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LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERS 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
 OF 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 By RUDYARD KIPLING 
 
Abaft the Funnel 
 
 BY 
 
 RUDYARD KIPLING 
 
 "Men in pajamas sitting abaft the funnel 
 and swapping lies of the purple seas" 
 
 NEW YORK 
 B. W. DODGE & COMPANY 
 
 1909 
 
Copyright, 1909, by 
 B. W. DODGE & COMPANY 
 
fm. 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 HE measure of a man's popularity is 
 
 not always — or indeed seldom — the 
 
 measure of his intrinsic worth. So, 
 
 when the earlier work of any writer 
 is gathered together in more enduring form, 
 catering to the enthusiasm of his readers in his 
 maturer years, there is always a suspicion that 
 the venture is purely a commercial one, with- 
 out literary justification. 
 
 Fortunately these stories of Mr. Kipling's 
 form their own best excuse for this, their first 
 appearance together in book form. Not mere- 
 ly because in them may be traced the origin of 
 that style and subject matter that later made 
 their author famous; but because the stories are 
 in themselves worth while — worth writing, 
 worth reading. "The Likes o' Us" is as true 
 to the type as any of the immortal Mulvaney 
 stories; the beginning of "New Brooms" is as 
 
PREFACE 
 
 succinctly fine as any prose Mr. Kipling ever 
 wrote; for searching out and presenting such 
 splendid pieces of fiction as "Sleipner, late 
 Thurinda," and "A Little More Beef" to a 
 public larger than their original one in India, 
 no apology is necessary. 
 
 A. F. 
 
 [vi] 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Erastasius of the Whanghoa I 
 
 Her Little Responsibility 12 
 
 A Menagerie Aboard 20 
 
 A Smoke of Manila 26 
 
 The Red Lamp 33 
 
 The Shadow of His Hand 41 
 
 A Little More Beef 49 
 
 The History of a Fall 58 
 
 Griffiths the Safe Man 66 
 
 It 77 
 
 The Fallen Idol 85 
 
 New Brooms 91 
 
 Tiglath Pileser 99 
 
 The Like 0' Us 109 
 
 His Brother's Keeper 121 
 
 "Sleipner," Late "Thurinda" 141 
 
 A Supplementary Chapter 161 
 
 Chautauquaed 180 
 
 The Bow Flume Cable Car 204 
 
 In Partibus 213 
 
 Letters on Leave 218 
 
 [vii] 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Adoration of the Mage 251 
 
 A Death in the Camp 258 
 
 A Really Good Time 265 
 
 On Exhibition 273 
 
 The Three Young Men 283 
 
 My Great and Only 292 
 
 The Betrayal of Confidences 305 
 
 The New Dispensation — 1 313 
 
 The New Dispensation — II 322 
 
 The Last of the Stories 331 
 
 [viii] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 ERASTASIUS OF THE WHANGHOA* 
 
 "fT^HE old cat's tumbled down the 
 ventilator, sir, and he's swear- 
 ■** ing away under the furnace- 
 door in the stoke-hole," said the 
 second officer to the Captain of the Whanghoa. 
 
 "Now what in thunder was Erastasius doing 
 at the mouth of the ventilator? It's four feet 
 from the ground and painted red at that. Any 
 of the children been amusing themselves with 
 him, d'you think? I wouldn't have Erastasius 
 disturbed in his inside for all the gold in the 
 treasury," said the Captain. "Tell some one 
 to bring him up, and handle him delicately, for 
 he's not a quiet beast." 
 
 In three minutes a bucket appeared on deck. 
 
 ♦"Turnovers," Vol. VII. 
 
 [i] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 It was covered with a wooden lid. "Think he 
 have make die this time," said the Chinese 
 sailor who carried the coffin, with a grin. 
 "Catchee him topside coals — no open eye — no 
 spit — no sclatchee my. Have got bucket, allee 
 same, and make tight. See!" 
 
 He dived his bare arm under the lid, but 
 withdrew it with a yell, dropping the bucket 
 at the same time. "Hya! Can do. Maskee 
 dlop down — masky spilum coal. Have catchee 
 my light there." 
 
 Blood was trickling from his elbow. He 
 moved aft, while the bucket, mysteriously 
 worked by hidden force, trundled to and fro 
 across the decks, swearing aloud. 
 
 Emerged finally Erastasius, tom-cat and 
 grandfather-in-chief of the Whanghoa — 
 a gaunt brindled beast, lacking one ear, with 
 every hair on his body armed and erect. He 
 was patched with coal-dust, very stiff and sore 
 all over, and very anxious to take the world into 
 his confidence as to his wrongs. For this rea- 
 son he did not run when he was clear of the 
 bucket, but sitting on his hunkers regarded 
 [2] 
 
ERASTASIUS OF THE WHANGHOA 
 
 the Captain, as who would say: "You hold a 
 master's certificate and call yourself a seaman, 
 and yet you allow this sort of thing on your 
 boat." 
 
 "Guess I must apologise, old man," said the 
 Captain gravely. "Those ventilators are a 
 little too broad in the beam for a passenger of 
 your build. What made you walk down it? 
 Not a rat, eh? You're too well fed to trouble 
 of rats. Drink was it." 
 
 Erastasius turned his back on the Captain. 
 He was a tailless Japanese cat, and the abrupt- 
 ness of his termination gave him a specially 
 brusque appearance. 
 
 "Shouldn't wonder if the old man hasn't 
 been stealing something and was getting away 
 from the galley. He's the biggest reprobate 
 that ever shipped — and that's saying some- 
 thing. No, he isn't my property exactly. I've 
 got a notion that he owns the ship. Gathered 
 that from the way he goes round after six bells 
 to see the lights out. The chief engineer says 
 he built the engines. Anyway, the old man 
 sits in the engine-room and sort of keeps an 
 [3] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 eye on the boilers. He was on the ship before 
 I joined her — that's seven years ago, when we 
 were running up and down and around and 
 about the China Seas." 
 
 Erastasius, his back to the company, was 
 busied in cleaning his disarranged fur. He 
 licked and swore alternately. The ventilator 
 incident had hurt his feelings sorely. 
 
 "He knows we are talking about him," con- 
 tinued the Captain. "He's a responsible kind 
 o' critter. That's natural when you come to 
 think that he has saved a quarter of a million 
 of dollars. At present his wants are few — 
 guess he would like a netting over those venti- 
 lators first thing — but some day he'll begin to 
 live up to his capital," 
 
 "Saved a quarter of a million dollars ! What 
 securities did he invest 'em in?" said a man 
 from Foochow. 
 
 "Here, in this bottom. He saved the 
 Whanghoa with a full cargo of tea, silk and 
 opium, and thirteen thousand dollars in bar 
 silver. Yes; that's about the extent of the old 
 man's savings. I commanded. The old man 
 
 [4] 
 
ERASTASIUS OF THE WHANGHOA 
 
 was the rescuer, and I was more grateful to 
 him 'cause it was my darned folly that nearly 
 brought us into the trouble. I was new to these 
 waters, new to the Chinaman and his fasci- 
 nating little ways, being a New England man 
 by raising. Erastasius was raised by the 
 Devil. That's who his sire was. Never ran 
 across his dam. Ran across a forsaken sea, 
 though, in the Whanghoa, a little to the north- 
 east of this, with eight hundred steerage pas- 
 sengers, all Chinamen, for various and unde- 
 nominated ports. Had the pleasure of sending 
 eighteen of 'em into the water. Yes, that's so, 
 isn't it, old man?" 
 
 Erastasius finished licking himself and 
 mewed affirmatively. 
 
 "Yes, we carried four white officers — a 
 Westerner, two Vermont men, and myself. 
 There were ten Americans, a couple of Danes 
 and a half-caste knocking round the ship, and 
 the crew were Chinese, but most of 'em good 
 Chinese. Only good Chinese I ever met. We 
 had our steerage passengers 'tween-decks. 
 Most of 'em lay around and played dominoes 
 
 [5] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 or smoked opium. We had bad weather at 
 the start, and the steerage were powerful sick. 
 I judged they would have no insides to them 
 when the weather lifted, so I didn't put any 
 guards on them. Wanted all my men to work 
 the ship. Engines rotten as Congress, and 
 under sail half the time. Next time I carry 
 Chinese steerage trash I'll hire a Gatling and 
 mount it on the 'tween-decks hatch. 
 
 "We were fooling about between islands — 
 about a hundred and fifty thousand islands all 
 wrapped up in fog. When the fog laid the 
 wind, the engines broke down. One of the 
 passengers — we carried no ladies that journey 
 — came to me one evening. 'I calculate there's 
 a conspiracy 'tween-decks,' he said. 'Those 
 pigtails are talking together. No good ever 
 came of pigtails talking. I'm from 'Frisco. 
 I authoritate on these matters.' 'Not on this 
 ship,' I said: 'I've no use for duplicate au- 
 thority.' 'You'll be homesick after nine this 
 time to-morrow,' he said and quit. I guess he 
 told the other passengers his notions. 
 
 "Erastasius shared my cabin in general. I 
 [6] 
 
ERASTASIUS OF THE WHANGHOA 
 
 didn't care to dispute with a cat that went 
 heeled the way he did. That particular night 
 when I came down he was not inclined for 
 repose. When I shut the door he scrabbled 
 till I let him out. When he was out he scrab- 
 bled to come back. When he was back, he 
 jumped all round the shanty yowling. I 
 stroked him, and the sparks irrigated his back 
 as if 'twas the smoke-stack of a river steamer. 
 'I'll get you a wife, old man,' I said, 'next 
 voyage. It is no good for you to be alone with 
 me.' 'Whoopee, yoopee-yaw-aw-aw/ said 
 Erastasius. 'Let me get out of this.' I looked 
 him square between the eyes to fix the place 
 where I'd come down with a boot-heel (he was 
 getting monotonous), and as I looked I saw 
 the animal was just possessed with deadly fear 
 — human fear — crawling, shaking fear. It 
 crept out of the green of his eyes and crept 
 over me in billowing waves — each wave colder 
 than the last. 'Unburden your mind, Erastas- 
 ius,' I said. 'What's going to happen?' 
 'Wheepee-yeepee-ya-ya-ya-woopl' said Eras- 
 tasius, backing to the door and scratching. 
 [7] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 "I quit my cabin sweating big drops, and 
 somehow my hand shut on my six-shooter. The 
 grip of the handle soothes a man when he is 
 afraid. I heard the whole ship 'tween-decks 
 rustling under me like all the woods of Maine 
 when the wind's up. The lamp over the 
 'tween-decks was out. The steerage watch- 
 man was lying on the ground, and the whole 
 hive of Celestials were on the tramp — soft- 
 footed hounds. A lantern came down the alley- 
 way. Behind it was the passenger that had 
 spoken to me, and all the rest of the crowd, 
 except the half-caste. 
 
 " 'Are you homesick any now?' said my pas- 
 senger. The 'tween-decks woke up with a yell 
 at the light, and some one fired up the hatch- 
 way. Then we began our share of the fun — 
 the ten passengers and I. Eleven six-shooters. 
 That cleared the first rush of the pigtails, but 
 we continued firing on principle, working our 
 way down the steps. No one came down from 
 the spar-deck to assist, though I heard con- 
 siderable of a trampling. The pigtails below 
 [8] 
 
ERASTASIUS OF THE WHANGHOA 
 
 were growling like cats. I heard the look- 
 out man shout, 'Junk on the port bow,' and the 
 bell ring in the engine-room for full speed 
 ahead. Then we struck something, and there 
 was a yell inside and outside the ship that 
 would have lifted your hair out. When the 
 outside yell stopped, our pigtails were on their 
 faces. 'Run down a junk,' said my passenger 
 — ' their junk.' He loosed three shots into the 
 steerage on the strength of it. I went up on 
 deck when things were quiet below. Some one 
 had run our Dahlgren signal-gun forward and 
 pointed it to the break of the fo'c'sle. There 
 was the balance of a war junk — three spars 
 and a head or two on the water, and the first 
 mate keeping his watch in regular style. 
 
 " 'What is your share ?' he said. 'We've 
 smashed up a junk that tried to foul us. Seems 
 to have affected the feelings of your friends 
 below. Guess they wanted to make connec- 
 tion.' 'It is made,' said I, 'on the Glassy Sea. 
 Where's the watch?' 'In the fo'c'sle. The half- 
 caste is sitting on the signal-gun smoking his 
 [9] 
 
ABAFT THE FUXXEL 
 
 cigar. The watch are speculatin' whether he'll 
 stick the business-end of it in the touch-hole or 
 continue smoking. I gather that gun is not 
 empty.' 'Send 'em down below to wash decks. 
 Tell the quartermaster to go through their 
 boxes while they are away. They may have 
 implements.' 
 
 "The watch went below to clean things up. 
 There were eighteen stiff uns and fourteen with 
 holes through their systems. Some died, some 
 survived. I did not keep particular count. 
 The balance I roped up, and it employed most 
 of our spare rigging. When we touched port 
 there was a picnic among the hangmen. Seems 
 that Erastasius had been yowling down the 
 cabins all night before he came to me, and kept 
 the passengers alive. The man that spoke to 
 me said the old man's eyes were awful to look 
 at. He was dying to tell his fear, but couldn't. 
 When the passengers came forward with the 
 light, the half-caste quit for topside and got 
 the quartermaster to load the signal-gun with 
 handspikes and bring it forward in case the 
 [10] 
 
ERASTASIUS OF THE WHANGHOA 
 
 fo'c'sle wished to assist in the row. That was 
 the best half-caste I ever met. But the fo'c'sle 
 didn't assist. They were sick. So were the 
 men below — horror-sick. That was the way the 
 old man saved the Whanghoa" 
 
 C"3 
 
HER LITTLE RESPONSIBILITY* 
 
 And No Man May Answer for the Soul of His Brother 
 
 IT was two in the morning, and Epstin's 
 Dive was almost empty, when a Thing 
 staggered down the steps that led to that 
 horrible place and fawned on me dis- 
 gustingly for the price of a drink. "I'm dying 
 of thirst," he said, but his tone was not that of 
 a street loafer. There is a freemasonry, the 
 freemasonry of the public schools, stronger 
 than any that the Craft knows. The Thing 
 drank whisky raw, which in itself is not calcu- 
 lated to slake thirst, and I waited at its side 
 because I knew, by virtue of the one sentence 
 above recorded, that it once belonged to my 
 caste. Indeed, so small is the world when one 
 begins to travel round it, that, for aught I 
 
 •"Turnovers," Vol. VII. 
 
 [12] 
 
HER LITTLE RESPONSIBILITY 
 
 knew, I might even have met the Thing in that 
 menagerie of carefully-trained wild beasts, 
 Decent Society. And the Thing drank more 
 whisky ere the flood-gates of its speech were 
 loosed and spoke of the wonderful story of its 
 fall. 
 
 Never man, he said, had suffered more than 
 he, or for slighter sin. Whereat I winked beer- 
 ily into the bottom of my empty glass, having 
 heard that tale before. I think the Thing had 
 been long divided from all social and moral 
 restraint — even longer from the wholesome in- 
 fluence of soap and water. 
 
 "What I feel most down here," said It, and 
 by "down here" I presume he meant the Inferno 
 of his own wretchedness, "is the difficulty about 
 getting a bath. A man can always catch a 
 free lunch at any of the bars in the city, if he 
 has money enough to buy a drink with, and you 
 can sleep out for six or eight months of the 
 year without harm, but San Francisco doesn't 
 run to free baths. It's not an amusing life 
 any way you look at it. I'm more or less used 
 to things, but it hurts me even now to meet 
 [13] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 a decent man who knows something of life in 
 the old country. I was raised at Harrow — 
 Harrow, if you please — and I'm not five-and- 
 twenty yet, and I haven't got a penny, and I 
 haven't .got a friend, and there is nothing in 
 creation that I can command except a drink, 
 and I have to beg for that. Have you ever 
 begged for a drink? It hurts at first, but you 
 get used to it. My father's a parson. I don't 
 think he knows I beg drink. He lives near 
 Salisbury. Do you know Salisbury at all? 
 And then there's my mother, too. But I have 
 not heard from either* of them for a couple of 
 years. They think I'm in a real estate office 
 in Washington Territory, coining money hand 
 over fist. If ever you run across them — I sup- 
 pose you will some day — there's the address. 
 Tell them that you've seen me, and that I am 
 well and fit. Understand? — well and fit. I 
 guess I'll be dead by the time you see 'em. 
 That's hard. Men oughtn't to die at five-and- 
 twenty — of drink. Say, were you ever mashed 
 on a girl? Not one of these you see, girls out 
 here, but an English one — the sort of girl 
 [14] 
 
HER LITTLE RESPONSIBILITY 
 
 one meets at the Vicarage tennis-party, don't 
 you know. A girl of our own set. I don't 
 mean mashed exactly, but dead, clean gone, 
 head over ears ; and worse than that I was once, 
 and I fancy I took the thing pretty much as I 
 take liquor now. I didn't know when to stop. 
 It didn't seem to me that there was any reason 
 for stopping in affairs of that kind. I'm quite 
 sure there's no reason for stopping half-way 
 with liquor. Go the whole hog and die. It's 
 all right, though — I'm not going to get drunk 
 here. Five in the morning will suit me just as 
 well, and I haven't the chance of talking to 
 one of you fellows often. So you cut about in 
 fine clothes, do you, and take your drinks at 
 the best bars and put up at the Palace? All 
 Englishmen do. W ell, here's luck ; you may be 
 what I am one of these days. You'll find com- 
 panions quite as well raised as yourself. 
 
 ^ ^ 
 
 "But about this girl. Don't do what I did. 
 I fell in love with her. She lived near us in 
 Salisbury; that was when I had a clean shirt 
 every day and hired horses to ride. One of 
 [15] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 the guineas I spent on that amusement would 
 keep me for a week here. But about this girl. 
 I don't think some men ought to be allowed 
 to fall in love any more than they ought to be 
 allowed to taste whisky. She said she cared for 
 me. Used to say that about a thousand times 
 a day, with a kiss in between. I think about 
 those things now, and they make me nearly as 
 drunk as the whisky does. Do you know any- 
 thing about that love-making business ? I stole 
 a copy of Cleopatra off a. bookstall in Kearney 
 Street, and that priest-chap says a very true 
 thing about it. You can't stop when it's once 
 started, and when it's all over you can't give 
 it up at the word of command. I forget the 
 precise language. That girl cared for me. 
 I'd give something if she could see me now. 
 She doesn't like men without collars and odd 
 boots and somebody else's hat ; but anyhow she 
 made me what I am, and some day she'll know 
 it. I came out here two years ago to a real 
 estate office; my father bought me some sort 
 of a place in the firm. We were all English- 
 men, but we were about a match for an average 
 [16] 
 
HER LITTLE RESPONSIBILITY 
 
 Yankee ; but I forgot to tell you I was engaged 
 to the girl before I came out. Never you make 
 a woman swear oaths of eternal constancy. 
 She'll break every one of them as soon as her 
 mind changes, and call you unjust for making 
 her swear them. I worked enough for five 
 men in my first year. I got a little house and 
 lot in Tacoma fit for any woman. I never 
 drank, I hardly ever smoked, I sold real estate 
 all day, and wrote letters at night. She wrote 
 letters, too, about as full of affection as they 
 make 'em. You can tell nothing from a wom- 
 an's letter, though. If they want to hide any- 
 thing, they just double the 'dears' and 'dar- 
 lings,' and then giggle when the man fancies 
 himself deceived. 
 
 "I don't suppose I was worse off than hun- 
 dreds of others, but it seems to me that she 
 might have had the grace to let me down easily. 
 She went and got married. I don't suppose she 
 knew exactly what she was doing, because I 
 got the letters just the same six weeks after she 
 was married ! It was an odd copy of an Eng- 
 lish paper that showed me what had happened. 
 [17] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 It came in on the same day as one of her let- 
 ters, telling me she would be true to the gates 
 of death. Sounds like a novel, doesn't it? But 
 it did not amuse me in the least. I wasn't con- 
 structed to pitch the letters into the fire and 
 pick up with a Yankee girl. I wrote her a 
 letter; I rather wish I could remember what 
 was in that letter. Then I went to a bar in 
 Tacoma and had some whisky, about a gallon, 
 I suppose. If I had anything approaching to 
 a word of honour about me, I would give it 
 you that I did not know what happened until 
 I was told that my partnership with the firm 
 had been dissolved, and that the house and lot 
 did not belong to me any more. I would have 
 left the firm and sold the house, anyhow, but 
 the crash sobered me for about three days. 
 Then I started another jamboree. I might 
 have got back after the first one, and been a 
 prominent citizen, but the second bust settled 
 matters. Then I began to slide on the down- 
 grade straight off, and here I am now. I could 
 write you a book about what I have come 
 through, if I could remember it. The worst 
 [18] 
 
HER LITTLE RESPONSIBILITY 
 
 of it is I can see that she wasn't worth losing 
 anything in life for, but I've lost just every- 
 thing, and I'm like the priest-chap in Cleo- 
 patra — I can't get over what I remember. If 
 she had let me down easy, and given me warn- 
 ing, I should have been awfully cut up for a 
 time, but I should have pulled through. She 
 didn't do that, though. She lied to me all 
 along, and married a curate, and I dare say 
 she'll be a virtuous she-vicar later on; but the 
 little affair broke me dead, and if I had more 
 whisky in me I should be blubbering like a calf 
 all round this Dive. That would have dis- 
 gusted you, wouldn't it?" 
 "Yes," said I. 
 
 [19 J 
 
A MENAGERIE ABOARD* 
 
 IT was pyjama time on the Madura in the 
 Bay of Bengal, and the incense of the 
 very early morning cigar went up to the 
 stainless skies. Every one knows py- 
 jama time — the long hour that follows the 
 removal of the beds from the saloon skylight 
 and the consumption of chota hazri. Most men 
 know, too, that the choicest stories of many 
 seas may be picked up then — from the long- 
 winded histories of the Colonial sheep-master 
 to the crisp anecdotes of the Calif ornian ; from 
 tales of battle, murder and sudden death told 
 by the Burmah-returned subaltern, to the bland 
 drivel of the globe-trotter. The Captain, taste- 
 fully attired in pale pink, sat up on the signal- 
 gun and tossed the husk of a banana overboard. 
 "It looked in through my cabin-window," 
 
 •Vol. V., Jan.— March, 1889. 
 
 [20] 
 
A MENAGERIE ABOARD 
 
 said he, "and scared me nearly into a fit." We 
 had just been talking about a monkey who ap- 
 peared to a man in an omnibus, and haunted 
 him till he cut his own throat. The apparition, 
 amid howls of incredulity, was said to have been 
 the result of excessive tea-drinking. The Cap- 
 tain's apparition promised to be better. 
 
 "It was a menagerie — a whole turnout, lock, 
 stock, and barrel, from the big bear to the 
 little hippopotamus; and you can guess the 
 size of it from the fact that they paid us a 
 thousand pounds in freight only. We got 
 them all accommodated somewhere forward 
 among the deck passengers, and they whooped 
 up terribly all along the ship for two or three 
 days. Among other things, such as panthers 
 and leopards, there were sixteen giraffes, and 
 we moored 'em fore and aft as securely as 
 might be ; but you can't get a purchase on a gi- 
 raffe somehow. He slopes back too much from 
 the bows to the stern. We were running up the 
 Red Sea, I think, and the menagerie fairly 
 quiet. One night I went to my cabin not feel- 
 ing well. About midnight I was waked by 
 [21] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 something breathing on my face. I was quite 
 calm and collected, for I had got it into my 
 head that it was one of the panthers, or at least 
 the bear; and I reached back to the rack behind 
 me for a revolver. Then the head began to 
 slide against my cabin — all across it — and I 
 said to myself : 'It's the big python.' But I 
 looked into its eyes — they were beautiful eyes 
 — and saw it was one of the giraffes. Tell you, 
 though, a giraffe has the eyes of a sorrowful 
 nun, and this creature was just brimming over 
 with liquid tenderness. The seven-foot neck 
 rather spoilt the effect, but I'll always recollect 
 those eyes." 
 
 "Say, did you kiss the critter?" demanded 
 the orchid-hunter en route to Siam. 
 
 "No; I remembered that it was darn valua- 
 ble, and I didn't want to lose freight on it. I 
 was afraid it would break its neck drawing its 
 head out of my window — I had a big deck 
 cabin, of course — so I shoved it out softly like 
 a hen, and the head slid out, with those Mary 
 Magdalene eyes following me to the last. Then 
 I heard the quartermaster calling on heaven 
 [22] 
 
A MENAGERIE ABOARD 
 
 and earth for his lost giraffe, and then the row 
 began all up and down the decks. The giraffe 
 had sense enough to duck its head to avoid 
 the awnings — we were awned from bow to 
 stern — but it clattered about like a sick cow, 
 the quartermaster jumping after it, and it 
 swinging its long neck like a flail. 'Catch it, 
 and hold it!' said the quartermaster. 'Catch a 
 typhoon,' said I. 'She's going overboard.' The 
 spotted fool had heaved one foot over the stern 
 railings and was trying to get the other to 
 follow. It was so happy at getting its head 
 into the open I thought it would have crowed — 
 I don't know whether giraffes crow, but it 
 heaved up its neck for all the world like a crow- 
 ing cock. 'Come back to your stable,' yelled 
 the quartermaster, grabbing hold of the brute's 
 tail. 
 
 "I was nearly helpless with laughing, 
 though I knew if the concern went over it 
 would be no laughing matter for me. Well, 
 by good luck she came round — the quarter- 
 master was a strong man at a rope's end. First 
 of all she slewed her neck round, and I could 
 [23] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 see those tender, loving eyes under the stars 
 sort of saying: 'Cruel man! What are you 
 doing to my tail?' Then the foot came on 
 board, and she bumped herself up under the 
 awning, looking ready to cry with disappoint- 
 ment. The funniest thing was she didn't make 
 any noise — a pig would ha' roused the ship in 
 no time — only every time she dropped her foot 
 on the deck it was like firing a revolver, the 
 hoofs clicked so. We headed her towards the 
 bows, back to her moorings — just like a police- 
 man showing a short-sighted old woman over 
 a crossing. The quartermaster sweated and 
 panted and swore, but she never said anything 
 — only whacked her old head despairingly 
 against the awning and the funnel case. Her 
 feet woke up the whole ship, and by the time 
 we had her fairly moored fore and aft the 
 population in their night-gear were giving us 
 advice. Then we took up a yard or two in all 
 the moorings and turned in. No other animal 
 got loose that voyage, though the old lady 
 looked at me most reproachfully every time I 
 came that way, and 'You've blasted my voung 
 [24] 
 
A MENAGERIE ABOARD 
 
 and tender innocence' was the expression of 
 her eyes. It was all the quartermaster's fault 
 for hauling her tail. I wonder she didn't kick 
 him open. Well, of course, that isn't much of 
 a yarn, but I remember once, in the city of 
 Venice, we had a Malayan tapir loose on the 
 deck, and we had to lasso him. It was this 
 way": 
 
 "Guzl thyar hair said the steward, and I fled 
 down the companion and missed the tale of the 
 tapir. 
 
 [25] 
 
A SMOKE OF MANILA* 
 
 THE man from Manila held the floor. 
 "Much care had made him very lean 
 and pale and hollow-eyed." Added 
 to which he smoked the cigars of his 
 own country, and they were bad for the con- 
 stitution. He foisted his Stinkadores Magnifi- 
 cosas and his Cuspidores Imperiallissimos upon 
 all who would accept them, and wondered that 
 the recipients of his bounty turned away and 
 were sad. "There is nothing," said he, "like a 
 Manila cigar." And the pink pyjamas and 
 blue pyjamas and the spotted green pyjamas, 
 all fluttering gracefully in the morning breeze, 
 vowed that there was not and never would 
 be. 
 
 "Do the Spaniards smoke these vile brands 
 to any extent?" asked the Young Gentleman 
 
 ♦"Turnovers," Vol. VII. 
 
 [26] 
 
A SMOKE OF MANILA 
 
 travelling for Pleasure as he inspected a fresh 
 box of Oysters of the East. "Smoke 'em!" 
 said the man from Manila; "they do nothing 
 else day and night." "Ah!" said the Young 
 Gentleman travelling for Pleasure, in the low 
 voice of one who has received mortal injury, 
 "that accounts for the administration of the 
 country being what it is. After a man has 
 tried a couple of these things he would be ready 
 for any crime." 
 
 The man from Manila took no heed of the 
 insult. "I knew a case once," said he, "when 
 a cigar saved a man from the sin of burglary 
 and landed him in quod for five years." "Was 
 he trying to kill the man who gave him the 
 cigar?" said the Young Gentleman travelling 
 for Pleasure. "No, it was this way: My 
 firm's godowns stand close to a creek. That 
 is to say, the creek washes one face of them, and 
 there are a few things in those godowns that 
 might be useful to a man, such as piece-goods 
 and cotton prints — perhaps five thousand dol- 
 lars' worth. I happened to be walking through 
 the place one day when, for a miracle, I was 
 [27] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 not smoking. That was two years ago." 
 "Great Caesar! then he has been smoking ever 
 since!" murmured the Young Gentleman trav- 
 elling for Pleasure. 
 
 "Was not smoking," continued the man from 
 Manila. "I had no business in the godowns. 
 They were a short cut to my house. When 
 half-way through them I fancied I saw a little 
 curl of smoke rising from behind one of the 
 bales. We stack our bales on low saddles, 
 much as ricks are stacked in England. My 
 first notion was to yell. I object to fire in 
 godowns on principle. It is expensive, what- 
 ever the insurance may do. Luckily I sniffed 
 before I shouted, and I sniffed good tobacco 
 smoke." "And this was in Manila, you say?" 
 interrupted the Young Gentleman travelling 
 for Pleasure. 
 
 "Yes, in the only place in the world where 
 you get good tobacco. I knew we had no bales 
 of the weed in stock, and I suspected that a 
 man who got behind print bales to finish his 
 cigar might be worth looking up. I walked 
 between the bales till I reached the smoke. It 
 [28] 
 
ASMOKE OF MANILA 
 
 was coming from the ground under one of 
 the saddles. That's enough, I thought, and 
 I went away to get a couple of the Guarda 
 Civile — policemen, in fact. I knew if there 
 was anything to be extracted from my friend 
 the bobbies would do it. A Spanish policeman 
 carries in the day-time nothing more than a 
 six-shooter and machete, a dirk. At night he 
 adorns himself with a repeating rifle, which 
 he fires on the slightest provocation. Well, 
 when the policemen arrived, they poked my 
 friend out of his hiding-place with their dirks, 
 hauled him out by the hair, and kicked him 
 round the godown once or twice, just to let 
 him know that he had been discovered. They 
 then began to question him, and under gentle 
 pressure — I thought he would be pulped into 
 a jelly, but a Spanish policeman always knows 
 when to leave off — he made a clean breast of 
 the whole business. He was part of a gang, 
 and was to lie in the godown all that night. At 
 twelve o'clock a boat manned by his confeder- 
 ates was to drop down the creek and halt under 
 the godown windows, while he was to hand out 
 [29] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 our bales. That was their little plan. He had 
 lain there about three hours, and then he began 
 to smoke. I don't think he noticed what he 
 was doing: smoking is just like breathing to 
 a Spaniard. He could not understand how 
 he had betrayed himself and wanted to know 
 whether he had left a leg sticking out under 
 the saddles. Then the Guarda Civile lam- 
 basted him all over again for trifling with the 
 majesty of the law, and removed him after 
 full confession. 
 
 "I put one of my own men under a saddle 
 with instructions to hand out print bales to 
 anybody who might ask for them in the course 
 of the night. Meantime the police made their 
 own arrangements, which were very compre- 
 hensive. 
 
 "At midnight a lumbering old barge, big 
 enough to hold about a hundred bales, came 
 down the creek and pulled up under the go- 
 down windows, exactly as if she had been one 
 of my own barges. The eight ruffians in her 
 whistled all the national airs of Manila as a 
 signal to the confederate, then cooling his heels 
 [30] 
 
A SMOKE OF MANILA 
 
 in the lock-up. But my man was ready. He 
 opened the window and held quite a long con- 
 fab with these second-hand pirates. They were 
 all half-breeds and Roman Catholics, and the 
 way they called upon all the blessed saints 
 to assist them in their work was edifying. My 
 man began tilting out the bales quite as quickly 
 as the confederate would have done. Only he 
 stopped to giggle now and again, and they 
 spat and swore at him like cats. That made 
 him worse, and at last he dropped yelling with 
 laughter over the half door of the godown 
 goods window. Then one boat came up 
 stream and another down stream, and caught 
 the barge stem and stern. Four Guarda 
 Civiles were in each boat; consequently, eight 
 repeating rifles were pointed at the barge, 
 which was very nicely loaded with our bales. 
 The pirates called on the saints more fluently 
 than ever, threw up their hands, and threw 
 themselves on their stomachs. That was the 
 safest attitude, and it gave them the chance 
 of cursing their luck, the barge, the godown, 
 the Guarda Civile, and every saint in the cal- 
 [31] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 endar. They cursed the saints most, for the 
 Guarda Civile thumped 'em when their re- 
 marks became too personal. We made them 
 put all the bales back again. Then they were 
 handed over to justice and got five years 
 apiece. If they had any dollars they would 
 get out the next day. If they hadn't, they 
 would serve their full time and no ticket-of- 
 leave allowed. That's the whole story." 
 
 "And the only case on record," said the 
 Young Gentleman travelling for Pleasure, 
 "where a Manila cigar was of any use to any 
 one." The man from Manila lit a fresh Cus- 
 pidore and went down to his bath. 
 
 [32] 
 
THE RED LAMP* 
 
 STRONG situation — very strong, 
 sir — quite the strongest one in 
 the play, in fact." 
 
 "What play?" said a voice 
 from the bottom of the long chair under the 
 bulwarks. 
 
 "The Red Lamp." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 Conversation ceased, and there was an in- 
 dustrious sucking of cheroots for the space of 
 half an hour before the company adjourned 
 to the card-room. It was decidedly a night 
 for sleeping on deck — warm as the Red Sea 
 and more moist than Bengal. Unfortunately, 
 every square foot of the deck seemed to be oc- 
 cupied by earlier comers, and in despair I 
 removed myself to the extreme fo'c'sle, where 
 
 ♦"Turnovers," Vol. VII. 
 
 [33] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 the anchor-chains churn rust-dyed water from 
 the hawseholes and the lascars walk about with 
 slushpots. 
 
 The throb of the engines reached this part 
 of the world as a muffled breathing which might 
 be easily mistaken for the snoring of the ship's 
 cow. Occasionally one of the fowls in the coops 
 waked and cheeped dismally as she thought of 
 to-morrow's entrees in the saloon, but other- 
 wise all was very, very still, for the hour was 
 two in the morning, when the crew of a ship 
 are not disposed to be lively. None came to 
 bear me company save the bo'sun's pet kittens, 
 and they were impolite. From where I lay I 
 could look over the whole length of awning, 
 ghostly white in the dark, and by their con- 
 stant fluttering judged that the ship was pitch- 
 ing considerably. The fo'c'sle swung up and 
 down like an uneasy hydraulic lift, and a few 
 showers of spray found their passage through 
 the hawseholes from time to time. 
 
 Have you ever felt that maddening sense 
 of incompetence which follows on watching the 
 work of another man's office? The civilian is 
 [34] 
 
A RED LAMP 
 
 at home among his despatch-boxes and files of 
 pending cases. "How in the world does he do 
 it?" asks the military man. The budding of- 
 ficer can arrange for the movements of two 
 hundred men across country. "Incomprehen- 
 sible!" says the civilian. And so it is with 
 all alien employs from our own. So it was 
 with me. I knew that I was lying among 
 all the materials out of which Clark Russell 
 builds his books of the sea — the rush through 
 the night, the gouts of foam, the singing of 
 the wind in the rigging overhead, and the black 
 mystery of the water — but for the life of me 
 I could make nothing of them all. 
 
 "A topsail royal flying free 
 A bit of canvas was to me, 
 And it was nothing more." 
 
 "Oh, that a man should have but one poor 
 little life and one incomplete set of experiences 
 to crowd into it!" I sighed as the bells of the 
 ship lulled me to sleep and the lookout man 
 crooned a dreary song. 
 
 I slept far into the night, for the clouds 
 [35] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 gathered over the sky, the stars died out, and 
 all grew as black as pitch. But we never 
 slackened speed; we beat the foam to left and 
 right with clanking of chains, rattling of bow- 
 ports, and savage noises of ripping and rend- 
 ing from the cutwater ploughing up to the 
 luminous sea-beasts. I was roused by the 
 words of the man in the smoking-room: "A 
 strong situation, sir, very strong — quite the 
 strongest in the play, in fact — The Red Lamp, 
 y' know." 
 
 I thought over the sentence lazily for a time, 
 and then — surely there was a red lamp in the 
 air somewhere — an intolerable glare that 
 singed the shut eyelids. I opened my eyes and 
 looked forward. The lascar was asleep, his 
 face bowed on his knees, though he ought to 
 have been roused by the hum of a rapidly ap- 
 proaching city, by the noises of men and 
 women talking and laughing and drinking. I 
 could hear it not half a mile away: it was 
 strange that his ears should be closed. 
 
 The night was so black that one could hardly 
 breathe; and yet where did the glare from the 
 [36] 
 
A RED LAMP 
 
 red lamp come from? Not from our ship: 
 she was silent and asleep — the officers on the 
 bridge were asleep; there was no one of 
 four hundred souls awake but myself. And 
 the glare of the red lamp went up to the zenith. 
 Small wonder. A quarter of a mile in front 
 of us rolled a big steamer under full steam, 
 and she was heading down on us without a 
 word of warning. Would the lookout man 
 never look out? Would their crew be as fast 
 asleep as ours? It was impossible, for the 
 other ship hummed with populous noises, and 
 there was the defiant tinkle of a piano rising 
 above all. She should have altered her course, 
 or blown a fog-horn. 
 
 I held my breath while an eternity went by, 
 counted out by the throbbing of my heart and 
 the engines. I knew that it was my duty to 
 call, but I knew also that no one could hear 
 me. Moreover, I was intensely interested in 
 the approaching catastrophe; interested, you 
 will understand, as one whom it did in no wise 
 concern. By the light of the luminous sea 
 thrown forward in sheets under the forefoot of 
 [37] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 the advancing steamer I could discern the 
 minutest details of her structure from cat-head 
 to bridge. Abaft the bridge she was crowded 
 with merrymakers — seemed to be, in fact, a 
 P. & O. vessel given up to a ball. I wondered 
 as I leaned over the bulwarks what they would 
 say when the crash came — whether they would 
 shriek very loudly — whether the men and wom- 
 en would try to rush to our decks, or whether 
 we would rush on to theirs. It would not mat- 
 ter in the least, for at the speed we were driv- 
 ing both vessels would go down together 
 locked through the deeps of the sea. It oc- 
 curred to me then that the sea would be cold, 
 and that instead of choking decently I might 
 be one in a mad rush for the boats — might be 
 crippled by a falling spar or wrenched plate 
 and left on the heeling decks to die. Then 
 Terror came to me — Fear, gross and over- 
 whelming as the bulk of the night — Despair 
 unrelieved by a single ray of hope. 
 
 We were not fifty yards apart when the pas- 
 sengers on the stranger caught sight of us and 
 [38] 
 
A RED LAMP 
 
 shrieked aloud. I saw a man pick up his child 
 from one of the benches and futilely attempt 
 to climb the rigging. Then we closed — her 
 name-plate ten feet above ours, looking down 
 into our forehatch. I heard the grinding as 
 of a hundred querns, the ripping of the tough 
 bow-plates, and the pistol-like report of dis- 
 placed rivets followed by the rush of the sea. 
 We were sinking in mid-ocean. 
 
 ****** 
 
 "Beg y' pardon," said the quartermaster, 
 shaking me by the arm, "but you must have 
 been sleeping in the moonlight for the last 
 two hours, and that's not good for the eyes. 
 Didn't seem to make you sleep easy, either." 
 I opened my eyes heavily. My face was 
 swollen and aching, for on my forehead lay 
 the malignant splendour of the moon. The 
 glare of the Red Lamp had vanished with the 
 brilliantly-lighted ship, but the ghastly shrieks 
 of her drowning crew continued. 
 
 "What's that?" I asked tremulously of the 
 quartermaster. "Was it real?" 
 
 [39] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 "Pork chops in the saloon to-morrow," said 
 the quartermaster. "The butcher he got up at 
 four bells to put the old squeaker out of the 
 way. Them's his dying ejaculations." 
 
 I dragged my bedding aft and went to sleep. 
 
 [40] 
 
THE SHADOW OF HIS HAND* 
 
 < < TT COME from San Jose," he said. 
 
 "San Jose, Calaveras County, Cali- 
 
 A fornia: that's my place." I pricked 
 up my ears at the mention of Cala- 
 veras County. Bret Harte has made that 
 sacred ground. 
 
 "Yes?" said I politely. Always be polite to 
 a gentleman from Calaveras County. For 
 aught you know he may be a lineal descendant 
 of the great Colonel Starbottle. 
 
 "Did you ever know Vermilyea of San Luis 
 Obispo?" continued the stranger, chewing the 
 plug of meditation. 
 
 "No," said I. Heaven alone knows where 
 lies San Luis Obispo, but I was not going to 
 expose my ignorance. Besides, there might 
 
 '"Turnovers," Vol. VII. 
 
 [41] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 be a story at the back of it all. "What was the 
 special weakness of Mister Vermilyea?" 
 
 "Vermilyea! He weak! Lot Vermilyea 
 never had a weakness that you might call a 
 weakness until subsequent events transpired. 
 Then that weakness developed into White Rye. 
 All Westerners drink White Rye. On the 
 Eastern coast they drink Bourbon. Lot tried 
 both when his heart was broken. Both — by the 
 quart." 
 
 "D' you happen to remember what broke his 
 heart?" I said. 
 
 "This must be your first trip to the States, 
 sir, or you would know that Lot's heart was 
 broken by his father-in-law. Lot's congrega- 
 tion — he took to Religion — always said that 
 he had no business fooling with a father-in- 
 law. A good many other people said that too. 
 But I always adhered to Lot. 'Why don't you 
 kill the animal, Lot?' I used to say. 'I can't. 
 He's the father of my wife,' Lot used to say. 
 'Loan him money then and settle him on the 
 other side of the States,' I used to say. 'The 
 old clam won't move,' Lot used to say." 
 [42] 
 
THE SHADOW OF HIS HAND 
 
 "Half a minute. What was the actual 
 trouble between Vermilyea and his father-in- 
 law? Did he borrow money?" 
 
 "I'm coming to that," said the stranger calm- 
 ly. "It arrived this way. Lot had a notion to 
 get married. Some men get that idea. He 
 went to 'Frisco and pawned out his heart — 
 Lot had a most feeling heart, and that was 
 his ruin — to a girl who lived at back of Kear- 
 ney Street. I've forgotten her given name, 
 but the old man's name was Dougherty. Guess 
 he was a naturalised Irishman. The old man 
 did not see the merits of Lot when he went 
 sparking after the girl evenings. He fired 
 Lot out off the stoop three or four times. Lot 
 didn't hit him because he was fond of the 
 daughter. He just quit like a lamb; the old 
 man welting into him with anything that came 
 handy — sticks and besoms, and such. Lot en- 
 dured that, being a tough man. Every time 
 Lot was fired out he would wait till the old 
 man was pretty well pumped out. Then he 
 used to turn round and say, 'When's the wed- 
 ding to be?' Dougherty used to ramp round 
 [43] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 Lot while the girl hid herself till the breeze 
 abated. He had a peculiar aversion to domi- 
 ciliary visits from Lot, had Dougherty. I've 
 my own theory on the subject. I'll explain 
 it later on. At last Dougherty got tired of 
 Lot and his peacefulness. The girl stuck to 
 him for all she was worth. Lot never budged. 
 'If you want to marry her,' said the old man, 
 'just drop your long-suffering for half an 
 hour. Stand up to me, Lot, and we'll run this 
 thing through with our hands.' 'If I must, I 
 must,' said Lot, and with that they began the 
 argument up and down the parlour floor. Lot 
 he was fighting for his wife. He set con- 
 siderable value on the girl. The old man he 
 was fighting for the fun of the affair. Lot 
 whipped. He handled the old man tenderly 
 out of regard for his connections. All the same 
 he fixed him up pretty thoroughly. When 
 he crawled off the old man he had received his 
 permission to marry the girl. Old man 
 Dougherty ran round 'Frisco advertising Lot 
 for the tallest fighter in the town. Lot was a 
 respectable sort of man and considerable ab- 
 [ 44 ] 
 
THE SHADOW OF HIS HAND 
 
 sorbed in preparing for his wedding. It didn't 
 please him any to receive invitations from the 
 boss fighting men of 'Frisco — professional in- 
 vitations, you must understand. I guess he 
 cussed the father-in-law to be. 
 
 "When he was married, he concluded to lo- 
 cate in 'Frisco, and started business there. A 
 married man don't keep his muscle up any. 
 Old man Dougherty he must have counted on 
 that. By the time Lot's first child was born 
 he came around suffering for a fight. He 
 painted Lot's house crimson. Lot endured 
 that. He got a hold of the baby and began 
 yanking it around by the legs to see if it could 
 squeal worth listening to. Lot stretched him. 
 Old man howled with delight. Lot couldn't 
 well hand his father-in-law over to the police, 
 so they had it, knuckle and tooth, all round the 
 front floor, and the old man he quit by the 
 window, considerably mashed up. Lot was 
 fair spent, not having kept up his muscle. My 
 notion is that old man Dougherty being a boss 
 fighter couldn't get his fighting regularly till 
 Lot married into the family. Then he reck- 
 [45] ' 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 oned on a running discussion to warm up his 
 bones. Lot was too fond of his wife to dis- 
 oblige him. Any man in his senses would have 
 brought the old man before the courts, or 
 clubbed him, or laid him out stiff. But Lot 
 was always tender-hearted. 
 
 "Soon as old man Dougherty got his senses 
 together off the pavement, he argued that Lot 
 was considerable less of a fighter than he had 
 been. That pleased the old man. He was 
 plastered and caulked up by the doctors, and 
 as soon as he could move he interviewed Lot 
 and made remarks. Lot didn't much care what 
 he said, but when he came to casting reflections 
 on the parentage of the baby, Lot shut the 
 office door and played round for half an hour 
 till theiwalls glittered like the evening sun. Old 
 man Dougherty crawled out, but he crowed as 
 he crawled. 'Praise the blessed saints,' he said, 
 'I kin get my fighting along o' my meals. Lot, 
 ye have prolonged my life a century.' 
 
 "Guess Lot would like to see him dead now. 
 He is an old man, but most amazing tough. 
 He has been righting Lot for a matter of three 
 [46] 
 
THE SHADOW OF HIS HAND 
 
 years. If Lot made a lucky bit of trade, the 
 old man would come along and fight him for 
 luck. If Lot lost a little, the old man would 
 fight him to teach him safe speculation. It 
 took all Lot's time to keep even with him. No 
 man in business can 'tend his business and fight 
 in streaks. Lot's trade fell off every time he 
 laid himself out to stretch the old man. Worst 
 of it was that when Lot was made a Deacon of 
 his church, the old man fought him most ter- 
 rible for the honour of the Roman Catholic 
 Church. Lot whipped, of course. He always 
 whipped. Old man Dougherty went round 
 among the other Deacons and lauded Lot for 
 a boss pugilist, not meaning to hurt Lot's 
 prospects. Lot had to explain the situation to 
 the church in general. They accepted it. 
 
 "Old man Dougherty he fought on. Age 
 had no effect on him. Lot always whipped, but 
 nothing would satisfy the old man. Lot shook 
 all his teeth out till his gums were as bare as 
 a sand-bar. Old man Dougherty came along 
 lisping his invitation to the dance. They 
 fought. 
 
 [47] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 "When Lot shifted to San Luis Obispo, old 
 man Dougherty he came along too — craving 
 for his fight. It was cocktails and plug to 
 him. It grew on him. Lot handled him too 
 gently because of the wife. The old man could 
 come to the scratch once a month, and always 
 at the most inconvenient time. They fought. 
 
 "Last I heard of Lot he was sinking into 
 the tomb. 'It's not the fighting,' he said to 
 me. 'It's the darned monotony of the circus. 
 He knows I can whip him, but he won't rest 
 satisfied. 'Lay him out, Lot,' said I ; 'fracture 
 his cranium or gouge him. This show is foolish 
 all round.' 'I can't lay him out,' said Lot. 
 'He's my father-in-law. But don't it strike you 
 I've a deal to be thankful for? If he had been 
 a Jew he'd have fought on Sundays when I 
 was doing Deacon. I've been too gentle with 
 him; the old man knows my spot place, but 
 I've a deal to be thankful for.' 
 
 "Strikes me that thankfulness of Lot's sort 
 is nothing more nor less than cussed affecta- 
 tion. Say!" 
 
 I said nothing. 
 
 [48] 
 
A LITTLE MORE BEEF* 
 
 LITTLE more beef, please," said 
 the fat man with the grey whis- 
 kers and the spattered waistcoat. 
 "You can't eat too much o' good 
 
 beef — not even when the prices are going up 
 hoof over hock." And he settled himself down 
 to load in a fresh cargo. 
 
 Now, this is how the fat man had come by 
 his meal. One thousand miles away, a red 
 Texan steer was preparing to go to bed for 
 the night in the company of his fellows — myr- 
 iads of his fellows. From dawn till late dusk 
 he had loafed across the leagues of grass and 
 grunted savagely as each mouthful proved to 
 his mind that grass was not what he had known 
 it in his youth. But the steer was wrong. That 
 summer had brought great drought to Mon- 
 
 ♦"Turnovers," Vol. VII. 
 
 [49] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 tana and Northern Dakota. The cattle feed 
 was withering day by day, and the more pru- 
 dent stock owners had written to the East for 
 manufactured provender. Only the little cac- 
 tus that grows with the grasses appeared to 
 enjoy itself. The cattle certainly did not; and 
 the cowboys from the very beginning of spring 
 had used language considered profane even for 
 the cowboy. What their ponies said has never 
 been recorded. The ponies had the worst time 
 of all, and at each nightly camp whispered to 
 each other their longings for the winter, when 
 they would be turned out on the freezing 
 ranges — galled from wither to croup, but 
 riderless — thank Heaven, riderless. On these 
 various miseries the sun looked down impartial. 
 His business was to cake the ground and ruin 
 the grasses. 
 
 The cattle — the acres of huddled cattle — 
 were restless. In the first place, they were 
 forced to scatter for graze; and in the second, 
 the heat told on their tempers and made them 
 prod each other with their long horns. In the 
 heart of the herd you would have thought men 
 [50] 
 
A LITTLE MORE BEEF 
 
 were fighting with single-sticks. On the out- 
 skirts, posted at quarter-mile intervals, sat the 
 cowboys on their ponies, the brims of their hats 
 tilted over their sun-skinned noses, their feet 
 out of the big brown-leather hooded stirrups, 
 and their hands gripping the horn of the heavy 
 saddle to keep themselves from falling on to 
 the ground — asleep. A cowboy can sleep at 
 full gallop; on the other hand, he can keep 
 awake also at full gallop for eight and forty 
 hours and wear down six unamiable bronchos 
 in the process. 
 
 Lafe Parmalee; Shwink, the German who 
 could not ride but had a blind affection for 
 cattle from the branding-yard to the butcher's 
 block; Michigan, so called because he said he 
 came from California but spoke not the Cali- 
 fornian tongue; Jim from San Diego, to dis- 
 tinguish him from other Jims, and The 
 Corpse, were the outposts of the herd. The 
 Corpse had won his name from a statement, 
 made in the fulness of much McBrayer 
 whisky, that he had once been a graduate of 
 Corpus Christi. He spoke truth, but to the 
 [51] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 wrong audience. The inhabitants of the Elite 
 Saloon, after several attempts to get the hang 
 of the name, dubbed the speaker The Corpse, 
 and as long as he cinched a broncho or jingled 
 a spur within four hundred miles of Livingston 
 — yea, far in the south, even to the unexplored 
 borders of the sheep-eater Indians — he was 
 known by that unlovely name. How he had 
 passed from college to cattle no man knew, 
 and, according to the etiquette of the West, no 
 man asked. He was not by any means a ten- 
 derfoot — had no unmanly weakness for wash- 
 ing, did not in the least object to appearing at 
 the wild and wonderful reunions held nightly 
 in "Miss Minnie's parlour," whose flaring ad- 
 vertisement did not in the least disturb the pro- 
 prieties of Wachoma Junction, and, in com- 
 mon with his associates, was, when drunk, 
 ready to shoot at anything or anybody. He 
 was not proud. He had condescended to take 
 in hand and educate a young and promising 
 Chicago drummer, who by evil fate had wan- 
 dered into that wilderness, where all his cun- 
 ning was of no account; and from that youth's 
 [52] 
 
A LITTLE MORE BEEF 
 
 quivering hand — outstretched by command — 
 had shot away the top of a wineglass. The 
 Corpse was recognised in the freemasonry of 
 the craft as "one of the C.M.R.'s boys, and 
 tough at that." 
 
 The C.M.R. controlled much cattle, and 
 their slaughter-houses in Chicago bubbled the 
 blood of beeves all day long. Their salt-beef 
 fed the sailor on the sea, and their iced, best 
 firsts, the housekeeper in the London suburbs. 
 Not even the firm knew how many cowboys 
 they employed, but all the firm knew that on 
 the fourteenth day of July their stockyards at 
 Wachoma Junction were to be filled with two 
 thousand head of cattle, ready for immediate 
 shipment to Chicago while prices yet ruled 
 high, and before the grass had withered utterly. 
 Lafe, Michigan, Jim, The Corpse and the 
 others knew this too, and were heartily glad of 
 it, because they would be paid up in Chicago 
 for their half-year's work, and would then do 
 their best towards painting that town in purest 
 vermilion. They would get drunk ; they would 
 gamble, and would otherwise enjoy themselves 
 [53] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 till they were broke; and then they would hire 
 out again. 
 
 The sun dropped behind the rolling hills; 
 and the cattle halted for the night, cheered and 
 cooled by a little wandering breeze. The red 
 steer's mother had been caught in a hailstorm 
 five years ago. Till she went the way of all 
 cow-flesh she missed no opportunity of telling 
 her son to beware of the hot day and the cold 
 wind that does not know its own mind. "When 
 it blows five ways at once," said she, "and 
 makes your horns feel creepy, get away, my 
 son. Follow the time-honoured instinct of our 
 tribe, and run. I ran" — she looked ruefully at 
 the scars on her side — "but that was in a barb- 
 wire country, and it hurt me. None the less, 
 run." The red steer chewed his cud, and the 
 little wind out of the darkness played round his 
 horns — all five ways at once. The cowboys 
 lifted up their voices in unmelodious song, that 
 the cattle might know where they were, and 
 began slowly walking round the recumbent 
 herd. "Do anybody's horns feel creepy?" 
 queried the red steer of his neighbours. "My 
 [54] 
 
A LITTLE MORE BEEF 
 
 mother told me" — and he repeated the tale, to 
 the edification of the yearlings and the three- 
 year-olds breathing heavily at his side. 
 
 The song of the cowboys rose higher. The 
 cattle bowed their heads. Their men were at 
 hand. They were safe. Something had hap- 
 pened to the quiet stars. They were dying out 
 one by one, and the wind was freshening. 
 "Bless my hoofs!" muttered a yearling, "my 
 horns are beginning to feel creepy." Softly the 
 red steer lifted himself from the ground. 
 "Come away," quoth he to the yearling. 
 "Come away to the outskirts, and we'll move. 
 My mother said . . ." The innocent fool fol- 
 lowed, and a white heifer saw them move. 
 Being a woman she naturally bellowed "Tim- 
 ber wolves!" and ran forward blindly into a 
 dun steer dreaming over clover. Followed the 
 thunder of cattle rising to their feet, and the 
 triple crack of a whip. The little wind had 
 dropped for a moment, only to fall on the 
 herd with a shriek and a few stinging drops of 
 hail, that stung as keenly as the whips. The 
 herd broke into a trot, a canter, and then a 
 [55] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 mad gallop. Black fear was behind them, 
 black night in front. They headed into the 
 night, bellowing with terror; and at their side 
 rode the men with the whips. The ponies 
 grunted as they felt the raking spurs. They 
 knew that, an all-night gallop lay before them, 
 and woe betide the luckless cayuse that stum- 
 bled in that ride. Then fell the hail — blinding 
 and choking and flogging in one and the same 
 stroke. The herd opened like a fan. The red 
 steer headed a contingent he knew not whither. 
 A man with a whip rode at his right flank. Be- 
 hind him the lightning showed a field of glim- 
 mering horns, and of muzzles flecked with 
 foam; a field of red terror-strained eyes and 
 shaggy frontlets. The man looked back also, 
 and his terror was greater than that of the 
 beasts. The herd had surrounded him in the 
 darkness. His salvation lay in the legs of 
 Whisky Peat — and Whisky Peat knew it — 
 knew it until an unseen gopher hole received 
 his near forefoot as he strained every nerve — 
 in the heart of the flying herd, with the red 
 steer at his flanks. Then, being only rn over- 
 [56] 
 
A LITTLE MORE BEEF 
 
 worked cayuse, Whisky Feat fell, and the red 
 steer fancied that there was something soft on 
 the ground. 
 
 ****** 
 
 It was Michigan, Jim and Lafe who at last 
 brought the herd to a standstill as the dawn 
 was breaking. "What's come to The Corpse?" 
 quoth Lafe. Jim loosened the girths of his 
 quivering pony and made answer slowly : "On- 
 less I'm a blamed fool, the gentleman is now 
 livin' up to his durned appellation 'bout fifteen 
 miles back— what there is of him and the cay- 
 use." "Let's go and look," said Lafe, shud- 
 dering slightly, for the morning air, you must 
 understand, was raw. "Let's go to — a much 
 hotter place than Texas," responded Jim. 
 "Get the steers to the Junction first. Guess 
 what's left of The Corpse will keep." 
 
 And it did. And that was how the fat man 
 in Chicago got his beef. It belonged to the 
 red steer. 
 
 [57] 
 
THE HISTORY OF A FALL* 
 
 MERE English will not do justice to 
 the event. Let us attempt it ac- 
 cording to the custom of the 
 French. Thus and so following: 
 Listen to a history of the most painful — and 
 of the most true. You others, the Governors, 
 the Lieutenant-Governors, and the Commis- 
 sionaires of the Oriental Indias. 
 
 It is you, foolishly outside of the truth in 
 prey to illusions so blind that I of them re- 
 main so stupefied — it is to you that I address 
 myself! 
 
 Know you Sir Cyril Wollobie, K.C.S.L, 
 C.M.G., and all the other little things? 
 
 He was of the Sacred Order of Yourself — 
 a man responsible enormously — charged of the 
 conservation of millions . . . 
 
 '"Turnovers," Vol. VIII. 
 
 [58] 
 
THE HISTORY OF A FALL 
 
 Of people. That is understood. The In- 
 dian Government conserves not its rupees. 
 
 He was the well-loved of kings. I have seen 
 the Viceroy — which is the Lorr-Maire — em- 
 brace him of both arms. 
 
 That was in Simla. All things are possible 
 in Simla. 
 
 Even embraces. 
 
 His wife! Mon Dieu, his wife! 
 
 The aheuried imagination prostrates itself 
 at the remembrance of the splendours Orien- 
 tals of the Lady Cyril — the very respectable 
 the Lady Wollobie. 
 
 That was in Simla. All things are possible 
 in Simla. Even wives. In those days I was 
 — what you call — a Schnobb. I am now a 
 much larger Schnobb. Voila the only differ- 
 ence. Thus it is true that travel expands the 
 mind. 
 
 But let us return to our Wollobies. 
 
 I admired that man there with the both 
 hands. I crawled before the Lady Wollobie — 
 platonically. The man the most brave would 
 be only platonic towards that lady. And I 
 [59] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 was also afraid. Subsequently I went to a 
 dance. The wine equalled not the splendour 
 of the Wollobies. Nor the food. But there 
 was upon the floor an open space — large and 
 park-like. It protected the dignity Wollobi- 
 callisme. It was guarded by Aides-de-Camp. 
 With blue silk in their coat-tails — turned up. 
 With pink eyes and white moustaches to ravish. 
 Also turned up. 
 
 To me addressed himself an Aide-de-Camp. 
 
 That was in Simla. To-day I do not speak 
 to Aides-de-Camp. 
 
 I confine myself exclusively to the cab- 
 drivaire. He does not know so much bad lan- 
 guage, but he can drive better. 
 
 I approached, under the protection of the 
 Aide-de-Camp, the luminosity of Sir Wollobie. 
 
 The world entire regarded. 
 
 The band stopped. The lights burned blue. 
 A domestic dropped a plate. 
 
 It was an inspiring moment. 
 
 From the summit of Jakko forty-five mon- 
 kies looked down upon the crisis. 
 
 Sir Wollobie spoke. 
 
 [60] 
 
THE HISTORY OF A FALL 
 
 To me in that expanse of floor cultured and 
 park-like. He said: "I have long desired to 
 make your acquaintance." 
 
 The blood bouilloned in my head. I became 
 pink. I was aneantied under the weight of 
 an embarras insubrimable. 
 
 At that moment Sir Wollobie became ob- 
 livious of my personality. That was his 
 custom. 
 
 Wiping my face upon my coat-tails I 
 refugied myself among the foules. 
 
 I had been spoken to by Sir Wollobie. That 
 was in Simla. That also is history. 
 
 ^ 4fc 
 
 Pass now several years. To the day before 
 yesterday ! 
 
 This also is history — farcical, immense, 
 tragi-comic, but true. 
 
 Know you the Totnam Cortrode? 
 
 Here lives Maple, who sells washing appli- 
 ances and tables of exotic legs. 
 
 Here voyages also a Omnibuse Proletariat. 
 
 That is to say for One penny. 
 
 Two pence is the refined volupte of the 
 Aristocrat. 
 
 [61] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 I am of the people. 
 
 Entre nous the connection is not desired by 
 us. The people address to me epithets, entirely 
 unprintable. I reply that they should wash. 
 The situation is strained. Hence the Strike 
 Docks and the Demonstrations Laborious. 
 
 Upon the funeste tumbril of the Proletariat 
 I take my seat. 
 
 I demand air outside upon the roof. 
 
 I will have all my penny. 
 
 The tumbril advances. 
 
 A man aged loses his equilibrium and de- 
 posits himself into my lap. 
 
 Following the custom of the Brutal Lon- 
 doner I demand the Devil where he shoves 
 himself. 
 
 He apologises supplicatorically. 
 I grunt. 
 
 Encore the tumbril shakes herself. 
 I appropriate the desired seat of the old 
 man. 
 
 The conductaire cries to loud voice: "Fare, 
 Guvnor." 
 
 He produces one penny. 
 
 [02] 
 
THE HISTORY OF A FALL 
 
 A reminiscence phantasmal provokes itself. 
 
 I beat him on the back. 
 
 It is Sir Wollobie; the ex-Everything! 
 
 Also the ex-Everything else! 
 
 Figure you the situation ! 
 
 He clasps my hand. 
 
 As a child clasps the hand of its nurse. 
 
 He demands of me particular rensignments 
 of my health. It is to him a matter important. 
 
 Other time he regulated the health of forty- 
 five millions. 
 
 I riposte. I enquire of his liver — his pan- 
 creas, his abdomen. 
 
 The sacred internals of Sir Wollobie! 
 
 He has them all. And they all make him 
 ill. 
 
 He is very lonely. He speaks of his wife. 
 There is no Lady Wollobie, but a woman in 
 a flat in Bays water who cries in her sleep for 
 more curricles. 
 
 He does not say this, but I understand. 
 
 He derides the Council of the Indian Office. 
 He imprecates the Government. 
 
 He curses the journals. 
 
 [63] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 He has a clob. He curses that clob. 
 
 Females with teeth monstrous explain to him 
 the theory of Government. 
 
 Men of long hair, the psychologues of the 
 paint-pots, correct him tenderly, but from 
 above. 
 
 He has known of the actualities of life — 
 Death, Power, Responsibility, Honour — the 
 Good accomplished, the effacement of Wrong 
 for forty years. 
 
 There remains to him a seat in a penny 'bus. 
 
 If I do not take him from that. 
 
 I rap my heels on the knife-board. I sing 
 "tra la la" I am also well disposed to larmes. 
 
 He courbes himself underneath an ulstaire 
 and he damns the fog to eternity. 
 
 He wills not that I leave him. He desires 
 that I come to dinner. 
 
 I am grave. I think upon Lady Wollobie — 
 shorn of chaprassies — at the Clob. Not in 
 Bays water. 
 
 I accept. He will bore me affreusely, but 
 ... I have taken his seat. 
 
 He descends from the tumbril of his humilia- 
 [64] 
 
THE HISTORY OF A FALL 
 
 tion, and the street hawker rolls a barrow up 
 his waistcoat. 
 
 Then intervenes the fog — dense, impenetra- 
 ble, hopeless, without end. 
 
 It is because of the fog that there is a drop 
 upon the end of my nose so chiselled. 
 
 Gentlemen the Governors, the Lieutenant- 
 Governors and the Commissaires, behold the 
 doom prepared. 
 
 I am descended to the gates of your Life in 
 Death. Which is Brompton or Bayswater. 
 
 You do not believe? You will try the con- 
 stituencies when you return; is it not so? 
 
 You will fail. As others failed. 
 
 Your seat waits you on the top of an Omni- 
 buse Proletariat. 
 
 I shall be there. 
 
 You will embrace me as a shipwrecked man 
 embraces a log. You will be "dam glad t' see 
 me." 
 
 I shall grin. 
 
 Oh Life! Oh Death! Oh Power! Oh Toil! 
 Oh Hope! Oh Stars! Oh Honour! Oh Lodg- 
 ings! Oh Fog! Oh Omnibuses! Oh Des- 
 pair! Oh Skittles! 
 
 [65] 
 
GRIFFITHS THE SAFE MAN* 
 
 AS the title indicates, this story deals 
 with the safeness of Griffiths the safe 
 man, the secure person, the reliable 
 individual, the sort of man you 
 would bank with. I am proud to write about 
 Griffiths, for I owe him a pleasant day. This 
 story is dedicated to my friend Griffiths, the 
 remarkably trustworthy mortal. 
 
 In the beginning there were points about 
 Griffiths. He quoted proverbs. A man who 
 quotes proverbs is confounded by proverbs. 
 He is also confounded by his friends. But I 
 never confounded GrirTths — not even in that 
 supreme moment when the sweat stood on his 
 brow in agony and his teeth were fixed like 
 bayonets and he swore horribly. Even then, 
 I say, I sat on my own trunk, the trunk that 
 
 ♦"Turnovers," Vol. VII. 
 
 [66] 
 
GRIFFITHS THE SAFE MAN 
 
 opened, and told Griffiths that I had always 
 respected him, but never more than at the pres- 
 ent moment. He was so safe, y' know. 
 
 Safeness is a matter of no importance to 
 me. If my trunk won't lock when I jump 
 on it thrice, I strap it up and go on to some- 
 thing else. If my carpet-bag is too full, I 
 let the tails of shirts and the ends of ties bubble 
 over and go down the street with the affair. 
 It all comes right in the end, and if it does not, 
 what is a man that he should fight against 
 Fate? 
 
 But Griffiths is not constructed in that man- 
 ner. He says: "Safe bind is safe find." That, 
 rather, is what he used to say. He has seen 
 reason to alter his views. Everything about 
 Griffiths is safe — entirely safe. His trunk is 
 locked by two hermetical gun-metal double- 
 end Chubbs; his bedding-roll opens to a letter 
 padlock capable of two million combinations; 
 his hat-box has a lever patent safety on it ; and 
 the grief of his life is that he cannot lock up 
 the ribs of his umbrella safely. If you could 
 get at his soul you would find it ready strapped 
 [67] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 up and labelled for heaven. That is Griffiths. 
 
 When we went to Japan together, Griffiths 
 kept all his money under lock and key. I 
 carried mine in my coat-tail pocket. But all 
 Griffiths' contraptions did not prevent him 
 from spending exactly as much as I did. You 
 see, when he had worried his way through the 
 big strap, and the little strap, and the slide- 
 valve, and the spring lock, and the key that 
 turned twice and a quarter, he felt as though 
 he had earned any money he found, whereas 
 I could get masses of sinful wealth by merely 
 pulling out my handkerchief — dollars and five 
 dollars and ten dollars, all mixed up with the 
 tobacco or flying down the road. They looked 
 much too pretty to spend. 
 
 "Safe bind, safe find," said Griffiths in the 
 treaty port. 
 
 He never really began to lock things up 
 severely till we got our passports to travel up- 
 countr} r . He took charge of mine for me, on 
 the ground that I was an imbecile. As you 
 are asked for your passport at every other 
 shop, all the hotels, most of the places of 
 [68] 
 
GRIFFITHS THE SAFE MAN 
 
 amusement, and on the top of each hill, I got 
 to appreciate Griffiths' self-sacrifice. He 
 would be biting a strap with his teeth or cal- 
 culating the combinations of his padlocks 
 among a ring of admiring Japanese while I 
 went for a walk into the interior. 
 
 "Safe bind, safe find," said Griffiths. That 
 was true, because I was bound to find Griffiths 
 somewhere near his beloved keys and straps. 
 He never seemed to see that half the pleasure 
 of his trip was being strapped and keyed out 
 of him. 
 
 We never had any serious difficulty about 
 the passports in the whole course of our wan- 
 derings. What I purpose to describe now is 
 merely an incident of travel. It had no effect 
 on myself, but it nearly broke Griffiths' heart. 
 
 We were travelling from Kyoto to Otsu 
 along a very dusty road full of pretty girls. 
 Every time I stopped to play with one of them 
 Griffiths grew impatient. He had telegraphed 
 for rooms at the only hotel in Otsu, and was 
 afraid that there would be no accommodation. 
 There were only three rooms in the hotel, and 
 [69] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 "Safe bind, safe find," said Griffiths. He was 
 telegraphing ahead for something. 
 
 Our hotel was three-quarters Japanese and 
 one-quarter European. If you walked across 
 it it shook, and if you laughed the roof fell 
 off. Strange Japanese came in and dined 
 with you, and Jap maidens looked through the 
 windows of the bathroom while you were 
 bathing. 
 
 We had hardly put the luggage down before 
 the proprietor asked for our passports. He 
 asked me of all people in the world. "I have 
 the passports," said Griffiths with pride. 
 "They are in the yellow-hide bag. Turn it 
 very carefully on to the right side, my good 
 man. You have no such locks in Japan, I'm 
 quite certain." Then he knelt down and 
 brought out a bunch of keys as big as his 
 fist. You must know that every Japanese 
 carries a little belaiti-made handbag with nickel 
 fastenings. They take an interest in hand- 
 bags. 
 
 "Safe bind, safe D — n the key! What's 
 
 wrong with it?" said Griffiths. 
 
 [70] 
 
GRIFFITHS THE SAFE MAN 
 
 The hotel proprietor bowed and smiled very 
 politely for at least five minutes, Griffiths 
 crawling over and under and round and about 
 his bag the while. "It's a percussating com- 
 pensator," said he, half to himself. "I've never 
 known a percussating compensator do this 
 before." He was getting heated and red in 
 the face. 
 
 "Key stuck, eh? I told you those fooling 
 little spring locks are sure to go wrong sooner 
 or later." 
 
 "Fooling little devils. It's a percussating 
 
 comp There goes the key. Now it won't 
 
 move either way. I'll give you the passport 
 to-morrow. Passport kul demang manana — 
 catchee in a little time. Won't that do for 
 
 you?" 
 
 Griffiths was getting really angry. The pro- 
 prietor was more polite than ever. He bowed 
 and left the room. "That's a good little chap," 
 said Griffiths. "Now we'll settle down and see 
 what the mischief's wrong with this bag. You 
 catch one end." 
 
 "Not in the least," I said. " 'Safe bind, safe 
 [71] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 find.' You did the binding. How can you 
 expect me to do the finding? I'm an imbecile 
 unfit to be trusted with a passport, and now 
 I'm going for a walk." The Japanese are 
 really the politest nation in the world. When 
 the hotel proprietor returned with a policeman 
 he did not at once thrust the man on Griffiths' 
 notice. He put him in the verandah and let 
 him clank his sword gently once or twice. 
 
 "Little chap's brought a blacksmith," said 
 Griffiths, but when he saw the policeman his 
 face became ugly. The policeman came into 
 the room and tried to assist. Have you ever 
 seen a four-foot policeman in white cotton 
 gloves and a stand-up collar lunging percus- 
 sating compensator look with a five-foot 
 sword? I enjoyed the sight for a few minutes 
 before I went out to look at Otsu, which is a 
 nice town. No one hindered me. Griffiths was 
 so completely the head of the firm that had I 
 set the town on fire he would have been held 
 responsible. 
 
 I went to a temple, and a policeman said 
 "passport." I said, "The other gentleman has 
 [72] 
 
GRIFFITHS THE SAFE MAN 
 
 got." "Where is other gentleman?" said the 
 policeman, syllable by syllable, in the Ollen- 
 dorfian style. "In the ho-tel," said I ; and he 
 waddled off to catch him. It seemed to me 
 that I could do a great deal towards cheering 
 Griffiths all alone in his bedroom with that 
 wicked bad lock, the hotel proprietor, the 
 policeman, the room-boy, and the girl who 
 helped one to bathe. With this idea I stood in 
 front of four policemen, and they all asked for 
 my passport and were all sent to the hotel, 
 syllable by syllable — I mean one by one. 
 
 Some soldiers of the 9th N. I. were strolling 
 about the streets, and they were idle. It is 
 unwise to let a soldier be idle. He may get 
 drunk. When the fourth policeman said: 
 "Where is other gentleman?" I said: "In the 
 hotel, and take soldiers — those soldiers." 
 
 "How many soldiers?" said the policeman 
 firmly. 
 
 "Take all soldiers," I said. There were four 
 files in the street just then. The policeman 
 spoke to them, and they caught up their big 
 [73] 
 
ABAFT THE FUXXEL 
 
 sword-bayonets, nearly as long as themselves, 
 and waddled after him. 
 
 I followed them, but first I bought some 
 sweets and gave one to a child. That was 
 enough. Long before I had reached the hotel 
 I had a tail of fifty babies. These I seduced 
 into the long passage that ran through the 
 house, and then I slid the grating that answers 
 to the big hall-door. That house was full — 
 pit, boxes and galleries — for Griffiths had cre- 
 ated an audience of his own, and I also had not 
 been idle. 
 
 The four files of soldiers and the five police- 
 men were marking time on the boards of 
 Griffith's room, while the landlord and the 
 landlord's wife, and the two scullions, and the 
 bath-girl, and the cook-boy, and the boy who 
 spoke English, and the boy who didn't, and the 
 boy who tried to, and the cook, filled all the 
 space that wasn't devoted to babies asking the 
 foreigner for more sweets. 
 
 Somewhere in the centre of the mess was 
 Griffiths and a yellow-hide bag. I don't think 
 he had looked up once since I left, for as he 
 [71] 
 
GRIFFITHS THE SAFE MAN 
 
 raised his eyes at my voice I heard him cry: 
 "Good heavens! are they going to train the 
 guns of the city on me? What's the meaning 
 of the regiment? I'm a British subject." 
 
 "What are you looking for?" I asked. 
 
 "The passports — your passports — the dou- 
 ble-dyed passports! Oh, give a man room to 
 use his arms. Get me a hatchet." 
 
 "The passports, the passports!" I said. 
 "Have you looked in your great-coat? It's on 
 the bed, and there's a blue envelope in it that 
 looks like a passport. You put it there before 
 you left Kyoto." 
 
 Griffiths looked. The landlord looked. The 
 landlord took the passport and bowed. The 
 five policemen bowed and went out one by one ; 
 the 9th N. I. formed fours and went out; the 
 household bowed, and there was a long silence. 
 Then the bath-girl began to giggle. 
 
 When Griffiths wanted to speak to me I was 
 on the other side of the regiment of children 
 in the passage, and he had time to reflect before 
 he could work his way through them. 
 [75] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 They formed his guard-of-honour when he 
 took the bag to the locksmith. 
 
 I abode on the mountains of Otsu till dinner- 
 time. 
 
 t 
 
 [76] 
 
IT I* 
 
 HERE was no talk of it for a fortnight. 
 
 We spoke of latitude and longitude 
 
 and the proper manufacture of sherry- 
 
 cobblers, while the steamer cut open a 
 glassy-smooth sea. Then we turned towards 
 China and drank farewell to the nearer East. 
 
 "We shall reach Hongkong without being 
 it," said the nervous lady. 
 
 "Nobody of ordinary strength of mind ever 
 was it," said the big fat man with the voice. 
 I kept my eye on the big fat man. He boasted 
 too much. 
 
 The China seas are governed neither by wind 
 nor calm. Deep down under the sapphire 
 waters sits a green and yellow devil who suffers 
 from indigestion perpetually. When he is un- 
 well he troubles the waters above with his twist- 
 
 ♦"Turnovers," Vol. I. 
 
 [77] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 ings and writhings. Thus it happens that it 
 is never calm in the China seas. 
 
 The sun was shining brightly when the big 
 fat man with the voice came up the companion 
 and looked at the horizon. 
 
 "Hah!" said he, "calm as ditch water! Now 
 I remember when I was in the Florida in '80, 
 meeting a tidal-wave that turned us upside 
 down for live minutes, and most of the people 
 inside out, by Jove!" He expatiated at length 
 on the heroism displayed by himself when 
 "even the Captain was down, sir!" 
 
 I said nothing, but I kept my eyes upon the 
 strong man. 
 
 The sun continued to shine brightly, and it 
 also kept an eye in the same direction. I went 
 to the far-off fo'c'sle, where the sheep and the 
 cow and the bo'sun and the second-class pas- 
 sengers dwell together in amity. "Bo'sun," 
 said I, "how's her head?" 
 
 "Direckly in front of her, sir," replied that 
 ill-mannered soul, "but we shall be meetin' a 
 head-sea in half an hour that'll put your head 
 [78] 
 
IT! 
 
 atween of your legs. Go aft an' tell that to 
 them first-class passengers." 
 
 I went aft, but I said nothing. We went, 
 later, to tiffin, and there was a fine funereal 
 smell of stale curries and tinned meats in the 
 air. Conversation was animated, for most of 
 the passengers had been together for five weeks 
 and had developed two or three promising flir- 
 tations. I was a stranger — a minnow among 
 Tritons — a third man in the cabin. Only those 
 who have been a third man in the cabin know 
 what this means. Suddenly and without warn- 
 ing our ship curtsied. It was neither a bob 
 nor a duck nor a lurch, but a long, sweeping, 
 stately old-fashioned curtsy. Followed a lull 
 in the conversation. I was distinctly conscious 
 that I had left my stomach two feet in the air, 
 and waited for the return roll to join it. 
 "Prettily the old hooper rides, doesn't she?" 
 said the strong man. "I hope she won't do it 
 often," said the pretty lady with the changing 
 complexion. 
 
 "Wha-hoop ! Wha — wha — wha — willy 
 whoop!" said the screw, that had managed to 
 [79] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 come out of the water and was racing wildly. 
 
 "Good heavens! is the ship going down?" 
 said the fat lady, clutching her own private 
 claret hottle that she might not die athirst. The 
 ship went down at the word — with a drunken 
 lurch down she went, and a smothered yell 
 from one of the cahins showed that there was 
 water in the sea. The portholes closed with a 
 clash, and we rose and fell on the swell of the 
 ho'sun's head-sea. The conversation died out. 
 Some complained that the saloon was stuffy, 
 and fled upstairs to the deck. The strong man 
 brought op the rear. 
 
 "Ooshy — ooshy — wooshy — woggle wop!" 
 cried a big wave without a head. "Get up, old 
 girl!" and he smacked the ship most disre- 
 spectfully under the counter, and she squirmed 
 as she took the drift of the next sea. 
 
 "She — ah — rides very prettily," repeated the 
 strong man as the companion stairs spurned 
 him from them and he wound his arms round 
 the nearest steward. 
 
 "Damn prettily," said the necked officer. 
 [80] 
 
IT! 
 
 'Tin going to lie down. Never could stand 
 the China seas." 
 
 "Most refreshing thing in the world," said 
 
 the si rang man faintly. 
 
 I took counsel purely with myself, which is 
 to say, my stomach, and perceived that the 
 worst would not hef'all me. 
 
 "Come to the tb'c'sle, then, and feel the 
 wind," said 1 to the strong man. The plover's- 
 egg eyes of three yellowish-green girls were 
 upon him. 
 
 "With pleasure," said he, and I bore him 
 away to where the cut-water was pulling up 
 the scared flying-fishes as a spaniel flushes 
 game. In front of ns was the illimitable blue, 
 lightly ridged by the procession of the big blind 
 rollers, t'p rose the stem till six feet of the 
 red paint stood clear above the blue — from 
 twenty-three feet to eighteen 1 could count as 
 I leaned over. Then the sapphire crashed into 
 
 splintered crystal with a musical jar. and the 
 
 white spray licked the anchor channels as we 
 drove down and down, sucking at the sea. 1 
 kept my eve upon the strong man, and I no- 
 [SI] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 ticed that his mouth was slightly open, the 
 better to inhale the rushing wind. When I 
 looked a second time he was gone. The driven 
 spray was scarcely quicker in its flight. My 
 excellent stomach behaved with temperance 
 and chastity. I enjoyed the fo'c'sle, and my 
 delight was the greater when I reflected on the 
 strong man. Unless I was much mistaken, he 
 would know all about it in half an hour. 
 
 I went aft, and a lull between two waves 
 heard the petulant pop of a champagne cork. 
 No one drinks champagne after tiffin except 
 . . . It. 
 
 The strong man had ordered the cham- 
 pagne. There were bottles of it flying about 
 the quarter-deck. The engaged couple were 
 sipping it out of one glass, but their faces were 
 averted like our parents of old. They were 
 ashamed. 
 
 "You may go! You may go to Hongkong 
 for me!" shouted half-a-dozen little waves to- 
 gether, pulling the ship several ways at once. 
 She rolled stately, and from that moment set- 
 tled down to the work of the evening. I cannot 
 [82] 
 
IT! 
 
 blame her, for I am sure she did not know her 
 own strength. It didn't hurt her to be on her 
 side, and play cat-and-mouse, and puss-in-the 
 corner, and hide-and-seek, but it destroj^ed the 
 passengers. One by one they sank into long 
 chairs and gazed at the sky. But even there 
 the little white moved, and there was not one 
 stable thing in heaven above or the waters be- 
 neath. My virtuous and very respectable 
 stomach behaved with integrity and resolution. 
 I treated it to a gin cocktail, which I sucked 
 by the side of the strong man, who told me in 
 confidence that he had been overcome by the 
 sun at the fo'c'sle. Sun fever does not make 
 people cold and clammy and blue. I sat with 
 him and tried to make him talk about the 
 Florida and his voyages in the past. He 
 evaded me and went down below. Three min- 
 utes later I followed him with a thick cheroot. 
 Into his bunk I went, for I knew he would be 
 helpless. He was — he was — he was. He wal- 
 lowed supine, and I stood in the doorway 
 smoking. 
 
 "What is it?" said I. 
 
 [83] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 He wrestled with his pride — his wicked 
 pride — but he would not tell a lie. 
 "It," said he. And it was so. 
 
 ****** 
 
 The rolling continues. The ship is a sham- 
 bles, and I have six places on each side of me 
 all to myself. 
 
 [84] 
 
A FALLEN IDOL* 
 
 ILL the public be good enough to 
 look into this business? It has 
 sent Crewe to bed, and Mottleby 
 is applying for home leave, and 
 
 I've lost my faith in man altogether, and the 
 Club gives it up. Trivey is the only man who 
 is unaffected by the catastrophe, and he says 
 "I told you so." We were all proud of Trivey 
 at the Club, and would have crowned him with 
 wreaths of Bougainvillea had he permitted the 
 liberty. But Trivey was an austere man. The 
 utmost that he permitted himself to say was: 
 "I can stretch a little bit when I'm in the 
 humour." We called him the Monumental 
 Liar. Nothing that the Club offered was too 
 good for Trivey. He had the soft chair oppo- 
 site the thermantidote in the hot weather, and 
 
 '"Turnovers," Vol. I. 
 
 [85] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 he made up his own four at whist. When visi- 
 tors came in — globe-trotters for choice — 
 Trivey used to unmuzzle himself and tell 
 tales that sent the globe-trotter out of the Club 
 on tiptoe looking for snakes in his hat and 
 tigers in the compound. Whenever a man 
 from a strange Club came in Trivey used to 
 call for a whisky and ginger- wine and rout that 
 man on all points — from horses upward. 
 There was a man whose nickname was 
 "Ananias," who came from the Prince's 
 Plungers to look at Trivey; and, though 
 Trivey was only a civilian, the Plunger man 
 resigned his title to the nickname before eleven 
 o'clock. He made it over to Trivey on a card, 
 and Trivey hung up the concession in his quar- 
 ters. We loved Trivey — all of us; and now 
 we don't love him any more. 
 
 A man from the frontier came in and began 
 to tell tales — some very good ones, and some 
 better than good. He was an outsider, but he 
 had a wonderful imagination — for the frontier. 
 He told six stories before Trivey brought up 
 [86] 
 
A FALLEN IDOL 
 
 his first line, and three more before Trivey 
 hurled his reserves into the fray. 
 
 "When I was at Anungaracharlupillay in 
 Madras," said Trivey quietly, "there was a 
 rogue elephant cutting about the district. And 
 I came upon him asleep." All the Club 
 stopped talking here, until Trivey had finished 
 the story. He told us that he, in the company 
 of another man, had found the rogue asleep, 
 but just as they got up to the brute's head it 
 woke up with a scream. Then Trivey, who 
 was careful to explain that he was a "bit pow- 
 erful about the arms," caught hold of its ears as 
 it rose, and hung there, kicking the animal in 
 the eyes, which so bewildered it that it stayed 
 screaming and frightened until Trivey's ally 
 shot it behind the shoulder, and the villagers 
 ran in and hamstrung it. It evidently died 
 from loss of blood. Trivey was hanging on the 
 ears and kicking hard for nearly fifteen min- 
 utes. When the frontier man heard the story 
 he put his hands in front of his face and sobbed 
 audibly. We gave him all the drinks he want- 
 ed, and he recovered sufficiently to carry away 
 [87] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 eighty rupees at whist later on; but his nerve 
 was irretrievably shattered. He will be no 
 use on the frontier any more. The rest of the 
 Club were very pleased with Trivey, because 
 these frontier men, and especially the guides, 
 want a great deal of keeping in order. Trivey 
 w r as quite modest. He was a truly great soul, 
 and popular applause never turned his head. 
 As I have said, we loved Trivey, till that fatal 
 day when Crewe announced that he had been 
 transferred for a couple of months to Anun- 
 garacharlupillay. "Oh!" said Trivey, "I dare 
 say they'll remember about my rogue elephant 
 down there. You ask 'em, Crewe." Then we 
 felt sorry for Trivey, because we were sure that 
 he was arriving at that stage of mental decay 
 when a man begins to believe in his own fic- 
 tions. That spoils a man's hand. Crewe wrote 
 up once or twice to Mottleby, saying that he 
 would bring back a story that would make our 
 hair curl. Good stories are scarce in Madras, 
 and we rather scoffed at the announcement. 
 When Crewe returned it was easy to see that 
 he was bursting with importance. He gave a 
 [88] 
 
A FALLEN IDOL 
 
 big dinner at the Club and invited nearly every- 
 body but Trivey, who went off after dinner to 
 teach a young subaltern to play "snooker." At 
 coffee and cheroots, Crewe could not restrain 
 himself any longer. "I say, you Johnnies, it's 
 all true — every single word of it — and you can 
 throw the decanter at my head and I'll apolo- 
 gise. The whole village was full of it. There 
 was a rogue elephant, and it slept, and Trivey 
 did catch hold of its ears and kick it in the 
 eyes, and hang on for ten minutes, at least, 
 and all the rest of it. I neglected my regular 
 work to sift that story, and on my honour the 
 tale's an absolute fact. The headsman said 
 so, all the shikaries said so, and all the villages 
 corroborated it. Now would a whole village 
 volunteer a lie that would do them no good?" 
 
 You might have heard a cigar- ash fall after 
 this statement. Then Mottleby said, with deep 
 disgust: "What can you do with a man 
 like that? His best and brightest lie, 
 too!" "'Tisn't!" shrieked Crewe. "It's 
 a fact — a nickel-plated, teak- wood, Tantalus- 
 action, forty-five rupee fact." "That only 
 [89] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 makes it worse," said Mottleby; and we all 
 felt that was true. We ran into the billiard- 
 room to talk to Trivey, but he said we had put 
 him off his stroke; and that was all the satis- 
 faction we got out of him. Later on he re- 
 peated that he was a "bit powerful about the 
 arms," and went to bed. We sat up half the 
 night devising vengeance on Trivey. We were 
 very angry, and there was no hope of hushing 
 up the tale. The man had taken us in com- 
 pletely, and now that we've lost our champion 
 Ananias, all the frontier will laugh at us, and 
 we shall never be able to trust a word that 
 Trivey says. 
 
 I ask with Mottleby: "What can you do 
 with a man like that?" 
 
 [90] 
 
NEW BROOMS* 
 
 "If seven maids with seven mops 
 Swept it for half a year, 
 Do you suppose," the Walrus said, 
 "That they could sweep it clear ?" 
 
 RAM BUKSH, Aryan, went to bed 
 with his buffalo, five goats, three 
 children and a wife, because the eve- 
 ning mists were chilly. His hut was 
 builded on the mud scooped from a green and 
 smelly tank, and there were microbes in the 
 thin blood of Ram Buksh. 
 
 Ram Buksh went to bed on a charpoy 
 stretched across the blue tepid drain, because 
 the nights were hot; and there were more 
 microbes in his blood. Then the rains came, 
 and Ram Buksh paddled, mid-thigh deep, in 
 water for a day or two with his buffaloes till 
 
 ""Turnovers," Vol. III. 
 
 [91] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 he was aware of a crampsome feeling at the 
 pit of his stomach. "Mother of my children," 
 said Ram Buksh, "this is death." They gave 
 him cardamoms and capsicums, and gingelly- 
 oil and cloves, and they prayed for him. "It 
 is enough," said Ram Buksh, and he twisted 
 himself into a knot and died, and they burned 
 him slightly — for the wood was damp — 
 and the rest of him floated down the river, 
 and was caught in an undercurrent at the bank, 
 and there stayed; and when Imam Din, the 
 Jeweller, drank of the stream five days later, 
 he drank Lethe, and passed away, crying in 
 vain upon his gods. 
 
 His family did not report his death to 
 the Municipality, for they desired to keep 
 Imam Din with them. Therefore, they 
 buried him under the flagging in the court- 
 yard, secretly and by night. Twelve days 
 later, Imam Din had made connection with 
 the well of the house, and there was typhus 
 among the women in the zenana, but no one 
 knew anything about it — some died and some 
 did not; and Ari Booj, the Faquir, added to 
 [92] 
 
NEW BROOMS 
 
 the interest of the proceedings by joining the 
 funeral procession and distributing gratis the 
 more malignant forms of smallpox, from which 
 he was just recovering. He had come all the 
 way from Delhi, and had slept on no less than 
 fifteen different charpoys; and that was how 
 they got the smallpox into Bahadurgarh. But 
 Eshmith Sahib's Dhobi picked it up from Ari 
 Booj when Jmam Din's wife was being buried 
 — for he was a merry man, and sent home a 
 beautiful sample among the Sunday shirts. So 
 Eshmith Sahib died. 
 
 He was only a link in the chain which 
 crawled from the highest to the lowest. 
 The wonder was not that men died like sheep, 
 but that they did not die like flies; for their 
 lives and their surroundings, their deaths, 
 were part of a huge conspiracy against clean- 
 liness. And the people loved to have it so. 
 They huddled together in frowsy clusters, 
 while Death mowed his way through them till 
 the scythe blunted against the unresisting flesh, 
 and he had to get a new one. They died by 
 fever, tens of thousands in a month; they died 
 [93] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 by cholera a thousand in a week; they died of 
 smallpox, scores in the mohulla, and by dysen- 
 tery by tens in a house; and when all other 
 deaths failed they laid them down and died 
 because their hands were too weak to hold on 
 to life. 
 
 To and fro stamped the Englishman, who is 
 everlastingly at war with the scheme of things. 
 "You shall not die," he said, and he decreed 
 that there should be no more famines. He 
 poured grain down their throats, and when all 
 failed he went down into the strife and died 
 with them, swearing, and toiling, and working 
 till the last. He fought the famine and put it 
 to flight. Then he wiped his forehead, and 
 attacked the pestilence that walketh in the 
 darkness. Death's scythe swept to and fro, 
 around and about him ; but he only planted his 
 feet more firmly in the way of it, and fought 
 off Death with a dog-whip. "Live, you ruf- 
 fian!" said the Englishman to Ram Buksh as 
 he rode through the reeking village. "Jendb!" 
 said Ram Buksh, "it is as it was in the days of 
 our fathers!" "Then stand back while I alter 
 [94] 
 
NEW BROOMS 
 
 it," said the Englishman; and by force, and 
 cunning, and a brutal disregard of vested in- 
 terests, he strove to keep Ram Buksh alive. 
 "Clean your mohullas; pay for clean water; 
 keep your streets swept; and see that your 
 food is sound, or I'll make your life a burden 
 to you," said the Englishman. Sometimes he 
 died; but more often Ram Buksh went down, 
 and the Englishman regarded each death as a 
 personal insult. 
 
 "Softly, there!" said the Government of 
 India. "You're twisting his tail. You mustn't 
 do that. The spread of education forbids, and 
 Ram Buksh is an intelligent voter. Let him 
 work out his own salvation." 
 
 "H'm!" said the Englishman with his head 
 in a midden; "collectively you always were a 
 fool. Here, Ram Buksh, the Sirkar says you 
 are to do all these things for yourself." 
 
 "Jendb!" says Ram Buksh, and fell to 
 breeding microbes with renewed vigour. 
 
 Curiously enough, it was in the centres of 
 enlightenment that he prosecuted his experi- 
 ments most energetically. The education had 
 [95] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 been spread, but so thinly that it could not 
 disguise Ram Buksh's natural instincts. He 
 created an African village, and said it was 
 the hub of the universe, and all the dirt of all 
 the roads failed to convince him that he was 
 not the most advanced person in the world. 
 There was a pause, and Ram Buksh got him- 
 self fearfully entangled among Boards and 
 Committees, but he valued them as a bower- 
 bird values shells and red rags. "See!" said 
 the Englishman to the Government of India, 
 "he is blind on that side — blind by birth, train- 
 ing, instinct and associations. Five-sixths of 
 him is poor stock raised off poor soil, and he'll 
 die on the least provocation. You've no right 
 to let him kill himself." 
 
 "But he's educated," said the Government 
 of India. 
 
 'I'll concede everything," said the English- 
 man. "He's a statesman, author, poet, politi- 
 cian, artist, and all else that you wish him to 
 be, but he isn't a Sanitary Engineer. And 
 while you're training him he is dying. Good- 
 ness knows that my share in the Government 
 ' [90] 
 
NEW BROOMS 
 
 is very limited nowadays, but I'm willing to 
 do all the work while he gets all the credit if 
 you'll only let me have some authority over 
 him in his mud-pie making." 
 
 "But the liberty of the subject is sacred," 
 said the Government of India. 
 
 "I haven't any," said the Englishman. "He 
 can trail through my compounds ; start shrines 
 in the public roads; poison my family; have 
 me in court for nothing; ruin my character; 
 spend my money, and call me an assassin when 
 all is done. I don't object. Let me look after 
 his sanitation." 
 
 "But the days of a paternal Government are 
 over; we must depend on the people. Think 
 of what they would say at home," said the 
 Government of India. "We have issued a reso- 
 lution — indeed we have!" 
 
 The Englishman sat down and groaned. "I 
 believe you'll issue a resolution some day noti- 
 fying your own abolition," said he. "What 
 are you going to do?" 
 
 "Constitute more Boards," said the Govern- 
 ment of India. "Boards of Control and Super- 
 [97] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 vision — Fund Boards — all sorts of Boards. 
 Nothing like system. It will be at work in 
 three years or so. We haven't any money, 
 but that's a detail." 
 
 The Englishman looked at the resolution 
 and sniffed. "It doesn't touch the weak point 
 of the country." 
 
 "What will touch the weak point of the 
 country, then?" said the Government of India. 
 
 "I used to," said the Englishman. "I 
 was the District Officer, and I twisted their 
 tails. You have taken away my power, and 
 now " 
 
 "Well," said the Government of India, "you 
 seem to think a good deal of yourself." 
 
 "Never mind me," said the Englishman. 
 "I'm an effete relic of the past. But Ram 
 Buksh will die, as he used to do." 
 
 And now we all wait to see which is right. 
 
 [98] 
 
TIGLATH PILESER* 
 HANK Heaven he is dead! The 
 
 municipality sent a cart and a man 
 only this morning, and, all the serv- 
 ants aiding with ropes and tackle, the 
 
 carcase of Tiglath was borne away — a wob- 
 bling lump. His head was thrust over the tail- 
 board of the cart. Upon it was stamped an 
 expression of horror and surprise, unutterable 
 and grotesque. I have put away my rifle, I 
 have cheered my heart with wine, and I sit 
 down now to write the story of Tiglath, the 
 Utter Brute. His own kind, alas! will not 
 read it, and thus it will be shorn of instruction ; 
 but owners will kindly take notice, and when it 
 pleases Heaven to inflict them with such an 
 animal as Tiglath they will know what to do. 
 
 To begin with, I bought him, his vices thick 
 as his barsati, for a hundred and seventy 
 
 ♦"Turnovers," Vol. IV. 
 
 [99] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 rupees, a five-chambered, muzzle-loading re- 
 volver, and a Cawnpore saddle. 
 
 "Of course, for that price," said Staveley, 
 "you can't expect everything. He's not what 
 one would call absolutely sound, y' know, but 
 there's no end of work in him, and if you only 
 give him the butt he'll go like a steam-engine." 
 
 "Staveley," I answered, "when you admit 
 that he is not perfection I perceive that I am 
 in for a really Good Thing. Don't hurt your 
 conscience, Staveley. Tell me what is his 
 chief vice — weakness, partiality — anything you 
 choose to call it. I shall get to know the minor 
 defects in the course of nature; but what is 
 Tiglath's real shouk?" 
 
 Staveley reflected a moment. "Well, really, 
 I can't quite say, old man, straight off the reel, 
 y' know. He's a oner to go when his head's 
 turned to home. He's a regular feeder, and 
 vaseline will cure that little eruption" — with 
 its malignant barsati — "in no time. Oh, I for- 
 got his shouk: I don't know exactly how to 
 describe it, but he yaws a good deal," said 
 Staveley. 
 
 [100] 
 
TIGLATH PILESER 
 
 "He how muches?" I asked. 
 
 "Yaws," said Staveley; "goes a bit wide 
 upon occasions, but a good coachwan will cure 
 that in one drive. My man let him do what 
 he liked. One fifty and a hundred, ten and ten 
 is twenty — one-seventy. Many thanks, indeed. 
 I'll send over his bedding and ropes. He's a 
 powerful upstanding horse, though rather 
 picked up just at present." 
 
 Staveley departed, and I was left alone with 
 Tiglath. I called him Tiglath because he re- 
 sembled a lathy pig. Later on I called him 
 Pileser on account of his shouk ; but my coach- 
 wan, a strong, masterless man, called him 
 "haramzada chor, shaitan ke bap" and "oont hi 
 beta" He certainly was a powerful horse, be- 
 ing full fifteen-two at the withers, with the 
 girth of a waler, and at first the docility of an 
 Arab. There was something wrong with his 
 feet — permanently — but he was a considerate 
 beast, and never had more than one leg in hos- 
 pital at a time. The other three were still 
 movable, and Tiglath never grudged them in 
 my service. I write this in justice to his mem- 
 [101] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 ory ; the creaking of the wheels of the municipal 
 cart being still in my ears. 
 
 For a season — some twelve days — Tiglath 
 was beyond reproach. He had not a cheerful 
 disposition, nor did his pendulous underlip add 
 to his personal beauty; but he made no com- 
 plaints, and moved swiftly to and from office. 
 The hot weather gave place to the cool breezes 
 of October, and with the turn of the year the 
 slumbering devil in the soul of Tiglath spread 
 its wings and crowed aloud. I fed him well, 
 I had aided his barsati, I had lapped his lame 
 legs in thanda putties, and adorned his sin- 
 ful body with new harness. He rewarded 
 me upon a day with an exhibition so new and 
 strange that I feared for the moment his reason 
 had been unhinged. Slowly, with a malevolent 
 grin, Tiglath, the pampered, turned at right 
 angles to the carriage — a newly-varnished one 
 — and backed the front wheels up the verandah 
 steps, letting them down with a bump. He 
 then wheeled round and round in the portico, 
 and all but brought the carriage over. The 
 [102] 
 
TIGLATH PILESER 
 
 show lasted for ten minutes, at the end of 
 which time he trotted peacefully away. 
 
 I was pained and grieved — nothing more, 
 upon my honour. I forbade the sais to kick 
 Tiglath in the stomach, for I was persuaded 
 that the harness galled him, and, in this belief, 
 at the end of the day, undressed him tenderly 
 and fitted sheepskin all over the said harness. 
 Tiglath ate the sheepskin next day, and I did 
 not renew it. 
 
 A week later I met the Judge. It was a 
 purely accidental interview. I would have 
 avoided it, as the Judge and I did not love 
 each other, but the shafts of my carriage were 
 through the circular front of his brougham, 
 and Tiglath was rubbing the boss of his head- 
 stall tenderly against the newly-varnished 
 panels of the same. The Judge complained 
 that he might have been impaled as he sat. My 
 coachwan declared on oath that the horse de- 
 liberately ran into the brougham. Tiglath ten- 
 dered no evidence, and I began to mistrust him. 
 
 At the end of a month I perceived that my 
 friends and acquaintances avoided me marked- 
 [103] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 ly. The appearance of Tiglath at the band- 
 stand was enough to clear a space of ten yards 
 in my immediate neighbourhood. I had to 
 shout to my friends from afar, and they shout- 
 ed back the details of the little bills which I 
 had to pay their coach-builders. Tiglath was 
 suffering from carriagecidal mania, and the 
 coachwan had asked for leave. "Stay with me, 
 Ibrahim," I said. "Thou seest how the sahib 
 log do now avoid us. Get a new and a stout 
 chabuq, and instruct Tiglath in the paths of 
 straight walking." 
 
 "He will smash the Heaven-born's carriage. 
 He is an old and stale devil, but in this matter 
 extreme wise," answered Ibrahim. "Kitto 
 sahib's fllton hath he smashed, and Burkitt 
 sahib's brougham gharri, and another turn- turn, 
 and Staveley sahib's carriage is still being 
 mended. What profit is this horse? He feigns 
 blindness and much fear, and in the guise of 
 innocency works evil. I will stay, sahib, but 
 the blood of this thy new carriage be upon the 
 brute's head and not upon mine own." 
 
 I have no space to describe the war of the 
 [ 104] 
 
TIGLATH PILESER 
 
 next few weeks. Foiled in his desire to ruin 
 only neighbours' property, Tiglath fell back 
 literally, upon his own — my carriage. He 
 tried the verandah step trick till he bent the 
 springs, and wheeled round till the turning 
 action grew red-hot; he scraped stealthily by 
 walls; he performed between heavy-laden bul- 
 lock-trains, but his chief delight was a pas de 
 fantasie on a dark night and a high, level road. 
 Yet what he did he did staidly and without 
 heat, as without remorse. He was vetted 
 thrice, and his eyes were pronounced sound. 
 After this information I laid my bones to the 
 battle, and acquired a desperate facility of 
 leaping from the carriage and kicking Tiglath 
 on the stomach as soon as he wheeled around; 
 leaping back at the risk of my life when he 
 set off at full speed. I pressed the lighted end 
 of a cheroot just behind the collar-buckle; I 
 applied fusees to those flaccid nostrils, and I 
 beat him about the head with a stick continu- 
 ally. It was necessary, but it was also de- 
 moralising. A year of Tiglath would have 
 converted me into a cold-blooded vivisection- 
 [105] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 ist, or a native bullock-driver. Each day I 
 took stock of the injuries to my carriage. I 
 had long since given up all hope of keeping it 
 in decent repair; and each day I devised fresh 
 torments for Tiglath. 
 
 He never meant to injure himself, I am cer- 
 tain, and no one was more astonished than he 
 when he backed on the Balumon road, and 
 dropped the carriage into a nullah on the night 
 of the Jamabundi Moguls' dance. I did not 
 go to the dance. I was bent considerably, and 
 one side of the coachwan's face was flayed. 
 When he had pieced the wreck together, he 
 only said, "Sahib!" and I said only "Bohat 
 acha." But we each knew what the other 
 meant. Next morn Tiglath was stiff and 
 strained. I gave him time to recover and to 
 enjoy life. When I heard him squealing to the 
 grass-cutter's ponies I knew that the hour had 
 come. I ordered the carriage, and myself super- 
 intended the funeral toilet of Tiglath. His 
 harness brasses shone like gold, his coat like 
 a bottle, and he lifted his feet daintily. Had 
 he even then, at the eleventh hour, given prom- 
 [106] 
 
TIGLATH PILESER 
 
 ise of amendment, I should have held my hand. 
 But as I entered the carriage I saw the hunch- 
 ing of his quarters that presaged trouble. "Go 
 forward, Tiglath, my love, my pride, my de- 
 light," I murmured. "For a surety it is a 
 matter of life and death this day." The sais 
 ran to his head with a fragment of chupatti, 
 saved from his all too scanty rations ; the man 
 loved him. And Tiglath swung round to the 
 left in the portico; round and round swung 
 he, till the near ear touched the muzzle of the 
 shot-gun that waited its coming. He never 
 flinched; he pressed his fate. The coachwan 
 threw down the reins as, with four ounces of 
 No. 5 shot behind the hollow of the root of 
 the ear, Tiglath fell. In his death he accom- 
 plished the desire of his life, for he fell upon the 
 shaft and broke it into three pieces. I looked 
 on him as he lay, and of a sudden the reason of 
 the horror in his eyes was made clear. Tiglath, 
 the breaker of carriages, the strong, the re- 
 bellious, had passed into the shadowy spirit 
 land, where there was nought to destroy and 
 no power to destroy it with. The ghastly fore- 
 [107] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 knowledge of the flitting soul was written on 
 the glazing eyeball. 
 
 I repented me, then, that I had slain Tig- 
 lath, for I had no intention of punishing him 
 in the hereafter. 
 
 [108] 
 
THE LIKES O' US* 
 
 IT was the General Officer Commanding, 
 riding down the Mall, on the Arab with 
 the perky tail, and he condescended to 
 explain some of the mysteries of his pro- 
 fession. But the point on which he dwelt most 
 pompously was the ease with which the Private 
 Thomas Atkins could be "handled," as he 
 called it. "Only feed him and give him a little 
 work to do, and you can do anything with 
 him," said the General Officer Commanding. 
 "There's no refinement about Tommy, you 
 know; and one is very like another. They've 
 all the same ideas and traditions and preju- 
 dices. They're all big children. Fancy any 
 man in his senses shooting about these hills." 
 There was the report of a shot-gun in the val- 
 ley. "I suppose they've hit a dog. Happy as 
 
 ""Week's News," Feb. 4, 1888. 
 
 [109] 
 
ABAFT THE F 
 
 the day is long when they're out sh« 
 Just like a big child is Tommy." 
 up his horse and cantered away, 
 a sound of angry voices down the 
 
 "All right, you soor — I won't i 
 this — mind you, not as long as I 
 
 'elp me— I'll " The senter 
 
 in what could be represented by 
 asterisks. 
 
 A deeper voice cut it short: " 
 won't, neither! Look a-here, 
 smitcher. If I was to take yer r 
 knock off your 'ead again' that tr 
 ,say anythin'? No, nor yet do a 
 
 I was to Ah! you would, 
 
 There!" Some one had evident] 
 with a thud, and was swearing nc 
 over the edge of the khud } down 
 long grass, and fetched up, after 
 
THE LIKES O' US 
 
 smoke. My sudden arrival threw him 
 balance for a moment. Then, readjust 
 chair, he bade me good-day. 
 
 " J Im an' me 'ave bin 'avin' an arg' 
 said Gunner Barnabas placidly. "I v 
 ing for to half kill him an' 'eave 'im h 
 bushes 'ere, but, seem' that you 'ave co] 
 and very welcome when you do come, 1 
 'ave a court-martial instead. Shackloi 
 you willin'?" The volcano, who had been 
 ing uninterruptedly through this orati 
 pressed a desire, in general and pa] 
 terms, to see Gunner Barnabas in Torme 
 the "civilian" on the next gridiron. 
 
 Private Shacklock was a tow-haired, 
 lous boy of about two-and-twenty. H 
 was bleeding profusely, and the live air a 
 that he had been drinking quite as much 
 good for him. He lay, stomach-dowr 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 lay. "Amen," said Gunner Barnabas piously, 
 when an unusually brilliant string of oaths 
 came to an end. "Seein' that this gentleman 
 'ere has never seen the inside o' the orsepitals 
 you've gotten in, and the clinks you've been 
 chucked into like a hay-bundle, per-haps, Pri- 
 vite Shaddock, you will stop. You are 
 a-makin' of 'im sick." Private Shacklock said 
 that he was pleased to hear it, and would have 
 continued his speech, but his breath suddenly 
 went from him, and the unfinished curse died 
 out in a gasp. Gunner Barnabas had put up 
 one of his huge feet. "There's just enough 
 room now for you to breathe, Shacklock," said 
 he, "an' not enough for you to try to interrupt 
 the conversashin I'm a-havin' with this gentle- 
 man. CJioopT Turning to me, Gumier Bar- 
 nabas pulled at his pipe, but showed no hurry 
 to open the "conversashin." I felt embarrassed, 
 for, after all, the thus strangely unearthed dif- 
 ference between the Gunner and the Line man 
 was no affair of mine. "Don't you go," said 
 Gunner Barnabas. He had evidently been 
 deeply moved by something. He dropped his 
 [112] 
 
THE LIKES O' US 
 
 head between his fists and looked steadily at 
 me. 
 
 "I met this child 'ere," said he, "at Deelally 
 — a fish-back recruity as ever was. I knowed 
 'im at Deelally, and I give 'im a latherin' at 
 Deelally all for to keep 'im straight, 'e bein' 
 such as wants a latherin' an' knowin' nuthin' 
 o' the ways o' this country. Then I meets 'im 
 up here, a butterfly-huntin' as innercent as you 
 please — convalessin'. I goes out with 'im but- 
 terfly-huntin', and, as you see 'ere, a-shootin'. 
 The gun betwixt us." I saw then, what I had 
 overlooked before, a Company fowling-piece 
 lying among some boulders far down the hill. 
 Gunner Barnabas continued: "I should ha' 
 seen where he had a-bin to get that drink in- 
 side o' 'im. Presently, 'e misses summat. 
 'You're a bloomin' fool,' sez I. 'If that had 
 been a Pathan, now!' I sez. 'Damn your 
 Pathans, an' you, too,' sez 'e. 'I strook it/ 
 'You did not,' I sez, 'I saw the bark 
 fly.' 'Stick to your bloomin' pop-guns/ sez 
 'e, 'an' don't talk to a better man than you.' 
 I laughed there, knowin' what I was an' what 
 [113] 
 
ABAFT THE FUXXEL 
 
 *e was. 'You laugh?' sez he. 'I laugh/ I sez, 
 'Shaddock, an' for what should I not laugh?' 
 sez I. 'Then go an' laugh in Hell,' sez 'e, 'for 
 I'll 'ave none of your laughinY With that 'e 
 brings up the gun yonder and looses off, and 
 I stretches 'im there, and guv him a little to 
 keep 'im quiet, and puts 'im under, an' while 
 I was thinkin' what nex', you comes down the 
 'ill, an' finds us as we was." 
 
 The Private was the Gminer's prey — I knew 
 that the affair had fallen as the Gunner had 
 said, for my friend is constitutionally incapa- 
 ble of lying — and I recognised that in his 
 hands lay the boy's fate. 
 
 "What do you think?" said Gunner Barna- 
 bas, after a silence broken only by the con- 
 vulsive breathing of the boy he was sitting on. 
 "I think nothing," I said. "He didn't go at 
 me. He's your property." Then an idea oc- 
 curred to me. "Hand him over to his own 
 Company. They'll school him half dead." 
 "Got no Comp'ny," said Gunner Barnabas. 
 " 'E's a conv'lessint draft — all sixes an' sevens. 
 Don't matter to them what he did." "Thrash 
 [114] 
 
THE LIKES O' US 
 
 him yourself, then," I said. Gunner Barnabas 
 looked at the man and smiled ; then caught up 
 an arm, as a mother takes up the dimpled arm 
 of a child, and ran the sleeve and shirt up to 
 the elbow. "Look at that!" he said. It was 
 a pitiful arm, lean and muscleless. "Can you 
 mill a man with an arm like that — such as I 
 would like to mill him, an' such as he deserves ? 
 I tell you, sir, an' I am not smokin' (swagger- 
 ing), as you see — I could take that man — 
 Sodger 'e is, Lord 'elp 'im! — an' twis' off 'is 
 arms an' 'is legs as if 'e was a naked crab. See 
 here!" 
 
 Before I could realise what was going to 
 happen, Gunner Barnabas rose up, stooped, 
 and taking the wretched Private Shacklock by 
 two points of grasp, heaved him up above his 
 head. The boy kicked once or twice, and then 
 was still. He was very white. "I could now," 
 said Gunner Barnabas, "I could now chuck 
 this man where I like. Chuck him like a lump 
 o' beef, an' it would not be too much for him 
 if I chucked. Can I thrash such a man with 
 [115] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 both 'ands? No, nor yet with my right 'and 
 tied behind my back, an' my lef in a sling." 
 
 He dropped Private Shacklock on the 
 ground and sat upon him as before. The boy 
 groaned as the weight settled, but there was 
 a look in his white-lashed, red eyes that was 
 not pleasant. 
 
 "I do not know what I will do," said Gunner 
 Barnabas, rocking himself to and fro. "I 
 know 'is breed, an' the way o' the likes o' them. 
 If I was in 'is Comp'ny, an' this 'ad 'appened, 
 an' I 'ad struck 'im, as I would ha' struck him, 
 'twould ha' all passed off an' bin forgot till 
 the drink was in 'im again — a month, maybe, 
 or six, maybe. An' when the drink was frizzin' 
 in 'is 'ead he would up and loose off in the 
 night or the day or the evenin*. All acause 
 of that millin that 'e would ha* forgotten in 
 betweens. That I would be dead — killed by 
 the likes o' 'im, an' me the next strongest man 
 but three in the British Army!" 
 
 Private Shacklock, not so hardly pressed as 
 he had been, found breath to say that if he 
 could only get hold of the fowling-piece again 
 [116] 
 
THE LIKES O' US 
 
 the strongest man but three in the British 
 Army would be seriously crippled for the rest 
 of his days. "Hear that I" said Gunner Barna- 
 bas, sitting heavily to silence his chair. "Hear 
 that, you that think things is funny to put 
 into the papers ! He would shoot me, 'e would, 
 now; an' so long as he's drunk, or comin' out 
 o' the drink, 'e will want to shoot me. Look 
 a-here I" 
 
 He turned the boy's head sideways, his hand 
 round the nape of the neck, his thumb touch- 
 ing the angle of the jaw. "What do you call 
 those marks?" They were the white scars of 
 scrofula, with which Shacklock was eaten up. 
 I told Gunner Barnabas this. "I don't know 
 what that means. I call 'em murder-marks an' 
 signs. If a man 'as these things on 'im, an' 
 drinks, so long as 'e's drunk, 'e's mad — a 
 looney. But that doesn't 'elp if 'e kills you. 
 Look a-here, an' here!" The marks were thick 
 on the jaw and neck. "Stubbs 'ad 'em," said 
 Gunner Barnabas to himself, "an' Lancy 'ad 
 'em, an' Duggard 'ad 'em, an' wot's come to 
 them? You've got 'em," he said, addressing 
 [117] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 himself to the man he was handling like a 
 roped calf, "an' sooner or later you'll go with 
 the rest of 'em. But this time I will not do 
 anything — exceptin' keep you here till the 
 drink's dead in you." 
 
 Gunner Barnabas resettled himself and con- 
 tinued: "Twice this afternoon, Shacklock, 
 you 'ave been so near dyin' that I know no 
 man more so. Once was when I stretched you, 
 an' might ha' wiped off your face with my 
 boot as you was l} T in'; an' once was when I 
 lifted you up in my fists. Was you afraid, 
 Shacklock?" 
 
 "I were," murmured the half-stifled soldier. 
 
 "An' once more I will show you how near 
 you can go to Kingdom Come in my 'ands." 
 He knelt by Shaddock's side, the boy lying 
 still as death. "If I Mas to hit you here," 
 said he, "I would break your chest, an' you 
 would die. If I was to put my 'and here, an' 
 my other 'and here, I would twis' your neck, 
 an' you would die, Privite Shacklock. If I 
 was to put my knees here an' put your 'ead so, 
 I would pull off your 'ead, Privite Shacklock, 
 [118] 
 
THE LIKES O' US 
 
 an' you would die. If you think as how I am 
 a liar, say so, an' I'll show you. Do you think 
 so?" 
 
 "No," whispered Private Shacklock, not 
 daring to move a muscle, for Barnabas's hand 
 was on his neck. 
 
 "Now, remember," went on Barnabas, 
 "neither you will say nothing nor I will say 
 nothing o' what has happened. I ha' put you 
 to shame before me an' this gentleman here, 
 an' that is enough. But I tell you, an' you give 
 'eed now, it would be better for you to desert 
 than to go on a-servin' where you are now. 
 If I meets you again — if my Batt'ry lays with 
 your Reg'ment, an' Privite Shacklock is on 
 the rolls, I will first mill you myself till you 
 can't see, and then I will say why I strook you. 
 You must go, an' look bloomin' slippy about 
 it, for if you stay, so sure as God made Pay- 
 thans an' we've got to wipe 'em out, you'll be 
 loosing off o' unauthorised amminition — in or 
 out o' barricks, an' you'll be 'anged for it. I 
 know your breed, an' I know what these 'ere 
 white marks mean. You're mad, Shacklock, 
 [119] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 that's all — and here you stay, under me. An' 
 now choop, an' lie still." 
 
 I waited and smoked, and Gunner Barna- 
 bas smoked till the shadows lengthened on the 
 hillside, and a chilly wind began to blow. At 
 dusk Gunner Barnabas rose and looked at his 
 captive. "Drink's out o' 'im now," he said. 
 
 "I can't move," whimpered Shacklock. "I've 
 got the fever back again." 
 
 "I'll carry you," said Gunner Barnabas, 
 swinging him up and preparing to climb the 
 hill. "Good-night, sir," he said to me. "It 
 looks pretty, doesn't it? But never you for- 
 get, an' I won't forget neither, that this 'ere 
 shiverin', shakin', convalescent a-hangin' on to 
 my neck is a ragin', tearin' devil when 'e's 
 lushy — an' 'e a boy!" 
 
 He strode up to the hill with his burden, but 
 just before he disappeared he turned round 
 and shouted: "It's the likes o' 'im brings 
 shame on the likes o' us. 'Tain't we ourselves, 
 s'elp me Gawd, 'tain't!" 
 
 [120] 
 
HIS BROTHER'S KEEPER* 
 
 I <TT IT XHIST?" 
 
 V/V/ "Can't make up a four?" 
 ▼ Y "Poker, then?" 
 
 "Never again with you, 
 Robin. 'Tisn't good enough, old man." 
 
 "Seeking what he may devour," murmured 
 a third voice from behind a newspaper. "Stop 
 the punkah, and make him go away." 
 
 "Don't talk of it on a night like this. It's 
 enough to give a man fits. You've no enter- 
 prise. Here I've taken the trouble to come 
 over after dinner " 
 
 "On the off-chance of skinning some one. 
 I don't believe you ever crossed a horse for 
 pleasure." 
 
 "That's true, I never did — and there are 
 only two Johnnies in the Club." 
 "They've all gone off to the Gaff." 
 
 ♦From the "Week's News," April 7, 1888. 
 
 [121] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 "Wah! Wah! They must be pretty hard 
 up for amusement. Help me to a split." 
 
 "Split in this weather! Hi, bearer, do hurra 
 — hurra whiskey-peg lao, and just put all the 
 harf into them that you can find." 
 
 The newspaper came down with a rustle, as 
 the reader said: 
 
 "How the deuce d'you expect a man to im- 
 prove his mind when you two are bukking 
 about drinks? Qui hai! Mera wasti bhi." 
 
 "Oh! you're alive, are you? I thought pegs 
 would fetch you out of that. Game for a little 
 poker?" 
 
 "Poker — poker — red-hot poker! Saveloy, 
 you're too generous. Can't you let a man die 
 in peace?" 
 
 "Who's going to die?" 
 
 "I am, please the pigs, if it gets much hot- 
 ter and that bearer doesn't bring the peg 
 quickly." 
 
 "All right. Die away, mon ami. Only don't 
 do it in the Club, that's all. Can't have it lit- 
 tered up with dead members. Houligan would 
 object." 
 
 [122] 
 
HIS BROTHER'S KEEPER 
 
 "By J ove ! I think I can imagine old Houli- 
 gan doing it. 'Member dead in the ante-room? 
 Good Gud! Bless my soul! Impossible to 
 run a Club this way. Call the Babu and see 
 if his last month's bill is paid. Not paid! Good 
 Gud! Bless my soul! Impossible to run a 
 Club this way. Babu, attach that body till the 
 bill is paid.' Revel, you might just hurry up 
 your dying once in a way to give us the pleas- 
 ure of seeing Houligan perform." 
 
 "I'll die legitimately," said Revel. "I'm 
 not going to create a fresh scandal in the sta- 
 tion. I'll wait for heat-apoplexy, or whatever 
 is going, to come and fetch me." 
 
 "This is pukka hot-weather talk," said Save- 
 loy. "I come over for a little honest poker, and 
 find two moderately sensible men, Revel and 
 Dallston, talking tombs. I'm sorry I've 
 thrown away my valuable evening." 
 
 "D'you expect us to talk about buttercups 
 and daisies, then?" said Dallston. 
 
 "No, but there's some sort of medium be- 
 tween those and Sudden Death." 
 
 "There isn't. I haven't seen a daisy for 
 [123] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 seven years, and now I want to die," said Revel, 
 plunging luxuriously into his peg. 
 
 "I knew a Johnnie on the Frontier once 
 who did" began Dallston meditatively. 
 
 "Half a minute. Bearer, cherut lao! To- 
 bacco soothes the nerves when a man is expect- 
 ing to hear a whacker. We know what your 
 Frontier stories are, Martha." 
 
 Dallston had once, in a misguided moment, 
 taken the part of Martha in the burlesque of 
 Faust, and the nickname stuck. 
 
 " 'Tisn't a whacker, it's a fact. He told me 
 so himself." 
 
 "They always do, Martha. I've noticed that 
 before. But what did he tell you?" 
 
 "He told me that he had died." 
 
 "Was that all? Explain him." 
 
 "It was this way. The man went down with 
 a bad go of fever and was off his head. About 
 the second day it struck him in the middle of 
 the night." 
 
 "Steady the Buffs! Martha, you aren't an 
 Irishman yet." 
 
 "Never mind. It's too hot to put it cor- 
 [124] 
 
HIS BROTHER'S KEEPER 
 
 rectly. In the middle of the night he woke 
 up quite calm, and it struck him that it would 
 be a good thing to die — just as it might ha' 
 struck him that it would be a good thing to 
 put ice on his head. He lay on his bed and 
 thought it over, and the more he thought about 
 it, the better sort of bundobust it seemed to be. 
 He was quite calm, you know, and he said 
 that he could have sworn that he had no fever 
 on him." 
 
 "Well, what happened?" 
 
 "Oh, he got up and loaded his revolver — he 
 remembers all this — and let fly, with the muz- 
 zle to his temple. The thing didn't go off, so 
 he turned it up and found he'd forgot to load 
 one chamber." 
 
 "Better stop the tale there. We can guess 
 what's coming." 
 
 "Hang it! It's a true yarn. Well, he 
 jammed the thing to his head again, and it 
 missed fire, and he said that he felt ready to 
 cry with rage, he was so disgusted. So he 
 took it by the muzzle and hit himself on the 
 head with it." 
 
 [125] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 "Good man! Didn't it go off then?" 
 
 "No, but the blow knocked him silly, and he 
 thought he was dead. He was awfully pleased, 
 for he had been fiddling over the show for 
 nearly half an hour. He dropped down and 
 died. When he got his wits again, he was 
 shaking with the fever worse than ever, but 
 he had sense enough to go and knock up the 
 doctor and give himself into his charge as a 
 lunatic. Then he went clean off his head till 
 the fever wore out." 
 
 "That's a good story," said Revel critically. 
 "I didn't think you had it in you at this season 
 of the year." 
 
 "I can believe it," said the man they called 
 Saveloy. "Fever makes one do all sorts of 
 queer things. I suppose your friend was mad 
 with it when he discovered it would be so 
 healthy to die." 
 
 "S'pose so. The fever must have been so 
 bad that he felt all right — same way that a 
 man who is nearly mad with drink gets to look 
 sober. Well, anyhow, there was a man who 
 died." 
 
 [126] 
 
HIS BROTHER'S KEEPER 
 
 "Did he tell you what it felt like?'* 
 
 "He said that he was awfully happy until 
 his fever came back and shook him up. Then 
 he was sick with fear. I don't wonder. He'd 
 had rather a narrow escape." 
 
 "That's nothing," said Saveloy. "I know a 
 man who lived." 
 
 "So do I," said Revel. "Lots of 'em, con- 
 found 'em." 
 
 "Now, this takes Martha's story, and it's 
 quite true." 
 
 "They always are," said Martha. "I've 
 noticed that before." 
 
 "Never mind, I'll forgive you. But this 
 happened to me. Since you are talking tombs, 
 I'll assist at the seance. It was in '82 or '83, 
 I have forgotten which. Anyhow, it was when 
 I was on the Utamamula Canal Headworks, 
 and I was chumming with a man called Stovey. 
 You've never met him because he belongs to 
 the Bombay side, and if he isn't really dead by 
 this he ought to be somewhere there now. He 
 was a pukka sweep, and I hated him. We 
 divided the Canal bungalow between us, and 
 [127] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 we kept strictly to our own side of the build- 
 ings." 
 
 "Hold on! I call. What was Stovey to 
 look at?" said Revel. 
 
 "Living picture of the King of Spades — a 
 blackish, greasy sort of ruffian who hadn't any 
 pretence of manners or form. He used to dine 
 in the kit he had been messing about the Canal 
 in all day, and I don't believe he ever washed. 
 He had the embankments to look after, and 
 I was in charge of the headworks, but he was 
 always contriving to fall foul of me if he pos- 
 sibly could." 
 
 "I know that sort of man. Mullane of 
 Ghoridasah's built that way." 
 
 "Don't know Mullane, but Stovey was a 
 sweep. Canal work isn't exactly cheering, and 
 it doesn't take you into 7nuch society. We were 
 like a couple of rats in a burrow, grubbing 
 and scooping all day and turning in at night 
 into the barn of a bungalow. Well, this man 
 Stovey didn't get fever. He was so coated 
 with dirt that I don't believe the fever could 
 have got at him. He just began to go mad." 
 [ 128 ] 
 
HIS BROTHER'S KEEPER 
 
 "Cheerful! What were the symptoms?" 
 
 "Well, his naturally vile temper grew in- 
 famous. It was really unsafe to speak to him, 
 and he always seemed anxious to murder a 
 coolie or two. With me, of course, he re- 
 strained himself a little, but he sulked like a 
 bear for days and days together. As he was 
 the only European society within sixty miles, 
 you can imagine how nice it was for me. He'd 
 sit at table and sulk and stare at the opposite 
 wall by the hour — instead of doing his work. 
 When I pointed out that the Government 
 didn't send us into these cheerful places to 
 twiddle our thumbs, he glared like a beast. 
 Oh, he was a thorough hog! He had a lot of 
 other endearing tricks, but the worst was when 
 he began to pray." 
 
 "Began to — how much?" 
 
 "Pray. He'd got hold of an old copy of 
 the War Cry and used to read it at meals; 
 and I suppose that that, on the top of tough 
 goat, disordered his intellect. One night I 
 heard him in his room groaning and talking 
 at a fearful rate. Next morning I asked him 
 [129] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 if he'd been taken worse. 'I've been engaged 
 in prayer,' he said, looking as black as thunder. 
 'A man's spiritual concerns are his own prop- 
 erty.' One night — he'd kept up these spiritual 
 exercises for about ten days, growing queerer 
 and queerer every day — he said 'Good-night' 
 after dinner, and got up .and shook hands with 
 me." 
 
 "Bad sign, that," said Revel, sucking indus- 
 triously at his cheroot. 
 
 "At first I couldn't make out what the man 
 wanted. No felloAv shakes hands with a fellow 
 he's living with — least of all such a beast as 
 Stovey. However, I was civil, but the minute 
 after he'd left the room it struck me what he 
 was going to do. If he hadn't shaken hands 
 I'd have taken no notice, I suppose. This 
 unusual effusion put me on my guard." 
 
 "Curious thing! You can nearly always tell 
 when a Johnnie means pegging out. He gives 
 himself away by some softening. It's human 
 nature. What did you do?" 
 
 "Called him back, and asked him what the 
 this and that he meant by interfering with my 
 [130] 
 
HIS BROTHER'S KEEPER 
 
 coolies in the day. He was generally hamper- 
 ing my men, but I had never taken any notice 
 of his vagaries till then. In another minute 
 we were arguing away, hammer and tongs. 
 If it had been any other man I'd 'a' simply 
 thrown the lamp at his head. He was calling 
 me all the mean names under the sun, accus- 
 ing me of misusing my authority and good- 
 ness only knows what all. When he had talked 
 himself down one stretch, I had only to say 
 a few words to start him off again, as fresh 
 as a daisy. On my word, this jabbering went 
 on for nearly three hours." 
 
 "Why didn't you get coolies and have him 
 tied up, if you thought he was mad?" asked 
 Revel. 
 
 "Not a safe business, believe me. Wrong- 
 ful restraint on your own responsibility of a 
 man nearly your own standing looks ugly. 
 Well, Stovey went on bullying me and com- 
 plaining about everything I'd ever said or 
 done since I came on the Canal, till — he went 
 fast asleep." 
 
 "Wha-at?" 
 
 [131] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 "Went off dead asleep, just as if he'd been 
 drugged. I thought the brute had had a fit 
 at first, but there he was, with his head hang- 
 ing a little on one side and his mouth open. I 
 knocked up his bearer and told him to take 
 the man to bed. We carried him off and 
 shoved him on his charpoy. He was still asleep, 
 and I didn't think it worth while to undress 
 him. The fit, whatever it was, had worked 
 itself out, and he was limp and used up. But 
 as I was going to leave the room, and went to 
 turn the lamp down, I looked in the glass and 
 saw that he was watching me between his eye- 
 lids. When I spun round he seemed asleep. 
 'That's your game, is it?' I thought, and I 
 stood over him long enough to see that he 
 was shamming. Then I cast an eye round 
 the room and saw his Martini in the corner. 
 We were all bullumteers on the Canal works. 
 I couldn't find the cartridges, so to make all 
 serene I knocked the breech-pin out with the 
 cleaning-rod and went to my own room. I 
 didn't go to sleep for some time. About one 
 o'clock — our rooms were only divided by a 
 [132] 
 
HIS BROTHER S KEEPER 
 
 door of sorts, and my bed was close to it — I 
 heard my friend open a chest of drawers. Then 
 he went for the Martini. Of course, the breech- 
 block came out with a rattle. Then he went 
 back to bed again, and I nearly laughed. 
 
 "Next morning he was doing the genial, 
 hail-fellow-well-met trick. Said he was afraid 
 he'd lost his temper overnight, and apologised 
 for»it. About half way through breakfast — he 
 was talking thickly about everything and any- 
 thing — he said he'd come to the conclusion that 
 a beard was a beastly nuisance and made one 
 stuffy. He was going to shave his. Would 
 I lend him my razors? 'Oh, you're a crafty 
 beast, you are/ I said to myself. I told him 
 that I was of the other opinion, and finding my 
 razors nearly worn out had chucked them into 
 the Canal only the night before. He gave 
 me one look under his eyebrows and went on 
 with his breakfast. I was in a stew lest the 
 man should cut his throat with one of the break- 
 fast knives, so I kept one eye on him most of 
 the time. 
 
 "Before I left the bungalow I caught old 
 [133] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 Jeewun Singh, one of the mistries on the gates, 
 and gave him strict orders that he was to keep 
 in sight of the Sahib wherever he went and 
 whatever he did; and if he did or tried to do 
 anything foolish, such as jumping down the 
 well, Jeewun Singh was to stop him. The old 
 man tumbled at once, and I was easier in my 
 mind when I saw how he was shadowing Stovey 
 up and down the works. Then I sat down and 
 wrote a letter to old Baggs, the Civil Surgeon 
 at Chemanghath, about sixty miles off, telling 
 him how we stood. The runner left about three 
 o'clock. Jeewun Singh turned up at the end 
 of the day and gave a full, true and particular 
 account of Stovey's doings. D'you know what 
 the brute had done?" 
 
 "Spare us the agony. Kill him straight off, 
 Saveloy!" 
 
 "He'd stopped the runner, opened the bag, 
 read my letter and torn it up! There were 
 only two letters in the bag, both of which I'd 
 written. I was pretty average angry, but I 
 lay low. At dinner he said he'd got a touch 
 of dysentery and wanted some chlorodyne. 
 [134] 
 
HIS BROTHER'S KEEPER 
 
 For a man anxious to depart this life he was 
 about as badly equipped as you could wish. 
 Hadn't even a medicine-chest to play with. 
 He was no more suffering from dysentery than 
 I, but I said I'd give him the chlorodyne, and 
 so I did — fifteen drops, mixed in a wine-glass, 
 and when he asked for the bottle I said that 
 I hadn't any more. 
 
 "That night he began praying again, and 
 I just lay in bed and shuddered. He was 
 invoking the most blasphemous curses on my 
 head — all in a whisper, for fear of waking me 
 up — for frustrating what he called his 'great 
 and holy purpose.' You never heard any- 
 thing like it. But as long as he was praying 
 I knew he was alive, and he ran his praying 
 half through the night. 
 
 "Well, for the next ten days he was ap- 
 parently quite rational ; but I watched him and 
 told Jeewun Singh to watch him like a cat. 
 I suppose he wanted to throw me off my 
 guard, but I wasn't to be thrown. I grew 
 thin watching him. Baggs wrote in to say 
 he had gone on tour and couldn't be found 
 [135] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 anywhere in particular for another six weeks. 
 It was a ghastly time. 
 
 "One day»old Jeewun Singh turned up with 
 a bit of paper that Stovey had given to one of 
 the lohars as a naksha. I thought it was mean 
 work spying into another man's very plans, 
 but when I saw what was on the paper I gave 
 old Jeewmi Singh a rupee-. It was a be-auti- 
 ful little breech-pin. The one-idead idiot had 
 gone back to Martini ! I never dreamt of such 
 persistence. 'Tell me when the lohar gives it 
 to the Sahib/ I said, and I felt more comfy 
 for a few days. Even if Jeewun Singh hadn't 
 split I should have known when the new breech- 
 pin was made. The brute came in to dinner 
 with a dashed confident, triumphant air, as 
 if he'd done me in the eye at last; and all 
 through dinner he was fiddling in his waist- 
 coat pocket. He went to bed early. I went, 
 too, and I put my head against the door and 
 listened like a woman. I must have been shiv- 
 ering in my pyjamas for about two hours 
 before my friend went for the dismantled 
 Martini. He could not get the breech-pin to 
 [136] 
 
HIS BROTHER'S KEEPER 
 
 fit at first. He rummaged about, and then 
 I heard a file go. That seemed to make too 
 much noise to suit his fancy, so he opened the 
 door and went out into the compound, and I 
 heard him, about fifty yards off, filing in the 
 dark at that breech-pin as if he had been pos- 
 sessed. Well, he waSj you know. Then he 
 came back to the light, cursing me for keeping 
 him out of his rest and the peace of Abraham's 
 bosom. As soon as I heard him taking up 
 the Martini, I ran round to his door and tried 
 to enter gaily, as the stage directions say. 
 'Lend me your gun, old man, if you're awake,' 
 I said. 'There's a howling big brute of a 
 pariah in my room, and I want to get a shot 
 at it.' I pretended not to notice that he was 
 standing over the gun, but just pranced up and 
 caught hold of it. He turned round with a 
 jump and said: 'I'm sick of this. I'll see 
 that dog, and if it's another of your lies 
 I'll ' You know I'm not a moral man." 
 
 "Hear! hear!" drowsily from Martha. 
 
 "But I simply daren't repeat what he said. 
 'All right!' I said, still hanging on to the gun. 
 [137] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 'Come along and we'll bowl him over.' He 
 followed me into my room with a face like a 
 fiend in torment. And, as truly as I'm yarn- 
 ing here, there was a huge brindled beast of a 
 pariah sitting on my bed!" 
 
 "Tall, sir, tall. But go on. The audience 
 is now awake." 
 
 "Hang it! Could I have invented that 
 pariah? Stovey dropped of the gun and 
 flopped down in a corner and yowled. I went 
 f ee ki ri ki re! 1 like a woman in hysterics, 
 pitched the gun forward and loosed off through 
 a window." 
 
 "And the pariah?" 
 
 "He quitted for the time being. Stovey was 
 in an awful state. He swore the animal 
 hadn't been there when I called him. That 
 was true enough. I firmly believe Providence 
 put it there to save me from being killed by 
 the infuriated Stovey." 
 
 "You've too lively a belief in Providence 
 altogether. What happened?" 
 
 "Stovey tried to recover himself and pass it 
 all over, but he let me keep the gun and went to 
 [138] 
 
HIS BROTHER'S KEEPER 
 
 bed. About two days afterwards old Baggs 
 turned up on tour, and I told him Stovey 
 wanted watching — more than I could give him. 
 I don't know whether Baggs or the pi did it, 
 but he didn't throw any more suicidal splints. 
 I was transferred a little while afterwards." 
 
 "Ever meet the man again?" 
 
 "Yes; once at Sheik Katan dak bungalow — 
 trailing the big brindle pi after him." 
 
 "Oh, it was real, then. I thought it was 
 arranged for the occasion." 
 
 "Not a bit. It was a pukka pi. Stovey 
 seemed to remember me in the same way that 
 a horse seems to remember. I fancy his brain 
 was a little cloudy. We tiffined together — 
 after the pi had been fed, if you please — and 
 Stovey said to me: 'See that dog? He saved 
 my life once. Oh, by the way, I believe you 
 were there, too, weren't you?' I shouldn't care 
 to work with Stovey again." 
 
 ****** 
 
 There was a holy pause in the smoking-room 
 of the Toopare Club. 
 
 [139] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 "What I like about Saveloy's play," said 
 Martha, looking at the ceiling, "is the beauti- 
 fully artistic way in which he follows up a 
 flush with a full. Go to bed, old manl" 
 
 [140] 
 
"SLEIPNER," LATE 'THURINDA''* 
 
 There are men, both good and wise, who hold that 
 in a future state 
 Dumb creatures we have cherished here below 
 Will give us joyous welcome as we pass the Golden 
 Gate. 
 
 Is it folly if I hope it may be so? 
 
 — The Place Where the Old Horse Died. 
 
 IF there were any explanation available 
 * here, I should be the first person to offer 
 it. Unfortunately, there is not, and I 
 am compelled to confine myself to the 
 facts of the case as vouched for by Hordene 
 and confirmed by "Guj," who is the last man 
 in the world to throw away a valuable horse 
 for nothing. 
 
 Jale came up with Thurinda to the Shayid 
 Spring meeting; and besides Thurinda his 
 
 ♦"Week's News," May 12, 1888. 
 
 [141] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 string included Divorce, Meg's Diversions and 
 Benoni^-ponies of sorts. He won the Officers' 
 Scurry — five furlongs — with Benoni on the 
 first day, and that sent up the price of the 
 stable in the evening lotteries; for Benoni was 
 the worst-looking of the three, being a pigeon- 
 toed, split-chested dak horse, with a wonderful 
 gift of blundering in on his shoulders — ridden 
 out to the last ounce — but first. Next day Jale 
 was riding Divorce in the Wattle and Dab 
 Stakes — round the jump course; and she 
 turned over at the on-and-off course when she 
 was leading and managed to break her neck. 
 She never stirred from the place where she 
 dropped, and Jale did not move either till he 
 was carried off the ground to his tent close 
 to the big shamiana where the lotteries were 
 held. He had ricked his back, and everything 
 below the hips was as dead as timber. Other- 
 wise he was perfectly well. The doctor said 
 that the stiffness would spread and that he 
 would die before the next morning. Jale in- 
 sisted upon knowing the worst, and when he 
 heard it sent a pencil note to the Honorary 
 [142] 
 
SLEIPNER," LATE "THURINDA" 
 
 Secretary, saying that they were not to stop 
 the races or do anything foolish of that kind. 
 If he hung on till the next day the nomina- 
 tions for the third day's racing would not be 
 void, and he would settle up all claims before 
 he threw up his hand. This relieved the Hon- 
 orary Secretary, because most of the horses 
 had come from a long distance, and, under any 
 circumstance, even had the Judge dropped 
 dead in the box, it would have been impossible 
 to have postponed the racing. There was a 
 great deal of money on the third day, and five 
 or six of the owners were gentlemen who would 
 make even one day's delay an excuse. Well, 
 settling would not be easy. No one knew much 
 about Jale. He was an outsider from down 
 country, but every one hoped that, since he 
 was doomed, he would live through the third 
 day and save trouble. 
 
 Jale lay on his charpoy in the tent and asked 
 the doctor and the man who catered to the re- 
 freshments — he was the nearest at the time — 
 to witness his will. "I don't know how long 
 my arms will be workable," said Jale, "and 
 [143] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 we'd better get this business over." The pri- 
 vate arrangements of the will concern nobody 
 but Jale's friends; but there was one clause 
 that was rather curious. "Who was that man 
 with the brindled hair who put me up for a 
 night until the tent was ready? The man who 
 rode down to pick me up when I was smashed. 
 Nice sort of fellow he seemed." "Hordene?" 
 said the doctor. "Yes, Hordene. Good chap, 
 Hordene. He keeps Bull whisky. Write 
 down that I give this Johnnie Hordene Thur~ 
 inda for his own, if he can sell the other ponies. 
 ThurindcLS a good mare. He can enter her — 
 post-entry — for the All Horse Sweep if he 
 likes — on the last day. Have you got that 
 down? I suppose the Stewards'll recognise 
 the gift?" "No trouble about that," said the 
 doctor. "All right. Give him the other two 
 ponies to sell. They're entered for the last 
 day, but I shall be dead then. Tell him to 
 
 send the money to " Here he gave an 
 
 address. "Now I'll sign and you sign, and 
 that's all. This deadness is coming up between 
 my shoulders." 
 
 [ 144] 
 
"SLEIPNER," LATE "THUMNDA" 
 
 Jale lived, dying very slowly, till the third 
 day's racing, and up till the time of the lot- 
 teries on the fourth day's racing. The doctor 
 was rather surprised. Hordene came in to 
 thank him for his gift, and to suggest it would 
 be much better to sell Thurinda with the others. 
 She was the best of them all, and would have 
 fetched twelve hundred on her looking-over 
 merits only. "Don't you bother," said Jale. 
 "You take her. I rather liked you. I've got 
 no people, and that Bull whisky was first- 
 class stuff. I'm pegging out now, I think." 
 
 The lottery-tent outside was beginning to 
 fill, and Jale heard the click of the dice. 
 "That's all right," said he. "I wish I was 
 there, but — I'm — going to the drawer." Then 
 he died quietly. Hordene went into the lottery- 
 tent, after calling the doctor. "How's Jale?" 
 said the Honorary Secretary. "Gone to the 
 drawer," said Hordene, settling into a chair 
 and reaching out for a lottery paper. "Poor 
 beggar!" said the Honorary Secretary. 
 " 'Twasn't the fault of our on-and-off, though. 
 The mare blundered. Gentlemen ! gentlemen ! 
 [145] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 Nine hundred and eighty rupees in the lottery, 
 and River of Years for sale!" The lottery 
 lasted far into the night, and there was a sup- 
 plementary lottery on the All Horse Sweep, 
 where Thurinda sold for a song, and was not 
 bought by her owner. "It's not lucky," said 
 Hordene, and the rest of the men agreed with 
 him. "I ride her myself, but I don't know 
 anything about her and I wish to goodness I 
 hadn't taken her," said he. "Oh, bosh! Never 
 refuse a horse or a drink, however you come 
 by them. No one objects, do they? Not going 
 to refer this matter to Calcutta, are we? Here, 
 somebody, bid! Eleven hundred and fifty 
 rupees in the lottery, and Thurinda — absolute- 
 ly unknown, acquired under the most romantic 
 circumstances from about the toughest man 
 it has ever been my good fortune to meet — 
 for sale. Hullo, Nurji, is that you? Gentle- 
 men, where a Pagan bids shall enlightened 
 Christians hang back? Ten! Going, going, 
 gone!" "You want ha-af, sar?" said the bat- 
 tered native trainer to Hordene. "No, thanks 
 — not a bit of her for me." 
 
 [146] 
 
"SLEIPNER," LATE "THURINDA" 
 
 The All Horse Sweep was run, and won by 
 Thurinda by about a street and three-quarters, 
 to be very accurate, amid derisive cheers, which 
 Hordene, who flattered himself that he knew 
 something about riding, could not understand. 
 On pulling up he looked over his shoulder and 
 saw that the second horse was only just passing 
 the box. "Now, how did I make such a fool 
 of myself?" he said as he returned to weigh 
 out. His friends gathered round him and 
 asked tenderly whether this was the first time 
 that he had got up, and whether it was abso- 
 lutely necessary that the winning horse should 
 be ridden out when the field were hopelessly 
 pumped, a quarter of a mile behind, etc., etc. 
 "I — I — thought River of Years was pressing 
 me," explained Hordene. "River of Years 
 was wallowing, absolutely wallowing," said a 
 man, "before you turned into the straight. 
 You rode like a — hang it — like a Militia subal- 
 tern!" 
 
 The Shayid Spring meeting broke up and 
 the sportsmen turned their steps towards the 
 next carcase — the Ghoriah Spring. With 
 [147] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 them went Tlmrinda s owner, the happy pos- 
 sessor of an almost perfect animal. "She's as 
 easy as a Pullman car and about twice as fast," 
 he was wont to say in moments of confidence 
 to his intimates. "For all her bulk, she's as 
 handy as a polo-pony; a child might ride her, 
 and when she's at the post she's as cute — she's 
 as cute as the bally starter himself." Many 
 times had Hordene said this, till at last one 
 unsympathetic friend answered with: "When 
 a man buhhs too much about his wife or his 
 horse, it's a sure sign he's trying to make him- 
 self like 'em. I mistrust your Tlmrinda. She's 
 
 too good, or else " "Or else what?" 
 
 "You're trying to believe you like her." "Like 
 her! I love her! I trust that darling as I'm 
 shot if I'd trust you. I'd hack her for tup- 
 pence." "Hack away, then. I don't want to 
 hurt your feelings. I don't hack my stable 
 myself, but some horses go better for it. Come 
 and peacock at the band-stand this evening." 
 To the band-stand accordingly Hordene came, 
 and the lovely Tlmrinda comported herself 
 with all the gravity and decorum that might 
 [148] 
 
"SLEIPNER," LATE "THURINDA" 
 
 have been expected. Hordene rode home with 
 the scoffer, through the dusk, discoursing on 
 matters indifferent. "Hold up a minute," said 
 his friend, "there's Gagley riding behind us." 
 Then, raising his voice: "Come along, Gagley! 
 I want to speak to you about the Race Ball." 
 But no Gagley came; and the couple went 
 forward at a trot. "Hang it! There's that 
 man behind us still." Hordene listened and 
 could clearly hear the sound of a horse trot- 
 ting, apparently just behind them. "Come on, 
 Gagley ! Don't play bo-peep in that ridiculous 
 way," shouted the friend. Again no Gagley. 
 Twenty yards farther there was a crash and a 
 stumble as the friend's horse came down over 
 an unseen rat-hole. "How much damaged?" 
 asked Hordene. "Sprained my wrist," was 
 the dolorous answer, "and there is something 
 wrong with my knee-cap. There* goes my 
 mount to-morrow, and this gee is cut like a 
 cab-horse." 
 
 On the first day of the Ghoriah meeting 
 Thurinda was hopelessly ridden out by a na- 
 tive jockey, to whose care Hordene had at the 
 [149] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 last moment been compelled to confide her. 
 You forsaken idiot!" said he, "what made you 
 begin riding as soon as you were clear? She 
 had everything safe, if you'd only left her 
 alone. You rode her out before the home turn, 
 you hog!" "What could I do?" said the jockey 
 sullenly. "I was pressed by another horse." 
 "Whose 'other horse'? There were twenty 
 yards of daylight between you and the ruck. 
 If you'd kept her there even then 'twouldn't 
 ha' mattered. But you rode her out — you rode 
 her out!" "There was another horse and he 
 pressed me to the end, and when I looked 
 round he was no longer there." Let us, in 
 charity, draw a veil over Hordene's language 
 at this point. "Goodness knows whether she'll 
 be fit to pull out again for the last event. D — n 
 you and your other horses! I wish I'd broken 
 your neck before letting you get up !" Thurinda 
 was done to a turn, and it seemed a cruelty 
 to ask her to run again in the last race of the 
 day. Hordene rode this time, and was careful 
 to keep the mare within herself at the outset. 
 Once more Thurinda left her field — with one 
 [150] 
 
"SLEIPNER," LATE "THURINDA" 
 
 exception — a grey horse that hung upon her 
 flanks and could not be shaken off. The mare 
 was done, and refused to answer the call upon 
 her. She tried hopelessly in the straight and 
 was caught and passed by her old enemy, 
 River of Years — the chestnut of Kurnaul. 
 "You rode well — like a native, Hordene," 
 was the unflattering comment. "The mare was 
 ridden out before River of Years." "But the 
 grey," began Hordene, and then ceased, for 
 he knew that there was no grey in the race. 
 Blue Point and Diamond Dust, the only greys 
 at the meeting, were running in the Arab Han- 
 dicap. 
 
 He caught his native jockey. "What horse, 
 d'you say, pressed you?" "I don't know. It 
 was a grey with nutmeg tickings behind the 
 saddle." That evening Hordene sought the 
 great Major Blare-Tyndar, who knew per- 
 sonally the father, mother and ancestors of 
 almost every horse, brought from ekka or ship, 
 that had ever set foot on an Indian race-course. 
 "Say, Major, what is a grey horse with nut- 
 meg tickings behind the saddle?" "A curiosity. 
 [151] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 Wendell Holmes is a grey, with nutmeg on the 
 near shoulder, but there is no horse marked 
 your way, now. Then, after a pause: "No, 
 I'm wrong — you ought to know. The pony 
 that got you Thurinda was grey and nutmeg." 
 "How much?" ff Divorce , of course. The mare 
 that broke her neck at the Shayid meeting and 
 killed Jale. A big thirteen-three she was. I 
 recollect when she was hacking old Snuffy 
 Beans to office. He bought her from a dealer, 
 who had her left on his hands as a rejection 
 when the Pink Hussars were buying team up 
 
 country and then Hullo! The man's 
 
 gone!" Hordene had departed on receipt of 
 information which he already knew. He only 
 demanded extra confirmation. Then he began 
 to argue with himself, bearing in mind that 
 he himself was a sane man, neither gluttonous 
 nor a wine-bibber, with an unimpaired diges- 
 tion, and that Thurinda was to all appearance 
 a horse of ordinary flesh and exceedingly good 
 blood. Arrived at these satisfactory conclu- 
 sions, he reargued the whole matter. 
 
 Being by nature intensely superstitious, he 
 [152] 
 
"SLEIPNER," LATE "THURINDA" 
 
 decided upon scratching Thurinda and facing 
 the howl of indignation that would follow. He 
 also decided to leave the Ghoriah meet and 
 change his luck. But it would have been sin- 
 ful — positively wicked — to have left without 
 waiting for the polo-match that was to con- 
 clude the festivities. At the last moment be- 
 fore the match, one of the leading players of 
 the Ghoriah team and Hordene's host discov- 
 ered that, through the kindly foresight of his 
 head sais, every single pony had been taken 
 down to the ground. "Lend me a hack, old 
 man," he shouted to Hordene as he was chang- 
 ing. "Take Thurinda/" was the reply. "She'll 
 bring you down in ten minutes." And Thur- 
 inda was accordingly saddled for Marish's 
 benefit. "I'll go down with you," said Hor- 
 dene. The two rode off together at a hand 
 canter. "By Jove! Somebody's sais '11 get 
 kicked for this!" said Marish, looking round. 
 "Look there! He's coming for the mare! Pull 
 out into the middle of the road." "What on 
 earth d'you mean?" "Well, if you can take a 
 strayed horse so calmly, I can't. Didn't you 
 [153] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 see what a lather that grey was in?" "What 
 grey?" "The grey that just passed us — 
 saddle and all. He's got away from the 
 ground, I suppose. Now he's turned the cor- 
 ner; but you can hear his hoofs. Listen!" 
 There was a furious gallop of shod horses, 
 gradually dying into silence. "Come along," 
 said Hordene. "We're late as it is. We shall 
 know all about it on the ground." "Anybody 
 lost a tat?" asked Marish cheerily as they 
 reached the ground. "No, weVe lost you. 
 Double up. You're late enough as it is. Get 
 up and go in. The teams are waiting." 
 Marish mounted his polo-pony and cantered 
 across. Hordene watched the game idly for a 
 few moments. There was a scrimmage, a 
 cloud of dust, and a cessation of play, and a 
 shouting for saises. The umpire clattered for- 
 ward and returned. "What has happened?" 
 "Marish! Neck broken! Nobody's fault. 
 Pony crossed its legs and came down. Game's 
 stopped. Thank God, he hasn't got a wife!" 
 Again Hordene pondered as he sat on his 
 horse's back. "Under any circumstances it 
 [154] 
 
"SLEIPNER," LATE "THURINDA" 
 
 was written that he was to be killed. I had no 
 interest in his death, and he had his warning, 
 I suppose. I can't make out the system that 
 this infernal mare runs under. Why him? 
 Anyway, I'll shoot her." He looked at Thur- 
 inda, the calm-eyed, the beautiful, and re- 
 pented. "No! I'll sell her." 
 
 "What in the world has happened to 
 Thurinda that Hordene is so keen on getting 
 rid of her?" was the general question. "I want 
 money," said Hordene unblushingly, and the 
 few who knew how his accounts stood saw that 
 this was a varnished lie. But they held their 
 peace because of the great love and trust that 
 exists among the ancient and honourable fra- 
 ternity of sportsmen. 
 
 "There's nothing wrong with her," explained 
 Hordene. "Try her as much as you like, but 
 let her stay in my stable until you've made 
 up your mind one way or the other. Nine hun- 
 dred's my price." 
 
 "I'll take her at that," quoth a red-haired 
 subaltern, nicknamed Carrots, later Gaja, and 
 then, for brevity's snke, Guj. "Let me have 
 [155] ' 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 her out this afternoon. I want her more for 
 hacking than anything else." 
 
 Guj tried Thurinda exhaustively and had 
 no fault to find with her. "She's all right," he 
 said briefly. "I'll take her. It's a cash deal." 
 "Virtuous Guj !" said Hordene, pocketing the 
 cheque. "If you go on like this you'll be 
 loved and respected by all who know you." 
 
 A week later Guj insisted that Hordene 
 should accompany him on a ride. They can- 
 tered merrily for a time. Then said the subal- 
 tern : "Listen to the mare's beat a minute, will 
 you? Seems to me that you've sold me two 
 horses." 
 
 Behind the mare was plainly audible the 
 cadence of a swiftly trotting horse. "D'you 
 hear anything?" said Guj. "No — nothing but 
 the regular triplet," said Hordene; and he lied 
 when he answered. Guj looked at him keenly 
 and said nothing. Two or three months passed 
 and Hordene was perplexed to see his old 
 property running, and running well, under the 
 curious title of "Sleipner — late Thurinda." He 
 consulted the Great Major, who said : "I don't 
 [156] 
 
"SLEIPNER," LATE "THURINDA" 
 
 know a horse called Sleipner, but I know of 
 one. He was a northern bred, and belonged to 
 Odin." "A mythological beast?" "Exactly. Like 
 Bucephalus and the rest of 'em. He was a 
 great horse. I wish I had some of his get in 
 my stable." "Why?" "Because he had eight 
 legs. When he had used up one set, he let 
 down the other four to come up the straight 
 on. Stewards were lenient in those days. Now 
 it's all you can do to get a crock with three 
 sound legs." 
 
 Hordene cursed the red-haired Guj in his 
 heart for finding out the mare's peculiarity. 
 Then he cursed the dead man Jale for his ri- 
 diculous interference with a free gift. "If it 
 was given — it was given," said Hordene, "and 
 he has no right to come messing about after 
 it." When Guj and he next met, he enquired 
 tenderly after Thurinda. The red-haired subal- 
 tern, impassive as usual, answered: "I've shot 
 her." "Well — you know your own affairs 
 best," said Hordene. "You've given yourself 
 away," said Guj. "What makes you think I 
 shot a sound horse? She might have been bit- 
 [157] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 ten hy a mad dog, or lamed." "You didn't 
 say that." "No, I didn't, because I've a notion 
 that you knew what was wrong with her." 
 "Wrong with her! She was as sound as a 
 
 bell " "I know that. Don't pretend to 
 
 misunderstand. You'll believe me, and I'll be- 
 lieve you in this show; but no one else will 
 believe us. That mare was a bally nightmare." 
 "Go on," said Hordene. "I stuck the noise 
 of the other horse as long as I could, and called 
 her Sleipner on the strength of it. Sleipner 
 was a stallion, but that's a detail. When it 
 got to interfering with every race I rode it 
 was more than I could stick. I took her off 
 racing, and, on my honour, since that time I've 
 been nearly driven out of my mind by a grey 
 and nutmeg pony. It used to trot round my 
 quarters at night, fool about the Mall, and 
 graze about the compound. You know that 
 pony. It isn't a pony to catch or ride or hit, is 
 it?" "No," said Hordene; "I've seen it." "Sol 
 shot Thurinda; that was a thousand rupees out 
 of my pocket. And old Stiffer, who's got his 
 new crematorium in full blast, cremated her. 
 [158] 
 
"SLEIPNER," LATE "THURINDA" 
 
 I say, what was the matter with the mare? 
 Was she bewitched?" 
 
 Hordene told the story of the gift, which 
 Guj heard out to the end. "Now, that's a nice 
 sort of yarn to tell in a messroom, isn't it? 
 They'd call it jumps or insanity," said Guj. 
 "There's no reason in it. It doesn't lead up 
 to anything. It only killed poor Marish and 
 made you stick me with the mare; and yet it's 
 true. Are you mad or drunk, or am I ? That's 
 the only explanation." "Can't be drunk for 
 nine months on end, and madness would show 
 in that time," said Hordene. 
 
 "All right," said Guj recklessly, going to 
 the window. "I'll lay that ghost." He leaned 
 out into the night and shouted: "Jale! Jale! 
 Jale! Wherever you are." There was a 
 pause and then up the compound-drive came 
 the clatter of a horse's feet. The red-haired 
 subaltern blanched under his freckles to the 
 colour of glycerine soap. "Thurinda's dead," 
 he muttered, "and — and all bets are off. Go 
 back to your grave again." 
 
 Hordene was watching him open-mouthed. 
 [159] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 "Now bring me a strait- jacket or a glass of 
 brandy," said Guj. "That's enough to turn 
 a man's hair white. What did the poor wretch 
 mean by knocking about the earth?" 
 
 "Don't know," whispered Hordene hoarsely. 
 "Let's get over to the Club. I'm feeling a bit 
 shaky." 
 
 [160] 
 
A SUPPLEMENTARY CHAPTER* 
 
 Shall I not one day remember thy Bower — 
 One da,y when all days are one day to me? 
 
 Thinking I stirred not and yet had the power, 
 Yearning — ah, God, if again it might be ! 
 
 — The Song of the Bower. 
 
 HIS is a base betrayal of confidence, 
 
 but the sin is Mrs. Hauksbee's and not 
 
 If you remember a certain foolish 
 
 tale called "The Education of Otis Yeere," 
 you will not forget that Mrs. Mallowe laughed 
 at the wrong time, which was a single, and at 
 Mrs. Hauksbee, which was a double, offence. 
 An experiment had gone wrong, and it seems 
 that Mrs. Mallowe had said some quaint things 
 about the experimentrix. 
 
 mine. 
 
 ♦"Week's News," May 19, 1888. 
 
 [161] 
 
ABAFT THE FUN? 
 
 "I am not angry," said Mrs. He 
 I admire Polly in spite of her ev 
 me. But I shall wait — I shall i 
 frog footman in Alice in Won 
 Providence will deliver Polly in1 
 It always does if you wait." And 
 to vex the soul of the "Hawley be 
 that she is singularly "uninstrui 
 like." He got that first word ou 
 novel. I do not know what it m 
 prepared to make an affidavit be 
 lector that it does not mean Mrs. 
 
 Mrs. Hauksbee's ideas of wail 
 liberal. She told the "Hawley 
 dared not tell Mrs. Reiver that 
 intellectual woman with a gift f 
 men," and she offered another ma 
 if he would repeat the same thin^ 
 ears. But he said: "Timeo Da 
 
A SUPPLEMENTARY CHAPT 
 
 and he wore jharun coats, like "the s 
 rivers that roll their sulphurous torrents 
 Yahek, in the realms of the Boreal Pole, 
 made your temples throb when seen ea 
 the morning. I will introduce him t< 
 some day if all goes well. He is worth ] 
 ing. 
 
 Unpleasant things have already been 
 ten about Mrs. Reiver in other places. 
 
 She was a person without invention, 
 used to get her ideas from the men she 
 tured, and this led to some eccentric chan^ 
 character. For a month or two she wou 
 a la Madonna, and try Theo for a chai 
 she fancied Theo's ways suited her b( 
 Then she would attempt the dark and 
 Lilith, and so and so on, exactly as sh 
 absorbed the new notion. But there w 
 ways Mrs. Reiver — hard, selfish, stupid 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 thing in the exhibition. But that, thank 
 Heaven, is getting old." 
 
 There was a Fancy Ball at Government 
 House and Mrs. Reiver came attired in some 
 sort of '98 costume, with her hair pulled up to 
 the top of her head, showing the clear outline 
 on the back of the neck like the Recamier en- 
 gravings. Mrs. Hauksbee had chosen to be 
 loud, not to say vulgar, that evening, and went 
 as The Black Death — a curious arrangement 
 of barred velvet, black domino and flame- 
 coloured satin puffery coming up to the neck 
 and the wrists, with one of those shrieking 
 keel-backed cicalas in the hair. The scream of 
 the creature made people jump. It sounded so 
 unearthly in a ballroom. 
 
 I heard her say to some one: "Let me in- 
 troduce you to Madame Recamier," and I saw 
 a man dressed as Autolycus bowing to Mrs. 
 Reiver, while The Black Death looked more 
 than usually saintly. It was a very pleasant 
 evening, and Autolycus and Madame Recam- 
 ier — I heard her ask Autolycus who Madame 
 Recamier was, by the way — danced together 
 [ 164] 
 
A SUPPLEMENTARY CHAPTER 
 
 ever so much. Mrs. Hauksbee was in a medi- 
 tative mood, but she laughed once or twice in 
 the back of her throat, and that meant trouble. 
 
 Autolycus was Trewinnard, the man whom 
 Mrs. Mallowe had told Mrs. Hauksbee about 
 — the Platonic Paragon, as Mrs. Hauksbee 
 called him. He was amiable, but his mous- 
 tache hid his mouth, and so he did not explain 
 himself all at once. If you stared at him, he 
 turned his eyes away, and through the rest 
 of the dinner kept looking at you to see 
 whether you were looking again. He took 
 stares as a tribute to his merits, which were 
 generally known and recognised. When he 
 played billiards he apologised at length be- 
 tween each bad stroke, and explained what 
 would have happened if the red had been some- 
 where else, or the bearer had trimmed the third 
 lamp, or the wind hadn't made the door bang. 
 Also he wriggled in his chair more than was 
 becoming to one of his inches. Little men 
 may wriggle and fidget without attracting 
 notice. It doesn't suit big-framed men. He 
 was the Main Girder Boom of the Kutcha, 
 [165] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 Pukka, Bundobust and Benaoti Department 
 and corresponded direct with the Three Taped 
 Bashaw. Every one knows what that means. 
 The men in his own office said that where any- 
 thing was to be gained, even temporarily, he 
 would never hesitate for a moment over hand- 
 ing up a subordinate to be hanged and drawn 
 and quartered. He didn't back up his under- 
 lings, and for that reason they dreaded taking 
 responsibility on their shoulders, and the 
 strength of the Department was crippled. 
 
 A weak Department can, and often does, do 
 a power of good work simply because its chief 
 sees it through thick and thin. Mistakes 
 may be born of this policy, but it is safe and 
 sounder than giving orders which may be read 
 in two ways and reserving to yourself the right 
 of interpretation according to subsequent fail- 
 ure or success. Offices prefer administration 
 to diplomacy. They are very like Empires. 
 
 Hatchett of the Almirah and Thannicutch — 
 a vicious little three-cornered Department that 
 was always stamping on the toes of the Elect 
 — had the fairest estimate of Trewinnard, when 
 [160] 
 
A SUPPLEMENTARY CHAPTER 
 
 he said: "I don't believe he is as good as he 
 is." They always quoted that verdict as an 
 instance of the blind jealousy of the Uncov- 
 enanted, but Hatchett was quite right. Tre- 
 winnard was just as good and no better than 
 Mrs. Mallowe could make him; and she had 
 been engaged on the work for three years. 
 Hatchett has a narrow-minded partiality for 
 the more than naked — the anatomised Truth 
 — but he can gauge a man. 
 
 Trewinnard had been spoilt by over-much 
 petting, and the devil of vanity that rides nine 
 hundred and ninety-nine men out of a thousand 
 made him behave as he did. He had been too 
 long one woman's property; and that belief 
 will sometimes drive a man to throw the best 
 things in the world behind him, from rank 
 perversity. Perhaps he only meant to stray 
 temporarily and then return, but in arranging 
 for this excursion he misunderstood both Mrs. 
 Mallowe and Mrs. Reiver. The one made no 
 sign, she would have died first; and the other 
 — well, the high-falutin mindsome lay was her 
 craze for the time being. She had never tried 
 [167] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 it before and several men had hinted that it 
 would eminently become her. Trewinnard 
 was in himself pleasant, with the great merit 
 of belonging to somebody else. He was what 
 they call "intellectual," and vain to the mar- 
 row. Mrs. Reiver returned his lead in the first, 
 and hopelessly out-trumped him in the second 
 suit. Put down all that comes after this to 
 Providence or The Black Death. 
 
 Trewinnard never realised how far he had 
 fallen from his allegiance till Mrs. Reiver re- 
 ferred to some official matter that he had been 
 telling her about as "ours." He remembered 
 then how that word had been sacred to Mrs. 
 Mallowe and how she had asked his permission 
 to use it. Opium is intoxicating, and so is 
 whisky, but more intoxicating than either to 
 a certain build of mind is the first occasion 
 on which a woman — especially if she have asked 
 leave for the "honour" — identifies herself with 
 a man's work. The second time is not so 
 pleasant. The answer has been given before, 
 and the treachery comes to the top and tastes 
 coppery in the mouth. 
 
 [168] 
 
A SUPPLEMENTARY CHAPTER 
 
 Trewinnard swallowed the shame — he felt 
 dimly that he was not doing Mrs. Reiver any 
 great wrong by untruth — and told and told 
 and continued to tell, for the snare of this form 
 of open-heartedness is that no man, unless he 
 be a consummate liar, knows where to stop. 
 The office door of all others must be either open 
 wide or shut tight with a shaprassi to keep off 
 callers. 
 
 Mrs. Mallowe made no sign to show that she 
 felt Trewinnard's desertion till a piece of in- 
 formation that could only have come from one 
 quarter ran about Simla like quicksilver. She 
 met Trewinnard at a dinner. "Choose your 
 confidantes better, Harold," she whispered as 
 she passed him in the drawing-room. He 
 turned salmon-colour, and swore very hard 
 to himself that Babu Durga Charan Laha 
 must go — must go — must go. He almost be- 
 lieved in that grey-headed old oyster's guilt. 
 
 And so another of those upside-down trage- 
 dies that we call a Simla Season wore through 
 to the end — from the Birthday Ball to the 
 "tripping" to Naldera and Kotghar. And 
 [169] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 fools gave feasts and wise men ate them, and 
 they were bidden to the wedding and sat down 
 to bake, and those who had nuts had no teeth 
 and they staked the substance for the shadow, 
 and carried coals to Newcastle, and in the dark 
 all cats were grey, as it was in the days of the 
 great Cure of Meudon. 
 
 Late in the year there developed itself a 
 battle-royal between the K.P.B. and B. De- 
 partment and the Almirah and Thannicutch. 
 Three columns of this paper would be needed 
 to supply you with the outlines of the difficulty; 
 and then you would not be grateful. Hat- 
 chett snuffed the fray from afar and went into 
 it with his teeth bared to the gums, while his 
 Department stood behind him solid to a man. 
 They believed in him, and their answer to the 
 fury of men who detested him was : "All! But 
 you'll admit he's d — d right in what he says." 
 
 "The head of Trewinnard in a Government 
 Resolution," said Hatchett, and he told the 
 daftri to put a new pad on his blotter, and 
 smiled a bleak smile as he spread out his notes. 
 [170] 
 
A SUPPLEMENTARY CHAPTER 
 
 Hatchett is a Thug in his systematic way of 
 butchering a man's reputation. 
 
 "What are you going to do?" asked Tre- 
 winnard's Department. "Sit tight," said 
 Trewinnard, which was tantamount to saying 
 "Lord knows." The Department groaned and 
 said: "Which of us poor beggars is to be 
 Jonahed this time?" They knew Trewinnard's 
 vice. 
 
 The dispute was essentially not one for the 
 K.P.B. and B. under its then direction to fight 
 out. It should have been compromised, or 
 at the worst sent up to the Supreme Govern- 
 ment with a private and confidential note 
 directing justice into the proper paths. 
 
 Some people say that the Supreme Govern- 
 ment is the Devil. It is more like the Deep 
 Sea. Anything that you throw into it disap- 
 pears for weeks, and comes to light hacked 
 and furred at the edges, crusted with weeds 
 and shells and almost unrecognisable. The 
 bold man who would dare to give it a file of 
 love-letters would be amply rewarded. It 
 would overlay them with original comments 
 [171] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 and marginal notes, and work them piecemeal 
 into D. O. dockets. Few things, from a setter 
 or a whirlpool to a sausage-machine or a 
 hatching hen, are more interesting and peculiar 
 than the Supreme Government. 
 
 "What shall we do?" said Trewinnard, who 
 had fallen from grace into sin. "Fight," said 
 Mrs. Reiver, or words to that effect; and no 
 one can say how far aimless desire to test her 
 powers, and how far belief in the man she had 
 brought to her feet prompted the judgment. 
 Of the merits of the case she knew just as much 
 as any ayah. 
 
 Then Mrs. Mallowe, upon an evil word that 
 went through Simla, put on her visiting-garb 
 and attired herself for the sacrifice, and went 
 to call — to call upon Mrs. Reiver, knowing 
 what the torture would be. From half-past 
 twelve till twenty-five minutes to two she sat, 
 her hand upon her cardcase, and let Mrs. 
 Reiver stab at her, all for the sake of the in- 
 formation. Mrs. Reiver double-acted her part, 
 but she played into Mrs. Mallowe's hand by 
 this defect. The assumptions of ownership, 
 [172] 
 
A SUPPLEMENTARY CHAPTER 
 
 the little intentional slips, were overdone, and 
 so also was the pretence of intimate knowledge. 
 Mrs. Mallowe never winced. She repeated to 
 herself : "And he has trusted this — this Thing. 
 She knows nothing and she cares nothing, and 
 she has digged this trap for him." The main 
 feature of the case was abundantly clear. Tre- 
 winnard, whose capacities Mrs. Mallowe knew 
 to the utmost farthing, to whom public and 
 departmental petting were as the breath of his 
 delicately-cut nostrils — Trewinnard, with his 
 nervous dread of dispraise, was to be pitted 
 against the Paul de Cassagnac of the Almirah 
 and Thannicutch — the unspeakable Hatchett, 
 who fought with the venom of a woman and 
 the skill of a Red Indian. Unless his cause 
 was triply just, Trewinnard was already 
 under the guillotine, and if he had been under 
 this "Thing's" dominance, small hope for the 
 justice of his case. "Oh, why did I let him go 
 without putting out a hand to fetch him back?" 
 said Mrs. Mallowe, as she got into her 'rick- 
 shaw. 
 
 Now, Tim, her fox-terrier, is the only person 
 [178] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 who knows what Mrs. Mallowe did that aft- 
 ernoon, and as I found him loafing on the Mall 
 in a very disconsolate condition and as he rec- 
 ognised me effusively and suggested going for 
 a monkey-hunt — a thing he had never done 
 before — my impression is that Mrs. Mallowe 
 stayed at home till the light fell and thought. 
 If she did this, it is of course hopeless to ac- 
 count for her actions. So 3 r ou must fill in the 
 gap for yourself. 
 
 That evening it rained heavily, and horses 
 mired their riders. But not one of all the habits 
 was so plastered with mud as the habit of Mrs. 
 Mallowe when she pulled up under the scrub 
 oaks and sent in her name by the astounded 
 bearer to Trewinnard. "Folly! downright 
 folly!" she said as she sat in the steam of the 
 dripping horse. "But it's all a horrible jumble 
 together." 
 
 It may be as well to mention that ladies do 
 not usually call upon bachelors at their houses. 
 Bachelors would scream and run away. Tre- 
 winnard came into the light of the verandah 
 with a nervous, undecided smile upon his lips, 
 [174] 
 
A SUPPLEMENTARY CHAPTER 
 
 and he wished — in the bottomless bottom of his 
 bad heart — he wished that Mrs. Reiver was 
 there to see. A minute later he was profoundly 
 glad that he was alone, for Mrs. Mallowe was 
 standing in his office room and calling him 
 names that reflected no credit on his intellect. 
 "What have you done? What have you said?'* 
 she asked. "Be quick! Be quick! And have the 
 horse led round to the back. Can you speak? 
 What have you written? Show me!" 
 
 She had interrupted him in the middle of 
 what he was pleased to call his reply; for 
 Hatchett's first shell had already fallen in the 
 camp. He stood back and offered her the seat 
 at the duftar table. Her elbow left a great 
 wet stain on the baize, for she was soaked 
 through and through. 
 
 "Say exactly how the matter stands," she 
 said, and laughed a weak little laugh, which 
 emboldened Trewinnard to say loftily: "Par- 
 don me, Mrs. Mallowe, but I hardly recognise 
 your " 
 
 "Idiot! Will you show me the papers, will 
 you speak, and will you be quick?" 
 
 [175] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 Her most reverent admirers would hardly 
 have recognised the soft-spoken, slow-gestured, 
 quiet-eyed Mrs. Mallowe in the indignant 
 woman who was dramming on Trewinnard's 
 desk. He submitted to the voice of authority, 
 as he had submitted in the old times, and ex- 
 plained as quickly as might be the cause of the 
 war between the two Departments. In con- 
 clusion he handed over the rough sheets of his 
 reply. As she read he watched her with the 
 expectant sickly half-smile of the unaccus- 
 tomed writer who is doubtful of the success of 
 his work. And another smile followed, but 
 died away as he saw Mrs. Mallowe read his 
 production. All the old phrases out of which 
 she had so carefully drilled him had returned ; 
 the unpruned fluency of diction was there, the 
 more luxuriant for being so long cut back; the 
 reckless riotousness of assertion that sacrificed 
 all — even the vital truth that Hatchett would 
 be so sure to take advantage of — for the sake 
 of scoring a point, was there ; and through and 
 between every line ran the weak, wilful vanity 
 of the man. Mrs. Mallowe's mouth hardened. 
 [176] 
 
A SUPPLEMENTARY CHAPTER 
 
 "And you wrote this!" she said. Then to 
 herself: "He wrote this!" 
 
 Trewinnard stepped forward with a gesture 
 habitual to him when he wished to explain. 
 Mrs. Reiver had never asked for explanations. 
 She had told him that all his ways were perfect. 
 Therefore he loved her. 
 
 Mrs. Mallowe tore up the papers one by one, 
 saying as she did so: "You were going to cross 
 swords with Hatchett. Do you know your 
 own strength? Oh, Harold, Harold, it is too 
 
 pitiable! I thought— I thought " Then 
 
 the great anger that had been growing in her 
 broke out, and she cried : "Oh, you fool! You 
 blind, blind, blind, trumpery fool! Why do I 
 help you? Why do I have anything to do 
 with you? You miserable man! Sit down 
 and write as I dictate. Quickly ! And I had 
 :hosen you out of a hundred other men! Write! 
 It is a terrible thing to be found out by a 
 mere unseeing male — Thackeray has said it. 
 It is worse, far worse, to be found out by a 
 woman, and in that hour after long years to 
 discover her worth. For ten minutes Tre- 
 [177] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 winnard's pen scratched across the paper, and 
 Mrs. Mallowe spoke. "And that is all," she 
 said bitterly. "As you value yourself — your 
 noble, honourable, modest self — keep within 
 that." 
 
 But that was not all — by any means. At 
 least as far as Trewinnard was concerned. 
 
 He rose from his chair and delivered his soul 
 of many mad and futile thoughts — such things 
 as a man babbles when he is deserted of the 
 gods, has missed his hold upon the latch-door 
 of Opportunity — and cannot see that the ways 
 are shut. Mrs. Mallowe bore with him to the 
 end, and he stood before her — no enviable crea- 
 ture to look upon. 
 
 "A cur as well as a fool!" she said. "Will 
 you be good enough to tell them to bring my 
 horse? I do not trust to your honour — you 
 have none — but I believe that your sense of 
 shame will keep you from speaking of my 
 visit." 
 
 So he was left in the verandah crying "Come 
 back" like a distracted guinea-fowl. 
 
 ****** 
 
 [178] 
 
A SUPPLEMENTARY CHAPTER 
 
 "He's done us in the eye," grunted Hatchett 
 as he perused the K.P.B. and B. reply. "Look 
 at the cunning of the brute in shifting the 
 issue on to India in that carneying, blarneying 
 way! Only wait until I can get my knife into 
 him again. I'll stop every bolt-hole before the 
 hunt begins." 
 
 ****** 
 
 Oh, I believe I have forgotten to mention 
 the success of Mrs. Hauksbee's revenge. It 
 was so brilliant and overwhelming that she had 
 to cry in Mrs. Mallowe's arms for the better 
 part of half an hour; and Mrs. Mallowe was 
 just as bad, though she thanked Mrs. Hauks- 
 bee several times in the course of the inter- 
 view, and Mrs. Hauksbee said that she would 
 repent and reform, and Mrs. Mallowe said: 
 "Hush, dear, hush ! I don't think either of us 
 had anything to be proud of." And Mrs. 
 Hauksbee said: "Oh, but I didn't mean it, 
 Polly, I didn't mean it!" And I stood with 
 my hat in my hand trying to make two very 
 indignant ladies understand that the bearer 
 really had given me "salaam bolta" 
 
 That was an evil quarter minute. 
 [179] 
 
CHATAUQUAED* 
 
 Tells how the Professor and I found the 
 Precious Rediculouses and how the} 7 Chautauquaed 
 at us. Puts into print some sentiments better left 
 unrecorded, and proves that a neglected theory 
 will blossom in congenial soil. Contains fragments 
 of three lectures and a confession. 
 
 "But these, in spite of careful dirt, 
 
 Are neither green nor sappy; 
 Half conscious of the garden squirt, 
 
 The Spendlings look unhappy." 
 
 OUT of the silence under the apple- 
 trees the Professor spake. One leg 
 thrust from the hammock netting 
 kicked lazily at the blue. There was 
 the crisp crunch of teeth in an apple core. 
 
 "Get out of this," said the Professor lazily. 
 As it was on the banks of the Hughli, so on 
 
 *No. XXXIX appeared in the "Pioneer Mail," Vol. XVII, 
 No. 14, April 2, 1890. 
 
 [180] 
 
CHATAUQUAED 
 
 the green borders of the Musquash and the 
 Ohio — eternal unrest, and the insensate desire 
 to go ahead. I was lapped in a very trance of 
 peace. Even the apples brought no indiges- 
 tion. 
 
 "Permanent Nuisance, what is the matter 
 now?" I grunted. 
 
 "G'long out of this and go to Niagara," said 
 the Professor in jerks. "Spread the ink of 
 description through the waters of the Horse- 
 shoe falls — buy a papoose from the tame wild 
 Indian who lives at the Clifton House — take a 
 fifty-cent ride on the Maid of the Mist — go 
 over the falls in a tub." 
 
 "Seriously, is it worth the trouble? Every- 
 body who has ever been within fifty miles of 
 the falls has written his or her impressions. 
 Everybody who has never seen the falls knows 
 all about them, and — besides, I want some 
 more apples. They're good in this place, ye 
 big fat man," I quoted. 
 
 The Professor retired into his hammock for 
 a while. Then he reappeared flushed with a 
 [181] 
 
ABAFT THE FUXXEL 
 
 new thought. "If you want to see something 
 quite new let's go to Chautauqua." 
 "What's that?" 
 
 "Well, it's a sort of institution. It's an 
 educational idea, and it lives on the borders 
 of a lake in New York State. I think you'll 
 find it interesting ; and I know it will show you 
 a new side of American life." 
 
 In blank ignorance I consented. Every- 
 body is anxious that I should see as 
 many sides of American life as possible. 
 Here in the East they demand of me 
 what I thought of their West. I dare 
 not answer that it is as far from their notions 
 and motives as Hindustan from Hoboken — 
 that the West, to this poor thinking, is an 
 America which has no kinship with its neigh- 
 bour. Therefore I congratulated them hypo- 
 critically upon "their AVest," and from their 
 lips learn that there is yet another America, 
 that of the South — alien and distinct. Into 
 the third country, alas ! I shall not have time 
 to penetrate. The newspapers and the oratory 
 of the day will tell you that all feeling between 
 [182] 
 
CHATAUQUAED 
 
 the North and South is extinct. None the less 
 the Northerner, outside his newspapers and 
 public men, has a healthy contempt for the 
 Southerner which the latter repays by what 
 seems very like a deep-rooted aversion to the 
 Northerner. I have learned now what the sen- 
 timents of the great American nation mean. 
 The North speaks in the name of the country ; 
 the West is busy developing its own resources, 
 and the Southerner skulks in his tents. His 
 opinions do not count; but his girls are very 
 beautiful. 
 
 So the Professor and I took a tmin and went 
 to look at the educational idea. From sleepy, 
 quiet little Musquash we rattled through the 
 coal and iron districts of Pennsylvania, her 
 coke ovens flaring into the night and her clam- 
 orous foundries waking the silence of the 
 woods in which they lay. Twenty years hence 
 woods and cornfields will be gone, and from 
 Pittsburg to Shenango all will be smoky black 
 as Bradford and Beverly: for each factory is 
 drawing to itself a small town, and year by 
 year the demand for rails increases. The Pro- 
 [183] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 fessor held forth on the labour question, his 
 remarks being prompted by the sight of a 
 train-load of Italians and Hungarians going 
 home from mending a bridge. 
 
 "You recollect the Burmese," said he. "The 
 American is like the Burman in one way. He 
 won't do heavy manual labour. He knows 
 too much. Consequently he imports the alien 
 to be his hands — just as the Burman gets hold 
 of the Madrassi. If he shuts down all labour 
 immigration he will have to fill up his own 
 dams, cut his cuttings and pile his own em- 
 bankments. The American citizen won't like 
 that. He is racially unfit to be a labourer 
 in muttee. He can invent, buy, sell and de- 
 sign, but he cannot waste his time on earth- 
 works. Iswaste, this great people will resume 
 contract labour immigration the minute they 
 find the aliens in their midst are not sufficient 
 for the jobs in hand. If the alien gives them 
 trouble they will shoot him." 
 
 "Yes, they will shoot him," I said, remem- 
 bering how only two days before some Hun- 
 garians employed on a line near Musquash 
 [184], 
 
CHATAUQUAED 
 
 had seen fit to strike and to roll down rocks 
 on labourers hired to take their places, an 
 amusement which caused the sheriff to open fire 
 with a revolver and wound or kill (it really 
 does not much matter which) two or three of 
 them. Only a man who earns ten pence a day 
 in sunny Italy knows how to howl for as many 
 shillings in America. 
 
 The composition of the crowd in the cars 
 began to attract my attention. There were very 
 many women and a few clergymen. Where 
 you shall find these two together, there also 
 shall be a fad, a hobby, a theory, or a mission. 
 
 "These people are going to Chautauqua," 
 said the Professor. "It's a sort of open-air 
 college — they call it — but you'll understand 
 things better when you arrive." A grim twin- 
 kle in the back of his eye awakened all my 
 fears. 
 
 "Can you get anything to drink there?" 
 "No." 
 
 "Are you allowed to smoke?" 
 "Ye-es, in certain places." 
 "Are we staying there over Sunday?" 
 [185] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 "No" This very emphatically. 
 
 Feminine shrieks of welcome: "There's 
 Sadie I" "Why, Maimie, is that yeou !" " Alf 's 
 in the smoker. Did you bring the baby?" and 
 a profligate expenditure of kisses between bon- 
 net and bonnet told me we had struck a gather- 
 ing place of the clans. It was midnight. They 
 swept us, this horde of clamouring women, into 
 a Black Maria omnibus and a sumptuous hotel 
 close to the borders of a lake — Lake Chautau- 
 qua. Morning showed as pleasant a place of 
 summer pleasuring as ever I wish to see. 
 Smooth-cut lawns of velvet grass, studded 
 with tennis-courts, surrounded the hotel and 
 ran down to the blue waters, which were dotted 
 with rowboats. Young men in wonderful 
 blazers, and maidens in more wonderful tennis 
 costumes; women attired with all the extrava- 
 gance of unthinking Chicago or the grace of 
 Washington (which is Simla) rilled the 
 grounds, and the neat French nurses and ex- 
 quisitely dressed little children ran about to- 
 gether. There was pickerel-fishing for such 
 as enjoyed it; a bowling-alley, unlimited bath- 
 [186] ' 
 
CHATAUQUAED 
 
 ing and a toboggan, besides many other amuse- 
 ments, all winding up with a dance or a concert 
 at night. Women dominated the sham mediae- 
 val hotel, rampaged about the passages, flirted 
 in the corridors and chased unruly children off 
 the tennis-courts. This place was called Lake- 
 wood. It is a pleasant place for the unregen- 
 erate. 
 
 "We go up the lake in a steamer to Chautau- 
 qua," said the Professor. 
 
 "But I want to stay here. This is what I 
 understand and like." 
 
 "No, you don't. You must come along and 
 be educated." 
 
 All the shores of the lake, which is eighteen 
 miles long, are dotted with summer hotels, 
 camps, boat-houses and pleasant places of rest. 
 You go there with all your family to fish and 
 to flirt. There is no special beauty in the 
 landscape of tame cultivated hills and decor- 
 ous, woolly trees, but good taste and wealth 
 have taken the place in hand, trimmed its bor- 
 ders and made it altogether delightful. 
 
 The institution of Chautauqua is the largest 
 [187] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 village on the lake. I can't hope to give you 
 an idea of it, but try to imagine the Charles- 
 ville at Mussoorie magnified ten times and set 
 down in the midst of hundreds of tiny little 
 hill houses, each different from its neighbour, 
 brightly painted and constructed of wood. 
 Add something of the peace of dull Dalhousie, 
 flavour with a tincture of missions and the 
 old Polytechnic, Cassell's Self Educator and 
 a Monday pop, and spread the result out flat 
 on the shores of Naini Tal Lake, which you 
 will please transport to the Dun. But that 
 does not half describe the idea. We watched 
 it through a wicket gate, where Ave were fur- 
 nished with a red ticket, price forty cents, and 
 five dollars if you lost it. I naturally lost 
 mine on the spot and was fined accordingly. 
 
 Once inside the grounds on the paths that 
 serpentined round the myriad cottages I was 
 lost in admiration of scores of pretty girls, 
 most of them with little books under their arms, 
 and a pretty air of seriousness on their faces. 
 Then I stumbled upon an elaborately arranged 
 mass of artificial hillocks surrounding a mud 
 [188] 
 
CHATAUQUAED 
 
 puddle and a wormy streak of slime connect- 
 ing it with another mud puddle. Little boul- 
 ders topped with square pieces of putty were 
 strewn over the hillocks — evidently with inten- 
 tion. When I hit my foot against one such 
 boulder painted "Jericho," I demanded infor- 
 mation in aggrieved tones. 
 
 "Hsh!" said the Professor. "It's a model 
 of Palestine — the Holy Land — done to scale 
 and all that, you know." 
 
 Two young people were flirting on the top 
 of the highest mountain overlooking Jerusa- 
 lem ; the mud puddles were meant for the Dead 
 Sea and the Sea of Galilee, and the twisting 
 gutter was the Jordan. A small boy sat on 
 the city "Safed" and cast his line into Chautau- 
 qua Lake. On the whole it did not impress 
 me. The hotel was filled with women, and 
 a large blackboard in the main hall set forth 
 the exercises for the day. It seemed that 
 Chautauqua was a sort of educational syndi- 
 cate, cum hotel, cum (very mild) Rosherville. 
 There were annually classes of young women 
 and young men who studied in the little cot- 
 [189] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 tages for two or three months in the year and 
 went away to self-educate themselves. There 
 were other classes who learned things by cor- 
 respondence, and yet other classes made up the 
 teachers. All these delights I had missed, but 
 had arrived just in time for a sort of debauch 
 of lectures which concluded the three months' 
 education. The syndicate in control had hired 
 various lecturers whose names would draw 
 audiences, and these men were lecturing about 
 the labour problem, the servant-girl question, 
 the artistic and political aspect of Greek life, 
 the Pope in the Middle Ages and similar sub- 
 jects, in all of which young women do naturally 
 take deep delight. Professor Mahaffy (what 
 the devil was he doing in that gallery?) was 
 the Greek art side man, and a Dr. Gunsaulus 
 handled the Pope. The latter I loved forth- 
 with. He had been to some gathering on 
 much the same lines as the Chautauqua one, 
 and had there been detected, in the open day- 
 light, smoking a cigar. One whole lighted 
 cigar. Then his congregation or his class, or 
 the mothers of both of them, wished to know 
 [190] 
 
CHATAUQUAED 
 
 whether this was the sort of conduct for a 
 man professing temperance. I have not heard 
 Dr. Gunsaulus lecture, but he must be a good 
 man. Professor Mahaffy was enjoying him- 
 self. I sat close to him at tiffin and heard him 
 arguing with an American professor as to the 
 merits of the American Constitution. Both 
 men spoke that the table might get the benefit 
 of their wisdom, whence I argued that even 
 eminent professors are eminently human. 
 
 "Now, for goodness' sake, behave yourself," 
 said the Professor. "You are not to ask the 
 whereabouts of a bar. You are not to laugh 
 at anything you see, and you are not to go 
 away and deride this Institution." 
 
 Remember that advice. But I was virtuous 
 throughout, and my virtue brought its own 
 reward. The parlour of the hotel was full of 
 committees of women; some of them were 
 Methodist Episcopalians, some were Congre- 
 gationalists, and some were United Presby- 
 terians ; and some were faith healers and Chris- 
 tian Scientists, and all trotted about with note- 
 books in their hands and the expression of 
 [191] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 Atlas on their faces. They were connected 
 with missions to the heathen, and so forth, and 
 their deliberations appeared to be controlled 
 by a male missionary. The Professor intro- 
 duced me to one of them as their friend from 
 India. 
 
 "Indeed," said she; "and of what denomi- 
 nation are you?" 
 
 "I — I live in India," I murmured. 
 
 "You are a missionary, then?" 
 
 I had obeyed the Professor's orders all too 
 well. "I am not a missionary," I said, with, I 
 trust, a decent amount of regret in my tones. 
 She dropped me and I went to find the Pro- 
 fessor, who had cowardly deserted me, and I 
 think was laughing on the balcony. It is very 
 hard to persuade a denominational American 
 that a man from India is not a missionary. The 
 home-returned preachers very naturally convey 
 the impression that India is inhabited solely hy 
 missionaries. 
 
 I heard some of them talking and saw how, 
 all unconsciously, they were hinting the thing 
 which was not. But prejudice governs me 
 [192] 
 
CHATAUQUAED 
 
 against my will. When a woman looks you in 
 the face and pities you for having to associate 
 with "heathen" and "idolaters"— Sikh Sirdar 
 of the north, if you please, Mahommedan gen- 
 tlemen and the simple-minded J at of the Pun- 
 jab — what can you do? 
 
 The Professor took me out to see the sights, 
 and lest I should be further treated as a de- 
 nominational missionary I wrapped myself in 
 tobacco smoke. This ensures respectful treat- 
 ment at Chautauqua. An amphitheatre capa- 
 ble of seating five thousand people is the cen- 
 tre-point of the show. Here the lecturers 
 lecture and the concerts are held, and from 
 here the avenues start. Each cottage is deco- 
 rated according to the taste of the owner, and 
 is full of girls. The verandahs are alive with 
 them; thej^ fill the sinuous walks; they hurry 
 from lecture to lecture, hatless, and three under 
 one sunshade; they retail little confidences 
 walking arm-in-arm; they giggle for all the 
 world like uneducated maidens, and they walk 
 about and row on the lake with their very 
 young men. The lectures are arranged to suit 
 [193] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 all tastes. I got hold of one called "The 
 Eschatology of Our Saviour." It set itself 
 to prove the length, breadth and temperature 
 of Hell from information garnered from the 
 New Testament. I read it in the sunshine 
 under the trees, with these hundreds of pretty 
 maidens pretending to be busy all round; and 
 it did not seem to match the landscape. Then 
 I studied the faces of the crowd. One-quarter 
 were old and worn ; the balance were young, in- 
 nocent, charming and frivolous. I wondered 
 how much they really knew or cared for the 
 art side of Greek life, or the Pope in the Mid- 
 dle Ages; and how much for the young men 
 who walked with them. Also what their ideas 
 of Hell might be. We entered a place called 
 a museum (all the shows here are of an im- 
 proving tendency), which had evidently been 
 brought together by feminine hands, so jum- 
 bled were the exhibits. There was a facsimile 
 of the Rosetta stone, with some printed popu- 
 lar information; an Egyptian camel saddle, 
 miscellaneous truck from the Holy Land, an- 
 other model of the same, photographs of Rome, 
 [194] 
 
CHATAUQUAED 
 
 badly-blotched drawings of volcanic phe- 
 nomena, the head of the pike that John Brown 
 took to Harper's Ferry that time his soul 
 went marching- on, casts of doubtful value, and 
 views of Chautauqua, all bundled together 
 without the faintest attempt at arrangement, 
 and all very badly labelled. 
 
 It was the apotheosis of Popular Informa- 
 tion. I told the Professor so, and he said I 
 was an ass, which didn't affect the statement 
 in the least. I have seen museums like 
 Chautauqua before, and well I know what they 
 mean. If you do not understand, read the 
 first part of Aurora Leigh. Lectures on the 
 Chautauqua stamp I have heard before. Peo- 
 ple don't get educated that way. They must 
 dig for it, and cry for it, and sit up o' nights 
 for it; and when they have got it they must 
 call it by another name or their struggle is of 
 no avail. You can get a degree from this 
 La™ Tennis Tabernacle of all the arts and 
 sciences at Chautauqua. Mercifully the students 
 are womenfolk, and if they marry the degree 
 is forgotten, and if they become school-teachers 
 [ 195 ] 
 
ABAFT THE FUXNEL 
 
 they can only instruct young America in the 
 art of mispronouncing his own language. And 
 yet so great is the perversity of the American 
 girl that she can, scorning tennis and the allure- 
 ments of boating, work herself nearly to death 
 over the skittles of archaeology and foreign 
 tongues, to the sorrow of all her friends. 
 
 Late that evening the contemptuous cour- 
 tesy of the hotel allotted me a room in a cottage 
 of quarter-inch planking, destitute of the most 
 essential articles of toilette furniture. Ten 
 shillings a day was the price of this shelter, for 
 Chautauqua is a paying institution. I heard 
 the Professor next door banging about like 
 a big jack-rabbit in a very small packing-case. 
 Presently he entered, holding between dis- 
 gusted finger and thumb the butt end of a 
 candle, his only light, and this in a house that 
 would burn quicker than cardboard if once 
 lighted. 
 
 "Isn't it shameful? Isn't it atrocious? A 
 dak bungalow khansamah wouldn't dare to 
 give me a raw candle to go to bed by. I say, 
 [196] 
 
CHATAUQUAED 
 
 when you describe this hole rend them to 
 pieces. A candle stump! Give it 'em hot." 
 
 You will remember the Professor's advice 
 to me not long ago. " 'Fessor," said I loftily 
 (my own room was a windowless dog-kennel) , 
 "this is unseemly. We are now in the most 
 civilised country on earth, enjoying the ad- 
 vantages of an Institootion which is the flower 
 of the civilisation of the nineteenth century; 
 and yet you kick up a fuss over being obliged 
 to go to bed by the stump of a candle ! Think 
 of the Pope in the Middle Ages. Reflect on 
 the art side of Greek life. Remember the 
 Sabbath day to keep it holy, and get out of 
 this. You're filling two-thirds of my room." 
 
 Apropos of Sabbath, I have come across 
 some lovely reading which it grieves me that 
 I have not preserved. Chautauqua, you must 
 know, shuts down on Sundays. With awful 
 severity an eminent clergyman has been writ- 
 ing to the papers about the beauties of the sys- 
 tem. The stalls that dispense terrible drinks of 
 Moxie, typhoidal milk-shakes and sulphuric- 
 [197] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 acid-on-lime-bred soda-water are stopped; 
 boating is forbidden; no steamer calls at the 
 jetty, and the nearest railway station is three 
 miles off, and you can't hire a conveyance ; the 
 barbers must not shave you, and no milkman 
 or butcher goes his rounds. The reverend gen- 
 tleman enjoys this (he must wear a beard) . I 
 forget his exact words, but they run: "And 
 thus, thank God, no one can supply himself 
 on the Lord's day with the luxuries or con- 
 veniences that he has neglected to procure on 
 Saturday." Of course, if you happen to lin- 
 ger inside the wicket gate — verily Chautauqua 
 is a close preserve — over Sunday, you must 
 bow gracefully to the rules of the place. But 
 what are you to do with this frame of mind? 
 The owner of it would send missions to con- 
 vert the "heathen," or would convert you at 
 ten minutes' notice; and yet if you called him 
 a heathen and an idolater he would probably 
 be very much offended. 
 
 Oh, my friends, I have been to one source 
 of the river of missionary enterprise, and the 
 waters thereof are bitter — bitter as hate, narrow 
 [198] 
 
CHATAUQUAED 
 
 as the grave! Not now do I wonder that the 
 missionary in the East is at times, to our think- 
 ing, a little intolerant towards beliefs he can- 
 not understand and people he does not appre- 
 ciate. Rather it is a mystery to me that these 
 delegates of an imperious ecclesiasticism have 
 not a hundred times ere this provoked murder 
 and fire among our wards. If they were true 
 to the iron teachings of Centreville or Petumna 
 or Chunkhaven, when they came they would 
 have done so. For Centreville or Smithson 
 or Squeehawken teach the only true creeds 
 in all the world, and to err from their tenets, 
 as laid down by the bishops and the elders, is 
 damnation. How it may be in England at the 
 centres of supply I cannot tell, but shall pres- 
 ently learn. Here in America I am afraid of 
 these grim men of the denominations, who 
 know so intimately the will of the Lord and 
 enforce it to the uttermost. Left to themselves 
 they would prayerfully, in all good faith and 
 sincerity, slide gradually, ere a hundred years, 
 from the mental inquisitions which they now 
 work with some success to an institootion — be 
 [199] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 sure it would be an "institootion" with a jour- 
 nal of its own — not far different from what the 
 Torquemada ruled aforetime. Does this seem 
 extravagant? I have watched the expression on 
 the men's faces when they told me that they 
 would rather see their son or daughter dead 
 at their feet than doing such and such tilings — 
 trampling on the grass on a Sunday, or some- 
 thing equally heinous — and I was grateful that 
 the law of men stood between me and their in- 
 terpretation of the law of God. They would 
 assuredly slay the body for the soul's sake and 
 account it righteousness. And this would be- 
 fall not in the next generation, perhaps, but 
 in the next, for the very look I saw in a 
 Eusufzai's face at Peshawar when he turned 
 and spat in my tracks I have seen this day at 
 Chautauqua in the face of a preacher. The 
 will was there, but not the power. 
 
 The Professor went up the lake on a visit, 
 taking my ticket of admission with him, and 
 I found a child, aged seven, fishing with a 
 worm and pin, and spent the rest of the after- 
 noon in his company. He was a delightful 
 [200] 
 
CHATAUQUAED 
 
 young citizen, full of information and appar- 
 ently ignorant of denominations. We caught 
 sunfish and catfish and pickerel together. 
 
 The trouble began when I attempted to es- 
 cape through the wicket on the jetty and let 
 the creeds fight it out among themselves. 
 Without that ticket I could not go, unless I 
 paid five dollars. That was the rule to prevent 
 people cheating. 
 
 "You see," quoth a man in charge, "you've 
 no idea of the meanness of these people. Why, 
 there was a lady this season — a prominent 
 member of the Baptist connection — we know, 
 but we can't prove it that she had two of her 
 hired girls in a cellar when the grounds were 
 being canvassed for the annual poll-tax of five 
 dollars a head. So she saved ten dollars. We 
 can't be too careful with this crowd. You've 
 got to produce that ticket as a proof that you 
 haven't been living in the grounds for weeks 
 and weeks." 
 
 "For weeks and weeks I" The blue went out 
 of the sky as he said it. "But I wouldn't stay 
 [201] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 here for one week if I could help it," I an- 
 swered. 
 
 "No more would I," he said earnestly. 
 
 Returned the Professor in a steamer, and 
 him I basely left to make explanations about 
 that ticket, while I returned to Lake wood — 
 the nice hotel without any regulations. I 
 feared that I should be kept in those terrible 
 grounds for the rest of my life. 
 
 And it turned out an hour later that the 
 same fear lay upon the Professor also. He 
 arrived heated but exultant, having baffled the 
 combined forces of all the denominations and 
 recovered the five-dollar deposit. "I wouldn't 
 go inside those gates for anything," he said. 
 "I waited on the jetty. What do you think of 
 it all?" 
 
 "It has shown me a new side of American 
 life," I responded. "I never want to see it 
 again — and I'm awfully sorry for the girls 
 who take it seriously. I suppose the bulk of 
 them don't. They just have a good time. But 
 it would be better " 
 
 "How?" 
 
 [202] 
 
CHATAUQUAED 
 
 "If they all got married instead of pumping 
 up interest in a bric-a-brac museum and ad- 
 vertised lectures, and having their names in the 
 papers. One never gets to believe in the 
 proper destiny of woman until one sees a 
 thousand of 'em doing something different. 
 I don't like Chautauqua. There's something 
 wrong with it, and I haven't time to find out 
 where. But it is wrong." 
 
 [ 203 ] 
 
THE BOW FLUME CABLE-CAR* 
 
 EE those things yonder?" He looked 
 
 the good people of San Francisco to a picnic 
 somewhere across the harbour. The stranger 
 was not more than seven feet high. His face 
 was burnished copper, his hands and beard 
 were fiery red and his eyes a baleful blue. He 
 had thrust his large frame into a suit of black 
 clothes which made no pretensions toward fit- 
 ting him, and his cheek was distended with 
 plug-tobacco. "Those cars," he said, more to 
 himself than to me, "run upon a concealed 
 cable worked by machinery, and that's what 
 broke our syndicate at Bow Flume. Concealed 
 machinery, no — concealed ropes. Don't you 
 
 ♦"Turnovers," Vol. VII. 
 
 in the direction of the Market Street 
 cable-cars which, moved without 
 any visible agency, were conveying 
 
 [204] 
 
THE BOW FLUME CABLE-CAR 
 
 mix yourself with them. They are ontrust- 
 worthy." 
 
 "These cars work comfortably," I ventured. 
 "They run over people now and then, but that 
 doesn't matter." 
 
 "Certainly not, not in 'Frisco — by no means. 
 It's different out yonder." He waved a palm- 
 leaf fan in the direction of Mission Dolores 
 among the sandhills. Then without a moment's 
 pause, and in a low and melancholy voice, he 
 continued: "Young feller, all patent machinery 
 is a monopoly, and don't you try to bust it or 
 else it will bust you. 'Bout five years ago I 
 was at Bow Flume — a minin'-town way 
 back yonder — beyond the Sacramento. I ran 
 a saloon there with O'Grady — Howlin' 
 O'Grady, so called on account of the noise he 
 made when intoxicated. I never christened 
 my saloon any high-soundin' name, but owing 
 to my happy trick of firing out men who was 
 too full of bug- juice and disposed to be pro- 
 miscuous in their dealin's, the boys called it 
 'The Wake Up an Git Bar.' O'Grady, my 
 partner, was an unreasonable inventorman. 
 [205 ] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 He invented a check on the whisky bar'ls that 
 wasn't no good except lettin' the whisky run 
 off at odd times and shutting down when a man 
 was most thirstiest. I remember half Bow 
 Flume city firing their six-shooters into a cask 
 — and Bourbon at that — which was refusing 
 to run on account of O'Grady's patent double- 
 check tap. But that wasn't what I started 
 to tell you about — not by a long ways. 
 O'Grady went to 'Frisco when the Bow Flume 
 saloon was booming. He hed a good time in 
 'Frisco, kase he came back with a very bad 
 head and no clothes worth talkin' about. He 
 had been jailed most time, but he had inves- 
 tigated the mechanism of these cars yonder — 
 when he wasn't in the cage. He came back 
 with the liquor for the saloon, and the boys 
 whooped round him for half a day, singing 
 songs of glory. 'Boys,' says O'Grady, when 
 a half of Bow Flume were lying on the floor 
 kissing the cuspidors and singing 'Way Down 
 the Swanee River,' being full of some new 
 stuff O'Grady had got up from 'Frisco — 'boys,' 
 says O'Grady, 'I have the makings of a com- 
 [206 ] 
 
THE BOW FLUME CABLE-CAR 
 
 pany in me. You know the road from this 
 saloon to Bow Flume is bad and 'most perpen- 
 dicular.' That was the exact state of the case. 
 Bow Flume city was three hundred feet above 
 our saloon. The boys used to roll down and 
 get full, and any that happened to be sober 
 rolled them up again when the time came to 
 get. Some dropped into the canon that way — 
 bad payers mostly. You see, a man held all 
 the hill Bow Flume was built on, and he wanted 
 forty thousand dollars for a forty-five by hun- 
 dred lot o' ground. We kept the whisky and 
 the boys came down for it. The exercise dis- 
 posed them to thirst. 'Boys,' says O'Grady, 
 'as you know, I have visited the great metropo- 
 lis of 'Frisco.' Then they had drinks all round 
 for 'Frisco. 'And I have been jailed a few 
 while enjoying the sights.' Then they had 
 drinks all round for the jail that held O'Grady. 
 'But,' he says, 'I have a proposal to make.' 
 More drinks on account of the proposal. 'I 
 have got a hold of the idea of those 'Frisco 
 cable-cars. Some of the idea I got in 'Frisco. 
 [207] 
 
ABAFT THE FUXXEL 
 
 The rest I have invented," says O'Grady. Thai 
 they drank all round for the invention. 
 
 T am coming to the point. O'Grady made 
 a company — the drunkest I ever saw — to run 
 a cable-car on the 'Frisco model from Wake 
 Up an* Git Saloon' to Bow Flume. The boys 
 put in about four thousand dollars, for Bow 
 Flume was squirling gold then. There's nary 
 shanty there now. O'Grady put in four thou- 
 sand dollars of his own. and I was roped in 
 for as much. O'Grady desired the concern to 
 represent the resources of Bow Flume. We 
 got a car built in 'Frisco for two thousand 
 dollars, with an elegant bar at one end — nickel- 
 plated fixings and ruby glass. 
 
 "The notion was to dispense liquor en route. 
 A Bow Flume man could put himself outside 
 two drinks in a minute and a half, the same 
 not being pressed for urgent business. The 
 boys graded the road for love, and we run a 
 rope in a little trough in the middle. That 
 rope ran swift, and any blame fool that had 
 his foot cut off. fooling in the middle of the 
 road, might ha' found salvation by using our 
 [ 208 ] 
 
THE BOW FLUME CABLE-CAR 
 
 Bow Flume Palace Car. The boys said that 
 was square. O'Grady took the contract for 
 building the engine to wind the rope. He 
 called his show a mule — it was a crossbreed be- 
 tween a threshing machine and an elevator 
 ram. I don't think he had followed the 'Frisco 
 patterns. He put all our dollars into that 
 blamed barroom on the car, knowing what 
 would please the boys best. They didn't care 
 much about the machinery, so long as the car 
 hummed. 
 
 "We charged the boys a dollar a head per 
 trip. One free drink included. That paid — 
 paid like — Paradise. They liked the motion. 
 O'Grady was engineer, and another man sort 
 of tended to the rope engine when he wasn't 
 otherwise engaged. Those cable-cars run by 
 gripping on to the rope. You know that. 
 When the grip's off the car is braked down and 
 stands still. There ought to have been two 
 cars by right — one to run up and the other 
 down. But O'Grady had a blamed invention 
 for reversing the engine, so the cable ran both 
 ways — up to Bow Flume and down to the 
 [ 209] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 saloon — the terminus being in front of our 
 door. A man could kick a friend slick from 
 the bar into the car. The boys appreciated 
 that. The Bow Flume Palace Car Company 
 earned twenty on the hundred in three months, 
 besides the profits of the drinks. We might 
 have lasted to this day if O'Grady hadn't tin- 
 kered his blamed engine up on top of Bow 
 Flume Hill. The boys complained the show 
 didn't hum sufficient. They required railroad 
 speed. O'Grady ran 'em up and do™ at four- 
 teen miles an hour; and his latest improvement 
 was to touch twenty-four. The strain on the 
 brakes was terrible — quite terrible. But every 
 time O'Grady raised the record, the boys gave 
 him a testimonial. 'Twasn't in human nature 
 not to crowd ahead after that. Testimonials 
 demoralise the publickest of men. 
 
 "I rode on the car that memorial day. Just 
 as we started with a double load of boys and 
 a razzle-dazzle assortment of drinks, something 
 went zip under the car bottom. We proceeded 
 with velocity. All the prominent members of 
 the company were aboard. 'The grip has got 
 [210] 
 
THE BOW FLUME CABLE-CAR 
 
 snubbed on the rope,' says O'Grady quite quiet- 
 ly. 'Boys, this will be the biggest smash on 
 record. Something's going to happen.' We 
 proceeded at the rate of twenty-four miles an 
 hour till the end of our journey. I don't know 
 what happened there. We could get clear of 
 the rope anyways at the point where it turned 
 round a pulley to start up hill again. We 
 struck — struck the stoop of the 'Wake Up 
 an' Git Saloon' — my saloon — and the next 
 thing I knew was feeling of my legs under an 
 assortment of matchwood and broken glass, 
 representing liquor and fixtures to the tune of 
 eight thousand. The car had been flicked 
 through the saloon, bringing down the entire 
 roof on the floor. It had then bucked out into 
 the firmament, describing a parabola over the 
 bluff at the back of the saloon, and was lying 
 at the foot of that bluff, three hundred feet 
 below, like a busted kaleidoscope — all nickel, 
 shavings and bits of red glass. O'Grady and 
 most of the prominent members of the com- 
 pany were dead — very dead — and there wasn't 
 enough left of the saloon to pay for a drink. 
 [211] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 I took in the situation lying on my stomach at 
 the edge of the bluff, and I suspicioned that 
 any lawsuits that might arise would be compli- 
 cated by shooting. So I quit Bow Flume by 
 the back trail. I guess the coroner judged 
 that there were no summons — leastways I 
 never heard any more about it. Since that time 
 I've had a distrust to cable-cars. The rope 
 breaking is no great odds, bekase you can stop 
 the car, but it's getting the grip tangled with 
 the running rope that spreads ruin and desola- 
 tion over thriving communities and prevents 
 the development of local resources." 
 
 [212] 
 
IN PARTIBUS* 
 
 HE 'buses run to Battersea, 
 
 The 'buses run to Westbourne Grove, 
 A nd Nottinghill also; 
 
 But I am sick of London town, 
 From Shepherd's Bush to Bow. 
 
 I see the smut upon my cuff 
 And feel him on my nose; 
 
 I cannot leave my window wide 
 When gentle zephyr blows, 
 
 Because he brings disgusting things 
 And drops 'em on my "clo'es." 
 
 The sky, a greasy soup-toureen, 
 Shuts down atop my brow. 
 
 Yes, I have sighed for London town 
 And I have got it now: 
 
 And half of it is fog and filth, 
 And half is fog and row. 
 
 ♦"Turnovers," Vol. VIII. 
 
 [213] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 And when I take my nightly prowl, 
 
 'Tis passing good to meet 
 The pious Briton lugging home 
 
 His wife and daughter sweet, 
 Through four packed miles of seething vice, 
 
 Thrust out upon the street. 
 
 Earth holds no horror like to this 
 
 In any land displayed, 
 From Suez unto Sandy Hook, 
 
 From Calais to Port Said ; 
 And 'twas to hide their heathendom 
 
 The beastly fog was made. 
 
 I cannot tell when dawn is near, 
 
 Or when the day is done, 
 Because I always see the gas 
 
 And never see the sun, 
 And now, methinks, I do not care 
 
 A cuss for either one. 
 
 But stay, there was an orange, or 
 An aged egg its yolk ; 
 
 [214] 
 
IN PARTIBUS 
 
 It might have been a Pears' balloon 
 
 Or Barnum's latest joke: 
 I took it for the sun and wept 
 
 To watch it through the smoke. 
 
 It's Oh to see the morn ablaze 
 
 Above the mango-tope, 
 When homeward through the dewy cane 
 
 The little jackals lope, 
 And half Bengal heaves into view, 
 
 New- washed — with sunlight soap. 
 
 It's Oh for one deep whisky peg 
 When Christmas winds are blowing, 
 
 When all the men you ever knew, 
 
 And all you've ceased from knowing, 
 
 Are "entered for the Tournament, 
 And everything that's going." 
 
 But I consort with long-haired things 
 
 In velvet collar-rolls, 
 Who talk about the Aims of Art, 
 
 And "theories" and "goals," 
 And moo and coo with women-folk 
 
 About their blessed souls. 
 
 [ 215 ] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 But that they call "psychology" 
 
 Is lack of liver pill, 
 And all that blights their tender souls 
 
 Is eating till they're ill, 
 And their chief way of winning goals 
 
 Consists in sitting still. 
 
 It's Oh to meet an Army man, 
 Set up, and trimmed and taut, 
 
 Who does not spout hashed libraries 
 Or think the next man's thought, 
 
 And walks as though he owned himself, 
 And hogs his bristles short. 
 
 Hear now, a voice across the seas 
 
 To kin beyond my ken, 
 If ye have ever filled an hour 
 
 With stories from my pen, 
 For pity's sake send some one here 
 
 To bring me news of men ! 
 
 The 'buses run to Islington, 
 To Highgate and Soho, 
 [216] 
 
IN PARTIBUS 
 
 To Hammersmith and Kew therewith, 
 
 And Camberwell also, 
 But I can only murmur " 3 Bus" 
 
 From Shepherd's Bush to Bow, 
 
 [217] 
 
LETTERS ON LEAVE* 
 
 I 
 
 TO Lieutenant John McHail, 
 151st (Kumharsen) P. N. L, 
 Hakaiti via Tharanda, 
 Assam. 
 
 Dear Old Man: Your handwriting is 
 worse than ever, but as far as I can see among 
 the loops and fish-hooks, you are lonesome and 
 want to be comforted with a letter. I knew 
 you wouldn't write to me unless you needed 
 something. You don't tell me that you have 
 left your regiment, but from what you say 
 about "my battalion," "my men," and so forth, 
 it seems as if you were raising military police 
 for the benefit of the Chins. If that's the case, 
 
 ♦The "Pioneer Mail," Vol. XVII. No. 40, Oct. 2, 1890, 
 page 436. 
 
 [218] 
 
LETTERS ON LEAVE 
 
 I congratulate you. The pay is good. Ouless 
 writes to me from some new fort something or 
 other, saying that he has struggled into a 
 billet of Rs. 700 (Military Police), and in- 
 stead of being chased by writters as he used 
 to be, is ravaging the country round Shillong 
 in search of a wife. I am very sorry for the 
 Mrs. Ouless of the future. 
 
 That doesn't matter. You probably know 
 more about the boys yonder than I do. If 
 you'll only send me from time to time some 
 record of their movements I'll try to tell you 
 of things on this side of the water. You say 
 "You don't know what it is to hear from town." 
 I say "You don't know what it is to hear from 
 the dehat" Now and again men drift in with 
 news, but I don't like hot-weather khubber. 
 It's all of the domestic occurrence kind. Old 
 "Hat" Constable came to see me the other day. 
 You remember the click in his throat before 
 he begins to speak. He sat still, clicking at 
 quarter-hour intervals, and after each click 
 he'd say: "D'ye remember Mistress So-an'- 
 So? Well, she's dead o' typhoid at Naogong." 
 [219] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 When it wasn't "Mistress So-an'-So" it was 
 a man. I stood four clicks and four deaths, 
 and then I asked him to spare me the rest. 
 You seem to have had a bad season, taking it 
 all round, and the women seem to have suf- 
 fered most. Is that so? 
 
 We don't die in London. We go out of 
 town, and we make as much fuss about it as 
 if we were going to the Neva. Now I under- 
 stand why the transport is the first thing to 
 break down when our army takes the field. 
 The Englishman is cumbrous in his move- 
 ments and very particular about his baskets 
 and hampers and trunks — not less than seven 
 of each — for a fifty-mile journey. Leave sea- 
 son began some weeks ago, and there is a 
 burra-choop along the streets that you could 
 shovel with a spade. All the people that say 
 they are everybody have gone — quite two hun- 
 dred miles away. Some of 'em are even on 
 the Continent — and the clubs are full of 
 strange folk. I found a Reform man at the 
 Savage a week ago. He didn't say what his 
 business was, but he was dusty and looked 
 [220] 
 
LETTERS ON LEAVE 
 
 hungry. I suppose he had come in for food 
 and shelter. 
 
 Like the rest I'm on leave too. I converted 
 myself into a Government Secretary, awarded 
 myself one month on full pay with the chance 
 of an extension, and went off. Then it rained 
 and hailed, and rained again, and I ran up 
 and down this tiny country in trains trying to 
 find a dry place. After ten days I came back 
 to town, having been stopped by the sea four 
 times. I was rather like a kitten at the bottom 
 of a bucke chasing its own tail. So I'm sitting 
 here under a grey, muggy sky wondering what 
 sort of time they are having at Simla. It's 
 August now. The rains would be nearly over, 
 all the theatricals would be in full swing, and 
 Jakko Hill would be just Paradise. You're 
 probably pink with prickly heat. Sit down 
 quietly under the punkah and think of Um- 
 balla station, hot as an oven at four in the 
 morning. Think of the dak-gharry slobbering 
 in the wet, and the first little cold wind that 
 comes round the first corner after the tonga 
 is clear of Kalka. There's a wind you and 
 [221] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 I know well. It's blowing over the grass at 
 Dugshai this very moment, and there's a smell 
 of hot fir trees all along and along from Solon 
 to Simla, and some happy man is flying up 
 that road with fragments of a tonga-bar in 
 his eye, his pet terrier under his arm, his thick 
 clothes on the back-seat and the certainty of 
 a month's pure joy in front of him. Instead 
 of which you're being stewed at Hakaiti and 
 I'm sitting in a second-hand atmosphere above 
 a sausage-shop, watching three sparrows play- 
 ing in a dirty-green tree and pretending that 
 it's summer. I have a view of very many 
 streets.and a river. Except the advertisements 
 on the walls, there isn't one speck of colour as 
 far as my eye can reach. The very cat, who 
 is an amiable beast, comes off black under my 
 hand, and I daren't open the window for fear 
 of smuts. And this is better than a soaked and 
 sobbled country, with the corn-shocks stand- 
 ing like plover's eggs in green moss and the 
 oats lying flat in moist lumps. We haven't 
 had any summer, and yesterday I smelt the 
 raw touch of the winter. Just one little whiff 
 [222] 
 
LETTERS ON LEAVE 
 
 to show that the year had turned.' "Oh, what 
 a happy land is England!" 
 
 I cannot understand the white man at home. 
 You remember when we went out together and 
 landed at the Apollo Bunder with all our sor- 
 rows before us, and went to Watson's Hotel 
 and saw the snake-charmers? You said: "It'll 
 take me all my lifetime to distinguish one nig- 
 ger from another." That was eight years ago. 
 Now you don't call them niggers any more, 
 and you're supposed — quite wrongly — to have 
 an insight into native character, or else you 
 would never have been allowed to recruit for 
 the Kumharsens. I feel as I felt at Watson's. 
 They are so deathlily alike, especially the more 
 educated. They all seem to read the same 
 books, and the same newspapers telling 'em 
 what to admire in the same books, and they 
 all quote the same passages from the same 
 books, and they write books on books about 
 somebody else's books, and they are penetrated 
 to their boot-heels with a sense of the awful 
 seriousness of their own views of the moment. 
 Above that they seem to be, most curiously and 
 [ 223 ] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 beyond the right of ordinary people, divorced 
 from the knowledge or fear of death. Of 
 course, every man conceives that every man 
 except himself is bound to die (you remember 
 how Hallatt spoke the night before he went 
 out), but these men appear to be like children 
 in that respect. 
 
 I can't explain exactly, but it gives an air 
 of unreality to their most earnest earnestnesses ; 
 and when a young man of views and culture 
 and aspirations is in earnest, the trumpets of 
 Jericho are silent beside him. Because they 
 have everything done for them they know how 
 everything ought to be done; and they are 
 perfectly certain that wood pavements, police- 
 men, shops and gaslight come in the regular 
 course of nature. You can guess with these 
 convictions how thoroughly and cocksurely 
 they handle little trifles like colonial adminis- 
 tration, the wants of the army, municipal sew- 
 age, housing of the poor, and so forth. Every 
 third common need of average men is, in their 
 mouths, a tendency or a movement or a federa- 
 tion affecting the world. It never seems to 
 [224] 
 
LETTERS ON LEAVE 
 
 occur to 'em that the human instinct of getting 
 as much as possible for money paid, or, failing 
 money, for threats and f awnings, is about as 
 old as Cain; and the burden of their bat is: 
 "Me an' a few mates o' mine are going to make 
 a new world." 
 
 As long as men only write and talk they 
 must think that way, I suppose. It's compen- 
 sation for playing with little things. And 
 that reminds me. Do you know the University 
 smile? You don't by that name, but some- 
 times young civilians wear it for a very short 
 time when they first come out. Something — 
 I wonder if it's our brutal chaff, or a billiard- 
 cue, or which? — takes it out of their faces, and 
 when they next differ with you they do so 
 without smiling. But that smile flourishes in 
 London. I've met it again and again. It ex- 
 presses tempered grief, sorrow at your com- 
 plete inability to march with the march of 
 progress at the Universities, and a chastened 
 contempt. There is one man who wears it as 
 a garment. He is frivolously young — not 
 more than thirty-five or forty — and all these 
 [225] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 years no one has removed that smile. He 
 knows everything about everything on this 
 earth, and above all he knows all about men 
 under any and every condition of life. He 
 knows all about the aggressive militarism of 
 you and your friends; he isn't quite sure of 
 the necessity of an army; he is certain that 
 colonial expansion is nonsense ; and he is more 
 than certain that the whole step of all our 
 Empire must be regulated by the knowledge 
 and foresight of the workingman. Then he 
 smiles — smiles like a seraph with an M. A. de- 
 gree. What can you do with a man like that? 
 He has never seen an unmade road in his life ; 
 I think he believes that wheat grows on a tree 
 and that beef is dug from a mine. He has 
 never been forty miles from a railway, and 
 he has never been called upon to issue an order 
 to anybody except his well-fed servants. Isn't 
 it wondrous? And there are battalions and 
 brigades of these men in town removed from 
 the fear of want, living until they are seventy 
 or eighty, sheltered, fed, drained and admin- 
 [226] 
 
LETTERS ON LEAVE 
 
 istered, expending their vast leisure in talking 
 and writing. 
 
 But the real fun begins much lower down 
 the line. I've been associating generally and 
 very particularly with the men who say that 
 they are the only men in the world who work 
 — and they call themselves the workingman. 
 Now the workingman in America is a nice per- 
 son. He says he is a man and behaves ac- 
 cordingly. That is to say, he has some notion 
 that he is part and parcel of a great country. 
 At least, he talks that way. But in this town 
 you can see thousands of men meeting publicly 
 on Sundays to cry aloud that everybody may 
 hear that they are poor, downtrodden helots — 
 in fact, "the pore workin'man." At their clubs 
 and pubs the talk is the same. It's the utter 
 want of self-respect that revolts. My friend 
 the tobacconist has a cousin, who is, apparently, 
 sound in mind and limb, aged twenty-three, 
 clear-eyed and upstanding. He is a "skibbo" 
 by trade — a painter of sorts. He married at 
 twenty, and he has two children. He can 
 spend three-quarters of an hour talking about 
 [ 227 ] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 his downtrodden condition. He works under 
 another Raj-mistri, who has saved money and 
 started a little shop of his own. He hates that 
 Raj-mistri; he loathes the police ; and his views 
 on the lives and customs of the aristocracy are 
 strange. He approves of every form of law- 
 lessness, and he knows that everybody who 
 holds authority is sure to be making a good 
 thing out of it. Of himself as a citizen he never 
 thinks. Of himself as an Ishmael he thinks a 
 good deal. He is entitled to eight hours' work 
 a day and some time off — said time to be paid 
 for; he is entitled to free education for his 
 children — and he doesn't want no bloomin' 
 clergyman to teach 'em ; he is entitled to houses 
 especially built for himself because he pays 
 the bulk of the taxes of the country. He is 
 not going to emigrate, not he; he reserves to 
 himself the right of multiplying as much as 
 he pleases; the streets must be policed for him 
 while he demonstrates, immediately under my 
 window, by the way, for ten consecutive hours, 
 and I am probably a thief because my clothes 
 are better than his. The proposition is a very 
 [228] 
 
LETTERS ON LEAVE 
 
 simple one. He has no duties to the State, no 
 personal responsibility of any kind, and he'd 
 sooner see his children dead than soldiers of 
 the Queen. The Government owes him every- 
 thing because he is a pore workin'man. When 
 the Guards tried their Board-school mutiny at 
 the Wellington Barracks my friend was jubi- 
 lant. "What did I tell you?" he said. "You 
 see the very soldiers won't stand it." 
 "What's it?" 
 
 "Bein' treated like machines instead of flesh 
 and blood. 'Course they won't." 
 
 The popular evening paper wrote that the 
 Guards, with perfect justice, had rebelled 
 against being treated like machines instead of 
 flesh and blood. Then I thought of a certain 
 regiment that lay in Mian Mir for three years 
 and dropped four hundred men out of a thou- 
 sand. It died of fever and cholera. There 
 were no pretty nursemaids to work with it in 
 the streets, because there were no streets. I 
 saw how the Guards amused themselves and 
 how their sergeants smoked in uniform. I pitied 
 the Guards with their cruel sentry-goes, their 
 [ 229 ] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 three nights out of bed, and their unlimited 
 supply of love and liquor. 
 
 Another man, not a workman, told me that 
 the Guards' riot — it's impossible, as you know, 
 to call this kick-up of the fatted flunkies of 
 the army a mutiny — was only "a schoolboy's 
 prank"; and he could not see that if it was 
 what he said it was, the Guards were no regi- 
 ment and should have been wiped out decently 
 and quietly. There again the futility of a 
 sheltered people cropped up. You mustn't 
 treat a man like a machine in this country, but 
 you can't get any work out of a man till he has 
 
 learned to work like a machine. D has 
 
 just come home for a few months from the 
 charge of a mountain battery on the frontier. 
 He used to begin work at eight, and he was 
 thankful if he got off at six; most of the time 
 on his feet. When he went to the Black Moun- 
 tain he was extensively engaged for nearly six- 
 teen hours a day; and that on food at which 
 the "pore workin'man" would have turned up 
 
 his state-lifted nose. D on the subject of 
 
 labour as understood by the white man in his 
 [230] 
 
LETTERS ON LEAVE 
 
 own home is worth hearing. Though coarse 
 
 — considerahly coarse! But D doesn't 
 
 know all the hopeless misery of the business. 
 When the small pig, oyster, furniture, carpet, 
 builder or general shopman works his way out 
 of the ruck he turns round and makes his old 
 friends and employes sweat. He knows how 
 near he can go to flaying 'em alive before they 
 kick; and in this matter he is neither better 
 nor worse than a bunnia or a havildar of our 
 own blessed country. It's the small employer 
 of labour that skins his servant, exactly as the 
 forty-pound householder works her one white 
 servant to the bone and goes to drop pennies 
 into the plate to convert the heathen in the 
 East. 
 
 Just at present, as you have read, the per- 
 son who calls himself the pore workin'man — 
 the man I saw kicking fallen men in the mud 
 by the docks last winter — has discovered a real, 
 fine, new original notion; and he is working 
 it for all he is worth. He calls it the solidarity 
 of labour bundobast; but it's caste — four thou- 
 sand years old, caste of Menu — with old shetts, 
 [231] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 mahajuns, guildtolls, excommunication and all 
 the rest of it. All things considered, there 
 isn't anything much older than caste — it began 
 with the second generation of man on earth — 
 but to read the "advance" papers on the sub- 
 ject you'd imagine it was a revelation from 
 Heaven. The real fun will begin — as it has 
 begun and ended many times before — when 
 the caste of skilled labour— that's the pore 
 workin'man — are pushed up and knocked 
 about by the lower and unrecognised castes, 
 who will form castes of their own and outcaste 
 on the decision of their own punchayats. How 
 these castes will scuffle and fight among them- 
 selves, and how astonished the Englishman will 
 be! 
 
 He is naturally lawless because he is a fight- 
 ing animal; and his amazingly sheltered con- 
 dition has made him inconsequent. I don't like 
 inconsequent lawlessness. I've seen it down 
 at Bow Street, at the docks, by the G. P. O., 
 and elsewhere. Its chief home, of course, is 
 in that queer place called the House of Com- 
 mons, but no one goes there who isn't forced 
 [232 ] 
 
LETTERS ON LEAVE 
 
 by business. It's shut up at present, and the 
 persons who belong to it are loose all over the 
 face of the country. I don't think — but I 
 won't swear — that any of them are spitting at 
 policemen. One man appears to have been 
 poaching, others are advocating various forms 
 of murder and outrage — and nobody seems to 
 care. The residue talk — just heavens, how 
 they talk, and what wonderful fictions they 
 tell! And they firmly believe, being ignorant 
 of the mechanism of Government, that they 
 administer the country. In addition, certain 
 of their newspapers have elaborately worked 
 up a famine in Ireland that could be engi- 
 neered by two Deputy Commissioners and four 
 average Stunts into a "woe" and a "calamity" 
 that is going to overshadow the peace of the 
 nation — even the Empire. I suppose they 
 have their own sense of proportion, but they 
 manage to keep it to themselves very success- 
 fully. What do you, who have seen half a 
 countryside in deadly fear of its life, suppose 
 that this people would do if they were chuk- 
 kered and gabraowed? If they really knew 
 [233] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 what the fear of death and the dread of injury- 
 implied? If they died very swiftly, indeed, 
 and could not count their futile lives endur- 
 ing beyond next sundown? Some of the men 
 from your — I mean our — part of the world 
 say that they would be afraid and break and 
 scatter and run. But there is no room in the 
 island to run. The sea catches you, midwaist, 
 at the third step. I am curious to see if the 
 cholera, of which these people stand in most 
 lively dread, gets a firm foothold in London. 
 In that case I have a notion that there will be 
 scenes and panics. They live too well here, 
 and have too much to make life worth cling- 
 ing to — clubs, and shop fronts, and gas, and 
 theatres, and so forth — things that they affect 
 to despise, and whereon and whereby they live 
 like leeches. But I have written enough. It 
 doesn't exhaust the subject; but you won't be 
 grateful for other epistles. De Vitre of the 
 Poona Irregular Moguls will have it that they 
 are a tiddy-iddy people. He says that all their 
 visible use is to produce loans for the colonies 
 and men to be used up in developing India. I 
 [234] 
 
LETTERS ON LEAVE 
 
 honestly believe that the average Englishman 
 would faint if you told him it was lawful to 
 use up human life for any purpose whatever. 
 He believes that it has to be developed and 
 made beautiful for the possessor, and in that 
 belief talkatively perpetrates cruelties that 
 would make Torquemada jump in his grave. 
 Go to Alipur if you want to see. I am off to 
 foreign parts — forty miles away — to catch fish 
 for my friend the char-cat; also to shoot a 
 little bird if I have luck. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 Rudyard Kipling. 
 
 II 
 
 To Captain J. McHail, 
 
 151st (Kumharsen) N. I., 
 
 Hakaiti via Tharanda. 
 
 Captain Sahib Bahadur! The last Pi gives 
 me news of your step, and I'm more pleased 
 about it than many. You've been "cavalry 
 [235] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 quick" in your promotion. Eight years and 
 your company! Allahu! But it must have 
 been that long, lean horse-head of yours that 
 looks so wise and says so little that has imposed 
 upon the authorities. My best congratula- 
 tions. Let out your belt two holes, and be 
 happy, as I am not. 
 
 Did I tell you in my last about going to 
 Woking in search of a grave? The dust 
 and the grime and the grey and the sausage- 
 shop told on my spirits to such an extent that 
 I solemnly took a train and went grave-hunt- 
 ing through the Necropolis — locally called the 
 Necrapolis. I wanted an eligible, entirely de- 
 tached site in a commanding position — six by 
 three and bricked throughout. I found it, but 
 the only drawback was that I must go back 
 to town to the head office to buy it. One 
 doesn't go to town to haggle for tomb-space, 
 so I deferred the matter and went fishing. All 
 the same, there are very nice graves at 
 Woking, and I shall keep my eye on one of 
 'em. 
 
 Since that date I seem to have been in four 
 [286] 
 
LETTERS ON LEAVE 
 
 or five places, because there are labels on the 
 bag. One of the places was Plymouth, where 
 I found half a regiment at field exercises on 
 the Hoe. They were practising the attack in 
 three lines with the mixed rush at the end, 
 even as it is laid down in the drill-book, and 
 they charged subduedly across the Hoe. The 
 people laughed. I was much more inclined 
 to cry. Except the Major, there didn't seem 
 to be anything more than twenty years old 
 in the regiment; and oh! but it was pink and 
 white and chubby and undersized — just made 
 to die succulently of disease. I fancied that 
 some of our battalions out with you were more 
 or less young and exposed, but a home bat- 
 talion is a creche, and it scares one to watch 
 it. Eminent and distinguished Generals get 
 up after dinner — I've listened to two of 'em — 
 and explain that though the home battalion can 
 only be regarded as a feeder to the foreign, 
 yet all our battalions can be regarded as effi- 
 cient; and if they aren't efficient we shall find 
 in our military reserve the nucleus — how I 
 loath that lying word! — of the Lord knows 
 [237] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 what, but the speeches always end with allu- 
 sions to the spirit of the English, their glori- 
 ous past, and the certainty that when the hour 
 of need comes the nation will "emerge victori- 
 ous." If (sic) the Engineer of the Hunger- 
 ford Bridge told the Southeastern Railway 
 that because a main girder had stood for thirty 
 years without need of renewal it was therefore 
 sure to stand for another fifty, he would proba- 
 bly get the sack. Our military authorities 
 don't get the sack. They are allowed to make 
 speeches in public. Some day, if we live long 
 enough, we shall see the glories of the past and 
 the "sublime instinct of an ancient people" 
 without one complete army corps, pitted 
 against a few unsentimental long-range guns 
 and some efficiently organised troops. Then 
 the band will begin to play, and it will not 
 play Rule Britannia until it has played some 
 funny tunes first. 
 
 Do you remember Tighe? He was in the 
 Deccan Lancers and retired because he got 
 married. He is in Ireland now, and I met 
 him the other day, idle, unhappy and dying 
 [ 238 ] 
 
LETTERS ON LEAVE 
 
 for some work to do. Mrs. Tighe is equally- 
 miserable. She wants to go back to Poona 
 instead of administering a big barrack of a 
 house somewhere at the back of a bog. I quote 
 Tighe here. He has, you may remember, a 
 pretty tongue about him, and he was describ- 
 ing to me at length how a home regiment 
 behaves when it is solemnly turned out for 
 a week or a month training under canvas: 
 
 "About four in the mornin', me dear boy, 
 they begin pitchin' their tents for the next day 
 —four hours to pitch it, and the tent ropes a 
 howlin' tangle when all's said and sworn. Then 
 they tie their horses with strings to their big 
 toes and go to bed in hollows and caves in 
 the earth till the rain falls and the tents are 
 flooded, and then, me dear boy, the men and 
 the horses and the ropes and the vegetation 
 of the country cuddle each other till the morn- 
 ing for the company's sake. And next day 
 it all begins again. Just when they are be- 
 ginning to understand how to camp they are 
 all put back into their boxes, and half of 'em 
 have lung disease." 
 
 [ 239 ] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNIS 
 
 But what is the use of snarling 
 bling? The matter will adjust iti 
 and the one nation on earth thi 
 thinks most of the sanctity of hui 
 be a little astonished at the wast 
 which it will be responsible. In th 
 captain, the man who can comms 
 troops and have made the best 
 troops will be sought after and pe 
 rise to honour. Remember the I 
 next you measure the naked recru 
 
 Let us revisit calmer scenes. I'i 
 for three perfect days to the sea 
 you remember what a really fine 
 A milk-white sea, as smooth as 
 blue-white heat haze hanging over 
 wave talking to itself on the sand 
 gle, four bathing machines, cliff 
 ground, and half the babies in 
 
LETTERS ON LEAVE 
 
 down at the bottom of a great white 
 bonnet; talked French and English in a 
 bell-like voice, and of such I fervently 
 will the Kingdom of Heaven be. Wh< 
 found that my French wasn't equal t< 
 she condescendingly talked English anc 
 me build her houses of stones and dra^ 
 for her through half the day. After 
 done everything that she ordered she we 
 to talk to some one else. The beach bel 
 to that baby, and every soul on it was he: 
 ant, for I know that we rose with shouts 
 she paddled into three inches of water a 
 down, gasping: "Mon Dieu! Je suis \ 
 I know you like the little ones, so I 
 apologise for yarning about them. SI 
 a sister aged seven and one-half — a 
 child, without a scrap of self-consciousne! 
 enormous eyes. Here comes a real tr 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 ings, and Hugh submitted quietly. Then de- 
 votion began to pall, and he didn't care to 
 paddle with Violet. Hereupon, as far as I 
 can gather, she smote him on the head and 
 threw him against a wall. Anyhow, it was 
 very sweet and natural, and Hugh told me 
 about it when I came down. "She's so un- 
 rulable," he said. "I didn't hit her back, but 
 I was very angry." Of course, Violet re- 
 pented, but Hugh grew suspicious, and at the 
 psychological moment there came down from 
 town a destroyer of delights and a separator 
 of companions in the shape of a tricycle. Also 
 there were many little boys on the beach — 
 rude, shouting, romping little chaps — who said : 
 "Come along!" "Hullo!" and used the wicked 
 word "beastly!" Among these Hugh became 
 a person of importance and began to realise 
 that he was a man who could say "beastly," 
 and "Come on!" with the best of 'em. He pre- 
 ferred to run about with the little boys on 
 wars and expeditions, and he wriggled away 
 when Violet put her arm round his waist. 
 Violet was hurt and angry, and I think she 
 [ 242 ] 
 
LETTERS ON LEAVE 
 
 slapped Hugh. Relations were strained when 
 I arrived because one morning Violet, after 
 asking permission, invited Hugh to come to 
 lunch. And that bad, Spanish-eyed boy de- 
 liberately filled his bucket with the cold sea- 
 water and dashed it over Violet's pink ankles. 
 (Joking apart, this seems to be about the best 
 way of refusing an invitation that civilisation 
 can invent. Try it on your Colonel.) She 
 was madly angry for a moment, and then she 
 said: "Let me carry you up the beach, 'cause 
 of the shingles in your toes." This was divine, 
 but it didn't move Hugh, and Violet went off 
 to her mother. She sat down with her chin 
 in her hand, looking out at the sea for a long 
 time very sorrowfully. Then she said, and it 
 was her first experience: "I know that Hugh 
 cares more for his horrid bicycle than he does 
 for me, and if he said he didn't I wouldn't 
 believe him." 
 
 Up to date Hugh has said nothing. He is 
 running about playing with the bold, bad little 
 boys, and Violet is sitting on a breakwater, 
 trying to find out why things are as they are. 
 [ 243] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 It's a nice tale, and tales are scarce these days. 
 Have you noticed how small and elemental 
 is the stock of them at the world's disposal? 
 Men foregathered at that little seaside place, 
 and, manlike, exchanged stories. They were 
 all the same stories. One had heard 'em in 
 the East with Eastern variations, and in the 
 West with Western extravagances tacked on. 
 Only one thing seemed new, and it was merely 
 a phrase used by a groom in speaking of an 
 ill-conditioned horse: "No, sir; he's not ill in 
 a manner o' speaking, but he's so to speak 
 generally unfriendly with his innards as a usual 
 thing." 
 
 I entrust this to you as a sacred gift. See 
 that it takes root in the land. "Unfriendly with 
 his innards as a usual thing." Remember. 
 It's better than laboured explanations in the 
 rains. And I fancy it's raw. 
 
 And now. But I had nearly forgotten. 
 We're a nation of grumblers, and that's why 
 other people call Anglo-Indians bores. I write 
 
 feelingly because M , just home on long 
 
 leave, has for the second time sat on my de- 
 [244] 
 
LETTERS ON LEAVE 
 
 voted head for two hours simply and solely 
 for the purpose of swearing at the Accountant - 
 General. He has given me the whole history 
 of his pay, prospects and promotion twice 
 over, and in case I should misunderstand wants 
 me to dine with him and hear it all for the 
 
 third time. If M would leave the A.-G. 
 
 alone he is a delightful man, as we all know; 
 but he's loose in London now, button-holing 
 English friends and quoting leave and pay- 
 codes to them. He wants to see a Member of 
 Parliament about something or other, and I 
 believe he spends his nights rolled up in a' 
 rezai on the stairs of the India Office waiting 
 to catch a secretary. I like the India Office. 
 They are so beautifully casual and lazy, and 
 their rooms look out over the Green Park, and 
 they are never tired of admiring the view. 
 Now and then a man comes in to report him- 
 self, and the secretaries and the under-secre- 
 taries and the chaprassies play battledore and 
 shuttlecock with him until they are tired. 
 
 Some time since, when I was better, more 
 serious and earnest than I am now, I preached 
 [245] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 a jehad up and down those echoing corridors, 
 and suggested the abolition of the India Office 
 and the purchase of a four-pound-ten Ameri- 
 can revolving bookcase to hold all the documents 
 on India that were of public value or could be 
 comprehended by the public. Now I am more 
 frivolous because I am dropping gently into 
 that grave at Woking; and yet I believe in the 
 bookcase. India is bowed down with too much 
 duftar as it is, and the House of Correction, 
 Revision, Division and Supervision cannot do 
 her much good. I saw a committee or a coun- 
 cil file in the other day. Only one desirable 
 tale came to me out of that office. If you've 
 heard it before stop me. It began with a cut- 
 ting from an obscure Welsh paper, I think, 
 A man — a gardener — went mad, announced 
 that Lord Cross was the Messiah and burned 
 himself alive on a pile of garden refuse. That's 
 the first part. I never could get at the second, 
 but I am credibly informed that the work 
 of the India Office stood still for three weeks, 
 while the entire staff took council how to break 
 [246] 
 
LETTERS ON LEAVE 
 
 the news to the Secretary of State. I believe 
 it still remains unbroken. 
 
 Decidedly, leave in England is a disappoint- 
 ing thing. I've wandered into two stations 
 since I wrote the last. Nothing but the labels 
 on the bag remain — oh, and a memory of a 
 weighing-in at an East End fishing club. That 
 was an experience. I foregathered with a man 
 on the top of a 'bus, and we became great 
 friends because we both agreed that gorge- 
 tackle for pike was only permissible in very 
 weedy streams. He repeated his views, which 
 were my views, nearly ten times, and in the 
 evening invited me to this weighing-in, at, 
 we'll say, rooms of the Lea and Chertsey Pis- 
 catorial Anglers' Benevolent Brotherhood. 
 We assembled in a room at the top of a public- 
 house, the walls ornamented with stuffed fish 
 and water-birds, and the anglers came in by 
 twos and threes, and I was introduced to all 
 of 'em as "the gen'elman I met just now." 
 This seemed to be good enough for all prac- 
 tical purposes. There were ten and five 
 [247] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 shilling prizes, and the affable and energetic 
 clerk of the scales behaved as though he were 
 weighing-in for the Lucknow races. The take 
 of the day was one pound fifteen ounces of 
 dace and roach, about twenty fingerlings, and 
 the winner, who is in charge of a railway book- 
 stall, described minutely how he had caught 
 each fish. As a matter of fact, roach-fishing 
 in the Lea and Thames is a fine art. Then 
 there were drinks — modest little drinks — and 
 they called upon me for a sentiment. You 
 know how things go at the sergeants' messes 
 and some of the lodges. In a moment of bril- 
 liant inspiration I gave "free fishing in the 
 parks" and brought down the whole house. 
 Sah! free fishing for coarse fish in the Serpen- 
 tine and the Green Park water would hurt 
 nobody and do a great deal of good to many. 
 The stocking of the water — but what does this 
 interest you? The Englishman moves slowly. 
 He is just beginning to understand that it is 
 not sufficient to set apart a certain amount of 
 land for a lung of London and to turn people 
 into it with "There, get along and play," un- 
 [248] 
 
LETTERS ON LEAVE 
 
 less he gives 'em something to play with. 
 Thirty years hence he will almost allow cafes 
 and hired bands in Hyde Park. 
 
 To return for a moment to the fish club. I 
 got away at eleven, and in darkness and des- 
 pair had to make my way west for leagues and 
 leagues across London. I was on the Mile 
 End Road at midnight and there lost myself, 
 and learned something more about the police- 
 man. He is haughty in the East and always 
 afraid that he is being chaffed. I honestly only 
 wanted sailing directions to get homeward. 
 One policeman said : "Get along. You know 
 your way as well as I do." And yet another: 
 "You go back to the country where you corned 
 from. You ain't doin' no good 'ere!" It was 
 so deadly true that I couldn't answer back, 
 and there wasn't an expensive cab handy to 
 prove my virtue and respectability. Next time 
 I visit the Lea and Chertsey Affabilities I'll 
 find out something about trains. Meantime I 
 keep holiday dolefully. There is not anybody 
 to play with me. They have all gone away 
 to their own places. Even the Infant, who is 
 [249] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 generally the idlest man in the world, writes 
 me that he is helping to steer a ten-ton yacht 
 in Scottish seas. When she heels over too 
 much the Infant is driven to the O. P. side 
 and she rights herself. The Infant's host says : 
 "Isn't this bracing? Isn't this delightful?" 
 And the Infant, who lives in dread of a chill 
 bringing back his Indian fever, has to say 
 "Ye-es," and pretend to despise overcoats. 
 Wallah! This is a cheerful world. 
 
 Rudyard Kipling. 
 
 [250] 
 
THE ADORATION OF THE MAGE* 
 
 THIS is a slim, thin little story, but it 
 serves to explain a great many things. 
 I picked it up in a four-wheeler in 
 the company of an eminent novelist, 
 a pink-eyed young gentleman who lived on his 
 income, and a gentleman who knew more than 
 he ought ; and I preserved it, thinking it would 
 serve to interest you. It may be an old story, 
 but the G.W.K.T.H.O., whom, for the sake 
 of brevity, we will call Captain Kydd, de- 
 clared that his best friend had heard it himself. 
 Consequently, I doubted its newness more than 
 ever. For when a man raises his voice and 
 vows that the incident occurred opposite his 
 own Club window, all the listening world 
 know that they are about to hear what is 
 vulgarly called a cracker. This rule holds 
 
 ♦"Turnovers," No. IX. 
 
 [251] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 good in London as well as in Lahore. When 
 we left the house of the highly distinguished 
 politician who had been entertaining us, we 
 stepped into a London Particular, which has 
 nothing whatever to do with the story, but 
 was interesting from the little fact that we 
 could not see our hands before our faces. The 
 black, brutal fog had turned each gas-jet into 
 a pin-prick of light, visible only at six inches 
 range. There were no houses, there were no 
 pavements. There were no points of the com- 
 pass. There were only the eminent novelist, 
 the young gentleman with the pink eyes, Cap- 
 tain Kydd and myself, holding each other's 
 shoulders in the gloom of Tophet. Then the 
 eminent novelist delivered himself of an epi- 
 gram. 
 
 "Let's go home," said he. 
 
 "Let us try," said Captain Kydd, and in- 
 continently fell down an area into some- 
 body's kitchen yard and disappeared into 
 chaos. When he had climbed out again we 
 heard a something on wheels swearing even 
 worse than Captain Kydd was, all among the 
 [252] 
 
THE ADORATION OF THE MAGE 
 
 railings of a square. So. we shouted, and pres- 
 ently a four-wheeler drove gracefully on to 
 the pavement. 
 
 "I'm trying to get 'ome," said the cabby. 
 "But if you gents make it worth while . . . 
 though heaven knows 'ow we ever shall. Guess 
 'arf a crown apiece might . . . and any'ow I 
 won't promise anywheres in particular." 
 
 The cabby kept his word nobly. He did not 
 find anywheres in particular, but he found sev- 
 eral places. First he discovered a pavement 
 kerb and drove pressing his wheel against it 
 till we came to a lamp-post, and that we hit 
 grievously. Then he came to what ought to 
 have been a corner, but was a 'bus, and we 
 embraced the thing amid terrific language. 
 Then he sailed out into nothing at all — blank 
 fog — and there he commended himself to 
 heaven and his horse to the other place, while 
 the eminent novelist put his head out of the 
 window and gave directions. I begin to un- 
 derstand now why the eminent novelist's vil- 
 lains are so lifelike and his plots so obscure. 
 He has a marvellous breadth of speech, but no 
 [253] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 ingenuity in directing the course of events. We 
 drove into the island of refuge near the Bromp- 
 ton Oratory just when he was telling the cabby 
 to be sure and avoid the Regents' Park Canal. 
 
 Then we began to talk about the weather 
 and Mister Gladstone. If an Englishman is 
 unhappy he always talks about Mister Glad- 
 stone in terms of reproof. The eminent novel- 
 ist was a socialistic-Neo-Plastic-Unionistic- 
 Demagoglot Radical of the Extreme Left, and 
 that is the latest novelty of the thing yet in- 
 vented. He withdrew his head to answer Cap- 
 tain Kydd's arguments, which were forcible. 
 "Well, you'll admit he's all sorts of a mad- 
 man," said Captain Kydd sweetly. 
 
 "He's a saint," said the eminent novelist, 
 "and he moves in an atmosphere that you and 
 those like you cannot breathe." 
 
 "Yes, I always said it was a pretty thick fog. 
 Now I know it's as thick as this one. I say, 
 we're on the pavement again; we shall be in 
 a shop in a minute," said Captain Kydd. 
 
 But I wanted to see the eminent novelist 
 [254] 
 
THE ADORATION OF THE MAGE 
 
 fight, so I reintroduced Mister Gladstone while 
 the cah crawled up a wall. 
 
 "It's not exactly a wholesome atmosphere," 
 said Captain Kydd when the novelist had fin- 
 ished speaking. "That reminds me of a story 
 — perfectly true story. In the old days, before 
 he went off his chump — " 
 
 "Yah-h-h!" said the eminent novelist, wrap- 
 ping himself in his Inverness. 
 
 " — went off his nut, he used to consort a 
 good deal with his friends on his own side — 
 visit 'em, y' know, and deliver addresses out 
 of their own bedroom windows, and steal their 
 postcards, and generally be friendly. Well, 
 one man he stayed with had a house, a countiy 
 house, y' know, and in the garden there was 
 a path which was supposed to divide Kent and 
 Surrey or some counties. They led the old 
 man forth for his walk, y' know, and followed 
 him in gangs to hear that the weather was fine, 
 and of course his host pointed out the path, 
 the old man took in the situation, and put one 
 I daresay they had strewn rose-leaves on it, 
 or spread it with homespun trousers. Anyhow, 
 [255 ] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 one leg on one side of the path and the other 
 on the other, and with one of those wonderful 
 flashes of humour that come to him when he 
 chooses to frisk among his friends, he said: 
 'Now I am in Kent and in Surrey at the same 
 time.' " 
 
 Captain Kydd ceased speaking as the cab 
 tried to force a way into the South Kensington 
 Museum. 
 
 "Well, what's there in that?" said the emi- 
 nent novelist. 
 
 "Oh, nothing much. Let's see how it goes 
 afterwards. Mrs. Gladstone, who was close 
 behind him, turned round and whispered to 
 the hostess in an ecstatic shriek: 'Oh, Mrs. 
 Whateverhernamewas, j^ou will plant a tree 
 there, won't you?' " 
 
 "By Jove!" said the young gentleman with 
 the pink eyes. 
 
 "I don't believe it," said the eminent novelist. 
 
 I said nothing, but it seemed very likely. 
 Captain Kydd laughed: "Well, I don't con- 
 sider that sort of atmosphere exactly whole- 
 some, y' know." 
 
 [256] 
 
THE ADORATION OF THE MAGE 
 
 And when the cab had landed us in the 
 drinking- fountain in High Street, Kensing- 
 ton, and the horse fell down, and the cabby 
 collected our half-crowns and gave us his beery- 
 blessing, and I had to grope my way home on 
 foot, it occurred to me that perhaps you might 
 be interested in that anecdote. As I have said, 
 it explains a great deal more than appears at 
 first sight. 
 
 [257] 
 
A DEATH IN THE CAMP* 
 
 WO awful catastrophes have occurred. 
 
 One Englishman in London is dead, 
 
 and I have scandalised about twenty 
 of his nearest and dearest friends. 
 
 He was a man nearly seventy years old, en- 
 gaged in the business of an architect, and im- 
 mensely respected. That was all I knew about 
 him till I began to circulate among his friends 
 in these parts, trying to cheer them up and 
 make them forget the fog. 
 
 "Hush!" said a man and his wife. "Don't 
 you know he died yesterday of a sudden at- 
 tack of pneumonia? Isn't it shocking?" 
 
 "Yes," said I vaguely. "Aw'fly shocking. 
 Has he left his wife provided for?" 
 
 "Oh, he's very well off indeed, and his wife is 
 quite old. But just think — it was only in the 
 
 •"Turnovers," No. IX. 
 
 [258] 
 
A DEATH IN THE CAMP 
 
 next street it happened!" Then I saw that 
 their grief was not for Strangeways, deceased, 
 but for themselves. 
 
 "How old was he?" I said. 
 
 "Nearly seventy, or maybe a little over." 
 
 "About time for a man to rationally expect 
 such a thing as death," I thought, and went 
 away to another house, where a young married 
 couple lived. 
 
 "Isn't it perfectly ghastly?" said the wife. 
 "Mr. Strangeways died last night." 
 
 "So I heard," said I. "Well, he had lived 
 his life." 
 
 "Yes, but it was such a shockingly short 
 illness. Why, only three weeks ago he was 
 walking about the street." And she looked 
 nervously at her husband, as though she ex- 
 pected him to give up the ghost at any minute. 
 
 Then I gathered, with the knowledge of the 
 length of his sickness, that her grief was not 
 for the late Mr. Strangeways, and went away 
 thinking over men and women I had known 
 who would have given a thousand years in 
 Purgatory for even a week wherein to arrange 
 [ 259 ] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 their affairs, and who were anything but well 
 off. 
 
 I passed on to a third house full of chil- 
 dren, and the shadow of death hung over their 
 heads, for father and mother were talking of 
 Mr. Strangeway's "end." "Most shocking," 
 said they. "It seems that his wife was in the 
 next room when he was dying, and his only 
 son called her, so she just had time to take 
 him in her arms before he died. He was un- 
 conscious at the last. Wasn't it awful?" 
 
 When I went away from that house I 
 thought of men and women without a week 
 wherein to arrange their affairs, and without 
 any money, who were anything but uncon- 
 scious at the last, and who would have given a 
 thousand years in Purgatory for one glimpse 
 at their mothers, their wives or their husbands. 
 I reflected how these people died tended by 
 hirelings and strangers, and I was not in the 
 least ashamed to say that I laughed over Mr. 
 Strangeways' death as I entered the house of 
 a brother in his craft. 
 
 "Heard of Strangeways' death?" said he. 
 [260] 
 
A DEATH IN THE CAMP 
 
 "Most hideous thing. Why, he had only a 
 few days before got news of his designs being 
 accepted by the Burgoyne Cathedral. If he 
 had lived he would have been working out the 
 deails now — with me." And I saw that this 
 man's fear also was not on account of Mr. 
 Strangeways. And I thought of men and 
 women who had died in the midst of wrecked 
 work ; then I sought a company of young men 
 and heard them talk of the dead. "That's the 
 second death among people I know within the 
 year," said one. "Yes, the second death," said 
 another. 
 
 I smiled a very large smile. 
 
 "And you know," said a third, who was the 
 oldest of the party, "they've opened the new 
 road by the head of Tresillion Road, and the 
 wind blows straight across that level square 
 from the Parks. Everything is changing about 
 us." 
 
 "He was an old man," I said. 
 "Ye-es. More than middle-aged," said 
 they. 
 
 "And he outlived his reputation?" 
 [261] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 "Oh, no, or how would he have taken the de- 
 signs for the Burgoyne Cathedral? Why, the 
 very day he died . . 
 
 " Yes," said I. "He died at the end of a 
 completed work — his design finished, his prize 
 awarded?" 
 
 "Yes ; but he didn't live to . . ." 
 
 "And his illness lasted seventeen days, of 
 twenty-four hours each?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And he was tended by his own kith and 
 kin. dying with his head on his wife's breast, 
 his hand in his only son's hand, without any 
 thought of their possible poverty to vex him. 
 Are these things so?" 
 
 "Ye-es," said they. "Wasn't it shocking?" 
 
 "Shocking?" I said. "Get out of this place. 
 Go forth, run about and see what death really 
 means. You have described such dying as a 
 god might envy and a king might pay half 
 his ransom to make certain of. Wait till you 
 have seen men — strong men of thirty-five, with 
 little children, die at two days' notice, penni- 
 less and alone, and seen it not once, but twenty 
 [ 262 ] 
 
A DEATH IN THE CAMP 
 
 times; wait till you have seen the young girl 
 die within a fortnight of the wedding; or the 
 lover within three days of his marriage ; or the 
 mother — sixty little minutes — before her son 
 can come to her side; wait till you hesitate 
 before handling your daily newspaper for fear 
 of reading of the death of some young man 
 that you have dined with, drank with, shot with, 
 lent money to and borrowed money from, and 
 tested to the uttermost — till you dare not hope 
 for the death of an old man, but, when you 
 are strongest, count up the tale of your ac- 
 quaintances and friends, wondering how many 
 will be alive six months hence. Wait till you 
 have heard men calling in the death hour on 
 kin that cannot come ; till you have dined with 
 a man one night and seen him buried on the 
 next. Then you can begin to whimper about 
 loneliness and change and desolation." Here 
 I foamed at the mouth. 
 
 "And do you mean to say," drawled a young 
 gentleman, "that there is any society in which 
 that sort of holocaust goes on?" 
 
 [ 263] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 "I do," said I. "It's not society; it's life." 
 And they laughed. 
 
 But this is the old tale of Pharaoh's chariot- 
 wheel and flying-fish. 
 
 If I tell them yarns, they say: "How true! 
 How true !" If I try to present the truth, they 
 say: "What superb imagination!" 
 
 But you understand, don't you?" 
 
 [264] 
 
A REALLY GOOD TIME* 
 HERE are times when one wants to 
 
 get into pyjamas and stretch and loll, 
 
 and explain things generally. This 
 is one of those times. It is impossi- 
 ble to stand at ease in London, and the in- 
 habitants are so abominably egotistical that 
 one cannot shout "I, I, I" for two minutes 
 without another man joining in with "Me, 
 too!" Which things are an allegory. 
 
 The amusement began with a gentleman of 
 infinite erudition offering to publish my auto- 
 biography. I was to write a string of legends 
 — he would publish them; and would I for- 
 ward a cheque for five guineas "to cover in- 
 cidental expenses?" To him I explained that 
 I wanted five guinea cheques myself very much 
 indeed, and that, emboldened by his letter, 
 
 ♦"Turnovers," No. IX. 
 
 [ 265 ] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 which gave me a very fair insight into his char- 
 acter, I was even then maturing his autobiogra- 
 phy, which I hoped to publish before long with 
 illustrations, and would he forward a cheque 
 for five guineas "to cover incidental expenses?" 
 This brought me an eight-page compilation 
 of contumely. He was grieved to find that 
 he had been mistaken in my character, which 
 he had believed was, at least, elevated. He 
 begged me to remember that the first letter 
 had been written in the strictest confidence, 
 and that if I notated one tittle of the said "re- 
 pository" he would unkennel the bloodhounds 
 of the law and hunt me down. An autobiog- 
 raphy on the lines that I had "so flippantly 
 proposed" was libel without benefit of author- 
 ship, and I had better lend him two guineas — 
 I.O.U. enclosed — to salve his lacerated feel- 
 ings. I replied that I had his autobiography 
 by me in manuscript, and would post it to his 
 address, V.P.P., two guineas and one-half. 
 He evidently knew nothing about the V.P.P., 
 and the correspondence stopped. It is really 
 very hard for an Anglo-Indian to get along 
 [ 266] 
 
A REALLY GOOD TIME 
 
 in London. Besides, my autobiography is not 
 a thing I should care to make public before 
 extensive Bowdlerisation. 
 
 These things, however, only led up to much 
 worse. I dare not grin over them unless I 
 step aside Eastward. I wrote stories, all about 
 little pieces of India, carefully arranged and 
 expurgated for the English public. Then vari- 
 ous people began to write about them. One 
 gentleman pointed out that I had taken "the 
 well-worn themes of passion, love, despair and 
 fate," and, thanks to the "singular fascination" 
 of my style had "wrought them into new and 
 glowing fabricks instinct with- the eternal 
 vitality of the East." For three days after 
 this chit I was almost too proud to speak to 
 the housemaid with the fan-teeth (there is a 
 story about her that I will tell another time). 
 On the fourth day another gentleman made 
 clear that that beautiful style was "tortuous, 
 elaborated and inept," and it was only on ac- 
 count of the "newness of the subjects handled 
 so crabbedly" that I "arrested the attention of 
 the public for a day." Then I wept before the 
 [267] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 housemaid, and she called me a "real gentle- 
 man" because I gave her a shilling. 
 
 Then I tried an all-round cannon — pub- 
 lished one thing under one name and another 
 under another, and sat still to watch. A gen- 
 tleman, who also speaks with authority on 
 Literature and Art, came to me and said: "I 
 don't deny that there is a great deal of clever 
 and superficial fooling in that last thing of 
 yours in the — I've forgotten what it was called 
 — but do you yourself think that you have that 
 curious, subtle grip on and instinct of matters 
 Oriental that that other man shows in his study 
 of native life?" And he mentioned the name 
 of my Other Self. I bowed my head, and my 
 shoulders shook with repentance and grief. 
 "No," said L "It's so true," said he. "Yes," 
 said I. "So feeling," said he. "Indeed it is," 
 said I. "Such honest work, too!" said he. 
 "Oh, awful!" said I. "Think it over," said he, 
 "and try to follow his path." "I will," said I. 
 And when he left I danced sarabands with the 
 housemaid of the fan-teeth till she wanted to 
 know whether I had bought "spirruts." 
 [ 268 ] 
 
A REALLY GOOD TIME 
 
 Then another man came along and sat on 
 my sofa and hailed me as a brother. "And I 
 know that we are kindred souls," said he, "be- 
 cause I feel sure that you have evolved all the 
 dreamy mystery and curious brutality of the 
 British soldier from the pure realm of fancy." 
 "I did," I said. "If you went into a barrack- 
 room you would see at once." "Faugh!" said 
 he. "What have we to do with barrack-rooms? 
 The pure air of fancy feeds us both; keep to 
 that. If you are trammelled by the bitter, 
 bornee truth, you are lost. You die the death 
 of Zola. Invention is the only test of creation." 
 "Of course," said I. "Zola's a bold, bad man. 
 Not a patch on you" I hadn't caught his 
 name, but I fancied that would prevent him 
 flinging himself about on my sofa, which is a 
 cheap one. "I don't say that altogether," he 
 said. "He has his strong points. But he is 
 deficient in imaginative constructiveness. You, 
 I see from what you have said, will belong to 
 the Neo-Gynekalistic school." I knew "Gyne" 
 meant something about cow-killing, and was 
 prepared to hedge when he said good-bye, and 
 [ 269 ] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 wrote an article about my ways and works, 
 which brought another man to my door spout- 
 ing foam. 
 
 "Great Landor's ghost!" he said. "What 
 under the stars has possessed you to join the 
 Gynekalistic lot?" "I haven't," I said. "I 
 believe in municipal regulation of slaughter- 
 houses, if there is a strong Deputy Commis- 
 sioner to control the Muhammadan butchers, 
 especially in the hot weather, but . . ." "This 
 is madness," said he. "Your reputation is at 
 stake. You must make it clear to the world 
 that you have nothing whatever to do with 
 the flatulent, unballasted fiction of . . ." "Do 
 you suppose the world cares a tuppeny dam?" 
 said I. 
 
 Then he raged afresh, and left me, pointing 
 out that the Gynewallahs wrote about noth- 
 ing but women — which seems rather an un- 
 limited subject — and that I would die the death 
 of a French author whose name I have for- 
 gotten. But it wasn't Zola this time. 
 
 I asked the housemaid what in the world the 
 Gynekalisthenics were. "La, sir," said she, 
 [ 270] 
 
A REALLY GOOD TIME 
 
 "it's only their way of being rude. That fat 
 gentleman with the long hair tried to kiss me 
 when I opened the door. I slapped his fat 
 chops for him." 
 
 Now the crisis is at its height. All the entire 
 round world, composed, as far as I can learn, 
 of the Gynekalistic and the anti-Gynekalistic 
 man, and two or three loafers, are trying to 
 find out to what school I rightly belong. They 
 seem to use what they are pleased to call my 
 reputation as a bolster through which to stab 
 at the foe. One gentleman is proving that I 
 am a bit of a blackguard, probably reduced 
 from the ranks, rather an impostor, and a 
 considerable amount of plagiarist. The other 
 man denies the reduction from the ranks, with- 
 holds judgment about the plagiarism, but 
 would like, in the interest of the public — who 
 are at present exclusively occupied with Bar- 
 num — to prove it true, and is convinced that 
 my style is "hermaphroditic." I have all the 
 money on the first man. He is on the eve of 
 discovering that I stole a dead Tommy's diary 
 just before I was drummed out of the service 
 [271] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 for desertion, and have lived on the proceeds 
 ever since. "Do yew know," as the Private 
 Secretary said at Simla this year, "it's re- 
 markably hard for an Anglo-Indian to get 
 along in England." 
 
 Shakl hai lekin ukl nahin hai! 
 
 [272] 
 
ON EXHIBITION* 
 
 IT makes me blush pink all over to think 
 about it, but, none the less, I have 
 brought the tale to you, confident that 
 you will understand. An invitation to 
 tea arrived at my address. The English are 
 very peculiar people about their tea. They 
 don't seem to understand that it is a function 
 at which any one who is passing down the 
 Mall may present himself. They issue formal 
 cards — just as if tea-drinking were like 
 dancing. My invitation said that I was to 
 tea from 4:30 till 6 p.m., and there was never 
 a word of lawn-tennis on the whole of the card. 
 I knew the English were heavy eaters, but this 
 amazed me. "What in the wide world," 
 thought I, "will they find to do for an hour 
 and a half? Perhaps they'll play games, as 
 
 ♦"Turnovers," No. IX. 
 
 [273] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 it's near Christmas time. They can't sit out 
 in the verandah, and chabutras are impossible." 
 
 Wherefore I went to this house prepared 
 for anything. There was a fine show of damp 
 wraps in the hall, and a cheerful babble of 
 voices from the other side of the drawing-room 
 door. The hostess ran at me, vehemently 
 shouting: "Oh, I am so glad you have come. 
 We were all talking about you." As the room 
 was entirely filled with strangers, chiefly fe- 
 male, I reflected that they couldn't have said 
 anything very bad. Then I was introduced 
 to everybody, and some of the people were 
 talking in couples, and didn't want to be in- 
 terrupted in the least, and some were behind 
 settees, and some were in difficulty with their 
 tea-cups, and one and all had exactly the same 
 name. That is the worst of a lisping hostess. 
 
 Almost before I had dropped the last limp 
 hand, a burly ruffian, with a beard, rumbled in 
 my ear: "I trust you were satisfied with my 
 estimate of your powers in last week's Con- 
 certina?" 
 
 Now I don't see the Concertina because it's 
 [274] 
 
ON EXHIBITION 
 
 too expensive, but I murmured: "Immense! 
 immense! Most gratifying. Totally unde- 
 served." And the ruffian said : "In a measure, 
 yes. Not wholly. I flatter myself that " 
 
 "Oh, not in the least," said I. "No sugar, 
 thanks." This to the hostess, who was waving 
 Sally Lunns under my nose. A female, who 
 could not have been less than seven feet high, 
 came on, half speed ahead, through the fog 
 of the tea-steam, and docked herself on the 
 sofa just like an Inman liner. 
 
 "Have you ever considered," said she, "the 
 enormous moral responsibility that rests in the 
 hands of one who has the gift of literary ex- 
 pression? In my own case — but you surely 
 know my collaborator." 
 
 A much huger woman arrived, cast anchor, 
 and docked herself on the other side of the 
 sofa. She was the collaborator. Together 
 they confided to me that they were desperately 
 in earnest about the amelioration of something 
 or other. Their collective grievance against 
 me was that I was not in earnest. 
 
 "We have studied your works — all," said the 
 [ 275 ] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 five-thousand-ton four-master, "and we can- 
 not believe that you are in earnest." "Oh, no," 
 I said hastily, "I never was." Then I saw that 
 that was the wrong thing to say, for the eight- 
 thousand-ton palace Cunarder signalled to the 
 sister ship, saying: "You see, my estimate 
 was correct." 
 
 "Now, my complaint against him is that he 
 is too savagely farouche, 33 said a weedy young 
 gentleman with tow hair, who ate Sally Lunns 
 like a workhouse orphan. "Faroucherie in his 
 age is a fatal mistake." 
 
 I reflected a moment on the possibility of 
 getting that young gentleman out into a large 
 and dusty maidan and gently chukkering him 
 before cJwta hazri. Pie looked too sleek to me 
 as he then stood. But I said nothing, because 
 a tiny-tiny woman with beady-black eyes 
 shrilled: "I disagree with you entirely. He 
 is too much bound by the tradition of the 
 commonplace. I have seen in his later work 
 signs that he is afraid of his public. You must 
 never be afraid of your public." 
 
 Then they began to discuss me as though I 
 [ 276 ] 
 
ON EXHIBITION 
 
 were dead and buried under the hearth-rug, 
 and they talked of "tones" and "notes" and 
 "lights" and "shades" and tendencies. 
 
 "And which of us do you think is correct 
 in her estimate of your character?" said the 
 tiny-tiny woman when they had made me out 
 (a) a giddy Lothario ; (b) a savage; (c) a pre- 
 Rafaelite angel; (d) co-equal and co-etemal 
 with half a dozen gentlemen whose names I 
 had never heard ; (e) flippant; (f) penetrated 
 with pathos; (g) an open atheist ; (h) a young 
 man of the Roman Catholic faith with a 
 mission in life. 
 
 I smiled idiotically, and said I really didn't 
 know. 
 
 Then a man entered whom I knew, and I 
 fled to him for comfort. "Have I missed the 
 fun?" he asked with a twinkle in his eye. 
 
 I explained, snorting, what had befallen. 
 
 "Ay," said he quietly, "you didn't go the 
 right way to work. You should have stood 
 on the hearth-rug and fired off epigrams. 
 That's what I did after I had written Down 
 [ 277] 
 
ON EXHIBITION 
 
 sucking a stick, and I felt sure that the maiden 
 would much have preferred talking to him. 
 She smiled prefatorily. 
 
 "It's hot here." 1 said: "let's go over to the 
 window": and I plumped down on a three- 
 seated settee, with my back to the young man. 
 leaving only one place for the maiden. I was 
 right. I signalled up the man who had written 
 Down in thv Doldrums, and talked to him as 
 fast as I knew how. When he had to go. and 
 the young man with him. the maiden became 
 enthusiastic, not to say gushing. But I knew 
 that those compliments were for value re- 
 ceived. Then she explained that she was going 
 out to India to stay with her married aunt, 
 wherefore she became as a sister unto me on 
 the spot. Her mamma did not seem to know 
 much about Indian outtits, and I waxed elo- 
 quent on the subject. 
 
 "It's all nonsense." I said, "to rill your boxes 
 with things that can be made just as well in 
 the country. What you want are walking- 
 dresses and dinner-dresses as good as ever you 
 can get, and gloves tinned up, and odds and 
 [«»] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 ends of things generally. All the rest, unless 
 you're extravagant, the dharzee can make in 
 the verandah. Take underclothing, for in- 
 stance." I was conscious that my loud and 
 cheerful voice was ploughing through one of 
 those ghostly silences that sometimes fall upon 
 a company. The English only wear their out- 
 sides in company. They have nothing to do 
 with underclothing. I could feel that without 
 being told. So the silence cut short the one 
 matter in which I could really have been of 
 use. 
 
 On the pavement my friend who wrote 
 Down in the Doldrums was waiting to walk 
 home with me. "What in the world does it 
 all mean?" I said. "Nothing," said he. 
 "You've been asked there as a small deputy 
 lion to roar in place of a much bigger man. 
 You growled, though." 
 
 "I should have done much worse if I'd 
 known," I grunted. "Ah," said he, "you 
 haven't arrived at the real fun of the show. 
 Wait till they've made you jump through 
 hoops and your turn's over, and you can sit 
 [280] 
 
ON EXHIBITION 
 
 on a sofa and watch the new men being brought 
 up and put through their paces. You've noth- 
 ing like that in India. How do you manage 
 your parties?" 
 
 And I thought of smooth-cut lawns in the 
 gloaming, and tables spread under mighty 
 trees, and men and women, all intimately ac- 
 quainted with each other, strolling about in 
 the lightest of raiment, and the old dowagers 
 criticising the badminton, and the young men 
 in riding-boots making rude remarks about the 
 claret cup, and the host circulating through the 
 mob and saying: "Hah, Piggy," or Bobby or 
 Flatnose, as the nickname might be, "have an- 
 other peg," and the hostess soothing the bash- 
 ful youngsters and talking hhitmatgars with 
 the Judge's wife, and the last new bride hang- 
 ing on her husband's arm and saying: "Isn't 
 it almost time to go home, Dicky, dear?" and 
 the little fat owls chuckling in the bougain- 
 villeas, and the horses stamping and squealing 
 in the carriage-drive, and everybody saying 
 the most awful things about everybody else, 
 but prepared to do anything for anybody else 
 [ 281 ] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 just the same; and I gulped a great gulp of 
 sorrow and homesickness. 
 
 "You wouldn't understand," said I to my 
 friend. "Let's go to a pot-house, where cab- 
 bies call, and drink something." 
 
 [282] 
 
THE THREE YOUNG MEN* 
 
 LONDON IN THE FOG 
 
 URIOUSER and curiouser," as 
 Alice in Wonderland said when 
 she found her neck beginning to 
 grow. Each day under the smoke 
 
 brings me new and generally unpleasant dis- 
 coveries. The latest are most on my mind. I 
 hasten to transfer them to yours. 
 
 At first, and several times afterwards, I very 
 greatly desired to talk to a thirteen-two subal- 
 tern — not because he or I would have anything 
 valuable to say to each other, but just because 
 he was a subaltern. I wanted to know all 
 about that evergreen polo-pony that "can turn 
 on a sixpence," and the second-hand second 
 charger that, by a series of perfectly unprece- 
 
 ♦"Turnovers," No. IX. 
 
 [ 283] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 dented misfortunes, just failed to win the Cal- 
 cutta Derby. Then, too, I wished to hear of 
 many old friends across the sea, and who had 
 got his company, and why and where the new 
 Generals were going next cold weather, and 
 how the Commander-in-Chief had been enliv- 
 ening the Simla season. So I looked east and 
 west, and north and south, but never a thirteen- 
 two subaltern broke through the fog; except 
 once — and he had grown a fifteen-one cot 
 down, and wore a tall hat and frock coat, and 
 was begging for coppers from the Horse- 
 Guards. By the way, if you stand long enough 
 between the mounted sentries — the men who 
 look like reflectors stolen from Christmas trees 
 — you will presently meet every human being 
 you ever knew in India. When I am not 
 happy — that is to say, once a day — I run off 
 and play on the pavement in front of the 
 Horse-Guards, and watch the expressions on 
 the gentlemen's faces as they come out. But 
 this is a digression. 
 
 After some days — I grew lonelier and lone- 
 lier every hour — I went away to the other end 
 [28*] ' 
 
THE THREE YOUNG MEN 
 
 of the town, and catching a friend, said: 
 "Lend me a man — a young man — to play with. 
 I don't feel happy. I want rousing. I have 
 liver." And the friend said: "Ah, yes, of 
 course. What you want is congenial society, 
 something that will stir you up — a fellow- 
 mind. Now let me introduce you to a thor- 
 oughly nice young man. He's by way of be- 
 ing an ardent Neo- Alexandrine, and has 
 written some charming papers on the 'Ethics 
 of the Wood Pavement.' " Concealing my 
 almost visible rapture, I murmured "Oh, 
 bliss!" as they used to say at the Gaiety, and 
 extended the hand of friendship to a young 
 gentleman attired after the fashion of the 
 Neo-Alexandrines, who appear to be a sub- 
 caste of social priests. His hand was a limp 
 hand, his face was very smooth because he had 
 not yet had time to grow any hair, and he wore 
 a cloak like a policeman's cloak, but much more 
 so. On his finger was a cameo-ring about three 
 inches wide, and round his neck, the weather 
 being warm, was a fawn, olive and dead-leaf 
 comforter of soft silk — the sort of thing any 
 [285] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 right-minded man would give to his mother 
 or his sister without being asked. 
 
 We looked at each other cautiously for some 
 minutes. Then he said: "What do you think 
 of the result of the Brighton election?" "Beau- 
 tiful, beautiful," I said, watching his eye, which 
 saddened. "One of the worst — that is, entirely 
 the most absurd reductio ad absurdum of the 
 principle of the narrow and narrow-minded 
 majority imposing a will which is necessarily 
 incult on a minority animated by ..." I for- 
 get exactly what he said they were animated 
 by, but it was something veiy fine. 
 
 "When I was at Oxford," he said, "Haward 
 of Exeter" — he spoke as one speaks of Smith 
 
 of Asia — "always inculcated at the Union 
 
 By the way, you do not know, I suppose, any- 
 thing of the life at Oxford?" "No," I said, 
 anxious to propitiate, "but I remember some 
 boys once who seduced an ekka and a pony into 
 a Major's tent at a camp of exercise, laced up 
 the door, and let the Major fight it out with 
 the horse." I told that little incident in my 
 best style, and was three parts through it 
 [286] 
 
THE THREE YOUNG MEN 
 
 before I discovered that he was looking pained 
 and shocked. 
 
 "That — ah — was not the side of Oxford that 
 I had in mind when I was saying that Ha- 
 
 ward of Exeter " And he explained all 
 
 about Mr. Haward, who appeared to be a 
 young gentleman, rising twenty-three, of won- 
 derful mental attainments, and as pernicious a 
 prig as I ever dreamed about. Mr. Haward had 
 schemes for the better management of creation; 
 my friend told me them all — social, political 
 and economical. 
 
 Then, just as I was feeling faint and very 
 much in need of a drink, he launched without 
 warning upon the boundless seas of literature. 
 He wished to know whether I had read the 
 works of Messrs. Guy de Maupassant, Paul 
 Bourget and Pierre Loti. This in the tone of 
 a teacher of Euclid. I replied that all my 
 French was confined to the Vie Parisienne and 
 translations of Zola's novels with illustrations. 
 Here we parted. London is very large, and I 
 do not think we shall meet any more. 
 
 I thanked our Mutual Friend for his kind- 
 [287] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 ness, and asked for another young man to play 
 with. This gentleman was even younger than 
 the last, but quite as cocksure. He told me 
 in the course of half a cigar that only men of 
 mediocre calibre went into the army, which was 
 a brutalising profession; that he suffered from 
 nerves, and "an uncontrollable desire to walk 
 up and down the room and sob" (that was too 
 many cigarettes), and that he had never set 
 foot out of England, but knew all about the 
 world from his own theories. Thought Dick- 
 ens coarse; Scott jingling and meretricious; 
 and had not by any chance read the novels of 
 Messrs. Guy de Maupassant, Paul Bourget 
 and Pierre Loti. 
 
 Him I left quickly, but sorry that he could 
 not do a six weeks' training with a Middlesex 
 militia regiment, where he would really get 
 something to sob for. The novel business in- 
 terested me. I perceived that it was a fashion, 
 like his tie and his collars, and I wanted to 
 work it to the fountain-head. To this end I 
 procured the whole Shibboleth from Guy de 
 Maupassant even unto Pierre Loti by way of 
 [288] 
 
THE THREE YOUNG MEN 
 
 Bourget. Unwholesome was a mild term for 
 these interesting books, which the young men 
 assured me that they read for style. When a 
 fat Major makes that remark in an Indian 
 Club, everybody hoots and laughs. But you 
 must not laugh overseas, especially at young 
 gentlemen who have been to Oxford and lis- 
 tened to Mr. Haward of Exeter. 
 
 Then I was introduced to another young 
 man who said he belonged to a movement called 
 Toynbee Hall, where, I gathered, young gen- 
 tlemen took an indecent interest in the affairs 
 of another caste, whom, with rare tact, they 
 called "the poor," and told them generally 
 how to order their lives. Such was the manner 
 and general aggressiveness of this third young 
 gentleman, that if he had told me that coats 
 were generally worn and good for the protec- 
 tion of the body, I should have paraded Bond 
 Street in my shirt. What the poor thought of 
 him I could not tell, but there is no room for 
 it in this letter. He said that there was going 
 to be an upheaval of the classes — the English 
 are very funny about their castes. They don't 
 [289] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 know how to handle them one little bit, and 
 never allow them to draw water or build huts 
 in peace — and the entire social fabric was about 
 to be remodelled on his recommendations, and 
 the world would be generally altered past 
 recognition. No, he had never seen anything 
 of the world, but close acquaintance with au- 
 thorities had enabled him to form dispassion- 
 ate judgments on the subjects, and had I, by 
 any chance, read the novels of Guy de Mau- 
 passant, Pierre Loti and Paul Bourget? 
 
 It was a mean thing to do, but I couldn't 
 help it. I had read 'em. I put him on, so to 
 speak, far back in Paul Bourget, who is a 
 genial sort of writer. I pinned him to one 
 book. He could not escape from Paul 
 Bourget. He was fed with it till he confessed 
 — and he had been quite ready to point out its 
 beauties — that we could not take much inter- 
 est in the theories put forward in that particu- 
 lar book. Then I said : "Get a dictionary and 
 read him," which severed our budding friend- 
 ship. 
 
 Thereafter I sought our Mutual Friend and 
 [ 290] 
 
THE THREE YOUNG MEN 
 
 walked up and down his room sobbing, or 
 words to that effect. "Good gracious!" said 
 my friend. "Is that what's troubling you? 
 Now, I hold the ravaging rights over half a 
 dozen fields and a bit of a wood. You can 
 pot rabbits there in the evenings sometimes, 
 and anyway you get exercise. Come along." 
 
 So I went. I have not yet killed anything, 
 but it seems wasteful to drive good powder 
 and shot after poor little bunnies when there 
 are so many other things in the world that 
 would be better for an ounce and a half of 
 number five at sixty yards — not enough to 
 disable, but just sufficient to sting, and be 
 pricked out with a penknife. 
 
 I should like to wield that penknife. 
 
 [291] 
 
MY GREAT AND ONLY* 
 
 HETHER Macdougal or Mac- 
 doodle be his name, the principle 
 remains the same, as Mrs. Nickle- 
 by said. The gentleman ap- 
 
 peared to hold authority in London, and by 
 virtue of his position preached or ordained that 
 music-halls were vulgar, if not improper. Sub- 
 sequently, I gathered that the gentleman was 
 inciting his associates to shut up certain music- 
 halls on the ground of the vulgarity afore- 
 said, and I saw with my own eyes that unhappy 
 little managers were putting notices into the 
 corners of their programmes begging the audi- 
 ence to report each and every impropriety. 
 That was pitiful, but it excited my interest. 
 
 Now, to the upright and impartial mind — 
 which is mine — all the diversions of Heathen- 
 
 "Turnovers," No. IX. 
 
 [ 292 ] 
 
MY GREAT AND ONLY 
 
 dom — which is the British — are of equal eth- 
 nological value. And it is true that some 
 human beings can be more vulgar in the act 
 of discussing etchings, editions of luxury, or 
 their own emotions, than other human beings 
 employed in swearing at each other across the 
 street. Therefore, following a chain of thought 
 which does not matter, I visited very many 
 theatres whose licenses had never been inter- 
 fered with. There I discovered men and 
 women who lived and moved and behaved ac- 
 cording to rules which in no sort regulate 
 human life, by tradition dead and done with, 
 and after the customs of the more immoral 
 ancients and Barnum. At one place the 
 lodging-house servant was an angel, and her 
 mother a Madonna; at a second they sounded 
 the loud timbrel o'er a whirl of bloody axes, 
 mobs, and brown-paper castles, and said it was 
 not a pantomime, but Art; at a third every- 
 body grew fabulously rich and fabulously poor 
 every twenty minutes, which was confusing; 
 at a fourth they discussed the Nudities and 
 Lewdities in false-palate voices supposed to 
 [293] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 belong to the aristocracy and that tasted copper 
 in the mouth; at a fifth they merely climbed 
 up walls and threw furniture at each other, 
 which is notoriously the custom of spinsters and 
 small parsons. Next morning the papers 
 would write about the progress of the modern 
 drama (that was the silver paper pantomime) , 
 and "graphic presentment of the realities of 
 our highly complex civilisation." That was the 
 angel housemaid. By the way, when an Eng- 
 lishman has been doing anything more than 
 unusually Pagan, he generally consoles him- 
 self with "over-civilisation." It's the "martyr- 
 to-nerves-dear" note in his equipment. 
 
 I went to the music-halls — the less fre- 
 quented ones — and they were almost as dull 
 as the plays, but they introduced me to several 
 elementary truths. Ladies and gentlemen in 
 eccentric, but not altogether unsightly, cos- 
 tumes told me (a) that if I got drunk I should 
 have a head next morning, and perhaps be fined 
 by the magistrate; (b) that if I flirted pro- 
 miscuously I should probably get into trouble ; 
 (c) that I had better tell my wife everything 
 [ 294 ] 
 
MY GREAT AND ONLY 
 
 and be good to her, or she would be sure to 
 find out for herself and be very bad to me; (d) 
 that I should never lend money; or (e) fight 
 with a stranger whose form I did not know. 
 My friends (if I may be permitted to so call 
 them) illustrated these facts with personal 
 reminiscences and drove them home with kicks 
 and prancings. At intervals circular ladies in 
 pale pink and white would low to their audi- 
 ence to the effect that there was nothing half 
 so sweet in life as "Love's Young Dream," and 
 the billycock hats would look at the four-and- 
 elevenpenny bonnets, and they saw that it was 
 good and clasped hands on the strength of 
 it. Then other ladies with shorter skirts would 
 explain that when their husbands 
 
 "Stagger home tight about two, 
 An' can't light the candle, 
 We taik the broom 'andle 
 An' show 'em what women can do." 
 
 Naturally, the billycocks, seeing what might 
 befall, thought things over again, and you 
 heard the bonnets murmuring softly under the 
 [295 ] 
 
ABAFT THE FUXXEL 
 
 clink of the lager-glasses: "Xot me, Bill. Xot 
 meT Xow these things are basic and basaltic 
 truths. Anybody can understand them. They 
 are as old as Time. Perhaps the expression was 
 occasionally what might be called coarse, but 
 beer is beer, and best in a pewter, though you 
 can, if you please, drink it from Venetian glass 
 and call it something else. The halls give 
 wisdom and not too lively entertainment for 
 sixpence — ticket good for four pen'orth of re- 
 freshments, chiefly inky porter — and the people 
 who listen are respectable folk living under 
 very grey skies who derive all the light side of 
 their life, the food for their imagination and the 
 crystallised expression of their views on Fate 
 and Xemesis, from the affable ladies and gen- 
 tlemen singers. They require a few green and 
 gold maidens in short skirts to kick before 
 them. Herein they are no better and no worse 
 than folk who require fifty girls very much 
 undressed, and a setting of music, or pictures 
 that won't let themselves be seen on account 
 of their age and varnish, or statues and coins. 
 All animals like salt, but some prefer rock- 
 [ 296 ] 
 
MY GREAT AND ONLY 
 
 salt, red or black in lumps. But this is a 
 digression. 
 
 Out of my many visits to the hall — I chose 
 one hall, you understand, and frequented it till 
 I could tell the mood it was in before I had 
 passed the ticket-poll — was born the Great 
 Idea. I served it as a slave for seven days. 
 Thought was not sufficient; experience was 
 necessary. I patrolled Westminster, Black- 
 friars, Lambeth, the Old Kent Road, and 
 many, many more miles of pitiless pavement 
 to make sure of my subject. At even I drank 
 my lager among the billycocks, and lost my 
 heart to a bonnet. Goethe and Shakespeare 
 were my precedents. I sympathised with them 
 acutely, but I got my Message. A chance- 
 caught refrain of a song which I understand 
 is protected — to its maker I convey my most 
 grateful acknowledgments — gave me what I 
 sought. The rest was made up of four elemen- 
 tary truths, some humour, and, though I say 
 it who should leave it to the press, pathos deep 
 and genuine. I spent a penny on a paper 
 which introduced me to a Great and Only who 
 [297] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 "wanted new songs." The people desired them 
 really. He was their ambassador, and taught 
 me a great deal about the property-right in 
 songs, concluding with a practical illustration, 
 for he said my verses were just the thing and 
 annexed them. It was long before he could hit 
 on the step-dance which exactly elucidated the 
 spirit of the text, and longer before he could 
 jingle a pair of huge brass spurs as a dancing- 
 girl jingles her anklets. That was my notion, 
 and a good one. 
 
 The Great and Only possessed a voice like 
 a bull, and nightly roared to the people at the 
 heels of one who was winning triple encores 
 with a priceless ballad beginning deep down 
 in the bass: "We was shopmates — boozin' 
 shopmates." I feared that song as Rachel 
 feared Ristori. A greater than I had written 
 it. It was a grim tragedy, lighted with lucid 
 humour, wedded to music that maddened. But 
 my "Great and Only" had faith in me, and I 
 — I clung to the Great Heart of the People — 
 my people — four hundred "when it's all full, 
 sir." I had not studied them for nothing. I 
 [298 ] 
 
MY GREAT AND ONLY 
 
 must reserve the description of my triumph for 
 another "Turnover." 
 
 There was no portent in the sky on the night 
 of my triumph. A barrowful of onions, indeed, 
 upset itself at the door, but that was a coinci- 
 dence. The hall was crammed with billycocks 
 waiting for "We was shopmates." The great 
 heart beat healthily. I went to my beer the 
 equal of Shakespeare and Moliere at the wings 
 in a first night. What would my public say? 
 Could anything live after the abandon of "We 
 was shopmates" ? What if the redcoats did not 
 muster in their usual strength. O my friends, 
 never in your songs and dramas forget the red- 
 coat. He has sympathy and enormous boots. 
 
 I believed in the redcoat; in the great heart 
 of the people : above all in myself. The con- 
 ductor, who advertised that he "doctored bad 
 songs," had devised a pleasant little lilting air 
 for my needs, but it struck me as weak and 
 thin after the thunderous surge of the "Shop- 
 mates." I glanced at the gallery — the red- 
 coats were there. The fiddle-bows creaked, 
 and, with a jingle of brazen spurs, a forage- 
 [299] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 cap over his left eye, my Great and Only began 
 to "chuck it off his chest." Thus : 
 
 '"'At the back o' the Knightsbridge Barricks, 
 When the fog was a-gatherin' dim, 
 The Lifeguard talked to the L'ndercook, 
 An' the girl she talked to 'im." 
 
 "Tuciddle - iddle - iddle-lum-tum-tum!" said 
 the violins. 
 
 "Ling - a-lin g-a-Un g-a-lin g-tin g-lin g f said 
 Hie spurs of the Great and Only, and through 
 the roar in my ears I fancied I could catch a 
 responsive hoof-beat in the gallery. The next 
 four lines held the house to attention. Then 
 came the chorus and the borrowed refrain. It 
 took — it went home with a crisp click. My 
 Great and Only saw his chance. Superbly 
 waving his hand to embrace the whole audience, 
 he invited them to join him in: 
 
 "You may make a mistake when you're mash- 
 ing a tart, 
 But you'll learn to be wise when you're 
 older, 
 
 [300] 
 
MY GREAT AND ONLY 
 
 And don't try for things that are out of your 
 reach, 
 
 And that's what the girl told the soldier, 
 soldier, soldier, 
 And that's what the girl told the soldier." 
 
 I thought the gallery would never let go of 
 the long-drawn howl on "soldier." They clung 
 to it as ringers to the kicking bell-rope. Then 
 I envied no one — not even Shakespeare. I had 
 my house hooked — gaffed under the gills, 
 netted, speared, shot behind the shoulder — 
 anything you please. That was pure joy! 
 With each verse the chorus grew louder, and 
 when my Great and Only had bellowed his 
 way to the fall of the Lifeguard and the 
 happy lot of the Undercook, the gallery rocked 
 again, the reserved stalls shouted, and the 
 pewters twinkled like the legs of the demented 
 ballet-girls. The conductor waved the now 
 frenzied orchestra to softer Lydian strains. 
 My Great and Only warbled piano: 
 
 "At the back o' Knightsbridge Barricks, 
 When the fog's a-gatherin' dim, 
 The Lifeguard waits for the L T ndercook, 
 But she won't wait for 'im." 
 
 [301] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 "Ta-ra-rara-rara-ra-ra-rah!" rang a horn 
 clear and fresh as a sword-cut. 'Twas the 
 apotheosis of virtue. 
 
 "She's married a man in the poultry line 
 
 That lives at 'Ighgate '111, 
 An' the Lifeguard walks with the 'ousemaid 
 now, 
 
 An' (awful pause) she can't foot the bill!" 
 
 Who shall tell the springs that move masses? 
 I had builded better than I knew. Followed 
 yells, shrieks and wildest applause. Then, as 
 a wave gathers to the curl-over, singer and 
 sung to fill their chests and heave the chorus 
 through the quivering roof — alto, horns, 
 basses drowned, and lost in the flood — to the 
 beach-like boom of beating feet: 
 
 "Oh, think o' my song when you're gowin' it 
 strong 
 
 An' your boots is too little to 'old yer; 
 An' don't try for things that is out of your 
 reach, 
 
 An' that's what the girl told the soldier, 
 soldier, so-holdier!" 
 
 [302] 
 
MY GREAT AND ONLY 
 
 Ow! Hi! Yi! Wha-hup! Phew! Whew! 
 Pwhit! Bang! Wang! Crr-rash! There was 
 ample time for variations as the horns uplifted 
 themselves and ere the held voices came down 
 in the foam of sound — 
 
 "That's what the girl told the soldier/' 
 
 Providence has sent me several joys, and I 
 have helped myself to others, but that night, 
 as I looked across the sea of tossing billycocks 
 and rocking bonnets, my work, as I heard them 
 give tongue, not once, but four times — their 
 eyes sparkling, their mouths twisted with the 
 taste of pleasure — I felt that I had secured 
 Perfect Felicity. I am become greater than 
 Shakespeare. I may even write plays for the 
 Lyceum, but I never can recapture that first 
 fine rapture that followed the Upheaval of the 
 Anglo-Saxon four hundred of him and her. 
 They do not call for authors on these occa- 
 sions, but I desired no need of public recogni- 
 tion. I was placidly happy. The chorus bub- 
 bled up again and again throughout the 
 [303] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 evening, and a redcoat in the gallery insisted 
 on singing solos about "a swine in the poultry- 
 line," whereas I had written "man," and the 
 pewters began to fly, and afterwards the long 
 streets were vocal with various versions of 
 what the girl had really told the soldier, and 
 I went to bed murmuring : 4 'I have found my 
 destiny." 
 
 But it needs a more mighty intellect to write 
 the Songs of the People. Some day a man will 
 rise up from Bermondsey, Battersea or Bow, 
 and he will be coarse, but clearsighted, hard 
 but infinitely and tenderly humorous, speaking 
 the people's tongue, steeped in their lives and 
 telling them in swinging, urging, dinging verse 
 what it is that their inarticulate lips would 
 express. He will make them songs. Such 
 songs! And all the little poets who pretend 
 to sing to the people will scuttle away like 
 rabbits, for the girl (which, as you have seen, 
 of course, is wisdom) will tell that soldier 
 (which is Hercules bowed under his labours) 
 all that she knows of Life and Death and Love. 
 
 And the same, they say, is a Vulgarity! 
 [304] 
 
"THE BETRAYAL OF CONFI- 
 DENCES"* 
 
 HAT was its real name, and its nature 
 
 was like unto it; but what else could 
 
 I do? You must judge for me. 
 They brought a card — the house- 
 
 maid with the fan-teeth held it gingerly be- 
 tween black finger and blacker thumb — and it 
 carried the name Mr. R. H. Hoffer in old 
 Gothic letters. A hasty rush through the 
 file of bills showed me that I owed nothing to 
 any Mr. Hoffer, and assuming my sweetest 
 smile, I bade Fan of the Teeth show him up. 
 Enter stumblingly an entirely canary-coloured 
 young person about twenty years of age, 
 with a suspicious bulge in the bosom of his 
 coat. He had grown no hair on his face; his 
 eyes were of a delicate water-green, and his 
 
 •"Turnovers," No. IX. 
 
 [ 305 ] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 hat was a brown billycock, which he fingered 
 nervously. As the room was blue with tobacco- 
 smoke (and Latakia at that) he coughed even 
 more nervously, and began seeking for me. I 
 hid behind the writing-table and took notes. 
 What I most noted was the bulge in his bosom. 
 When a man begins to bulge as to that portion 
 of his anatomy, hit him in the eye, for reasons 
 which will be apparent later on. 
 
 He saw me and advanced timidly. I invited 
 him seductively to the only other chair, and 
 "What's the trouble?" said I. 
 
 "I wanted to see you," said he. 
 
 "I am me," said I. 
 
 "I — I — I thought you would be quite other- 
 wise," said he. 
 
 "I am, on the contrary, completely this 
 way," said I. "Sit still, take your time and 
 tell me all about it." 
 
 He wriggled tremulously for three minutes, 
 and coughed again. I surveyed him, and 
 waited developments. The bulge under the 
 bosom crackled. Then I frowned. At the end 
 of three minutes he began. 
 
 [306] 
 
"BETRAYAL OF CONFIDENCES" 
 
 "I wanted to see what you were like," said 
 he. 
 
 I inclined my head stiffly, as though all Lon- 
 don habitually climbed the storeys on the same 
 errand and rather wearied me. 
 
 Then he delivered himself of a speech which 
 he had evidently got by heart. He flushed 
 painfully in the delivery. 
 
 "I am flattered," I said at the conclusion. 
 "It's beastly gratifying. What do you want?" 
 
 "Advice, if you will be so good," said the 
 young man. 
 
 "Then you had better go somewhere else," 
 said I. 
 
 The young man turned pink. "But I 
 thought, after I had read your works — all your 
 works, on my word — I had hoped that you 
 would understand me, and I really have come 
 for advice." The bulge crackled more omin- 
 ously than ever. 
 
 "I understand perfectly," said I. "You are 
 oppressed with vague and nameless longings, 
 are you not?" 
 
 "I am, terribly," said he. 
 
 [307] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 "You do not wish to be as other men are? 
 You desire to emerge from the common herd, 
 to make your mark, and so forth?" 
 
 "Yes," said he in an awestricken whisper. 
 "That is my desire." 
 
 "Also," said I, "you love, excessively, in 
 several places at once cooks, housemaids, gov- 
 ernesses, schoolgirls, and the aunts of other 
 people." 
 
 "But one only," said he, and the pink deep- 
 ened to beetroot. 
 
 "Consequently," said I, "you have written 
 much — you have written verses." 
 
 "It was to teach me to write prose, only to 
 teach me to write prose," he murmured. "You 
 do it yourself, because I have bought your 
 works — all your works." 
 
 He spoke as if he had purchased dunghills 
 en bloc. 
 
 "We will waive that question," I said loftily. 
 "Produce the verses." 
 
 "They — they aren't exactly verses," said the 
 young man, plunging his hand into his bosom. 
 [308] 
 
BETRAYAL OF CONFIDENCES" 
 
 "I beg your pardon, I meant will you be 
 good enough to read your five-act tragedy." 
 
 "How — how in the world did you know?" 
 said the young man, more impressed than ever. 
 
 He unearthed his tragedy, the title of which 
 I have given, and began to read. I felt as 
 though I were walking in a dream ; having been 
 till then ignorant of the fact that earth held 
 young men who held five-act tragedies in their 
 insides. The young man gave me the whole 
 of the performance, from the preliminary 
 scene, where nothing more than an eruption 
 of Vesuvius occurs to mar the serenity of the 
 manager, till the very end, where the Roman 
 sentry of Pompeii is slowly banked up with 
 ashes in the presence of the audience, and dies 
 murmuring through his helmet-vizor: "S.P. 
 Q.R.R.I.P.R.S.V.P.," or words to that effect. 
 
 For three hours and one-half he read to me. 
 And then I made a mistake. 
 
 "Sir," said I, "who's your Ma and Pa?" 
 
 "I haven't got any," said he, and his lower 
 lip quivered. 
 
 "Where do you live?" I said. 
 
 [309] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 "At the back of Tarporley Mews," said he. 
 "How?" said I. 
 
 "On eleven shillings a week," said he. 
 
 "I was pretty well educated, and if you don't 
 stay too long they will let you read the books 
 in the Holywell Street stalls." 
 
 "And you wasted your money buying my 
 books," said I with a lump the size of a bolster 
 in my throat. 
 
 "I got them second-hand, four and six- 
 pence," said he, "and some I borrowed." 
 
 Then I collapsed. I didn't weep, but I took 
 the tragedy and put it in the fire, and called 
 myself every name that I knew. 
 
 This caused the young man to sob audibly, 
 partly from emotion and partly from lack of 
 food. 
 
 I took off my hat to him before I showed 
 him out, and we went to a restaurant and I 
 arranged things generally on a financial basis. 
 
 Would that I could let the tale stop here. 
 But I cannot. 
 
 Three days later a man came to see me on 
 business, an objectionable man of uncompro- 
 [310] 
 
"BETRAYAL OF CONFIDENCES" 
 
 mising truth. Just before he departed he said : 
 "D' you know anything about the struggling 
 author of a tragedy called 'The Betrayal of 
 Confidences'?" 
 
 "Yes," said I. "One of the few poor souls 
 who in the teeth of grinding poverty keep 
 alight." 
 
 "At the back of Tarporley Mews," said he. 
 "On eleven shillings a week." 
 
 "On the mischief!" said I. 
 
 "He didn't happen to tell you that he con- 
 sidered you the finest, subtlest, truest, and so 
 forth of all the living so forths, did he?" 
 
 "He may have said something out of the ful- 
 ness of an overladen heart. You know how 
 unbridled is the enthusiasm of " 
 
 "Young gentlemen who buy your books with 
 their last farthing. You didn't soak it all in 
 by any chance, give him a good meal and half 
 a sovereign as well, did you?" 
 
 "I own up," I said. "I did all that and 
 more. But how do you know?" 
 
 "Because he victimised me in the same way 
 a fortnight ago." 
 
 [311] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 "Thank you for that," I said, "but I burned 
 his disgusting manuscripts. And he wept." 
 
 "There, unless he keeps a duplicate, you 
 have scored one." 
 
 But considering the matter impartially, it 
 seems to me that the game is not more than 
 "fifteen all" in any light. 
 
 It makes me blush to think about it. 
 
 [812] 
 
THE NEW DISPENSATION— I* 
 
 LONDON IN A FOG NOVEMBER 
 
 THINGS have happened — but that is 
 neither here nor there. What I urg- 
 ently require is a servant — a nice, fat 
 Mussulman khitmatgar, who is not 
 above doing bearer's work on occasion. Such 
 a man I would go down to Southampton or 
 Tilbury to meet, would usher tenderly into a 
 first-class carriage (I always go third myself) , 
 and wrap in the warmest of flannel. He should 
 be "Jenab" and I- would be "O Turn." When 
 he died, as he assuredly would in this weather, 
 I would bury him in my best back garden and 
 write mortuary verses for publication in the 
 Koh-i-Nur, or whatever vernacular paper he 
 might read. I want, in short, a servant; and 
 this is why I am writing to you. 
 
 ♦"Turnovers," Vol. VIII. 
 
 [813] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 The English, who, by the way, are unmiti- 
 gated barbarians, maintain cotton-print house- 
 maids to do work which is the manifest portion 
 of a man. Besides which, no properly con- 
 structed person cares to see a white woman 
 waiting upon his needs, filling coal-scuttles 
 (these are very mysterious beasts) and tidying 
 rooms. The young homebred Englishman does 
 not object, and one of the most tantalising 
 sights in the world is that of the young man of 
 the house — the son newly introduced to shav- 
 ing-water and great on the subject of main- 
 taining authority — it is tantalising, I say, to 
 see this young cub hectoring a miserable little 
 slavey for not having lighted a fire or put his 
 slippers in their proper place. The next time 
 a big, bold man from the frontier comes home 
 I shall hire him to kick a few young gentlemen 
 of my acquaintance all round their own draw- 
 ing-rooms while I lecture on my theory that 
 this sort of thing accounts for the perceptible 
 lack of chivalry in the modern Englishman. 
 Now, if you or I or anybody else raved over 
 and lectured at Kadir Baksh, or Ram Singh, 
 [314] 
 
THE NEW DISPENSATION— I 
 
 or Jagesa on the necessity of obeying orders 
 and the beauty of reverencing our noble selves, 
 our men would laugh ; or if the lecture struck 
 them as too long-winded would ask us if our 
 livers were out of order and recommend dawai. 
 The housemaid must stand with her eyes on 
 the ground while the young whelp sticks his 
 hands under the tail of his dressing-gown and 
 explains her duty to her. This makes me ill 
 and sick — sick for Kadir Baksh, who rose from 
 the earth when I called him, who knew the 
 sequence of my papers and the ordering of my 
 paltry garments, and, I verily believed, loved 
 me not altogether for the sake of lucre. He 
 said he would come with me to Belait because, 
 "though the sahib says he will never return to 
 India, yet I know, and all the other nauker log 
 know, that return is his fate." 
 
 Being a fool, I left Kadir Baksh behind, 
 and now I am alone with housemaids, who will 
 under no circumstances sleep on the mat out- 
 side the door. Even as I write, one of these 
 persons is cleaning up my room. Kadir Baksh 
 would have done his work without noise. She 
 [315] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 tramps and scuffles; and, what is much worse, 
 snuffles horribly. Kadir Baksh would have 
 saluted me cheerfully and began some sort of 
 a yarn of the "It hath reached me, O Auspi- 
 cious King!" order, and perhaps we should 
 have debated over the worthlessness of Dunni, 
 the saiSj or the chances of a little cold-weather 
 expedition, or the wisdom of retaining a fresh 
 chaprassi — some intimate friend of Kadir 
 Baksh. But now I have no horses and no 
 chaprassiSj and this smutty-faced girl glares 
 at me across the room as though she expected I 
 was going to eat her. 
 
 She must have a soul of her own — a life of 
 her own — and perhaps a few amusements. I 
 can't get at these things. She says: "Ho, 
 yuss," and "Ho, no," and if I hadn't heard 
 her chattering to the lift-boy on the stairs I 
 should think that her education stopped at 
 these two phrases. Now, I knew all about 
 Kadir Baksh, his hopes and his savings — his 
 experiences in the past, and the health of the 
 little ones. He was a man — a human man 
 remarkably like myself, and he knew that as 
 [316] 
 
THE NEW DISPENSATION— I 
 
 well as I. A housemaid is of course not a 
 man, but she might at least be a woman. My 
 wanderings about this amazing heathen city 
 have brought me into contact with very many 
 English mem sahibs who seem to be eaten up 
 with the fear of letting their servants get 
 "above their position," or "presume," or do 
 something which would shake the foundations 
 of the four-mile cab radius. They seem to 
 carry on a sort of cat-and-mouse war when the 
 husband is at office and they have nothing much 
 to do. Later, at places where their friends 
 assemble, they recount the campaign, and the 
 other women purr approvingly and say : "You 
 did quite right, my dear. It is evident that 
 she forgets her place." 
 
 All this is edifying to the stranger, and gives 
 him a great idea of the dignity that has to be 
 bolstered and buttressed, eight hours of the 
 twenty-four, against the incendiary attacks 
 of an eighteen-pound including-beer-money 
 sleeps-in-a-garret-at-the-top-of-the-house serv- 
 ant-girl. There is a fine-crusted, slave-holding 
 instinct in the hearts of a good many deep- 
 [317] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 bosomed matrons — a "throw back" to the times 
 when we trafficked in black ivory. At tea-tables 
 and places where they eat muffins it is called 
 dignity. Now, your Kadir Baksh or my Kadir 
 Baksh, who is a downtrodden and oppressed 
 heathen (the young gentlemen who bullyrag 
 white women assure me that we are in the 
 habit of kicking our dependents and beating 
 them with umbrellas daily), would ask for his 
 chits, and probably say something sarcastic 
 ere he drifted out of the compound gate, if you 
 nagged or worried his noble self. He does not 
 know much about the meaner forms of dig- 
 nity, but he is entirely sound on the subject of 
 izzat; and the fact of his cracking an azure and 
 Oriental jest with you in the privacy of your 
 dressing-room, or seeing you at your inco- 
 herent worst when you have an attack of fever, 
 does not in the least affect his general deport- 
 ment in public, where he knows that the hon- 
 our of his sahib is his own honour, and dons a 
 new kummerbund on the strength of it. 
 
 I have tried to deal with those housemaids 
 in every possible way. To sling a blunt 
 [318] 
 
THE NEW DISPENSATION— I 
 
 "Annie" or "Mary" or "Jane" at a girl whose 
 only fault is that she is a heavy-handed incom- 
 petent, strikes me as rather an insult, seeing 
 that the girl may have a brother, and that if 
 you had a sister who was a servant you would 
 object to her being howled at upstairs and 
 downstairs by her given name. But only ladies' 
 maids are entitled to their surnames. They are 
 not nice people as a caste, and they regard the 
 housemaids as the chamar regards the mehter. 
 Consequently, I have to call these girls by 
 their Christian names, and cock my feet up on 
 a chair when they are cleaning the grate, and 
 pass them in the halls in the morning as 
 though they didn't exist. Now, the morning 
 salutation of your Kadir Baksh or my Kadir 
 is a performance which Turveydrop might 
 envy. These persons don't understand a nod; 
 they think it as bad as a wink, I believe. Re- 
 spect and courtesy are lost upon them, and I 
 suppose I must gather my dressing-gown into 
 a tail and swear at them in the bloodless voice 
 affected by the British female who — have I 
 mentioned this ? — is a highly composite heathen 
 [319] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 when she comes in contact with her sister clay 
 downstairs. 
 
 The softer methods lay one open to harder 
 suspicions. Not long ago there was trouble 
 among my shirts. I fancied buttons grew on 
 neck-bands. Kadir Baksh and the durzie en- 
 couraged me in the belief. When the lead- 
 coloured linen (they cannot wash, hy the way, 
 in this stronghold of infidels) shed its buttons 
 1 cast about for a means of renewal. There 
 was a housemaid, and she was not very ugly, 
 and I thought she could sew. I knew I could 
 not. Therefore I strove to ingratiate myself 
 with her, believing that a little interest, com- 
 bined with a little capital, would fix those but- 
 tons more firmly than anything else. Subse- 
 quently, and after an interval — the buttons 
 were dropping like autumn leaves — I kissed 
 her. The buttons were attached at once. So, 
 unluckily, was the housemaid, for I gathered 
 that she looked forward to a lifetime of shirt- 
 sewing in an official capacity, and my Revenue 
 Board contemplated no additional establish- 
 ment. My shirts are buttonsome, but my char- 
 [320] 
 
THE NEW DISPENSATION— I 
 
 acter is blasted. Oh, I wish I had Kadir 
 Baksh! 
 
 This is only the first instalment of my 
 troubles. The heathen in these parts do not 
 understand me ; so if you ill allow I will come 
 to you for sympathy from time to time. I 
 am a child of calamity. 
 
 [321] 
 
THE NEW DISPENSATION— II 
 
 KITING of Kadir Baksh so 
 
 wrought up my feelings that I 
 could not rest till I had at least 
 made an attempt to get a budii 
 
 of some sort. The black man is essential to 
 my comfort. I fancied I might in this city 
 of barbarism catch a brokendown native 
 strayed from his home and friends, who would 
 be my friend and humble pardner — the sort 
 of man, y' know, who would sleep on a rug 
 somewhere near my chambers (I have forty 
 things to tell you about chambers, but they 
 come later), and generally look after my 
 things. In the intervals of labour I would 
 talk to him in his own tongue, and we would 
 go abroad together and explore London. 
 Do you know the Albert Docks ? The Brit- 
 
 *"Turnovers," Vol. VIII. 
 
 [ 322 ] 
 
THE NEW DISPENSATION— II 
 
 ish-India steamers go thence to the sunshine. 
 They sometimes leave a lascar or two on the 
 wharf, and, in fact, the general tone of the 
 population thereabouts is brown and umber. 
 I was in no case to be particular. Anything 
 dusky would do for me, so long as it could talk 
 Hindustani and sew buttons. I went to the 
 docks and walked about generally among the 
 railway lines and packing-cases, till I found 
 a man selling tooth-combs, which is not a pay- 
 ing trade. He was ragged even to furriness, 
 and very unwashed. But he came from the 
 East. "What are you?" I said, and the look 
 of the missionary that steals over me in mo- 
 ments of agitation deluded that tooth-comb 
 man into answering, "Sar, I am native ki-li- 
 sti-an," but he put five more syllables into the 
 last word. 
 
 There is no Christianity in the docks worth 
 a tooth-comb. "I don't want your beliefs. I 
 want your jot" said I. 
 
 "I am Tamil," said he, "and my name is 
 Ramasawmy." 
 
 It was an awful thing to lower oneself to 
 [323] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 the level of a Colonel of the Madras Army, 
 and come down to being tended by a Rama- 
 sawmy; but beggars cannot be choosers. I 
 pointed out to him that the tooth-comb trade 
 was a thing lightly to be dropped and taken 
 up. He might injure his health by a washing, 
 but he could not much hurt his prospects by 
 coming along with me and trying his hand at 
 bearer's work. "Could he work?" Oh, yes, he 
 didn't mind work. He had been a servant in 
 his time. Several servants, in fact. 
 
 "Could he wash himself?" 
 
 "Ye-es," he might do that if I gave him a 
 coat — a thick coat — afterwards, and especially 
 took care of the tooth-combs, for they were his 
 little all. 
 
 "Had he any character of any kind?'" 
 He thought for a minute and then said 
 cheerfully: "Not a little dam." Thereat I 
 loved him, because a man who can speak the 
 truth in minor matters may be trusted with 
 important things, such as shirts. 
 
 We went home together till we struck a pub- 
 lic bath, mercifully divided into three classes. 
 [824] 
 
THE NEW DISPENSATION — II 
 
 I got him to go into the third without much 
 difficulty. When he came out he was in the 
 way of cleanliness, and before he had time to 
 expostulate I ran him into the second. Into 
 the first he would not go till I had bought him 
 a cheap ulster. He came out almost clean. 
 That cost me three shillings altogether. The 
 ulster was half a sovereign, and some other 
 clothes were thirty shillings. Even these 
 things could not hide from me that he looked 
 an unusually villainous creature. 
 
 At the chambers the trouble began. The 
 people in charge had race prejudices very 
 strongly, and I had to point out that he was a 
 civilised native Christian anxious to improve 
 his English — it was fluent but unchastened — 
 before they would give him some sort of a crib 
 to lie down in. The housemaids called him 
 the Camel. I introduced him as "the Tamil," 
 but they knew nothing of the ethnological sub- 
 divisions of India. They called him "that there 
 beastly camel," and I saw by the light in his 
 eye he understood only too well. 
 
 Coming up the staircase he confided to me 
 [325] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 his views about the housemaids. He had lived 
 at the docks too long. I said they weren't. He 
 said they were. 
 
 Then I showed him his duties, and he stood 
 long in thought before the wardrobe. He evi- 
 dently knew more than a little of the work, but 
 whenever he came to a more than unusually 
 dilapidated garment, he said: "No good for 
 you, J take"; and he took. Then he put all 
 the buttons on in the smoking of a pipe, and 
 asked if there was anything else. I weakly 
 said "No." He said: "Good-bye," and faded 
 out of the house. The housekeeper of the 
 chambers said he would never return. 
 
 But he did. At three in the morning home 
 he came, and, naturally, possessing no latch- 
 key, rang the bell. A policeman interfered, 
 taking him for a burglar, and I was roused by 
 the racket. I explained he was my servant, 
 and the policeman said: "He do swear won- 
 derful. 'Tain't any language. I know most 
 of it, but some I've heard at Poplar." Then 
 I dragged the Camel upstairs. He was quite 
 sober, and said he had been waiting at the 
 [ 326] 
 
THE NEW DISPENSATION— II 
 
 docks. He must wait at the docks every time 
 a British-India steamer came in. A lascar on 
 the Rewah had stabbed him in the side three 
 voyages ago, and he was waiting for his man. 
 "Maybe he have died," he said; "but if he have 
 not died I catch him and cut his liver out." 
 Then he curled himself up on the mat, and 
 slept as noiselessly as a child. 
 
 Next morning he inspected the humble 
 breakfast bloater, which did not meet with his 
 approval, for he instantly cut it in two pieces, 
 fried it with butter, dusted it with pepper, and 
 miraculously made of it a dish fit for a king. 
 When the shock-headed boy came to take away 
 the breakfast things, he counted every piece of 
 crockery into his quaking hand and said: "If 
 you break one dam thing I cut your dam liver 
 out and fly him with butter." Consequently, 
 the housemaids said they were not going to 
 clean the rooms as long as the Camel abode 
 within. The Camel put his head out of the door 
 and said they need not. He cleaned the rooms 
 with his own hand and without noise, filled my 
 pipe, made the bed, filled a pipe for himself, 
 [327 ] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 and sat down on the hearth-rug while I worked. 
 When thought carried him away to the lascar 
 of the Rewahj he would brandish the poker or 
 take out his knife and whet it on the brickwork 
 of the grate. It was a soothing sound to work 
 to. At one o'clock he said that the Chyebassa 
 would be in, and he must go. He demanded 
 no money, saw that my tiffin was served, and 
 fled. He returned at six o'clock singing a 
 hymn. A lascar on the Chyebassa had told 
 him that the Bewah was due in four days, and 
 that his friend was not dead, but ripe for the 
 knife. That night he got very drunk while I 
 was out, and frightened the housemaids. All 
 the chambers were in an uproar, but he crawled 
 out of the skylight on the roof, and sat there 
 till I came home. 
 
 In the dawn he was very penitent. He had 
 misarranged his drink: the original intention 
 being to sleep it off on my hearth-rug, but a 
 housemaid had invited a friend up to the cham- 
 bers to look at him, and the whispered com- 
 ments and giggles made him angry. All next 
 day he was restless but attentive. He urged 
 [328] 
 
THE NEW DISPENSATION— II 
 
 me to fly to foreign shores, and take him with 
 me. When other inducements failed, he re- 
 iterated that he was a "native ki-lis-ti-an," and 
 whetted his knife more furiously than ever. 
 "You do not like this place. I do not like 
 this place. Let us travel dam quick. Let us 
 go on the sea. I cook blotters." I told him 
 this was impossible, but that if he stayed in 
 my service we might later go abroad and enjoy 
 ourselves. 
 
 But he would not rest and sleep on the rug 
 and tend my shirts. On the morning of the 
 Rewah's arrival he went away, and from his 
 absence I fancied he had fallen into the hands 
 of the law. But at midnight he came back, 
 weak and husky. 
 
 "Have got him," said he simply, and 
 dragged his ulster down from the wall, wrap- 
 ping it very tightly round him. "Now I go 
 'way." 
 
 He went into the bedroom, and began count- 
 ing over the tale of the week's wash, the boots, 
 and so forth. "All right," he called into the 
 [329] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 other room. Then came in to say good-bye, 
 walking slowly. 
 
 "What's your name, marshter?" said he. I 
 told him. He bowed and descended the stair- 
 case painfully. I had not paid him a penny, 
 and since he did not ask for it, counted on his 
 returning at least for wages. 
 
 It was not till next morning that I found 
 big dark drops on most of my clean shirts, and 
 the housemaid complained of a trail of blood 
 all down the staircase. 
 
 "The Camel" had received payment in full 
 from other hands than mine. 
 
 [330] 
 
THE LAST OF THE STORIES* 
 
 Wherefore I perceive that there is nothing better than 
 that a man should rejoice in his own works; for that is 
 his portion. 
 
 another man to pull," I replied, which was rude 
 and, when you come to think of it, unnecessary. 
 
 "Happy thought — go to Jehannum!" said 
 a voice at my elbow. I turned and saw, seated 
 on the edge of my bed, a large and luminous 
 Devil. "I'm not afraid," I said. "You're an 
 illusion bred by too much tobacco and not 
 enough sleep. If I look at you steadily for a 
 
 ■Ecc. in, 22. 
 
 ENCH with a long hand, lazy 
 one," I said to the punkah coolie. 
 "But I am tired," said the coolie. 
 "Then go to Jehannum and get 
 
 ♦From "Week's News." Sept. 15, 1888. 
 
 T3311 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 minute you will disappear. You are an ignis 
 fatuus." 
 
 "Fatuous yourself!" answered the Devil 
 blandly. "Do you mean to say you don't know 
 me?" He shrivelled up to the size of a blob 
 of sediment on the end of a pen, and I recog- 
 nised my old friend the Devil of Discontent, 
 who lived in the bottom of the inkpot, but 
 emerges half a day after each story has been 
 printed with a host of useless suggestions for 
 its betterment. 
 
 "Oh, it's you, is it?" I said. "You're not due 
 till next week. Get back to your inkpot." 
 
 "Hush!" said the Devil. "I have an idea." 
 
 "Too late, as usual. I know your ways." 
 
 "No. It's a perfectly practicable one. Your 
 swearing at the coolie suggested it. Did you 
 ever hear of a man called Dante — charmin' 
 fellow, friend o' mine?" 
 
 " 'Dante once prepared to paint a picture,' 
 I quoted. 
 
 "Yes. I inspired that notion — but never 
 mind. Are you willing to play Dante to my 
 Virgil? I can't guarantee a nine-circle Inferno, 
 [332] 
 
THE LAST OF THE STORIES 
 
 any more than you can turn out a cantoed epic, 
 but there's absolutely no risk and — it will run 
 to three columns at least." 
 
 "But what sort of Hell do you own?" I said. 
 "I fancied your operations were mostly above 
 ground. You have no jurisdiction over the 
 dead. 
 
 "Sainted Leopardi!" rapped the Devil, re- 
 suming natural size. "Is that all you know? 
 I'm proprietor of one of the largest Hells in 
 existence — the Limbo of Lost Endeavor, where 
 the souls of all the Characters go." 
 
 "Characters? What Characters?" 
 
 "All the characters that are drawn in books, 
 painted in novels, sketched in magazine arti- 
 cles, thumb-nailed in feuilletons or in any way 
 created by anybodj^ and everybody who has 
 had the fortune or misfortune to put his or her 
 writings into print." 
 
 "That sounds like a quotation from a pros- 
 pectus. What do you herd Characters for? 
 Aren't there enough souls in the Universe?" 
 
 "Who possess souls and who do not? For 
 aught you can prove, man may be soulless and 
 [333] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 the creatures he writes about immortal. Any- 
 how, about a hundred years after printing 
 became an established nuisance, the loose Char- 
 acters used to blow about interplanetary space 
 in legions which interfered with traffic. So 
 they were collected, and their charge became 
 mine by right. Would you care to see them? 
 Your own tire there." 
 
 "That decides me. But is it hotter than 
 Northern India?" 
 
 "On my Devildom, no. Put your arms 
 round my neck and sit tight. I'm going to 
 dive!" 
 
 He plunged from the bed headfirst into the 
 floor. There was a smell of j&il-durrie and 
 damp earth; and then fell the black darkness 
 of night. 
 
 ****** 
 We stood before a door in a topless wall, 
 from the further side of which came faintly 
 the roar of infernal fires. 
 
 "But you said there was no danger!" I cried 
 in an extremity of terror. 
 
 "No more there is," said the Devil. "That's 
 [334] 
 
THE LAST OF THE STORIES 
 
 only the Furnace of First Edition. Will you 
 go on? No other human being has set foot 
 here in the flesh. Let me bring the door to 
 your notice. Pretty design, isn't it? A joke 
 of the Master's." 
 
 I shuddered, for the door was nothing more 
 than a coffin, the backboard knocked out, set 
 on end in the thickness of the wall. As I hesi- 
 tated, the silence of space was cut by a sharp, 
 shrill whistle, like that of a live shell, which 
 rapidly grew louder and louder. "Get away 
 from the door," said the Devil of Discontent 
 quickly. "Here's a soul coming to its place." 
 I took refuge under the broad vans of the 
 Devil's wings. The whistle rose to an ear- 
 splitting shriek and a naked soul flashed past 
 me. 
 
 "Always the same," said the Devil quietly. 
 "These little writers are so anxious to reach 
 their reward. H'm, I don't think he likes 
 his'n, though." A yell of despair reached my 
 ears and I shuddered afresh. "Who was he?" 
 I asked. "Hack-writer for a pornographic 
 firm in Belgium, exporting to London, you'll 
 [335 ] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 understand presently — and now we'll go in," 
 said the Devil. "I must apologise for that 
 creature's rudeness. He should have stopped 
 at the distance-signal for line-clear. You can 
 hear the souls whistling there now." 
 
 "Are they the souls of men?" I whispered. 
 
 "Yes — writer-men. That's why they are so 
 shrill and querulous. Welcome to the Limbo 
 of Lost Endeavour!" 
 
 They passed into a domed hall, more vast 
 than visions could embrace, crowded to its limit 
 by men, women and children. Round the eye 
 of the dome ran, a flickering fire, that terrible 
 quotation from Job: "Oh, that mine enemy 
 had written a book!" 
 
 "Neat, isn't it?" said the Devil, following 
 my glance. "Another joke of the Master's. 
 Man of USj y' know. In the old days we used 
 to put the Characters into a disused circle of 
 Dante's Inferno, but they grew overcrowded. 
 So Balzac and Theophile Gautier were com- 
 missioned to write up this building. It took 
 them three years to complete, and is one of 
 the finest under earth. Don't attempt to de- 
 [336] 
 
THE LAST OF THE STORIES 
 
 scribe it unless you are quite sure you are 
 equal to Balzac and Gautier in collaboration. 
 'Look at the crowds and tell me what you 
 think of them." 
 
 I looked long and earnestly, and saw that 
 many of the multitude were cripples. They 
 walked on their heels or their toes, or with a 
 list to the right or left. A few of them pos- 
 sessed odd eyes and parti-coloured hair; more 
 threw themselves into absurd and impossible 
 attitudes; and every fourth woman seemed to 
 be weeping. 
 
 "Who are these?" I said. 
 
 "Mainly the population of three-volume 
 novels that never reach the six-shilling stage. 
 See that beautiful girl with one grey eye and 
 one brown, and the black and yellow hair? Let 
 her be an awful warning to you how you cor- 
 rect your proofs. She was created by a care- 
 less writer a month ago, and he changed all 
 colours in the second volume. So she came 
 here as you see her. There will be trouble 
 when she meets her author. He can't alter 
 her now, and she says she'll accept no apology." 
 [337] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 "But when will she meet her author?" 
 
 "Not in my department. Do you notice a 
 general air of expectancy among all the Char- 
 acters? They are waiting for their authors. 
 Look! That explains the system better than I 
 can." 
 
 A lovely maiden, at whose feet I would wil- 
 lingly have fallen and worshipped, detached 
 herself from the crowd and hastened to the 
 door through which I had just come. There 
 was a prolonged whistle without, a soul dashed 
 through the coffin and fell upon her neck. The 
 girl with the parti-coloured hair eyed the 
 couple enviously as they departed arm in arm 
 to the other side of the hall. 
 
 "That man," said the Devil, "wrote one 
 magazine story, of twenty-four pages, ten 
 years ago when he was desperately in love with 
 a flesh and blood woman. He put all his 
 heart into the work, and created the girl you 
 have just seen. The flesh and blood woman 
 married some one else and died — it's a way 
 they have — but the man has this girl for his 
 [338] 
 
THE LAST OF THE STORIES 
 
 very own, and she will everlastingly grow 
 sweeter." 
 
 "Then the Characters are independent?" 
 
 "Slightly! Have you never known one of 
 your Characters — even yours — get beyond con- 
 trol as soon as they are made?" 
 
 "That's true. Where are those two happy 
 creatures going?" 
 
 "To the Levels. You've heard of authors 
 finding their levels? We keep all the Levels 
 here. As each writer enters, he picks up his 
 Characters, or they pick him up, as the case 
 may be, and to the Levels he goes." 
 
 "I should like to see " 
 
 "So you shall, when you come through that 
 door a second time — whistling. I can't take 
 you there now." 
 
 "Do you keep only the Characters of living 
 scribblers in this hall?" 
 
 "We should be crowded out if we didn't 
 draft them off somehow. Step this way and 
 I'll take you to the Master. One moment, 
 though. There's John Ridd with Lorna 
 Doone, and there are Mr. Maliphant and the 
 [339] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 Bormalacks — clannish folk, those Besant 
 Characters — don't let the twins talk to you 
 about Literature and Art. Come along. 
 What's here?" 
 
 The white face of Mr. John Oakhurst, gam- 
 bler, broke through the press. "I wish to ex- 
 plain," said he in a level voice, "that had I been 
 consulted I should never have blown out my 
 brains with the Duchess and all that Poker 
 Flat lot. I wish to add that the only woman 
 I ever loved was the wife of Brown of Cala- 
 veras." He pressed his hand behind him sug- 
 gestively. "All right, Mr. Oakhurst," I said 
 hastily; "I believe you." "Kin you set it 
 right?" he asked, dropping into the Doric of 
 the Gulches. I caught a trigger's cloth-muffled 
 click. "Just heavens!" I groaned. "Must I 
 be shot for the sake of another man's Char- 
 acters?" Oakhurst levelled his revolver at my 
 head, but the weapon was struck up by the 
 hand of Yuba Bill. "You durned fool!" said 
 the stage-driver. "Hevn't I told you no one 
 but a blamed idiot shoots at sight now? Let 
 the galoot go. You kin see by his eyes he's 
 [340] 
 
THE LAST OF THE STORIES 
 
 no party to your matrimonial arrangements." 
 Oakhurst retired with an irreproachable bow, 
 but in my haste to escape I fell over Caliban, 
 his head in a melon and his tame ore under his 
 arm. He spat like a wildcat. 
 
 "Maimers none, customs beastly," said the 
 Devil. "We'll take the Bishop with us. They 
 all respect the Bishop." And the great Bishop 
 Blougram joined us, calm and smiling, with 
 the news, for my private ear, that Mr. Giga- 
 dibs despised him no longer. 
 
 We were arrested by a knot of semi -nude 
 Bacchantes kissing a clergyman. The Bishop's 
 eyes twinkled, and I turned to the Devil for 
 explanation. 
 
 "That's Robert Elsmere — what's left of 
 him," said the Devil. "Those are French 
 feuilleton women and scourings of the Opera 
 Comique. He has been lecturing 'em, and they 
 don't like it." "He lectured ?ne!" said the 
 Bishop with a bland smile. "He has been a 
 nuisance ever since he came here. By the Holy 
 Law of Proportion, he had the audacity to talk 
 to the Master! Called him a 'pot-bellied bar- 
 [341] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 barian'I That is why he is walking so stif- 
 fly now," said the Devil. "Listen! Marie 
 Pigeonnier is swearing deathless love to him. 
 On my word, we ought to segregate the French 
 characters entirely. By the way, your regi- 
 ment came in very handy for Zola's importa- 
 tions." 
 
 "My regiment?" I said. "How do you 
 mean?" 
 
 "You wrote something about the Tyneside 
 Tail-Twisters, just enough to give the outline 
 of the regiment, and of course it came down 
 here — one thousand and eighty strong. I told 
 it off in hollow squares to pen up the Rougon- 
 Macquart series. There they are." I looked 
 and saw the Tyneside Tail-Twisters ringing an 
 inferno of struggling, shouting, blaspheming 
 men and women in the costumes of the Second 
 Empire. Now and again the shadowy ranks 
 brought down their butts on the toes of the 
 crowd inside the square, and shrieks of pain 
 followed. "You should have indicated your 
 men more clearly; they are hardly up to their 
 work," said the Devil. "If the Zola tribe in- 
 [342] 
 
THE LAST OF THE STORIES 
 
 crease, I'm afraid I shall have to use up your 
 two companies of the Black Tyrone and two 
 of the Old Regiment." 
 
 "I am proud " I began. 
 
 "Go slow," said the Devil. "You won't be 
 half so proud in a little while, and I don't think 
 much of your regiments, anyway. But they 
 are good enough to fight the French. Can you 
 hear Coupeau raving in the left angle of the 
 square? He used to run about the hall seeing 
 pink snakes, till the children's story-book 
 Characters protested. Come along!" 
 
 Never since Caxton pulled his first proof 
 and made for the world a new and most terrible 
 God of Labour had mortal man such an ex- 
 perience as mine when I followed the Devil of 
 Discontent through the shifting crowds below 
 the motto of the Dome. A few — a very few — 
 of the faces were of old friends, but there were 
 thousands whom I did not recognise. Men in 
 every conceivable attire and of every possible 
 nationality, deformed by intention, or the im- 
 potence of creation that could not create — 
 blind, unclean, heroic, mad, sinking under the 
 [343] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 weight of remorse, or with eyes made splendid 
 by the light of love and fixed endeavour ; wom- 
 en fashioned in ignorance and mourning the 
 errors of their creator, life and thought at vari- 
 ance with body and soul; perfect women such 
 as walk rarely upon this earth, and horrors 
 that were women only because they had not 
 sufficient self-control to be fiends; little chil- 
 dren, fair as the morning, who put their hands 
 into mine and made most innocent confidences ; 
 loathsome, lank-haired infant-saints, curious as 
 to the welfare of my soul, and delightfully mis- 
 chievous boys, generalled by the irrepressible 
 Tom Sawyer, who played among murderers, 
 harlots, professional beauties, nuns, Italian 
 bandits and politicians of state. 
 
 The ordered peace of Arthur's Court was 
 broken up by the incursions of Mr. John Wel- 
 lington Wells, and Dagonet, the jester, found 
 that his antics drew no attention so long as 
 the "dealer in magic and spells," taking Tris- 
 tram's harp, sang patter-songs to the Round 
 Table; while a Zulu Impi, headed by Allan 
 Quatermain, wheeled and shouted in sham 
 [344] 
 
THE LAST OF THE STORIES 
 
 fight for the pleasure of Little Lord Fauntle- 
 roy. Every century and every type was 
 jumbled in the confusion of one colossal fancy- 
 ball where all the characters were living their 
 parts. 
 
 "Aye, look long," said the Devil. "You will 
 never be able to describe it, and the next time 
 you come you won't have the chance. Look 
 long, and look at" — Good's passing with a 
 maiden of the Zu-Vendi must have suggested 
 the idea — "look at their legs." I looked, and 
 for the second time noticed the lameness that 
 seemed to be almost universal in the Limbo of 
 Lost Endeavour. Brave men and stalwart 
 to all appearance had one leg shorter than the 
 other; some paced a few inches above the floor, 
 never touching it, and others found the great- 
 est difficulty in preserving their feet at all. 
 The stiffness and laboured gait of these thou- 
 sands was pitiful to witness. I was sorry for 
 them. I told the Devil as much. 
 
 "H'm," said he reflectively, "that's the 
 world's work. Rather cockeye, ain't it? They 
 do everything but stand on their feet. You 
 [345] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 could improve them, I suppose?" There was 
 an unpleasant sneer in his tone, and I has- 
 tened to change the subject. 
 
 "I'm tired of walking," I said. "I want to 
 see some of my own Characters, and go on to 
 the Master, whoever he may be, afterwards." 
 
 "Reflect," said the Devil. "Are you certain 
 — do you know how many they be?" 
 
 "No — but I want to see them. That's what 
 I came for." 
 
 "Very well. Don't abuse me if you don't 
 like the view. There are one-and-fifty of your 
 make up to date, and — it's rather an appalling 
 thing to be confronted with fifty-one children. 
 However, here's a special favourite of yours. 
 Go and shake hands with her!" 
 
 A limp- jointed, staring-eyed doll was hirp- 
 ling towards me with a strained smile of recog- 
 nition. I felt that I knew her only too well — 
 if indeed she were she. "Keep her off, Devil!" 
 I cried, stepping back. "I never made thatf 
 " 'She began to weep and she began to cry, 
 Lord ha' mercy on me, this is none of I!' 
 You're very rude to — Mrs. Hauksbee, and she 
 [ 346 ] 
 
THE LAST OF THE STORIES 
 
 wants to speak to you," said the Devil. My 
 face must have betrayed my dismay, for the 
 Devil went on soothingly: "That's as she i8j 
 remember. I knciv you wouldn't like it. Now 
 what will you give if I make her as she ought 
 to be? No, I don't want your soul, thanks. 
 I have it already, and many others of better 
 quality. Will you, when you write your story, 
 own that I am the best and greatest of all the 
 Devils?" The doll was creeping nearer. 
 "Yes," I said hurriedly. "Anything you like. 
 Only I can't stand her in that state." 
 
 "You'll have to when you come next again. 
 Look! No connection with Jekyll and Hyde!" 
 The Devil pointed a lean and inky finger to- 
 wards the doll, and lo! radiant, bewitching, 
 with a smile of dainty malice, her high heels 
 clicking on the floor like castanets, advanced 
 Mrs. Hauksbee as I had imagined her in the 
 beginning. 
 
 "Ah!" she said. "You are here so soon? 
 Not dead yet? That will come. Meantime, a 
 thousand congratulations. And now, what do 
 you think of me?" She put her hands on her 
 [347] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 hips, revealed a glimpse of the smallest foot 
 in Simla and hummed: " 'Just look at that — 
 just look at this! And then you'll see I'm not 
 amiss.' " 
 
 "She'll use exactly the same words when you 
 meet her next time," said the Devil warningly. 
 "You dowered her with any amount of vanity, 
 
 if you left out Excuse me a minute! I'll 
 
 fetch up the rest of your menagerie." But I 
 was looking at Mrs. Hauksbee. 
 
 "Well?" she said. "Am I what you ex- 
 pected?" I forgot the Devil and all his works, 
 forgot that this was not the woman I had 
 made, and could only murmur rapturously: 
 "By Jove! You are a beauty." Then, in- 
 cautiously: "And you stand on your feet." 
 "Good heavens!" said Mrs. Hauksbee. 
 "Would you, at my time of life, have me stand 
 on my head?" She folded her arms and 
 looked me up and down. I was grinning im- 
 becilely — the woman was so alive. "Talk," I 
 said absently; "I want to hear you talk." "I 
 am not used to being spoken to like a coolie," 
 she replied. "Never mind," I said, "that may 
 [348] 
 
THE LAST OF THE STORIES 
 
 be for outsiders, but I made you and I've a 
 ri ght " 
 
 "You have a right? You made me? My 
 dear sir, if I didn't know that we should bore 
 each other so inextinguishably hereafter I 
 should read you an hour's lecture this instant. 
 You made me! I suppose you will have the 
 audacity to pretend that you understand me— 
 that you ever understood me. Oh, man, man — 
 foolish man! If you only knew!" 
 
 "Is that the person who thinks he under- 
 stands us, Loo?" drawled a voice at her elbow. 
 The Devil had returned with a cloud of wit- 
 nesses, and it was Mrs. Mallowe who was 
 speaking. 
 
 "I've touched 'em all up," said the Devil in 
 an aside. "You couldn't stand 'em raw. But 
 don't run away with the notion that they are 
 your work. I show you what they ought to 
 be. You must find out for yourself how to 
 make 'em so." 
 
 "Am I allowed to remodel the batch — up 
 above?" I asked anxiously. 
 
 "Litera scripta manet. That's in the Delec- 
 [349] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 tus and Eternity." He turned round to the 
 semi-circle of Characters: "Ladies and gen- 
 tlemen, who are all a great deal better than you 
 should be by virtue of my power, let me in- 
 troduce you to your maker. If you have any- 
 thing to say to him, you can say it." 
 
 "What insolence!" said Mrs. Hauksbee be- 
 tween her teeth. "This isn't a Peterhoff draw- 
 ing-room. I haven't the slightest intention of 
 being leveed by this person. Polly, come here 
 and we'll watch the animals go by." She and 
 Mrs. Mallowe stood at my side. I turned 
 crimson with shame, for it is an awful thing to 
 see one's Characters in the solid. 
 
 "Wal," said Gilead P. Beck as he passed, 
 "I would not be you at this pre-c\se moment of 
 time, not for all the ile in the univarsal airth. 
 No, sirr! I thought my dinner-party was soul- 
 shatterin', but it's mush — mush and milk — to 
 your circus. Let the good work go on!" 
 
 I turned to the company and saw that they 
 were men and women, standing upon their feet 
 as folks should stand. Again I forgot the 
 Devil, who stood apart and sneered. From the 
 [350] 
 
THE LAST OF THE STORIES 
 
 distant door of entry I could hear the whistle 
 of arriving souls, from the semi-darkness at 
 the end of the hall came the thunderous roar of 
 the Furnace of First Edition, and everywhere 
 the restless crowds of Characters muttered and 
 rustled like windblown autumn leaves. But I 
 looked upon my own people and was perfectly 
 content as man could be. 
 
 "I have seen you study a new dress with 
 just such an expression of idiotic beatitude," 
 whispered Mrs. Mallowe to Mrs. Hauksbee. 
 "Hush!" said the latter. "He thinks he un- 
 derstands." Then to me: "Please trot them 
 out. Eternity is long enough in all conscience, 
 but that is no reason for wasting it. Pro-ceed, 
 or shall I call them up? Mrs. Vansuythen, 
 Mr. Boult, Mrs. Boult, Captain Kurrel and 
 the Major!" The European population in 
 Kashima in the Dosehri hills, the actors in the 
 Wayside Comedy, moved towards me; and I 
 saw with delight that they were human. "So 
 you wrote about us?" said Mrs. Boult. "About 
 my confession to my husband and my hatred 
 of that Vansuythen woman? Did you think 
 [351] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 that you understood ? Are all men such fools ?" 
 "That woman is bad form," said Mrs. Hauks- 
 bee, "but she speaks the truth. I wonder what 
 these soldiers have to say." Gunner Barnabas 
 and Private Shacklock stopped, saluted, and 
 hoped I would take no offence if they gave it 
 as their opinion that I had not "got them 
 down quite right." I gasped. 
 
 A spurred Hussar succeeded, his wife on 
 his arm. It was Captain Gadsby and Minnie, 
 and close behind them swaggered Jack Maf- 
 flin, the Brigadier-General in his arms. "Had 
 the cheek to try to describe our life, had you?" 
 said Gadsby carelessly. "Ha-hmm! S'pose 
 he understood, Minnie?" Mrs. Gadsby raised 
 her face to her husband and murmured: "I'm 
 sure he didn't, Pip," while Poor Dear Mamma, 
 still in her riding-habit, hissed: "I'm sure he 
 didn't understand me" And these also went 
 their way. 
 
 One after another they filed by — Trewin- 
 nard, the pet of his Department; Otis Yeere, 
 lean and lanthorn- jawed; Crook O'Neil and 
 Bobby Wick arm in arm; Janki Meah, the 
 [352] 
 
THE LAST OF THE STORIES 
 
 blind miner in the Jimahari coal fields; Afzul 
 Khan, the policeman; the murderous Pathan 
 horse-dealer, Durga Dass; the bunnia, Boh 
 Da Thone; the dacoit, Dana Da, weaver of 
 false magic; the Leander of the Barhwi ford; 
 Peg Barney, drunk as a coot; Mrs. Delville, 
 the dowd; Dinah Shadd, large, red-cheeked 
 and resolute; Simmons, Slane and Losson; 
 Georgie Porgie and his Burmese helpmate; a 
 shadow in a high collar, who was all that I had 
 ever indicated of the Hawley Boy — the name- 
 less men and women who had trod the Hill of 
 Illusion and lived in the Tents of Kedar, and 
 last, His Majesty the King. 
 
 Each one in passing told me the same tale, 
 and the burden thereof was: "You did not 
 understand." My heart turned sick within me. 
 "Where's Wee Willie Winkie?" I shouted. 
 "Little children don't lie." 
 
 A clatter of pony's feet followed, and the 
 child appeared, habited as on the day he rode 
 into Afghan territory to warn Coppy's love 
 against the "bad men." "I've been playing," 
 he sobbed, "playing on ve Levels wiv Jacka- 
 [353] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 napes and Lollo, an' he says I'm only just 
 borrowed. I'm isn't borrowed. I'm Willie 
 Wi-inkie! Vere's Coppy?" 
 
 " 'Out of the mouths of babes and suck- 
 lings/ " whispered the Devil, who had drawn 
 nearer. "You know the rest of the proverb. 
 Don't look as if you were going to be shot in 
 the morning! Here are the last of your gang." 
 
 I turned despairingly to the Three Muske- 
 teers, dearest of all my children to me — to 
 Privates Mulvaney, Ortheris and Learoyd. 
 Surely the Three would not turn against me 
 as the others had done! I shook hands with 
 Mulvaney. "Terence, how goes? Are you 
 going to make fun of me, too?" " 'Tis not for 
 me to make fun av you, sorr," said the Irish- 
 man, "knowin' as I du know, fwat good friends 
 we've been for the matter av three years." 
 
 "Fower," said Ortheris, " 'twas in the Helan- 
 thami barricks, H block, we was become ac- 
 quaint, an' 'ere's thankin' you kindly for all 
 the beer we've drunk twix' that and now." 
 
 "Four ut is, then," said Mulvaney. "He an' 
 [354] 
 
THE LAST OF THE STORIES 
 
 Dinah Shadd are your friends, but " He 
 
 stood uneasily. 
 
 "But what?" I said. 
 
 ' 'Savin' your presence, sorr, an' it's more 
 than onwillin' I am to be hurtin' you; you did 
 not ondersthand. On my sowl an' honour, 
 sorr, you did not ondersthand. Come along, 
 you two." 
 
 But Ortheris stayed for a moment to whis- 
 per: "It's Gawd's own trewth, but there's 
 this 'ere to think. 'Tain't the bloomin' belt 
 that's wrong, as Peg Barney sez, when he's 
 up for bein' dirty on p'rade. 'Tain't the bloom- 
 in' belt, sir; it's the bloomin' pipeclay." Ere 
 I could seek an explanation he had joined his 
 companions. 
 
 "For a private soldier, a singularly shrewd 
 man," said Mrs. Hauksbee, and she repeated 
 Ortheris's words. The last drop filled my 
 cup, and I am ashamed to say that I bade her 
 be quiet in a wholly unjustifiable tone. I was 
 rewarded by what would have been a notable 
 lecture on propriety, had I not said to the 
 Devil: "Change that woman to a d — d doll 
 [355] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 again! Change 'em all back as they were — 
 as they are. I'm sick of them." 
 
 "Poor wretch!" said the Devil of Discon- 
 tent very quietly. "They are changed." 
 
 The reproof died on Mrs. Hauksbee's lips, 
 and she moved away marionette-fashion, Mrs. 
 Mallowe trailing after her. I hastened after 
 the remainder of the Characters, and they were 
 changed indeed — even as the Devil had said, 
 who kept at my side. 
 
 They limped and stuttered and staggered 
 and mouthed and staggered round me, till I 
 could endure no more. 
 
 "So I am the master of this idiotic puppet- 
 show, am I?" I said bitterly, watching Mul- 
 vaney trying to come to attention by spasms. 
 
 "In saecula saeculorum" said the Devil, 
 bowing his head; "and you needn't kick, my 
 dear fellow, because they will concern no one 
 but yourself by the time you whistle up to the 
 door. Stop reviling me and uncover. Here's 
 the Master!" 
 
 Uncover! I would have dropped on my 
 knees, had not the Devil prevented me, at sight 
 [356] 
 
THE LAST OF THE STORIES 
 
 of the portly form of Maitre Francois Rabe- 
 lais, some time Cure of Meudon. He wore a 
 smoke-stained apron of the colours of Gargan- 
 tua. I made a sign which was duly returned. 
 "An Entered Apprentice in difficulties with 
 his rough ashlar, Worshipful Sir," explained 
 the Devil. I was too angry to speak. 
 
 Said the Master, rubbing his chin: "Are 
 those things yours?" "Even so, Worshipful 
 Sir," I muttered, praying inwardly that the 
 Characters would at least keep quiet while the 
 Master was near. He touched one or two 
 thoughtfully, put his hand upon my shoulder 
 and started: "By the Great Bells of Notre 
 Dame, you are in the flesh — the warm flesh ! — 
 the flesh I quitted so long — ah, so long! And 
 you fret and behave unseemly because of these 
 shadows! Listen now! I, even I, would give 
 my Three, Panurge, Gargantua and Panta- 
 gruel, for one little hour of the life that is in 
 you. And I am the Master!" 
 
 But the words gave me no comfort. I could 
 hear Mrs. Mallowe's joints cracking — or it 
 might have been merely her stays. 
 
 [ 357 ] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 "Worshipful Sir, he will not believe that," 
 said the Devil. "Who live by shadows lust 
 for shadows. Tell him something more to 
 his need." 
 
 The Master grunted contemptuously : "And 
 he is flesh and blood! Know this, then. The 
 First Law is to make them stand upon their 
 feet, and the Second is to make them stand 
 upon their feet, and the Third is to make them 
 stand upon their feet. But, for all that, Trajan 
 is a fisher of frogs." He passed on, and I 
 could hear him say to himself: "One hour — 
 one minute — of life in the flesh, and I would 
 sell the Great Perhaps thrice over!" 
 
 "Well," said the Devil, "you've made the 
 Master angry, seen about all there is to be 
 seen, except the Furnace of First Edition, and, 
 as the Master is in charge of that, I should 
 avoid it. Now you'd better go. You know 
 what you ought to do?" 
 
 "I don't need all Hell " 
 
 "Pardon me. Better men than you have 
 called this Paradise." 
 
 "All Hell, I said, and the Master to tell me 
 [358] 
 
THE LAST OF THE STORIES 
 
 what I knew before. What I want to know is 
 how?" "Go and find out," said the Devil. We 
 turned to the door, and I was aware that my 
 Characters had grouped themselves at the exit. 
 "They are going to give you an ovation. Think 
 o' that, now!" said the Devil. I shuddered and 
 dropped my eyes, while one-and-fifty voices 
 broke into a wailing song, whereof the words, 
 so far as I recollect, ran: 
 
 But we brought forth and reared in hours 
 
 Of change, alarm, surprise. 
 What shelter to grow ripe is ours — 
 
 What leisure to grow wise? 
 
 I ran the gauntlet, narrowly missed collision 
 with an impetuous soul (I hoped he liked his 
 Characters when he met them) , and flung free 
 into the night, where I should have knocked 
 my head against the stars. But the Devil 
 caught me. 
 
 ****** 
 
 The brain-fever bird was fluting across the 
 grey, dewy lawn, and the punkah had stopped 
 [359] 
 
ABAFT THE FUNNEL 
 
 again. "Go to Jehannum and get another man 
 to pull," I said drowsily. "Exactly," said a 
 voice from the inkpot. 
 
 Now the proof that this story is absolutely 
 true lies in the fact that there will be no other 
 to follow it. 
 
 THE END 
 
 [360] 
 
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