in which I was held! But, to-day when the rain falls and the river rises, I creep into my hut and whimper like a dog. My 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 J 74 Indian Tales see a thin fire very far away dov/n 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 itself, 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 1 swam to Pateera — not once but many times; and there are muggers 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 pilgrimage 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 marry one of the idolaters ? Is the Sahib a priest, then, In Flood Time 175 that he knows so much ? ! will tell him some- thing 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 I do? 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 hav- ing been arranged betv/een us twain, to go by night to the village of Pateera, and there we met among the crops; 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 Pateera. The light of the shrine was my guide when the nights were dark. That jungle near the river is very full of snakes — little karaits that sleep on the sand — and moreover, Her broth- ers 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 176 Indian Tales stream, and nightly I ate in my hut here and drank at Pateera yonder. She had said that one Hirnam Singh, a thief, 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. 1 was ready to destroy Hirnam Singh tnat ever he had come nigh Her; and the more because he had sworn to Her that She had a lover, and that he would He in wait and give the name to the head- man 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 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. !n 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 chupatty, grow from a runnel to a sister of the Jumna. When ' 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 ci the river heavy upon my heels. Yet k Flood Time ijy what will a young man not do for Love's sake? There was but little light from the stars, and mid- way 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, tor the deodar is a strong tree, not easily shaken from the hillsides. 1 made haste, the river aid- ing 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 of a wave that ran from bank to bank. Has the Sahib ever been cast into much water that fights and will not let a man use his limbs ? To me, my head upon the water, it seemed as though there were naught but water to the world's end, and the river drave me with its driftwood. A man is a very little thing in the belly of a flood. And this flood, though I knew it not, was the Great Flood about which men talk still. My liver was dissolved and 1 lay like a log upon my back in the fear of Death. There were living things in the water, crying and howl- ing grievously — beasts of the forest and cattle, and once the voice of a man asking for help. But the rain came and lashed the water white, and 1 heard no more save the roar of the boulders below and the roar of the rain above. Thus I was whirled down-stream, wrestling for the breath in me. It is very hard to die when one is 1 78 Indian Tales young. 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 roaring against the lattice- work and against the lattice came I feet first. But much driftwood was piled there and upon the piers, and 1 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 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. In Flood Time 179 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 as a man stirs in his sleep ere he wakes. But 1 was not afraid, Sahib. 1 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 God's truth! Asa Mirzapore stone-boat careens to the wind, so the Barhwi Bridge turned. Thus and in no other manner. 1 slid from the boom into deep water, and be- hind me came the wave of the wrath of the river. I heard its voice and the screami 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 l8o Indian Tales aid to me. I laughed then, knowing for a surety that I should yet see Her and take no harm ; and 1 twisted my fingers in the hair of the man, for 1 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 the power of the river; and 1 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 with 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 tama- risk brushed my knees, so 1 knew we v/ere 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 ! drew my body from the water rejoicing. Does the Sahib know whither the backwash of the flood had borne me } To the knoll which is the eastern boundary-mark of the village of Pateera! No other place. 1 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 In Flood Time i8i was near the byre of the headman's house. But my Love was already there, weeping. 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 1 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, crying: "It is the body of Hirnam Singh!" I said: "The swine is of more use dead than living, my Beloved," and She said: " Surely, for he has saved the dearest life in the world to my love. None the less, he cannot 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, ' I grieve to say that the Warden of Barhwi ford is re- sponsible here for two very bad puns in the vernacular. — R. K. 1 82 Indian Tales 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 1 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 1 saw no more of Hirnam Singh. Before the breaking of the day we two parted, and I moved toward 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 Jws of raging water between the village of Pateera and the trees of the far bank, and, in the middle, the piers 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 kos up the river to the house of a blacksmith, saying that the flood had In Flood Time 183 swept me from my hut, and they gave me food. Seven days I stayed with the blacksmith, till a boat came and 1 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 1 should not die either in my house, or in the heart of the Barhwi, 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 1 know ? Have I been here thirty years without 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 morn- ing. 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 "? Ohe, 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. 184 Indian Tales Money? Nay, Sahib. I am not of that kind. No, not even to give sweetmeats to the baby- folk. My house, look you, is empty, and I am an old man. Dtttt, Ram Pershad! Diitt ! Duit! Duttl Good luck go with you, Sahib. MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY As I came through the Desert thus it was — As I came through the Desert. — The City of Dreadful Night. SOMEWHERE in the Other World, where there are books and pictures and plays and shop-windows to look at, and thousands of men who spend their lives in building up all four, lives a gentleman who writes real stories about the real insides of people; and his name is Mr. Walter Besant. But he will insist upon treating his ghosts — he has published half a workshopful of them — with levity. He makes his ghost-seers talk familiarly, and, in some cases, flirt outrageously, with the phantoms. You may treat anything, from a Viceroy to a Vernacular Paper, with levity; but you must behave rever- ently toward a ghost, and particularly an Indian one. There are, in this land, ghosts who take the form of fat, cold, pobby corpses, and hide in trees near the roadside till a traveler passes. Then they drop upon his neck and remain. There are also terrible ghosts of women who have died in child-bed. These wander along the pathways at l85 1 86 Indian Tales dusk, or hide in the crops near a village, and call seductively. But to answer their call is death in this world and the next. Their feet are turned backward that all sober men may recognize them. There are ghosts of little children who have been thrown into wells. These haunt well- curbs and the fringes of jungles, and wail under the stars, or catch women by the wrist and beg to be taken up and carried. These and the corpse-ghosts, however, are only vernacular ar- ticles and do not attack Sahibs. No native ghost has yet been authentically reported to have frightened an Englishman; but many English ghosts have scared the life out of both white and black. Nearly every other Station owns a ghost. There are said to be two at Simla, not counting the woman who blows the bellows at Syree dak- bungalow on the Old Road; Mussoorie has a house haunted of a very lively Thing; a White Lady is supposed to do night-watchman round a house in Lahore; Dalhousie says that one of her houses "repeats" on autumn evenings all the in- cidents of a horrible horse-and-precipice acci- dent; Murree has a merry ghost, and, now that she has been swept by cholera, will have room. for a sorrowful one; there are Officers' Quarters in Mian Mir whose doors open without reason, and whose furniture is guaranteed to creak, not My Own True Ghost Story i^j with the heat of June but with the weight of In- visibles who come to lounge in the chair; Pesha- wur possesses houses that none will willingly rent; and there is something — not fever — wrong with a big bungalow in Allahabad. The older Provinces simply bristle with haunted houses, and march phantom armies along their main thoroughfares. Some of the dak-bungalows on the Grand Trunk Road have handy little cemeteries in their compound — witnesses to the "changes and chances of this mortal life" in the days when men drove from Calcutta to the Northwest. These bungalows are objectionable places to put up in. They are generally very old, always dirty, while the khansamah is as ancient as the bungalow. He either chatters senilely, or falls into the long trances of age. In both moods he is useless. If you get angry with him, he refers to some Sahib dead and buried these thirty years, and says that when he was in that Sahib's service not a khansamah in the Province could touch him Then he jabbers and mows and trembles and fidgets among the dishes, and you repent of your irritation. In these dak-bungalows, ghosts are most likely to be found, and when found, they should be made a note of. Not long ago it was my busi- ness to live in dak-bungalows, I never inhabited 1 88 Indian Tales the same house for three nights running, and grew to be learned in the breed. 1 lived in Government-built ones with red brick walls and rail ceilings, an inventory of the furniture posted in every room, and an excited snake at the threshold to give welcome. 1 lived in "con- verted " ones — old houses officiating as dak-bun- galows — where nothing was in its proper place and there wasn't even a fowl for dinner. I lived in second-hand palaces where the wind blew through open-work marble tracery just as un- comfortably as through a broken pane. I lived in dak-bungalows where the last entry in the visitors' book was fifteen months old, and where they slashed off the curry-kid's head with a sword. It was my good-luck to meet all sorts of men, from sober traveling missionaries and deserters flying from British Regiments, to drunken loafers who threw whiskey bottles at all who passed; and my still greater good-fortune just to escape a maternity case. Seeing that a fair proportion of the tragedy of our lives out here acted itself in dak-bungalows, I wondered that I had met no ghosts. A ghost that would voluntarily hang about a dak-bungalow would be mad of course; but so many men have died mad in dak-bungalows that there must be a fair percentage of lunatic ghosts. In due time I found my ghost, or ghosts rather. My Own True Ghost Story 189 for there were two of them. Up till that hour I had sympathized with Mr. Besant's method of handling them, as shown in " The Strange Case of Mr. Lucraft and other Stories." I am now in the Opposition. We will call the bungalow Katmal dak-bunga- low. But that was the smallest part of the horror. A man with a sensitive hide has no right to sleep in dak-bungalows. He should marry. Katmal dak-bungalow was old and rotten and unrepaired. The floor was of worn brick, the walls were filthy, and the windows were nearly black with grime. It stood on a by- path largely used by native Sub-Deputy Assist- ants of all kinds, from Finance to Forests; but real Sahibs were rare. The khansamah, who was nearly bent double with old age, said so. When I arrived, there was a fitful, undecided rain on the face of the land, accompanied by a restless wind, and every gust made a noise like the rattling of dry bones in the stiff toddy-palms outside. The khansamah completely lost his head on my arrival. He had served a Sahib once. Did I know that Sahib ? He gave me the name of a well-known man who has been buried for more than a quarter of a century, and showed me an ancient daguerreotype of that man in his prehistoric youth. 1 had seen a steel engraving of him at the head of a double volume of Mem- 190 Indian Tales oirs a month before, and I felt ancient beyond telling. The day shut in and the khansamah went to get me food. He did not go through the pre- tence of calling it "khana" — man's victuals. He said "raiiib" and that means, among other things, "grub" — dog's rations. There was no insult in his choice of the term. He had for- gotten the other word, I suppose. While he was cutting up the dead bodies of animals, I settled myself down, after exploring the dak-bungalow. There were three rooms, beside my own, which was a corner kenne!, each giving into the other through dingy white doors fastened with long iron bars. The bungalow was a very solid one, but the partition-walls of the rooms were almost jerry-built in their fiimsi- ness. Every step or bang of a trunk echoed from my room down the other three, and -very footfall came back tremulously from the far walls. For this reason 1 shut the door. There were no lamps — only candles in long glass shades. An oil wick was set in the bath-room. For bleak, unadulterated misery that dak- bungalow was the worst of the many that 1 had ever set foot in. There was no fireplace, and the windows would not open; so a brazier of charcoal would have been useless. The rain and the wind splashed and gurgled and moaned round My Own True Ghost Story 191 the house, and the toddy-palms rattled and roared. Half a dozen jackals went through the compound singing, and a hyena stood afar off and mocked them. A hyena would convince a Sadducee of the Resurrection of the Dead — the worst sort of Dead. Then came the ratub — a curious meal, half native and half English in composition — with the old khansamah babbling behind my chair about dead and gone English people, and the wind-blown candles playing shadow-bo-peep with the bed and the mosquito- curtains. It was just the sort of dinner and evening to make a man think of every single one of his past sins, and of all the others that he in- tended to commit if he lived. Sleep, for several hundred reasons, was not easy. The lamp in the bath-room threw the most absurd shadows into the room, and the wind was beginning to talk nonsense. Just when the reasons were drowsy with blood-sucking I heard the regular — " Let-us-take- and-heave-him-over " grunt of doolie-bearers in the compound. First one doolie came in, then a second, and then a third. I heard the doolies dumped on the ground, and the shutter in front of my door shook. ** That's some one trying to come in," 1 said. But no one spoke, and I per- suaded myself that it was the gusty wind. The shutter of the room next to mine was attacked, 192 Inaian Tales flung back, and the inner door opened. " That's some Sub-Deputy Assistant," I said, " and he has brought his friends with him. Now they'll talk and spit and smoke for an hour." But there were no voices and no footsteps. No one was putting his luggage into the next room. The door shut, and 1 thanked Providence that I was to be left in peace. But I was curious to know where the doolies had gone. 1 got out of bed and looked into the darkness. There was never a sign of a doolie, just as 1 was getting into bed again, I heard, in the next room, the sound that no man in his senses can possibly mis- take — the whir of a billiard ball down the length of the slates when the striker is stringing for break. No other sound is like it. A minute afterward there was another whir, and I got into bed. I was not frightened — indeed I was not. I was very curious to know what had become of the doolies. I jumped into bed for that reason. Next minute 1 heard the double click of a can- non and my hair sat up. It is a mistake to say that hair stands up. The skin of the head tight- ens and you can feel a faint, prickly bristling all over the scalp. That is the hair sitting up. There was a whir and a click, and both sounds could only have been m.ade by one thing — a bil- liard ball. I argued the matter rut at great length with myself; and the more I argued the My Own True Ghost Story 193 less probable it seemed that one bed, one table, and two chairs — all the furniture of the room next to mine — could so exactly duplicate the sounds of a game of billiards. After another cannon, a three-cushion one to judge by the whir, I argued no more. I had found my ghost and would have given worlds to have escaped from that dak-bungalow. I listened, and with each listen the game grew clearer. There was whir on whir and click on click. Sometimes there was a double click and a whir and another click. Beyond any sort of doubt, people were playing billiards in the next room. And the next room was not big enough to hold a billiard table! Between the pauses of the wind 1 heard the game go forward — stroke after stroke. I tried to believe that I could not hear voices; but that attempt was a failure. Do you know what fear is ? Not ordinary fear of insult, injury or death, but abject, quivering dread of something that you cannot see — fear that dries the inside of the mouth and half of the throat — fear that makes you sweat on the palms of the hands, and gulp in order to keep the uvula at work? This is a fine Fear — a great cowardice, and must be felt to be appreciated. The very improbability of billiards in a dak- bungalow proved the reality of the thing. No man — drunk or sober — could imagine a game a 194 Indian Tales billiards, or invent the spitting crack of a " screw- canncn." A severe course of dak-bungalows has this disadvantage — it breeds infinite credulity. If a man said to a confirmed dak-bungalow-haunter: — "There is a corpse in the next room, and there's a mad girl in the next but one, and the woman and man on that camel have just eloped from a place sixty miles away," the hearer would not disbelieve because he would know that noth- ing is too wild, grotesque, or horrible to happen in a dak-bungalow. This credulity, unfortunately, extends to ghosts. A rational person fresh from his own house would have turned on his side and slept 1 did not. So surely as I was given up as a bad carcass by the scores of things in the bed because the bulk of my blood was in my heart, so surely did I hear every stroke of a long game at bil- liards played in the echoing room behind the iron-barred door. My dominant fear was that the players might want a maker. It was an ab- surd fear; because creatures who could play in the dark would be above such superfluities. I only know that that was my terror; and it was real. After a long long while, the game stopped, and the door banged. 1 slept because I was dead tired. Otherwise I should have preferred to have kept My Own True Ghost Story i95 awake. Not for everything in Asia would I have dropped the door-bar and peered into the dark of the next room. When the morning came, I considered that I had done well and wisely, and inquired for the means of departure. " By the way, khaiisamaJi," I said, " what were those three doolies doing in my compound in the night?" "There were no doolies," said the khansainah. I went into the next room and the daylight streamed through the open door. I was im- mensely brave. 1 would, at that hour, have played Black Pool with the owner of the big Black Pool down below. " Has this place always been a dak-bunga- low } " I asked. " No," said the hhansamah. " Ten or twenty years ago, I have forgotten how long, it was a billiard-room." " A how much ? " "A billiard-room for the Sahibs who built the Railway. I was khansamah then in the big house where all the Railway-Sahibs lived, and I used to come across with brandy-sAr^^. These three rooms were all one, and they held a big table on which the Sahibs played every evening. But the Sahibs are all dead now, and the Raiiway cuns, you say, nearly to Kabul." 196 Indian Tales " Do you remember anything about the Sahibs ? " "It is long ago, but I remember that one Sahib, a fat man and always angry, was playing here one night, and he said to me: — • Mangal Khan, brandy-pa in do,' and 1 filled the glass, and he bent over the table to strike, and his head fell lower and lower till it hit the table, and his spectacles came off, and when we — the Sahibs and I myself — ran to lift him he was dead. I helped to carry him out. Aha, he was a strong Sahib! But he is dead and I, old Mangal Khan, am still living, by your favor." That was more than enough! I had my ghost — a first-hand, authenticated article. I would write to the Society for Psychical Research — I would paralyze the Empire with the news! But I would, first of all, put eighty miles of assessed crop-land between myself and that dak-bunga- low before nightfall. The Society might send their regular agent to investigate later on. I went into my own room and prepared to pack after noting down the facts of the case. As 1 smoked I heard the game begin again — with a miss in balk this time, for the whir was a short one. The door was open and I could see into the room. Cl/ck — click! That was a cannon. 1 entered the room without fear, for there was My Own True Ghost Story 197 sunlight within and a fresh breeze without. The unseen game was going on at a tremendous rate. And well it might, when a restless little rat was running to and fro inside the dingy ceiling-cloth, and a piece of loose window-sash was making fifty breaks off the window-bolt as it shook in the breeze! Impossible to mistake the sound of billiard balls! Impossible to mistake the whir of a ball over the slate! But I was to be excused. Even when I shut my enlightened eyes the sound was marvelously like that of a fast game. Entered angrily the faithful partner of my sor- rows, Kadir Baksh. "This bungalow is very bad and low-caste! No wonder the Presence was disturbed and is speckled. Three sets of doolie-bearers came to the bungalow late last night when I was sleeping outside, and said that it was their custom to rest in the rooms set apart for the English people! What honor has the khansamah ? They tried to enter, but I told them to go. No wonder, if these Oorias have been here, that the Presence is sorely spotted. It is shame, and the work of a dirty man! " Kadir Baksh did not say that he had taken from each gang two annas for rent in advance, and then, beyond my earshot, had beaten them with the big green umbrella whose use I could 19^ Indian Tales never before divine. But Kadir Baksh has no notions of morality. There was an interview with the khansamah, but as he promptly lost his head, wrath gave place to pity, and pity led to a long conversa- tion, in the course of which he put the fat En- gineer-Sahib's tragic death in three separate sta- tions — two of them fifty miles away. The third shift was to Calcutta, and there the Sahib died while driving a dog-cart. If 1 had encouraged him the khansamah would have wandered all through Bengal with his corpse. I did not go away as soon as 1 intended. I stayed for the night, while the wind and the rat and the sash and the window-bolt played a ding- dong "hundred and fifty up." Then the wind ran out and the billiards stopped, and I felt that 1 had ruined my one genuine, hall-marked ghost story. Had I only stopped at the proper time, I could have made anything out of it. That was the bitterest thought of all! THE BIG DRUNK DRAP We're goin' 'ome, we're goin' 'oine — Our ship is at 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 lodg- ings, 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 some sort of work. The contractor said that if Mul- vaney 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 ac- 199 200 Indian Tales cept she would make his life a "basted purga- thory." Therefore the Mulvaneys came out as "civilians," which was a great and terrible fall; though Mulvaney tried to disguise it, by saying that he was " Ker'nel 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 clothing, 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. "I'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 compli- mint 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 v/e'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 sun- down." The Big Drunk Draf 201 When we three were comfortably settled under the big sisham in front of the bungalow, 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 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 told me in the drawing-room of 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 re- plying 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 202 Indian Tales outrajis thurrst; for there's nothin' so dhryin' to the throat as a big billy-goat beard waggin' un- dher the chin. Ye wudn't have me dhrink al- ways, Dinah Shadd ? By the same token, you're kapin' me crool dhry now. Let me look at that whiskey." The whiskey was lent and returned, but Dinah Shadd, who had been just as eager as her hus- band in asking after old friends, rent me with — "I take shame for you, sorr, coming down here — though the Saints know you're as welkim as the daylight whin you do come — an' upsettin' Terence's head wid your nonsense about — about fwhat's much better forgotten. He bein' a civil- ian 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 Dhrumshticks is well, an' his lady tu ? 1 niver knew how 1 liked the grey garron till I was shut av him an' Asia." — '' Dhrumshticks " was the nickname of the Colo- nel commanding 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 203 "Mister, Terence," interrupted Dinah Shadd. " Now the Divil an' all his angils an' the Firma- ment av Hiven fly away wid the ' Mister,' an' the sin av making me sv/ear be on your confession, Dinah Shadd! Pn'vit, 1 tell ye. Wid Pnvit 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 behaderin' round wid the gangs on the 'bankmint — I've taught the hoppers how to kape step an' stop screechin' — whin a head-gangman comes up to me, wid about two inches av shirt-tail hanging round his neck an' a 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 night- fall! They say they're comin' down here to 204 Indian Tales wake us up. What will we do wid our women- folk?' "'Fetch my throUy!' sez I; 'my heart's sick in my ribs for a wink at anything wid the Quane's uniforna on ut. Fetch my throUy, an' six av the jildiest men, and run me up in shtyle.' " " He tuk his best coat," said Dinah Shadd, re- proachfully. " 'Twas to do honor to the Widdy. I cud ha' done no less, Dinah Shadd. You and your di- gresshins interfere wid the coorse av the narra- tive. 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'. "I was throllied up six miles, all to get a shquint at that draf. I knew 'twas a spring draf goin' home, for there's no rig'mint hereabouts, 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 bel- lowin' hke a bison wid the belly-ache. You re- mimber 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 ? The Big Dnink Draf 205 "Thin I knew ut was a draf of the ould rig'- rnint, 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 ApoUonius, 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 boih to the rig'mints and the Arrmy sendin' down little orf'cer bhoys wid a draf av strong men mad wid liquor an' the chanst av gettin' shut av India, an' niver a punishment 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 tltim. But whin I've served my time, I'm a Reserve man, an' the Ar- ticles av War haven't any hould on me. An orf cer can't do anythin' to a time-expired savin' confmin' him to barricks. 'Tis a wise rig'lation bekaze a time-expired does not have any bar- ricks; 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 that made 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. No matther. The nearer my throlly came 2o6 Indian Tale. to the rest-camp, the woilder was the shine, an' the louder was the voice av Peg Barney. ' Tis good I am here,' thinks 1 to myself, ' for Peg alone is employmint for 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. 1 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 Com- mandher-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 The Big Drunk Draf 207 on the head wid his boot for each man that he cursed. A powerful big voice had Peg Barne}^ 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 disremim.bers the Brigade-Major an' the Judge Advokit Gen'ral. " '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. "'I 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 1. ''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 orfcer in charge av the de- 2o8 Indian Tales tachment ? ' sez 1 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 1; 'thin I'm O'Connell 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 orfcer's tent. 'Twas a new little bhoy — not wan I'd iver seen before. He was sittin' in his tent, purtendin' not to 'ave ear av the racket. "I 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 I; ''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 gintleman. " ' Sit down,' sez he. '"Not before my orf 'cer,' sez I; an' I tould him fwhat my service was. "'I've heard av you,' sez he. 'You tuk the town av Lungtungpen nakid.' "'Faith,' thinks 1, '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 The Big Drunk Draf 2og Hackerston in the Ould Rig'mint can manage a Home draf.' "'I've niver had charge of men like this be- fore,' 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 noncoms, sorr.^' " 'Yes,' sez he. " ' Good,' sez 1 ; ' 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 lesson, sorr,' sez I, 'but av you shtick to the Rig'lations you'll niver get thim in-ship at all, at all. Or there w^on't be a rag av kit betune thim whin you do.' " 'Twas a dear little orf'cer bhoy, an' by way av kapin' his heart up, 1 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 2IO Indian Tales 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 orf'cer bhoy woild wid indignation. " ' Soft an' aisy, sorr,' sez I; 'you've niver had your draf in hand since you left cantonmints. 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 friends. Tis no manner av use thryin' to shtop the divil- mint now.' " Wid that 1 wint out into the camp an' inthro- juced mysilf to ivry man sober enough to remim- ber me. 1 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 match. They come round me an' shuk me, an' 1 tould thim I was in privit employ 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 bad even thin whin I was the Angil av Peace. "I talked to me ould non-coms — they was sober — an' betune me an' thim we wore the draf over into their tents at the proper time. The little orf'cer bhoy he comes round, decint an' civil-spoken as might be. The Big Drunk Draf 211 "'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 tricks 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. iMe 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. He cut Peg Barney as near as might be on the oi that I'd squshed whin we first met. Peg wint spin- nin' 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 tent-peg to each arm an' leg, swearin' fit to turn a naygur white. " I tuk a peg an' jammed ut into his ugly jaw. — ' Bite on that. Peg Barney,' 1 sez; 'the night is settin' frosty, an' you'll be wantin' divarsion be- fore the mornin'. But for the Rig'lations you'd 2 1 2 Indian Tales 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'. "'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. "I 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 jack- als, 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 orfcer 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 orfcer under- sthand 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 ' ille- gality ' cud I hear. The Big Drunk Draf 213 " I 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 Mother; '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 1, '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' tJiat, mark you, has not come about wid a draf in the mim'ry av livin' man! You look to that little orf cer bhoy. He has bowils. 'Tis not ivry child that wud chuck the Rig'lations to Flanders an' stretch Peg Barney on a wink from a brokin an' dilapidated ould carkiss like mesilf. I'd be proud to serve " — "Terrence, you're a civilian," said Dinah Shadd, warningly. "So I am — so I am. Is ut likely I wud for- get ut } But he was a gran' bhoy all the same, 2 1 4 Indian Tales an' I'm only a mudtipper wid a hod on my shoul- thers. The whiskey's in the heel av your hand, sorr. V/id your good lave we'll dhrink to the Ould Rig'mint— three fingers — standin' up I" And we drank. BY WORD OF MOUTH Not though you die to-night, O Sweet, and wail, A spectre at my door, Shall mortal Fear make Love immortal fail — I shall but love you more, Who, from Death's house returning, give me still One moment's comfort in my matchless ill. — Shadow Homes. THIS tale may be explained by those who know how souls are made, and where thr bounds of the Possible are put down. I hav. lived long enough in this India to know that it is best to know nothing, and can only write th story as it happened. Dumoise was our Civil Surgeon at Meridki, and we called him "Dormouse," because he was a round little, sleepy little man. He was a good Doctor and never quarreled with any one, not even with our Deputy Commissioner who had the manners of a bargee and the tact of a horse. He married a girl as round and as sleepy-looking as himself. She was a Miss Hillardyce, daughter of " Squash" Hillardyce of the Berars, who mar- ried his Chief's daughter by mistake. But that is another story. 215 2i6 Indian Tales A honeymoon in India is seldom more than a week long; but there is nothing to hinder a couple from extending it over two or three years. India is a delightful country foi married folk who are wrapped up in one another. They can live absolutely alone and without interrup- tion — ^just as the Dormice did. Those two little people retired from the world after their mar- riage, and were very ha,, py. They were forced, of course, to give occasional dinners, but they made no friends thereby, and the Station went its own way and forgot them; only saying, oc- casionally, that Dormouse was the best of good fellows though dull. A Civil Surgeon who never quarrels is a rarity, appreciated as such. Few people can afford to play Robinson Cru- soe anywhere — least of all in India, where we are few in the land and very much dependent on each other's kind offices. Dumoise was wrong in shutting himself from the world for a year, and he discovered his mistake when an epidemic of typhoid broke out in the Station in the heart of the cold weather, and his wife went down. He was a shy little man, and five days were wasted before he realized that Mrs. Dumoise was burning with something worse than simple fever, and three days more passed before he ventured to call on Mrs. Shute, the Engineer's wife, and timidly speak about his trouble. By Word of Mouth 217 Nearly every household in India knows that Doc- tors are very helpless in typhoid. The battle must be fought out between Death and the Nurses minute by minute and degree by degree. Mrs. Shute almost boxed Dumoise's ears for what she called his " criminal delay,'" and went off at once to look after the poor girl. We had seven cases of typhoid in the Station that winter and, as the average of death is about one in every five cases, we felt certain that we should have to lose somebody. But all did their best. The women sat up nursing the women, and the men turned to and tended the bachelors who were down, and we wrestled with those typhoid cases for fifty-six days, and brought them through the Valley of the Shadow in triumph. But, just when we thought all was over, and were going to give a dance to celebrate the victory, little Mrs. Dumoise got a relapse and died in a week and the Station went to the funeral. Dumoise broke down utterly at the brink of the grave, and had to be taken away. After the death, Dumoise crept into his own house and refused to be comforted. He did his duties perfectly, but we all felt that he should go on leave, and the other men of his own Service told him so. Dumoise was very thankful for the suggestion — he was thankful for anything in those days — and went to Chini on a walking- 2i8 Indian Tales tour. Chini is some twenty marches from Simla, in the heart of the Hills, and the scenery is good if you are in trouble. You pass through big, still deodar-forests, and under big, still cliffs, and over big, still grass-downs swelling like a wom- an's breasts; and the wind across the grass, and the rain among the deodars says — " Hush — hush — hush." So little Dumoise was packed off to Chini, to wear down his grief with a full-plate camera and a rifle. He took also a useless bearer, because the man had been his wife's fa- vorite servant. He was idle and a thief, but Du- moise trusted everything to him. On his way back from Chini, Dumoise turned aside to Bagi, through the Forest Reserve which is on the spur of Mount Huttoo. Some men who have traveled more than a little say that the march from Kotegarh to Bagi is one of the finest in creation. It runs through dark wet forest, and ends suddenly in bleak, nipped hillside and black rocks. Bagi dak-bungalow is open to all the winds and is bitterly cold. Few people go to Bagi. Perhaps that was the reason why Du- moise went there. He halted at seven in the evening, and his bearer went down the hillside to the village to engage coolies for the next day's march. The sun had set, and the night-winds were beginning to croon among the rocks. Du- moise leaned on the railing of the veranda, wait- By Word of Mouth 219 ing for his bearer to return. The man came back almost immediately after he had disappeared, and at such a rate that Dumoise fancied he must have crossed a bear. He was running as hard as he could up the face of the hill. But there was no bear to account for his terror. He raced to the veranda and fell down, the blood spurting from his nose and his face iron-grey. Then he gurgled — "! have seen the Me msahib / I have seen the Memsahib ! " "Where.?" said Dumoise. "Down there, walking on the road to the vil- lage. She was in a blue dress, and she lifted the veil of her bonnet and said — ' Ram Dass, give my salaams to the Sahib, and tell him that 1 shall meet him next month at Nuddea.' Then 1 ran away, because I was afraid." What Dumoise said or did I do not know. Ram Dass declares that he said nothing, but walked up and down the veranda all the cold night, waiting for the Memsaliib to come up the hill and stretching out his arms into the dark like a madman. But no Memsahib came, and, next day, he went on to Simla cross-questioning the bearer every hour. Ram Dass could only say that he had met Mrs. Dumoise and that she had lifted up her veil and given him the message which he had faithfully repeated to Dumoise, To this statement Ram 220 Indian Tales Dass adhered. He did not know where Nuddea was, had no friends at Nuddea, and would most certainly never go to Nuddea; even though his pay were doubled. Nuddea is in Bengal and has nothing whatever to do with a Doctor serving in the Punjab. It must be more than twelve hundred miles south of Meridki. Dumoise went through Simla without halting, and returned to Meridki, there to take over charge from the man who had been officiating for him during his tour. There were some Dispensary accounts to be explained, and some recent orders of the Surgeon-General to be noted, and, alto- gether, the taking-over was a full day's work. In the evening, Dumoise told his locum tenens, who was an old friend of his bachelor days, what had happened at Bagi; and the man said that Ram Dass might as well have chosen Tuticorin while he was about it. At that moment, a telegraph-peon came in with a telegram from Simla, ordering Dumoise not to take over charge at Meridki, but to go at once to Nuddea on special duty. There was a nasty outbreak of cholera at Nuddea, and the Bengal Government, being short-handed, as usual, had borrowed a Surgeon from the Punjab. Dumoise threw the telegram across the table and said— "Well?" By IVord of Month 221 The other Doctor said nothing. It was all that he could say. Then he remembered that Dumoise had passed through Simla on his way from Bagi; and thus might, possibly, have heard first news of the im- pending transfer. He tried to put the question, and the implied suspicion into words, but Dumoise stopped him with — " If I had desired that, I should never have come back from Chini. 1 was shooting there. I wish to live, for 1 have things to do . . . but I shall not be sorry." The other man bowed his head, and helped, in the twilight, to pack up Dumoise's just opened trunks. Ram Dass entered with the lamps. " Where is the Saliib going ? " he asked. "To Nuddea," said Dumoise, softly. Ram Dass clawed Dumoise's knees and boots and begged him not to go. Ram Dass wept and howled till he was turned out of the room. Then he wrapped up all his belongings and came back to ask for a character. He was not going to Nuddea to see his Sahib die and, perhaps, to die himself. So Dumoise gave the man his wages and went down to Nuddea alone; the other Doctor bidding him good-bye as one under sentence of death. Eleven days later he had joined his Mem sahib ; 222 Indian Tales and the Bengal Government had to borrow a fresh Doctor to cope with that epidemic at Nuddea. The ^irst importation lay dead in Chooadanga Dak Bungalow. THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT " And a little child shall lead them." IN the Army List they still stand as *' The Fore and Fit Princess Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen- Auspach's Merther-Tydfilshire Own Royal Loyal Light Infantry, Regimental District 329A," but the Army through all its barracks and canteens knows them now as the " Fore and Aft." They may in time do something that shall make their new title honorable, but at present they are bit- terly ashamed, and the man who calls them " Fore and Aft" does so at the risk of the head which is on his shoulders. Two words breathed into the stables of a cer- tain Cavalry Regiment will bring the men out into the streets with belts and mops and bad lan- guage; but a whisper of "Fore and Aft" will bring out this regiment with rifles. Their one excuse is that they came again and did their best to finish the job in style. But for a time all their world knows that they were openly beaten, whipped, dumb-cowed, shaking and afraid. The men know it; their officers know it; the Horse Guards know it, and when 22^ 224 Indian Tales the next war comes the enemy vv^ill know it also. There are two or three regiments of the Line that have a black mark against their names which they will then wipe out, and it will be excess- ively inconvenient for the troops upon whom they do their wiping. The courage of the British soldier is officially supposed to be above proof, and, as a general rule, it is so. The exceptions are decently shoveled out of sight, only to be referred to in the freshet of unguarded talk that occasionally swamps a Mess-table at midnight. Then one hears strange and horrible stories of men not fol- lowing their officers, of orders being given by those who had no right to give them, and of dis- grace that, but for the standing luck of the Brit- ish .Army, might have ended in brilliant disaster. These are unpleasant stories to listen Xd, and the Messes tell them under their breath, sitting by the big wood (ires, and the young officer bows his head and thinks to himself, please God, his men shall never behave unhandily. The British soldier is not altogether to be blamed for occasional lapses; but this verdict he should not know, h moderately intelligent General will waste six months in mastering the craft of the particular war that he may be waging; a Colonel may utterly misunderstand the capacity of his regiment for three months The Drmns of the Fore and Aft 225 after it has taken the field; and even a Company Commander may err and be deceived as to the temper and temperament of his own handful: wherefore the soldier, and the soldier of to-day more particularly, should not be blamed for fall- ing back. He should be shot or hanged after- ward — pour encourager les autres; but he should not be vilified in newspapers, for that is want of tact and waste of space. He has, let us say, been in the service of the Empress for, perhaps, four years. He will leave in another two years. He has no inherited mor- als, and four years are not sufficient to drive toughness into his fibre, or to teach him how holy a thing is his Regiment. He wants to drink, he wants to enjoy himself — in India he wants to save money — and he does not in the least like getting hurt. He has received just sufficient ed- ucation to make him understand half the purport of the orders he receives, and to speculate on the nature of clean, incised, and shattering wounds. Thus, if he is told to deploy under fire prepara- tory to an attack, he knows that he runs a very great risk of being killed while he is deploying, and suspects that he is being thrown away to gain ten minutes' time. He may either deploy with desperate swiftness, or he may shuffle, or bunch, or break, according to the discipline un- der which he has lain for four years. 226 Indian Tales Armed with imperfect knowledge, cursed with the rudiments of an imagination, hampered by the intense selfishness of the lower classes, and unsupported by any regimental associations, this young man is suddenly introduced to an enemy who in eastern lands is always ugly, generally tall and hairy, and frequently noisy. If he looks to the right and the left and sees old soldiers — men of twelve years' service, who, he knows, know what they are about — taking a charge, rush, or demonstration without embarrassment, he is consoled and applies his shoulder to the butt of his rifle with a stout heart. His peace is the greater if he hears a senior, who has taught him his soldiering and broken his head on occa- sion, whispering: — "They'll shout and carry on like this for five minutes. Then they'll rush in, and then we've got 'em by the short hairs! " But, on the other hand, if he sees only men of his own term of service, turning white and play- ing with their triggers and saying: — " What the Hell's up now?" while the Company Com.man- ders are sweating into their sword-hilts and shouting: — "Front-rank, fix bayonets. Steady there — steady! Sight for three hundred — no, for five! Lie down, all! Steady! Front-rank, kneel! " and so forth, he becomes unhappy; and grows acutely miserable when he hears a comrade turn over with the rattle of fire-irons falling into the The Drums of the Fore and Aft 227 fender, and the grunt of a pole-axed ox. If he can be moved about a httle and allowed to watch the effect of his own fire on the enemy he feels merrier, and may be then worked up to the blind passion of fighting, which is, contrary to general belief, controlled by a chilly Devil and shakes men like ague. If he is not moved about, and begins to feel cold at the pit of the stomach, and in that crisis is badly mauled and hears orders that were never given, he will break, and he will break badly; and of all things under the sight of the Sun there is nothing more terrible than a broken British regiment. When the worst comes to the worst and the panic is really epidemic, the men must be e'en let go, and the Company Com- manders had better escape to the enemy and stay there for safety's sake. If they can be made to come again they are not pleasant men to meet, because they will not break twice. About thirty years from this date, when we have succeeded in half-educating everything that wears trousers, our Army will be a beautifully unreliable machine. It will know too much and it will do too little. Later still, when all men are at the mental level of the officer of to-day it will sweep the earth. Speaking roughly, you must employ either blackguards or gentle- men, or, best of all, blackguards commanded by gentlemen, to do butcher's work with efficiency 228 Indian Tales and despatch. The ideal soldier should, of course, think for himself — the Pochetbook says so. Unfortunately, to attain this virtue, he has to pass through the phase of thinking of himself, and that is misdirected genius. A blackguard may be slow to think for himself, but he is genuinely anxious to kill, and a little punishment teaches him how to guard his own skin and perforate another's. A powerfully prayerful Highland Regiment, officered by rank Presbyterians, is, perhaps, one degree more terrible in action than a hard-bitten thousand of irresponsible Irish ruf- fians led by most improper young unbelievers. But these things prove the rule — which is that the midway men are not to be trusted alone. They have ideas about the value of life and an up- bringing that has not taught them to go on and take the chances. They are carefully unprovided with a backing of comrades who have been shot over, and until that backing is re-introduced, as a great many Regimental Commanders intend it shall be, they are more liable to disgrace them- selves than the size of the Empire or the dignity of the Army allows. Their officers are as good as good can be, because their training begins early, and God has arranged that a clean-run youth of the British middle classes shall, in the matter of backbone, brains, and bowels, surpass all other youths. For this reason a child of The Drums of the Fore and Aft 229 eighteen will stand up, doing nothing, with a tin sword in his hand and joy in his heart until he is dropped. If he dies, he dies like a gentleman. If he lives, he writes Home that he has been "potted," "sniped," " chipped" or "cut over," and sits down to besiege Government for a wound-gratuity until the next little war breaks out, when he perjures himself before a Medical Board, blarneys his Colonel, burns incense round his Adjutant, and is allowed to go to the Front once more. Which homily brings me directly to a brace of the most finished little fiends that ever banged drum or tootled fife in the Band of a British Regiment. They ended their sinful career by open and flagrant mutiny and were shot for it. Their names were Jakin and Lew — Piggy Lew — and they were bold, bad drummer-boys, both of them frequently birched by the Drum-Major of the Fore and Aft. Jakin was a stunted child of fourteen, and Lew was about the same age. When not looked after, they smoked and drank. They swore habitually after the manner of the Barrack-room, which is cold-swearing and comes from between clinched teeth; and they fought religiously once a week. Jakin had sprung from some London gutter and may or may not have passed through Dr. Bar- nado's hands ere he arrived at the dignity of 230 Indian Tales drummer-boy. Lew could remember nothing except the regiment and the delight of listening to the Band from his earliest years. He hid somewhere in his grimy little soul a genuine love for music, and was most mistakenly furnished with the head of a cherub: insomuch that beauti- ful ladies who watched the Regiment in church were wont to speak of him as a " darling." They never heard his vitriolic comments on their man- ners and morals, as he walked back to barracks with the Band and matured fresh causes of offence against Jakin. The other drummer-boys hated both lads on account of their illogical conduct. Jakin might be pounding Lew, or Lew might be rubbing Jakin's head in the dirt, but any attempt at aggres- sion on the part of an outsider was met by the combined forces of Lew and Jakin; and the con- sequences were painful. The boys were the Ishmaels of the corps, but wealthy Ishmaels, for they sold battles in alternate weeks for the sport of the barracks when they were not pitted against other boys; and thus amassed money. On this particular day there was dissension in the camp. They had just been convicted afresh of smoking, which is bad for little boys who use plug-tobacco, and Lew's contention was that Jakin had " stunk so 'orrid bad from keepin' the pipe in pocket," that he and he alone was re- The Drums of the Fore and Aft 231 sponsible for the birching they were both tingling under. " 1 tell you I 'id the pipe back o' barricks," said Jakin, pacifically. "You're a bloomin' liar," said Lew, without heat. " You're a bloomin' little barstard," said Jakin, strong in the knowledge that his own ancestry was unknown. Now there is one word in the extended vocabu- lary of barrack-room abuse that cannot pass without comment. You may call a man a thief and risk nothing. You may even call him a coward without finding more than a boot whiz past your ear, but you must not call a man a bastard unless you are prepared to prove it on his front teeth. " You might ha' kep' that till 1 wasn't so sore," said Lew, sorrowfully, dodging round Jakin's guard. " I'll make you sorer," said Jakin, genially, and got home on Lew's alabaster forehead. All would have gone well and this story, as the books say, would never have been written, had not his evil fate prompted the Bazar-Sergeant's son, a long, employless man of five and twenty, to put in an appearance after the first round. He was eternally in need of money, and knew that the boys had silver. 232 Indian Tales " Fighting again," said he. " I'll report you to my father, and he'll report you to the Color-Ser- geant." ** What's that to you r " said Jakin, with an un- pleasant dilation of the nostrils. " Oh! nothing to me. You'll get into trouble, and you've been up too often to afford that." "What the Hell do vou know about what we've done.^" asked Lew the Seraph. " Yoii aren't in the Army, you lousy, cadging civilian." He closed in on the man's left flank. "Jes' 'cause you find two gentlemen settlin' their diff'rences with their fistes you stick in your jgly nose where you aren't wanted. Run 'ome to your 'arf-caste slut of a Ma — or we'll give you what-for," said Jakin. The man attempted reprisals by knocking the boys' heads together. The scheme would have succeeded had not Jakin punched him vehemently in the stomach, or had Lew refrained from kick- ing his shins. They fought together, bleeding and breathless, for half an hour, and after heavy punishment, trium.phantly pulled down their op- ponent as terriers pull down a jackal. "Now," gasped Jakin, "I'll give you what- for." He proceeded to pound the man's features while Lew stamped on the outlying portions of his anatomy. Chivalry is not a strong point in the composition of the average drummer- The Drums of the Fore and Aft 233 boy. He fights, as do his betters, to make his mark. Ghastly was the ruin that escaped, and awful was the wrath of the Bazar-Sergeant. Awful too was the scene in Orderly-room when the two reprobates appeared to answer the charge of half- murdering a "civilian." The Bazar-Sergeant thirsted for a criminal action, and his son lied. The boys stood to attention while the black clouds of evidence accumulated. "You little devils are more trouble than the rest of the Regiment put together," said the Colonel, angrily. " One might as well admonish thistledown, and I can't well put you in cells or under stoppages. You must be flogged again." " Beg y' pardon, Sir. Can't we say nothin' in our own defence, Sir.?" shrilled Jakin. " Hey! What } Are you going to argue with me.?" said the Colonel. "No, Sir," said Lew. " But if a man come to you, Sir, and said he was going to report you, Sir, for 'aving a bit of a turn-up with a friend, Sir, an' wanted to get money out o' you. Sir" — The Orderly-room exploded in a roar of laugh- ter. " Well ? " said the Colonel. "That was what that measly /^r;/it'(3r there did, Sir, and 'e'd 'a' done it, Sir, if we 'adn't prevented 'im. We didn't 'it 'im much. Sir. 'E 'adn't no manner o' right to interfere with us, Sir. I don't 234 Indian Tales mind bein' flogged by the Drum-Major, Sir, nor yet reported by any Corp'ral, but I'm — but I don't think it's fair, Sir, for a civilian to come an' tall^ over a man in the Army." A second shout of laughter shook the Orderly- room, but the Colonel was grave. "What sort of characters have these boys. f*" he asked of the Regimental Sergeant-Major. "Accordin' to the Bandmaster, Sir," returned that revered official — the only soul in the regi- ment whom the boys feared — "they do every- thing but lie. Sir." " Is it like we'd go for that man for fun, Sir?" said Lew, pointing to the plaintiff. "Oh, admonished, — admonished!" said the Colonel, testily, and when the boys had gone he read the Bazar-Sergeant's son a lecture on the sin of unprofitable meddling, and gave orders that the Bandmaster should keep the Drums in better discipline. " If either of you come to practice again with so much as a scratch on your two ugly little faces," thundered the Bandmaster, "I'll tell the Drum-Major to take the skin off your backs. Understand that, you young devils." Then he repented of his speech for just the length of time that Lew, looking like a Seraph in red worsted embellishments, took the place of one of the trumpets — in hospital — and rendered The Drums of the Fore and Aft 235 the echo of a battle-piece. Lew certainly was a musician, and had often in his more exalted mo- ments expressed a yearning to master every in- strument of the Band. "There's nothing to prevent your becoming a Bandmaster, Lew," said the Bandmaster, who had composed waltzes of his own, and worked day and night in the interests of the Band. "What did he say.?" demanded Jakin, after practice. "'Said I might be a bloomin' Bandmaster, an' be asked in to 'ave a glass o' sherry-wine on Mess-nights." " Ho ! 'Said you might be a bloomin' non-com- batant, did 'e! That's just about Vv'ot 'e would say. When I've put in my boy's service — it's a bloomin' shame that doesn't count for pension— I'll take on a privit. Then I'll be a Lance in a year — knowin' what I know about the ins an' outs 0' things. In three years I'll be a bloomin' Sergeant. I won't marry then, not I! I'll 'old on and learn the orf'cers' ways an' apply for ex- change into a reg' ment that doesn't know all about me. Then I'll be a bloomin' orf'cer. Then I'll ask you to 'ave a glass 0' sherry-wine. Mister Lew, an' you'll bloomin' well 'ave to stay in the hanty-room while the Mess-Sergeant brings it to your dirty 'ands." " 'S'pose /'m going to be a Bandmaster? Not 236 Indian Tales I, quite. I'll be a orfcer too. There's nothin' like taking to a thing an' stickin' to it, the School- master says. The reg'ment don't go 'ome for another seven years. I'll be a Lance then or near to." Thus the boys discussed their futures, and con- ducted themselves with exemplary piety for a week. That is to say. Lew started a flirtation with the Color-Sergeant's daughter, aged thirteen, — " not," as he explained to Jakin, " with any in- tention o' matrimony, but by way 0' keepin' my 'and in." And the black-haired Cris Delighan enjoyed that flirtation more than previous ones, and the other drummer-boys raged furiously to- gether, and Jakin preached sermons on the dan- gers of " bein' tangled along 0' petticoats." But neither love nor virtue would have held Lew long in the paths of propriety had not the rumor gone abroad that the Regiment was to be sent on active service, to take part in a war which, for the sake of brevity, we will call "The War of the Lost Tribes." The barracks had the rumor almost before the Mess-room, and of all the nine hundred men in barracks not ten had seen a shot fired in anger. The Colonel had, twenty years ago, assisted at a Frontier expedition; one of the Majors had seen service at the Cape; a confirmed deserter in E Company had helped to clear streets in Ireland; The Drums of the Fore and Ajt 237 but that was all. The Regiment had been put by for many years. The overwhelming mass of its rank and file had from three to four years' service; the non-commissioned officers were under thirty years old; and men and sergeants alike had forgotten to speak of the stories written in brief upon the Colors — the New Colors that had been formally blessed by an Archbishop in England ere the Regiment came away. They wanted to go to the Front — they were enthusiastically anxious to go — but they had no knowledge of what war meant, and there was none to tell them. They were an educated regi- ment, the percentage of school-certificates in their ranks was high, and most of the men could do more than read and write. They had been re- cruited in loyal observance of the territorial idea; but they themselves had no notion of that idea. They were made up of drafts from an over- populated manufacturing district. The system had put flesh and muscle upon their small bones, but it could not put heart into the sons of those who for generations had done overmuch work for overscanty pay, had sweated in drying- rooms, stooped over looms, coughed among white-lead and shivered on lime-barges. The men had found food and rest in the Army, and now they were going to fight "niggers" — peo- ple who ran away if you shook a stick at them. 238 Indian Tales Wherefore they cheered lustily when the rumor ran, and the shrewd, clerkly non-commissioned officers speculated on the chances of batta and of saving their pay. At Headquarters, men said: — "The Fore and Fit have never been under fire within the last generation. Let us, therefore, break them in easily by setting them to guard lines of communication." And this would have been done but for the fact that British Regiments were wanted — badly wanted — at the Front, and there were doubtful Native Regiments that could fill the minor duties. " Brigade 'em with two strong Regiments," said Headquarters. "They may be knocked about a bit, but they'll learn their business before they come through. Nothing like a night-alarm and a little cutting-up of stragglers to make a Regiment smart in the field. Wait till they've had half a dozen sentries' throats cut." The Colonel wrote with delight that the temper of his men was excellent, that the Regiment was all that could be wished and as sound as a bell. The Majors smiled with a sober joy, and the subalterns waltzed in pairs down the Mess-room after dinner and nearly shot themselves at revol- ver practice. But there was consternation in the hearts of Jakin and Lew. What was to be done with the drums } Would the Band go to the Front ? Hov/ many of the drums would accom- pany the Regiment ? The Drums of the Fore and Aft 239 They took council together, sitting in a tree and smoking. " It's more than a bloomin' toss-up they'll leave us be'ind at the Depot with the women. You'll like that," said Jakin, sarcastically. " 'Cause 0' Cris, y' mean } Wot's a woman, or a 'ole bloomin' depot 0' women, 'longside o' the chanst of field-service.? You know I'm as keen on goin' as you," said Lew. "'Wish 1 was a bloomin' bugler," said Jakin, sadly. "They'll take Tom Kidd along, that I can plaster a wall with, an' like as not they won't take us." "Then let's go an' make Tom Kidd so bloomin' sick 'e can't bugle no more. You 'old 'is 'ands an' I'll kick him," said Lew, wriggling on the branch. "That ain't no good neither. We ain't the sort 0' characters to presoon on our rep'tations — they're bad. If they have the Band at the Depot we don't go, and no error there. If they take the Band we may get cast for medical unfitness. Are you medical fit, Piggy ? " said Jakin, dig- ging Lew in the ribs with force. " Yus," said Lew, with an oath. " The Doctor says your 'eart's weak through smokin' on an empty stummick. Throw a chest an' I'll try yer." Jakin threw out his chest, which Lew smote 240 Indian Tales, with all his might. Jakin turned very pale, gasped, crowed, screwed up his eyes and said, — "That's all right." "You'll do," said Lew. "I've 'eard o' men dyin' when you 'it 'em fair on the breast-bone." "'Don't bring us no nearer goin', though," said Jakin. "Do you know where we're or- dered }" "Gawd knows, an' 'e won't split on a pal. Somewheres up to the Front to kill Paythans — hairy big beggars that turn you inside out if they get 'old o' you. They say their women are good-looking, too." "Any loot.?" asked the abandoned Jakin. "Not a bloomin' anna, they say, unless you dig up the ground an' see what the niggers 'ave 'id. They're a poor lot." Jakin stood upright on the branch and gazed across the plain. "Lew," said he, "there's the Colonel coming. 'Colonel's a good old beggar. Let's go an' talk to 'im." Lew nearly fell out of the tree at the audacity of the suggestion. Like Jakin he feared not God neither regarded he Man, but there are limits even to the audacity of drummer-boy, and to speak to a Colonel was . . . But Jakin had slid down the trunk and doubled in the direction of the Colonel. That officer was walking wrapped in thought and visions of a C. The Drums of the Fore and Aft 241 B. — yes, even a K, C. B., for had he not at com- mand one of the best Regiments of the Line — the Fore and Fit ? And he was aware of two small boys charging down upon him. Once be- fore it had been solemnly reported to him that "the Drums were in a state of mutiny "; Jakin and Lew being the ringleaders. This looked like an organized conspiracy. The boys halted at twenty yards, walked to the regulation four paces, and saluted together, each as well set-up as a ramrod and little taller. The Colonel was in a genial mood; the boys appeared very forlorn and unprotected on the desolate plain, and one of them was hand- some. "Well!" said the Colonel, recognizing them. "Are you going to pull me down in the open .? I'm sure I never interfere with you, even though" — he sniffed suspiciously — "you have been smok- ing." It was time to strike while the iron was hot. Their hearts beat tumultuously. "Beg y' pardon, Sir," began Jakin. "The Reg'ment's ordered on active service. Sir?" "So I believe," said the Colonel, courteously. "Is the Band goin'. Sir.?" said both together. Then, without pause, "We're goin', Sir, ain't we?" "You!" said the Colonel, stepping back the 242 Indian Tales more fully to take in the two small figures. " You! You'd die in the first march." "No, we wouldn't, Sir. We can march with the Regiment anywheres — p'rade an' anywhere else," said Jakin. "If Tom Kidd goes 'e'll shut up like a clasp- knife." said Lew. " Tom 'as very close veins in both 'is legs. Sir." " Very how much ? " "Very close veins, Sir. That's why they swells after long p'rade. Sir. If 'e can go, we can go. Sir." Again the Colonel looked at them long and intently. "Yes, the Band is going," he said, as gravely as though he had been addressing a brother officer. "Have you any parents, either of you two ?" "No, Sir," rejoicingly from Lew and Jakin. " We're both orphans. Sir. There's no one to be considered of on our account. Sir." "You poor little sprats, and you want to go up to the Front with the Regiment, do you } Why ? " "I've wore the Queen's Uniform for two years," said Jakin. "It's very 'ard. Sir, that a man don't get no recompense for doin' 'is dooty, Sir." "An' — an' if I don't go. Sir," interrupted Lew, The Drums of the Fore and Aft 243 "the Bandmaster 'e says 'e'll catch an' make a bloo — a blessed musician o' me, Sir. Before I've seen any service, Sir." The Colonel made no answer for a long time- Then he said quietly: — " If you're passed by the Doctor I dare say you can go. 1 shouldn't smoke if I were you." The boys saluted and disappeared. The Colo- nel walked home and told the story to his wife, who nearly cried over it. The Colonel was well pleased. If that was the temper of the children, what would not the men do } Jakin and Lew entered the boys' barrack-room with great stateliness, and refused to hold any conversation with their comrades for at least ten minutes. Then, bursting with pride, Jakin drawled: — "I've bin intervooin' the Colonel. Good old beggar is the Colonel. Says I to 'im, 'Colonel,' says I, Met me go the Front, along o' the Reg'ment.' 'To the Front you shall go,' says 'e, * an' I only wish there was more like you among the dirty little devils that bang the bloomin' drums,' Kidd, if you throw your 'coutrements at me for tellin' you the truth to your own advantage, your legs '11 swell." None the less there was a Battle-Royal in the barrack-room, for the boys were consumed with envy and hate, and neither Jakin nor Lew be- haved in 'Conciliatory wise. 244 Indian Tales "I'm goin' out to say adoo to my girl," said Lew, to cap the climax. "Don't none o' you touch my kit because it's wanted for active serv- ice, me bein' specially invited to go by the Colo- nel." He strolled forth and whistled in the clump of trees at the back of the Married Quarters till Cris came to him, and, the preliminary kisses being given and taken. Lew began to explain the situa- tion. "I'm goin' to the Front with the Reg'ment," he said, valiantly. " Piggy, you're a little liar," said Cris, but her heart misgave her, for Lew was not in the habit of lying. "Liar yourself, Cris," said Lew, slipping an arm round her. "I'm goin'. When the Reg'- ment marches out you'll see me with 'em, all galliant and gay. Give us another kiss, Cris, on the strength of it." "If you'd on'y a-stayed at the Depot — where you ought to ha' bin — you could get as many of 'em as — as you dam please," whimpered Cris, putting up her mouth. " It's 'ard, Cris. I grant you it's 'ard. But what's a man to do ? If I'd a-stayed at the De- pot, you wouldn't think anything of me." " Like as not, but I'd 'ave you with me, Piggy. An' all the thinkin' in the world isn't like kissin'." The Drums of the Fore and Aft 245 "An' all the kissin' in the world isn't like 'avin' a medal to wear on the front 0' your coat." " Yon won't get no medal." "Oh, yus, I shall though. Me an' Jakin are the only acting-drummers that'll be took along. All the rest is full men, an' we'll get our medals with them." " They might ha' taken anybody but you, Piggy. You'll get killed — you're so venture- some. Stay with me, Piggy, darlin', dov/n at the Depot, an' I'll love you true forever." "Ain't you goin' to do that //ow, Cris.? You said you was." " O' course I am, but th' other's more comfort- able. Wait till you've growed a bit. Piggy. You aren't no taller than me now." " I've bin in the army for two years an' I'm not goin' to get out of a chanst o' seein' service an' don't you try to make me do so. I'll come back, Cris, an' when I take on as a man I'll marry you — marry you when I'm a Lance." " Promise, Piggy ?" Lew reflected on the future as arranged by Jakin a short time previously, but Cris's mouth was very near to his own. " I promise, s'elp me Gawd ! " said he. Cris slid an arm round his neck. "I won't 'old you back no more. Piggy. Go away an' get your medal, an' I'll make you a 246 Indian Tales new button-bag as nice as I know how," she whispered. "Put some o' your 'air into it, Cris, an' I'll keep it in my pocket so long's I'm alive." Then Cris wept anew, and the interview ended. Public feeling among the drummer-boys rose to fever pitch and the lives of Jakin and Lew became unenviable. Not only had they been permitted to enlist two years before the regulation boy's age — fourteen — but, by virtue, it seemed, of their extreme youth, they were allowed to go to the Front — which thing had not happened to acting-drummers within the knowledge of boy. The Band which was to accompany the Regi- ment had been cut down to the regulation twenty men, the surplus returning to the ranks. Jakin and Lew were attached to the Band as super- numeraries, though they would much have pre- ferred being Company buglers. "'Don't matter much," said Jakin. after the medical inspection. "Be thankful that we're 'lowed to go at all. The Doctor 'e said that if we could stand what we took from the Bazar- Sergeant's son we'd stand pretty nigh any- thing." " Which we will," said Lew, looking tenderly at the ragged and ill-made housewife that Cris had given him, with a lock of her hair worked into a sprawling " L" upon the cover. The Drums of the Fore and Aft 247 "It was the best I could," she sobbed. "! wouldn't let mother nor the Sergeant's tailor 'elp me. Keep it always, Piggy, an' remember 1 love you true." They marched to the railway station, nine hundred and sixty strong, and every soul in can- tonments turned out to see them go. The drum- mers gnashed their teeth at Jakin and Lew march- ing with the Band, the married women wept upon the platform, and the Regiment cheered its noble self black in the face. "A nice level lot," said the Colonel to the Second-in-Command, as they watched the first four companies entraining. " Fit to do anything," said the Second-in-Com- mand, enthusiastically. "But it seems to me they're a thought too young and tender for the work in hand. It's bitter cold up at the Front now." "They're sound enough," said the Colonel. " We must take our chance of sick casualties." So they went northward, ever northward, past droves and droves of camels, armies of camp followers, and legions of laden mules, the throng thickening day by day, till with a shriek the train pulled up at a hopelessly congested junction where six lines of temporary track accommo- dated six forty-wagon trains; where whistles blew, Babus sweated and Commissariat officers 248 Indian Tales swore from dawn till far into the night amid the wind-driven chaff of the fodder-bales and the lowing of a thousand steers. " Hurry up — you're badly wanted at the Front," was the message that greeted the Fore and Aft, and the occupants of the Red Cross carriages told the same tale. "Tisn't so much the bloomin' fighting," gasped a headbound trooper of Hussars to a knot of admiring Fore and Afts. "Tisn't so much the bloomin' fightin', though there's enough o' that. It's the bloomin' food an' the bloomin' climate. Frost all night 'cept when it hails, and biling sun all day, and the water stinks fit to knock you down. 1 got my 'ead chipped like a egg\ I've got pneumonia too, an' my guts is all out 0' order. 'Tain't no bloomin' picnic in those parts, I can tell you." "Wot are the niggers like?" demanded a private. "There's some prisoners in that train yonder. Go an' look at 'em. They're the aristocracy o' the country. The common folk are a dashed sight uglier. If you want to know what they fight with, reach under my seat an' pull out the long knife that's there." They dragged out and beheld for the first time the grim, bone-handled, triangular Afghan knife. It was almost as long as Lew. The Drums of the Fore and Aft 249 , " That's the thing to jint ye," said the trooper, feebly. " It can take off a man's arm at the shoulder as easy as slicing butter. 1 halved the beggar that used that 'un, but there's more of his likes up above. They don't understand thrustin', but they're devils to slice." The men strolled across the tracks to inspect the Afghan prisoners. They were unlike any "niggers" that the Fore and Aft had ever met — • these huge, black-haired, scowling sons of the Beni-Israel. As the men stared the Afghans spat freely and muttered one to another with lowered ^yes. "My eyes! Wot awful swine!" said Jakin, who w' ''n the rear of the procession. "Say, old man, how you got piickrowed, eh } Ktswasti you wasn't hanged for your ugly face, hey ? " The tallest of the company turned, his leg- irons, clanking at the movement, and stared at the boy. "See!" he cried to his fellows in Pushto. "They send children against us. What a people, and what fools! " " Hya ! " said Jakin, nodding his head cheerily. " You go down-country. Khana get, peenikap- anee get — live like a bloomin' Raja ke marfk. That's a better baiidobifst than bay nit get it in your innards. Good-bye, ole man. Take care o' your beautiful figure-'ed, an' try to look kiishy-" 2 50 Indian Tales The men laughed and fell in for their fir^t march when they began to realize that a soldier's life was not all beer and skittles. They were much impressed with the size and bestial feroc- ity of the niggers whom they had now learned to call "Paythans," and more with the exceed' ing discomfort of their own surroundings. Twenty old soldiers in the corps would have taught them how to make themselves moderately snug at night, but they had no old soldiers, and, as the troops on the line of march said, "they lived like pigs." They learned the heart-break- ing cussedness of camp-kitchens and camels and the depravity of an E. P. tent and a wither-wrung mule. They studied animalculse in water, and developed a few cases of dysentery in their study. At the end of their third march they were dis- agreeably surprised by the arrival in their camp of a hammered iron slug which, fired from a steadyrest at seven hundred yards, flicked out the brains of a private seated by the fire. This robbed them of their peace for a night, and was the beginning of a long-range fire carefully cal- culated to that end. In the daytime they saw nothing except an occasional puff of smoke from a crag above the line of march. At night there were distant spurts of flame and occasional casu- alties, which set the whole camp blazing into the gloom, and, occasionally, into opposite tents. The Drums of the Fore and Aft 251 Then they swore vehemently and vowed that this was magnificent but not war. Indeed it was not. The Regiment could not halt for reprisals against the franctireurs of the country side. Its duty was to go forward and make connection with the Scotch and Gurkha troops v/ith which it was brigaded. The Af- ghans knew this, and knew too, after their first tentative shots, that they were dealing with a raw regiment. Thereafter they devoted them- selves to the task of keeping the Fore and Aft on the strain. Not for anything would they have taken equal liberties with a seasoned corps — with the wicked little Gurkhas, whose delight it was to lie out in the open on a dark night and stalk their stalkers — with the terrible, big men dressed in women's clothes, who could be heard praying to their God in the night-watches, and whose peace of mind no amount of "sniping" could shake — or with those vile Sikhs, who marched so ostentatiously unprepared and who dealt out such grim reward to those who tried to profit by that unpreparedness. This white regiment was different — quite different. It slept like a hog, and, like a hog, charged in every direction when it was roused. Its sentries walked with a foot- fall that could be heard for a quarter of a mile; would fire at anything that moved — even a driven donkey — and when they had once fired. 252 Indian Tales could be scientifically "rushed" and laid out a horror and an offence against the morning sun. Then there were camp-followers who straggled and could be cut up without fear. Their shrieks would disturb the white boys, and the loss of their services would inconvenience them sorely. Thus, at every march, the hidden enemy be- came bolder and the regiment writhed and twisted under attacks it could not avenge. The crowning triumph was a sudden night-rush end- ing in the cutting of many tent-ropes, the col- lapse of the sodden canvas and a glorious knifing of the men who struggled and kicked below. It was a great deed, neatly carried out, and it shook the already shaken nerves of the Fore and Aft. All the courage that they had been required to exercise up to this point was the "two o'clock in the morning courage"; and they, so far, had only succeeded in shooting their comrades and losing their sleep. Sullen, discontented, cold, savage, sick, with their uniforms dulled and unclean, the " Fore and Aft " joined their Brigade. "I hear you had a tough time of it coming up," said the Brigadier. But when he saw the hospital-sheets his face fell. "This is bad," said he to himself. "They're as rotten as sheep." And aloud to the Colonel, — ' I'm afraid we can't spare you just yet. We The Drums of the Fore and Aft 253 want all we have, else I should have given you ten days to recruit in." The Colonel winced. "On my honor, Sir," he returned, " there is not the least necessity to think of sparing us. My men have been rather mauled and upset without a fair return. They only want to go in somewhere where they can see what's before them." "'Can't say I think much of the Fore and Fit," said the Brigadier, in confidence, to his Brigade- Major. "They've lost all their soldiering, and, by the trim of them, might have marched through the country from the other side. A more fagged-out set of men I never put eyes on." "Oh, they'll improve as the work goes on. The parade gloss has been rubbed off a little, but they'll put on field polish before long," said the Brigade-Major. "They've been mauled, and they quite don't understand it." They did not. All the hitting was on one side, and it was cruelly hard hitting with accessories that made them sick. There was also the real sickness that laid hold of a strong man and dragged him howling to the grave. 'Worst of all, their officers knew just as little of the coun- try as the men themselves, and looked as if they did. The Fore and Aft were in a thoroughly un- satisfactory condition, but they believed that all 254 Indian Tales would be well if they could once get a fair go-in at the enemy. Pot-shots up and down the val- leys were unsatisfactory, and the bayonet never seemed to get a chance. Perhaps it was as well, for a long-iimbed Afghan with a knife had a reach of eight feet, and could carry away enough lead to disable three Englishmen. The Fore and Fit would like some rifle-practice at the enemy — all seven hundred rifles blazing together. That wish showed the mood of the men. The Gurkhas walked into their camp, and in broken, barrack-room English strove to fraternize with them; offered them pipes of tobacco and stood them treat at the canteen. But the Fore and Aft, not knowing much of the nature of the Gurkhas, treated them as they would treat any other " niggers," and the little men in green trot- ted back to their firm friends the Highlanders, and with many grins confided to them: — "That dam white regiment no dam use. Sulky — ugh! Dirty — ugh! Hya, any tot for Johnny ?" Whereat the Highlanders smote the Gurkhas as to the head, and told them not to vilify a British Regi- ment, and the Gurkhas grinned cavernously, for the Highlanders were their elder brothers and en- titled to the privileges of kinship. The common soldier who touches a Gurkha is more than likely to have his head sliced open. Three days later the Brigadier arranged a battle The Drums of the Fore and Aft 255 according to the rules of war and the peculiarity of the Afghan temperament. The enemy were massing in inconvenient strength among the hills, and the moving or many green standards warned him that the tribes were *' up" in aid of the Afghan regular troops, A Squadron and a half of Bengal Lancers represented the available Cavalry, and two screw-guns borrowed from a column thirty miles away, the Artillery at the General's disposal. "If they stand, as I've a very strong notion that they will, I fancy we shall see an infantry fight that will be worth watching," said the, Brig- adier. "We'll do it in style. Each regiment shall be played into action by its Band, and we'll hold the Cavalry in reserve." " For all the reserve .?" somebody asked. "For all the reserve; because we're going to crumple them up," said the Brigadier, who was an extraordinary Brigadier, and did not believe in the value of a reserve when dealing with Asiat- ics. And, indeed, when you come to think of it, had the British Army consistently waited for re- serves in all its little affairs, the boundaries of Our Empire would have stopped at Brighton beach. That battle was to be a glorious battle. The three regiments debouching from three separate gorges, after duly crowning the heights above, were to converge from the centre, left. 256 Indian Tales and right upon what vve will call the Afghan army, then stationed toward the lower extrem- ity of a flat-bottomed valley. Thus it v/ill be seen that three sides of the valley practically belonged to the English, while the fourth was strictly Afghan property, in the event of defeat the Afghans had the rocky hills to fly to, where the fire from the guerilla tribes in aid would cover their retreat. In the event of victory these same tribes would rush down and lend their weight to the rout of the British. The screw-guns v^ere to shell the head of each Afghan rush that was made in close formation, and the Cavalry, held in reserve in the right val- ley, were to gently stimulate the break-up which would follow on the combined attack. The Brigadier, sitting upon a rock overlooking the valley, would watch the battle unrolled at his feet. The Fore and Aft would debouch from the central gorge, the Gurkhas from the left, and the Highlanders from the right, for the reason that the left flank of the enemy seemed as though it required the most hammering. It was not every day that an Afghan force would take ground in the open, and the Brigadier was re- solved to make the most of it. " If we only had a few more men," he said, plaintively, "we could surround the creatures and crumble 'em up thoroughly. As it is, I'm The Drums of the Fore and Aft 257 afraid we can only cut them up as they run. It's a great pity." The Fore and Aft had enjoyed unbroken peace for five days, and were beginning, in spite of dysentery, to recover their nerve. But they were not happy, for they did not know the work in hand, and had they known, would not have known how to do it. Throughout those five days in which old soldiers might have taught them the craft of the game, they discussed together their misadventures in the past — how such an one was alive at dawn and dead ere the dusk, and with what shrieks and struggles such another had given up his soul under the Afghan knife. Death was a new and horrible thing to the sons of mechanics who were used to die de- cently of zymotic disease; and their careful con- servation in barracks had done nothing to make them look upon it with less dread. Very early in the dawn the bugles began to blow, and the Fore and Aft, filled with a mis- guided enthusiasm, turned out without waiting for a cup of coffee and a biscuit; and were re- warded by being kept under arms in the cold while the other regiments leisurely prepared for the fray. All the world knows that it is ill tak- ing the breeks off a Highlander. It is much iller to try to make him stir unless he is convinced of the necessity for haste. 258 Indian Tales The Fore and Aft awaited, leaning upon their rifles and listening to the protests of their empty stomachs. The Colonel did his best to remedy the default of lining as soon as it was borne in upon him that the affair would not begin at once, and so well did he succeed that the coffee was just ready when — the men moved off, their Band leading. Even then there had been a mistake in time, and the Fore and Aft came out into the valley ten minutes before the proper hour. Their Band wheeled to the right after reaching the open, and retired behind a Uttle rocky knoll still playing while the regiment went past. It was not a pleasant sight that opened on the uninstructed view, for the lower end of the val- ley appeared to be filled by an army in position — real and actual regiments attired in red coats, and — of this there was no doubt — firing Mar- tini-Henri bullets which cup up the ground a hundred yards in front of the leading company. Over that pock-marked ground the regiment had to pass, and it opened the ball with a general and profound courtesy to the piping pickets; ducking in perfect time, as though it had been brazed on a rod. Being half-capable of thinking for itself, it fired a volley by the simple process of pitching its rifle into its shoulder and pulling the trigger. The bullets may have accounted for some of the watchers on the hillside, but they certainly did The Drums of the Fore and Aft 259 not affect the mass of enemy in front, while the noise of the rifles drowned any orders that might have been given. "Good God!" said the Brigadier, sitting on the rock high above all, "That regiment has spoiled the whole show. Hurry up the others, and let the screw-guns get off." But the screw-guns, in working round the heights, had stumbled upon a wasp's nest of a small mud fort which they incontinently shelled at eight hundred yards, to the huge discomfort of the occupants, who were unaccustomed to weapons of such devilish precision. The Fore and Aft continued to go forward but with shortened stride. Where were the other regiments, and why did these niggers use Mar- tinis .? They took open order instinctively, lying down and firing at random, rushing a few paces forward and lying down again, according to the regulations. Once in this formation, each man felt himself desperately alone, and edged in to- ward his fellow for comfort's sake. Then the crack of his neighbor's rifle at his ear led him to fire as rapidly as he could — again for the sake of the comfort of the noise. The re- ward was not long delayed. Five volleys plunged the files in banked smoke impenetrable to the eye, and the bullets began to take ground twenty or thirty yards in front of the firers, as the weight 26o Indian Tales of the bayonet dragged down, and to the right arms wearied with holding the kick of the leap- ing Martini. The Company Commanders peered helplessly through the smoke, the more nervous mechanically trying to fan it away with their helmets. " High and to the left! " bawled a Captain till he was hoarse. "No good! Cease firing, and let it drift away a bit." Three and four times the bugles shrieked the order, and when it was obeyed the Fore and Aft looked that their foe should be lying before them in mown swaths of men. A light wind drove the smoke to leeward, and showed the enemy still in position and apparently unaffected. A quarter of a ton of lead had been buried a fur- long in front of them, as the ragged earth at- tested. That was not demoralizing. They were wait- ing for the mad riot to die down, and were firing quietly into the heart of the smoke. A private of the Fore and Aft spun up his company shrieking with agony, another was kicking the earth and gasping, and a third, ripped through the lower intestines by a jagged bullet, was calling aloud on his comrades to put him out of his pain. These were the casualties, and they were not soothing to hear or see. The smoke cleared to a dull haze. The Drums of the Fore and Aft 261 Then the foe began to shout with a great shouting and a mass — a black mass — detached itself from the main body, and rolled over the ground at horrid speed. It was composed of, perhaps, three hundred men, who would shout and tire and slash if the rush of their fifty com- rades who were determined to die carried home. The fifty were Ghazis, half-maddened with drugs and wholly mad with religious fanaticism. When they rushed the British fire ceased, and in the lull the order was given to close ranks and meet them with the bayonet. Any one who knew the business could have told the Fore and Aft that the only way of deal- ing with a Ghazi rush is by volleys at long ranges; because a man who means to die, who desires to die, who will gain heaven by dying, must, in nine cases out of ten, kill a man who has a lingering prejudice in favor of life if he can close with the latter. Where they should have closed and gone forward, the Fore and Aft opened out and skirmished, and where they should have opened out and fired, they closed and waited. A man dragged from his blankets half awake and unfed is never in a pleasant fr^me of mind. Nor does his happiness increase when he watches the whites of the eyes of three hundred six-foot fiends upon whose beards the foam is lying, upon 262 Indian Tales whose tongues is a roar of wrath, and in whose hands are three-foot knives. The Fore and Aft heard the Gurkha bugles bringing that regiment forward at the double, while the neighing of the Highland pipes came from the left. They strove to stay where they were, though the bayonets wavered down the line like the oars of a ragged boat. Then they felt body to body the amazing physical strength of their foes; a shriek of pain ended the rush, and the knives fell amid scenes not to be told. The men clubbed together and smote blindly — as often as not at their own fellows. Their from crumpled like paper, and the fifty Ghazis passed on; their backers, now drunk with success, fight- ing as madly as they. Then the rear-ranks were bidden to close up, and the subalterns dashed into the stew — alone. For the rear-rank had heard the clamor in front, the yells and the howls of pain, and had seen the dark stale blood that makes afraid. They were not going to stay. It was the rushing of the camps over again. Let their officers go to Hell, if they chose; they would get away from the knives. "Come on!" shrieked the subalterns, and their men, cursing them, drew back, each closing into his neighbor and wheeling round. Charteris and Devlin, subalterns of the last The Drums of the Fore and Aft 263 company, faced their death alone in the belief that their men would follow. "You've killed me, you cowards," sobbed Devlin and dropped, cut from the shoulder-strap to the centre of the chest, and a fresh detachment of his men retreating, always retreating, trampled him under foot as they made for the pass whence they had emerged. I kissed her in the kitchen and I kissed her in the hall. Child'un, child'un, follow me ! Oh Golly, said the cook, is he gwine to kiss us all ? Halla— Halla— Halla Halleujah ! The Gurkhas were pouring through the left gorge and over the heights at the double to the invitation of their regimental Quickstep. The black rocks were crowned with dark green spiders as the bugles gave tongue jubilantly: In the morning ! In the morning by the bright light ! When Gabriel blows his trumpet in the morning ! The Gurkha rear-companies tripped and blundered over loose stones. The front-files halted for a moment to take stock of the valley and to settle stray boot-laces. Then a happy lit- tle sigh of contentment soughed down the ranks, and it was as though the land smiled, for behold there below was the enemy, and it was to meet them that the Gurkhas had doubled so hastily. 264 Indian Tales There was much enemy. There would be amusement. The little men hitched their kukris well to hand, and gaped expectantly at their officers as terriers grin ere the stone is cast for them to fetch. The Gurkhas' ground sloped downward to the valley, and they enjoyed a fair view of the proceedings. They sat upon the bowlders to watch, for their officers were not going to waste their wind in assisting to repulse a Ghazi rush more than half a mile away. Let the white men look to their own front. "Hi! yi!" said the Subadar-Major, who was sweating profusely. "Dam fools yonder, stand close-order! This is no time for close order, it's the time for volleys. Ugh! " Horrified, amused, and indignant, the Gurkhas beheld the retirement — let us be gentle — of the Fore and Aft with a running chorus of oaths and commentaries. "They run! The white men run! Colonel Sahib, may we also do a little running .?" mur- mured Runbir Thappa, the Senior Jemadar. But the Colonel would have none of it. " Let the beggars be cut up a little," said he wrath- fully. "'Serves 'em right. They'll be prodded into facing round in a minute." He looked through his field-glasses, and caught the glint of an officer's sword. "Beating 'em with the flat — damned con- The Drums of the Fore and Aft 265 scripts! How the Ghazis are walking into them! " said he. The Fore and Aft, heading hack, bore with them their officers. The narrowness of the pass forced the mob into solid formation, and the rear-rank delivered some sort of a wavering vol- ley. The Ghazis drew off, for they did not know what reserves the gorge might hide. Moreover, it was never wise to chase white men too far. They returned as wolves return to cover, satis- fied with the slaughter that they had done, and only stopping to slash at the wounded on the ground. A quarter of a mile had the Fore and Aft retreated, and now, jammed in the pass, was quivering with pain, shaken and demoralized with fear, while the officers, maddened beyond control, smote the men with the hilts and the flats of their swords. "Get back! Get back, you cowards — you women! Right about face — column of compan- ies, form — you hounds!" shouted the Colonel, and the subalterns swore aloud. But the Regi- ment wanted to go — to go anywhere out of the range of those merciless knives. It swayed to and fro irresolutely with shouts and outcries, while from the right the Gurkhas dropped volley after volley of cripple-stopper Snider bullets at long range into the mob of the Ghazis returning to their own troops. 266 Indian Tales The Fore and Aft Band, though protected from direct fire by the rocky knoll under which it had sat down, fled at the first rush. Jakin and Lew would have fled also, but their short legs left them fifty yards in the rear, and by the time the Band had mixed with the regiment, they were painfully aware that they would have to close in alone and unsupported. "Get back to that rock," gasped Jakin. "They won't see us there." And they returned to the scattered instruments of the Band ; their hearts nearly bursting their ribs. "Here's a nice show for «s." said Jakin, throwing himself full length on the ground. "A bloomin' fine show for British Infantry! Oh, the devils! They've gone an' left us alone here! Wot'll we do.?" Lew took possession of a cast-off water bottle, which naturally was full of canteen rum, and drank till he coughed again. "Drink," said he, shortly. "They'll come back in a minute or two — you see." Jakin drank, but there was no sign of the regi- ment's return. They could hear a dull clamor from the head of the valley of retreat, and saw the Ghazis slink back, quickening their pace as the Gurkhas fired at them. "We're all that's left of the Band, an' we'll be cut up as sure as death," said Jakin. The Drums of the Fore and Aft 267 "I'll die game, then," said Lew, tiiickly, fum- bling with his tiny drummer's sword. The drink was working on his brain as it was on jakin's. "'Old on! I know something better than fightin'," said Jakin, "stung by the splendor of a sudden thought" due chiefly to rum. "Tip our bloomin' cowards yonder the word to come back. The Paythan beggars are well away. Come on, Lew! We won't get hurt. Take the fife an' give me the drum. The Old Step for all your bloomin' guts are worth! There's a few of our men coming back now. Stand up, ye drunken little defaulter. By your right — quick march ! " He slipped the drum-sling over his shoulder, thrust the fife into Lew's hand, and the two boys marched out of the cover of the rock into the open, making a hideous hash of the first bars of the "British Grenadiers." As Lew had said, a few of the Fore and Aft were coming back sullenly and shamefacedly under the stimulus of blows and abuse; their red coats shone at the head of the valley, and behind them were wavering bayonets. But between this shattered line and the enemy, who with Af- ghan suspicion feared that the hasty retreat meant an ambush, and had not moved therefore, lay half a mile of a level ground dotted only by the wounded. 268 Indian Tales The tune settled into full swing and the boys kept shoulder to shoulder, Jakin banging the drum as one possessed. The one fife made a thin and pitiful squeaking, but the tune carried far, even to the Gurkhas. "Come on, you dogs!" muttered Jakin, to himself. "Are we to play forhever.?" Lew was staring straight in front of him and march- ing more stiffly than ever he had done on parade. And in bitter mockery of the distant mob, the old tune of the Old Line shrilled and rattled: Some talk of Alexander, And some of Hercules ; Of Hector and Lysander, And such great names as these ! There was a far-off clapping of hands from the Gurkhas, and a roar from, the Highlanders in the distance, but never a shot was fired by Brit- ish or Afghan. The two little red dots moved forward in the open parallel to the enemy's front. But of all the world's great heroes There's none that can compare, With a tow-row-row-row-rovv-row, To the British Grenadier ! The men of the Fore and Aft were gathering thick at the entrance into ihe plain. The Briga- dier on the heights far above was speechless with The Drums of the Fore and Aft 269 rage. Still no movement from the enemy. The day stayed to watch the children. Jakin halted and beat the long roll of the As- sembly, while the fife squealed despairingly. "Right about face! Hold up, Lew, you're drunk," said Jakin. They wheeled and marched back : Those heroes of antiquity Ne'er saw a cannon-ball, Nor knew the force o' powder, "Here they come!" said Jakin. "Go on. Lew: " To scare their foes withal ! The Fore and Aft were pouring out of the val- ley. What officers had said to men in that time of shame and humiliation will never be known; for neither officers nor men speak of it now. "They are coming anew! " shouted a priest among the Afghans. "Do not kill the boysl Take them alive, and they shall be of our faith." But the first volley had been fired, and Lew dropped on his face. Jakin stood for a minute, spun round and collapsed, as the Fore and Aft came forward, the maledictions of their officers in their ears, and in their hearts the shame of open shame. Half the men had seen the drummers die, and they made no sign. They did not even shout. 270 Indian Tales They doubled out straight across the plain in open order, and they did not fire. "This," said the Colonel of Gurkhas, softly, "is the real attack, as it ought to have been de- livered. Come on, my children." " Ulu-lu-lu-lu! " squealed the Gurkhas, and came down with a joyful clicking of kukris — those vicious Gurkha knives. On the right there was no rush. The High- landers, cannily commending their souls to God (for it matters as much to a dead man whether he has been shot in a Border scuffle or at Water- loo) opened out and fired according to their cus- tom, that is to say without heat and without in- tervals, while the screw-guns, having disposed of the impertinent mud fort aforementioned, dropped shell after shell into the clusters round the flickering green standards on the heights. "Charrging is an unfortunate necessity," mur- mured the Color-Sergeant of the right company of the Highlanders. *•' It makes the men sweer so, but I am thinkin' that it will come to a charrge if these black devils stand much longer. Stewarrt, man, you're firing into the eye of the sun, and he'll not take any harm for Government ammuneetion. A foot lower and a great deal slower! What are the English doing.? They're very quiet there in the centre. Running again ? " The Drums of the Fore and Aft 271 The English were not running. They were hacking and hewing and stabbing, for though one white rnan is seldom physically a match for an Afghan in a sheepskin or wadded coat, yet, through the pressure of many white men behind, and a certain thirst for revenge in his heart, he becomes capable of doing much with both ends of his rifle. The Fore and Aft held their fire till one bullet could drive through five or six men, and the front of the Afghan force gave on the volley. They then selected their men, and slew them with deep gasps and short hacking coughs, and groanings of leather belts against strained bodies, and realized for the first time that an Afghan attacked is far less formidable than an Afghan attacking; which fact old soldiers might have told them. But they had no old soldiers in their ranks. The Gurkhas' stall at the bazar was the noisiest, for the men were engaged — to a nasty noise as of beef being cut on the block — with the kukri, which they preferred to the bayonet ; well know- ing how the Afghan hates the half-moon blade. As the Afghans wavered, the green standards on the mountain moved down to assist them in a last rally. Which was unwise. The Lancers chafing in the right gorge had thrice despatched their only subaltern as galloper to report on the progress of affairs. On the third occasion he rC' 2/2 Indian Tales turned, with a bullet-graze on his knee, swearing strange oaths in Hindoostani, and saying that all things were ready. So that Squadron swung round the right of the Highlanders with a wicked whistling of wind in the pennons of its lances, and fell upon the remnant just when, according to all the rules of war, it should have waited for the foe to show more signs of wavering. But it was a dainty charge, deftly delivered, and it ended by the Cavalry finding itself at the head of the pass by which the Afghans intended to retreat; and down the track that the lances had made streamed two companies of the Highland- ers, which was never intended by the Brigadier, The new development was successful. It de- tached the enemy from his base as a sponge is torn from a rock, and left him ringed about with fire in that pitiless plain. And as a sponge is chased round the bath-tub by the hand of the bather, so were the Afghans chased till they broke into little detachments much more difficult to dispose of than large masses. " See ! " quoth the Brigadier. " Everything has come as 1 arranged. We've cut their base, and now we'll bucket 'em to pieces." A direct hammering was all that the Brigadier had dared to hope for, considering the size of the force at his disposal; but men who stand or fall by the errors of their opponents may be forgiven The Drums of the Fore and Aft 273 for turning Chance into Design. The bucketing went forward merrily. The Afghan forces were upon the run — the run of wearied wolves who snarl and bite over their shoulders. The red lances dipped by twos and threes, and, with a shriek, up rose the lance-butt, like a spar on a stormy sea, as the trooper cantering forward cleared his point. The Lancers kept between their prey and the steep hills, for all who could were trying to escape from the valley of death. The Highlanders gave the fugitives two hundred yards' law, and then brought them down, gasp- ing and choking ere they could reach the protec- tion of the bowlders above. The Gurkhas fol- lowed suit; but the Fore and Aft were killing on their own account, for they had penned a mass of men between their bayonets and a wall of rock, and the flash of the rifles was lighting the wadded coats. "We cannot hold them, Captain Sahib!" panted a Ressaidar of Lancers. " Let us try the carbine. The lance is good, but it wastes time." They tried the carbine, and still the enemy melted away — fled up the hills by hundreds when there were only twenty bullets to stop them. On the heights the screw-guns ceased firing — they had run out of ammunition — and the Brigadier groaned, for the musketry fire could not suffi- ciently smash the retreat. Long before the last 274 Indian Tales volleys were fired, the litters were out in force looking for the wounded. The battle was over, and, but for want of fresh troops, the Afghans would have been wiped off the earth. As it was they counted their dead by hundreds, and no- where were the dead thicker than in the track of the Fore and Aft. But the Regiment did not cheer with the High- landers, nor did they dance uncouth dances with the Gurkhas among the dead. They looked under their brows at the Colonel as they leaned upon their rifles and panted. "Get back to camp, you. Haven't you dis- graced yourself enough for one day! Go and look to the wounded. It's all you're fit for," said the Colonel. Yet for the past hour the Fore and Aft had been doing all that mortal com- mander could expect- They had lost heavily be- cause they did not know how to set about their business with proper skill, but they had borne themselves gallantly, and this was their reward. A young and sprightly Color-Sergeant, who had begun to imagine himself a hero, offered his water-bottle to a Highlander, whose tongue was black with thirst. "I drink with no cowards," answered the youngster, huskily, and, turning to a Gurkha, said, " Hya, Johnny! Drink water got it.?'' The Gurkha grinned and passed his bottle. The Fore and Aft said no word. 77?^ Drums of the Fore and Aft 275 They went back to camp when the field of strife had been a little mopped up and made presentable, and the Brigadier, who saw himself a Knight in three months, was the only soul who was complimentary to them. The Colonel was heart-broken and the officers were savage and sullen. "Well," said the Brigadier, "they are young troops of course, and it was not unnatural that they should retire in disorder for a bit." "Oh, my only Aunt Maria! " murmured a jun- ior Staff Officer. " Retire in disorder! It was a bally run! " " But they came again as we all know," cooed the Brigadier, the Colonel's ashy-white face be- fore him, "and they behaved as well as could possibly be expected. Behaved beautifully, in- deed. 1 was watching them. It's not a matter to take to heart, Colonel. As some German General said of his men, they wanted to be shooted over a little, that was all." To himself he said: *' Now they're blooded I can give 'em t'esponsible work. It's as well that they got what they did. 'Teach 'em more than half a dozen rifle flirtations, that will — later — run alone and bite. Poor old Colonel, though." All that afternoon the heliograph winked and flickered on the hills, striving to tell the good news to a mountain forty miles away. And in 276 Indian Tales the evening there arrived, dusty, sweating, and sore, a misguided Correspondent who had gone out to assist at a trumpery village-burning and who had read off the message from afar, cursing his luck the while. "Let's have the details somehow — as full as ever you can, please. It's the first time I've ever been left this campaign," said the Correspondent to the Brigadier; and the Brigadier, nothing loath, told him how an Army of Communication had been crumpled up, destroyed, and all but anni- hilated by the craft, strategy, wisdom, and fore- sight of the Brigadier. But some say, and among these be the Gurkhas who watched on the hillside, that that battle was won by Jakin and Lew, whose little bodies were borne up just in time to fit two gaps at the head of the big ditch-grave for the dead under the heights of Jagai. THE SENDING OF DANA DA When the Devil rides on your chest remember the ckaviar.— Amative 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 brushes, 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 dreamed of in our philosophy." Several other things happened also, but the Re- ligion never seemed to get much beyond its first manifestations; though it added an air-line postal service, and orchestral effects in order to keep abreast of the times, and choke off competition. This Religion was too elastic for ordinary use. It stretched itself and embraced pieces of every- thing that the 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 Ency- clopoedia Britannica ; annexed as many of the 277 2/8 Indian Tales Vedas as had been translated into French or Eng- lish, and talked of all the rest; built in the Ger- man versions of what is left of the Zend Avesta; encouraged White, Grey and Black Magic, in- cluding spiritualism, palmistry, fortune-telling by cards, hot chestnuts, double-kerneled 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 arrangements 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 subscriptions, complete,. Dana Da came from nowhere, with nothing in his hands, and wrote 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 except the Bengali. De as the original spelling. Da is Lap or Finnish; and Dana Da was neither Finn, Chin, Bhil, Ben- gali, Lap, Nair, Gond, Romaney, Magh, Bok- hariot, Kurd, Armenian, Levantine, Jew, Per- sian, Punjabi, Madrasi, Parsee, nor anything else known to ethnologists. He was simply Dana Da, and declined to give further information. For the sake of brevity and as roughly indicating his origin, he was called "The Native." He The Sending of Dana Da 279 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 "Independent Experimenter." As 1 have said, he came from nowhere, with his hands behind his back, and studied the Creed for three weeks; sitting at the feet of those best competent to explain its mysteries. Then he laughed aloud and went away, but the laugh might have been either of devotion or derision. When he returned he was without m.oney, 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 tell- ing fortunes with the help of three leaden dice, a very dirty old cloth, and a little tin box of opium pills. He told better fortunes when he was al- lowed half a bottle of whiskey; but the things which he invented on the opium were quite worth the money. He was in reduced circum- stances. Among other people's he told the foi- tune of an Englishman who had once been inter- ested in the Simla Creed, but who, later on, had married and forgrotten all his old knowledare in 28o Indian Tales the study of babies and things. The Englishman allowed Dana Da to tell a fortune 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 any- thing 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. "Is there any one that you hate.?" said Dana Da. The Englishman said that there were sev- eral 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 1 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 form, but, most generally, wanders about the land 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 m.an without a face. It is not strictly a native patent, though chamars of the skin and hide castes can, if irritated, 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. The Sending of Dana Da 281 "Let me despatch a Sending," said Dana Da; " I am nearly dead now witii want, and drink, and opium; but I should like to kill a 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 willingness to give Dana Da ten rupees for the job. "1 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 it } " "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. "! could have chosen no better man myself," said he. "1 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 282 Indian Tales he vowed that the Sending had started upon the war-path, and was at that moment flying up to the town where Lone Sahib Hves. "Give me my ten rupees," said Dana Da, wearily, " and write a letter to Lone Sahib, telling him, and all who believe with him, that you and a friend are using a power greater 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 Send- ing. The Englishman sent a letter to Lone Sahib, couched in what he remembered of the terminol- ogy of the Creed. He wrote: "I also, in the days of what you held to be my backsliding, have obtained Enlightenment, and with Enlight- enment 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 fash- ions, and was beginning a sixth interpretation when his bearer dashed in with the news that there was a cat on the bed. Now if there was one thing that Lone Sahib hated more than an- other, it was a cat. He scolded the bearer for The Sending of Dana Da 283 not turning it out of the house. The bearer said that he was afraid. All the doors of the bedroom had been shut throughout the morning, and no real cat could possibly have entered the room. 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 a 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 scurff of its neck, handed it over to the sweeper to be drowned, and fined the bearer four annas. 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 realized that it was a kitten — a wee 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. " If 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 284 Indian Tales bed and the kitten on the hearth-rug be real kit- tens?" Lone Sahib went out to listen, and the bearer followed him, but there was no sound of any one mewing for her children. He returned to his room, having hurled the kitten down the hillside, and wrote out the incidents of the day for the benefit of his co-religionists. Those people were so absolutely free from superstition that they as- cribed anything a little out of the common to Agencies. As it was their business to know all about the Agencies, they were on terms of al- most indecent familiarity with Manifestations of every kind. Their letters dropped from the ceil- ing — unstamped — and Spirits used to squatter up and down their staircases 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 Englishman's letter be- cause it was the most mysterious 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 1 am going to make you sit up." Lone Sahib's co-religionists found that meaning in it; but their translation was refined and full of four-syllable words. They held a sederunt, and The Sending of Dana Da 285 were filled with tremulous 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 clinking among the photo-frames on the mantelpiece. A wee white kitten, nearly blind, was looping and writhing itself between the clock and the candle- oticks. That stopped all investigations or doubt- ings. Here was the Manifestation in the flesh. It was, so far as could be seen, devoid of pur- pose, but it was a Manifestation of undoubted authenticity. They drafted a Round Robin to the English- man, the backslider of old days, adjuring him in the interests of the Creed to explain whether there was any connection between the embodi- ment of some Egyptian God or other (1 have for- gotten the name) and his communication. They called the kitten Ra, or Toth, or Tum, or some thing; and when Lone Sahib confessed that the first one had, at his most misguided instance, been drowned by the sweeper, they said consolingly 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 accurately express the sense of the house. When the Englishman received the Round 286 Indian Tales Robin — it came by post — he was startled and be- wildered. He sent into tlie bazar for Dana Da, who read the letter and laughed. "That is my Sending," said he. "1 told you 1 would work well. Now give me another ten rupees." " But what in the world is this gibberish about Egyptian Gods?" asked the Englishman. "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 1 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 ths Englishman; " 1 am as much in the dark as ever. Do you mean to say that you can 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 hands into his ulster-pocket and finds a little half-dead kitten where his The Sending of Dana Da 287 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 kit- ten under the quilt, or wriggling among his boots, or hanging, head downward, in his tobacco-jar, or being mangled by his terrier in the veranda, — when such a man finds 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 be- cause he believes it to be a Manifestation, an Emissary, an Embodiment, and half a dozen other things all out of the regular course of nature, he is more than upset. He is actually dis- tressed. 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 kit- ten with proper respect — as suited a Toth-Ra- Tum-Sennacherib 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 Englishman who had sent the Manifestation. They did not call it a Sending because Icelandic magic was not in their programme. 288 Indian Tales 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 Sending, the whole camp was uplifted by a letter — it came flying through a window — from the Old Man of the Mountains — the Head of all the Creed — explain- ing the Manifestation in the most beautiful lan- guage and soaking up all the credit of it for him- self. 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 project 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 independent lines could create kittens, whereas their own rulers had never gone beyond crockery — and broken at best — were showing a desire 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 Rites of Mizraim and Memphis and the Commination of Jugana, who was a "fifth- rounder," upon whose name an unstart "third- rounder" once traded. A papal excommunica- The Sending of Dana Da 289 tion is a billet-doux compared to the Commina- tion of Jugana, The Englishman 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 translate into decent English. The effect on Dana Da was curious. At first he was furiously angry, and then he laughed for five minutes. "I 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 1 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 wourtd up: *'And if this Manifestation be from your hand, then let it go forward; but if it be from my hand. 1 will that the Sending shall cease in two days' time. On that day there shall be twelve kittens and thenceforward none at all. The people shall judge between us," This was signed by Dana Da, who added pentacles and pentagrams, and a 290 Indian Tales crux ansaia, and half a dozen swastikas, 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 gentlemen 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 with- out a single "round" at the back of him. But this did 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 inter- vals among the visitors who came to see the prophecy break down. Never was a more satis- factory Sending. 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 Mountains for an explanation. A letter, written on a palm-leaf, dropped from the ceiling, but every one except The Sending of Dana Da 291 Lone Sahib felt that letters were not what the occasion demanded. There should have been cats, there should 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 interfered with the Percipient Activity all along the main line. The kittens were still going on, but owing to some failure in the Developing Fluid, they were not materialized. The air was thick with letters for a few days afterward. 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 depar- ture, 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 honors. "They have been put to shame," said he. "Never was such a Sending. It has killed me." "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 }" 292 Indian Tales "Give me ten more rupees," said Dana Da, faintly, "and if I die before 1 spend Ihem, bury them witii 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 Englishman bent. " Bimiiia — Mission - school — expelled — box - wallah (peddler) — Ceylon pearl-merchant — 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 — 1 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 ba^ar. Ask Lone Sahib's sweeper's wife." 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 I ON THE CITY WALL Then 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. LALUN is a member of the most ancient pro- fession in the world. Lilith was her very- great-grandmamma, and that was before the days of Eve as every one knows, hi 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 pro- fession 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 Lalun's profession in the East must have husbands, was a big jujube-tree. Her Mamma, who had mar- ried a fig-tree, spent ten thousand rupees on Lalun's wedding, which was blessed by forty- seven clergymen of Mamma's church, and dis- tributed five thousand rupees in charity to the poor. And that was the custom of the land. The advantages of having a jujube-tree for a 293 294 Indian Tales husband are obvious. You cannot hurt his feel- ings, 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 liver-bank, the great sand bars that ribbed the river, the red tombs of dead Emperors beyond the river, and very far away through the blue heat-haze, a glint of the snows of the Himalayas. Wall Dad used to lie in the window-seat for hours at a time watching this view. He was a young Muhammadan who was suffering acutely from education of the English variety and knew it. His father had sent him to a Mission-school to get wisdom, and Wall Dad had absorbed more than ever his father or the Missionaries intended he should. When his father died, Wall Dad was independent and spent two years experimenting with the creeds of the Earth and reading books that are of no use to anybody. After he had made an unsuccessful attempt to enter the Roman Catholic Church and the Pres- byterian fold at the same time (the Missionaries On the City Wall 295 found him out and called him names, but they did not understand his trouble), he discovered Lalun on the City wall and became the most con- stant of her few admirers. He possessed a head that English artists at home would rave over and paint amid impossible surroundings — a face that female novelists would use with delight through nine hundred pages. In reality he was only a clean-bred young Muhammadan, with penciled eyebrows, small-cut nostrils, little feet and hands, and a very tired look in his eyes. By vir- tue 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 Government 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 ex- planation, 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 296 Indian Tales- Lalun the administration of the Government was troubled and it lost such and such a man." When Wall Dad sings that song his eyes glow like hot coals, and Lalun leans back among the cushions and throws bunches of jasmine-buds at Wall Dad. But first it is necessary to explain something 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, de- nouncing or praising it as their own ignorance prompts. Consequently all the world knows how the Supreme Government conducts itself. But no one, not even the Supreme Government, knows everything 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 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 push- ing and coaxing and scolding and petting the country into good living goes forward. If an On the City Wall 297 advance be made all credit is given to the native, while the Englishmen stand back and wipe their foreheads. If a failure occurs the Englishmen step forward and take the blame. Overmuch tenderness of this kind has bred a strong belief among many natives that the native is capable of administering the country, and many devout Englishmen believe this also, because the theory is stated in beautiful English with all the latest political color. There be other men who, though uneducated, see visions and dream dreams, and they, too, hope to administer the country in their own way — that is to say, with a garnish of Red Sauce. Such men must exist among two hundred million people, and, if 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 excitement" and put- ting guards upon the graveyards that the Dead might troop forth orderly. The youngest Civil- ian would arrest Gabriel on his own responsibil- ity if the Archangel could not produce a Deputy Commissioner's permission to " make music or other noises " as the license says. Whence it is easy to see that mere men of the 298 Indian Tales 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 excite- ment; there is no confusion; there is no knowl- edge. When due and sufficient reasons have been given, weighed and approved, the machin- ery moves forward, and the dreamer of dreams and the seer of visions is gone from his friends and following. He enjoys the hospitality of Government; 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 Govern- ment 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 news- paper "takes up his case" or organizes demon- strations 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. 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 vari- On the City Wall 299 ously compared to the 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 beautiful exceedingly according to the native standards, 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 is Lalun, and when you have said that, you have only come to the Beginnings of Knowl- edge." 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 polite- ness' sake. The floor of the room was of pol- ished chunam, white as curds. A latticed win- dow of carved wood was set in one wall; there was a profusion of squabby pluffy cushions and fat carpets everywhere, and Lalun's silver hitqa, studded with turquoises, had a special little car- pet all to its shining self, Wali Dad was nearly as permanent a fixture as the chandelier. As I 3CXD Indian Tales have said, he lay in the window-seat and medi- tated 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, 1 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 passing southward on their way to the Central 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 Bor- der, 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 listened to the talk. On the Ciiy Wall 301 "It is Lalun's salon," said Wall Dad to me, "and it is electic — is not that the word ? Out- side 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 allowing national feelings to over- come 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." " 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 everything." " Lalun," I said at random — she was talking 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, without turning her head. "They have ordered the i i8th to go in its stead. That Regiment goes to Luck- now in three months, unless they give a fresh order." "That is so," said Wali Dad without a shade of doubt. "Can you, with your telegrams and 302 Indian Tales your newspapers, do better ? Always hearing and telling some new thing," he went on. " My friend, has your God ever smitten a European nation for gossiping in the bazars ? India has gossiped for centuries — always standing in the bazars until the soldiers go by. Therefore — you are here to-day instead of starving in your own country, and 1 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 hiiqa and mourned, half feel- ingly, 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 sHar, 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 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, On the City Wall ^03 Ai, Ai, All evermore. She knew how to make up tobacco for the J/nga so that it smelled like the Gates of Paradise and wafted you gently through them. She could embroider strange things in gold and silver, and dance softly with the moon- light 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 Govern- ment 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 sifar and sat in the window- 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 hii" horse's tail and another Lalun on his saddle-bo\^'. It was what men call a Mahratta laonee, and It said: Their warrior forces Chimnajee Before the Peishwa led, The Children of the Sun and Fire Behind him turned and fled. 304 tndian Tales 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 Eng- lish to me. "Thanks to your Government, all our heads are protected, and with the educational facilities at my command " — his eyes twinkled wickedly — "1 might be a distinguished member of the local administration. Perhaps, in time, I might even be a member of a Legislative Coun- cil." "Don't speak English," said Lalun, bending over her sitar 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 Infantry. 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 grey head of an old man — and a voice, rough as On the City Wall 305 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?" I asked. " Who is it .^" "A consistent man," said Wali Dad. "He fought you in '46, when he was a warrior- youth; refought you in '57, and he tried to fight you in '71, but you had learned the trick of blow- ing men from guns too well. Now he is old; but he would still fight if he could." " Is he a Wahabi, then ? Why should he an- swer to a Mahratta laoiiee if he be Wahabi — or Sikh.?" said I. "1 do not know," said W^ali 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. " I choose to tell what I choose to tell. They kept Khem 3o6 Indian Tales 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 Gov- ernment. Finding this, they sent him back to his own country that he might look upon it be- fore 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 Wall Dad, pulling at the Iniqa. " He returns to a country now full of educational and political re- form, 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 ? " Wall Dad seemed to be in a very bad temper. Lalun looked out of the window and smiled into tne dust-haze. 1 went away thinking about Khem Singh who had once made history with ? 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 On the City Wall 307 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 ex- plained 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. 1 called him Subadar Sahib; just as well to be on the safe side, y'know. 'Look here, Subadar Sahib,' I said, 'you're handed over to my authority, and I'm supposed to guard you. Now I 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 1 can, but you mustn't take advantage of it. Give me your word that you won't try to escape, Subadar 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 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 3o8 Indian Tales what the buildings about him are. I had to sign a shp of blue paper when he turned up, acknowl- edging 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 grandfather, isn't it ? Come to the Fort one of these days and see him ?" For reasons which will appear, 1 never went to the Fort while Khem Singh was then within its walls. I knew him only as a grey head seen from Lalun's window — a grey 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 morn- ing till noon and from evening till the night, de- vising 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 withered 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 thou- sand, and now!" — he pointed to his two serv- On the City Wall 309 ants. "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 1 am in my own country again, 1 remember 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, 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 — aye, in the very vaulted cham- ber that now served as a Mess-room; would tell stories of Sobraon that made the Subaltern's cheeks flush and tingle with pride of race, and of the Kuka rising from which so much was ex' 310 Indian Tales pected 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 is your strong rock and de- fence. This is a foolish thing. Will oil and water mix ? Now in '57 " — " I was not born then, Subadar Sahib," said the Subaltern, and Khem Singh reeled to his quarters. The Subaltern would tell me of these conver- sations at the Club, and my desire to see Khem Singh increased. But Wali Dad, sitting 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 1 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 On the City Wall 311 all, here is myself. I will tell you stories and sing you songs, and Wali Dad will talk his Eng- lish nonsense in your ears. Is that worse than watching the caged animal yonder ? Go to-mor- row then, if you must, but to-day such and such an one will be here, and he will speak of won- derful things." It happened that To-morrow never came, 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 Tommies to watch that old nigger?" said he. " I fancy it soothes his vanity," said the Subal- tern. " The men are ordered to keep well out of his way, but he takes them as a tribute to his im- portance, poor old wretch." "I 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 eye- brows. "Sikhs, Pathans, Dogras — they're all alike. 3 1 2 Indian Ta les these black vermin," and the Captain talked to Khem Singh in a manner which hurt that old gentleman's feelings. Fifteen years 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 Subalterns are promoted to Cap- taincies. The Captain-pig is in charge of the Fort } " said Khem Singh to his native guard every morn- ing. 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 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 — v/ho were fools. Hence the glorious institution of the heterodox women — is it not ? — who were amusing and not fools. All the Greek philosophers delighted in their com- pany. Tell me, my friend, how it goes now in Greece and the other places upon the Continent of Europe. 'Are your women-folk also fools .?" "Wali Dad," 1 said, "you never speak to us On the City Wall 313 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 her}'' He pointed with the pipe-mouth to Lalun. " Lalun is nothing but Lalun," I said, and that was perfectly true. " But if you took your place in the world, Wali Dad, and gave up dreaming dreams " — " I might wear an English coat and trouser. I might be a leading Muhammadan pleader. I might be received even at the Commissioner's tennis-parties where the English stand on one side and the natives on the other, in order to promote social intercourse throughout the Em- pire. Heart's Heart," said he to Lalun quickly, "the Sahib says that I ought to quit you." "The Sahib is always talking stupid talk," re- turned Lalun, with a 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 ap- pointment } Lalun, what shall his pay be ? " 314 Indian Tales 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 triple 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 pince-nei, sent up his name to Lalun, and Wali Dad dragged me into the twink- ling night to walk in a big rose-garden and talk heresies about Religion and Governments 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 fanati- cism 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 On the City Wall 315 Hasan and Hussain, the heroes of the Mohurrum. Gilt and painted paper presentations of their tombs are borne with shouting and waiHng, music, torches, and yells, through the principal thoroughfares of the City, which fakements are called taiias. Their passage is rigorously laid down beforehand by the Police, and detachments of Police accompany each ta:{ia, 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 " fight- ing" 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 foresee everything, and while not making their precautions ridiculously elaborate, must see that they are at least adequate. " Listen to the drums! " said Wall Dad. "That is the heart of the people — empty and making much noise. How, think you, will the Mohur- rum go this year? / think that there will be trouble." He turned down a side-street and left me alone with the stars and a sleepy Police patrol. Then I went to bed and dreamed that Wali Dad had sacked the City and I was made Vizier, with Lalun's silver huqa for mark of office. All day the Mohurrum drums beat in the City, and all day deputations of tearful Hindu gentle- 3i6 Indian Tales men besieged the Deputy Commissioner with as- surances that they would be murdered ere next dawning by the Muhammadans. " Which," said the Deputy Commissioner, in confidence to the Head of PoHce, "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 be- fore, if I except the fat gentleman in black with the gold pince-iiei. Wall Dad lay in the win- dow-seat, more bitterly scornful cf his Faith and its manifestations than I had ever known him. Lalun's maid was very busy cutting up and mixing tobacco for the guests. We could hear the thunder of the drums as the processions accompanying each ta:{ja marched to the central gathering-place in the plain outside the City, preparatory to their triumphant reentry and cir- cuit 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 ta^ia has moved off," said Wall Dad, looking to the plain. On the City Wall ■^ij "That is very early," said the man with the pmce-nei. " 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 Menisahibs make tea." The brick-tea was abominable. When it was finished Wall Dad suggested going into the streets. "I am nearly sure that there will be trouble to-night," he said. " All the City thinks so, and yox Popiili is Vox Dei, as the Babus say. Now I tell you that at the corner of the Padshahi Gate you will fmd my horse all this night if you want to go about and to see things. It is a most disgraceful exhibition. Where is the pleasure of saying ' Ya Hasan, Ya Hussain,' twenty thousand times in a night ?" All the processions — there were two and tv/enty of them — were now well within the City walls. The drums were beating afresh, the crowd were howling "Kz Hasan/ Ya Hitssainf" and beat- ing their breasts, the brass bands were playing their loudest, and at every corner where space allowed, Muhammadan preachers were telling the lamentable story of the death of the Martyrs. It was impossible to move except with the crowd, 3i8 Indian Tales for the streets were not more than twenty feet wide. In the Hindu quarters the shutters of all the shops were up and cross-barred. As the first ta{ta, a gorgeous 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 Horsemen, a brickbat crashed through its talc and tinsel sides. "Into thy hands, O Lord?" murmured Wall Dad, profanely, as a yell went up from behind, and a native officer of Police jammed his horse ihrough the crowd. Another brickbat followed, and the ta:ita staggered and swayed where it had stopped. "Go on! In the name of the Sirkar, go for- ward!" 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 Horsemen, but in half a dozen other places. The ta:{ias rocked like ships at sea, the long pole-torches dipped and rose round them while the men shouted: "The Hindus are dishonoring the tafias! Strike! Strike! Into their temples for the faith!" The six or eight Policemen with each ta:{ia drew their batons, and struck as long as they could in the hope of forcing the mob forward, but they were On the City Wall 319 overpowered, and as contingents of Hindus poured into the streets, the fight became general. Half a mile away where the tafias were yet un- touched the drums and the shrieks oi "Ya Hasan! Ya Htissain!" continued, but not for long. The priests at the corners of the streets knocked the legs from the bedsteads that supported their pul- pits and smote for the Faith, while stones fell from the silent houses upon friend and foe, and the packed streets bellowed: ''Dili! Din! Din!" A ta:{_ia caught tire, and was dropped for a flam- ing barrier between Hindu and Musalman at the corner of the Gully. Then the crowd surged forward, and Wall Dad drew me close to 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 bricks were carried up to the houses beforehand. These swine of Hindus! We shall be gutting kine in their temples to-night! " Ta^ia after ta^ia, 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 Dis- trict Superintendent of Police, a boy of twenty, had got together thirty constables and was forc- ing the crowd through the streets. His old grey 320 Indian Tales 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 him- self was never still. " They know we haven't enough Police to hold 'em," he cried as he passed me, mopping a cut on his face. " They know we haven't! Aren't any of the men from the Club coming down to help? Get on, you sons of burned fathers!" The dog- whip cracked across the writhing backs, and the constables smote afresh with baton and gun-butt. With these passed the lights and the shouting, and Wall 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 bodv 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 diffi- cult, 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 even- On the City [Vail 321 ing-dress were beginning to show themselves and lend a hand in heading off and breaking up the shouting masses with stirrup-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 appearance 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 tafias — 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. Then a native officer of Police, unhorsed but still using his spurs with effect, would be borne along, warning all the crowd of the danger of insulting the Govern- ment. Everywhere men struck aimlessly with sticks, grasping each other by the throat, howl- ing and foaming with rage, or beat v/ith their bare hands on the doors of the ho'.ises. "■ It is a lucky thing that they are fighting with natural weapons," 1 said to Wall 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 322 Indian Tales he was smiting himself softly on the breast. The crowd poured by with renewed 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 Hus- sain ! " plunged into the thick of the fight where 1 lost sight of him. 1 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 tu- mult sank to a dull roar, very impressive under the stars and reflecting great credit on the fifty thousand angry able-bodied men who were mak- ing it. The troops who, at the Deputy Commis- sioner's instance, had been ordered to rendezvous quietly near the Fort, showed no signs of being impressed. Two companies of Native 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 beggars will really stand up to On the City Wall 323 us?" "'Hope I shall meet my money-Iendet there. I owe him more than I can afford." "Oh, they won't let us even unsheathe swords." "Hurrah! Up goes the fourth rocket. Fall in, there! " The Garrison Artillery, who to the last cher- ished 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 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 in- tended to be of a distinctly unpleasant nature, and to come on top of the defeat of the Police who had been just able to keep the Muham- madans 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 1 rode hastily to Lalun's house for I wished to tell her to send some one in search of Wall Dad. The house was unlighted, but the door was open, and 1 climbed upstairs in the darkness. One small lamp in the white room showed Lalun and her maid leaning half out of the window, breath- ing heavily and evidently pulling at something that refused to come. 324 Indian Tales "Thou art late — very late," gasped Lalun, with- out turning her head. "Help us now, O Fool, if thou hast not spent thy strength howling among the taiias. Pull! Nasiban and I can do no more! O Sahib, is it you ? The Hindus have been hunting an old Muhammadan round the Ditch with clubs. If they tind him again they will kill him. Help us to pull him up." I put 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 something very heavy at the end, and it swore in an unknown tongue as it kicked against the City v/all. "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, his turban had fallen over one eye, and he was dusty and angry. Lalun hid her face in her hands for an instant and said something about Wall Dad that 1 could not catch. Then, to my extreme gratification, she threw her arms round my neck and murmured pretty things. I was in no haste to stop her; and Nasiban, being a handmaiden of tact, turned to the big jewel-chest that stands in the corner of the white room and rummaged among the con- On the City Wall 325 tents. The Muhammadan 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 1 ask this." Nasiban bent over the old man, tucked some- thing into his belt, and 1 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 British infantry crying cheeringly: " Hutt, ye beggars! Hutt, ye devils! Getalong! 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 gun-butts — for 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 there — the iron bangle of the Sikhs — but I had no suspicions, for Lalun had only ten minutes before 326 Indian Tales put her arms round me. Thrice we were carried back by the crowd, and when we made 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," 1 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. "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 Strharf" when a fresh crowd flying before the Native Infantry carried us a hundred yards nearer to the Kumharsen Gate, and Petitt was swept away like a shadow. "I do not know — I cannot see — this 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, 1 am a very old man, and, alas. On the City Wall 327 I — I cannot stand." He dropped in the shadow of the Kumharsen Gate where there was no dis- turbance. A fat gentleman wearing gold pince- nei came out of the darkness. "You are most kind to bring my old friend," he said, suavely. " He is a landholder of Akala. He should not be in a big 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 bunnias clung to the stirrups of the cavalry, cry- ing 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 the 328 Indian Tales peace more utterly weary and footsore. They were routed out of holes and corners, from be- hind 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 sobbing hysteric- ally and his arms flapped like the wings of a goose. It was Wall Dad, Agnostic and Unbe- liever, shoeless, turbanless, and frothing at the mouth, the flesh on his chest bruised and bleed- ing from the vehemence with which he had smitten himself. A broken torch-handle lay by his side, and his quivering lips murmured, " Ya Hasan ! Ya Hussain ! " as 1 stooped over him. I pushed him a few steps up the staircase, 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 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 shape- less head. "These brutes were beginning to show their teeth too much." And from afar we could hear the soldiers sing- On the City Wall ^29 ing "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 this story, not writing it, connect myself, or Lalun, or the fat gentleman of the gold pince-ne:(^, with his disap- pearance. Nor did it strike me that Wall Dad was the man who should have convoyed him across the City, or that Lalun's arms round my neck were put there to hide the money that Nasiban gave to Kehm Singh, and that Lalun had used me and my white face as even a better safe- guard than Wall Dad who proved himself so un- trustworthy. All that I knew at the time was that, when Fort Amara was taken up with the riots, Khem Singh profited by the confusion 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 regi- 330 Indian '/ales ments of 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 letters and made promises, and the letters fell into bad hands, and a wholly insignificant sub- ordinate officer of Police tracked them down and gained promotion thereby. Moreover, Khem Singh was old, and anise-seed brandy was scarce, and he had left his silver cooking-pots in Fort Amara with his nice warm bedding, and the gentleman with the gold pince-nei 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 Eng- lish!" said Khem Singh when the situation v/as put before him. " I will go back to Fort Amara of my own free will and gain honor. Give me good clothes to return in." So, at his own time, Khem Singh knocked at the wicket-gate of the Fort and walked to the Captain and the Subaltern, who were nearly grey-headed on account of correspondence that daily arrived from Simla marked " Private." " 1 have come back. Captain Sahib," said Khem Singh. " Put no more guards over me. It is no good out yonder." A week later 1 saw him for the first time to my On the City Wall 331 knowledge, and he made as though there were an understanding between us. "It was well done, Sahib," said he, "and greatly I admired your astuteness in thus boldly facing the troops when 1, 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 1 draw it on the sand " — But I was thinking how I had become Lalun s Vizier after all. THE BROKEN-LINK HANDICAP While the snaffle holds, or the long-neck stings, While the big beam tilts, or the last bell rings, While horses are horses to train and to race, Then women and wine take a second place For me — for me — While a short " ten-three " Has a field to squander or fence to face ! — Song of the G, R. THERE are more ways of running a norse lo suit your book than pulling his head off in the straight. Some men forget this. Under- stand clearly that all racing is rotten — as every- thing connected with losing money must be. In India, in addition to its inherent rottenness, it has the merit of being two-thirds sham; looking pretty on paper only. Every one knows every one else far too well for business purposes. How on earth can you rack and harry and post a man for his losings, when you are fond of his wife, and live in the same Station with him .^ He says, "On the Monday following," "I can't settle just yet." You say, " All right, old man," and think yourself lucky if you pull off nine hun- dred out of a two-thousand-rupee debt. Any way you look at it, Indian racing is immoral, and 332 The Broken-Link Handicap 353 expensively immoral. Which is much worse. If a man wants your money, he ought to ask for it, or send round a subscription-list, instead of juggling about the country, with an Australian larrikin; a " brumby," with as much breed as the boy; a brace of chiiiuars in gold-laced caps; three or four ekka-pomes with hogged manes, and a switch-tailed demirep of a mare called Arab because she has a kink in her flag. Racing leads to the shrojf quicker than anything else. But if you have no conscience and no sentiments, and good hands, and some knowledge of pace, and ten years' experience of horses, and several thousand rupees a month, I believe that you can occasionally contrive to pay your shoeing-bills. Did you ever know Shackles — b. w. g., 15. i^ — coarse, loose, mule-like ears — barrel as long as a gatepost — tough as a telegraph-wire — and the queerest brute that ever looked through a bridle .? He was of no brand, being one of an ear-nicked mob taken into the Bucephalus at ^"4:108., a head to make up freight, and sold raw and out of condition at Calcutta for Rs.275. People who lost money on him called him a " brumby"; but if ever any horse had Harpoon's shoulders and The Gin's temper. Shackles was that horse. Two miles was his own particular distance. He trained himself, ran himself, and rode himself; and, if his jockey insulted him by giving him 334 Indian Tales hints, he shut up at once and bucked the boy off. He objected to dictation. Two or three of his owners did not understand this, and lost money in consequence. At last he was bought by a man who discovered that, if a race was to be won, Shackles, and Shackles only, would win it in his own way, so long as his jockey sat still. This man had a riding-boy called Brunt — a lad from Perth, West Australia — and he taught Brunt, with a trainer's whip, the hardest thing a jock can learn — to sit still, to sit still, and to keep on sitting still. When Brunt fairly grasped this truth. Shackles devastated the country. No weight could stop him at his own distance; and the fame of Shackles spread from Ajmir in the South, to Chedputter in the North. There was no horse like Shackles, so long as he was allowed to do his work in his own way. But he was beaten in the end; and the story of his fall is enough to make angels weep. At the lower end of the Chedputter race- course, just before the turn into the straight, the track passes close to a couple of old brick- mounds enclosing a funnel-shaped hollow. The big end of the funnel is not six feet from the railings on the ofT-side. The astounding pecul- iarity of the course is that, if you stand at one particular place, about half a mile away, inside the course, and speak at ordmary pitch, your The Broken-Link Handicap ^^^ voice just hits the funnel of the brick-mounds and makes a curious whining echo there. A man discovered this one morning by accident while out training with a friend. He marked the place to stand and speak from with a couple of bricks, and he kept his knowledge to himself. Every peculiarity of a course is worth remember- ing in a country where rats play the mischief with the elephant-litter, and Stewards build jumps to suit their own stables. This man ran a very fairish country-bred, a long, racking high mare with the temper of a fiend, and the paces of an airy wandering seraph — a drifty, glidy stretch. The mare was, as a delicate tribute to Mrs. Reiver, called "The Lady Regula Baddun" — or for short, Regula Baddun. Shackles' jockey. Brunt, was a quite well-be- haved boy, but his nerve had been shaken. He began his career by riding jump-races in Mel- bourne, where a few Stewards want lynching, and was one of the jockeys who came through the awful butchery — perhaps you will recollect it — of the Maribyrnong Plate. The walls were colonial ramparts — logs of jarrah spiked into masonry — with wings as strong as Church but- tresses. Once in his stride, a horse had to jump or fall. He couldn't run out. In the Maribyr- nong Plate, twelve horses were jammed at the second wall. Red Hat, leading, fell this side, 336 Indian Tales and threw out The Gled, and the ruck came up behind and the space between wing and wing was one struggling, screaming, kicking shambles. Four jockeys were taken out dead; three were very badly hurt, and Brunt was among the three. He told the story of the Maribyrnong Plate sometimes; and when he described how Whalley on Red Hat, said, as the mare fell under him — "God ha' mercy, I'm done for!" and how, next instant, Sithee There and White Otter had crushed the life out of poor Whalley, and the dust hid a small hell of men and horses, no one marveled that Brunt had dropped jump-races and Australia together. Regula Baddun's owner knew that story by heart. Brunt never varied it in the telling. He had no education. Shackles came to the Chedputter Autumn races one year, and his owner walked about insulting the sportsmen of Chedputter generally, till they went to the Honorary Secretary in a body and said, "Appoint handicappers, and arrange a race which shall break Shackles and humble the pride of his owner." The Districts rose against Shackles and sent up of their best; Ousel, who was supposed to be able to do his mile in 1-S3; Petard, the stud-bred, trained by a cavalry regi- ment who knew how to train; Gringalet. the ewe-Iamb of the 7sth; Bobolink, the pride of Peshawar; and many others. The Broken-Link Handicap 337 They called that race The Broken-Link Handi- cap, because it was to smash Shackles; and the Handicappers piled on the weights, and the Fund gave eight hundred rupees, and the distance was "round the course for all horses." Shackles' owner said, " You can arrange the race with re- gard to Shackles only. So long as you don't bury him under weight-cloths, I don't mind." Regula Baddun's owner said, "I throw in my mare to fret Ousel. Six furlongs is Regula's dis- tance, and she will then lie down and die. So also will Ousel, for his jockey doesn't under- stand a v/aiting race." Now, this was a lie, for Regula had been in work for two months at Dehra, and her chances were good, always sup- posing that Shackles broke a blood-vessel — or Brunt moved on him. The plunging in the lotteries was fine. They filled eight thousand-rupee lotteries on the Broken-Link Handicap, and the account in the Pioneer said that "favoritism was divided." !n plain English, the various contingents were wild on their respective horses; for the Handicappers had done their work well. The Honorary Secre- tary shouted himself hoarse through the din; and the smoke of the cheroots was like the smoke, and the rattling of the dice-boxes like the rattle of small-arm fire. Ten horses started — very level — and Regula 338 Indian Tales Baddun's owner cantered out on his hack to a place inside the circle of the course, where two brfcks had been thrown. He faced toward the brick-mounds at the lower end of the course and waited. The story of the running is in the Pioneer. At the end of the first mile, Shackles crept out of the ruck, well on the outside, ready to get round the turn, lay hold of the bit and spin up the straight before the others knew he had got away. Brunt was sitting still, perfectly happy, listening to the "drum-drum-drum" of the hoofs behind, and knowing that, in about twenty strides, Shackles would draw one deep breath and go up the last half-mile like the " Fly- ing Dutchman." As Shackles went short to take the turn and came abreast of the brick-mound. Brunt heard, above the noise of the wind in his ears, a whining, wailing voice on the offside, saying — "God ha' mercy, I'm done for!" In one stride, Brunt saw the whole seething smash of the Maribyrnong Plate before him, started in his saddle and gave a yell of terror. The start brought the heels into Shackles' side, and the scream hurt Shackles' feelings. He couldn't stop dead; but he put out his feet and slid along for fifty yards, and then, very gravely and judicially, bucked off Brunt — a shaking, terror-stricken lump, while Res^ula Baddun made a neck-and- The Broken-Link Handicap 339 neck race with Bobolink up the straight, and won by a short head — Petard a bad third. Shackles' owner, in the Stand, tried to think that his field-glasses had gone wrong. Regula Baddun's owner, waiting by the two bricks, gave one deep sigh of relief, and cantered back to the Stand. He had won, in lotteries and bets, about fifteen thousand. It was a Broken-Link Handicap with a venge- ance. It broke nearly all the men concerned, and nearly broke the heart of Shackles* owner. He went down to interview Brunt. The boy lay, livid and gasping with fright, where he had tumbled off. The sin of losing the race never seemed to strike him. All he knew was that Whalley had "called" him, that the "call" was a warning; and, were he cut in two for it, he would never get up again. His nerve had gone altogether, and he only asked his master to give him a good thrashing, and let him go. He was fit for nothing, he said. He got his dismissal, and crept up to the paddock, white as chalk, with blue lips, his knees giving way under him. People said nasty things in the paddock; but Brunt never heeded. He changed into tweeds, took his stick and went down the road, still shaking with fright, and muttering over and over again — "God ha' mercy, I'm done for ! " To the best of my knowl- edge and belief he spoke the truth. 340 Indian Tale% So now you know how the Broken-Link Hand- icap was run and won. Of course you don't be- lieve it. You would credit anything about Rus- sia's designs on India, or the recommendations of the Currency Commission; but a little bit of sober fact is more than you can stand. ON GREENHOW HILL To Love's low voice she lent a careless ear; Her hand within his rosy fingers lay, A chilling weight. She would not turn or heai' ; But with averted face went on her way. But when pale Death, all featureless and griui. Lifted his bony hand, and beckoning Held out his cypress-wreath, she followed him, And Love was left forlorn and wondering, That she who for his bidding would not stay, At Death's first whisper rose and went away. Rivals, i^f^HE, Ahmed Din! Shafii Ulla a hoof V_y Bahadur Khan, where are you ? Come out of the tents, as I have done, and fight against the English. Don't kill your own kin! Come out to me! " The deserter from a native corps was crawling round the outskirts of the camp, firing at inter- vals, and shouting invitations to his old comrades. Misled by the rain and the darkness, he came to the English wing of the camp, and with his yelp- ing and rifle-practice disturbed the men. They had been making roads all day, and were tired. Ortheris was sleeping at Learoyd's feet. "Wot's all that.^" "he said thickly. Learoyd 341 342 Indian Tales snored, and a Snider bullet ripped its way through the tent wail. The men swore. "It's that bioomin' deserter from the Aurangabadis," said Ortheris. "Git up, some one, an' tell 'im 'e's come to the wrong shop." "Go to sleep, little man," said Mulvaney, who was steaming nearest the door. "I can't arise and expaytiate with him. 'Tis rainin' entrenchin' tools outside." "Tain't because you bioomin' can't. It's 'cause you bioomin' won't, ye long, limp, lousy, lazy beggar, you. 'Ark to 'im 'owlin' ! " " Wot's the good of argifying.? Put a bullet into the swine! 'E's keepin' us awake!" said another voice. A subaltern shouted angrily, and a dripping sentry whined from the darkness — "'Tain't no good, sir. I can't see 'im. 'E's 'idin' somewhere down 'ill." Ortheris tumbled out of his blanket. "Shall I try to get 'im, sir?" said he. " No," was the answer. " Lie down. I won't have the whole camp shooting all round the clock. Tell him to go and pot his friends." Ortheris considered for a moment. Then, putting his head under the tent wall, he called, as a 'bus conductor calls in a bloi.k, "'Igher up, there! 'Igher up!" The men laughed, and the laughter was carried On Greenhow Hill 343 down wind to the deserter, who, hearing that he had made a mistake, went off to worry his own regiment half a mile away. He was received with shots; the Aurangabadis were very angry with him for disgracing their colors. "An' that's all right," said Ortheris, withdraw- ing his head as he heard the hiccough of the Sniders in the distance. "S'elp me Gawd, tho', that man's not fit to live— messin' with my beauty-sleep this way." "Go out and shoot him in the morning, then," said the subaltern incautiously. " Silence in the tents now. Get your rest, men." Ortheris lay down with a happy little sigh, and in two minutes there was no sound except the rain on the canvas and the all-embracing and elemental snoring of Learoyd. The camp lay on a bare ridge of the Himalayas, and for a week had been waiting for a flying column to make connection. The nightly rounds of the deserter and his friends had become a nuisance. In the morning the men dried themselves in hot sunshine and cleaned their grimy accoutre- ments. The native regiment was to take its turn of road-making that day while the Old Regiment loafed. " I'm goin' to lay for a shot at that man," said Ortheris, when he had finished washing out his 344 Indian Tales rifle. "'E comes up the watercourse every evenin' about five o'clock. If we go and lie out on the north 'ill a bit this afternoon we'll get 'im." "You're a bloodthirsty little mosquito," said Mulvaney, blowing blue clouds into the air. " But 1 suppose 1 will have to come wid you. Fwhere's Jock.^" "Gone out with the Mixed Pickles, 'cause 'e thinks 'isself a bloomin' marksman," said Orth- eris, with scorn. The "Mixed Pickles" were a detachment of picked shots, generally employed in clearing spurs of hills when the enemy were too imperti- nent. This taught the young officers how to handle men, and did not do the enemy much harm, Mulvaney and Ortheris strolled out of camp, and passed the Aurangabadis going to their road-making. "You've got to sweat to-day," said Ortheris, genially. " We're going to get your man. You didn't knock 'im out last night by any chance, any of you.?" "No. The pig went away mocking us. I had one shot at him," said a private. " He's my cousin, and / ought to have cleared our dishonor. But good luck to you." They went cautiously to the north hill, Ortheris leading, because, as he explained, "this is a long- range show, an' I've got to do it." His was an On Greenhow Hill 345 almost passionate devotion to his rifle, which, by barrack-room report, he was supposed to kiss every night before turning in. Charges and scuffles he held in contempt, and, when they were inevitable, slipped between Muivaney and Learoyd, bidding them to fight for his skin as well as their own. They never failed him. He trotted along, questing like a hound on a broken trail, through the wood of the north hill. At last he was satisfied, and threw himself down on the soft pine-needle slope that commanded a clear view of the watercourse and a brown, bare hill- side beyond it. The trees made a scented dark- ness in which an army corps could have hidden from the sun-glare without. '"Ere's the tail o' the wood," said Ortheris. "'E's got to come up the watercourse, *cause it gives 'im cover. We'll lay 'ere. 'Tain't not arf so bloomin' dusty neither." He buried his nose in a clump of scentless white violets. No one had come to tell the flowers that the season of their strength was long past, and they had bloomed merrily in the twi- light of the pines. "This is something like," he said, luxuriously. "Wot a 'evinly clear drop for a bullet acrost! How much d'you make it, Muivaney?" "Seven hunder. Maybe a trifle less, bekaze the air's so thin." 346 Indian ral es Wop ! Wop ! Wop ! went a volley of musketry on the rear face of the north hill. "Curse them Mixed Pickles firin' at nothin'! They'll scare arf the country." "Thry a sightin' shot in the middle of the row," said Mulvaney, the man of many wiles. " There's a red rock yonder he'll be sure to pass. Quick!" Ortheris ran his sight up to six hundred yards and fired. The bullet threw up a feather of dust by a clump of gentians at the base of the rock. "Good enough!" said Ortheris, snapping the scale down. " You snick your sights to mine or a little lower. You're always firin' high. But remember, first shot to me. O Lordy! but it's a lovely afternoon." The noise of the firing grew louder, and there was a tramping of men in the wood. The two lay very quiet, for they knew that the British soldier is desperately prone to fire at anything that moves or calls. Then Learoyd appeared, his tunic ripped across the breast by a bullet, look- ing ashamed of himself. He flung down on the pine-needles, breathing in snorts. " One o' them damned gardeners o' th' Pickles," said he, fingering the rent. " Firin' to th' right flank, when he knowed 1 was there. If 1 knew who he was I'd 'a' rippen the hide ofTan him. Look at ma tunic! " On Greenhoiv Hill 347 "That's the spishil trustability av a marksman. Train him to hit a fly wid a stiddy rest at seven hunder, an' he loose on anythin' he sees or hears up to th' mile. You're well out av that fancy- firin' gang, Jock. Stay here." " Bin firin' at the bloomin' wind in the bloomin' treetops," said Ortheris, with a chuckle. "I'll show you some firin' later on." They wallowed in the pine-needles, and the sun warmed them where they lay. The Mixed Pickles ceased firing, and returned to camp, and left the wood to a few scared apes. The water- course lifted up its voice in the silence, and talked foolishly to the rocks. Now and again the dull thump of a blasting charge three miles away told that the Aurangabadis were in diffi- culties with their road-making. The men smiled as they listened and lay still, soaking in the warm leisure. Presently Learoyd, between the whiffs of his pipe — "Seems queer — about 'im yonder — desertin' at all." "'E'll be a bloomin' side queerer when I've done with 'im," said Ortheris. They were talk- ing in whispers, for the stillness of the wood and the desire of slaughter lay heavy upon them. "1 make no doubt he had his reasons for de- sertin' ; but, my faith ! I make less doubt ivry man has good reason for killin' him," said Mulvaney. 34^ Indian Tales " Happen there was a lass tewed up wi' it. Men do more than more for th' sake of a lass." "They make most av us 'list. They've no manner av right to make us desert." "Ah; they make us 'list, or their fathers do," said Learoyd, softly, his helmet over his eyes. Ortheris's brows contracted savagely. He was watching the valley. " If it's a girl I'll shoot the beggar twice over, an' second time for bein' a fool. You're blasted sentimental all of a sudden^ Thinkin' o' your last near shave ?" "Nay, lad; ah was but thinkin' o" what had happened." "An' fwhat has happened, ye lumberin' child av calamity, that you're lowing like a cow-calf at the back av the pasture, an' suggestin' invidious excuses for the man Stanley's goin' to kill. Ye'll have to wait another hour yet, little man. Spit it out, Jock, an' bellow melojus to the moon. It takes an earthquake or a bullet graze to fetch aught out av you. Discourse, Don Juan! The a-moors av Lotharius Learoyd! Stanley, kape a rowlin' rig'mental eye on the valley." "It's along o' yon hill there," said Learoyd, watching the bare sub-Himalayan spur that re- minded him of his Yorkshire moors. He was speaking more to himself than his fellows. "Ay," said he, " Rumbolds Moor stands up ower Skipton town, an' Greenhow Hill stands up On Greenhow Hill 349 ower Pately Brig. I reckon you've never heeard tell o' Greenhow Hill, but yon bit o' bare stuff if there was nobbut a white road windin' is like ut; strangely like. Moors an' moors an' moors, wi' never a tree for shelter, an' grey houses wi' flag- stone rooves, and pewits cryin', an' a wind- hover goin' to and fro just like these kites. And cold! A wind that cuts you like a knife. You could tell Greenhow Hill folk by the red-apple color 0' their cheeks an' nose tips, and their blue eyes, driven into pin-points by the wind. Miners mostly, burrowin' for lead i' th' hillsides, followin' the trail of th' ore vein same as a field-rat. It was the roughest minin' I ever seen. Yo'd come on a bit o' creakin' v/ood windlass like a well-head, an' you was let down i' th' bight of a rope, fendin' yoursen off the side wi' one hand, carryin' a candle stuck in a lump o' clay with t'other, an' clickin' hold of a rope with t'other hand." "An' that's three of them," said Mulvaney. " Must be a good climate in those parts." Learoyd took no heed. "An' then yo' came to a level, where you crept on your hands and knees through a mile o' windin' drift, an' you come out into a cave-place as big as Leeds Townhall, with a engine pumpin' water from workin's 'at went deeper still. It's a queer country, let alone minin', for the hill is full of those natural caves, an' the rivers an' the becks 350 Indian Tales drops into what they call pot-holes, an' come out again miles away. " "Wot was you doin' there ?" said Ortheris. "I was a young chap then, an' mostly went wi' 'osses, leadin' coal and lead ore; but at th' time I'm tellin' on I was drivin' the waggon-team i' th' big sumph. I didn't belong to that country- side by rights. I went there because of a little difference at home, an' at fust I took up wi' a rough lot. One night we'd been drinkin', an' I must ha' hed more than 1 could stand, or happen th' ale was none so good. Though i' them days, By for God, I never seed bad ale." He flung his arms over his head, and gripped a vast handful of white violets. "Nah," said he, " I never seed the ale I could not drink, the bacca I could not smoke, nor the lass I could not kiss. Well, we mun have a race home, the lot on us. I lost all th' others, an' when I was climbin' ower one of them walls built o' loose stones, I comes down into the ditch, stones and all, an' broke my arm. Not as I knawed much about it, for I fell on th' back of my head, an' was knocked stupid like. An' when I come to mysen it were mornin', an' I were iyin' on the settle i' Jesse Roantree's house- place, an' 'Liza Roantree was settin' sewin'. 1 ached all ower, and my mouth were like a lime- kiln. She gave me a drink out of a china mug wi' gold letters — ' A Present from Leeds ' — as I On Greenhow Hill 351 looked at many and many a time at after. ' Yo're to lie still while Dr. Warbottom comes, because your arm's broken, and father has sent a lad to fetch him. He found yo' when he was goin' to work, an' carried you here on his back,' sez she. ' Oa! ' sez I ; an' 1 shet my eyes, for I felt ashamed o' mysen. ' Father's gone to his work these three hours, an' he said he' tell 'em to get some- body to drive the tram.' The clock ticked, an' a bee comed in the house, an' they rung i' my head like mill-wheels. An' she give me another drink an' settled the pillow. ' Eh, but yo're young to be getten drunk an' such like, but yo' won't do it again, will yo' ? ' — 'Noa,' sez I, '1 wouldn't if she'd not but stop they mill-wheels clatterin'.' " "Faith, it's a good thing to be nursed by a woman when you're sick!" said Mulvaney. " Dir' cheap at the price av twenty broken heads." Ortheris turned to frown across the valley. He had not been nursed by many women in his life. "An' then Dr. Warbottom comes ridin' up, an' Jesse Roantree along with 'im. He was a high- larned doctor, but he talked wi' poor folk same as theirsens. ' What's ta bin agaate on naa ? ' he sings out. ' Brekkin' tha thick head?' An' he felt me all ovver. ' That's none broken. Tha' nobbut knocked a bit sillier than ordinary, an' that's daaft eneaf.' An' soa he went on, callin' 352 Indian Tales me all the names he could think on, but settin' my arm, wi' Jesse's help, as careful as could be. ' Yo' mun let the big oaf bide here a bit, Jesse,' he says, when he hed strapped me up an' given me a dose o' physic; ' an' you an' 'Liza will tend him, though he's scarcelins worth the trouble. An' tha'll lose tha work,' sez he, 'an' tha'll be upon th' Sick Club for a couple o' months an' more. Doesn't tha think tha's a fool ? ' " " But whin was a young man, high or low, the other av a fool, I'd like to know ? " said Mul- vaney. " Sure, folly's the only safe way to wis- dom, for I've thried it." "Wisdom!" grinned Ortheris, scanning his comrades with uplifted chin. " You're bloomin' Solomons, you two, ain't you }" Learoyd went calmly on, with a steady eye like an ox chewing the cud. "And that was how I come to know 'Liza Roantree. There's some tunes as she used to sing — aw, she were always singin' — that fetches Greenhow Hill before my eyes as fair as yon brow across there. And she would learn me to sing bass, an' I was to go to th' chapel wi' 'em where Jesse and she led the singin', th' old man playin' the fiddle. He was a strange chap, old Jesse, fair mad wi' music, an' he made me prom- ise to learn the big fiddle when my arm was bet- ter. It belonged to him. and it stood up in a big On Greenhow Hill 353 case alongside o' th' eight-day clock, but Willie Satterthwaite, as played it in the chapel, had get- ten deaf as a door-post, and it vexed Jesse, as he had to rap him ower his head wi' th' fiddle-stick to make him give ower sawin' at th' right time. " But there was a black drop in it all, an' it was a man in a black coat that brought it. When th' primitive Methodist preacher came to Green- how, he would always stop wi' Jesse Roantree, an' he laid hold of me from th' beginning. It seemed I wor a soul to be saved, and he meaned to do it. At th' same time I jealoused 'at he were keen o' savin' 'Liza Roantree's soul as well, and I could ha' killed him many a time. An' this went on till one day I broke out, an' bor- rowed th' brass for a drink from 'Liza, After fower days I come back, wi' my tail between my legs, just to see 'Liza again. But Jesse were at home an' th' preacher — th' Reverend Amos Bar- raclough, 'Liza said naught, but a bit 0' red come into her face as were white of a regular thing. Says Jesse, tryin' his best to be civil, 'Nay, lad, it's like this. You've getten to choose which way it's goin' to be. I'll ha' nobody across ma doorstep as goes a-drinkin', an' borrows my lass's money to spend i' their drink. Ho'd tha tongue, 'Liza,' sez he, when she wanted to put in a word 'at I were welcome to th' brass, and she were none afraid that 1 wouldn't pay it back. 554 Indian Tales Then the Reverend cuts in, seein' as Jesse were losin' his temper, an' they fair beat me among them. But it were 'Liza, as looked an' said naught, as did more than either o' their tongues, an' soa I concluded to get converted." "Fwhat?" shouted Mulvaney. Then, check- ing himself, he said softly, "Let be! Let be! Sure the Blessed Virgin is the mother of all reli- gion an' most women; an' there's a dale av piety in a girl if the men would only let ut stay there. I'd ha' been converted myself under the circum- stances." "Nay, but," pursued Learoyd with a blush, "\ meaned it." Ortheris laughed as loudly as he dared, having regard to his business at the time. " Ay, Ortheris, you may laugh, but you didn't know yon preacher Barraclough — a little white- faced chap, wi' a voice as 'ud wile a bird off an a bush, and a way o* layin' hold of folks as made them think they'd never had a live man for a friend before. You never saw him, an' — an' — you never seed 'Liza Roantree — never seed 'Liza Roantree. . . . Happen it was as much 'Liza as th' preacher and her father, but anyways they all meaned it, an' I was fair shamed o' mysen, an' so I become what they call a changed character. And when I think on, it's hard to believe as yon chap going to prayermeetin's, chapel, and class- On Greenhow Hill 355 meetin's were me. But I nevet had naught to say for mysen, though there was a deal o' shoutin', and old Sammy Strother, as were almost clemmed to death and doubled up with the rheumatics, would sing out, 'Joyful! Joyful!' and 'at it were better to go up to heaven in a coal-basket than down to hell i' a coach an' six. And he would put his poor old claw on my shoulder, sayin', ' Doesn't tha feel it, tha great lump .^ Doesn't tha feel it }' An' sometimes 1 thought 1 did, and then again 1 thought 1 didn't, an' how was that ? " "The iverlastin' nature av mankind," said Mul- vaney. " An', furthermore, 1 misdoubt you were built for the Primitive Methodians. They're a new corps anyways. I hold by the Ould Church, for she's the mother of them all — ay, an' the father, too. 1 like her bekase she's most re- markable regimental in her fittings. I may die in Honolulu, Nova Zambra, or Cape Cayenne, but wherever I die, me bein' fwhat 1 am, an' a priest handy, 1 go under the same orders an' the same words an' the same unction as tho' the Pope himself come down from the roof av St. Peter's to see me off. There's neither high nor low, nor broad nor deep, nor betwixt nor be- tween wid her, an' that's what 1 like. But mark you. she's no manner av Church for a wake man, bekaze she takes the body and the soul av him, onless he has his proper work to do. I remem- 3 56 Indian Tales ber when my father died that was three months comin' to his grave; begad he'd ha' sold the she- been above our heads for ten minutes' quittance of purgathory. An' he did all he could. That's why I say ut takes a strong man to deal with the Ould Church, an' for that reason you'll find so many women go there. An' that same's a co- nundrum." " Wot's the use o' worritin' 'bout these things ?" said Ortheris. " You're bound to find all out quicker nor you want to, any'ow." He jerked the cartridge out of the breech-block into the palm of his hand. " Ere's my chaplain," he said, and made the venomous black-headed bullet bow like a marionette. " 'E's goin' to teach a man all about which is which, an' wot's true, after all, before sundown. But wot 'appened after that, Jock.?" "There was one thing they boggled at, and almost shut th' gate i' my face for, and that were my dog Blast, th' only one saved out o' a litter o' pups as was blowed up when a keg o' minin' powder loosed off in th' storekeeper's hut. They liked his name no better than his business, which were fightin' every dog he comed across; a rare good dog, wi' spots o' black and pink on his face, one ear gone, and lame o' one side wi' being driven in a basket through an iron roof, a matter of half a mile. On Greenhow Hill 357 "They said I mun give him up 'cause he were worldly and low; and would I let mysen be shut out of heaven for the sake on a dog? 'Nay,' says I, ' if th' door isn't wide enough for th' pair on us, we'll stop outside, for we'll none be parted.' And th' preacher spoke up for Blast, as had a likin' for him from th' first — 1 reckon that was why I come to like th' preacher — and wouldn't hear o' changin' his name to Bless, as some o' them wanted. So th' pair on us became reg'lar chapel-members. But it's hard for a young chap o' my build to cut traces from the world, th' flesh, an' the devil all uv a heap. Yet I stuck to it for a long time, while th' lads as used to stand about th' town-end an' lean ower th' bridge, spittin' into th' beck o' a Sunday, would call after me, 'Sitha, Learoyd, when's ta bean to preach, 'cause we're comin' to hear tha.' — ' Ho'd tha jaw. He hasn't getten th' white choaker on ta morn,' another lad would say, and 1 had to double my lists hard i' th' bottom of my Sunday coat, and say to .mysen, ' If 'twere Monday and I warn't a member o' the Primitive Methodists, I'd leather all th' lot of yond'.' That was th' hardest of all — to know that I could fight and I mustn't fight." Sympathetic grunts from Mulvaney. "So what wi' singin', practicin', and class- meetin's, and th' big fiddle, as he made me take 358 Indian Tales between my knees, I spent a deal o' time i' Jesse Roantree's house-place. But often as I was there, th' preacher fared to me to go oftener, and both th' old man an' th' young woman were pleased to have him. He lived i' Pately Brig, as were a goodish step off, but he come. He come all the same. I liked him as well or better as any man I'd ever seen i' one way, and yet 1 hated him wi' all my heart i' t'other, and we watched each other like cat and mouse, but civil as you please, for I was on my best behavior, and he was that fair and open that I was bound to be fair with him. Rare good company he was, if I hadn't wanted to wring his diver little neck half of the time. Often and often when he was goin' from Jesse's I'd set him a bit on the road." "See 'ini 'ome, you mean.?" said Ortheris. " Ay. It's a way we have i' Yorkshire o' seein' friends off. You was a friend as 1 didn't want to come back, and he didn't want me to come back neither, and so we'd walk together toward Pately, and then he'd set me back again, and there we'd be wal two o'clock i' the mornin' settin' each other to an' fro like a blasted pair o' pendulums twixt hill and valley, long after th' light had gone out i' 'Liza's window, as both on us had been looking at, pretending to watch the moon." "Ah!" broke in Mulvaney, "ye'd no chanst On Greenhow Hill 359 against the maraudin' psalm-singer. They'll take the airs an' the graces instid av the man nine times out av ten, an' they only find the blunder later — the wimmen." ' • That's just where yo're wrong, " said Learoyd, reddening under the freckled tan of his cheeks. " 1 was th' first wi' 'Liza, an' yo'd think that were enough. But th' parson were a steady-gaited sort 0' chap, and Jesse were strong 0' his side, and all th' women i' the congregation dinned it to 'Liza 'at she were fair fond to take up wi' a wastrel ne'er-do-weel like me, as was scarcelins respectable an' a fighting dog at his heels. It was all very well for her to be doing me good and saving my soul, but she must mind as she didn't do heiself harm. They talk o' rich folk bein' stuck up an' genteel, but for cast-iron pride 0' respectability there's naught like poor chapel folk. It's as cold as th' wind o' Greenhow Hill — ay, and colder, for 'twill never change. And now I come to think on it, one at strangest things I know is 'at they couldn't abide th' thought o' soldiering. There's a vast o' fightin' i' th' Bible, and there's a deal of Methodists i' th' army; but to hear chapel folk talk yo'd think that soldierin' were next door, an' t'other side, to hangin'. I' their meetin's all their talk is o' fightin'. When Sammy Strother were stuck for summat to say in his prayers, he'd sing out, ' Th' sword o' th' 360 Indian Tales Lord and o' Gideon.' They were alius at it about puttin' on th' whole armor 0' righteousness, an' fightin' the good fight o' faith. And then, atop o' 't all, they held a prayer-meetin' ower a young chap as wanted to 'list, and nearly deafened him, till he picked up his hat and fair ran away. And they'd tell tales in th' Sunday-school o' bad lads as had been thumped and brayed for bird-nesting o' Sundays and playin' truant o' week days, and how they took to wrestlin', dog-fightin", rabbit- runnin', and drinkin', till at last, as if 'twere a hepitaph on a gravestone, they damned him across th' moors wi', 'an' then he went and 'listed for a soldier,' an' they'd all fetch a deep breath, and throw up their eyes like a hen drinkin'." " Fwhy is ut ?" said Mulvaney, bringing down his hand on his thigh with a crack. "In the name av God, fwhy is ut ? I've seen ut, tu. They cheat an' they swindle an' they lie an' they slander, an' fifty things fifty times worse; but the last an' the worst by their reckonin' is to serve the Widdy honest. It's like the talk av childer — seein' things all round." " Plucky lot of fightin' good fights of whatser- name they'd do if we didn't see they had a quiet place to fight in. And such fightin' as theirs is! Cats on the tiles. T'other callin' to which to come on. I'd give a month's pay to get some o' On Greenhow Hill 361 them broad-backed beggars in London sweatin' through a day's road-makin' an' a night's rain. They'd carry on a deal afterward — same as we're supposed to carry on. I've bin turned out of a measly arf-license pub down Lambeth way, full o' greasy kebmen, 'fore now," said Ortheris with an oath. "Maybe you were dhrunk," said Mulvaney, soothingly. "Worse nor that. The Forders were drunk. / was wearin' the Queen's uniform." "I'd no particular thought to be a soldier i' them days," said Learoyd, still keeping his eye on the bare hill opposite, "but this sort o' talk put it i' my head. They was so good, th' chapel folk, that they tumbled ower t'other side. But 1 stuck to it for 'Liza's sake, specially as she was learn- ing me to sing the bass part in a horotorio as Jesse were gettin' up. She sung like a throstle hersen, and we had practicin's night after night for a matter of three months." "I know what a horotorio is," said Ortheris, pertly. "It's a sort of chaplain's sing-song^ words aP out of the Bible, and hullabaloojah choruses." "Mv^st Greenhow Hill folks played some in- strument or t'other, an' they all sung so you might have heard them miles away, and they were so pleased wi' the noise they made they 362 Indian Tales didn't fair to want anybody to listen. The preacher sung high seconds when he wasn't piayin' the flute, an' they set me, as hadn't got far with big fiddle, again Willie Satterthwaite, to jog his elbow when he had to get a' gate piayin'. Old Jesse was happy if ever a man was, for he were th' conductor an' th' first fiddle an' th' leadin' singer, beatin' time wi' his fiddle-stick, till at times he'd rap with it on the table, and cry out. 'Now, you mun all stop; it's my turn.' And he'd face round to his front, fair sweating wi' pride, to sing th' tenor solos. But he were grandest i' th' choruses, waggin' his head, fling- ing his arms round like a windmill, and singin' hisself black in the face. A rare singer were Jesse. " Yo' see, I was not 0' much account wi' 'em all exceptin' to 'Liza Roantree, and I had a deal o' time settin' quiet at meetings and horotorio practices to hearken their talk, and if it were strange to me at beginnin', it got stranger still at after, when I was shut on it, and could study what it meaned. "Just after th' horotorios come off, 'Liza, as had alius been weakly like, was took very bad. I walked Dr. Warbottom's horse up and down a deal of times while he were inside, where they wouldn't let me go, though I fair ached to see her. On Greenhow Hill 363 " ' She'll be better i' noo, lad — better i' noo,' he used to say. 'Tha mun ha' patience.' Then they said if I was quiet I might go in, and th' Reverend Amos Barraclough used to read to her lyin' propped up among th' pillows. Then she began to mend a bit, and they let me carry her on to th' settle, and when it got warm again she went about same as afore. Th' preacher and me and Blast was a deal together i' them days, and i' one way we was rare good comrades. But I could ha' stretched him time and again with a good will. I mind one day he said he would like to go down into th' bowels 0' th' earth, and see how th' Lord had builded th' framework o' th' everlastin' hills. He were one of them chaps as had a gift o' sayin' things. They rolled off the tip of his clever tongue, same as Mulvaney here, as would ha' made a rare good preacher if he had nobbut given his mind to it. I lent him a suit o' miner's kit as almost buried th' little man, and his white face down i' th' coat-collar and hat- flap looked like the face of a boggart, and he cowered down i' th' bottom 0' the waggon. I was drivin' a tram as led up a bit of an incline up to th' cave where the engine was pumpin', and where th' ore was brought up and put into th' waggons as went down o' themselves, me put- tin' th' brake on and th' horses a-trottin' after. Long as it was daylight we were good friends. 3^4 Indian Tales but when we got fair into th' dark, and could nobbut see th' day shinin' at the hole like a lamp at a street-end, I feeled downright wicked. Ma religion dropped all away from me when I looked back at him as were always comin' between me and 'Liza, The talk was 'at they were to be wed when she got better, an' I couldn't get her to say yes or nay to it. He began to sing a hymn in his thin voice, and I came out wi' a chorus that was all cussin' an' swearin' at my horses, an' 1 began to know how I hated him. He were such a little chap, too. 1 could drop him wi' one hand down Garstang's Copper-hole — a place where th' beck slithered ower th' edge on a rock, and fell wi' a bit of a whisper into a pit as no rope i' Greenhow could plump." Again Learoyd rooted up the innocent violets. "Ay, he should see th' bowels o' th' earth an' never naught else. 1 could take him a mile or two along th' drift, and leave him wi' his candle doused to cry hallelujah, wi' none to hear him and say amen. 1 was to lead him down th' lad- der-way to th' drift where Jesse Roantree was workin', and why shouldn't he slip on th' ladder, wi' my feet on his fingers till they loosed grip, and I put him down wi' my heel ? If I went fust down th' ladder I could click hold on him and chuck him over my head, so as he should go squshin' down the shaft, breakin' his bones at On Greenhow Hill 05 ev'ry timberin' as Bill Appleton did when he was fresh, and hadn't a bone left when he wrought to th' bottom, Niver a blasted leg to walk from Pately. Niver an arm to put round 'Liza Roan- tree's waist. Niver no more — niver no more." The thick lips curled back over the yellow teeth, and that flushed face was not pretty to look upon. Mulvaney nodded sympathy, and Orthe- ris, moved by his comrade's passion, brought up the rifle to his shoulder, and searched the hillside for his quarry, muttering ribaldry about a spar- row, a spout, and a thunderstorm. The voice of the watercourse supplied the necessary small talk till Learoyd picked up his story. " But it's none so easy to kill a man like yon. When I'd given up my horses to th' lad as took my place and I was showin' th' preacher th' workin's, shoutin' into his ear across th' clang o' th' pumpin' engines, I saw he were afraid o' naught; and when the lamplight showed his black eyes, I could feel as he was masterin' me again. I were no better nor Blast chained up short and growlin' i' the depths of him v/hile a strange dog went safe past. " 'Th'art a coward and a fool,' I said to my- sen; an' I wrestled i' my mind again' him till, when we come to Garstang's Copper-hole, 1 laid hold o' the preacher and lifted him up over my head and held him into the darkest on it. ' Now, 366 , Indian Tales lad,' 1 says, ' it's to be one or t'other on us — thee or me — for 'Liza Roantree. Why, isn't thee afraid for thysen ?' I says, for he were still i' my arms as a sack. 'Nay; I'm but afraid for thee, my poor lad, as knows naught,' says he. I set him down on th' edge, an' th' beck run stiller, an' there was no more buzzin' in my head like when th' bee come through th' window o' Jesse's house. ' What dost tha mean }' says I. " ' I've often thought as thou ought to know,* says he, ' but 'twas hard to tell thee. 'Liza Roantree's for neither on us, nor for nobody o' this earth. Dr. Warbottom says— and he knows her, and her mother before her — that she is in a decline, and she cannot live six months longer. He's known it for many a day. Steady, John! Steady!' says he. And that weak little man pulled me further back and set me again' him, and talked it all over quiet and still, me turnin' a bunch o' candles in my hand, and counting them ower and ower again as I listened. A deal on it were th' regular preachin' talk, but there were a vast lot as made me begin to think as he were more of a man than I'd ever given him credit for, till I were cut as deep for him as I were for mysen. "Six candles we had, and we crawled and climbed all that day while they lasted, and I said to mysen, "Liza Roantree hasn't six months to live.' And when we came into th' daylight again On Greenhow Hill 367 we were like dead men to look at, an' Blast come behind us without so much as waggin' his tail. When I saw 'Liza again she looked at me a minute and says, ' Who's telled tha ? For I see tha knows.' And she tried to smile as she kissed me, and I fair broke down. " Yo' see, I was a young chap i' them days, and had seen naught o' life, let alone death, as is alius a-waitin'. She telled me as Dr. Warbottom said as Greenhow air was too keen, and they were goin' to Bradford, to Jesse's brother David, as worked i' a mill, and 1 mun hold up like a man and a Christian, and she'd pray for me. Well, and they went away, and the preacher that same back end o' th' year were appointed to an- other circuit, as they call it, and 1 were left alone on Greenhow Hill. " 1 tried, and 1 tried hard, to stick to th' chapel, but 'tweren't th' same thing at after. I hadn't 'Liza's voice to follov/ i' th' singin', nor her eyes a-shinin' acrost their heads. And i' th' class- meetings they said as I mun have some experi- ences to tell, and 1 hadn't a word to say for mysen. " Blast and me moped a good deal, and happen we didn't behave ourselves over well, for they dropped us and wondered however they'd come to take us up. I can't tell how we got through th' time, while i' th' winter 1 gave up my job and 368 Indian Tales went to Bradford. Old Jesse were at th' door o' th' house, in a long street o' little houses. He'd been sendin' th' children 'wa}' as were clatterin' their clogs in th' causeway, for she were asleep. "'Is it thee .^' he says; ' but you're not to see her. I'll none have her wakened for a nowt like thee. She's goin' fast, and she mun go in peace. Thou'lt never be good for naught i' th' world, and as long -as thou lives thou'll never play the big fiddle. Get away, lad, get away ! ' So he shut the door softly i' my face. "Nobody never made Jesse my master, but it seemed to me he was about right, and I went away into the town and knocked up against a recruiting sergeant. The old tales o' th' chapel folk came buzzin' into my head. I was to get away, and this were th' regular road for the likes o' me. 1 'listed there and then, took th' Widow's shillin', and had a bunch o' ribbons pinned i' my hat. "But next day I found my way to David Roantree's door, and Jesse came to open it. Says he, ' Thou's come back again v/i' th' devil's colors flyin'— thy true colors, as I always telled thee.' " But I begged and prayed of him to let me see her nobbut to say good-bye, till a woman calls down th' stairway, ' She says John Learoyd's to come up.' Th' old man shifts aside in a flash. On Green how Hill 369 and lays his hand on my arm, quite gentie like. 'But thou'lt be quiet, John,' says he, 'for she's rare and weak. Thou was alius a good lad.' " Her eyes were all alive wi' light, and her hair was thick on the pillow round her, but her cheeks were thin — thin to frighten a man that's strong. ' Nay, father, yo mayn't say th' devil's colors. Them ribbons is pretty.' An' she held out her hands for th' hat, an' she put all straight as a woman will wi' ribbons. '^Nay, but what they're pretty,' she says. ' Eh, but I'd ha' liked to see thee i' thy red coat, John, for thou was alius my own lad — my very own lad, and none else.' "She lifted up her arms, and they come round my neck i' a gentle grip, and they slacked away, and she seemed fainting. ' Now yo' mun get away, lad,' says Jesse, and I picked up my hat and 1 came downstairs. " Th' recruiting sergeant were waitin' for me at th' corner public-house. ' You've seen your sweetheart ? ' says he. ' Yes, I've seen her,' says I. 'Well, we'll have a quart now, and you'll do your best to forget her,' says he, bein' one o' them smart, bustlin' chaps. 'Ay, sergeant,' says I. 'Forget her.' And I've been forgettin' her ever since." He threw away the wilted clump of white vio- lets as he spoke. Ortheris suddenly rose to his 370 ■ Indian Tales knees, his rifle at his shoulder, and peered across the valley in the clear afternoon light. His chin cuddled the stock, and there was a twitching of the muscles of the right cheek as he sighted; Private Stanley Ortheris was engaged on his busi- ness. A speck of white crawled up the water- course. " See that beggar ? . . . Got 'im." Seven hundred yards away, and a full two hundred down the hillside, the deserter of the Aurangabadis pitched forward, rolled down a red rock, and lay very still, with his face in a clump of blue gentians, while a big raven flapped out of the pine wood to make investigation. "That's a clean shot, little man," said Mul- vaney. Learoyd thoughtfully watched the smoke clear away. " Happen there was a lass tewed up wi* him, too," said he. Ortheris did not reply. He was staring across the valley, with the smile of the artist who looks on the completed work. TO BE FILED FOR REFERENCE By the hoof of the Wild Goat up-tossed From the Cliff where She lay in the Sun, Fell the Stone To the Tarn where the daylight is lost; So She fell from the light of the Sun, And alone. Now the fall was ordained from the first, With the Goat and the Cliff and the Tarn, But the Stone Knows only Her life is accursed, As She sinks in the depths of the Tarn, And alone. Oh, Thou who hast builded the world! Oh, Thou who hast lighted the Sun! Oh, Thou who hast darkened the Tarn ! Judge Thou The sin of the Stone that was hurled By the Goat from the light of the Sun, As She sinks in the mire of the Tarn, Even now — even now — even now ! — Fj'om the Unptiblis/ied Papers of Mcintosh Jellaludin. "S AY is it dawn, is it dusk in thy Bower, Thou whom 1 long for, who longest for me? Oh, be it night — be it" — 371 3/2 Indian Tale% Here he fell over a little camel-colt that was sleeping in the Serai where the horse-traders and the best of the blackguards from Central Asia live; and, because he was very drunk indeed and the night was dark, he could not rise again till 1 helped him. That was the beginning of my ac- quaintance with Mcintosh Jellaludin. When a loafer, and drunk, sings "The Song of the Bower," he must be worth cultivating. He got off the camel's back and said, rather thickly, " I — 1 — I'm a bit screwed, but a dip in Loggerhead will put me right again; and, 1 say, have you spoken to Symonds about the mare's knees.?" Now Loggerhead was six thousand weary miles away from us, close to Mesopotamia, where you mustn't fish and poaching is impossible, and Charley Symonds' stable a half mile farther across the paddocks. It was strange to hear all the old names, on a May night, among the horses and camels of the Sultan Caravanserai. Then the man seemed to remember himself and sober down at the same time. We leaned against the camel and pointed to a corner of the Serai where a lamp was burning. "1 live there," said he, "and I should be ex- tremely obliged if you would be good enough to help my mutinous feet thither; for ! am more than usually drunk — most — most phenomenally tight. But not in respect to my head. ' My To be Filed for Reference 373 brain cries out against' — how does it go ? But my head rides on the — rolls on the dunghill I should have said, and controls the qualm." I helped him through the gangs of tethered horses and he collapsed on the edge of the veranda in front of the line of native quarters. "Thanks — a thousand thanks! O Moon and little, little Stars! To think that a man should so shamelessly . . . Infamous liquor too. Ovid in exile drank no worse. Better. It was frozen. Alas! I had no ice. Good-night. I would in- troduce you to my wife were 1 sober — or she civ- ilized." A native woman came out of the darkness of the room, and began calling the man names; so I went aw. j. He was the most interesting loafer that I had had the pleasure of knowing for a long time; and later on, he became a friend of mine. He was a tall, well-built, fair man, fearfully shaken with drink, and he looked nearer Hfty than the thirty-tive which, he said, was his real age. When a man begins to sink in India, and is not sent Home by his friends as soon as may be, he falls very low from a respectable point of view. By the time that he changes his creed, as did Mcintosh, he is past redemption. In most big cities, natives will tell you of two or three Sahibs, generally low-caste, who have turned Hindu or Mussulman, and who li'^e more 374 Indian Tales or less as such. But it is not often that you can get to know them. As Mchitosh himself used to say, "If I change my religion for my stomach's sake, 1 do not seek to become a martyr to mis- sionaries, nor am 1 anxious for notonety " At the outset of acquaintance Mcintosh warned me. "Remember this. I am not an object for charity. I require neither your money, your food, nor your cast-off raiment. I am that rare animal, a self-supporting drunkard. If you choose, I will smoke with you, for the tobacco of the bazars does not, I admit, suit my palate; and I will bor- row any books which you may not specially value. It is more than likely that I shall sell them for bottles of excessively filthy country liquors. In return, you shall share such hospitality as my house affords. Here is a charpoy on which two can sit, and it is possible that there may, from time to time, be food in that platter. Drink, un- fortunately, you will find on the premises at any hour: and thus I make you welcome to all my poor establishment." I was admitted to the Mcintosh household—! and my good tobacco. But nothing else. Un- luckily, one cannot visit a loafer in the Serai by day. Friends buying horses would not under- stand it. Consequently, I was obliged to see Mc- intosh after dark. He laughed at this, and said simply, "You are perfectly right. When I en- To be Filed for Reference 375 joyed a position in society, rather higher than yours, I should have done exactly the same thing. Good heavens ! I was once " — he spoke as though he had fallen from the Command of a Regiment — " an Oxford Man ! " This accounted for the ref- erence to Charley Symonds' stable. " You," said Mcintosh, slowly, " have not had that advantage; but, to outward appearance, you do not seem possessed of a craving for strong drinks. On the whole, 1 fancy that you are the luckier of the two. Yet 1 am not certain. You are — forgive my saying so even while 1 am smok- ing your excellent tobacco — painfully ignorant of many things." We were sitting together on the edge of his bedstead, for he owned no chairs, watching the horses being watered for the night, while the na- tive woman was preparing dinner. I did not like being patronized by a loafer, but I was his guest for the time being, though he owned only one very torn alpaca-coat and a pair of trousers made out of gunny-bags. He took the pipe out of his mouth, and went on judicially, "All things con- sidered, I doubt whether you are the luckier. I do not refer to your extremely limited classical attainments, or your excruciating quantities, but to your gross ignorance of matters more imme- diately under your notice. That, for instance," he pointed to a woman cleaning a samovar near 376 Indian Tales the well in the centre of the Serai. She was flick- ing the water out of the spout in regular cadenced jerks. "There are ways and ways of cleaning sam- ovars. If you knew why she was doing her work in that particular fashion, you would know what the Spanish Monk meant when he said — I the Trinity illustrate, Drinking watered orange-pulp — In three sips the Arian frustrate, While he drains his at one gulp — and many other things which now are hidden from your eyes. However, Mrs. Mcintosh has prepared dinner. Let us come and eat after the fashion of the people of the country — of whom, by the way, you know nothing." The native woman dipped her hand in the dish with us. This was wrong. The wife should always wait until the husband has eaten. Mcin- tosh Jellaludin apologized, saying — "It is an English prejudice which I have not been able to overcome; and she loves me. Why, I have never been able to understand. I fore- gathered with her at Jullundur, three years ago, and she has remained with me ever since. I be- lieve her to be moral, and know her to be skilled in cookery." He patted the woman's head as he sDoke. and To be Filed for Reference 377 she cooed softly. She was not pretty to look at. Mcintosh never told me what position he had held before his fall. He was, when sober, a scholar and a gentleman. When drunk, he was rather more of the first than the secc:id. He used to get drunk about once a week for two dnys. On those occasions the native woman tended him while he raved in all tongues except his own. One day, indeed, he began reciting AtalanUi in Calydon, and went through it to the end, beat- ing time to the swing of the verse with a bed- stead-leg. But he did most of his ravings in Greek or German. The man's mind was a per- fect rag-bag of useless things. Once, when he was beginning to get sober, he told me that I was the only rational being in the Inferno into which he had descended — a Virgil in the Shades, he said — and that, in return for my tobacco, he would, before he died, give me the materials of a new Inferno that should make me greater than Dante. Then he fell asleep on a horse-blanket and woke up quite calm. "Man," said he, "when you have reached the uttermost depths of degradation, little incidents which would vex a higher life, are to you of no consequence. Last night, my soul was among the Gods; but I make no doubt that my bestial body was writhing down here in the garbage." 378 Indian Tales "You were abominably drunk if tliat's what you mean," I said. "I was drunk — filtliiiy drunk. I who am the son of a man with whom you have no concern — 1 who was once Fellow of a College whose but- tery-hatch you have not seen. I was loathsomely drunk. But consider how lightly 1 am touched. It is nothing to me. Less than nothing; fo*" I do not even feel the headache which should be my portion. Now, in a higher life, hov/ ghastly would have been my punishment, how bitter my repentance! Believe me my friend with the neglected education, the highest is as the lowest — always supposing each degree extreme." He turned round on the blanket, put his head between his fists and continued — "On the Sou! which I have lost and on the Conscience which I have killed, I tell you that ! cannot feel! I am as the Gods, knowing good and evil, but untouched by either. Is this en- viable or is it not?" When a man has lost the warning of " next morning's head," he must be in a bad state. I answered, looking at Mcintosh on the blanket, with his hair over his eyes and his lips blue-white, that I did not think the insensibility good enough. " For pity's sake, don't say that! I tell you, it is good and most enviable. Think of my con- solations!" To be Filed for Reference 379 " Have you so many, then, Mcintosh ?" " Certainly; your attempts at sarcasm which is essentially the weapon of a cultured man, are crude. First, my attainments, my classical and literary knowledge, blurred, perhaps, by immod- erate drinking — which reminds me that before my soul went to the Gods last night, 1 sold the Pickering Horace you so kindly loaned me. Ditta Mull the clothesman has it. It fetched ten annas, and may be redeemed for a rupee — but still infinitely superior to yours. Secondly, the abiding affection of Mrs. Mcintosh, uest of wives. Thirdly, a monument, more enduring than brass, which 1 have built up in the seven years of my degradation." He stopped here, and crawled across the room for a drink of water. He was very shaky and sick. He referred several times to his "treasure" — some great possession that he owned — but 1 held this to be the raving of drink. He was as poor and as proud as he could be. His manner was not pleasant, but he knew enough about the na- tives, among whom seven years of his life had been spent, to make his acquaintance worth hav- ing. He used actually to laugh at Strickland as an ignorant man — "ignorant West and East" — he said. His boast was, first, that he was an Oxford Man of rare and shining parts, which 38o Indian Tales may or may not have been true — I did not know enough to check his statements — and, secondly, that he "had his hand on the pulse of native life " — which was a fact. As an Oxford Man, he struck me as a prig: he was always throwing his education about. As a Mohammedan faquir — as Mcintosh Jellaludin — he was all that 1 wanted for my own ends. He smoked several pounds of my tobacco, and taught me several ounces of things worth knowing; but he would never ac- cept any gifts, not even when the cold weather came, and gripped the poor thin chest under the poor thin alpaca-coat. He grew very angry, and said that I had insulted him, and that he was not going into hospital. He had lived like a beast and he would die rationally, like a man. As a matter of fact, he died of pneumonia; and on the night of his death sent over a grubby note asking me to come and help him to die. The native woman was weeping by the side of the bed. Mcintosh, wrapped in a cotton cloth, was too weak to resent a fur coat being thrown over him. He was very active as far as his mind was concerned, and his eyes were blazing. When he had abused the Doctor who came with me, so foully that the indignant old fellow left, he cursed me for a few minutes and calmed down. Then he told his wife to fetch out "The Book " To be Filed for Reference 38 1 from a hole in the wall. She brought out a big bundle, wrapped in the tail of a petticoat, of old sheets of miscellaneous note-paper, all numbered and covered with fine cramped writing. Mcin- tosh ploughed his hand through the rubbish and stirred it up lovingly. "This," he said, "is my work — the Book of Mcintosh Jellaludin, showing what he saw and how he lived, and what befell him and others; being also an account of the life and sins and death of Mother Maturin. What Mirza Murad Ali Beg's book is to all other books on native life, will my work be to Mirza Murad Ali Beg's! " This, as will be conceded by any one who knows Mirza Murad Ali Beg's book, was a sweep- ing statement. The papers did not look specially valuable; but Mcintosh handled them as if they were currency-notes. Then said he slowly — " In despite the many weaknesses of your edu- cation, you have been good to me. I will speak of your tobacco when 1 reach the Gods. 1 owe you much thanks for many kindnesses. But I abominate indebtedness. For this reason, I be- queath to you now the monument more en- during than brass — my one book — rude and imperfect in parts, but oh how rare in others! I wonder if you will understand it. It is a gift more honorable than . . . Bah! where is my brain rambling to ? You will mutilate it hor- 382 Indian Tales ribly. You will knock out the gems you call Latin quotations, you Philistine, and you will butcher the style to carve into your own jerky jargon; but you cannot destroy the whole of it. I bequeath it to you. Ethel . . . My brain again! . . . Mrs. Mcintosh, bear witness that I give the Sahib all these papers. They would be of no use to you. Heart of my Heart; and I lay it upon you," he turned to me here, "that you do not let my book die in its present form. It is yours unconditionally — the story of Mcintosh Jellaludin, which is not the story of Mcintosh Jellaludin, but of a greater man than he, and of a far greater woman. Listen now! I am neither mad nor drunk! That book will make you famous." 1 said, "Thank you," as the native woman put the bundle into my arms. " My only baby! " said Mcintosh, with a smile. He was sinking fast, but he continued to talk as long as breath remained. 1 waited for the end; knowing that, in six cases out of ten a dying man calls for his mother. He turned on his side and said — "Say how it came into your possession. No one will believe you, but my name, at least, will live. You will treat it brutally, I know you will. Some of it must go; the public are fools and prudish fools. 1 was their servant once. But do To be Filed for Reference 383 your mangling gently — very gently. It is a great work, and I have paid for it in seven years' dam- nation." His voice stopped for ten or twelve breaths, and then he began mumbling a prayer of some kind in Greek. The native woman cried very bitterly. Lastly, he rose in bed and said, as loudly as slowly — *'Not guilty, my Lord!" Then he fell back, and the stupor held him till he died. The native woman ran into the Serai among the horses, and screamed and beat her breasts; for she had loved him. Perhaps his last sentence in life told what Mcintosh had once gone through; but, saving the big bundle of old sheets in the cloth, there was nothing in his room to say who or what he had been. The papers were in a hopeless muddle. Strickland helped me to sort them, and he said that the writer was either an extreme liar or a most wonderful person. He thought the former. One of these days, you may be able to judge for yourselves. The bundle needed much ex- purgation and was full of Greek nonsense, at the head of the chapters, which has all been cut out. If the thing is ever published, some one may perhaps remember this story, now printed as a safeguard to prove that Mcintosh Jeilaludin 384 Indian Tale':, and not I myself wrote the Book of Mother Ma- turin. 1 don't want the Gianfs Robe to come true in mv case. THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING " Brother to a Prince and fellow to a beggar if he be found worthy." THE Law, as quoted, lays down a fair con- duct of life, and one not easy to follow. I have been fellow to a beggar again and again under circumstances which prevented either of us finding out whether the other was worthy. I have still to be brother to a Prince, though I once came near to kinship with what might have been a veritable King and was promised the reversion of a Kingdom — army, law-courts, revenue and policy all complete. But, to-day, I greatly fear that my King is dead, and if I want a crown 1 must go and hunt it for myself. The beginning of everything was in a railway train upon the road to Mhow from Ajmir. There had been a Deficit in the Budget, which neces- sitated traveling, not Second-class, which is only half as dear as First-class, but by Intermediate, which is very awful indeed. There are no cush- ions in the Intermediate class, and the popula- tion are either Intermediate, which is Eurasian, or native, which for a long night journey is nasty, or Loafer, which is amusing though intoxicated. 385 386 Indian Tales Intermediates do not patronize refreshment- rooms. They carry their food in bundles and pots, and buy sweets from the native <= weetmeat- sellers, and drink the roadside water. That is why in the hot weather Intermediates are taken out of the carriages dead, and in all weathers are most properly looked down upon. My particular Intermediate happened to be empty till I reached Nasirabad, when a huge gentleman in shirt-sleeves entered, and, follow- ing the custom of Intermediates, passed the time of day. He was a wanderer and a vagabond like myself, but with an educated taste for whiskey. He told tales of things he had seen and done, of out-of-the-way corners of the Empire into which he had penetrated, and of adventures in which he risked his life for a few days' food. " If India was filled with men like you and me, not know- ing more than the crows where they'd get their next day's rations, it isn't seventy millions of revenue the land would be paying — it's seven hundred millions," said he; and as I looked at his mouth and chin I was disposed to agree with him. We talked politics — the politics of Loafer- dom that sees things from the underside where the lath and plaster is not smoothed off — and we talked postal arrangements because my friend wanted to send a telegram back from the next station to Ajmir, which is the turning-off place The Man Who Would be King 387 from the Bombay to the Mhow line as you travel westward. My friend had no money beyond eight annas which he wanted for dinner, and I had no money at all, owing to the hitch in the Budget before mentioned. Further, I was going into a wilderness where, though I should resume touch with the Treasury, there were no telegraph offices. I was, therefore, unable to help him in any way. "We might threaten a Station-master, and make him send a wire on tick," said my friend, "but that'd mean inquiries for you and for me, and I've got my hands full these days. Did you say you are traveling back along this line within any days ? " "Within ten," I said. "Can't you make it eight?" said he. "Mine is rather urgent business." "I can send your telegram within ten days if that will serve you," I said. "I couldn't trust the wire to fetch him now I think of it. It's this way. He leaves Delhi on the 23d for Bombay. That means he'll be run- ning through Ajmir about the night of the 23d." " But I'm going into the Indian Desert," I ex- plained. " Well and good," said he. " You'll be chang- ing at Marwar Junction to get into Jodhpore ter- ritory — you must do that — and he'll be coming 388 Indian Tales through Marwar Junction in the early morning of the 24th by the Bombay Mail, Can you be at Marwar Junction on that time ? Twon't be in- conveniencing you because 1 know that there's precious few pickings to be got out of these Central India States — even though you pretend to be correspondent of the Backwoodsman." " Have you ever tried that trick?" I asked. "Again and again, but the Residents find you out, and then you get escorted to the Border be- fore you've time to get your knife into them. But about my friend here. I must give him a word o' mouth to tell him what's come to me or else he won't know where to go. 1 would take it more than kind of you if you was to come out of Central India in time to catch him at Marwar Junction, and say to him: — 'He has gone South for the week.' He'll know what that means. He's a big man with a red beard, and a great swell he is. You'll find him sleeping like a gentleman with all his luggage round him in a Second-class compartment. But don't you be afraid. Slip down the window, and say: — 'He has gone South for the week,' and he'll tumble. It's only cutting your time of stay in those parts by two days. I ask you as a stranger — going to the West," he said, with emphasis. "Where havejw^ come from.^" said I. **From the East," said he, "and I am hoping The Man Who Would be King 389 that you will give him the message on the Square — for the sake of my Mother as well as your own." Englishmen are not usually softened by ap- peals to the memory of their mothers, but for certain reasons, which will be fully apparent, 1 saw fit to agree. "It's more than a little matter," said he, "and that's why 1 ask you to do it— and now I know that I can depend on you doing it. A Second- class carriage at Marwar Junction, and a red- haired man asleep in it. You'll be sure to re- member. 1 get out at the next station, and I must hold on there till he comes or sends me what 1 want." "I'll give the message if 1 catch him," I said, "and for the sake of your Mother as well as mine I'll give you a word of advice. Don't try to run the Central India States just now as the correspondent of the Backwoodsman, There's a real one knocking about here, and it might lead to trouble." " Thank you," said he, simply, "and when v^ill the swine be gone ? I can't starve because he's ruining my work. I wanted to get hold of the Degumber Rajah down here about his father's widow, and give him a jump." "What did he do to his father's widow *hen ? " 390 Indian Tales "Filled her up with red pepper and slippered her to death as she hung from a beam. I found that out myself and I'm the only man that v/ould dare going into the State to get hush-money for it. They'll try to poison me, same as they did in Chortumna when 1 went on the loot there. But you'll give the man at Marwar Junction my message ? " He got out at a little roadside station, and 1 re- flected. I had heard, more than once, of men personating correspondents of newspapers and bleeding small Native States with threats of exposure, but 1 had never met any of the caste before. They lead a hard life, and generally die with great suddenness. The Native States have a wholesome horror of English newspapers, which may throw light on their peculiar methods of government, and do their best to choke correspondents with champagne, or drive them out of their mind with four-in-hand barouches. They do not understand that no- body cares a straw for the internal administration of Native States so long as oppression and crime are kept within decent limits, and the ruler is not drugged, drunk, or diseased from one end of the year to the other. Native States were created by Providence in order to supply picturesque scenery, tigers, and tall-writing. They are the dark places of the earth, full of unimaginable cruelty, touch- The Man Who Would be King 391 ing the Railway and the Telegraph on one side, and, on the other, the days of Harun-al-Raschid. When I left the train I did business with divers Kings, and in eight days passed through many changes of life. Sometimes 1 wore dress-clothes and consorted with Princes and Politicals, drinking from crystal and eating from silver. Sometimes I lay out upon the ground and devoured what I could get, from a plate made of a flapjack, and drank the running water, and slept under the same rug as my servant. It was all in the day's work. Then I headed for the Great Indian Desert upon the proper date, as I had promised, and the night Mail set me down at Marwar Junction, where a funny little, happy-go-lucky, native-managed railway runs to Jodhpore. The Bombay Mail from Delhi makes a short halt at Marwar. She arrived as I got in, and 1 had just time to hurry to her platform and go down the carriages. There was only one Second-class jn the train. I slipped the window and looked down upon a flaming red beard, half covered by a railway rug. That was my man, fast asleep, and I dug him gently in the ribs. He woke with a grunt and I saw his face in the light of the lamps. It was a great and shining face. "Tickets again?" said he. "No," said I. "I am to tell you that he is 392 Indian Tales gone South for the week. He is gone South for the week! " The train had begun to move out. The red man rubbed his eyes. " He has gone South for the week," he repeated. "Now that's just Hke his impidence. Did he say that I was to give you anything? — 'Cause I won't." "He didn't," I said, and dropped away, and watched the red lights die out in the dark. It was horribly cold because the wind was: bio ./ing off the sands. I climbed into my own train — not an Intermediate Carriage this time — and went to sleep. If the man with the beard had given me a rupee I should have kept it as a memento of a rather curious affair. But the consciousness of having done my duty was my only reward. Later on I reflected that two gentlemen like my friends could not do any good if they foregath- ered and personated correspondents of news- papers, and might, if they "stuck up" one of the little rat-trap states of Central India or South- ern Rajputana, get themselves into serious diffi- culties. I therefore took some trouble to de- scribe them as accurately as I could remember to people who would be interested in deporting them: and succeeded, so I was later informed, in having them headed back from the Degumbei borders. The Man Who Would be King 393 Then I became respectable, and returned to an Office where there were no Kings and no in- cidents except the daily manufacture of a news- paper. A newspaper office seems to attract every conceivable sort of person, to the prejudice of discipline. Zenana-mission ladies arrive, and beg that the Editor will instantly abandon all his duties to describe a Christian prize-giving in a back-slum of a perfectly inaccessible village; Colonels who have been overpassed for com- mands sit down and sketch the outline of a series of ten, twelve, or twenty-four leading articles on Seniority versus Selection ; missionaries wish to know why they have not been permitted to escape from their regular vehicles of abuse and swear at a brother-missionary under special pat- ronage of the editorial We; stranded theatrical companies troop up to explain that they cannot pay for their advertisements, but on their return from New Zealand or Tahiti will do so with interest; inventors of patent punkah-pulling machines, carriage couplings and unbreakable swords and axle-trees call with specifications in their pockets and hours at their disposal; tea- companies enter and elaborate their prospectuses with the office pens; secretaries of ball-commit- tees clamor to have the glories of their last dance more fully expounded; strange ladies rustle in and say: — " 1 want a hundred lady's cards printed 394 Indian Tales at once, please," which is manifestly part of an Editor's duty; and every dissolute ruffian that ever tramped the Grand Trunk Road makes it his business to ask for employment as a proof- reader. And, all the time, the telephone-bell is ringing madly, and Kings are being killed on the Continent, and Empires are saying — "You're an- other," and Mister Gladstone is calling down brimstone upon the British Dominions, and the little black copy-boys are whining, " kaa-pi chay- ha-yeh" (copy wanted) like tired bees, and most of the paper is as blank as Modred's shield. But that is the amusing part of the year. There are other six months wherein none evei' come to call, and the thermometer walks inch by inch up to the top of the glass, and the office is darkened to just above reading-light, and the press machines are red-hot of touch, and nobody writes anything but accounts of amusements in the Hill-stations or obituary notices. Then the telephone becomes a tinkling terror, because it tells you of the sudden deaths of men and women that you knew intimately, and the prickly-heat covers you as with a garment, and you sit down and write: — "A slight increase of sickness is reported from the Khuda Janta Khan District. The outbreak is purely sporadic in its nature, and, thanks to the energetic efforts of the District authorities, is now almost at an end. It The Man Who Would be King 395 is, however, with deep regret we record the death, etc." Then the sickness really breaks out, and the less recording and reporting the better for the peace of the subscribers. But the Empires and the Kings continue to divert themselves as sel- fishly as before, and the Foreman thinks that a daily paper really ought to come out once in twenty-four hours, and all the people at the Hill-stations in the middle of their amusements say : — ' ' Good gracious ! Why can't the paper be sparkling.^ I'm sure there's plenty going on up here." That is the dark half of the moon, and, as the advertisements say, "must be experienced to be appreciated." It was in that season, and a remarkably evil season, that the paper began running the last issue of the week on Saturday night, which is to say Sunday morning, after the custom of a London paper. This was a great convenience, for immediately after the paper was put to bed, the dawn would lower the thermometer from 96° to almost 84° for half an hour, and in that chill — you have no idea how ccld is 84° on the grass until you begin to pray for it — a very tired man could set off to sleep ere the heat roused him. One Saturday night it was my pleasant duty to ^q6 tnuiun I Ui^S put the paper to bed alone. A King or courtier or a courtesan or a community was going to die or get a new Constitution, or do something that was important on the other side of the world, and the paper was to be held open till the latest possible minute in order to catch the telegram. It was a pitchy black night, as stifling as a June night can be, and the loo, the red-hot wind from the westward, was booming among the tinder- dry trees and pretending that the rain was on its heels. Now and again a spot of almost boiling water would fall on the dust with the flop of a frog, but all our weary world knew that was only pretence. It was a shade cooler in the press-room than the office, so I sat there, while the type ticked and clicked, and the night-jars hooted at the windows, and the all but naked compositors wiped the sweat from their fore- heads and called for water. The thing that was keeping us back, whatever it was, would not come off, though the loo dropped and the last type was set, and the whole round earth stood still in the choking heat, with its finger on its lip, to wait the event. 1 drowsed, and wondered whether the telegraph was a blessing, and whether this dying man, or struggling people, was aware of the inconvenience the delay was causing. There was no special reason beyond the heat and worry to make tension, but, as the The Man Who Would be King 397 clock hands crept up to three o'clock and the machines spun their fly-wheels two and three times to see that all was in order, before I said the word that would set them off, 1 could have shrieked aloud. Then the roar and rattle of the wheels shivered the quiet into little bits. 1 rose to go away, but tv/o men in white clothes stood in front of me. The first one said: — "It's him!" The second said: — "So it is!" And they both laughed almost as loudly as the machinery roared, and mopped their foreheads, " We see there was a light burning across the road and we were sleep- ing in that ditch there for coolness, and I said to my friend here, The office is open. Let's come along and speak to him as turned us back from the Degumber State," said the smaller of the two. He was the man I had met in the Mhow train, and his fellow was the red-bearded man of Marwar Junction. There was no mistaking the eyebrows of the one or the beard of the other. I was not pleased, because 1 wished to go to sleep, not to squabble with loafers. " What do you want ? " I asked. " Half an hour's talk with you cool and com- fortable, in the office," said the red-bearded man. "We'd like some drink — the Conirack doesn't begin yet, Peachey, so you needn't look — but 398 Indian Tales what we really want is advice. We don't want money. We ask you as a favor, because you did us a bad turn about Degumber." I led from the press-room to the stifling office with the maps on the walls, and the red-haired man rubbed his hands. "That's something like," said he. "This was the proper shop to come to. Now, Sir, let me introduce to you Brother Peachey Carnehan, that's him, and Brother Daniel Dravot, that is me, and the less said about our professions the better, for we have been most things in our time. Soldier, sailor, compositor, photographer, proof-reader, street- preacher, and correspondents of the Backwoods- man when we thought the paper wanted one. Carnehan is sober, and so am I. Look at us first and see that's sure. It will save you cutting into my talk. We'll take one of your cigars apiece, and you shall see us light." I watched the test. The men were absolutely sober, so I gave them each a tepid peg. "Well and good," said Carnehan of the eye- brows, wiping the froth from his moustache. " Let me talk now, Dan. We have been all over India, mostly on foot. We have been boiler- fitters, engine-drivers, petty contractors, and all that, and we have decided that India isn't big enough for such as us." They certainly were too big for the office. The Man Who Would be King 399 Dravot's beard seemed to fill half the room and Carnehan's shoulders the other half, as they sat on the big table. Carnehan continued: — "The country isn't half worked out because they that governs it won't let you touch it. They spend all their blessed time in governing it, and you can't lift a spade, nor chip a rock, nor look for oil, nor anything like that without all the Government saying — ' Leave it alone and let us govern.' Therefore, such as it is, we will let it alone, and go away to some other place where a man isn't crowded and can come to his own. We are not little men, and there is nothing that we are afraid of except Drink, and we have signed a Contrack on that. Therefore, we are going away to be Kings." " Kings in our own right," muttered Dravot. "Yes, of course," I said. "You've been tramping in the sun, and it's a very warm night, and hadn't you better sleep over the notion .? Come to-morrow." "Neither drunk nor sunstruck," said Dravot. " We have slept over the notion half a year, and require to see Books and Atlases, and we have decided that there is only cne place now in the world that two strong men can S-AX-Si-whach. They call it Kafiristan. By my reckoning it's the top right-hand corner of Afghanistan, not more than three hundred miles from Peshawur. They 400 Indian Tales have two and thirty heathen idols there, and we'll be the thirty-third. It's a mountaineous country, and the women of those parts are very beautiful." " But that is provided against in the Contrack,'^ said Carnehan. "Neither Women nor Liqu-or, Daniel." "And that's all we know, except that no one has gone there, and they fight, and in any place where they fight a man who knows how to drill men can always be a King. We shall go to those parts and say to any King we find — * D' you want to vanquish your foes.^' and we will show him how to drill men; for that we know better than anything else. Then we will subvert that King and seize his Throne and establish a Dy-nasty." "You'll be cut to pieces before you're fifty miles across the Border," I said. "You have to travel through Afghanistan to get to that coun- try. It's one mass of mountains and peaks and glaciers, and no Englishman has been through it. The people are utter brutes, and even if you reached them you couldn't do anything." "That's more like," said Carnehan. " If you could think us a little more mad we would be more pleased. We have come to you to know about this country, to read a book about it, and to be shown maps. We want you to tell us that The Man Who Would be King 401 we are fools and to show us your books." He turned to the bookcases. " Are you at all in earnest } " I said. "A little," said Dravot, sweetly. "As big a map as you have got, even if it's all blank where Kafiristan is, and any books you've got. We can read, though we aren't very educated." I uncased the big thirty-two-miles-to-the-inch map of India, and two smaller Frontier maps, hauled dov/n volume INF-KAN of the EuLyclo- pccdia Brittanica, and the men consulted them. "See here!" said Dravot, his thumb on the map, " Up to Jagdallak, Peachey and me know the road. We was there with Roberts's Army. We'll have to turn off to the right at Jagdallak through Laghmann territory. Then we get among the hills — fourteen thousand feet — fifteen thousand — it will be cold work there, but it don't look very far on the map." 1 handed him Wood on the Sources of the Oxus. Carnehan was deep in the Eucyclopcvdia. "They're a mixed lot," said Dravot, reflec- tively; "and it won't help us to know the names of their tribes. The more tribes the more they'll fight, and the better for us. From Jagdallak to Ashang. H'mm!" "But all the information about the country is as sketchy and inaccurate as can be," I protested. "No one knows anything about it really. Here's 402 Indian Tales the file of the United Services' Institute. Read what Bellew says." "Blow Bellew!" said Carnehan. "Dan, they're an all-fired lot of heathens, but this book here says they think they're related to us English." I smoked while the men pored over Raverty, Wood, the maps and the Encyclopcedia. "There is no use your waiting," said Dravot, politely. "It's about four o'clock now. We'll go before six o'clock if you want to sleep, and we won't steal any of the papers. Don't you sit up. We're two harmless lunatics, and if you come, to-morrow evening, down to the Serai we'll say good-bye to you." "You are two fools," I answered. "You'll be turned back at the Frontier or cut up the min- ute you set foot in Afghanistan. Do you want any money or a recommendation down-country.^ 1 ';an help you to the chance of work next week." " Next week we shall be hard at work our- selves, thank you," said Dravot. "It isn't so easy being a King as it looks. When we've got our Kingdom in going order we'll let you know, and you can come up and help us to govern it." "Would two lunatics make a Contrack like that?" said Carnehan, with subdued pride, showing me a greasy half-sheet of note-paper on which was written the following. I copied it, then and there, as a curiosity: The Man Who Would be King 403 This Contract between me and you persuing wttnesseth in the name of God — Amen and so forth. {One) That me and you will settle this matter together : i. e., to be Kings of Kafir- istan. {Two) That you and me will not, while this matter is beir.g rrttled, look at any Liquor, nor any Woman, black, white or brown, so as to g. t mixed up with one or the other harmful. ( Three) That we conduct ourselves with dignity and discretion, and if one of its gets into trouble the other will stay by him. Signed by you and me this day. Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan. Daniel Dravot. Both Gentlemen at Large. "There was no need for the last article," said Carnehan, blushing modestly; " but it looks reg- ular. Now you know the sort of men that loaf- ers are — we are loafers, Dan, until we get out of India — and do you think that we would sign a Contrack like that unless we was in earnest ? We have kept away from the two things that make life worth having." " You won't enjoy your lives much longer if 404 Indian Tales you are going to try this idiotic adventure. Don't set the office on fire," 1 said, "and go away be- fore nine o'clock." I left them still poring over the maps and making notes on the back of the "Contrack." " Be sure to come down to the Serai to-morrow," were their parting words. The Kumharsen Serai is the great four-square sink of humanity where the strings of camels and horses from the North load and unload. All the nationalities of Central Asia may be found there, and most of the folk of India proper. Balkh and Bokhara there meet Bengal and Bom- bay, and try to draw eye-teeth. You can buy ponies, turquoises, Persian pussy-cats, saddle- bags, fat-tailed sheep and musk in the Kum- harsen Serai, and get many strange things for nothing. In the afternoon I went down there to see whether my friends intended to keep their word or were lying about drunk. A priest attired in fragments of ribbons and rags stalked up to me, gravely twisting a child's paper whirligig. Behind him was his servant bending under the load of a crate of mud toys. The two were loading up two camels, and the inhabitants of the Serai watched them with shrieks of laughter. "The priest is mad," said a horse-dealer to me. " He is going up to Kabul to sell toys to the Amir. The Man Who Would be King 405 He will either be raised to honor or have his head cut off. He came in here this morning and has been behaving madly ever since." " The witless are under the protection of God," stammered a flat-cheeked Usbeg in broken Hindi. "They foretell future events." " Would they could have foretold that my car- avan would have been cut up by the Shinwaris almost within shadow of the Pass!" grunted the Eusufzai agent of a Rajputana trading-house whose goods had been feloniously diverted into the hands of other robbers just across the Border, and whose misfortunes were the laughing-stock of the bazar. " Ohe, priest, whence come you and whither do you go.^" " From Roum have I come," shouted the priest, waving his whirligig; "from Roum, blown by the breath of a hundred devils across the sea! O thieves, robbers, liars, the blessing of Pir Khan on pigs, dogs, and perjurers! Who will take the Protected of God to the North to sell charms that are never still to the Amir.? The camels shall not gall, the sons shall not fall sick, and the wives shall remain faithful while they are away, of the men who give me place in their caravan. Who will assist me to slipper the King of the Roos with a golden slipper with a silver heel.? The protection of Pir Khan be upon his labors!" He spread out the skirts of his gaber- 4o6 Indian Tales dine and pirouetted between the lines of tethered horses. "There starts a caravan from Peshawur to Kab'jl in twenty days, Hu{riit," said the Eusufzai trader. " My camels go therewith. Do thou also go and bring us good-luck." "1 will go even now!"' shouted the priest. "I will depart upon my winged camels, and be at Pashawur in a day! Hoi Hazar Mir Khan," he yelled to his servant, "drive out the camels, but let me first mount my own." He leaped on the back of his beast as it knelt, and, turning round to me, cried: — "Come thou also, Sahib, a little along the road, and I will sell thee a charm — an amulet that shall make thee King of Kafiristan." Then the light broke upon me, and I followed the two camels out of the Serai till we reached open road and the priest halted. "What d' you think o' that?" said he in English. "Carnehan can't talk their patter, so I've made him my servant. He makes a hand- some servant. 'Tisn't for nothing that I've been knocking about the country for fourteen years. Didn't 1 do that talk neat? We'll hitch on to a caravan at Peshawur till we get to Jagdallak, and then we'll see if we can get donkeys for our camels, and strike into Kafiristan. Whirl- igigs for the Amir, O Lor! Put your hand The Man Who Would be King 407 under the camel-bags and tell me what you feel." 1 felt the butt of a Martini, and another and another. "Twenty of 'em," said Dravot, placidly. "Twenty of 'em, and ammunition to correspond, under the whirligigs and the mud dolls." " Heaven help you if you are caught with those things!" 1 said. "A Martini is worth her weight in silver among the Pathans." "Fifteen hundred rupees of capital — every ru- pee we could beg, borrow, or steal — are invested on these two camels," said Dravot. "We won't get caught. We're going through the Khaiber with a regular caravan. Who'd touch a poor mad priest } " " Have you got everything you want ? " I asked, overcome with astonishment. "Not yet, but we shall soon. Give us a me- mento of your kindness. Brother. You did me a service yesterday, and that time in Marwar. Half my Kingdom shall you have, as the saying is." I slipped a small charm compass from my watch-chain and handed it up to the priest. "Good-bye," said Dravot, giving me hand cautiously. " It's the last time we'll shake hands with an Englishman these many days. Shake hands with him, Carnehan," he cried, as the sec- ond camel passed me. 4o8 Indian Tales Carnehan leaned down and shook hands. Then the camels passed away along the dusty road; and I was left alone to wonder. My eye could detect no failure in the disguises. The scene in Serai attested that they were complete to the native mind. There was just the chance, there- fore, that Carnehan and Dravot would be able to wander through Afghanistan without detection. But, beyond, they would find death, certain and awful death. Ten days later a native friend of mine, giving me the news of the day from Peshawur, wound up his letter with: — "There has been much laugh- ter here on account of a certain mad priest who is going in his estimation to sell petty gauds and insignificant trinkets which he ascribes as great charms to H. H. the Amir of Bokhara. He passed through Peshawur and associated himself to the Second Summer caravan that goes to Kabul. The merchants are pleased because through supersti- tion they imagine that such mad fellows bring good-fortune." The two, then, were beyond the Border. I would have prayed for them, but, that night, a real King died in Europe, and demanded on obit- uary notice. The wheel of the world swings through the The Man Who Would be King 409 same phases again and again. Summer passed and winter thereafter, and came and passed again. The daily paper continued and I with it, and upon the third summer there fell a hot night, a night-issue, and a strained waiting for some- thing to be telegraphed from the other side of the world, exactly as had happened before. A few great men had died in the past two years, the machines worked with more clatter, and some of the trees in the Office garden were a few feet taller. But that was all the difference. I passed over to the press-room, and went through just such a scene as I have already de- scribed. The nervous tension was stronger than it had been two years before, and I felt the heat more acutely. At three o'clock I cried, "Print off," and turned to go, when there crept to my chair what was left of a man. He was bent into a circle, his head was sunk between his shoul- ders, and he moved his feet one over the other like a bear. I could hardly see whether he walked or crawled — this rag-wrapped, whining cripple who addressed me by name, crying that he was come back. "Can you give me a drink .^" he whimpered. " For the Lord's sake, give me a drink! " I went back to the office, the man following with groans of pain, and I turned up the lamp. "Don't you know me ?" he gasped, dropping 410 Indian Tales into a chair, and he turned his drawn face, surmounted by a shock of grey hair, to the light. I looked at him intently. Once before had I seen eyebrows that met over the nose in an inch- broad black band, but for the life of me 1 could not tell where. "1 don't know you," 1 said, handing him the whiskey. " What can I do for you ? " He took a gulp of the spirit raw, and shivered in spite of the suffocating heat. "I've come back," he repeated; "and I was the King of Kafiristan — me and Dravot — crowned Kings we was! In this office we settled it — you setting there and giving us the books. I am Peachey — Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan, and you've been setting here ever since — O Lord!" I was more than a little astonished, and ex- pressed my feelings accordingly. "It's true," said Carnehan, with a dry cackle, nursing his feet, which were wrapped in rags. "True as gospel. Kings we were, with crowns upon our heads — me and Dravot — poor Dan — oh, poor, poor Dan, that would never take advice, not though I begged of him! " "Take the whiskey," 1 said, "and take your own time. Tell me all you can recollect of everything from beginning to end. You got across the border on your camels, Dravot dressed The Man Who Would be King ^n as a mad priest and you his servant. Do you re- member that?" "I ain't mad — yet, but I shall be that way soon. Of course I remember. Keep looking at me, or maybe my words will go all to pieces. Keep lool^ing at me in my eyes and don't say anything." I leaned forward and looked into his face as steadily as I could. He dropped one hand upon the table and I grasped it by the wrist. It was twisted like a bird's claw, and upon the back was a ragged, red, diamond-shaped scar. "No, don't look there. Look at me," said Carnehan. "That comes afterward, but for the Lord's sake don't distrack me. We left with that cara- van, me and Dravot playing all sorts of antics to amuse the people we were with. Dravot used to make us laugh in the evenings when all the people was cooking their dinners — cooking their dinners, and . . . what did they do then .? They lit little fires with sparks that went into Dravot's beard, and we all laughed — fit to die. Little red fires they was, going into Dravot's big red beard — so funny." His eyes left mine and he smiled foolishly. "You went as far as Jagdallak with that caravan," I said, at a venture, " after you had lit those fires. To Jagdallah, where you turned off to try to get into Kafiristan." 412 Indian Tales "No, we didn't neither. What are you talk- ing about ? We turned off before Jagdallak, be- cause we heard the roads was good. But they wasn't good enough for our two camels — mine and Dravot's. When we left the caravan, Dravot took off all his clothes and mine too, and said we would be heathen, because the Kafirs didn't allow Mohammedans to talk to them. So we dressed betwixt and between, and such a sight as Daniel Dravot I never saw yet nor expect to see again. He burned half his beard, and slung a sheep-skin over his shoulder, and shaved his head into patterns. He shaved mine, too, and made me wear outrageous things to look like a heathen. That was in a most mountaineous country, and our camels couldn't go along any more because of the mountains. They were tall and black, and coming home 1 saw them fight like wild goats — there are lots of goats in Kafir- istan. And these mountains, they never keep still, no more than the goats. Always fighting they are, and don't let you sleep at night." "Take some more whiskey," I said, very slowly. " What did you and Daniel Dravot do when the camels could go no further because of the rough roads that led into Kafiristan ?" "What did which do.^ There was a party called Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan that was with Dravot. Shall I tell you about him .? He died The Man Who Would be King 413 out there in the cold. Slap from the bridge fell old Peachey, turning and twisting in the air like a penny whirligig that you can sell to the Amir. — No; they was two for three ha'pence, those whirligigs, or 1 am much mistal<.en and woful sore. And then these camels were no use, and Peachey said to Dravot — ' For the Lord's sake, let's get out of this before our heads are chopped off,' and with that they killed the camels all among the mountains, not having anything in particular to eat, but first they took off the boxes with the guns and the ammunition, till two men came along driving four mules. Dravot up and dances in front of them, singing, — * Sell me four Mules.' Says the first man, — ' If you are rich enough to buy, you are rich enough to rob; ' but before ever he could put his hand to his knife, Dravot breaks his neck over his knee, and the other party runs away. So Carnehan loaded the mules with the rifles that was taken off the camels, and together we starts forward into those bitter cold mountaineous parts, and never a road broader than the back of your hand." He paused for a moment, while 1 asked him if he could remember the nature of the country through which he had journeyed. " ] am telling you as straight as 1 can, but my head isn't as good as it might be. They drove nails through it to make me hear better how 414 Indian Tales Dravot died. The country was mountaineous and the mules were most contrary, and the inhab- itants was dispersed and solitary. They went up and up, and down and down, and that other party, Carnehan, was imploring of Dravot not to sing and whistle so loud, for fear of bringing down the tremenjus avalanches. But Dravot says that if a King couldn't sing it wasn't worth being King, and whacked the mules over the rump, and never took no heed for ten cold days. We came to a big level valley all among the mountains, and the mules were near dead, so we killed them, not having anything in special for them or us to eat. We sat upon the boxes, and played odd and even with the cartridges that was jolted out. "Then ten men with bows and arrows ran down that valley, chasing twenty men with bows and arrows, and the row was tremenjus. They was fair men — fairer than you or me — with yellow hair and remarkable well built. Says Dravot, unpacking the guns — ' This is the begin- ning of the business. We'll fight for the ten men,' and with that he fires two rifles at the twenty men, and drops one of them at two hundred yards from the rock where we was sit- ting. The other men began to run, but Carnehan and Dravot sits on the boxes picking them off at all ranges, up and down the valley. Then we goes up to the ten men that had run across the The Man Who Would be King .j^ snow too, and they fires a footy little arrow at us. Dravot he shoots above their heads and they all falls down flat. Then he walks over them and kicks them, and then he lifts them up and shakes hands all round to make them friendly like. He calls them and gives them the boxes to carry, and waves his hand for all the world as though he was King already. They takes the boxes and him across the valley and up the hill into a pine wood on the top, where there was half a dozen big stone idols. Dravot he goes to the biggest — a fellow they call Imbra — and lays a rifle and a cartridge at his feet, rubbing his nose respectful with his own nose, patting him on the head, and saluting in front of it. He turns round to the men and nods his head, and says, — * That's all right. I'm in the know too, and all these old jim-jams are my friends.' Then he opens his mouth and points down it, and when the first man brings him food, he says — ' No; ' and when the second man brings him food, he says — 'No;' but when one of the old priests and the boss of the village brings him food, he says — 'Yes;' very haughty, and eats it slow. That was how we came to our first village, without any trouble, just as though we had tumbled from the skies. But we tumbled from one of those damned rope- bridges, you see, and you couldn't expect a man to laugh much after that." 4i6 Indian Tales "Take some more whiskey and go on," I said. ''That was the first village you came into. How did you get to be King ? " "1 wasn't King," said Carnehan. "Dravot he was the King, and a handsome man he looked with the gold crown on his head and all. Him and the other party stayed in that village, and every morning Dravot sat by the side of old Imbra, and the people came and worshipped. That was Dravot's order. Then a lot of men came into the valley, and Carnehan and Dravot picks them off with the rifles before they knew where they was, and runs down into the valley and up again the other side, and finds another village, same as the first one, and the people all falls down flat on their faces, and Dravot says, — ' Now what is the trouble between you two vil- lages?' and the people points to a woman, as fair as you or me, that was carried off, and Dravot takes her back to the first village and counts up the dead — eight there was. For each dead man Dravot pours a little milk on the ground and waves his arms like a whirligig and 'That's all right,' says he. Then he and Carnehan takes the big boss of each village by the arm and walks them down into the valley, and shows them how to scratch a line with a spear right down the valley, and gives each a sod of turf from both sides o' the line. Then all the The Man Who Would be King 417 people comes down and shouts like the devil and all, and Dravot says, — ' Go and dig the land, and be fruitful and multiply,' which they did, though they didn't understand. Then we asks the names of things in their lingo — bread and water and fire and idols and such, and Dravot leads the priest of each village up to the idol, and says he must sit there and judge the people, and if any- thing goes wrong he is to be shot. "Next week they was all turning up the land in the valley as quiet as bees and much prettier, and the priests heard all the complaints and told Dravot in dumb show what it was about. ' That's just the beginning,' says Dravot. ' They think we're Gods.' He and Carnehan picks out twenty good men and shows them how to click off a rifle, and form fours, and advance in line, and they was very pleased to do so, and clever to see the hang of it. Then he takes out his pipe and his baccy-pouch and leaves one at one village and one at the other, and off we two goes to see what was to be done in the next valley. That was all rock, and there was a little village there, and Carnehan says, — 'Send 'em to the old valley to plant,' and takes 'em there and gives 'em some land that wasn't took before. They were a poor lot, and we blooded 'em with a kid before let- ting 'em into the new Kingdom. That was to impress the people, and then they settled down 4i8 Indian Tales quiet, and Camehan went back to Dravot who had got into another valley, all snow and ice and most mountaineous. There was no people there and the Army got afraid, so Dravot shoots one of them, and goes on till he finds some people in a village, and the Army explains that unless the people wants to be killed they had better not shoot their little matchlocks; for they had match- locks. We makes friends with the priest and I stays there alone with two of the Army, teaching the men how to drill, and a thundering big Chief comes across the snow with kettle-drums and horns twanging, because he heard there was a new God kicking about. Carnehan sights for the brown of the men half a mile across the snow and wings one of them. Then he sends a message to the Chief that, unless he wished to be killed, he must come and shake hands with me and leave his arms behind. The chief comes alone first, and Carnehan shakes hands with him and whirls his arms about, same as Dravot used, and very much surprised that Chief was, and strokes my eyebrows. Then Carnehan goes alone to the Chief, and asks him in dumb show if he had an enemy he hated. ' I have,' says the Chief. So Carnehan weeds out the pick of his men, and sets the two of the Army to show them drill and at the end of two weeks the men can manoeuvre about as well as Volunteers. Sc The Man Who Would be King 419 he marches with the Chief to a great big plain on the top of a mountain, and the Chief's men rushes into a village and takes it; we three Martinis firing into the brown of the enemy. So we took that village too, and I gives the Chief a rag from my coat and says, ' Occupy till I come: ' which was scriptural. By way of a reminder, when me and the Army was eighteen hundred yards away, I drops a bullet near him standing on the snow, and all the people falls flat on their faces. Then I sends a letter to Dravot, wherever he be by land or by sea." At the risk of throwing the creature out of train I interrupted, — "How could you write a letter up yonder.^" "The letter ?— Oh .'—The letter! Keep look- ing at me between the eyes, please, it was a string-talk letter, that we'd learned the way of it from a blind beggar in the Punjab." I remember that there had once come to the office a blind man with a knotted twig and a piece of string which he wound round the twig according to some cypher of his own. He could, after the lapse of days or hours, repeat the sen- tence which he had reeled up. He had reduced the alphabet to eleven primitive sounds; and tried to teach me his method, but failed. "I sent that letter to Dravot," said Carnehan; "and told him to come back because this King- 420 Indian Tales dom was growing too big for me to handle, and then 1 struck for the first valley, to see how the priests were working. They called the village we took along with the Chief, Bashkai, and the first village we took, Er-Heb, The priests at Er- Heb was doing all right, but they had a lot of pending cases about land to show me, and some men from another village had been firing arrows at night. I went out and looked for that village and fired four rounds at it from a thousand yards. That used all the cartridges I cared to spend, and ,1 waited for Dravot, who had been away two or three months, and I kept my people quiet. "One morning 1 heard the devil's own noise of drums and horns, and Dan Dravot marches down the hill with his Army and a tail of hun- dreds of men, and, which was the most amazing — a great gold crown on his head. ' My Gord, Carnehan,' says Daniel, 'this is a tremenjus business, and we've got the whole country as far as it's worth having. I am the son of Alexander by Queen Semiramis, and you're my younger brother and a God too! It's the biggest thing we've ever seen. I've been marching and fighting for six weeks with the Army, and every footy little village for fifty miles has come in rejoiceful; and more than that, I've got the key of the whole show, as you'll see, and I've got a The Man Who Would be King 421 crown for you! I told 'em to make two of 'em at a place called Shu, where the gold lies in the rock like suet in mutton. Gold I've seen, and turquoise I've kicked out of the cliffs, and there's garnets in the sands of the river, and here's a chunk of amber that a man brought me. Call up all the priests and, here, take your crown.' "One of the men opens a black hair bag and I slips the crown on. It was too small and too heavy, but 1 wore it for the glory. Hammered gold it was — five pound weight, like a hoop of a barrel. " ' Peachey,' says Dravot, 'we don't want to fight no more. The Craft's the trick so help me! ' and he brings forward that same Chief that I left at Bashkai — Billy Fish we called him afterward, because he was so like Billy Fish that drove the big tank-engine at Mach on the Bolan in the old days. ' Shake hands with him,' says Dravot, and 1 shook hands and nearly dropped, for Billy Fish gave me the Grip. 1 said nothing, but tried him with the Fellow Craft Grip. He answers, all right, and 1 tried the Master's Grip, but that was a slip. 'A Fellow Craft he is!' I says to Dan. 'Does he know the word.^' 'He does,' says Dan, 'and all the priests know. It's a miracle! The Chiefs and the priests can work a Fellow Craft Lodge in a way that's very like ours, and they've cut the marks on the rocks, but they 422 Indian Tales don't know the Third Degree, and they've come to find out. It's Gord's Truth. I've known these long years that the Afghans knew up to the Fellow Craft Degree, but this is a miracle. A God and a Grand-Master of the Craft am 1, and a Lodge in the Third Degree 1 will open, and we'll raise the head priests and the Chiefs of the vil- lages.' " 'It's against all the law,' I says, 'holding a Lodge without warrant from any one; and we never held office in any Lodge.' '"It's a master-stroke of policy,' says Dravot. 'It means running the country as easy as a four- wheeled bogy on a down grade. We can't stop to inquire now, or they'll turn against us. I've forty Chiefs at my heel, and passed and raised according to their merit they shall be. Billet these men on the villages and see that we run up a Lodge of some kind. The temple of Imbra will do for the Lodge-room. The women must make aprons as you show them. I'll hold a levee of Chiefs to-night and Lodge to-morrow.' " I was fair run off my legs, but I wasn't such a fool as not to see what a pull this Craft busi- ness gave us. I showed the priests' families how to make aprons of the degrees, but for Dravot's apron the blue border and marks was made of turquoise lumps on white hide, not Cloth. We took a great square stone in the tem- The Man Who Would be King 423 pie for the Master's chair, and little stones for the officers' chairs, and painted the black pave- ment with white squares, and did what we could to make things regular. "At the levee which was held that night on the hillside with big bonfires, Dravot gives out that him and me were Gods and sons of Alex- ander, and Past Grand-Masters in the Craft, and was come to make Kafiristah a country where every man should eat in peace and drink in quiet, and specially obey us. Then the Chiefs come round to shake hands, and they was so hairy and white and fair it was just shaking hands with old friends. We gave them names according as they was like men we had known in India — Billy Fish, Holly Dilworth, Pikky Kergan that was Bazar-master when I was at Mhow, and so on and so on. " The most amazing miracle was at Lodge next night. One of the old priests was watching us continuous, and 1 felt uneasy, for I knew we'd have to fudge the Ritual, and I didn't know what the men knew. The old priest was a stranger come in from beyond the village of Bashkai. The minute Dravot puts on the Master's apron that the girls had made for him, the priest fetches a whoop and a howl, and tries to overturn the stone that Dravot was sitting on. 'It's all up now,' 1 says. ' That comes of meddling with the 424 Indian Tales Craft without warrant!' Dravot never winked an eye, not when ten priests took and tilted over the Grand-Master's chair — which was to say the stone of Imbra. The priest begins rubbing the bottom end of it to clear away the black dirt, and presently he shows all the other priests the Master's Mark, same as was on Dravot's apron, cut into the stone. Not even the priests of the temple of Imbra knew it was there. The old chap falls flat on his face at Dravot's feet and kisses 'em. 'Luck again,' says Dravot, across the Lodge to me, 'they say it's the missing Mark that no one could understand the why of. We're more than safe now.' Then he bangs the butt of his gun for a gavel and says: — ' By virtue of the authority vested in me by my own right hand and the help of Peachey, I declare myself Grand- Master of all Freemasonry in Kafiristan in this the Mother Lodge o' the country, and King of Kafir- istan equally with Peachey! ' At that he puts on his crown and I puts on mine — I was doing Senior Warden — and we opens the Lodge in most ample form. It was a amazing miracle! The priests moved in Lodge through the first two degrees almost without telling, as if the memory was coming back to them. After that, Peachey and Dravot raised such as was worthy — high priests and Chiefs of far-off villages. Billy Fish was the first, and I can tell you we scared the soul out of The Man Who Would be King 425 him. It was not in any way accoiding to Ritual, but it served our turn. We didn't raise more than ten of the biggest men because we didn't want to mai'OMr f rinds are whin they're at home.?' Wid that I introjuced him to the clanin'-rod, an' he comminst to jabber; the Interprut'r inter- prutin' in betweens, an' me helpin' the Intilligince Departmint wid my clanin'-rod whin the man misremimbered. " Prisintly, I learn that, acrost the river, about nine miles away, was a town just dhrippin' wid dahs, an' bohs an' arrows, an' dacoits, and ele- phints, an' jingles. ' Good I ' sez 1 ; ' this office will now close!' "That night, I went to the Lift'nint an' com^ municates my information. 1 never thought much of Lift'nint Brazenose till that night. He was shtiflf wid books an' the-ouries, an' all man- ner av thrimmin's no manner av use. 'Town did ye say?' sez he. ' Accordin' to the the- ouries av War, we shud wait for reinforcemints.' The Taking of Ltingtiingpen 603 — ' Faith!' thinks I, ' we'd betther dig our graves thin;' for the nearest throops was up to their shtocks in the marshes out Mimbu way. ' But,* says the Lift'nint, ' since 'tis a speshil case, I'll make an excepshin. We'll visit this Lungtung- pen to-night.' "The bhoys was fairly woild wid deloight whin 1 tould 'em; an', by this an' that, they wint through the jungle like buck-rabbits. About midnight we come to the shtrame which I had clane forgot to minshin to my orficer. I was on, ahead, wid four bhoys, an' I thought that the Lift'nint might want to the-ourise. 'Shtrip boys!' sez 1. 'Shtrip to the buff, an' shwim in where glory waits!' — 'But I cants\\vj\m\' sez two av thim. 'To think I should live to hear that from a bhoy wid a board-school edukashin!' sez I. 'Take a lump av timber, an' me an' Conoily here will ferry ye over, ye young ladies! ' "We got an ould tree-trunk, an' pushed off wid the kits an' the rifles on it. The night was chokin' dhark, an' just as we was fairly embarked, I heard the Lift'nint behind av me callin' out. 'There's a bit av a inillah here, sorr,' sez I, 'but I can feel the bottom already.' So 1 cud, for 1 was not a yard from the bank. "'Bit av a nullah! Bit av an eshtuary!' sez the Lift'nint. 'Go on, ye mad Irishman! Shtrip bhoys! ' I heard him laugh; an' the bhoys begun (5o4 Indian Tales shtrippin' an rollin' a log into the wather to put their kits on. So me an' Conolly shtruck out through the warm \A'ather wid our log, an' the rest come on behind. " That shtrame was miles woide! Orth'ris, on the rear-rank log, whispers we had got into the Thames below Sheern^ss by mistake. ' Kape on shwimmin', ye little blayguard,' sez 1, 'an' don't go pokin' your dirty jokes at the Irriwaddy.'— 'Silince, men!' sings out the Lift'nint. So we shwum on into the black dhark, wid our chests on the logs, trustin' in the Saints an' the luck av the British Army. " Evenshually, we hit ground — a bit av sand — an' a man. 1 put my heel on the back av him. He skreeched an' ran. " * Now we've done it! ' sez Lift'nint Brazenose. ' Where the Divil is Lungtungpen } ' There was about a minute and a half to wait. The bhoys laid a hould av their rifles an' some thried to put their belts on; we was marchin' wid fixed bay- nits av coorse. Thin we knew where Lungtung- pen was; for we had hit the river-wall av it in the dhark, an' the whole town blazed wid thim messin' jingles an' Sniders like a cat's back on a frosty night. They was firin' all ways at wanst; but over our bids into the shtrame. '"Have you got your rifles?' sez Brazenose. 'Got 'em!' sez Orth'ris. 'I've got that thief The Taking of Lungtungpen 605 Mulvaney's for all my back-pay, an' she'll kick my heart sick wid that blunderin' long shtock av hers.' — 'Go on!' yells Brazenose, whippin' his sword out. * Go on an' take the town! An' the Lord have mercy on our sowls! ' "Thin the bhoys gave wan divastatin' howl, an' pranced into the dhark, feelin' for the town, an' blindin' an' stiffm' like Cavalry Ridin' Masters whin the grass pricked their bare legs. 1 ham- mered wid the butt at some bamboo-thing that felt wake, an' the rest come an' hammered con- tagious, while the jingles was jingling, an' fero- shus yells from inside was shplittin' our ears. We was too close under the wall for thim to hurt us. " Evenshually, the thing, whatever ut was, bruk; an' the six-and-twinty av us tumbled, wan after the other, naked as we was borrun, into the town of Lungtungpen. There was a melly av a sumpshus kind for a whoile; but whether they tuk us, all white an' wet, for a new breed av divil, or a new kind av dacoit, I don't know. They ran as though we was both, an' we wint into thim, baynit an' butt, shriekin' wid laughin'. There was torches in the shtreets, an' I saw little Orth'ris rubbin' his showlther ivry time he loosed my long-shtock Martini; an' Brazenose walkin' Into the gang wid his sword, like Diarmid av the Gowlden Collar — barring he hadn't a stitch av 5o6 Indian Tales clothin' on him. We diskivered elephints wid dacoits under their belUes, an', what wid wan thing an' another, we was busy till mornin' takin' possession av the town of Lungtungpen. "Thin we halted an' formed up, the wimmen howlin' in the houses an' Lift'nint Brazenose blushin' pink in the light av the mornin' sun. 'Twas the most ondasint p'rade 1 iver tuk a hand in. Foive-and-twenty privits an' a orficer av the Line in review ordher, an' not as much as wud dust a fife betune 'em all in the way of clothin' 1 Eight av us had their belts an' pouches on; but the rest had gone in wid a handful av cartridges an" the skin God gave thim. They was as nakid as Vanus. "'Number off from the right!' sez the Lift'- nint. 'Odd numbers fall out to dress; even numbers pathrol the town till relieved by the dressing party.' Let me tell you, pathrollin' a town wid nothing on is an ex/)j>'rience. I pathrolled for tin minutes, an' begad, before 'twas over, I blushed. The women laughed so, 1 niver blushed before or since; but I blushed all over my carkiss thin. Orth'ris didn't pathrol. He sez only, ' Portsmith Barricks an' the 'Ard av a Sunday!' Thin he lay down an' rowled any ways wid laughin'. "Whin we was all dhressed, we counted the dead — sivinty-foive dacoits besides wounded* The Taking of Ltmgtungpen 607 We tuk five elephints, a hunder' an' sivinty Sniders, two hunder' dahs, and a lot av other burglarious thruck. Not a man av us was hurt — excep' maybe the Lift'nint, an' he from the shock to his dasincy. "The Headman av Lungtungpen, who sur- rinder'd himself, asked the Interprutr — ' 'Av the English fight like that wid their clo'es off, what in the wurruld do they do wid their clo'es on?' Orth'ris began rowlin' his eyes an' crackin' his fingers an' dancin' a step-dance for to impress the Headman. He ran to his house; an' we spint the rest av the day carryin' the Lift'nint on our showlthers round the town, an' playin' wid the Burmese babies — fat, little, brown little divils, as pretty as picturs. "Whin I was inviladed for the dysent'ry to India, I sez to the Lift'nint, 'Sorr,' sez 1, 'you've the makin's in you av a great man; but, av you'll let an ould sodger spake, you're too fond of the- ourisin'.' He shuk hands wid me and sez, ' Hit high, hit low, there's no plasin' you, Mulvaney. You've seen me waltzin' through Lungtungpen like a Red Injin widout the warpaint, an' you say I'm too fond av the-ourisin' ?' — ' Sorr,' sez I, for I loved the bhoy; ' I wud waltz wid you in that condishin through Hell, an' so wud the rest av the men! ' Thin 1 wint downshtrame in the flat an' left him my blessin'. May the Saints carry ut 6o8 Indian Tales where ut shud go, for he was a fine upstandin' young orficer. "To reshume. Fwhat I've said jist shows the use av three-year-olds. Wud fifty seasoned sodgers have taken Lungtungpen in the dhark that way ? No! They'd know the risk av fever and chill. Let alone the shootin*. Two hundher' might have done ut. But the three-year-olds know little an' care less; an' where there's no fear, there's no danger. Catch thim young, feed thim high, an' by the honor av that great, little man Bobs, behind a good orficer 'tisn't only dacoits they'd smash wid their clo'es off — 'tis Con-ti-nental Ar-r-r-mies! They tuk Lungtung- pen nakid; an' they'd take St. Pethersburg in their dhrawers! Begad, they would that! " Here's your pipe, sorr. Shmoke her tinderly wid honey-dew, afther letting the reek av the Canteen plug die away. But 'tis no good, thanks to you all the same, fillin' my pouch wid your chopped hay. Canteen baccy's like the Army. It shpoils a man's taste for moilder things." So saying, Mulvaney took up his butterfly-net, and returned to barracks. THE PHANTOM 'RICKSHAW May no ill dreams disturb my rest, Nor Powers of Darkness me molest. — Evening Hymn, ONE of the few advantages that India has over England is a great Knowability. After five years' service a man is directly or in- directly acquainted with the two or three hun- dred Civilians in his Province, all the Messes of ten or twelve Regiments and Batteries, and some fifteen hundred other people of the non-official caste. In ten years his knowledge should be doubled, and at the end of twenty he knows, or knows something about, every Englishman in the Empire, and may travel anywhere and every- where without paying hotel-bills. Globe-trotters who expect entertainment as a /ight, have, even within my memory, blunted this open-heartedness, but none the less to-day, if you belong to the Inner Circle and are neither a Bear nor a Black Sheep, all houses are open to you, and our small world is very, very kind and helpful. Rickett of Kamartha stayed with Polder of 609 6io Indian Tales Kumaon some fifteen years ago. He meant to stay two nights, but was knocked down by rheumatic fever, and for six weeks disorganized Polder's establishment, stopped Polder's w ork, and nearly died in Polder's bedroom. Folder behaves as though he had been placed under eternal obligation by Rickett, and yearly sends the little Ricketts a box of presents and toys. It is the same everywhere. The men who do not take the trouble to conceal from you their opin- ion that you are an incompetent ass, and the women who blacken your character and mis- understand your wife's amusements, will work themselves to the bone in your behalf if you fall sick or into serious trouble. Heatherlegh, the Doctor, kept, in addition to his regular practice, a hospital on his private account — an arrangement of loose boxes for Incurables, his friend called it — but it was really a sort of fitting-up shed for craft that had been damaged by stress of weather. The weather in India is often sultry, and since the tale of bricks is always a fixed quantity, and the only liberty allowed is permission to work overtime and get no thanks, men occasionally break down and become as mixed as the metaphors in this sentence. Heatherlegh is the dearest doctor that ever was, and his invariable prescription to all his patients is, "lie low, go slow, and keep cool." The Phantom 'Rickshaw 6ii He says that more men are killed by overwork than the importance of this world justifies. He maintains that overwork slew Pansay, who died under his hands about three years ago. He has, of course, the right to speak authoritatively, and he laughs at my theory that there was a crack in Pansay's head and a little bit of the Dark World came through and pressed him to death. *' Pan- say went off the handle," says Heatherlegh, "after the stimulus of long leave at Home. He may or he may not have behaved like a black- guard to Mrs. Keith-Wessington. My notion is that the work of the Katabundi Settlement ran him off his legs, and that he took to brooding and making much of an ordinary P. & O. flirta- tion. He certainly was engaged to Miss Man- nering, and she certainly broke off the engage- ment. Then he took a feverish chill and all that nonsense about ghosts developed. Overwork started his illness, kept it alight, and killed him, poor devil. Write him off to the System — one man to take the work of two and a half men." I do not believe this. I used to sit up with Pansay sometimes when Heatherlegh was called out to patients, and 1 happened to be within claim. The man would make me most unhappy by describing in a low, even voice, the proces- sion that was always passing at the bottom of his bed. He had a sick man's command of Ian- 6i2 Indian Tales guage. When he recovered I suggested that he should write out the whole affair from beginning to end, knowing that ink might assist him to ease his mind. When little boys have learned a new bad word they are never happy till they have chalked it up on a door. And this also is Literature. He was in a high fever while he was writing, and the blood-and-thunder Magazine diction he adopted did not calm him. Two months after- ward he was reported Jt for duty, but, in spite of the fact that he was urgently needed to help an undermanned Commission stagger through a deficit, he preferred to die; vowing at the last that he was hag-ridden. I got his manuscript before he died, and this is his version of the affair, dated 1885: My doctor tells me that I need rest and change of air. It is not improbable that 1 shall get both ere long — rest that neither the red-coated mes- senger nor the midday gun can break, and change of air far beyond that which any home- ward-bound steamer can give me. In the mean- time I am resolved to stay where I am; and, in flat defiance of my doctor's orders, to take all the world into my confidence. You shall learn for yourselves the precise nature of my malady; and shall, too, judge for yourselves whether any man The Phantom 'Rickshaw 613 born of woman on this weary earth was ever so tormented as I. Speaking now as a condemned criminal might speak ere the drop-bolts are drawn, my story, wild and hideously improbable as it may appear, demands at least attention. That it will ever receive credence 1 utterly disbelieve. Two months ago 1 should have scouted as mad or drunk the man who had dared tell me the like. Two months ago I was the happiest man in India. To-day, from Peshawur to the sea, there is no one more wretched. My doctor and I are the only two who know this. His explanation is, that my brain, digestion, and eyesight are all slightly affected; giving rise to my f.equent and persistent "delusions." Delusions, indeed! I call him a fooi; but he attends me still with the same unwearied smile, the same bland pro- fessional manner, the same neatly trimmed red whiskers, till 1 begin to suspect that 1 am an un- grateful, evil-tempered invalid. But you shall judge for yourselves. Three years ago it was my fortune — my great misfortune — to sail from Gravesend to Bombay, on return from long leave, with one Agnes Keith-Wessington, wife of an officer on the Bombay side. It does not in the least concern you to know what manner of woman she was. Be content with the knowledge that, ere the 6i4 mdian Tales voyage had ended, both she and I were desper- ately and unreasoningly in love with one another. Heaven knows that I can make the admission now without one particle of vanity. In matters of this sort there is always one who gives and another who accepts. From the first day of our ill-omened attachment, 1 was conscious that Agnes's passion was a stronger, a more dom- inant, and — if I may use the expression — a purer sentiment than mine. Whether she recog- nized the fact then, I do not know. Afterward it was bitterly plain to both of us. Arrived at Bombay in the spring of the year, we went our respective ways, to meet no more for the next three or four months, when my leave and her love took us both to Simla. There we spent the season together; and there my tire of straw burned itself out to a pitiful end with the closing year. 1 attempt no excuse. I make no apology. Mrs. Wessington had given up much for my sake, and was prepared to give up all. From my own lips, in August, 1882, she learned that I was sick of her presence, tired of her company, and weary of the sound of her voice. Ninety-nine women out of a hundred would have wearied of me as I wearied of them; seventy-five of that number would have promptly avenged themselves by active and obtrusive flir- tation with other men. Mrs. Wessington was the The Phantom 'Rickshaw 615 hundredth. On her neither my openly expressed aversion nor the cutting brutahties with which I garnished our interviews had the least effect. "Jack, darling!" was her one eternal cuckoo cry: "I'm sure it's all a mistake — a hideous mis- take; and we'll be good friends again some day. Please forgive me, Jack, dear." I was the offender, and I knew it. That knowledge transformed my pity into passive en- durance, and, eventually, into bHnd hate — the same instinct, I suppose, which prompts a man to savagely stamp on the spider he has but half killed. And with this hate in my bosom the season of 1882 came to an Qwd. Next year we met again at Simla — she with her monotonous face and timid attempts at reconcili- ation, and 1 with loathing of her in every fibre of my frame. Several times I could not avoid meeting her alone; and on each occasion her words were identically the same. Still the un- reasoning wail that it was ill a " mistake "; and still the hope of eventually " making friends." I might have seen had I cared to look, that that hope only was keeping her alive. She grew more wan and thin month by month. You will agree with me, at least, that such conduct would have driven any one to despair. It was uncalled for; childish; unwomanly. I maintain that she was much to blame. And again, sometim.es, in 6i6 Indian Tales the black, fever-stricken night-watches, I have begun to think that I might have been a little kinder to her. But that really is a "delusion." 1 could not have continued pretending to love her when I didn't; could 1 ? It would have been un- fair to us both. Last year we met again — on the same terms as before. The same weary appeals, and the same curt answers from my lips. At least I would make her see how wholly wrong and hopeless were her attempts at resuming the old relation- ship. As the season wore on, we fell apart — that is to say, she found it difficult to meet me, for I had other and more absorbing interests to attend to. When 1 think it over quietly in my sick-room, the season of 1884 seems a confused nightmare wherein light and shade were fan- tastically intermingled — my courtship of little Kitty Mannering; my hopes, doubts, and fears; our long rides together; my trembling avowal of attachment; her reply; and now and again a vision of a white face flitting by in the 'rickshaw with the black and white liveries I once watched for so earnestly; the wave of Mrs. Wessington's gloved hand; and, when she met me alone, which was but seldom, the irksome monotony of her appeal. I loved Kitty Mannering; honestly, heartily loved her, and with my love for her grew my hatred for Agnes. In August Kitty and I The Phantom 'Rickshaw 617 were engaged. The next day I met those ac- cursed "magpie" jhampanies at the back of Jakko, and, moved by some passing sentiment of pity, stopped to tell Mrs. Wessington everything. She knew it already. "So 1 hear you're engaged, Jack dear." Then, without a moment's pause: — "I'm sure it's all a mistake — a hideous mistake. We shall be as good friends some day. Jack, as we ever were." My answer might have made even a man wince. It cut the dying woman before me like the blow of a whip. ".Please forgive me, Jack; I didn't mean to make you angry; but it's true, it's true!" And Mrs. Wessington broke down completely. I turned away and left her to finish her journey in peace, feeling, but only for a moment or two, that I had been an unutterably mean hound. I looked back, and saw that she had turned her 'rickshaw with the idea, I suppose, of overtaking me. The scene and its surroundings were photo- graphed on my memory. The rain-swept sky (we were at the end of the wet weather), the sodden, dingy pines, the muddy road, and the black powder-riven cliffs formed a gloomy back- ground against which the black and white liveries of the jhampanies, the yellow-paneled 'rickshaw and Mrs. Wessington's down-bowed golden head stood out clearly. She was holding her handker- 6i8 Indian Tales chief in her left hand and was leaning back ex- hausted against the 'rickshaw cushions. I turned my horse up a bypath near the Saniowlie Reser- voir and literally ran away. Once I fancied I heard a faint call of "Jack!" This may have been imagination. 1 never stopped to verify it. Ten minutes later I came across Kitty on horse- back; and, in the delight of a long ride with her, forgot all about the interview. A week later Mrs. Wessington died, and the inexpressible burden of her existence was re- moved from my life. I went Plainsward per- fectly happy. Before three months v/ere over I had forgotten all about her, except that at times the discovery of some of her old letters reminded me unpleasantly of our bygone relationship. By January 1 had disinterred what was left of our correspondence from among my scattered be- longings and had burned it. At the beginning of April of this year, 1885, I was at Simla — semi- deserted Simla — once more, and was deep in lover's talks and walks with Kitty. It was de- cided that we should be married at the end of June. You will understand, therefore, that, lov- ing Kitty as I did, 1 am not saying too much when 1 pronounce myself to have been, at that time, the happiest man in India. Fourteen delightful days passed almost before I noticed their flight. Then, aroused to the sense The Phantom 'Rickshaw 619 of what was proper among mortals circum- stanced as we were, I pointed out to Kitty that an engagement ring was the outward and visible sign of her dignity as an engaged girl; and that she must forthwith come to Hamilton's to be measured for one. Up to that moment, I give you my word, we had completely forgotten so trivial a matter. To Hamilton's we accordingly went on the 15th of April, 1885. Remember that — whatever my doctor may say to the con- trary — I was then in perfect health, enjoying a well-balanced mind and an absolutely tranquil spirit. Kitty and I entered Hamilton's shop to- gether, and there, regardless of the order of affairs, I measured Kitty for the ring in the pres- ence of the amused assistant. The ring was a sapphire with two diamonds. We then rode out down the slope that leads to the Combermere Bridge and Peliti's shop. While my Waler was cautiously feeling his way over the loose shale, and Kitty was laugh- ing and chattering at my side — while all Simla, that is to say as much of it as had then come from the Plains, was grouped round the Reading- room and Peliti's veranda, — I was aware that some one, apparently at a vast distance, was call- ing me by my Christian name. It struck me that I had heard the voice before, but when and where 1 could not at once determine. In the short space 620 Indian Tales it took to cover the road between the path from Hamilton's shop and the first plank of the Com- bermere Bridge I had thought over half a dozen people who might have committed such a sole- cism, and had eventually decided that it must have been singing in my ears. Immediately opposite Peliti's shop my eye was arrested by the sight of four jhampam'es in "magpie" livery, pulling a yellow-paneled, cheap, bazar 'rickshaw. In a moment my mind flew back to the previous sea- son and Mrs. Wessington with a sense of irrita- tion and disgust. Was it not enough that the woman was dead and done with, without her black and white servitors reappearing to spoil the day's happiness ? Whoever employed them now I thought I would call upon, and ask as a per- sonal favor to change her jhampanies' livery. I would hire the men myself, and, if necessary, buy their coats from off their backs. It is impos- sible to say here what a flood of undesirable memories their presence evoked. "Kitty," I cried, "there are poor Mrs. Wes- s'mgton's jhampanies turned up again ! I wonder who has them now ? " Kitty had known Mrs. Wessington slightly last season, and had always been interested in the sickly woman. "What.^ Where .^ " she asked. "I can't see them anywhere." The Phantom 'Rickshaw 621 Even as she spoke, her horse, swerving from a laden mule, threv^ himself directly in front of the advancing 'rickshaw. I had ccarcely time to utter a word of warning when, to my unutterable horror, horse and rider passed through men and carriage as if they had been thin air. "What's the matter.^" cried Kitty; "what made you call out so foolishly, jack ? If 1 am engaged 1 don't want all creation to know about it. There was lots of space between the mule and the veranda; and, if you think 1 can't ride — There!" Whereupon wilful Kitty set off, her dainty little head in the air, at a hand-gallop in the di- rection of the Band-stand; fully expecting, as she herself afterward told me, that 1 should fol- low her. What was the matter ? Nothing in- deed. Either that 1 was mad or drunk, or that Simla was haunted with devils. 1 reined in my impatient cob, and turned round. The 'rickshaw had turned too, and now stood immediately facing me, near the left railing of the Comber- mere Bridge. "Jack! Jack, darling!" (There was no mis- take about the words this time: they rang through my brain as if they had been shouted in my ear.) " It's some hideous mistake, I'm sure. Please forgive me, Jack, and let's be friends again." 522 Indian Tales The rickshaw-hood had fallen back, and in- side, as I hope and pray daily for the death 1 dread by night, sat Mrs. Keith-Wessington, handkerchief in hand, and golden head bowed on her breast. How long I stared motionless 1 do not know. Finally, I was aroused by my syce taking the Waler's bridle and asking whether I was ill. From the horrible to the commonplace is but a step. I tumbled off my horse and dashed, half fainting, into Peliti's for a glass of cherry- brandy. There two or three couples were gath- ered round the coffee-tables discussing the gos- sip of the day. Their trivialities were more comforting to me just then than the consolations of religion could have been. 1 plunged into the midst of the conversation at once; chatted, laughed, and jested with a face (when I caught a glimpse of it in a mirror) as white and drawn as that of a corpse. Three or four men noticed my condition; and, evidently setting it down to the results of over-many pegs, charitably en- deavored to draw me apart from the rest of the loungers. But I refused to be led away. I wanted the company of my kind — as a child rushes into the midst of the dinner-party after a fright in the dark. I must have talked for about ten minutes or so, though it seemed an eternity to me, when I heard Kitty's clear voice outside The Phantom 'Rickshaw 623 inquiring for me. In another minute she had entered the shop, prepared to roundly upbraid me for failing so signally in my duties. Some- thing in my face stopped her. "Why, Jack," she cried, "what have you been doing ? What has happened ? Are you ill ? " Thus driven into a direct lie, I said that the sun had been a little too much for me. It was close upon five o'clock of a cloudy April afternoon, and the sun had been hidden all day. 1 saw my mistake as soon as the words were out of my mouth: attempted to recover it; blun- dered hopelessly and followed Kitty in a regal rage, out of doors, amid the smiles of my acquaintances. I made some excuse (1 have for- gotten what) on the score of my feeling faint; and cantered away to my hotel, leaving Kitty to finish the ride by herself. In my room 1 sat down and tried calmly to reason out the matter. Here was I, Theobald Jack Pansay, a well-educated Bengal Civilian in the year of grace 188s, presumably sane, cer- tainly healthy, driven in terror from my sweet- heart's side by the apparition of a woman who had been dead and buried eight months ago. These were facts that I could not blink. Noth- ing was further from my thought than any memory of Mrs. Wessington when Kitty and 1 left Hamilton's shop. Nothing was more utterly 624 Indian Tales commonplace than the stretch of wall opposite Peliti's. It was broad daylight. The road was full of people; and yet here, look you, in de- fiance of every law of probability, in direct out- rage of Nature's ordinance, there had appeared to me a face from the grave. Kitty's Arab had gone //^roz/^/? the 'rickshaw: so that my first hope that some woman marvel- ously like Mrs. Wessington had hired the car- riage and the coolies with their old livery was lost. Again and again I went round this tread- mill of thought; and again and again gave up baffled and in despair. The voice was as inex- plicable as the apparition. I had originally some wild notion of confiding it all to Kitty; of beg- ging her to marry me at once; and in her arms defying the ghostly occupant of the 'rickshaw. "After all," I argued, "the presence of the 'rickshaw is in itself enough to prove the exist- ence of a spectral illusion. One may see ghosts of men and women, but surely never of coolies and carriages. The whole thing is absurd. Fancy the ghost of a hillman! " Next morning I sent a penitent note to Kitty, imploring her to overlook my strange conduct of the previous afternoon. My Divinity was still very wroth, and a personal apology was neces- sary. 1 explained, with a fluency born of night- long pondering over a falsehood, that I had been The Phantom 'Rickshaw 625 attacked with a sudden palpitation of the heart — the result of indigestion. This eminently prac- tical solution had its effect; and Kitty and 1 rode out that afternoon with the shadow of my first lie dividing us. Nothing would please her save a canter round Jakko. With my nerves still unstrung from the previous night I feebly protested against the no- tion, suggesting Observatory Hill, Jutogh, the Boileaugunge road — anything rather than the Jakko round. Kitty was angry and a little hurt: so 1 yielded from fear of provoking further mis- understanding, and we set out together toward Chota Simla. We walked a greater part of the way, and, according to our custom, cantered from a mile or so below the Convent to the stretch of level road by the Sanjowlie Reservoir. The wretched horses appeared to fly, and my heart beat quicker and quicker as we neared the crest of the ascent. My mind had been full of Mrs. Wessington all the afternoon; and every inch of the Jakko road bore witness to our old- time walks and talks. The bowlders were full of it; the pines sang it aloud overhead; the rain-fed torrents giggled and chuckled unseen over the shameful story; and the wind in my ears chanted the iniquity aloud. As a fitting climax, in the middle of the level men call the Ladies' Mile the Horror was awaiting 626 Indian Tales me. No other 'rickshaw was in sight — only the four black and white jhampanies, the yellow- paneled carriage, and the golden head of the woman within — all apparently just as I had left them eight months and one fortnight ago! For an instant 1 fancied that Kitty must see what 1 saw — we were so marvelously sympathetic in all things. Her next words undeceived me — " Not a soul in sight! Come along, Jack, and I'll race you to the Reservoir buildings! " Her v/iry little Arab was off like a bird, my Waler follow- ing close behind, and in this order we dashed under the cliffs. Half a minute brought us within fifty yards of the 'rickshaw. I pulled my Waler and fell back a little. The 'rickshaw was directly in the middle of the road; and once more the Arab passed through it, my horse following. "Jack! Jack dear! Please forgive me," rang with a wail in my ears, and, after an interval: — " It's all a mistake, a hideous mistake! " I spurred my horse like a man possessed. When 1 turned my head at the Reservoir works, the black and v/hite liveries were still waiting — patiently waiting — under the grey hillside, and the wind brought me a mocking echo of the words I had just heard. Kitty bantered me a good deal on my silence throughout the remain- der of the ride. I had been talking up till then wildly and at random. To save my life I could The Phantom 'Rickshaw 627 not speak afterward naturally, and from San- jowlie to the Church wisely held my tongue. I was to dine with the Mannerings that night, and had barely time to canter home to dress. On the road to Elysium Hill 1 overheard two men talking together in the dusk. — "It's a curious thing," said one, "how completely all trace of it disappeared. You know my wife was insanely fond of the woman ('never could see anything in her myself), and wanted me to pick up her old 'rickshaw and coolies if they were to be got for love or money. Morbid sort of fancy I call it; but I've got to do what the Memsahib tells me. Would you believe that the man she hired it from tells me that all four of the men — they were brothers — died of cholera on the way to Hard- war, poor devils; and the 'rickshaw has been broken up by the man himself, 'Told me he never used a dead Memsahib' s 'rickshaw. 'Spoiled his luck. Queer notion, v/asn't it ? Fancy poor little Mrs. Wessington spoiling any one's luck except her own! " 1 laughed aloud at this point; and my laugh jarred on me as I uttered it. So there were ghosts of 'rickshaws after all, and ghostly employments in the other world! How much did Mrs. Wessington give her men ? What were their hours } Where did they go ? And for visible answer to my last question I saw the infernal Thing blocking my path in the 628 Indian Tales twilight. The dead travel fast, and by short cuts unknown to ordinary coolies. I laughed aloud a second time and checked my laughter suddenly, for I was afraid I was going mad. Mad to a certain extent I must have been, for I recollect that 1 reined in my horse at the head of the 'rick- shaw, and politely wished Mrs. Wessington "Good-evening." Her answer was one I knew only too well. I listened to the end; and replied that I had heard it all before, but should be de- lighted if she had anything further to say. Some malignant devil stronger than I must have en tered into me that evening, for I have a dim rec- ollection of talking the commonplaces of the day for five minutes to the Thing in front of me. " Mad as a hatter, poor devil — or drunk. Max, try and get him to come home." Surely ///j/ was not Mrs. Wessington's voice! The two men had overheard me speaking to the empty air, and had returned to look after me. They were very kind and considerate, and from their words evidently gathered that I was ex- tremely drunk. I thanked them confusedly and cantered away to my hotel, there changed, and arrived at the Mannerings' ten minutes late. I pleaded the darkness of the night as an excuse; was rebuked by Kitty for my unlover-like tardi- ness; and sat down. The conversation had already become general; The Phantom 'Rickshaw 629 and under cover of it, I was addressing some tender small talk to my sweetheart when I was aware that at the further end of the table a short red-whiskered man was describing, with much broidery, his encounter with a mad unknown that evening. A few sentences convinced me that he was re- peating the incident of half an hour ago. In the middle of the story he looked round for applause, as professional story-tellers do, caught my eye, and straightv/ay collapsed. There was a mo- ment's awkward silence, and the red-whiskered man muttered something to the effect that he had "forgotten the rest," thereby sacrificing a reputation as a good story-teller which he had built up for six seasons past. I blessed him from the bottom of my heart, and — went on with my fish. In the fulness of time that dinner came to an end; and with genuine regret I tore myself away from Kitty — as certain as I was of my own ex- istence that It would be waiting for me outside the door. The red-whiskered man, who had been introduced to me as Doctor Heatherlegh of Simla, volunteered to bear me company as far as our roads lay together. I accepted his offer with gratitude. My instinct had not deceived me. It lay in readiness in the Mall, and, in what seemed devil- 630 Indian Tales ish mockery of our ways, with a lighted head- lamp. The red-whiskered man went to the point at once, in a manner that showed he had been thinking over it all dinner time. " I say, Pansay, what the deuce was the mat- ter with you this evening on the Elysium road ?" The suddenness of the question wrenched an an- swer from me before I was aware. "That! " said I, pointing to It. " That may be either D. T. or Eyes for aught I know. Now you don't liquor. I saw as much at dinner, so it can t be D. T. There's nothing whatever where you're pointing, though you're sweating and trembling with fright like a scared pony. Therefore, I conclude that it's Eyes. And I ought to understand all about them. Come along home with me. I'm on the Blessington lower road." To my intense delight the 'rickshaw instead of waiting for us kept about twenty yards ahead — and this, too, whether we walked, trotted, or cantered. In the course of that long night ride I had told my companion almost as much as 1 have told you here. '•Well, you've spoiled one of the best tales I've ever laid tongue to," said he, "but I'll for- give you for the sake of what you've gone through. Now come home and do what I tell you; and when I've cured you, young man, let The Phantom 'Rickshaw 631 this be a lesson to you to steer clear of women and indigestible food till the day of your death." The 'rickshaw kept steady in front; and my red-whiskered friend seemed to derive great pleasure from my account of its exact where- abouts. "Eyes, Pansay — all Eyes, Brain, and Stomach. And the greatest of these three is Stomach. You've too much conceited Brain, too little Stomach, and thoroughly unhealthy Eyes. Get your Stomach straight and the rest follows. And all that's French for a liver pill. I'll take sole medical charge of you from this hour! for you're too interesting a phenomenon to be passed over." By this time we were deep in the shadow of the Blessington lower road and the 'rickshaw came to a dead stop under a pine-clad, over- hanging shale cliff. Instinctively I halted too, giving my reason. Heatherlegh rapped out an oath. "Now, if you think I'm going to spend a cold night on the hillside for the sake of a Stomach- cum-^ra.\n-ctim-EyQ illusion . . . Lord, ha' mercy ! What's that ? " There was a muffled report, a blinding smother of dust just in front of us, a crack, the noise of rent boughs, and about ten yards of the cliff-side —pines, undergrowth, and all — slid down into 632 Indian Tales the road below, completely blocking it up. The uprooted trees swayed and tottered for a mo- ment like drunken giants in the gloom, and then fell prone among their fellows with a thunderous crash. Our two horses stood motionless and sweating with fear. As soon as the rattle of falling earth and stone had subsided, my com- panion muttered: — "Man, if we'd gone forward we should have been ten feet deep in our graves by now. ' There are more things in heaven and earth.' . . . Come home, Pansay, and thank God. 1 want a peg badly." We retraced our way over the Church Ridge, and I arrived at Dr. Heatherlegh's house shortly after midnight. His attempts toward my cure corrimenced almost immediately, and for a week I never left his sight. Many a time in the course of that week did 1 bless the good-fortune which had thrown me in contact with Simla's best and kindest doctor. Day by day my spirits grew lighter and more equable. Day by day, too, I became more and more inclined to fall in with Heatherlegh's "spectral illusion" theory, im- plicating eyes, brain, and stomach. I wrote to Kitty, telling her that a slight sprain caused by a fall from my horse kept me indoors for a few days; and that I should be recovered before she had time to regret my absence. The Phantom 'Rickshaw 6^3 Heatherlegh's treatment was simple to a degree. It consisted of liver pills, cold-water baths, and strong exercise, taken in the dusk or at early dawn — for, as he sagely observed: — "A man with a sprained ankle doesn't walk a dozen miles a day, and your young woman might be wonder- ing if she saw you." At the end of the week, after much exami- nation of pupil and pulse, and strict injunctions as to diet and pedestrianism, Heatherlegh dis- missed me as brusquely as he had taken charge of me. Here is his parting benediction: — " Man, I certify to your mental cure, and that's as much as to say I've cured most of your bodily ailments. Now, get your traps out of this as soon as you can; and be off to make love to Miss Kitty." 1 was endeavoring to express my thanks for his kindness. He cut me short. " Don't think ! did this because I like vou. I gather that you've behaved like a blackguard all through. But, all the same, you're a phenome- non, and as queer a phenomenon as you are a blackguard. No!" — checking me a second time — "not a rupee please. Go out and see if you can find the eyes-brain-and-stomach business again. I'll give you a lakh for each time you see it." Half an hour later I was in the Mannerings' drawing-room with Kitty — drunk with the in- 634 Indian Tales toxication of present happiness and the fore- knowledge that I should never more be troubled with Its hideous presence. Strong in the sense of my new-found security, 1 proposed a ride at once; and, by preference, a canter round Jakko. Never had I felt so well, so overladen with vitality and mere animal spirits, as 1 did on the afternoon of the 30th of April, Kitty was de- lighted at the change in my appearance, and complimented me on it in her delightfully frank and outspoken manner. We left the Manner- ings' house together, laughing and talking, and cantered along the Chota Simla road as of old. 1 was in haste to reach the Sanjowlie Reservoir and there make my assurance doubly sure. The horses did their best, but seemed all too slow to my impatient mind. Kitty was astonished at my boisterousness. " Why, Jack! " she cried at last, "you are behaving like a child. What are you doing ?" We were just below the Convent, and from sheer wantonness I was making my Waler plunge and curvet across the road as I tickled it with the loop of my riding-whip. "Doing?" I answered; "nothing, dear. That's just it. If you'd been doing nothing for a week except lie up, you'd be as riotous as I. The Phantom 'Rickshaw 635 " ♦ Singing and murmuring in your feastful mirth, Joying to feel yourself alive ; Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible Earth, Lord of the senses five.' " My quotation was hardly out of my lips before we had rounded the corner above the Convent; and a few yards further on could see across to Sanjowlie. In the centre of the level road stood the black and white liveries, the yellow-paneled 'rickshaw, and Mrs. Keith-Wessington. I pulled up, looked, rubbed my eyes, and, I believe, must have said something. The next thing I knew was that I was lying face downward on the road, with Kitty kneeling above me in tears. "Has it gone, child!" 1 gasped. Kitty only wept more bitterly. "Has what gone, Jack dear? what does it all mean ? There must be a mistake somewhere, Jack. A hideous mistake." Her last words brought me to my feet — mad — raving for the time being. "Yes, there is a mistake somewhere," I re- peated, "a hideous mistake. Come and look at It." I have an indistinct idea that I dragged Kitty by the wrist along the road up to where It stood, and implored her for pity's sake to speak to It; to tell It that we were betrothed; that neither Death nor Hell could break the tie between us: 536 Indian Tales and Kitty only knows how much more to the same effect. Now and again I appealed passion- ately to the Terror in the 'rickshaw to bear wit- ness to all I had said, and to release me from a torture that was killing me. As 1 talked 1 sup- pose I must have told Kitty of my old relations with Mrs. Wessington, for I saw her listen in- tently with white face and blazing eyes. "Thank you, Mr. Pansay," she said, "that's quite enough. Syce ghora /do." The syces, impassive as Orientals always are, had come up with the recaptured horses; and as Kitty sprang into her saddle I caught hold of the bridle, entreating her to hear me out and for- give. My answer was the cut of her riding- whip across my face from mouth to eye, and a word or two of farewell that even now I cannot write down. So 1 judged, and judged rightly, that Kitty knew all; and I staggered back to the side of the 'rickshaw. My face was cut and bleeding, and the blow of the riding-whip had raised a livid blue wheal on it. 1 had no self- respect. Just then, Heatherlegh, who must have been following Kitty and me at a distance, can- tered up. " Doctor," I said, pointing to my face, "here's Miss Mannering's signature to my order of dis- missal and . . . I'll thank you for that lakh as soon as convenient." The Phantom 'Rickshaw 637 Heatherlegh's face, even in my abject misery, moved me to laughter. ''I'll stake my professional reputation" — he began. " Don't be a fool," I whispered. "I've lost my life's happiness and you'd better take me home." As 1 spoke the 'rickshaw was gone. Then I lost all knowledge of what was passing. The crest of Jakko seemed to heave and roll like the crest of a cloud and fall in upon me. Seven days later (on the 7th of May, that is to say) 1 was aware that 1 was lying in Heather- legh's room as weak as a little child. Heather- legh was watching me intently from behind the papers on his writing-table. His first words were not encouraging; but I was too far spent to be much moved by them. " Here's Miss Kitty has sent back your letters. You corresponded a good deal, you young peo- ple. Here's a packet that looks like a ring, and a cheerful sort of a note from Mannering Papa, which I've taken the liberty of reading and burn- ing. The old gentleman's not pleased with you." "And Kitty?" I asked, dully. "Rather more drawn than her father from what she says. By the same token you must have been letting out any number of queer remi- niscences just before 1 met you. 'Says that a man who would have behaved to a woman as 638 Indian Tales you did to Mrs. Wessington ought to kill him- self out of sheer pity for his kind. She's a hot- headed little virago, your mash. 'Will have it too that you were suffering from D. T. when that row on the Jakko road turned up. 'Says she'll die before she ever speaks to you again." I groaned and turned over on the other side. "Now you've got your choice, my friend. This engagement has to be broken off; and the Mannerings don't want to be too hard on you. Was it broken through D. T. or epileptic fits? Sorry 1 can't offer you a better exchange unless you'd prefer hereditary insanity. Say the word and I'll tell 'em it's fits. All Simla knows about that scene on the Ladies' Mile. Come! I'll give you five minutes to think over it." During those five minutes I believe that I ex- plored thoroughly the lowest circles of the In- ferno which it is permitted man to tread on earth. And at the same time I myself was watching myself faltering through the dark labyrinths of doubt, misery, and utter despair. I wondered, as Heatherlegh in his chair might have wondered, which dreadful alternative I should adopt. Pres- ently I heard myself answering in a voice that I hardly recognized, — "They're confoundedly particular about mo- rality in these parts. Give 'em fits, Heatherlegh, and my love. Now let me sleep a bit longer." The Phantom 'Rickshaw 639 Then my two selves joined, and it was only I (half crazed, devil-driven I) that tossed in my bed, tracing step by step the history of the past month. "But I am in Simla," I kept repeating to my- self. "1, Jack Pansay, am in Simla, and there are no ghosts here. It's unreasonable of that woman to pretend there are. Why couldn't Agnes have left me alone .? 1 never did her any harm. It might just as well have been me as Agnes. Only I'd never have come back on pur- pose to kill her. Why can't I be left alone — left alone and happy } " It was high noon when I first awoke: and the sun was low in the sky before I slept — slept as the tortured criminal sleeps on his rack, too worn to feel further pain. Next day I could not leave my bed. Heather- legh told me in the morning that he had received an answer from Mr. Mannering, and that, thanks to his (Heatherlegh's) friendly offices, the story of my affliction had traveled through the length and breadth of Simla, where I was on all sides much pitied. "And that's rather more than you deserve," he concluded, pleasantly, "though the Lord knows you've been going through a pretty severe mill. Never mind; we'll cure you yet, you perverse phenomenon." 640 Indian Tales I declined firmly to be cured. ',' You've been much too good to me already, old man," said I; "but 1 don't think 1 need trouble you further." In my heart I knew that nothing Heatherlegh could do would lighten the burden that had been laid upon me. With that knowledge came also a sense of hopeless, impotent rebellion against the unrea- sonableness of it all. There were scores of men no better than I whose punishments had at least been reserved for another world; and 1 felt that it was bitterly, cruelly unfair that 1 alone should have been singled out for so hideous a fate. This mood would in time give place to another where it seemed that the 'rickshaw and 1 were the only realities in a world of shadows; that Kitty was a ghost; that Mannering, Heatherlegh, and all the other men and women I knew were all ghosts; and the great, grey hills themselves but vain shadows devised to torture me. From mood to mood I tossed backward and forward for seven weary days; my body growing daily stronger and stronger, until the bedroom looking-glass told me that I had returned to everyday life, and was as other men once more. Curiously enough my face showed no signs of the struggle I had gone through. It was pale indeed, but as ex- pressionless and commonplace as ever. I had expected some permanent alteration — visible evi- The Phantom 'Rickshaw 641 dence of the disease that was eating me away. I found nothing. On the 15th of May I left Heatherlegh's house at eleven o'clock in the morning; and the instinct of the bachelor drove me to the Club. There I found that every man knew my story as told by Heatherlegh, and was, in clumsy fashion, abnor- mally kind and attentive. Nevertheless I recog- nized that for the rest of my natural life I should be among but not of my fellows; and I envied very bitterly indeed the laughing coolies on the Mall below. I lunched at the Club, and at foui o'clock wandered aim.lessly down the Mall in the vague hope of meeting Kitty. Close to the Band-stand the black and white liveries joined me; and 1 heard Mrs, Wessington's old appeal at my side. I had been expecting this ever since I came out; and was only surprised at her delay. The phantom 'rickshaw and 1 went side by side along the Chota Simla road in silence. Close to the bazar, Kitty and a man on horseback over- took and passed us. For any sign she gave I might have been a dog in the road. She did not even pay me the compliment of quickening her pace; though the rainy afternoon had served for an excuse. So Kitty and her companion, and I and my ghostly Light-o'-Love, crept round Jakko in couples. The road was streaming with water: 642 Indian Tales the pines dripped like roof-pipes on the rocks be- low, and the air was full of fine, driving rain. Two or three times I found myself saying to my- self almost aloud: " I'm Jack Pansay on leave at Simla — at Simla! Everyday, ordinary Simla. 1 mustn't forget that — I mustn't forget that." Then 1 would try to recollect some of the gossip I had heard at the Club: the prices of So-and-So's horses — anything, in fact, that related to the workaday Anglo-Indian world I knew so well. I even repeated the multiplication-table rapidly to myself, to make quite sure that I was not taking leave of my senses. It gave me much comfort; and must have prevented my hearing Mrs. Wes- sington for a time. Once more 1 wearily climbed the Convent slope and entered the level road. Here Kitty and the man started off at a canter, and I was left alone with Mrs. Wessington. "Agnes," said I, "will you put back your hood and tell me what it all means.?" The hood dropped noiselessly, and I was face to face with my dead and buried mistress. She was wearing the dress in which I had last seen her alive; carried the same tiny handkerchief in her right hand; and the same cardcase in her left. (A woman eight months dead with a cardcase!) I had to pin myself down to the multiplication- table, and to set both hands on the stone parapet The Phantom 'Rickshaw 643 of the road, to assure myself that that at leas^ was real. "Agnes," I repeated, "for pity's sake tell me what it all means." Mrs. Wessington leaned forward, with that odd, quick turn of the head I used to know so well, and spoke. If my story had not already so madly over- leaped the bounds of all human belief I should apologize to you now. As I know that no one —no, not even Kitty, for whom it is written as some sort of justification of my conduct — will believe me, I will go on. Mrs. Wessington spoke and I walked with her from the Sanjowlie road to the turning below the Commander-in- Chief's house as I might walk by the side of any living woman's 'rickshaw, deep in conversation. The second and most tormenting of my moods of sickness had suddenly laid hold upon me, and like the Prince in Tennyson's poem, "I seemed to move amid a world of ghosts." There had been a garden-party at the Commander-in- Chief's, and we two joined the crowd of home- ward-bound folk. As 1 saw them then it seemed that they were the shadows — impalpable, fantas- tic shadows — that divided for Mrs, Wessington's 'rickshaw to pass through. What we said dur- ing the course of that weird interview I cannot ■ — indeed, 1 dare not — tell. Heatherlegh's com- ment would have been a short laugh and a re- 644 Indian Tales mark that I had been " mashing a brain-eye-and- stomach chimera." It was a ghastly and yet in some indefinable way a marvelously dear experi- ence. Could it be possible, I wondered, that I was in this life to woo a second time the woman I had killed by my own neglect and cruelty } I met Kitty on the homeward road — a shadow among shadows. If I were to describe all the incidents of the next fortnight in their order, my story would never come to an end; and your patience would be exhausted. Morning after morning and even- ing after evening the ghostly 'rickshaw and / used to wander through Simla together. Wher- ever I went there the four black and white liver- ies followed me and bore me company to and from my hotel. At the Theatre I found them amid the crowd of yelWng jJianipaiiies ; outside the Club veranda, after a long evening of whist; at the Birthday Ball, waiting patiently for my re- appearance; and in broad daylight when I went calling. Save that it cast no shadow, the 'rick- shaw was in every respect as real to look upon as one of wood and iron. More than once, indeed, I have had to check myself from warning some hard-riding friend against cantering over it. More than once I have walked down the Mall ieep in conversation with Mrs. Wessington to he unspeakable amazement of the passers-bv. The Phantom 'Rickshaw 645 Before I had been out and about a week I learned that the "fit" theory had been discarded in favor of insanity. However, I made no change in my mode of life. 1 called, rode, and dined out as freely as ever. 1 had a passion for the society of my kind which 1 had never felt before; I hungered to be among the realities of life; and at the same time I felt vaguely unhappy when I had been separated too long from my ghostly companion. It would be almost impossible to describe my varying moods from the 15th of May up to to-day. The presence of the 'rickshaw filled me by turns with horror, blind fear, a dim sort of pleas- ure, and utter despair. I dared not leave Simla; and I knew that my stay there was killing me. I knew, moreover, that it was my destiny to die slowly and a little every day. My only anxiety was to get the penance over as quietly as might be. Alternately I hungered for a sight of Kitty and watched her outrageous flirtations with my successor — to speak more accurately, my succes- sors — with amused interest. She was as much out of my life as 1 was out of hers. By day I wandered with Mrs. Wessington almost content. By night 1 implored Heaven to let me return to the world as 1 used to know it. Above all these varying moods lay the sensation of dull, numbing wonder that the Seen and the Unseen should 546 Indian Tale s mingle so strangely on this earth to hound one poor soul to its grave. August 27. — Heatherlegh has been indefatiga- ble in his attendance on me; and only yesterday told me that 1 ought to send in an application for sick leave. An application to escape the com- pany of a phantom ! A request that the Govern- ment would graciously permit me to get rid of five ghosts and an airy 'rickshaw by going to England! Heatherlegh's proposition moved me to almost hysterical laughter. 1 told him that I should await the end quietly at Simla; and I am sure that the end is not far off. Believe me that I dread its advent more than any word can say; and J torture myself nightly with a thousand speculations as to the manner of my death. Shall I die in my bed decently and as an Eng- lish gentleman should die; or, in one last walk on the Mall, will my soul be wrenched from me to take its place forever and ever by the side of that ghastly phantasm } Shall I return to my old lost allegiance in the next world, or shall 1 meet Agnes loathing her and bound to her side through all eternity ? Shall we two hover over the scene of our lives till the end of Time ? As the day of my death draws nearer, the intense horror that all living flesh feels toward escaped spirits from Tke Rhantom 'Rickshaw 647 beyond the grave grows more and more power- ful. It is an awful thing to go down quick among the dead with scarcely one-half of your life completed. It is a thousand times more awful to wait as I do in your midst, for I know not what unimaginable terror. Pity me, at least on the score of my "delusion," for 1 know you will never believe what I have written here. Yet as surely as ever a man was done to death by the Powers of Darkness I am that man. In justice, too, pity her. For as surely as ever woman was killed by rnan, I killed Mrs. Wes- sington. And the last portion of my punishment IS even now upon me. ON THE STRENGTH OF A LIKENESS If your mirror be broken, look into still water ; but have a care that you do not fall in. — Hindu Proverb. NEXT to a requited attachment, one of the most convenient things that a young man can carry about with him at the beginning of his career, is an unrequited attachment. It makes him feel important and business-Uke, and hlase, and cynical; and whenever he has a touch of Hver, or suffers from want of exercise, ne can mourn over his lost love, and be very happy in a tender, twilight fashion. Hannasyde's affair of the heart had been a god- send to him. It was four years old, and the girl had long since given up thinking of it. She had married and had many cares of her own. In the beginning, she had told Hannasyde that, "while she could never be anything more than a sister to him, she would always take the deepest inter- est in his welfare." This startlingly new and original remark gave Hannasyde something to think over for two years; and his own vanity filled in the other twenty-four months. Hanna- syde was quite different from Phil Garron, but, 548 On the Strength of a Likeness 64Q none the less, had several points in common with that far too lucky man. He kept his unrequited attachment by him as men keep a well-smoked pipe — for comfort's sake, and because it had grown dear in the using. It brought him happily through one Simla season. Hannasyde was not lovely. There was a crudity in his manners, and a roughness in the way in which he helped a lady on to her horse, that did not attract the other sex to him. Even if he had cast about for their favor, which he did not. He kept his wounded heart all to himself for a while. Then trouble came to him. All who go to Simla know the slope from the Telegraph to the Public Works Office. Hannasyde was loafmg up the hill, one September morning between calling hours, when a 'rickshaw came down in a hurry, and in the 'rickshaw sat the living, breathing image of the girl who had made him so happily unhappy. Hannasyde leaned against the railings and gasped. He wanted to run downhill after the 'rickshaw, but that was impossible; so he went forward with most of his blood in his tem- ples. It was impossible, for many reasons, that the woman in the 'rickshaw could be the girl he had known. She was, he discovered later, tl.t wife of a man from Dindigul, or Coimbatore, or some out-of-the-way place, and she had come 650 Indian Tales up to Simla early in the season for the good of her health. She was going back to Dindigul, or wherever it was, at the end of the season; and in all likelihood would never return to Simla again; her proper Hill-station being Ootacamund. That night Hannasyde, raw and savage from the rak- ing up of all old feelings, took counsel with him- self for one measured hour. What he decided upon was this; and you must decide for yourself how much genuine affection for the old Love, and how much a very natural inclination to go abroad and enjoy himself, affected the decision. Mrs. Landys-Haggert would never in all human likelihood cross his path again. So whatever he did didn't much matter. She was marvelously like the girl who "took a deep interest" and the rest of the formula. All things considered, it would be pleasant to make the acquaintance of Mrs. Landys-Haggert, and for a little time — only a very little time — to make believe that he was with Alice Chisane again. Every one is more or less mad on one point. Hannasyde's particular monomania was his old love, Alice Chisane. He made it his business to get introduced to Mrs. Haggert, and the introduction prospered. He also made it his business to see as much as he could of that lady. When a man is in earnest as to interviews, the facilities which Simla offers are startling. There are garden-parties, and tennis- On the Strength of a Likeness 651 parties, and picnics, and luncheons at Annandale, and rifle-matches, and dinners and balls; besides rides and walks, which are matters of private ar- rangement. Hannasyde had started with the in- tention of seeing a likeness, and he ended by doing much more. He wanted to be deceived, he meant to be deceived, and he deceived himself very thoroughly. Not only were the face and figure the face and figure of Alice Chisane, but the voice and lower tones were exactly the same, and so were the turns of speech; and the little mannerisms, that every woman has, of gait and gesticulation, were absolutely and identically the same. The turn of the head was the same; the tired look in the eyes at the end of a long walk was the same; the stoop-and-wrench over the saddle to hold in a pulling horse was the same; and once, most marvelous of all, Mrs. Landys- Haggert singing to herself in the next room, while Hannasyde was waiting to take her for a ride, hummed, note for note, with a throaty quiver of the voice in the second line, " Poor Wandering One!" exactly as Alice Chisane had hummed it for Hannasyde in the dusk of an English drawing-room. In the actual woman herself — in the soul of her — there was not the least likeness; she and Alice Chisane being cast in different moulds. But all that Hannasyde wanted to know and see and think about, was 652 Indian Tales this maddening and perplexing likeness of face and voice and manner. He was bent on making a fool of himself that way; and he was in no sort disappointed. Open and obvious devotion from any sort of man is always pleasant to any sort of woman; but Mrs. Landys-Haggert, being a woman of the world, could make nothing of Hannasyde"s ad- miration. He would take any amount of trouble — he was a selfish man habitually — to meet and forestall, if possible, her wishes. Anything she told him to do was law; and he was, there could be nc doubting it, fond of her company so long as sh*.' talked to him, and kept on talking about triviali- ties. But when she launched into expression of her personal views and her wrongs, those small social differences that make the spice of Simb life, Hannasyde was neither pleased nor inter • ested. He didn't want to know anything about Mrs. Landys-Haggert, or her experiences in thf' past — she had traveled nearly all over the world, and could talk cleverly — he wanted the likeness' of Alice Chisane before his eyes and her voice in his ears. Anything outside that, reminding him of another personality, jarred, and he showed that it did. Under the new Post Office, one evening, Mrs. Landys-Haggert turned on him, and spoke her On the Strength of a Likeness 653 mind shortly and without warning. "Mr. Hannasyde," said she, " will you be good enough to explain why you have appointed yourself my special ca-valier servente? 1 don't understand it. But 1 am perfectly certain, somehow or other, that you don't care the least little bit in the world for me." This seems to support, by the way, the theory that no man can act or tell lies to a woman without being found out. Hannasyde was taken off his guard. His defence never was a strong one, because he was always thinking of himself, and he blurted out, before he knew what he was saying, this inexpedient answer, " No more I do." The queerness of the situation and the reply, made Mrs. Landys-Haggert laugh. Then it all came out; and at the end of Hannasyde's lucid explanation Mrs. Haggert said, with the least lit- tle touch of scorn in her voice, "So I'm to act as the lay-figure for you to hang the rags of your tattered affections on, am I .^" Hannasyde didn't see what answer was re- quired, and he devoted himself generally and vaguely to the praise of Alice Chisane, which was unsatisfactory. Now it is to be thoroughly made clear that Mrs. Haggert had not the shadow of a ghost of an interest in Hannasyde. Only . . . only no woman likes being made love through instead of to — specially on behalf of a musty divinity of four years' standing. 654 Indian Tales Hannasyde did not see that he had made any very particular exhibition of himself. He was glad to find a sympathetic soul in the arid wastes of Simla. When the season ended, Hannasyde went down to his own place and Mrs. Haggert to hers. " It was like making love to a ghost," said Han- nasyde to himself, "and it doesn't matter; and now I'll get to my work." But he found himself thinking steadily of the Haggert-Chisane ghost; and he could not be certain whether it was Hag- gert or Chisane that made up the greater part of the pretty phantom. He got understanding a month later. A peculiar point of this peculiar country is the way in which a heartless Government transfers men from one end of the Empire to the other. You can never be sure of getting rid of a friend or an enemy till he or she dies. There was a case once — but that's another story. Haggert's Department ordered him up from Dindigul to the Frontier at two days' notice, and he went through, losing money at every step, from Dindigul to his station. He dropped Mrs. Haggert at Lucknow, to stay with some friends there, to take part in a big ball at the Chutter Munzil, and to come on when he had made the On the Strength of a Likeness 655 new home a little comfortable. Lucknow was Hannasyde's station, and Mrs. Haggert stayed a week there. Hannasyde went to meet her. As the train came in, he discovered what he had been thinking of for the past month. The unwisdom of his conduct also struck him. The Lucknow week, with two dances, and an unlimited quan- tity of rides together, clinched matters; and Hannasyde found himself pacing this circle of thought: — He adored Alice Chisane, at least he had adored her. And he admired Mrs. Landys- Haggert because she was like Alice Chisane. But Mrs. Landys-Haggert was not in the least like Alice Chisane, being a thousand times more adorable. No-w Alice Chisane was "the bride of another," and so was Mrs. Landys-Haggert, and a good and honest wife too. Therefore he, Han- nasyde, was . . . here he called himself several hard names, and wished that he had been wise in the beginning. Whether Mrs. Landys-Haggert saw what was going on in his mind, she alone knows. He seemed to take an unqualified interest in every- thing connected with herself, as distinguished from the Alice-Chisane likeness, and he said one or two things which, if Alice Chisane had been still betrothed to him, could scarcely have been excused, even on the grounds of the likeness. But Mrs. Haggert turned the remarks aside, and 65^ Indian Tales spent a long time in making Hannasyde see what a comfort and a pleasure she had been to him be- cause of her strange resemblance to his old love. Hannasyde groaned in his saddle and said, "Yes, indeed," and busied himself with preparations for her departure to the Frontier, feeling very small and miserable. The last day of her stay at Lucknow came, and Hannasyde saw her off at the Railway Station. She was very grateful for his kindness and the trouble he had taken, and smiled pleasantly and sympathetically as one who knew the Alice- Chisane reason of that kindness. And Hannasyde abused the coolies with the luggage, and hustled the people on the platform, and prayed that the roof might fall in and slay him. As the train went out slowly, Mrs. Landys- Haggert leaned out of the window to say good- bye — "On second thoughts au revoir, Mr. Han- nasyde. I go Home in the Spring, and perhaps I may meet you in Town." Hannasyde shook hands, and said very ear- nestly and adoringly — " I hope to Heaven I shall never see your face again! " And Mrs. Haggert understood. 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 Lumult of the barracks, lies the Trap. It is an old dry well, shadowed by a twisted pipal tree and fenced with high grass. Here, in the years gone by, did Private Ortheris establish his depot and menagerie for such possessions, dead and living, 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 in- veterate poacher and preeminent among a regi- ment of neat-handed dog-stealers. Never again will the long lazy evenings return wherein Ortheris, whistling softly, moved sur- geon-wise among the captives of his craft at the bottom of the well ; when Learoyd sat in the niche, giving sage counsel on the management of "tykes," and Mulvaney, from the crook of the overhanging /)/^a/, waved his enormous boots in 657 658 Indian Tales benediction above our heads, flighting us with iales 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; Mul- vaney — grizzled, tender, and very wise Ulysses, sweltering on the earthwork of a Central India line— judge if 1 have forgotten old days in the Trap! Orth'ris, as alius thinks he knaws more than other foaks, said she wasn't a real laady, but noL:3ut a Hewrasian. 1 don't gainsay as her cul- ler was a bit doosky like. But she 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 ac- quainted wi' her was along of our Colonel's Laady's dog Rip. I've seen a vast o' dogs, but Rip was t' pret- tiest 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 Private Learoyd's Story 659 hed been a Christian. She hed bairns of her awn, but they was i' England, and Rip seemed *o 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' Cantonment Magistrate coom round inspectin'. The Colonel leathers him once or twice, but Rip didn't care an' kept on gooin' his rounds, wi' his taail a-waggin' as if he were flag-signallin' 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. D^eSussa, 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' hap- pen 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' Colo- nel's Laady sends for me as 'ad a naame for 66o fndian Tales bein' knowledgeable about a aog, an' axes what's ailin' wi' him. "Why," says I, "he's getten t' mopes, an' what he wants is his hbbaty an' coompany like t' rest on us; wal happen a rat o^ two 'ud liven him oop. It's low, mum," says 1, "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 her dog maunt niver fight an' noa Christians iver fought. "Then what's a soldier for?" says 1; an' I ex- plains to her t' contrairy qualities of a dog, 'at, when yo' coom to think on't, is one o' t' 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 i' all manners o' blackguardly street-rows, an' killin' rats, an' fightin' like divils. V Colonel's Laady says: — "Well, Learoyd, I doan't agree wi' you, but you're right 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, nor do nowt 'orrid;" an' them was her very wods. Private Learoyd's Story 661 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 0' 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 o' 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-hke they rolled over like skittles in a halley, an' when they coot he stretched after 'em as if he were rabbit-run- nin'. 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 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," «ez 1, "for he's fond o' laady's coompany. Coom here, Rip, an'speeak to this kind laady." An' Rip, seein' 'at t' mon- goose hed getten clean awaay, cooms up like t' gentleman he was, nivver a hauporth shy or okkord. "Oh, you beautiful — you prettee dog!" she says, clippin' an' chantin' her speech in i way 662 Indian Tales 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 o' talk, 'at a dog o' sense mebbe thinks nowt on, tho' he bides it by reason o' his breedin'. An' thert I meks him joomp ovver my swag^ ger-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 o' a good dog to do such like. 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 alius fond of a dog. Soa she axes me if I'd tek some- thin' 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 Private Learoyd's Story 663 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' she lapped it all oop an' were niver tired o' admirin' him. But when t' awd lass took to givin' me money an' 1 seed 'at she were get- tin' fair fond about c' dog, 1 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' 'lection- eerin' fellows calls bribery an' corruption. Spe- cially when Mrs. DeSussa threwed hints how t' cold weather would soon be ovver an' she was goin' to Munsooree Pahr.r an' we was goin' to Rawalpindi, 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 in- nocince. I'll save ye from the wicked wiles av that wealthy ould woman, an' I'll go wid ye this evenin' and spake to 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 664 Indian Tales an' me have been prowlin' round wid throats as dry as lime-kilns, and nothin' to smoke but Can- teen plug. 'Twas a dhirty thrick to play on a comrade, for why should you, Learoyd, be bal- ancin' yourself on the butt av a satin thair, 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 blunderin' York- shireman like you" — "Nay," says 1, " it's none o' t' blunderin' York- shireman she wants; it's Rip. He's t' gentle- man 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 Mul- vaney talk, an' yo' may believe as he fairly be- witched t' awd lass wal she let out 'at she wanted to tek Rip away wi' her to Munsooree Pahar. Then Mulvaney changes his tune an' axes her solemn-like if she'd thought o' t' conse- quences o' 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' Ben- gal, and 'twas a pity he shouldn't go wheer he was so well beliked. And soa he went on. Private Learoyd's Story 665 backin' an' fillin' an' workin' up t' awd lass wal she fell as if her life warn't worth nowt if she didn't hev t' dog. Then all of a suddint he sa^'s: — " But ye shall have him, marm, for I've a feelin' heart, not like this could-blooded Yorkshireman; but 'twill cost ye not a penny less than three hundher rupees." "Don't yo' believe him, mum," says I; "t' 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 1 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 1 could carry him off to Munsooree Pahar and no- body would niver knaw. " Now an' again Mulvaney looked acrost at me, an' though 1 could mak nowt o' what he was after, 1 concluded to take his leead. " Well, mum," I says, " I never thowt to coom down to dog-steealin', but if my comrade 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 666 Indian Tales a poor set-off again t' chance of them Damning Islands as Mulvaney tall ways, — Maxims of Private Mulvaney. THE Inexpressibles gave a ball. They bor- rowed a seven-pounder from the Gunners, and wreathed it with laurels, and made the danc- ing-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, Pri- vate Mulvaney, was one of the sentries, because he was the tallest man in the regiment. When the dance was fairly started the sentries were re- leased, and Private Mulvaney went 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 found Mulvaney with Pri- vate Ortheris, two-thirds of a ham, a loaf of bread, half a pdte-de-foie-gras, and two mag- nums of champagne, sitting on the roof of my carriage. As I 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 713 714 . Indian Tales son, I wud be the dishgrace av the rig'mint in- stid av the brightest jool in uts crown." ''Hand the Colonel's pet noosance," said Or- theris. " But wot makes you curse your rations ? This 'ere fizzy stuff's good enough." "Stuff, ye oncivilized pagin! 'Tis champagne 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 I knew that it was better to sit out with Mulvaney than to dance many dances. " 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 took 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 Barrack water- butts for a God-fearing man. You was lucky in gettin' orf with wot you did, Mulvaney." "Say you so? Now I'm pershuaded I was cruel hard trated, seein' fwhat I've done for the The God from the Machine -^15 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 repitation av a ten times better man than him! 'Twas ne-farious — an' that manes a power av evil! " "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 nowl" He settled himself at ease on the top of the carriage, " I'll tell you all about ut. Av coorse 1 will name no names, for there's wan that's an orf'cer's lady now, that was in ut, and no more will I 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." "I'm mum," said Ortheris. "Wot 'appened when you was a recruitv ? " 7i6 Indian Tales " I 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 a man I was 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 snig- gerin' at ? Do you misdoubt me ?" "Devil a doubt!" said Ortheris; "but I've 'card summat like that before! " Mulvaney dismissed the impertinence with a lofty wave of his hand and continued — "An' the orfcers av the rig'mint I was in in thim days was orfcers — gran' men, wid a man- ner on 'em, an' a way wid 'em such as is not made these days — all but wan — wan o' 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 mind, Orth'ris, me son. "An' the Colonel av the rig'mint had a daugh- ter — 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 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." The God from the Machine 717 "Stop a minute, Mulvaney," said I; "how in the world did you come to know these things ?" "How did 1 come?" said Mulvaney, with a scornful grunt; " bekaze 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 boots, an' in the short hair av the neck — that's where I kape my eyes whim 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 re- shume. He was a bad dhrill was this Capt'n — a rotten bad dhrill — an' whin first 1 ran me eye over him, 1 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 minanderin', an' blandandhering roun' an' about the Colonel's daughter, an' she, poor innocint, lookin' at him like a Comm'ssariat bullock looks at the Comp'ny cook. He'd a dhirty little scrub av a black mous- tache, an' he twisted an' turned ivry wurrd he used as av he found ut too sweet for to spit out. 71 8 Indian Tales 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 borrowed from na- tives; besides a lot av other matthers which, in regard for your presince, sorr, I will oblitherate. A little av fwhat 1 knew, the Colonel knew, for he wud have none av him, an' that, I'm thinkin', by fwhat happened aftherward, the Capt'in knew. "Wan day, bein' mortial idle, or they wud never ha' thried ut, the rig'mint gave amsure theatricals — orf'cers an' orf'cers' ladies. You've seen the likes time an' again, 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 Sweet- hearts, 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' be- hind the scenes I shifted, an' some av what they said 1 heard; for I was death — blue death an' ivy The God from the Machine 719 — on the comb-cuttin'. He was iverlastin'ly op- pressing 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 another, thinkin' I was out av listen-reach: ' Fwhat an obiigin' 3'oung man is this Corp'ril Mulvaney!' I was a Corp'ril then. I was rejuced aftherward, but, no matther, 1 was a Corp'ril wanst. "Well, this Sweethearts' business wint on like most amshure theatricals, an' barrin' fwhat 1 sus- picioned, 'twasn't till the dhress-rehearsal that 1 saw for certain that thim two — he the black- guard, an' she no wiser than she should ha' been — had put up an evasion." "A what?'"' said I. "E-vasion! Fwhat you call an elopemint. E-vasion I calls it, bekaze, exceptin' whin 'tis right an' natural an' proper, 'tis wrong an' dhirty to steal a man's wan child she not knowin' her own mind. There was a Sargint in the Com- m'ssariat who set my face upon e-vasions. I'll tell you about that " — "Stick to the bloomin' Captains, Mulvaney," said Ortheris; " Comm'ssariat Sargints is low." 720 Indian Tales Mulvaney accepted the amendment and went on: — "Now I knew that the Colonel was no fool, any more than me, for 1 was hild the sm.artest man in the rig'mint, an' the Colonel was the best orfcer commandin' in Asia; so fwhat he said an' / 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 Colo- nel. 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 a 'scandal.' But I niver sthruck, niver raised me hand on my shuperior orfcer; an* that was a merricle now I come to considher it." "Mulvaney, the dawn's risin'," said Ortheris, "an' we're no nearer 'ome than we was at the beginnin'. Lend me your pouch. Mine's all dust." Mulvaney pitched his pouch over, 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 The God from the Machine 721 av the manewvers ? ' 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, 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' ail the orf'cers an' orf'cers' ladies left, an' they put out the liglits. To ex- plain the theory av the flight, as they say at Muskthry, you must understand that afther this Sweethearts' nonsinse was ended, there was an- other little bit av a play called Couples, — 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. Twas the kit that flusthered me, for I knew for a Capt'n to go trapesing about the im- pire 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 aftherward wint." "'Old on, Mulvaney. Wot's truso}" said Ortheris. 722 Indian Tales "You're an oncivilized man, me son. Whin a gurl's married, all her kit an' 'coutrements are truso, which manes weddin'-portion. An' 'tis the same whin she's runnin' away, even wid the biggest blackguard 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 Sweet- hearts 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' 1 wint round to the back an' found the girl's ayah. " * Ye black brazen Jezebel,' sez I, ' sellin' your masther's honor for five rupees — pack up all the Miss Sahib's kit an' look slippy! Capt'n Sahib's order,' sez I. '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 learned in the bazars on to this she-bullock. The God from the Machine 723 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 1 bundled the stuff into the thrap, ' for I'll have no mercy! ' " ' I'm comin' too,' says the ayah. "'No, you don't,' sez 1, 'later — pechy! You baito where you are. I'll pechy come an' bring you sart, along with me, you maraudin' ' — niver mind fwhat I called her. "Thin 1 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' 1 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 car- r'ge began to move, an' I waved to the dhriver. ' Hither aol' sez 1, an' he hifheraoed t\\\ I judged Me was at proper distance, an' thin I tuk him, fair rm' square betune the eyes, all I knew for good or bad, an' he dhropped wid a guggle like the 724 Indian Tales 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 sais ; 'you'll find a man close here. Very sick he is. Take him away, an' av you iver say wan wurrd about fwhat you've dekkoed, I'll marrow you till your own wife won't sumjao 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 wouldn'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 to where she was. " 'Miss Sahib,' sez I ; 'going to the station.? Captain Sahib's order!' an' widout 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 lights av the thraps people comin' from the Gaff was showin' across the parade ground. The God from the Machine 725 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 bukshish but dhruv tremenjus in the opp'site way from the other carr'ge an' put out my lights. Presintly, I saw a naygur-man wal- lowin' in the road. 1 slipped down before I got to him, for I suspicioned Providence was wid me all through that night. 'Twas 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. " ' You black lump av dirt,' I sez, 'is this the way you dhrive your gharri? That tikka has been owin' an' fere-owin' all over the bloomin' country this whole bloomin' night, an' you as miit-'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 Rail- way Station. "'Fwhat the divil's this?' sez the Capt'n's voice in the dhark, an' 1 could judge he was in a lather av rage. 726 Indian Tales "'Gharri dhriver here, dhrunk, sorr,' sez I; 'I've found his gharri sthrayin' about canton- tnints, an' now I've found hiin.' "'Oh!' 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. " I thought, afther a while, he wud kill the man, so I sez: — 'Stop, sorr, or you'll murdher 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 jelly for this night's work — that niver 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 1 together. "That was all," said Mulvaney, "niver an- other word did I hear av the whole thing. All I The God from the Machine 727 know was that there was no e-vasion, an' that was fwhat I wanted. Now, I put ut to you, sorr, h ten days' C.B. a fit an' a proper trate- ment for a man who has behaved as me ?" "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 cham- pagne, " is a shuparfluous an' impert'nint obser- vation'* THE DAUGHTER OF THE REGIMENT Jain 'Ardin' was a Sarjint's wife, A Sarjint's wife wus she. She married of 'im in Orldersliort An' corned across the sea. (^Chorus) 'Ave you never 'card tell o' Jain 'Ardin'? Jain 'Ardin' r Jain 'Ardin' ? 'Ave you never 'eard tell o' Jain 'Ardin' ? The pride o' the Compan^if ? Old Barrack Room Ballad. i' A GENTLEMAN who doesn't know the t\ Circasian Circle ought not to stand up for it — puttin' everybody out." That was what Miss McKenna said, and the Sergeant who was my vis-a-vis looked the same thing. I was afraid of Miss McKenna. She was six feet high, all yel- low freckles and red hair, and was simply clad in white satin shoes, a pink muslin dress, an apple- green stuff sash, and black silk gloves, with yel- low roses in her hair. Wherefore I fled from Miss McKenna and sought my friend Private Mulvaney, who was at the cant — refreshment- table. " So you've been dancin' with little Jhansi Mc- 72S The Daughter of the Regiment 729 Kenna, sorr — she that's goin' to marry Corp'ril Slane ? Whin you next conversh wid your lor- ruds an' your ladies, tell thim you've danced wid little Jhansi, 'Tis a thing to be proud av," But I wasn't proud. 1 was humble. I saw a story in Private Mulvaney's eye; and besides, if he stayed too long at the bar, he would, 1 knew, qualify for more pack-drill. Now to meet an es- teemed friend doing pack-drill outside the guard- room is embarrassing, especially if you happen to be walking with his Commanding Officer. "Come on to the parade-ground, Mulvaney, it's cooler there, and tell me about Miss McKenna. What is she, and who is she, and why is she called 'Jhansi '?" " D'ye mane to say you've niver heard av Ould Pummeloe's daughter? An' you thinkin' you know things! I'm wid ye in a minut whin me poipe's lit." We came out under the stars. Mulvaney sat down on one of the artillery bridges, and began in the usual way: his pipe between his teeth, his big hands clasped and dropped between his knees, and his cap well on the back of his head — " Whin Mrs. Mulvaney, that is, was Miss Shadd that was, you were a dale younger than you are now, an' the Army was dif'rint in sev'ril e-sen- shuls. Bhoys have no call for to marry nowa- days, an' that's why the Army has so few rale. 730 Indian Tales good, honust, swearin', strapagin', tinder-hearted, heavy-futted wives as ut used to have whin I was a Corp'ril. I was rejuced aftherward — but no matther — I was a Corp'ril wanst. In thim times, a man lived an' died wid his regiment; an' by natur', he married whin he was a man. Whin I was Corp'ril — Mother av Hivin, how the rigimint has died an' been borrun since that day! — my Color-Sar'jint was Ould McKenna, an' a married man tu. An' his woife — his first woife, for he married three times did McKenna — was Bridget McKenna, from Portarlington, like mesilf. I've misremembered fwhat her first name was; but in B Comp'ny we called her 'Ould Pummeloe,' by reason av her figure, which was entirely cir- cum-fe-renshill. Like the big dhrum ! Now that woman — God rock her sowl to rest in glory! — was for everlastin' havin' childher; an' McKenna, whin the fifth or sixth come squallin' on to the musther-roll, swore he wud number thim off in future. But Ould Pummeloe she prayed av him to christen them after the names av the stations they was borrun in. So there was Colaba Mc- Kenna, an' Muttra McKenna, an' a whole Presi- dincy av other McKennas, an' little Jhansi, dancin' over yonder. Whin the childher wasn't bornin', they was dying; for, av our childher die like sheep in these days, they died like flies thin. I lost me own little Shadd — but no mat- The Daughter of the Regiment 731 then Tis long ago, and Mrs. Mulvaney niver had another. "I'm digresshin. Wan divil's hot summer, there come an order from some mad ijjit, whose name I misremember, for the rigimint to go up- country. Maybe they wanted to know how the new rail carried throops. They knew! On me sowl, they knew before they was done! Old Pumm.eloe had just buried Muttra McKenna; an', the season bein' onwholesim, only little Jhansi McKenna, who was four year ould thin, was left on hand. " Five children gone in fourteen months. Twas harrd, wasn't ut ? " So we wint up to our new station in that blazin' heat — may the curse av Saint Lawrence conshume the man who gave the ordher! Will I iver forget that move } They gave us two wake thrains to the rigimint; an' we was eight hun- dher' and sivinty strong. There was A, B, C, an' D Companies in the secon' thrain, wid twelve women, no orficers' ladies, an' thirteen childher. We was to go six hundher' miles, an' railways was new in thim days. Whin we had been a night in the belly av the thrain — the men ragin' in their shirts an' dhrinkin' anything they cud find, an' eatin' bad fruit-stuff whin they cud, for we cudn't stop 'em — I was a Corp'ril thin — the cholera bruk out wid the dawnin' av the day. 732 Indian Tales " Pray to the Saints, you may niver see cholera in a throop-thrain! 'Tis like the judgmint av God hittin' down from the nakid sky! We run into a rest-camp — as ut might have been Lu- dianny, but not by any means so comfortable. The Orficer Commandin' sent a telegrapt up the line, three hundher' mile up, askin' for help. Faith, we wanted ut, for ivry sowl av the fol- lowers ran for the dear life as soon as the thrain stopped; an' by the time that telegrapt was writ, there wasn't a naygur in the station exceptin' the telegrapt-clerk — an' he only bekaze he was held down to his chair by the scruff av his sneakin' black neck. Thin the day began wid the noise in the carr'ges, an' the rattle av the men on the platform fallin' over, arms an' all, as they stud for to answer the Comp'ny muster-roll before goin' over to the camp. 'Tisn't for me to say what like the cholera was like. May be the Doc- tor cud ha' tould, av he hadn't dropped on to the platform from the door av a carriage where we was takin' out the dead. He died wid the rest. Some bhoys had died in the night. We tuk out siven, and twenty more was sickenin' as we tuk thim. The women was huddled up anyways, screamin' wid fear. " Sez the Commandin' Orficer whose name I misremember, ' Take the women over to that The Daughter of the Regiment 733 tope av trees yonder. Get thim out av the camp. 'Tis no place for thim.' "Ould Pummeloe was sittin' on her beddin'- rowl, thryin' to kape httle Jhansi quiet. ' Go off to that tope!' sez the Orficer. 'Go out av the men's way! ' "'Be damned av I do!' sez Ould Pummeloe, an' little Jhansi, squattin' by her mother's side, squeaks out, 'Be damned av I do,' tu. Thin Ould Pummeloe turns to the women an' she sez, ' Are ye goin' to let the bhoys die while you're picnickin', ye sluts ? ' sez she. ' 'Tis wather they want. Come on an' help.' " Wid that, she turns up her sleeves an' steps out for a well behind the rest-camp — little Jhansi trottin' behind wid a lotah an' string, an' the other women followin' like lambs, wid horse- buckets and cookin' pots. Whin all the things was full, Ould Pummeloe marches back into camp — 'twas like a battlefield wid all the glory missin' — at the hid av the rigimint av women. " ' McKenna, me man!' she sez, wid a voice on her like grand-roun's challenge, ' tell the bhoys to be quiet. Ould Pummeloe's comin' to look afther thim — wid free dhrinks,' "Thin we cheered, an' the cheerin' in the lines was louder than the noise av the poor divils wid the sickness on thim. But not much. "You see, we was a new an' raw rigimint in 734 Indian Tales those days, an' we cud make neither head nor tail av the sickness; an' so we was useless. The men was goin' roun' an' about like dumb sheep, waitin' for the nex' man to fall over, an' sayin' undher their spache, ' Fwhat is ut ? In the name av God, fwhat is ut?' 'Twas horrible. But through ut all, up an' down, an' down an' up, wint Ould Pummeloe an' little Jhansi — all we cud see av the baby, undher a dead man's helmut wid the chin-strap swingin' about her little stummick — up an' down wid the wather an' fwhat brandy there was. "Now an' thin Ould Pummeloe, the tears run- nin' down her fat, red face, sez, ' Me bhoys, me poor, dead, darlin' bhoys!' But, for the most, she was thryin' to put heart into the men an' kape thim stiddy; and little Jhansi was tellin' thim all they wud be 'betther in the mornin'.' 'Twas a thrick she'd picked up from hearin' Ould Pum- meloe whin Muttra was burnin' out wid fever. In the mornin'! 'Twas the iverlastin' mornin' at St. Pether's Gate was the mornin' for seven-an'- twenty good men; and twenty more was sick to the death in that bitter, burnin' sun. But the women worked like angils as I've said, an' the men like divils, till two doctors come down from above, and we was rescued. " But, just before that, Ould Pummeloe, on her knees over a bhoy in my squad — right-cot man to The Daught er of the Regment 735 me he was in the barrick— tellin' him the worrud av the Church that niver failed a man yet, sez, 'Hould me up, bhoys! I'm feelin' bloody sick!' Twas the sun, not the cholera, did ut. She mis- remembered she was only wearin' her ould black bonnet, an' she died wid ' McKenna, me man,' houldin' her up, an' the bhoys howled whin they buried her. "That night, a big wind blew, an' blew, an' blew, an' blew the tents flat. But it blew the cholera away an' niver another case there was all the while we was waitin' — ten days in quarintin'. Av you will belave me, the thrack av the sickness in the camp was for all the wurruld the thrack av a man walkin' four times in a figur-av-eight through the tents. They say 'tis the Wandherin' Jew takes the cholera wid him. I believe ut. "An' that," said Mulvaney, illogically, "is the cause why little Jhansi McKenna is f what she is. She was brought up by the Quartermaster Sergeant's wife whin McKenna died, but she b'longs to B Comp'ny; and this tale I'm tellin' you — ziid a proper appreciashin av Jhansi Mc- Kenna — I've belted into ivry recruity av the Com- p'ny as he was drafted. 'Faith, 'twas me belted Corp'ril Slane into askin' the girl!" "Not really?" "Man, I did! She's no beauty to look at, but she's Ould Pummeloe's daughter, an' 'tis my juty 736 Indian Tales to provide for her. Just before Slane got his promotion I sez to him, 'Slane,' sez I, 'to-mor- row 'twill be insubordinashin av me to chastise you; but. by the sowl av Ould Pummeloe, who is now in glory, av you don't give me your wurrud to ask Jhansi McKenna at wanst, I'll peel the flesh off yer bones wid a brass huk to- night. 'Tis a dishgrace to B Comp'ny she's been single so long! ' sez I. Was I goin' to let a three- year-ould preshume to discoorse wid me — my will bein' set? No! Slane wint an' asked her. He's a good bhoy is Slane. Wan av these days he'll get into the Com'ssariat an' dhrive a buggy wid his — savin's. So I provided for Ould Pum- meloe's daughter; an' now you go along an' dance agin wid her." And I did. I felt a respect for Miss Jhansi McKenna; and I went to her wedding later on. Perhaps I will tell you about that one of these days. THE MADNESS OF PRIVATE ORTHERIS Oh ! Where would I be when my froat was dry ? Oh ! Where would I be when the bullets fly ? Oh ! Where would I be when I come to die ? Why, Somewheres anigh my chum. If 'e's liquor 'e'll give me some. If I'm dyin' 'e'll 'old my 'ead, An' 'e'll write 'em 'Ome when I'm dead- Gawd send us a trusty chum ! Barrack Room Ballad. MY friends Mulvaney and Ortheris had gone on a shooting-expedition for one day. Learoyd was still in hospital, recovering from fever picked up in Burma. They sent me an in- vitation to join them, and were genuinely pained when I brought beer — almost enough beer to satisfy two Privates of the Line . . . and Me. "Twasn't for that we bid you welkim, sorr," said Mulvaney, sulkily. "Twas for the pleasure av your comp'ny." Ortheris came to the rescue with — "Well, 'e won't be none the worse for bringin' liquor with 'im. We ain't a file o' Dooks. We're bloomin' 737 738 Indian Tales Tommies, ye cantankris Hirishman; an' 'eres your very good 'ealth! " We shot all the forenoon, and killed two pariah-dogs, four green parrots, sitting, one kite by the burning-ghaut, one snake flying, one mud- turtle, and eight crows. Game was plentiful. Then we sat down to tiffin — " bull-mate an' bran- bread," Mulvaney called it — by the side of the river, and took pot shots at the crocodiles in the intervals of cutting up the food with our only pocket-knife. Then we drank up all the beer, and threw the bottles into the water and fired at them. After that, we eased belts and stretched ourselves on the warm sand and smoked. We were too lazy to continue shooting. Ortheris heaved a big sigh, as he lay on his stomach with his head between his fists. Then he swore quietly into the blue sky. "Fwhat's that for .^" said Mulvaney. "Have ye not drunk enough ?" " Tott'nim Court Road, an' a gal I fancied there. Wofs the good of sodgerin' ?" "Orth'ris, me son," said Mulvaney, hastily, " 'tis more than likely you've got throuble in your inside wid the beer. I feel that way mesilf whin my liver gets rusty." Ortheris went on slowly, not heeding the in- terruption — " I'm a Tommy — a bloomin', eight-anna, dog- The Madness of Private Ortheris 739 stealin' Tommy, with a number instead of a de- cent name. Wot's the good o' me ? If I 'ad a stayed at 'Ome, I might a married that gal and a kep' a little shorp in the 'Ammersmith 'Igh. — 'S. Orth'ris, Prac-ti-cal Taxi-der-mist.' With a stuff' fox, like they 'as in the Haylesbury Dairies, in the winder, an' a little case of blue and yaller glass- heyes, an' a little wife to call 'shorp I' 'shorp!' when the door-bell rung. As it his, I'm on'y a Tommy — a Bloomin', Gawd-forsaken, Beer- swillin' Tommy. ' Rest on your harms — 'versed, Stan' at — hease ; 'Shun. 'Verse — harms. Right an'lef — tarrn. Slow — march. 'A\i— front. Rest on your harms — 'versed. With blank-cartridge — load.' An' that's the end o' me." He was quot- ing fragments from Funeral Parties' Orders. "Stop ut!" shouted Mulvaney. "Whin you've fired into nothin' as often as me, over a better man than yoursilf, you will not make a mock av thim orders. 'Tis worse than whistlin' the Dead March in barricks. An' you full as a tick, an' the sun cool, an' all an' all! I take shame for you. You're no better than a Pagin — you an' your firin'-parties an' your glass-eyes. Won't you stop ut, sorr?" What could I do ? Could I tell Ortheris any- thing that he did not know of the pleasures of his life ? I was not a Chaplain nor a Subaltern, and Ortheris had a right to speak as he thought fit. 740 Indian Tales "Let him run, Mulvaney," I said. "It's the beer." "No! Tisn't the beer," said Mulvaney. "I know fwhafs comin'. He's tuk this way now an' agin, an' it's bad — it's bad — for I'm fond av the bhoy." Indeed, Mulvaney seemed needlessly anxious; but I knew that he looked after Ortheris in a fatherly way. " Let me talk, let me talk," said Ortheris, dreamily. "D'you stop your parrit screamin' of a 'ot day, when the cage is a-cookin' 'is pore little pink toes orf, Mulvaney?" "Pink toes! D'ye mane to say you've pink toes undher youi bullswools, ye blandanderin'," — Mulvaney gathered himself together for a ter- rific denunciation — * ' school-misthress ! Pink toes ! How much Bass wid the label did that ravin' child dhrink.?" "'Tain't Bass," said Ortheris. "It's a bitterer beer nor that. It's 'omesickness! " "Hark to him! An' he goin' Home in the Sherapis in the inside av four months! " "I don't care. It's all one to me. 'Ow d'you know I ain't 'fraid o' dyin' 'fore I gets my dis- charge paipers?" He recommenced, in a sing- song voice, the Orders. I had never seen this side of Ortheris' character before, but evidently Mulvaney had, and attached The Madness of Private Ortheris 741 serious importance to it. While Ortheris bab- bled, with his head on his arms, Mulvaney whis- pered to me — "He's always tuk this way whin he's been checked overmuch by the childher they make Sarjints nowadays. That an' havin' nothin' to do. I can't make ut out anyways." '"Well, what does it matter? Let him talk himself through." Ortheris began singing a parody of "The Ram- rod Corps," full of cheerful allusions to battle, murder, and sudden death. He looked out across the river as he sang; and his face was quite strange to me. Mulvaney caught me by the elbow to ensure attention. "Matther? It matthers everything! 'Tis some sort av fit that's on him. I've seen ut. 'Twill hould him all this night, an' in the middle av it he'll get out av his cot an' go rakin' in the rack for his 'coutremints. Thin he'll come over to me an' say, ' I'm goin' to Bombay. Answer for me in the mornin'.' Thin me an' him will fight as we've done before — him to go an' me to hould him — an' so we'll both come on the books for disturbin' in barricks. I've belted him, an' I've bruk his head, an' I've talked to him, but 'tis no manner av use whin the fit's on him. He's as good a bhoy as ever stepped whin his mind's clear. I know fwhat's comin', though, this night 742 Indian Tales in barricks. Lord send he doesn't loose on me whin I rise to knock him down. 'Tis that that's in my mind day an' night." This put the case in a much less pleasant light, and fully accounted for Mulvaney's anxiety. He seemed to be trying to coax Ortheris out of the fit; for he shouted down the bank where the boy was lying — "Listen now, you wid the 'pore pink toes' an' the glass eyes ! Did you shwim the Irriwaddy at night, behin' me, as a bhoy shud; or were you hidin' under a bed, as you was at Ahmid Kheyl }" This was at once a gross insult and a direct lie, and Mulvaney meant it to bring on a fight. But Ortheris seemed shut up in some sort of trance. He answered slowly, without a sign of irritation, in the same cadenced voice as he had used for his firing-party orders — ''Hi swum the Irriwaddy in the night, as you know, for to take the town of Lungtungpen, nakid an' without fear. Hand where I was at Ahmed Kheyl you know, and four bloomin' Pathans know too. But that was summat to do, an' I didn't think o' dyin'. Now I'm sick to go 'Ome — go 'Ome — go 'Ome! No, I ain't mammy- sick, because my uncle brung me up, but I'm sick for London again; sick for the sounds of 'er, an' the sights of 'er, and the stinks of 'er; orange peel and hasphalte an' gas comin' in over Vaux'all The Madness of Private Ortheris 743 Bridge. Sick for the rail goin' down to Box'Ill, with your gal on your knee an' a new clay pipe in your face. That, an' the Stran' lights where you knows ev'ry one, an' the Copper that takes you up is a old friend that tuk you up before, when you was a little, smitchy boy lying loose 'tween the Temple an' the Dark Marches. No bloomin' guard-mountin', no bloomin' rotten- stone, nor khaki, an' yourself your own master with a gal to take an' see the Humaners practicin' a-hookin' dead corpses out of the Serpentine o' Sundays. An' I lef all that for to serve the Widder beyond the seas, where there ain't no women and there ain't no liquor worth 'avin', and there ain't nothin' to see, nor do, nor say, nor feel, nor think. Lord love you, Stanley Orth'ris, but you're a bigger bloomin' fool than the rest 0' the reg'ment and Mulvaney wired to- gether! There's the Widder sittin' at 'Ome with a gold crownd on 'er 'ead; and 'ere am Hi, Stanley Orth'ris, the Widder's property, a rottin' fool!" His voice rose at the end of the sentence, and he wound up with a six-shot Anglo- Vernacular oath. Mulvaney said nothing, but looked at me as if he expected that I could bring peace to poor Ortheris' troubled brain. I remembered once at Rawal Pindi having seen a man, nearly mad with drink, sobered by being 744 Indian Tales made a fool of. Some regiments may know what I mean. I hoped that we might slake off Ortheris in the same way, though he was per- fectly sober. So 1 said — " What's the use of grousing there, and speak- ing against The Widow }" "1 didn't!" said Ortheris. "S'elp me, Gawd, I never said a word agin 'er, an' 1 wouldn't — not if I was to desert this minute! ' Here was my opening. " Well, you meant to, anyhow. What's the use of cracking-on for nothing } Would you slip it now if you got the chance ?" "On'y try me!" said Ortheris, jumping to his feet as if he had been stung. Mulvaney jumped too. " Fwhat are you going to do ? " said he. "Help Ortheris down to Bombay or Karachi, whichever he likes. You can report that he sep- arated from you before tiffin, and left his gun on the bank here! " "I'm to report that — am I?" said Mulvaney, slowly. "Very well. If Orth'ris manes to de- sert now, and will desert now, an' you, sorr, who have been a frind to me an' to him, will help him to ut, I, Terence Mulvaney, on my oath which I've never bruk yet, will report as you say. But" — here he stepped up to Ortheris, and shook the stock of the fowling-piece in his face — The Madness of Private Ortheris 745 "your fists help you, Stanley Orth'ris, if ever I come across you agin! " "1 don't care!" said Ortheris. "I'm sick o' this dorg's life. Give me a chanst. Don't play with me. Le' me go! " "Strip," said I, "and change with me, and then I'll tell you what to do." I hoped that the absurdity of this would check Ortheris; but he had kicked off his ammunition- boots and got rid of his tunic almost before I had loosed my shirt-collar. Mulvaney gripped me by the arm — "The fit's on him: the fit's workin' on him still! By my Honor and Sow!, we shall be ac- cessiry to a desartion yet. Only, twenty-eight days, as you say, sorr, or fifty-six, but think o' the shame — the black shame to him an' me!" I had never seen Mulvaney so excited. But Ortheris was quite calm, and, as soon as he had exchanged clothes with me, and I stood up a Private of the Line, he said shortly, " Now! Come on. What nex' ? D'ye mean fair. What must I do to get out o' this 'ere a-Hell }" I told him that, if he would wait for two or three hours near the river, I would ride into the Station and come back with one hundred rupees. He would, with that money in his pocket, walk to the nearest side-station on the line, about five miles away, and would there take a first-class 74^ Indian Tales ticket for Karachi. Knowing that he had no money on him when he went out shooting, his regiment would not immediately wire to the sea- ports, but would hunt for him in the native vil- lages near the river. Further, no one would think of seeking a deserter in a first-class car- riage. At Karachi, he was to buy white clothes and ship, if he could, on a cargo-steamer. Here he broke in. If 1 helped him to Karachi, he would arrange all the rest. Then I ordered him to wait where he was until it was dark enough for me to ride into the station without my dress being noticed. Now God in His wis- dom has made the heart of the British Soldier, who is very often an unlicked ruffian, as soft as the heart of a little child, in order that he may believe in and follow his officers into tight and nasty places. He does not so readily come to believe in a " civilian," but, when he does, he be- lieves implicitly and like a dog. I had had the honor of the friendship of Private Ortheris, at in- tervals, for more than three years, and we had dealt with each other as man by man. Conse- quently, he considered that all my words were true, and not spoken lightly. Mulvaney and I left him in the high grass near the river-bank, and went away, still keeping to the high grass, toward my horse. The shirt scratched me horribly. The Madness of Private Ortheris 747 We waited nearly two hours for the dusk to fall and allow me to ride off. We spoke of Ortheris in whispers, and strained our ears to catch any sound from the spot where we had left him. But we heard nothing except the wind in the plume-grass. "I've bruk his head," said Mulvaney, earnestly, "time an' agin. I've nearly kilt him wid the belt, sn' yet 1 can't knock thim fits out av his soft head. No! An' he's not soft, for he's reason- able an' likely by natur'. Fwhat is ut ? is ut his breedin' which is nothin', or his edukashin which he niver got ? You that think ye know things, answer me that." But 1 found no answer. I was wondering how long Ortheris, in the bank of the river, would hold out, and whether I should be forced to help him to desert, as 1 had given my word. Just as the dusk shut down and, with a very heavy heart, I was beginning to saddle up my horse, we heard wild shouts from the river. The devils had departed from Private Stanley Ortheris, No. 226}c), B Company. The loneli- ness, the dusk, and the waiting had driven them out as I had hoped. We set off at the double and found him plunging about wildly through the grass, with his coat off — my coat off, I mean. He was calling for us like a madman. When we reached him he was dripping with 748 Indian Tales perspiration, and trembling like a startled horse. We had great difficulty in soothing him. He complained that he was in civilian kit, and wanted to tear my clothes off his body. I or- dered him to strip, and we made a second ex- change as quickly as possible. The rasp of his own "greyback" shirt and the squeak of his boots seemed to bring him to him- self. He put his hands before his eyes and said — "Wot was \\.} I ain't mad, I ain't sunstrook, an' I've bin an' gone an' said, an' bin an' gone an' done. . . . ^0/ 'ave 1 bin an' done!" "Fwhat have you done?" said Mulvaney. "You've dishgraced yourself — though that's no matter. You've dishgraced B Comp'ny, an' worst av all, you've dishgraced Me! Me that taught you how for to walk abroad like a man — whin you was a dhirty little, fish-backed little, whimperin' little recruity. As you are now, Stanley Orth'ris!" Ortheris said nothing for a while. Then he unslung his belt, heavy with the badges of half a dozen regiments that his own had lain with, and handed it over to Mulvaney. " I'm too little for to mill you, Mulvaney," said he, "an' you've strook me before; but you can take an' cut me in two with this 'ere if you like." Mulvaney turned to me. The Madness of Private Ortheris -j^i^ "Lave me to talk to him, sorr," said Mul- vaney, I left, and on my way home thought a good deal over Ortheris in particular, and my friend Private Thomas Atkins whom 1 love, in general. But I could not come to any conclusion of any kind whatever. L'ENVOI And they were stronger hands than mine That digged the Ruby 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. 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 1 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 breathe 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 ba^ar will praise — but Thou — Heart of my heart, have I done well? 750 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This hook is DLL on the last date stamped below. P^ur PECO ID-iJRl ©Gl . - REC'O LD-URL SJSittlNOVlo'iS ^29 1390 MAR 26 1991 fgffOUHM. mi nflT K1 L48? JAN 1 2 2004 JAN 1 1 1983 MA? 2 1968 <. 24139 \y UCLA-Young Research Library PR4854 .139 1899 y L 009 549 199 9 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY A A 001 407 737