YALE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 1950 KIPLING BOY STORIES Page 165 "Ye shoot like a soldierKamal said. "Show now if ye can ride" RAN ALLY SERIES KIPLING BOY STORIES With Illustrations by J. ALLEN ST. JOHN RAND McNALLY & COMPANY CHICAGO Illustrations Copyright, 1916, By Rand McNally & Company ? 0 i room for His Majesty the King either in official reserve or mundane gorgeousness. He had discovered that, ages and ages ago—be¬ fore even Chimo came to the house, or Miss Bid- dums had ceased grizzling over a packet of greasy letters which appeared to be her chief treasure on earth. His Majesty the King, therefore, wisely confined himself to his own territories, where only Miss Biddums, and she feebly, disputed his sway. From Miss Biddums he had picked up his sim¬ ple theology and welded it to the legends of gods and devils that he had learned in the servants' quarters. To Miss Biddums he confided with equal trust his tattered garments and his more serious griefs. She would make everything whole. She knew exactly how the earth had been born, and had reassured the trembling soul of His Majesty the King of that terrible time in July when it rained continuously for seven days and seven nights, and —there was no Ark ready and all the ravens had 8 KIPLING BOY STORIES. flown away! She was the most powerful person with whom he was brought into contact—always excepting the two remote and silent people be¬ yond the nursery door. How was His Majesty the King to know that, six years ago, in the summer of his birth, Mrs. Austell, turning over her husband's papers, had come upon the intemperate letter of a foolish wo¬ man who had been carried away by the silent man's strength and personal beauty? How could he tell what evil the overlooked slip of note-paper had wrought in the mind of a desperately jealous wife? How could he, despite his wisdom, guess that his mother had chosen to make of it excuse for a bar and a division between herself and her husband that strengthened and grew harder to break with each year; that she, having unearthed this skeleton in the cupboard, had trained it into a household god which should be about their path and poison all their ways? These things were beyond the province of His Majesty the King. He only knew that his father was daily absorbed in some mysterious work for a thing called the Sirkar, and that his mother was the victim alternately of the Nautch and the Bur- HIS MAJESTY THE KING. 9 rakhana. To these entertainments she was es¬ corted by a captain-man for whom His Majesty the King had no regard. "He doesn't laugh," he argued with Miss Bid- dums, who would fain have taught him charity. "He only makes faces wiv his mouf, and when he wants to o-muse me, I am not o-mused." And His Majesty the King shook his head as one who knew the deceitfulness of the world. Morning and evening it was his duty to sa¬ lute his father and mother—the former with a grave shake of the hand, and the latter with an equally grave kiss. Once, indeed, he had put his arms round his mother's neck, in the fashion he used toward Miss Biddums. The openwork of his sleeve-edge caught in an earring, and the last stage of His Majesty's little overture was a sup¬ pressed scream and summary dismissal to the nursery. "It is w'ong," thought His Majesty the King, "to hug Memsahibs wiv fings in veir ears. I will amember." He never repeated the experiment. Miss Biddums, it must be confessed, spoiled him as much as his nature admitted, in some sort of recompense for what she called "the hard ways IO KIPLING BOY STORIES. of papa and mamma." She, like her charge, knew nothing of the trouble between man and wife—the savage contempt for a woman's stu¬ pidity on the one side, or the dull, rankling anger on the other. Miss Biddums had looked after many little children in her time, and served in many establishments. Being a discreet woman, she observed little and said less, and when her pu¬ pils went over the sea to the Great Unknown, which she, with touching confidence in her hear¬ ers, called "Home," packed up her slender be¬ longings and sought for employment afresh, lav¬ ishing all her love on each successive batch of in- grates. Only His Majesty the King had repaid her affection with interest; and in his uncompre¬ hending ears she had told the tale of nearly all her hopes, her aspirations, the hopes that were dead, and the dazzling glories of her ancestral home in "Calcutta., close to Wellington Square." Everything above the average was, in the eyes of His Majesty the King, "Calcutta good." When Miss Biddums had crossed his royal will, he re¬ versed the epithet to vex that estimable lady, and all things evil were, until the tears of repentance swept away spite, "Calcutta bad." HIS MAJESTY THE KING. II Now and again Miss Biddums begged for him the rare pleasure of a day in the society of the commissioner's child—the willful four-year-old Patsie, who, to the intense amazement of His Majesty the King, was idolized by her parents. On thinking the question out at length, by roads unknown to those who have left childhood behind, he came to the conclusion that Patsie was petted because she wore a big blue sash and yellow hair. This precious discovery he kept to himself. The yellow hair was absolutely beyond his power, his own tousled wig being potato-brown; but some¬ thing might be done toward the blue sash. He tied a large knot in his mosquito-curtains in order to remember to consult Patsie on their next meet¬ ing. She was the only child he had ever spoken to, and almost the only one that he had ever seen. The little memory and the very large and ragged knot held good. "Patsie, lend me your blue wibbon," said His Majesty the King. "You'll bewy it," said Patsie, doubtfully, mind¬ ful of certain fearful atrocities committed on her doll. 12 KIPLING BOY STORIES. "No, I won't—twoofanhonor. It's for me to wear." "Pooh!" said Patsie. "Boys don't wear sashes. Zey's only for dirls." "I didn't know." The face of His Majesty the King fell. "Who wants ribbons? Are you playing horses, chicka-biddies?" said the commissioners wife, stepping into the veranda. "Toby wanted my sash," explained Patsie. "I don't now," said His Majesty the King, hastily, feeling that with one of these terrible "grown-ups" his poor little secret would be shame¬ lessly wrenched from him, and perhaps—most burning desecration of all—laughed at. "I'll give you a cracker-cap," said the com¬ missioner's wife. "Come along with me, Toby, and we'll choose it." The cracker-cap was a stiff, tluee-pointed, ver- milion-and-tinsel splendor. His Majesty the King fitted it on his royal brow. The commissioner's wife had a face that children instinctively trusted, and her action, as she adjusted the toppling mid¬ dle spike, was tender. HIS MAJESTY THE KING. 13 "Will it do as well?" stammered His Majesty the King. "As what, little one?" "As ve wibbon?'" "Oh, quite. Go and look at yourself in the glass." The words were spoken in all sincerity and to help forward any absurd "dressing-up" amuse¬ ment that the children might take into their minds. But the young savage has a keen sense of the ludicrous. His Majesty the King swung the great cheval-glass down, and saw his head crowned with the staring horror of a fool's cap— a thing which his father would rend to pieces if it ever came into his office. He plucked it off, and burst into tears. "Toby," said the commissioner's wife, gravely, "you shouldn't give way to temper. I am very sorry to see it. It's wrong." His Majesty the King sobbed inconsolably, and the heart of Patsie's mother was touched. She drew the child on to her knee. Clearly it was not temper alone. "What is it, Toby ? Won't you tell me? Aren't you well ?" 2 14 KIPLING BOY STORIES. The torrent of sobs and speech met, and fought for a time, with chokings and gulpings and gasps, Then, in a sudden rush, His Majesty the King was delivered of a few inarticulate sounds, fol¬ lowed by the words: "Go a—way, you—dirty— little debbil!" "Toby! What do you mean?" "It's what he'd say. I know it is! He sait vat when vere was only a little, little eggy mess on my t-t-unic; and he'd say it again, and laugh, if I went in wif vat on my head." "Who would say that?" "M-m-my papa! And I fought if I had ve blue wibbon, he'd let me play in ve waste-paper basket under ve table." "What blue ribbon, childie?" "Ve same vat Patsie had—ve big blue wibbon w-w-wound my t-t-tummy!" "What is it, Toby ? There's something on your mind. Tell me all about it, and perhaps I can help." Isn t anyfing," sniffed His Majesty, mindful of his manhood, and raising his head from the motherly bosom upon which it was resting. "I only fought vat you—you petted Patsie 'cause she HIS MAJESTY THE KING. 15 had ve blue wibbon, and—and if I'd had ve blue wibbon, too, m-my papa w-would pet me." The secret was out, and His Majesty the King sobbed bitterly in spite of the arms round him, and the murmur of comfort on his heated little forehead. Enter Patsie tumultuously, embarrassed by sev¬ eral lengths of the commissioner's pet mahseer- rod. "Turn along, Toby! Zere's a chu-chu lizard in ze chick, and I've told Chimo to> watch him till we turn. If we poke him wiz zis, his tail will go wiggle-wiggle and fall off. Turn along! I can't weach." "I'm cornin'," said His Majesty the King, climbing down from the commissioner's wife's knee after a hasty kiss. Two minutes later, the chu-chu lizard's tail was wriggling on the matting of the veranda, and the children were gravely poking it with splinters from the chick, to urge its exhausted vitality into "just one wiggle more, 'cause it doesn't hurt chu- chu." The commissioner's wife stood in the door-way and watched: "Poor little mite! A blue sash— and my own precious Patsie! I wonder if the i6 KIPLING BOY STORIES. best of us, or we who love them best, ever under¬ stand what goes on in their topsy-turvy little heads ?" A big tear splashed on the commissioner's wife's wedding-ring, and she went indoors to de¬ vise a tea for the benefit of His Majesty the King. "Their souls aren't in their tummies at that age in this climate," said the commissioner's wife, "but they are not far off. I wonder if I could make Mrs. Austell understand. Poor little fel¬ low !" With simple craft, the commissioner's wife called on Mrs. Austell and spoke long and lov¬ ingly about children; inquiring specially for His Majesty the King. "He's with his governess," said Mrs. Austell, and the tone intimated that she was not interested. The commissioner's wife, unskilled in the art of war, continued her questionings. "I don't know," said Mrs. Austell. "These things are left to Miss Biddums, and, of couse, she does not ill-treat the child." The commissioner's wife left hastily. The last sentence jarred upon her nerves. "Doesn't ill- treat the child! As if that were all! I wonder HIS MAJESTY THE KING. 17 what Tom would say if I only 'didn't ill-treat' Patsie!" Thenceforward His Majesty the King was an honored guest at the commissioner's house, and the chosen friend of Patsie, with whom he blun¬ dered into as many scrapes as the compound and the servants' quarters afforded. Patsie's mamma was always ready to give counsel, help, and sym¬ pathy, and, if need were, and callers few, to enter into their games with an abandon that would have shocked the sleek-haired subalterns who squirmed painfully in their chairs when they came to call on her whom they profanely nicknamed "Mother Bunch." Yet, in spite of Patsie and Patsie's mamma, and the love that these two lavished upon him, His Majesty the King fell grievously from grace, and committed no less a sin than that of theft—un¬ known, it is true, but burdensome. There came a man to the door one day, when His Majesty was playing in the hall, and the bearer had gone to dinner, with a packet for His Majesty's mamma. And he put it upon the hall table, said that there was no answer, and departed. Presently, the pattern of the dado ceased to in- 18 KIPLING BOY STORIES. terest His Majesty, while the packet—a white, neatly-wrapped one of fascinating shape—inter¬ ested him very much indeed. His mamma was out, so was Miss Biddums, and there was pink string round the packet. He greatly desired the pink string. It would help him in many of his little businesses—the haulage across the floor of his small cane chair, the torturing of Chimo, who could never understand harness—and so forth. If he took the string, it would be his own, and no¬ body would be any the wiser. He certainly could not pluck up sufficient courage to ask mamma for it. Wherefore, mounting upon a chair, he care¬ fully untied the string, and, behold, the stiff white paper spread out in four directions, and revealed a beautiful little leather box with gold lines upon it! He tried to replace the string, but that was a failure. So he opened the box to get full satisfac¬ tion for his iniquity, and saw a most beautiful star that shone and winked, and was altogether lovely and desirable. "Vat," said His Majesty, meditatively, "is a 'parkle cwown, like what I will wear when I go to heaven. I will wear it on my head—Miss Bid¬ dums says so. I would like to wear it now. HIS MAJESTY THE KING. 19 I would like to play wiv it. I will take it away and play wiv it, very careful, until mamma asks for it. I fink it was bought for me to play wiv—same as my cart." His Majesty the King was arguing against his conscience, and he knew it, for he thought imme¬ diately after: "Never mind. I will keep it to play wiv until mamma says where is it, and then I will say : 'I tookt it, and I am sorry.' I will not hurt it, because it is a 'parkle cwown. But Miss Biddums will tell me to put it back. I will not show it to Miss Biddums." If mamma had come in at that moment, all would have gone well. She did not, and His Majesty the King stuffed paper, case, and jewel into the breast of his blouse, and marched to the nursery. "When mamma asks, I will tell," was the salve that he laid upon his conscience. But mamma never asked, and for three whole days His Maj¬ esty the King gloated over his treasure. It was of no earthly use to him, but it was splendid, and, for aught he knew, something dropped from the heavens themselves. Still mamma made no in¬ quiries, and it seemed to him, in his furtive peeps, 20 KIPLING BOY STORIES. as though the shiny stones grew dim. What was the use of a 'parkle cwown if it made a little boy feel all bad in his inside ? He had the pink string as well as the other treasure, but greatly he wished that he had not gone beyond the string. It was his first experience of iniquity, and it pained him after the flush of possession and secret delight in the " 'parkle cwown" had died away. Each day that he delayed rendered confession to the people beyond the nursery doors more im¬ possible. Now and again he determined to put himself in the path of the beautifully attired lady as she was going out, and explain that he and no one else was the possessor of a " 'parkle cwown," most beautiful and quite uninquired for. But she passed hurriedly to her carriage, and the oppor¬ tunity was gone before His Majesty the King could draw the deep breath which clinches noble resolve. The dread secret cut him off from Miss Biddums, Patsie, and the commissioner's wife, and—doubly hard fate—when he brooded over it, Patsie said, and told her mother, that he was cross. The days were very long to His Majesty the King, and the nights longer still. Miss Biddums HIS MAJESTY THE KING. 21 had informed him, more than once, what was the ultimate destiny of "fieves," and when he passed the interminable mud flanks of the central jail, he shook in his little strapped shoes. But release came after an afternoon spent in playing boats by the edge of the tank at the bottom of the garden. His Majesty the King went to tea, and, for the first time in his memory, the meal re¬ volted him. His nose was very cold, and his cheeks were burning hot. There was a weight about his feet, and he pressed his head several times to make sure that it was not swelling as he sat. "I feel vevy funny," said His Majesty the King, rubbing his nose. "Vere's a buzzing in my head." He went to bed quietly. Miss Biddums was out, and the bearer undressed him. The sin of the " 'parkle cwown" was forgotten in the acuteness of the discomfort to which he roused after a leaden sleep of some hours. He was thirsty, and the bearer had forgotten to leave the drinking-water. "Miss Biddums! Miss Bid¬ dums ! I'm so kirsty!" No answer. Miss Biddums had leave to at- 22 KIPLING BOY STORIES. tend the wedding of a Calcutta school-mate. His Majesty the King had forgotten that. "I want a dwink of water!" he cried, but his voice was dried up in his throat. "I want a dwink ) Vere is ve glass?" He sat up in bed and looked round. There was a murmur of voices from the other side of the nursery door. It was better to face the terrible unknown than to choke in the dark. He slipped out of bed, but his feet were strangely willful, and he reeled once or twice. Then he pushed the door open and staggered—a puffed and purple-faced little figure—into the brilliant light of the dining- room full of pretty ladies. "I'm vevy hot! I'm vevy uncomfitivle," moaned His Majesty the King, clinging to the portiere, "and vere's no water in ve glass, and I'm so kirsty. Give me a dwink of water." An apparition in black and white—His Majesty the King could hardly see distinctly—lifted him up to the level of the table, and felt his wrists and forehead. The water came, and he drank deeply, his teeth chattering against the edge of the tum¬ bler. Then everyone seemed to go away—every¬ one except the huge man in black and white, who HIS MAJESTY THE KING. 23 carried him back to his bed; the mother and father following. And the sin of the " 'parkle cwown" rushed back and took possession of the terrified soul. "I'm a fief!" he gasped. "I want to tell Miss Biddums vat I'm a fief. Vere is Miss Biddums ?" Miss Biddums had come and was bending over him. "I'm a fief," he whispered. "A fief—like ve men in the pwison. But I'll tell now. I tookt —I tookt ve 'parkle cwown when the man that came left it in ve hall. I bwoke ve paper and ve little bwown box, and it looked shiny, and I tookt it to play wiv, and I was afwaid. It's in ve dooly- box at ve bottom. No one never asked for it, but I was afwaid. Oh, go an' get ve dooly-box!" Miss Biddums obediently stooped to the lowest shelf of the almirah and unearthed the big paper box in which His Majesty the King kept his dear¬ est possessions. Under the tin soldiers, and a layer of mud pellets for a pellet-bow, winked and blazed a diamond star, wrapped roughly in a half- sheet of note-paper whereon were a few words. Somebody was crying at the head of the bed, and a man's hand touched the forehead of His 24 KIPLING BOY STORIES. Majesty the King, who grasped the packet and spread it on the bed. "Vat is ve 'parkle cwown," he said, and wept bitterly; for now that he had made restitution he would fain have kept the shining splendor with him. "It concerns you, too," said a voice at the head of the bed. "Read the note. This is not the time to keep back anything." The note was curt, very much to the point, and signed by a single initial—"If yon wear this to¬ morrow night, I shall know what to expect." The date was three weeks old. A whisper followed, and the deeper voice re¬ turned : "And you drifted as far apart as that! I think it makes us quits now, doesn't it? Oh, can't we drop this folly, once and for all? Is it worth it, darling?" "Kiss me, too," said His Majesty the King, dreamily. "You isn't vevy angwy, is you?" The fever burned itself out, and His Majesty the King slept. When he waked, it was in a new world—peo¬ pled by his father and mother as well as Miss Bid- dums; and there was much love in that world and HIS MAJESTY THE KING. 25 no morsel of fear, and more petting than was good for several little boys. His Majesty the King was too young to moralize on the uncer¬ tainty of things human, or he would have been impressed with the singular advantages of crime —ay, black sin. Behold, he had stolen the " 'parkle cwown," and his reward was love, and the right to play in the waste-paper basket under the table "for always." He trotted over to spend an evening with Patsie, and the commissioner's wife would have kissed him. "No, not vere," said His Majesty the King, with superb insolence, fencing one corner of his mouth with his hand. "Vat's my mamma's place—vere she kisses me." "Oh!" said the commissioner's wife, briefly. Then, to herself: "Well, I suppose I ought to be glad for his sake. Children are selfish little grubs, and- -I've got my Patsie." THE DBUMS OF THE FOEE AND AFT. "And a little child shall lead them." In the Army List they still stand as "The Fore and Fit Princess Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen- Auspach's Merther-Tydfilshire Own Royal Loyal Light Infantry, Regimental District 329 A," but the army through all its barracks and canteens knows them now as the "Fore and Aft." They may in time do something that shall make their new title honorable, but at present they are bitterly ashamed, and the man who calls them "Fore and Aft" does so at the risk of the head which is on his shoulders. Two words breathed into the stables of a cer¬ tain cavalry regiment will bring the men into the streets with belts and mops and bad language ; but a whisper of "Fore and Aft" will bring out this regiment with rifles. Their one excuse is that they came again and did their best to finish the job in style. But for a time all their world knows that they were openly 26 THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 27 beaten, whipped, dumb-cowed, shaking, and afraid. The men know it; their officers know it; the Horse Guards know it; and when the next war comes the enemy will know it also. There are two or three regiments of the line that have a black mark against their names which they will then wipe out, and it will be excessively incon¬ venient for the troops upon which thev do their wiping. The courage of the British soldier is officially supposed to be above proof, and, as a general rule, it is so. The exceptions are decently shoveled out of sight, only to be referred to in the freshest of unguarded talk that occasionally swamps a mess- table at midnight. Then one hears strange and horrible stories of men not following their offi¬ cers, of orders being given by those who had no right to give them, and of disgrace that, but for the standing luck of the British Army, might have ended in brilliant disaster. These are unpleasant stories to listen to, and the messes tell them under their breath, sitting by the big wood fires, and the young officer bows his head and thinks to himself, please God, his men shall never behave unhandily. The British soldier is not altogether to be 28 KIPLING BOY STORIES. blamed for occasional lapses; but this verdict he should not know. A moderately intelligent gen¬ eral will waste six months in mastering the craft of the particular war that he may be waging; a colonel may utterly misunderstand the capacity of his regiment for three months after it has taken the field; and even a company commander may err and be deceived as to the temper and temperament of his own handful; wherefore the soldier, and the soldier of to-day more particularly, should not be blamed for falling back. He should be shot or hanged afterward—pour encourager les autres— but he should not be vilified in newspapers, for that is want of tact and waste of space. He has, let us say, been in the service of the empress for, perhaps, four years. He will leave in another two years. He has no inherited morals, and four years are not sufficient to drive tough¬ ness into his fiber, or to teach him how holy a thing is his regiment. He wants to drink, he wants to enjoy himself—in India he wants to save money—and he does not in the least like get¬ ting hurt. He had received just sufficient educa¬ tion to make him understand half the purport of the orders he receives, and to speculate on the na- THE DRUMS OF TIIE FORE AND AFT. 29 ture of clean, incised, and shattering wounds. Thus, if he is told to deploy under fire preparatory to an attack, he knows that he runs a very great risk of being killed while he is deploying, and sus¬ pects that he is being thrown away to gain ten minutes' time. He may either deploy with des¬ perate swiftness, or he may shuffle, or bunch, or break, according to the discipline under which he has lain for four years. Armed with imperfect knowledge, cursed with the rudiments of an imagination, hampered by the intense selfishness of the lower classes, and unsup¬ ported by any regimental associations, this young man is suddenly introduced to an enemy who in eastern lands is always ugly, generally tall and hairy, and frequently noisy. If he looks to the right and the left and sees old soldiers—men of twelve years' service, who, he knows, know what they are about—taking a charge, rush, or demon¬ stration without embarrassment, he is consoled, and applies his shoulder to the butt of his rifle with a stout heart. His peace is the greater if he hears a senior, who' has taught him his soldiering and broken his head on occasion, whispering: "They'll shout and carry on like this for five minutes, then 3 3° KIPLING BOY STORIES. they'll rush in, and then we've got 'em by the short hairs!" But, on the other hand, if he sees only men of his own term of service, turning white and play¬ ing with their triggers and saying: "What's— up—now?" while the company commanders are sweating into their sword-hilts and shouting: "Front-rank, fix bayonets! Steady, there— steady! Sight for three hundred—no, for five! Lie down, all! Steady! Front-rank, kneel!" and so forth, he becomes unhappy; and grows acutely miserable when he hears a comrade turn over with the rattle of fire-irons falling into the fender, and the grunt of a pole-axed ox. If he can be moved about a little and allowed to watch the effect of his own fire on the enemy, he feels merrier, and may be then worked up to the blind passion of fighting, which is, contrary to general belief, controlled by a chilly devil and shakes men like ague. If he is not moved about, and begins to feel cold at the pit of the stomach, and in that crisis is badly mauled and hears orders that were never given, he will break, and he will break badly; and of all things under the sight of the sun there is nothing more terrible than a broken British regiment. When THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 31 the worst comes to the worst, and the panic is really epidemic, the men must be e'en let go, and the company commanders had better escape to the enemy and stay there for safety's sake. If they can be made to come again, they are not pleasant men to meet, because they will not break twice. About thirty years from this date, when we have succeeded in half-educating everything that wears trousers, our army will be a beautifully un¬ reliable machine. It will know too much, and it will do too little. Later still, when all men are at the mental level of the officer of to-day, it will sweep the earth. Speaking roughly, you must employ either blackguards or gentlemen, or, best of all, blackguards commanded by gentlemen, to do butcher's work with efficiency and dispatch. The ideal soldier should, of course, think for him¬ self—the pocket-book says so. Unfortunately, to attain this virtue, he has to pass through the phase of thinking of himself, and that is misdirected genius. A blackguard may be slow to think for himself, but he is genuinely anxious to kill, and a little punishment teaches him how to guard his own skin and perforate another's. A powerfully prayerful Highland regiment, officered by rank 32 KIPLING BOY STORIES. Presbyterians, is, perhaps, one degree more ter¬ rible in action than a hard-bitten thousand of ir¬ responsible Irish ruffians, led by most improper young unbelievers. But these things prove the rule—which is, that the midway men are not to' be trusted alone. They have ideas about the value of life and an up-bringing that has not taught them to go on and take the chances. They are carefully unprovided with a backing of comrades who have been shot over, and until that backing is reintroduced, as a great many regimental com¬ manders intend it shall be, they are more liable to disgrace themselves than the size of the empire or the dignity of the army allows. Their officers are as good as good can be, because their training be¬ gins early, and God has arranged that a clean-run youth of the British middle classes shall, in the matter of backbone, brains, and bowels, surpass all other youths. For this reason, a child of eighteen will stand up, doing nothing, with a tin sword in his hand and joy in his heart until he is dropped. If he dies, he dies like a gentleman. If he lives, he writes home that he has been "potted," "sniped," "chipped" or "cut over," and sits down to besiege the government for a wound-gratuity THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 33 until the next little war breaks out, when he per¬ jures himself before a medical board, blarneys his colonel, burns incense round his adjutant, and is allowed to go to the front once more. Which homily brings me directly to a brace of the most finished little fiends that ever banged drum or tooted fife in the band of a British regi¬ ment. They ended their sinful career by open and flagrant mutiny and were shot for it. Their names were Jakin and Lew—Piggy Lew—and they were bold, bad drummer-boys, both of them frequently birched by the drum-major of the Fore and Aft. Jakin was a stunted child of fourteen, and Lew was about the same age. When not looked after, they smoked and drank. They swore habitually after the manner of the barrack-room, which is cold-swearing and comes from between clinched teeth; and they fought religiously once a week. Jakin had sprung from some London gutter and may or may not have passed through Dr. Bar- nado's hands ere he arrived at the dignity of drummer-boy. Lew could remember nothing ex¬ cept the regiment and the delight of listening to the band from his earliest years. He hid some- 34 KIPLING BOY STORIES. where in his grimy little soul a genuine love for music, and was most mistakenly furnished with the head of a cherub; insomuch that beautiful ladies who watched the regiment in church were wont to speak of him as a "darling." They never heard his vitriolic comments on their manners and morals, as he walked back to barracks with the band and matured fresh causes of offense against Jakin. The other drummer-boys hated both lads on ac¬ count of their illogical conduct. Jakin might be pounding Lew, or Lew might be rubbing Jakin's head in the dirt; but any attempt at aggression on the part of an outsider was met by the combined forces of Lew and Jakin, and the consequences were painful. The boys were the Ishmaels of the corps, but wealthy Ishmaels, for they sold battles in alternate weeks for the sport of the barracks when they were not pitted against other boys; and thus amassed money: On this particular day there was dissension in the camp. They had just been convicted afresh of smoking, which is bad for little boys who use plug tobacco, and Lew's contention was that Jakin had "stunk so 'orrid bad from keepin' the pipe in THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 35 his pocket," that he and he alone was responsible for the birching they were both tingling under. "I tell you I 'id the pipe back o' barricks," said Jakin pacifically. "You're a bloomin' liar," said Lew, without heat. "You might ha' kep' that till I wasn't so sore," sorrowfully, dodging round Jakin's guard. "I'll make you sorer," said Jakin, genially, and got home on Lew's alabaster forehead. All would have gone well and this story, as the books say, would never have been written, had not his evil fate prompted the bazaar-sergeant's son, a long, employless man of five-and-twenty, to put in ap¬ pearance after the first round. He was eternally in need of money, and knew that the boys had silver. "Fighting again," said he. "I'll report you to my father, and he'll report you to the color-ser¬ geant." "What's that to you?" said Jakin, with an un¬ pleasant dilation of the nostrils. "Oh! nothing to me. You'll get into trouble, and you've been up too often to afford that." "What do you know about what we've done?" asked Lew, the Seraph. 36 KIPLING BOY STORIES. "You aren't in the army, you cadging civilian!" He closed in on the man's left flank. "Jes' 'cause you find two gentlemen settlin' their diff rences with their fistes, you stick in your ugly nose where you aren't wanted. Run 'ome to your 'arf-caste ma—or we'll give you what-for," said Jakin. The man attempted reprisals by knocking the boys' heads together. The scheme would have succeeded had not Jakin punched him vehemently in the stomach, or had Lew refrained from kick¬ ing his shins. They fought together, bleeding and breathless, for half an hour, and, after heavy pun¬ ishment, triumphantly pulled down their opponent as terriers pull down a jackal. "Now," gasped Jakin, "I'll give you what-for." He proceeded to pound the man's features while Lew stamped on the outlying portions of his anat¬ omy. Chivalry is not a strong point in the com¬ position of the average drummer-boy. He fights, as do his betters, to make his mark. Ghastly was the ruin that escaped, and awful was the wrath of the bazaar-sergeant. Awful, too, was the scene in the orderly-room when the two reprobates appeared to answer the charge of half- THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 3/ murdering a "civilian." The bazaar-sergeant thirsted for a criminal action, and his son lied. The boys stood to attention while the black clouds of evidence accumulated. "You little devils are more trouble than the rest of the regiment put together," said the colonel, angrily. "One might as well admonish thistle¬ down, and I can't well put you in cells or under stoppages. You must be flogged again." "Beg y' pardon, sir. Can't we say nothin' in our own defense, sir?" shrilled Jakin. "Hey! What ? Are you going to argue with me?" said the colonel. "No, sir," said Lew. "But if a man come to you, sir, and said he was going to report you, sir, for 'aving a bit of a turn-up with a friend, sir, an' wanted to get money out o' you, sir—" The orderly-room exploded in a roar of laugh¬ ter. "Well?" said the colonel. "That was what that measly jarnwar there did, sir, and 'e'd a' done it, sir, if we 'adn't prevented 'im. We didn't 'it 'im much, sir. 'E 'adn't no manner o' right to interfere with us, sir. I don't mind bein' flogged by the drum-major, sir, nor yet reported by any corporal, but I'm—but I don't 3« KIPLING BOY STORIES. think it's fair, sir, for a civilian to come an' talk over a man in the army." A second shout of laughter shook the orderly- room, but the colonel was grave. "What sort of characters have these boys?" he asked of the regimental sergeant-major. "Accordin' to the bandmaster, sir," returned that revered official—the only soul in the regiment whom the boys feared—"they do everything but lie, sir." "Is it like we'd go for that man for fun, sir?" said Lew, pointing to the plaintiff. "Oh, admonished—admonished!" said the col¬ onel, testily, and, when the boys had gone, he read the bazaar-sergeant's son a lecture on the sin of unprofitable meddling, and gave orders that the bandmaster should keep the drums in better disci¬ pline. "If either of you come to practice again with so much as a scratch on your two ugly little faces," thundered the bandmaster, "I'll tell the arum- major to take the skin off your backs. Under¬ stand that, you young devils." Then he repented of his speech for just the length of time that Lew, looking like a seraph in THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 39 red-worsted embellishments, took the place of one of the trumpets—in hospital—and rendered the echo of a battle-piece. Lew certainly was a mu¬ sician, and had often, in his more exalted mo¬ ments, expressed a yearning to master every in¬ strument of the band. "There's nothing to prevent your becoming a bandmaster, Lew," said the bandmaster, who had composed waltzes of his own, and worked day and night in the interests of the band. "What did he say?" demanded Jakin, after practice. "Said I might be a bloomin' bandmaster, an' be asked in to 'ave a glass o' sherry-wine on mess- nights." "Ho>! Said you might be a bloomin' non-com¬ batant, did 'e? That's just about wot 'e would say. When I've put in my boy's service—it's a bloomin' shame that doesn't count for pension— I'll take on a privit. Then, I'll be a lance in a year —knowin' what I know about the ins an' outs o' things. In three years, I'll be a bloomin' sergeant. I won't marry then, not I! I'll 'old on, and learn the orf'cers' ways, an' apply for exchange into a reg'ment that doesn't know all about me. Then, 4° KIPLING BOY STORIES. I'll be a bloomin' orf'cer. Then, I'll ask you to 'ave a glass o' sherry-wine, Mister Lew, an' you'll bloomin' well 'ave to stay in the hanty-room while the mess-sergeant brings it to> your dirty 'ands." "S'pose /'m going to> be a bandmaster? Not I, quite. I'll be a orf'cer, too. There's nothin' like taking to a thing an' stickin' to it, the schoolmas¬ ter says. The reg'ment don't go 'ome for another seven years. I'll be a lance then or near to." Thus the boys discussed their future, and con¬ ducted themselves with exemplary piety for a week. That is to say, Lew started a flirtation with the color-sergeant's daughter, aged thirteen— "not," as he explained to Jakin, "with any inten¬ tion o' matrimony, but by way o' keepin' my 'and in." And the black-haired Cris Delighan enjoyed that flirtation more than previous ones, and the other drummer-boys raged furiously together, and Jakin preached sermons on the dangers of "bein' tangled along o' petticoats." But neither love nor virtue would have held Lew long in the paths of propriety, had not the rumor gone abroad that the regiment was to be sent on active service, to take part in a war which, THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 41 for the sake of brevity, we will call "The War of the Lost Tribes." The barracks had the rumor almost before the mess-room, and of all the nine hundred men in barracks not ten had seen a shot fired in anger. The colonel had, twenty years ago, assisted at a frontier expedition; one of the majors had seen service at the Cape; a confirmed deserter in E Company had helped to clear streets in Ireland; but that was all. The regiment had been put by for many years. The overwhelming mass of its rank and file had from three to four years' service; the non-commissioned officers were under thirty years old; and men and sergeants alike had for¬ gotten to speak of the stories, written in brief upon the colors—the new colors that had been formally blessed by an archbishop in England ere the regiment came away. They wanted to go to the front—they were en¬ thusiastically anxious to go—but they had no knowledge of what war meant, and there was none to tell them. They were an educated regi¬ ment, the percentage of school certificates in their ranks was high, and most of the men could do more than read and write. They had been re- 42 KIPLING BOY STORIES. cruited in loyal observance of the territorial idea; but they themselves had no notion of that idea. They were made up of drafts from an overpopu- lated manufacturing district. The system had put flesh and muscle upon their small bones, but it could not put heart into' the sons of those who for generations had done over-much work for over- scanty pay, had sweated in drying-rooms, stooped over looms, coughed among white-lead, and shiv¬ ered on lime-barges. The men had found food and rest in the army, and now they were going to fight "niggers"—people who ran away if you shook a stick at them. Wherefore they cheered lustily when the rumor ran, and the shrewd, clerkly, non-commissioned officers speculated on the chances of battle and of saving their pay. At head-quarters, men said: "The Fore and Fit have never been under fire within the last genera¬ tion. Let us, therefore, break them in easily by setting them to guard lines of communication." And this would have been done but for the fact that British regiments were wanted—badly wanted—at the front, and there were doubtful native regiments that could fill the minor duties. 'Brigade 'em with two strong regiments," said THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 43 head-quarters. "They may be knocked about a bit, but they'll learn their business before they come through. Nothing like a night-alarm and a little cutting-up of stragglers to make a regiment smart in the field. Wait till they've had half-a- dozen sentries' throats cut." The colonel wrote with delight that the temper of his men was excellent, that the regiment was all that could be wished, and as sound as a bell. The majors smiled with a sober joy, and the sub¬ alterns waltzed in pairs down the mess-room after dinner and nearly shot themselves at revolver- practice. But there was consternation in the hearts of Jakin and Lew. What was to be done with the drums ? Would the band go> to the front ? How many of the drums would accompany the regiment ? They took council together, sitting in a tree and smoking. "It's more than a bloomin' toss-up they'll leave us be'ind at the depot with the women. You'll like that," said Jakin, sarcastically. " 'Cause o' Cris, y' mean? Wot's a woman, or a 'ole bloomin' depot o' women, 'longside o' the 44 KIPLING BOY STORIES. chanst of field-service? You know I'm as keen on goin' as you," said Lew. "Wish I was a bloomin' bugler,'' said Jakin, sadly. "They'll take Tom Kidd along, that I can plaster a wall with, an' like as not they won't take us." "Then let's go an' make Tom Kidd so bloomin' sick 'e can't bugle no more. You 'old 'is 'ands, an' I'll kick him," said Lew, wriggling on the branch. "That ain't no good, neither. We ain't the sort o' characters to presoom on our rep'tations— they're bad. If they have the band at the depot we don't go, and no error there. If they take the band we may get cast for medical unfitness. Are you medical fit. Piggy?" said Jakin. digging Lew in the ribs with force. "Yus," said Lew, with an oath. "The doctor says your 'eart's weak through smokin' on an empty stummick. Throw a chest, an' I'll try yer." Jakin threw out his chest, which Lew smote with all his might. Jakin turned very pale, gasped, crowed, screwed up his eyes, and said : "That's all right." THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 45 "You'll do," said Lew. "I've 'eard o' men dyin' when you 'it 'em fair on the breast-bone." "Don't bring us no nearer goin', though," said Jakin. "Do you know where we're ordered ?" "Gawd knows, an' 'e won't split on a pal. Somewheres up to the front to kill Paythans— hairy big beggars that turn you inside out if they get 'old o' you. They say their women are good- looking, too." "Any loot?" asked the abandoned Jakin. "Not a bloomin' anna, they say, unless you dig up the ground an' see what the niggers 'ave 'id. They're a poor lot." Jakin stood upright on the branch and gazed across the plain. "Lew," said he, "there's the colonel coming. Colonel's a good old beggar. Let's go an' talk to 'im." Lew nearly fell out of the tree at the audacity of the suggestion. Like Jakin, he feared not God, neither regarded he man, but there are limits even to the audacity of drummer-boy, and to speak to a colonel was— But Jakin had slid down the trunk and doubled in the direction of the colonel. That officer was walking wrapped in thought and visions of a C. 4 46 KIPLING BOY STORIES. B.—yes, even a K. C. B., for had he not af. com¬ mand one of the best regiments of the line—the Fore and Fit? And he was aware of two small boys charging down upon him. Once before, it had been solemnly reported to him that "the drums were in a state of mutiny;" Jakin and Lew being the ringleaders. This looked like an organ¬ ized conspiracy. The boys halted at twenty yards, walked to the regulation four paces, and saluted together, each as well set-up as a ramrod and little taller. The colonel was in a genial mood; the boys ap¬ peared very forlorn and unprotected on the deso¬ late plain, and one of them was handsome. "Well!" said the colonel, recognizing them. "Are you going to pull me down in the open ? I'm sure I never interfere with you, even though"— he sniffed suspiciously—"you have been smok¬ ing." It was time to strike while the iron was hot. Their hearts beat tumultuously. "Beg y' pardon, sir," began Jakin. "The reg'ment's ordered on active service, sir?" "So I believe," said the colonel, courteously. "Is the band goin', sir?" said both together. THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 47 Then, without pause, "We're goin', sir, ain't we?" "You!" said the colonel, stepping back the more fully to take in the two small figures. "You! You'd die in the first march." "No, we wouldn't, sir. We can march with the reg'ment anywhere—p'rade an' anywhere else," said Jakin. "If Tom Kidd goes, 'e'll shut up like a clasp- knife," said Lew. "Tom 'as very close veins in both 'is legs, sir." "Very how much?" "Very close veins, sir. That's why they swells after long p'rade, sir. If 'e can go, we can go, sir." Again the colonel looked at them long and in¬ tently. "Yes, the band is going," he said as gravely as though he had been addressing a brother officer. "Haveyou any parents, either of you two?" "No, sir," rejoicingly from Lew and Jakin. "We're both orphans, sir. There's no one to be considered of on our account, sir." "You poor little sprats, and you want to go up to the front with the regiment, do you ? Why ?" "I've wore the queen's uniform for two years," 48 KIPLING BOY STORIES. said Jakin. "It's very 'ard, sir, that a man don't get no recompense for doin' 'is dooty, sir." "An'—an' if I don't go, sir," interrupted Lew, "the bandmaster 'e says 'e'll catch an' make a bloo—a blessed musician o' me, sir. Before I've seen any service, sir." The colonel made no answer for a long time. Then he said, quietly: "If you're passed by the doctor, I dare say you can go. I shouldn't smoke if I were you." The boys saluted and disappeared. The colonel walked home and told the story to his wife, who nearly cried over it. The colonel was well pleased. If that was the temper of the children, what would not the men do ? Jakin and Lew entered the boys' barrack-room with great stateliness, and refused to hold any conversation with their comrades for at least ten minutes. Then, bursting with pride, Jakin drawled : "I've bin intervooin' the colonel. Good old beggar is the colonel. Says I to 'im, 'colonel,' says I, 'let me go to the front, along o' the reg'- ment.' 'To the front you shall go,' says 'e, 'an' I only wish there was more like you among the dirty little devils that bang the bloomin' drums.' Kidd, THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 49 if you throw your 'couterments at me for tellin' you the truth to your own advantage, your legs '11 swell." None the less there was a battle-royal in the barrack-room, for the boys were consumed with envy and hate, and neither Jakin nor Lew behaved in conciliatory wise. "I'm goin' out to say adoo to my girl," said Lew, to cap the climax. "Don't none o' you touch my kit because it's wanted for active service, me bein' specially invited to go> by the colonel." He strolled forth and whistled in the clump of trees at the back of the married quarters till Cris came to> him, and, the preliminary kisses being given and taken, Lew began to explain the situa¬ tion. "I'm goin' to the front with the reg'ment," he said, valiantly. "Piggy, you're a little liar," said Cris, but her heart misgave her, for Lew was not in the habit of lying. "Liar yourself, Cris," said Lew, slipping an arm round her. "I'm goin'. When the reg'ment marches out you'll see me with 'em, all galliant and 50 KIPLING BOY STORIES. gay. Give us another kiss, Cris, on the strength of it." "If you'd on'y a-stayed at the depot—where you ought to ha' bin—you could get as many of 'em as—as you please," whimpered Cris, putting up her mouth. "It's 'ard, Cris. I grant you, it's 'ard. But what's a man to do ? If I'd a-stayed at the depot, you wouldn't think anything of me." "Like as not, but I'd 'ave you with me, Piggy. An' all the thinkin' in the world isn't like kissin'." "An' all the kissin' in the world isn't like 'avin' a medal to wear on the front o' your coat." " You won't get no medal." "Oh, vus, I shall, though. Me an' Jakin are the only acting-drummers that'll be took along. All the rest is full men, an' we'll get our medals with them." "They might ha' taken anybody but you, Piggy. You'll get killed—you're SO' venturesome. Stay with me, Piggy, darlin', down at the depot, an' I'll love you true for ever." "Ain't you goin' to do that now, Cris? You said you was." "O' course I am, but th' other's more comfort- THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 51 able. Wait till you've growed a bit, Piggy. You aren't no taller than me now." "I've bin in the army for two years an' I'm not goin' to get out of a chanst o' seein' service an' don't you try to make me do so. I'll come back, Cris, an' when I take on as a man I'll marry you— marry you when I'm a lance." "Promise, Piggy?" Lew reflected on the future as arranged by Jakin a short time previously, but Cris's mouth was very near to his own. "I promise, s'elp me Gawd!" said he. Cris slid an arm round his neck. "I won't 'old you back no more, Piggy. Go away an' get your medal, an' I'll make you a new button-bag as nice as I know how," she whispered. "Put some o' your 'air into it, Cris, an' I'll keep it in my pocket so long's I'm alive." Then Cris wept anew, and the interview ended. Public feeling among the drummer-boys rose to fever pitch, and the lives of Jakin and Lew be¬ came unenviable. Not only had they been per¬ mitted to enlist two years before the regulation boy's age—fourteen—but, by virtue, it seemed, of their extreme youth, they were allowed to go to 52 KIPLING BOY STORIES. the front—which thing had not happened to act¬ ing-drummers within the knowledge of boy. The band which was to accompany the regiment had been cut down to the regulation twenty men, the surplus returning to the ranks. Jakin and Lew were attached to the band as supernumeraries, though they would much have preferred being company buglers. "Don't matter much," said Jakin, after the med¬ ical inspection. "Be thankful that we're 'lowed to go at all. The doctor 'e said that if we could stand what we took from the bazaar-sergeant's son, we'd stand pretty nigh anything." "Which we will," said Lew, looking tenderly at the ragged and ill-made housewife that Cris had given him, with a lock of her hair worked into a sprawling "L" upon the cover. "It was the best I. could," she sobbed. "I wouldn't let mother nor the sergeant's tailor 'elp me. Keep it always, Piggy, an' remember I love you true." They marched to the railway station, nine hun¬ dred and sixty strong, and every soul in canton¬ ments turned out to see them go. The drum¬ mers gnashed their teeth at Jakin and Lew march- THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 53 ing with the band, the married women wept upon the platform, and the regiment cheered its noble self black in the face. "A nice level lot," said the colonel to the second in command as they watched the first four com¬ panies entraining. "Fit to do anything," said the second in com¬ mand, enthusiastically. "But it seems to me they're a thought too young and tender for the work in hand. It's bitter cold up at the front now." "They're sound enough," said the colonel. "We must take our chance of sick casualties." So they went northward, ever northward, past droves and droves of camels, armies of camp fol¬ lowers, and legions of laden mules, the throng thickening day by day, till with a shriek the train pulled up at a hopelessly congested junction where six lines of temporary track accommodated six forty-wagon trains; where whistles blew, Babus sweated, and commissariat officers swore from dawn till far into the night amid the wind-driven chaff of the fodder-bales and the lowing of a thousand steers. "Hurry up—you're badly wanted at the front," 54 KIPLING BOY STORIES. was the message that greeted the Fore and Aft, and the occupants of the Red Cross carriages told the same tale. " 'Tisn't so much the bloomin' fightin'," gasped a headbound trooper of hussars to a knot of ad¬ miring Fore and Afts. " 'Tisn't so much the bloomin' fightin', though there's enough o' that. It's the bloomin' food an' the bloomin' climate. Frost all night 'cept when it hails, an' bilin' sun all day, an' the water stinks fit to knock you down. I got my 'ead chipped like a egg; I've got pneu¬ monia, too, an' I'm all out o' order. 'Tain't no bloomin' picnic in those parts, I can tell you." "Wot are the niggers like?" demanded a pri¬ vate. "There's some prisoners in that train yonder. Go an' look at 'em. They're the aristocracy o' the country. The common folk are a dashed sight uglier. If you want to know what they fight with, reach under my seat an' pull out the long knife that's there." They dragged out and beheld for the first time the grim, bone-handled, triangular Afghan knife. It was almost as long as Lew. "That's the think to j'int ye," said the trooper, THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 55 feebly. "It can take off a man's arm at the shoulder as easy as slicing butter. I halved the beggar that used that 'un, but there's more of his likes up above. They don't understand thrustin', but they slice!" The men strolled across the tracks to inspect the Afghan prisoners. They were unlike any "nig¬ gers" that the Fore and Aft had ever met—these huge, black-haired, scowling sons of the Beni- Israel. As the men stared, the Afghans spat freely and muttered one to another with lowered eyes. "My eyes! Wot awful swine!" said Jakin, who was in the rear of the procession. "Say, old man, how you got puck-rowed, eh? Kiswasti you wasn't hanged for your ugly face, hey?" The tallest of the company turned, his leg-irons clanking at the movement, and stared at the boy. "See!" he cried to his fellows in Pushto, "they send children against us. What a people, and what fools!" "Hya!" said Jakin, nodding his head, cheerily. "You go down-country. Khana get, peenikapanee get—live like a bloomin' rajah ke marfik. That's a better bandobust than bay nit get it in your in- 56 KIPLING BOY STORIES. nards. Good-bye, old man. Take care o' your beautiful figure-'ed, an' try to look kushy." The men laughed and fell in for their first march when they began to realize that a soldier's life was not all beer and skittles. They were much impressed with the size and bestial ferocity of the niggers, whom they had now learned to call "Pay- thans," and more with the exceeding discomfort of their own surroundings. Twenty old soldiers in the corps would have taught them how to make themselves moderately snug at night, but they had no old soldiers, and, as the troops on the line of march said, "they lived like pigs." They learned the heart-breaking cussedness of camp-kitchens and camels and the depravity of an E. P. tent and a wither-wrung mule. They studied animalcule in water, and developed a few cases of dysentery in their study. At the end of their third march they were dis¬ agreeably surprised by the arrival in their camp of a hammered iron slug which, fired from a steady- rest at seven hundred yards, flicked out the brains of a private seated by the fire. This robbed them of their peace for a night, and was the beginning of a long-range fire carefully calculated to that THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 57 end. In the day-time, they saw nothing except an occasional puff of smoke from a crag above the line of march. At night, there were distant spurts of flame and occasional casualties, which set the whole camp blazing into the gloom, and, occasion¬ ally, into opposite tents. Then they swore ve¬ hemently and vowed that this was magnificent but not war. Indeed it was not. The regiment could not halt for reprisals against the franctireurs of the coun¬ try-side. Its duty was to go forward and make connection with the Scotch and Gurkha troops with which it was brigaded. The Afghans knew this, and knew, too, after their first tentative shots, that they were dealing with a raw regiment. Thereafter they devoted themselves to the task of keeping the Fore and Aft on the strain. Not for anything would they have taken equal liberties with a seasoned corps—with the wicked little Gurkhas, whose delight it was to lie out in the open on a dark night and stalk their stalkers— with the terrible, big men dressed in women's clothes, who could be heard praying to their God in the night-watches, and whose peace of mind no amount of "snipping" could shake—or with those 58 KIPLING BOY STORIES. vile Sikhs, who marched so ostentatiously unpre¬ pared, and who dealt out such grim reward to those who tried to profit by that unpreparedness. This white regiment was different—quite differ¬ ent. It slept like a hog, and, like a hog, charged in every direction when it was roused. Its sentries walked with a footfall that could be heard for a quarter of a mile; would fire at anything that moved—even a driven donkey—and when they had once fired, could be scientifically "rushed" and laid out a horror and an offense against the morn¬ ing sun. Then there were camp-followers who straggled and could be cut up without fear. Their shrieks would disturb the white boys, and the loss of their services would inconvenience them sorely. Thus, at every march, the hidden enemy became bolder and the regiment writhed and twisted un¬ der attacks it could not avenge. The crowning triumph was a sudden night-rush ending in the cutting of many tent-ropes, the collapse of the sudden canvas and a glorious knifing of the men who struggled and kicked below. It was a great deed, neatly carried out, and it shook the already shaken nerves of the Fore and Aft. All the cour¬ age that they had been required to exercise up to THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 59 this point was the "two o'clock in the morning courageand they, so far, had only succeeded in shooting their comrades and losing their sleep. Sullen, discontented, cold, savage, sick, with their uniforms dulled and unclean, the Fore and Aft joined their brigade. "I hear you had a tough time of it coming up," said the brigadier. But when he saw the hospital- sheets his face fell. "This is bad," said he to himself. "They're as rotten as sheep." And aloud to the colonel, "I'm afraid we can't spare you just yet. We want all we have, else I should have given you ten days to recruit in." The colonel winced. "On my honor, sir," he returned, "there is not the least necessity to think of sparing us. My men have been rather mauled and upset without a fair return. They only want to go in somewhere where they can see what's be¬ fore them." "Can't say I think much of the Fore and Aft," said the brigadier in confidence to his brigade- major. "They've lost all their soldiering, and, by the trim of them, might have marched through 6o KIPLING BOY STORIES. the country from the other side. A more fagged- out set of men I never put eyes on." "Oh, they'll improve as the work goes on. The parade gloss has been rubbed off a little, but they'll put on field polish before long," said the brigade- major. "They've been mauled, and they don't quite understand it." They did not. All the hitting was on one side, and it was cruelly hard hitting with accessories that made them sick. There was also the real sickness that laid hold of a strong man and dragged him howling to the grave. Worst of all, their officers knew just as little of the country as the men themselves, and looked as if they did. The Fore and Aft were in a thoroughly unsatis¬ factory condition, but they believed that all would be well if they once got a fair go-in at the enemy. Pot-shots up and down the valleys were unsatis¬ factory, and the bayonet never seemed to get a chance. Perhaps it was as well, for a long-limbed Afghan with a knife had a reach of eight feet, and could carry away enough lead to disable three Englishmen. The Fore and Aft would like some rifle practice at the enemy—all seven hundred THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 61 rifles blazing together. That wish showed the mood of the men. The Gurkhas walked into their camp, and in broken, barrack-room English strove to fraternize with them; offered them pipes of tobacco, and stood them treat at the canteen. But the Fore and Aft, not knowing much of the nature of the Gurkhas, treated them as they would treat any other ''niggers," and the little men in green trotted back to their firm friends, the Highlanders, and with many grins confided to them: "That white regi¬ ment no use. Sulky—ugh! Dirty—ugh! Hya, any tot for Johnny?" Whereat the Highlanders smote the Gurkhas as to the head, and told them not to vilify a British regiment, and the Gurkhas grinned cavernously, for the Highlanders were their elder brothers and entitled to the privileges of kinship. The common soldier who touches a Gurkha is more than likely to have his head sliced open. Three days later, the brigadier arranged a battle according to the rules of war and the peculiarity of the Afghan temperament. The enemy were mass¬ ing in inconvenient strength among the hills, and 5 62 KIPLING BOY STORIES. the moving of many green standards warned them that the tribes were "up" in aid of the Afghan reg¬ ular troops. A squadron and a half of Bengal lancers represented the available cavalry, and two screw-guns, borrowed from a column thirty miles away, the artillery at the general's disposal. "If they stand, as I've a very strong notion that they will, I fancy we shall see an infantry fight that will be worth watching," said the brigadier. "We'll do it in style. Each regiment shall be played into action by its band, and we'll hold the cavalry in reserve." "For all the reserve?" somebody asked. "For all the reserve; because we're going to crumple them up," said the brigadier, who was an extraordinary brigadier, and did not believe in the value of a reserve when dealing with Asiatics. And, indeed, when you come to think of it, had the British army consistently waited for reserves in all its little affairs, the boundaries of our empire would have stopped at Brighton beach. That battle was to be a glorious battle. The three regiments debouching from three separate gorges, after duly crowning the heights above, were to converge from the center, left, and THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 63 right upon what we will call the Afghan army, then stationed toward the lower extremity of a flat-bottomed valley. Thus it will be seen that three sides of the valley practically belonged to the English, while the fourth was strictly Afghan property. In the event of defeat, the Afghans had the rocky hills to fly to, where the fire from the guerrilla tribes in aid would cover their retreat. In the event of victory, these same tribes would rush down and lend their weight to the rout of the British. The screw-guns were to shell the head of each Afghan rush that was made in close formation, and the cavalry, held in reserve in the right val¬ ley, were to gently stimulate the break-up which would follow on the combined attack. The briga¬ dier, sitting upon a rock overlooking the valley, would watch the battle unrolled at his feet. The Fore and Aft would debouch from the central gorge, the Gurkhas from the left, and the High¬ landers from the right, for the reason that the left flank of the enemy seemed as though it required the most hammering. It was not every day that an Afghan force would take ground in the open, 64 KIPLING BOY STORIES. and the brigadier was resolved to make the most of it. "If we only had a few more men," he said plaintively, "we could surround the creatures and crumble 'em up thoroughly. As it is, I'm afraid we can only cut them up as they run. It's a great pity." The Fore and Aft had enjoyed unbroken peace for five days, and were beginning, in spite of dys¬ entery, to recover their nerve. But they were not happy, for they did not know the work in hand, and had they known, would not have known how to do it. Throughout those five days in which old soldiers might have taught them the craft of the game, they discussed together their misadven¬ tures in the past—how such an one was alive at dawn and dead ere the dusk, and with what shrieks and struggles such another had given up his soul under the Afghan knife. Death was a new and horrible thing to the sons of mechanics who were used to die decently of zymotic disease; and their careful conservation in barracks had done nothing to make them look upon it with less dread. Very early in the dawn the bugles began to blow. THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 65 and the Fore and Aft, filled with a misguided en¬ thusiasm, turned out without waiting for a cup of coffee and a biscuit; and were rewarded by being kept under arms in the cold while the other regi¬ ments leisurely prepared for the fray. All the world knows that it is ill taking the breeks off a Highlander. It is much iller to try to make him stir unless he is convinced of the necessity for haste. The Fore and Aft waited, leaning upon their rifles and listening to the protests of their empty stomachs. The colonel did his best to remedy the default of lining as soon as it was borne in upon him that the affair would not begin at once, and so well did he succeed that the coffee was just ready when—the men moved off, their band leading. Even then there had been a mistake in time, and the Fore and Aft came out into the valley ten min¬ utes before the proper hour. Their band wheeled to the right after reaching the open, and retired behind a little rocky knoll, still playing while the regiment went past. It was not a pleasant sight that opened on the unobstructed view, for the lower end of the val¬ ley appeared to be filled by an army in position— 66 KIPLING BOY STORIES. real and actual regiments attired in red coats, and —of this there was no doubt—firing Martmi- Henri bullets which cut up the ground a hundred yards in front of the leading company. Over that pock-marked ground the regiment had to pass, and it opened the ball with a general and profound courtesy to the piping pickets; ducking in perfect time, as though it had been brazed on a rod. Being half capable of thinking for itself, it fired a volley by the simple process of pitching its rifle into its shoulders and pulling the trigger. The bullets may have accounted for some of the watchers on the hill-side, but they certainly did not affect the mass of enemy in front, while the noise of the rifles drowned any orders that might have been given. "Good God!" said the brigadier, sitting on the rock high above all. "That regiment has spoiled the whole show. Hurry up the others, and let the screw-guns get off." But the screw-guns, in working round the heights, had stumbled upon a wasp's nest of a small mud fort which they incontinently shelled at eight hundred yards, to the huge discomfort of the THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 67 occupants, who were unaccustomed to weapons of such devilish precision. The Fore and Aft continued to go forward, but with shortened stride. Where were the other reg¬ iments, and why did these niggers use Martinis? They took open order instinctively, lying down and firing at random, rushing a few paces forward and lying down again, according to the regula¬ tions. Once in this formation, each man felt him¬ self desperately alone, and edged in toward his fellow for comfort's sake. Then the crack of his neighbor's rifle at his ear led him to fire as rapidly as he could—again for the sake of the comfort of the noise. The reward was not long delayed. Five volleys plunged the files in banked smoke impenetrable to the eye, and the bullets began to take ground twenty or thirty yards in front of the firers, as the weight of the bayonet dragged down, and the right arms wear¬ ied with holding the kick of the leaping Mar¬ tini. The company commanders peered helplessly through the smoke, the more nervous mechan¬ ically trying to fan it away with their helmets. "High and to the left!" bawled a captain till he 68 KIPLING BOY STORIES. was hoarse. "No good! Cease firing, and let it drift away a bit." Three or four times the bugles shrieked the or¬ der, and when it was obeyed the Fore and Aft looked that their foe should be lying before them in mown swaths of men. A light wind drove the smoke to leeward, and showed the enemy still in position and apparently unaffected. A quarter of a ton of lead had been buried a furlong in front of them, as the ragged earth attested. That was not demoralizing. They were wait¬ ing for the mad riot to die down, and were firing quietly into the heart of the smoke. A private of the Fore and Aft spun up his company shrieking with agony, another was kicking the earth and gasping, and a third, ripped through the lower in¬ testines by a jagged bullet, was calling aloud on his comrades to put him out of his pain. These were the casualties, and they were not soothing to hear or see. The smoke cleared to a dull haze. Then the foe began to shout with a great shout¬ ing and a mass—a black mass—detached itself from the main body, and rolled over the ground at horrid speed. It was composed of. perhaps, three hundred men, who would shout and fire and THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 69 slash if the rush of their fifty comrades, who were determined to die, carried home. The fifty were Ghazis, half-maddened with drugs and wholly mad with religious fanaticism. When they rushed, the British fire ceased, and in the lull the order was given to close ranks and meet them with the bayonet. Any one who knew the business could have told the Fore and Aft that the only way of dealing with a Ghazi rush is by volleys at long ranges; because a man who means to die, who desires to die, who will gain heaven by dying, must, in nine cases out of ten, kill a man who' has a lingering prejudice in favor of life if he can close with the latter. Where they should have closed and gone for¬ ward, the Fore and Aft opened out and skir¬ mished, and where they should have opened out and fired, they closed and waited. A man dragged from his blankets half awake and unfed is never in a pleasant frame of mind. Nor does his happiness increase when he watches the whites of the eyes of three hundred six-foot fiends upon whose beards the foam is lying, upon whose tongues is a roar of wrath, and in whose hands are three- foot knives. 7° KIPLING BOY STORIES. The Fore and Aft heard the Gurkha bugles bringing that regiment forward at the double, while the neighing of the Highland pipes came from the left. They strove to stay where they were, though the bayonets wavered down the line like the oars of a ragged boat. Then they felt body to body the amazing physical strength of their foes; a shriek of pain ended the rush, and the knives fell amid scenes not to be told. The men clubbed together and smote blindly—as often as not at their own fellows. Their front crumpled like paper, and the fifty Ghazis passed on; their backers, now drunk with success, fighting as madly as they. Then the rear ranks were bidden to close up, and the subalterns dashed into the stew—alone. For the rear rank had heard the clamor in front, the yells and the howls of pain, and had seen the dark stale blood that makes afraid. They were not going to stay. It was the rushing of the camps over again. Let their officers go, if they chose; they would get away from the knives. "Come on!" shrieked the subalterns, and their men, cursing them, drew back, each closing into his neighbor and wheeling round. THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 71 Charteris and Devlin, subalterns of the last company, faced their death alone in the belief that their men would follow. "You've killed me, you cowards," sobbed Dev¬ lin, and dropped, cut from the shoulder-strap to the center of the chest, and a fresh detachment of his men retreating, always retreating, trampled him under foot as they made for the pass whence they had emerged. I kissed her in the kitchen and I kissed her in the hall. Child'un, child'un, follow me! Oh, Golly, said the cook, is he gwine to kiss us all? Halla—Halla—Halla Hallelujah! The Gurkhas were pouring through the left gorge and over the heights at the double to the in¬ vitation of their regimental quickstep. The black rocks were crowned with dark-green spiders as the bugles gave tongue jubilantly: In the morning! In the morning by the bright light! When Gabriel blows his trumpet in the morning! The Gurkha rear companies tripped and blun¬ dered over loose stones. The front files halted for a moment to take stock of the valley and to settle stray boot-laces. Then a happy little sigh of con- 72 KIPLING BOY STORIES. tentment soughed down the ranks, and it was as though the land smiled, for behold there below was the enemy, and it was to meet them that the Gurkhas had doubled so hastily. There was much enemy. There would be amusement. The little men hitched their kukris well to hand, and gaped expectantly at their officers as terriers grin ere the stone is cast for them to fetch. The Gurkhas' ground sloped downward to the valley, and they enjoyed a fair view of the proceedings. They sat upon the bowlders to watch, for their officers were not going to waste their wind in assisting to repulse a Ghazi rush more than half a mile away. Let the white men look to their own front. "Hi! yi!" said the Subadar major, who was sweating profusely;—"the fools yonder, stand close-order! This is no time for close-order, it's the time for volleys. Ugh!" Horrified, amused, and indignant, the Gurkhas beheld the retirement —let us be gentle—of the Fore and Aft with a running chorus of oaths and commentaries. "They run! The white men run! Colonel Sa¬ hib, may zve also do a little running?" murmured Runbir Thappa, the senior Jemadar. But the colonel would have none of it. "Let THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 73 the beggars be cut up a little," said he, wrathfully. "Serves 'em right. They'll be prodded into facing round in a minute." He looked through his field- glasses, and caught the glint of an officer's sword. "Beating 'em with the flat!— How the Ghazis are walking into them!" said he. The Fore and Aft, heading back, bore with them their officers. The narrowness of the pass forced the mob into solid formation, and the rear rank delivered some sort of a wavering volley. The Ghazis drew off, for they did not know what reserves the gorge might hide. Moreover, it was never wise to chase white men too far. They returned as wolves return to cover, satisfied with the slaughter that they had done, and only stop¬ ping to slash at the wounded on the ground. A quarter of a mile had the Fore and Aft retreated, and now, jammed in the pass, was quivering with pain, shaken and demoralized with fear, while the officers, maddened beyond control, smote the men with the hilts and the flats of their swords. "Get back! Get back, you cowards—you wom¬ en! Right about face—column of companies, form—you hounds!" shouted the colonel, and the subalterns swore aloud. But the regiment wanted 74 KIPLING BOY STORIES. to go> —to gt> anywhere out of the range of those merciless knives. It swayed to and fro irresolute¬ ly with shouts and outcries, while from the right the Gurkhas dropped volley after volley of crip¬ ple-stopper Snider bullets at long range into1 the mob of the Ghazis returning to> their own troops. The Fore and Aft band, though protected from direct fire by the rocky knoll under which it had sat down, fled at the first rush. Jakin and Lew would have fled also, but their short legs left them fifty yards in the rear, and by the time the band had mixed with the regiment they were painfully aware that they would have to close in alone and unsupported. "Get back to that rock," gasped Jakin. "They won't see us there." And they returned to the scattered instruments of the band; their hearts nearly bursting their ribs. "Here's a nice show for us," said Jakin, throw¬ ing himself full length on the ground. "A bloom- in' fine show for British infantry! Oh, the devils! They've gone an' left us alone here! Wot'll we do?" Lew took possession of a cast-off water-bottle, THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 75 which naturally was full of canteen rum, and drank till he coughed again. "Drink," said he shortly. "They'll come back in a minute or two—you see." Jakin drank, but there was no sign of the regi¬ ment's return. They could hear a dull clamor from the head of the valley of retreat, and saw the Ghazis slink back, quickening their pace as the Gurkhas fired at them. "We're all that's left of the band, an' we'll be cut up as sure as death," said Jakin. "I'll die game, then," said Lew thickly, fum¬ bling with his tiny drummer's sword. The drink was working on his brain as it was on Jakin's. " 'Old on! I know something better than fightin'," said Jakin, stung by the splendor of a sudden thought, due chiefly to rum. "Tip our bloomin' cowards yonder the word to come back. The Pay than beggars are well away. Come on, Lew! We won't get hurt. Take the fife an' give me the drum. The Old Step for all you're bloom- in' worth! There's a few of our men coming back now. Stand up, ye drunken little defaulter. By your right—quick march!" He slipped the drum-sling over his shoulder, 76 KIPLING BOY STORIES. thrust the fife into Lew's hand, and the two boys marched out of the cover of the rock into the open, making a hideous hash of the first bars of the "British Grenadiers." As Lew had said, a few of the Fore and Aft were coming back sullenly and shamefacedly under the stimulus of blows and abuse; their red coats shone at the head of the valley, and behind them were wavering bayonets. But between this shattered line and the enemy, who> with Afghan suspicion feared that the hasty retreat meant an ambush, and had not moved therefore, lay half a mile of level ground dotted only by the wounded. The tune settled into full swing, and the boys kept shoulder to shoulder, Jakin banging the drum as one possessed. The one fife made a thin and pitiful squeaking, but the tune carried far, even to the Gurkhas. "Come on, you dogs!" muttered Jakin to him¬ self. "Are we to' play forever?" Lew was star¬ ing straight in front of him: and marching more stiffly than ever he had done on parade. And in bitter mockery of the distant mob, the old tune of the Old Line shrilled and rattled: Page 76 The two boys marched out into the open THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 77 Some talk of Alexander, And some of Hercules; Of Hector and Lysander, And such great names as these. There was a far-off clapping of hands from the Gurkhas, and a roar from the Highlanders in the distance, but never a shot was fired by British or Afghan. The two little red dots moved forward in the open parallel to the enemy's front. But of all the world's great heroes There's none that can compare, With a tow-row-row-row-row-row, To the British Grenadier! The men of the Fore and Aft were gathering thick at the entrance into the plain. The briga¬ dier on the heights far above was speechless with rage. Still no movement from the enemy. The day stayed to watch the children. Jakin halted and beat the long roll of the as¬ sembly, while the fife squealed despairingly. "Right about face! Hold up, Lew, you're drunk," said Jakin. They wheeled and marched back: Those heroes of antiquity Ne'er saw a cannon-ball, Nor knew the force o' powder, 6 78 KIPLING BOY STORIES. "Here they come!" said Jakin. "Go on,, Lew To scare their foes withal! The Fore and Aft were pouring out of the val¬ ley. What officers had said to men in that time of shame and humiliation will never be known, for neither officers nor men speak of it now. "They are coming anew!" shouted a priest among the Afghans. "Do not kill the boys! Take them alive, and they shall be of our faith." But the first volley had been fired, and Lew dropped on his face. Jakin stood for a minute, spun round, and collapsed as the Fore and Aft came forward, the maledictions of their officers in their ears, and in their hearts the shame of open shame. Half the men had seen the drummers die, and they made no sign. They did not even shout. They doubled out straight across the plain in open order, and they did not fire. "This," said the Colonel of Gurkhas, softly, "is the real attack, as it ought to have been delivered. Come on, my children." "Ulu-lu-lu-lu!" squealed the Gurkhas, and came THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 79 down with a joyful clicking of kukris—those vi¬ cious Gurkha knives. On the right there was no rush. The High¬ landers, cannily commending their souls to God (for it matters as much to a dead man whether he has been shot in a border scuffle or at Water¬ loo), opened out and fired according to their custom; that is to say, without heat and without intervals, while the screw-guns, having disposed of the impertinent mud fort afore-mentioned, dropped shell after shell into the clusters round the flickering green standards on the heights. "Charging is an unfortunate necessity," mur¬ mured the color-sergeant of the right company of the Highlanders. "It makes the men sweer so, but I am thinkin' that it will come to' a charge if these black devils stand much longer. Stewarrt, man, you're firing into the eye of the sun, and he'll not take any harm for government ammuneetion. A foot lower and a good deal slower! What are the English doing? They're very quiet there in the center. Running again?" The English were not running. They were hacking and hewing and stabbing, for, though one 8o KIPLING BOY STORIES. white man is seldom physically a match for an Afghan in a sheep-skin or wadded coat, yet, through the pressure of many white men behind, and a certain thirst for revenge in his heart, he becomes capable of doing much with both ends of his rifle. The Fore and Aft held their fire till one bullet could drive through five or six men, and the front of the Afghan force gave on the volley. They then selected their men, and slew them with deep gasps and short hacking coughs, and groanings of leather belts against strained bodies, and realized for the first time that an Afghan attacked is far less formidable than an Afghan attacking; which fact old soldiers might have told them. But they had no old soldiers in their ranks. The Gurkhas' stall at the bazaar was the noisi¬ est, for the men were engaged—to a nasty noise as of beef being cut on the block—with the kukri, which they preferred to the bayonet; well know¬ ing how the Afghan hates the half-moon blade. As the Afghans wavered, the green standards on the mountain moved down to assist them in a last rally; which was unwise. The lancers chafing in the right gorge had thrice dispatched their only THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 8l subaltern as galloper to report on the progress of affairs. On the third occasion he returned, with a bullet-graze on his knee, swearing strange oaths in Hindoostanee, and saying that all things were ready. So that squadron swung round the right of the Highlanders with a wicked whistling of wind in the pennons of its lances, and fell upon the remnant just when, according to all the rules of war, it should have waited for the foe to show more signs of wavering. But it was a dainty charge, deftly delivered, and it ended by the cavalry finding itself at the head of the pass by which the Afghans intended to retreat; and down the track that the lances had made streamed two companies of the Highlanders, which was never intended by the brigadier. The new development was successful. It detached the enemy from his base as a sponge is torn from a rock, and left him ringed about with fire in that pitiless plain. And as a sponge is chased round the bath-tub by the hand of the bather, so were the Afghans chased till they broke into little de¬ tachments much more difficult to dispose of than large masses. "See!" quoth the brigadier. "Everything has 82 KIPLING BOY STORIES. come as I arranged. We've cut their base, and now we'll bucket 'em to pieces." A direct hammering was all that the brigadier had dared to hope for, considering the size of the force at his disposal; but men who stand or fall by the errors of their opponents may be forgiven for turning Chance into Design. The bucketing went forward merrily. The Afghan forces were upon the run—the run of wearied wolves who snarl and bite over their shoulders. The red lances dipped by twos and threes, and, with a shriek, up rose the lance-butt, like a spar on a stormy sea, as the trooper cantering forward cleared his point. The lancers kept between their prey and the steep hills, for all who could were trying to escape from the valley of death. The Highlanders gave the fugitives two hundred yards' law, and then brought them down, gasping and choking, ere they could reach the protection of the bowlders above. The Gurkhas followed suit; but the Fore and Aft were killing on their own account, for they had penned a mass of men between their bay¬ onets and a wall of rock, and the flash of the rifles was lighting the wadded coats. "We can not hold them, Captain Sahib!" pant- THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 83 ed a ressaidar of lancers. "Let us try the car¬ bine. The lance is good, but it wastes time." They tried the carbine, and still the enemy melted away—fled up the hills by hundreds when there were only twenty bullets to stop them. On the heights the screw-guns ceased firing—they had run out of ammunition—and the brigadier groaned, for the musketry fire could not sufficient¬ ly smash the retreat. Long before the last vol¬ leys were fired the litters were out in force looking for the wounded. The battle was over, and, but for want of fresh troops, the Afghans would have been wiped off the earth. As it was they counted their dead by hundreds, and nowhere were the dead thicker than in the track of the Fore and Aft. But the regiment did not cheer with the High¬ landers, nor did they dance uncouth dances with the Gurkhas among the dead. They looked under their brows at the -colonel as they leaned upon their rifles and panted. "Get back to camp, you! Haven't you disgraced yourself enough for one day? Go and look to the wounded. It's all you're fit for," said the colonel. Yet for the past hour the Fore and Aft had been doing all that mortal commander could expect. 84 KIPLING BOY STORIES. They had lost heavily because they did not know how to set about their business with proper skill, but they had borne themselves gallantly, and this was their reward. A young and sprightly color-sergeant, who had begun to imagine himself a hero, offered his water-bottle to a Highlander, whose tongue was black with thirst. "I drink with no cowards," answered the youngster, huskily, and, turning to a Gurkha, said, "Hva, Johnny! Drink water got it?" The Gurkha grinned and passed his bottle. The Fore and Aft said no word. They went back to camp when the field of strife had been a little mopped up and made presentable, and the brigadier, who saw himself a knight in three months, was the only soul who was compli¬ mentary to them. The colonel was heart-broken and the officers were savage and sullen. "Well," said the brigadier, "they are young troops, of course, and it was not unnatural that they should retire in disorder for a bit." "Oh, my only Aunt Maria!" murmured a junior staff officer. "Retire in disorder! It was a bully run!" "But they came again as we all know," cooed THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 85 the brigadier, the colonel's ashy-white face before him, ''and they behaved as well as could possibly be expected. Behaved beautifully, indeed. I was watching them. It's not a matter to take to heart, colonel. As some German general said of his men, they wanted to be shooted over a little, that was all." To himself he said:—"Now they're blooded I can give 'em responsible work. It's as well that they got what they did. Teach 'em more than half a dozen rifle flirtations, that will— later—run alone and bite. Poor old colonel, though." All that afternoon the heliograph winked and flickered on the hills, striving to tell the good news to a mountain forty miles away. And in the evening there arrived—dusty, sweating, and sore —a misguided correspondent who had gone out to assist at a trumpery village-burning and who had read off the message from afar, cursing his luck the while. "Let's have the details somehow—as full as ever you can, please. It's the first time I've ever been left this campaign," said the correspondent to the brigadier; and the brigadier, nothing loath, told him how an army of communication had been 86 KIPLING BOY STORIES. crumpled up, destroyed, and all but annihilated by the craft, strategy, wisdom, and foresight of the brigadier. But some say, and among these be the Gurkhas who watched on the hill-side, that that battle was won by Jakin and Lew, whose little bodies were borne up just in time to fit two gaps at the head of the big ditch-grave for the dead under the heights of Jagai. WEE WILLIE WINKIE. "An officer and a gentleman." His full name was Percival William Williams, but he picked up the other name in a nursery- book, and that was the end of the christened titles. His mother's ayah called him Willie-Baba, but as he never paid the faintest attention to anything that the ayah said, her wisdom did not help mat¬ ters. His father was the colonel of the 195th, and as soon as Wee Willie Winkie was old enough to understand what military discipline meant, Colo¬ nel Williams put him under it. There was no other way of managing the child. When he was good for a week, he drew good-conduct pay; and when he was bad, he was deprived of his good- conduct stripe. Generally he was bad, for India offers so many chances to little six-year-olds of going wrong. Children resent familiarity from strangers, and Wee Willie Winkie was a very particular child. Once he accepted an acquaintance he was gra¬ ciously pleased to thaw. He accepted Brandis, a 87 88 KIPLING BOY STORIES. subaltern of the 195th, on sight. Brandis was having tea at the Colonel's, and Wee Willie Winkie entered, strong 111 the possession of a good-conduct badge won for not chasing the hens round the compound. He regarded Brandis with gravity for at least ten minutes, and then delivered himself of his opinion. "I like you," said he, slowly, getting off his chair and coming over to Brandis. "I like you. I shall call you Coppy, because of your hair. Do you mind being called Coppy? It is because of ve hair, you know." Here was one of the most embarrassing of Wee Willie Winkie's peculiarities. He would look at a stranger for some time, and then, without warn¬ ing or explanation, would give him a name. And the name stuck. No regimental penalties could break Wee Willie Winkie of this habit. He lost his good-conduct badge for christening the com¬ missioner's wife "Pobsbut nothing that the Colonel could do made the station forego the nick¬ name, and Mrs. Collen remained Mrs. "Pobs" till the end of her stay. So Brandis was christened "Coppy," and rose, therefore, in the estimation of the regiment. WEE WILLIE WINKIE. 89 If Wee Willie Winkie took an interest in any one, the fortunate man was envied alike by the mess and the rank and file. And in their envy lay no suspicion of self-interest. "The Colonel's son" was idolized on his own merits entirely. Yet Wee Willie Winkie was not lovely. His face was permanently freckled, as his legs were per¬ manently scratched, and, in spite of his mother's almost tearful remonstrances, he had insisted upon having- his long, yellow locks cut short in the mili¬ tary fashion. "I want my hair like Sergeant TummiFs," said Wee Willie Winkie; and, his father abetting, the sacrifice was accomplished. Three weeks after the bestowal of his youthful affections on Lieutenant Brandis—henceforward to be called "Coppy" for the sake of brevity—Wee Willie Winkie was destined to behold strange things and far beyond his comprehension. Coppy returned his liking with interest. Coppy had let him wear for five rapturous minutes his own big sword—just as tall as Wee Willie Winkie. Coppy had promised him a terrier puppy; and Coppy had permitted him to witness the miraculous operation of shaving. Nay, more —Coppy had said that even he, Wee Willie 9° KIPLING BOY STORIES. Winkie, would rise in time to the ownership of a box of shiny knives, a silver soap-box, and a silver-handled "sputter-brush," as Wee Willie Winkie called it. Decidedly, there was no one, except his father—who could give or take away good-conduct badges at pleasure—half so wise, strong, and valiant as Coppy with the Afghan and Egyptian medals on his breast. Why, then, should Coppy be guilty of the unmanly weakness of kissing—vehemently kissing—a "big girl," Miss Allardyce to wit? In the course of a morn¬ ing ride, Wee Willie Winkie had seen Coppy so doing, and, like the gentleman he was, had promptly wheeled round and cantered back to his groom, lest the groom should also see. Under ordinary circumstances he would have spoken to his father, but he felt instinctively that this was a matter on which Coppy ought first to be consulted. "Coppy," shouted Wee Willie Winkie, reining up outside that subaltern's bungalow early one morning—"I want to see you, Coppy!" "Come in, young 'un," returned Coppy, who was at early breakfast in the midst of his dogs. "What mischief have you been getting into now ?" WEE WILLIE WINKIE. 91 Wee Willie Winkie had done nothing notori¬ ously bad for three days, and so stood on a pin¬ nacle of virtue. "Fve been doing nothing bad," said he, curling himself into a long chair with a studious affecta¬ tion of the Colonel's languor after a hot parade. He buried his freckled nose in a tea-cup, and, with eyes staring roundly over the rim, asked: "I say, Coppy, is it pwoper to kiss big girls?" "By Jove! You're beginning early. Who do you want to kiss?" "No one. My muvver's always kissing me if I don't stop her. If it isn't pwoper, how was you kissing Major Allardyce's big girl last morning, by ve canal ?" Coppy's brow wrinkled. He and Miss Allar- dyce had, with great craft, managed to keep their engagement secret for a fortnight. There were urgent and imperative reasons why Major Allar- dyce should not know how matters stood for at least another month, and this small marplot had discovered a great deal too much. "I saw you," said Wee Willie Winkie, calmly. "But ve groom didn't see. I said, 'Hut jao.' " "Oh, you had that much sense, you young rip," 9 2 KIPLING BOY STORIES. groaned poor Coppy, half-amused and half- angry. "And how many people may you have told about it?" "Only me myself. You didn't tell when I twied to wide ve buffalo ven my pony wras lame; and I fought you wouldn't like." "Winkie," said Coppy, enthusiastically, shak¬ ing the small hand, "you're the best of good fel¬ lows. Look here, you can't understand all these things. One of these days—hang it, how can I make you see it!—I'm going to marry Miss Allar- dyce, and then she'll be Mrs. Coppy, as you say. If your young mind is so scandalized at the idea of kissing big girls, go and tell your father." "What will happen?" said Wee Willie Winkie, who firmly believed that his father was omnip¬ otent. "I shall get into- trouble," said Coppy, playing his trump card with an appealing look at the holder of the ace. "Ven I won't," said Wee Willie Winkie, briefly. "But my faver says it's un-man-ly to' be always kissing, and I didn't fink you'd do vat, Coppy." "I'm not always kissing, old chap. It's only now and then, and when you're bigger you'll do WEE WILLIE VVINKIE. 93 it, too. Your father meant it's not good for little boys." "Ah!" said Wee Willie Winkie, now fully en¬ lightened. "It's like ve sputter-brush?" "Exactly," said Coppy, gravely. "But I don't fink I'll ever want to kiss big girls, nor no one, 'cept my muvver. And I must vat, you know." There was a long pause, broken by Wee Willie Winkie. "Are you fond of vis big girl, Coppy?" "Awfully!" said Coppy. "Fonder van you are of Bell or ve Butcha— or me?" "It's in a different way," said Coppy. "You see, one of these days Miss Allardyce will belong to me, but you'll grow up and command the regi¬ ment and—all sorts of things. It's quite different, you see." "Very well," said Wee Willie Winkie, rising. "If you're fond of ve big girl, I won't tell any one. I must go now." Coppy rose and escorted his small guest to the door, adding: "You're the best of little fellows, Winkie. I tell you. what. In thirty days from 7 94 KIPLING BOY STORIES. now you can tell if you like—tell any one you like." Thus the secret of the Brandis-Allardyce en¬ gagement was dependent on a little child's word. Coppy, who knew Wee Willie Winkie's idea of truth, was at ease, for he felt that he would not break promises. Wee Willie Winkie betrayed a special and unusual interest in Miss Allardyce, and, slowly revolving round that embarrassed young lady, was used to regard her gravely with unwinking eye. He was trying to discover why Coppy should have kissed her. She was not half so nice as his own mother. On the other hand, she was Coppy's property, and would in time be¬ long to him. Therefore it behooved him to treat her with as much respect as Coppy's big sword or shiny pistol. The idea that he shared a great secret in com¬ mon with Coppy kept Wee Willie Winkie un¬ usually virtuous for three weeks. Then the Old Adam broke out, and he made what he called a "camp-fire" at the bottom of the garden. How could he have foreseen that the flying sparks would have lighted the Colonel's little hayrick and consumed a week's store for the horses ? Sudden WEE WILLIE WINKIE. 95 and swift was the punishment—deprivation of the good-conduct badge, and, most sorrowful of all, two days' confinement to barracks—the house and veranda—coupled with the withdrawal of the light of his father's countenance. He took the sentence like the man he strove to be, drew himself up with a quivering under-lip, saluted, and, once clear of the room, ran to weep bitterly in his nursery—called by him "my quar¬ ters." Coppy came in the afternoon and attempt¬ ed to console the culprit. "I'm under awwest," said Wee Willie Winkie, mournfully, "and I didn't ought to speak to you." Very early the next morning he climbed on to the roof of the house—that was not forbidden— and beheld Miss Allardyce going for a ride. "Where are you going?" cried Wee Willie Winkie. "Across the river," she answered, and trotted forward. Now, the cantonment in which the 195th lay was bounded on the north by a river—dry in the winter. From his earliest years Wee Willie Winkie had been forbidden to go across the river, and had noted that even Coppy—the almost al- 96 KIPLING BOY STORIES. mighty Coppy—had never set foot beyond it. Wee Willie Winkie had once been read to—out of a big, blue book—the history of the princess and the goblins; a most wonderful tale of a land where the goblins were always warring with the children of men until they were defeated by one Curdie. Ever since that date, it seemed to him that the bare black-and-purple hills across the river were inhabited by goblins, and, in truth, every one had said that there lived the bad men. Even in his own house the lower halves of the windows were covered with green paper on ac¬ count of the bad men who might, if allowed clear view, fire into peaceful drawing-rooms and com¬ fortable bedrooms. Certainly, beyond the river, which was the end of all the earth, lived the bad men. And here was Major Allardyce's big girl, Coppy's property, preparing to venture into their borders! What would Coppy say if anything hap¬ pened to her? If the goblins ran off with her. as they did with Curdie's princess? She must at all hazards be turned back. The house was still. Wee Willie Winkie re¬ flected for a moment on the very terrible wrath WEE WILLIE W1NKIE. 97 of his father; and then—broke his arrest! It was a crime unspeakable. The low sun threw his shadow, very large and very black, on the trim garden-paths, as he went down to the stables and ordered his pony. It seemed to him, in the hush of the dawn, that all the big world had been bid¬ den to stand still and look at Wee Willie Winkie guilty of mutiny. The drowsy groom handed him his mount, and, since the one great sin made all others insignificant. Wee Willie Winkie said that he was going to ride over to Coppy Sahib, and went out at a foot-pace, stepping on the soft mold of the flower-borders. The devastating track of the pony's feet was the last misdeed that cut him off from all sympathy of humanity. He turned into the road, leaned forward, and rode as fast as the pony could put foot to the ground, in the direction of the river. But the liveliest of twelve-two ponies can do little against the long canter of a waler. Miss Allardyce was far ahead, had passed through the crops, beyond the police-post, when all the guards were asleep, and her mount was scattering the pebbles of the river-bed as Wee Willie Winkie left the cantonment and British India behind him. 98 KIPLING BOY STORIES. Bowed forward and still flogging, Wee Willie Winkie shot into Afghan territory, and could just see Miss Allardyce, a black speck, flickering across the stony plain. The reason of her wandering was simple enough. Coppy, in a tone of too hastily assumed authority, had told her overnight that she must not ride out by the river. And she had gone to prove her own spirit and teach Coppy a lesson. Almost at the foot of the inhospitable hills, Wee Willie Winkie saw the waler blunder and come down heavily. Miss Allardyce struggled clear, bur her ankle had been severely twisted, and she could not stand. Having thus demonstrated her spirit, she wept copiously, and was surprised by the apparition of a white, wide-eyed child in khaki, on a nearly spent pony. "Are you badly—badly hurted?" shouted Wee Willie Winkie, as soon as he was within range. "You didn't ought to be here." "I don't know," said Miss Allardyce, ruefully, ignoring the reproof. "Good gracious, child, what are you doing here?" "You said you was going acwoss ve wiver," panted Wee Willie Winkie, throwing himself off WEE WILLIE WINKIE. 99 his pony. "And nobody—not even Coppy—must go acwoss ve wiver, and I came after you ever so hard; but you wouldn't stop, and now you've hurted yourself, and Coppy will be angwy wiv me, and—I've bwoken my awwest! I've bwoken my awwest!" The future colonel of the 195th sat down and sobbed. In spite of the pain in her ankle, the girl was moved. "Have you ridden all the way from canton¬ ments, little man? What for?" "You belonged to Coppy. Coppy told me so!" wailed Wee Willie Winkie, disconsolately. "I saw him kissing you, and he said he was fonder of you van Bell or ve Butcha or me. And so I came. You must get up and come back. You didn't ought to be here. Vis is a bad place and I've bwoken my awwest." "I can't move, Winkie," said Miss Allaidyce, with a groan. "I've hurt my foot. What shall I do?" She showed a readiness to weep afresh, which steadied Wee Willie Winkie, who had been brought up to believe that tears were the depth of unmanliness. Still, when one is as great a sinner IOO KIPLING BOY STORIES. as Wee Willie Winkie, even a man may be per¬ mitted to break down. "Winkie," said Miss Allardyce, "when you've rested a little, ride back and tell them to send out something- to carry me back in. It hurts fear¬ fully." The child sat still for a little time, and Miss Allardyce closed her eyes; the pain was nearly making her faint. She was roused by Wee Willie Winkie tying up the reins on his pony's neck, and setting it free with a vicious cut of his whip that made it whicker. The little animal headed to¬ ward the cantonments. "Oh, Winkie! What are you doing?'" "Hush!" said Wee Willie Winkie. "Vere's a man coming—one of ve bad men. I must stay wiv you. My father says a man must always look after a girl. Jack will go home, and ven vey'll come and look for us. Vat's why I let him go." Not one man, but two or thr?e, had appeared from behind the rocks of the hills, and the heart of Wee Willie Winkie sunk within him, for just in this manner were the goblins wont to steal out .'ind vex Curdie's soul. Thus had they played in WEE WILLIE WINKIE. IOI Curdie's garden—he had seen the picture—and thus had they frightened the princess' nurse. He heard them talking to each other, and recognized with joy the Pushto that he had picked up from one of his father's grooms lately dismissed. Peo¬ ple who spoke that tongue could not be the bad men. They were only natives after all. They came up to the bowlders on which Miss Allardyce's horse had blundered. Then rose from the rock Wee Willie Winkie, child of the dominant race, aged six and three- quarters, and said, briefly and emphatically, "Jao!" The pony had crossed the river-bed. The men laughed, and laughter from the na¬ tives was the one thing Wee Willie Winkie could not tolerate. He asked them what they wanted and why they did not depart. Other men, with most evil faces and crooked-stocked guns, crept out of the shadows of the hills, till soon Wee Willie Winkie w7as face to face with an audience some twenty strong. Miss Allardyce screamed. "Who are you?" said one of the men. "I am the Colonel Sahib's son, and my order is that you go at once. You black men are fright¬ ening the Miss Sahib. One of you must run into 102 KIPLING BOY STORIES. cantonments and take the news that the Miss Sahib has hurt herself, and that the Colonel's son is here with her." "Put our feet into the trap?" was the laughing reply. "Hear this boy's speech!" "Say that I sent you—I, the Colonel's son. They will give you money." "What is the use of this talk? Take up the child and the girl, and we can at least ask a ran¬ som. Ours are the villages on the heights," said a voice in the background. These were the bad men—worse than the gob¬ lins—and it needed all Wee Willie Winkie's train¬ ing to prevent him from bursting into tears. But he felt that to cry before a native, excepting only his mother's ayah, would be an infamy greater than any mutiny. Moreover, he, as future colonel of the 195th, had that grim regiment at his back. "Are you going to carry us away?" said Wee Willie Winkie, very blanched and uncomfortable. "Yes, my little Sahib Bahadursaid the tallest of the men, "and eat you afterward." "That is child's talk," said Wee Willie Winkie. "Men do not eat men." A yell of laughter interrupted him, but he went Page 10 x Other men with evil faces crept out of the shadows of the hills WEE WILLIE WINKIE. 103 on, firmly: "And if you do carry us away, I tell you that all my regiment will come up in a day and kill you all without leaving one. Who will take my message to the Colonel Sahib?" Speech in any vernacular—and Wee Willie Winkie had a colloquial acquaintance with three— was easy to the boy who could not yet manage his r's and th's aright. Another man joined the conference, crying: "Oh, foolish men! What this babe says is true. He is the heart's heart of those white troops. For the sake of peace, let them both go; for, if he be taken, the regiment will break loose and gut the valley. Our villages are in the valley, and we shall not escape. That regiment are devils. They broke Khoda Yar's breast-bone with kicks when he tried to take the rifles; and, if we touch this child, they will fire and rape and plunder for a month, till nothing remains. Better to send a man back to take the message and get a reward. I say that this child is their god, and that they will spare none of us, nor our women, if we harm him." It was Din Mahommed, the dismissed groom of the Colonel, who made the diversion, and an angry and heated discussion followed. Wee 104 KIPLING BOY STORIES. Willie Winkie, standing over Miss Allardyce, waited the upshot. Surely his "wegiment," his own "wegiment." would not desert him if they knew of his extremity. ^ * >i< The riderless pony brought the news to the 195th, though there had been consternation in the Colonel's household for an hour before. The little beast came in through the parade-ground in front of the main barracks, where the men were settling down to plav spoil-five till the afternoon. Devlin, the color-sergeant of E Company, glanced at the empty saddle and tumbled through the bar¬ rack-rooms, kicking up each room corporal as he passed. "Up, ye beggars! There's something happened to the Colonel's son," he shouted. "He couldn't fall off! S'elp me, 'e couldn't fall off," blubbered a drummer-boy. "Go an' hunt acrost the river. He's over there if he's anywhere, an' may be those Pathans have got 'im. For the love o' Gawd, don't look for 'im in the nullahs! Let's go over the river." "There's sense in Mott yet," said Devlin. "E Company, double out to the river—sharp!" So E Company, in its shirt-sleeves mainly. WEE WILLIE WINKIE. IOj doubled for the dear life, and in the rear toiled the perspiring sergeant, adjuring it to double yet faster. The cantonment was alive with the men of the 195th hunting for Wee Willie Winkie, and the Colonel finally overtook E Company, far too exhausted to swear, struggling in the pebbles of the river-bed. Up the hill under which Wee Willie Winkie's bad men were discussing the wisdom of carrying off the child and the girl, a lookout fired two shots. "What have I said?" shouted Din Mahommed. "There is the warning! The pulton are out al¬ ready and are coming across the plain! Get away! Let us not be seen with the boy!" The men waited for an instant, and then, as another shot was fired, withdrew into the hills silently as they had appeared. "The wegiment is coming," said Wee Willie Winkie, confidently, to Miss Allardyce, "and it's all wight. Don't cry!" He needed the advice himself, for, ten minutes later, when his father came up, he was weeping bitterly with his head in Miss Allardyce's lap. And the men of the 195th carried him home with shouts and rejoicings; and Coppy, who had 106 KIPLING BOY STORIES. ridden a horse into a lather, met him, and, to his intense disgust, kissed him openly in the presence of the men. But there was balm for his dignity. His father assured him that not only would the breaking ot arrest be condoned, but that the good-conduct badge would be restored as soon as his mother could sew it on his blouse-sleeve. Miss Allardyce had told the Colonel a story that made him proud of his son. "She belonged to you, Coppy," said Wee Willie Winkie. indicating Miss Allardyce with a grimy forefinger. "I knew she didn't ought to go acwoss ve wiver, and I knew ve wegiment would come to me if I sent Jack home." "You're a hero, Winkie," said Coppy—"a pukka hero!" "I don't know what vat means," said Wee Willie Winkie; "but you mustn't call me Winkie any no more. I'm Percival Will'am WiU'ams." And in this manner did Wee Willie Winkie enter into his manhood. CHRISTMAS IN INDIA. Dim dawn behind the tamarisks—the sky is saf¬ fron-yellow— As the women in the village grind the corn, And the parrots seek the river-side, each calling to his fellow That the Day, the staring Eastern Day is born. Oh the white dust on the highway! Oh the stenches in the byway! Oh the clammy fog that hovers over earth! And at Home they're making merry 'neath the white and scarlet berry— What part have India's exiles in their mirth ? Full day behind the tamarisks—the sky is blue and staring— As the cattle crawl afield beneath the yoke, And they bear One o'er the field-path, who is past all hope or caring, To the ghat below the curling wreaths of smoke. Call on Rama, going slowly, as ye bear a brother lowly— 108 KIPLING BOY STORIES. Call on Rama—he may hear, perhaps, your voice! With our hymn-books and our psalters we appeal to other altars. And to-day we bid "good Christian men rejoice!" High noon behind the tamarisks—the sun is hot above us— As at Home the Christmas Day is breaking wan. They will drink our healths at dinner—those who tell us how they love us, And forget us till another year be gone! Oh the toil that needs no breaking! Oh the Heimzvch, ceaseless, aching! Oh the black dividing Sea and alien Plain! Youth was cheap—wherefore we sold it. Gold was good—we hoped to hold it. And to-day we know the fullness of our gain. Gray dusk behind the tamarisks—the parrots Al¬ together— As the sun is sinking slowly over Home; CHRISTMAS IN INDIA. And his last ray seems to mock us shackled in a lifelong tether That drags us back howe'er so- far we roam. Hard her service, poor her payment—she in ancient, tattered raiment— India, she the grim Stepmother of our kind. If a year of life be lent her, if her temple's shrine we enter, The door is shut—we may not look behind. Black night behind the tamarisks—the owls begin their chorus— As the conches from the temple scream and bray. With the fruitless years behind us, and the hope¬ less years before us, Let us honor, O my brothers, Christmas Day! Call a truce, then, to our labors—let us feast with friend and neighbors. And be merry as the custom of our caste; For if "faint and forced the laughter," and if sadness follow after, We are richer by one mocking Christmas past. 8 BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. Baa baa, black sheep, Have you any wool? Yes, sir; yes, sir; three bags full. One for the master, one for the dame— None for the little boy that cries down the lane. Nursery Rhyme. THE FIRST BAG. "When I was in my father's house I was in a better place." They were putting Punch to bed—the ayah and the hamal and Meeta, the big Surti boy with the red-and-gold turban. Judy, already tucked inside her mosquito-curtains, was nearly asleep. Punch had been allowed to stay up for dinner. Many privileges had been accorded to Punch within the last ten days, and a greater kindness from the people of his world had encompassed his ways and works, which were mostly obstreperous. He sat on the edge of his bed and swung his bare legs defiantly. "Punch-baba going to bye-lo ?" said the ayah, suggestively. no BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. Ill "No," said Punch. "Punch-ba&a wants the story about the Ranee that was turned into a tiger. Meeta must tell it, and the hamal shall hide behind the door and make tiger-noises at the proper time." "But Judy-baba will wake up," said the ayah. "Judy-baba is waking," piped a small voice from the mosquito-curtains. "There was a Ranee that lived at Delhi. Go on, Meeta," and she fell fast asleep again while Meeta began the story. Never had Punch secured the telling of that tale with so little opposition. He reflected for a long time. The hamal made the tiger-noises in twenty different keys. "'Top!" said Punch, authoritatively. "Why doesn't papa come in and say he is going to give me put-put?" "Punch-baba is going away," said the ayah. "In another week there will be no Punch-fraba to pull my hair any more." She sighed softly, for the boy of the household was very dear to her heart. "Up the Ghauts in a train ?" said Punch, stand¬ ing on his bed. "All the way to Nassick, where the Ranee tiger lives?" 112 KIPLING BOY STORIES. "Not to Nassick this year, little sahib," said Meeta, lifting him on his shoulder. "Down to the sea, where the cocoanuts are thrown, and across the sea in a big ship. Will yon take Meeta with you to Bel ait?" "You shall all come," said Punch, from the height of Meeta's strong arms. "Meeta, and the ayah, and the harnal, and Bhini-in-the-garden, and the salaam-captain-sahib-snake-man." There was no mockery in Meeta's voice when he replied: "Great is the sahib's favor," and laid the little man down in the bed, while the ayah, sitting in the moonlight at the doorway, lulled him to sleep with an interminable canticle such as they sing in the Roman Catholic Church at Parel. Punch curled himself into a ball and slept. Next morning, Judy shouted that there was a rat in the nursery; and thus he forgot to tell her the wonderful news. It did not much matter, for Judy was only three and she would not have understood. But Punch was five, and he knew that going to England would be much nicer than a trip to Nassick. ^ And papa and mamma sold the brougham and BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. I 13 the piano, and stripped the house, and curtailed the allowance of crockery for the daily meals, and took long counsel together over a bundle of letters bearing the Rocklington postmark. "The worst of it is that one can't be certain of anything," said papa, pulling his mustache. "The letters in themselves are excellent, and the terms are moderate enough." "The worst of it is that the children will grow up away from me," thought mamma; but she did not say it aloud. "We are only one case among hundreds," said papa, bitterly. "You shall go home again in five years, dear." "Punch will be ten then—and Judy eight. Oh, how long and long and long the time will be! And we have to leave them among strangers." "Punch is a cheery little chap. He's sure to make friends wherever he goes." "And who could help loving my Ju?" They were standing over the cots in the nur¬ sery late at night, and I think that mamma was crying softly. After papa had gone away she knelt down by the side of Judy's cot. The ayah saw her and put up a prayer that the memsahib U4 KIPLING BOY STORIES. might never find the love of her children taken away from her and given to a stranger. Mamma's own prayer was a slightly illogical one. Summarized it ran: "Let strangers love my children, and be as good to them as I should be; but let me preserve their love and their confi¬ dence forever and ever. Amen." Punch scratched himself in his sleep, and Judy moaned a little. That seems to be the only answer to the prayer ; and, next day, they all went down to the sea, and there was a scene at the Apollo Bunder when Punch discovered that Meeta could not come, too, and Judy learned that the ayah must be left be¬ hind. But Punch found a thousand fascinating things in the rope, block, and steam-pipe line on the big P. and O. steamer long before Meeta and the ayah had dried their tears. "Come back, Punch-baba," said the ayah. "Come back," said Meeta, "and be a Burra sahib." "Yes," said Punch, lifted up in his father's arms to wave good-bye. "Yes, I will come back, and I will be a Burra sahib Baha dur!" At the end of the first day, Punch demanded to be set down in England, which he was certain BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 115 must be close at hand. Next day, there was a merry breeze, and Punch was very sick. "When I come back to Bombay," said Punch, on his re¬ covery, "I will come by the road—in a broom- gharri. This is a very naughty ship." The Swedish boatswain consoled him, and he modified his opinions as the voyage went on. There was so much to see, and to handle, and ask questions about that Punch nearly forgot the ayah, and Meeta, and the hamal, and with difficulty re¬ membered a few words of the Hindoostanee, once his second speech. But Judy was much worse. The day before the steamer reached Southampton, mamma asked her if she would not like to see the ayah again. Judy's blue eyes turned to the stretch of sea that had swallowed all her tiny past, and she said: "Ayah! What ayah?" Mamma cried over her and Punch marveled. It was then that he heard, for the first time, mam¬ ma's passionate appeal to him never to let Judy forget mamma. Seeing that Judy was young, ridiculously young, and that mamma, every evening for four weeks past, had come into the cabin to sing her and Punch to sleep with a mys- Il6 KIPLING BOY STORIES. terious tune that he called "Sonny, my soul," Punch could not understand what mamma meant. But he strove to do his duty; for, the moment mamma left the cabin, he said to Judy : "Ju, you remember mamma?" " 'Torse I do," said Judy. "Then always remember mamma, else I won't, give you the paper ducks that the red-haired Captain Sahib cut out for me." So Judy promised always to "bemember mam¬ ma." Many and many a time was mamma's command laid upon Punch, and papa would say the same thing with an insistence that awed the child. "You must make haste and learn to write, Punch," said papa, "and then you'll be able to write letters to us in Bombay." "I'll come into your room," said Punch, and papa choked. Papa and mamma were always choking in those days. If Punch took Judy to task for not "be- membering," they choked. If Punch sprawled on the sofa in the Southampton lodging-house and sketched his future in purple and gold, they BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 117 choked; and so they did if Judy put up her mouth for a kiss. Through many days all four were vagabonds on the face of the earth—Punch with no one to give orders to, Judy too young for anything, and papa and mamma grave, distracted, and choking. "Where," demanded Punch, wearied of a loathsome contrivance on four wheels with a mound of luggage atop—"zi'here is our broom- gharrif This thing talks so much that / can't talk. Where is our ozvn broom-gharri? When I was at Bandstand, before we corned away, I asked Inverarity Sahib why he was sitting in it, and he said it was his own. And I said, T will give it you'—I like Inverarity Sahib—and I said, 'Can you put your legs through the pully-wag loops by the windows?' And Inverarity Sahib said 'No,' and laughed. I can put my legs through the pully- wag loops. I can put my legs through these pully- wag loops. Look! Oh, mamma's crying again ! I didn't know. I wasn't not to do so." Punch drew his legs out of the loops of the four-wheeler; the door opened and he slid to the earth, in a cascade of parcels, at the door of an austere little villa whose gates bore the legend, Il8 KIPLING BOY STORIES. "Downe Lodge." Punch gathered himself to¬ gether and eyed the house with disfavor. It stood on a sandy road, and a cold wind tickled his knick- erbockered legs. "Let us go away," said Punch. "This is not a pretty place." But mamma and papa and Judy had quitted the cab, and all the luggage was being taken into the house. At the door-step stood a woman in black, and she smiled largely, with dry, chapped lips. Behind her was a man—big, bony, gray, and lame as to one leg—behind him a boy of twelve, black-haired and oily in appearance. Punch surveyed the trio, and advanced without fear, as he had been accustomed to do> in Bom¬ bay when callers came and he happened to be play¬ ing in the veranda. "How do you do?" said he. "I am Punch." But they were all looking at the luggage—all ex¬ cept the gray man, who' shook hands with Punch and said he was "a smart little fellow." There was much running about and banging of boxes, and Punch curled himself up on the sofa in the dining-room and considered things. "I don't like these people." said Punch. "But BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. HQ never mind. We'll go away soon. We have al¬ ways went away soon from everywhere. I wish we was gone back to Bombay soon." The wish bore no fruit. For six days mamma wept at intervals, and showed the woman in black all Punch's clothes—-a liberty which Punch re¬ sented. "But p'r'aps she's a new white ayah," he thought. "I'm to call her Antirosa, but she doesn't call me sahib. She says just Punch," he confided to Judy. "What is Antirosa?" Judy didn't know. Neither she nor Punch had heard anything of an animal called an aunt. Their world had been papa and mamma, who knew everything, permitted everything, and loved everybody—even Punch when he used to go into the garden at Bombay and fill his nails with mold after the weekly nail-cutting, because, as he ex¬ plained, between two strokes of the slipper, to his sorely tried father, his fingers "felt so new at the ends." In an undefined way, Punch judged it advisable to keep both parents between himself and the woman in black and the boy in black hair. He did not approve of them. He liked the gray man, who had expressed a wish to be called "Uncle- 120 KIPLING BOY STORIES. harri." They nodded at each other when they met, and the gray man showed him a little ship with rigging that took lip and down. "She is a model of the Brisk—the little Brisk that was sore exposed that day at Navarino." The gray man hummed the last words and fell into a reverie. "I'll tell you about Navarino, Punch, when we go for walks together; and you mustn't touch the ship, because she's the Brisk." Long before that walk, the first of many, was taken, they roused Punch and Judy in the chill dawn of a February morning to say good-bye, and of all people in the wide earth, to papa and mamma—both crying this time. Punch was very sleepy, and Judy was cross. "Don't forget us," pleaded mamma. "Oh, my little son, don't forget us, and see that Judy re¬ members us, too." "I've told Judy to bemember," said Punch, wriggling, for his father's beard tickled his neck. "I've told Judy—ten—forty—'leven thousand times. But Ju's so young—quite a baby—isn't she?" "Yes," said papa, "quite a baby, and you must BAA BAA; BLACK SHEEP. 12 r be good to Judy, and make haste to learn to write and—and—and—" Punch was back in his bed again. Judy was fast asleep, and there was the rattle of a cab below. Papa and mamma had gone away. Not to> Nas- sick; that was across the sea. To some place much nearer, of course, and equally of course they would return. They came back after dinner-par¬ ties, and papa had come back after he had been to a place called "The Snows," and mamma with him, to Punch and Judy at Mrs. Inverarity's house in Marine Lines. Assuredly they would come back again. So Punch fell asleep till the true morning, when the black-haired boy met him with the information that papa and mamma had gone to Bombay, and that he and Judy were to stay at Downe Lodge "forever." Antirosa, tearfully ap¬ pealed to for a contradiction, said that Harry had spoken the truth, and that it behooved Punch to fold up his clothes neatly on going to bed. Punch went out and wept bitterly with Judy, into whose fair head he had driven some ideas of the meaning of separation. When a matured man discovers that he has been deserted by Providence, deprived of his God, and 122 KIPLING BOY STORIES. cast without help, comfort, or sympathy, upon a world which is new and strange to him, his de¬ spair, which may find expression in evil-living, the writing of his experiences, or the more satisfac- factory diversion of suicide, is generally supposed to be impressive. A child, under exactly similar circumstances, as far as its knowledge goes, can not very well curse God and die. It howls till its nose is red, its eyes are sore, and its head aches. Punch and Judy, through no fault of their own, had lost all their world. They sat in the hall and cried; the black-haired boy looking on from afar. The model of the ship availed nothing, though the gray man assured Punch that he might pull the rigging up and down as much as he pleased; and Judy was promised free entry into the kitchen. They wanted papa and mamma, gone to Bombay beyond the seas, and their grief, while it lasted, was without remedy. When the tears ceased, the house was very still. Antirosa had decided it was much better to let the children "have their cry out," and the boy had gone to school. Punch raised his head from the floor and sniffled mournfully. Judy was nearly asleep. Three short years had not taught her how BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 123 to bear sorrow with full knowledge. There was a distant dull boom in the air—a repeated heavy thud. Punch knew that sound in Bombay in the monsoon. It was the sea—the sea that must be traversed before any one could get to Bombay. "Quick, Ju!" he cried, "we're close to the sea. I can hear it! Listen! That's where they've went. P'r'aps we can catch them, if we was in time. They didn't mean to go without us. They've only forgot." "Iss," said Judy. "They've only foigotted. Less go to the sea." The hall door was open and so was the garden gate. "It's very, very big, this place," he said, look¬ ing cautiously down the road, "and we will get lost; but I will find a man and order him to take me back to my house—like I did in Bombay." He took Judy by the hand, and the two fled hat- less in the direction of the sound of the sea. Downe Villa was almost the last of a range of newly built houses running out, through a chaos of brick-mounds, to a heath where gypsies occa¬ sionally camped, and where the Garrison Artillery of Rocklington practiced. There were few people 124 KIPLING BOY STORIES. to be seen, and the children might have been taken for those of the soldiery who ranged far. Half an hour the wearied little legs tramped across heath, potato-field, and sand-dune. "I'se so tired," said Judy, "and mamma will be angry." "Mamma's never angry. I suppose she is wait¬ ing at the sea now while papa gets tickets. We'll find them and go along with. Ju, you mustn't sit down. Only a little more and we'll come to the sea. Ju, if you sit down I'll thmack you!" said Punch. They climbed another dune, and came upon the great gray sea at low tide. Hundreds of crabs were scuttling about the beach, but there was no trace of papa and mamma, not even of a ship upon the waters—nothing but sand and mud for miles and miles. And "Uncleharri" found them by chance—very muddy and very forlorn—Punch dissolved in tears, but trying to divert Judy with an "ickle trab," and Judy wailing to the pitiless horizon for "mamma, mamma!" and again "mamma!" BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. I25 THE SECOND BAG. Ah, well-a-day, for we are souls bereaved! Of all the creatures under heaven's wide scope We are most hopeless, who had once most hope, And most beliefless, who had most believed. The City of Dreadful Night. All this time not a word about Black Sheep. He came later, and Harry, the black-haired boy, was mainly responsible for his coming. Judy—who could help loving little Judy?— passed, by special permit, into the kitchen and thence straight to Aunty Rosa's heart. Harry was Aunty Rosa's one child, and Punch was the extra boy about the house. There was no special place for him or his little affairs, and he was for¬ bidden to sprawl on sofas and explain his ideas about the manufacture of this world and his hopes for his future. Sprawling was lazy and wore out sofas, and little boys were not expected to talk. They were talked to, and the talking to was in¬ tended for the benefit of their morals. As the unquestioned despot of the house at Bombay, Punch could not quite understand how he came to be of no account in this his new life. 9 126 KIPLING BOY STORIES. Harry might reach across the table and take what he wanted; Judy might point and get what she wanted. Punch was forbidden to do either. The gray man was his great hope and stand-by for many months after mamma and papa left, and he had forgotten to tell Judy to "b em ember mamma." This lapse was excusable, because, in the in¬ terval, he had been introduced by Aunty Rosa to two very impressive things—an abstraction called God, the intimate friend and ally of Aunty Rosa, generally believed to live behind the kitchen- range, because it was hot there—and a dirty brown book filled with unintelligible dots and marks. Punch was always anxious to oblige everybody. He, therefore, welded the story of the Creation on to what he could recollect of his Indian fairy tales, and scandalized Aunty Rosa by repeating the result to Judy. It was a sin, a grievous sin, and Punch was talked to for a quarter of an hour. He could not understand where the iniquity came in, but was careful not to repeat the offense, be¬ cause Aunty Rosa told him that God had heard every word he had said and was very angry. If this were true, why didn't God come and say so, thought Punch, and dismissed the matter from his BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 127 mind. Afterward he learned to know the Lord as the only thing in the world more awful than Aunty Rosa—as a creature that stood in the back¬ ground and counted the strokes of the cane. But the reading was, just then, a much more serious matter than any creed. Aunty Rosa sat him upon a table and told him that A B meant ab. "Why?" said Punch. "A is a and B is bee. Why does A B mean ab?" "Because I tell you it does," said Aunty Rosa, "and you've got to say it." Punch said it accordingly, and for a month, hugely against his will, stumbled through the brown book, not in the least comprehending what it meant. But Uncle Harry, who walked much, and generally alone, was wont to come into the nursery and suggest to Aunty Rosa that Punch should walk with him. He seldom spoke, but he showed Punch all Rocklington, from the mud- banks and the sand of the back-bay to the great harbors where ships lay at anchor, and the dock¬ yards where the hammers are never still, and the marine-store shops, and the shiny brass counters in the offices where Uncle Harry went once every three months with a slip of blue paper and received 128 KIPLING BOY STORIES. sovereigns in exchange; for he held a wound-pen¬ sion. Punch heard, too, from his lips, the story of the Battle of Navarino', where the sailors of the fleet, for three days afterward, were deaf as posts and could only sign to each other. "That was be¬ cause of the noise of the guns," said Uncle Harry, "and I have got the wadding of a bullet some¬ where inside me now." Punch regarded him with curiosity. He had not the least idea what wadding was, and his no¬ tion of a bullet was a dock-yard cannon-ball big¬ ger than his own head. How could Uncle Harry keep a cannon-ball inside him ? He was ashamed to ask, for fear Uncle Harry might be angry. Punch had never known what anger—real anger—meant until one terrible day when Harry had taken his paint-box to paint a boat with, and Punch had protested with a loud and lamentable voice. Then Uncle Harry had appeared on the scene, and, muttering something about "strangers' children," had, with a stick, smitten the black- haired boy across the shoulders till he wept and yelled, and Aunty Rosa came in and abused Uncle Harry for cruelty to his own flesh and blood, and Punch shuddered to the tips of his shoes. "It BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 129 wasn't my fault," he explained to the boy, but both Harry and Aunty Rosa said that it was, and that Punch had told tales, and for a week there were no more walks with Uncle Harry. But that week brought a great joy to Punch. He had repeated, till he was thrice weary, the statement that "the cat lay on the mat and the rat came in." "Now I can truly read," said Punch, "and now I will never read anything in the world." He put the brown book in the cupboard where his school-books lived, and accidentally tumbled out a venerable volume, without covers, labeled "Sharpe's Magazine." There was the most por¬ tentous picture of a griffin on the first page, with verses below. The griffin carried off one sheep a day from a German village, till a man came with a "falchion" and split the griffin open. Goodness only knew what a falchion was, but there was the griffin, and his history was an improvement upon the eternal cat. "This," said Punch, "means things, and now I will know all about everything in all the world." He read till the light failed, not understanding a I30 KIPLING ROY STORIES. tithe of the meaning, but tantalized by glimpses of new worlds hereafter to be revealed. "What is a 'falchion?' What is a 'wee lamb?' What is a 'base Mmirper?' What is a Verdant me-ad ?' " he demanded, with flushed cheeks, at bed-time, of the astonished Aunt Rosa. "Say your prayers and go to sleep," she re¬ plied, and that was all the help Punch then or afterward found at her hands in the new and de¬ lightful exercise of reading. "Aunt Rosa only knows about God and things like that," argued Punch. "Uncle Harry will tell me." The next walk proved that Uncle Harry could not help either; but he allowed Punch to talk, and even sat down on a bench to hear about the griffin. Other walks brought other stories as Punch ranged farther afield, for the house held a large store of old books that no one ever opened—from Frank Fairlegh, in serial numbers, and the earlier poems of Tennyson, contributed anonymously to "Sharpe's Magazine," to '62 Exhibition Cata¬ logues, gay with colors and delightfully incom¬ prehensible, and odd leaves of "Gulliver's Travels." BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. As soon as Punch could string a few pot-hooks together he wrote to Bombay, demanding by re¬ turn of post "all the books in all the world." Papa could not comply with this modest indent, but sent "Grimm's Fairy Tales" and a "Hans Andersen." That was enough. If he were only left alone Punch could pass, at any hour he chose, into a land of his own, beyond reach of Aunty Rosa and her God, Harry and his teasements, and Judy's claims to be played with. "Don't disturve me, I'm reading. Go and play in the kitchen," grunted Punch. "Aunty Rosa lets you gO' there." Judy was cutting her second teeth and was fretful. She appealed to Aunty Rosa, who descended on Punch. "I was reading," he explained, "reading a book. I want to read." "You're only doing that to show off," said Aunty Rosa. "But we'll see. Play with Judy now, and don't open a book for a week." Judy did not pass a very enjoyable playtime with Punch, who was consumed with indignation. There was a pettiness at the bottom of the pro¬ hibition which puzzled him. "It's what I like to do," he said, "and she's 132 KIPLING BOY STORIES. found out that and stopped me. Don't cry, Ju— it wasn't your fault—please don't cry, or she'll say I made you." Ju loyally mopped up her tears, and the two played in their nursery, a room in the basement and half underground, to which they were regu¬ larly sent after the midday dinner while Aunty Rosa slept. She drank wine—that is to say, some¬ thing from a bottle in the cellaret—for her stom¬ ach's sake; but if she did not fall asleep she would sometimes come into the nursery to see that the children were really playing. Now, bricks, wooden hoops, nine-pins, and china-ware can not amuse forever, especially when all fairyland is to be won by the mere opening of a book, and, as often as not, Punch would be discovered reading to> Judy or telling her interminable tales. That was an of¬ fense in the eyes of the law, and Judy would be whisked off by Aunty Rosa, while Punch was left to play alone, "and be sure that I hear you do¬ ing it." It was not a cheering employ, for he had to make a playful noise. At last, with infinite craft, he devised an arrangement whereby the table could be supported as to three legs on toy bricks, leav- BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 133 ing the fourth clear to bring down on the floor. He could work the table with one hand and hold a book with the other. This he did till an evil day when Aunty Rosa pounced upon him unawares and told him that he was "acting a lie." "If you're old enough to do that," she said—her temper was always worst after dinner—"you're old enough to be beaten." "But—I'm—I'm not a animal!" said Punch, aghast. He remembered Uncle Harry and the stick, and turned white. Aunty Rosa had hidden a light cane behind her, and Punch was beaten then and there over the shoulders. It was a reve¬ lation to him. The room-door was shut, and he was left to weep himself into repentance and work out his own gospel of life. Aunty Rosa, he argued, had the power to beat him with many stripes. It was unjust and cruel, and mamma and papa would never have allowed it. Unless, perhaps, as Aunty Rosa seemed to im¬ ply, they had sent secret orders, in which case he was abandoned, indeed. It would be discreet in the future to propitiate Aunty Rosa; but, then, again, even in matters in which he was innocent, he had been accused of wishing to "show off." He had 134 KIPLING BOY STORIES. "shown off" before visitors when he had attacked a strange gentleman—Harry's uncle, not his own —with requests for information about the griffin and the falchion, and the precise nature of the tilbury in which Frank Fairlegh rode; all points of paramount interest which he was bursting to understand. Clearly it would not do to pretend to care for Aunty Rosa. At this point Harry entered and stood afar off, eyeing Punch, a disheveled heap in the corner of the room, with disgust. "You're a liar—a young liar," said Harry, with great unction, "and you're to have tea down here because you're not fit to speak to us. And you're not to speak to Judy again till mother gives you leave. You'll corrupt her. You're only fit to associate with the servant. Mother says so." Having reduced Punch to a second agony of tears, Harry departed downstairs with the news that Punch was still rebellious. Uncle Harry sat uneasily in the dining-room. "Rosa," said he, at last, "can't you leave the child alone? He's a good enough little chap when I met him." "He puts on his best manners with you, Henry," BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 135 said Aunty Rosa, "but I'm afraid, I'm very much afraid, that he is the black sheep of the family." Harry heard and stored up the name for future use. Judy cried till she was bidden to stop, her brother not being worth tears; and the evening concluded with the return of Punch to the upper regions and a private sitting at which all the blind¬ ing horrors of hell were revealed to Punch with such store of imagery as Aunty Rosa's narrow mind possessed. Most grievous of all was Judy's round-eyed re¬ proach, and Punch went to bed in the depths of the Valley of Humiliation. He shared his room with Harry and knew the torture in store. For an hour and a half he had to answer that young gentle¬ man's question as to his motives for telling a lie, and a grievous lie, the precise quantity of punish¬ ment inflicted by Aunty Rosa, and had also to profess his deep gratitude for such religious in¬ struction as Harry thought fit to impart. From that day began the downfall of Punch, now Black Sheep. "Untrustworthy in one thing, untrustworthy in all," said Aunty Rosa, and Harry felt that Black Sheep was delivered into his hands. He would 136 KIPLING BOY STORIES. wake him up in the night to ask him why he was such a liar. "I don't know," Punch would reply. "Then don't you think you ought to get up and pray to God for a new heart?" "Y-yess." "Get out and prav, then!" And Punch would get out of bed with raging hate in his heart against all the world, seen and unseen. He was always tumbling into trouble. Harry had a knack of cross-examining him as to his day's doings, which seldom failed to lead him, sleepy and savage, into half-a-dozen contradictions—all duly reported to Aunty Rosa next morning. ''But it wasn't a lie," Punch would begin, charging into a labored explanation that landed him more hopelessly in the mire. "I said that I didn't say my prayers twice over in the day, and that was on Tuesday. Once I did. I know I did, but Harry said I didn't," and so forth, till the tension brought tears, and he was dismissed from the table in disgrace. "You usen't to be as bad as this!" said Judy, awe-stricken at the catalogue of Black Sheep's crimes. "Why are you so bad now ?" BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 137 "I don't know," Black Sheep would reply. "I'm not, if I only wasn't bothered upside down. I knew what I did, and I want to say so; but Harry always makes it out different somehow, and Aunty Rosa doesn't believe a word I say. Oh, Ju! don't you say I'm bad, too." "Aunty Rosa says you are," said Judy. "She told the vicar so when he came yesterday." "Why does she tell all the people outside the house about me? It isn't fair," said Black Sheep. "When I was in Bombay, and was bad—doing bad, not made-up bad like this—mamma told papa, and papa told me he knew, and that was all. Outside people didn't know, too—even Meeta didn't know." "I don't remember," said Judy, wistfully. "I was all little then. Mamma was just as fond of you as she was of me, wasn't she?" " 'Course she was. So was papa. So was everybody." "Aunty Rosa likes me more than she does you. She says that you are a trial and a black sheep, and I'm not to speak to you more than I can help." "Always? Not outside of the times when you mustn't speak to me at all ?" 138 KIPLING BOY STORIES. Judy nodded her head mournfully. Black Sheep turned away in despair, but Judy's arms were round his neck. "Never mind, Punch," she whispered. "I will speak to you just the same as ever and ever. You're my own, own brother, though you are— though Aunty Rosa says you're bad, and Harry says you're a little coward. He says that if I pulled your hair hard, you'd cry." "Pull, then," said Punch. Judy pulled gingerly. "Pull harder—as hard as you can! There! I don't mind how much you pull it now. If you'll speak to me the same as ever, I'll let you pull it as much as you like—pull it out if you like. But I know if Harry came and stood by and made you do it, I'd cry." So the two children sealed the compact with a kiss, and Black Sheep's heart was cheered within him, and by extreme caution and careful avoid¬ ance of Harry, he acquired virtue, and was al¬ lowed to read undisturbed for a week. Uncle Harry took him for walks and consoled him with rough tenderness, never calling him Black Sheep. "It's good for you, I suppose, Punch," he used to BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 139 say. "Let us sit down. I'm getting tired." His steps led him now, not to the beach, but to the cemetery of Rocklington, amid the potato fields. For hours the gray man would sit on a tombstone, while Black Sheep read epitaphs, and then, with a sigh, would stump home again. "I shall lie there soon," said he to Black Sheep, one winter evening, when his face showed white as a worn silver coin under the lights of the chapel lodge. "You needn't tell Aunty Rosa." A month later, he turned sharp round, ere half a morning walk was completed, and stumped back to the house. "Put me to bed, Rosa," he muttered. "I've walked my last. The wadding has found me out." They put him to bed, and for a fortnight the shadow of his sickness lay upon the house, and Black Sheep went to and fro unobserved. Papa had sent him some new books, and he was told to keep quiet. He retired into his own world, and was perfectly happy. Even at night his felicity was unbroken. He could lie in bed and string himself tales of travel and adventure while Harry was down-stairs. "Uncle Harry's going to die," said Judy, who I4-0 KIPLING BOY STORIES. now lived almost entirely with Aunty Rosa. "I'm very sorry," said Black Sheep, soberly. "He told me that a long time ago." Aunty Rosa heard the conversation. "Will nothing check your wicked tongue?" she said, angrily. There were blue circles round her eyes. Black Sheep retreated to the nursery and read "Cometh Up as a Flower" with deep and un¬ comprehending interest. He had been forbidden to read it on account of its "sinfulness," but the bonds of the universe were crumbling, and Aunty Rosa was in great grief. "I'm glad," said Black Sheep. "She's unhappy now. It wasn't a lie, though. I knew. He told me not to tell." That night Black Sheep woke with a start. Harry was not in the room, and there was a sound of sobbing on the next floor. Then the voice of Uncle Harry, singing the song of the Battle of Navarino, cut through the darkness: " 'Our vanship was the Asia— The Albion and Genoa!' " "He's getting well," thought Black Sheep, who knew the song through all its seventeen verses. BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. I41 But the blood froze at his little heart as he thought. The voice leaped an octave and rang shrill as a boatswain's pipe : " 'And next came on the lovely Rose, The Philomel, her fire-ship, closed, And the little Brisk was sore exposed That day at Navarino.' " "That day at Navarino, Uncle Harry!" shouted Black Sheep, half wild with excitement and fear of he knew not what. A door opened, and Aunty Rosa screamed up the stair-case: "Hush! For God's sake, hush, you little devil! Uncle Harry is dead!" THE THIRD BAG. "Journeys end in lovers' meeting, Every wise man's son doth know." "I wonder what will happen to me now," thought Black Sheep, when the semi-pagan rites, peculiar to the burial of the dead in middle-class houses, had been accomplished, and Aunty Rosa, awful in black crape, had returned to this life. "I don't think I've done anything bad that she knows of. I suppose I will soon. She will be very cross 10 142 KIPLING BOY STORIES. after Uncle Harry's dying, and Harry will be cross, too. I'll keep in the nursery." Unfortunately for Punch's plans, it was decided that he should be sent to a day-school which Harry attended. This meant a morning walk with Harry, and, perhaps, an evening one; but the prospect of freedom in the interval was refresh¬ ing. "Harry'11 tell everything I do, but I won't do anything," said Black Sheep. Fortified with this virtuous resolution, he went to school, only to find that Harry's version of his character had pre¬ ceded him, and that life was a burden in conse¬ quence. He took stock of his associates. Some of them were unclean, some of them talked in dialect, many dropped their h's, and there were two Jews and a negro, or someone quite as dark, in the as¬ sembly. "That's a hubshi," said Black Sheep to himself. "Even Meeta used to laugh at a hubshi. I don't think this is a proper place." He was in¬ dignant for at least an hour, till he reflected that any expostulation on his part would be by Aunty Rosa construed into "showing off," and that Harry would tell the boys. "How do you like school ?" said Aunty Rosa at the end of the day. BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 143 "I think it is a very nice place," said Punch, quietly. "I suppose you warned the boys of Black Sheep's character?" said Aunty Rosa to Harry. "Oh, yes," said the censor of Black Sheep's morals. "They all know about him." "If I was with my father," said Black Sheep, stung to the quick, "I shouldn't speak to those boys. He wouldn't let me. They live in shops. I saw them go into shops—where their fathers live and sell things." "You're too good for that school, are you?" said Aunty Rosa, with a bitter smile. "You ought to be grateful, Black Sheep, that those boys speak to you at all. It isn't every school that takes little liars." Harry did not fail to make much capital out of Black Sheep's ill-considered remark, with the re¬ sult that several boys, including the hubshi, dem¬ onstrated to Black Sheep the eternal equality of the human race by smacking his head, and his con¬ solation from Aunty Rosa was that it "served him right for being vain." He learned, however, to keep his opinions to himself, and by propitiating Harry in carrying books and the like to secure a 144 KIPLING BOY STORIES. little peace. His existence was not too joyful. From nine till twelve be was at school, and from two to four, except on Saturdays. In the evenings he was sent down into the nursery to prepare his lessons for the next day, and every night came the dreaded cross-questionings at Harry's hand. Of Judy he saw but little. She was deeply religious —at six years of age religion is easy to come by— and sorely divided between her natural love for Black Sheep and her love for Aunty Rosa, who could do no wrong. The lean woman returned that love with in¬ terest, and Judy, when she dared, took advantage of this for the remission of Black Sheep's penal¬ ties. Failures in lessons at school were punished at home by a week without reading other than school books, and Harry brought the news of such a failure with glee. Further, Black Sheep was then bound to repeat his lessons at bed-time to Harry, who generally succeeded in making him break down, and consoled him by gloomiest fore¬ bodings for the morrow. Harry was at once spy, practical joker, inquisitor, and Aunty Rosa's dep¬ uty executioner. He filled his many posts to ad¬ miration. From his actions, now that Uncle Harry was dead, there was no appeal. Black BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 145 Sheep had not been permitted to keep any self- respect at school; at home he was of course ut¬ terly discredited, and grateful for any pity that the servant-girls—they changed frequently at Downe Lodge because they, too, were liars— might show. "You're just fit to row in the same boat with Black Sheep," was a sentiment that each new Jane or Eliza might expect to hear, before a month was over, from Aunty Rosa's lips; and Black Sheep was used to ask new girls whether they had yet been compared to him. Harry was "Master Harry" in their mouths; Judy was offi¬ cially "Miss Judy;" but Black Sheep was never anything more than Black Sheep tout court. As time went on and the memory of papa and mamma became wholly overlaid by the unpleasant task of writing them letters, under Aunty Rosa's eye, each Sunday, Black Sheep forgot what man¬ ner of life he had led in the beginning of things. Even Judy's appeals to "try and remember about Bombay" failed to quicken him. ''I can't remember," he said. "I know I used to give orders and mamma kissed me." "Aunty Rosa will kiss you if you are good," pleaded Judy. 146 KIPLING BOY STORIES. "Ugh! I don't want to be kissed by Aunty Rosa. She'd say I was doing it to get something more to eat." The weeks lengthened into months, and the holidays came; but just before the holidays Black Sheep fell into deadly sin. Among the many boys whom Harry had incited to "punch Black Sheep's head because he daren't hit back," was one more aggravating than the rest, who, in an unlucky moment, fell upon Black Sheep when Harry was not near. The blows stung, and Black Sheep struck back at random with all the power at his command. The boy dropped and whimpered. Black Sheep was astounded at his own act, but, feeling the unresisting body under him, shook it with both his hands in blind fury, and then began to throttle his enemy, meaning honestly to slay him. There was a scuffle, and Black Sheep was torn off the body by Harry and some colleagues, and cuffed home, tingling but exultant. Aunty Rosa was out; pending her ar¬ rival, Harry set himself to lecture Black Sheep on the sin of murder—which he described as the offense of Cain. "Why didn't you fight him fair? What did BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 147 you hit him when he was down for, you little cur?" Black Sheep looked up at Harry's throat, and then at a knife on the dinner-table. "I don't understand," he said, wearily. "You always set him on me, and told me I was a coward when I blubbered. Will you leave me alone until Aunty Rosa comes in? She'll beat me if you tell her I ought to be beaten; so it's all right." "It's all wrong," said Harry, magisterially. "You nearly killed him, and I shouldn't wonder if he dies." "Will he die?" said Black Sheep. "I dare say," said Harry, "and then you'll be hanged." "All right," said Black Sheep, possessing him¬ self of the table-knife. "Then I'll kill you now. You say things and do things, and . . . and / don't know how things happen, and you never leave me alone—and I don't care what happens!" He ran at the boy with the knife, and Harry fled upstairs to his room, promising Black Sheep the finest thrashing in the world when Aunty Rosa returned. Black Sheep sat at the bottom of the stairs, the table-knife in his hand, and wept for 148 KIPLING BOY STORIES. that lie had not killed Harry. The servant-girl came up from the kitchen, took the knife away, and consoled him. But Black Sheep was beyond consolation. He would be badly beaten by Aunty Rosa; then there would be another beating ai Harry's hands; then Judy would not be allowed to speak to him; then the tale would be told at school, and then. There was 110 one to help and no one to' care, and the best way out of the business was by death. A knife would hurt; but Aunty Rosa had told him, a year ago, that if he sucked paint he would die. He went into the nursery, unearthed the now dis¬ used Noah's Ark, and sucked the paint off as many animals as remained. It tasted abominable, but he had licked Noah's dove clean by the time Aunty Rosa and Judy returned. He went up¬ stairs and greeted them with: "Please, Aunty Rosa, I believe I've nearly killed a boy at school, and I've tried to kill Harry, and when you've done all about God and hell, will you beat me and get it over?" The tale of the assault as told by Harry could only be explained on the ground of possession by the devil. Wherefore Black Sheep was not only BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 149 most excellently beaten, once by Aunty Rosa, and once, when thoroughly cowed down, by Harry, but he was further prayed for at family prayers, together with Jane, who had stolen a cold rissole from the pantry and snuffled audibly as her enor¬ mity was brought before the Throne of Grace. Black Sheep was sore and stiff, but triumphant. He would die that very night and be rid of them all. No, he would ask for no forgiveness from Harry, and at bed-time would stand no question¬ ing at Harry's hands, even though addressed as "Young Cain." "I've been beaten," said he, "and I've done other things. I don't care what I do. If you speak to me to-night, Harry, I'll get out and try to kill you. Now, you can kill me if you like." Harry took his bed into the spare room, and Black Sheep lay down to die. It may be that the makers of Noah's arks know- that their animals are likely to find their way into young mouths, and paint them accordingly. Cer¬ tain it is that the common, weary next morning- broke through the windows and found Black- Sheep quite well and a good deal ashamed of him¬ self. but richer by the knowledge that he could, 150 KIPLING BOY STORIES. in extremity, secure himself against Harry for the future. When he descended to breakfast on the first day of the holidays, he was greeted with the news that Harry, Aunty Rosa, and Judy were going away to Brighton, while Black Sheep was to stay in the house with the servant. His latter outbreak suited Aunty Rosa's plans admirably. It gave her good excuse for leaving the extra boy behind. Papa in Bombay, who really seemed to know a young sinner's wants to the hour, sent, that week, a package of new books. And with these, and the society of Jane on board-wages, Black Sheep was left alone for a month. The books lasted for ten days. They were eaten too quickly, in long gulps of four-and- twenty hours at a time. Then came days of doing absolutely nothing, of dreaming dreams and marching imaginary armies up and down stairs, of counting the number of banisters, and of meas¬ uring the length and breadth of every room in hand-spans—fifty down the side, thirty across, and fifty back again. Jane made many friends, and, after receiving Black Sheep's assurance that he would not tell of her absences, went out daily BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 151 for long hours. Black Sheep would follow the rays of the sinking sun from the kitchen to the dining-room, and thence upward to his own bed¬ room, until all was gray dark, and he ran down to the kitchen fire and read by its light. He was happy in that he was left alone and could read as much as he pleased. But, later, he grew afraid of the shadows of window-curtains and the flapping of doors and the creaking of shutters. He went out into the garden, and the rustling of the laurel bushes frightened him. He was glad when they all returned—Aunty Rosa, Harry, and Judy—full of news, and Judy laden with gifts. Who could help loving loyai little Judy. In return for all her merry babble¬ ment, Black Sheep confided to her that the dis¬ tance from the hall door to the top of the first landing was exactly one hundred and eighty-four hand-spans. He had found it out himself. Then the old life recommenced; but with a dif¬ ference, and a new sin. To his other iniquities Black Sheep had now added a phenomenal clum¬ siness—was as unfit to trust in action as he was in word. He himself could not account for spill¬ ing everything he touched, upsetting glasses as he 152 KIPLING BOY STORIES. put his hand out, and bumping his head against doors that were manifestly shut. There was a gray haze upon all his world, and it narrowed month by month, until at last it left Black Sheep almost alone with the flapping curtains that were so like ghosts, and the nameless terrors of broad daylight that were only coats on pegs, after all. Holidays came and holidays went, and Black Sheep was taken to see many people whose faces were all exactly alike; was beaten when occasion demanded, and tortured by Harry on all possible occasions; but defended by Judy through good and evil report, though she thereby drew upon herself the wrath of Aunty Rosa. The weeks were interminable, and papa and mamma were clean forgotten. Harry had left school and was a clerk in a banking-office. Freed from his presence, Black Sheep resolved that he should no longer be deprived of his allowance of pleasure-reading. Consequently when he failed at school he reported that all was well, and con¬ ceived a large contempt for Aunty Rosa as he saw how easy it was to deceive her. "She says I'm a little liar when I don't tell lies, and now I do, she doesn't know," thought Black Sheep. Aunty Rosa BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 153 had credited him in the past with petty cunning and stratagem that had never entered into his head. By the light of the sordid knowledge that she had revealed to him, he paid her back full tale. In a household where the most innocent of his mo¬ tives—his natural yearning for a little affection— had been interpreted into a desire for more bread and jam, or to ingratiate himself with strangers and so put Harry into the background, his work was easy. Aunty Rosa could penetrate certain kinds of hypocrisy, but not all. He set his child's wits against hers and was no more beaten. It grew monthly more and more of a trouble to read the school-books, and even the pages of the open- print story-books danced and were dim. So Black Sheep brooded in the shadows that fell about him and cut him off from the world, inventing hor¬ rible punishments for "dear Harry," or plotting another line of the tangled web of deception that he wrapped round Aunty Rosa. Then the crash came and the cobwebs were broken. It was im¬ possible to foresee everything. Aunty Rosa made personal inquiries as to Black Sheep's progress and received information that startled her. Step by step, with a delight as keen as when she con- 154 KIPLING BOY STORIES. victed an under-fed house-maid of the theft of cold meats, she followed the trail of Black Sheep's delinquencies. For weeks and weeks, in order to escape banishment from the book-shelves, he had made a fool of Aunty Rosa, of Harry, of God, of all the world! Horrible, most horrible, and evi¬ dence of an utterly depraved mind. Black Sheep counted the cost. "It will only be one big beating and then she'll put a card with 'Liar' on my back, same as she did before. Harry will whack me at prayers and tell me I'm a child of the devil, and give me hymns to learn. But I've done all my reading and she never knew. She'll say she knew all along. She's an old liar, too," said he. For three days Black Sheep was shut in his own bedroom—to prepare his heart. "That means two beatings. One at school and one here. That one will hurt most." And it fell even as he thought. He was thrashed at school before the Jews and the hubshi, for the heinous crime of bringing home false reports of progress. He was thrashed at home by Aunty Rosa on the same account, and then the placard was produced. Aunty Rosa BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 155 stitched it between his shoulders and bade him go for a walk with it upon him. "If you make me do that," said Black Sheep, very quietly, "I shall burn this house down, and perhaps I'll kill you. I don't know whether I can kill you—you're so bony—but I'll try." No punishment followed this blasphemy, though Black Sheep held himself ready to work his way to Aunty Rosa's withered throat, and grip there till he was beaten off. Perhaps Aunty Rosa was afraid, for Black Sheep, having reached the Nadir of Sin, bore himself with a new reckless¬ ness. In the midst of all the trouble, there came a vis¬ itor from over the seas to Downe Lodge, who knew papa and mamma, and was commissioned to see Punch and Judy. Black Sheep was sent to the drawing-room, and charged into a solid tea-table laden with china. "Gently, gently, little man," said the visitor, turning Black Sheep's face to the light, slowly. "What's that big bird on the palings?" "What bird?" asked Black Sheep. The visitor looked deep down into Black Sheep's eyes for half a minute, and then said, sud- KIPLING BOY STORIES. denly : "Good God, the little chap's nearly blind!" It was a most business-like visitor. He gave orders, on his own responsibility, that Black Sheep was not to go to school or open a book until mamma came home. "She'll be here in three weeks, as you know, of course," said he; "and I'm Inverarity Sahib. I ushered you into this wicked world, young man, and a nice use you seem to have made of your time. You must do nothing whatever. Can you do that?" "Yes," said Punch, in a dazed way. He had known that mamma was coming. There was a chance, then, of another beating. Thank Heaven, papa wasn't coming, too. Aunty Rosa had said of late that he ought to be beaten by a man. For the next three weeks Black Sheep was strictly allowed to do nothing. He spent his time in the old nursery looking at the broken toys, for all of which account must be rendered to mamma. Aunty Rosa hit him over the hands if even a wooden boat were broken. But that sin was of small importance compared to the other revela¬ tions, so darkly hinted at by Aunty Rosa. "When your mother comes, and hears what I have to tell her, she may appreciate you properly," she said. BAA BAA; BLACK SHEEP. 157 grimly, and mounted guard over Judy lest that small maiden should attempt to comfort her brother, to the peril of her own soul. And mamma came—in a four-wheeler and a flutter of tender excitement. Such a mamma! She was young, frivolously young, and beautiful, with delicately flushed cheeks, eyes that shone like stars, and a voice that needed no> additional ap¬ peal of outstretched arms to draw little ones to her heart. Judy ran straight to her, but Black Sheep hesitated. Could this wonder be ''showing off?" She would not put out her arms when she knew of his crimes. Meantime, was it possible that by fondling she wanted to' get anything out of Black Sheep ? Only all his love and all his confidence; but that Black Sheep did not know. Aunty Rosa withdrew and left mamma kneeling between her children, half laughing, half crying, in the very hall where Punch and Judy had wept five years be¬ fore. "Well, chicks, do you remember me?" "No," said Judy, frankly, "but I said 'God bless papa and mamma' ev'vy night." "A little," said Black Sheep. "Remember I wrote to vou everv week, anyhow. That isn't to 11 158 KIPLING BOY STORIES. show off, but 'cause of what comes afterward." "What comes after! What should come after, my darling boy?" And she drew him to her again. He came awkwardly, with many angles. "Not used to petting," said the quick mother-soul. "The girl is." "She's too little to hurt anyone," thought Black Sheep, "and if I said I'd kill her, she'd be afraid. I wonder what Aunty Rosa will tell." There was a constrained late dinner, at the end of which mamma picked up Judy and put her to bed with endearments manifold. Faithless little Judy had shown her defection from Aunty Rosa already; and that lady resented it bitterly. Black Sheep rose to leave the room. "Come and say good-night," said Aunty Rosa, offering a withered cheek. "Huh!" said Black Sheep. "I never kiss you, and I'm not going to show off. Tell that woman what I've done, and see what she says." Black Sheep climbed into bed feeling that he had lost Heaven after a glimpse through the gates. In half an hour "that woman" was bending over him. It wasn't fair to come and hit him in the BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 159 dark. Even Aunty Rosa never tried that. But no blow followed. "Are you showing off? I won't tell you any¬ thing more than Aunty Rosa has, and she doesn't know everything," said Black Sheep, as clearly as he could for the arms round his neck. "Oh, my son—my little, little son! It was my fault—my fault, darling—and yet how could we help it? Forgive me, Punch." The voice died out in a broken whisper, and two hot tears fell on Black Sheep's forehead. "Has she been making you cry, too ?" he asked. "You should see Jane cry. But you're nice, and Jane is a born liar—Aunty Rosa says so." "Hush, Punch, hush! My boy, don't talk like that. Try to love me a little bit—a little bit. You don't know how I want it. Vnnoh-baba, come back to me! I am your mother—your own mother—and never mind the rest. I know—yes, I know, dear. It doesn't matter now. Punch, won't you care for me a little?" It is astonishing how much petting a big boy of ten can endure when he is quite sure that there is no one to laugh at him. Black Sheep had never been made much of before, and here was this beau- l60 KIPLING BOY STORIES. tiful woman treating him—Black Sheep, the Child of the Devil and the Inheritor of Undying Flame —as though he were a small god. "I care for you a great deal, mother dear," he whispered at last, "and I'm glad you've come back; but are you sure Aunty Rosa told you every¬ thing?" "Everything. What does it matter? But"— the voice broke with a sob that was also laughter —"Punch, my poor, dear, half-blind darling, don't you think it was a little foolish of you?" "No. It saved a lickin'." Mamma shuddered and slipped away in the darkness to write a long letter to papa. Here is an extract: " . . . Judy is a dear, plump little prig who adores the woman, and wears, with as much grav¬ ity as her religious opinions—only eight. Jack!— a venerable horse-hair atrocity which she calls her bustle! I have just burned it, and the child is asleep in my bed as I write. She will come to me at once. Punch I can not quite understand. He is well nourished, but seems to have been worried into a system of small deceptions which the woman magnifies into deadly sins. Don't you BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. l6 L recollect our own up-bringing, dear, when the fear of the Lord was so often the beginning of false¬ hood? I shall win Punch to me before long. I am taking the children away into the country to get them to know me, and, on the whole, I am con¬ tent, or shall be when you come home, dear boy; and then, thank God, we shall be all under one roof again at last!" Three months later, Punch, no longer Black Sheep, has discovered that he is the veritable owner of a real, live, lovely mamma, who is also a sister, comforter, and friend, and that he must protect her till the father comes home. Deception does not suit the part of a protector, and when one can do anything without question, where is the use of deception? "Mother would be awfully cross if you walked through that ditch," says Judy, continuing a con¬ versation. "Mother's never angry," says Punch. "She'd just say, 'You're a little pagal;' and that's not nice, but I'll show." Punch waiks through the ditch and mires him¬ self to the knees. "Mother dear," he shouts, "I'm as dirty as I can pos-sib-\y be!" KIPLING BOY STORIES. "Then change your clothes as quickly as you pos-sib-ly can!" rings out mother's clear voice from the house. "And don't be a little pagal!" "There! Told you so," said Punch. "It's all different now, and we are just as much mother's as if she had never gone." Not altogether, oh Punch, for when young lips have drunk deep of the bitter waters of Hate, Sus¬ picion, and Despair, all the love in the world will not wholly take away that knowledge; though it may turn darkened eyes for awhile to the light, and teach Faith where no Faith was. THE BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST. Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet, Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat; But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth, When two strong men stand face to face, tho' they come from the ends of the earth! Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the Border side, And he has lifted the Colonel's mare that is the Colonel's pride: He has lifted her out of the stable-door between the dawn and the day, And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away. Then up and spoke the Colonel's son that led a troop of the Guides : "Is there never a man of all my men can say where Kamal hides?" Then up and spoke Mahommed Khan, the son of the Ressaldar, 163 164 KIPLING BOY STORIES. "If ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye know where his pickets are. "At dusk he harries the Abazai—at dawn he is into Bonair, "But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place to fare, "So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird can fly, "By the favour of God ye may cut him off ere he win to the Tongue of Jagai, "But if he be passed the Tongue of Jagai, right swiftly turn ye then, "For the length and the breadth of that grisly plain is sown with Kamal's men. "There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between, "And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen." The Colonel's son has taken a horse, and a raw rough dun was he, With the mouth of a bell and the heart of Hell,, and the head of the gallows-tree. The Colonel's son to the Fort has won, they bid him stay to eat— THE BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST. 165 Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits not long at his meat. He's up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as he can fly, Till he was aware of his father's mare in the gut of the Tongue of Jagai, Till he was aware of his father's mare with Kamal upon her back, And when he could spy the white of her eye, he made the pistol crack. He has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whistling ball went wide. "Ye shoot like a soldier," Kamal said. "Show now if ye can ride." It's up and over the Tongue of Jagai, as blown dust-devils go, The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe. The dun he leaned against the bit and slugged his head above, But the red mare played with the snaffle-bars, as a maiden plays with a glove. There was rock to the left and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between, l66 KIPLING BOY STORIES. And thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick tho' never a man was seen. They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn, The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new-roused fawn. The dun he fell at a water-course—in a woful heap fell he. And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free. He has knocked the pistol out of his hand—small room was there to strive, " 'Twas only by favour of mine," quoth he, "ye rode so long alive; "There was not a rock for twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree, "But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee. "If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it low, "The little jackals that flee so fast, were feasting all in a row : "If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high, THE BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST. 167 "The kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly." Lightly answered the Colonel's son:—"Do good to bird and beast, "But count who come for the broken meats before thou makest a feast. "If there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away, "Belike the price of a jackal's mea» were more than a thief could pay. "They will feed their horse on the standing crop, their men on the garnered grain, "The thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle are slain. "But if -thou thinkest the price be fair,—thy brethren wait to sup, "The hound is kin to the jackal-spawn,—howl, dog, and call them up! "And if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer and gear and stack, "Give me my father's mare again, and I'll fight my own way back!" Kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upon his feet. 168 KIPLING BOY STORIES. "No talk shall be of dogs," said he, "when wolf and grey wolf meet. "May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath; "What dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the dawn with Death ?" Lightly answered the Colonel's son: "I hold by the blood of my clan : "Take up the mare for my father's gift—she has carried a man!" The red mare ran to the Colonel's son, and nuz¬ zled against his breast, "We be two strong men," said Kamal then, "but she loveth the younger best. "So she shall go with a lifter's dower, my tur¬ quoise-studded rein, "My broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver stirrups twain." The Colonel's son a pistol drew and held it muz¬ zle-end, "Ye have taken the one from a foe," said he; "will ye take the mate from a friend ?" "A gift for a gift," said Kamal straight; "a limb for the risk of a limb. THE BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST. 169 "Thy father has sent his son to me, I'll send my son to him!" With that he whistled his only son, that dropped from a mountain-crest— He trod the ling like a buck in spring, and he looked like a lance in rest. "Now here is thy master," Kamal said, "who leads a troop of the Guides, "And thou must ride at his left side as shield on shoulder rides. "Till Death or I cut loose the tie, at camp and board and bed, "Thy life is his—thy fate it is to guard him with thy head. "So thou must eat the White Queen's meat, and all her foes are thine, "And thou must harry thy father's hold for the peace of the Border-line, "And thou must make a trooper tough and hack thy way to power— "Belike they will raise thee to Ressaldar when I am hanged in Peshawur." They have looked each other between the eyes, and there they found no fault, I70 KIPLING BOY STORIES. They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blooc! on leavened bread and salt: They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on fire and fresh-cut sod, On the hilt and the haft of the Khyber knife, and the Wondrous Names of God. The Colonel's son he rides the mare and Kamal's boy the dun, And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where there went forth but one. And when they drew to the Quarter-Guard, full twenty swords flew clear— There was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the mountaineer. "Ha' done! ha' done!" said the Colonel's son. "Put up the steel at your sides! "Last night ye had struck at a Border thief—to¬ night 'tis a man of the Guides!" Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the two shall meet, Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat; But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth, When two strong men stand face to face, tho' they come from the ends of the earth. THE ARREST OF LIEUTENANT GOLIGHTLY. ' 'I've forgotten the countersign,' sez 'e. 'Oh! You 'ave, 'ave you?' sez I. 'But I'm the Colonel,' sez 'e. 'Oh! You are, are you?' sez I. 'Colonel nor no Colonel, you waits 'ere till I'm relieved, an' the Sarjint reports on your ugly old mug. Coop!' sez I. An' s'elp me soul, 'twas the Colonel after all! But I was a recruity then.' " — The Unedited Autobiography of Private Ortheris. If there was one thing on which Golightly prided himself more than another, it was looking like "an Officer and a Gentleman." He said it was for the honor of the Service that he attired him¬ self so elaborately; but those who knew him best said it was just personal vanity. There was no harm about Golightly—not an ounce. He recog¬ nized a horse when he saw one, and could do more than fill a cantle. He played a very fair game at billiards, and was a sound man at the whist-table. Everyone liked him; and nobody ever dreamed of 171 I?2 KIPLING BOY STORIES. seeing- him handcuffed on a station platform as a deserter. But this sad thing happened. He was going down from Dalhousie, at the end of his leave—riding down. He had cut his leave as line as he dared, and wanted to come down in a hurry. It was fairly warm at Dalhousie, and, knowing what to expect below, he descended in a new khaki suit—tight fitting—of a delicate olive-green; a peacock-blue tie, white collar, and a snowy white solah helmet. He prided himself on looking neat even when he was riding post. He did look neat, and he was so deeply concerned about his appear¬ ance before he started that he quite forgot to take anything but some small change with him. He left all his notes at the hotel. His servants had gone down the road before him, to be ready in waiting at Pathankote with a change of gear. That was what he called traveling in "light march¬ ing-order." He was proud of his faculty of or¬ ganization—what we call bundobust. Twenty-two miles out of Dalhousie it began to rain—not a mere hill-shower but a good, tepid monsoonish downpour. Golightly bustled on, wishing that he had brought an umbrella. The THE ARREST OF LIEUTENANT GOLIGHTLY. 173 dust on the roads turned into mud, and the pony mired a good deal. So did Golightly's khaki gaiters. But he kept on steadily and tried to think how pleasant the coolth was. His next pony was rather a brute at starting, and Golightly's hands being slippery with the rain, contrived to get rid of Golightly at a corner. He chased the animal, caught it, and went ahead briskly. The spill had not improved his clothes or his temper, and he had lost one spur. He kept the other one employed. By the time that stage was ended, the pony had had as much exercise as he wanted and, in spite of the rain, Golightly was sweating freely. At the end of another miserable half-hour, Golightly found the world disappear before his eyes in clammy pulp. The rain had turned the pith of his huge and snowy solah-topee into an evil-smelling dough, and it had closed on his head like a half-opened mushroom. Also the green lining was beginning to run. Golightly did not say anything worth record¬ ing here. He tore off and squeezed up as much of the brim as was in his eyes and ploughed on. The back of the helmet was flapping on his neck and the sides stuck to his ears, but the leather band and 12 174 KIPLING BOY STORIES. green lining kept things roughly together, so that the hat did not actually melt away where it flapped. Presently the pulp and the green stuff made a sort of slimy mildew which ran over Golightly in several directions—down his back and bosom for choice. The khaki color ran too—it was really shockingly bad dye—and sections of Golightly were brown, and patches were violet, and contours were ochre, and streaks were ruddy red, and blotches were nearly white, according to the na¬ ture and peculiarities of the dye. When he took out his handkerchief to wipe his face and the green of the hat-lining and the purple stuff that had soaked through on to his neck from the tie became thoroughly mixed, the effect was amazing. Near Dhar the rain stopped and the evening sun came out and dried him up slightly. It fixed the colors, too. Three miles from Pathankote the last pony fell dead lame, and Golightly was forced to walk. He pushed on into Pathankote to find his servants. He did not know then that his khit- matgar had stopped by the roadside to get drunk, and would come on the next day saying that he had sprained his ankle. When he got into Path- THE ARREST OF LIEUTENANT GOLIGHTLY. 175 ankote, be couldn't find his servants, his boots were stiff and ropy with mud, and there were large quantities of dirt about his body. The blue tie had run as much as the khaki. So he took it off with the collar and threw it away. Then he said some¬ thing about servants generally and tried to get a peg. He paid eight annas for the drink, and this revealed to him that he had only six annas more in his pocket—or in the world as he stood at that hour. He went to the Station-Master to negotiate for a first-class ticket to Khasa, where he was sta¬ tioned. The booking-clerk said something to the Station-Master, the Station-Master said some¬ thing to the Telegraph Clerk, and the three looked at him with curiosity. They asked him to wait for half-an-hour, while they telegraphed to Um- ritsar for authority. So he waited and four con¬ stables came and grouped themselves picturesquely round him. Just as he was preparing to ask them to go away, the Station-Master said that he would give the Sahib a ticket to Umritsar, if the Sahib would kindly come inside the booking-office. Go- lightly stepped inside, and the next thing he knew was that a constable was attached to each of his 176 KIPLING BOY STORIES. legs and arms, while the Station-Master was try¬ ing to cram a mail-bag over his head. There was a very fair scuffle all round the book¬ ing-office, and Golightly received a nasty cut over his eye through falling against a table. But the constables were too much for him, and they and the Station-Master handcuffed him securely. As soon as the mail-bag was slipped, he began ex¬ pressing his opinions, and the head-constable said:—"Without doubt this is the soldier-Eng¬ lishman we required. Listen to the abuse!" Then Golightly asked the Station-Master what the this and the that the proceedings meant. The Station-Master told him he was "Private John Binkle of the Regiment, 5 ft. 9 in., fair hair, grey eyes, and a dissipated appearance, no marks on the body," who had deserted a fortnight ago. Golightly began explaining at great length: and the more he explained the less the Station-Master believed him. He said that no' Lieutenant could look such a ruffian as did Golightly, and that his instructions were to send his capture under proper escort to Umritsar. Golightly was feeling very damp and uncomfortable, and the language he used was not fit for publication, even in an expur- THE ARREST OF LIEUTENANT GOLIGHTLY. 177 gated form. The four constables saw him safe to Umritsar in an "intermediate" compartment, and he spent the four-hour journey in abusing them as fluently as his knowledge of the vernaculars al¬ lowed. At Umritsar he was bundled out on the plat¬ form into the arms of a Corporal and two men of the Regiment. Golightly drew himself up and tried to carry off matters jauntily. He did not feel too jaunty in handcuffs, with four con¬ stables behind him, and the blood from the cut on his forehead stiffening on his left cheek. The Corporal was not jocular either. Golightly got as far as :—"This is a very absurd mistake, my men," when the Corporal told him to "stow his lip" and come along. Golightly did not want to come along. He desired to stop and explain. He ex¬ plained very well indeed, until the Corporal cut in with:—"You a orficer! It's the like o' you as brings disgrace on the likes of us. Bloomin' fine orficer you are! I know your regiment. The Rogue's March is the quickstep where you come from. You're a black shame to the Service." Golightly kept his temper, and began explaining- all over again from the beginning. Then he was i?8 KIPLING BOY STORIES. marched out of the rain into the refreshment-room and told not to make a qualified fool of himself. The men were going to run him up to Fort Go- vindghar. Aiad "running up" is a performance almost as undignified as the Frog March. Golightly was nearly hysterical with rage and the chill and the mistake and the handcuffs and the headache that the cut on his forehead had given him. He really laid himself out to express what was in his mind. When he had quite finished and his throat was feeling dry, one of the men said:— "I've 'eard a few beggars in the click blind, stiff and crack on a bit; but I've never 'eard any one to touch this 'ere 'orficer.' " They were not angry with him. They rather admired him. They had some beer at the refreshment-room, and offered Golightly some too, because he had "swore won'erful." They asked him to tell them all about the adventures of Private John Binkle while he was loose on the country-side; and that made Go¬ lightly wilder than ever. If he had kept his wits about him he would have kept quiet until an offi¬ cer came; but he attempted to run. Now the butt of a Martini in the small of your back hurts a great deal, and rotten, rain-soaked THE ARREST OF LIEUTENANT GOLIGIITLY. 179 khaki tears easily when two men are yerking at your collar. Golightly rose from the floor feeling very sick and giddy, with his shirt ripped open all down his breast and nearly all down his back. He yielded to his luck, and at that point the down- train from Lahore came in, carrying one of Go- lightly's Majors. This is the Major's evidence in full:— "There was the sound of a scuffle in the second- class refreshment-room, so I went in and saw the most villainous loafer that I ever set eyes on. His boots and breeches were plastered with mud and beer-stains. He wore a muddy-white dunghill sort of thing on his head, and it hung down in slips on his shoulders which were a good deal scratched. He was half in and half out of a shirt as nearly in two pieces as it could be, and he was begging the guard to look at the name on the tail of it. As he had rucked the shirt all over his head, I couldn't at first see who he was, but I fancied that he was a man in the first stage of D. T. from the way he swore while he wrestled with his rags. When he turned round, and I had made allow¬ ances for a lump as big as a pork-pie over one eye, l8o KIPLING BOY STORIES. and some green war-paint on the face, and some violet stripes round the neck, I saw that it was Golightly. He was very glad to see me," said the Major, "and he hoped I would not tell the Mess about it. I didn't, but you can, if you like, now that Golightly has gone Home." Golightly spent the greater part of that summer in trying to get the Corporal and the two soldiers tried by Court-Martial for arresting an "officer and a gentleman." They were, of course, very sorry for their error. But the tale leaked into the regimental canteen, and thence ran about the Province. THE ROUT OF THE WHITE HUSSARS. It was not in the open fight We threw away the sword, But in the lonely watching In the darkness by the ford. The waters lapped, the night-wind blew Full-armed the Fear was born and grew And we were flying ere we knew, From panic in the night. —Beoni Bar. Some people hold that an English Cavalry regi¬ ment cannot run. This is a mistake. I have seen four hundred and thirty-seven sabers flying over the face of the country in abject terror—have seen the best Regiment that ever drew bridle wiped otf the Army List for the space of two hours. If you repeat this tale to the White Hussars they will, in all probability, treat you severely. They are not proud of the incident. You may know the White Hussars by their "side," which is greater than that of all the Cav¬ alry Regiments on the roster. If this is not a suf¬ ficient mark, you may know them by their old 181 KIPLING BOY STORIES. brandy. It has been sixty years in the Mess and is worth going far to taste. Ask for the "Mc- Gaire" old brandy, and see that you get it. If the Mess Sergeant thinks that you are uneducated, and that the genuine article will be lost on you, he will treat you accordingly. He is a good man. But, when you are at Mess, you must never talk to your hosts about forced marches or long-distance rides. The Mess are very sensitive; and, if they think that you are laughing at them, will tell you so. As the White Hussars say, it was all the Col¬ onel's fault. He was a new man, and he ought never to have taken the Command. He said that the Regiment was not smart enough. This to the White Hussars, who knew that they could walk round any Horse and through any Guns, and over any Foot on the face of the earth! That insult was the first cause of offense. Then the Colonel cast the Drum-Horse—the Drum-Horse of the White Hussars! Perhaps you do not see what an unspeakable crime he had committed. I will try to make it clear. The soul of the Regiment lives in the Drum-Horse who car¬ ries the silver kettle-drums. He is nearly always a THE ROUT OF THE WHITE HUSSARS. 183 big piebald Waler. That is a point of honor; and a Regiment will spend anything you please on a piebald. He is beyond the ordinary laws of cast- ing. His work is very light, and he only manoeu¬ vres at a foot-pace. Wherefore so long as he can step out and look handsome, his wellbeing is as¬ sured. He knows more about the Regiment than the Adjutant, and could not make a mistake if he tried. The Drum-Horse of the White Hussars was only eighteen years old, and perfectly equal to his duties. He had at least six years' more work in him, and carried himself with all the pomp and dignity of a Drum-Major of the Guards. The Regiment had paid Rs.1200 for him. But the Colonel said that he must go, and he was cast in due form and replaced by a washy, bay beast, as ugly as a mule, with a ewe-neck, rat-tail, and cow-hocks. The Drummer detested that ani¬ mal, and the best of the Band-horses put back their ears and showed the whites of their eyes at the very sight of him. They knew him for an up¬ start and no gentleman. I fancy that the Colonel's ideas of smartness extended to the Band, and that he wanted to make it take part in the regular pa- 184 KIPLING BOY STORIES. rade movements. A Cavalry Band is a sacred thing. It only turns out for Commanding officers' parades, and the Band Master is one degree more important than the Colonel. He is a High Priest and the "Keel Row" is his holy song. The "Keel Row" is the Cavalry Trot; and the man who has never heard that tune rising, high and shrill, above the rattle of the Regiment going past the saluting-base, has something yet to hear and un¬ derstand. When the Colonel cast the Drum-Horse of the White Hussars, there was nearly a mutiny. The officers were angry, the Regiment were furious, and the Bandsmen swore—like troopers. The Drum-Horse was going to be put up to auc¬ tion—public auction—to be bought, perhaps, by a Parsee and put into a cart! It was worse than exposing the inner life of the Regiment to the whole world, or selling the Mess Plate to a Jew— a black Jew. The Colonel was a mean man and a bully. He knew what the Regiment thought about his action; and, when the troopers offered to buy the Drum- Horse, he said that their offer was mutinous and forbidden by the Regulations. THE ROUT OF THE WHITE HUSSARS. 185 But one of the Subalterns—Hogan-Yale, an Irishman—bought the Drum-Horse for Rs.i6o at the sale, and the Colonel was wroth. Yale pro¬ fessed repentance—he was unnaturally submissive —and said that, as he had only made the purchase to save the horse from possible ill-treatment and starvation, he would now shoot him and end the business. This appeared to soothe the Colonel, for he wanted the Drum-Horse disposed of. He felt that he had made a mistake, and could not of course acknowledge it. Meantime, the presence of the Drum-Horse was an annoyance to him. Yale took to himself a glass of the old brandy, three cheroots, and his friend Martyn; and they all left the Mess together. Yale and Martyn con¬ ferred for two hours in Yale's quarters ; but only the bull terrier who keeps watch over Yale's boot- trees knows what they said. A horse, hooded and sheeted to his ears, left Yale's stables and was taken, very unwillingly, into the Civil Lines. Yale's groom went with him. Two men broke into the Regimental Theater and took several paint-pots and some large scenery-brushes. Then night fell over the Cantonments, and there was a noise as of a horse kicking his loose box to pieces KIPLING BOY STORIES. in Yale's stables. Yale had a big, old, white Waler trap-horse. The next day was a Thursday, and the men, hearing that Yale was going to shoot the Drum- Horse in the evening, determined to give the beast a regulai regimental funeral—a finer one than they would have given the Colonel had he died just then. They got a bullock-cart and some sack¬ ing, and mounds and mounds of roses, and the body, under sacking, was carried out to the place where the anthrax cases were cremated; two- thirds of the Regiment following. There was no Band, but they all sang "The Place where the old Horse died" ?s something respectful and appro¬ priate to the occasion. When the corpse was dumped into the grave and the men began throw¬ ing down armfuls of roses to cover it, the Farrier- Sergeant ripped out an oath and said aloud "Why, it ain't the Drum-Horse any more than it's me!" The Troop Sergeant-Majors asked him whether he had left his head in the Canteen. The Farrier- Sergeant said that he knew the Drum-Horse's feet as well as he knew his own; but he was silenced when he saw the regimental number burnt in on the poor stiff, upturned near-fore. THE ROUT OF THE WHITE HUSSARS. 187 Thus was the Drum-Horse of the White Hus¬ sars buried; the Farrier-Sergeant grumbling. The sacking that covered the corpse was smeared in places with black paint; and the Farrier-Sergeant drew attention to this fact. But the Troop-Ser¬ geant-Major of E Troop kicked him severely on the shin, and told him that he was undoubtedly drunk. On the Monday following the burial, the Col¬ onel sought revenge on the White Hussars. Un¬ fortunately, being at that time temporarily in Command of the Station, he ordered a Brigade field-day. He said that he wished to make the Regiment "sweat for their insolence, and he car¬ ried out his notion thoroughly. That Monday was one of the hardest days in the memory of the White Hussars. They were thrown against a skeleton-enemy, and pushed forward, and with¬ drawn, and dismounted, and "scientifically han¬ dled" in every possible fashion over dusty country, till they sweated profusely. Their only amuse¬ ment came late in the day when they fell upon the battery of Horse Artillery and chased it for two miles. This was a personal question, and most of the troopers had money on the event; the Gunners KIPLING BOY STORIES. saying openly that they had the legs of the White Hussars. They were wrong. A march-past con¬ cluded the campaign, and when the Regiment got back to their Lines, the men were coated with dirt from spur to chin-strap. The White Hussars have one great and peculiar privilege. They won it at Fontenoy, I think. Many Regiments possess special rights such as wearing collars with undress uniforms, or a bow of riband between the shoulders, or red and white roses in their helmets on certain days of the year. Some rights are connected with regimental saints, and some with regimental successes. All are val¬ ued highly; but none so highly as the right of the White Hussars to have the Band playing when their horses are being watered in the Lines. Only one tune is played, and that tune never varies. I don't know its real name, but the White Hussars call it, "Take me to London again." It sounds very pretty. The Regiment would sooner be struck off the roster than forego their distinction. After the "dismiss" was sounded, the officers rode off home to prepare for stables; and the men filed into the lines riding easy. That is to say, they opened their tight buttons, shifted their hel- THE ROUT OF THE WHITE HUSSARS. 189 mets, and began to joke or to swear as the humor took them; the more careful slipping off and eas¬ ing girths and curbs. A good trooper values his mount exactly as much as he values himself, and believes, or should believe, that the two together are irresistible where women or men, girls or guns, are concerned. Then the Orderly-Officer gave the order, "Water horses," and the Regiment loafed off to the squadron troughs which were in rear of the stables and between these and the barracks. There were four huge troughs, one for each squadron, arranged en echelon, so that the whole Regiment could water in ten minutes if it liked. But it lin¬ gered for seventeen, as a rule, while the Band played. The Band struck up as the squadrons filed off to the troughs, and the men slipped their feet out of the stirrups and chaffed each other. The sun was just setting in a big, hot bed of red cloud, and the road to the Civil Lines seemed to run straight into the sun's eye. There was a little dot on the road. It grew and grew till it showed as a horse, with a sort of gridiron-thing on his back. The red cloud glared through the bars of the gridiron. 13 190 KIPLING BOY STORIES. Some of the troopers shaded their eyes with their hands and said—"What the mischief 'as that there 'orse got 011 'im?" In another minute they heard a neigh that every soul—horse and man—in the Regiment knew, and saw, heading straight towards the Band, the dead Drum-Horse of the White Hussars! On his withers banged and bumped the kettle¬ drums draped in crape, and on his back, very stiff and soldierly, sat a bareheaded skeleton. The Band stopped playing, and, for a moment, there was a hush. Then some one in E Troop—men said it was the Troop-Sergeant-Major—swung his horse round and yelled. No one can account exactly for what happened afterwards; but it seems that, at least, one man in each troop set an example of panic, and the rest followed like sheep. The horses that had barely put their muzzles into the troughs reared and capered; but as soon as the Band broke, which it did when the ghost of the Drum-Horse was about a furlong distant, all hooves followed suit, and the clatter of the stam¬ pede—quite different from the orderly throb and roar of a movement on parade, or the rough the rout of the white hussars. 191 horse-play of watering in camp—made them only more terrified. They felt that the men on their backs were afraid of something. When horses once know that, all is over except the butchery. Troop after troop turned from the troughs and ran—anywhere and everywhere—like spilt quick¬ silver. It was a most extraordinary spectacle, for men and horses were in all stages of easiness, and the carbine-buckets flopping against their sides urged the horses on. Men were shouting and cursing, and trying to pull clear of the Band which was being chased by the Drum-Horse whose rider had fallen forward and seemed to be spurring for a wager. The Colonel had gone over to the Mess for a drink. Most of the officers were with him, and the Subaltern of the Day was preparing to' go down to the lines, and receive the watering re¬ ports from the Troop-Sergeant-Majors. When "Take me to London again" stopped after twenty bars, every one in the Mess said, "What on earth has happened?" A minute later, they heard un- military noises, and saw, far across the plain, the White Hussars, scattered and broken, and flying. The Colonel was speechless with rage, for he 192 KIPLING BOY STORIES. thought that the Regiment had risen against him or was unanimously drunk. The Band, a disor¬ ganized mob, tore past, and at its heels labored the Drum-Horse—the dead and buried Drum-Horse —with the jolting, clattering skeleton. Hogan- Yale whispered softly to Martyn—"No wire will stand that treatment," and the Band, which had doubled like a hare, came back again. But the rest of the Regiment was gone, was rioting all over the Province, for the dusk had shut in and each man was howling to his neighbor that the Drum- Horse was on his flank. Troop-horses are far too tenderly treated as a rule. They can, on emergen¬ cies, do a great deal, even with seventeen stone on their backs. As the troopers found out. How long this panic lasted I cannot say. I be¬ lieve that when the moon rose the men saw they had nothing to fear, and, by twos and threes and half troops, crept back into Cantonments very much ashamed of themselves. Meantime, the Drum-Horse, disgusted at his treatment by old friends, pulled up, wheeled round, and trotted up to the Mess verandah-steps for bread. No one liked to run; but no one cared to go forward till the Colonel made a movement and laid hold of the THE ROUT OF THE WHITE HUSSARS. 193 skeleton's foot. The Band had halted some dis¬ tance away, and now came back slowly. The Col¬ onel called it, individually and collectively, every evil name that occurred to him at the time; for he had set his hand on the bosom of the Drum-Horse and found flesh and blood. Then he beat the ket¬ tle-drums with his clenched fist, and discovered that they were but made of silvered paper and bamboo. Next, still swearing, he tried to drag the skeleton out of the saddle, but found that it had been wired into the cantle. The sight of the Col¬ onel, with his arms round the skeleton's pelvis and his knee in the old Drum-Horse's stomach, was striking. Not to say amusing. He worried the thing off in a minute or two, and threw it down on the ground, saying to the Band—"Here, you curs, that's what you're afraid of." The skeleton did not look pretty in the twilight. The Band- Sergeant seemed to recognize it for he began to chuckle and choke. "Shall I take it away, sir?" said the Band-Sergeant. "Yes," said the Colonel, "take it and yourselves!" The Band-Sergeant saluted, hoisted the skele¬ ton across his saddle-bow, and led off to the stables. Then the Colonel began to make inquiries 194 KIPLING BOY STORIES. for the rest of the Regiment, and the language he used was wonderful. He would disband the Regi¬ ment—he would court-martial every soul in it—he would not command such a set of rabble, and so on, and so on. As the men dropped in, his lan¬ guage grew wilder, until at last it exceeded the ut¬ most limits of free speech allowed even to a Col¬ onel of Horse. Martyn took Hogan-Yale aside and suggested compulsory retirement from the Service as a ne¬ cessity when all was discovered. Martyn was the weaker man of the two. Hogan-Yale put up his eyebrows and remarked, firstly, that he was the son of a Lord, and, secondly, that he was as inno¬ cent as the babe unborn of the theatrical resurrec¬ tion of the Drum-Horse. "My instructions," said Yale, with a singularly sweet smile, "were that the Drum-Horse should be sent back as impressively as possible. I ask you, am I responsible if a mule-headed friend sends him back in such a manner as to disturb the peace of mind of a regiment of Her Majesty's Cavalry ?" Martyn said, "You are a great man, and will in THE ROUT OF THE WHITE HUSSARS. 195 time become a General; but I'd give my chance of a troop to be safe out of this affair." Providence saved Martyn and Hogan-Yale. The Second-in-Command led the Colonel away to the little curtained alcove wherein the Subalterns of the White Hussars were accustomed to play poker of nights; and there, after many oaths on the Colonel's part, they talked together in low tones. I fancy that the Second-in-Command must have represented the scare as the work of some trooper whom it would be hopeless to detect; and I know that he dwelt upon the sin and the shame of making a public laughing-stock of the scare. "They will call us," said the Second-in-Com- mand, who had really a fine imagination—"they will call us the 'Fly-by-Nightsthey will call us the 'Ghost Hunters;' they will nickname us from one end of the Army List to the other. All the explanation in the world won't make outsiders un¬ derstand that the officers were away when the panic began. For the honor of the Regiment and for your own sake keep this thing quiet." The Colonel was so exhausted with anger that soothing him down was not so difficult as might be imagined. He was made to see, gently and by de- 196 KIPLING BOY- STORIES. grees, that it was obviously impossible to court- martial the whole Regiment and equally impos¬ sible to proceed against any subaltern who, in his belief, had any concern in the hoax. "But the beast's alive! He's never been shot at all!" shouted the Colonel. "It's flat flagrant dis¬ obedience ! I've known a man broke for less. They're mocking me, I tell you, Mutman ! They're mocking me!" Once more, the Second-in-Command set him¬ self to soothe the Colonel, and wrestled with him for half an hour. At the end of that time the Reg¬ imental Sergeant-Major reported himself. The situation was rather novel to him; but he was not a man to be put out by circumstances. He saluted and said, "Regiment all come back, Sir." Then, to propitiate the Colonel—"An' none of the 'orses any worse, Sir." The Colonel only snorted and answered— "You'd better tuck the men into their cots, then, and see that they don't wake up and cry in the night." The Sergeant withdrew. His little stroke of humor pleased the Colonel, and, further, he felt slightly ashamed of the lan¬ guage he had been using. The Second-in-Com- THE ROUT OF THE WHITE HUSSARS. 197 mand worried him again, and the two sat talking" far into the night. Next day but one, there was a Commanding Officer's parade, and the Colonel harangued the White Hussars vigorously. The pith of his speech was that, since the Drum-Horse in his old age had proved himself capable of cutting up the whole Regiment, he should return to his post of pride at the head of the Band, but the Regiment were a set of ruffians with bad consciences. The White Hussars shouted, and threw every¬ thing movable about them into the air, and when the parade was over, they cheered the Colonel till they couldn't speak. No cheers were put up for Lieutenant Hogan-Yale, who smiled very sweetly in the background. Said the Second-in-Command to the Colonel, unofficially— "These little things ensure popularity, and do not the least affect discipline." "But I went back on my word," said the Col¬ onel. "Never mind," said the Second-in-Command. "The White Hussars will follow you anywhere 198 KIPLING BOY STORIES. from to-day. Regiments are just like women. They will do anything for trinketry." A week later Hogan-Yale received an extraor¬ dinary letter from some one who signed himself "Secretary, Charity and Zeal, 3709, E. C.," and asked for "the return of our skeleton which we have reason to believe is in your possession." "Who the deuce is this lunatic who trades in bones?" said Hogan-Yale. "Beg your pardon, Sir," said the Band-Ser¬ geant, "but the skeleton is with me, an' I'll return it if you'll pay the carriage into- the Civil Lines. There's a coffin with it, Sir." Hogan-Yale smiled and handed two' rupees to the Band-Sergeant, saying, "Write the date on the skull, will you?" If you doubt this story, and know where to go, you can see the date on the skeleton. But don't mention the matter to the White Hussars. I happen to know something about it, because I prepared the Drum-Horse for his resurrection. He did not take kindly to the skeleton at all. BIM1 The orang-outang in the big iron cage lashed to the sheep-pen began the discussion. The night was stiflingly hot, and as Hans Breitmann and I passed him, dragging our bedding to the fore- peak of the steamer, he roused himself and chat¬ tered obscenely. He had been caught somewhere in the Malayan Archipelago, and was going to England to be exhibited at a shilling a head. For four days he had struggled, yelled and wrenched at the heavy iron bars of his prison without ceas¬ ing, and had nearly slain a Lascar incautious enough to come within reach of the great hairy paw. "It would be well for you, mine friend, if you was a liddle seasick," said Hans Breitmann, paus¬ ing by the cage. "You haf too much Ego in your Cosmos." The orang-outang's arm slid out negligently from between the bars. No one would have be¬ lieved that it would make a sudden snake-like rush 199 200 KIPLING BOY STORIES. at the German's breast. The thin silk of the sleeping-suit tore out: Hans stepped back un¬ concernedly, to pluck a banana from a bunch hanging close to one of the boats. "Too much Ego," said he, peeling the fruit and offering it to the caged devil, who was rending the silk to tatters. Then we laid out our bedding in the bows, among the sleeping Lascars, to catch any breeze that the pace of the ship might give us. The sea was like smoky oil, except where it turned to fire under our forefoot and whirled back into the dark in smears of dull flame. There was a thunder¬ storm some miles away; we could see the glimmer of the lightning. The ship's cow, distressed by the heat and the smell of the ape-beast in the cage, lowed unhappily from time to time in exactly the same key as the lookout man at the bows answered the hourly call from the bridge. The trampling tune of the engines was very distinct, and the jar¬ ring of the ash-lift, as it was tipped into the sea, hurt the procession of hushed noise. Hans lay down by my side and lighted a good-night cigar. This was naturally the beginning of conversation. He owned a voice as soothing as the wash of the BIMI. 201 sea, and stores of experiences as vast as the sea it¬ self; for his business in life was to wander up and down the wTorld, collecting orchids and wild beasts and ethnological specimens for German and American dealers. I watched the glowing end of his cigar wax and wane in the gloom, as the sen¬ tences rose and fell, till I was nearly asleep. The orang-outang, troubled by some dream of the for¬ ests of his freedom, began to yell like a soul in purgatory, and to wrench madly at the bars of the cage. "If he was out now dere would not be much of us left hereabouts," said Hans, lazily. "He screams good. See, now, how I shall tame him when he stops himself." There was a pause in the outcry, and from Hans' mouth came an imitation of a snake's hiss, so perfect that I almost sprung to my feet. The sustained murderous sound ran along the deck, and the wrenching at the bars ceased. The orang¬ outang was quaking in an ecstasy of pure terror. "Dot stop him," said Hans. "I learned dot trick in Mogoung Tanjong when I was collecting liddle monkeys for some peoples in Berlin. Efery one in der world is afraid of der monkeys—ex- 202 KIPLING BOY STORIES. cept der snake. So I blay snake against monkey, and he keep quite still. Dere was too much Ego in his Cosmos. Dot is der soul-custom of mon¬ keys. Are you asleep, or will you listen, and 1 will tell a dale dot you shall not pelief ?" "There's no tale in the wide world that I can't believe," I said. "If you have learned pelief you haf learned somedings. Now I shall try your pelief. Good! When I was collecting dose liddle monkeys—it was in '79 or '80, und I was in der islands of der Archipelago—over dere in der dark"—he pointed southward to New Guinea generally—"Mein Gott! I would sooner collect life red devils than liddle monkeys. When dey do not bite off your thumbs dey are always dying from nostalgia— home-sick—for dey haf der imperfect soul, which is midway arrested in defelopment—und too much Ego. I was dere for nearly a year, und dere I found a man dot was called Bertran. He was a Frenchman, und he was a goot man—naturalist to the bone. Dey said he was an escaped convict, but he was a naturalist, und dot was enough for me. He would call all der life beasts from der forest, und dey would come. I said he was St. BIMI. 203 Francis of Assisi in a new dransmigration pro¬ duced, und he laughed und said he haf never preach to der fishes. He soid dem for tripang—• beche-de-mer. "Und dot man, who was king of beasts-tamer men, he had in der house shush such anoder as dot devil-animal in der cage—a great orang¬ outang dot thought he was a man. He haf found him when he was a child—der orang-outang— und he was child and brother and opera comique all round to Bertran. He had his room in dot house—not a cage, but a room—mit a bed and sheets, and he would go to bed and get up in der morning and smoke his cigar und eat his dinner mit Bertran, und walk mit him hand-in-hand, which was most horrible. Herr Gott! I haf seen dot beast throw himself back in his chair und laugh when Bertran haf made fun of me. He was not a beast; he was a man, und he talked to Bertran, und Bertran comprehended, for I have seen dem. Und he was always politeful to me except when I talk too long to Bertran und say nodings at all to him. Den he would pull me away—dis great, dark devil, mit his enormous paws—shush as if I was a child. He was not a 204 KIPLING BOY STORIES. beast, he was a man. Dis I saw pefore I know him three months, und Bertran he haf saw the same; and Bimi, der orang-outang, haf understood us both, mit his cigar between his big-dog teeth und der blue gum. "I was dere a year, dere und at dere oder isl¬ ands—somedimes for monkeys and somedimes for butterflies und orchits. One time Bertran says to me dot he will be married, pecause he haf found a girl dot was goot, and he inquire if this marry¬ ing idea was right. I would not say, pecause it was not me dot was going to be married. Den he go off courting der girl—she was a half-caste French girl—very pretty. Haf you got a new light for my cigar? Oof! Very pretty. Only I say: 'Haf you thought of Bimi ? If he pulls me away when I talk to you, what will he do to your wife? He will pull her in pieces. If I was you, Bertran, I would gif my wife for wedding present der stuff figure of Bimi.' By dot time I had learned somedings about der monkey peoples. 'Shoot him?' says Bertran. 'He is your beast,' I said; 'if he was mine he would be shot now.' "Den I felt at der back of my neck der fingers of Bimi. Mein Gott! I tell you dot he talked BIMI. 205 through dose fingers. It was der deaf-and-dumb alphabet all gomplete. He slide his hairy arm round my neck, and he tilt up my chin und look into my face, shust to see if I understood his talk so well as he understood mine. " 'See now dere!' says Bertran, 'und you would shoot him while he is cuddling you? Dot is der Teuton ingrate!' "But I knew dot I had made Bimi a life's en¬ emy, pecause his fingers haf talk murder through the back of my neck. Next dime I see Bimi dere was a pistol in my belt, und he touch it once, and I open der breech to show him it was loaded. He haf seen der liddle monkeys killed in der woods, and he understood. "So Bertran he was married, und he forgot clean about Bimi dot was skippin' alone on der beach mit der half of a human soul in his belly. I was see him skip, und he took a big bough und thrash der sand till he haf made a great hole like a grave. So I says to Bertran: 'For any sakes, kill Bimi. He is mad mit der jealousy.' "Bertran haf said: 'He is not mad at all. He haf obey and love my wife, und if she speaks he will get her slippers,' und he looked at his wife 14 206 KIPLING BOY STORIES. across der room. She was a very pretty girl. "Den I said to him: 'Dost thou pretend to know monkeys und dis beast dot is lashing him¬ self mad upon der sands, pecause you do not talk to him ? Shoot him when he comes to der house, for he haf der light in his eyes dot means killing —und killing.' Bimi come to der house, but dere was no light in his eyes. It was all put away, cunning—so cunning—und he fetch der girl her slippers, und Bertran turn to me und say: 'Dost thou know him in nine months more than I haf known him in twelve years? Shall a child stab his fader? I have fed him, und he was my child. Do not speak this nonsense to my wife or to me any more.' "Dot next day Bertran came to my house to help me make some wood cases for der specimens, und he tell me dot he haf left his wife a liddle while mit Bimi in der garden. Den I finish my cases quick, und I say: 'Let us go to your house und get a trink.' He laugh und say: 'Come along, dry mans.' "His wife was not in der garden, und Bimi did not come when Bertran called. Und his wife did not come when he called, und he knocked at her BIMI. 207 bedroom door und dot was shut tight—locked. Den he look at me, und his face was white. I broke down der door mit my shoulder, und der thatch of der roof was torn into a great hole, und der sun came in upon der floor. Haf you ever seen paper in der waste-basket, or cards at whist on der table scattered? Dere was no wife dot could be seen. I tell you dere was noddings in dot room dot might be a woman. Dere was stuff on der floor, und dot was all. I looked at dese things und I was very sick; but Bertran looked a liddle longer at what was upon the floor und der walls, und der hole in der thatch. Den he pegan to laugh, soft and low, und I knew und thank Got dot he was mad. He nefer cried, he nefer prayed. He stood still in der doorway und laugh to> him¬ self. Den he said : 'She haf locked herself in dis room, und he haf torn up der thatch. Fi done. Dot is so. We will mend der thatch und wait for Bimi. He will surely come.' "I tell you we waited ten days in dot house, after der room was made into a room again, and once or twice we saw Bimi comin' a liddle way from der woods. He was afraid pecause he haf done wrong. Bertran called him when he was 20S KIPLING BOY STORIES. come to look on the tenth day, und Bimi come skipping along der beach und making noises, mit a long piece of black hair in his hands. Den Bertran laugh and say, 'Ft done!' shust as if it was a glass broken upon der table; und Bimi come nearer, und Bertran was honey-sweet in his voice and laughed to himself. For three days he made love to Bimi, pecause Bimi would not let himself be touched. Den Bimi come to dinner at der same table mit us, und der hair on his hands was all black und thick mit—mit what had dried on his hands. Bertran gave him sangaree till Bimi was drunk and stupid, und den"— Hans paused to puff at his cigar. "And then?" said I. "Und den Bertran kill him with his hands, und I go for a walk upon der beach. It was Bertran's own piziness. When I come back der ape he was dead, und Bertran he was dying abofe him; but still he laughed a liddle und low, and he was quite content. Now you know der formula of der strength of der orang-outang—it is more as seven to one in relation to man. But Bertran, he half killed Bimi mit sooch dings as Gott gif him. Dot was der miracle." BIMI. 209 The infernal clamor in the cage recommenced. "Aha! Dot friend of ours haf still too much Ego in his Cosmos. Be quiet, thou!" Hans hissed long and venomously. We could hear the great beast quaking in his cage. "But why in the world didn't you help Bertran instead of letting him be killed?" I asked. "My friend," said Hans, composedly stretching himself to slumber, "it was not nice even to mine- self dot I should lif after I had seen dot room wit der hole in der thatch. Und Bertran, he was her husband. Goot-night, und sleep well." NAMGAY DOOLA. Once upon a time there was a king who lived on the road to Thibet, very many miles in the Himalaya Mountains. His kingdom was 11,000 feet above the sea, and exactly four miles square, but most of the miles stood on end, owing to the nature of the country. His revenues were rather less than £400 yearly, and they were expended on the maintenance of one elephant and a standing army of five men. He was tributary to the In¬ dian government, who allowed him certain sums for keeping a section of the Himalaya-Thibet road in repair. He further increased his revenues by selling timber to the railway companies, for he would cut the great deodar trees in his own forest and they fell thundering into the Sutlej River and were swept down to the Plains, 300 miles away, and became railway ties. Now and again this king, whose name does not matter, would mount a ring-streaked horse and ride scores of miles to Simlatown to confer with the lieutenant- governor on matters of state, or assure the vice- 210 NAMGAY DOOLA. 211 roy that his sword was at the service of the queen- empress. Then the viceroy would cause a ruffle of drums to be sounded and the ring-streaked horse and the cavalry of the state—two men in tatters—and the herald who bore the Silver Stick before the king would trot back to their own place, which was between the tail of a heaven-climbing glacier and a dark birch forest. Now, from such a king, always remembering that he possessed one veritable elephant and could count his descent for 1,200 years, I expected, when it was my fate to wander through his do¬ minions, no more than mere license to live. The night had closed in rain, and rolling clouds blotted out the lights of the villages in the valley. Forty miles away, untouched by cloud or storm, the white shoulder of Dongo Pa—the Mountain of the Council of the Gods—upheld the evening star. The monkeys sung sorrowfully to each other as they hunted for dry roots in the fern- draped trees, and the last puff of the day-wind brought from the unseen villages the scent of damp wood smoke, hot cakes, dripping under¬ growth, and rotting pine-cones. That smell is the true smell of the Himalayas, and if it once gets 212 KIPLING BOY STORIES. into the blood of a man he will, at the last, forget¬ ting everything else, return to the Hills to die. The clouds closed and the smell went away, and there remained nothing in all the world except chilling white mists and the boom of the Sutlej River. A fat-tailed sheep, who did not want to die, bleated lamentably at my tent-door. He was scuffling with the prime minister and the director- general of public education, and he was a royal gift to me and my camp servants. I expressed my thanks suitably and inquired if I might have audience of the king. The prime minister re¬ adjusted his turban—it had fallen off in the strug¬ gle—and assured me that the king would be very pleased to see me. Therefore I dispatched two bottles as a foretaste, and when the sheep had en¬ tered upon another incarnation, climbed up to the king's palace through the wet. He had sent his army to escort me, but it stayed to talk with my cook. Soldiers are very much alike all the world over. The palace was a four-roomed, whitewashed mud-and-timber house, the finest in all the Hills for a day's journey. The king was dressed in a NAMGAY DOOLA. 213 purple velvet jacket, white muslin trousers, and a saffron-yellow turban of price. He gave me audience in a little carpeted room opening off the palace court-yard, which was occupied by the elephant of state. The great beast was sheeted and anchored from trunk to tail, and the curve of his back stood out against the sky line. The prime minister and the director-general of public instruction were present to introduce me ; but all the court had been dismissed lest the two bottles aforesaid should corrupt their morals. The king cast a wreath of heavy, scented flowers round my neck as I bowed, and inquired how my hon¬ ored presence had the felicity to be. I said that through seeing his auspicious countenance the mists of the night had turned into sunshine, and that by reason of his beneficent sheep his good deeds would be remembered by the gods. He said that since I had set my magnificent foot in his kingdom the crops would probably yield seventy per cent more than the average. I said that the fame of the king had reached to the four corners of the earth, and that the nations gnashed their teeth when they heard daily of the glory of his realm and the wisdom of his moon-like prime 214 KIPLING BOY STORIES. minister and lotus-eyed director-general of public education. Then we sat down on clean white cushions, and I was at the king's right hand. Three minutes later he was telling me that the condition of the maize crop was something disgraceful, and that the railway companies would not pay him enough for his timber. The talk shifted to and fro with the bottles. We discussed very many quaint things, and the king became confidential on the subject of government generally. Most of all he dwelt on the shortcomings of one of his subjects, who, from what I could gather, had been paralyz¬ ing the executive. "In the old days," said the king, "I could have ordered the elephant yonder to trample him to death. Now I must e'en send him seventy miles across the hills to be tried, and his keep for that time would be upon the state. And the elephant eats everything." "What be the man's crimes, Rajah Sahib?" said I. "Firstly, he is an 'outlander,' and no man of mine own people. Secondly, since of my favor I gave him land upon his coming, he refuses to pay NAMGAY DOOLA. 215 revenue. Am I not the lord of the earth, above and below—entitled by right and custom to one- eighth of the crop? Yet this devil, establishing himself, refuses to pay a single tax * * * and he brings a poisonous spawn of babes." "Cast him into jail," I said. "Sahib," the king answered, shifting a little on the cushions, "once and only once in these forty years sickness came upon me so that I was not able to go abroad. In that hour I made a vow to my God that I would never again cut man or wo¬ man from the light of the sun and the air of God, for I perceived the nature of the punishment. How can I break my vow? Were it only the lopping off of a hand or a foot, I should not delay. But even that is impossible now that the English have rule. One or another of my people"—he looked obliquely at the director-general of public education—"would at once write a letter to the viceroy, and perhaps I should be deprived of that ruffle of drums." He unscrewed the mouthpiece of his silver water-pipe, fitted a plain amber one, and passed the pipe to me. "Not content with refusing rev¬ enue," he continued, "this outlander refuses also 2l6 KIPLING BOY STORIES. to beegar" (this is the corvee or forced labor on the roads), "and stirs my people up to the like treason. Yet he is, if so he wills, an expert log- snatcher. There is none better or bolder among my people to clear a block of the river when the logs stick fast." "But he worships strange gods," said the prime minister, deferentially. "For that I have no concern," said the king, who was as tolerant as Akbar in matters of belief. "To each man his own god, and the fire or Mother Earth for us at the last. It is the rebellion that offends me." "The king has an army," I suggested. "Has not the king burned the man's house, and left him naked to the night dews?" "Nay. A hut is a hut, and it holds the life of a man. But once I sent my army against him when his excuses became wearisome. Of their heads he brake three across the top with a stick. The other two men ran away. Also the guns would not shoot." I had seen the equipment of the infantry. One- third of it was an old muzzle-loading fowling- piece with ragged rust holes where the nipples NAMGAY DOOLA. 217 should have been; one-third a wire-bound match¬ lock, with a worm-eaten stock, and one-third a four-bore flint duck-gun, without a flint. "But it is to be remembered," said the king, reaching out for the bottle, "that he is a very ex¬ pert log-snatcher and a man of a merry face. What shall I do to him, Sahib?" This was interesting. The timid hill-folk would as soon have refused taxes to their king as offer¬ ings to their gods. The rebel must be a man of character. "If it be the king's permission," I said, "I will not strike my tents till the third day, and I will see this man. The mercy of the king is godlike, and rebellion is like unto the sin of witchcraft. Moreover, both the bottles, and another, be empty." "You have my leave to go," said the king. Next morning the crier went through the state proclaiming that there was a log-jam on the river and that it behooved all loyal subjects to clear it. The people poured down from their villages to the moist, warm valley of poppy fields, and the king and I went with them. Hundreds of dressed deodar logs had caught on 218 KIPLING BOY STORIES. a snag of rock, and the river was bringing down more logs every minute to- complete the blockade. The water snarled and wrenched and worried at the timber, while the population of the state prodded at the nearest logs with poles, in the hope of easing the pressure. Then there went up a shout of "Namgay Doola! Namgay Doola!" and a large, red-haired villager hurried up, stripping off his clothes as he ran. "That is he. That is the rebel!" said the king. ''Now will the dam be cleared." "But why has he red hair?" I asked, since red hair among hill-folk is as uncommon as blue or green. "He is an outlander," said the king. "Well done! Oh, well done!" Namgay Doola had scrambled on the jam and was clawing out the butt of a log with a rude sort of a boat-hook. It slid forward slowly, as an alligator moves, and three or four others followed it. The green water spouted through the gaps. Then the villagers howled and shouted and leaped among the logs, pulling and pushing the obstinate timber, and the red head of Namgay Doola was chief among them all. The logs swayed and Page 218 Namgay Doola had scrambled on the jam and was clawing out a log with a boat-hook NAMGAY DOOLA. 219 chafed and groaned as fresh consignments from up-stream battered the now weakening dam. It gave way at last in a smother of foam, racing butts, bobbing black heads, and a confusion indescribable, as the river tossed everything before it. I saw the red head go down with the last rem¬ nants of the jam and disappear between the great grinding tree trunks. It rose close to the bank, and blowing like a grampus, Namgay Doola wiped the water out of his eyes and made obeis¬ ance to the king. I had time to observe the man closely. The virulent redness of his shock head and beard was most startling, and in the thicket of hair twinkled above high cheek-bones two very merry blue eyes. He was indeed an outlander, but yet a Thibetan in language, habit and attire. He spoke the Lepcha dialect with an indescribable softening of the gutturals. It was not so much a lisp as an accent. "Whence comest thou ?" I asked, wondering. "From Thibet." He pointed across the hills and grinned. That grin went straight to my heart. Mechanically I held out my hand, and Namgay Doola took it. No pure Thibetan would 220 KIPLING BOY STORIES. have understood the meaning of the gesture. He went away to- look for his clothes, and as he climbed back to his village, I heard a joyous yell that seemed unaccountably familiar. It was the whooping of Namgay Doola. "You see now," said the king, "why I would not kill him. He is a bold man among my logs, but," and he shook his head like a schoolmaster, "I know that before long there will be complaints of him in the court. Let us return to the palace and do justice." It was that king's custom to judge his subjects every day between eleven and three o'clock. I heard him do justice equitably on weighty matters of trespass, slander, and a little wife-stealing. Then his brow clouded and he summoned me. "Again it is Namgay Doola," he said, despair¬ ingly. "Not content with refusing revenue on his own part, he has bound half his village by an oath to the like treason. Never before has such a thing befallen me! Nor are my taxes heavy." A rabbit-faced villager, with a blush-rose stuck behind his ear, advanced trembling. He had been in Namgay Doola's conspiracy, but had told every¬ thing and hoped for the king's favor. NAMGAY DOOLA. 221 "Oh, king!" said I, "if it be the king's will, let this matter stand over till the morning. Only the gods can do right in a hurry, and it may be that yonder villager has lied." "Nay, for I know the nature of Namgay Doola; but since a guest asks, let the matter remain. Wilt thou, for my sake, speak harshly to this red¬ headed outlander? He may listen to thee." I made an attempt that very evening, but for the life of me I could not keep my countenance. Nam¬ gay Doola grinned so persuasively and began to tell me about a big brown bear in a poppy field by the river. Would I care to shoot that bear? I spoke austerely on the sin of detected conspiracy and the certainty of punishment. Namgay Doola's face clouded for a moment. Shortly afterward he withdrew from my tent, and I heard him sing¬ ing softly among the pines. The words were unintelligible to me, but the tune, like his liquid, insinuating speech, seemed the ghost of something strangely familiar. "Dir hane mard-i-yemen dir To weeree ala gee." crooned Namgay Doola again and again, and T 15 222 KIPLING BOY STORIES. racked my brain for that lost tune. It was not till after dinner that I discovered some one had cut a square foot of velvet from the center of my best camera-cloth. This made me so angry that I wandered down the valley in the hope of meet¬ ing the big brown bear. I could hear him grunt¬ ing like a discontented pig in the poppy field as I waited shoulder deep in the dew-dripping Indian corn to catch him after his meal. The moon was at full and drew out the scent of the tasseled crop. Then I heard the anguished bellow of a Himalay¬ an cow—one of the little black crummies no big¬ ger than Newfoundland dogs. Two shadows that looked like a bear and her cub hurried past me. I was in the act of firing when I saw that each bore a brilliant red head. The lesser animal was trail¬ ing something rope-like that left a dark track on the path. They were within six feet of me, and the shadow of the moonlight lay velvet-black on their faces. Velvet-black was exactly the word, for by all the powers of moonlight they were masked in the velvet of my camera-cloth. I mar¬ veled, and went to bed. Next morning the kingdom was in an uproar. Namgay Doola, men said, had gone forth in the NAMGAY DOOLA. 223 night and with a sharp knife had cut off the tail of a cow belonging to the rabbit-faced villager who had betrayed him. It was sacrilege unspeak¬ able against the holy cow! The state desired his blood, but he had retreated to his hut, barricaded the doors and windows with big stones, and de¬ fied the world. The king and I and the populace approached the hut cautiously. There was no hope of capturing our man without loss of life, for from a hole in the wall projected the muzzle of an extremely well-cared-for gun—the only gun in the state that could shoot. Namgay Doola had narrowly missed a villager just before we came up. The standing army stood. It could do no more, for when it advanced pieces of sharp shale flew from the windows. To these were added from time to time showers of scalding water. We saw red heads bobbing up and down within. The family of Namgay Doola were aid¬ ing their sire. Blood-curdling yells of defiance were the only answer to' our prayers. "Never," said the king, puffing, "has such a thing befallen my state. Next year I will cer- 224 KIPLING BOY STORIES. tainly buy a little cannon." He looked at me im¬ ploringly. "Is there any priest in the kingdom to whom he will listen?" said I, for a light was beginning to break upon me. "He worships his own god," said the prime minister. "We can but starve him out." "Let the white man approach." said Namgay Doola from within. "All others I will kill. Send me the white man." The door was thrown open and I entered the smoky interior of a Thibetan hut crammed with children. And every child had flaming red hair. A fresh-gathered cow's tail lay on the floor, and by its side two pieces of black velvet—my black velvet—rudely hacked into the semblance of masks. "And what is this shame, Namgay Doola?" 1 asked. He grinned more charmingly than ever. "There is no shame," said he. "I did but cut off the tail of that man's cow. He betrayed me. I was minded to shoot him, Sahib, but not to death. Indeed, no-t to death; only in the legs." NAMGAY DOOLA. 225 "And why at all, since it is the custom to pay revenue to the king? Why at all?" "By the god of my father, I can not tell," said Namgay Doola. "And who was thy father?" "The same that had this gun." He showed me his weapon, a Tower musket, bearing date 1832 and the stamp of the Honorable East India Company. "And thy father's name?" said I. "Timlay Doola," said he. "At the first, I being then a little child, it is in my mind that he wore a red coat." "Of that I have no doubt; but repeat the name of thy father twice or thrice." He obeyed, and I understood whence the puzzling accent in his speech came. "Thimla Dhula!" said he, excitedly. "To this hour I wor¬ ship his god." "May I see that god?" "In a little while—at twilight time." "Rememberest thou aught of thy father's speech ?" "It is long ago. But there was one word which he said often. Thus, ''Shun!' Then I and my 226 KIPLING BOY STORIES. brethren stood upon our feet, our hands to our sides, thus." "Even so. And what was thy mother?" "A woman of the Hills. We be Lepchas of Darjiling, but me they call an outlander because my hair is as thou seest." The Thibetan woman, his wife, touched him on the arm gently. The long parley outside the fort had lasted far into the day. It was now close upon twilight—the hour of the Angelus. Very solemnly the red-headed brats rose from the floor and formed a semicircle. Namgay Doola laid his gun aside, lighted a little oil-lamp, and set it before a recess in the wall. Pulling back a wisp of dirty cloth, he revealed a worn brass crucifix leaning against the helmet badge of a long-forgotten East India Company's regiment. "Thus did my father," he said, crossing himself clumsily. The wife and children followed suit. Then, all to¬ gether, they struck up the wailing chant that I heard on the hill-side: "Dir hane mard-i-yemen dir To weeree ala gee." I was puzzled no longer. Again and again they sung, as if their hearts would break, their NAMGAY DOOLA. 227 version of the chorus of "The Wearing of the Green": "They're hanging men and women, too, For the wearing of the green." A diabolical inspiration came to* me. One of the brats, a boy about eight years old—could he have been in the fields last night ?—was watching me as he sung. I pulled out a rupee, held the coin between finger and thumb, and looked—only looked—at the gun leaning against the wall. A grin of brilliant and perfect comprehension over¬ spread his porringer-like face. Never for an in¬ stant stopping the song, he held out his hand for the money, and then slid the gun to my hand, I might have shot Namgay Doola dead as he chanted, but I was satisfied. The inevitable blood- instinct held true. Namgay Doola drew the cur¬ tain across the recess. Angelus was over. "Thus my father sung. There was much more, but I have forgotten, and I do not know the pur¬ port of even these words, but it may be that the god will understand. I am not of this people, and I will noi pay revenue." "And why ?" 228 KIPLING BOY STORIES. Again that soul-compelling grin. "What occu¬ pation would be to me between crop and crop? It is better than scaring bears. But these people do not understand." He picked the masks off the floor and looked in my face as simply as a child. "By what road didst thou attain knowledge to makes those deviltries?" I said, pointing. "I can not tell. I am but a Lepcha of Darjiling, and yet the stuff—" "Which thou has stolen," said I. "Nay, surely. Did I steal? I desired it so. The stuff—the stuff. What else should I have done with the stuff." He twisted the velvet be¬ tween his fingers. "But the sin of maiming the cow—consider that." "Oh, Sahib, the man betrayed me; the heifer's tail waved in the moonlight, and I had my knife. What else should I have done ? The tail came off ere I was aware. Sahib, thou knowest more than I " "That is true," said I. "Stay within the door. I go to speak to the king." The population of NAMGAY DOOLA. 229 the state were ranged an the hill-side. I went forth and spoke. "Oh, king," said I, "touching this man, there be two courses open to thy wisdom. Thou canst either hang him from a tree—he and his brood— till there remains no hair that is red within thy land." "Nay," said the king. "Why should I hurt the little children?" They had poured out of the hut and were mak¬ ing plump obeisances to everybody. Namgay Doola waited at the door with his gun across his arm. "Or thou canst, discarding their impiety of the cow-maiming, raise him to honor in thy army. He comes of a race that will not pay revenue. A red flame is in his blood which comes out at the top of his head in that glowing hair. Make him chief of thy army. Give him honor as may befall and full allowance of work, but look to it, oh, king, that neither he nor his hold a foot of earth from thee henceforward. Feed him with words and favor, and also liquor from certain bottles that thou knowest of, and he will be a bulwark of de¬ fense. But deny him even a tuftlet of grass for 230 KIPLING BOY STORIES. his own. This is the nature that God has given him. Moreover, he has brethren—" The state groaned unanimously. "But if his brethren come they will surely fight with each other till they die; or else the one will always give information concerning the other. Shall he be of thy army, oh, king? Choose." The king bowed his head, and I said: "Come forth, Namgay Doola, and command the king's army. Thy name shall no more be Namgay in the mouths of men, but Patsay Doola, for, as thou hast truly said, I know." Then Namgay Doola, new-christened Patsay Doola, son of Timlay Doola—which is Tim Doo- lan—clasped the king's feet, cuffed the standing army, and hurried in an agony of contrition from temple to temple making offerings for the sin of the cattle-maiming. And the king was so pleased with my perspi¬ cacity that he offered to sell me a village for £20 sterling. But I buy no- village in the Himalayas so long as one red head flares between the tail of the heaven-climbing glacier and the dark birch forest. I know that breed. THE JUDGMENT OF DUNGARA. See the pale martyr with his shirt on fire. —Printer''s Error. They tell the tale even now among the sal groves of the Berbulda Hill, and for corrobora¬ tion point to the roofless and windowless mission- house. The great God Dungara, the God of Things as They Are, most terrible, one-eyed, bearing the red elephant tusk, did it all; and he who refuses to believe in Dungara will assuredly be smitten by the madness of Yat—the madness that fell upon the sons and the daughters of the Buria Kol when they turned aside from Dungara and put on clothes. So says Athon Daze, who is High Priest of the Shrine and Warden of the Red Elephant tusk. But if you ask the assistant collector and agent in charge of the Buria Kol, he will laugh—not because he bears any malice against missions, but because he himself saw the vengeance of Dungara executed upon the spiritual children of the Rev. Justus Krenk, pastor of the 231 232 KIPLING BOY STORIES. Tubingen Mission, and upon Lotta, his virtuous wife. Yet if ever a man merited good treatment of the gods it was the Reverend Justus, one time of Heil- delberg, who, on the faith of a call, went into the wilderness and took the blonde, blue-eyed Lotta with him. "We will these heathen now by idola¬ trous practices so darkened better make," said Justus in the early days of his career. "Yes," he added, with conviction, "they shall be good and shall with their hands to work learn. For all good Christians must work." And upon a stipend more modest even than that of an English lay-reader, Justus Krenk kept house beyond Kamala and the gorge of Malair, beyond the Berbulda River close to the foot of the blue hill of Panth on whose sum¬ mit stands the Temple of Dungara—in the heart of the country of the Buria Kol—the naked, good- tempered, timid, shameless, lazy Buria Kol. Do you know what life at a mission outpost means? Try to imagine a loneliness exceeding that of the smallest station to which government has ever sent you—isolation that weighs upon the waking eyelids and drives you perforce headlong into the labors of the day. There is no post, there THE JUDGMENT OF DUNGARA. 233 is no one of your own color to speak to, there are no roads; there is, indeed, food to keep you alive, but it is not pleasant to eat; and whatever of good or beauty or interest there is in your life, must come from yourself and the grace that may be planted in you. In the morning, with a patter of soft feet, the converts, the doubtful, and the open scoffers, troop up to the veranda. You must be infinitely kind and patient, and, above all, clear-sighted, for you deal with the simplicity of childhood, the ex¬ perience of man, and the subtlety of the savage. Your congregation have a hundred material wants to be considered ; and it is for you, as you believe in your personal responsibility to your Maker, to pick out of the clamoring crowd any grain of spir¬ ituality that may lie therein. If to the cure of souls you add that of bodies, your task will be all the more difficult, for the sick and the maimed will profess any and every creed for the sake of heal¬ ing, and will laugh at you because you are simple enough to believe them. As the day wears and the impetus of the morn¬ ing dies away, there will come upon you an over¬ whelming sense of the uselessness of your toil. 234 KIPLING BOY STORIES. This must be striven against, and the only spur in your side will be the belief that you are playing against the devil for the living soul. It is a great, a joyous belief; but he who can hold it unwaver¬ ing for four-and-twenty consecutive hours must be blessed with an abundantly strong physique and equable nerve. Ask the gray heads of the Bannockburn Med¬ ical Crusade what manner of life their preachers lead; speak to the Racine Gospel Agency, those lean Americans whose boast is that they go where no Englishman dare follow; get a pastor of the Tubingen Mission to talk of his experiences—if you can. You will be referred to the printed re¬ ports, but these contain no mention of the men who have lost youth and health, all that a man may lose except faith, in the wilds; of English maidens who have gone forth and died in the fever-stricken jungle of the Panth Hills, know¬ ing from the first that death was almost a cer¬ tainty. Few pastors will tell you of these things any more than they will speak of that young David of St. Bees, who, set apart for the Lord's work, broke down in the utter desolation, and returned half distraught to the head mission, cry- THE JUDGMENT OF DUNGARA. 235 ing: "There is no God, but I have walked witli the devil!" The reports are silent here, because heroism, failure, doubt, despair and self-abnegation on the part of a mere cultured white man are things of no weight as compared to the saving of one half- human soul from a fantastic faith in wood-spirits, goblins of the rock, and river-fiends. And Gallio, the assistant collector of the coun¬ try-side, "cared for none of these things." He had been long in the district, and the Buria Kol loved him and brought him offerings of speared fish, orchids from the dim, moist heart of the forest, and as much game as he could eat. In re¬ turn, he gave them quinine, and with Athon Daze, the high priest, controlled their simple policies. "When you have been some years in the coun¬ try," said Gallio at the Krenk's table, '"you grow to find one creed as good as another. I'll give you all the assistance in my power, of course, but don't hurt my Buria Kol. They are a good peo¬ ple and they trust me." "I will them the Word of the Lord teach," said Justus, his round face beaming with enthusiasm, "and I will assuredly to their prejudices no wrong 236 KIPLING BOY STORIES. hastily without thinking make. But, oh, my friend, this in the mind impartiality-of-creed- judgment-belooking is very bad." "Heigh-ho!" said Gallio, "I have their bodies and the district to see to, but you can try what you can do for their souls. Only don't behave as your predecessor did, or I'm afraid that I can't guarantee your life." "And that?" said Lotta, sturdily, handing him a cup of tea. ''He went up to the Temple of Dungara—to be sure he was new to the country—and began ham¬ mering old Dungara over the head with an um¬ brella ; so the Buria Kol turned out and ham¬ mered him rather savagely. I was in the district, and he sent a runner to me with a note, saying: 'Persecuted for the Lord's sake. Send wing of regiment.' The nearest troops were about two hundred miles off, but I guessed what he had been doing. I rode to Panth and talked to old Athon Daze like a father, telling him that a man of his wisdom ought to have known that the Sahib had sunstroke and was mad. You never saw a people more sorry in your life. Athon Daze apologized, sent wood and milk and fowls THE JUDGMENT OF DUNGARA. 237 and all sorts of things; and I gave five rupees to the shrine and told Macnamara that he had been injudicious. He said that I had bowed down in the House of Rimmon; but if he had only just gone over the brow of the hill and insulted Palin Deo, the idol of the Suria Kol, he would have been impaled on a charred bamboo long before I could have done anything, and then I should have had to have hanged some of the poor brutes. Be gentle with them, padri—but I don't think you'll do much." "Not I," said Justus, "but my Master. We will with the little children begin. Many of them will be sick—that is so. After the children the mothers; and then the men. But I would greatly that you were in internal sympathies with us pre¬ fer." Gallio departed to risk his life in mending the rotten bamboo bridges of his people, in killing a too-persistent tiger here or there, in sleeping out in the reeking jungle, or in tracking the Suria Kol raiders who had taken a few heads from their brethren of the Buria clan. A knock-kneed shambling young man was Gallio, naturally de¬ void of creed or reverence, with a longing for ab- 238 KIPLING BOY STORIES. solute power which his undesirable district grati¬ fied. "No one wants my post," he used to say, grim¬ ly, "and my collector only pokes his nose in when he's quite certain that there is no fever. I'm mon¬ arch of all I survey, and Athon Daze is my vice¬ roy." Because Gallio prided himself on his supreme disregard of human life—though he never ex¬ tended the theory beyond his own—he naturally rode forty miles to the mission with a tiny brown baby on his saddle-bow. "Here is something for you, padri," said he. "The Kols leave their surplus children to die. Don't see why they shouldn't, but you may rear this one. I picked it up beyond the Berbulda fork. I've a notion that the mother has been following me through the woods ever since." "It is the first of the fold," said Justus, and Lotta, caught up the screaming morsel to her bosom and hushed it craftily; while as a wolf hangs in the field, Matui, who had borne it and in accordance with the law of her tribe had exposed it to die, panted wearily and foot-sore in the bam¬ boo brake, watching the house with hungry THE JUDGMENT OF DUNGARA. 239 mother-eyes. What would the omnipotent assist¬ ant collector do? Would the little man in the black coat eat her daughter alive as Athon Daze said was the custom of all men in black coats? Matui waited among the bamboos through the long night; and, in the morning, there came forth a fair, white woman, the like of whom Matui had never seen, and in her arms was Matui's daughter clad in spotless raiment. Lotta knew little of the tongue of the Buria Kol, but when mother calls to mother, speech is easy to understand. By the hands stretched timidly to the hem of her gown, by the passionate gutturals and the longing eyes, Lotta understood with whom she had to deal. So Matui took her child again—would be a servant, even a slave, to this wonderful white woman, for her own tribe would recognize her no more. And Lotta wept with her exhaustively, after the Ger¬ man fashion, which includes much blowing of the nose. "First the child, then the mother, and last the man, and to the glory of God all," said Justus the Hopeful. And the man came, with a bow and arrows, very angry indeed, for there was no one to cook for him. 240 KIPLING BOY STORIES. But the tale of the mission is a long one, and I have no space to show how Justus, forgetful of his injudicious predecessor, grievously smote Moto, the husband of Matui, for his brutality; how Moto was startled, but being released from the fear of instant death, took heart and became the faithful ally and first convert of Justus; how the little gathering grew, to the huge disgust of Athon Daze; how the priest of the God of Things as They Are argued subtly with the priest of the God of Things as They Should Be, and was worsted; how the dues of the Temple of Dungara fell away in fowls and fish and honeycomb; how Lotta lightened the curse of Eve among the wo¬ men, and how Justus did his best to introduce the curse of Adam; how the Buria Kol rebelled at this, saying that their god was an idle god, and how Justus partially overcame their scruples against work, and taught them that the black earth was rich in other produce than pig-nuts only. All these things belong to the history of many months, and throughout those months the white- haired Athon Daze meditated revenge for the tribal neglect of Dungara. With savage cunning THE JUDGMENT OE DUNGARA. 24I he feigned friendship toward Justus, even hinting at his own conversion; but to the congregation of Dungara he said, darkly: "They of the padri's flock have put on clothes and worship a busy God. Therefore Dungara will afflict them grievously till they throw themselves howling into the waters of the Berbulda." At night the Red Elephant Tusk boomed and groaned among the hills, and the faithful waked and said: "The God of Things as They Are matures revenge against the back¬ sliders. Be merciful, Dungara, to us thy children, and give us all their crops!" Late in the cold weather the collector and his wife came into the Buria Kol colony. "Go and look at Krenk's mission," said Gallio. "He is doing good work in his own way, and I think he'd be pleased if you opened the bamboo chapel that he has managed to run up. At any rate, you'll see a civilized Buria Kol." Great was the stir in the mission. "Now he and the gracious lady will that we have done good work with their own eyes see, and—yes— we will him our converts in all their new clothes by their own hands constructed exhibit. It will 242 KIPLING BOY STORIES. a great day be—for the Lord always," said Jus¬ tus; and Lotta said "Amen." Justus had, in his quiet way, felt jealous of the Basel Weaving Mission, his own converts being unhandy; but Athon Daze had latterly induced some of them to hackle the glossy, silky fibers of a plant that grew plenteously on the Panth Hill. It yielded a cloth white and smooth almost as the tappa of the South Seas, and that day the con¬ verts were to wear for the first time clothing made therefrom. Justus was proud of his work. "They shall in white clothes clothed to meet the collector and his well-born lady come down, singing 'Now thank we all our God.' Then he will the chapel open, and—yes—even Gallio to be¬ lieve will begin. Stand so, my children, two by two, and—Lotta, why do they thus themselves scratch? It is not seemly to wriggle, Nala, my child. The collector will be here and be pained." The collector, his wife, and Gallio climbed the hill to the mission station. The converts were drawn up in two lines, a shining band nearly forty strong. "Hah!" said the collector, whose ac¬ quisitive bent of mind led him to believe that he had fostered the institution from the first. THE JUDGMENT OF DUNGARA. 243 "Advancing, I see, by leaps and bounds." Never was truer word spoken! The mission was advancing exactly as he had said—at first by little hops and shuffles of shame-faced uneasiness, but soon by the leaps of fly-stung horses and the bounds of maddened kangaroos. From the hill of Panth the Red Elephant Tusk delivered a dry and anguished blare. The ranks of the converts wavered, broke and scattered with yells and shrieks of pain, while Justus and Lotta stood hor¬ ror-stricken. "It is the judgment of Dungara!" shouted a voice. "I burn ! I burn ! To the river or we die !" The mob wheeled and headed for the rocks that overhung the Berbulda writhing, stamping, twist¬ ing and shedding its garments as it ran, pursued by the thunder of the trumpet of Dungara. Jus¬ tus and Lotta fled to the collector almost in tears. "I can not understand! Yesterday," panted Justus, "they had the Ten Commandments— What is this? Praise the Lord all good spirits by land or by sea. Nala! Oh, shame!" With a bound and a scream there alighted on the rocks above their heads. Nala, once the pride of the mission, a maiden of fourteen summers. 244 KIPLING BOY STORIES. good, docile, and virtuous—now spitting like a wild-cat. "Was it for this!" she raved, hurling her petti¬ coat at Justus; "was it for this I left my people and Dungara—for the fires of your bad place? Blind ape, little earth-worm, dried fish that you are, you said that I should never burn! Oh, Dun¬ gara, I burn now! I burn now! Have mercy, God of Things as They Are!" She turned and flung herself into the Berbulda; and the trumpet of Dungara bellowed jubilantly. The last of the converts of the Tubingen Mission had put a quarter of a mile of rapid river between herself and her teachers. "Yesterday," gulped Justus, "she taught in the school A, B, C, D. Oh ! It is the work of Satan!" But Gallio was curiously regarding the maid¬ en's petticoat where it had fallen at his feet. He felt its texture, drew back his shirt-sleeve beyond the deep tan of his hand, and pressed a fold of the cloth against the flesh. A blotch of angry red rose on the white skin. "Ah!" said Gallio, calmly, "I thought so." "What is it?" said Justus, "I should call it the shirt of Nessus, but— THE JUDGMENT OF DUNGARA. 245 Where did you get the fiber of this cloth from?" "Athon Daze," said Justus. "He showed the boys how it should manufactured be." "The old fox! Do you know that he has given you the Nilgiri nettle—scorpion—Girardenia heterophylla—to work up. No wonder they squirmed! Why, it stings even when they make bridge-ropes of it, unless it's soaked for six weeks. The cunning brute ! It would take half an hour to burn through their thick hides, and then—!" Gallio burst into laughter, but Lotta was weep¬ ing in the arms of the collector's wife, and Justus had covered his face with his hands. "Girardenia heterophylla!" repeated Gallio. "Krenk, why didn't you tell me? I could have saved you this. Woven fire! Anybody but a naked Kol would have known it, and, if I'm a judge of their ways, you'll never get them back." He looked across the river to where the con¬ verts were still wallowing and wailing in the shallows, and the laughter died out of his eyes, for he saw that the Tubingen Mission to the Buria Kol was dead. Never again, though they hung mournfully round the deserted school for three months, could 246 KIPLING BOY STORIES. Lotta or Justus coax back even the most promis¬ ing of their flock. No! The end of conversion was the fire of the bad place—fire that ran through the limbs and gnawed into the bones. Who dare a second time tempt the anger of Dun- gara? Let the little man and his wife go else¬ where. The Buria Kol would have none of them. An unofficial message to Athon Daze that if a hair of their heads were touched, Athon Daze and the priests of Dungara would be hanged by Gallio at the temple shrine, protected Justus and Lotta from the stumpy, poisoned arrows of the Buria Kol, but neither fish nor fowl, honey-comb, salt nor young pig were brought to their doors any more. And, alas! man can not live by, grace alone if meat be wanting. "Let us go, mine wife," said Justus; "there is no good here, and the Lord has willed that some other man shall the work take—in good time—in His own good time. We will go away, and I will—yes—some botany bestudy." If any one is anxious to convert the Buria Kol afresh, there lies at least the core of a mission- house under the hill of Panth. But the chapel and school have long since fallen back into jungle. THE BALLAD OF THE "CLAMPHER- DOWN." It was our war-ship "Clampherdown" Would sweep the Channel clean, Wherefore she kept her hatches close When the merry Channel chops arose, To save the bleached marine. She had one bow-gun of a hundred ton, And a great stern-gun beside; They dipped their noses deep in the sea, They racked their stays and staunchions free In the wash of the wind-whipped tide. It was our war-ship ''Clampherdown/' Fell in with a cruiser light That carried the dainty Hotchkiss gun And a pair o' heels wherewith to run, From the grip of a close-fought fight. 247 248 KIPLING BOY STORIES. She opened fire at seven miles— As ye shoot at a bobbing cork— And once she fired and twice she fired, Till the bow-gun drooped like a lily tired That lolls upon the stalk. "Captain, the bow-gun melts apace, "The deck-beams break below, " 'Twere well to rest for an hour or twain, "And botch the shattered plates again." And he answered, "Make it so." She opened fire within the mile— As ye shoot at the flying duck— And the great stern-gun shot fair and true, With the heave of the ship, to the stainless blue, And the great stern-turret stuck. "Captain, the turret fills with steam, "The feed-pipes burst below— "You can hear the hiss of helpless ram, "You can hear the twisted runners jam." And he answered, "Turn and go!" THE BALLAD OF THE "CLAMPHERDOWN." 249 It was our war-ship "Clampherdown," And grimly did she roll; Swung round to take the cruiser's fire As the White Whale faces the Thresher's ire, When they war by the frozen Pole. "Captain, the shells are falling fast, "And faster still fall we; "And it is not meet for English stock, "To bide in the heart of an eight-day clock, "The death they cannot see." "Lie down, lie down my bold A. B., "We drift upon her beam; "We dare not ram for she can run; "And dare ye fire another gun, "And die in the peeling steam?" It was our war-ship "Clampherdown" That carried an armour-belt; But fifty feet at stern and bow, Lay bare as the paunch of the purser's sow, To the hail of the Nordenfeldt. 2 50 KIPLING BOY STORIES. "Captain, they lack us through and through; "The chilled steel bolts are swift! "We have emptied the bunkers in open sea, "Their shrapnel bursts where our coal should be." And he answered, "Let her drift." It was our war-ship "Clainpherdown," Swung round upon the tide, Her two dumb guns glared south and north, And the blood and the bubbling steam ran forth, And she ground the cruiser's side. "Captain," they cry, "the fight is done, They bid you send your sword." And he answered, "Grapple her stern and bow. "They have asked for the steel. They shall have it now; "Out cutlasses and board!" It was our war-ship "Clampherdown," Spewed up four hundred men; And the scalded stokers yelped delight, As they rolled in the waist and heard the fight, Stamp o'er their steel walled pen. THE BALLAD OF THE "CLAMPHERDOWN." 25 I They cleared the cruiser end to end, From conning-tower to hold. They fought as they fought in Nelson's fleet; They were stripped to the waist, they were bare to the feet, As it was in the days of old. It was the sinking "Clampherdown" HeaA^ed up her battered side— And carried a million pounds in steel, To the cod and the corpse-fed conger-eel And the scour of the Channel tide. It was the crew of the "Clampherdown" Stood out to sweep the sea, On a cruiser won from an ancient foe, As it was in the days of long-ago, And as it still shall be. MOTI GUJ—MUTINEER. Once upon a time there was a coffee-planter in India who wished to clear some forest land for coffee-planting. When he had cut down all the trees and burned the underwood, the stumps still remained. Dynamite is expensive and slow fire slow. The happy medium for stump-clearing is the lord of all beasts, who is the elephant. He will either push the stump out of the ground with his tusks, if he has any, or drag it out with ropes. The planter, therefore, hired elephants by ones and twos and threes, and fell to work. The very best of all the elephants belonged to the very worst of all the drivers or mahouts; and this superior beast's name was Moti Guj. He was the absolute property of his mahout, which would never have been the case under native rule; for Moti Guj was a creature to be desired by kings, and his name, being translated, meant the Pearl Elephant. Be¬ cause the British government was in the land, Deesa, the mahout, enjoyed his property undis¬ turbed. He was dissipated. When he had made 252 MOTI GUJ MUTINEER. 253 much money through the strength of his elephant, he would get extremely drunk and give Moti Guj a beating with a tent-peg over the tender nails of the forefeet. Moti Guj never trampled the life out of Deesa on these occasions, for he knew that after the beating was over Deesa would embrace his trunk and weep and call him his love and his life and the liver of his soul, and give him some liquor. Moti Guj was very fond of liquor—arrack for choice, though he would drink palm-tree toddy if nothing better offered. Then Deesa would go to sleep between Moti Guj's forefeet, and as Deesa generally chose the middle of the public road, and as Moti Guj mounted guard over him, and would not permit horse, foot, or cart to pass by, traffic was congested till Deesa saw fit to wake up. There was no> sleeping in the day-time on the planter's clearing: the wages were too high to risk. Deesa sat on Moti Guj's neck and gave him orders, while Moti Guj rooted up the stumps— for he owned a magnificent pair of tusks; or pulled at the end of a rope—for he had a magnifi¬ cent pair of shoulders—while Deesa kicked him behind the ears and said he was the king of ele¬ phants. At evening time Moti Guj would wash 17 254 KIPLING BOY STORIES. down his three hundred pounds' weight of green food with a quart of arrack, and Deesa would take a share, and sing songs between Moti Guj's legs till it was time to go to bed. Once a week Deesa led Moti Guj down to the river, and Moti Guj lay on his side luxuriously in the shallows, while Deesa went over him with a coir swab and a brick. Moti Guj never mistook the pounding blow of the latter for the smack of the former that warned him to get up and turn over on the other side. Then Deesa would look at his feet and examine his eyes, and turn up the fringes of his mighty ears in case of sores or budding ophthal¬ mia. After inspection the two would "come up with a song from the sea," Moti Guj, all black and shining, waving a torn tree branch twelve feet long in his trunk, and Deesa knotting up his own long wet hair. It was a peaceful, well-paid life till Deesa felt the return of the desire to drink deep. He wished for an orgy. The little draughts that led nowhere were taking the manhood out of him. He went to the planter, and ''My mother's dead," said he, weeping. "She died on the last plantation two months MOTI GUJ MUTINEER. 255 ago, and she died once before when you were working for me last year," said the planter, who knew something of the ways of nativedom. "Then it's my aunt, and she was just the same as a mother to me," said Deesa, weeping more than ever. "She has left eighteen small children entirely without bread, and it is I who must fill their little stomachs," said Deesa, beating his head on the floor. "Who brought you the news?" said the planter. "The post," said Deesa. "There hasn't been a post here for the past week. Get back to your lines!" "A devastating sickness has fallen on my vil¬ lage, and all my wives are dying," yelled Deesa, really in tears this time. "Call Chihun, who comes from Deesa's vil¬ lage," said the planter. "Chihun, has this man got a wife?" "He?" said Chihun. "No. Not a woman of our village would look at him. They'd sooner marry the elephant." Chihun snorted. Deesa wept and bellowed. "You will get into a difficulty in a minute," said the planter. "Go back to your work!" 256 KIPLING BOY STORIES. "Now I will speak Heaven's truth/' gulped Deesa, with an inspiration. "I haven't been drunk for two months. I desire to depart in order to get properly drunk afar off and distant from this heavenly plantation. Thus I shall cause no trouble." A flickering smile crossed the planter's face. "Deesa," said he, "you've spoken the truth, and I'd give you leave on the spot if anything could be done with Moti Guj while you're away. You know that he will only obey your orders." "May the light of the heavens live forty thou¬ sand years. I shall be absent but ten little days. After that, upon my faith and honor and soul, I return. As to the inconsiderable interval, have I the gracious permission of the heaven-born to call up Moti Guj ?" Permission was granted, and in answer to Deesa's shrill yell, the mighty tusker swung out of the shade of a clump of trees where he had been squirting dust over himself till his master should return. "Light of my heart, protector of the drunken, mountain of might, give ear!" said Deesa, stand¬ ing in front of him. MOTI GUJ MUTINEER. 257 Moti Guj gave ear, and saluted with his trunk. "I am going away," said Deesa. Moti Guj's eyes twinkled. He liked jaunts as well as his master. One could snatch all manner of nice things from the road-side then. "But you, you fussy old pig, must stay behind and work." The twinkle died out as Moti Guj tried to look delighted. He hated stump-hauling on the plan¬ tation. It hurt his teeth. "I shall be gone for ten days, oh, delectable one! Hold up your near forefoot and I'll impress the fact upon it, warty toad of a dried mud-puddle." Deesa took a tent-peg and banged Moti Guj ten times on the nails. Moti Guj grunted and shuffled from foot to foot. "Ten days," said Deesa, "you will work and haul and root the trees as Chihun here shall order you. Take up Chihun and set him on your neck!" Moti Guj curled the tip of his trunk, Chihun put his foot there, and was swung on to the neck. Deesa handed Chihun the heavy ankus—the iron elephant goad. Chihun thumped Moti Guj's bald head as a paver thumps a curbstone. 258 KIPLING BOY STORIES. Moti Guj trumpeted. "Be still, hog of the backwoods! Chihun's your mahout for ten days. And now bid me good-bye, beast after my own heart. Oh, my lord, my king! Jewel of all created elephants, lily of the herd, pre¬ serve your honored health; be virtuous. Adieu!" Moti Guj lapped his trunk round Deesa and swung him into the air twice. This was his way of bidding him good-bye. "He'll work now," said Deesa to the planter. "Have I leave to go ?" The planter nodded, and Deesa dived into the woods. Moti Guj went back to haul stumps. Chihun was very kind to him, but he felt un¬ happy and forlorn for all that. Chihun gave him a ball of spices, and tickled him under the chin, and Chihun's little baby cooed to him after work was over, and Chihun's wife called him a darling ; but Moti Guj was a bachelor by instinct, as Deesa was. He did not understand the domestic emo¬ tions. He wanted the light of his universe back again—the drink and the drunken slumber, the savage beatings and the savage caresses. None the less he worked well, and the planter wondered. Deesa had wandered along the roads MOTI GUJ MUTINEER 259 till he met a marriage procession of his own caste, and, drinking, dancing, and tippling, had drifted with it past all knowledge of the lapse of time. The morning of the eleventh day dawned, and there returned no Deesa. Mod Guj was loosed from his ropes for the daily stint. He swung clear, looked round, shrugged his shoulders, and began to walk away, as one having business else¬ where. "Hi! ho! Come back you!" shouted Chihun, "Come back and put me on your neck, misborn mountain! Return, splendor of the hill-sides! Adornment of all India, heave to, or I'll bang every toe off your fat forefoot!" Mod Guj gurgled gently, but did not obey. Chihun ran after him with a rope and caught him up. Mod Guj put his ears forward, and Chihun knew what that meant, though he tried to carry it off with high words. "None of your nonsense with me," said he. "To your pickets, devil-son!" "Hrrump!" said Mod Guj, and that was all— that and the forebent ears. Moti Guj put his hands in his pockets, chewed a branch for a toothpick, and strolled about the 26o KIPLING BOY STORIES. clearing, making fun of the other elephants who had just set to work. Chihun reported the state of affairs to the planter, who came out with a dog-whip and cracked it furiously. Moti Guj paid the white man the compliment of charging him nearly a quarter of a mile across the clearing and "Hrrumphing" him into his veranda. Then he stood outside the house, chuckling to himself and shaking all over with the fun of it, as an elephant will. "We'll thrash him," said the planter. "He shall have the finest thrashing ever elephant received. Give Kala Nag and Nazim twelve foot of chain apiece, and tell them to lay on twenty." Kala Nag—which means Black Snake—and Nazim were two of the biggest elephants in the lines, and one of their duties was to administer the graver punishment, since no man can beat an elephant properly. They took the whipping-chains and rattled them in their trunks as they sidled up to* Moti Guj, meaning to hustle him between them. Moti Guj had never, in all his life of thirty-nine years, been whipped, and he did not intend to begin a new MOTI GUJ MUTINEER. 26l experience. So he waited, waving his head from right to left, and measuring the precise spot in Kala Nag's fat side where a blunt tusk could sink deepest. Kala Nag had no* tusks; the chain was the badge of his authority; but for all that, he swung wide of Moti Guj at the last minute, and tried to appear as if he had brought the chain out for amusement. Nazim turned round and went home early. He did not feel fit that morning, and so Moti Guj was left standing alone with his ears cocked. That decided the planter to argue no more, and Moti Guj rolled back to his amateur inspection of the clearing. An elephant who will not work and is not tied up is about as manageable as an eighty- one-ton gun loose in a heavy seaway. He slapped old friends on the back and asked them if the stumps were coming away easily; he talked non¬ sense concerning labor and the inalienable rights of elephants to a long "nooning;" and, wandering to and fro, he thoroughly demoralized the garden till sundown, when he returned to his picket for food. "If you won't work, you sha'n't eat," said Chihun, angrily. "You're a wild elephant, and no 262 KIPLING BOY STORIES. educated animal at all. Go back to your jungle." Chihun's little brown baby was rolling on the floor of the hut, and stretching out its fat arms to the huge shadow in the doorway. Moti Guj knew well that it was the dearest thing on earth to Chihun. He swung out his trunk with a fasci¬ nating crook at the end, and the brown baby threw itself, shouting, upon it. Moti Guj made fast and pulled up till the brown baby was crowing in the air twelve feet above his father's head. "Great Lord!" said Chihun. "Flour cakes of the best, twelve in number, two feet across and soaked in rum, shall be yours on the instant, and two hundred pounds weight of fresh-cut young sugar cane therewith. Deign only to put down safely that insignificant brat who is my heart and my life to me!" Moti Guj tucked the brown baby comfortably between his forefeet, that could have knocked into toothpicks all Chihun's hut, and waited for his food. He ate it, and the brown baby crawled away. Moti Guj dozed and thought of Deesa. One of many mysteries connected with the ele¬ phant is that his huge body needs less sleep than anything else that lives. Four or five hours in the Page 262 Mod Guj pulled up till the brown baby was in the air twelve feet above his father's head MOTI GUJ MUTINEER. 263 night suffice—two just before midnight, lying clown on one side; two just after one o'clock, lying down on the other. The rest of the silent hours are filled with eating and fidgeting, and long grumbling soliloquies. At midnight, therefore, Mod Guj strode out of his pickets, for a thought had come to him that Deesa might be lying drunk somewhere in the dark forest with none to look after him. So all that night he chased through the undergrowth, blowing and trumpeting and shaking his ears. He went down to the river and blared across the shal¬ lows where Deesa used to wash him, but there was no answer. He could not find Deesa, but he dis¬ turbed all the other elephants in the line, and nearly frightened to> death some gypsies in the woods. At dawn Deesa returned to> the plantation. He had been very drunk indeed, and he expected to get into trouble for outstaying his leave. He drew a long breath when he saw that the bungalow and the plantation were still uninjured, for he knew something of Moti Guj's temper, and reported himself with many lies and salaams. Moti Guj 264 KIPLING BOY STORIES. had gone to his pickets for breakfast. The night exercise had made him hungry. "Call up your beast," said the planter; and Deesa shouted in the mysterious elephant lan¬ guage that some mahouts believe came from China at the birth of the world, when elephants and not men were masters. Moti Guj heard and came. Elephants do not gallop. They move from places at varying rates of speed. If an elephant wished to catch an express train he could not gal¬ lop, but he could catch the train. So- Moti Guj was at the planter's door almost before Chihun no¬ ticed that he had left his pickets. He fell into Deesa's arms trumpeting with joy, and the man and beast wept and slobbered over each other, and handled each other from head to heel to see that no harm had befallen. "Now we will get to work," said Deesa. "Lift me up, my son and my joy!" Moti Guj swung him up, and the two went to the coffee-clearing to look for difficult stumps. The planter was too astonished to be very angry. HAUNTED SUBALTERNS. So long as the "Inextinguishables" confined themselves to running picnics, gymkhanas, flirta¬ tions and innocences of that kind, no one said any¬ thing. But when they ran ghosts, people put up their eyebrows. 'Man can't feel comfy with a regiment that entertains ghosts on its establish¬ ment. It is against General Orders. The "Inex¬ tinguishables" said that the ghosts were private and not Regimental property. They referred you to Tesser for particulars; and Tesser told you to gO' to—the hottest cantonment of all. He said that it was bad enough to have men making hay of his bedding and breaking his banjo-strings when he was out, without being chaffed after¬ wards ; and he would thank you to keep your re¬ marks on ghosts to yourself. This was before the "Inextinguishables" had sworn by their several lady-loves that they were innocent of any in¬ trusion into Tesser's quarters. Then Horrocks mentioned casually at Mess, that a couple of white figures had been bounding about his room the 265 266 KIPLING BOY STORIES. night before, and he didn't approve of it. The "Inextinguishables" denied, energetically, that they had had any hand in the manifestations, and advised Horrocks to consult Tesser. 1 don't suppose that a Subaltern believes in any¬ thing except his chances of a Company; but Hor¬ rocks and Tesser were exceptions. They came to believe in their ghosts. They had reason. Horrocks used to find himself, at about three o'clock in the morning, staring wide-awake, watching two white Things hopping about his room and jumping up to the ceiling. Horrocks was of a placid turn of mind. After a week or so spent in watching his servants, and lying in wait for strangers, and trying to keep awake all night, lie came to the conclusion that he was haunted, and that, consequently, he need not bother. He wasn't going to encourage these ghosts by being frightened at them. Therefore when he awoke— as usual—with a start and saw these Things jumping like kangaroos, he only murmured:— "Go on! Don't mind me!" and went to sleep again. Tesser said:—"It's all very well for you to make fun of your show. You can see your ghosts, HAUNTED SUBALTERNS. 267 Now I can't see mine, and I don't half like it.'r Tesser used to come into his room of nights, and find the whole of his bedding neatly stripped, as if it had been done with one sweep of the hand, from the top right-hand corner of the charpoy to the bottom left-hand corner. Also his lamp used to lie weltering on the floor, and generally his pet screw-head, inlaid, nickel-plated banjo was lying on the charpoy, with all its strings broken. Tesser took away the strings, on the occasion of the third manifestation, and the next night a man compli¬ mented him on his playing the best music ever got out of a banjo, for half an hour. "Which half hour?" said Tesser. "Between nine and ten," said the man. Tesser had gone out to dinner at 7:3c) and had returned at midnight. He talked to his bearer and threatened him with unspeakable things. The bearer was gray with fear:—"I'm a poor man," said he. "If the Sahib is haunted by a Devil, what can I do ?" "Who says I'm haunted by a Devil?" howled Tesser, for he was angry. "I have seen It," said the bearer, "at night, walking round and round your bed; and that is 268 KIPLING BOY STORIES. why everything is ulta-pulta . in your room. I am a poor man, but I never go into your room alone. The bhisti comes with me." Tesser was thoroughly savage at this, and he spoke to Horrocks, and the two laid traps to catch the Devil, and threatened their servants with dog- whips if any more "shaitan-^^-hanky-panky" took place. But the servants were soaked with fear, and it was no use adding to their tortures. When Tesser went out at night, four of his men, as a rule, slept in the veranda of his quarters, until the banjo without the strings struck up, and then they fled. One day, Tesser had to put in a month at the Fort with a detachment of "Inextinguishables." The Fort might have been Govindghar, Jumrood, or Phillour; but it wasn't. He left Cantonments rejoicing, for his Devil was preying on his mind; and with him went another Subaltern, a junior. But the Devil came, too. After Tesser had been in the Fort about ten days he went out to dinner. When he came back he found his Subaltern doing sentry on a banquette across the Fort Ditch, as far removed as might be from the Officers' Quarters. "What's wrong?" said Tesser. HAUNTED SUBALTERNS. 269 The Subaltern said, "Listen!" and the two, standing under the stars, heard from the Officers' Quarters, high up in the wall of the Fort, the "strumty tumty tumty" of the banjo; which seemed to have an oratorio on hand. "That performance," said the Subaltern, "has been going on for three mortal hours. I never wished to desert before, but I do now. I say, Tes- ser, old man, you are the best of good fellows, I'm sure, but—I say—look here, now, you are quite unfit to live with. 'Tisn't in my Commission, you know, that I'm to serve under a—a—man with Devils." "Isn't it?" said Tesser. "If you make an ass of yourself I'll put you under arrest—and in my room!" "You can put me where you please, but I'm not going to assist at these infernal concerts. 'Tisn't right. 'Tisn't natural. Look here, I don't want to hurt your feelings, but—try to think now— haven't you done something—committed some— murder that has slipped your memory—or forged something—?" "Well! For an all-round, double-shotted, half- baked fool you are the—" 18 2JO KIPLING BOY STORIES. ''I dare say I am," said the Subaltern. "But you don't expect me to keep my wits with that row going on, do you ?" The banjo was rattling away as if it had twenty strings. Tesser sent up a stone, and a shower of broken window-pane fell into the Fort Ditch; but the banjo kept on. Tesser hauled the other Sub¬ altern up to the quarters, and found his room in frightful confusion—lamp upset, bedding all over the floor, chairs overturned and table tilted side¬ ways. He took stock of the wreck and said de¬ spairingly:—"Oh, this is lovely!" The Subaltern was peeping in at the door. "I'm glad you think so," he said. " 'Tisn't lovely enough for me. I locked up your room di¬ rectly after you had gone out. See here, I think you'd better apply for Horrocks to come out in my place. He's troubled with your complaint, and this business will make me a jabbering idiot if it goes on." Tesser went to bed amid the wreckage, very angry, and next morning he rode into Canton¬ ments and asked Horrocks to arrange to relieve "that fool with me now." "You've got 'em again, have you?" said Hor- HAUNTED SUBALTERNS. 271 rocks. "So've I. Three white figures this time. We'll worry through the entertainment together." So Horrocks and Tesser settled down in the Fort together, and the "Inextinguishables" said pleasant things about "seven other Devils." Tes¬ ser didn't see where the joke came in. His room was thrown upside-down three nights out of the seven. Horrocks was not troubled in any way, so his ghosts must have been purely local ones. Tes¬ ser, on the other hand, was personally haunted; for his Devil had moved with him from Canton¬ ments to the Fort. Those two boys spent three parts of their time trying to find out zvho was re¬ sponsible for the riot in Tesser's rooms. At the end of a fortnight they tried to find out what was responsible; and seven days later they gave it up as a bad job. Whatever It was, It refused to be caught; even when Tesser went out of the Fort ostentatiously, and Horrocks lay under Tesser's charpoy with a revolver. The servants were afraid—more afraid than ever—and all the evi¬ dence showed that they had been playing no tricks. As Tesser said to Horrocks:—"A haunted Subal¬ tern is a joke, but s'pose this keeps on. Just think what a haunted Colonel would be! And, look 272 KIPLING BOY STORIES. here—s'pose I marry! D' you s'pose a girl would live a week with me and this Devil?" "I don't know," said Horrocks. "I haven't married often; but I knew a woman once who lived with her husband when he had D. T. He's dead now and I dare say she would marry you if you asked her. She isn't exactly a girl though, but she has a large experience of the other devils —the blue variety. She's a Government pensioner now, and you might write, y' know. Personally, if I hadn't suffered from ghosts of my own, I should rather avoid you." "That's just the point," said Tesser. "This Devil thing will end in getting me budnamed, and you know I've lived on lemon-squashes and gone to bed at ten for weeks past." " 'Tisn't that sort of Devil," said Horrocks. "It's either a first-class fraud for which some one ought to be killed or else you've offended one of these Indian Devils. It stands to reason that such a beastly country should be full of fiends of all sorts." "But why should the creature fix on me," said Tesser, "and why won't he show himself and have it out like a—like a Devil ?" HAUNTED SUBALTERNS. 273 They were talking- outside the Mess after dark, and, even as they spoke, they heard the banjo be¬ gin to play in Tesser s room, about twenty yards off. Horrocks ran to his own quarters for a shot¬ gun and a revolver, and Tesser and he crept up quietly, the banjo still playing, to Tesser's door. "Now we've got It!" said Horrocks as he threw the door open and let fly with the twelve-bore; Tesser squibbing off all six barrels into the dark, as hard as he could pull the trigger. The furniture was ruined, and the whole Fort was awake; but that was all. No one had been killed, and the banjo was lying on the disheveled bedclothes as usual. Then Tesser sat down in the veranda, and used language that would have qualified him for the companionship of unlimited Devils. Horrocks said things too; but Tesser said the worst. When the month in the Fort came to an end, both Horrocks and Tesser were glad. They held a final council of war, but came to no conclusion. "Seems to me, your best plan would be to make your Devil stretch himself. Go down to Bombay with the time-expired men," said Horrocks. "If 274 KIPLING BOY STORIES. he really is a Devil, he'll come in the train with you." " 'Tisn't good enough," said Tesser. "Bom¬ bay's no fit place to live in at this time of the year. But I'll put in for Depot duty at the Hills." And he did. Now here the tale rests. The Devil stayed be¬ low, and Tesser went up and was free. If I had invented this story, I should have put in a satis¬ factory ending—explained the manifestations as somebody's practical joke. My business being to keep to facts, I can only say what I have said. The Devil may have been a hoax. If so, it was one of the best ever arranged. If it was not a hoax—but you must settle that for yourselves. HIS CHANCE IN LIFE. Then a pile of heads he laid— Thirty thousands heaped on high— All to please the Kafir maid, Where the Oxus ripples by. Grimly spake Atulla Khan:— "Love hath made this thing a Man." Oatta's Story. If you go straight away from Levees and Gov¬ ernment House Lists, past Trades' Balls—far beyond everything and everybody you ever knew in your respectable life—you cross, in time, the Borderline where the last drop of White blood ends and the full tide of Black sets in. It would be easier to> talk to a new-made Duchess on the spur of the moment than to the Borderline folk without violating some of their conventions or hurting their feelings. The Black and the White mix very quaintly in their ways. Sometimes the White shows in spurts of fierce, childish pride— which is Pride of Race run crooked—and some¬ times the Black in still fiercer abasement and hu¬ mility, half-heathenish customs and strange, un- 275 276 KIPLING BOY STORIES. accountable impulses to crime. One of these days, this people—understand they are far lower than the class whence Derozio, the man who imitated Byron, sprung—will turn out a writer or a poet; and then we shall know how they live and what they feel. In the meantime, any stories about them cannot be absolutely correct in fact or infer¬ ence. Miss Vezzis came across the Borderline to look after some children who' belonged to a lady until a regularly ordained nurse could come out. The lady said Miss Vezzis was a bad, dirty nurse and inattentive. It never struck her that Miss Vezzis had her own life to lead and her own affairs to worry over, and that these affairs were the most important things in the world to Miss Vezzis. Very few mistresses admit this sort of reasoning. Miss Vezzis was as black as a boot, and, to our standard of taste, hideously ugly. She wore cot¬ ton-print gowns and bulged shoes; and when she lost her temper with the children, she abused them in the language of the Borderline—which is part English, part Portuguese, and part Native. She was not attractive, but she had her pride, and she preferred being called "Miss Vezzis." HIS CHANCE IN LIFE. 2 77 Every Sunday, she dressed herself wonderfully and went to see her Mamma, who> lived, for the most part, on an old cane chair in a greasy tussur- silk dressing-gown and a big rabbit-warren of a house full of Vezzises, Pereiras, Ribieras, Lisboas and Gonsalveses, and a floating population of loaf¬ ers ; besides fragments of the day's market, garlic, stale incense, clothes thrown on the floor, petti¬ coats hung on strings for screens, old bottles, pew¬ ter crucifixes, dried immortelles, pariah puppies, plaster images of the Virgin, and hats without crowns. Miss Vezzis drew twenty rupees a month for acting as nurse, and she squabbled weekly with her Mamma as to the percentage to be given towards housekeeping. When the quarrel was over, Michele D'Cruze used to' shamble across the low mud wall of the compound and make love to Miss Vezzis after the fashion of the Borderline, which is hedged about with much ceremony. Michele was a poor, sickly weed and very black; but he had his pride. He would not be seen smok¬ ing a huqa for anything; and he looked down on natives as only a man with seven-eighths native blood in his veins can. The Vezzis family had their pride, too. They traced their descent from a 278 KIPLING BOY STORIES. mythical plate-layer who had worked on the Sone Bridge when railways were new in India, and they valued their English origin. Michele was a Tele¬ graph Signaller on Rs.35 a month. The fact that he was in Government employ made Mrs. Vezzis lenient to the shortcomings of his ancestors. There was a compromising legend—Dom Anna the tailor brought it from Poonani—that a black Jew of Cochin had once married into the D'Cruze family; while it was an open secret that an uncle of Mrs. D'Cruze was, at that very time, doing menial work, connected with cooking, for a Club in Southern India! He sent Mrs. D'Cruze seven rupees eight annas a month; but she felt the dis¬ grace to the family very keenly all the same. However, in the course of a few Sundays, Mrs. Vezzis brought herself to overlook these blemishes and gave her consent to the marriage of her daughter with Michele, on condition that Michele should have at least fifty rupees a month to start married life upon. This wonderful prudence must have been a lingering touch of the mythical plate¬ layer's Yorkshire blood ; for across the Borderline people take a pride in marrying when they please —not when they can. HIS CHANCE IN LIFE. ^79 Having regard to his departmental prospects, Miss Vezzis might as well have asked Michele to go away and come back with the Moon in his pocket. But Michele was deeply in love with Miss Vezzis, and that helped him to endure. He ac¬ companied Miss Vezzis to Mass one Sunday, and after Mass, walking home through the hot stale dust with her hand in his, he swore by several Saints whose names would not interest you, never to forget Miss Vezzis; and she swore by her Honor and the Saints—the oath runs rather curi¬ ously : "In nomine Sanctissimae—" (whatever the name of the she-Saint is) and so forth, ending with a kiss on the forehead, a kiss on the left cheek, and a kiss on the mouth—never to forget Michele. Next week Michele was transferred, and Miss Vezzis dropped tears upon the window-sash of the "Intermediate" compartment as he left the Sta¬ tion. If you look at the telegraph-map of India you will see a long line skirting the coast from Backer- gunge to Madras. Michele was ordered to Tibasu, a little Sub-office one-third down this line, to send messages on from Berhampur to Chicacola, and to 28O KIPLING BOY STORIES. think of Miss Vezzis and his chances of getting fifty rupees a month out of office-hours. He had the noise of the Bay of Bengal and a Bengali Babu for company; nothing more. He sent foolish let¬ ters, with crosses tucked inside the flaps of the en¬ velopes, to Miss Vezzis. When he had been at Tibasu for nearly three weeks his chance came. Never forget that unless the outward and vis¬ ible signs of Our Authority are always before a native he is as incapable as a child of understand¬ ing what authority means, or where is the danger of disobeying it. Tibasu was a forgotten little place with a few Orissa Mahommedans in it. These, hearing nothing of the Collector-Sahib for some time, and heartily despising the Hindu Sub- Judge, arranged to start a little Mohurrum riot of their own. But the Hindus turned out and broke their heads; when, finding lawlessness pleasant, Hindus and Mahommedans together raised an aimless sort of Donnybrook just to see how far they could go. They looted each others' shops, and paid off private grudges in the regular way. It was a nasty little riot, but not worth putting in the newspapers. HIS CHANCE IN LIFE. 28l Michele was working in his office when he heard the sound that a man never forgets all his life—the "ah-yah" of an angry crowd. [When that sound drops about three tones, and changes to a thick, droning ut, the man who hears it had better go away if he is alone.] The Native Police Inspector ran in and told Michele that the town was in an uproar and coming to wreck the Tele¬ graph Office. The Babu put on his cap and quiet¬ ly dropped out of the window; while the Police In¬ spector, afraid, but obeying the old race-instinct which recognizes a drop of White blood as far as it can be diluted, said, "What orders does the Sahib give?" The "Sahib" decided Michele. Though hor¬ ribly frightened, he felt that, for the hour, he, the man with the Cochin Jew and the menial uncle in his pedigree, was the only representative of En¬ glish authority in the place. Then he thought of Miss Vezzis and the fifty rupees, and took the sit¬ uation on himself. There were seven native po¬ licemen in Tibasu, and four crazy smooth-bore muskets among them. All the men were gray with fear, but not beyond leading. Michele dropped the key of the telegraph instrument, and 282 KIPLING BOY STORIES. went out, at the head of his army, to meet the mob. As the shouting crew came round a corner of the road, he dropped and fired; the men behind him loosing instinctively at the same time. The whole crowd—curs to the back-bone— yelled and ran ; leaving one man dead, and another dying in the road. Michele was sweating with fear ; but he kept his weakness under, and went down into the town, past the house where the Sub- Judge had barricaded himself. The streets were empty. Tibasu was more frightened than Michele, for the mob had been taken at the right time. Michele returned to the Telegraph-Office, and sent a message to Chicacola asking for help. Be¬ fore an answer came, he received a deputation of the elders of Tibasu, telling him that the Sub- Judge said his actions generally were "unconsti¬ tutional," and trying to bully him. But the heart of Michele D'Cruze was big and white in his breast, because of his love for Miss Vezzis, the nurse-girl, and because he had tasted for the first time Responsibility and Success. Those two make an intoxicating drink, and have ruined more men than ever has whisky. Michele answered that the Sub-Judge might say what he pleased, but, until HIS CHANCE IN LIFE. 283 the Assistant Collector came, the Telegraph Sig¬ naller was the Government of India in Tibasu, and the elders of the town would be held accountable for further rioting. Then they bowed their heads and said, ''show mercy!" or words to that effect, and went back in great fear ; each accusing the other of having begun the rioting. Early in the dawn, after a night's patrol with his seven policemen, Michele went down the road, musket in hand, to meet the Assistant Collector, who had ridden in to quell Tibasu. But, in the presence of this young Englishman, Michele felt himself slipping back more and more into the na¬ tive; and the tale of the Tibasu Riots ended, with the strain on the teller, in an hysterical outburst of tears, bred by sorrow that he had killed a man, shame that he could not feel as uplifted as he had felt through the night, and childish anger that his tongue could not do justice to his great deeds. It was the White drop in Michele's veins dying out, though he did not know it. But the Englishman understood, and, after he had schooled those men of Tibasu. and had con¬ ferred with the Sub-Judge till that excellent offi¬ cial turned green, he found time to draft an official 284 KIPLING BOY STORIES. letter describing- the conduct of Michele. Which letter filtered through the Proper Channels, and ended in the transfer of Michele up-country once more, on the Imperial salary of sixty-six rupees a month. So he and Miss Vezzis were married with great state and ancientry; and now there are several little D'Cruzes sprawling about the verandahs of the Central Telegraph Office. But if the whole revenue of the Department he serves were to be his reward, Michele could never, never repeat what he did at Tibasu for the sake of Miss Vezzis, the nurse-girl. Which proves that, when a man does good work out of all proportion to his pay, in seven cases out of nine, there is a woman at the back of the virtue. The two exceptions must have suffered from sunstroke. A GERM-DESTROYER Pleasant it is for the Little Tin Gods When great Jove nods; But Little Tin Gods make their little mistakes In missing the hour when great Jove wakes. As a general rule, it is inexpedient to meddle with questions of State in a land where men are highly paid to work them out for you. This tale is a justifiable exception. Once in every five years, as you know, we indent for a new Viceroy; and each Viceroy imports, with the rest of his baggage, a Private Secretary, who may or may not be the real Viceroy, just as Fate ordains. Fate looks after the Indian Empire because it is so big and so helpless. There was a Viceroy once, who brought out with him a turbulent Private Secretary—a hard man with a soft manner and a morbid passion for work. This Secretary was called Wonder—John Fennil Wonder. The Viceroy possessed no name —nothing but a string of counties and two-thirds 1Q ^85 286 KIPLING BOY STORIES. of the alphabet after them. He said, in confi¬ dence, that he was the electroplated figure-head of a golden administration, and he watched in a dreamy, amused way Wonder's attempts to draw matters which were entirely outside his province into his own hands. "When we are all cherubims together," said His Excellency once, "my dear, good friend Wonder will head the conspiracy for plucking out Gabriel's tail-feathers or stealing Peter's keys. Then I shall report him." But, though the Viceroy did nothing to check Wonder's officiousness, other people said unpleas¬ ant things. May be the Members of Council be¬ gan it; but, finally all Simla agreed that there was "too much Wonder, and too little Viceroy" in that rule. Wonder was always quoting "His Excellency." It was "His Excellency this," "His Excellency that," "In the opinion of His Excel¬ lency," and so on. The Viceroy smiled, but he did not heed. He said that, so long as his old men squabbled with his "dear, good Wonder," they might be induced to leave the Immemorial East in peace. "No wise man has a policy," said the Viceroy. "A Policy is the blackmail levied on the Fool by A GERM-DESTROYER. 287 the Unforeseen. I am not the former, and I do not believe in the latter." I do not quite see what this means, unless it refers to an Insurance Policy. Perhaps it was the Viceroy's way of saying, "Lie low." That season, came up to Simla one of these crazy people with only a single idea. These are the men who make things move; but they are not nice to talk to. This man's name was Mellish, and he had lived for fifteen years on land of his own, in Lower Bengal, studying cholera. He held that cholera was a germ that propagated itself as it flew through a muggy atmosphere; and stuck in the branches of trees like a wool-flake. The germ could be rendered sterile, he said, by "Mel- lish's Own Invincible Fumigatory"—a heavy violet-black powder—"the result of fifteen years' scientific investigation, Sir!" Inventors seem very much alike as a caste. They talk loudly, especially about "conspiracies of monopolists;" they beat upon the table with their fists; and they secrete fragments of their inven¬ tions about their persons. Mellish said that there was a Medical "Ring" at Simla, headed by the Surgeon-General, who 288 KIPLING BOY STORIES. was in league, apparently, with all the Hospital Assistants in the Empire. I forget exactly how he proved it, but it had something to do with "skulking up to the Hills;" and what Mellish wanted was the independent evidence of the Vice¬ roy—"Steward of our Most Gracious Majesty the Queen, Sir." So- Mellish went up to Simla, with eighty-four pounds of Fumigatory in his trunk, to speak to the Viceroy and to show him the merits of the invention. But it is easier to see a Viceroy than to talk to him, unless you chance to be as important as Mel- lishe of Madras. He was a six-thousand-rupee man, so great that his daughters never "married." They "contracted alliances." He himself was not paid. He "received emoluments," and his jour¬ neys about the country were "tours of observa¬ tion." His business was to stir up the people in Madras with a long pole—as you stir up tench in a pond—and the people had to come up out of their comfortable old ways and gasp—"This is Enlightenment and Progress. Isn't it fine!" Then they gave Mellishe statues and jasmine garlands, in the hope of getting rid of him. Mellishe came up to Simla "to confer with the A GERM-DESTROYER. 289 Viceroy." That was one of his perquisites. The Viceroy knew nothing of Mellishe except that he was "one of those middle class deities who seem necessary to the spiritual comfort of this Para¬ dise of the Middle-classes," and that, in all prob- bility, he had "suggested, designed, founded, and endowed all the public institutions in Ma¬ dras." Which proves that His Excellency, though dreamy, had experience of the ways of six-thou¬ sand-rupee men. Mellishe's name was E. Mellishe, and Mellish's was E. S. Mellish, and they were both staying at the same hotel, and the Fate that looks after the Indian Empire ordained that Wonder should blunder and drop the final "e;" that the Chap- rassi should help him, and that the note which ran— Dear Mr. Mellish:—Can you set aside your other en¬ gagements, and lunch with us at two to-morrow? His Excellency has an hour at your disposal then. should be given to Mellish with the Fumigatory. He nearly wept with pride and delight, and at the appointed hour cantered to Peterhoff, a big paper- bag full of the Fumigatory in his coat-tail pockets. He had his chance, and he meant to make the most 29O KIPLING BOY STORIES. of it. Mellishe of Madras had been so portentous¬ ly solemn about his "conference" that Wonder had arranged for a private tiffin,—no A.-D.-C.'s, no Wonder, no one but the Viceroy, who said plaintively that he feared being left alone with un¬ muzzled autocrats like the great Mellishe of Madras. But his guest did not bore the Viceroy. On the contrary, he amused him. Mellish was nervously anxious to go straight to his Fumigatory, and talked at random until tiffin was over and His Excellency asked him to smoke. The Viceroy was pleased with Mellish because he did not talk "shop." As soon as the cheroots were lit Mellish spoke like a man; beginning with his cholera-theory, re¬ viewing his fifteen years' "scientific labors," the machinations of the "Simla Ring," and the ex¬ cellence of his Fumigatory, while the Viceroy watched him between half-shut eyes and thought —"Evidently this is the wrong tiger; but it is an original animal." Mellish's hair was standing on end with excitement, and he stammered. He began groping in his coat-tails, and, before the Viceroy knew what was about to happen he had A GERM DESTROYER. 29I tipped a bagful of his powder into the big silver ash-tray. "J-j-judge for yourself, Sir," said Mellish. "Y' Excellency shall judge for yourself! Absolutely infallible, on my honor." He plunged the lighted end of his cigar into the powder, which began to smoke like a volcano, and send up fat, greasy wreaths of copper-colored smoke. In five seconds the room was filled with a most pungent and sickening stench—a reek that took fierce hold of the trap of your windpipe and shut it. The powder hissed and fizzed, and sent out blue and green sparks, and the smoke rose till you could neither see, nor breathe, nor gasp. Mellish, however, was used to it. "Nitrate of strontia," he shouted; "baryta, bone-meal et cetera! Thousand cubic feet smoke per cubic inch. Not a germ could live—not a germ, Y' Excellency!" But His Excellency had fled, and was cough¬ ing at the foot of the stairs, while all Peterhoff hummed like a hive. Red Lancers came in, and the head Chaprassi, who speaks English, came in. and mace-bearers came in, and ladies ran down¬ stairs screaming, "Fire!" for the smoke was drift- 292 KIPLING BOY STORIES. ing through the house and oozing out of the win¬ dows, and bellying along the verandahs, and wreathing and writhing across the gardens. No one could enter the room where Mellish was lec¬ turing on his Fumigatory, till that unspeakable powder had burned itself out. Then an Aide-de-Camp, who desired the V. C., rushed through the rolling clouds and hauled Mel¬ lish into' the hall. The Viceroy was prostrate with laughter, and could only waggle his hands feebly at Mellish, who was shaking a fresh bagful of powder at him. "Glorious! Glorious!" sobbed His Excellency. "Not a germ, as you justly observe, could exist! I can swear it. A magnificent success!" Then he laughed till the tears came, and Won¬ der, who had caught the real Mellishe snorting on the Mall, entered and was deeply shocked at the scene. But the Viceroy was delighted, because he saw that Wonder would presently depart. Mel¬ lish with the Fumigatory was also pleased, for he felt that he had smashed the Simla Medical "Ring." ****** Few men could a tell a story like His Excel- A GERM DESTROYER. 293 lency when he took the trouble, and his account of "my dear, good Wonder's friend with the pow¬ der" went the round of Simla, and flippant folk made Wonder unhappy by their remarks. But His Excellency told the tale once too often —for Wonder. As he meant to do. It was at a Seepee picnic. Wonder was sitting just behind the Viceroy. "And I really thought for a moment," wound up His Excellency, "that my dear, good Wonder had hired an assassin to clear his way to the throne!" Every one laughed; but there was a delicate sub-tinkle in the Viceroy's tone which Wonder understood. He found that his health was giving way; and the Viceroy allowed him to go, and presented him with a flaming "character" for use at Home among big people. "My fault entirely," said His Excellency, in after seasons, with a twinkle in his eye. "My in¬ consistency must always have been distasteful to such a masterly man." HIS WEDDED WIFE. Cry "Murder!" in the market-place, and each Will turn upon his neighbor anxious eyes That ask—"Art thou the man?" We hunted Cain, Some centuries ago, across the world. That bred the fear our own misdeeds maintain To-day. —Vibarf s Moralities. Shakespeare says something about worms, or it may be giants or beetles, turning if you tread on them too severely. The safest plan is never to tread on a worm—not even on the last new sub¬ altern from Home, with his buttons hardly out of their tissue-paper, and the red of sappy English beef in his cheeks. This is a story of the worm that turned. For the sake of brevity, we will call Henry Augustus Ramsay Faizanne, "The Worm," though he really was an exceedingly pretty boy, without a hair on his face, and with a waist like a girl's, when he came out to the Sec¬ ond "Shikarris" and was made unhappy in several ways. The "Shikarris" are a high-caste regiment, and you must be able to do things well—play a 294 HIS WEDDED WIFE. 295 banjo, or ride more than a little, or sing, or act— to get on with them. The Worm did nothing except fall off his pony, and knock chips out of gate-posts with his trap. Even that became monotonous after a time. He objected to whist, cut the cloth at billiards, sang out of tune, kept very much to himself, and wrote to his Mamma and sisters at Home. Four of these five things were vices which the "Shikarris" ob¬ jected to and set themselves to eradicate. Every¬ one knows how subalterns are, by brother subalt¬ erns, softened and not permitted to> be ferocious. It is good and wholesome, and does no one any harm, unless tempers are lost; and then there is trouble. There was a man once The "Shikarris" shikarred The Worm very much, and he bore everything without winking. He was so good and so anxious to learn, and flushed so- pink, that his education was cut short, and he was left to his own devices by every one except the Senior Subaltern, who continued to make life a burden to The Worm. The Senior Subaltern meant no harm; but his chaff was coarse and he didn't quite understand where to stop. He had been waiting too long for his Com- 296 KIPLING BOY STORIES. pany; and that always sours a man. And he was in love, which made him worse. One day, after he had borrowed The Worm's trap for a lady who never existed, had used it himself all the afternoon, had sent a note to The Worm, purporting to come from the lady, and was telling the Mess all about it, The Worm rose in his place and said, in his quiet, lady-like voice— "That was a very pretty sell; but I'll lay you a month's pay to a month's pay when you get your step, that I work a sell on you that you'll remem¬ ber for the rest of your days, and the Regiment after you when you're dead or broke." The Worm wasn't angry in the least, and the rest of the Mess shouted. Then the Senior Subaltern looked at The Worm from the boots upwards, and down again, and said—"Done, Baby." The Worm held the rest of the Mess to> witness that the bet had been taken, and retired into a book with a sweet smile. Two months passed, and the Senior Subaltern still educated The Worm, who began to move about a little more as the hot weather came on. I have said that the Senior Subaltern was in love. The curious thing is that a girl was in love with HIS WEDDED WIFE. 297 the Senior Subaltern. Though the Colonel said awful things, and the Majors snorted, and the married Captains looked unutterable wisdom, and the Juniors scoffed, those two were engaged. The Senior Subaltern was so pleased with get¬ ting his Company and his acceptance at the same time that he forgot to bother The Worm. The girl was a pretty girl, and had money of her own. She does not come into' this story at all. One night, at the beginning of the hot weather, all the Mess, except The Worm, who had gone to his own room to write Home letters, were sit¬ ting on the platform outside the Mess House. The Band had finished playing, but no one wanted to go in. And the Captains' wives were there also. The folly of a man in love is unlimited. The Senior Subaltern had been holding forth on the merits of the girl he was engaged to, and the ladies were purring approval while the men yawned, when there was a rustle of skirts in the dark, and a tired, faint voice lifted itself. "Where's my husband?" I do not wish in the least to reflect on the moral¬ ity of the "Shikarrisbut it is on record that four men jumped up as if they had been shot. Three 298 KIPLING BOY STORIES. of them were married men. Perhaps they were afraid that their wives had come from Home un¬ beknownst. The fourth said that he had acted on the impulse of the moment. He explained this afterwards. Then the voice cried, "O Lionel!" Lionel was the Senior Subaltern's name. A woman came into the little circle of light by the candles on the peg-tables, stretching out her hands to the dark where the Senior Subaltern wras, and sobbing. We rose to our feet, feeling that things were go¬ ing to happen and ready to believe the worst. In this bad, small world of ours, one knows SO' little of the life of the next man—which, after all, is entirely his own concern—that one is not sur¬ prised when a crash comes. Anything might turn up any day for any one. Perhaps the Senior Subaltern had been trapped in his youth. Men are crippled that way occasionally. We didn't know; we wanted to hear; and the Captains' wives were as anxious as we. If he had been trapped, he was to be excused; for the woman from nowhere, in the dusty shoes and gray travel¬ ing dress, was very lovely, with black hair and great eyes full of tears. She was tall, with a fine figure, and her voice had a running sob in it piti- HIS WEDDED WIFE. 299 fill to hear. As soon as the Senior Subaltern stood up, she threw her arms round his neck, and called him "my darling," and said she could not bear waiting alone in England, and his letters were so short and cold, and she was his to the end of the world, and would he forgive her? This did not sound quite like a lady's way of speaking. It was too demonstrative. Things seemed black indeed, and the Captains' wives peered under their eyebrows at the Senior Subaltern, and the Colonel's face set like the Day of Judgment framed in gray bristles, and no one spoke for awhile. Next the Colonel said, very shortly, "Well, Sir ?" and the woman sobbed afresh. The Senior Subaltern was half choked with the arms round his neck, but he gasped out—"It's a lie! I never had a wife in my life!"—"Don't swear," said the Colonel. "Come into the Mess. We must sift this clear somehow," and he sighed to himself, for he believed in his "Shikarris," did the Colonel. We trooped into the ante-room, under the full lights, and there we saw how beautiful the wom¬ an was. She stood up in the middle of us all, sometimes choking with crying, then hard and 300 KIPLING BOY STORIES. proud, and then holding out her arms to the Senior Subaltern. It was like the fourth act of a tragedy. She told us how the Senior Subaltern had married her when he was Home on leave eighteen months before; and she seemed to know all that we knew, and more, too, of his people and his past life. He was white and ashy-gray, try¬ ing now and again to break into the torrent of her words; and we, noting how lovely she was and what a criminal he looked, esteemed him a beast of the worst kind. We felt sorry for him, though. I shall never forget the indictment of the Senior Subaltern by his wife. Nor will he. It was so sudden, rushing out of the dark, unannounced, into our dull lives. The Captains' wives stood back; but their eyes were alight, and you could see they had already convicted and sentenced the Senior Subaltern. The Colonel seemed five years older. One Major was shading his eyes with his hand and watching the woman from underneath it. Another was chewing his moustache and smil¬ ing quietly as if he were witnessing a play. Full in the open space in the center, by the whist-tables, the Senior Subaltern's terrier was hunting for fleas. I remember all this as clearly as though a HIS WEDDED WIFE. 30I photograph were in my hand. I remember the look of horror on the Senior Subaltern's face. It was rather like seeing a man hanged; but much more interesting. Finally, the woman wound up by saying that the Senior Subaltern carried a double F. M. in tattoo on his left shoulder. We all knew that, and, to our innocent minds, it seemed to clinch the matter. But one of the bachelor Majors said very politely, "I presume that your marriage-certificate would be more to the purpose?" That roused the woman. She stood up and sneered at the Senior Subaltern for a cur, and abused the Major and the Colonel and all the rest. Then she wept, and then she pulled a paper from her breast, saying imperially, "Take that! And let my husband—my lawfully wedded husband— read it aloud—if he dare!" There was a hush, and the men looked into* each others' eyes as the Senior Subaltern came forward in a dazed and dizzy way, and took the paper. We were wondering, as we stared, whether there was anything against any one of us that might turn up later on. The Senior Subaltern's throat was dry; but, as he ran his eye over the paper he broke 20 302 KIPLING BOY STORIES. out into a hoarse cackle of relief, and said to> the woman, "You young blackguard!" But the woman had fled through a door, and on the paper was written, "This is to certify that I, The Worm, have paid in full my debts to the Senior Subaltern, and, further, that the Senior Sub¬ altern is my debtor, by agreement on the 23d of February, as by the Mess attested, to the extent of one month's Captain's pay, in the lawful cur¬ rency of the Indian Empire." Then a deputation set off for The Worm's quarters and found him, betwixt and between, un¬ lacing his stays, with the hat, wig, and serge dress on the bed. He came over as he was, and the "Shikarris" shouted till the Gunners' Mess sent over to know if they might have a share of the fun. I think we were all, except the Colonel and the Senior Subaltern, a little disappointed that the scandal had come to nothing. But that is human nature. There could be no two words about The Worm's acting. It leaned as near to a nasty tragedy as anything this side of a joke can. When most of the Subalterns sat upon him with sofa- cushions to find out why he had not said that acting was his strong point, he answered very HIS WEDDED WIFE. 3O3 quietly, "I don't think you ever asked me. I used to act at Home with my sisters." But no acting with girls could account for The Worm's display that night. Personally, I think it was in bad taste. Besides being dangerous. There is no sort of use in playing with fire, even for fun. The "Shikarris" made him President of the Regimental Dramatic Club; and, when the Senior Subaltern paid up his debt, which he did at once. The Worm sank the money in scenery and dresses. He was a good Worm; and the "Shi¬ karris" are proud of him. The only drawback is that he has been christened "Mrs. Senior Sub¬ altern;" and, as there are now two Mrs. Senior Subalterns in the Station, this is sometimes con¬ fusing to strangers. THE BROKEN LINK HANDICAP. While the snaffle holds, or the long-neck stings, While the big beam tilts, or the last bell rings, While horses are horses to train and to race, Then women and wine take a second place For me—for me— While a short "ten-three" Has a field to squander or fence to face! —Song of the G. R. There are more ways of running a horse to suit your book than pulling his head off in the straight. Some men forget this. Understand clearly that all racing is rotten—as everything connected with losing money must be. In India, in addition to its inherent rottenness, it has the merit of being two-thirds sham; looking pretty on paper only. Every one knows every one else far too well for business purposes. How on earth can you rack and harry a post man for his losings when you are fond of his wife, and live in the same Station with him ? He says, "On the Monday following," "I can't settle just yet." You say, "All right, old man," and think yourself lucky if you pull off nine 304 THE BROKEN LINK HANDICAP. 30$ hundred out of a two-thousand-rupee debt. Any way you look at it, Indian racing is immoral, and expensively immoral. Which is much worse. If a man wants your money, he ought to ask for it, or send round a subscription-list instead of jug¬ gling about the country with an Australian larri¬ kin; a "brumby," with as much breed as the boy; a brace of chumars in gold-laced caps; three or four ekka-ponies with hogged manes, and a switch-tailed demirep of a mare called Arab be¬ cause she has a kink in her flag. Racing leads to the shroff quicker than anything else. But if you have no conscience and no sentiments, and good hands, and some knowledge of pace, and ten years' experience of horses, and several thousand rupees a month, I believe that you can occasionally con¬ trive to pay your shoeing-bills. Did you ever know Shackles--b. w. g., 15. 1 § —coarse, loose, mule-like ears—barrel as long as a gate-post—tough as a telegraph-wire—and the queerest brute that ever looked through a bridle? He was of no brand, being one of an ear-nicked mob taken into the Bucephalus at £4:ios. a head to make up freight, and sold raw and out of condi¬ tion at Calcutta for Rs.275. People who lost 306 KIPLING BOY STORIES. money on him called him a "brumby;" but if ever any horse had Harpoon's shoulders and The Gin's temper, Shackles was that horse. Two miles was his own particular distance. He trained himself, ran himself, and rode himself ; and, if his jockey insulted him by giving him hints, he shut up at once and bucked the boy off. He objected to dic¬ tation. Two or three of his owners did not under¬ stand this, and lost money in consequence. At last he was bought by a man who discovered that, if a race was to be won, Shackles, and Shackles only, would win it in his own way, so long as his jockey sat still. This man had a riding-boy called Brunt —a lad from Perth, West Australia—and he taught Brunt, with a trainer's whip, the hardest thing a jock can learn—to sit still, to sit still, and •keep on sitting still. When Brunt fairly grasped this truth, Shackles devastated the country. No weight could stop him at his own distance; and the fame of Shackles spread from Ajmir in the South to Chedputter in the North. There was no horse like Shackles, so long as he was allowed to do his work in his own way. But he was beaten in the end; and the story of his fall is enough to make angels weep. THE BROKEN LINK HANDICAP. 307 At the lower end of the Chedputter race-course, just before the turn into the straight, the track passes close to a couple of old brick-mounds en¬ closing a funnel-shaped hollow. The big end of the funnel is not six feet from the railings on the off-side. The astonishing peculiarity of the course is that, if you stand at one particular place, about half a mile away, inside the course, and speak at ordinary pitch, your voice just hits the funnel of the brick-mounds and makes a curious whining echo there. A man discovered this one morning by accident while out training with a friend. He marked the place to stand and speak from with a couple of bricks, and he kept his knowledge to himself. Every peculiarity of a course is worth remembering in a country where rats play the mischief with the elephant-litter, and Stewards build jumps to suit their own stables. This man ran a very fairish country-bred, a long, racking high mare with the temper of a fiend and the paces of an airy, wandering seraph —a drifty, glidy stretch. The mare was, as a delicate tribute to- Mrs. Reiver, called "The Lady Regula Baddun"—or, for short, Regula Baddun. 308 KIPLING BOY STORIES. Shackles' jockey, Brunt, was a quite well-be¬ haved boy, but his nerve had been shaken. He began his career by riding jump-races in Mel¬ bourne, where a few Stewards want lynching, and was one of the jockeys who came through the awful butchery—perhaps you will recollect it—of the Maribyrnong Plate. The walls were colonial ramparts—logs of jarrah spiked into the ma¬ sonry—with wings as strong as Church buttresses. Once in his stride, a Horse had to jump or fall. He couldn't run out. In the Maribyrnong Plate, twelve horses were jammed at the second wall. Red Hat, leading, fell this side, and threw out The Gled and the ruck came up behind and the space between wing and wing was one struggling, screaming, kicking shambles. Four jockeys were taken out dead; three were very badly hurt, and Brunt was among the three. He told the story of the Maribyrnong Plate sometimes; and when he described how Whalley on Red Hat, said, as the mare fell under him—"God ha' mercy, I'm done for!" and how, next instant, Sithee There and White Otter had crushed the life out of poor Whalley, and the dust hid men and horses, no one marveled that Brunt had dropped jump-races and THE BROKEN LINK HANDICAP. 3O9 Australia together. Regula Baddun's owner knew that story by heart. Brunt never varied it in the telling. He had no education. Shackles came to the Chedputter Autumn races one year, and his owner walked about insulting the sportsmen of Chedputter generally, till they went to the Honorary Secretary in a body and said, "Appoint handicappers, and arrange a race which shall break Shackles and humble the pride of his owner." The Districts rose against Shackles and sent up of their best; Ousel, who was supposed to be able to do his mile in i 153; Petard, the stud- bred, trained by a cavalry regiment who knew how to train; Gringalet, the ewe-lamb of the 75th; Bobolink, the pride of the Peshawar; and many others. They called that race The Broken Link Handi¬ cap, because it was to smash Shackles; and the Handicappers piled on the weights, and the Fund gave eight hundred rupees, and the distance was "around the course for all horses." Shackles' owner said, "You can arrange the race with re¬ gard to Shackles only. So long as you don't bury him under weight-cloths I don't mind." Regula Baddun's owner said, "I throw in my mare to fret 3IO KIPLING BOY STORIES. Ousel. Six furlongs is Regula's distance, and she will then lie down and die. So also will Ousel, for his jockey doesn't understand a waiting race." Now, this was a lie, for Regula had been in work for two months at Dehra, and her chances were good, always supposing that Shackles broke a blood-vessel—or Brunt moved on him. The plunging in the lotteries was fine. They filled eight thousand-rupee lotteries on the Broken Link Handicap, and the account in the Pioneer said that "favoritism was divided." In plain Eng¬ lish, the various contingents were wild on their respective horses; for the Handicappers had done their work well. The Honorary Secretary shout¬ ed himself hoarse through the din; and the smoke of the cheroots was like the smoke, and the rat¬ tling of the dice-boxes like the rattle of small-arm fire. Ten horses started—very levefl—and Regula Baddun's owner cantered out on his back to* a place inside the circle of the course, where two bricks had been thrown. He faced towards the brick-mounds at the lower end of the course and waited. The story of the running is in the Pioneer. At THE BROKEN LINK HANDICAP. 311 the end of the first mile, Shackles crept out of the ruck, well on the outside, ready to get round the turn, lay hold of the bit and spin up the straight before the others knew he had got away. Brunt was sitting still, perfectly happy, listening to the "drum-drum-drum" of the hoofs behind, and knowing that, in about twenty strides, Shackles would draw one deep breath and go up the last half-mile like the "Flying Dutchman." As Shackles went short to take the turn and came abreast of the brick-mound, Brunt heard, above the noise of the wind in his ears, a whining, wail¬ ing voice on the offside, saying—"God ha' mercy, I'm done for!" In one stride, Brunt saw the whole seething smash of the Maribyrnong Plate before him, started in his saddle and gave a yell of terror. The start brought the heels into Shackles' side, and the scream hurt Shackles' feelings. He couldn't stop dead; but he put out his feet and slid along for fifty yards, and then, very gravely and judiciously, bucked off Brunt—a shaking, ter¬ ror-stricken lump, while Regula Baddun made a neck-and-neck race with Bobolink up the straight, and won by a short head—Petard a bad third. Shackles' owner, in the Stand, tried to think that 312 KIPLING BOY STORIES. his field-glasses had gone wrong. Regula Bad- dun's owner, waiting by the two bricks, gave one deep sigh of relief, and cantered back to* the Stand. He had won, in lotteries and bets, about fifteen thousand. It was a Broken Link Handicap with a ven¬ geance. It broke nearly all the men concerned, and nearly broke the heart of Shackles' owner. He sent down to interview Brunt. The boy lay, livid and gasping with fright, where he had tumbled off. The sin of losing the race never seemed to strike him. All he knew was that Whalley had "called" him, that the "call" was a warning; and, were he cut in two for it, he would never get up again. His nerve had gone altogether, and he only asked his master to give him a good thrash¬ ing and let him go. He was fit for nothing, he said. He got his dismissal, and crept up to the paddock, white as chalk, with blue lips, his knees giving way under him. People said nasty things in the paddock; but Brunt never heeded. He changed into tweeds, took his stick and went down the road, still shaking with fright, and muttering over and over again- —"God ha' mercy, I'm done THE BROKEN LINK HANDICAP. 313 for!" To the best of my knowledge and belief he spoke the truth. So now you know how the Broken Link Handi¬ cap was run and won. Of course you don't believe it. You would credit anything about Russia's designs on India, or the recommendations of the Currency Commission; but a little bit of sober fact is more than you can stand. A BANK FRAUD. He drank strong waters and his speech was coarse; He purchased raiment and forbore to pay; He stuck a trusting junior with a horse, And won Gymkhanas in a doubtful way. Then, 'twixt a vice and folly, turned aside To do good deeds and straight to cloak them, lied. — The Mess Room,. If Reggie Burke were in India now, he would resent this tale being told; but as he is in Hong¬ kong and won't see it, the telling is safe. He was the man who worked the big fraud on the Sind and Sialkote Bank. He was manager of an up- country Branch, and a sound, practical man with a large experience of native loan and insurance work. He could combine the frivolities of ordi¬ nary life with his work, and yet do well. Reggie Burke rode anything that would let him up, danced as neatly as he rode, and was wanted for every sort of amusement in the Station. As he said himself, and as many men found out rather to their surprise, there were two 314 A BANK FRAUD. 315 Burkes, both very much at your service. "Reggie Burke," between four and ten, ready for anything from a hot-weather gymkhana to a riding-picnic, and, between ten and four, "Mr. Reginald Burke, Manager of the Siiid and Sialkote Branch Bank." You might play polo with him one afternoon and hear him express his opinions when a man crossed; and you might call on him next morning to raise a two-thousand-rupee loan on a five-hun¬ dred-pound insurance policy, eighty pounds paid in premiums. He would recognize you, but you would have some trouble in recognizing him. The Directors of the Bank—it had its headquar¬ ters in Calcutta and its General Manager's word carried weight with the Government—picked their men well. They had tested Reggie up to a fairly severe breaking-strain. They trusted him just as much as Directors ever trust Managers. Yon must see for yourself whether their trust was mis¬ placed. Reggie's Branch was in a big Station, and worked with the usual staff—one Manager, one Accountant, both English, a Cashier, and a horde of native clerks; besides the Police patrol at nights outside. The bulk of its work, for it was 316 KIPLING BOY STORIES. in a thriving district, was hoondi and accommo¬ dation of all kinds. A fool has no grip of this sort of business; and a clever man who does not go about among his clients, and know more than a little of their affairs, is worse than a fool. Reggie was young-looking, clean-shaved, with a twinkle in his eye, and a head that nothing short of a gallon of the Gunners' Madeira could make any impression on. One day, at a big dinner, he announced casually that the Directors had shifted on to him a Natural Curiosity, from England, in the Accountant line. He was perfectly correct. Mr. Silas Riley, Ac¬ countant, was a most curious animal—a long, gawky, raw-boned Yorkshireman, full of the sav¬ age self-conceit that blossoms only in the best county in England. Arrogance was a mild word for the mental attitude of Mr. S. Riley. He had worked himself up, after seven years, to a Cash¬ ier's position in a Huddersfield Bank; and all his experience lay among the factories of the North. Perhaps he would have done better on the Bom¬ bay side, where they are happy with one-half per cent profits, and money is cheap. He was useless for Upper India and a wheat Province, where a A BANK FRAUD. 317 man wants a large head and a tonch of imagina¬ tion if he is to turn out a satisfactory balance- sheet. He was wonderfully narrow-minded in busi¬ ness, and, being new to the country, had no notion that Indian banking is totally distinct from Home work. Like most clever self-made men, he had much simplicity in his nature; and, somehow or other, had construed the ordinarily polite terms of his letter of engagement into a belief that the Di¬ rectors had chosen him on account of his special and brilliant talents, and that they set great store by him. This notion grew and crystallized; thus adding to his natural North-country conceit. Fur¬ ther, he was delicate, suffered from some trouble in his chest, and was short in his temper. You will admit that Reggie had reason to call his new Accountant a Natural Curiosity. The two men failed to hit it off at all. Riley consid¬ ered Reggie a wild, feather-headed idiot, given to Heaven only knew what dissipation in low places called "Messes," and totally unfit for the serious and solemn vocation of banking. He could never get over Reggie's look of youth; and he couldn't understand Reggie's friends—clean-built, careless 21 318 KIPLING BOY STORIES. men in the Army—who rode over to big Sunday breakfasts at the Bank, and told sultry stories till Riley got up and left the room. Riley was always showing Reggie how the business ought to be con¬ ducted, and Reggie had more than once to remind him that seven years' limited experience between Huddersfield and Beverley did not qualify a man to steer a big up-country business. Then Riley sulked, and referred to himself as a pillar of the Bank and a cherished friend of the Directors, and Reggie tore his hair. If a man's English subor¬ dinates fail him in India, he comes to a hard time indeed, for native help has strict limitations. In the winter Riley went sick for weeks at a time with his lung complaint, and this threw more work on Reggie. But he preferred it to the ever¬ lasting friction when Riley was well. One of the Traveling Inspectors of the Bank discovered these collapses and reported them to the Directors. Now, Riley had been foisted on the Bank by an M. P., who wanted the support of Riley's father, who, again, was anxious to get his son out to a warmer climate because of those lungs. The M. P. had interest in the Bank; but one of the Directors wanted to advance a nominee A BANK FRAUD. 319 of his own; and, after Riley's father had died he made the rest of the Board see that an Accountant who was sick for half the year had better give place to a healthy man. If Riley had known the real story of his appointment, he might have be¬ haved better; but, knowing nothing, his stretches of sickness alternated with restless, persistent, meddling irritation of Reggie, and all the hundred ways in which conceit in a subordinate situation can find play. Reggie used to call him striking and hair-curling names behind his back as a re¬ lief to his own feelings; but he never abused him to his face, because he said, "Riley is such a frail beast that half of his loathsome conceit is due to pains in the chest." Late one April, Riley went very sick indeed. The Doctor punched him and thumped him, and told him he would be better before long. Then the Doctor went to Reggie and said—"Do you know how sick your Accountant is?"—"No!" said Reggie—"The worse the better, confound him! He's a clacking nuisance when he's well. I'll let you take away the Bank Safe if you can drug him silent for this hot weather." But the Doctor did not laugh—"Man, I'm not 320 KIPLING BOY STORIES. joking," he said. "I'll give him another three months in his bed and a week or so more to die in. On my honor and reputation that's all the grace he has in this world. Consumption has hold of him to the marrow." Reggie's face changed at once into the face of "Mr. Reginald Burke," and he answered, "What can I do?"—"Nothing," said the Doctor. "For all practical purposes the man is dead already. Keep him quiet and cheerful, and tell him he's gor¬ ing to recover. That's all. I'll look after him to the end, of course." The Doctor went away, and Reggie sat down to open the evening mail. His first letter was one from the Directors, intimating for his information that Mr. Riley was to resign, under a month's no¬ tice, by the terms of his agreement, telling Reggie that their letter to Riley would follow, and advis¬ ing Reggie of the coming of a new Accountant, a man whom Reggie knew and liked. Reggie lit a cheroot, and, before he had finished smoking, he had sketched the outline of a fraud. He put away—burked—the Directors' letter, and went in to talk to Riley, who was as ungracious as usual, and fretting himself over the way the Bank A BANK FRAUD. 321 would run during his illness. He never thought of the extra work on Reggie's shoulders, but sole¬ ly of the damage to his own prospects of advance¬ ment. Then Reggie assured him that everything would be well, and that he, Reggie, would confer with Riley daily on the management of the Bank. Riley was a little soothed, but he hinted in as many words that he did not think much of Reg¬ gie's business capacity. Reggie was humble. And he had letters in his desk from the Directors that a Gilbarte or a Hardie might have been proud of! The days passed in the big darkened house, and the Directors' letter of dismissal to Riley came and was put away by Reggie, who, every evening, brought the books to Riley's room, and showed him what had been going forward, while Riley snarled. Reggie did his best to make statements pleasing to Riley, but the Accountant was sure that the Bank was going to rack and ruin without him. In June, as the lying in bed told on his spirit, he asked whether his absence had been noted by the Directors, and Reggie said that they had written most sympathetic letters, hoping that he would be able to resume his valuable services before long. He showed Riley the letters; and 322 KIPLING BOY STORIES. Riley said that the Directors ought to have writ¬ ten to him direct. A few days later Reggie opened Riley's mail in the half-light of the room, and gave him the sheet—not the envelope—of a letter to Riley from the Directors. Riley said he would thank Reggie not to interfere with his pri¬ vate papers, specially as Reggie knew he was too weak to open his own letters. Reggie apologized. Then Riley's mood changed, and he lectured Reggie on his evil ways: his horses and his bad friends. "Of course, lying here, on my back, Mr. Burke, I can't keep you straight; but when I'm well, I do hope you'll pay some heed to my words." Reggie, who had dropped polo, and din¬ ners, and tennis and all, to attend to Riley, said that he was penitent and settled Riley's head on the pillow and heard him fret and contradict in hard, dry, hacking whispers, without a sign of im¬ patience. This, at the end of a heavy day's office work, doing double duty, in the latter half of June. When the new Accountant came, Reggie told him the facts of the case, and announced to Riley that he had a guest staying with him. Riley said that he might have had more consideration than A BANK FRAUD. 323 to entertain his "doubtful friends" at such a time. Reggie made Carron, the new Accountant, sleep at the Club in consequence. Carron's arrival took some of the heavy work off his shoulders, and he had time to attend to Riley's exactions—to explain, soothe, invent, and settle and re-settle the poor wretch in bed, and to forge complimentary letters from Calcutta. At the end of the first month Riley wished to send some money home to his mother. Reggie sent the draft. At the end of the second month Riley's salary came in just the same. Reggie paid it out of his own pocket, and, with it, wrote Riley a beautiful letter from the Directors. Riley was very ill indeed, but the flame of his life burnt unsteadily. Now and then he would be cheerful and confident about the future, sketch¬ ing plans for going Home and seeing his mother. Reggie listened patiently when the office-work was over, and encouraged him. At other times Riley insisted on Reggie read¬ ing the Bible and grim "Methody" tracts to him. Out of these tracts he pointed morals directed at his Manager. But he always found time to worry Reggie about the working of the Bank, and to 324 KIPLING BOY STORIES. show him where the weak points lay. This in¬ door, sickroom life and constant strains wore Reg¬ gie down a good deal, and shook his nerves, and lowered his billiard play by forty points. But the business of the Bank, and the business of the sick¬ room had to go on, though the glass was 116 de¬ grees in the shade. At the end of the third month Riley was sink¬ ing fast, and had begun to realize that he was very sick. But the conceit that made him worry Reggie kept him from believing the worst. "He wants some sort of mental stimulant if he is to drag on," said the Doctor. "Keep him interested in life if you care about his living." So Riley, contrary to all the laws of business and finance, received a 25 per cent rise of salary from the Directors. The "mental stimulant" succeeded beautifully. Riley was happy and cheerful, and, as is often the case in consumption, healthiest in mind when the body is weakest. He lingered for a full month, snarl¬ ing and fretting about the Bank, talking of the future, hearing the Bible read, lecturing Reggie on sin, and wondering when he would be able to move abroad. But at the end of September, one mercilessly A BANK FRAUD. 325 hot evening, he rose up in his bed with a little gasp, and said quickly to Reggie—"Mr. Burke, I am going to die. I know it myself. My chest is all hollow inside, and there's nothing to breathe with. To the best of my knowledge I have done nowt,"—he was returning to the talk of his boy¬ hood—"to lie heavy on my conscience. God be thanked, I have been preserved from the grosser forms of sin; and I counsel you, Mr. Burke J J Here his voice died down, and Reggie stooped over him. "Send my salary for September to my Mother . . . done great things with the Bank if I had been spared . . . mistaken policy . . . no fault of mine. . . ." Then he turned his face to the wall and died. Reggie drew the sheet over Its face, and went out into the verandah, with his last "mental stimu¬ lant"—a letter of condolence and sympathy from the Directors—unused in his pocket. "If I'd been only ten minutes earlier," thought Reggie, "I might have heartened him up to pull through another day." TODS' AMENDMENT. The World hath set its heavy yoke Upon the old white-bearded folk Who strive to please the King. God's mercy is upon the young, God's wisdom in the baby tongue That fears not anything. — The Parable of Chajju Bhagat. Now, Tods' Mamma was a singularly charming woman, and every one in Simla knew Tods. Most men had saved him from death on occasions. He was beyond his ayah's control altogether, and periled his life daily to find out what would hap¬ pen if you pulled a Mountain Battery mule's tail. He was an utterly fearless young Pagan, about six years old, and the only baby who ever broke the holy calm of the Supreme Legislative Council. It happened this way: Tods' pet kid got loose, and fled up the hill, off the Boileaugunge Road, Tods after it, until it burst in to the Viceregal Lodge lawn, then attached to "Peterhoff." The Council were sitting at the time, and the windows were open because it was warm. The Red Lan- 326 tods' amendment. 327 cer in the porch told Tods to go away; but Tods knew the Red Lancer and most of the Members of the Council personally. Moreover, he had firm hold of the kid's collar, and was being dragged all across the flower-beds. "Give my salaam to the long Councillor Sahib, and ask him to help me take Moti back!" gasped Tods. The Council heard the noise through the open windows; and, after an interval, was seen the shocking spectacle of a Legal Member and a Lieutenant-Governor helping, under the direct patronage of a Com¬ mander-in-Chief and a Viceroy, one small and very dirty boy in a sailor's suit and a tangle of brown hair, to coerce a lively and rebellious kid. They headed it off down the path to the Mall, and Tods went home in triumph and told his Mamma that all the Councillor Sahibs had been helping him to catch Moti. Whereat his Mamma smacked Tods for interfering with the administration of the Empire; but Tods met the Legal Member the next day, and told him in confidence that if the Legal Member ever wanted to catch a goat, he. Tods, would give him all the help in his power. "Thank you, Tods," said the Legal Member. Tods was the idol of some eighty jhampanis, 32§ KIPLING BOY STORIES. and half as many saises. He saluted them all as "O Brother." It never entered his head that any living human being could disobey his orders; and he was the buffer between the servants and his Mamma's wrath. The working of that household turned on Tods, who was adored by every one from the dhoby to the dog-boy. Even Futteh Khan, the villainous loafer khit from Mussoorie, shirked risking Tods' displeasure for fear his co- mates should look down on him. So Tods had honor in the land from Boileau- gunge to Chota Simla, and ruled justly according to his lights. Of course, he spoke Urdu, but he had also mastered many queer side-speeches like the chotee bolee of the women, and held grave converse with shopkeepers and Hill-coolies alike. He was precocious for his age, and his mixing with natives had taught him some of the more bitter truths of life: the meanness and the sordid- ness of it. He used, over his bread and milk, to deliver solemn and serious aphorisms, translated from the vernacular into the English, that made his Mamma jump and vow that Tods must go Home next hot weather. Just when Tods was in the bloom of his power, Page 327 He had hold of the kid's collar, and was being dragged across the flower-beds tods' amendment. 329 the Supreme Legislature were hacking out a Bill for the Sub-Montane Tracts, a revision of the then Act, smaller than the Punjab Land Bill, but affecting a few hundred thousand people none the less. The Legal Member had built, and bolstered, and embroidered, and amended that Bill, till it looked beautiful on paper. Then the Council be¬ gan to settle what they called the "minor details." As if any Englishman legislating for natives knows enough to know which are the minor and which are the major points, from the native point of view, of any measure! That Bill was a tri¬ umph of "safeguarding the interests of the ten¬ ant." One clause provided that land should not be leased on longer terms than five years at a stretch; because, if the landlord had a tenant bound down for, say, twenty years, he would squeeze the very life out of him. The notion was to keep up a stream of independent cultivators in the Sub-Montane Tracts; and ethnologically and politically the notion was correct. The only draw¬ back was that it was altogether wrong. A na¬ tive's life in India implies the life of his son. Wherefore, you cannot legislate for one genera¬ tion at a time. You must consider the next from 33° KIPLING BOY STORIES. the native point of view. Curiously enough, the native now and then, and in Northern India more particularly, hates being over-protected against himself. There was a Naga village once, where they lived on dead and buried Commissariat mules. . . . But that is another story. For many reasons, to be explained later, the people concerned objected to the Bill. The Na¬ tive Member in Council knew as much about Pun¬ jabis as he knew about Charing Cross. He had said in Calcutta that "the Bill was entirely in accord with the desires of that large and impor¬ tant class, the cultivatorsand so on, and so on. The Legal Member's knowledge of natives was limited to English-speaking Durbaris and his own red chaprassis, the Sub-Montane Tracts concerned no one in particular, the Deputy Commissioners were a good deal too driven to make representa¬ tions, and the measure was one which dealt with small land-holders only. Nevertheless, the Legal Member prayed that it might be correct, for he was a nervously conscientious man. He did not know that no man can tell what natives think un¬ less he mixes with them with the varnish off. And not always then. But he did the best he tods' amendment. 331 knew. And the measure came up to the Supreme Council for the final touches, while Tods patrolled the Burra Simla Bazar in his morning rides, and played with the monkey belonging to Ditta Mull, the bunnia, and listened, as a child listens, to all the stray talk about this new freak of the Lord Sahib's. One day there was a dinner-party at the house of Tods' Mamma, and the Legal Member came. Tods was in bed, but he kept awake till he heard the bursts of laughter from the men over the cof¬ fee. Then he paddled out in his little red flannel dressing-gown and his night-shirt and took refuge by the side of his father, knowing that he would not be sent back. "See the miseries of having a family!" said Tods' father, giving Tods three prunes, some water in a glass that had been used for claret, and telling him to sit still. Tods sucked the prunes slowly, knowing that he would have to go when they were finished, and sipped the pink water like a man of the world, as he listened to the conversation. Presently, the Legal Member, talking "shop" to the Head of a Department, men¬ tioned his Bill by its full name—"The Sub-Mon¬ tane Tracts Ryotwary Revised Enactment." Tods 332 KIPLING BOY STORIES. caught the one native word and lifting up his small voice said— "Oh, I know all about that! Has it been murra- mutted yet, Councillor Sahib?" "How much?" said the Legal Member. "Murramutted—mended.—Put theek, you know—made nice to please Ditta Mull!" The Legal Member left his place and moved up next to Tods. "What do you know about ryotwari, little man?" he said. "I'm not a little man, I'm Tods, and I know all about it. Ditta Mull, and Choga Lall, and Amir Nath, and—oh, lakhs of my friends tell me about it in the bazars when I talk to them." "Oh, they do—do they? What do they say, Tods?" Tods tucked his feet under his red flannel dress¬ ing-gown and said—"I must fink." The Legal Member waited patiently. Then Tods with infinite compassion— "You don't speak my talk, do you, Councillor Sahib?" "No; I am sorry to say I do not," said the Legal Member. tods' amendment. 333 "Very well," said Tods, "I must fink in En¬ glish." He spent a minute putting his ideas in order, and began very slowly, translating in his mind from the vernacular to English, as many Anglo- Indian children do. You must remember that the Legal Member helped him on by questions when he halted, for Tods was not equal to the sustained flight of oratory that follows: "Ditta Mull says, 'This thing is the talk of a child, and was made up by fools.' But I don't think you are a fool, Councillor Sahib," said Tods hastily. "You caught my goat. This is what Ditta Mull says—T am not a fool, and why should the Sirkar say I am a child ? I can see if the land is good and if the landlord is good. If I am a fool, the sin is upon my own head. For five years I take my ground for which I have saved money, and a wife I take too, and a little son is born.' Ditta Mull has one daughter now, but he says he will have a son soon. And he says, 'At the end of five years, by this new bundobust, I must go. If I do not go, I must get fresh seals and takkus- stamps on the papers, perhaps in the middle of the harvest, and to go to the law-courts once is wis- 22 334 KIPLING BOY STORIES. dom, but to go twice is Jehannum.' That is quite true," explained Tods gravely. "All my friends say so. And Ditta Mull says, 'Always fresh takkus and paying money to vakils and chaprassis and law-courts every five years, or else the land¬ lord makes me go. Why do I want to go ? Am I a fool? If I am a fool and do not know, after forty years, good land when I see it, let me die! But if the new bundobust says for fifteen years, that is good and wise. My little son is a man, and I am burnt, and he takes the ground or an¬ other ground, paying only once for the takkus- stamps on the papers, and his little son is born, and at the end of fifteen years is a man too. But what profit is there in five years and fresh papers? Nothing but dikh, trouble, dikh. We are not young men who take these lands, but old ones— not farmers, but tradesmen with a little money— and for fifteen years we shall have peace. Nor are we children that the Sirkar should treat us so.' " Here Tods stopped short, for the whole table were listening. The Legal Member said to Tods, "Is that all?" "All I can remember," said Tods. "But you tods' amendment. 335 should see Ditta Mull's big monkey. It's just like a Councillor Sahib." "Tods! Go to bed," said his father. Tods gathered up his dressing-gown tail and departed. The Legal Member brought his hand down on the table with a crash—"By Jove!" said the Legal Member, "I believe the boy is right. The short tenure is the weak point." He left early, thinking over what Tods had said. Now, it was obviously impossible for the Legal Member to play with a bunnia's monkey, by way of getting understanding; but he did better. He made inquiries, always bearing in mind the fact that the real native—not the hybrid, University- trained mule—is as timid as a colt, and, little by little, he coaxed some of the men whom the measure concerned most intimately to give in their views, which squared very closely with Tods' evi¬ dence. So the bill was amended in that clause; and the Legal Member was filled with an uneasy suspicion that Native Members represent very little except the Orders they carry on their bosoms. But he 336 KIPLING BOY STORIES. put the thought from him as illiberal. He was a most Liberal man. After a time, the news spread through the bazars that Tods had got the Bill recast in the tenure-clause, and if Tods' Mamma had not inter¬ fered, Tods would have made himself sick on the baskets of fruit and pistachio nuts and Cabuli grapes and almonds that crowded the verandah. Till he went Home, Tods ranked some few de¬ grees before the Viceroy in popular estimation. But for the little life of him Tods could not under¬ stand why. In the Legal Member's private-paper-box still lies the rough draft of the Sub-Montane Tracts Ryotwary Revised Enactment; and, opposite the twenty-second clause, penciled in blue chalk, and signed by the Legal Member, are the words, "Tods' Amendment." A FKIEND'S FKIEND. Wherefore slew you the stranger? He brought me dis¬ honor. I saddled my mare Bijli. I set him upon her. I gave him rice and goat's flesh. He bared me to laughter; When he was gone from my tent, swift I followed after, Taking a sword in my hand. The hot wine had filled him: Under the stars he mocked me. Therefore I killed him. —Hadramauti. This tale must be told in the first person for many reasons. The man whom I want to> expose is Tranter of the Bombay side. I want Tranter black-balled at his Club, divorced from his wife, turned out of Service, and cast into prison, until I get an apology from him in writing. I wish to warn the world against Tranter of the Bombay side. You know the casual way in which men pass on acquaintances in India ? It is a great convenience, because you can get rid of a man you don't like by writing a letter of introduction and putting him, with it, into the train. T. G.'s are best treated thus. If you keep them moving, they have no time 337 338 KIPLING BOY STORIES. to say insulting and offensive things about "An¬ glo-Indian Society." One day, late in the cold weather, I got a letter of preparation from Tranter of the Bombay side, advising me of the advent of a T. G., a man called Jevon; and saying, as usual, that any kindness shown to Jevon would be a kindness to Tranter. Every one knows the regular form of these com¬ munications. Two days afterwards, Jevon turned up with his letter of introduction, and I did what I could for him. He was lint-haired, fresh-colored, and very English. But he held no views about the Govern¬ ment of India. Nor did he insist on shooting tigers on the Station Mall, as some T. G.'s do. Nor did he call us "colonists," and dine in a flan¬ nel-shirt and tweeds, under that delusion as other T. G.'s do. He was well behaved and very grate¬ ful for the little I won for him—most grateful of all when I secured him an invitation for the Af¬ ghan Ball, and introduced him to a Mrs. Deemes, a lady for whom I had a great respect and admira¬ tion, who danced like the shadow of a leaf in a light wind. I set great store by the friendship of Mrs. Deemes; but, had I known what was coming, a friend's friend. 339 I would have broken Jevon's neck with a curtain- pole before getting him that invitation. But I did not know, and he dined, at the Club, I think, on the night of the ball. I dined at home. When I went to the dance, the first man I met asked me whether I had seen Jevon. "No," said I. "He's at the Club. Hasn't he come?"— "Come!" said the man. "Yes, he's very much come. You'd better look at him." I sought for Jevon. I found him sitting on a bench and smiling to himself and a programme. Half a look enough for me. On that one night, of all others, he had begun a long and thirsty even¬ ing by taking too much! He was breathing heav¬ ily through his nose, his eyes were rather red, and he appeared very satisfied with all the earth. I put up a little prayer that the waltzing would work off the wine, and went about programme-filling, feeling uncomfortable. But I saw Jevon walk up to Mrs. Deemes for the first dance, and I knew that all the waltzing on the card was not enough to keep Jevon's rebellious legs steady. That couple went round six times. I counted. Mrs. Deemes dropped Jevon's arm and came across to me. 34° KIPLING BOY STORIES. I am not going to repeat what Mrs. Deemes said to me; because she was very angry indeed. I am not going to write what I said to Mrs. Deemes, be¬ cause I didn't say anything. I only wished that I had killed Jevon first and been hanged for it. Mrs. Deemes drew her pencil through all the dances that I had booked with her, and went away, leaving me to remember that what I ought to have said was that Mrs. Deemes had asked to be intro¬ duced to Jevon because he danced well; and that I really had not carefully worked out a plot to get her insulted. But I felt that argument was no good, and that I had better try to stop Jevon from waltzing me into more trouble. He, however, was gone, and about every third dance I set off to hunt for him. This ruined what little pleasure I ex¬ pected from the entertainment. Just before supper I caught Jevon, at the buffet with his legs wide apart, talking to a very fat and indignant chaperone. "If this person is a friend of yours, as I understand he is, I would recom¬ mend you to take him home," said she. "He is unfit for decent society." Then I knew that good¬ ness only knew what Jevon had been doing, and I tried to get him away. a friend's friend. 341 But Jevon wasn't going; not he. He knew what was good for him, he did; and he wasn't going to be dictated to by any loconial nigger-driver, he wasn't; and I was the friend who had formed his infant mind and brought him up to buy Benares brassware and fear God, so I was; and we would have many more blazing good drunks together, so we would; and all the she-camels in black silk in the world shouldn't make him withdraw his opin¬ ion that there was nothing better than Benedictine to give one an appetite. And then . . . but he was my guest. I set him in a quiet corner of the supper-room, and went to find a wall-prop that I could trust. There was a good and kindly Subaltern—may Heaven bless that Subaltern, and make him a Commander-in-Chief!—who heard of my trouble. He was not dancing himself, and he owned a head like five-year-old teak-baulks. He said that he would look after Jevon till the end of the ball. "Don't suppose you much mind what I do with him?" said he. "Mind!" said I. "No! You can murder the beast if you like." But the Subaltern did not murder him. He 342 KIPLING BOY STORIES. trotted off to the supper-room, and sat down by Jevon, drinking peg for peg with him. I saw the two fairly established and went away, feeling more easy. When "The Roast Beef of Old England'' sounded, I heard of Jevon's performances between the first dance and my meeting with him at the buffet. After Mrs. Deemes had cast him off, it seems that he had found his way into the gallery, and offered to conduct the Band or to play any in¬ strument in it, just as the Bandmaster pleased. When the Bandmaster refused, Jevon said that he wasn't appreciated, and he yearned for sympa¬ thy. So he trundled downstairs and sat out four dances with four girls, and proposed to three of them. One of the girls was a married woman by the way. Then he went into the whist-room, and fell face-down and wept on the hearth-rug in front of the fire, because he had fallen into a den of card- sharpers, and his Mamma had always warned him against bad company. He had done a lot of other things, too, and had taken about three quarts of mixed liquors. Besides, speaking of me in the most scandalous fashion! All the women wanted him turned out, and all a friend's friend. 343 the men wanted him kicked. The worst of it was, that every one said it was my fault. Now, I put it to you how on earth could I have known that this innocent, fluffy T. G. would break out in this dis¬ gusting manner? You see he had gone round the world nearly, and his vocabulary of abuse was cos¬ mopolitan, though mainly Japanese which he had picked up in a low tea-house at Hakodate. It sounded like whistling. While I was listening to> first one man and then another telling me of Jevon's shameless behavior and asking me for his blood, I wondered where he was. I was prepared to sacrifice him to Society on the spot. But Jevon was gone, and, far away in the corner of the supper-room, sat my dear, good Subaltern, a little flushed, eating salad. I went over and said, "Where's Jevon?"—"In the cloakroom," said the Subaltern. "He'll keep till the women have gone. Don't you interfere with my prisoner." I didn't want to interfere, but I peeped into the cloakroom, and found my guest put to* bed on some rolled-up carpets, all comfy, his collar free, and a wet swab on his head. The rest of the evening I spent in making timid 344 KIPLING BOY STORIES. attempts to explain things to Mrs. Deemes and three or four other ladies, and trying to clear my character—for I am a respectable man—from the shameful slurs that my guest had cast upon it. Libel was no word for what he had said. When I wasn't trying to explain, I was running off to the cloakroom to see that Jevon wasn't dead of apoplexy. I didn't want him to die on my hands. He had eaten my salt. At last that ghastly ball ended, though I was not in the least restored to Mrs. Deemes' favor. When the ladies had gone, and some one was call¬ ing for songs at the second supper, that angelic Subaltern told the servants to bring in the Sahib who was in the cloak room, and clear away one end of the supper-table. W'hile this was being done, we formed ourselves into a Board of Punishment with the Doctor for President. Jevon came in on four men's shoulders, and was put down on the table like a corpse in a dissecting- room, while the Doctor lectured on the evils of in¬ temperance and Jevon snored. Then we set to work. We corked the whole of his face. We filled his hair with meringue-cream till it looked like a white a friend's friend. 345 wig. To protect everything till it dried, a man in the Ordnance Department, who understood the work, luted a big blue paper cap from a cracker, with meringue-cream, low down on Jevon's fore¬ head. This was punishment, not play, remember. We took gelatine off crackers, and stuck blue gelatine on his nose, and yellow gelatine on his chin, and green and red gelatine on his cheeks, pressing each dab down till it held as firm as gold¬ beaters' skin. We put a ham-frill round his neck, and tied it in a bow in front. He nodded like a mandarin. We fixed gelatine on the back of his hands, and burnt-corked them inside, and put small cutlet- frills round his wrists, and tied both wrists to¬ gether with string. We waxed up the ends of his moustache with isinglass. He looked very martial. We turned him over, pinned up his coat-tails between his shoulders, and put a rosette of cutlet- frills there. We took up the red cloth from the ball-room to the supper-room, and wound him up in it. There were sixty feet of red cloth, six feet broad; and he rolled up into a big fat bundle, with only that amazing head sticking out. Lastly, we tied up the surplus of the cloth 34^ KIPLING BOY STORIES. beyond his feet with cocoanut-fibre string as tightly as we knew how. We were so angry that we hardly laughed at all. Just as we finished, we heard the rumble of bul¬ lock-carts taking away some chairs and things that the General's wife had lent for the ball. So we hoisted Jevon, like a roll of carpets, into one of the carts, and the carts went away. Now the most extraordinary part of this tale is that never again did I see or hear anything of Jevon, T. G. He vanished utterly. He was not delivered at the General's house with the carpets. He just went into the black darkness of the end of the night, and was swallowed up. Perhaps he died and was thrown into the river. But, alive or dead, I have often wondered how he got rid of the red cloth and the meringue-cream. I wonder still whether Mrs. Deemes will ever take any notice of me again, and whether I shall live down the infamous stories that Jevon set afloat about my manners and customs between the first and the ninth waltz of the Afghan Ball. They stick closer than cream. Wherefore, I want Tranter of the Bombay side, dead or alive. But dead for preference. THE STOEY OF MUHAMMAD DIN. Who is the happy man? He that sees in his own house at home, little children crowned with dust, leaping and falling and crying. —Munichandra, translated by Professor Peterson. The polo-ball was an old one, scarred, chipped, and dinted. It stood on the mantelpiece among the pipe-stems which Imam Din, khitmatgar, was cleaning for me. "Does the Heaven-born want this ball?" said Imam Din, deferentially. The Heaven-born set no particular store by it; but of what use was a polo-ball to a khitmatgar ? "By your Honor's favor, I have a little son. He has seen this ball, and desires it to play with. I do not want it for myself." No one would for an instant accuse portly old Imam Din of wanting to play with polo-balls. He carried out the battered thing into the verandah; and there followed a hurricane of joyful squeaks, a patter of small feet, and the thud-thud-thud of the ball rolling along the ground. Evidently the 347 348 KIPLING BOY STORIES. little son had been waiting outside the door to se- sure his treasure. But how had he managed to see that polo-ball ? Next day, coming back from office half an hour earlier than usual, I was aware of a small figure in the dining-room—a tiny, plump figure in a ridic¬ ulously inadequate shirt which came, perhaps, half-way down the tubby stomach. It wandered round the room, thumb in mouth, crooning to it¬ self as it took stock of the pictures. Undoubtedly this was the "little son." He had no business in my room, of course; but was so deeply absorbed in his discoveries that he never noticed me in the doorway. I stepped into the room and startled him nearly into a fit. He sat down on the ground with a gasp. His eyes opened, and his mouth followed suit. I knew what was coming, and fled, followed by a long, dry howl which reached the servants' quarters far more quickly than any command of mine had ever done. In ten seconds Imam Din was in the din¬ ing-room. Then despairing sobs arose, and I re¬ turned to find Imam Din admonishing the small sinner, who was using most of his shirt as a hand¬ kerchief. THE STORY OF MUHAMMAD DIN. 349 "This boy," said Imam Din judicially, "is a budmash—a big budmash. He will, without doubt, go to the jail-khana for his behavior." Re¬ newed yells from the penitent, and an elaborate apology to myself from Imam Din. "Tell the baby," said I, "that the Sahib is not angry, and take him away." Imam Din conveyed my forgiveness to the offender, who had now gathered all his shirt round his neck, stringwise, and the yell subsided into a sob. The two set off for the door. "His name," said Imam Din, as though the name were part of the crime, "is Muhammad Din, and he is a budmash." Freed from present danger, Muhammad Din turned round in his father's arms, and said gravely, "It is true that my name is Muhammad Din, Tahib, but I am not a budmash. I am a man." From that day dated my acquaintance with Muhammad Din. Never again did he come into my dining-room, but on the neutral ground of the garden we greeted each other with much state, though our conversation was confined to "Talaam, Tahib" from his side, and "Salaam, Muhammad Din" from mine. Daily on my return from office, the little white shirt and the fat little body used to 23 35° KIPLING BOY STORIES. rise from the shade of the creeper-covered trellis where they had been hid; and daily I checked my horse there, that my salutation might not be slurred over or given unseemly. Muhammad Din never had any companions. He used to trot about the compound, in and out of the castor-oil bushes, on mysterious errands of his own. One day I stumbled upon some of his handi¬ work far down the grounds. He had half buried the polo-ball in dust, and stuck six shrivelled old marigold flowers in a circle round it. Outside that circle was a rude square, traced out in bits of red brick alternating with fragments of broken china; the whole bounded by a little bank of dust. The water-man from the well-curb put in a plea for the small architect, saying that it was only the play of a baby and did not much disfigure the garden. Heaven knows that I had no intention of touch¬ ing the child's work then or later; but, that even¬ ing, a stroll through the garden brought me una¬ wares full on it; so that I trampled, before I knew, marigold-heads, dust-bank, and fragments of broken soap-dish into confusion past all hope of mending. Next morning I came upon Muham¬ mad Din crying softly to himself over the ruin I THE STORY OF MUHAMMAD DIN. 351 had wrought. Some one had cruelly told him that the Sahib was very angry with him for spoiling the garden, and had scattered his rubbish, using bad language the while. Muhammad Din labored for an hour at effacing every trace of the dust- bank and pottery fragments, and it was with a tearful and apologetic face that he said, "Talaam, Tahib," when I came home from office. A hasty inquiry resulted in Imam Din informing Muham¬ mad Din that, by my singular favor, he was per¬ mitted to disport himself as he pleased. Whereat the child took heart and fell to tracing the ground- plan of an edifice which was to eclipse the mari- gold-polo-ball creation. For some months, the chubby little eccentricity revolved in his humble orbit among the castor-oil bushes and in the dust; always fashioning magnifi¬ cent palaces from stale flowers thrown away by the bearer, smooth water-worn pebbles, bits of broken glass, and feathers pulled, I fancy, from my fowls—always alone, and always crooning to himself. A gaily-spotted sea-shell was dropped one day close to the last of his little buildings; and I looked that Muhammad Din should build something more 352 KIPLING BOY STORIES. than ordinarily splendid on the strength of it. Nor was I disappointed. He meditated for the better part of an hour, and his crooning rose to a jubilant song. Then he began tracing in the dust. It would certainly be a wondrous palace, this one, for it was two yards long and a yard broad in ground- plan. But the palace was never completed. Next day there was no> Muhammad Din at the head of the carriage-drive, and no "Talaam, Tahib" to welcome my return. I had grown ac¬ customed to the greeting, and its omission troubled me. Next day Imam Din told me that the child was suffering slightly from fever and needed quinine. He got the medicine, and an En¬ glish Doctor. "They have no stamina, these brats," said the Doctor, as he left Imam Din's quarters. A week later, though I would have given much to have avoided it, I met on the road to the Mus¬ sulman burying-ground Imam Din, accompanied by one friend, carrying in his arms, wrapped in a white cloth, all that was left of little Muhammad Din. THE SENDING OF DANA DA. When the Devil rides on your chest remember the chamar. —Native Proverb. Once upon a time, some people in India made a new heaven and a new earth out of broken tea¬ cups, a missing brooch or two, and a hair-brush. These were hidden under bushes, or stuffed into holes in the hill-side, and an entire civil service of subordinate gods used to find or mend them again; and every one said: "There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in our philosophy." Several other things happened also, but the religion never seemed to get much beyond its first manifestations; though it added an air-line postal dak and orchestral effects, in order to keep abreast of the times and stall off competition. This religion was too> elastic for ordinary use. It stretched itself and embraced pieces of every¬ thing that medicine-men of all ages have manufac¬ tured. It approved of and stole from Free¬ masonry; looted the Latter-day Rosicrucians of half their pet words; took any fragments of 353 354 KIPLING BOY STORIES. Egyptian philosophy that it found in the Encyclo¬ paedia Britannica; annexed as many of the Vedas as had been translated into French or English, and talked of all the rest; built in the German versions of what is left of the Zend A vesta; encouraged white, gray and black magic, including Spiritual¬ ism, palmistry, fortune-telling by cards, hot chest¬ nuts, double-kerneled nuts and tallow droppings; and would have adopted Voodoo and Oboe had it known anything about them, and showed itself in every way one of the most accommodating ar¬ rangements that had ever been invented since the birth of the sea. When it was in thorough working order, with all the machinery down to the subscriptions com¬ plete, Dana Da came from nowhere, with nothing in his hands, and wrote a chapter in its history which has hitherto been unpublished. He said that his first name was Dana, and his second was Da. Now, setting aside Dana of the New York "Sun," Dana is a Bhil name, and Da fits no native of India unless you accept the Bengali De as the original spelling. Da is Lap or Finnish; and Dana Da was neither Finn, Chin, Bhil, Bengali, Lap, Nair, Gond, Romaney, Magh, Bokhariot, Kurd. THE SENDING OF DANA DA. 355 Armenian, Levantine, Jew, Persian, Punjabi, Madrasi, Parsee, nor anything else known to eth¬ nologists. He was simply Dana Da, and declined to give further information. For the sake of brev¬ ity, and as roughly indicating his origin, he was called "The Native." He might have been the original Old Man of the Mountains, who is said to be the only authorized head of the Tea-cup Creed. Some people said that he was; but Dana Da used to smile and deny any connection with the cult; ex¬ plaining that he was an "independent experi¬ menter." As I have said, he came from nowhere, with his hands behind his back, and studied the creed for three weeks; sitting at the feet of those best com¬ petent to explain its mysteries. Then he laughed aloud and went away, but the laugh might have been either of devotion or derision. When he returned he was without money, but his pride was unabated. He declared that he knew more about the things in heaven and earth than those who taught him, and for this contumacy was abandoned altogether. His next appearance in public life was at a big- cantonment in Upper India, and he was then tell- 356 KIPLING BOY STORIES. ing fortunes with the help of three leaden dice, a very dirty old cloth, and a little tin box of opium pills. He told better fortunes when he was al¬ lowed half a bottle of whisky; but the things which he invented on the opium were quite worth the money. He was in reduced circumstances. Among other people's he told the fortune of an Englishman who had once been interested in the Simla creed, but who, later on, had married and forgotten all his old knowledge in the study of babies and Exchange. The Englishman allowed Dana Da to tell a fortune for charity's sake, and gave him five rupees, a dinner, and some old clothes. When he had eaten, Dana Da professed gratitude, and asked if there was anything he could do for his host—in the esoteric line. ''Is there any one that you love?" said Dana Da. The Englishman loved his wife, but he had no desire to drag her name into the conversation. He therefore shook his head. "Is there any one that you hate?" said Dana Da. The Englishman said that there were sev¬ eral men whom he hated deeply. "Very good," said Dana Da, upon whom the whisky and the opium were beginning to tell. THE SENDING OF DANA DA. 357 "Only give me their names, and I will dispatch a Sending to them and kill them." Now a Sending is a horrible arrangement, first invented, they say, in Iceland. It is a thing sent by a wizard, and may take any form, but most generally wanders about the land in the shape of a little purple cloud till it finds the sendee, and him it kills by changing into the form of a horse, or a cat, or a man without a face. It is not strict¬ ly a native patent, though chamars can, if irri¬ tated, dispatch a Sending which sits on the breast of their enemy by night and nearly kills him. Very few natives care to irritate chamars for this reason. "Let me dispatch a Sending," said Dana Da, "I am nearly dead now with want, and drink, and opium; but I should like to kill a man before I die. I can send a Sending anywhere you choose, and in any form except in the shape of a man." The Englishman had no friends that he wished to kill, but partly to soothe Dana Da, whose eyes were rolling, and partly to see what would be done, he asked whether a modified Sending could not be arranged for—such a 358 KIPLING BOY STORIES. Sending- as should make a man's life a burden to him, and yet do him no harm. If this were pos¬ sible, he notified his willingness to give Dana Da ten rupees for the job. "I am not what I was once," said Dana Da, "and I must take the money because I am poor. To- what Englishman shall I send it?" "Send a Sending to Lone Sahib," said the Englishman, naming a man who had been most bitter in rebuking him for his apostasy from the Tea-cup Creed. Dana Da laughed and nodded. "I could have chosen no better man myself," said he. "I will see that he finds the Sending about his path and about his bed." He lay down on the hearth-rug, turned up the whites of his eyes, shivered all over and began to snort. This was magic, or opiurm, or the Sending, or all three. When he opened his eyes he vowed that the Sending had started upon the warpath, and was at that moment flying up to the town where Lone Sahib lives. "Give me ten rupees," said Dana Da wearily, "and write a letter to Lone Sahib, telling him, and all who believe with him, that you and a friend are using a power greater than theirs. THE SENDING OF DANA DA. 359 They will see that you are speaking the truth." He departed unsteadily, with the promise of some more rupees if anything came of the Send¬ ing. The Englishman sent a letter to Lone Sahib, couched in what he remembered of the termin¬ ology of the creed. He wrote: "I also, in the days of what you held to< be my backsliding, have obtained enlightenment, and with enlightenment has come power." Then he grew so deeply mysterious that the recipient of the letter would make neither head nor tail of it, and was propor¬ tionately impressed; for he fancied that his friend had become a "fifth-rounder." When a man is a "fifth-rounder" he can do more than Slade and Houdin combined. Lone Sahib read the letter in five different fashions, and was beginning a sixth interpreta¬ tion when his bearer dashed in with the news that there was a cat on the bed. Now, if there was one thing that Lone Sahib hated more than another, it was a cat. He rated the bearer for not turning it out of the house. The bearer said that he was afraid. All the doors of the bed¬ room had been shut throughout the morning, 360 KIPLING BOY STORIES. and 110 real cat could possibly have entered the room. He would prefer not to meddle with the creature. Lone Sahib entered the room gingerly, and there, on the pillow of his bed, sprawled and whimpered a wee white kitten, not a jumpsome, frisky little beast, but a slug-like crawler with his eyes barely opened and its paws lacking strength of direction—a kitten that ought to have been in a basket with its mamma. Lone Sahib caught it by the scruff of its neck, handed it over to the sweeper to be drowned, and fined the bearer four annas. That evening, as he was reading in his room, he fancied that he saw something moving about on the hearth-rug, outside the circle of light from his reading-lamp. When the thing began to myowl, he realized that it was a kitten—a wee white kitten, nearly blind and very miser¬ able. He was seriously angry, and spoke bit¬ terly to his bearer, who said that there was no kitten in the room when he brought in the lamp, and real kittens of tender age generally had mother-cats in attendance. "If the Presence will go out into the veranda THE SENDING OF DANA DA. 361 and listen," said the bearer, "he will hear no cats. How, therefore, can the kitten on the bed and the kitten on the hearth-rug be real kittens?" Lone Sahib went out to listen, and the bearer followed him, but there was no sound of Rachel mewing for her children. He returned to his room, having hurled the kitten down the hill-side, and wrote out the incidents of the day for the benefit of his co-religionists. Those people were so absolutely free from superstition that they ascribed anything a little out of the common to agencies. As it was their business to know all about the agencies, they were on terms of almost indecent familiarity with manifestations of every kind. Their letters dropped from the ceiling— unstamped—and spirits used to squatter up and down their staircases all night. But they had never come into contact with kittens. Lone Sahib wrote out the facts, noting the hour and minute, as every psychical observer is bound to do, and appending the Englishman's letter because it was the most mysterious document and might have had a bearing upon anything in this world or the next. An outsider would have translated all the tangle thus: "Look out! You laughed at me 362 KIPLING BOY STORIES. once, and now I am going to make you sit up." Lone Sahib's coreligionists found that meaning in it; but their translation was refined and full of four syllable words. They held a sederunt, and were filled with tremulous joy, for, in spite of their familiarity with all the other worlds and cycles, they had a very human awe of things sent from ghost-land. They met in Lone Sahib's room in shrouded and sepulchral gloom, and their con¬ clave was broken up by a clinking among the photo-frames on the mantel-piece. A wee white kitten, nearly blind, was looping and writhing itself between the clock and the candle-sticks. That stopped all investigations or doubtings. Here was the manifestation in the flesh. It was, so far as could be seen, devoid of purpose, but it was a manifestation of undoubted authenticity. They drafted a round robin to the Englishman, the backslider of old days, adjuring him in the interests of the creed to explain whether there was any connection between the embodiment of some Egyptian god or other (I have forgotten the name) and his communication. They called the kitten Ra, or Toth, or Shem, or Noah, or some¬ thing; and when Lone Sahib confessed that the THE SENDING OF DANA DA. 363 first one had, at his most misguided instance, been drowned by the sweeper, they said consolingly that in his next life he would be a ''bounder," and not even a "rounder" of the lowest grade. These words may not be quite correct, but they express the sense of the house accurately. When the Englishman received the round robin -—it came by post—he was startled and bewil¬ dered. He sent into the bazaar for Dana Da, who read the letter and laughed. "That is my Send¬ ing," said he. "I told you I would work well. Now give me another ten rupees." "But what in the world is this gibberish about Egyptian gods?" asked the Englishman. "Cats," said Dana Da, with a hiccough, for he had discovered the Englishman's whisky bottle. "Cats and cats and cats! Never was such a Send¬ ing. A hundred of cats. Now give me ten more rupees and write as I dictate." Dana Da's letter was a curiosity. It bore the Englishman's signature, and hinted at cats—at a Sending of cats. The mere words on paper were creepy and uncanny to behold. "What have you done, though?" said the Englishman! "I am as much in the dark as ever. 364 KIPLING BOY STORIES. Do you mean to say that you can actually send this absurd Sending you talk about?" "Judge for yourself," said Dana Da, "What does that letter mean? In a little time they will all be at my feet and yours, and I, oh, glory! will be drugged or drunk all day long." Dana Da knew his people. When a man who hates cats wakes up in the morning and finds a little squirming kitten on his breast, or puts his hand into his ulster-pocket and finds a little half-dead kitten where his gloves should be, or opens his trunk and finds a vile kit¬ ten among his dress-shirts, or goes for a long ride with his mackintosh strapped on his saddle-bow and shakes a little squawling kitten from its folds when he opens it, or goes out to dinner and finds a -little blind kitten under his chair, or stays at home and finds a writhing kitten under the quilt, or wriggling among his boots, or hanging, head downward, in his tobacco-jar, or being mangled by his terrier in the veranda—when such a man finds one kitten, neither more nor less, once a day in a place where no kitten rightly could or should be, he is naturally upset. When he dare not murder his daily trove because he believes it THE SENDING OF DANA DA. 365 to be a manifestation, an emissary, an embodi¬ ment, and half a dozen other things all out of the regular course of nature, he is more than upset. He is actually distressed. Some of Lone Sahib's coreligionists thought that he was a highly fa¬ vored individual; but many said that if he had treated the first kitten with proper respect—as suited a Toth-Ra-Tum-Sennacherib Embodiment —all this trouble would have been averted. They compared him to the Ancient Mariner, but none the less they were proud of him and proud of the Englishman who had sent the manifestation. After sixteen kittens—that is to say, after one fortnight, for there were three kittens on the first day to impress the fact of the Sending, the whole camp was uplifted by a letter—it came flying through a window—from the Old Man of the Mountains—the head of all the creed—explain¬ ing the manifestation in the most beautiful lan¬ guage and soaking up all the credit of it for him¬ self. The Englishman, said the letter, was not there at all. He was a backslider without power or asceticism, who couldn't even raise a table by force of volition, much less project an army of kittens through space. The entire arrangement, 24 366 KIPLING BOY STORIES. said the letter, was strictly orthodox, worked and sanctioned by the highest authorities within the pale of the creed. There was great joy at this, for some of the weaker brethren seeing that an outsider who' had been working on independent lines could create kittens, whereas their own rulers had never gone beyond crockery—and broken at that—were showing a desire to break line on their own trail. In fact, there was the promise of a schism. A second round robin was drafted to the Englishman, beginning: "Oh, Scoffer," and ending with a selection of curses from the rites of Mizraim and Memphis and the Commination of Jugana, who was a "fifth- rounder," upon whose name an upstart "third- rounder" once traded. A papal excommunication is a billet-doux compared to the Commination of Jugana. The Englishman had been proved under the hand and seal of the Old Man of the Moun¬ tains to have appropriated virtue and pretended to have power which, in reality, belonged only to the supreme head. Naturally, the round robin did not spare him. He handed the letter to Dana Da to translate into decent English. The effect on Dana Da THE SENDING OF DANA DA. 367 was curious. At first he was furiously angry, and then he laughed for five minutes. "I had thought," he said, "that they would have come to me. In another week I would have shown that I sent the Sending, and they would have discrowned the Old Man of the Mountains, who has sent this Sending of mine. Do you do nothing ? The time has come for me to' act. Write as I dictate, and I will put them to shame. But give me ten more rupees." At Dana Da's dictation the Englishman wrote nothing less than a formal challenge to the Old Man of the Mountains. It wound up: "And if this manifestation be from your hand, then let it go forward; but if it be from my hand, I will that the Sending shall cease in two days' time. On that day there shall be twelve kittens and thenceforward none at all. The people shall judge between us." This was signed by Dana Da, who added pentacles and pentagrams, and a crux ansata, and half a dozen swastikas, and a Triple Tau to his name, just to show that he was all he laid claim to be. The challenge was read out to the gentlemen and ladies, and they remembered then that Dana 368 KIPLING BOY STORIES. Da had laughed at them some years ago. It was officially announced that the Old Man of the Mountains would treat the matter with contempt; Dana Da being an independent investigator with¬ out a single "round" at the back of him. But this did not soothe his people. They wanted to see a fight. They were very human for all their spirit¬ uality. Lone Sahib, who was really being worn out with kittens, submitted meekly to his fate. He felt that he was being "kittened to prove the power of Dana Da," as the poet says. When the stated day dawned, the shower of kittens began. Some were white and some were tabby, and all were about the same loathsome age. Three were on his hearth-rug, three in his bath¬ room, and the other six turned up at intervals among the visitors who came to see the prophecy break down. Never was a more satisfactory Sending. On the next day there were no kittens, and the next day and all the other days were kit- tenless and quiet. The people murmured and looked to the Old Man of the Mountains for an explanation. A letter, written on a palm-leaf, dropped from the ceiling, but every one except Lone Sahib felt that letters were not what the THE SENDING OF DANA DA. 369 occasion demanded. There should have been cats, there should have been cats—full-grown ones. The letter proved conclusively that there had been a hitch in the psychic current which, colliding with a dual identity, had interfered with the percipient activity all along the main line. The kittens were still going on, but owing to some failure in the developing fluid, they were not materialized. The air was thick with letters for a few days after¬ ward. Unseen hands played Gliick and Beethoven on finger-bowls and clock-shades; but all men felt that psychic life was a mockery without material¬ ized kittens. Even Lone Sahib shouted with the majority on this head. Dana Da's letters were very insulting, and if he had then offered to lead a new departure, there is no knowing what might not have happened. But Dana Da was dying of whisky and opium in the Englishman's godown, and had small heart for new creeds. "They have been put to shame," said he. "Never was such a Sending. It has killed me." "Nonsense," said the Englishman, "you are going to die, Dana Da, and that sort of stuff must be left behind. I'll admit that you have made 37° KIPLING BOY STORIES. some queer things come about. Tell me honest¬ ly, now, how was it done?" "Give me ten more rupees," said Dana Da, faintly, "and if I die before I spend them, bury them with me." The silver was counted out while Dana Da was fighting with death. His hand closed upon the money and he smiled a grim smile. "Bend low," he whispered. The Englishman bent. "Bunnia—mission school—expelled—box-wal¬ lah (peddler)—Ceylon pearl-merchant—all mine English education—outcasted, and made up name Dana Da—England with American thought-read¬ ing man and—and—you gave me ten rupees sev¬ eral times—I gave the Sahib's bearer two-eight a month for cats—little, little cats. I wrote, and he put them about—very clever man. Very few kittens now in the bazaar. Ask Lone Sahib's sweeper's wife." So saying, Dana Da gasped and passed away into a where, if all be true, there are no material¬ izations and the making of new creeds is discour¬ aged. But consider the gorgeous simplicity of it all! THE STRANGE RIDE OF MOR- ROWBIE JUKES. Alive or dead -- there is no other way. — Native Proverb. There is, as the conjurers say, no decep¬ tion about this tale. Jukes by accident stumbled upon a village that is well known to exist, though he is the only Englishman who has been there. A somewhat similar institution used to flourish on the outskirts of Calcutta, and there is a story that if you go into the heart of Bikanir, which is in the heart of the Great Indian Desert, you shall come across not a village but a town where the Dead who did not die but may not live have established their headquarters. And, since it is perfectly true that in the same Desert is a wonderful city where all the (371 > 372 KIPLING BOY STORIES. rich money-lenders retreat after they have made their fortunes (fortunes so vast that the owners cannot trust even the strong hand of the Government to protect them, but take refuge in the waterless sands), and drive sumptuous C-spring barouches and buy beautiful girls and decorate their palaces with gold and ivory and Minton tiles and mother-o'-pearl, I do not see why Jukes's tale should not be true. He is a Civil Engineer, with a head for plans and distances and things of that kind, and he certainly would not take the trouble to invent imaginary traps. He could earn more by doing his legitimate work. He never varies the tale in the telling, and grows very hot and indignant when he thinks of the disrespectful treatment he received. He wrote this quite straightfor¬ wardly at first, but he has since touched it up in places and introduced Moral Reflec¬ tions, thus:— In the beginning it all arose from a slight THE STRANGE RIDE. 373 attack of fever. My work necessitated my being in camp for some months between Pakpattan and Mubarakpur—a desolate sandy stretch of country as every one who has had the misfortune to go there may know. My coolies were neither more nor less exasperating than other gangs, and my work demanded sufficient attention to keep me from moping, had I been inclined to so unmanly a weakness. On the 23d December, 1884, I felt a little feverish. There was a full moon at the time, and, in consequence, every dog near my tent was baying it. The brutes assembled in twos and threes and drove me frantic. A few days previously I had shot one loud-mouthed singer and sus¬ pended his carcass in terror em about fifty yards from my tent-door. But his friends fell upon, fought for, and ultimately de¬ voured the body; and, as it seemed to me, sang their hymns of thanksgiving after¬ wards with renewed energy. The light-headedness which accompanies 374 KIPLING BOY STORIES. fever acts differently on different men. My irritation gave way, after a short time, to a fixed determination to slaughter one huofe black and white beast who had been foremost in song and first in flight through¬ out the evening. Thanks to a shaking hand and a giddy head I had already missed him twice with both barrels of my shotgun, when it struck me that my best plan would be to ride him down in the open and finish him off with a hog-spear. This, of course, was merely the semi-delirious notion of a fever-patient; but I remember that it struck me at the time as being eminently practical and feasible. I therefore ordered my groom to saddle Pornic and bring him round quietly to the rear of my tent. When the pony was ready, I stood at his head prepared to mount and dash out as soon as the dog should again lift up his voice. Pornic, by the way, had not been out of his pickets for a couple of days; the night air was crisp and chilly; and i was armed with a specially long and THE STRANC1E RIDE. 375 sharp pair of persuaders with which I had been rousing- a sluggish cob that afternoon. You will easily believe, then, that when he was let go he went quickly. In one mo¬ ment, for the brute bolted as straight as a die, the tent was left far behind, and we were flying over the smooth sandy soil at racing speed. In another we had passed the wretched dog, and I had almost forgot¬ ten why it was that I had taken horse and hog-spear. The delirium of fever and the excitement of rapid motion through the air must have taken away the remnant of my senses. I have a faint recollection of standing upright in my stirrups, and of brandishing my hog- spear at the great white Moon that looked down so calmly on my mad gallop; and of shouting challenges to the camel-thorn bushes as they whizzed past. Once or twice, I believe* I swayed forward on Por- nics neck, and literally hung on by my spurs—as the marks next morning showed. The wretched beast went forward like a 3/6 KIPLING BOY STORIES. thing possessed, over what seemed to be a limitless expanse of moonlit sand. Next I remember, the ground rose suddenly in front of us, and as we topped the ascent I saw the waters of the Sutlej shining like a silver bar below. Then Pornic blundered heavily on his nose, and we rolled together down some unseen slope. I must have lost consciousness, for when I recovered I was lying on my stomach in a heap of soft white sand, and the dawn was beginning to break dimly over the edge of the slope down which I had fallen. As the light grew stronger I saw that I was at the bottom of a horseshoe-shaped crater of sand, opening on one side directly on to the shoals of the Sutlej. My fever had alto¬ gether left me, and, with the exception of a slight dizziness in the head, I felt no bad effects from the fall over night. Pornic, who was standing a few yards away, was naturally a good deal exhausted but had not hurt himself in the least. His saddle, a favorite polo one, was much THE STRANGE RIDE. 377 knocked about and had been twisted under his belly. It took me some time to put him to rights, and in the meantime I had ample opportunities of observing the spot into which I had so foolishly dropped. At the risk of being considered tedious, I must describe it at length ; inasmuch as an accurate mental picture of its peculiarities will be of material assistance in enabling the reader to understand what follows. Imagine then, as I have said before, a horseshoe-shaped crater of sand with steeply graded sand walls about thirty-five feet high. (The slope, I fancy, must have been about 65°). This crater enclosed a level piece of ground about fifty yards long by thirty at its broadest part, with a rude well in the centre. Round the bottom of the crater, about three feet from the level of the ground proper, ran a series of eighty-three semi-circular, ovoid, square, and multilateral holes, all about three feet at the mouth. Each hole on inspection showed that it was carefully shored inter- 37§ KIPLING BOY STORIES. nally with drift-wood and bamboos, and over the mouth a wooden drip-board pro¬ jected, like the peak of a jockey's cap, for two feet. No sign of life was visible in these tunnels, but a most sickening stench pervaded the entire amphitheatre—a stench fouler than any which my wanderings in Indian villages have introduced me to. Having remounted Pornic, who was as anxious as I to get back to camp, I rode round the base of the horseshoe to find some place whence an exit would be prac¬ ticable. The inhabitants, whoever they might be, had not thought fit to put in an appearance, so I was left to my own de¬ vices, My first attempt to " rush " Pornic up the steep sand-banks showed me that I had fallen into a trap exactly on the same model as that which the ant-lion sets for its prey. At each step the shifting sand poured down from above in tons, and rat¬ tled on the drip-boards of the holes like small shot. A couple of ineffectual charges sent us both rolling down to the bottom, THE STRANGE RIDE. 379 half choked with the torrents of sand ; and I was constrained to turn my attention to the river-bank. Here everything seemed easy enough. The sand hills ran down to the river edee, o 7 it is true, but there were plenty of shoals and shallows across which I could gallop Pornic, and find my way back to terra firma by turning sharply to the right or the left. As I led Pornic over the sands I was startled by the faint pop cf a rifle across the river ; and at the same moment a bullet dropped with a sharp " whit " close to Por- nic's head There was no mistaking the nature of the missile—a regulation Martini-Henry " picket." About five hundred yards away a country-boat was anchored in midstream ; and a jet of smoke drifting away from its bows in the still mornina air showed me o whence the delicate attention had come. Was ever a respectable gentleman in such an impasse? The treacherous sand slope allowed no escape from a spot which I had 380 KIPLING BOY STORIES. visited most involuntarily, and a promenade on the river frontage was the signal for a bombardment from some insane native in a boat. I'm afraid that I lost my temper very much indeed. Another bullet reminded me that I had better save my breath to cool my porridge; and I retreated hastily up the sands and back to the horseshoe, where I saw that the noise of the rifle had drawn sixty-five human beings from the badger-holes which I had up till that point supposed to be unten¬ anted. I found myself in the midst of a crowd of spectators—about forty men, twenty women, and one child who could not have been more than five years old. They were all scantily clothed in that sal¬ mon-colored cloth which one associates with Hindu mendicants, and, at first sight, gave me the impression of a band of loath¬ some fakirs. The filth and repulsiveness of the assembly were beyond all description, and I shuddered to think what their life in the badger-holes must be. TIIE STRANGE RIDE. 3^1 Even in these days, when local self-gov¬ ernment has destroyed the greater part of a native's respect for a Sahib, I have been accustomed to a certain amount of civility from my inferiors, and on approaching the crowd naturally expected that there would be some recognition of my presence. As a matter of fact there was; but it was by no means what I had looked for. The ragged crew actually laughed at me —such laughter I hope I may never hear again. They cackled, yelled, whistled, and howled as I walked into their midst ; some of them literally throwing themselves down on the ground in convulsions of un¬ holy mirth. In a moment I had let go Pornic's head, and, irritated beyond expres¬ sion at the morning's adventure, commenced cuffing those nearest to me with all the force I could. The wretches dropped under my blows like nine-pins, and the laughter gave place to wails for mercy ; while those yet untouched clasped me round the knees, imploring me in al) 25 382 KIPLING BOY STORIES. sorts of uncouth tongues to spare them. In the tumult, and just when I was feel- ing-very much ashamed of myself for having thus easily given way to my temper, a thin, high voice murmured in English from behind my shoulder :—" Sahib * Sahib ! Do you not know me ? Sahib> it is Gunga Dass, the telegraph-mas¬ ter." I spun round quickly and faced the speaker. Gunga Dass (I have, of course, no hesi¬ tation in mentioning the man's real name,) I had known four years before as a Dec- canee Brahmin lent by the Punjab Govern¬ ment to one of the Khalsia States. He was in charge of a branch telegraph-office there, and when I had last met him was a jovial, full-stomached, portly Government servant with a marvellous capacity for mak¬ ing bad puns in English—a peculiarity which made me remember him long after I had forgotten his services to me in his THE STRANGE RIDE. 383 official capacity. It is seldom that a Hindu makes English puns. Now, however, the man was changed be¬ yond all recognition. Caste-mark, stomach, slate-colored continuations, and unctuous speech were all gone. I looked at a with¬ ered skeleton, turbanless and almost naked, with long matted hair and deep-set codfish- eyes. But for a crescent-shaped scar on the left cheek—the result of an accident for which I was responsible—I should never have known him. But it was indubitably Gunga Dass, and—for this I was thankful —an English-speaking native who might at least tell me the meaning of all that I had gone through that day. The crowd retreated to some distance as I turned towards the miserable figure, and ordered him to show me some method of escaping from the crater. He held a freshly plucked crow in his hand, and in reply to my question climbed slowly on a plattorm of sand which ran in front of the holes, and commenced lighting a fire there 384 KIPLING BOY STORIES. in silence. Dried bents, sand-poppies, and drift-wood burn quickly ; and I derived much consolation from the fact that he lit them with an ordinary sulphur-match. When they were in a bright glow, and the crow was neatly spitted in front thereof, Gunga Dass began without a word of preamble :— " There are only two kinds of men, sar. The alive and the dead. When you are dead you are dead, but when you are alive you live." (Here the crow demanded his attention for an instant as it twirled before the fire in danger of being burnt to a cin¬ der.) " If you die at home and do not die when you come to the gh&t to be burnt you come here." The nature of the reeking village was made plain now, and all that I had known or read of the grotesque and the horrible paled before the fact just communicated by the ex-Brahmin. Sixteen years ago, when I first landed in Bombay, I had been told by a wandering Armenian of the existence, THE STRANGE RIDE. 385 somewhere in India, of a place to which such Hindus as had the misfortune to recover from trance or catalepsy were con¬ veyed and kept, and I recollect laughing heartily at what I was then pleased to con¬ sider a traveller's tale. Sitting at the bottom of the sand-trap, the memory of Watson's Hotel, with its swinging punkahs, white-robed attendants, and the sallow- faced Armenian, rose up in my mind as vividly as a photograph, and I burst into a loud fit of laughter. The contrast was too absurd ! Gunga Dass, as he bent over the unclean bird, watched me curiously. Hindus sel¬ dom laugh, and his surroundings were not such as to move Gunga Dass to any undue excess of hilarity. He removed the crow solemnly from the wooden spit and as solemnly devoured it. Then he continued his story, which I give in his own words :— " In epidemics of the cholera you are carried to be burnt almost before you are dead. When you come to the riverside the 386 KIPLING BOY STORIES. cold air, perhaps, makes you alive, aid then, if you are only little alive, mud is put on your nose and mouth and you die con¬ clusively. If you are rather more alive, more mud is put; but if you are too lively they let you go and take you away. I was too lively, and made protestation with anger against the indignities that they endeavored to press upon me. In those days I was Brahmin and proud man. Now I am dead man and eat"—here he eyed the well-gnawed breast bone with the first sign of emotion that I had seen in him since we met—'4 crows, and other things. They took me from my sheets when they saw that I was too lively and gave me medi¬ cines for one week, and I survived success¬ fully. Then they sent me by rail from my place to Okara Station, with a man to take care of me ; and at Okara Station we met two other men, and they conducted we three on camels, in the night, from Okara Station to this place, and they propelled me from the top to the bottom, and the other THE STRANGE RIDE. 387 two succeeded, and I have been here ever since two and a half years. Once I was Brahmin and proud man, and now I eat crows." "There is no way of getting out?" "None of what kind at all. When I first came I made experiments frequently and all the others also, but we have always suc¬ cumbed to the sand which is precipitated upon our heads." " But surely," I broke in at this point, "the river-front is open, and it is worth while dodging the bullets; while at night"— I had already matured a rough plan of escape which a natural instinct of selfish¬ ness forbade me sharing with Gunga Dass. He, however, divined my unspoken thought almost as soon as it was formed; and, to my intense astonishment, gave vent to a long low chuckle of derision—the laughter, be it understood, of a superior or at least of an equal. "You will not"—he had dropped the sir completely after his opening sentence— 388 KIPLING BOY STORIES. " make any escape that way. But you can try. I have tried. Once only." The sensation of nameless terror and abject fear which I had in vain attempted to strive against overmastered me com¬ pletely. My long fast—it was now close upon ten o'clock, and I had eaten nothing since tiffin on the previous day—combined with the violent and unnatural agitation of the ride had exhausted me, and I verily believe that, for a few minutes, I acted as one mad. I hurled myself against the pitiless sand-slope. I ran round the base of the crater, blaspheming and praying by turns. I crawled out among the sedges of the river-front, only to be driven back each time in an agony of nervous dread by the rifle-bullets which cut up the sand round me—for I dared not face the death of a mad dog among that hideous crowd—and finally fell, spent and raving, at the curb of the well. No one had taken the slightest notice of an exhibition which makes me blush hotly even when I think of it now. THE STRANGE RIDE. 389 Two or three men trod on my panting body as they drew water, but they were evidently used to this sort of thing, and had no time to waste upon me. The sit¬ uation was humiliating. Gunga Dass, in¬ deed, when he had banked the embers of his fire with sand, was at some pains to throw half a cupful of fetid water over my head, an attention for which I could have fallen on my knees and thanked him, but he was laughing all the while in the same mirthless, wheezy key that greeted me on my first attempt to force the shoals. And so, in a semi-comatose condition, I lay till noon. Then, being only a man after all, I felt hungry, and intimated as much to Gunga Dass, whom I had begun to regard as my natural protector. Following the impulse of the outer world when dealing with natives, I put my hand into my pocket and drew out four annas. The absurdity of the gift struck me at once, and I was about to replace the money. Gunga Dass, however, was of a different 20 390 KIPLING BOY STORIES. opinion. " Give me the money," said he ; " all you have, or I will get help, and we will kill you !" All this as if it were the most natural thing in the world ! A Briton's first impulse, I believe, is to guard the contents of his pockets; but a moment's reflection convinced me of the fu¬ tility of differing with the one man who had it in his power to make me comfortable; and with whose help it was possible that I might eventually escape from the crater. I gave him all the money in my possession, Rs. 9-8-5—nine rupees eight annas and five pie—for I always keep small change as bakshish when I am in camp. Gunga Dass clutched the coins, and hid them at once in his ragged loin-cloth, his expression chang¬ ing to something diabolical as he looked round to assure himself that no one had observed us. " Now I will give you something to eat," said he. What pleasure the possession of my money could have afforded him I am unable THE STRANGE RIDE. 391 to say; but inasmuch as it did give him evi¬ dent delight I was not sorry that I had parted with it so readily, for I had no doubt that he would have had me killed if I had refused. One does not protest against the vagaries of a den of wild beasts; and my companions were lower than any beasts. While I devoured what Gunga Dass had provided, a coarse chapatti and a cupful of the foul well-water, the people showed not the faintest sign of curiosity—that curiosity which is so rampant, as a rule, in an Indian village. I could even fancy that they despised me. At all events they treated me with the most chilling indifference, and Gunga Dass was nearly as bad. I plied him with ques¬ tions about the terrible village, and re¬ ceived extremely unsatisfactory answers. So far as I could gather, it had been in existence from time immemorial—whence I concluded that it was at least a century old —and during that time no one had ever been known to escape from it. [I had to 392 KIPLING BOY STORIES. control myself here with both hands, lest the blind terror should lay hold of me a second time and drive me raving round the crater.] Gunga Dass took a malicious pleasure in emphasizing this point and in watching me wince. Nothing that I could do would induce him to tell me who the mysterious " They " were. " It is so ordered," he would reply, ''and I do not yet know any one who has dis¬ obeyed the orders." " Only wait till my servants find that I am missing," I retorted, " and I promise you that this place shall be cleared off the face of the earth, and I' . give you a lesson in civility, too, my friend." "Your servants would be torn in pieces before they came near this place ; and, be¬ sides, you are dead, my dear friend. It is not your fault, of course, but none the less you are dead and buried." At irregular intervals supplies of food, I was told, were dropped down from the land side into the amphitheatre, and the inhab- THE STRANGE RIDE. 393 i'cants fought for them like wild beasts. When a man felt his death coming on he retreated to his lair and died there. The body was sometimes dragged out of the hole and thrown on to the sand, or allowed to rot where it lay. The phrase " thrown on to the sand" caught my attention, and I asked Gunga Dass whether this sort of thing was not likely to breed a pestilence. " That," said he, with another of his wheezy chuckles, " you may see for yourself subsequently. You will have much time to make observations." Whereat, to his great delight, I winced once more and hastily continued the con¬ versation ;—" And how do you live here from day to day ? What do you do ?" The question elicited exactly the same an¬ swer as before—coupled with the informa¬ tion that " this place is like your European heaven ; there is neither marrying nor giv¬ ing in marriage." Gunga Dass had been educated at a Mis- 394 KIPLING BOY STORIES. sion School, and, as he himself admitted, had he only changed his religion "like a wise man," might have avoided the living grave which was now his portion. But as long as I was with him I fancy he was happy. Here was a Sahib, a representative of the dominant race, helpless as a child and com¬ pletely at the mercy of his native neighbors. In a deliberate lazy way he set himself to torture me as a schoolboy would devote a rapturous half-hour to watching the agonies of an impaled beetle, or as a ferret in a blind burrow might glue himself comfortably to the neck of a rabbit. The burden of his conversation was that there was no escape "of no kind whatever" and that I should stay there till I died and was " thrown on to the sand." If it were possible to forejudge the conversation of the Damned on the ad¬ vent of a new soul in their abode, I should say that they would speak as Gunga Dass did to me throughout that long afternoon. I was powerless to protest or answer ; all my THE STRANGE RIDE. 395 energies being devoted to a struggle against the inexplicable terror that threatened to overwhelm me again and again. I can com¬ pare the feeling to nothing except the strug¬ gles of a man against the overpowering nausea of the Channel passage—only my agony was of the spirit and infinitely more terrible. As the day wore on, the inhabitants began to appear in full strength to catch the rays of the afternoon sun, which were now slop¬ ing in at the mouth of the crater. They assembled in little knots, and talked among themselves without even throwing a glance in my direction. About four o'clock, as far as I could judge, Gunga Dass rose and dived into his lair for a moment, emerging with a live crow in his hands. The wretched bird was in a most draggled and deplorable condition, but seemed to be in no way afraid of its master. Advancing cautiously to the river-front, Gunga Dass stepped from tussock to tussock until he had reached a smooth patch of sand directly in the line of 39^ KIPLING BOY STORIES. the boat's fire. The occupants of the boat took no notice. Here he stopped, and, with a couple of dexterous turns of the wrist, pegged the bird on its back with out¬ stretched wings. As was only natural, the crow began to shriek at once and beat the air with its claws. In a few seconds the clamor had attracted the attention ot a bevy of wild crows on a shoal a few hundred yards away, where they were discussing something that looked like a corpse. Half a dozen crows flew over at once to see what was going on, and also, as it proved, to at¬ tack the pinioned bird. Gunga Dass, who had lain down on a tussock, motioned tome to be quiet, though I fancy this was a need¬ less precaution. In a moment, and before I could see how it happened, a wild crow, who had grappled with the shrieking and helpless bird, was entangled in the latter's claws, swiftly disengaged by Gunga Dass, and pegged down beside its companion in adversity. Curiosity, it seemed, over¬ powered the rest of the flock, and almost *■ •" ' : <4- Page 396 A wild crow grappled with the helpless bird THE STRANGE RIDE. 397 before Gunga Dass and I had time to with¬ draw to the tussock, two more captives were struggling in the upturned claws of the decoys. So the chase—if I can give it so dignified a name—continued until Gunga Dass had captured seven crows. Five of them he throttled at once, reserving two for further operations another day. I was a good deal impressed by this, to me, novel method of securing food, and complimented Gunga Dass on his skill. " It is nothing to do," said he. " To¬ morrow you must do it for me. You are stronger than I am." This calm asumption of superiority upset me not a little, and I answered peremptorily : —" Indeed, you old ruffian ! What do you think I have given you money for?" "Very well," was the unmoved reply. ' Perhaps not to-morrow, nor the day after, nor subsequently; but in the end, and for many years, you will catch crows and eat crows, and you will thank your European God that you have crows fro catch and eat." 26 398 KIPLING BOY STORIES. I could have cheerfully strangled him for this; but judged it best under the circum¬ stances to smother my resentment. An hour later I was eating one of the crows ; and, as Gunga Dass had said, thanking my God that I had a crow to eat. N ever as long as I live shall I forget that evening meal. The whole population were squatting on the hard sand platform opposite their dens, huddled over tiny fires of refuse and dried rushes. Death, having once laid his hand upon these men and forborne to strike, seemed to stand aloof from them now ; for most of our company were old men, bent and worn and twisted with years, and women aged to all appearance as the Fates themselves. They sat together in knots and talked—God only knows what they found to discuss— in low equable tones, curiously in contrast to the strident babble with which natives are accustomed to make day hideous. Now and then an access of that sudden fury which had possessed me in the morning would lay hold on a man or THE STRANGE RIDE. 399 woman ; and with yells and imprecations the sufferer would attack the steep slope until, baffled and bleeding, he fell back on the platform incapable of moving a limb. The others would never even raise their eyes when this happened, as men too well aware of the futility of their fellows' at¬ tempts and wearied with their useless repetition. I saw four such outbursts in the course of that evening. Gunga Dass took an eminently business¬ like view of my situation, and while we were dining—I can afford to laugh at the recollection now, but it was painful enough at the time—propounded the terms on which he would consent to " do" for me. My nine rupees eight annas, he argued, at the rate of three annas a day, would pro¬ vide me with food for fifty-one days, or about seven weeks ; that is to say, he would be willing to cater for me for that length of time. At the end of it I was to look after myself. For a further consideration— videlicet my boots—he would be willing to 400 KIPLING BOY STORIES. allow me to occupy the den next to his own, and would supply me with as much dried grass for bedding as he could spare. " Very well, Gunga Dass," I replied ; " to the first terms I cheerfully agree, but, as there is nothing on earth to prevent my kill¬ ing you as you sit here and taking every¬ thing that you have " (I thought of the two invaluable crows at the time), " I flatly re¬ fuse to give you my boots and shall take whichever den I please." The stroke was a bold one, and I was glad when I saw that it had succeeded. Gunga Dass changed his tone immediately, and disavowed all intention of asking for my boots. At the time it did not strike me as at all strange that I, a Civil Engineer, a man of thirteen years' standing in the Ser¬ vice, and, I trust, an average Englishman, should thus calmly threaten murder and violence against the man who had, for a consideration it is true, taken me under his wing. I had left the world, it seemed, for centuries. I was as certain then as I am THE STRANGE RIDE. 401 now of my own existence, that in the ac¬ cursed settlement there was no law save that of the strongest; that the living dead men had thrown behind them every canon of the world which had cast them out; and that I had to depend for my own life on my strength and vigilance alone. The crew of the ill-fated Mignonette are the only men who would understand my frame of mind. " At present," I argued to myself, " I am strong; and a match for six of these wretches. It is imperatively necessary that I should, for my own sake, keep both health and strength until the hour of my release comes—if it ever does." Fortified with these resolutions, I ate and drank as much as I could, and made Gunga Dass understand that I intended to be his master, and that the least sign of insubordi¬ nation on his part would be visited with the only punishment I had it in my power to inflict—sudden and violent death. Shortly after this I went to bed. That is to say, Gunga Dass gave me a double armful of 402 KIPLING BOY STORIES. dried bents which I thrust down the mouth of the lair to the right of his, and followed myself, feet foremost; the hole running about nine feet into the sand with a slight downward inclination, and being neatly shored with timbers. From my den, which faced the river-front, I was able to watch the waters of the Sutlej flowing past under the light of a young moon and compose myself to sleep as best I might. The horrors of that night I shall never forget. My den was nearly as narrow as a coffin, and the sides had been worn smooth and greasy by the contact of innumerable naked bodies, added to which it smelled abominably. Sleep was altogether out of question to one in my excited frame of mind. As the night wore on, it seemed that the entire amphitheatre was filled with legions of unclean devils that, trooping up from the shoals below, mocked the unfortu¬ nates in their lairs. Personally I am not of an imaginative temperament,—very few Engineers are,— THE STRANGE RIDE. 403 but on that occasion I was as completely prostrated with nervous terror as any woman. After half an hour or so, however, I was able once more to calmly review my chances of escape. Any exit by the steep sand walls was, of course, impracticable. I had been thoroughly convinced of this some time before. It was possible, just possible, that I might, in the uncertain moonlight, safely run the gauntlet of the rifle shots. The place was so full of terror for me that I was prepared to undergo any risk in leaving it. Imagine my delight, then, when after creeping stealthily to the river-front I found that the infernal boat was not there. My freedom lay before me in the next few steps! By walking out to the first shallow pool that lay at the foot of the projecting left horn of the horseshoe, I could wade across, turn the flank of the crater, and make my way inland. Without a moment's hesitation I marched briskly past the tussocks where Gunga Dass had snared the crows, and out 404 KIPLING BOY STORIES. in the direction of the smooth white sand beyond. My first step from the tufts of dried grass showed me how utterly futile was any hope of escape ; for, as I put my foot down, J. felt an indescribable drawing, suck¬ ing motion of the sand below. Another moment and my leg was swallowed up nearly to the knee. In the moonlight the whole surface of the sand seemed to be shaken with devilish delight at my disap¬ pointment. I struggled clear, sweating with terror and exertion, back to the tussocks behind me and fell on my face. My only means of escape from the semi¬ circle was protected with a quicksand! How long I lay I have not the faintest idea ; but I was roused at last by the malev¬ olent chuckle of Gunga Dass in my ear. " I would advise you, Protector of the Poor" (the ruffian was speaking English) " to return to your house. It is unhealthy to lie down here. Moreover, when the boat returns, you will most certainly be rifled at." He stood over me in the dim light of THE STRANGE RIDE. 405 the dawn, chuckling and laughing to him¬ self. Suppressing my first impulse to catch the man by the neck and throw him on to the quicksand, I rose sullenly and followed him to the platform below the burrows. Suddenly, and futilely as I thought while I spoke, I asked :—" Gunga Dass, what is the good of the boat if I can't get out any¬ how?" I recollect that even in my deep¬ est trouble I had been speculating vaguely on the waste of ammunition in guarding an already well protected foreshore, Gunga Dass laughed again and made answer:—"They have the boat only in daytime. It is for the reason that there is a way. I hope we shall have the pleasure of your company for much longer time. It is a pleasant spot when you have been here some years and eaten roast crow long enough.'' I staggered, numbed and helpless towards the fetid burrow allotted to me, and fell asleep. An hour or so later I was awak¬ ened by a piercing scream—the shrill, high- 406 KIPLING BOY STORIES. pitched scream of a horse in pain. Those who have once heard that will never forget the sound. I found some little difficulty in scrambling out of the burrow. When I was in the open, I saw Pornic, my poor old Pornic, lying dead on the sandy soil. How they had killed him I cannot guess. Gunga Dass explained that horse was better than crow, and " greatest good of greatest num¬ ber is political maxim. We are now Re¬ public, Mister jukes, and you are entitled to a fair share of the beast. If you like, we will pass a vote of thanks. Shall I pro- ?>» Yes, we were a Republic indeed ! A Re¬ public of wild beasts penned at the bottom of a pit, to eat and fight and sleep till we died. I attempted no protest of any kind, but sat down and stared at the hideous sight in front of me. In less time almost than it takes me to write this, Pornic's body was divided, in some unclean way or other; the men and women had dragged the fragments on to the platform and were preparing their TIIE STRANGE RIDE. 40J morning meal. Gunga Dass cooked mine. The almost irresistible impulse to fly at the sand walls until I was wearied laid hold of me afresh, and I had to struggle against it with all my might. Gunga Dass was offen¬ sively jocular till I told him that if he ad¬ dressed another remark of any kind whatever to me I should strangle him where he sat. This silenced him till silence became insup¬ portable, and I bade him say something. "You will live here till you die like the other Feringhi," he said, coolly, watching me over the fragment of gristle that he was gnawing. " What other Sahib, you swine ? Speak at once, and don't stop to tell me a lie." " He is over there," answered Gunga Dass, pointing to a burrow-mouth about four doors to the left of my own. "You can see for yourself. He died in the bur¬ row as you will die, and I will die, and as all these men and women and the one child will also die." " For pity's sake tell me all you know 408 KIPLING BOY STORIES. about him. Who was he ? When did he come, and when did he die ?" This appeal was a weak step on my part. Gunga Dass only leered and replied :—" I will not—unless you give me something first." Then I recollected where I was, and struck the man between the eyes, partially stunning him. He stepped down from the platform at once, and, cringing and fawning and weeping and attempting to embrace my feet, led me round to the burrow which he had indicated. " I know nothing whatever about the gentleman. Your God be my witness that I do not. He was as anxious to escape as you were, and he was shot from the boat, though we all did all things to prevent him from attempting. He was shot here." Gunga Dass laid his hand on his lean stomach and bowed to the earth. " Well, and what then ? Go on !" ''And then—and then, your Honor, we carried him into his house and gave him THE STRANGE RIDE. 409 water, and put wet cloths on the wound, and he laid down in his house and gave up the ghost." "In how long? In how long?" "About half an hour, after he received his wound. I call Vishn to witness ;" yelled the wretched man, " that I did everything for him. Everything which was possible, that I did !" He threw himself down on the ground and clasped my ankles. But I had my doubts about Gunga Dass's benevolence, and kicked him off as he lay protesting. " I believe you robbed him of everything he had. But I can find out in a minute or two. How long was the Sahib here ?" " Nearly a year and a half. I think he must have gone mad. But hear me swear, Protector of the Poor! Won't your Honor hear me swear that I never touched an article that belonged to him ? What is your Worship going to do?" I had taken Gunga Dass by the waist and had hauled him onto the platform opposite 4IO KIPLING BOY STORIES. the deserted burrow. As I did so I thought of my wretched fellow-prisoner's unspeakable misery among all these horrors for eighteen months, and the final agony of dying like a rat in a hole, with a bullet- wound in the stomach. Gunga Dass fan¬ cied I was going to kill him and howled pitifully. The rest of the population, in the plethora that follows a full flesh meal, watched us without stirring. " Go inside, Gunga Dass," said I, " and fetch it out." I was feeling sick and faint with horror now. Gunga Dass nearly rolled off the platform and howled aloud. " But I am Brahmin, Sahib—a high-caste Brahmin. By your soul, by your father's soul, do not make me do this thing ! " " Brahmin or no Brahmin, by my soul and my father's soul, in you go !" I said, and, seizing him by the shoulders, I crammed his head into the mouth of the burrow, kicked the rest of him in, and, sitting down, covered my face with my hands. THE STRANGE RIDE. 4II At the end of a few minutes I heard a rustle and a creak ; then Gunga Dass in a sobbing, choking whisper speaking to him¬ self ; then a soft thud—and I uncovered my eyes. The dry sand had turned the corpse en¬ trusted to its keeping into a yellow-brown mummy. I told Gunga Dass to stand off while I examined it. The body—clad in an olive-green hunting-suit much stained and worn, with leather pads on the shoulders —was that of a man between thirty and forty, above middle height, with light, sandy hair, long mustache, and a rough unkempt beard. The left canine of the upper jaw was missing, and a portion of the lobe of the right ear was gone. On the second finger of the left hand was a ring—a shield- shaped bloodstone set in gold, with a mono¬ gram that might have been either " B.K. " or " B.L." On the third finger of the right hand was a silver ring in the shape of a coiled cobra, much worn and tarnished. Gunga Dass deposited a handful of trifles 412 KIPLING BOY STORIES. he had picked out of the burrow at my feet, and, covering the face of the body with my handkerchief, I turned to examine these. I give the full list in the hope that it may lead to the identification of the unfortunate man:— 1. Bowl of a briarwood pipe, serrated at the edge ; much worn and blackened; bound with string at the screw. 2. Two patent-lever keys; wards of both broken. 3. Tortoise-shell-handled penknife, silver or nickel, name-plate, marked with mono¬ gram " B. K." 4. Envelope, post-mark undecipherable, bearing a Victorian stamp, addressed to "MissMon—" (rest illegible)—"ham"— " nt." 5. Imitation crocodile-skin note-book with pencil. First forty-five pages blank ; four and a half illegible ; fifteen others filled with private memoranda relating chiefly to three persons—a Mrs. L. Singleton, abbre¬ viated several times to " Lot Single," " Mrs. THE STRANGE RIDE. 413 S. May," and " Garmison," referred to in places as "Jerry" or "Jack." 6. Handle of small-sized hunting-knife. Blade snapped short. Buck's horn, dia¬ mond-cut, with swivel and ring on the butt; fragment of cotton cord attached. It must not be supposed that I invento¬ ried all these things on the spot as fully as I have here written them down. The note¬ book first attracted my attention; and I put it in my pocket with the view to study¬ ing it later on. The rest of the articles I conveyed to my burrow for safety's sake, and there, being a methodical man, I inven¬ toried them. I then returned to the corpse and ordered Gunga Dass to help me to carry it out to the river-front. While we were engaged in this, the exploded shell of an old brown cartridge dropped out of one of the pockets and rolled at my feet. Gunga Dass had not seen it; and I fell to thinking that a man does not carry exploded cartridge-cases, especially ''browns," which will not bear loading twice, about with him 26a 414 KIPLING BOY STORIES. when shooting. In other words, that cart¬ ridge-case had been fired inside the crater. Consequently there must be a gun some where. I was on the verge of asking Gunga Dass, but checked myself, knowing that he would lie. We laid the body down on the edge of the quicksand by the tus¬ socks. It was my intention to push it out and let it be swallowed up—the only possi¬ ble mode of burial that I could think of. I ordered Gunga Dass to go away, Then I gingerly put the corpse out on the quicksand. In doing so, it was lying face downward. I tore the frail and rotten khaki shooting-coat open, disclosing a hid¬ eous cavity in the back. I have already told you that the dry sand had, as it were, mummified the body. A moment's glance showed that the gaping hole had been caused by a gun-shot wound ; the gun must have been fired with the muzzle almost touching the back. The shooting-coat, being intact, had been drawn over the body after death, which must have been instan THE STRANGE RIDE. 415 taneous. The secret of the poor wretch's death was plain to me in a flash. Some one of the crater, presumably Gunga Dass, must have shot him with his own gun—the gun that fitted the brown cartridges. He had never attempted to escape in the face of the rifle-fire from the boat. I pushed the corpse out hastily, and saw it sink from sight literally in a few seconds. I shuddered as I watched. In a dazed, half-conscious way I turned to peruse the note-book. A stained and discolored slip of paper had been inserted between the binding and the back, and dropped out as I opened the pages. This is what it contained:—"Four out from crow-clump : three left; nine out; two right; three back; two left; fourteen out; two left; seven out; one left; nine back; two right; six back; four right; seveii back." The paper had been burnt and charred at the edo-es. o What it meant I could not understand. I sat down on the dried bents turning it over and over between my fingers, until I was 416 KIPLING BOY STORIES. aware of Gunga Dass standing imme¬ diately behind me with glowing eyes and outstretched hands. " Have you got it?" he panted. " Will you not let me look at it also? I swear that I will return it." " Got what ? Return what ? " I asked. " That which you have in your hands. It will help us both." He stretched out his long, bird-like talons, trembling with eager¬ ness. " I could never find it," he continued. " He had secreted it about his person. Therefore I shot him, but nevertheless I was unable to obtain it." Gunga Dass had quite forgotten his little fiction about the rifle-bullet. I received the information perfectly calmly. Morality is blunted by consorting with the Dead who are alive. " What on earth are you raving about ? What is it you want me to give you ?" " The piece of paper in the note-book. It will help us both. Oh, you fool! You THE STRANGE RIDE. 417 fool! Can you not see what it will do for us. We shall escape ! " His voice rose almost to a scream, and he danced with excitement before me. I own f was moved at the chance of getting away. " Don't skip ! Explain yourself. Do you mean to say that this slip of paper will help us ? What does it mean ? " " Read it aloud! Read it aloud ! I beg and I pray to you to read it aloud.'' " I did so. Gunga Dass listened delight¬ edly, and drew an irregular line in the sand with his fingers. " See now ! It was the length of his gun- barrels without the stock. I have those barrels. Four gun-barrels out from the place where I caught crows. Straight out; do you follow me ? Then three left—Ah ! how well I remember when that man worked it out night after night. Then nine out, and so on. Out is always straight before you across the quicksand. He told me so before I killed him." 27 418 KIPLING BOY STORIES. ' But if you knew all this why didn't you get out before ? " " I did not know it. He told me that he was working it out a year and a half ago, and how he was working it out night after night when the boat had gone away, and he could get out near the quicksand safely. Then he said that we would get away to¬ gether. But I was afraid that he would leave me behind one night when he had worked it all out, and so I shot him. Be¬ sides, it is not advisable that the men who once get in here should escape. Only I, and / am a Brahmin." The prospect of escape had brought Gunga Dass's caste back to him. He stood up, walked about and gesticulated violently. Eventually I managed to make him talk soberly, and he told me how this English¬ man had spent six months night after night in exploring, inch by inch, the passage across the quicksand ; how he had declared it to be simplicity itself up to within about twenty yards of the river bank after turning THE STRANGE RIDE. 419 the Hank of the left horn of the horseshoe. This much he had evidently not completed when Gunga Dass shot him with his own gun. In my frenzy of delight at the possibilities of escape I recollect shaking hands effu¬ sively with Gunga Dass, after we had de¬ cided that we were to make an attempt to get away that very night. It was weary work waiting throughout the afternoon. About ten o'clock, as far as I could judge, when the Moon had just risen above the lip of the crater, Gunga Dass made a move for his burrow to bring out the gun-barrels whereby to measure our path. All the other wretched inhabitants had retired to their lairs long ago. The guardian boat drifted downstream some hours before, and we were utterly alone by the crow-clump Gunga Dass, while carrying the gun-barrels, let slip the piece of paper which was to be our guide. I stooped down hastily to recover it, and, as I did so, I was aware that the diabolical Brahmin was aiming a violent 420 KIPLING BOY STORIES. blow at the back of my head with the gun- barrels. It was too late to turn round. 1 must have received the blow somewhere on the nape of my neck. A hundred thousand fiery stars danced before my eyes, and I fell forward senseless at the edge of the quick¬ sand. When I recovered consciousness, the Moon was going down, and I was sensible of intolerable pain in the back of my head. Gunga Dass had disappeared and my mouth was full of blood. I lay down again and prayed that I might die without more ado. Then the unreasoning fury which I have before mentioned laid hold upon me, and I staggered inland toward the walls of the crater. It seemed that some one was calling to me in a whisper—" Sahib ! Sahib ! Sahib !" exactly as my bearer used to call me in the mornings. I fancied that I was delirious until a handful of sand fell at my feet. Then I looked up and saw a head peering down into the amphitheatre—the head of Dunnoo, my dog-boy, who at- THE STRANGE RIDE. 42 I tended to my collies. As soon as he had attracted my attention, he held up his hand and showed a rope. I motioned, stagger¬ ing to and fro the while, that he should throw it down. It was a couple of leather punkah ropes knotted together, with a loop at one end. I slipped the loop over my head and under my arms; heard Dunnoo urge something forward ; was conscious that I was being dragged, face downward, up the steep sand slope, and the next in¬ stant found myself choked and half fainting on the sand hills overlooking the crater. Dunnoo, with his face ashy gray in the moonlight, implored me not to stay but to get back to my tent at once. It seems that he had tracked Pornic's footprints fourteen miles across the sands to the crater; had returned and told my servants, who flatly refused to meddle with any one, white or black, once fallen into the hideous Village of the Dead ; where¬ upon Dunnoo had taken one of my ponies and a couple of punkah ropes, returned to 422 KIPLING BOY STORIES. the crater, and hauled me out as I have described. To cut a long story short, Dunnoo is now my personal servant on a gold mohur a month—a sum which I still think far too little for the services he has rendered. Nothing on earth will induce me to go near that devilish spot again or to reveal its whereabouts more clearly than I have done. Of Gunga Dass I have never found a trace, nor do I wish to do. My sole motive in giving this to be published is the hope that some one may possibly identify, from the details and the inventory which I have given above, the corpse of the man in the olive-green hunting-suit. MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY. As I came through the Desert thus it was— As I came through the Desert. The City of Dreadful Night. Somewhere in the Other World, where there are books and pictures and plays and shop-windows to look at, and thousands of men who spend their lives in building up all four, lives a gentleman who writes real stories about the real insides of people ; and his name is Mr. Walter Besant. But he will insist upon treating his ghosts— he has published half a workshopful of them—with levity. He makes his ghost- seers talk familiarly, and, in some cases, flirt outrageously, with the phantoms. You may treat anything, from a Vice¬ roy to a Vernacular Paper, with levity; (423) 424 KIPLING BOY STORIES. but you must behave reverently tow¬ ards a ghost, and particularly an Indian one. There are, in this land, ghosts who take the form of fat, cold, pobby corpses, and hide in trees near the roadside till a travel¬ ler passes. Then they drop upon his neck and remain. There are also terrible ghosts of women who have died in childbed. These wander along the pathways at dusk, or hide in the crops near a village, and call seduc¬ tively. But to answer their call is death in this world and the next. Their feet are turned backwards that all sober men may recognize them. There are ghosts of little children who have been thrown into wells. These haunt well-curbs and the fringes of jungles, and wail under the stars, or catch women by the wrist and beg to be taken up and carried. These and the corpse-ghosts, however, are only vernacular articles and do not attack Sahibs. No native ghost has yet been authentically reported to have frightened an Englishman ; but many Eng- MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY. 425 lish ghosts have scared the life out of both white and black. Nearly every other Station owns a ghost. There are said to be two at Simla, not counting the woman who blows the bellows at Syree dak-bungalow on the Old Road; Mussoorie has a house haunted of a very lively Thing; a White Lady is supposed to do night-watchman round a house in Lahore ; Dalhousie says that one of her houses " repeats" on autumn evenings all the incidents of a horrible horse-and-preci- pice accident; Murree has a merry ghost and. now that she has been swept by cholera, will have room for a sorrowful one ; there are Officers' Quarters in Mian Mir whose doors open without reason, and whose fur¬ niture is guaranteed to creak, not with the heat of June but with the weight of Invisi¬ bles who come to lounge in the chairs ; Peshawur possesses houses that none will willingly rent; and there is something— not fever—wrong with a big bungalow in Allahabad. The older Provinces simply 426 KIPLING BOY STORIES. bristle with haunted houses, and march phantom armies along their main thorough¬ fares. Some of the dak-bungalows on the Grand Trunk Road have handy little cemeteries in their compound—witnesses to the " changes and chances of this mortal life " in the days when men drove from Calcutta to the North¬ west. These bungalows are objectionable places to put up in. They are generally very old, always dirty, while the khansamah is as ancient as the bungalow. He either chatters senilely, or falls into the long trances of age. In both moods he is use¬ less. If you get angry with him, he refers to some Sahib dead and buried these thirty years, and says that when he was in that Sahib's service not a khansamah in the Province could touch him. Then he jab¬ bers and mows and trembles and fidgets among the dishes, and you repent of your irritation. In these dak-bungalows, ghosts are most likely to be found, and when found, they MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY. 427 should be made a note of. Not long ago it was my business to live in dak-bungalows. I never inhabited the same house for three nights running, and grew to be learned in the breed. I lived in Government-built ones with red brick walls and rail ceilings, an inventory of the furniture posted in every room, and an excited snake at the thresh¬ old to give welcome. I lived in " con¬ verted " ones—old houses officiating as dak- bungalows—where nothing was in its proper place and there wasn't even a fowl for din¬ ner. I lived in second-hand palaces where the wind blew through open-work marble tracery just as uncomfortably as through a broken pane. I lived in dak-bungalows where the last entry in the visitors' book was fifteen months old, and where they slashed off the currry-kid's head with a sword. It was my good-luck to meet all sorts of men, from sober travelling mission¬ aries and deserters flying from British Reg¬ iments, to drunken loafers who threw whiskey bottles at all who passed ; and my 423 KIPLING IJOY STORIES. still greater good-fortune just to escape a maternity case. Seeing that a fair propor¬ tion of the tragedy of our lives out here acted itself in dak-bungalows, I wondered that I had met no ghosts. A ghost that would voluntarily hang about a dak-bunga¬ low would be mad of course ; but so many men have died mad in dak-bungalows that there must be a fair percentage of lunatic ghosts. In due time I found my ghost, or ghosts rather, for there were two of them. Up till that hour I had sympathized with Mr. Besant's method of handling them, as shown in " The Strange Case of Mr. Lucraft and other Stories" I am now in the Opposition. We will call the bungalow Katmal d&k- bungalow. But that was the smallest part of the horror. A man with a sensitive hide has no right to sleep in d&k-bungalows. He should marry. Katmal d&k-bungalow was old and rotten and unrepaired. The floor was of worn brick, the walls were MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY. 429 filthy, and the windows were nearly black with grime. It stood on a bypath largely used by native Sub-Deputy Assistants of all kinds, from Finance to Forests; but real Sahibs were rare. The khans amah, who was nearly bent double with old age, said so. When I arrived, there was a fitful, unde¬ cided rain on the face of the land, accom¬ panied by a restless wind, and every gust made a noise like the rattling of dry bones in the stiff toddy-palms outside. The khan- samah completely lost his head on my ar¬ rival. He had served a Sahib once. Did I know that Sahib ? He gave me the name of a well-known man who has been buried for more than a quarter of a century, and showed me an ancient daguerreotype of that man in his prehistoric youth. I had seen a steel engraving of him at the head of a double volume of Memoirs a month be¬ fore, and I felt ancient beyond telling. The day shut in and the khans amah went to get me food. He did not go through 43° KIPLING BOY STORIES. the pretence of calling it " khana "—man's victuals. He said ratub" and that means, among other things, " grub "—dog's rations. There was no insult in his choice of the term. He had forgotten the other word, I suppose. While he was cutting up the dead bodies of animals, I settled myself down, after exploring the d&k-bungalow. There were three rooms, beside my own, which was a corner kennel, each giving into the other through dingy white doors fastened with long iron bars. The bungalow was a very solid one, but the partition-walls of the rooms were almost jerry-built in their flim- siness. Every step or bang of a trunk echoed from my room down the other three, and every footfall came back tremulously from the far walls. For this reason I shut the door. There were no lamps—only can¬ dles in long glass shades. An oil wick was set in the bath-room. For bleak, unadulterated misery that dak- bungalow was the worst of the many that I MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY. 431 had ever set foot in. There was no fire¬ place, and the windows would not open ; so a brazier of charcoal would have been use¬ less. The rain and the wind splashed and gurgled and moaned round the house, and the toddy-palms rattled and roared. Half a dozen jackals went through the compound singing, and a hyena stood afar off and mocked them. A hyena would convince a Sadducee of the Resurrection of the Dead —the worst sort of Dead. Then came the ratub—a curious meal, half native and half English in composition—with the old khan- samah babbling behind my chair about dead and gone English people, and the wind¬ blown candles playing shadow-bo-peep with the bed and the mosquito-curtains. It was just the sort of dinner and evening to make a man think of every single one of his past sins, and of all the others that he intended to commit if he lived. Sleep, for several hundred reasons, was not easy. The lamp in the bath-room threw the most absurd shadows into the room, 432 KIPLING BOY STORIES. and the wind was beginning to talk non¬ sense. Just when the reasons were drowsy with blood-sucking I heard the regular—" Let- us-take-and-heave-him-over" grunt of doolie- bearers in the compound. First one doolie came in, then a second, and then a third. I heard the doolies dumped on the ground, and the shutter in front of my door shook. " That's some one trying to come in," I said. But no one spoke, and I persuaded myself that it was the gusty wind. The shutter of the room next to mine was attacked, flung back, and the inner door opened. " That's some Sub-Deputy Assistant," I said, "and he has brought his friends with him. Now they'll talk and spit and smoke for an hour." But there were no voices and no foot¬ steps. No one was putting his luggage into the next room. The door shut, and I thanked Providence that I was to be left in peace. But I was curious to know where the doolies had gone. I got out of bed MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY. 433 and looked into the darkness. There was never a sign of a doolie. Just as I was getting into bed again, I heard in the next room, the sound that no man in his senses can possibly mistake—the whir of a billiard ball down the length of the slates when the striker is stringing for break. No other sound is like it. A minute afterwards there was another whir, and I got into bed. I was not frightened—indeed I was not. I was very curious to know what had become of the doolies. I jumped into bed for that reason. Next minute I heard the double click of a cannon and my hair sat up. It is a mis¬ take to say that hair stands up. The skin of the head tightens and you can feel a faint, prickly bristling all over the scalp. That is the hair sitting up. There was a whir and a click, and both sounds could only have been made by one thing—a billiard ball. I argued the matter out at great length with myself; and the more I argued the less probable it seemed 434 KIPLING BOY STORIES. that one bed, one table, and two chairs—all the furniture of the room next to mine— could so exactly duplicate the sounds of a game of billiards. After another cannon, a three-cushion one to judge by the whir, I argued no more. I had found my ghost and would have given worlds to have es- capedfrom that dak-bungalow. I listened, and with each listen the game grew clearer. There was whir on whir and click on click. Sometimes there was a double click and a whir and another click. Beyond any sort of doubt, people were playing billiards in the next room. And the next room was not big enough to hold a billiard table ! Between the pauses of the wind I heard the game go forward—stroke after stroke. I tried to believe that I could not hear voices ; but that attempt was a failure. Do you know what fear is ? Not ordinary fear of insult, injury or death, but abject, quivering dread of something that you cannot see—fear that dries the inside of the mouth and half of the throat—fear that MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY. 435 makes you sweat on the palms of the hands, and gulp in order to keep the uvula at work ? This is a fine Fear—a great coward¬ ice, and must be felt to be appreciated. The very improbability of billiards in a d&k-bungalow proved the reality of the thing. No man—drunk or sober—could imagine a game at billiards, or invent the spitting crack of a " screw-cannon." A severe course of dak-bungalows has this disadvantage—it breeds infinite cre¬ dulity. If a man said to a confirmed dak- bungalow-haunter :—" There is a corpse in the next room, and there's a mad girl in the next but one, and the woman and man on that camel have just eloped from a place sixty miles away," the hearer would not disbelieve because he would know that nothing is too wild, grotesque, or horrible to happen in a dak-bungalow. This- credulity, unfortunately, extends to ghosts. A rational person fresh from his own house would have turned on his side and slept. I did not. So surely as I was 43^ KIPLING BOY STORIES. given up as a bad carcass by the scores of things in the bed because the bulk of my blood was in my heart, so surely did I hear every stroke of a long game at billiards played in the echoing room behind the iron-barred door. My dominant fear was that the players might want a marker. It was an absurd fear ; because creatures who could play in the dark would be above such superfluities. I only know that that was my terror ; and it was real. After a long long while, the game stopped, and the door banged. I slept because I was dead tired. Otherwise I should have pre¬ ferred to have kept awake. Not for every¬ thing in Asia would I have dropped the door-bar and peered into the dark of the next room. When the morning came, I considered that I had done well and wisely, and in¬ quired for the means of departure. " By the way, khans amah," I said, "what were those three doolies doing in my com pound in the night ?f> MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY. 437 " There were no doolies," said the khan- samah. I went into the next room and the day¬ light streamed through the open door. I was immensely brave. I would, at that hour, have played Black Pool with the owner of the big Black Pool down below. " Has this place always been a dak-bung¬ alow ? " I asked. "No," said the khansamah. "Ten or twenty years ago, I have forgotten how long, it was a billiard-room." " A how much V "A billiard-room for the Sahibs who built the Railway. I was knansamah then in the big house where all the Railway-Sahibs lived, and I used to come across with brandy- shrab. These three rooms were all one, and they held a big table on which the Sahibs played every evening. But the Sahibs are all dead now, and the Railway runs, you say, nearly to Kabul." " Do you remember anything about the Sahibs ? " 28 438 KIPLING BOY STORIES. " It is long ago, but I remember that one Sahib, a fat man and always angry, was playing here one night, and he said to me : —' Mangal Khan, brandy -pant doand I filled the glass, and he bent over the table to strike, and his head fell lower and lower till it hit the table, and his spectacles came off, and when we—the Sahibs and I myself —ran to lift him he was dead. I helped to carry him out. Aha, he was a strong Sahib ! But he is dead and I, old Mangal Khan, am still living, by your favor." That was more than enough ! I had my ghost—a first-hand, authenticated article. I would write to the Society for Psychical Research—I would paralyze the Empire with the news! But I would, first of all, put eighty miles of assessed crop-land be¬ tween myself and that dak-bungalow before nightfall. The Society might send their regular agent to investigate later on. I went into my own room and prepared to pack after noting down the facts of the case. As I smoked I heard the game be- MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY. 439 gin again,—with a miss in balk this time, for the whir was a short one. The door was open and I could see into the room. Click—click! That was a can¬ non. I entered the room without fear, for there was sunlight within and a fresh breeze without. The unseen game was going on at a tremendous rate. And well it might, when a restless little rat was running to and fro inside the dingy ceiling-cloth, and a piece of loose window-sash was making fifty breaks off the window-bolt as it shook in the breeze ! Impossible to mistake the sound of bil¬ liard balls ! Impossible to mistake the whir of a ball over the slate ! But I was to be excused. Even when I shut my enlight¬ ened eyes the sound was marvellously like that of a fast game. Entered angrily the faithful partner of my sorrows, Kadir Baksh. " This bungalow is very bad and low- caste I No wonder the Presence was dis¬ turbed and is speckled. Three sets of 440 KIPLING BOY STORIES. doolie-bearers came to the bungalow late last night when I was sleeping outside, and said that it was their custom to rest in the rooms set apart for the English people 1 What honor has the khansamah? They tried to enter, but I told them to go. No wonder, if these Oorias have been here, that the Presence is sorely spotted. It is shame, and the work of a dirty man !" Kadir Baksh did not say that he had taken from each gang two annas for rent in advance, and then, beyond my earshot, had beaten them with the big green umbrella whose use I could never before divine. But Kadir Baksh has no notions of mo¬ rality. There was an interview with the khansa¬ mah, but as he promptly lost his head, wrath gave place to pity, and pity led to a long conversation, in the course of which he put the fat Engineer-Sahib's tragic death in three separate stations—two of them fifty miles away. The third shift was to MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY. 441 Calcutta, and there the Sahib died while driving a dog-cart. If I had encouraged him the khans amah would have wandered all through Bengal with his corpse. I did not go away as soon as I intended. I stayed for the night, while the wind and the rat and the sash and the window-bolt played a ding-dong "hundred and fifty up.'; Then the wind ran out and the billiards stopped, and I felt that I had ruined my one genuine, hall-marked ghost story. Had I only stopped at the proper time, I could have made anything out of it. That was the bitterest thought of all! THE END. GLOSSARY GLOSSARY. AFRIDIS, An Afghan clan west and south of Peshawar. ALLAH, The Mohammedan name for God. ANNANDALE, A valley near Simla—the Simla Race-course, etc. AVATAR, An incarnation on earth of a divine Being. BABU, A title such as "Mr.," used frequently to signify a Ben¬ gali clerk. BABUL, A small thorny mimosa jungle tree, blossoms pro¬ fusely a bright yellow tassel-like flower, like a bullet, and with a fragrance resembling that of the wall-flower. BANDAR, A monkey. BAZUGAR, One who exhibits feats of activity. BEGUM, A lady, a queen. BENMORE, The old Simla Assembly Rooms. BHAMO, A district in Upper Burma. BIKANEER, A state in Rajputana. BOH, A captain in the Burmese native army. BOILEAUGUNGE, A suburb of Simla, named after General Boileau. BOW BAZAR, One of the principal bazars in Calcutta. BRAHMIN, A member of the priestly caste. BRINJAREE, The Brinjarees of the Deccan are dealers in grain and salt. BUKHSHI, A paymaster in the Anglo-Indian army. BUL-BUL, The Persian nightingale. BUNNIA, A corn and seed merchant or dealer. BURSAT, The rains, which set in about the middle of June— the first burst of them is known as the "chota bursat," or small rains—after which there is generally a break before the regular monsoon sets in. BURSATI, A disease to which horses are liable during the rains. 445 446 GLOSSARY. BYLE, A bullock. CHARNOCK, John Charnock, the founder of Calcutta. CHOTA BURSAT, see "bursat." COLLINGA, One of the bazars in Calcutta where most of the demi monde resided. COOLY, A hired laborer, or burden carrier. DAH BLADE, "Dah" is a short Burmese sword. DAK, "Post," i. e., properly, transport by relays of men and horses. DAK BUNGALOW, A rest house for travelers. DARJEELING, A Sanitarium in the Himalaya. The summer seat of the Bengal Government. DEODARS, the "Cedrus deodarus" of the Himalaya. DIBS, A slang term for money—rupees. DOM, The name of a very low caste representing some old ab¬ original race spread all over India. In many places they perform such offices as carrying dead bodies, removing carrion, etc. DUFTAR, Book, Journal, Record—sometimes used instead of "duftar khana" for "the office." DUSTOORIE, A commission on the money passing in any cash transaction. DYKES, A firm of coach builders in Calcutta. FERASH (faras), a species of date-tree. FULTAH, A village in Bengal, situated on the Hughli; also an anchorage for vessels. GARDEN REACH, The reach or bend forming the entrance to the Port of Calcutta—so called on account of the fine garden residences which at one time lined the banks of the river at this part. GHAT, A mountain pass, landing place, or ferry. GHI, Boiled or clarified butter. HAFIZ, A guardian, governor, preserver. HAMILTON, Hamilton & Co., jewelers. GLOSSARY. 447 IIOOKUM, An order, command. IIOWRAH, A large town opposite Calcutta. HUGHLI (or Hooghly), One of the principal rivers of Hindu¬ stan on which Calcutta is situated. HURNAI, A pass leading from Baluchistan to Afghanistan. JAIN, The non-Brahminical sect so-called — believed now to represent the earliest heretics of Buddhism, at present chiefly found in the Bombay presidency. The Jains are generally merchants, and some have been men of im¬ mense wealth. JAKKO, A mountain peak in the Punjab—one of the highest ol the Himalaya, on which Simla is situated. JAT, A tribe among Rajputs. JAUN BAZAR, One of the principal bazars in Calcutta. JEHANNUM, Hades, hell. JEMADAR, The second native officer in a company of Sepoys. JEZAIL, A heavy Afghan rifle, fired with a forked rest. JINGAL, A small piece of Burmese artillery mounted on a car¬ riage, managed by two men. JUNGLE, Forest or other wild growth. JUTOGH, A military station in the Punjab, at the entrance of Simla. KAFIR, An unbeliever in the Moslem faith. KAKAHUTTI, A village in the Punjab, on the road to Simla from the plains. KALKA, A villa in the Punjab, at the foot of the Himalaya, on the road from Umballa to Simla. KEDGEREE, A village and police station near the mouth of the Hughli; also an anchorage for vessels. KITMUTGARS, Table servants—a Mohammedan who will also perform the duties of a valet. KHUD, A precipitous hill side, a deep valley. KHYRAGHAUT, A halting stalion near Simla. 448 GLOSSARY. KHYBEREE (Khaibari), An Afghan tribe inhabiting the Khai- bar pass in Afghanistan. KOIL, The Indian nightingale. KULLAH, A term used generally by Burmese for a western foreigner, a stranger. KURRUM, a mountain pass into Afghanistan from the Punjab. LAKH, One hundred thousand rupees. LANGUR, The great white-bearded ape, much patronized by Hindus, and identified with the monkey-god, Huniman. MAG, Natives of Arakan. MAHRATTA, The name of a famous Hindu race. The British won India from the two Hindu confederacies, the Mara- thas and the Sikhs. MALLIE, A gardener. MASHOBRA, A village and hill in the Punjab, near Simla. MICHINI, A fort in the Punjab. MLECIi, One without caste. MOOLTAN, A district in the Punjab. MARRI (Murree), A Hill Station and Sanitarium in the Pun¬ jab. MUSTH, In a state of periodical excitement. NAT, A term applied to all spiritual beings, angels, elfs, de¬ mons, or what not, including the gods of the Hindus. OCTROI, A municipal tax. PADRE, A priest, clergyman, or minister of the Christian re¬ ligion. PEG, A term used for a brandy (or other spirit) and soda. PELITI, A well-known confectioner. PICE, The smallest copper coin - 12 pice=i anna; 16 annas=) rupee. PUKKA, Ripe, mature, cooked; and hence substantial, perma¬ nent, with many specific applications. One of the most common uses in which the word has become specific is GLOSSARY. 449 that of brick and mortar in contradistinction to one of inferior material, as of mud, matting, or timber. PUNJABI, A native of the Punjab. PUNKAH, A large swinging fan suspended from the ceiling and pulled by a cooly. QUETTA, A town and cantonment in Baluchistan under Brit¬ ish administration. RAJAH, A native chief. RAMA, One of the Puranic Deities. The hero of the Sanskrit epic, the Ramayana. RANKEN, Ranken & Co., tailors. 'RICKSHAW, A contraction of "Jinny rickshaw," a two- wheeled conveyance drawn by a cooly. RUPAIYAT of Omar Kal'vin, a play on Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, signifying (The Poem) connected with rupees of Omar Kal'vin (a late financial member of the Viceroy's Council). RYOT, A tenant of the soil. SAHIB, A lord, master, companion, gentleman, commonly used to denote a European. SAMADH, A cenotaph. SAT-BHAI (lit. the seven brothers), a species of thiush, so called from the birds being gregarious, and usually seven of them are found together. SHRAI, A place for the accommodation of travelers, a khan, a caravansary. SHAITANPORE, A fictitious name for a place. Shaitan sig¬ nifies the Evil One — pore, a common termination, sig¬ nifies a city. SAERISTADAR, The head ministerial officer of a court, whose duty it is to receive plaints. SHIKAR, Sport, hunting, chase, prey, game, plunder, perquis¬ ites. SHROFF, A money-changer, a banker. 450 GLOSSARY. SIKH, A "disciple," the distinctive name of the disciples of Nanak Shah, who in the 16th century established that sect, which eventually rose to warlike predominance in the Punjab, and from which sprung Ranjat Singh, the founder of the brief kingdom of Lahore. "SIMPKIN," A Hindustani corruption of the word "cham¬ pagne." SIRIS, The tree Acacia, a timber tree of moderate size, best known in the Upper Provinces. SIVA, A Hindu god, the Destroyer and Reproducer, the third person in the Hindu triad. SOLON, A cantonment and hill sanitarium in the Punjab, near Simla. SUBADAR, The chief native officer of a company of Sepoys. SUNDERBUNDS, The well-known name of the tract of inter¬ secting creeks and channels, swampy islands and jungles which constitute that part of the Ganges Delta nearest the sea. SUTLEJ, One of the principal rivers of India. SUTTEE, The rite of widow-burning. TAMARISKS, A graceful, feather-like shrub; is covered with numberless little spikes of small pink flowers when in blossom. TATIA THE BHIL, A well-known dacoit of the Central Prov¬ inces. TARA DEVI, One of the Himalaya mountain peaks, near Simla. THAG, A highway robber, garotter. THANA, A police station. THAKUR, A chief (among Rajputs). THERMANTIDOTE (heat-antidote), A sort of winnowing machine fitted to a window aperture, and incased in wet tatties, so as to drive a current of cooled air into a house GLOSSARY. 451 during hot dry weather (tatties are screens or mats made of the roots of a fragrant grass) TONGA, A two-wheeled car drawn by two ponies curricle fash¬ ion, used for traveling in the hills. TONK, A state and city in Rajputana. "TRICHI," A contraction of Trichinopoly, a place on the S.E. coast of Hindustan, noted for its cigars, hence "Trichi" denotes a Trichinopoly cigar. TULWAR, A sabre, used by the Sikhs. UMBALLA, A city and cantonment of the Umballa district, Punjab. Formerly the nearest station on the railway to Simla. WAHABIS, A fanatical Mohammedan sect in South Arcot. WALER, Horses imported from New South Wales are called "Walers." YABU, A class of small, hardy horse which comes from the highland country of Kandahar and Cabul. YUSUFZAIES, Pathan tribe in Afghanistan. ZENANA, The apartments of a house in which the women of the family are secluded. YALE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 3 9002 02498 8397