CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME 
 OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT 
 FUND GIVEN IN 1891 BY 
 
 HENRY WILLIAMS SAGE 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR 4854.U55 1920 
 
 Under the deodars, The phantom 'rickshaw: 
 
 3 1924 013 493 949 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013493949 
 
Under the Deodars 
 
 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 Wee Willie Winkie 
 
UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 THE PHANTOM 'RICKSHAW 
 
 WEE WILLIE WINKIE 
 
 By Rudyard Kipling 
 
 GARDEN CITY NEW YORK 
 
 DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 
 
 1920 
 
COPYRIGHT, 189S, BY 
 MACMILLAN & CO. 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1899, BY 
 RUDYARD KIPLING 
 
 USS 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Education or Otis Yeere 3 
 
 At the Pit's Mouth 30 
 
 A Wayside Comedy 38 
 
 The Pit that they Digged 53 
 
 The Hill of Illusion 58 
 
 A Second-rate Woman 70 
 
 Only a Subaltern 93 
 
 The Phantom 'Rickshaw in 
 
 My Own True Ghost Story 140 
 
 The Track of a Lie 150 
 
 The Strange Rtde of Morrowbie Jukes . . 154 
 
 The Man who would be King 182 
 
 Wee Willee Winkie 227 
 
 Baa Baa, Black Sheep 240 
 
 His Majesty the King 275 
 
 The Drums of the Fore and Aft . . . 289 
 
UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 THE PHANTOM 'RICKSHAW 
 
 WEE WILLIE WINKIE 
 
THE EDUCATION OF OTIS YEERE 
 
 In the pleasant orchard-closes 
 'God bless all our gains,' say we; 
 
 But 'May God bless all our losses,' 
 Better suits with our degree. 
 
 The Lost Bower. 
 
 This is the history of a failure; but the woman who 
 failed said that it might be an instructive tale to put 
 into print for the benefit of the younger generation. 
 The younger generation does not want instruction, 
 being perfectly willing to instruct if any one will lis- 
 ten to it. None the less, here begins the story where 
 every right-minded story should begin, that is to say at 
 Simla, where all things begin and many come to an evil 
 end. 
 
 The mistake was due to a very clever woman making 
 a blunder and not retrieving it. Men are licensed to 
 stumble, but a clever woman's mistake is outside the 
 regular course of Nature and Providence; since all good 
 people know that a woman is the only infallible thing 
 in this world, except Government Paper of the '79 
 issue, bearing interest at four and a half per cent. Yet, 
 we have to remember that six consecutive days of 
 rehearsing the leading part of The Fallen Angel, at 
 the New Gaiety Theatre where the plaster is not yet 
 properly dry, might have brought about an unbinge- 
 
 $ 
 
, 4 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 ment of spirits which, again, might have led to eccen- 
 tricities. 
 
 Mrs. Hauksbee came to 'The Foundry' to tiffin with 
 Mrs. Mallowe, her one bosom friend, for she was in no 
 sense 'a woman's woman.' And it was a woman's tiffin, 
 the door shut to all the world; and they both talked 
 chiffons, which is French for Mysteries. 
 
 'I've enjoyed an interval of sanity,' Mrs. Hauksbee 
 announced, after tiffin was over and the two were com- 
 fortably settled in the little writing-room that opened 
 out of Mrs. Mallowe's bedroom. 
 
 'My dear girl, what has he done?' said Mrs. Mallowe 
 sweetly. It is noticeable that ladies of a certain age 
 call each other 'dear girl,' just as commissioners of 
 twenty-eight years' standing address their equals in the 
 Civil List as 'my boy.' 
 
 'There's no he in the case. Who am I that an imag- 
 inary man should be always credited to me? Am I an 
 Apache? ' 
 
 'No, dear, but somebody's scalp is generally drying 
 at your wigwam-door. Soaking, rather.' 
 
 This was an allusion to the Hawley Boy, who was in 
 the habit of riding all across Simla in the Rains, to call 
 on Mrs. Hauksbee. That lady laughed. 
 
 'For my sins, the Aide at Tyrconnel last night told 
 me off to The Mussuck. Hsh! Don't laugh. One of 
 my most devoted admirers. When the duff came — 
 some one really ought to teach them to make puddings at 
 Tyrconnel — The Mussuck was at liberty to attend to me.' 
 
 'Sweet soul! I know his appetite,' said Mrs. Mal- 
 lowe. ' Did he, oh did he, begin his wooing? ' 
 
 'By a special mercy of Providence, no. He explained 
 his importance as a Pillar of the Empire. I didn't 
 laugh.' 
 
THE EDUCATION OF OTIS YEERE 5 
 
 'Lucy, I don't believe you.' 
 
 'Ask Captain Sangar; he was on the other side. 
 Well, as I was saying, The Mussuck dilated.' 
 
 'I think I can see him doing it,' said Mrs. Mallowe 
 pensively, scratching her fox-terrier's ears. 
 
 ' I was properly impressed. Most properly. I yawned 
 openly. "Strict supervision, and play them off one 
 against the other," said The Mussuck, shovelling down 
 his ice by tureenfuls, I assure you. "That, Mrs. Hauks- 
 bee, is the secret of our Government." ' 
 
 Mrs. Mallowe laughed long and merrily. 'And 
 what did you say?' 
 
 •Did you ever know me at loss for an answer yet? 
 I said: "So I have observed in my dealings with you." 
 The Mussuck swelled with pride. He is coming to 
 call on me to-morrow. The Hawley Boy is coming 
 too.' 
 
 '"Strict supervision and play them off one against 
 the other. That, Mrs. Hauksbee, is the secret of our 
 Government." And I daresay if we could get to The 
 Mussuck's heart, we should find that he considers him- 
 self a man of the world.' 
 
 "'As he is of the other two things. I like The Mus- 
 suck, and I won't have you call him names. He amuses 
 me.' 
 
 'He has reformed you, too, by what appears. Ex- 
 plain the interval of sanity, and hit Tim on the nose with, 
 the paper-cutter, please. That dog is too fond of 
 sugar. Do you take milk in yours?' 
 
 'No, thanks. Polly, I'm wearied of this life. It's 
 hollow.' 
 
 'Turn religious, then. I always said that Rome 
 would be your fate.' 
 
 'Only exchanging half a dozen attaches in red for 
 
6 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 one in black, and if I fasted, the wrinkles would come, 
 and never, never go. Has it ever struck you, dear, 
 that I'm getting old?' 
 
 'Thanks for your courtesy. I'll return it. Ye-es, 
 we are both not exactly — how shall I put it? ' 
 
 'What we have been. "I feel it in my bones," as 
 Mrs. Crossley says. Polly, I've wasted my life.' 
 
 'As how?' 
 
 'Never mind how. I feel it. I want to be a Power 
 before I die.' 
 
 'Be a Power then. You've wits enough for any» 
 thing — and beauty? ' 
 
 Mrs. Hauksbee pointed a teaspoon straight at he* 
 hostess. 'Polly, if you heap compliments on me like 
 this, I shall cease to believe that you're a woman. Tel' 
 me how I am to be a Power.' 
 
 ' Inform The Mussuck that he is the most fascinating 
 and slimmest man in Asia, and he'll tell you anything 
 and everything you please.' 
 
 'Bother The Mussuck! I mean an intellectual Power 
 — not a gas-power. Polly, I'm going to start a 
 salon.' 
 
 Mrs. Mallowe turned lazily on the sofa and rested her 
 head on her hand. 'Hear the words of the Preacher, the 
 son of Baruch,' she said. 
 
 'Will you talk sensibly?' 
 
 'I will, dear, for I see that you are going to make a 
 mistake.' 
 
 'I never made a mistake in my life — at least, nevei 
 one that I couldn't explain afterwards.' 
 
 'Going to make a mistake,' went on Mrs. Mallowe 
 composedly. 'It is impossible to start a salon in Simla 
 A bar would be much more to the point.' 
 
 'Perhaps, but why? It seems so easy.' 
 
THE EDUCATION OF OTIS YEERE 7 
 
 'Just what makes it so difficult. How many clever 
 women are there in Simla? ' 
 
 'Myself and yourself,' said Mrs. Hauksbee, without a 
 moment's hesitation. 
 
 'Modest woman! Mrs. Feardon would thank you 
 for that. And how many clever men? ' 
 
 'Oh — er — hundreds,' said Mrs. Hauksbee vaguely. 
 
 'What a fatal blunder! Not one. They are all 
 bespoke by the Government. Take my husband, for 
 instance. Jack was a clever man, though I say so who 
 shouldn't. Government has eaten him up. All his 
 ideas and powers of conversation— he really used to be 
 a good talker, even to his wife, in the old days — are 
 taken from him by this — this kitchen-sink of a Gov- 
 ernment. That's the case with every man up here who 
 is at work. I don't suppose a Russian convict under 
 the knout is able to amuse the rest of his gang; and 
 all our men-folk here are gilded convicts.' 
 
 'But there are scores— — ' 
 
 'I know what you're going to say. Scores of idle 
 men up on leave. I admit it, but they are all of two 
 objectionable sets. The Civilian who'd be delightful 
 if he had the military man's knowledge of the world 
 and style, and the military man who'd be adorable if 
 he had the Civilian's culture.' 
 
 'Detestable word! Have Civilians culchaw? I never 
 studied the breed deeply.' 
 
 'Don't make fun of Jack's service. Yes. They're 
 like the teapoys in the Lakka Bazar — good material 
 but not polished. They can't help themselves, poor 
 dears. A Civilian only begins to be tolerable after he 
 has knocked about the world for fifteen years.' 
 
 'And a military man?' 
 
 'When he has had the same amount of service. The 
 
8 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 young of both species are horrible. You would have, 
 scores of them in your salon.' 
 
 'I would not I' said Mrs. Hauksbee fiercely. 'I 
 would tell the bearer to darwaza band them. I'd put 
 their own colonels and commissioners at the door to 
 turn them away. I'd give them to the Topsham girl 
 to play with.' 
 
 'The Topsham girl would be grateful for the gift. 
 But to go back to the salon. Allowing that you had 
 gathered all your men and women together, what would 
 you do with them? Make them talk? They "would all 
 with one accord begin to flirt. Your salon would become 
 a glorified Peliti's — a " Scandal Point" by lamplight.' 
 
 'There's a certain amount of wisdom in that view.' 
 
 'There's all the wisdom in the world in it. Surely, 
 twelve Simla seasons ought to have taught you that 
 you can't focus anything in India; and a salon, to be 
 any good at all, must be permanent. In two seasons 
 your roomful would be scattered all over Asia. We 
 are only little bits of dirt on the hillsides — here one 
 day and blown down the khud the next. We have lost 
 the art of talking — at least our men have. We have no 
 cohesion ' 
 
 'George Eliot in the flesh,' interpolated Mrs. Hauks- 
 bee wickedly. 
 
 'And collectively, my dear scoffer, we, men and 
 women alike, have no influence. Come into the veranda 
 and look at the Mall!' 
 
 The two looked down on the now rapidly filling road, 
 for all Simla was abroad to steal a stroll between a 
 shower and a fog. 
 
 'How do you propose to fix that river? Look! 
 There's The Mussuck — head of goodness knows what. 
 He is a power in the land, though he does eat like a 
 
THE EDUCATION OF OTIS YEERE 9 
 
 costermonger. There's Colonel Blone, and General 
 Grucher, and Sir Dugald Delane, and Sir Henry Haiigh- 
 ton, and Mr. Jellalatty. All Heads of Departments, 
 and all powerful.' 
 
 'And all my fervent admirers/ said Mrs. Hauksbee 
 piously. 'Sir Henry Haughton raves about me. But 
 go on.' 
 
 'One by one, these men are worth something. Col* 
 lectively, they're just a mob of Anglo-Indians. Who 
 cares for what Anglo-Indians say? Your salon won't 
 weld the Departments together and make you mistress 
 of India, dear. And these creatures won't talk admin- 
 istrative "shop" in a crowd — your salon — because 
 they are so afraid of the men in the lower ranks over- 
 hearing it. They have forgotten what of Literature 
 and Art they ever knew, and the women ' 
 
 'Can't talk about anything except the last Gym- 
 khana, or the sins of their last nurse. I was calling on 
 Mrs. Derwills this morning.' 
 
 'You admit that? They can talk to the subalterns 
 though, and the subalterns can talk to them. Your 
 salon would suit their views admirably, if you respected 
 the religious prejudices of the country and provided 
 plenty of kalajuggahs.' 
 
 'Plenty of kala juggahs. Oh my poor little ideal 
 Kalajuggahs in a salon! But who made you so awfully 
 clever?' 
 
 'Perhaps I've tried myself; or perhaps I know a 
 woman who has. I have preached and expounded tha 
 whole matter and the conclusion thereof ' 
 
 'You needn't go on. "Is Vanity." Polly, I thank 
 you. These vermin' — Mrs. Hauksbee waved her hand 
 from the veranda to two men in the crowd below who 
 had raised their hats to her— 'these vermin shall not 
 
io UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 rejoice in a new Scandal Point or an extra Peliti's. I 
 will abandon the notion of a salon. It did seem so 
 tempting, though. But what shall I do? I must do 
 something.' 
 
 'Why? Are not Abana and Pharphar ' 
 
 'Jack has made you nearly as bad as himself! I 
 want to, of course. I'm tired of everything and every- 
 body, from a moonlight picnic at Seepee to the blan- 
 dishments of The Mussuck.' 
 
 'Yes — that comes, too, sooner or later. Have you 
 nerve enough to make your bow yet? ' 
 
 Mrs. Hauksbee's mouth shut grimly. Then she 
 laughed. 'I think I see myself doing it. Big pink 
 placards on the Mall: "Mrs. Hauksbee! Positively 
 her last appearance on any stage! This is to give 
 notice!" No more dances; no more rides; no more 
 luncheons; no more theatricals with supper to follow; 
 no more sparring with one's dearest, dearest friend; no 
 more fencing with an inconvenient man who hasn't wit 
 enough to clothe what he's pleased to call his senti- 
 ments in passable speech; no more parading of The 
 Mussuck while Mrs. Tarkass calls all round Simla, 
 spreading horrible stories about me! No more of any- 
 thing that is thoroughly wearying, abominable and 
 detestable, but, all the same, makes life worth the 
 having. Yes! I see it all! Don't interrupt, Polly, 
 I'm inspired. A mauve and white striped "cloud" 
 round my excellent shoulders, a seat in the fifth row 
 of the Gaiety, and both horses sold. Delightful vision! 
 A comfortable arm-chair, situated in three different 
 draughts, at every ballroom; and nice, large, sensible 
 shoes for all the couples to stumble over, as they go 
 into the veranda! Then at supper. Can't you imag- 
 ine the scene? The greedy mob gone away. Reluc- 
 
THE EDUCATION OF OTIS YEERE n 
 
 tant subaltern, pink all over like a newly-powdered 
 baby, — they really ought to tan subalterns before they 
 are exported, Polly — sent back by the hostess to do 
 his duty. Slouches up to me across the room, tugging 
 at a glove two sizes too large for him — I hate a man 
 who wears gloves like overcoats — and trying to look 
 as if he'd thought of it from the first. "May I ah-have 
 the pleasure 'f takin' you 'nt' supper?" Then I get 
 up with a hungry smile. Just like this.' 
 
 'Lucy, how can you be so absurd?' 
 
 'And sweep out on his arm. So! After supper I 
 shall go away early, you know, because I shall be afraid 
 of catching cold. No one will look for my 'rickshaw. 
 Mine, so please you! I shall stand, always with that 
 mauve and white "cloud" over my head, while the 
 wet soaks into my dear, old, venerable feet and Tom 
 swears and shouts for the memsahiVs gharri. Then 
 home to bed at half -past eleven! Truly excellent life 
 — helped out by the visits of the Padri, just fresh from 
 burying somebody down below there.' She pointed 
 through the pines, towards the Cemetery, and con- 
 tinued with vigorous dramatic gesture — 
 
 'Listen! I see it all — down, down even to the stays! 
 Such stays! Six-eight a pair, Polly, with red flannel 
 — or list is it?— that they put into the tops of those fear- 
 ful things. I can draw you a picture of them.' 
 
 'Lucy, for Heaven's sake, don't go waving your arms 
 about in that idiotic manner! Recollect, every one can 
 see you from the Mall.' 
 
 'Let them see! They'll think I am rehearsing for 
 The Fallen Angel. Look! There's The Mussuck. How 
 badly he rides. There!' 
 
 She blew a kiss to the venerable Indian administrator 
 with infinite grace- 
 
12 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 'Now,' she continued, 'he'll be chaffed about that 
 at the Club in the delicate manner those brutes of men 
 affect, and the Hawley Boy will tell me all about it 
 — softening the details for fear of shocking me. That 
 boy is too good to live, Polly. I've serious thoughts 
 of recommending him to throw up his Commission and 
 go into the Church. In his present frame of mind he 
 would obey me. Happy, happy child ! ' 
 
 'Never again,' said Mrs. Mallowe, with an affecta- 
 tion of indignation, 'shall you tiffin here! "Lucindy, 
 your behaviour is scand'lus. '" 
 
 'All your fault,' retorted Mrs. Hauksbee, 'for sug- 
 gesting such a thing as my abdication. No! Jamais- 
 nevaire! I will act, dance, ride, frivol, talk scandal, 
 dine out, and appropriate the legitimate captives of 
 any woman I choose, until I d-r-r-rop, or a better wo- 
 man than I puts me to shame before all Simla, — and 
 it's dust and ashes in my mouth while I'm doing it !' 
 
 She swept into the drawing-room. Mrs. Mallowe 
 followed and put an arm round her waist. 
 
 'I'm not I' said Mrs. Hauksbee defiantly, rummag- 
 ing for her handkerchief. 'I've been dining out the 
 last ten nights, and rehearsing in the afternoon. You'd 
 be tired yourself. It's only because I'm tired.' 
 
 Mrs. Mallowe did not offer Mrs. Hauksbee any pity 
 or ask her to lie down, but gave her another cup of 
 tea, and went on with the talk. 
 
 'I've been through that too, dear,' she said. 
 
 'I remember,' said Mrs. Hauksbee, a gleam of fun 
 on her face. 'In '84, wasn't it? You went out a great 
 deal less next season.' 
 
 Mrs. Mallowe smiled in a superior and Sphinx-like 
 fashion. 
 
 'I became an Influence,' said she. 
 
THE EDUCATION OF OTIS YEERE 13 
 
 'Good gracious, child, you didn't join the Theoso- 
 phists and kiss Buddha's big toe, did you? I tried to 
 get into their set once, but they cast me out for a sceptic 
 — without a chance of improving my poor little mind, 
 too.' 
 
 'No, I didn't Theosophilander. Jack says — ■ — ' 
 
 'Never mind Jack. What a husband says is known 
 before. What did you do? ' 
 
 'I made a lasting impression.' 
 
 'So have I — for four months. But that didn't con- 
 sole me in the least. I hated the man. Will you stop 
 smiling in that inscrutable way and tell me what you 
 mean? ' 
 
 Mrs. Mallowe told. 
 
 'And— you — mean — to — say that it is absolutely Pla- 
 tonic on both sides? ' 
 
 'Absolutely, or I should never have taken it up.' 
 
 'And his last promotion was due to you?' 
 
 Mrs. Mallowe nodded. 
 
 'And you warned him against the Topsham girl?' 
 
 Another nod. 
 
 'And told him of Sir Dugald Delane's private memo 
 about him?' 
 
 A third nod. 
 
 'Why?' 
 
 'What a question to ask a woman! Because it 
 amused me at first. I am proud of my property now. 
 If I live, he shall continue to be successful. Yes, I 
 will put him upon the straight road to Knighthood, 
 and everything else that a man values. The rest de- 
 pends upon himself.' 
 
 'Polly, you are a most extraordinary woman.' 
 
i 4 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 'Not in the least. I'm concentrated, that's all. 
 You diffuse yourself, dear; and though all Simla knows 
 your skill in managing a team ' 
 
 'Can't you choose a prettier word?' 
 
 'Team, of half a dozen, from The Mussuck to the 
 Hawley Boy, you gain nothing by it. Not even amuse- 
 ment.' 
 
 'And you?' 
 
 'Try my recipe. Take a man, not a boy, mind, but 
 an almost mature, unattached man, and be his guide, 
 philosopher, and friend. You'll find it the most in- 
 teresting occupation that you ever embarked on. It 
 can be done — you needn't look like that — because I've 
 done it.' 
 
 'There's an element of risk about it that makes the 
 notion attractive. I'll get such a man and say to him, 
 "Now, understand that there must be no flirtation. Do 
 exactly what I tell you, profit by my instruction and 
 counsels, and all will yet be well." Is that the idea?' 
 
 'More or less,' said Mrs. Mallowe, with an unfathom- 
 able smile. ' But be sure he understands.' 
 
II 
 
 Dribble-dribble — trickle-trickle— 
 
 What a lot of raw dust! 
 My dollie's had an accident 
 
 And out came all the sawdust! 
 
 Nursery Rhyme. 
 
 So Mrs. Hauksbee, in 'The Foundry' which overlooks 
 Simla Mall, sat at the feet of Mrs. Mallowe and 
 gathered wisdom. The end of the Conference was the 
 Great Idea upon which Mrs. Hauksbee so plumed her- 
 self. 
 
 'I warn you,' said Mrs. Mallowe, beginning to repent 
 of her suggestion, 'that the matter is not half so easy 
 as it looks. Any woman — even the Topsham girl — can 
 catch a man, but very, very few know how to manage 
 him when caught.' 
 
 'My child,' was the answer, 'I've been a female St. 
 Simon Stylites looking down upon men for these — 
 these years past. Ask The Mussuck whether I can man- 
 age them.' 
 
 Mrs. Hauksbee departed humming, Til go to him and 
 say to him in manner most ironical.' Mrs. Mallowe 
 laughed to herself. Then she grew suddenly sober. 'I 
 wonder whether I've done well in advising that amuse- 
 ment? Lucy's a clever woman, but a thought too care- 
 less.' 
 
 A week later, the two met at a Monday Pop. 'Well?' 
 said Mrs. Mallowe. 
 
 is 
 
16 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 'I've caught him!' said Mrs. Hauksbee; her eyes were 
 dancing with merriment. 
 
 'Who is it, mad woman? I'm sorry I ever spoke to 
 you about it.' 
 
 'Look between the pillars. In the third row; fourth 
 from the end. You can see his face now. Look!' 
 
 'Otis Yeere! Of all the improbable and impossible 
 people! I don't believe you.' 
 
 'Hsh! Wait till Mrs. Tarkass begins murdering 
 Milton Wellings; and I'll tell you all about it. S-s-ssl 
 That woman's voice always reminds me of an Under- 
 ground train coming into Earl's Court with the brakes 
 on. Now listen. It is really Otis Yeere.' 
 
 'So I see, but does it follow that he is your property?' 
 
 'He is I By right of trove. I found him, lonely 
 and unbefriended, the very next night after our talk, 
 at the Dugald Delane's burra-khana. I liked his eyes, 
 and I talked to him. Next day he called. Next day 
 we went for a ride together, and to-day he's tied to 
 my 'rickshaw-wheels hand and foot. You'll see when 
 ihe concert's over. He doesn't know I'm here yet.' 
 
 'Thank goodness you haven't chosen a boy. What 
 are you going to do with him, assuming that you've 
 got him?' 
 
 'Assuming, indeed L Does a woman — do I — ever 
 make a mistake in that sort of thing? First' — Mrs. 
 Hauksbee ticked off the items ostentatiously on her 
 little gloved fingers — 'First, my dear, I shall dress 
 him properly. At present his raiment is a disgrace, 
 and he wears a dress-shirt like a crumpled sheet of the 
 Pioneer. Secondly, after I have made him presentable, 
 I shall form his manners — his morals are above reproach.' 
 
 'You seem to have discovered a great deal about him 
 considering the shortness of your acquaintance.' 
 
THE EDUCATION OF OTIS YEERE 17 
 
 'Surely you cpught to know that the first proof a 
 man gives of his interest in a woman is by talking to 
 her about his own sweet self. If the woman listens 
 without yawning, he begins to like her. If she flatters 
 the animal's vanity, he ends by adoring her.' 
 
 'In some cases.' 
 
 'Never mind the exceptions. I know which one 
 you are thinking of. Thirdly, and lastly, after he is 
 polished and made pretty, I shall, as you said, be his 
 guide, philosopher, and friend, and he shall become a 
 success — as great a success as your friend. I always 
 wondered how that man got on. Did The Mussuck 
 come to you with the Civil List and, dropping on one 
 knee— no, two knees, a la Gibbon — hand it to you and 
 say, "Adorable angel, choose your friend's appoint- 
 ment"?' 
 
 'Lucy, your long experiences of the Military Depart- 
 ment have demoralised you. One doesn't do that sort 
 of thing on the Civil Side.' 
 
 'No disrespect meant to Jack's Service, my dear. 
 I only asked for information. Give me three months, 
 and see what changes I shall work in my prey.' 
 
 'Go your own way since you must. But I'm sorry 
 that I was weak enough to suggest the amusement.' 
 
 '"I am all discretion, and may be trusted to an in- 
 fin-ite extent," ' quoted Mrs. Hauksbee from The Fallen 
 Angel; and the conversation ceased with Mrs. Tar- 
 kass's last, long-drawn war-whoop. 
 
 Her bitterest enemies — and she had many — could 
 hardly accuse Mrs. Hauksbee of wasting her time. 
 Otis Yeere was one of those wandering 'dumb' charac- 
 ters, foredoomed through life to be nobody's property. 
 Ten years in Her Majesty's Bengal Civil Service, spent, 
 for the most part, in undesirable Districts, had given 
 
i8 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 him little to be proud of, and nothing to bring confi- 
 dence. Old enough to have lost the first fine careless 
 rapture that showers on the immature 'Stunt imaginary 
 Commissionerships and Stars, and sends him into the 
 collar with coltish earnestness and abandon; too young 
 to be yet able to look back upon the progress he had 
 made, and thank Providence that under the conditions 
 of the day he had come even so far, he stood upon the 
 dead-centre of his career. And when a man stands 
 still, he feels the slightest impulse from without. For- 
 tune had ruled that Otis Yeere should be, for the first 
 part of his service, one of the rank and file who are 
 ground up in the wheels of the Administration; losing 
 heart and soul, and mind and strength, in the process. 
 Until steam replaces manual power in the working of the 
 Empire, there must always be this percentage — must 
 always be the men who are used up, expended, in the 
 mere mechanical routine. For these promotion is far 
 off and the mill-grind of every day very instant. The 
 Secretariats know them only by name; they are not the 
 picked men of the Districts with Divisions and Colleo- 
 torates awaiting them. They are simply the rank and 
 file — the food for fever — sharing with the ryot and the 
 plough-bullock the honour of being the plinth on which 
 the State rests. The older ones have lost their aspi- 
 rations; the younger are putting theirs aside with a sigh. 
 Both learn to endure patiently until the end of the day. 
 Twelve years in the rank and file, men say, will sap the 
 hearts of the bravest and dull the wits of the most keen. 
 Out of this life Otis Yeere had fled for a few months; 
 drifting, in the hope of a little masculine society, into 
 Simla. When his leave was over he would return to 
 his swampy, sour-green, under-manned Bengal district; 
 to the native Assistant, the native Doctor, the native 
 
THE EDUCATION OF OTIS YEERE 19 
 
 Magistrate, the steaming, sweltering Station, the ill- 
 kempt City, and the undisguised insolence of the Mu- 
 nicipality that babbled away the lives of men. Life 
 was cheap, however. The soil spawned humanity, as 
 it bred frogs in the Rains, and the gap of the sickness 
 of one season was filled to overflowing by the fecundity 
 of the next. Otis was unfeignedly thankful to lay 
 down his work for a little while and escape from the 
 seething, whining, weakly hive, impotent to help itself, 
 but strong in its power to cripple, thwart, and annoy 
 the sunken-eyed man who, by official irony, was said 
 to be 'in charge' of it. 
 
 'I knew there were women-dowdies in Bengal. They 
 come up here sometimes. But I didn't know that there 
 were men-dowds, too.' 
 
 Then, for the first time, it occurred to Otis Yeere 
 that his clothes wore the mark of the ages. It will be 
 seen that his friendship with Mrs. Hauksbee had made 
 great strides. 
 
 As that lady truthfully says, a man is never so happy 
 as when he is talking about himself. From Otis Yeere's 
 lips Mrs. Hauksbee, before long, learned everything 
 that she wished to know about the subject of her ex- 
 periment: learned what manner of life he had led in 
 what she vaguely called 'those awful cholera districts'; 
 learned, too, but this knowledge came later, what man- 
 ner of life he had purposed to lead and what dreams he 
 had dreamed in the year of grace '77, before the reality 
 had knocked the heart out of him. Very pleasant are 
 the shady bridle-paths round Prospect Hill for the tell- 
 ing of such confidences. 
 
 'Not yet/ said Mrs. Hauksbee to Mrs, Mallowe. 
 
UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 ' Not yet. I must wait until the man is properly dressed, 
 at least. Great Heavens, is it possible that he doesn't 
 know what an honour it is to be taken up by Me I ' 
 
 Mrs. Hauksbee did not reckon false modesty as one of 
 her failings. 
 
 'Always with Mrs. Hauksbee!' murmured Mrs. Mal- 
 iowe, with her sweetest smile, to Otis. 'Oh you men, 
 you men! Here are our Punjabis growling because 
 you've monopolised the nicest woman in Simla. They'll 
 tear you to pieces on the Mall, some day, Mr. Yeere.' 
 
 Mrs. Mallowe rattled down-hill, having satisfied her- 
 self, by a glance through the fringe of her sunshade, of 
 the effect of her words. 
 
 The shot went home. Of a surety Otis Yeere was 
 somebody in this bewildering whirl of Simla — had 
 monopolised the nicest woman in it and the Punjabis 
 were growling. The notion justified a mild glow of 
 vanity. He had never looked upon his acquaintance 
 with Mrs. Hauksbee as a matter for general interest. 
 
 The knowledge of envy was a pleasant feeling to the 
 man of no account. It was intensified later in the day 
 when a luncher at the Club said spitefully, 'Well, for a 
 debilitated Ditcher, Yeere, you are going it. Hasn't 
 any kind friend told you that she's the most dangerous 
 woman in Simla?' 
 
 Yeere chuckled and passed out. When, oh when, 
 would his new clothes be ready? He descended into 
 the Mall to inquire; and Mrs. Hauksbee, coming over 
 the Church Ridge in her 'rickshaw, looked down upon 
 him approvingly. 'He's learning to carry himself as 
 if he were a man, instead of a piece of furniture, — and,' 
 she screwed up her eyes to see the better through the 
 sunlight — 'he is a man when he holds himself like that. 
 Oh blessed Conceit, what should we be without you? ' 
 
THE EDUCATION OF OTIS YEERE it 
 
 With the new clothes came a new stock of self-confi- 
 dence. Otis Yeere discovered that he could enter a 
 room without breaking into a gentle perspiration — 
 could cross one, even to talk to Mrs. Hauksbee, as 
 though rooms were meant to be crossed. He was for 
 the first time in nine years proud of himself, and con- 
 tented with his life, satisfied with his new clothes, and 
 rejoicing in the friendship of Mrs. Hauksbee. 
 
 'Conceit is what the poor fellow wants,' she said in 
 confidence to Mrs. Mallowe. 'I believe they must use 
 Civilians to plough the fields with in Lower Bengal. 
 You see I have to begin from the very beginning — 
 haven't I? But you'll admit, won't you, dear, that he 
 is immensely improved since I took him in hand. Only 
 give me a little more time and he won't know himself.' 
 
 Indeed, Yeere was rapidly beginning to forget what 
 he had been. One of his own rank and file put the 
 matter brutally when he asked Yeere, in reference to 
 nothing, 'And who has been making you a Member of 
 Council, lately? You carry the side of half a dozen 
 of 'em.' 
 
 'I — I'm awf'ly sorry. I didn't mean it, you know,' 
 said Yeere apologetically. 
 
 ' There'll be no holding you,' continued the old stager 
 grimly. 'Climb down, Otis — climb down, and get all 
 that beastly affectation knocked out of you with fever! 
 Three thousand a month wouldn't support it.' 
 
 Yeere repeated the incident to Mrs. Hauksbee. He 
 had come to look upon her as his Mother Confessor. 
 
 'And you apologised!' she said. 'Oh, shame! I 
 hate a man who apologises. Never apologise for what 
 your friend called "side." Never I It's a man's busi- 
 ness to be insolent and overbearing until he meets with 
 a stronger. Now, you bad boy, listen to me'.' 
 
ii tJNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 Simply and straightforwardly, as the 'rickshaw loitered 
 round Jakko, Mrs. Hauksbee preached to Otis Yeere 
 the Great Gospel of Conceit, illustrating it with living 
 pictures encountered during their Sunday afternoon 
 stroll. 
 
 'Good gracious!' she ended with the personal argu- 
 ment, 'you'll apologise next for being my attacks?' 
 
 ' Never ! ' said Otis Yeere. ' That's another thing alto- 
 gether. I shall always be ' 
 
 'What's coming?' thought Mrs. Hauksbee. 
 
 'Proud of that,' said Otis. 
 
 ' Safe for the present,' she said to herself. 
 
 ' But I'm afraid I have grown conceited. Like Jeshu- 
 run, you know. When he waxed fat, then he kicked. 
 It's the having no worry on one's mind and the Hill 
 air, I suppose.' 
 
 'Hill air, indeed!' said Mrs. Hauksbee to herself. 
 'He'd have been hiding in the Club till the last day of 
 his leave, if I hadn't discovered him.' And aloud — 
 
 'Why shouldn't you be? You have every right to.' 
 
 'I! Why?' 
 
 'Oh, hundreds of things. I'm not going to waste 
 this lovely afternoon by explaining; but I know you 
 have. What was that heap of manuscript you showed 
 me about the grammar of the aboriginal — what's their 
 names? ' 
 
 'Gullals. A piece of nonsense. I've far too much 
 work to do to bother over Gullals now. You should 
 see my District. Come down with your husband some 
 day and I'll show you round. Such a lovely place in 
 the Rains! A sheet of water with the railway-embank- 
 ment and the snakes sticking out, and, in the summer, 
 green flies and green squash. The people would die of 
 fear if you shook a dogwhip at 'em. But they know 
 
THE EDUCATION OF OTIS YEERE 23 
 
 you're forbidden to do that, so they conspire to make 
 your life a burden to you. My District's worked by 
 some man at Darjiling, on the strength of a native 
 pleader's false reports. Oh, it's a heavenly place!' 
 
 Otis Yeere laughed bitterly. 
 
 'There's not the least necessity that you should stay 
 in it. Why do you?' 
 
 'Because I must. How'm I to get out of it?' 
 
 'How ! In a hundred and fifty ways . If there weren't 
 so many people on the road, I'd like to box your ears. 
 Ask, my dear boy, ask I Look! There is young Hexarly 
 with six years' service and half your talents. He asked 
 for what he wanted, and he got it. See, down by the 
 Convent! There's McArthurson who has come to his 
 present position by asking — sheer, downright asking — 
 after he had pushed himself out of the rank and file. One 
 man is as good as another in your service — believe me. 
 I've seen Simla for more seasons than I care to think 
 about. Do you suppose men are chosen for appointments 
 because of their special fitness beforehand ? You have all 
 passed a high test— what do you call it?*T"in the beginning , 
 and, except for the few who have gone altogether to the 
 bad, you can all work hard. Asking does the rest. Call 
 it cheek, call it insolence, call it anything you like, but 
 ask I Men argue — yes, I know what men say — that a 
 man, by the mere audacity of his request, must have some 
 good in him. A weak man doesn't say: "Give me this 
 and that." He whines : " Why haven't I been given this 
 and that?" If you were in the Army, I should say learn 
 to spin plates or play a tambourine with your toes. As it 
 is — ask I You belong to a Service that ought to be able 
 to command the Channel Fleet, or set a leg at twenty 
 minutes' notice, and yet you hesitate over asking to 
 escape from a squashy green district where you admit you 
 
04 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 are not master. Drop the Bengal Government alto- 
 gether. Even Darjiling is a little out-of-the-way hole. I 
 was there once, and the rents were extortionate. Assert 
 yourself. Get the Government of India to take you over. 
 Try to get on the Frontier, where every man has a grand 
 chance if he can trust himself. Go somewhere ! Do some- 
 thing! You have twice the wits and three times the 
 presence of the men up here, and, and' — Mrs. Hauksbee 
 paused for breath; then continued — 'and in any way you 
 look at it, you ought to. You who could go so far ! ' 
 
 'I don't know,' said Yeere, rather taken aback by the 
 unexpected eloquence. ' I haven't such a good opinion of 
 myself.' 
 
 It was not strictly Platonic, but it was Policy. Mrs. 
 Hauksbee laid her hand lightly upon the ungloved paw 
 that rested on the turned-backed 'rickshaw hood, and, 
 looking the man full in the face, said tenderly, almost too 
 tenderly, 'I believe in you if you mistrust- yourself . Is 
 that enough, my friend? ' 
 
 'It is enough,' answered Otis very solemnly. 
 
 He was silent for a long time, redreaming the dreams 
 that he had dreamed eight years ago, but through them 
 all ran, as sheet-lightning through golden cloud, the light 
 of Mrs. Hauksbee's violet eyes. 
 
 Curious and impenetrable are the mazes of Simla life — 
 the only existence in this desolate land worth the living. 
 Gradually it went abroad among men and women, in the 
 pauses between dance, play, and Gymkhana, that Otis 
 Yeere, the man with the newly-lit light of self-confidence 
 in his eyes, had 'done something decent' in the wilds 
 whence he came. He had brought an erring Municipal- 
 ity to reason, appropriated the funds on his own responsi- 
 bility, and saved the lives of hundreds. He knew more 
 about the Gullals than any living man. Had a vast 
 
THE EDUCATION OF OTIS YEERE 25 
 
 knowledge of the aboriginal tribes; was, in spite of his 
 juniority, the greatest authority on the aboriginal Guilds. 
 No one quite knew who or what the Gullals were till The 
 Mussuck, who had been calling on Mrs. Hauksbee, and 
 prided himself upon picking people's brains, explained 
 they were a tribe of ferocious hillmen, somewhere near 
 Sikkim, whose friendship even the Great Indian Empire 
 would find it worth her while to secure. Now we know 
 that Otis Yeere had showed Mrs. Hauksbee his MS. 
 notes of six years' standing on these same Gullals. He had 
 told her, too, how, sick and shaken with the fever their 
 negligence had bred, crippled by the loss of his pet clerk, 
 and savagely angry at the desolation in his charge, he had 
 once damned the collective eyes of his 'intelligent local 
 board' for a set of haramzadas. Which act of 'brutal and 
 tyrannous oppression' won him a Reprimand Royal from 
 the Bengal Government; but in the anecdote as amended 
 for Northern consumption we find no record of this. 
 Hence we are forced to conclude that Mrs. Hauksbee 
 edited his reminiscences before sowing them in idle ears, 
 ready, as she well knew, to exaggerate good or evil. And 
 Otis Yeere bore himself as befitted the hero of many tales. 
 
 'You can talk to me when you don't fall into a brown 
 study. Talk now, and talk your brightest and best,' said 
 Mrs. Hauksbee. 
 
 Otis needed no spur. Look to a man who has the 
 counsel of a woman of or above the world to back him. 
 So long as he keeps his head, he can meet both sexes on 
 equal ground — an advantage never intended by Provi- 
 dence, who fashioned Man on one day and Woman on an- 
 other, in sign that neither should know more than a very 
 little of the other's life. Such a man goes far, or, the 
 counsel being withdrawn, collapses suddenly while his 
 world seeks the reason. 
 
36 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 Generalled by Mrs. Hauksbee, who, again, had all Mrs. 
 Mallowe's wisdom at her disposal, proud of himself and, 
 in the end, believing in himself because he was believed 
 in, Otis Yeere stood ready for any fortune that might be- 
 fall, certain that it would be good. He would fight for 
 his own hand, and intended that this second struggle 
 should lean to better issue than the first helpless surrender 
 of the bewildered 'Stunt. 
 
 What might have happened, it is impossible to say. 
 This lamentable thing befell, bred directly by a state 
 ment of Mrs. Hauksbee that she would spend the ne? t 
 season in Darjiling. 
 
 'Are you certain of that? ' said Otis Yeere. 
 
 ' Quite. We're writing about a house now. ' 
 
 Otis Yeere 'stopped dead,' as Mrs. Hauksbee put it in 
 discussing the relapse with Mrs. Mallowe. 
 
 'He has behaved,' she said angrily, 'just like Captain 
 Kerrington's pony — only Otis is a donkey — at the last 
 Gymkhana. Planted his forefeet and refused to go on 
 another step. Polly, my man's going to disappoint me. 
 What shall I do?' 
 
 As a rule, Mrs. Mallowe does not approve of staring, 
 but on this occasion she opened her eyes to the utmost. 
 
 'You have managed cleverly so far,' she said. 'Speak 
 to him, and ask him what he means.' 
 
 ' I will — at to-night's dance.' 
 
 'No — o, not at a dance,' said Mrs. Mallowe cautiously. 
 'Men are never themselves quite at dances. Better wait 
 till to-morrow morning.' 
 
 'Nonsense. If he's going to 'vert in this insane way, 
 there isn't a day to lose. Are you going? No? Then 
 sit up for me, there's a dear. I shan't stay longer than 
 supper under any circumstances.' 
 
 Mrs. Mallowe waited through the evening, looking long 
 
THE EDUCATION OF OTIS YEERE 27 
 
 and earnestly into the fire, and sometimes smiling to 
 herself. 
 
 ^ *|s 3|* 5JC 37. 3fC SfC *f» pfC 
 
 ' Oh ! oh ! oh ! The man's an idiot ! A raving, positive 
 idiot ! I'm sorry I ever saw him ! ' 
 
 Mrs. Hauksbee burst into Mrs. Mallowe's house, at 
 midnight, almost in tears. 
 
 'What in the world has happened? ' said Mrs. Mallowe, 
 but her eyes showed that she had guessed an answer. 
 
 'Happened! Everything has happened! He was 
 there. I went to him and said, "Now, what does this 
 nonsense mean?" Don't laugh, dear, I can't bear it. 
 But you know what I mean I said. Then it was a square, 
 and I sat it out with him and wanted an explanation, and 
 he said — Oh! I haven't patience with such idiots! You 
 know what I said about going to Darjiling next year? It 
 doesn't matter to me where I go. I'd have changed the 
 Station and lost the rent to have saved this. He said, in 
 so many words, that he wasn't going to try to work up 
 any more, because — because he would be shifted into a 
 province away from Darjiling, and his own District, 
 where these creatures are, is within a day's journey ' 
 
 'Ah — hh!' said Mrs. Mallowe, in a tone of one who has 
 successfully tracked an obscure word through a large dic- 
 tionary. 
 
 'Did you ever hear of anything so mad — so absurd? 
 And he had the ball at his feet. He had only to kick it! 
 I would have made him anything I Anything in the wide 
 world. He could have gone to the world's end. I would 
 have helped him. I made him, didn't I, Polly? Didn't I 
 create that man? Doesn't he owe everything to me? 
 And to reward me, just when everything was nicely 
 arranged, by this lunacy that spoilt everything.' ' 
 
28 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 'Very few men understand your devotion thoroughly.' 
 
 ' Oh, Polly, don't laugh at me ! I give men up from this 
 hour. I could have killed him then and there. What 
 right had this man — this Thing I had picked out of his 
 filthy paddy-fields — to make love to me? ' 
 
 'He did that, did he?' 
 
 'He did. I don't remember half he said, I was so 
 angry. Oh, but such a funny thing happened! I can't 
 help laughing at it now, though I felt nearly ready to cry 
 with rage. He raved and I stormed — I'm afraid we must 
 have made an awful noise in our kalajuggah. Protect my 
 character, dear, if it's all over Simla by to-morrow — and 
 then he bobbed forward in the middle of this insanity — I 
 firmly believe the man's demented — and kissed me!' 
 
 'Morals above reproach,' purred Mrs. Mallowe. 
 
 'So they were — so they are! It was the most absurd 
 kiss. I don't believe he'd ever kissed a woman in his life 
 before. I threw my head back, and it was a sort of slidy. 
 pecking dab, just on the end of the chin — here.' Mrs. 
 Hauksbee tapped her masculine little chin with her fan. 
 'Then, of course, I was furiously angry, and told him that 
 he was no gentleman, and I was sorry I'd ever met him, 
 and so on. He was crushed so easily that I couldn't be 
 very angry. Then I came away straight to you.' 
 
 ' Was this before or after supper? ' 
 
 'Oh! before — oceans before. Isn't it perfectly dis- 
 gusting? ' 
 
 'Let me think. I withold judgment till to-morrow. 
 Morning brings counsel.' 
 
 But morning brought only a servant with a dainty 
 bouquet of Annandale roses for Mrs. Hauksbee to wear at 
 the dance at Viceregal Lodge that night. 
 
 'He doesn't seem to be very penitent,' said Mrs. 
 Mallowe. ' What's the billet-doux in the centre? ' 
 
THE EDUCATION OF OTIS YEERE 29 
 
 Mrs. Hauksbee opened the neatly-folded note, — an- 
 other accomplishment that she had taught Otis, — read it, 
 and groaned tragically. 
 
 ' Last wreck of a feeble intellect ! Poetry ! Is it his own, 
 do you think? Oh, that I ever built my hopes on such a 
 maudlin idiot!' 
 
 'No. It's a quotation from Mrs. Browning, and, in 
 view of the facts of the case, as Jack says, uncommonly 
 well chosen. Listen — 
 
 Sweet thou hast trod on a heart, 
 
 Pass! There's a world full of men; 
 And women as fair as thou art, 
 
 Must do such things now and then. 
 
 Thou only hast stepped unaware — 
 
 Malice not one can impute; 
 And why should a heart have been there, 
 
 In the way of a fair woman's foot? ' 
 
 'I didn't— I didn't— I didn't!' said Mrs. Hauksbee 
 angrily, her eyes filling with tears; ' there was no malice at 
 all. Oh, it's too vexatious ! ' 
 
 'You've misunderstood the compliment,' said Mrs. 
 Mallowe. 'He clears you completely and — ahem — I 
 should think by this, that he has cleared completely too. 
 My experience of men is that when they begin to quote 
 poetry, they are going to flit. Like swans singing before 
 they die, you know.' 
 
 'Polly, you take my sorrows in a most unfeeling way.' 
 
 'Do I? Is it so terrible? If he's hurt your vanity, I 
 should say you've done a certain amount of damage to his 
 heart.' 
 
 'Oh, you never can tell about a man!' said Mrs. Hauks- 
 bee. 
 
AT THE. PIT'S MOUTH 
 
 Men say it was a stolen tide — 
 
 The Lord that sent it he knows all. 
 But in mine ear will aye abide 
 
 The message that the bells let fall, 
 And awesome bells they were to me, 
 That in the dark rang, 'Enderby.' 
 
 Jean Ingelow. 
 
 Once upon a time there was a Man and his Wife and 
 a Tertium Quid. 
 
 All three were unwise, but the Wife was the un- 
 wisest. The Man should have looked after his Wife, 
 who should have avoided the Tertium Quid, who, 
 again, should have married a wife of his own, after 
 clean and open flirtations, to which nobody can possi- 
 bly object, round Jakko or Observatory Hill. When 
 you see a young man with his pony in a white lather, 
 and his hat on the back of his head flying down-hill 
 at fifteen miles an hour to meet a girl who will be prop- 
 erly surprised to meet him, you naturally approve of 
 that young man, and wish him Staff appointments, and 
 take an interest in his welfare, and, as the proper time 
 comes, give them sugar-tongs or side-saddles according to 
 your means and generosity. 
 
 The Tertium Quid flew down-hill on horseback, but 
 it was to meet the Man's Wife; and when he flew up- 
 hill it was for the same end. The Man was in the 
 Plains, earning money for his Wife to spend on dresses 
 and four-hundred-rupee bracelets, and inexpensive lux- 
 
 30 
 
AT THE PIT'S MOUTH 31 
 
 dries of that kind. He worked very hard, and sent 
 her a letter or a post-card daily. She also wrote to 
 him daily, and said that she was longing for him to 
 come up to Simla. The Tertium Quid used to lean 
 over her shoulder and laugh as she wrote the notes. 
 Then the two would ride to the Post-office together. 
 
 Now, Simla is a strange place and its customs are 
 peculiar; nor is any man who has not spent at least 
 ten seasons there qualified to pass judgment on circum- 
 stantial evidence, which is the most untrustworthy in 
 the Courts. For these reasons, and for others which 
 need not appear, I decline to state positively whether 
 there was anything irretrievably wrong in the rela- 
 tions between the Man's Wife and the Tertium Quid. 
 If there was, and hereon you must form your own opin- 
 ion, it was the Man's Wife's fault. She was kittenish in 
 her manners, wearing generally an air of soft and fluffy 
 innocence. But she was deadlily learned and evil- 
 instructed; and, now and again, when the mask dropped, 
 men saw this, shuddered and — almost drew back. Men 
 are occasionally particular, and the least particular men 
 are always the most exacting. 
 
 Simla is eccentric in its fashion of treating friend- 
 ships. Certain attachments which have set and crys- 
 tallised through half a dozen seasons acquire almost 
 the sanctity of the marriage bond, and are revered as 
 such. Again, certain attachments equally old, and, 
 to all appearance, equally venerable, never seem to win 
 any recognised official status; while a chance-sprung 
 acquaintance, not two months born, steps into the place 
 which by right belongs to the senior. There is no law 
 reducible to print which regulates these affairs. 
 
 Some people have a gift which secures them infinite 
 toleration, and others have not. The Man's Wife had 
 
32 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 not. If she looked over the garden wall, for instance, 
 women taxed her with stealing their husbands. She 
 complained pathetically that she was not allowed to choose 
 her own friends. When she put up her big white muff to 
 her lips, and gazed over it and under her eyebrows at 
 you as she said this thing, you felt that she had been in- 
 famously misjudged, and that all the other women's in- 
 stincts were all wrong; which was absurd. She was not 
 allowed to own the Tertium Quid in peace; and was so 
 strangely constructed that she would not have enjoyed 
 peace had she been so permitted. She preferred some 
 semblance of intrigue to cloak even her most common- 
 place actions. 
 
 After two months of riding, first round Jakko, then 
 Elysium, then Summer Hill, then Observatory Hill, 
 then under Jutogh, and lastly up and down the Cart 
 Road as far as the Tara Devi gap in the dusk, she said 
 to the Tertium Quid, 'Frank, people say we are too much 
 together, and people are so horrid.' 
 
 The Tertium Quid pulled his moustache, and replied 
 that horrid people were unworthy of the consideration 
 of nice people. 
 
 'But they have done more than talk — they have 
 written — written to my hubby — I'm sure of it,' said 
 the Man's Wife, and she pulled a letter from her husband 
 out of her saddle-pocket and gave it to the Tertium 
 Quid. 
 
 It was an honest letter, written by an honest man, 
 then stewing in the Plains on two hundred rupees a 
 month (for he allowed his wife eight hundred and fifty), 
 and in a silk banian and cotton trousers. It said 
 that, perhaps, she had not thought of the unwisdom of 
 allowing her name to be so generally coupled with the 
 Tertium Quid's; that she was too much of a child to 
 
AT THE PIT'S MOUTH 33 
 
 understand the dangers of that sort of thing; that he, 
 her husband, was the last man in the world to interfere 
 jealously with her little amusements and interests, but 
 that it would be better were she to drop the Tertium 
 Quid quietly and for her husband's sake. The letter 
 was sweetened with many pretty little pet names, and 
 it amused the Tertium Quid considerably. He and She 
 laughed over it, so that you, fifty yards away, could see 
 their shoulders shaking while the horses slouched along 
 side by side. 
 
 Their conversation was not worth reporting. The 
 upshot of it was that, next day, no one saw the Man's 
 Wife and the Tertium Quid together. They had both 
 gone down to the Cemetery, which, as a rule, is only 
 visited officially by the inhabitants of Simla. 
 
 A Simla funeral with the clergyman riding, the 
 mourners riding, and the coffin creaking as it swings 
 between the bearers, is one of the most depressing things 
 on this earth, particularly when the procession passes 
 under the wet, dank dip beneath the Rockcliffe Hotel, 
 where the sun is shut out, and all the hill, streams are 
 wailing and weeping together as they go down the valleys. 
 
 Occasionally, folk tend the graves, but we in India 
 shift and are transferred so often that, at the end of the 
 second year, the Dead have no friends— only acquaint- 
 ances who are far too busy amusing themselves up the 
 hill to attend to old partners. The idea of using a Ceme- 
 tery as a rendezvous is distinctly a feminine one. A 
 man would have said simply, 'Let people talk. We'll 
 go down the Mall.' A woman is made differently, es- 
 pecially if she be such a woman as the Man's Wife. She 
 and the Tertium Quid enjoyed each other's society 
 among the graves of men and women whom they had 
 known and danced with aforetime. 
 
g4 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 They used to take a big horse-blanket and sit on the 
 grass a little to the left of the lower end, where there 
 is a dip in the ground, and where the occupied graves 
 stop short and the ready-made ones are not ready. 
 Each well-regulated Indian Cemetery keeps half a 
 dozen graves permanently open for contingencies and 
 incidental wear and tear. In the Hills these are more 
 usually baby's size, because children who come up 
 weakened and sick from the Plains often succumb to the 
 effects of the Rains in the Hills or get pneumonia from 
 their ayahs taking them through damp pine-woods after 
 the sun has set. In Cantonments, of course, the man's 
 size is more in request; these arrangements varying with 
 the climate and population. 
 
 One day when the Man's Wife and the Tertium Quid 
 had just arrived in the Cemetery, they saw some coolies 
 breaking ground. They had marked out a full-size 
 grave, and the Tertium Quid asked them whether any 
 Sahib was sick. They said that they did not know; but 
 it was an order that they should dig a Sahib's grave. 
 
 'Work away,' said the Tertium Quid, 'and let's see 
 how it's done.' 
 
 The coolies worked away, and the Man's Wife and 
 the Tertium Quid watched and talked for a couple of 
 hours while the grave was being deepened. Then a 
 coolie, taking the earth in baskets as it was thrown up, 
 jumped over the grave. 
 
 'That's queer,' said the Tertium Quid. ' Where's my 
 ulster? ' 
 
 'What's queer?' said the Man's Wife. 
 
 'I have got a chill down my back — just as if a goose 
 had walked over my grave.' 
 
 'Why do you look at the thing, then?' said the Man'? 
 Wife. 'Let us go.' 
 
AT THE PIT'S MOUTH 35 
 
 The Tertium Quid Stood at the head of the grave, 
 and stared without answering for a space. Then he 
 said, dropping a pebble down, 'It is nasty — and cold: 
 horribly cold. I don't think I shall come to the Ceme- 
 tery any more. I don't think grave-digging is cheerful.' 
 
 The two talked and agreed that the Cemetery was 
 depressing. They also arranged for a ride next day 
 out from the Cemetery through the Mashobra Tunnel 
 up to Fagoo and back, because all the world was going 
 to a garden-party at Viceregal Lodge, and all the people 
 of Mashobra would go too. 
 
 Coming up the Cemetery road, the Tertium Quid's 
 horse tried to bolt up-hill, being tired with standing so 
 long, and managed to strain a back sinew. 
 
 'I shall have to take the mare to-morrow,' said the 
 Tertium Quid, 'and she will stand nothing heavier than 
 a snaffle.' 
 
 They made their arrangements to meet in the Ceme- 
 tery, after allowing all the Mashobra people time to 
 pass into Simla. That night it rained heavily, and, 
 next day, when the Tertium Quid came to the trysting- 
 place, he saw that the new grave had a foot of water 
 in it, the ground being a tough and sour clay. 
 
 ' 'Jove! That looks beastly,' said the Tertium Quid. 
 'Fancy being boarded up and dropped into that well!' 
 
 They then started off to Fagoo, the mare playing 
 with the snaffle and picking her way as though she 
 were shod with satin, and the sun shining divinely. 
 The road below Mashobra to Fagoo is officially styled 
 the Himalayan-Thibet Road; but in spite of its name 
 it is not much more than six feet wide in most places, 
 and the drop into the valley below may be anything 
 between one and two thousand feet. 
 
 'Now we're going to Thibet,' said the Man's Wife 
 
36 , UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 merrily, as the horses drew near to Fagoo. She was 
 riding on the cliff-side. 
 
 'Into Thibet,' said the Tertium Quid, 'ever so far 
 from people who say horrid things, and hubbies who 
 write stupid letters. With you — to the end of the 
 world!' 
 
 A coolie carrying a log of wood came round a corner, 
 and the mare went wide to avoid him — forefeet in and 
 haunches out, as a sensible mare should go. 
 
 'To the world's end,' said the Man's Wife, and looked 
 unspeakable things over her near shoulder at the Tertium 
 Quid. 
 
 He was smiling, but, while she looked, the smile 
 froze stiff as it were on his face, and changed to a ner- 
 vous grin — the sort of grin men wear when they are 
 not quite easy in their saddles. The mare seemed to 
 be sinking by the stern, and her nostrils cracked while 
 she was trying to realise what was happening. The 
 rain of the night before had rotted the drop-side of the 
 Himalayan-Thibet Road, and it was giving way under 
 her. 'What are you doing?' said the Man's Wife. 
 The Tertium Quid gave no answer. He grinned ner- 
 vously and set his spurs into the mare, who rapped 
 with her forefeet on the road, and the struggle began. 
 The Man's Wife screamed, 'Oh, Frank, get off!' 
 
 But the Tertium Quid was glued to the saddle — his 
 face blue and white — and he looked into the Man's 
 Wife's eyes. Then the Man's Wife clutched at the 
 mare's head and caught her by the nose instead of the 
 bridle. The brute threw up her head and went down 
 with a scream, the Tertium Quid upon her, and the ner- 
 vous grin still set on his face. 
 
 The Man's Wife heard the tinkle-tinkle of little 
 stones and loose earth falling off the roadway, and the 
 
AT THE PIT'S MOUTH 37 
 
 sliding roar of the man and horse going down. Then 
 everything was quiet, and she called on Frank to leave 
 his mare and walk up. But Frank did not answer. 
 He was underneath the mare, nine hundred feet below, 
 spoiling a patch of Indian corn. 
 
 As the revellers came back from Viceregal Lodge in the 
 mists of the evening, they met a temporarily insane wo- 
 man, on a temporarily mad horse, swinging round the 
 corners, with her eyes and her mouth open, and her head 
 like the head of a Medusa. She was stopped by a man at 
 the risk of his life, and taken out of the saddle, a limp 
 heap, and put on the bank to explain herself. This 
 wasted twenty minutes, and then she was sent home in a 
 lady's 'rickshaw, still with her mouth open and her hands 
 picking at her riding-gloves. 
 
 She was in bed through the following three days, 
 which were rainy; so she missed attending the funeral of 
 the Tertium Quid, who was lowered into eighteen inches of 
 water, instead of the twelve to which he had first objected. 
 
A WAYSIDE COMEDY 
 
 Because to every purpose there is time and judgment, therefore the 
 misery of man is great upon him. — Eccles. viii. 6. 
 
 Fate and the Government of India have turned the 
 Station of Kashima into a prison; and, because there is 
 no help for the poor souls who are now lying there in tor- 
 ment, I write this story, praying that the Government of 
 India may be moved to scatter the European population 
 to the four winds. 
 
 Kashima is bounded on all sides by the rock-tipped 
 circle of the Dosehri hills. In Spring, it is ablaze with 
 roses; in Summer, the roses die and the hot winds blow 
 from the hills; in Autumn, the white mists from the jkils 
 cover the place as with water, and in Winter the frosts nip 
 everything young and tender to earth-level. There is 
 but one view in Kashima — a stretch of perfectly flat 
 pasture and plough-land, running up to the gray-blue 
 scrub of the Dosehri hills. 
 
 There are no amusements, except snipe and tiger-shoot-, 
 ing; but the tigers have been long since hunted from their 
 lairs in the rock-caves, and the snipe only come once a year. 
 Narkarra — one hundred and forty-three miles by road — 
 is the nearest station to Kashima. But Kashima never 
 goes to Narkarra, where there are at least twelve English 
 people. It stays within the circle of the Dosehri hills. 
 
 All Kashima acquits Mrs. Vansuythen of any intention \ 
 to do harm; but all Kashima knows that she, and she 
 alone, brought about their pain. 
 
 3» 
 
A WAYSIDE COMEDY 39 
 
 Boulte, the Engineer, Mrs. Boulte, and Captain Kurrell 
 know this. They are the English population of Kashima^ 
 if we except Major Vansuythen, who is of no importance 
 whatever, and Mrs. Vansuythen, who is the most impor- 
 tant of all. 
 
 You must remember, though you will not understand, 
 that all laws weaken in a small and hidden community 
 where there is no public opinion. When a man is ab- 
 solutely alone in a Station he runs a certain risk of 
 falling into evil ways. This risk is multiplied by every 
 addition to the population up to twelve — the Jury- 
 mimber. After that, fear and consequent restraint 
 begin, and human action becomes less grotesquely 
 jerky. 
 
 There was deep peace in Kashima till Mrs. Vansuythen 
 arrived. She was a charming woman, every one said so 
 everywhere ; and she charmed every one. In spite of this, 
 or, perhaps, because of this, since Fate is so perverse, she 
 cared only for one man, and he was Major Vansuythen. 
 Had she been plain or stupid, this matter would have been 
 intelligible to Kashima. But she was a fair woman, with 
 very still gray eyes, the colour of a lake just before the 
 light of the sun touches it. No man who had seen those 
 eyes could, later on, explain what fashion of woman she 
 was to look upon. The eyes dazzled him. Her own sex 
 said that she was 'not bad looking, but spoilt by pretend- 
 ing to be so grave.' And yet her gravity was natural. It 
 was not her habit to smile. She merely went through 
 life, looking at those who passed; and the women objected 
 while the men fell down and worshipped. 
 
 She knows and is deeply sorry for the evil she has done 
 to Kashima; but Major Vansuythen cannot understand 
 why Mrs. Boulte does not drop in to afternoon tea at 
 least three times a week. 'When there are only two 
 
40 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 i 
 
 women in one Station, they ought to see a great deal of 
 each other,' says Major Vansuythen. 
 
 Long and long before ever Mrs. Vansuythen came out 
 of those far-away places where there is society and amuse- 
 ment, Kurrell had discovered that Mrs. Boulte was the 
 one woman in the world for him and — you dare not blame 
 them. Kashima was as out of the world as Heaven or the 
 Other Place, and the Dosehri hills kept their secret well. 
 Boulte had no concern in the matter. He was in camp 
 for a fortnight at a time. He was a hard, heavy man, and 
 neither Mrs. Boulte nor Kurrell pitied him. They had all 
 Kashima and each other for their very, very own; and 
 Kashima was the Garden of Eden in those days. When 
 Boulte returned from his wanderings he would slap Kur- 
 rell between the shoulders and call him 'old fellow,' and 
 the three would dine together. Kashima was happy then 
 when the judgment of God seemed almost as distant as 
 Narkarra or the railway that ran down to the sea. But 
 the Government sent Major Vansuythen to Kashima, and 
 with him came his wife. 
 
 The etiquette of Kashima is much the same as that of a 
 desert island. When a stranger is cast away there, all 
 hands go down to the shore to make him welcome. 
 Kashima assembled at the masonry platform close to the 
 Narkarra Road, and spread tea for the Vansuythens. 
 That ceremony was reckoned a formal call, and made 
 them free of the Station, its rights and privileges. When 
 the Vansuythens were settled down, they gave a tiny 
 house-warming to all Kashima; and that made Kashima 
 free of their house, according to the immemorial usage of 
 the Station. 
 
 Then the Rains came, when no one could go into 
 camp, and the Narkarra Road was washed away by the 
 Kasun River, and in the cup-like pastures of Kashima the 
 
A WAYSIDE COMEDY 41 
 
 cattle waded knee-deep. The clouds dropped down from 
 the Dosehri hills and covered everything. 
 
 At the end of the Rains, Boulte's manner towards his 
 wife changed and became demonstratively affectionate. 
 They had been married twelve years, and the change 
 startled Mrs. Boulte, who hated her husband with the 
 hate of a woman who has met with nothing but kindness 
 from her mate, and, in the teeth of this kindness, has done 
 him a great wrong. Moreover, she had her own trouble to 
 fight with — her watch to keep over her own property, 
 Kurrell. For two months the Rains had hidden the 
 Dosehri hills and many other things besides; but, when 
 they lifted, they showed Mrs. Boulte that her man 
 among men, her Ted — for she called him Ted in the old 
 days when Boulte was out of earshot — was slipping the 
 links of the allegiance. 
 
 'The Vansuythen Woman has taken him,' Mrs. Boulte 
 said to herself; and when Boulte was away, wept over her 
 belief, in the face of the over- vehement blandishments of 
 Ted. Sorrow in Kashima is as fortunate as Love, be~ 
 cause there is nothing to weaken it save the flight of 
 Time. Mrs. Boulte had never breathed her suspicion to 
 Kurrell because she was not certain; and her nature led 
 her to be very certain before she took steps in any direc- 
 tion. That is why she behaved as she did. 
 
 Boulte came into the house one evening, and leaned 
 against the door-posts of the drawing-room, chewing his 
 moustache. Mrs. Boulte was putting some flowers into a 
 vase. There is a pretence of civilisation even in Kashima. 
 
 'Little woman,' said Boulte quietly, 'do you care for 
 me?' 
 
 ' Immensely,' said she, with a laugh. ' Can you ask it? ' 
 
 'But I'm serious/ said Boulte. Do you care for 
 me?' 
 
42 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 Mrs. Boulte dropped the flowers, and turned round 
 quickly. ' Do you want an honest answer? ' 
 
 ' Ye-es, I've asked for it.' 
 
 Mrs. Boulte spoke in a low, even voice for five minutes, 
 very distinctly, that there might be no misunderstanding 
 her meaning. When Samson broke the pillars of Gaza, he 
 did a little thing, and one not to be compared to the 
 deliberate pulling down of a woman's homestead about 
 her own ears. There was no wise female friend to advise 
 Mrs. Boulte, the singularly cautious wife, to hold her 
 hand. She struck at Boulte's heart, because her own 
 was sick with suspicion of Kurrell, and worn out with the 
 long strain of watching alone through the Rains. There 
 was no plan or purpose in her speaking. The sentences 
 made themselves; and Boulte listened, leaning against the 
 door-post with his hands in his pockets. When all was 
 over, and Mrs. Boulte began to breathe through her nose 
 before breaking out into tears, he laughed and stared 
 straight in front of him at the Dosehri hills. 
 
 ' Is that all? ' he said. ' Thanks, I only wanted to know, 
 you know.' 
 
 'What are you going to do?' said the woman, between 
 her sobs. 
 
 'Do! Nothing. What should I do? Kill Kurrell or 
 send you Home, or apply for leave to get a divorce? It's 
 two days' ddk into Narkarra.' He laughed again and went 
 on: 'I'll tell you what you can do. You can ask Kurrell 
 to dinner to-morrow — no, on Thursday, that will allow 
 you time to pack — and you can bolt with him. I give 
 you my word I won't follow.' 
 
 He took up his helmet and went out of the room, and 
 Mrs. Boulte sat till the moonlight streaked the floor, 
 thinking and thinking and thinking. She had done her 
 best upon the spur of the moment to pull the house down; 
 
A WAYSIDE COMUDY 43 
 
 but it would not fall. Moreover, she could not under- 
 stand her husband, and she was afraid. Then the folly of 
 her useless truthfulness struck her, and she was ashamed 
 to write to Kurrell, saying: 'I have gone mad and told 
 everything. My husband says that I am free to elope 
 with you. Get a dak for Thursday, and we will fly after 
 dinner.' There was a cold-bloodedness about that proce- 
 dure which did not appeal to her. So she sat still in her 
 own house and thought. 
 
 At dinner-time Boulte came back from his walk, white 
 and worn and haggard, and the woman was touched at his 
 distress. As the evening wore on, she muttered some ex- 
 pression of sorrow, something approaching to contrition. 
 Boulte came out of a brown study and said, ' Oh, that ! I 
 wasn't thinking about that. By the way, what does 
 Kurrell say to the elopement? ' 
 
 'I haven't seen him,' said Mrs. Boulte. ' Good God ! is 
 that all?' 
 
 But Boulte was not listening, and her sentence ended in 
 a gulp. 
 
 The next day brought no comfort to Mrs. Boulte, for 
 Kurrell did not appear, and the new life that she, in the 
 five minutes' madness of the previous evening, had hoped 
 to build out of the ruins of the old, seemed to be no nearer. 
 
 Boulte ate his breakfast, advised her to see her Arab 
 pony fed in the veranda, and went out. The morning 
 wore through, and at midday the tension became unen- 
 durable. Mrs. Boulte could not cry. She had finished 
 her crying in the night, and now she did not want to be 
 left alone. Perhaps the Vansuythen Woman would talk 
 to her; and, since talking opens the heart, perhaps there 
 might be some comfort to be found in her company. She 
 was the only other woman in the Station. 
 
 In Kashima there are no regular calling-hours. Every 
 
44 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 one can drop in upon every one else at pleasure. Mrs. 
 Boulte put on a big terai hat, and walked across to the 
 Vansuythens' house to borrow last week's Queen. The 
 two compounds touched, and instead of going up the 
 drive, she crossed through the gap in the cactus-hedge, 
 entering the house from the back. As she passed through 
 the dining-room, she heard, behind the purdah that 
 cloaked the drawing-room door, her husband's voice, 
 saying — 
 
 'But on my Honour! On my Soul and Honour, 
 I tell you she doesn't care for me. She told me so 
 last night. I would have told you then if Vansuy- 
 then hadn't been with you. If it is for her sake that 
 you'll have nothing to say to me, you can make your 
 mind easy. It's Kurrell ■' 
 
 'What?' said Mrs. Vansuythen, with an hysterical 
 little laugh. 'Kurrell! Oh, it can't be! You two 
 must have made some horrible mistake. Perhaps you 
 •-^you lost your temper, or misunderstood, or something. 
 Things can't be as wrong as you say.' 
 
 Mrs. Vansuythen had shifted her defence to avoid 
 the man's pleading, and was desperately trying to keep 
 him to a side-issue. 
 
 'There must be some mistake,' she insisted, 'and it 
 can be all put right again.' 
 
 Boulte laughed grimly. 
 
 ' It can't be Captain Kurrell ! He told me that he had 
 never taken the least — the least interest in your wife, 
 Mr. Boulte. Oh, do listen! He said he had not. He 
 swore he had not,' said Mrs. Vansuythen. 
 
 The purdah rustled, and the speech was cut short 
 by the entry of a little, thin woman, with big rings 
 round her eyes. Mrs. Vansuythen stood up with a 
 gasp. 
 
A WAYSIDE COMEDY 4S 
 
 'What was that you said?' asked Mrs. Boulte. 'Never 
 mind that man. What did Ted say to you? What did 
 he say to you? What did he say to you? ' 
 
 Mrs. Vansuythen sat down helplessly on the sofa, 
 overborne by the trouble of her questioner. 
 
 'He said — I can't remember exactly what he said — 
 
 but I understood him to say — that is But, really, 
 
 Mrs. Boulte, isn't it rather a strange question? ' 
 
 ' Will you tell me what he said? ' repeated Mrs. Boulte. 
 Even a tiger will fly before a bear robbed of her whelps, 
 and Mrs. Vansuythen was only an ordinarily good wo- 
 man. She began in a sort of desperation: 'Well, he 
 said that he never cared for you at all, and, of course, 
 there was not the least reason why he should have, and 
 — and — that was all.' 
 
 'You said he swore he had not cared for me. Was 
 that true?' 
 
 'Yes,' said Mrs. Vansuythen very softly. 
 
 Mrs. Boulte wavered for an instant where she stood, 
 and then fell forward fainting. 
 
 'What did I tell you?' said Boulte, as though the 
 conversation had been unbroken. 'You can see for 
 yourself. She cares for him.' The light began to 
 break into his dull mind, and he went on — 'And he — 
 what was he saying to you?' 
 
 But Mrs. Vansuythen, with no heart for explana- 
 tions or impassioned protestations, was kneeling over 
 Mrs. Boulte. 
 
 'Oh, you brute!' she cried. 'Are all men like this? 
 Help me to get her into my room — and her face is cut 
 against the table. Oh, will you be quiet, and help me 
 to carry her? I hate you, and I hate Captain Kurrell. 
 Lift her up carefully and now — go! Go away!' 
 
 Boulte carried his wife into Mrs. Vansuythen's bed- 
 
46 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 room and departed before the storm of that lady's 
 wrath and disgust, impenitent and burning with jeal- 
 ousy. Kurrell had been making love to Mrs. Vansuy, 
 then — would do Vansuythen as great a wrong as he had 
 done Boulte, who caught himself considering whether 
 Mrs. Vansuythen would faint if she discovered that the 
 man she loved had foresworn her. 
 
 In the middle of these meditations, Kurrell came 
 cantering along the road and pulled up with a cheery, 
 'Good-mornin'. 'Been mashing Mrs. Vansuythen as 
 usual, eh? Bad thing for a sober, married man, that. 
 What will Mrs. Boulte say?' 
 
 Boulte raised his head and said slowly, 'Oh, you 
 liar ! ' Kurrell's face changed. ' What's that? ' he asked 
 quickly. 
 
 'Nothing much,' said Boulte. 'Has my wife told 
 you that you two are free to go off whenever you please? 
 She has been good enough to explain the situation to 
 me. You've been a true friend to me, Kurrell — old 
 man — haven't you?' 
 
 Kurrell groaned, and tried to frame some sort of 
 idiotic sentence about being willing to give 'satisfac- 
 tion.' But his interest in the woman was dead, had 
 died out in the Rains, and, mentally, he was abusing 
 her for her amazing indiscretion. It would have been 
 so easy to have broken off the thing gently and by de- 
 grees, and now he was saddled with Boulte's voice 
 
 recalled him. 
 
 'I don't think I should get any satisfaction from kill- 
 ing you, and I'm pretty sure you'd get none from kill- 
 ing me.' 
 
 Then in a querulous tone, ludicrously disproportioned 
 to his wrongs, Boulte added — 
 
 "Seems rather a pity that you haven't the decency 
 
A WAYSIDE COMEDY 47 
 
 to keep to the woman, now you've got her. You've 
 been a true friend to her too, haven't you? ' 
 
 Kurrell stared long and gravely. The situation was 
 getting beyond him. 
 
 'What do you mean?' he said. 
 
 Boulte answered, more to himself than the questioner: 
 'My wife came over to Mrs. Vansuythen's just now; 
 and it seems you'd been telling Mrs. Vansuythen that 
 you'd never cared for Emma. I suppose you lied, as 
 usual. What had Mrs. Vansuythen to do with you, or 
 you with her? Try to speak the truth for once in a way.' 
 
 Kurrell took the double insult without wincing, and 
 replied by another question: 'Go on. What hap- 
 pened? ' 
 
 'Emma fainted,' said Boulte simply. 'But, look here, 
 what had you been saying to Mrs. Vansuythen?' 
 
 Kurrell laughed. Mrs. Boulte had, with unbridled 
 tongue, made havoc of his plans; and he could at least 
 retaliate by hurting the man in whose eyes he was hu- 
 miliated and shown dishonourable. 
 
 'Said to her? What does a man tell a lie like that 
 for? I suppose I said pretty much what you've said, 
 unless I'm a good deal mistaken.' 
 
 'I spoke the truth,' said Boulte, again more to him- 
 self than Kurrell. 'Emma told me she hated me. She 
 has no right in me.' 
 
 'No! I suppose not. You're only her husband, 
 y'know. And what did Mrs. Vansuythen say after you 
 had laid your disengaged heart at her feet?' 
 
 Kurrell felt almost virtuous as he put the question. 
 
 'I don't think that matters,' Boulte replied; 'and it 
 doesn't concern you.' 
 
 'But it does! I tell you it does'— began Kurrell 
 shamelessly. 
 
48 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 The sentence was cut by a roar of laughter from 
 Boulte's lips. Kurrell was silent for an instant, and 
 then he, too, laughed — laughed long and loudly, rock- 
 ing in his saddle. It was an unpleasant sound — the 
 mirthless mirth of these men on the long, white line 
 of the Narkarra Road. There were no strangers in 
 Kashima, or they might have thought that captivity 
 within the Dosehri hills had driven half the European 
 population mad. The laughter ended abruptly, and Kur- 
 rell was the first to speak. 
 
 'Well, what are you going to do?' 
 
 Boulte looked up the road, and at the hills. 'Noth- 
 ing,' said he quietly; 'what's the use? It's too ghastly 
 for anything. We must let the old life go on. I can 
 only call you a hound and a liar, and I can't go on calling 
 you names for ever. Besides which, I don't feel that I'm 
 much better. We can't get out of this place. What is 
 there to do?' 
 
 Kurrell looked round the rat-pit of Kashima and made 
 no reply. The injured husband took up the wondrous tale. 
 
 'Ride on, and speak to Emma if you want to. God 
 knows J don't care what you do.' 
 
 He walked forward, and left Kurrell gazing blankly 
 after him. Kurrell did not ride on either to see Mrs. 
 Boulte or Mrs. Vansuythen. He sat in his saddle and 
 thought, while his pony grazed by the roadside. 
 
 The whir of approaching wheels roused him. Mrs. 
 Vansuythen was driving home Mrs. Boulte, white and 
 wan, with a cut on her forehead. 
 
 'Stop, please,' said Mrs. Boulte, 'I want to speak to 
 Ted.' 
 
 Mrs. Vansuythen obeyed, but as Mrs. Boulte leaned 
 forward, putting her hand upon the splash-board of the 
 dog-cart, Kurrell spoke. 
 
A WAYSIDE COMEDY 49 
 
 'I've seen your husband, Mrs. Boulte.' ^ . 
 
 There was no necessity for any further explanation. 
 The man's eyes were fixed, not upon Mrs. Boulte, but 
 her companion. Mrs. Boulte saw the look. 
 
 'Speak to him!' she pleaded, turning to the woman 
 at her side. 'Oh, speak to him! Tell him what you 
 told me just now. Tell him you hate him. Tell him 
 you hate him!' 
 
 She bent forward and wept bitterly, while the 
 sais, impassive, went forward to hold the horse. 
 Mrs. Vansuythen turned scarlet and dropped the 
 reins. She wished to be no party to such unholy explana- 
 tions. 
 
 'I've nothing to do with it,' she began coldly; but 
 Mrs. Boulte's sobs overcame her, and she addressed 
 herself to the man. 'I don't know what I am to 
 say, Captain Kurrell. I don't know what I can 
 call you. I think you've — you've behaved abomi- 
 nably, and she has cut her forehead terribly against the 
 table.' 
 
 'It doesn't hurt. It isn't anything,' said Mrs. Boulte 
 feebly. 'Thai doesn't matter. Tell him what you 
 told me. Say you don't care for him. Oh, Ted, won't 
 you believe her? ' 
 
 'Mrs. Boulte has made me understand that you were 
 — that you were fond of her once upon a time,' went on 
 Mrs. Vansuythen. 
 
 'Well!' said Kurrell brutally. 'It seems to me that 
 Mrs. Boulte had better be fond of her own husband 
 first.' 
 
 'Stop!' said Mrs. Vansuythen. 'Hear me first. I 
 don't care — I don't want to know anything about you 
 and Mrs. Boulte; but I want you to know that I hate 
 you, that I think you are a cur, and that I'll never, 
 
So UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 never speak to you again. Oh, I don't dare to say what 
 I think of you, you — man!' 
 
 'I want to speak to Ted,' moaned Mrs. Boulte, but 
 the dog-cart rattled on, and Kurrell was left on the 
 road, shamed, and boiling with wrath against Mrs. Boulte. 
 
 He waited till Mrs. Vansuythen was driving back to 
 her own house, and, she being freed from the embarrass- 
 ment of Mrs. Boulte's presence, learned for the second 
 time her opinion of himself and his actions. 
 
 In the evenings, it was the wont of all Kashima to 
 meet at the platform on the Narkarra Road, to drink tea, 
 and discuss the trivialities of the day. Major Vansuy- 
 then and his wife found themselves alone at the gather- 
 ing-place for almost the first time in their remembrance; 
 and the cheery Major, in the teeth of his wife's remark- 
 ably reasonable suggestion that the rest of the Station 
 might be sick, insisted upon driving round to the two 
 bungalows and unearthing the population. 
 
 'Sitting in the twilight!' said he, with great indig- 
 nation, to the Boultes. 'That'll never do! Hang it 
 all, we're one family here! You must come out, -and 
 so must Kurrell. I'll make him bring his banjo.' 
 
 So great is the power of honest simplicity and a good 
 digestion over guilty consciences that all Kashima did 
 turn out, even down to the banjo; and the Major em- 
 braced the company in one expansive grin. As he 
 grinned, Mrs. Vansuythen raised her eyes for an instant 
 and looked at all Kashima. Her meaning was clear. 
 Major Vansuythen would never know anything. He 
 was to be the outsider in that happy family whose cage 
 was the Dosehri hills. 
 
 'You're singing villainously out of tune, Kurrell,' 
 said the Major truthfully. 'Pass me that banjo.' 
 
A WAYSIDE COMEDY 51 
 
 And he sang in excruciating-wise till the stars came out 
 and all Kashima went to dinner. 
 
 That was the beginning of the New Life of Kashima 
 — the life that Mrs. Boulte made when her tongue was 
 loosened in the twilight. 
 
 Mrs. Vansuythen has never told the Major; and since 
 he insists upon keeping up a burdensome geniality, she 
 has been compelled to break her vow of not speaking to 
 Kurrell. This speech, which must of necessity preserve 
 the semblance of politeness and interest, serves admirably 
 to keep alight the flame of jealousy and dull hatred in 
 Boulte's bosom, as it awakens the same passions in his 
 wife's heart. Mrs. Boulte hates Mrs. Vansuythen be- 
 cause she has taken Ted from her, and, in some curious 
 fashion, hates her because Mrs. Vansuythen — and here 
 the wife's eyes see far more clearly than the husband's — 
 detests Ted. And Ted — that gallant captain and honour- 
 able man — knows now that it is possible to hate a woman 
 once loved, to the verge of wishing to silence her for ever 
 with blows. Above all, is he shocked that Mrs. Boulte 
 cannot see the error of her ways. 
 
 Boulte and he go out tiger-shooting together in all 
 friendship. Boulte has put their relationship on a more 
 satisfactory footing. 
 
 'You're a blackguard,' he says to Kurrell, 'and I've 
 lost any self-respect I may ever have had; but when 
 you're with me, I can feel certain that you are not with 
 Mrs. Vansuythen, or making Emma miserable.' 
 
 Kurrell endures anything that Boulte may say to him. 
 Sometimes they are away for three days together, and 
 then the Major insists upon his wife going over to sit with 
 Mrs, Boulte; although Mrs. Vansuythen has repeatedly 
 
$a UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 declared that she prefers her husband's company to any 
 in the world. From the way in which she clings to him, 
 she would certainly seem to be speaking the truth. 
 
 But of course, as the Major says, 'in a little Station we 
 must all be friendly.' 
 
THE PIT THAT THEY DIGGED 1 
 
 Mr. Hawkins Mumrath, of Her Majesty's Bengal Civil 
 Service, lay down to die of enteric fever; and, being 
 a thorough-minded man, so nearly accomplished his 
 purpose that all his friends, two doctors, and the Govern- 
 ment he served gave him up for lost. Indeed, upon a 
 .false rumour the night before he rallied, several journals 
 published very pleasant obituary notices, which, three 
 weeks later, Mr. Mumrath sat up in bed and studied with 
 interest. It is strange to read about yourself in the past 
 tense, and soothing to discover that for all your faults, 
 your world 'might have spared a better man.' When a 
 Bengal civilian is tepid and harmless, newspapers always 
 conclude their notices with this reflection. It entirely 
 failed to amuse Mr. Mumrath. 
 
 The loving-kindness of the Government provides for 
 the use of its servants in the East luxuries undreamed of 
 by other civilizations. A State-paid doctor closed Mum- 
 rath's eyes, — till Mumrath insisted upon opening them 
 again; a subventionized undertaker bought Government 
 timber for a Government coffin, and the great Cemetery 
 of St. Golgotha-in-Partibus prepared, according to regula- 
 tion, a brick-lined grave, headed and edged, with masonry 
 rests for the coffin. The cost of that grave was 1 75 rupees 
 14 annas, including the lease of the land in perpetuity. 
 Very minute are the instructions of the Government for 
 the disposal, wharfage, and demurrage of its dead; but the 
 actual arrangements are not published in any appendix to 
 
 'Copyright, 1895, by Maciollah & Co. 
 S3 
 
54 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 pay and pension rules, for the same reason that led a 
 Prussian officer not to leave his dead and wounded too 
 long in the sight of a battery under fire. 
 
 Mr. Mumrath recovered and went about his work, to 
 the disgust of his juniors who had hoped promotion from 
 his decease. The undertaker sold the coffin, at a profit, 
 to a fat Armenian merchant in Calcutta, and the State- 
 paid doctor profited in practice by Mumrath's resurrec- 
 tion from the dead. The Cemetery of St. Golgotha-in- 
 Partibus sat down by the head of the new-made grave 
 with the beautiful brick lining, and waited for the corpse 
 then signing despatches in an office three miles away. 
 The yearly accounts were made up; and there remained 
 over, unpaid for, one grave, cost 175 rupees 14 annas. 
 The vouchers for all the other graves carried the name of 
 a deceased servant of the Government. Only one space 
 was blank in the column. 
 
 Then Ahutosh Lai Deb, Sub-deputy Assistant in the 
 Accounts Department, being full of zeal for the State and 
 but newly appointed to his important post, wrote officially 
 to the Cemetery^ desiring to know the inwardness of that 
 grave, and 'having the honour to be,' etc. The Cemetery 
 wrote officially that there was no inwardness at all, but a 
 complete emptiness; said grave having been ordered for 
 Mr. Hawkins Mumrath, and 'had the honour to remain.' 
 Ahutosh Lai Deb had the honour to point out that, the 
 grave being unused, the Government could by no means 
 pay for it. The Cemetery wished to know if the account 
 could be carried over to the next year,_lpending antici- 
 pated taking-up of grave.' 
 
 Ahutosh Lai Deb said that he was not going to have the 
 accounts confused. Discrepancy was the soul of badi- 
 nage and defalcations. The Cemetery would be good 
 enough to adjust on the financial basis of that year. 
 
THE PIT THAT THEY DIGGED S S 
 
 The Cemetery wished they might be buried if they saw 
 their way to doing it, and there really had been more than 
 two thousand burned bricks put into the lining of the 
 grave. Meantime, they complained, the Government 
 Brickfield Audit was waiting until all material should 
 have been paid for. 
 
 Ahutosh Lai Deb wrote: ' Refer to Mr. Mumrath.' The 
 Cemetery referred semi-omcially. It struck them as 
 being rather a delicate matter, but orders are orders. 
 
 Hawkins Mumrath wrote back, saying that he had the 
 honour to be quite well, and not in the least in need of a 
 grave, brick-lined or otherwise. He recommended the 
 head of the Cemetery to get into that grave and stay 
 there. The Cemetery forwarded the letter to Ahutosh 
 Lai Deb, for reference and order. 
 
 Ahutosh Lai Deb forwarded it to the Provincial Gov- 
 ernment, who filed it behind a mass of other files and for- 
 got all about it. 
 
 A fat she-cobra crawled into the neglected grave, and 
 laid her eggs among the bricks. The Rains fell, and a 
 little sprinkling of grass jewelled the brick floor. 
 
 The Cemetery wrote to Ahutosh Lai Deb, advising 
 him that Mr. Mumrath had not paid for the grave, and re- 
 questing that the sum might be stopped from his monthly 
 pay. Ahutosh Lai Deb sent the letter to Hawkins Mum- 
 rath as a reminder. 
 
 Hawkins Mumrath swore; but when he had sworn, he 
 began to feel frightened. The enteric fever had destroyed 
 his nerve. He wrote to the Accounts Department, pro- 
 testing against the injustice of paying for a grave before- 
 hand. Deductions for pension or widow's annuity were 
 quite right, but this sort of deduction was an imposition 
 besides being sarcastic. 
 Ahutosh Lai Deb wrote that Mr. Mumrath's style was 
 
56 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 not one usually employed in official correspondence, and 
 requested him to modulate it and pay for the grave. 
 Hawkins Mumrath tossed the letter into the fire, and 
 wrote to the Provincial Government. 
 
 The Provincial Government had the honour to point 
 out that the matter rested entirely between Mr. Hawkins 
 Mumrath and the Accounts Department. They saw no 
 reason to interfere till the money was actually deducted 
 from the pay. In that eventuality, if Mr. Hawkins Mum- 
 rath appealed through the proper channels, he might, if 
 the matter were properly reported upon, get a refund, less 
 the cost of his last letter, which was under-stamped. The 
 Cemetery wrote to Ahutosh Lai Deb, enclosing triplicate 
 of grave-bill and demanding some sort of settlement. 
 
 Ahutosh Lai Deb deducted 175 rupees 14 annas from 
 Mumrath's monthly pay. Mumrath appealed through 
 the proper channels. The Provincial Government wrote 
 that the expenses of all Government graves solely con- 
 cerned the Supreme Government, to whom his letter had 
 been forwarded. 
 
 Mumrath wrote to the Supreme Government. The 
 Supreme Government had the honour to explain that the 
 management of St. Golgotha-in-Partibus was under 
 direct control of the Provincial Government, to whom 
 they had had the honour of forwarding his communica- 
 tion. Mumrath telegraphed to the Cemetery to this 
 effect. 
 
 The Cemetery telegraphed: 'Fiscal and finance, Su- 
 preme; management of internal affairs, Provincial Gov- 
 ernment. Refer Revenue and Agricultural Department 
 for grave details.' 
 
 Mumrath referred to the Revenue and Agricultural 
 Department. That Department had the honour to make 
 clear that it was only concerned in the plantation of trees 
 
THE PIT THAT THEY DIGGED S7 
 
 round the Cemetery. The Forest Department con- 
 trolled the reboisement of the edges of the paths. 
 
 Mumrath forwarded all the letters to Ahutosh Lai Deb, 
 with a request for an immediate refund under 'Rule 431 
 A, Supplementary Addenda, Bengal.' He invented rule 
 and reference pro re nata, having some knowledge of the 
 workings of the Babu mind. 
 
 The crest of the Revenue and Agricultural Department 
 frightened Ahutosh Lai Deb more than the reference. He 
 bewilderedly granted the refund, and recouped the Gov- 
 ernment from the Cemetery Establishment allowance. 
 
 The Cemetery Establishment Executive Head wanted 
 to know what Ahutosh Lai Deb meant. 
 
 The Accountant-General wanted to know what Ahu- 
 tosh Lai Deb meant. 
 
 The Provincial Government wanted to know what 
 Ahutosh Lai Deb meant. 
 
 The Revenue and Agriculture, the Forest Department, 
 and the Government Harness Dep6t, which supplies the 
 leather slings for the biers, all wanted to know what the 
 deuce Ahutosh Lai Deb meant. 
 
 Ahutosh Lai Deb referred them severally to Mr. Haw- 
 kins Mumrath, who had driven out to chuckle over his 
 victory all alone at the head of the brick-lined grave with 
 the masonry foot rests. 
 
 The she-cobra was sunning herself by the edge of the 
 grave with her little ones about her, for the eggs had 
 hatched out beautifully. Hawkins Mumrath stepped 
 absently on the old lady's tail, and she bit him in the 
 ankle. 
 
 Hawkins Mumrath drove home very quickly, and died 
 in five hours and three-quarters. 
 
 Then Ahutosh Lai Deb passed the entry to 'regular 
 account,' and there was peace in India. 
 
THE HILL OF ILLUSION 
 
 What rendered vain their deep desire? 
 A God, a God their severance ruled, 
 And bade between their shores to be 
 The unplumbed, salt, estranging sea. 
 
 Matthew Arnold. 
 
 He. Tell your jhampanis not to hurry so, dear. They 
 forget I'm fresh from the Plains. 
 
 She. Sure proof that I have not been going out with 
 any one. Yes, they are an untrained crew. Where do we 
 go? 
 
 He. As usual — to the world's end. No, Jakko. 
 
 She. Have your pony led after you, then. It's a long 
 round. 
 
 He. And for the last time, thank Heaven! 
 
 She. Do you mean that still? I didn't dare to write to 
 you about it — all these months. 
 
 He. Mean it! I've been shaping my affairs to that 
 end since Autumn. What makes you speak as though 
 it had occurred to you for the first time? 
 
 She. I? Oh! I don't know. I've had long enough 
 to think, too. 
 
 He. And you've changed your mind? 
 
 She. No. You ought to know that I am a miracle 
 of constancy. What are your — arrangements? 
 
 He. Ours, Sweetheart, please. 
 
 She. Ours, be it then. My poor boy, how the 
 prickly heat has marked your forehead! Have you 
 ever tried sulphate of copper in water? 
 
 58 
 
THE HILL OF ILLUSION 59 
 
 He. It'll go away in a day or two up here. The 
 arrangements are simple enough. Tonga in the early 
 morning — reach Kalka at twelve — Umballa at seven 
 —down, straight by night train, to Bombay, and 
 then the steamer of the 21st for Rome. That's 
 my idea. The Continent and Sweden — a ten-week 
 honeymoon. 
 
 She. Ssh! Don't talk of it in that way. It makes 
 me afraid. Guy, how long have we two been insane? 
 
 He. Seven months and fourteen days, I forget the 
 odd hours exactly, but I'll think. 
 
 She. I only wanted to see if you remembered. Who 
 are those two on the Blessington Road? 
 
 He. Eabrey and the Penner woman. What do 
 they matter to us? Tell me everything that you've 
 been doing and saying and thinking. 
 
 She. Doing little, saying less, and thinking a great 
 deal. I've hardly been out at all. 
 
 He. That was wrong of you. You haven't been 
 moping? 
 
 She. Not very much. Can you wonder that I'm 
 disinclined for amusement? 
 
 He. Frankly, I do. Where was the difficulty? 
 
 She. In this only. The more people I know and 
 the more I'm known here, the wider spread will be the 
 news of the crash when it comes. I don't like that. 
 
 He. Nonsense. We shall be out of it. 
 
 She. You think so? 
 
 He. I'm sure of it, if there is any power in steam 
 or horse-flesh to carry us away. Ha! ha! 
 
 She. And the fun of the situation comes in — where, 
 my Lancelot? 
 
 He. Nowhere, Guinevere. I was only thinking of 
 gomethbg. 
 
60 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 She. They say men have a keener sense of humour 
 than women. Now I was thinking of the scandal. 
 
 He. Don't think of anything so ugly. We shall 
 be beyond it. 
 
 She. It will be there all the same — in the mouths 
 of Simla — telegraphed over India, and talked of at the 
 dinners — and when He goes out they will stare at Him to 
 see how He takes it. And we shall be dead, Guy dear — 
 dead and cast into the outer darkness where there is 
 
 He. Love at least. Isn't that enough? 
 
 She. I have said so. 
 
 He. And you think so still? 
 
 She. What do you think? 
 
 He. What have I done? It means equal ruin to 
 me, as the world reckons it — outcasting, the loss of 
 my appointment, the breaking off my life's work. I 
 pay my price. 
 
 She. And are you so much above the world that 
 you can afford to pay it? Am I? 
 
 He. My Divinity — what else? 
 
 She. A very ordinary woman I'm afraid, but, so far, 
 respectable. How d'you do, Mrs. Middleditch? Your 
 husband? I think he's riding down to Annandale 
 with Colonel Statters. Yes, isn't it divine after the 
 
 rain? Guy, how long am I to be allowed to bow 
 
 to Mrs. Middleditch? Till the 17th? 
 
 He. Frowsy Scotchwoman! What is the use of 
 bringing her into the discussion? You were saying? 
 
 She. Nothing. Have you ever seen a man hanged? 
 
 He. Yes. Once. 
 
 She. What was it for? 
 
 He. Murder, of course. 
 
 She. Murder. Is that so great a sin after all? I 
 wonder how he felt before the drop fell. 
 
THE HILL OF ILLUSION 61 
 
 He. I don't think he felt much. What a gruesome 
 little woman it is this evening ! You're shivering. Put 
 on your cape, dear. 
 
 She. I think I will. Oh! Look at the mist com- 
 ing over Sanjaoli; and I thought we should have sun- 
 shine on the Ladies' Mile! Let's turn back. 
 
 He. What's the good? There's a cloud on Elysium 
 Hill, and that means it's foggy all down the Mall. We'll 
 go on. It'll blow away before we get to the Convent, 
 perhaps. 'Jove! It is chilly. 
 
 She. You feel it, fresh from below. Put on your 
 ulster. What do you think of my cape? 
 
 He. Never ask a man his opinion of a woman's 
 dress when he is desperately and abjectly in love with 
 the wearer. Let me look. Like everything else of 
 yours it's perfect. Where did you get it from? 
 
 She. He gave it me, on Wednesday — our wedding- 
 day, you know. 
 
 He. The Deuce he did! He's growing generous 
 in his old age. D'you like all that frilly, bunchy stuff 
 at the throat? I don't. 
 
 She. Don't you? 
 
 Kind Sir, o' your courtesy, 
 
 As you go by the town, Sir, 
 'Pray you o' your love for me, 
 
 Buy me a russet gown, Sir. 
 
 He. I won't say: 'Keek into the draw-well, Janet, 
 Janet.' Only wait a little, darling, and you shall be 
 stocked with russet gowns and everything else. 
 
 She. And when the frocks wear out, you'll get me 
 new ones — and everything else? 
 
 He. Assuredly. 
 
 She. I wonder! 
 
62 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 He. Look here, Sweetheart, I didn't spend two 
 days and two nights in the train to hear you wonder. 
 I thought we'd settled all that at Shaifazehat. 
 
 She (dreamily). At Shaifazehat? Does the Sta- 
 tion go on still? That was ages and ages ago. It must 
 be crumbling to pieces. All except the Amirtollah 
 kutcha road. I don't believe that could crumble till the 
 Day of Judgment. 
 
 He. You think so? What is the mood now? 
 
 She. I can't tell. How cold it is! Let us get on 
 quickly. 
 
 He. 'Better walk a little. Stop your jhampanis and 
 get out. What's the matter with you this evening, dear? 
 
 She. Nothing. You must grow accustomed to my 
 ways. If I'm boring you I can go home. Here's Cap- 
 tain Congleton coming, I daresay he'll be willing to es- 
 cort me. 
 
 He. Goose! Between us, too! Damn Captain 
 Congleton ! 
 
 She. Chivalrous Knight. Is it your habit to swear 
 much in talking? It jars a little, and you might swear 
 at me. 
 
 He. My angel! I didn't know what I was saying; 
 and you changed so quickly that I couldn't follow. I'll 
 apologise in dust and ashes. 
 
 She. There'll be enough of those later on Good- 
 night, Captain Congleton. Going to the singing- 
 quadrilles already? What dances am I giving you next 
 week? No! You must have written them down wrong. 
 Five and Seven, I said. If you've made a mistake, I 
 certainly don't intend to suffer for it. You must alter 
 your programme. 
 
 He. I thought you told me that you had not been 
 going out much this season? 
 
THE HILL OF ILLUSION 63 
 
 She. Quite true, but when I do I dance with Captain 
 Congleton. He dances very nicely. 
 
 He. And sit out with him I suppose? 
 
 She. Yes. Have you any objection? Shall I stand 
 under the chandelier in future? 
 
 He. What does he talk to you about? 
 
 She. What do men talk about when they sit out? 
 
 He. Ugh! Don't! Well now I'm up, you must dis- 
 pense with the fascinating Congleton for a while. I 
 don't like him. 
 
 She (after a pause) . Do you know what you have said? 
 
 He. 'Can't say that I do exactly. I'm not in the 
 best of tempers. 
 
 She. So I see, — and feel. My true and faithful 
 lover, where is your 'eternal constancy,' 'unalterable 
 trust,' and 'reverent devotion'? I remember those 
 phrases; you seem to have forgotten them. I mention 
 a man's name 
 
 He. A good deal more than that. 
 
 She. Well, speak to him about a dance — perhaps 
 the last dance that I shall ever dance in my life before 
 I, — before I go away; and you at once distrust and 
 insult me. 
 
 He. I never said a word. 
 
 She. How much did you imply? Guy, is this 
 amount of confidence to be our stock to start the new 
 life on? 
 
 He. No, of course not. I didn't mean that. On 
 my word and honour, I didn't. Let it pass, dear. 
 Please let it pass. 
 
 She. This once — yes — and a second time, and 
 again and again, all through the years when I shall be 
 unable to resent it. You wan); too much, my Lancelot, 
 and, — you know too much. 
 
64 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 He. How do you mean? 
 
 She. That is a part of the punishment. There can- 
 not be perfect trust between us. 
 
 He. In Heaven's name, why not? 
 
 She. Hush! The Other Place is quite enough. Ask 
 yourself. 
 
 He. I don't follow. 
 
 She. You trust me so implicitly that when I look 
 
 at another man Never mind, Guy. Have you 
 
 **ver made love to a girl — a good girl? 
 
 He. Something of the sort. Centuries ago — in the 
 Dark Ages, before I ever met you, dear. 
 
 She. Tell me what you said to her. 
 
 He. What does a man say to a girl? I've forgotten. 
 
 She. I remember. He tells her that he trusts her 
 and worships the ground she walks on, and that he'll 
 love and honour and protect her till her dying day; 
 and so she marries in that belief. At least, I speak of 
 one girl who was not protected. 
 
 He. Well, and then? 
 
 She. And then, Guy, and then, that girl needs ten 
 times the love and trust and honour — yes, honour — 
 that was enough when she was only a mere wife if — 
 if — the other life she chooses to lead is to be made even 
 bearable. Do you understand? 
 
 He. Even bearable! It'll be Paradise. 
 
 She. Ah! Can you give me all I've asked for — 
 not now, nor a few months later, but when you begin 
 to think of what you might have done if you had kept 
 your own appointment and your caste here — when 
 you begin to look upon me as a drag and a burden? I 
 shall want it most, then, Guy, for there will be no one 
 in the wide world but you. 
 
 He. You're a b'ttle overtired to-night, Sweetheart 
 
THE HILL OF ILLUSION 65 
 
 and you're taking a stage view of the situation. After 
 the necessary business in the Courts, the road is clear 
 to 
 
 She. 'The holy state of matrimony!' Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 He. Ssh ! Don't laugh in that horrible way ! 
 
 She. I — I c-c-c-can't help it! Isn't it too absurd! 
 Ah! Ha! ha! ha! Guy, stop me quick or I shall — 
 i-1-laugh till we get to the Church. 
 
 He. For goodness' sake, stop! Don't make an ex- 
 hibition of yourself. What is the matter with you? 
 
 She. N-nothing. I'm better now. 
 
 He. That's all right. One moment, dear. There's 
 a little wisp of hair got loose from behind your right 
 ear and it's straggling over your cheek. So ! 
 
 She. Thank'oo. I'm 'fraid my hat's on one side, 
 too. 
 
 He. What do you wear these huge dagger bonnet- 
 skewers for? They're big enough to kill a man with. 
 
 She. Oh! Don't kill me, though. You're sticking 
 it into my head ! Let me do it. You men are so clumsy. 
 
 He. Have you had many opportunities of comparing 
 us — in this sort of work? 
 
 She. Guy, what is my name? 
 
 He. Eh! I don't follow. 
 
 She. Here's my card-case. Can you read? 
 
 He. Yes. Well? 
 
 She. Well, that answers your question. You know 
 the other man's name. Am I sufficiently humbled, or 
 would you like +.0 ask me if there is any one else? 
 
 He. I see & w. My darling, I never meant that for 
 an instant. I was only joking. There! Lucky there's 
 no one on the road. They'd be scandalised. 
 
 She. They'll be more scandalised before the end. 
 
 He. Do-on't! I don'Uike you to talk in that way. 
 
66 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 She. Unreasonable man! Who asked me to face the 
 situation and accept it? — Tell me, do I look like Mrs. 
 Penner? Do I look like a naughty woman! Swear I 
 don't! Give me your word of honour, my honourable 
 friend, that I'm not like Mrs. Buzgago. That's the way 
 she stands, with her hands clasped at the back of her 
 head. D'you like that? 
 
 He. Don't be affected. 
 
 She. I'm not. I'm Mrs. Buzgago. Listen! 
 
 Pendant une anne' toute entierc 
 Le rfigiment n'a pas r'paru. 
 Au Ministere de la Guerre 
 On le r'porta comme perdu. 
 
 On se r'noncait a. r'trouver sa trace, 
 Quand un matin subitement, 
 On le vit r'paraltre sur la place, 
 L'Colonel toujours en avant. 
 
 That's the way she rolls her r 's. Ami like her? 
 
 He. No,J?ut I object when you go on like an actress 
 and sing stuff of that kind. Where in the world did you 
 pick up the Chanson du Colonel ? It isn't a drawing-room 
 song. It isn't proper. 
 
 She. Mrs. Buzgago taught it me. She is both draw- 
 ing-room and proper, and in another month she'll shut her 
 drawing-room to me, and thank God she isn't as improper 
 as I am. Oh, Guy, Guy ! I wish I was like some women 
 and had no scruples about — what is it Keene says? — 
 'Wearing a corpse's hair and being false to the bread they 
 eat.' 
 
 He. I am only a man of limited intelligence, and, just 
 now, very bewildered. When* you have quite finished 
 flashing through all your moods tell me, and I'll try to 
 understand the last one. 
 
THE HILL OF ILLUSION 67 
 
 She. Moods, Guy! I haven't any. I'm sixteen 
 years old and you're just twenty, and you've been waiting 
 for two hours outside the school in the cold. And now 
 I've met you, and now we're walking home together. 
 Does that suit you, My Imperial Majesty? 
 
 He. No. We aren't children. Why can't you be 
 rational? 
 
 She. He asks me that when I'm going to commit 
 suicide for his sake, and, and — I don't want to be French 
 and rave about my mother, but have I ever told you that 
 I have a mother, and a brother who was my pet before I 
 married? He's married now. Can't you imagine the 
 pleasure that the news of the elopement will^ive him? 
 Have you any people at Home, Guy, to be pleased with 
 your performances? 
 
 He. One or two. One can't make omelets without 
 breaking eggs. 
 
 She (slowly) . I don't see the necessity 
 
 He. Hah! What do you mean? 
 
 She. Shall I speak the truth? 
 
 He. Under the circumstances, perhaps it would be as 
 well. _ 
 
 She. Guy, I'm afraid. 
 
 He. I thought we'd settled all that. What of? 
 
 She. Of you. 
 
 He. Oh, damn it all! The old business! This is too 
 bad! 
 
 She. Of you. 
 
 He. And what now? 
 
 She. What do you think of me? 
 
 He. Beside the question altogether. What do you 
 intend to do? 
 
 She. I daren't risk it. I'm afraid. If I couU only 
 cheat 
 
68 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 He. A la Buzgago ? No, thanks. That's the one point 
 on which I have any notion of Honour. I won't eat his 
 salt and steal too. I'll loot openly or not at all. 
 
 She. I never meant anything else. 
 
 He. Then, why in the world do you pretend not to be 
 willing to come? 
 
 She. It's not pretence, Guy. I am afraid. 
 
 He. Please explain. 
 
 She. It can't last, Guy. It can't last. You'll get 
 angry, and then you'll swear, and then you'll get jealous, 
 and then you'll mistrust me — you do now — and you your- 
 self will be the best reason for doubting. And I — what 
 shall I dp? I shall be no better than Mrs. Buzgago found 
 out — no better than any one. And you'll know that. Oh, 
 Guy, can't you see ? 
 
 He. I see that you are desperately unreasonable, little 
 woman. 
 
 She. There! The moment I begin to object, you get 
 angry. What will you do when I am only your property 
 —stolen property? It can't be, Guy. It can't be! I 
 thought it could, but it can't. You'll get tired of me. 
 
 He. I tell you I shall not. Won't anything make 
 you understand that? 
 
 She. There, can't you see? If you speak to me like 
 that now, you'll call me horrible names later, if I don't do 
 everything as you like. And if you were cruel to me, Guy, 
 where should I go — where should I go? I can't trust you. 
 Oh! I can't trust you ! 
 
 He. I suppose I ought to say that I can trust you. 
 I've ample reason. 
 
 She. Please don't, dear. It hurts as much as if you 
 hit me. 
 
 He. It isn't exactly pleasant for me. 
 
 She. I can't help it. I wish I were deadl I can't 
 
THE HILL OF ILLUSION 69 
 
 trust you, and I don't trust myself. Oh, Guy, let it die 
 away and be forgotten! 
 
 He. Too late now. I don't understand you — I won't 
 — and I can't trust myself to talk this evening. May I 
 call to-morrow? 
 
 She. Yes. No! Oh, give me time! The day after. 
 I get into my 'rickshaw here and meet Him at Peliti's. 
 You ride. 
 
 He. I'll go on to Peliti's too. I think I want a drink. 
 My world's knocked about my ears and the stars are fall- 
 ing. Who are those brutes howling in the Old Library? 
 
 She. They're rehearsing the singing-quadrilles for the 
 Fancy Ball. Can't you hear Mrs. Buzgago's voice? Shi 
 has a solo. It's quite a new idea. Listen! 
 
 Mrs. Buzgago {in the Old Library, con. molt. exp.). 
 
 See saw! Margery Daw! 
 Sold her bed to lie upon straw. 
 Wasn't she a silly slut 
 To sell her bed and lie upon dirt? 
 
 Captain Congleton, I'm going to alter that to 'flirt.' It 
 sounds better. 
 
 He. No, I've changed my mind about the drink. 
 Good-night, little lady. I shall see you to-morrow? 
 
 She. Ye — es. Good-night, Guy. Don't be angry with 
 me. 
 
 He. Angry! You know I trust you absolutely. Good- 
 night and — God bless you ! 
 
 {Three seconds later. Alone.) Hmm! I'd give some- 
 thing to discover whether there's another man at the back 
 of all this. 
 
A SECOND-RATE WOMAN 
 
 Estfuga, volvitur rota, 
 
 On we drift: where looms the dim port? 
 One Two Three Four Five contribute theirquota: 
 
 Something is gained if one caught but the import, 
 Show it us, Hugues of Saxe-Gotha. 
 
 Master Fugues of Saxe-Gotha. 
 
 'Dressed! Don't tell me that woman ever dressed in 
 her life. She stood in the middle of the room while her 
 ayah — no, her husband — it must have been a man — threw 
 her clothes at her. She then did her hair with her fingers, 
 and rubbed her bonnet in the flue under the bed. I know 
 she did, as well as if I had assisted at the orgie. Who is 
 she? ' said Mrs. Hauksbee. 
 
 'Don't!' said Mrs. Mallowe feebly. 'You make my 
 head ache. I'm miserable to-day. Stay me with fon- 
 dants, comfort me with chocolates, for I am Did 
 
 you bring anything from Peliti's? ' 
 
 'Questions to begin with. You shall have the sweets 
 when you have answered them. Who and what is the 
 creature? There were at least half a dozen men round her, 
 and she appeared to be going to sleep in their midst.' 
 
 'Delville,' said Mrs. Mallowe, '"Shady" Delville, to 
 distinguish her from Mrs. Jim of that ilk. She dances as 
 untidily as she dresses, I believe, and her husband is some- 
 where in Madras. Go and call, if you are so interested.' 
 
 'What have I to do with Shigramitish women? She 
 merely caught my attention for a minute, and I wondered 
 
 70 
 
A SECOND-RATE WOMAN 71 
 
 at the attraction that a dowd has for a certain type of 
 man. I expected to see her walk out of her clothes — 
 Until I looked at her eyes.' 
 
 'Hooks and eyes, surely,' drawled Mrs. Mallowe. 
 
 'Don't be clever, Polly. You make my head ache. 
 And round this hayrick stood a crowd of men — a positive 
 crowd!' 
 
 'Perhaps they also expected ' 
 
 ' Polly, don't be Rabelaisian ! ' 
 
 Mrs. Mallowe curled herself up comfortably on the sofa, 
 and turned her attention to the sweets. She and Mrs. 
 Hauksbee shared the same house at Simla; and these 
 things befell two seasons after the matter of Otis Yeere, 
 Which has been already recorded. 
 
 Mrs. Hauksbee stepped into the veranda and 
 iooked down upon the Mall, her forehead puckered with 
 thought. 
 
 ' Hah ! ' said Mrs. Hauksbee shortly. ' Indeed ! ' 
 
 'What is it? ' said Mrs. Mallowe sleepily. 
 
 'That dowd and The Dancing Master — to whom I 
 object.' 
 
 'Why to The Dancing Master? He is a middle-aged 
 gentleman, of reprobate and romantic tendencies, and 
 tries to be a friend of mine.' 
 
 'Then make up your mind to lose him. Dowds cling 
 by nature, and I should imagine that this animal — how 
 terrible her bonnet looks from above!— is specially cling- 
 some.' 
 
 'She is welcome to The Dancing Master so far as I am 
 concerned. I never could take an interest in a monoto- 
 nous liar. The frustrated aim of his life is to persuade 
 people that he is a bachelor.' 
 
 'O-oh! I think I've met that sort of man before. 
 And isn't be?' 
 
72 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 'No. He confided that to me a few days ago. Ugh! 
 Some men ought to be killed.' 
 
 'What happened then? ' 
 
 'He posed as the horror of horrors — a misunderstood 
 man. Heaven knows thefemme incomprise is sad enough 
 and bad enough — but the other thing ! ' 
 
 'And so fat too! I should have laughed in his face. 
 Men seldom confide in me. How is it they come to you?' 
 
 'For the sake of impressing me with their careers in the 
 past. Protect me from men with confidences ! ' 
 
 'And yet you encourage them? ' 
 
 'What can I do? They talk, I listen, and they vow 
 that I am sympathetic. I know I always profess astonish- 
 ment even when the plot is — of the most old possible.' 
 
 'Yes. Men are so unblushingly explicit if they are 
 once allowed to talk, whereas women's confidences are 
 full of reservations and fibs, except ' 
 
 'When they go mad and babble of the Unutterabili- 
 ties after a week's acquaintance. Really, if you come 
 to consider, we know a great deal more of men than of 
 our own sex.' 
 
 'And the extraordinary thing is that men will never 
 believe it. They say we are trying to hide something.' 
 
 'They are generally doing that on their own account. 
 Alas! These chocolates pall upon me, and I haven't 
 eaten more than a dozen. I think I shall go to sleep.' 
 
 'Then you'll get fat, dear. If you took more exer- 
 cise and a more intelligent interest in your neighbours 
 you would ' 
 
 'Be as much loved as Mrs. Hauksbee. You're a 
 darling in many ways and I like you — you are not a 
 woman's woman — but why do you trouble yourself 
 about mere human beings? ' 
 
 'Because in the absence of angels, who I am sure 
 
A SECOND-RATE WOMAN 73 
 
 would be horribly dull, men and women are the most 
 fascinating things in the whole wide world, lazy one. 
 I am interested in The Dowd — I am interested in The 
 Dancing Master — I am interested in the Hawley Boy — 
 and I am interested in you.' 
 
 'Why couple me with the Hawley Boy? He is your 
 property.' 
 
 'Yes, and in his own guileless speech, I'm making a 
 good thing out of him. When he is slightly more re- 
 formed, and has passed his Higher Standard, or whatever 
 the authorities think fit to exact from him, I shall select 
 a pretty little girl, the Holt girl, I think, and' — here she 
 waved her hands airily — '"whom Mrs. Hauksbee hath 
 joined together let no man put asunder." That's all.' 
 
 'And when you have yoked May Holt with the most 
 notorious detrimental in Simla, and earned the undying 
 hatred of Mamma Holt, what will you do with me, Dis- 
 penser of the Destinies of the Universe? ' 
 
 Mrs. Hauksbee dropped into a low chair in front of 
 the fire, and, chin in hand, gazed long and steadfastly at 
 Mrs, Mallowe. 
 
 'I do not know,' she said, shaking her head, 'what I 
 shall do with you, dear. It's obviously impossible to 
 marry you to some one else — your husband would 
 Object and the experiment might not be successful 
 after all. I think I shall begin by preventing you from — 
 what is it? — "sleeping on ale-house benches and snoring 
 in the sun.'" 
 
 'Don't! I don't like your quotations. They are so 
 rude. Go to the Library and bring me new books.' 
 
 'While you sleep? No! If you don't come with me, 
 I shall spread your newest frock on my 'rickshaw-bow, 
 and when any one asks me what I am doing, I shall say 
 that I am going to Phelps's to get it let out. I shall 
 
74 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 take care that Mrs. MacNamara sees me. Put your 
 things on, there's a good girl.' 
 
 Mrs. Mallowe groaned and obeyed, and the two went 
 off to the Library, where they found Mrs. DelviUe and the 
 man who went by the nickname of The Dancing Master. 
 By that time Mrs. Mallowe was awake and eloquent. 
 
 'That is the Creature!' said Mrs. Hauksbee, -with the 
 air of one pointing out a slug in the road. 
 
 'No,' said Mrs. Mallowe. 'The man is the Creature. 
 Ugh! Good-evening, Mr. Bent. I thought you were 
 coming to tea this evening.' 
 
 'Surely it was for to-morrow, was it not?' answered 
 The Dancing Master. 'I understood ... I fan- 
 cied . . . I'm so sorry . . . How very unfor- 
 tunate!' . . . 
 
 But Mrs. Mallowe had passed on. 
 
 'For the practised equivocator you said he was,' 
 murmured Mrs. Hauksbee, 'he strikes me as a failure. 
 Now wherefore should he have preferred a walk with 
 The Dowd to tea with us? Elective affinities, I sup- 
 pose — both grubby. Polly, I'd never forgive that woman 
 as long as the world rolls.' 
 
 'I forgive every woman everything,' said Mrs. Mal- 
 lowe. 'He will be a sufficient punishment for her. 
 What a common voice she has!' 
 
 Mrs. Delville's voice was not pretty, her carriage 
 was even less lovely, and her raiment was strikingly 
 neglected. All these things Mrs. Mallowe noticed over 
 the top of a magazine. 
 
 'Now what is there in her?' said Mrs. Hauksbee. 
 'Do you see what I meant about the clothes falling 
 off? If I were a man I would perish sooner than be 
 seen with that rag-bag. And yet, she has good eyes ( 
 but— Oh!' 
 
A SECOND-RATE WOMAN ft 
 
 'What is it?' 
 
 'She doesn't know how to use them! On my Honour, 
 she does not. Look! Oh look! Untidiness I can en- 
 dure, but ignorance never! The woman's a fool.' 
 
 'Hsh! She'll hear you.' 
 
 'All the women in Simla are fools. She'll think I 
 mean some one else. Now she's going out. What 
 a thoroughly objectionable couple she and The Dancing 
 Master make! Which reminds me. Do you suppose 
 they'll ever dance together? ' 
 
 'Wait and see. I don't envy her the conversation 
 of The Dancing Master — loathly man! His wife ought 
 to be up here before long.' 
 
 'Do you know anything about him?' 
 
 'Only what he told me. It may be all a fiction. 
 He married a girl bred in the country, I think, and, 
 being an honourable, chivalrous soul, told me that he 
 repented his bargain and sent her to her mother as often- 
 as possible — a person who has lived in the Doon since 
 the memory of man and goes to Mussoorie when other 
 people go Home. The wife is with her at present. So 
 he says.' 
 
 'Babies?' 
 
 'One only, but he talks of his wife in a revolting 
 way. I hated him for it. He thought he was being 
 epigrammatic and brilliant.' 
 
 'That is a vice peculiar to men. I dislike him because 
 he is generally in the wake of some girl, disappointing 
 the Eligibles. He will persecute May Holt no more, 
 unless I am much mistaken.' 
 
 'No. I think Mrs. Delville may occupy his attention 
 for a while.' 
 
 'Do you suppose she knows that he is the head of a 
 family?' 
 
76 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 'Not from his lips. He swore me to eternal secrecy. 
 Wherefore I tell you. Don't you know that type of 
 man?' 
 
 'Not intimately, thank goodness! As a general 
 rule, when a man begins to abuse his wife to me, I find 
 that the Lord gives me wherewith to answer him accord- 
 ing to his folly; and we part with a coolness between us. 
 I laugh.' 
 
 'I'm different. I've no sense of humour.' 
 
 'Cultivate it, then. It has been my mainstay for 
 more years than I care to think about. A well-educated 
 sense of Humour will save a woman when Religion, 
 Training, and Home influences fail; and we may all need 
 salvation sometimes.' 
 
 'Do you suppose that the Delville woman has humour? ' 
 
 'Her dress bewrays her. How can a Thing who wears 
 her supplement under her left arm have any notion of the 
 fitness of things — much less their folly? If she discards 
 The Dancing Master after having once seen him dance, 
 I may respect her. Otherwise ' 
 
 'But are we not both assuming a great deal too much, 
 dear? You saw the woman at Peliti's — half an hour 
 later you saw her walking with The Dancing Master 
 — an hour later you met her here at the Library.' 
 
 'Still with The Dancing Master, remember.' 
 
 'Still with The Dancing Master, I admit, but why on 
 the strength of that should you imagine ' 
 
 'I imagine nothing. I have no imagination. I am 
 only convinced that The Dancing Master is attracted 
 to The Dowd because he is objectionable in every way 
 and she in every other. If I know the man as you have 
 described him, he holds his wife in slavery at present.' 
 
 'She is twenty years younger than he.' 
 
 'Poor wretch! And, in the end, after he has posed 
 
A SECOND-RATE WOMAN 77 
 
 and swaggered and lied — he has a mouth under that 
 ragged moustache simply made for lies — he will be 
 rewarded according to his merits.' 
 
 'I wonder what those really are/ said Mrs. Mallowe. 
 
 But Mrs. Hauksbee, her face close to the shelf of the 
 new books, was humming softly: 'What shall he have 
 who killed the Deer!' She was a lady of unfettered 
 speech. 
 
 One month later, she announced her intention of call- 
 ing upon Mrs. Delville. Both Mrs. Hauksbee and Mrs. 
 Mallowe were in morning wrappers, and there was a 
 great peace in the land. 
 
 'I should go as I was,' said Mrs. Mallowe. 'It would 
 be a delicate compliment to her style.' 
 
 Mrs. Hauksbee studied herself in the glass. 
 
 'Assuming for a moment that she ever darkened these 
 doors, I should put on this robe, after all the others, to 
 jhow her what a morning wrapper ought to be. It 
 might enliven her. As it is, I shall go in the dove- 
 coloured — sweet emblem of youth and innocence — and 
 shall put on my new gloves.' 
 
 'If you really are going, dirty tan would be too 
 good; and you know that dove-colour spots with the 
 rain.' 
 
 'I care not. I may make her envious. At least I 
 shall try, though one cannot expect very much from a 
 woman who puts a lace tucker into her habit.' 
 
 •Just Heavens! When did she do that?' 
 
 ' Yesterday— riding with The Dancing Master. I met 
 them at the back of Jakko, and the rain had made the 
 lace lie down. To complete the effect, she was wear- 
 ing an unclean terai with the elastic under her chin. I 
 felt almost too well content to take the trouble to despise 
 her,' 
 
78 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 'The Hawley Boy was riding with you. What did 
 he think?' 
 
 'Does a boy ever notice these things? Should I like 
 him if he did? He stared in the rudest way, and just 
 when I thought he had seen the elastic, he said, "There's 
 something very taking about that face." I rebuked him 
 on the spot. I don't approve of boys being taken by 
 faces.' 
 
 ' Other than your own. I shouldn't be in the least sur- 
 prised if the Hawley Boy immediately went to call.' 
 
 'I forbade him. Let her be satisfied with The Danc- 
 ing Master, and his wife when she comes up. I'm 
 rather curious to see Mrs. Bent and the Delville woman 
 together.' 
 
 Mrs. Hauksbee departed and, at the end of an hour, 
 returned slightly flushed. 
 
 'There is no limit to the treachery of youth! I 
 ordered the Hawley Boy, as he valued my patronage, 
 not to call. The first person I stumble over — literally 
 stumble over— in her poky, dark, little drawing-room 
 is, of course, the Hawley Boy. She kept us waiting 
 ten minutes, and then emerged as though she had been 
 tipped out of the dirty-clothes basket. You know my 
 way, dear, when I am at all put out. I was Superior, 
 crrrrushingly Superior! 'Lifted my eyes to Heaven, 
 and had heard of nothing — 'dropped my eyes on the 
 carpet and "really didn't know" — 'played with my 
 card-case and "supposed so." The Hawley Boy gig- 
 gled like a girl, and I had to freeze him with scowls be- 
 tween the sentences.' 
 
 'And she?' 
 
 ' She sat in a heap on the edge of a couch, and man- 
 aged to convey the impression that she was suffering 
 from stomach-ache, at the very least. It was all I 
 
A SECOND-RATE WOMAN 79 
 
 could do not to ask after her symptoms. When I rose, 
 she grunted just like a buffalo in the water — too lazy 
 to move.' 
 
 'Are you certain? ' 
 
 'Am I blind, Polly? Laziness, sheer laziness, noth- 
 ing else — or her garments were only constructed for 
 sitting down in. I stayed for a quarter of an hour 
 trying to penetrate the gloom, to guess what her sur- 
 roundings were like, while she stuck out her tongue.' 
 
 'Lu— cyV 
 
 'Well — I'll withdraw the tongue, though I'm sure if she 
 didn't do it when I was in the room, she did the minute I 
 Tsras outside. At any rate, she lay in a lump and grunted. 
 Ask the Hawley Boy, dear. I believe the grunts were 
 meant for sentences, but she spoke so indistinctly that I 
 can't swear to it.' 
 
 'You are incorrigible, simply.' 
 
 ' I am not I Treat me civilly, give me peace with honour, 
 don't put the only available seat facing the window, and a 
 child may eat jam in my lap before Church. But I resent 
 being grunted at. Wouldn't you? Do you suppose that 
 she communicates her views on life and love to The Danc- 
 ing Master in a set of modulated " Grmphs? " ' 
 
 'You attach too much importance to The Dancing 
 Master.' 
 
 'He came as we went, and The Dowd grew almost 
 cordial at the sight of him. He smiled greasily, and moved 
 about that darkened dog-kennel in a suspiciously familiar 
 way.' 
 
 'Don't be uncharitable. Any sin but that I'll for- 
 give.' 
 
 'Listen to the voice of History. I am only describing 
 what I saw. He entered, the heap on the sofa revived 
 slightly, and the Hawley Boy and I came away together. 
 
80 L UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 He is disillusioned, but I felt jt my duty to lecture him 
 severely for going there. And that's all. ' 
 
 'Now for Pity's sake leave the wretched creature and 
 The Dancing Master alone. They never did you any 
 harm.' 
 
 'No harm? To dress as an example and a stumbling- 
 block for half Simla, and then to find this Person who is 
 dressed by the hand of God — not that I wish to disparage 
 Him for a moment, but you know the tikka dhurzie way He 
 attires those lilies of the field — this Person draws the eyes 
 of men — and some of them nice men? It's almost enough 
 to make one discard clothing. I told the Hawley Boy so.' 
 
 'And what did that sweet youth do? ' 
 
 'Turned shell-pink and looked across the far blue hills 
 like a distressed cherub. Ami talking wildly, Polly? Let 
 me say my say, and I shall be calm. Otherwise I may go 
 abroad and disturb Simla with a few original reflections. 
 Excepting always your own sweet self, there isn't a single 
 woman in the land who understands me when I am-^ 
 what's the word? ' 
 
 1 Tete-felee,' suggested Mrs. Mallowe. 
 
 'Exactly! And now let us have tiffin. The demands of 
 
 Society are exhausting, and as Mrs. Delville says ' 
 
 Here Mrs. Hauksbee, to the horror of the khitmatgars, 
 lapsed into a series of grunts, while Mrs. Mallowe stared 
 in lazy surprise. 
 
 ' " God gie us a gude conceit of oorselves," ' said Mrs. 
 Hauksbee piously, returning to her natural speech. 
 'Now, in any other woman that would have been vulgar. 
 I am consumed with curiosity to see Mrs. Bent. I ex- 
 pect complications.' 
 
 'Woman of one idea,' said Mrs. Mallowe shortly; 'aD 
 complications are as old as the hills ! I have lived through 
 or near all — all — all J ' 
 
A SECOND-RATE WOMAN 81 
 
 "And yet do not understand that men and women 
 never behave twice alike. I am old who was young — -if 
 iver I put my head in your lap, you dear, big sceptic, you 
 will learn that my parting is gauze — but never, no never, 
 have I lost my interest in men and women. Polly, I shall 
 see this business out to the bitter end.' 
 
 'I am going to sleep,' said Mrs. Mallowe calmly. 'I 
 never interfere with men or women unless I am com- 
 pelled,' and she retired with dignity to her own room. 
 
 Mrs. Hauksbee's curiosity was not long left ungratified, 
 for Mrs. Bent came up to Simla a few days after the con- 
 versation faithfully reported above, and pervaded the 
 Mall by her husband's side 
 
 'Behold!' said Mrs. Hauksbee, thoughtfully rubbing 
 her nose. ' That is the last link of the chain, if we omit the 
 husband of the Delville, whoever he may be. Let me con- 
 sider. The Bents and the Delvilles inhabit the same 
 hotel; and the Delville is detested by the Waddy — do you 
 know the Waddy? — who is almost as big a dowd. The 
 Waddy also abominates the male Bent, for which, if her 
 other sins do not weigh too heavily, she will eventually go 
 to Heaven.' 
 
 'Don't be irreverent,' said Mrs. Mallowe, 'I like Mrs. 
 Bent's face.' 
 
 'I am discussing the Waddy,' returned Mrs. Hauksbee 
 loftily. ' The Waddy will take the female Bent apart, after 
 having borrowed — yes! — everything that she can, from 
 hairpins to babies' bottles. Such, my dear, is life in a 
 hotel. The Waddy will tell the female Bent facts and 
 fictions about The Dancing Master and The Dowd.' 
 
 'Lucy, I should like you better if you were not always 
 looking into people's back-bedrooms.' 
 
 'Anybody can look into their front drawing-rooms; and 
 remember whatever I do, and whatever I look, I never 
 
82 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 talk — as the Waddy will. Let us hope that The Dancing 
 Master's greasy smile and manner of the pedagogue will 
 soften the heart of that cow, his wife. If mouths speak 
 truth, I should think that little Mrs. Bent could get very 
 angry on occasion.' 
 
 ' But what reason has she for being angry? ' 
 
 'What reason! The Dancing Master in himself is a 
 reason. How does it go? "If in his life some trivial 
 errors fall, Look in his face and you'll believe them all." I 
 am prepared to credit any evil of The Dancing Master, 
 because I hate him so. And The Dowd is so disgustingly 
 badly dressed ' 
 
 'That she, too, is capable of every iniquity? I always 
 prefer to believe the best of everybody. It saves so much 
 trouble.' 
 
 ' Very good. I prefer to believe the worst. It saves use- 
 less expenditure of sympathy. And you may be quite 
 certain that the Waddy believes with me.' 
 
 Mrs. Mallowe sighed and made no answer. 
 
 The conversation was holden after dinner while Mrs. 
 Hauksbee was dressing for a dance. 
 
 'I am too tired to go,' pleaded Mrs. Mallowe, and Mrs. 
 Hauksbee left her in peace till two in the morning, when 
 she was aware of emphatic knocking at her door. 
 
 ' Don't be very angry, dear,' said Mrs. Hauksbee. ' My 
 idiot of an ayah has gone home, and, as I hope to sleep to«. 
 night, there isn't a soul in the place to unlace me.' 
 
 ' Oh, this is too bad ! ' said Mrs. Mallowe sulkily. 
 
 ' 'Can't help it. I'm a lone, lorn grass-widow, dear, but 
 I will not sleep in my stays. And such news too ! Oh, do 
 unlace me, there's a darling! The Dowd — The Dancing 
 Master — I and the Hawley Boy — You know the North 
 veranda? ' 
 
 'How can I do anything if you spin round like this?' 
 
A SECOND-RATE WOMAN 83 
 
 protested Mrs. Mallowe, fumbling with the knot of the 
 laces. 
 
 'Oh, I forget. I must tell my tale without the aid of 
 your eyes. Do you know you've lovely eyes, dear? Well, 
 to begin with, I took the Hawley Boy to a kala juggah.' 
 
 'Did he want much taking? ' 
 
 'Lots! There was an arrangement of loose-boxes in 
 kanats, and she was in the next one talking to him.' 
 
 'Which? How? Explain.' 
 
 'You know what I mean — The Dowd and The Dancing 
 Master. We could hear every word, and we listened 
 shamelessly — 'specially the Hawley Boy. Polly, I quite 
 love that woman ! ' 
 
 'This is interesting. There! Now turn round. What 
 happened?' 
 
 'One moment. Ah — h! Blessed relief . I've been look- 
 ing forward to taking them off for the last half-hour — 
 which is ominous at my time of life. But, as I was saying, 
 we listened and heard The Dowd drawl worse than ever. 
 She drops her final g's like a barmaid or a blue-blooded 
 Aide-de-Camp. "Look he-ere, you're gettin' too fond o' 
 me," she said, and The Dancing Master owned it was so 
 in language that nearly made me ill. The Dowd reflected 
 for a while. Then we heard her say, ' ' Look he-ere, Mister 
 Bent, why are you such an aw-ful liar?" I nearly ex- 
 ploded while The Dancing Master denied the charge. It 
 seems that he never told her he was a married man.' 
 
 ' I said he wouldn't.' 
 
 'And she had taken this to heart, on personal grounds, 
 I suppose. She drawled along for five minutes, reproach- 
 ing him with his perfidy and grew quite motherly. ' ' Now 
 you've got a nice little wife of your own — you have," she 
 said. " She's ten times too good for a fat old man like you, 
 and, look he-ere, you never told me a word about her, and 
 
<4 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 I've been thinkin' about it a good deal, and I think you're 
 a liar." Wasn't that delicious? The Dancing Master 
 maundered and raved till the Hawley Boy suggested that 
 he should burst in and beat him. His voice runs up into 
 an impassioned squeak when he is afraid. The Dowd 
 must be an extraordinary woman. She explained that 
 had he been a bachelor she might not have objected to his 
 devotion; but since he was a married man and the father 
 of a very nice baby, she considered him a hypocrite, and 
 this she repeated twice. She wound up her drawl with: 
 "An' I'm tellin' you this because your wife is angry with 
 me, an' I hate quarrellin' with any other woman, an' I 
 like your wife. You know how you have behaved for the 
 last six weeks. You shouldn't have done it, indeed you 
 shouldn't. You're too old an' too fat." Can't you im- 
 agine how The Dancing Master would wince at that! 
 "Now go away," she said. "I don't want to tell you 
 what I think of you, because I think you are not nice. I'll 
 stay he-ere till the next dance begins." Did you think 
 that the creature had so much in her? ' 
 
 'I never studied her as closely as you did. It sounds 
 unnatural. What happened? ' 
 
 'The Dancing Master attempted blandishment, re- 
 proof, jocularity, and the style of the Lord High Warden, 
 and I had almost to pinch the Hawley Boy to make him 
 keep quiet. She grunted at the end of each sentence and, 
 in the end, he went away swearing to himself, quite like a 
 man in a novel. He looked more objectionable than ever. 
 I laughed. I love that woman — in spite of her clothes. 
 And now I'm going to bed. What do you think of it? ' 
 
 'I shan't begin to think till the morning,' said Mrs. 
 Mallowe yawning. 'Perhaps she spoke the truth. They 
 do fly into it by accident sometimes.' 
 
 Mrs, Hauksbee's account of her eavesdropping was an 
 
A SECOND-RATE WOMAN 85 
 
 ornate one but truthful in the main. For reasons best 
 known to herself, Mrs. ' Shady' Delville had turned upon 
 Mr. Bent and rent him limb from limb, casting him away 
 limp and disconcerted ere she withdrew the light of her 
 eyes from him permanently. Being a man of resource, 
 and anything but pleased in that he had been called both 
 old and fat, he gave Mrs. Bent to understand that he had, 
 during her absence in the Doon, been the victim of un- 
 ceasing persecution at the hands of Mrs. Delville, and he 
 told the tale so often and with such eloquence that he 
 ended in believing it, while his wife marvelled at the 
 manners and customs of 'some women.' When the situ- 
 ation showed signs of languishing, Mrs. Waddy was 
 always on hand to wake the smouldering fires of suspicion 
 in Mrs. Bent's bosom and to contribute generally to thf 
 peace and comfort of the hotel. Mr. Bent's life was not a 
 happy one, for if Mrs. Waddy's story were true, he was, 
 argued his wife, untrustworthy to the last degree. If his 
 own statement were true, his charms of manner and con- 
 versation were so great that he needed constant sur- 
 veillance. And he received it, till he repented genuinely 
 of his marriage and neglected his personal appearance. 
 Mrs. Delville alone in the hotel was unchanged. She re- 
 moved her chair some six paces towards the head of the 
 table, and occasionally in the twilight ventured on timid 
 overtures of friendship to Mrs. Bent, which were repulsed. 
 
 'She does it for my sake,' hinted the virtuous Bent. 
 
 'A dangerous and designing woman,' purred Mrs. 
 Waddy. 
 
 Worst of all, every other hotel in Simla was full ! 
 
 'Polly, are you afraid of diphtheria?' 
 
 'Of nothing in the world except smallpox. Diph- 
 
86 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 theria kills, but it doesn't disfigure. Why do you 
 ask?' 
 
 'Because the Bent baby has got it, and the whole 
 hotel is upside down in consequence. The Waddy has 
 "set her five young on the rail" and fled. The Danc- 
 ing Master fears for his precious throat, and that miser- 
 able little woman, his wife, has no notion of what ought 
 to be done. She wanted to put it into a mustard bath 
 — for croup!' 
 
 'Where did you learn all this?' 
 
 'Just now, on the Mall. Dr. Howlen told me. The 
 Manager of the hotel is abusing the Bents, and the 
 Bents are abusing the manager. They are a feckless 
 couple.' 
 
 'Well. What's on your mind? ' 
 
 'This; and I know it's a grave thing to ask. Would 
 you seriously object to my bringing the child over here, 
 with its mother?/ 
 
 ' On the most strict understanding that we see nothing 
 of The Dancing Master.' 
 
 'He will be only too glad to stay away. Polly, you're 
 an angel. The woman really is at her wits' end.' 
 
 'And you know nothing about her, careless, and 
 would hold her up to public scorn if it gave you a min- 
 ute's amusement. Therefore you risk your life for the 
 sake of her brat. No, Loo, I'm not the angel. I shall 
 keep to my rooms and avoid her. But do as you please 
 ■ — only tell me why you do it.' 
 
 Mrs. Hauksbee's eyes softened; she looked out of the 
 window and back into Mrs. Mallowe's face. 
 
 'I don't know,' said Mrs. Hauksbee simply. 
 
 'You dear!' 
 
 'Polly! — and for aught you knew you might have 
 taken my fringe off. Never do that again without 
 
A SECOND-RATE WOMAN 87 
 
 warning. Now we'll get the rooms ready. I don't 
 suppose I shall be allowed to circulate in society for a 
 month.' 
 
 'And I also. Thank goodness I shall at last get all 
 the sleep I want.' 
 
 Much to Mrs. Bent's surprise she and the baby were 
 brought over to the house almost before she knew where 
 she was. Bent was devoutly and undisguisedly thank- 
 ful, for he was afraid of the infection, and also hoped 
 that a few weeks in the hotel alone with Mrs. Delville 
 might lead to explanations. Mrs. Bent had thrown 
 her jealousy to the winds in her fear for her child's 
 life. 
 
 'We can give you good milk,' said Mrs. Hauksbee to 
 her, 'and our house is much nearer to the Doctor's than 
 the hotel, and you won't feel as though you were living 
 in a hostile camp. Where is the dear Mrs. Waddy? 
 She seemed to be a particular friend of yours.' 
 
 'They've all left me,' said Mrs. Bent bitterly. 'Mrs. 
 Waddy went first. She said I ought to be ashamed of 
 myself for introducing diseases there, and I am sure it 
 wasn't my fault that little Dora- ' 
 
 'How nice!' cooed Mrs. Hauksbee. 'The Waddy 
 is an infectious disease herself — "more quickly caught 
 than the plague and the taker runs presently mad." I 
 lived next door to her at the Elysium, three years ago. 
 Now see, you won't give us the least trouble, and I've 
 ornamented all the house with sheets soaked in carbolic. 
 It smells comforting, doesn't it? Remember I'm always 
 in call, and my ayah's at your service when yours goes 
 to her meals and — and — if you cry I'll never forgive 
 you.' 
 
 Dora Bent occupied her mother's unprofitable atten- 
 tion through the day and the night. The Doctor 
 
88 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 called thrice in the twenty-four hours, and the house 
 reeked with the smell of the Condy's Fluid, chlorine- 
 water, and carbolic acid washes. Mrs. Mallowe kept 
 to her own rooms — she considered that she had made 
 sufficient concessions in the cause of humanity — and 
 Mrs. Hauksbee was more esteemed by the Doctor as a 
 help in the sick-room than the half-distraught mother. 
 
 'I know nothing of illness,' said Mrs. Hauksbee to 
 the Doctor. 'Only tell me what to do, and I'll do it.' 
 
 'Keep that crazy woman from kissing the child, and 
 let her have as little to do with the nursing as you pos- 
 sibly can,' said the Doctor; 'I'd turn her out of the 
 sick-room, but that I honestly believe she'd die of anx- 
 iety. She is less than no good, and I depend on you 
 and the ayahs, remember.' 
 
 Mrs. Hauksbee accepted the responsibility, though it 
 painted olive hollows under her eyes and forced her to 
 her oldest dresses. Mrs. Bent clung to her with more 
 than childlike faith. 
 
 'I know you'll make Dora well, won't you?' she 
 said at least twenty times a day; and twenty times a 
 day Mrs. Hauksbee answered valiantly, 'Of course I 
 will.' 
 
 But Dora did not improve, and the Doctor seemed to 
 be always in the house. 
 
 'There's some danger of the thing taking a bad turn,' 
 he said; 'I'll come over between three and four in the 
 morning to-morrow.' 
 
 'Good gracious!' said Mrs. Hauksbee. 'He never 
 told me what the turn would be! My education has 
 been horribly neglected; and I have only th 1 ' 1 : foolish 
 mother-woman to fall back upon.' 
 
 The night wore through slowly, and Mrs. Hauksbee 
 dozed in a chair by the fire. There was a dance at the 
 
A SECOND-RATE WOMAN 89 
 
 Viceregal Lodge, and she dreamed of it till she was 
 aware of Mrs. Bent's anxious eyes staring into her own. 
 
 'Wake up! Wake up! Do something!' cried Mrs. 
 Bent piteously. 'Dora's choking to death! Do you 
 mean to let her die?' 
 
 Mrs. Hauksbee jumped to her feet and bent over the 
 bed. The child was fighting for breath, while the 
 mother wrung her hands despairing. 
 
 'Oh, what can I do? What can you do? She won't 
 stay still! I can't hold her. Why didn't the Doctor 
 say this was coming?' screamed Mrs. Bent. 'Won't 
 you help me? She's dying!' 
 
 'I — I've never seen a child die before!' stammered 
 Mrs. Hauksbee feebly, and then — let none blame her 
 weakness after the strain of long watching — she broke 
 down, and covered her face with her hands. The 
 ayahs on the threshold snored peacefully. 
 
 There was a rattle of 'rickshaw wheels below, the 
 clash of an opening door, a heavy step on the stairs, 
 and Mrs. Delville entered to find Mrs. Bent screaming 
 for the Doctor as she ran round the room. Mrs. Hauks- 
 bee, her hands to her ears, and her face buried in the 
 chintz of a chair, was quivering with pain at each 
 cry from the bed, and murmuring, 'Thank God, I 
 never bore a child! Oh! thank God, I never bore a 
 child!' 
 
 Mrs. Delville looked at the bed for an instant, took 
 Mrs. Bent by the shoulders, and said quietly, ' Get me 
 some caustic. Be quick.' 
 
 The mother obeyed mechanically. Mrs. Delville had 
 thrown herself down by the side of the child and was 
 opening its mouth. 
 
 'Oh, you're killing her!' cried Mrs. Bent. 'Where's 
 the Doctor? Leave her alone ! ' 
 
go UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 Mrs. Delville made no reply for a minute, but busied 
 herself with the child. 
 
 'Now the caustic, and hold a lamp behind my shoulder. 
 Will you do as you are told? The acid-bottle, if you 
 don't know what I mean,' she said. 
 
 A second time Mrs. Delville bent over the child. 
 Mrs. Hauksbee, her face still hidden,' sobbed and shiv- 
 ered. One of the ayahs staggered sleepily into the room, 
 yawning: 'Doctor Sahib come.' 
 
 Mrs. Delville turned her head. 
 
 'You're only just in time,' she said. 'It was chokur 
 her when I came an' I've burnt it.' 
 
 'There was no sign of the membrane getting to the 
 air-passages after the last steaming. It was the gen- 
 eral weakness, I feared,' said the Doctor half to him- 
 self, and he whispered as he looked, 'You've done 
 what I should have been afraid to do without consulta- 
 tion.' 
 
 ' She was dyin',' said Mrs. Delville, under her breath. 
 'Can you do any thin'? What a mercy it was I went 
 to the dance!' 
 
 Mrs. Hauksbee raised her head. 
 
 'Is it all over?' she gasped. 'I'm useless — I'm worse 
 than useless! What are you doing here?' 
 
 She stared at Mrs. Delville, and Mrs. Bent, realising 
 for the first time who was the Goddess from the Machine, 
 stared also. 
 
 Then Mrs. Delville made explanation, putting on a 
 dirty long glove and smoothing a crumpled and ill- 
 fitting ball-dress. 
 
 'I was at the dance, an' the Doctor was tellin' me 
 about your baby bein' so ill. So I came away early, 
 an' your door was open, an' I — I — lost my boy this 
 way six months ago, an' I've been tryin' to forget it ever 
 
A SECOND-RATE WOMAN 91 
 
 since, an' I — I — I am very sorry for intrudin' an' any- 
 thin' that has happened.' 
 
 Mrs. Bent was putting out the Doctor's eye with a 
 lamp as he stooped over Dora. 
 
 'Take it away,' said the Doctor. 'I think the child 
 will do, thanks to you, Mrs. Delville. / should have 
 come too late, but, I assure you' — he was addressing 
 himself to Mrs. Delville — 'I had not the faintest reason 
 to expect this. The membrane must have grown like a 
 mushroom. Will one of you help me, please? ' 
 
 He had reason for the last sentence. Mrs. Hauksbee 
 had thrown herself into Mrs. Delville's arms, where she 
 was weeping bitterly, and Mrs. Bent was unpicturesquely 
 mixed up with both, while from the tangle came the 
 sound of many, sobs and much promiscuous kissing. 
 
 'Good gracious! I've spoilt all your beautiful roses!' 
 said Mrs. Hauksbee, lifting her head from the lump of 
 crushed gum and calico atrocities on Mrs. Delville's 
 shoulder and hurrying to the Doctor. 
 
 Mrs. Delville picked up her shawl, and slouched out 
 of the room, mopping her eyes with the glove that she 
 had not put on. 
 
 'I always said she was more than a woman,' sobbed 
 Mrs. Hauksbee hysterically, 'and that proves it!' 
 
 Six weeks later, Mrs. Bent and Dora had returned 
 to the hotel. Mrs. Hauksbee had come out of the 
 Valley of Humiliation, had ceased to reproach herself 
 for her collapse in an hour of need, and was even be- 
 ginning to direct the affairs of the world as before. 
 
 'So nobody died, and everything went off as it should, 
 and I kissed The Dowd, Polly. I feel so old. Does 
 it show in my face?' 
 
92 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 'Kisses don't as a rule, do they? Of course you 
 know what the result of The Dowd's providential arrival 
 has been.' 
 
 'They ought to build her a statue — only no sculptor 
 dare copy those skirts.' 
 
 'Ah!' said Mrs. Mallowe quietly. 'She has found 
 another reward. The Dancing Master has been smirk- 
 ing through Simla, giving every one to understand that 
 she came because of her undying love for him-^-for him — 
 to save his child, and all Simla naturally believes this.' 
 
 'But Mrs. Bent ' 
 
 'Mrs. Bent believes it more than any one else. She 
 won't speak to The Dowd now. Isn't The Dancing 
 Master an angel?' 
 
 Mrs. Hauksbee lifted up her voice and raged till bed- 
 time. The doors of the two rooms stood open. 
 
 'Polly,' said a voice from the darkness, 'what did 
 that American-heiress-globe-trotter girl say last season 
 when she was tipped out of her 'rickshaw turning a 
 corner? Some absurd adjective that made the man 
 who picked her up explode.' 
 
 '"Paltry,"' said Mrs. Mallowe. 'Through her nose 
 —like this— "Ha-ow pahltry!'" 
 
 'Exactly,' said the voice. 'Ha-ow pahltry it all is!' 
 
 'Which?' 
 
 'Everything. Babies, Diphtheria, Mrs. Bent and 
 The Dancing Master, I whooping in a chair, and The 
 Dowd dropping in from the clouds. I wonder what 
 the motive was — all the motives.' 
 
 'Urn!' 
 
 'What do you think?' 
 
 'Don't ask me. Go to sleep.' 
 
ONLY A SUBALTERN 
 
 . . . Not only to enforce by command but to encourage by example 
 the energetic discbarge of duty and the steady endurance of the diffi- 
 wilties and privations inseparable from Military Service. — Bengal 
 Army Regulations. 
 
 They made Bobby Wick pass an examination at Sand- 
 hurst. He was a gentleman before he was gazetted, so, 
 when the Empress announced that 'Gentleman-Cadet 
 Robert Hanna Wick' was posted as Second Lieutenant to 
 the Tyneside Tail Twisters at Krab Bokhar, he became 
 an officer and a gentleman, which is an enviable thing; 
 and there was joy in the house of Wick where Mamma 
 Wick and all the little Wicks fell upon their knees and 
 offered incense to Bobby by virtue of his achievements. 
 
 Papa Wick had been a Commissioner in his day, hold- 
 ing authority over three millions of men in the Chota- 
 Buldana Division, building great works for the good of 
 the land, and doing his best to make two blades of grass 
 grow where there was but one before. Of course, nobody 
 knew anything about this in the little English village 
 where he was just 'old Mr. Wick' and had forgotten that 
 he was a Companion of the Order of the Star of India. 
 
 He patted Bobby on the shoulder and said: 'Well done, 
 my boy!' 
 
 There followed, while the uniform was being prepared, 
 an interval of pure delight, during which Bobby took 
 brevet-rank as a 'man' at the women-swamped tennis- 
 parties and tea-fights of the village, and, I daresay, had his 
 
 93 
 
94 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 joining-time been extended, would have fallen in love with 
 several girls at once. Little country villages at Home are 
 very full of nice girls, because all the young men come out 
 to India to make their fortunes. 
 
 'India,' said Papa Wick, 'is the place. I've had thirty 
 years of it and, begad, I'd like to go back again. When 
 you join the Tail Twisters you'll be among friends, if 
 every one hasn't forgotten Wick of Chota-Buldana, and a 
 lot of people will be kind to you for our sakes. The mother 
 will tell you more about outfit than I can, but remember 
 this. Stick to your Regiment, Bobby — stick to your 
 Regiment. You'll see men all round you going into the 
 Staff Corps, and doing every possible sort of duty but 
 regimental, and you may be tempted to follow suit. Now 
 so long as you keep within your allowance, and I haven't 
 stinted you there, stick to the Line, the whole Line and 
 nothing but the Line. Be careful how you back another 
 young fool's bill, and if you fall in love with a woman 
 twenty years older than yourself, don't tell me about it, 
 that's all.' 
 
 With these counsels, and many others equally valu- 
 able, did Papa Wick fortify Bobby ere that last awful night 
 at Portsmouth when the Officers' Quarters held more 
 inmates than were provided for by the Regulations, and 
 the liberty-men of the ships fell foul of the drafts for 
 India, and the battle raged from the Dockyard Gates 
 even to the slums of Longport, while the drabs of Fratton 
 came down and scratched the faces of the Queen's Officers. 
 
 Bobby Wick, with an ugly bruise on his freckled nose, a 
 sick and shaky detachment to manoeuvre inship and the 
 comfort of fifty scornful females to attend to, had no 
 time to feel homesick till the Malabar reached mid- 
 Channel, when he doubled his emotions with a little 
 guard-visiting and a great many other matters. 
 
ONLY A SUBALTERN g$ 
 
 The Tail Twisters were a most particular Regiment. 
 Those who knew them least said that they were eaten up 
 with 'side.' But their reserve and their internal arrange- 
 ments generally were merely protective diplomacy. Some 
 five years before, the Colonel commanding had looked 
 into the fourteen fearless eyes of seven plump and juicy 
 subalterns who had all applied to enter the Staff Corps, 
 and had asked them why the three stars should he, 
 a colonel of the Line, command a dashed nursery for 
 double-dashed bottle-suckers who put on condemned tin 
 spurs and rode qualified mokes at the hiatused heads of 
 forsaken Black Regiments. He was a rude man and a 
 terrible. Wherefore the remnant took measures [with the 
 half-butt as an engine of public opinion] till the rumour 
 went abroad that young men who used the Tail Twisters 
 as a crutch to the Staff Corps, had many and varied trials 
 to endure. However, a regiment had just as much right 
 to its own secrets as a woman. 
 
 When Bobby came up from Deolali and took his place 
 among the Tail Twisters, it was gently but firmly borne 
 in upon him that the Regiment was his father and his 
 mother and his indissolubly wedded wife, and that there 
 was no crime under the canopy of heaven blacker than that 
 of bringing shame on the Regiment, which was the best- 
 shooting, best-drilled, best set-up, bravest, most illustri- 
 ous, and in all respects most desirable Regiment within the 
 compass of the Seven Seas. He was taught the legends of 
 the Mess Plate, from the great grinning Golden Gods that 
 had come out of the Summer Palace in Pekin to the silver- 
 mounted markhor-horn snuff-mull presented by the last 
 C. O. [he who spake to the seven subalterns]. And every 
 one of those legends told him of battles fought at long 
 odds, without fear as without support; of hospitality 
 catholic as an Arab's; of friendships deep as the sea and 
 
96 tfNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 steady as the fighting-line; of honour won by hard roads 
 for honour's sake; and of instant and unquestioning de- 
 votion to the Regiment — the Regiment that claims the 
 lives of all and lives for ever. 
 
 More than once, too, he came officially into contact 
 with the Regimental colours, which looked like the lining 
 of a bricklayer's hat on the end of a chewed stick. Bobby 
 did not kneel and worship them, because British sub- 
 alterns are not constructed in that manner. Indeed, he 
 condemned them for their weight at the very moment 
 that they were filling with awe and other more noble 
 sentiments. 
 
 But best of all was the occasion when he moved with 
 the Tail Twisters in review order at the breaking of a 
 November day. Allowing for duty-men and sick, the 
 Regiment was one thousand and eighty strong, and 
 Bobby belonged to them; for was he not a Subaltern of 
 the Line — the whole Line and nothing but the Line — as 
 the tramp of two thousand one hundred and sixty sturdy 
 ammunition boots attested? He would not have changed 
 places with Deighton of the Horse Battery, whirling by in 
 a pillar of cloud to a chorus of 'Strong right! Strong 
 left!' or Hogan-Yale of the White Hussars, leading his 
 squadron for all it was worth, with the price of horseshoes 
 thrown in; or 'Tick' Boileau, trying to live up to his fierce 
 blue and gold turban while the wasps of the Bengal 
 Cavalry stretched to a gallop in the wake of the long, 
 lollopping Walers of the White Hussars. 
 
 They fought through the clear cool day, and Bobby 
 felt a little thrill run down his spine when he heard the 
 tinkle-tinkle-tinkle of the empty cartridge-cases hopping 
 from the breech-locks after the roar of the volleys; for he 
 knew that he should live to hear that sound in action. 
 Tbe review ended in a glorious chase across the plain- 
 
ONLY A SUBALTERN gf 
 
 batteries thundering after cavalry to the huge disgust of 
 the White Hussars, and the Tyneside Tail Twisters 
 hunting a Sikh Regiment, till the lean lathy Singhs panted 
 "sith exhaustion. Bobby was dusty and dripping long 
 before noon, but his enthusiasm was merely focused — -not 
 diminished. 
 
 He returned to sit at the feet of Revere, his 'skipper,' 
 that is to say, the Captain of his Company, and to be in- 
 structed in the dark art and mystery of managing men, 
 which is a very large part of the Profession of Arms. 
 
 'If you haven't a taste that way,' said Revere between 
 his puffs of his cheroot, 'you'll never be able to get the 
 hang of it, but remember, Bobby, 'tisn't the best drill, 
 though drill is nearly everything, that hauls a Regiment 
 through Hell and out on the other side. It's the man 
 Ivho knows how to handle men — goat-men, swine-men, 
 dog-men, and so on.' 
 
 'Dormer, for instance,' said Bobby, 'I think he comes 
 under the head of fool-men. He mopes like a sick owl.' 
 
 'That's where you make your mistake, my son. 
 Dormer isn't a fool yet , but he's a dashed dirty soldier, and 
 his room corporal makes fun of his socks before kit-in- 
 spection. Dormer, being two-thirds pure brute, goes 
 into a corner and growls.' 
 
 'How do you know? ' said Bobby admiringly. 
 
 'Because a Company commander has to know these 
 things — because, if he does not know, he may have crime 
 — ay, murder — brewing under his very nose and yet not 
 see that it's there. Dormer is being badgered out of his 
 mind — big as he is — and he hasn't intellect enough to 
 resent it. He's taken to quiet boozing and, Bobby, when 
 the butt of a room goes on the drink, or takes to moping 
 by himself, measures are necessary to pull him out rf 
 himself.' 
 
g8 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 'What measures? 'Man can't run round coddling his 
 men for ever.' 
 
 'No. The men would precious soon show him that he 
 was not wanted. You've got to ' 
 
 Here the Colour-sergeant entered with some papers; 
 Bobby reflected for a while as Revere looked through the 
 Company forms. 
 
 'Does Dormer do anything, Sergeant?' Bobby asked 
 with the air of one continuing an interrupted conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 'No, sir. Does 'is dooty like a hortomato,' said the 
 Sergeant, who delighted in long words. 'A dirty soldier, 
 and 'e's under full stoppages for new kit. It's covered 
 with scales, sir.' 
 
 'Scales? What scales?' 
 
 'Fish-scales, sir. 'E's always pokin' in the mud by 
 the river an' a-cleanin' them muchly-fash. with 'is thumbs.' 
 Revere was still absorbed in the Company papers, and 
 the Sergeant, who was sternly fond of Bobby, continued, 
 — ' 'E generally goes down there when 'e's got 'is skinful, 
 beggin' your pardon, sir, an' they do say that the more 
 lush — in-/te-briated 'e is, the more fish 'e catches. They 
 call 'im the Looney Fishmonger in the Comp'ny, sir.' 
 
 Revere signed the last paper and the Sergeant re- 
 treated. 
 
 'It's a filthy amusement,' sighed Bobby to himself. 
 Then aloud to Revere: 'Are you really worried about 
 Dormer? ' 
 
 'A little. You see he's never mad enough to send to 
 hospital, or drunk enough to run in, but at any minute he 
 may flare up, brooding and sulking as he does. He 
 resents any interest being shown in him, and the only 
 time I took him out shooting he all but shot me by 
 accident.' 
 
ONLY A SUBALTERN 99 
 
 ' I fish,' said Bobby with a wry face. ' I hire a country- 
 boat and go down the river from Thursday to Sunday, 
 and the amiable Dormer goes with me — if you can spare 
 us both. ' 
 
 'You blazing young fool!' said Revere, but his heart 
 was full of much more pleasant words. 
 
 Bobby, the Captain of a dhoni, with Private Dormer 
 for mate, dropped down the river on Thursday morning — 
 the Private at the bow, the Subaltern at the helm. The 
 Private glared uneasily at the Subaltern, who respected 
 the reserve of the Private. 
 
 After six hours, Dormer paced to the stern, saluted, and 
 said — ' B eg y ' pardon, sir, but was you ever on the Durh'm 
 Canal?' 
 
 'No,' said Bobby Wick. 'Come and have some tiffin.' 
 
 They ate in silence. As the evening fell, private 
 Dormer broke forth, speaking to himself — 
 
 'Hi was on the Durh'm Canal, jes' such a night, 
 come next week twelve month, a-trailin' of my toes in 
 the water.' He smoked and said no more till bedtime. 
 
 The witchery of the dawn turned the gray river- 
 reaches to purple, gold, and opal; and it was as though 
 the lumbering dhoni crept across the splendours of a new 
 heaven. 
 
 Private Dormer popped his head out of his blanket 
 and gazed at the glory below and around. 
 
 'Well — damn — my eyes!' said Private Dormer in an 
 awed whisper. 'This 'ere is like a bloomin' gallantry- 
 show!' For the rest of the day he was dumb, but 
 achieved ari ensanguined filthiness through the cleaning 
 of big fish. 
 
 The boat returned on Saturday evening. Dormer 
 had been struggling with speech since noon. As the lines 
 and luggage were being disembarked, he found tongue. 
 
ioo , UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 r 
 'Beg y' pa'raon, sir,' he said, 'but would you — would 
 
 you min' shakin' 'ands with me, sir? ' 
 
 'Of course not,' said Bobby, and he shook accord-. 
 ingly. Dormer returned to barracks and Bobby to mess. 
 
 'He wanted a little quiet and some fishing, I think,' 
 said Bobby. 'My aunt, but he's a filthy sort of ani- 
 mal! Have you ever seen him clean "them, muchly- 
 fish with 'is thumbs"?' 
 
 'Anyhow,' said Revere three weeks later, 'he's doing 
 his best to keep his things clean.' 
 
 When the spring died, Bobby joined in the general 
 scramble for Hill leave, and to his surprise and delight 
 secured three months. 
 
 'As good a boy as I want,' said Revere the admiring 
 skipper. 
 
 'The best of the batch,' said the Adjutant to the 
 Colonel. 'Keep back that young skrimshanker Por- 
 kiss, sir, and let Revere make him sit up.' 
 
 So Bobby departed joyously to Simla Pahar with a 
 tin box of gorgeous raiment. 
 
 "Son of Wick— old Wick of Chota-Buldana? Ask 
 *iim to dinner, dear,' said the aged men. 
 
 'What a nice boy!' said the matrons and the maids. 
 
 ' First-class place, Simla. Oh, ri — ipping ! ' said Bobby 
 Wick, and ordered new white cord breeches on the 
 strength of it. 
 
 'We're in a bad way,' wrote Revere to Bobby at the 
 end of two months. 'Since you left, the Regiment 
 has taken to fever and is fairly rotten with it — two 
 hundred in hospital, about a hundred in cells — drinking 
 to keep off fever — and the Companies on parade fifteen 
 file strong at the outside. There's rather more sickness 
 in the out-villages than I care for, but then I'm so blis- 
 tered with prickly heat that I'm ready to hang myself, 
 
ONLY A SUBALTERN 101 
 
 What's the yarn about your mashing a Miss Haverley 
 up there? Not serious, I hope? You're over-young 
 to hang millstones round your neck, and the Colonel will 
 turf you out of that in double-quick time if you at- 
 tempt it.' 
 
 It was not the Colonel that brought Bobby out of 
 Simla, but a much more to be respected Commandant. 
 The sickness in the out-villages spread, the Bazar was 
 put out of bounds, and then came the news that the 
 Tail Twisters must go into camp. The message flashed 
 to the Hill stations. — 'Cholera — Leave stopped — Offi- 
 cers recalled.' Alas, for the white gloves in the neatly 
 soldered boxes, the rides and the dances and picnics that 
 were to be, the loves half spoken, and the debts unpaid! 
 Without demur and without question, fast as tonga 
 could fly or pony gallop, back to their Regiments and 
 their Batteries, as though they were hastening to theii 
 weddings, fled the subalterns. / 
 
 Bobby received his orders on returning from a dance 
 at Viceregal Lodge where he had but only the Haver- 
 ley girl knows what Bobby had said or how many waltzes 
 he had claimed for the next ball. Six in the morning saw 
 Bobby at the Tonga Office in the drenching rain, the 
 whirl of the last waltz still in his ears, and an intoxication 
 due neither to wine nor waltzing in his brain. 
 
 'Good man!' shouted Deighton of the Horse Battery 
 through the mists. 'Whar you raise dat tonga? I'm 
 coming with you. Ow! But I've a head and half. / 
 didn't sit out all night. They say the Battery's awfui 
 bad,' and he hummed dolorously — 
 
 'Leave the what at the what's-its-name, 
 Leave the flock without shelter, 
 Leave the corpse uninterred, 
 Leave the bride at the altar I 
 
10a UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 'My faith! It'll be more bally corpse than bride, 
 though, this journey. Jump in, Bobby. Get on, 
 Coachwanl' 
 
 On the Umballa platform waited a detachment of 
 officers discussing the latest news from the stricken 
 cantonment, and it was here that Bobby learned the 
 real condition of the Tail Twisters. 
 
 'They went into camp,' said an elderly Major recalled 
 from the whist-tables at Mussoorie to a sickly Native 
 Regiment, ' they went into camp with two hundred and 
 ten sick in carts. Two hundred and ten fever cases 
 only, and the balance looking like so many ghosts with 
 sore eyes. A Madras Regiment could have walked 
 through 'em.' 
 
 'But they were as fit as be-damned when I left them!' 
 said Bobby. 
 
 'Then you'd better make them as fit as be-damned 
 when you rejoin,' said the Major brutally. 
 
 Bobby pressed his forehead against the rain-splashed 
 window pane as the train lumbered across the sodden 
 Doab, and prayed for the health of the Tyneside Tail 
 Twisters. Naini Tal had sent down her contingent 
 with all speed; the lathering ponies of the Dalhousie 
 Road staggered into Pathankot, taxed to the full stretch 
 of their strength; while from cloudy Darjiling the Cal- 
 cutta Mail whirled up the last straggler of the little army 
 that was to fight a fight, in which was neither medal 
 nor honour for the winning, against an enemy none 
 other than 'the sickness that destroyeth in the noon- 
 day.' 
 
 And as each man reported himself, he said: 'This 
 is a bad business,' and went about his own forthwith, 
 for every Regiment and Battery in the cantonment wa» 
 under canvas, the sickness bearing them company. 
 
ONLY A SUBALTERN 103 
 
 Bobby fought his way through the rain to the Tail 
 Twisters' temporary mess, and Revere could have fallen 
 on the boy's neck for the joy of seeing that ugly, whole- 
 some phiz once more. 
 
 'Keep 'em amused and interested,' said Revere. 
 'They went on the drink, poor fools, after the first two 
 cases, and there was no improvement. Oh, it's good to 
 have you back, Bobby! Porkiss is a — never mind.' 
 
 Deighton came over from the Artillery camp to attend 
 a dreary mess dinner, and contributed to the general 
 gloom by nearly weeping over the condition of his be- 
 loved Battery. Porkiss so far forgot himself as to in- 
 sinuate that the presence of the officers could do no 
 earthly good, and that the best thing would be to send 
 the entire Regiment into hospital and 'let the doctors 
 look after them.' Porkiss was demoralised with fear, 
 nor was his peace of mind restored when Revere said 
 coldly: 'Oh! The sooner you go out the better, if that's 
 your way of thinking. Any public school could send us 
 fifty good men in your place, but it takes time, time, 
 Porkiss, and money, and a certain amount of trouble, 
 to make a Regiment. 'S'pose you're the person we go 
 mto camp for, eh? ' 
 
 Whereupon Porkiss was overtaken with a great and 
 chilly fear which a drenching in the rain did not allay, 
 and, two days later, quitted this world for another 
 where, men do fondly hope; allowances are made for 
 the weaknesses of the flesh. The Regimental Sergeant- 
 Major looked wearily across the Sergeants' Mess tent 
 when the news was announced. 
 
 'There goes the worst of them,' he said. 'It'll take 
 the best, and then, please God, it'll stop.' The Ser- 
 geants were silent till one said: 'It couldn't be Mm!' 
 and all knew of whom Travis was thinking. 
 
104 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 Bobby Wick stormed through the tents of his Com- 
 pany, rallying, rebuking, mildly, as is consistent with 
 the Regulations, chaffing the faint-hearted; haling the 
 sound into the watery sunlight when there was a break 
 in the weather, and bidding them be of good cheer for 
 their trouble was nearly at an end; scuttling on his 
 dun pony round the outskirts of the camp and heading 
 back men who, with the innate perversity of British 
 soldiers, were always wandering into infected villages, 
 or drinking deeply from rain-flooded marshes; com- 
 forting the panic-stricken with rude speech, and more 
 than once tending the dying who had no friends — the 
 men without 'townies'; organising, with banjos and 
 burnt cork, Sing-songs which should allow the talent of 
 the Regiment full play; and generally, as he explained, 
 'playing the giddy garden-goat all round.' 
 
 'You're worth half a dozen of us, Bobby,' said Revere 
 in a moment of enthusiasm. 'How the devil do you 
 keep it up? ' 
 
 Bobby made no answer, but had Revere looked into 
 the breast-pocket of his coat he might have seen there 
 a sheaf of badly-written letters which perhaps accounted 
 for the power that possessed the boy. A letter came 
 to Bobby every other day. The spelling was not above 
 reproach, but the sentiments must have been most sat- 
 isfactory, for on receipt Bobby's eyes softened marvel- 
 lously, and he was wont to fall into a tender abstraction 
 for a while ere, shaking his cropped head, he charged into 
 his work. 
 
 By what power he drew after him the hearts of the 
 roughest, and the Tail Twisters counted in their ranks 
 some rough diamonds indeed, was a mystery to 
 both skipper and C. O., who learned from the regi- 
 mental chaplain that Bobby was consic? a rabJv more in 
 
ONLY A SUBALTERN 105 
 
 request in the hospital tents than the Reverend John 
 Emery. 
 
 'The men seem fond of you. Are you in the hos- 
 pitals much?' said the Colonel, who did his daily round 
 and ordered the men to get well with a hardness that 
 did not cover his bitter grief. 
 
 'A little, sir,' said Bobby. 
 
 ' 'Shouldn't go there too often if I were you. They 
 say it's not contagious, but there's no use in running 
 unnecessary risks. We can't afford to have you down, 
 y'know.' 
 
 Six days later, it was with the utmost difficulty that 
 the post-runner plashed his way out to the camp with 
 the mail-bags, for the rain was falling in torrents. Bobby 
 received a letter, bore it off to his tent, and, the pro- 
 gramme for the next week's Sing-song being satisfactorily 
 disposed of, sat down to answer it. For an hour the un- 
 handy pen toiled over the paper, and where sentiment 
 rose to more than normal tide-level, Bobby Wick stuck 
 out his tongue and breathed heavily. He was not used 
 to letter-writing. 
 
 'Beg y' pardon, sir,' said a voice at the tent door; 
 'but Dormer's 'orrid bad, sir, an' they've taken him orf, 
 sir.' 
 
 'Damn Private Dormer and you too!' said Bobby 
 Wick, running the blotter over the half-finished letter. 
 'Tell him I'll come in the morning.' 
 
 ' 'E's awful bad, sir,' said the voice hesitatingly. There 
 vras an undecided squelching of heavy boots. 
 
 'Well?' said Bobby impatiently. 
 
 'Excusin' 'imself before'and for takin' the liberty, 'e 
 says it would be a comfort for to assist 'im, sir, if ' 
 
 'Tattoo laol Get my pony! Here, come in out of 
 the rain till I'm readv. What blasted nuisances you 
 
lo6 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 are! That's brandy. Drink some; you want it. Hang 
 on to my stirrup and tell me if I go too fast.' 
 
 Strengthened by a four-finger 'nip' which he swal- 
 lowed without a wink, the Hospital Orderly kept up with 
 the slipping, mud-stained, and very disgusted pony as it 
 shambled to the hospital tent. 
 
 Private Dormer was certainly ' 'orrid bad.' He 
 had all but reached the stage of collapse and was not 
 pleasant to look upon. 
 
 'What's this, Dormer?' said Bobby, bending over the 
 man. 'You're not going out this time. You've got to 
 come fishing with me once or twice more yet.' 
 
 The blue lips parted and in the ghost of a whisper 
 said, — 'Beg y' pardon, sir, disturbin' of you now, but 
 would you min' 'oldin' my 'and, sir? ' 
 
 Bobby sat on the side of the bed, and the icy cold hand 
 closed on his own like a vice, forcing a lady's ring which 
 was on the little finger deep into the flesh. Bobby set his 
 lips and waited, the water dripping from the hem of his 
 trousers. An hour passed and the grasp of the hand did 
 not relax, nor did the expression of the drawn face change. 
 Bobby with infinite craft lit himself a cheroot with the 
 left hand, his right arm was numbed to the elbow, and 
 resigned himself to a night of pain. 
 
 Dawn showed a very white-faced Subaltern sitting on 
 the side of a sick man's cot, and a Doctor in the doorway 
 using language unfit for publication. 
 
 'Have you been here all night, you young ass? ' said the 
 Doctor. 
 
 'There or thereabouts,' said Bobby ruefully. 'He's 
 frozen on to me.' 
 
 Dormer's mouth shut with a click. He turned his 
 head and sighed. The clinging hand opened, and Bobby's 
 *rm fell useless at his side. 
 
ONLY A SUBALTERN 107 
 
 'He'll do,' said the Doctor quietly. ' It must have been 
 a toss-up all through the night. 'Think you're to be con- 
 gratulated on this case.' 
 
 ' Oh, bosh ! ' said Bobby. ' I thought the man had gone 
 out long ago — only — only I didn't care to take my hand 
 away. Rub my arm down, there's a good chap. What a 
 grip the brute has! I'm chilled to the marrow!' He 
 passed out of the tent shivering. 
 
 Private Dormer was allowed to celebrate his repulse of 
 Death by strong waters. Four days later, he sat on the 
 side of his cot and said to the patients mildly : ' I'd 'a' liken 
 to 'a' spoken to 'im — so I should.' 
 
 But at that time Bobby was reading yet another letter 
 — he had the most persistent correspondent of any man in 
 camp — and was even then about to write that the sick- 
 ness had abated, and in another week at the outside 
 would be gone. He did not intend to say that the chill of 
 a sick man's hand seemed to have struck into the heart 
 whose capacities for affection he dwelt on at such length. 
 He did intend to enclose the illustrated programme of the 
 forthcoming Sing-song whereof he was not a little proud. 
 He also intended to write on many other matters which 
 do not concern us, and doubtless would have done so but 
 for the slight feverish headache which made him dull and 
 unresponsive at mess. 
 
 'You are overdoing it, Bobby,' said his skipper. 
 ' 'Might give the rest of us credit of doing a little work. 
 You go on as if you were the whole Mess rolled into one. 
 Take it easy.' 
 
 'I will,' said Bobby. 'I'm feeling done up, some- 
 how.' Revere looked at him anxiously and said noth- 
 ing. 
 
 There was a flickering of lanterns about the camp that 
 night, and a rumour that brought men out of their cots to 
 
io8 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 the tent doors, a paddling of the naked feet of doolie- 
 bearers and the rush of a galloping horse. 
 
 'Wot's up?' asked twenty tents; and through twenty 
 teats ran the answer — 'Wick, 'e's down.' 
 
 They brought the news to Revere and he groaned. 
 'Any one but Bobby and 1 shouldn't have cared! The 
 Sergeant-Major was right.' 
 
 'Not going out this journey,' gasped Bobby, as he was 
 lifted from the doolie. 'Not going out this journey.' 
 Then with an air of supreme conviction — 'I can't, you 
 see.' 
 
 'Not if I can do anything!' said the Surgeon-Major, 
 who had hastened over from the mess where he had been 
 dining. 
 
 He and the Regimental Surgeon fought together with 
 Death for the life of Bobby Wick. Their work was in- 
 terrupted by a hairy apparition in a blue-gray dressing- 
 gown who stared in horror at the bed and cried — ' Oh, my 
 Gawd! It can't be 'im!' until an indignant Hospital 
 Orderly whisked him away. 
 
 If care of man and desire to live could have done aught, 
 Bobby would have been saved. As it was, he made a fight 
 of three days, and the Surgeon-Major's brow uncreased. 
 "We'll save him yet,' he said; and the Surgeon, who, 
 though he ranked with the Captain, had a very youthful 
 heart, went out upon the word and pranced joyously in 
 the mud. 
 
 ' Not going out this journey,' whispered Bobby Wick 
 gallantly, at the end of the third day. 
 
 ' Bravo ! ' said the Surgeon-Major. ' That's the way to 
 look at it, Bobby.' 
 
 As evening fell a gray shade gathered round Bobby's 
 mouth, and he turned his face to the tent wall wearily. 
 The Surgeon-Major frowned. 
 
ONLY A SUBALTERN 109 
 
 'I'm awfully tired,' said Bobby, very faintly. 'What's 
 the use of bothering me with medicine? J — don't — 
 want — it. Let me alone. ' 
 
 The desire for life had departed, and Bobby was con- 
 tent to drift away on the easy tide of Death. 
 
 'It's no good,' said the Surgeon-Major. 'He doesn't 
 want to live. He's meeting it, poor child.' And he blew 
 his nose. 
 
 Half a mile away the regimental band was playing the 
 overture to the Sing-song, for the men had been told that 
 Bobby was out of danger. The clash of the brass and the( 
 wail of the horns reached Bobby's ears. 
 
 Is there a single joy or pain, 
 That I should never kno — ow? 
 You do not love me, 'tis in vain, 
 Bid me good-bye and go! 
 
 An expression of hopeless irritation crossed the boy's 
 tace, and he tried to shake his head. 
 
 The Surgeon-Major bent down — ' What is it? Bobby? ' 
 — 'Not that waltz,' muttered Bobby. 'That's our own 
 — our very ownest. . . . Mummy dear.' 
 
 With this he sank into the stupor that gave place to 
 death early next morning. 
 
 Revere, his eyes red at the rims and his nose very white, 
 went into Bobby's tent to write a letter to Papa Wick 
 which should bow the white head of the ex-Commissioner 
 of Chota-Buldana in the keenest sorrow of his life. 
 Bobby's little store of papers lay in confusion on the 
 table, and among them a half-finished letter. The last 
 sentence ran: 'So you see, darling, there is really no fear, 
 because as long as I know you care for me and I care for 
 you, nothing can touch me.' 
 
UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 Revere stayed in the tent for an hour. When he camr 
 out, his eyes were redder than ever. 
 
 Private Conklin sat on a turned-down bucket, and 
 listened to a not unfamiliar tune. Private Conklin was a 
 convalescent and should have been tenderly treated. 
 
 ' Ho ! ' said Private Conklin. ' There 's another bloomin' 
 orf 'cer da — ed.' 
 
 The bucket shot from under him and his eyes filled with 
 a smithyful of sparks. A tall man in a blue-gray bed- 
 gown was regarding him with deep disfavour. 
 
 ' You ought to take shame to yourself, Conky ! Orf 'cer ? 
 — bloomin' orf 'cer? I'll learn you to misname the likes cf 
 'im. Hangel! Bloomin' Hangel! That's wot 'e is!' 
 
 And the Hospital Orderly was so satisfied with the 
 justice of the punishment that he did not even order 
 Private Dormer back to hk eot. 
 
THE PHANTOM 'RICKSHAW 
 
 May no ill dreams disturb my rest, 
 Nor Powers of Darkness me molest. 
 
 Evening Hymn. 
 
 One of the few advantages that India has over England is 
 a great Knowability. After five years' service a man is 
 directly or indirectly acquainted with the two or three 
 hundred Civilians in his Province, all the Messes of ten 
 or twelve Regiments and Batteries, and some fifteen hun- 
 dred other people of the non-official caste. In ten years his 
 knowledge should be doubled, and at the end of twenty 
 years he knows, or knows something about, every English- 
 man in the Empire, and may travel anywhere and every- 
 where without paying hotel-bills. 
 
 Globe-trotters who expect entertainment as a right, 
 have, even within my memory, blunted this open-heart- 
 edness, but none the less to-day, if you belong to the 
 Inner Circle and are neither a Bear nor a Black Sheep, all 
 houses are open to you, and our small world is very, very 
 kind and helpful. 
 
 Rickett of Kamartha stayed with Polder of Kumaon 
 some fifteen years ago. He meant to stay two nights, but 
 was knocked down by rheumatic fever, and for six weeks 
 disorganised Polder's establishment, stopped Polder's 
 work, and nearly died in Polder's bedroom. Polder be- 
 haves as though he had been placed under eternal ob- 
 ligation by Rickett, and yearly sends the little Ricketts a 
 box of presents and toys. It is the same everywhere. 
 
 MI 
 
ii2 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 The men who do not take the trouble to conceal from you 
 their opinion that you are an incompetent ass, and the 
 women who blacken your character and misunderstand 
 your wife's amusements, will work themselves to the bone 
 in your behalf if you fall sick or into serious trouble. 
 
 Heatherlegh, the Doctor, kept, in addition to his regular 
 practice, a hospital on his private account — an arrange- 
 ment of loose boxes for Incurables, his friend called it — 
 but it was really a sort of fitting-up shed for craft that had 
 been damaged by stress of weather. The weather in 
 India is often sultry, and since the tale of bricks is always 
 a fixed quantity, and the only liberty allowed is permis- 
 sion to work overtime and get no thanks, men occasion- 
 ally break down and become as mixed as the metaphors in 
 this sentence. 
 
 Heatherlegh is the dearest doctor that ever was, and 
 his invariable prescription to all his patients is, 'Lie low, 
 go slow, and keep cool.' He says that more men are 
 killed by overwork than the importance of this world 
 justifies. He maintains that overwork slew Pansay, who 
 died under his hands about three years ago. He has, of 
 course, the right to speak authoritatively, and he laughs 
 at my theory that there was a crack in Pansay's head and 
 a little bit of the Dark World came through and pressed 
 him to death. 'Pansay went off the handle,' says Heath- 
 erlegh, 'after the stimulus of long leave at Home. He 
 may or he may not have behaved like a blackguard to 
 Mrs. Keith- Wessington. My notion is that the work of 
 the Katabundi Settlement ran him off his legs, and that 
 he took to brooding and making much of an ordinary P. 
 & 0. flirtation. He certainly was engaged to Miss 
 Mannering, and she certainly broke off the engagement. 
 Then he took a feverish chill and all that nonsense about 
 ghosts developed. Overwork started his illness, kept it 
 
THE PHANTOM 'RICKSHAW 113 
 
 alight, and killed him, poor devil. Write him off to the 
 System that uses one man to do the work of two and a 
 half men.' 
 
 I do not believe this. I used to sit up with Pansay some- 
 times when Heatherlegh was called out to patients and I 
 happened to be within claim. The man would make me 
 most unhappy by describing in a low, even voice, the pro- 
 cession that was always passing at the bottom of his bed. 
 He had a sick man's command of language. When he re- 
 covered I suggested that he should write out the whole 
 affair from beginning to end, knowing that ink might 
 assist him to ease his mind. 
 
 He was in a high fever while he was writing, and the 
 blood-and-thunder Magazine diction he adopted did not 
 calm him. Two months afterwards he was reported fit for 
 duty, but, in spite of the fact that he was urgently needed 
 to help an undermanned Commission stagger through a 
 deficit, he preferred to die; vowing at the last that he 
 was hag-ridden. I got his manuscript before he died, and 
 this is his version of the affair, dated 1885, exactly as he 
 wrote it: — 
 
 My doctor tells me that I need rest and change of 
 air. It is not improbable that I shall get both ere 
 long — rest that neither the red-coated messenger nor 
 the mid-day gun can break, and change of air far beyond 
 that which any homeward-bound steamer can give me. 
 In the meantime I am resolved to stay where I am; and, 
 in flat defiance of my doctor's orders, to take all the world 
 into my confidence. You shall learn for yourselves the 
 precise nature of my malady, and shall, too, judge for 
 yourselves whether any man born of woman on this 
 weary earth was ever so tormented as I. 
 
 Speaking now as a condemned criminal might speak 
 *re the drop-bolts are drawn, my story, wild and hide- 
 
Ti4 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 ously improbable as it may appear, demands at least 
 attention. That it will ever receive credence I utterly 
 disbelieve. Two months ago I should have scouted 
 as mad or drunk the man who had dared tell me the 
 like. Two months ago I was the happiest man in India 
 To-day, from Peshawar to the sea, there is no one more 
 wretched. My doctor and I are the only two who know 
 this. His explanation is, that my brain, digestion, and 
 eyesight are all slightly affected; giving rise to my fre- 
 quent and persistent 'delusions.' Delusions, indeed! I 
 call him a fool; but he attends me still with the same un- 
 wearied smile, the same bland professional manner, the 
 same neatly-trimmed red whiskers, till I begin to suspect 
 that I am an ungrateful, evil-tempered invalid. But 
 you shall judge for yourselves. 
 
 Three years ago it was my fortune — my great mis- 
 fortune — to sail from Gravesend to Bombay, on return 
 from long leave, with one Agnes Keith-Wessington, wife 
 of an officer on the Bombay side. It does not in the least 
 concern you to know what manner of woman she was. 
 Be content with the knowledge that, ere the voyage had 
 ended, both she and I were desperately and unreasoningly 
 in love with one another. Heaven knows that I can 
 make the admission now without one particle of vanity. 
 In matters of this sort there is always one who gives 
 and another who accepts. From the first day of our 
 ill-omened attachment, I was conscious that Agnes's 
 passion was a stronger, a more dominant, and — if I 
 may use the expression — a purer sentiment than mine. 
 Whether she recognised the fact then, I do not know. 
 Afterwards it was bitterly plain to both of us. 
 
 Arrived at Bombay in the spring of the year, we 
 went our respective ways, to meet no more for the 
 next three or four months, when my leave and her love 
 
THE PHANTOM 'RICKSHAW ns 
 
 rook us both to Simla. There we spent the season to- 
 gether; and there my fire of straw burnt itself out to a 
 pitiful end with the closing year. I attempt no excuse. 
 I make no apology. Mrs. Wessington had given up 
 much for my sake, and was prepared to give up all. 
 From my own lips, in August, 1882, she learnt that I was 
 sick of her presence, tired of her company, and weary of 
 the sound of her voice. Ninety-nine women out of a 
 hundred would wearied of me as I wearied of them; 
 seventy-five of that number would have promptly avenged 
 themselves by active and obtrusive flirtation with other 
 men. Mrs. Wessington was the hundredth. On her 
 neither my openly-expressed aversion nor the cutting 
 brutalities with which I garnished our interviews had the 
 least effect. 
 
 'Jack, darling!' was her one eternal cuckoo cry: 
 'I'm sure it's all a mistake — a hideous mistake; and 
 we'll be good friends again some day. Please forgive 
 me, Jack, dear.' 
 
 I was the offender, and I knew it. That knowledge 
 transformed my pity into passive endurance, and, even- 
 tually, into blind hate — the same instinct, I suppose, 
 which prompts a man to savagely stamp on the spider 
 he has but half killed. And with this hate in my bosom 
 the season of 1882 came to an end. 
 
 Next year we met again at Simla — she with her monoto- 
 nous face and timid attempts at reconciliation, and I 
 with loathing of her in every fibre of my frame. Several 
 times I could not avoid meeting her alone; and on each 
 occasion her words were identically the same. Still the 
 unreasoning wail that it was all a 'mistake'; and still the 
 hope of eventually 'making friends.' I might have seen, 
 had I cared to look, that that hope only was keeping her 
 alive. She grew more wan and thin month by month. 
 
n6 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 You will agree with me, at least, that such conduct would 
 have driven any one to despair. It was uncalled for; 
 childish; unwomanly. I maintain that she was much to 
 blame. And again, sometimes, in the black, fever- 
 ' stricken night-watches, I have begun to think that I 
 might have been a little kinder to her. But that really 
 is a 'delusion.' I could not have continued pretending 
 to love her when I didn't; could I? It would have been 
 unfair to us both. 
 
 Last year we met again — on the same terms as before. 
 The same weary appeals, and the same curt answers 
 from my lips. At least I would make her see how wholly 
 wrong and hopeless were her attempts at resuming the 
 old relationship. As the season wore on, we fell apart — 
 that is to say, she found it difficult to meet me, for I 
 had other and more absorbing interests to attend to. 
 When I think it over quietly in my sick-room, the season 
 of 1884 seems a confused nightmare wherein light and 
 shade were fantastically intermingled — my courtship 
 of little Kitty Mannering; my hopes, doubts, and fears; 
 our long rides together; my trembling avowal of at- 
 tachment; her reply; and now and again a vision, of a 
 white face flitting by in the 'rickshaw with the black 
 and white liveries I once watched for so earnestly; the 
 wave of Mrs. Wessington's gloved hand; and, when she 
 met me alone, which was but seldom, the irksome mo- 
 notony of her appeal. I loved Kitty Mannering ; honestly, 
 heartily loved her, and with my love for her grew my 
 hatred for Agnes. In August Kitty and I were en- 
 gaged. The next day I met those accursed 'mag-pie' 
 jhampanies at the back of Jakko, and, moved by some 
 passing sentiment of pity, stopped to tell Mrs. Wessing- 
 ton everything. She knew it already. 
 
 'So I hear you're engaged, Jack dear.' Then, witl* 
 
THE PHANTOM 'RICKSHAW 117 
 
 out a moment's pause: 'I'm sure it's all a mistake — a 
 hideous mistake. We shall be as good friends some 
 day, Jack, as we ever were.' 
 
 My answer might have made even a man wince. It 
 cut the dying woman before me like the blow of a whip. 
 'Please forgive me, Jack; I didn't mean to make you 
 angry; but it's true, it's true!' 
 
 And Mrs. Wessington broke down completely. I 
 turned away and left her to finish her journey in peace, 
 feeling, but only for a moment or two, that I had been 
 an unutterably mean hound. I looked back, and saw 
 that she had turned her 'rickshaw with the idea, I sup- 
 pose, of overtaking me. 
 
 The scene and its surroundings were photographed 
 on my memory. The rain-swept sky (we were at the 
 end of the wet weather), the sodden, dingy pines, the 
 muddy road, and the black powder-riven cliffs formed 
 a gloomy background against which the black and white 
 liveries of the jhampanies, the yellow-panelled 'rickshaw 
 and Mrs. Wessington's down-bowed golden head stood 
 out clearly. She was holding her handkerchief in her 
 left hand and was leaning back exhausted against the 
 'rickshaw cushions. I turned my horse up a bypath 
 near the Sanjowlie Reservoir and literally ran away. 
 Once I fancied I heard a faint call of 'Jack!' This may 
 ■have been imagination. I never stopped to verify it. 
 Ten minutes later I came across Kitty on horseback; and, 
 in the delight of a long ride with her, forgot all about the 
 interview. 
 
 A week later Mrs. Wessington died, and the inex- 
 pressible burden of her existence was removed from my 
 life. I went Plainsward perfectly happy. Before three 
 months were over I had forgotten all about her, except 
 that at times the discovery of some of her old letters 
 
n8 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 reminded me unpleasantly of our bygone relationship. 
 By January I had disinterred what was left of our 
 correspondence from among my scattered belongings 
 and had burnt it. At the beginning of April of this 
 year, 1885, I was at Simla — semi-deserted Simla — 
 once more, and was deep in lover's talks and walks with 
 Kitty. It was decided that we should be married at 
 the end of June. You will understand, therefore, that, 
 loving Kitty as I did, I am not saying too much when 
 I pronounce myself to have been, at that time, the hap- 
 piest man in India. 
 
 Fourteen delightful days passed almost before I 
 noticed their flight. Then, aroused to the sense of 
 what was proper among mortals circumstanced as we 
 were, I pointed out to Kitty that an engagement ring 
 was the outward and visible sign of her dignity as an en- 
 gaged girl; and that she must forthwith come to Ham- 
 ilton's to be measured for one. Up to that moment, I 
 give you my word, we had completely forgotten so 
 trivial a matter. To Hamilton's we accordingly went 
 on the 15th of April, 1885. Remember that — whatever 
 my doctor may say to the contrary — I was then in pep 
 feet health, enjoying a well-balanced mind and an abso- 
 lutely tranquil spirit. Kitty and I entered Hamilton's 
 shop together, and there, regardless of the order of af- 
 fairs, I measured Kitty for the ring in the presence of the 
 amused assistant. The ring was a sapphire with twe 
 diamonds. We then rode out down the slope that leads 
 to the Combermere Bridge and Peliti's shop. 
 
 While my Waler was cautiously feeling his way over 
 the loose shale, and Kitty was laughing and chattering 
 at my side — while all Simla, that is to say as much of 
 it as had then come from the Plains, was grouped round 
 the Reading-room and Peliti's veranda, — I was aware 
 
THE PHANTOM 'RICKSHAW 119 
 
 that some one, apparently at a vast distance, was call- 
 ing me by my Christian name. It struck me that I 
 had heard the voice before, but when and where I could 
 not at once determine. In the short space it took to 
 cover the road between the path from Hamilton's shop 
 and the first plank of the Combermere Bridge I had 
 thought over half a dozen people who might have com- 
 mitted such a solecism, and had eventually decided that 
 it must have been some singing in my ears. Immedi- 
 ately opposite Peliti's shop my eye was arrested by the 
 sight of four jhampanies in 'mag-pie' livery, pulling a 
 yellow-panelled, cheap, bazar 'rickshaw. In a moment 
 my mind flew back to the previous season and Mrs. 
 Wessington with a sense of irritation and disgust. Was 
 it not enough that the woman was dead and done with, 
 without her black and white servitors reappearing to 
 spoil the day's happiness? Whoever employed them 
 now I thought I would call upon, and ask as a personal 
 favour to change her jhampanies' livery. I would hire 
 the men myself, and, if necessary, buy their coats from 
 off their backs. It is impossible to say here what a 
 flood of undesirable memories their presence evoked. 
 
 'Kitty,' I cried, 'there are poor Mrs. Wessington's 
 jhampanies turned up again! I wonder who has them 
 now?' 
 
 Kitty had known Mrs. Wessington slightly, last sea- 
 son, and had always been interested in the sickly woman. 
 
 'What? Where?' she asked. 'I can't see them any- 
 where.' 
 
 Even as she spoke, her horse, swerving from a laden 
 mule, threw himself directly in front of the advancing 
 'rickshaw. I had scarcely time to utter a word of warn- 
 ing when to my unutterable horror, horse and rider passed 
 through men and carriage as if they had been thin air. 
 
Uo UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 'What's the matter?' cried Kitty; 'what made you 
 call out so foolishly, Jack? If I am engaged I don't 
 want all creation to know about it. There was lots of 
 space between the mule and the veranda; and, if you 
 think I can't ride There!' 
 
 Whereupon wilful Kitty set off, her dainty little 
 head in the air, at a hand-gallop in the direction of the 
 Band-stand; fully expecting, as she herself afterwards 
 told me, that I should follow her. What was the matter? 
 Nothing indeed. Either that I was mad or drunk, or 
 that Simla was haunted with devils. I reined in my 
 impatient cob, and turned round. The 'rickshaw had 
 turned too, and now stood immediately facing me, near 
 the left railing of the Combermere Bridge. 
 
 'Jack! Jack, darling!' (There was no mistake 
 about the words this time: they rang through my brain 
 as if they had been shouted in my ear.) 'It's some hide- 
 ous mistake, I'm sure. Please forgive me, Jack, and let's 
 be friends again.' 
 
 The 'rickshaw-hood had fallen back, and inside, as I 
 hope and pray daily for the death I dread by night, 
 sat Mrs. Keith- Wessington, handkerchief in hand, and 
 golden head bowed on her breast. 
 
 How long I stared motionless I do not know. Finally, 
 I was aroused by my syce taking the Waler's bridle and 
 asking whether I was ill. From the horrible to the com- 
 monplace is but a step. I tumbled off my horse and 
 dashed, half fainting, into Peliti's for a glass of cherry- 
 brandy. There two or three couples were gathered 
 round the coffee-tables discussing the gossip of the day. 
 Their trivialities were more comforting to me just then 
 than the consolations of religion could have been. I 
 plunged into the midst of the conversation at once; 
 chatted, laughed, and jested with a face (when I caught 
 
THE PHANTOM 'RICKSHAW 121 
 
 a glimpse of it in a mirror) as white and drawn as that of 
 a corpse. Three or four men noticed my condition; and, 
 evidently setting it down to the results of over-many 
 pegs, charitably endeavoured to draw me apart from the 
 rest of the loungers. But I refused to be led away. I 
 wanted the company of my kind — as a child rushes into 
 the midst of the dinner-party after a fright in the dark. I 
 must have talked for about ten minutes or so, though it 
 seemed an eternity to me, when I heard Kitty's clear voice 
 outside enquiring for me. In another minute she had 
 entered the shop, prepared to upbraid me for failing so 
 signally in my duties. Something in my face stopped her. 
 
 'Why, Jack,' she cried, 'what have you been doing? 
 What has happened? Are you ill? ' Thus driven into a 
 direct lie, I said that the sun had been a little too much 
 for me. It was close upon five o'clock of a cloudy April 
 afternoon, and the sun had been hidden all day. I saw my 
 mistake as soon as the words were out of my mouth: at- 
 tempted to recover it; blundered hopelessly and followed 
 Kitty, in a regal rage, out of doors, amid the smiles of my 
 acquaintances. I made some excuse (I have forgotten 
 what) on the score of my feeling faint; and cantered away 
 to my hotel, leaving Kitty to finish the ride by herself. 
 
 In my room I sat down and tried calmly to reason out 
 the matter. Here was I, Theobald Jack Pansay, a well- 
 educated Bengal Civilian in the year of grace 1885, pre- 
 sumably sane, certainly healthy, driven in terror from my 
 sweetheart's side by the apparition of a woman who had 
 been dead and buried eight months ago. These were 
 facts that I could not blink. Nothing was further from 
 my thought than any memory of Mrs. Wessington when 
 Kitty and I left Hamilton's shop. Nothing was more 
 utterly commonplace than the stretch of wall opposite 
 Peliti's. It was broad daylight. The road was full of 
 
122 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 people; and yet here, look you, in defiance of every law oi 
 probability, in direct outrage of Nature's ordinance, there 
 had appeared to me a face from the grave. 
 
 Kitty's Arab had gone through the 'rickshaw: so that my 
 first hope that some woman marvellously like Mrs. Wes- 
 sington had hired the carriage and the coolies with their 
 old livery was lost. Again and again I went round this 
 treadmill of thought; and again and again gave up baffled 
 and in despair. The voice was as inexplicable as the ap- 
 parition. I had originally some wild notion of confiding it 
 all to Kitty; of begging her to marry me at once; and in 
 her arms defying the ghostly occupant of the 'rickshaw. 
 'After all,' I argued, 'the presence of the 'rickshaw is in 
 itself enough to prove the existence of a spectral illusion. 
 One may see ghosts of men and women, but surely never 
 coolies and carriages. The whole thing is absurd. Fancy 
 the ghost of a hillman!' 
 
 Next morning I sent a penitent note to Kitty, imploring 
 her to overlook my strange conduct of the previous after- 
 noon. My Divinity was still very wroth, and a personal 
 apology was necessary. I explained, with a fluency born 
 of night-long pondering over a falsehood, that I had been 
 attacked with a sudden palpitation of the heart — the re- 
 sult of indigestion. This eminently practical solution 
 had its effect: and Kitty and I rode out that afternoon 
 with the shadow of my first he dividing us. 
 
 Nothing would please her save a canter round Jakko. 
 With my nerves still unstrung from the previous night I 
 feebly protested against the notion, suggesting Observa- 
 tory Hill, Jutogh, ^he Boileaugunge road — anything 
 rather than the Jakko round. Kitty was angry and a lit- 
 tle hurt; so I yielded from fear of provoking further mis- 
 understanding, and we set out together towards Chota 
 Simla. We walked a greater part of the way, and, accord- 
 
THE PHANTOM 'RICKSHAW 123 
 
 ing to our custom, cantered from a mile or so below the 
 Convent to the stretch of level road by the Sanjowlie Res- 
 ervoir. The wretched horses appeared to fly, and my 
 heart beat quicker and quicker as we neared the crest of 
 the ascent. My mind had been full of Mrs. Wessington all 
 the afternoon; and every inch of the Jakko road bore 
 witness to our old-time walks and talks. The bowlders 
 were full of it; the pines sang it aloud overhead; the rain- 
 fed torrents giggled and chuckled unseen over the shame- 
 ful story; and the wind in my ears chanted the iniquity 
 aloud. 
 
 As a fitting climax, in the middle of the level men call 
 the Ladies' Mile the Horror was awaiting me. No other 
 'rickshaw was in sight — only the four black and white 
 jkampanies, the yellow-panelled carriage, and the golden 
 head of the woman within — all apparently just as I had 
 left them eight months and one fortnight ago! For an 
 instant I fancied that Kitty must see what I saw — we 
 were so marvellously sympathetic in all things. Her 
 next words undeceived me — ' Not a soul in sight! Come 
 along, Jack, and I'll race you to the Reservoir buildings!' 
 Her wiry little Arab was off like a bird, my Waler follow- 
 ing close behind, and in this order we dashed under the 
 cliffs. Half a minute brought us within fifty yards of the 
 'rickshaw. I pulled my Waler and fell back a little. The 
 'rickshaw was directly in the middle of the road; and once 
 more the Arab passed through it, my horse following. 
 'Jack! Jack, dear! Please forgive me,' rang with 'a wail in 
 my ears, and, after an interval: 'It's all a mistake, a 
 hideous mistake ! ' 
 
 I spurred my horse like a man possessed. When I 
 turned my head at the Reservoir works, the black and 
 white liveries were still waiting— patiently waiting— under 
 the gray hillside, and the wind brought me a mocking echo 
 
124 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 of the words I had just heard. Kitty bantered me a good 
 deal on my silence throughout the remainder of the ride. 
 I had been talking up till then wildly and at random. To 
 save my life I could not speak afterwards naturally, and 
 from Sanjowlie to the Church wisely held my tongue. 
 
 I was to dine with the Mannerings that night, and had 
 barely time to canter home to dress. On the road to 
 Elysium Hill I overheard two men talking together in the 
 dusk. — 'It's a curious thing,' said one, 'how com- 
 pletely all trace of it disappeared. You know my wife was 
 insanely fond of the woman (never could see anything 
 in her myself), and wanted me to pick up her old 'rick- 
 shaw and coolies if they were to be got for love or money. 
 Morbid sort of fancy I call it; but I've got to do what ihe 
 Memsahib tells me. Would you believe that the man she 
 hired it from tells me that all four of the men — they were 
 brothers — died of cholera on the way to Hardwar, poor 
 devils; and the 'rickshaw has been broken up by the man 
 himself. 'Told me he never used a dead Memsahib's 
 'rickshaw. 'Spoilt his luck. Queer notion, wasn't it? 
 Fancy poor little Mrs. Wessington spoiling any one's luck 
 except her own!' I laughed aloud at this point; and my 
 laugh jarred on me as I uttered it. So there were ghosts 
 of 'rickshaws after all, and ghostly employments in the 
 other world! How much did Mrs. Wessington give her 
 men? What were their hours? Where did they go? 
 
 And for visible answer to my last question I saw the in- 
 fernal Thing blocking my path in the twilight. The dead 
 travel fast, and by short cuts unknown to ordinary coolies. 
 I laughed aloud a second time and checked my laughter 
 suddenly, for I was afraid I was going mad. Mad to a 
 certain extent I must have been, for I recollect that I 
 reined in my horse at the head of the 'rickshaw, and 
 politely wished Mrs. Wessington ' Good-evening.' Her 
 
THE PHANTOM 'RICKSHAW 125 
 
 answer was one I knew only too well. I listened to the 
 end; and replied that I had heard it all before, but should 
 be delighted if she had anything further to say. Some 
 malignant devil stronger than I must have entered into 
 me that evening, for I have a dim recollection of talking 
 the commonplaces of the day for five minutes to the 
 Thing in front of me. 
 
 ' Mad as a hatter, poor devil — or drunk. Max, try and 
 get him to come home.' 
 
 Surely that was not Mrs. Wessington's voice ! The two 
 men had overheard me speaking to the empty air, and had 
 returned to look after me. They were very kind and con- 
 siderate, and from their words evidently gathered that I 
 was extremely drunk. I thanked them confusedly and 
 cantered away to my hotel, there changed, and arrived at 
 the Mannerings' ten minutes late. I pleaded the dark- 
 ness of the night as an excuse; was rebuked by Kitty for 
 my unlover-like tardiness; and sat down. 
 
 The conversation had already become general; and 
 under cover of it, I was addressing some tender small talk 
 to my sweetheart when I was aware that at the further 
 end of the table a short red-whiskered man was describ- 
 ing, with much broidery, his encounter with a mad un- 
 known that evening. 
 
 A few sentences convinced me that he was repeating 
 the incident of half an hour ago. In the middle of the 
 story he looked round for applause, as professional story- 
 tellers do, caught my eye, and straightway collapsed. 
 There was a moment's awkward silence, and the red- 
 whiskered man muttered something to the effect that he 
 had 'forgotten the rest,' thereby sacrificing a reputation 
 as a good story-teller which he had built up for six seasons 
 past. I blessed him from the bottom of my heart, and— 
 went on with my fish. 
 
126 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 In the fulness of time that dinner came to an end; and 
 with genuine regret I tore myself away from Kitty — as 
 certain as I was of my own existence that It would be 
 waiting for me outside the door. The red-whiskered man, 
 who had been introduced to me as Dr. Heatherlegh of 
 Simla, volunteered to bear me company as far as our roads 
 lay together. I accepted his offer with gratitude. 
 
 My instinct had not deceived me. It lay in readiness 
 in the Mall, and, in what seemed devilish mockery of our 
 ways, with a lighted head-lamp. The red-whiskered man 
 went to the point at once, in a manner that showed he 
 had been thinking over it all dinner-time. 
 
 'I say, Pansay, what the deuce was the matter with you 
 this evening on the Elysium Road? ' The suddenness of 
 the question wrenched an answer from me before I was 
 cware. 
 
 'That!' said I, pointing to It. 
 
 'That may be either D. T. or Eyes for aught I know. 
 Now you don't liquor. I saw as much at dinner, so it 
 can't be D. T. There's nothing whatever where you're 
 pointing, though you're sweating and trembling with 
 fright, like a scared pony. Therefore, I conclude that it's 
 Eyes. And I ought to understand all about them. 
 Come along home with me. I'm on the Blessington 
 lower road.' 
 
 To my intense delight the 'rickshaw instead of waiting 
 for us kept about twenty yards ahead — and this, too, 
 whether we walked, trotted, or cantered. In the course 
 of that long night ride I had told my companion almost 
 as much as I have told you here. 
 
 'Well, you've spoilt one of the best tales I've ever laid 
 tongue to,' said he, 'but I'll forgive you for the sake of 
 what you've gone through. Now come home and do 
 what I tell you; and when I've cured you, young man, let 
 
THE PHANTOM 'RICKSHAW 127 
 
 this be a lesson to you to steer clear of women and in- 
 digestible food till the day of your death.' 
 
 The 'rickshaw kept steady in front; and my red- 
 whiskered friend seemed to derive great pleasure from my 
 account of its exact whereabouts. 
 
 'Eyes, Pansay — all Eyes, Brain, and Stomach. And 
 the greatest of these is Stomach. You've too much 
 conceited Brain, too little Stomach, and thoroughly un- 
 healthy eyes. Get your Stomach straight and the rest 
 follows. And all that's French for a liver pill. I'll 
 take sole medical charge of you from this hour ! for you're 
 too interesting a phenomenon to be passed over.' 
 
 By this time we were deep in the shadow of the Bless- 
 ington lower road and the 'rickshaw came to a dead stop 
 under a pine-clad, overhanging shale cliff . Instinctively 
 I halted too, giving my reason. Heatherlegh rapped out 
 an oath. 
 
 'Now, if you think I'm going to spend a cold night on 
 the hillside for the sake of a Stomach-cww-Brain-cMW- 
 Eye illusion Lord, ha' mercy ! What's that? ' 
 
 There was a muffled report, a blinding smother oi 
 dust just in front of us, a crack, the noise of rent boughs, 
 and about ten yards of the cliff -side — pines, undergrowth, 
 and all — slid down into the road below, completely block- 
 ing it up. The uprooted trees swayed and tottered for 
 a moment like drunken giants in the gloom, and then fell 
 prone among their fellows with a thunderous crash. 
 Our two horses stood motionless and sweating with fear. 
 As soon as the rattle of falling earth and stone had sub- 
 sided, my companion muttered: 'Man, if we'd gone for- 
 ward we should have been ten feet deep in our graves by 
 now. "There are more things in heaven and earth." 
 . . . Come home, Pansay, and thank God. I want 
 8 peg badly.' 
 
128 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 We retraced our way over the Church Ridge, and I 
 arrived at Dr. Heatherlegh's house shortly after midnight. 
 
 His attempts towards my cure commenced almost im 
 mediately, and for a week I never left his sight. Many 
 a time in the course of that week did I bless the good- 
 fortune which had thrown me in contact with Simla's 
 best and kindest doctor. Day by day my spirits grew 
 lighter and more equable. Day by day, too, I became 
 more and more inclined to fall in with Heatherlegh's 
 'spectral illusion' theory, implicating eyes, brain, and 
 stomach. I wrote to Kitty, telling her that a slight 
 sprain caused by a fall from my horse kept me indoors 
 for a few days; and that I should be recovered before 
 she had time to regret my absence. 
 
 Heatherlegh's treatment was simple to a degree. It 
 consisted of liver pills, cold-water baths, and strong 
 exercise, taken in the dusk or at early dawn — for, as 
 he sagely observed: 'A man with a sprained ankle 
 doesn't walk a dozen miles a day, and your young wo- 
 man might be wondering if she saw you.' 
 
 At the end of the week, after much examination of 
 pupil and pulse, and strict injunctions as to diet and 
 pedestrianism, Heatherlegh dismissed me as brusquely 
 as he had taken charge of me. Here is his parting 
 benediction: 'Man, I certify to your mental cure, and 
 that's as much as to say I've cured most of your bodily 
 ailments. Now, get your traps out of this as soon as 
 you can; and be off to make love to Miss Kitty.' 
 
 I was endeavouring to express my thanks for his 
 kindness. He cut me short. 
 
 'Don't think I did this because I like you. I gather 
 that you've behaved like a blackguard all through. 
 But, all the same, you're a phenomenon, and as queer a 
 phenomenon as you are a blackguard. No!' — check- 
 
THE PHANTOM 'RICKSHAW 129 
 
 ing me a second time — 'not a rupee, please. Go out 
 /tnd see if you can find the eyes-brain-and-stomach 
 business again. I'll give you a lath for each time you 
 see it.' 
 
 Half an hour later I was in the Mannerings' draw- 
 ing-room with Kitty — drunk with the intoxication of 
 present happiness and the foreknowledge that I should 
 never more be troubled with Its hideous presence. 
 Strong in the sense of my new-found security, I proposed 
 a ride at once; and, by preference, a canter round Jakko. 
 
 Never had I felt so well, so overladen with vitality 
 and mere animal spirits, as I did on the afternoon of 
 the 30th of April. Kitty was delighted at the change 
 in my appearance, and complimented me on it in her 
 delightfully frank and outspoken manner. We left 
 the Mannerings' house together, laughing and talking, 
 and cantered along the Chota Simla road as of old. 
 
 I was in haste to reach the Sanjowlie Reservoir and 
 there make my assurance doubly sure. The horses did 
 their best, but seemed all too slow to my impatient 
 mind. Kitty was astonished at my boisterousness. 
 'Why, Jack!' she cried at last, 'you are behaving like a 
 hild. What are you doing?' 
 
 We were just below the Convent, and from sheer 
 wantonness I was making my Waler plunge and curvet 
 across the road as I tickled it with the loop of my riding- 
 whip. 
 
 'Doing?' I answered; 'nothing, dear. That's just it. 
 If you'd been doing nothing for a week except lie up, 
 you'd be as riotous as I. 
 
 'Singing and murmuring in your feastful mirth, 
 
 Joying to feel yourself alive; 
 Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible Earth, 
 
 Lord of the senses five,' 
 
 *■ 
 
i3o UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 My quotation was hardly out of my lips before we 
 had rounded the corner above the Convent; and a few 
 yards further on could see across to Sanjowlie. In the 
 centre of the level road stood the black and white liv- 
 eries, the yellow-panelled 'rickshaw, and Mrs. Keith- 
 Wessington. I pulled up, looked, rubbed my eyes, and, 
 I believe, must have said something. The next thing 
 I knew was that I was lying face downward on the road, 
 with Kitty kneeling above me in tears. 
 
 'Has it gone, child!' I gasped. Kitty only wept more 
 bitterly. 
 
 'Has what gone, Jack dear? what does it all mean? 
 There must be a mistake somewhere, Jack. A hideous 
 mistake.' Her last words brought me to my feet — mad 
 — raving for the time being. 
 
 'Yes, there is a mistake somewhere,' I repeated, 'a 
 hideous mistake. Come and look at It.' 
 
 I have an indistinct idea that I dragged Kitty by 
 the wrist along the road up to where It stood, and im- 
 plored her for pity's sake to speak to It; to tell It that 
 we were betrothed; that neither Death nor Hell could 
 break the tie between us: and Kitty only knows 
 how much more to the same effect. Now and again 
 I appealed passionately to the Terror in the 'rickshaw 
 to bear witness to all "I had said, and to release me 
 from a torture that was killing me. As I talked I sup- 
 pose I must have told Kitty of my old relations with 
 Mrs. Wessington, for I saw her listen intently with white 
 face and blazing eyes. 
 
 'Thank you, Mr. Pansay,' she said, 'that's quite 
 enough. Syce ghora Ido.' 
 
 The syces, impassive as Orientals always are, had 
 come up with the recaptured horses; and as Kitty 
 sprang into her saddle I caught hold of her bridle, en- 
 
THE PHANTOM 'RICKSHAW 131 
 
 treating her to hear me out and forgive. My answer 
 was the cut of her riding-whip across my face from 
 mouth to eye, and a word or two of farewell that even 
 now I cannot write down. So I judged and judged 
 rightly, that Kitty knew all; and I staggered back 
 to the side of the 'rickshaw. My face was cut and 
 bleeding, and the blow of the riding-whip had raised a 
 livid blue wheal on it. I had no self-respect. Just 
 then, Heatherlegh, who must have been following Kitty 
 and me at a distance, cantered up. 
 
 'Doctor,' I said, pointing to my face, 'here's Miss 
 Mannering's signature to my order of dismissal and 
 I'll thank you for that lakh as soon as convenient.' 
 
 Heatherlegh's face, even in my abject misery, moved 
 me to laughter. 
 
 'I'll stake my professional reputation ' he began. 
 
 'Don't be a fool,' I whispered. 'I've lost my life's 
 happiness and you'd better take me home.' 
 
 As I spoke the 'rickshaw was gone. Then I lost all 
 knowledge of what was passing. The crest of Jakko 
 seemed to heave and roll like the crest of a cloud and fall 
 in upon me. 
 
 Seven days later (on the 7th of May, that is to say) 
 I was aware that I was lying in Heatherlegh's room as 
 weak as a little child. Heatherlegh was watching me 
 intently from behind the papers on his writing-table. 
 His first words were not encouraging; but I was too far 
 spent to be much moved by them. 
 
 'Here's Miss Kitty has sent back your letters. You 
 corresponded a good deal, you young people. Here's a 
 packet that looks like a ring, and a cheerful sort of a 
 note from Mannering Papa, which I've taken the liberty 
 of reading and burning. The old gentleman's not pleased 
 with you.' 
 
132 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 'And Kitty?' I asked dully. 
 
 ' Rather more drawn than her father from what she 
 says. By the same token you must have been letting 
 out any number of queer reminiscences just before I met 
 you. 'Says that a man who would have behaved to a 
 woman as you did to Mrs. Wessmgton ought to kill 
 himself out of sheer pity for his kind. She's a hot- 
 headed little virago, your mash. 'Will have it too that 
 you were suffering from D. T. when that row on the 
 Jakko road turned up. 'Says she'll die before she ever 
 speaks to you again.' 
 
 I groaned and turned over on the other side. 
 
 'Now you've got your choice, my friend. This 
 engagement has to be broken off; and the Man- 
 nerings don't want to be too hard on you. Was 
 it broken through D. T. or epileptic fits? Sorry I 
 can't offer you a better exchange unless you'd prefer 
 hereditary insanity. Say the word and I'll tell 'em 
 it's fits. All Simla knows about that scene on the 
 Ladies' Mile. Come! I'll give you five minutes to 
 think over it.' 
 
 During those five minutes I believe that I explored 
 thoroughly the lowest circles of the Inferno which it 
 is permitted man to -tread on earth. And at the same 
 time I myself was watching myself faltering through 
 the dark labyrinths of doubt, misery, and utter despair. 
 I wondered, as Heatherlegh in his chair might have 
 wondered, which dreadful alternative I should adopt. 
 Presently I heard myself answering in a voice that I 
 hardly recognised — 
 
 'They're confoundedly particular about morality in 
 these parts. Give 'em fits, Heatherlegh, and my love. 
 Now let me sleep a bit longer.' 
 
 Then my two selves joined, and it was only I (haji- 
 
 \ 
 
THE PHANTOM 'RICKSHAW 133 
 
 Grazed, devil-driven I) that tossed in my bed tracing step 
 by step the history of the past month. 
 
 'But I am in Simla,' I kept repeating to myself. 'I, 
 Jack Pansay, am in Simla, and there are no ghosts here. 
 It's unreasonable of that woman to pretend there are. 
 Why couldn't Agnes have left me alone? I never did 
 her any harm. It might just as well have been me as 
 Agnes. Only I'd never have come back on purpose to 
 kill her. Why can't I be left alone — left alone and 
 happy? ' 
 
 It was high noon when I first awoke: and the sun 
 was low in the sky before I slept — slept as the tortured 
 criminal sleeps on his rack, too worn to feel further 
 pain. 
 
 Next day I could not leave my bed. Heatherlegh 
 told me in the morning that he had received an answer 
 from Mr. Mannering, and that, thanks to his (Heather- 
 legh's) friendly offices, the story of my affliction had 
 travelled through the length and breadth of Simla, where 
 I was on all sides much pitied. 
 
 'And that's rather more than you deserve,' he con- 
 cluded pleasantly, ' though the Lord knows you've been 
 going through a pretty severe mill. Never mind; 
 we'll cure you yet, you perverse phenomenon.' 
 
 I declined firmly to be cured. 'You've been much 
 too good to me already, old man,' said I; 'but I don't 
 think I need trouble you further.' 
 
 In my heart I knew that nothing Heatherlegh could 
 do would lighten the burden that had been laid upon me. 
 
 With that knowledge came also a sense of hopeless, 
 impotent rebellion against the unreasonableness of it 
 all. There were scores of men no better than I whose 
 punishments had at least been reserved for another 
 World; and I felt that it was bitterly, cruelly unfair that 
 
134 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 I alone should have been singled out for so hideous a 
 fate. This mood would in time give place to another 
 where it seemed that the 'rickshaw and I were the only 
 realities in a world of shadows; that Kitty was a ghost; 
 that Mannering, Heatherlegh, and all the other men and 
 women I knew were all ghosts; and the great, gray hills 
 themselves but vain shadows devised to torture me. 
 Frdm mood to mood I tossed backwards and forwards 
 for seven weary days; my body growing daily stronger 
 and stronger, until the bedroom looking-glass told me 
 that I had returned to every-day life, and was as other 
 men once more. Curiously enough my face showed no 
 signs of the struggle I had gone through. It was pale 
 indeed, but as expressionless and commonplace as ever. 
 I had expected some permanent alteration — visibk 
 evidence of the disease that was eating me away. 1 
 found nothing. 
 
 On the 15 th of May I left Heatherlegh's house at 
 eleven o'clock in the morning; and the instinct of the 
 bachelor drove me to the Club . There I found that every 
 man knew my story as told by Heatherlegh, and was, in 
 clumsy fashion, abnormally kind and attentive. Never- 
 theless I recognised that for the rest of my natural life I 
 should be among but not of my fellows; and I envied 
 very bitterly indeed the laughing coolies on the Mall be- 
 low. I lunched at the Club, and at four o'clock wandered 
 aimlessly down the Mall in the vague hope of meeting 
 Kitty. Close to the Band-stand the black and white 
 liveries joined me; and I heard Mrs. Wessington's old 
 appeal at my side. I had been expecting this ever since 
 I came out; and was only surprised at her delay. The 
 phantom 'rickshaw and I went side by side along the 
 Chota Simla road in silence. Close to the bazar, Kitty 
 and a man on horseback overtook and passed us. For 
 
THE PHANTOM 'RICKSHAW 135 
 
 any sign she gave I might have been a dog in the road. 
 She did not even pay me the compliment of quickening 
 her pace; though the rainy afternoon had served for an 
 excuse. 
 
 So Kitty and her companion, and I and my ghostly 
 Light-o'-Love, crept round Jakko in couples. The road 
 was streaming with water; the pines dripped like roof- 
 pipes on the rocks below, and the air was full of fine, 
 driving rain. Two or three times I found myself saying 
 to myself almost aloud: 'I'm Jack Pansay on leave at 
 Simla — at Simla I Every-day, ordinary Simla. I mustn't 
 forget that — I mustn't forget that.' Then I would try to 
 recollect some of the gossip I had heard at the Club: the 
 prices of So-and-So's horses — anything, in fact, that re- 
 lated to the work-a-day Anglo-Indian world I knew so 
 well. I even repeated the multiplication-table rapidly to 
 tnyself, to make quite sure that I was not taking leave of 
 my senses. It gave me much comfort; and must have 
 prevented my hearing Mrs. Wessington for a time. 
 
 Once more I wearily climbed the Convent slope and 
 entered the level road. Here Kitty and the man started 
 off at a canter, and I was left alone with Mrs. Wessington. 
 'Agnes,' said I, 'will you put back your hood and tell me 
 what it all means? ' The hood dropped noiselessly, and I 
 was face to face with my dead and buried mistress. She 
 was wearing the dress in which I had last seen her alive; 
 carried the same tiny handkerchief in her right hand; and 
 the same card-case in her left. (A woman eight months 
 dead with a card-case!) I had to pin myself down to the 
 multiplication-table, and to set both hands on the stone 
 parapet of the road, to assure myself that that at least 
 was real. 
 
 'Agnes,' I repeated, 'for pity's sake tell me what it all 
 means.' Mrs. Wessington leaned forward, with that odd, 
 
i 3 6 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 quick turn of the head I used to know so well, and 
 
 spoke. 
 
 If my story had not already so madly overleaped the 
 bounds of all human belief I should apologise to you now. 
 As I know that no one — no, not even Kitty, for whom it is 
 written as some sort of justification of my conduct — will 
 believe me, I will go on. Mrs. Wessington spoke and I 
 walked with her from the Sanjowlie road to the turning 
 below the Commander-in-Chief's house as I might walk 
 by the side of any living woman's 'rickshaw, deep in con- 
 versation. The second and most tormenting of my 
 moods of sickness had suddenly laid hold upon me, and 
 like the Prince in Tennyson's poem, 'I seemed to move 
 amid a world of ghosts.' There had been a garden-party 
 at the Commander-in-Chief's, and we two joined the 
 crowd of homeward-bound folk. As I saw them it seemed 
 that they were the shadows — impalpable fantastic 
 shadows — that divided for Mrs. Wessington's 'rickshaw 
 to pass through. What we said during the course of thai 
 weird interview I cannot — indeed, I dare not — tell. 
 Heatherlegh's comment would have been a short laugh 
 and a remark that I had< been 'mashing a brain-eye-and- 
 stomach chimera.' It was a ghastly and yet in some in- 
 definable way a marvellously dear experience. Could it 
 be possible, I wondered, that I was in this life to woo a 
 second time the woman I had killed by my own neglect 
 and cruelty? 
 
 I met Kitty on the homeward road — a shadow among 
 shadows. 
 
 If I were to describe all the incidents of the next fort- 
 night in their order, my story would never come to an end; 
 and your patience would be exhausted. Morning after 
 morning and evening after evening the ghostly 'rickshaw 
 and I used to wander through Simla together. Wherever 
 
THE PHANTOM 'RICKSHAW 137 
 
 I went there the four black and white liveries followed me 
 and bore me company to and from my hotel. At the 
 Theatre I found them amid the crowd of yelling jhqm- 
 panies; outside the Club veranda, after a long evening of 
 whist; at the Birthday Ball, waiting patiently for my re- 
 appearance; and in broad daylight when I went calling. 
 Save that it cast no shadow, the 'rickshaw was in every 
 respect as real to look upon as one of wood and iron. 
 More than once, indeed, I have had to check myself from 
 warning some hard-riding friend against cantering over it. 
 More than once I have walked down the Mall deep in con- 
 versation with Mrs. Wessington to the unspeakable 
 amazement of the passers-by. 
 
 Before I had been out and about a week I learned that 
 the 'fit' theory had been discarded in favour of insanity. 
 However, I made no change in my mode of life. I called, 
 rode, and dined out as freely as ever. I had a passion for 
 the society of my kind which I had never felt before; I 
 hungered to be among the realities of life; and at the same 
 time I felt vaguely unhappy when I had been separated 
 too long from my ghostly companion. It would be al- 
 most impossible to describe my varying moods from the 
 15th of May up to to-day. 
 
 The presence of the 'rickshaw filled me by turns with 
 horror, blind fear, a dim sort of pleasure, and utter de- 
 spair. I dared not leave Simla; and I knew that my stay 
 there was killing me. I knew, moreover, that it was my 
 destiny to die slowly and a little every day. My only 
 anxiety was to get the penance over as quietly as might 
 be. Alternately I hungered for a sight of Kitty and 
 watched her outrageous flirtations with my successor — to 
 speak more accurately, my successors— with amused 
 interest. She was as much out of my life as I was out of 
 hers. By day I wandered with Mrs. Wessington almost 
 
»38 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 content. By night I implored Heaven to let me return to 
 the world as I used to know it. Above all these varying 
 moods lay the sensation of dull, numbing wonder that the 
 seen and the Unseen should mingle so strangely on this 
 earth to hound one poor soul to its grave. 
 
 August 27. — Heatherlegh has been indefatigable in his 
 attendance on me; and only yesterday told me that I 
 ought to send in an application for sick leave. An 
 application to escape the company of a phantom! A re- 
 quest that the Government would graciously permit me 
 to get rid of five ghosts and an airy 'rickshaw by going t( 
 England ! Heatherlegh's proposition moved me to almost 
 hysterical laughter. I told him that I should await the 
 end quietly at Simla; and I am sure that the end is not far 
 off. Believe me that I dread its advent more than any 
 word can say; and I torture myself nightly with a thou- 
 sand speculations as to the manner of my death. 
 
 Shall I die in my bed decently and as an English gentle- 
 man should die; or, in one last walk on the Mall, will my 
 soul be wrenched from me to take its place for ever and 
 ever by the side of that ghastly phantasm? Shall I return 
 to my old lost allegiance in the next world, or shall I meet 
 Agnes loathing her and bound to her side through all 
 eternity? Shall we two hover over the scene of our lives 
 till the end of Time? As the day of my death draws 
 nearer, the intense horror that all living flesh feels towards 
 escaped spirits from beyond the grave grows more and 
 more powerful. It is an awful thing to go down quick 
 among the dead with scarcely one-half of your life com- 
 pleted. It is a thousand times more awful to wait as I do 
 in your midst, for I know not what unimaginable terror. 
 Pity me, at least on the score of my 'delusion,' for I know 
 
THE PHANTOM 'RICKSHAW -r« 
 
 you will never believe what I have written here. Yet as 
 surely as ever a man was done to death by the Powers of 
 Darkness, I am that man. 
 
 In justice, too, pity her. For as surely as ever woman 
 was killed by man, I killed Mrs. Wessington. And the 
 last portion of my punishmeD^ is even now upon me. 
 
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, 
 
 This story deals entirely with ghosts. There are, in 
 India, ghosts who take the form of fat, cold, pobby corpses, 
 and hide in trees near the roadside till a traveller 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 pathway at dusk, or hide in the 
 crops near a village, and call seductively. But to answer 
 their call is death in this world and the next. Their feet 
 are turned backwards that all sober men may recognise 
 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 vernacu- 
 lar articles and do not attack Sahibs. No native ghost has 
 yet been authentically reported to have frightened an 
 Englishman; but many English ghosts have scared the 
 life out of both white and black. 
 
 Nearly every other Station owns a ghost. There are 
 said to be two at Simla, not counting the woman who 
 blows the bellows at Syree dak-bungalow on the Old Road; 
 Mussoorie has a house haunted by 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 
 
MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY 141 
 
 ■"repeats' on autumn evenings all the incidents of a horri- 
 ble horse-and-precipice 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 
 furniture is guaranteed to creak, not with the heat of June 
 but with the weight of Invisibles 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 bristle with haunted houses, and march phantom 
 armies along their main thoroughfares. 
 
 Some of the dak-bungalows on the Grand Trunk Road 
 have handy little cemeteries in their compound — wit- 
 nesses to the 'changes and chances of this mortal life' in 
 the days when men drove from Calcutta to theNorthwest. 
 These bungalows are objectionable places to put up in. 
 They are generally very old, always dirty, while the khan- 
 samah is as ancient as the bungalow. He either chatters 
 senilely, or falls into the long trances of age. In both 
 moods he is useless. If you get angry with him, he refers 
 to some Sahib dead and buried these thirty years, and 
 says that when he was in that Sahib's service not a khan- 
 samah in the Province could touch him. Then he jabbers 
 and mows and trembles and fidgets among the dishes, and 
 you repent of your irritation. 
 
 Not long ago it was my business to live in dak-bun- 
 galows. 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 cobra on the threshold 
 to give welcome. I lived in 'converted' ones — old 
 houses officiating as dak-bungalows— where nothing 
 
: 4 i UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 was in its proper place and there was not even a fowl 
 for dinner. 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 curry-kid's head with a sword. It was my good 
 luck to meet all sorts of men, from sober travelling 
 missionaries and deserters flying from British Regi- 
 ments, to drunken loafers who threw whiskey bottles 
 at all who passed; and my still greater good-fortune 
 just to escape a maternity case. Seeing that a fair pro- 
 portion of the tragedy of our lives in India acted itself 
 in dak-bungalows, I wondered that I had met no ghosts. 
 A ghost that would voluntarily hang about a dak-bun- 
 galow 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, foi 
 there were two of them. 
 
 We will call the bungalow Katmal dak-bungalow; 
 but that was the smallest part of the horror. A man 
 with a sensitive hide has no right to sleep in dak-bun- 
 galows. He should marry. Katmal dak-bungalow was 
 old and rotten and unrepaired. The floor was of worn 
 brick, the walls were filthy, and the windows were 
 nearly black with grime. It stood on a bypath largely 
 used by native Sub-Deputy Assistants of all kinds, 
 from Finance to Forests; but real Sahibs were rare. 
 The khansamah, who was nearly bent double with old 
 age, said so. 
 
 When I arrived, there was a fitful, undecided rain 
 on the face of the land, accompanied by a restless wind, 
 »nd every gust made a noise like the rattB"? *l dry 
 
MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY 143 
 
 bones in the stiff toddy-palms outside. The kkansamah 
 completely lost his head on my arrival. He had served 
 a Sahib once. Did I know that Sahib? He gave me 
 the name of a well-known man who has been buried for 
 more than a quarter of a century, and showed me an 
 ancient daguerreotype of that man in his prehistoric 
 youth. I had seen a steel engraving of him at the head 
 of a double volume of Memoirs a month before, and I 
 felt ancient beyond telling. 
 
 The day shut in and the khansamah went to get me 
 food. He did not go through the 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 dak-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 flimsiness. Every step 
 or bang of a trunk echoed from my room down the other 
 three, and every footfall came back tremulously fronj 
 the far walls. For this reason I shut the door. Thera 
 were no lamps — only candles in long glass shades. Aa 
 oil wick was set in the bathroom. 
 
 For bleak, unadulterated misery that dak-bungalow 
 was the worst of the many that I had ever set foot in. 
 There was no fireplace, 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 
 
144 . UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 compound singing, and a hyena stood afar off and 
 mocked them. A hyena would convince a Sadducee 
 of the Resurrection of the Dead— the worst sort of 
 Dead. Then came the ratub — a curious meal, half 
 native and half English in composition — with the old 
 khansamah babbling behind my chair about dead and 
 gone English people, and the wind-blown candles play- 
 ing 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 bathroom threw the most absurd 
 shadows into the room, and the wind was beginning to 
 talk nonsense. 
 
 Just when the reasons were drowsy with blood- 
 sucking I heard the regular — 'Let-us-take-and-heave- 
 him-over' grunt of doolie-bearers in the compound. 
 First one doolie came in, then a second, and then a 
 third. I heard the doolies dumped on the ground, 
 and the shutter in front of my door shook. 
 
 'That's some one trying to come in,' 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 footsteps. 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 and looked into the 
 
MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY 145 
 
 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 
 slate 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 mistake 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 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 can- 
 non, a three-cushion one to judge by the whir, I argued 
 no more. I had found my ghost and would have given 
 worlds to have escaped from that dak-bungalow. I 
 listened, and with each listen the game grew clearer. 
 There was whir on whir and click on click. Sometimes 
 there was a double click and a whir and another click. 
 Beyond any sort of doubt, people were playing billiards 
 in the next room. And the next room was not big enough 
 to hold a billiard table! 
 
 Between the pauses of the wind 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, 
 
146 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 Do you know what fear is? Not ordinary fear of 
 insult, injury, or death, but abject, quivering dread of 
 Bomething that you cannot see — fear that dries the in' 
 side of the mouth and half of the throat — fear that makes 
 you sweat on the palms of the hands, and gulp in order 
 to keep the uvula at work? This is a fine Fear — a 
 great cowardice, and must be felt to be appreciated. 
 The very improbability of billiards in a d&k-bungakrw 
 proved the reality of the thing. No marl — 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 disadvan- 
 tage — it breeds infinite credulity. If a man said to a 
 confirmed dak-bungalow-haunter: 'Theife is a corpse 
 in the next room, and there's a mad girl in the next 
 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-bun- 
 galow. 
 
 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 given up for a dry 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. Other- 
 
MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY 147 
 
 wise I, should have preferred to have kept awake. Not 
 for everything in Asia would I have dropped the door- 
 bar and peered into the dark of the next room. 
 
 When the morning came, I considered that I had done 
 jyell and wisely, and enquired for the means of departure. 
 
 'By the way, khansamah,' I said, 'what were those 
 three doolies doing in my compound in the night? ' 
 
 'There were no doolies,' said the khansamah. 
 
 I went into the next room, and the daylight 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-bungalow? ' I asked. 
 
 'No,' said the khansamah. 'Ten or twenty years 
 ago, I have forgotten how long, it was a billiard-room.' 
 
 'A what?' 
 
 'A billiard-room for the Sahibs who built the Rail- 
 way. I was khansamah then in the big house where all 
 the Railway-Sahibs lived, and I used to come across 
 with bxa.n6.y-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?' 
 
 'It is long ago, but I remember that one Sahib, a fat 
 man, and always angry, was playing her& one night, 
 and he said to me: "Mangal Khan, brzxiAy-pani do" 
 °nd 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 favour.' 
 
148 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 That was more than enough! I had my gaost— 
 a first-hand, authenticated article. I would write to 
 the Society for Psychical Research — I would paralyse 
 the Empire with the news! But I would, first of all, 
 put eighty miles of assessed crop-land between 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 begin again, — with a miss in balk this time, 
 for the whir was a short one. 
 
 The door was open, and I could see into the room. 
 Click — click I That was a cannon. 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 billiard balls! 
 Impossible to mistake the whir of a ball over the slater 
 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! No 
 wonder the Presence was disturbed and is speckled. 
 Three sets of doolie-bearers came to the bungalow late 
 last night when I was sleeping outside, and said that it 
 was their custom to rest in rooms set apart for the 
 English people! What honour has the khansamah? They 
 tried to enter, but I told them to go. No wonder, if these 
 
MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY 14$ 
 
 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 morality. 
 
 There was an interview with the khansamah, but as he 
 promptly lost his head, wrath gave place to pity, and pity 
 led to a long 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 Calcutta, and there the Sahib died while driving a 
 dog-cart. 
 
 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 geniune ghost story. 
 
 Had I only ceased investigating at the proper time, I 
 could have made anything out of it. 
 
 That was the bitterest thought of all! 
 
THE TRACK OF A LIE 1 
 
 'Consequences of our acts eternal? Bosh!' said 
 Blawkins, at the Club. 'That's what the Padres say. 
 See, now!' The smoking room was empty, except for 
 Blawkins and myself. ' I'll tell you an idiotic little super- 
 stition I picked up the other day,' said he. 'The natives 
 say that Allah allows the tiger one rupee eight annas a 
 day for his food; and if you total up the month's cattle 
 bill of an average tiger, not a man-eater, you'll find that 
 it's exactly forty-five rupees per mensem.' 
 
 ' I know that,' said I. " And it happens to be true.' 
 
 ' Very good,' said Blawkins. ' Do you mean to say that, 
 anything is going to come of an idle sentence like that? I 
 say it. You hear it. Well?' Blawkins swung out of the 
 Club, leaving me vanquished. 
 
 But the statement rang in my head. There was some- 
 thing catching about the words, 'Allah allows the tiger 
 one rupee eight annas a day for his food.' It was a quaint 
 superstition, and one not generally known. Would the 
 local paper care for it? It fitted a corner, empty for the 
 moment; and one or two readers said, 'What a virious 
 idea!' 
 
 That the tiny paragraph should have wandered to 
 Southern India was not very strange, though there was no 
 reason why it should not have trickled to the Bombay 
 side, instead of dropping straight as a plummet to Madras. 
 That it should have jumped Adam's Bridge, and been 
 
 'Copyright, 1895, by Macuillas & Co. 
 
THE TRACK OF A LIE 151 
 
 copied in a Ceylon journal, was strange; but Blawkins had 
 been transferred to the other end of the Empire, just two 
 days before the Ceylon papers told their cinchona plant- 
 ers that 'Allah allows the tiger one rupee eight annas a 
 day,' etc. 
 
 Three weeks passed, and from the eastern side of the 
 Bay of Bengal came in the Burma mail. Boh Ottima was 
 dead, and the Field Force was hard worked; Mandalay 
 was suffering from cholera, but at the bottom of the last 
 page the rest of the world might read that 'Allah allows 
 the tiger,' etc. Blawkins was on duty in the Bolan, very 
 sick with fever. It was not worth while to follow him 
 with a letter. 
 
 Week by week Europe grew to be a hornet-hive, throb- 
 bing and humming angrily, as the messages pulsed 
 through the wires. Then Singapur reported that 'Allah 
 allows the tiger,' etc. Here, assuredly, was the limit of 
 my paragraph's wandering. It might struggle into the 
 Malayan Archipelago, but beyond that scattered heap of 
 islands it could not pass. 
 
 Germany called for more men; France answered the 
 call with fresh battalions on her side; and the strangely 
 scented, straw-hued journals of Shanghai and Yokohama 
 made public to the Far East the news that 'Allah allows 
 the tiger,' etc. Blawkins, now at Poona, was desperately 
 in love with a Miss Blandyre. What were paragraphs to 
 a passionate lover? I never sent him a line, though he 
 bombarded me with a very auctioneer's catalogue of Miss 
 Blandyre's charms. What would my paragraph do? It 
 had reached the open Pacific now, and must surely drown 
 in five thousand miles of black water. After all, it had 
 lived long. 
 
 Yet, I had presentiments, and waited anxiously for 
 what might come. The flying keel stayed at the Golden 
 
rsa UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 Gate, where the sea-lions romp and gurgle and bask: Eu- 
 rope shook with the tread of armed men, but — where, was 
 my paragraph? In America — for San Francisco wished 
 to know, if 'Allah allowed the tiger,' etc., how much a Los 
 Angeles hotel-keeper would be justified in charging a 
 millionaire with delirium tremens ? Would Eastern Amer- 
 ica accept it? The paragraph touched Salt Lake City; 
 and thenceforward, straight as a homeward-bound bee, 
 headed New York-wards. They took it; they cut, chipped, 
 chopped,, laughed; were ribald, pious, profane, cynical, 
 and frankly foolish over it; but, as though it were under a 
 special and mysterious protection of Providence, it re- 
 turned, always, to its original shape. It ran southward 
 into New Orleans, northward to Toronto; and week after 
 week the weather-beaten exchanges recorded its eastward 
 progress. Boston appreciated it as something perfectly 
 original; and at last, as a lone light dies on an extreme 
 headland, Philadelphia sent back the news that the 
 Emperor William was dead, and 'Allah allows the tiger,' 
 etc. But Blawkins had, long ago, wedded Miss BJandyre. 
 What was the use of writing to him? The main point of 
 existence was, whether the paragraph could come over the 
 Atlantic to the West Coast of England, where the country 
 papers were lichened with the growth of local politics. 
 
 There was a long pause, and I feared that my paragraph 
 was dead. But I did it an injustice. Over the foaming 
 surf of the local Government Bill, through the rapids of 
 compensation to publicans, in the teeth of the current of 
 Mr. Gladstone's appeals to the free and enlightened 
 electors of Wales, came my paragraph — for Birmingham 
 found room for the announcement that 'Allah allows the 
 tiger,' etc. Blawkins sent an announcement also. It cost 
 him two rupees, was a purely local matter, and ended up 
 with the words 'of a son.' But the paragraph was Im- 
 
THE TRACK OF A LIE 153 
 
 penal — nay, Universal. I felt safe, for there was one 
 journal in London whom nothing unusual, or alas, unclean, 
 ever escaped. I waited with confidence the arrival of the 
 Yellow Wrapper. When the mails came in, the Bombay 
 papers had already quoted and commended to the notice 
 of the Bombay Zoological Society the curious statement 
 hailing from England in the Yellow Wrapper that 'Allah 
 allows the tiger,' etc.! The circuit was complete; and as 
 the shears snipped out the announcement, before putting 
 it afresh into the very cradle in which it had been born 
 fifteen months and six days before, I felt that I had shaken 
 hands with the whole round world. My paragraph had 
 come home indeed! 
 
 Tenderly as a mother shows the face of her sleeping 
 child, I led Blawkins through the paper-cuttings, and 
 step by step pointed out the path of the paragraph. His 
 lower jaw dropped. ' By Jove ! ' said he, ' I was wrong— it 
 should have been a rupee — one rupee only — not one 
 eight.' 
 
 'Then, Blawkins,' said I, 'you have swindled the whole 
 wide world of the sum of eight annas,' nominally one 
 shilling. 
 
THE STRANGE RIDE OF MORROWBIE JUKES 
 
 Alive or dead — there is no other way. — Native Proverb. 
 
 There is no invention 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 rich money-lenders retreat after they have 
 made their fortunes (fortunes so vast that the owners can- 
 not trust even the strong hand of the Government to pro- 
 tect 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 in- 
 vent 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 
 straightforwardly at first, but he has touched it up in 
 places and introduced Moral Reflections: thus:— 
 
 134 
 
THE STRANGE RIDE 155 
 
 In the beginning it all arose from a slight 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 23rd 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 
 suspended his carcass in terrorem about fifty yards from 
 my tent-door, but his friends fell upon, fought for, and 
 ultimately devoured the body: and, as it seemed to me, 
 sang their hymns of thanksgiving afterwards with re- 
 newed energy. 
 
 The light-headedness which accompanies fever acts 
 differently on different men. My irritation gave way, after 
 a short time, to a fixed determination to slaughter one 
 huge black and white beast who had been foremost in 
 song and first in flight throughout the evening. Thanks to 
 a shaking hand and a giddy head I had already missed 
 him twice with both barrels of my shot-gun, 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. 
 
156 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 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 sharp pair of per- 
 suaders 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 moment, for the 
 brute bolted as straight as a die, the tent was left far be- 
 hind, and we were flying over the smooth sandy soil at 
 racing speed. In another we had passed the wretched dog, 
 and I had almost forgotten why it was that I had taken 
 horse and hog-spear. 
 
 The delirium of fever and the excitement of rapid mo- 
 tion through the air must have taken away the remnant 
 of my senses. I have a faint recollection of standing up- 
 right 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 camelthorn 
 bushes as they whizzed past. Once or twice, I believe, I 
 swayed forward on Pornic's neck, and literally hung on by 
 my spurs — as the marks next morning showed. 
 
 The wretched beast went forward like a thing pos- 
 sessed, over what seemed to be a limitless expanse of 
 moonlit sand. Next, I remember, the ground rose sud- 
 denly 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 to- 
 gether 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 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 altogether left me, 
 
THE STRANGE RIDE 157 
 
 and, with the exception of a slight dizziness in the head, I 
 Isit 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 him- 
 self in the least. His saddle, a favourite polo one, was 
 much 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 semicircular, ovoid, 
 square, and multilateral holes, all about three feet at the 
 mouth. Each hole on inspection showed that it was care- 
 fully shored internally with drift-wood and bamboos, and 
 over the mouth a wooden drip-board projected, 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 per- 
 vaded 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 practicable. 
 The inhabitants, whoever thf^' might be, had not thought 
 
IS8 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 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 rattled on the drip-boards of the 
 holes like small shot. A couple of ineffectual charges sent 
 us both rolling down to the bottom, half choked with the 
 torrents of sand; and I was constrained to turn my atten- 
 tion to the river-bank. 
 
 Here everything seemed easy enough. The sand hills 
 ran down to the river edge, 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 of a rifle across the 
 river; and at the same moment a bullet dropped with a 
 sharp 'whit' close to Pornic'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 morning air showed me whence the delicate atten- 
 tion had come. Was ever a respectable gentleman in 
 such an impasse ? The treacherous sand slope allowed no 
 escape from a spot which I had 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 
 
THE STRANGE RIDE 139 
 
 to be untenanted. 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 salmon coloured 
 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. 
 
 Even in these days, when local self-government has de- 
 stroyed 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 natu- 
 rally 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 unholy mirth. In a moment I 
 had let go Pornic's head, and, irritated beyond expression 
 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 all sorts of 
 uncouth tongues to spare them. 
 
 In the tumult, and just when I was feeling 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-master.' 
 
 I soun round quickly and faced the speaker. 
 
i6o UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 Gunga Dass (I have, of course, no hesitation in men- 
 tioning the man's real name) I had known four years 
 before as a Deccanee Brahmin lent by the Punjab Gov- 
 ernment 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 making bad puns 
 in English — a peculiarity which made me remember 
 him long after I had forgotten his services to me in 
 his official capacity. It is seldom that a Hindu makes 
 English puns. 
 
 Now, however, the man was changed beyond all recog- 
 nition. Caste-mark, stomach, slate-coloured continua' 
 tions, and unctuous speech were all gone. I looked at a 
 withered 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 platform of sand which 
 ran in front of the holes, and commenced lighting a fire 
 there 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: — 
 
THE STRANGE RIDE 161 
 
 '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 de- 
 manded his attention for an instant as it twirled before 
 the fire in danger of being burnt to a cinder.) 'If you 
 die at home and do not die when you come to the ghat 
 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 communi- 
 cated by the ex-Brahmin. Sixteen years ago, when I 
 first landed in Bombay, I had been told by a wandering 
 Armenian of the existence, somewhere in India, of a 
 place to which such Hindus as had the misfortune to 
 recover from trance or catalepsy were conveyed and 
 kept, and I recollect laughing heartily at what I was 
 then pleased to consider a traveller's tale. Sitting at 
 the bottom of the sand-trap, the memory of Watson's 
 Hotel, with its swinging punkahs, white-robed servants 
 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 seldom laugh, and his sur- 
 ^undings were not such as to move him that way. 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 cold air, perhaps, makes you alive, 
 and then, if you are only little alive, mud is put on 
 your nose and mouth and you die conclusively. If you 
 are rather more alive, more mud is put; but if you are 
 
162 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 too lively they let you go and take you away. I was 
 too lively, and made protestation with anger against 
 the indignities that they endeavoured 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 — 'crows, and — other things. 
 They took me from my sheets when they saw that I 
 was too lively and gave me medicines for one week, 
 and I survived successfully. 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 pro- 
 pelled me from the top to the bottom, and the other 
 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 succumbed 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 selfishness 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 supe- 
 rior or at least of an equal. 
 
 'You will not' — he had dropped the Sir after his 
 
THE STRANGE RIDE 163 
 
 first sentence — 'make any escape that way. But you 
 can try. I have tried. Once only.' 
 
 The sensation of nameless terror which I had in 
 Viiin 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 pre- 
 vious day — combined with the violent 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 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 so 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. 
 
 Two or three men trod on my panting body as they 
 drew water, but they were evidently used to this sort 
 af thing, and had no time to waste upon me. Gunga 
 Dass, indeed, 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 half-fainting state, I 
 lay till noon. Then, being only a man after all, I felt 
 hungry, and said 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 na- 
 tives, I put my hand into my pocket and drew out four 
 
164 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 t: i 
 
 annas*. The absurdity of the gift struck me at once, 
 and I was about to replace the money. 
 
 Gunga Dass, however, cried: 'Give me the money, 
 all you have, or I will get help, and we will kill you!' 
 
 A Briton's first impulse, I believe, is to guard the 
 contents of his pockets; but a moment's thought showed 
 me of the folly 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, looking round to assure 
 himself that no one had observed us. 
 
 'Now I will give you something to eat,' said he. 
 
 What pleasure my money could have given him I am 
 unable to say; but inasmuch as it did please him 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 doings, 
 of a den of wild beasts; and my companions were Iowa 
 than any beasts. While I eat 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 indiffer- 
 ence, and Gunga Dass was nearly as bad. I plied him 
 with questions about the terrible village, and received ex- 
 tremely unsatisfactory answers. So far as I could gather, 
 it had been in existence from time immemorial — whence 
 X concluded that it was at least a century old — and 
 
THE STRANGE RIDE 4 165 
 
 . -* 
 
 during that time no one had ever been known to escape 
 from it. [I had to 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 emphasising 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 disobeyed the orders.' 
 
 'Only wait till my servant finds that I am missing,' 
 I retorted, 'and I promise you that this place shall be 
 cleared off the face of the earth, and I'll give you a 
 lesson in civility, too, my friend.' 
 
 'Your servants would be torn in pieces before they 
 came near this place; and, besides, 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 amphi- 
 theatre, and the inhabitants fought for them like wild 
 beasts. When a man. felt his death coming on he re- 
 treated to his lair and died there. The body was some- 
 times 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 atten- 
 tion, 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 conversation: 'And how do you 
 live here from day to day? What do you do? ' The 
 
166 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 question elicited exactly the same answer as before-^ 
 coupled with the information that 'this place is like 
 your European heaven; there is neither marrying nor 
 giving in marriage.' 
 
 Gunga Dass had been educated at a Mission School, 
 and, as he himself admitted, had he only changed his 
 religion 'like a wise man,' might have avoided the liv- 
 ing 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 completely at the mercy of 
 his native neighbours. 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 im- 
 paled 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 here till I 
 died and was ' thrown on to the sand.' If it were possible 
 to forejudge the conversation of the Damned on the 
 advent 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 energies being devoted to a struggle 
 against the inexplicable terror that threatened to over- 
 whelm me again and again. I can compare the feel- 
 ing to nothing except the struggles 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 sloping in at the mouth of the crater. 
 They assembled by little knots, and talked among them- 
 
THE STRANGE RIDE !«>■ 
 
 selves without even throwing a glance in my direction. 
 About four o'clock, so 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 cau- 
 tiously 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 the boat's fire. The oc- 
 cupants 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 outstretched wings. 
 As was only natural, the crow began to shriek at once 
 and beat the air with its claws. In a few seconds the 
 clamour had attracted the attention of 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 attack the 
 pinioned bird. Gunga Dass, who had lain down on a 
 tussock, motioned to me to be quiet, though I fancy 
 this was a needless 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, overpowered the rest 
 of the flock, and almost before Gunga Dass and I had 
 time to withdraw 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 irop r essed 
 
i6S UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 i 
 
 by this, to me, novel method of securing food, and com- 
 plimented 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 assumption 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 to catch and eat.' 
 
 I could have cheerfully strangled him for this; but 
 judged it best under the circumstances 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. Never 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 to- 
 gether 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 woman; and 
 with yells and imprecations the sufferer would attack the 
 steep slope until, baffled and bleeding, he 'ell back on the 
 
THE STRANGE RIDE *Sg 
 
 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' attempts 
 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 of which 
 he would consent to 'do' for me. My nine rupees 
 eight annas, he argued, at the rate of three annas a 
 day, would provide 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 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 killing you as you sit here and taking every- 
 thing that you have' (I thought of the two invaluable 
 crows at the time), 'I flatly refuse 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 Service, 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 
 
i7o UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 as I am now of my own existence, that in the accursed 
 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 insubordination on his part would be visited with the 
 only punishment I had it in my power to inflict — sud- 
 den and violent death. Shortly after this I went to 
 bed. That is to say, Gunga Dass gave me a double 
 armful of 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 innu- 
 merable naked bodies, added to which it smelt abomi- 
 nably. Sleep was altogether out of the question to one 
 in my excited frame of mind. As the night wore on, 
 it seemed that the entire amphitheatre was filled with 
 
THE STRANGE RIDE 171 
 
 legions of unclean devils that, trooping up from the 
 shoals below, mocked the unfortunates in their lairs. 
 
 Personally I am not of an imaginative temperament 
 — very few Engineers are — 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, impractica- 
 ble. 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. Im- 
 agine 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 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, I felt 
 an indescribable drawing, sucking 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 disappointment. I struggled clear, sweat- 
 ing with terror and exertion, back to the tussocks behind 
 me and fell on my face. 
 
 My only means of escape from the semicircle was pro- 
 tected with a quicksand! 
 
172 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 How long I lay I have not the faintest idea; but ] 
 was roused at the last by the malevolent chuckle oi 
 Gunga Dass at my ear. 'I would advise you, Protec- 
 tor of the Poor' (the ruffian was speaking English) 'tc 
 return to your house. It is unhealthy to lie dowr 
 here. Moreover, when the boat returns, you will mosl 
 certainly be rifled at.' He stood over me in the dim 
 light of the dawn, chuckling and laughing to himself, 
 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, ] 
 asked: 'Gunga Dass, what is the good of the boat if 
 I can't get out anyhow ? ' I recollect that even in my 
 deepest trouble I had been speculating vaguely on the 
 waste of ammunition in guarding an already well pro- 
 tected 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 pleas- 
 ant 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 awakened by a piercing scream — (he shrill, 
 high-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 great- 
 est number is political maxim. We are now Republic, 
 
THE STRANGE RIDE 173 
 
 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 propose?' 
 
 Yes, we were a Republic indeed! A Republic 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 
 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 addressed another 
 remark of any kind whatever to me I should strangle 
 him where he sat. This silenced him till silence became 
 insupportable, and I bade him say something. 
 
 'You will live here till you die like the other Fe- 
 ringhi,' 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 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 
 g£ve me something first.' 
 
174 UNDER THE.DEODARS 
 
 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 
 ieet, led me round to the burrow which he had in- 
 dicated. 
 
 ' 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? Goon!' 
 
 'And then — and then, Your Honour, we carried him 
 into his house and gave him 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 
 Ididl' 
 
 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 Honour 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 riid had hauled 
 
THE STRANGE RIDE 175 
 
 Mm on to the platform opposite the deserted burrow. As 
 I did so I thought of my wretched fellow-prisoner's un- 
 speakable 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 fancied 
 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 thia 
 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. 
 
 At the end of a few minutes I heard a rustle and a creak; 
 then Gunga Dass in a sobbing, choking whisper speaking 
 to himself; then a soft thud — and I uncovered my eyes. 
 
 The dry sand had turned the corpse entrusted 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 be- 
 tween thirty and forty, above middle height, with light, 
 sandy hair, long moustache, 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 
 blood-stone set in gold, with a monogram that might have 
 been either 'B. K.' or 'B. L.' On the third finger of the 
 
176 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 right hand was a silver ring in the shape of a coiled cobra, 
 much worn and tarnished. Gunga Dass deposited a hand- 
 ful of trifles 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: — 
 
 i. 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-plated, marked with monogram 'B. K.' 
 
 4. Envelope, postmark undecipherable, bearing a 
 
 Victorian stamp, addressed to 'Miss Mon ' (rest 
 
 illegible)— 'ham'— 'nt.' 
 
 5. Imitation crocodile-skin notebook 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, abbreviated 
 several times to 'Lot Single,' 'Mrs. S. May,' and 'Garmi- 
 son,' referred to in places as 'Jerry' or 'Jack.' 
 
 6. Handle of small-sized hunting-knife. Blade 
 snapped short. Buck's horn, diamond-cut, with swivel 
 and ring on the butt; fragment of cotton cord attached. 
 
 It must not be supposed that I inventoried all these 
 things on the spot as fully as I have here written 
 them down. The notebook first attracted my atten- 
 tion, and I put it in my pocket with a 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 method- 
 ical man, I inventoried 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 
 
I, 
 
 THE STRANGE RIDE i 7? 
 
 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 when shooting. In other words, that 
 cartridge-case had been fired inside the crater. Conse- 
 quently there must be a gun somewhere. 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 tussocks. It was my intention to 
 push it out and let it be swallowed up — the only possible 
 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 
 md rotten khaki shooting-coat open, disclosing a hideous 
 cavity in the back. I have already told you tha|f the dry 
 sand had, as it were, mummified the body. A moment's 
 glance showed that the gaping hole had been caused by a 
 gunshot 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 instantaneous. 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 notebook. A stained and discoloured slip of paper 
 had been inserted between the binding and the back, and 
 
178 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 dropped out as I opened the pages. This is what it con 
 tained: 'Four out from crow-dump; 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; seven 
 back.' The paper had been burnt and charred at the 
 edges. 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 aware of Gunga Dass standing 
 immediately behind me with glowing eyes and out- 
 stretched 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, trem- 
 bling with eagerness. 
 
 ' I could never find it,' he continued. 'He had secreted 
 it about his person. Therefore I shot him, but neverthe- 
 less I was unable to obtain it.' 
 
 Gunga Dass had quite forgotten his little fiction about 
 the rifle-bullet. I heard him calmly. Morality is 
 blunted by consorting with the Dead who are alive. 
 
 'What on earth are you raving about? What it is you 
 want me to give you? ' > 
 
 'The piece of paper in the notebook. It will help us 
 both. Oh, you fool ! You 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 I was moved at the chance 
 of getting away. 
 
 '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,' 
 
THE STRANGE RIDE i 79 
 
 I did so. Gunga Dass listened delightedly, 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 
 mind me? Then three left. Ah! Now well I remember 
 how that man worked it out night after night. Then nine 
 out, and so on. Out is always straight before you across 
 the quicksand to the North. He told me so before I killed 
 him.' 
 
 'But if you knew all this why didn't you get out be- 
 fore?' 
 
 '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 together. But Iwas afraid that he 
 would leave me behind one night when he had worked it 
 all out, and so I shot him. Besides, it is not advisable that 
 the men who once get in here should escape. Only I, and 
 7 am a Brahmin.' 
 
 The hope 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 Englishman 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 flank of the left horn of 
 the horseshoe. This much he had evidently not com- 
 pleted when Gunga Dass shot him with his own gun. 
 
 In my frenzy of delight at the possibilities of escape I 
 recollect shaking hands wildly with Gunga Dass, aftel 
 We had decided that we were to make an attempt to 
 
i8o UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 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 Up 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 down-stream some hours be- 
 fore, 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 creature was aiming a violent blow at the back of 
 my head with the gun-barrels. It was too late to turn 
 round. I must have received the blow somewhere on the 
 nape of my neck, for I fell senseless at the edge of the 
 quicksand. 
 
 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 unrea- 
 soning fury which I have before mentioned laid hold 
 upon me, and I staggered inland towards 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 attended to my collies. As soon as he had at- 
 tracted my attention, he held up his hand and showed 
 a rope. I motioned, staggering to and fro the while, 
 that he should throw it down. It was a couple of 
 
THE STRANGE RIDE 181 
 
 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 instant 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 four- 
 teen 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; whereupon Dunnoo had taken 
 one of my ponies and a couple of punkah ropes, re- 
 turned to the crater, and hauled me out as I have de- 
 scribed. 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 
 
 Brother to a Prince and fellow to a beggar if he be found worthy. 
 
 The Law, as quoted, lays down a fair conduct of life, 
 and one not easy to follow. I have been fellow to a 
 beggar again and again under circumstances which pre- 
 vented either of us finding out whether the other was 
 worthy. I have still to be brother to a Prince, though 
 I once came near to kinship with what might have been 
 a veritable King and was promised the reversion of a 
 Kingdom— army, law-courts, revenue and policy all 
 complete. But, to-day, I greatly fear that my King 
 is dead, and if I want a crown I must go hunt it for 
 myself. 
 
 The beginning of everything was in a railway train 
 upon the road to Mhow from Ajmir. There had been 
 a Deficit in the Budget, which necessitated travelling, 
 not Second-class, which is only half as dear as First- 
 class, but by Intermediate, which is very awful indeed. 
 There are no cushions in the Intermediate class, and the 
 population are either Intermediate, which is Eurasian, 
 or native, which for a long night journey is nasty, or 
 Loafer, which is amusing though intoxicated. Inter- 
 mediates do not buy from refreshment-rooms. They 
 carry their food in bundles and pots, and buy sweets 
 from the native sweetmeat-sellers, and drink the roadside 
 water. That is why in hot weather Intermediates are 
 taken out of the carriages dead, and in all weathers are 
 most properly looked down upon. 
 
 18a 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 183 
 
 My particular Intermediate happened to be empty till 
 I reached Nasirabad, when a big black-browed gentle- 
 man in shirt-sleeves entered, and, following the custom 
 of Intermediates, passed the time of day. He was a 
 wanderer and a vagabond like myself, but with an 
 educated taste for whiskey. He told tales of things 
 he had seen and done, of out-of-the-way corners of 
 the Empire into which he had penetrated, and of ad- 
 ventures in which he risked his life for a few days' 
 food. 
 
 'If India was filled with men like you and me, not 
 knowing more than the crows where they'd get their 
 next day's rations, it isn't seventy millions of revenue 
 the land would be paying — it's seven hundred millions,' 
 said he; and as I looked at his mouth and chin I was 
 disposed to agree with him. 
 
 We talked politics — the politics of Loaferdom that 
 sees things from the underside where the lath and plaster 
 is not smoothed off— and we talked postal arrangements 
 because my friend wanted to send a telegram back from 
 the next station to Ajmir, the turning-off place from the 
 Bombay to the Mhow line as you travel westward. My 
 friend had no money beyond eight annas which he 
 wanted for dinner, and I had no money at all, owing to 
 the hitch in the Budget before mentioned. Further, I 
 was going into a wilderness where, though I should re- 
 sume touch with the Treasury, there were no telegraph 
 offices. I was, therefore, unable to help him in any way. 
 
 'We might threaten a Station-master, and make him 
 send a wire on tick,' said my friend, 'but that'd mean 
 enquiries for you and for me, and I've got my hands 
 full these days. Did you say you were travelling back 
 along this line within any days?' 
 
 'Within ten,' I said. 
 
184 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 ' Can't you make it eight?' said he. ' Mine is rather 
 urgent business.' 
 
 ' I can send your telegram within ten days if that will 
 serve you,' I said. 
 
 'I couldn't trust the wire to fetch him now I think 
 of it. It's this way. He leaves Delhi on the 23rd for 
 Bombay. That means he'll be running through Ajmir 
 about the night of the 23rd.' 
 
 'But I'm going into the Indian Desert,' I explained. 
 
 'Well and good,' said he. ' You'll be changing at Mar- 
 war Junction to get into Jodhpore territory — you must 
 do that — and he'll be coming through Marwar Junction 
 in the early morning of the 24th by the Bombay Mail. 
 Can you be at Marwar Junction on that time? 'Twon't 
 be inconveniencing you because I know that there's pre 
 cious few pickings to be got out of these Central India 
 States — even though you pretend to be correspondent of 
 the Backwoodsman.' 
 
 'Have you ever tried that trick?' I asked. 
 
 'Again and again, but the Residents find you out 
 and then you get escorted to the Border before you've 
 time to get your knife into them. But about my friend 
 here. I must give him a word o' mouth to tell him 
 what's come to me or else he won't know where to go. 
 I would take it more than kind of you if you was to come 
 out of Central India in time to catch him at Marwar 
 Junction, and say to him: "He has gone South for the 
 week." He'll know what that means. He's a big man 
 with a red beard, and a great swell he is. You'll find 
 him sleeping like a gentleman with all his luggage round 
 him in a Second-class apartment. But don't you be 
 afraid. Slip down the window and say: "He has gone 
 South for the week," and he'll tumble. It's only cut- 
 ting your time of stay in those parts by two days. I ask 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 185 
 
 you as a stranger— going to the West,' he said with em- 
 phasis. 
 
 'Where have you come from?' said I. 
 
 'From the East,' said he, 'and I am hoping that you 
 will give him the message on the Square— for the sake of 
 my Mother as well as your own.' 
 
 Englishmen are not usually softened by appeals to 
 the memory of their mothers; but for certain reasons, 
 which will be fully apparent, I saw fit to agree. 
 
 'It's more than a little matter,' said he, 'and that's 
 why I asked you to do it— and now I know that I can 
 depend on you doing it. A Second-class carriage at 
 Marwar Junction, and a red-haired man asleep in it. 
 You'll be sure to remember. I get out at the next sta- 
 tion, and I must hold on there till he comes or sends me 
 what I want.' 
 
 'I'll give the message if I catch him,' I said, 'and 
 for the sake of your Mother as well as mine I'll give 
 you a word of advice. Don't try to run the Central 
 India States just now as the correspondent of the Back- 
 woodsman. There's a real one knocking about here, and 
 it might lead to trouble.' 
 
 'Thank you,' said he simply, 'and when will the 
 swine be gone? I can't starve because he's ruining my 
 work. I wanted to get hold of the Degumber Rajah down 
 here about his father's widow, and give him a jump.' 
 
 'What did he do to his father's widow, then?' 
 
 'Filled her up with red pepper and slippered her 
 to death as she hung from a beam. I found that out 
 myself and I'm the only man that would dare going into 
 the State to get hush-money for it. They'll try to 
 poison me, same as they did in Chortumna when I went 
 on the loot there. But you'll give the man at Marwar 
 Junction my message?' 
 
186 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 He got out at a little roadside station, and I reflected. 
 I had heard, more than once, of men personating corre- 
 spondents of newspapers and bleeding small Native 
 States with threats of exposure, but I had never met 
 any of the caste before. They lead a hard life, and 
 generally die with great suddenness. The Native 
 States have a wholesome horror of English newspapers, 
 which may throw light on their peculiar methods of 
 government, and do their best to choke correspondents 
 with champagne, or drive them out of their mind with 
 four-in-hand barouches. They do not understand that 
 nobody cares a straw for the internal administration of 
 Native States so long as oppression and crime are kept 
 within decent limits, and the ruler is not drugged, drunk, 
 or diseased from one end of the year to the other. They 
 are the dark places of the earth, full of unimaginable 
 cruelty, touching the Railway and the Telegraph on one 
 side, and, on the other, the days of Harun-al-Raschid. 
 When I left the train I did business with divers Kings, 
 and in eight days passed through many changes of life. 
 Sometimes I wore dress-clothes and consorted with Princes 
 and Politicals, drinking from crystal and eating from sil- 
 ver. Sometimes I lay out upon the ground and de- 
 voured what I could get, from a plate made of leaves, 
 and drank the running water, and slept under the same 
 rug as my servant. It was all in the day's work. 
 
 Then I headed for the Great Indian Desert upon 
 the proper date, as I had promised, and the night Mai] 
 set me down at Marwar Junction, where a funny little, 
 happy-go-lucky, native-managed railway runs to Jodh- 
 pore. The Bombay Mail from Delhi makes a short 
 halt at Marwar. She arrived as I got in, and I had just 
 time to hurry to her platform and go down the carriages. 
 There was only one Second-class on the train. I slipped 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 187 
 
 the window and looked down upon a flaming red beard, 
 half covered by a railway rug. That was my man, fast 
 asleep, and I dug him gently in the ribs. He woke with a 
 grunt and I saw his face in the light of the lamps. It 
 was a great and shining face. 
 
 'Tickets again?' said he. 
 
 'No,' said I. 'I am to tell you that he is gone South 
 for the week. He has gone South for the week!' 
 
 The train had begun to move out. The red man 
 rubbed his eyes. 'He has gone South for the week,' 
 he repeated. 'Now that's just like his impidence. 
 Did he say that I was to give you anything? 'Cause I 
 won't.' 
 
 'He didn't,' I said and dropped away, and watched 
 the red lights die out in the dark. It was horribly 
 cold because the wind was blowing off the sands. I 
 climbed into my own train — not an Intermediate car- 
 riage this time—and went to sleep. 
 
 If the man with the beard had given me a rupee 
 I should have kept it as a memento of a rather curious 
 affair. But the consciousness of having done my duty 
 was my only reward. 
 
 Later on I reflected that two gentlemen like my 
 friends could not do any good if they foregathered and 
 personated correspondents of newspapers, and might, 
 if they black-mailed one of the little rat-trap states of 
 Central India or Southern Rajputana, get themselves 
 into serious difficulties. I therefore took some trouble 
 to describe them as accurately as I could remember to 
 people who would be interested in deporting them: and 
 succeeded, so I was later informed, in having them headed 
 back from the Degumber borders. 
 
 Then I became respectable, and returned to an Office 
 where there were no Kings and no incidents outside the 
 
188 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 daily manufacture of a newspaper. A newspaper office 
 seems to attract every conceivable sort of person, to the 
 prejudice of discipline. Zenana-mission ladies arrive, 
 and beg that the Editor will instantly abandon all his 
 duties to describe a Christian prize-giving in a back-slum 
 of a perfectly inaccessible village; Colonels who have been 
 overpassed for command sit down and sketch the outline 
 of a series of ten, twelve, or twenty-four leading articles 
 on Seniority versus Selection; missionaries wish to know 
 why they have not been permitted to escape from their 
 regular vehicles of abuse and swear at a brother-mission- 
 ary under special patronage of the editorial We; stranded 
 theatrical companies troop up to explain that they can- 
 not pay for their advertisements, but on their return from 
 New Zealand or Tahiti will do so with interest; inventors 
 of patent punkah-pulling machines, carriage couplings 
 and unbreakable swords and axle-trees call with specifica- 
 tions in their pockets and hours at their disposal; tea- 
 companies enter and elaborate their prospectuses with the 
 office pens; secretaries of ball-committees clamour to have 
 the glories of their last dance more fully described; strange 
 ladies rustle in and say: 'I want a hundred lady's cards 
 printed at once, please,' which is manifestly part of an 
 Editor's duty; and every dissolute ruffian that ever 
 tramped the Grand Trunk Road makes it his business to 
 ask for employment as a proof-reader. And, all the time, 
 the telephone-bell is ringing madly, and Kings are being 
 killed on the Continent, and Empires are saying — 'You're 
 another,' and Mister Gladstone is calling down brimstone 
 upon the British Dominions, and the little black copy- 
 boys are whining, 'kaa-pi chay-ha-yeh' (copy wanted) 
 like tired bees, and most of the paper is as blank as 
 Modred's shield. 
 But that is the amusing part of the year. There are 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 189 
 
 six other months when none ever come to call, and the 
 thermometer walks inch by inch up to the top of the glass, 
 and the office is darkened to just above reading-light, and 
 the press-machines are red-hot to touch, and nobody 
 writes anything but accounts of amusements in the Hill- 
 stations or obituary notices. Then the telephone becomes 
 a tinkling terror, because it tells you of the sudden deaths 
 of men and women that you knew intimately, and the 
 prickly heat covers you with a garment, and you sit down 
 and write: 'A slight increase of sickness is reported from 
 the Khuda Janta Khan District. The outbreak is purely 
 sporadic in its nature, and, thanks to the energetic efforts 
 of the District authorities, is now almost at an end. 
 It is, however, with deep regret we record the death,' 
 etc. 
 
 Then the sickness really breaks out, and the less re- 
 cording and reporting the better for the peace of the sub- 
 scribers. But the Empires and the Kings continue to 
 divert themselves as selfishly as before, and the Foreman 
 thinks that a daily paper really ought to come out once in 
 twenty-four hours, and all the people at the Hill-stations 
 in the middle of their amusements say: 'Good gracious! 
 Why can't the paper be sparkling? I'm sure there's 
 plenty going on up here.' 
 
 That is the dark half of the moon, and, as the adver- 
 tisements say, 'must be experienced to be appreciated.' 
 
 It was in that season, and a remarkably evil season, 
 that the paper began running the last issue of the week on 
 Saturday night, which is to say Sunday morning, after the 
 custom of a London paper. This was a great convenience, 
 for immediately after the paper was put to bed, the dawn 
 would lower the thermometer from 96 to almost 84 for 
 half an hour, and in that chill — you have no idea how 
 cold is 84 on the grass until you begin to pray for it— a 
 
190 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 very tired man could get off to sleep ere the heat roused 
 him. 
 
 One Saturday night it was my pleasant duty to put the 
 paper to bed alone. A King or courtier or a courtesan or 
 a Community was going to die or get a new Constitution, 
 or do something that was important on the other side of 
 the world, and the paper was to be held open till the 
 latest possible minute in order to catch the telegram. 
 
 It was a pitchy black night, as stifling as a June night 
 can be, and the loo, the red-hot wind from the westward, 
 was booming among the tinder-dry trees and pretending 
 that the rain was on its heels. Now and again a spot of 
 almost boiling water would fall on the dust with the flop 
 of a frogj but all our weary world knew that was only 
 pretence. It was a shade cooler in the press-room than 
 the office, so I sat there, while the type ticked and clicked, 
 and the night-jars hooted at the windows, and the all but 
 naked compositors wiped the sweat from their foreheads, 
 and called for water. The thing that was keeping us 
 back, whatever it was, would not come off, though the loo 
 dropped and the last type was set, and the whole round 
 earth stood still in the choking heat, with its finger on its 
 lip, to wait the event. I drowsed, and wondered whether 
 the telegraph was a blessing, and whether this dying man, 
 or struggling people, might be aware of the inconvenience 
 the delay was causing. There was no special reason be- 
 yond the heat and worry to make tension, but, as the 
 clock-hands crept up to three o'clock and the machines 
 spuntheirfly-wheels twoand three times to see that all was 
 in order, before I said the word that would set them off, I 
 could have shrieked aloud. 
 
 Then the roar and rattle of the wheels shivered the 
 quiet into little bits. I rose to go away, but two men in 
 white clothes stood in front of me. The first one said; 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 191 
 
 'It's him !' The second said : ' So it is ! ' And they both 
 laughed almost as loudly as the machinery roared, and 
 mopped their foreheads. 'We seed there was a light 
 burning across the road and we were sleeping in that ditch 
 there for coolness, and I said to my friend here, The office 
 is open. Let's come along and speak to him as turned us 
 back from the Degumber State,' said the smaller of the 
 two. He was the man I had met in the Mhow train, and 
 his fellow was the red-bearded man of Marwar Junction. 
 There was no mistaking the eyebrows of the one or the 
 beard of the other. 
 
 I was not pleased, because I wished to go to sleep, not 
 to squabble with loafers. 'What do you want?' I asked. 
 
 'Half an hour's talk with you, cool and comfortable, in 
 the office,' said the red-bearded man. 'We'd like some 
 drink — the Contrack doesn't begin yet, Peachey, so you 
 needn't look — but what we really want is advice. We 
 don't want money. We ask you as a favour, because we 
 found out you did us a bad turn about Degumber 
 State.' 
 
 I led from the press-room to the stifling office with the 
 maps on the walls, and the red-haired man rubbed his 
 hands. 'That's something like,' said he. 'This was the 
 proper shop to come to. Now, Sir, let me introduce to 
 you Brother Peachey Carnehan, that's him, and Brother 
 Daniel Dravot, that is me, and the less said about our 
 professions the better, for we have been most things in our 
 time. Soldier, sailor, compositor, photographer, proof- 
 reader, street-preacher, and correspondents of the Back- 
 woodsman when we thought the paper wanted one. 
 Carnehan is sober, and so am I. Look at us first, and see 
 that's sure. It will save you cutting into my talk. We'll 
 take one of your cigars apiece, and you shall see us light 
 up.' 
 
i 9 a UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 I watched the test. The men were absolutely sober, so 
 I gave them each a tepid whiskey and soda. 
 
 'Well and good,' said Carnehan of the eyebrows, wiping 
 the froth from his moustache. 'Let me talk now, Dan. 
 We have been all over India, mostly on foot. We have 
 been boiler-fitters, engine-drivers, petty contractors, and 
 all that, and we have decided that India isn't big enough 
 for such as us.' 
 
 They certainly were too big for the office. Dravot's 
 beard seemed to fill half the room and Carnehan's 
 shoulders the other half, as they sat on the big table. 
 Carnehan continued: 'The country isn't half worked out 
 because they that governs it won't let you touch it. They 
 spend all their blessed time in governing it, and you can't 
 lift a spade, nor chip a rock:, nor look for oil, nor anything 
 like that without all the Government saying — "Leave it 
 alone, and let us govern." Therefore, such as it is, we will 
 let it alone, and go away to some other place where a man 
 isn't crowded and can come to his own. We are not little 
 men, and there is nothing that we are afraid of except 
 Drink, and we have signed a Contrack on that. There- 
 fore, we are going away to be Kings.' 
 
 J Kings in our own right,' muttered Dravot. 
 
 'Yes, of course,' I said. 'You've been tramping in the 
 sun, and it's a very warm night, and hadn't you better 
 sleep over the notion? Come to-morrow.' 
 
 ' Neither drunk nor sunstruck,' said Dravot. ' We have 
 slept over the notion half a year, and require to see Books 
 and Atlases, and we have decided that there is only one 
 place now in the world that two strong men can Sar-a- 
 whack. They call it Kafiristan. By my reckoning it's the 
 top right-hand corner of Afghanistan, not more than 
 three hundred miles from Peshawar. They have two- 
 and-thirty heathen idols there, and we'll be the thirty- 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 193 
 
 third and fourth. It's a mountaineous country, and the 
 women of those parts are very beautiful.' 
 
 'But that is provided against in the Contrack,' said 
 Carnehan. ' Neither Woman nor Liqu-or, Daniel.' 
 
 'And that's all we know, except that no one has gone 
 there, and they fight, and in any place where they fight a 
 man who knows how to drill men can always be a King. 
 We shall go to those parts and say to any King we find — 
 "D'you want to vanquish your foes?" and we will show 
 him how to drill men; for that we know better than any- 
 thing else. Then we will subvert that King and seize bis 
 Throne and establish a Dy-nasty.' 
 
 'You'll be cut to pieces before you're fifty miles across 
 the Border,' I said. 'You have to travel through Afghan- 
 istan to get to that country. It's one mass of mountains 
 and peaks and glaciers, and no Englishman has been 
 through it. The people are utter brutes, and even if you 
 ^eached them you couldn't do anything.' 
 
 ' That's more like, ' said Carnehan. ' If you could think 
 us a little more mad we would be more pleased. We have 
 come to you to know about this country, to read a book 
 about it, and to be shown maps. We want you to tell us 
 that we are fools and to show us your books.' He turned 
 to the book-cases. 
 
 'Are you at all in earnest? ' I said. 
 
 'A little,' said Dravot sweetly. 'As big a map as you 
 have got, even if it's all blank where Kafiristan is, and any 
 books you've got. We can read, though we aren't very 
 educated.' 
 
 I uncased the big tbirty-two-miles-to-the-inch map of 
 India, and two smaller Frontier maps, hauled down vol- 
 ume INF-KAN of the Encyclopedia Britannica, and the 
 men consulted them. 
 
 'See here! ' said Dravot, his thumb on the map. 'Up to 
 
194 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 Jagdallak, Peachey and me know the road. We was there 
 with Roberts' Army. We'll have to turn off to the right 
 at Jagdallak through Laghmann territory. Then we get 
 among the hills — fourteen thousand feet — fifteen thou- 
 sand — it will be cold work there, but it don't look very far 
 on the map.' 
 
 I handed him Wood on the Sources of the Oxus. Carne- 
 han was deep in the Encyclopedia. 
 
 'They're a mixed lot,' said Dravot reflectively; 'and it 
 won't help us to know the names of their tribes. The 
 more tribes the more they'll fight, and the better for us. 
 From Jagdallak to Ashang. H'mm ! ' 
 
 ' But all the information about the country is as sketchy 
 and inaccurate as can be,' I protested. 'No one knows 
 anything about it really. Here's the file of the United 
 Services' Institute. Read what Bellew says.' 
 
 ' Blow Bellew ! ' said Carnehan. ' Dan, they're a stinkin' 
 lot of heathens, but this book here says they think they're 
 related to us English.' 
 
 I smoked while the men pored over Raverty, Wood, the 
 maps, and the Encyclopedia. 
 
 'There is no use your waiting,' said Dravot politely. 
 'It's about four o'clock now. We'll go before six o'clock 
 if you want to sleep, and we won't steal any of the 
 papers. Don't you sit up. We're two harmless lunatics, 
 and if you come to-morrow evening down to the Serai 
 we'll say good-bye to you.' 
 
 'You are two fools,' I answered. 'You'll be turned 
 back at the Frontier or cut up the minute you set foot 
 in Afghanistan. Do you want any money or a rec- 
 ommendation down-country? I can help you to the 
 chance of work next week.' 
 
 'Next week we shall be hard at work ourselves, thank 
 you,' said Dravot. 'It isn't so easy being a King as it 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 19$ 
 
 looks. When we've got our Kingdom in going order 
 we'll let you know, and you can come up and help us to 
 govern it.' 
 
 'Would two lunatics make a Contrack like that?' 
 said Carnehan, with subdued pride, showing me a 
 greasy half-sheet of notepaper on which was written 
 the following. I copied it, then and there, as a curi- 
 osity — 
 
 This Contract between me and you persuing witnesseth 
 in the name of God — Amen and so forth. 
 
 (One) That me and you will settle this matter to- 
 gether; i.e., to be Kings of Kafirislan. 
 
 (Two) That you and me will not, while this matter 
 is being settled, look at any Liquor, nor 
 any Woman black, white, or brown, so as 
 to get mixed up with one or the other harm- 
 ful. 
 
 (Three) That we conduct ourselves with Dignity 
 and Discretion, and if one of us gets into 
 trouble the other will stay by him. 
 Signed by you and me this day. 
 Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan. 
 Daniel Dravot. 
 Both Gentlemen at Large. 
 
 'There was no need for the last article,' said Carne- 
 han, blushing modestly; 'but it looks regular. Now 
 you know the sort of men that loafers are — we are 
 loafers, Dan, until we get out of India— and do you 
 think that we would sign a Contrack like that unless 
 we was in earnest? We have kept away from the two 
 things that make life worth having.' 
 
196 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 'You won't enjoy your lives much longer if you are 
 going to try this idiotic adventure. Don't set the office 
 on fire,' I said, 'and go away before nine o'clock.' 
 
 I left them still poring over the maps and making 
 notes on the back of the 'Contrack.' 'Be sure to, come 
 down to the Serai to-morrow,' were their parting words. 
 
 The Kumharsen Serai is the great four-square sink of 
 humanity where the strings of camels and horses from 
 the North load and unload. All the nationalities of 
 Central Asia may be found there, and most of the 
 folk of India proper. Balkh and Bokhara there meet 
 Bengal and Bombay, and try to draw eye-teeth. You 
 can buy ponies, turquoises, Persian pussy-cats, saddle- 
 bags, fat-tailed sheep and musk in the Kumharsen 
 Serai, and get many strange things for nothing. In 
 the afternoon I went down to see whether my friends 
 intended to keep their word or were lying there drunk. 
 
 A priest attired in fragments of ribbons and rags 
 stalked up to me, gravely twisting a child's paper whirli- 
 gig. Behind him was his servant bending under the 
 load of a crate of mud toys. The two were loading up 
 two camels, and the inhabitants of the Serai watched 
 them with shrieks of laughter. 
 
 'The priest is mad,' said a horse-dealer to me. 'He 
 is going up to Kabul to sell toys to the Amir. He will 
 either be raised to honour or have his head cut off. He 
 came in here this morning and has been behaving madly 
 ever since.' 
 
 'The witless are under the protection of God,' stam- 
 mered a flat-cheeked Usbeg in broken Hindi. 'They 
 foretell future events.' 
 
 'Would they could have foretold that my caravan 
 would have been cut up by the Shinwaris almost within 
 §hadow of the Pass!' grunted the Eusufzai agent of a 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 197 
 
 Rajputana trading-house whose goods had been diverted 
 into the hands of other robbers just across the Border, 
 and whose misfortunes were the laughing-stock of the 
 bazar. 'Ohe, priest, whence come you and whither do 
 you go?' 
 
 'From Roum have I come,' shouted the priest, wav- 
 ing his whirligig; 'from Roum, blown by the breath of 
 a hundred devils across the sea! O thieves, robbers, 
 liars, the blessing of Pir Khan on pigs, dogs, and per- 
 jurers! Who will take the Protected of God to the 
 North to sell charms that are never still to the Amir? 
 The camels shall not gall, the sons shall not fall sick, 
 and the wives shall remain faithful while they are away, 
 of the men who give me place in their caravan. Who 
 will assist me to slipper the King of the Roos with a 
 golden slipper with a silver heel? The protection of 
 Pir Khan be upon his labours!' He spread out the 
 skirts of his gaberdine and pirouetted between the lines 
 of tethered horses. 
 
 'There starts a caravan from Peshawar to Kabul 
 in twenty days, Huzrut,' said the Eusufzai trader. 'My 
 camels go therewith. Do thou also go and bring us 
 good-luck.' 
 
 'I will go even now!' shouted the priest. 'I will 
 depart upon my winged camels, and be at Peshawar in a 
 day! Ho! Hazar Mir Khan,' he yelled to his servant, 
 'drive out the camels, but let me first mount my own.' 
 
 He leaped on the back of his beast as it knelt, and, 
 turning round to me, cried: 'Come thou also, Sahib, a 
 little along the road, and I will sell thee a charm— an 
 amulet that shall make thee King of Kafiristan.' 
 
 Then the light broke upon me, and I followed the 
 two camels out of the Serai till we reached open road 
 and the priest halted. 
 
i 9 8 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 'What d'you think o' that?' said he in English. 
 'Carnehan can't talk their patter, so I've made him my 
 servant. He makes a handsome servant. 'Tisn't for 
 nothing that I've been knocking about the country for 
 fourteen years. Didn't I do that talk neat? We'll 
 hitch on to a caravan at Peshawar till we get to Jag- 
 dallak, and then we'll see if we can get donkeys for our 
 camels, and strike into Kafiristan. Whirligigs for the 
 Amir, O Lor! Put your hand under the camel-bags 
 and tell me what you feel.' 
 
 I felt the butt of a Martini, and another and another, 
 
 'Twenty of 'em,' said Dravot placidly. 'Twenty of 
 'em and ammunition to correspond, under the whirli- 
 gigs and the mud dolls.' 
 
 ' Heaven help you if you are caught with those things ! ' 
 I said. 'A Martini is worth her weight in silver among 
 the Pathans.' 
 
 'Fifteen hundred rupees of capital — every rupee wl 
 could beg, borrow, or steal — are invested on these two 
 camels,' said Dravot. 'We won't get caught. We're 
 going through the Khaiber with a regular caravan. 
 Who'd touch a poor mad priest? ' 
 
 'Have you got everything you want?' I asked, over- 
 come with astonishment. 
 
 'Not yet, but we shall soon. Give us a memento of 
 your kindness, Brother. You did me a service, yester- 
 day, and that time in Marwar. Half my Kingdom shall 
 you have, as the saying is.' I slipped a small charm 
 compass from my watch chain and handed it up to the 
 priest. 
 
 'Good-bye,' said Dravot, giving me hand cautiously. 
 'It's the last time we'll shake hands with an English, 
 man these many days. Shake hands with him, Cam'' 
 han,' he cried, as the second camel passed me. 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 199 
 
 Carnehan leaned down and shook hands. Then the 
 camels passed away along the dusty road, and I was 
 left alone to wonder. My eye could detect no failure 
 in the disguises. The scene in the Serai proved that they 
 were complete to the native mind. There was just the 
 chance, therefore, that Carnehan and Dravot would be 
 able to wander through Afghanistan without detection. 
 But, beyond, they would find death — certain and aw- 
 ful death. 
 
 Ten days later a native correspondent giving me the 
 news of the day from Peshawar, wound up his letter 
 with: 'There has been much laughter here on account 
 of a certain mad priest who is going in his estimation 
 to sell petty gauds and insignificant trinkets which he 
 ascribes as great charms to H.H. the Amir of Bok- 
 hara. He passed through Peshawar and associated 
 himself to the Second Summer caravan that goes to 
 Kabul. The merchants are pleased because through 
 superstition they imagine that such mad fellows bring 
 good-fortune.' 
 
 The two, then, were beyond the Border. I would 
 have prayed for them, but, that night, a real King died 
 in Europe, and demanded an obituary notice. 
 
 The wheel of the world swings through the same 
 phases again and again. Summer passed and winter 
 thereafter, and came and passed again. The daily 
 paper continued and I with it, and upon the third 
 summer there fell a hot night, a night-issue, and a 
 strained waiting for something to be telegraphed from 
 the other side of the world, exactly as had happened 
 before. A few great men had died in the past two 
 years, the machines worked with more clatter, and 
 
200 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 some of the trees in the Office garden were a few feet 
 taller. But that was all the difference. 
 
 I passed over to the press-room, and went through 
 just such a scene as I have already described. The 
 nervous tension was stronger than it had been two 
 years before, and I felt the heat more acutely. At 
 three o'clock I cried, 'Print off,' and turned to go, 
 when there crept to my chair what was left of a man. 
 He was bent into a circle, his head was sunk between 
 his shoulders, and he moved his feet one over the other 
 like a bear. I could hardly see whether he walked or 
 crawled — this rag-wrapped, whining cripple who ad- 
 dressed me by name, crying that he was come back. 
 'Can you give me a drink?' he whimpered. 'For the 
 Lord's sake, give me a drink! ' 
 
 I went back to the office, the man following with 
 groans of pain, and I turned up the lamp. 
 
 'Don't you know me?' he gasped, dropping into a 
 chair, and he turned his drawn face, surmounted by a 
 shock of gray hair, to the light. 
 
 I looked at him intently. Once before had I seen 
 eyebrows that met over the nose in an inch-broad black 
 band, but for the life of me I could not tell where. 
 
 'I don't know you,' I said, handing him the whiskey. 
 'What can I do for you?' 
 
 He took a gulp of the spirit raw, and shivered in 
 spite of the suffocating heat. 
 
 'I've come back,' he repeated; 'and I was the King 
 Of Kafiristan — me and Dravot — crowned Kings we was! 
 In this office we settled it — you setting there and giving 
 us the books. I am Peachey — Peachey Taliaferro Carne- 
 han, and you've been setting here ever since — Lord!' 
 
 I was more than a little astonished, and expressed 
 my feelings accordingly. 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 201 
 
 'It's true,' said Garnehan, with a dry cackle, nursing 
 his feet, which were wrapped in rags. 'True as gos- 
 pel. Kings we were, with crowns upon our heads — 
 me and Dravot — poor Dan — oh, poor, poor Dan, that 
 would never take advice, not though I begged of him!' 
 \ 'Take the whiskey,' I said, 'and take your own 
 time. Tell me all you can recollect of everything 
 from beginning to end. You got across the border 
 on your camels, Dravot dressed as a mad priest and 
 you his servant. Do you remember that?' 
 
 'I ain't mad — yet, but I shall be that way soon. Of 
 course I remember. Keep looking at me, or maybe my 
 words will go all to pieces. Keep looking at me in my 
 eyes and don't say anything.' 
 
 I leaned forward and looked into his face as steadily 
 as I could. He dropped one hand upon the table and 
 I grasped it by the wrist. It was twisted like a bird's 
 claw, and upon the back was a ragged, red, diamond- 
 shaped scar. 
 
 'No, don't look there. Look at me,' said Carnehan. 
 'That comes afterwards, but for the Lord's sake don't dis- 
 track me. We left with that caravan, me and Dravot 
 playing all sorts of antics to amuse the people we were 
 with. Dravot used to make us laugh in the eveningr 
 when all the people was cooking their dinners — cooking 
 their dinners, and . . . what did they do then? 
 They lit little fires with sparks that went into Dravot's 
 beard, and we all laughed — fit to die. Little red fires they 
 was, going into Dravot's big red beard — so funny.' His 
 eyes left mine and he smiled foolishly. 
 
 'You went as far as Jagdallak with that caravan,' I 
 said at a venture, 'after you had lit those fires. To Jag- 
 dallak, where you turned off to try to get into Kafiristan.' 
 
 'No, we didn't neither. What are you talking about? 
 
»o2 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 We turned off before Jagdallak, because we heard the 
 roads was good. But they wasn't good enough for out 
 two camels — mine and Dravot's. When we left the cara* 
 van, Dravot took off all his clothes and mine too, and said 
 we would be heathen, because the Kafirs didn't allow 
 Mohammedans to talk to them. So we dressed betwixt 
 and between, and such a sight as Daniel Dravot I never 
 saw yet nor expect to see again. He burned half his 
 beard, and slung a sheep-skin over his shoulder, and 
 shaved his head into patterns. He shaved mine, too, and 
 made me wear outrageous things to look like a heathen. 
 That was in a most mountaineous country, and our 
 camels couldn't go along any more because of the 
 mountains. They were tall and black, and coming home 
 I saw them fight like wild goats — there are lots of goats in 
 Kafiristan. And these mountains, they never keep still, 
 no more than the goats. Always fighting they are, and 
 don't let you sleep at night.' 
 
 'Take some more whiskey,' I said very slowly. 'What 
 did you and Daniel Dravot do when the camels could go 
 no further because of the rough roads that led into 
 Kafiristan? ' 
 
 ' What did which do? There was a party called Peachey 
 Taliaferro Carnehan that was with Dravot. Shall I tell 
 you about him? He died out there in the cold. Slap from 
 the bridge fell old Peachey, turning and twisting in the 
 air like a penny whirligig that you can sell to the Amir. — 
 No; they was two for three ha'pence, those whirligigs, or I 
 am much mistaken and woeful sore. . . . And then 
 these camels were no use, and Peachey said to Dravot — 
 "For the Lord's sake let's get out of this before our heads 
 are chopped off," and with that they killed the camels all 
 among the mountains, not having anything in particular 
 to eat. but first they took off the boxes with the guns and 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 203 
 
 the ammunition, till two men came along driving four 
 mules. Dravot up and dances in front of them, singing — 
 "Sell me four mules." Says the first man — "If you are 
 rich enough to buy, you are rich enough to rob;" but be- 
 fore ever he could put his hand to his knife, Dravot breaks 
 his neck over his knee, and the other party runs away. So 
 Carnehan loaded the mules with the rifles that was taken 
 off the camels, and together we starts forward into those 
 bitter cold mountaineous parts, and never a road broader 
 than the back of your hand.' 
 
 He paused for a moment, while I asked him if he could 
 remember the nature of the country through which he had 
 journeyed. 
 
 'I am telling you as straight as I can, but my head isn't 
 as good as it might be. They drove nails through it to 
 make me hear better how Dravot died. The country was 
 mountaineous and the mules were most contrary, and the 
 inhabitants was dispersed and solitary. They went up 
 and up, and down and down, and that other party, Carne- 
 han, was imploring of Dravot not to sing and whistle so 
 loud, for fear of bringing down the tremenjus avalanches. 
 But Dravot says that if a King couldn't sing it wasn't 
 worth being King, and whacked the mules over the rump, 
 and never took no heed for ten cold days. We came to a 
 big level valley all among the mountains, and the mules 
 were near dead, so we killed them, not having anything in 
 special for them or us to eat. We sat upon the boxes, and 
 played odd and even with the cartridges that was jolted 
 out. 
 
 'Then ten men with bows and arrows ran down that 
 valley, chasing twenty men with bows and arrows, and 
 the row was tremenjus. They was fair men — fairer than 
 you or me — with yellow hair and remarkable well built. 
 Says Dravot, unpacking the guns— "This is the beginning 
 
204 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 of the business. We'll fight for the ten men," and witi 
 that he fires two rifles at the twenty men, and drops on« 
 of them at two hundred yards from the rock where he was 
 sitting. The other men began to run, but Carnehan and 
 Dravot sits on the boxes picking them off at all ranges, up 
 and down the valley. Then we goes up to the ten men that 
 had run across the snow too, and they fires a footy little 
 arrow at us. Dravot he shoots above their heads and 
 they all falls down flat. Then he walks over them and 
 kicks them, and then he lifts them up and shakes hands all 
 round to make them friendly like. He calls thein and 
 gives them the boxes to carry, and waves his hand for all 
 the world as though he was King already. They takes 
 the boxes and him across the valley and up the hill into a 
 pine wood on the top, where there was half a dozen big 
 stone idols. Dravot he goes to the biggest — a fellow they 
 call Imbra — and lays a rifle and a cartridge at his feet, 
 rubbing his nose respectful with his own nose, patting him 
 on the head, and saluting in front of it. He turns round 
 to the men and nods his head, and says — "That's all 
 right. I'm in the know too, and all these old jim-jams arc 
 my friends." Then he opens his mouth and points down 
 it, and when the first man brings him food, he says — 
 "No;" and when the second man brings him food he says 
 ■ — "No;" but when one of the old priests and the boss of 
 the village brings him food, he says — "Yes;" very 
 haughty, and eats it slow. That was how we came to our 
 first village, without any trouble, just as though we had 
 tumbled from the skies. But we tumbled from one of 
 those damned rope-bridges, you see and — you couldn't 
 expect a man to laugh much after that? ' 
 
 'Take some more whiskey and go on,' I said. 'That 
 vs as the first village you came into. How did you get to 
 be King?' 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING ao$ 
 
 'I wasn't King,' said Carnehan. 'Dravot he was the 
 King, and a handsome man he looked with the gold crown 
 on his head and all. Him and the other party stayed in 
 that village, and every morning Dravot sat by the side of 
 old Imbra, and the people came and worshipped. That 
 was Dravot's order. Then a lot of men came into the 
 valley, and Carnehan Dravot picks them off with the 
 rifles before they knew where they was, and runs down 
 into the valley and up again the other side and finds an- 
 other village, same as the first one, and the people all falls 
 down flat on their faces, and Dravot says — "Now what is 
 the trouble between you two villages?" and the people 
 points to a woman, as fair as you or me, that was carried 
 off, and Dravot takes her back to the first village and 
 counts up the dead — eight there was. For each dead man 
 Dravot pours a little milk on the ground and waves his 
 arms like a whirligig and "That's all right," says he. 
 Then he and Carnehan takes the big boss of each village 
 by the arm and walks them down into the valley, and 
 shows them how to scratch a line with a spear right down 
 the valley, and gives each a sod of turf from both sides of 
 the line. Then all the people comes down and shouts 
 like the devil and all, and Dravot says — " Go and dig the 
 'land, and be fruitful and multiply," which they did, 
 though they didn't understand. Then we asks the names 
 of things in their lingo — bread and water and fire and 
 idols and such, and Dravot leads the priest of each village 
 up to the idol, and says he must sit there and judge the 
 people, and if anything goes wrong he is to be shot. 
 
 'Next week they was all turning up the land in the 
 valley as quiet as bees and much prettier, and the priests 
 heard all the complaints and told Dravot in dumb show 
 what it was about. "That's just the beginning," says 
 Dravot. "They think we're Gods," He and Carnehan 
 
206 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 picks out twenty good men and shows them how to click 
 off a rifle, and form fours, and advance in line, and they was 
 very pleased to do so, and clever to see the hang of it. 
 Then he takes out his pipe and his baccy-pouch and leaves 
 one at one village, and one at the other, and off we two 
 goes to see what was to be done in the next valley. That 
 was all rock, and there was a little village there, and Car- 
 nehan says — "Send 'em to the old valley to plant," and 
 takes 'em there and gives 'em some land that wasn't 
 took before. They were a poor lot, and we blooded 
 'em with a kid before letting 'em into the new King- 
 dom. That was to impress the people, and then they 
 settled down quiet, and Carnehan went back to Dravot 
 who had got into another valley, all snow and ice and 
 most mountaineous. There was no people there and the 
 Army got afraid, so Dravot shoots one of them, and goes 
 on till he finds some people in a village, and the Army ex- 
 plains that unless the people wants to be killed they had 
 better not shoot their little matchlocks; for they had 
 matchlocks. We makes friends with the priest and I stays 
 there alone with two of the Army, teaching the men how 
 to drill, and a thundering big Chief comes across the snow 
 with kettle-drums and horns twanging, because he heard 
 there was a new God kicking about. Carnehan sights for 
 the brown of the men half a mile across the snow and 
 wings one of them. Then he sends a message to the 
 Chief that, unless he wished to be killed, he must come and 
 shake hands with me and leave his arms behind. The 
 Chief comes alone first, and Carnehan shakes hands with 
 him and whirls his arms about, same as Dravot used, and 
 very much surprised that Chief was, and strokes my eye- 
 brows. Then Carnehan goes alone to the Chief, and asks 
 him in dumb show if he had an enemy he hated. "I 
 have," says the Chief. So Carnehan weeds out the pick 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 207 
 
 of his men, and sets the two of the Army to show them 
 drill and at the end of two weeks the men can manoeuvre 
 about as well as Volunteers. So he marches with the 
 Chief to a great big plain on the top of a mountain, and 
 the Chief's men rushes into a village and takes it; we three 
 Martinis firing into the brown of the enemy. So we took 
 that village too, and I gives the Chief a rag from my coat 
 and says, "Occupy till I come;" which was scriptural. By 
 way of a reminder, when me and the Army was eighteen 
 hundred yards away, I drops a bullet near him standing 
 on the snow, and all the people falls flat on their faces. 
 Then I sends a letter to Dravot wherever he be by land or 
 by sea.' 
 
 At the risk of throwing the creature out of train I in- 
 terrupted — 'How could you write a letter up yonder?' 
 
 'The letter?— Oh!— The letter! Keep looking at me 
 between the eyes, please. It was a string-talk letter, that 
 we'd learned the way of it from a blind beggar in the 
 Punjab.' 
 
 I remember that there had once come to the office a 
 blind man with a knotted twig and a piece of string which 
 he wound round the twig according to some cipher of his 
 own. He could, after the lapse of days or hours, repeat 
 the sentence which he had reeled up. He had reduced the 
 alphabetto eleven primitive sounds; and tried to teachme 
 his method, but I could not understand. 
 
 'I sent that letter to Dravot,' said Carnehan; 'and 
 told him to come back because this Kingdom was 
 growing too big for me to handle, and then I struck for 
 the first valley, to see how the priests were working. 
 They called the village we took along with the Chief. 
 Bashkai, and the first village we took, Er-Heb. The 
 priests at Er-Heb was doing all right, but they had a 
 lot of pending cases about land to show me, and some 
 
so8 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 men from another village had been firing arrows at 
 night. I went out and looked for that village, and 
 fired four rounds at it from a thousand yards. That 
 used all the cartridges I cared to spend, and I waited 
 for Dravot, who had been away two or three months, 
 and I kept my people quiet. 
 
 'One morning I heard the devil's own noise of drums 
 and horns, and Dan Dravot marches down the hill with 
 his Army and a tail of hundreds of men, and, which was 
 the most amazing, a great gold crown on his head. "My 
 Gord, Carnehan," says Daniel, "this is a tremenjus 
 business, and we've got the whole country as far as it's 
 worth having. I am the son of Alexander by Queen 
 Semiramis, and you're my younger brother and a God 
 too! It's the biggest thing we've ever seen. I've been 
 marching and fighting for six weeks with the Army, and 
 every footy little village for fifty miles has come in re- 
 joiceful; and more than that, I've got the key of the 
 whole show, as you'll see, and I've got a crown for you! 
 I told 'em to make two of 'em at a place called Shu, 
 where the gold lies in the rock like suet in mutton. Gold 
 I've seen, and turquoise I've kicked out of the cliffs, 
 and there's garnets in the sands of the river, and here's 
 a chunk of amber that a man brought me. Call up all 
 the priests and, here, take your crown." 
 
 'One of the men opens a black hair bag, and I slips 
 the crown on. It was too small and too heavy, but I 
 wore it for the glory. Hammered gold it was — five 
 pound weight, like a hoop of a barrel. 
 
 '"Peachey," says Dravot, "we don't want to fight 
 no more. The Craft's the trick so help me!" and he 
 brings forward that same Chief that I left at Bashkai 
 - — Billy Fish we called him afterwards, because he was 
 so like Billy Fish that drove the big tank-engine at 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 209 
 
 Mach on the Bolan in the old days. "Shake hands 
 with him," says Dravot, and I shook hands and nearly 
 dropped, for Billy Fish gave me the Grip. I said noth- 
 ing, but tried him with the Fellow Craft Grip. He 
 answers, all right, and I tried the Master's Grip, but 
 that was a slip. "A Fellow Craft he is!" I says to Dan. 
 "Does he know the word? " — "He does," says Dan, "and 
 all the priests know. It's a miracle. The Chiefs and the 
 priests can work a Fellow Craft Lodge in a way that's 
 very like ours, and they've cut the marks on the rocks, 
 but they don't know the Third Degree, and they've come 
 to find out. It's Gord's Truth. I've known these long 
 years that the Afghans knew up to the Fellow Craft 
 Degree, but this is a miracle. A God and a Grand- 
 Master of the Craft am I, and a Lodge in the Third De- 
 gree I will open, and we'll raise the head priests and the 
 Chiefs of the villages." 
 
 '"It's against all the law," I says, "holding a Lodge 
 without warrant from any one; and you know we never 
 held office in any Lodge." 
 
 '"It's a master-stroke o' policy," says Dravot. "It 
 means running the country as easy as a four-wheeled 
 bogie on a down grade. We can't stop to enquire now, 
 or they'll turn against us. I've forty Chiefs at my 
 heel, and passed and raised according to their merit 
 they shall be. Billet these men on the villages, and 
 see that we run up a Lodge of some kind. The temple 
 of Imbra will do for the Lodge-room. The women 
 must make aprons as you show them. I'll hold a levee 
 of Chiefs to-night and Lodge to-morrow." 
 
 'I was fair run off my legs, but I wasn't such a fool 
 as not to see what a pull this Craft business gave us. I 
 showed the priests' families how to^make aprons of the 
 degrees, but for Dravot's apron tie blue border and 
 
2io UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 marks was made of turquoise lumps on white hide, not 
 cloth. We took a great square stone in the temple 
 for the Master's chair, and little stones for the 
 officers' chairs, and painted the black pavement with 
 white squares, and did what we could to make things 
 regular. 
 
 'At the levee which was held that night on the hill- 
 side with big bonfires, Dravot gives out that him and 
 me were Gods and sons of Alexander, and Past Grand- 
 Masters in the Craft, and was come to make Kafiristan 
 a country where every man should eat in peace and 
 drink in quiet, and specially obey us. Then the Chiefs 
 come round to shake hands, and they were so hairy and 
 white and fair it was just shaking hands with old friends. 
 We gave them names according as they was like men we 
 had known in India — Billy Fish, Holly Dilworth, Pikky 
 Kergan, that was Bazar-master when I was at Mhow, 
 and so on, and so on. 
 
 ' The most amazing miracles was at Lodge next night. 
 One of the old priests was watching us continuous, and I 
 felt uneasy, for I knew we'd have to fudge the Ritual, and 
 I didn't know what the men knew. The old priest was 
 a stranger come in from beyond the village of Bashkai. 
 The minute Dravot puts on the Master's apron that the 
 girls had made for him, the priest fetches a whoop and a 
 howl, and tries to overturn the stone that Dravot was 
 sitting on. "It's all up now," I says. "That comes of 
 meddling with the Craft without warrant!" Dravot 
 never winked an eye, not when ten priests took and tilted 
 over the Grand-Master's chair — which was to say the 
 stone of Imbra. The priest begins rubbing the bottom 
 end of it to clear away the black dirt, and presently he 
 shows all the other priests the Master's Mark, same as 
 was on Dravot's apron, cut into the stone. Not even the 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 211 
 
 priests of the temple of Imbra knew it was there. The 
 old chap falls flat on his face at Dravot's feet and kisses 
 'em. "Luck again," says Dravot, across the Lodge to 
 me, "they say it's the missing Mark that no one could 
 understand the why of. We're more than safe now." 
 Then he bangs the butt of his gun for a gavel and says: 
 "By virtue of the authority vested in me by my own 
 right hand and the help of Peachey, I declare myself 
 Grand-Master of all Freemasonry in Kafiristan in this 
 the Mother Lodge o' the country, and King of Kafiristan 
 equally with Peachey!" At that he puts on his crown 
 and I puts on mine — I was doing Senior Warden — and 
 we opens the Lodge in most ample form. It was a amaz- 
 ing miracle! The priests moved in Lodge through the 
 first two degrees almost without telling, as if the mem- 
 ory was coming back to them. After that, Peachey 
 and Dravot raised such as was worthy — high priests and 
 Chiefs of far-off villages. Billy Fish was the first, and 
 I can tell you we scared the soul out of him. It was not 
 in any way according to Ritual, but it served our turn. 
 We didn't raise more than ten of the biggest men, because 
 we didn't want to make the Degree common. And they 
 was clamouring to be raised. 
 
 '"In another six months," says Dravot, "we'll hold 
 another Communication, and see how you ,are work- 
 ing." Then he asks them about their villages, and 
 learns that they was fighting one against the other, 
 and were sick and tired of it. And when they wasn't 
 doing that they was fighting with the Mohammedans. 
 "You can fight those when they come into our coun- 
 try," says Dravot. "Tell off every tenth man of your 
 tribes for a Frontier guard, and send two hundred at 
 a time to this valley to be drilled. Nobody is going 
 to be shot or speared any more so long as he does well, 
 
M2 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 and I know that you won't cheat me, because you're 
 white people — sons of Alexander — and not like com- 
 mon, black Mohammedans. You are my people, and by 
 God," says he, running off into English at the end — 
 "I'll make a damned fine Nation of you, or I'll die in 
 the making!" 
 
 'I can't tell all we did for the next six months, be- 
 cause Dravot did a lot I couldn't see the hang of, and 
 he learned their lingo in a way I never could. My work 
 was to help the people plough, and now and again go out 
 with some of the Army and see what the other villages 
 were doing, and make 'em throw rope-bridges across 
 the ravines which cut up the country horrid. Dravot 
 was very kind to me, but when he walked up and down 
 in the pine wood pulling that bloody red beard of his 
 with both fists I knew he was thinking plans I could not 
 advise about, and I just waited for orders. 
 
 'But Dravot never showed me disrespect before the 
 people. They were afraid of me and the Army, but they 
 loved Dan. He was the best of friends with the priests 
 and the Chiefs; but any one could come across the hills 
 with a complaint, and Dravot would hear him out fair, 
 and call four priests together and say what was to be 
 done. He used to call in Billy Fish from Bashkai, and 
 Pikky Kergan from Shu, and an old Chief we called 
 Kafuzelum — it was like enough to his real name — and 
 hold councils with 'em when there was any fighting to be 
 done in small villages. That was his Council of War, 
 and the four priests of Bashkai, Shu, Khawak, and 
 Madora was his Privy Council. Between the lot of 
 'em they sent me, with forty men and twenty rifles, and 
 sixty men carrying turquoises, into the Ghorband coun- 
 try to buy those hand-made Martini rifles, that come 
 ->ut of the Amir's workshops at Kabul, from one of the 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD BE £lNG at 
 
 Amir's Herati regiments that would have sold the veiy 
 teeth out of their mouths for turquoises. 
 
 'I stayed in Ghorband a month, and gave the Gov- 
 ernor there the pick of my baskets for hush-money, 
 and bribed the Colonel of the regiment some more, and, 
 between the two and the tribes-people, we got more than 
 a hundred hand-made Martinis, a hundred good Kohat 
 Jezails that'll throw to six hundred yards, and forty man- 
 loads of very bad ammunition for the rifles. I came back 
 with what I had, and distributed 'em among the men 
 that the Chiefs sent in to me to drill. Dravot was too 
 busy to attend to those things,- but the old Army that 
 we first made helped me, and we turned out five hun- 
 dred men that could drill, and two hundred that knew 
 how to hold arms pretty straight. Even those cork- 
 screwed, hand-made guns was a miracle to them. Dravot 
 talked big about powder-shops and factories, walking 
 up and down in the pine wood when the winter was 
 coming on. 
 
 '"I won't make a Nation," says he. "I'll make an 
 Empire! These men aren't niggers; they're English! 
 Look at their eyes — look at their mouths. Look at 
 the way they stand up. They sit on chairs in their 
 own houses. They're the Lost Tribes, or something 
 like it, and they've grown to be English. I'll take a 
 census in the spring if the priests don't get frightened. 
 There must be a fair two million of 'em in these hills. 
 The villages are full o' little children. Two million 
 people — two hundred and fifty thousand fighting men — 
 and all English! They only want the rifles and a little 
 chilling. Two hundred and fifty thousand men, ready 
 to cut in on Russia's right flank when she tries for 
 India! Peachey, man," he says, chewing his beard in 
 great hunks, "we shall be Emperors — Emperors of the 
 
iH UNDER THE DEODARS ] 
 
 Earth! Rajah Brooke will be a suckling to us. I']) 
 treat with the Viceroy on equal terms. I'll ask him to 
 send me twelve picked English — twelve that I know 
 of — to help us govern a bit. There's Mackray, Ser- 
 geant-pensioner at Segowli — many's the good dinner 
 he's given me, and his wife a pair of trousers. There's 
 Donkin, the Warder of Tounghoo Jail; there's hun- 
 dreds that I could lay my hand on if I was in India. 
 The Viceroy shall do it for me, I'll send a man through 
 in the spring for those men, and I'll write for a dispen- 
 sation from the Grand Lodge for what I've done as 
 Grand-Master. That — and all the Sniders that'll be 
 thrown out when the native troops in India take up 
 the Martini. They'll be worn smooth, but they'll do 
 for fighting in these hills. Twelve English, a hundred 
 thousand Sniders run through the Amir's country in 
 driblets — I'd be content with twenty thousand in one 
 year — and we'd be an Empire. When everything was 
 shipshape,I'dhandover the crown — this crown I'm wear- 
 ing now — to Queen Victoria on my knees, and she'd say: 
 'Rise up, Sir Daniel Dravot.' Oh, it's big! It's big, 
 I tell you ! But there's so much to be done in every place 
 — Bashkai, Khawak, Shu, and everywhere else." 
 
 '"What is it?" I says. "There are no more men 
 coming in to be drilled this autumn. Look at those fat, 
 black clouds. They're bringing the snow." 
 
 '"It isn't that," says Daniel, putting his hand very 
 hard on my shoulder; "and I don't wish to say anything 
 that's against you, for no other living man would have 
 followed me and made me what I am as you have done. 
 You're a first-class Commander-in-Chief, and the people 
 know you; but — it's a big country, and somehow you 
 can't help me, Peachey, in the way I want to be helped." 
 
 '"Go to your blasted priests, lien!" I said, and I was 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 21 ; 
 
 sorry when I made that remark, but it did hurt me sore to 
 find Daniel talking so superior when I'd drilled all the 
 men, and done all he told me. 
 
 '"Don't let's quarrel, Peachey," says Daniel without 
 cursing. "You're a King too, and the half of this King- 
 dom is yours; but can't you see, Peachey, we want 
 cleverer men than us now — three or four of 'em, that we 
 can scatter about for our Deputies. It's a hugeous great 
 State, and I can't always tell the right thing to do, and I 
 haven't time for all I want to do, and here's the winter 
 coming on and all." He put half his beard into his mouth, 
 all red like the gold of his crown. 
 
 '"I'm sorry, Daniel," says I. "I've done all I could. 
 I've drilled the men and shown the people how to stack 
 their oats better; and I've brought in those tin-ware rifles 
 from Ghorband — but I know what you're driving at. I 
 take it Kings always feel oppressed that way." 
 
 '"There's another thing too," says Dravot, walking up 
 and down. ' ' The winter's coming and these people won't 
 be giving much trouble, and if they do we can't move 
 about. I want a wife." 
 
 '"For Gord's sake leave the women alone!" I says. 
 "We've both got all the work we can, though lama, fool. 
 Remember the Contrack, and keep clear o' women." 
 
 '"The Contrack only lasted till such time as we was 
 Kings; and Kings we have been these months past," says 
 Dravot, weighing his crown in his hand. "You go get 
 a wife too, Peachey — a nice, strappin', plump girl that'll 
 keep you warm in the winter. They're prettier than 
 English girls, and we can take the pick of 'em. Boil 'em 
 once or twice in hot water, and they'll come out like 
 chicken and ham." 
 
 '"Don't tempt me!" I says. "I will not have any 
 dealings with a woman not till we are a dam' side more 
 
»i6 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 settled than we are now. I've been doing the work o' twa 
 men, and you've been doing the work o' three. Let's lie 
 off a bit, and see if we can get some better tobacco from 
 Afghan country and run in some good liquor; but no 
 women." 
 
 ' "Who's talking o' women ? " says Dravot. "I saidm/e 
 — a queen to breed a King's son for the King. A Queen 
 out of the strongest tribe, that'll make them your blood- 
 brothers, and that'll lie by your side and tell you all the 
 people thinks about you and their own affairs. That's 
 what I want." 
 
 '"Do you remember that Bengali woman I kept at 
 Mogul Serai when I was a plate-layer?" says I. "A fat 
 lot o' good she was to me. She taught me the lingo and 
 one or two other things; but what happened? She ran 
 away with the Station Master's servant and half my 
 month's pay. Then she turned up at Dadur Junction in 
 tow of a half-caste, and had the impidence to say I was 
 her husband — all among the drivers in the running-shed 
 too!" 
 
 '"We've done with that," says Dravot, "these women 
 are whiter than you or me, and a Queen I will have for the 
 whiter months." 
 
 '"For the last time o' asking, Dan, do not," I says. 
 "It'll only bring us harm. The Bible says that Kings 
 ain't to waste their strength on women, 'specially when 
 they've got a new raw Kingdom to work over." 
 
 '"For the last time of answering I will," said Dravot, 
 and he went away through the pine-trees looking like a big 
 red devil, the sun being on his crown and beard and all. 
 
 'But getting a wife was not as easy as Dan thought. 
 He put it before the Council, and there was no answer till 
 Billy Fish said he'd better ask the girls. Dravot 
 damned them all round. "What's wrong with me?" he 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING «j 
 
 shouts, standing by the idol Imbra. ■ ' Am I a dog or am I 
 not enough of a man for your wenches? Haven't I put 
 the shadow of my hand over this country? Who stopped 
 the last Afghan raid? ' ' It, was me really, but Dravot was 
 too angry to remember. "Who bought your guns? Who 
 repaired the bridges? Who's the Grand-Master of the 
 sign cut in the stone?" says he, and he thumped his hand 
 on the block that he used to sit on in Lodge, and at 
 Council, which opened like Lodge always. Billy Fish 
 said nothing and no more did the others. "Keep your 
 hair on, Dan," said I; "and ask the girls. That's how it's 
 done at Home, and these people are quite English." 
 
 '"The marriage of the King is a matter of State," says 
 Dan, in a white-hot rage, for he could feel, I hope, that he 
 was going against his better mind. He walked out of the 
 Council-room, and the others sat still, looking at the 
 ground. 
 
 '"Billy Fish," says I to the Chief of Bashkai, "what's 
 the difficulty here? A straight answer to a true friend." 
 
 "'You know," says Billy Fish. "How should a man 
 tell you who knows everything? How can daughters of 
 men marry Gods or Devils? It's not proper." 
 
 'I remembered something like that in the Bible; but if, 
 after seeing us as long as they had, they still believed we 
 were Gods, it wasn't for me to undeceive them. 
 
 '"A God can do anything," says I. "If the King is 
 fond of a girl he'll not let her die."— "She'll have to," said 
 Billy Fish. "There are all sorts of Gods and Devils in 
 these mountains, and now and again a girl marries one of 
 them and isn't seen any more. Besides, you two know the 
 Mark cut in the stone. Only the Gods know that. We 
 thought you were men till you showed the sign of tht 
 Master." 
 
 'I wished then that we had explained about the loss of 
 
»r8 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 the genuine secrets of a Master-Mason at the first go-off; 
 but I said nothing. All that night there was a blowing of 
 horns in a little dark temple half-way down the hill, and I 
 heard a girl crying fit to die. One of the priests told us 
 that she was being prepared to marry the King. 
 
 '"I'll have no nonsense of that kind," says Dan. "I 
 don't want to interfere with your customs, but I'll take 
 my own wife." — "The girl's a little bit afraid," says the 
 priest. "She thinks she's going to die, and they are a- 
 heartening of her up down in the temple." 
 
 '"Hearten her very tender, then," says Dravot, "or I'll 
 hearten you with the butt of a gun so you'll never want to 
 be heartened again." He licked his lips, did Dan, and 
 stayed up walking about more than half the night, think- 
 ing of the wife that he was going to get in the morning. I 
 wasn't by any means comfortable, for I knew that deal- 
 ings with a woman in foreign parts, though you was a 
 crowned King twenty times over, could not but be risky. 
 I got up very early in the morning while Dravot was 
 asleep, and I saw the priests talking together in whispers, 
 and the Chiefs talking together too, and they looked at 
 me out of the corners of their eyes. 
 
 ' " What is up, Fish?" I say to the Bashkai man, who 
 was wrapped up in his furs and looking splendid to behold. 
 
 '"I can't rightly say," says he; "but if you can make 
 the King drop all this nonsense about marriage, you'll be 
 doing him and me and yourself a great service." 
 
 '"That I do believe," says I. "But sure, you know, 
 Billy, as well as me, having fought against and for us, that 
 the King and me are nothing more than two of the finest 
 men that God Almighty ever made. Nothing more, I do 
 assure you." 
 
 ' " That may be," says Billy Fish, " and yet I should be 
 sorry if it was." He sinks his head upon his great fur 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 219 
 
 cloak for a minute and thinks. ' ' King, ' ' says he, " be you 
 man or God or Devil, I'll stick by you to-day. I have 
 twenty of my men with me, and they will follow me. 
 We'll go to Bashkai until the storm blows over." 
 
 'A little snow had fallen in the night, and everything 
 was white except the greasy fat clouds that blew down 
 and down from the north. Dravot came out with his 
 crown on his head, swinging his arms and stamping his 
 f eet, and looking more pleased than Punch. 
 
 ' " For the last time, drop it, Dan," says I in a whisper, 
 " Billy Fish here says that there will be a row." 
 
 "'A row among my people!" says Dravot. "Not 
 much. Peachey, you're a fool not to get a wife too. 
 Where's the girl?" says he with a voice as loud as the 
 braying of a jackass. " Call up all the Chiefs and priests, 
 and let the Emperor see if his wife suits him," 
 
 ' There was no need to call any one. They were all there 
 leaning on their guns and spears round the clearing in the 
 centre of the pine wood. A lot of priests went down to 
 the little temple to bring up the girl, and the horns blew 
 fit to wake the dead. Billy Fish saunters round and gets 
 as close to Daniel as he could, and behind him stood his 
 twenty men with matchlocks. Not a man of them under 
 six feet. I was next to Dravot, and behind me was 
 twenty men of the regular Army. Up comes the girl, and 
 a strapping wench she was, covered with silver and tur- 
 quoises but white as death, and looking back every minute 
 at the priests. 
 
 ' " She'll do," said Dan, looking her over. "What's to 
 be afraid of, lass? Come and kiss me." He puts his arm 
 round her. She shuts her eyes, gives a bit of a squeak, 
 and down goes her face in the side of Dan's flaming red 
 beard. 
 
 '"The slut's bitten me!" says he, clapping his hand to 
 
»ao UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 his neck, and, sure enough, his hand was red with blood, 
 Billy Fish and two of his matchlock-men catches hold of 
 Dan by the shoulders and drags him into the Bashkai lot, 
 while the priests howls in their lingo, — "Neither God nor 
 Devil but a man ! " I was all taken aback, for a priest cut 
 at me in front, and the Army began firing into the Bash- 
 kai men. 
 
 ' " God A'mighty ! " says Dan. " What is the meaning 
 »' this?" 
 
 ' " Come back ! Come away ! " says Billy Fish. " Ruin 
 and Mutiny is the matter. We'll break for Bashkai if we 
 can." 
 
 ' I tried to give some sort of orders to my men — the men 
 o' the regular Army — but it was no use, so I fired into the 
 brown of 'em with an English Martini and drilled three 
 beggars in a line. The volley was full of shouting, howling 
 creatures, and every soul was shrieking, "Not a God nor a 
 Devil but only a man!" The Bashkai troops stuck to 
 Billy Fish all they were worth, but their matchlocks wasn't 
 half as good as the Kabul breech-loaders, and four of them 
 dropped. Dan was bellowing like a bull, for he was very 
 wrathy; and Billy Fish had a hard job to prevent him 
 running out at the crowd. 
 
 ' "We can't stand," says Billy Fish. " Make a run for 
 it down the valley! The whole place is against us." The 
 matchlock-men ran, and we went down the valley in spite 
 of Dravot. He was swearing horrible and crying out he 
 was a King. The priests rolled great stones on us, and the 
 regular Army fired hard, and there wasn't more than six 
 men, not counting Dan, Billy Fish, and Me, that came 
 down to the bottom of the valley alive. 
 
 'Then they stopped firing and the horns in the temple 
 blew again. " Come away — for Gord's sake comeaway!" 
 says Billy Fish. "They'll send runners out to all the vil- 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 231 
 
 iages before ever we get to Bashkai. I can protect you 
 there, but I can't do anything now." 
 
 'My own notion is that Dan began to go mad in his 
 head from that hour. He stared up and down like a 
 stuck pig. Then he was all for walking back alone 
 and killing the priests with his bare hands; which he 
 could have done. "An Emperor am I," says Daniel, 
 "and next year I shall be a Knight of the Queen.' 
 
 '"All right, Dan," says I; "but come along now while 
 there's time." 
 
 '"It's your fault," says he, "for not looking after 
 your Army better. There was mutiny in the midst, 
 and you didn't know — you damned engine-driving, 
 plate-laying, missionary's-pass-hunting hound!" He 
 sat upon a rock and called me every foul name he could 
 lay tongue to. I was too heart-sick to care, though it 
 was all his foolishness that brought the smash. 
 
 '"I'm sorry, Dan," says I, "but there's no accounting 
 for natives. This business is our Fifty-seven. Maybe 
 we'll make something out of it yet, when we've got to 
 Bashkai." 
 
 '"Let's get to Bashkai, then," says Dan, "and, by 
 God, when I come back here again I'll sweep the valley 
 so there isn't a bug in a blanket left!" 
 
 'We walked all that day, and all that night Dan was 
 stumping up and down on the snow, chewing his beard 
 and muttering to himself. 
 
 '"There's no hope 0' getting clear," said Billy Fish. 
 "The priests will have sent runners to the villages to 
 say that you are only men. Why didn't you stick on 
 as Gods till things was more settled? I'm a dead man," 
 says Billy Fish, and he throws himself down on the snow 
 and begins to pray to his Gods. 
 
 'Next morning we was in a cruel bad country — all 
 
332 , UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 up and down, no level ground at all, and no food either. 
 The six Bashkai men looked at Billy Fish hungry-way 
 as if they wanted to ask something, but they said never 
 a word. At noon we came to the top of a flat mountain 
 all covered with snow, and when we climbed up into it, 
 behold, there was an Army in position waiting in the 
 middle! 
 
 '"The runners have been very quick," says Billy 
 Fish, with a little bit of a laugh. "They are waiting for 
 us." 
 
 'Three or four men began to fire from the enemy's 
 side, and a chance shot took Daniel in the calf of the 
 leg. That brought him to his senses. He looks across 
 the snow at the Army, and sees the rifles that we had 
 brought into the country. 
 
 "'We're done for," says he. "They are Englishmen, 
 these people, — and it's my blasted nonsense that has 
 brought you to this. Get back, Billy Fish, and take 
 your men away; you've done what you could, and now 
 cut for it. Carnehan," says he, "shake hands with me 
 and go along with Billy. Maybe they won't kill you. 
 I'll go and meet 'em alone. It's me that did it. Me, 
 the King!" 
 
 '"Go!" says I. "Go to Hell, Dan. I'm with you 
 here. Billy Fish, you clear out, and we two will meet 
 those folk." 
 
 '"I'm a Chief," says Billy Fish, quite quiet. "I stay 
 with you. My men can go." 
 
 'The Bashkai fellows didn't wait for a second word 
 but ran off, and Dan and Me and Billy Fish walked 
 across to where the drums were drumming and the 
 horns were horning. It was cold — awful cold. I've got 
 that cold in the back of my head now. There's a lump 
 of it there.' 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING M% 
 
 The punkah-coolies had gone to sleep. Two kero- 
 sene lamps were blazing in the office, and the perspira- 
 tion poured down my face and splashed on the blotter 
 as I leaned forward. Carnehan was shivering, and I 
 feared that his mind might go. I wiped my face, took 
 a fresh grip of the piteously mangled hands, and said, 
 'What happened after that?' 
 
 The momentary shift of my eyes had broken the clear 
 current. 
 
 'What was you pleased to say?' whined Carnehan. 
 ' They took them without any sound. Not a little whis- 
 per all along the snow, not though the King knocked 
 down the first man that set hand on him — not though old 
 Peachey fired his last cartridge into the brown of 'em. 
 Not a single solitary sound did those swines make. They 
 just closed up tight, and I tell you their furs stunk. 
 There was a man called Billy Fish, a good friend of us 
 all, and they cut his throat, Sir, then and there, like 
 a pig; and the King kicks up the bloody snow and says: 
 "We've had a dashed fine run for our money. What's 
 coming next?" But Peachey, Peachey Taliaferro, I 
 tell you, Sir, in confidence as betwixt two friends, he 
 lost his head, Sir. No, he didn't neither. The King 
 lost his head, so he did, all along o' one of those cunning 
 rope-bridges. Kindly let me have the paper-cutter, 
 Sir. It tilted this way. They marched him a mile 
 across that snow to a rope-bridge over a ravine with a 
 river at the bottom. You may have seen such. They 
 prodded him behind like an ox. "Damn your eyes!" 
 says the King. " D'you suppose I can't die like a gentle- 
 man? " He turns to Peachey— Peachey that was crying 
 like a child. "I've brought you to this, Peachey," says 
 he. "Brought you out of your happy life to be killed 
 in Kafiristan where you was late Commander-in-Chief of 
 
2i 4 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 the Emperor's forces. Say you forgive me, Peachey."- 
 "I do," says Peachey. "Fully and freely do I forgive 
 you, Dan." — "Shake hands, Peachey," says he. "I'm 
 going now." Out he goes, looking neither right nor 
 left, and when he was plumb in the middle of those 
 dizzy dancing ropes, — "Cut, you beggars," he shouts, 
 and they cut, and old Dan fell, turning round and round 
 and round, twenty thousand miles, for he took half an 
 hour to fall till he struck the water, and I could see 
 his body caught on a rock with the gold crown close 
 beside. 
 
 ' But do you know what they did to Peachey between 
 two pine-trees? They crucified him, Sir, as Peachey's 
 hands will show. They used wooden pegs for his hands 
 and his feet; and he didn't die. He hung there and 
 screamed, and they took him down next day, and said 
 it was a miracle that he wasn't dead. They took him 
 down — poor old Peachey that hadn't done them any 
 harm — that hadn't done them any ' 
 
 He rocked to and fro and wept bitterly, wiping his 
 eyes with the back of his scarred hands and moaning 
 like a child for some ten minutes. 
 
 ' They was cruel enough to feed him up in the temple, 
 because they said he was more of a God than old Daniel 
 that was a man. Then they turned him out on the 
 snow, and told him to go home, and Peachey came 
 home in about a year, begging along the roads quite 
 safe; for Daniel Dravot he walked before and said: 
 "Come along, Peachey. It's a big thing we're doing." 
 The mountains they danced at night, and the mountains 
 they tried to fall on Peachey's head, but Dan he held up 
 his hand, and Peachey came along bent double. He 
 never let go of Dan's hand, and he never let go of Dan's 
 head. They gave it to him as a present in the temple, 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 225 
 
 to remind him not to come again, and though the crown 
 was pure gold, and Peachey was starving, never would 
 Peachey sell the same. You knew Dravot, Sir! You 
 knew Right Worshipful Brother Dravot! Look at him 
 now!' 
 
 He fumbled in the mass of rags round his bent waist; 
 brought out a black horsehair bag embroidered with 
 silver thread; and shook therefrom on to my table — the 
 dried, withered head of Daniel Dravot! The morning 
 sun that had long been paling the lamps struck the red 
 beard and blind sunken eyes; struck, too, a heavy circlet 
 of gold studded with raw turquoises, that Carnehan 
 placed tenderly on the battered temples. 
 
 'You be'old now,' said Carnehan, 'the Emperor in 
 his 'abit as he lived — the King of Kafiristan with his 
 crown upon his head. Poor old Daniel that was a mon- 
 arch once!' 
 
 I shuddered, for, in spite of defacements manifold, 
 I recognised the head of the man of Marwar Junction. 
 Carnehan rose to go. I attempted to stop him. He 
 was not fit to walk abroad. 'Let me take away the 
 whiskey, and give me a little money,' he gasped. 'I 
 was a King once. I'll go to the Deputy Commissioner 
 and ask to set in the Poorhouse till I get my health. 
 No, thank you, I can't wait till you get a carriage for 
 me. I've urgent private affairs— in the south — at 
 Marwar.' 
 
 He shambled out of the office and departed in the 
 direction of the Deputy Commissioner's house. That 
 day at noon I had occasion to go down the blinding 
 hot Mall, and I saw a crooked man crawling along the 
 white dust of the roadside, his hat in his hand, quaver- 
 ing dolorously after the fashion of street-singers at 
 Home. There was not a soul in sight, and he was out 
 
226 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 of all possible earshot of the houses. And he sang 
 through his nose, turning his head from right to left: — 
 
 'The Son of Man goes forth to war, 
 
 A golden crown to gain; 
 His blood-red banner streams afar — 
 Who follows in his train? ' 
 
 I waited to hear no more, but put the poor wretch 
 into my carriage and drove him off to the nearest mis- 
 sionary for eventual transfer to the Asylum. He re- 
 peated the hymn twice while he was with me whom he 
 did not in the least recognise, and I left him singing it 
 to the missionary. 
 
 Two days later I enquired after his welfare of the 
 Superintendent of the Asylum. 
 
 'He was admitted suffering from sun-stroke. He 
 died early yesterday morning,' said the Superintend- 
 ent. 'Is it true that he was half an hour bare-headed 
 in the sun at midday?' 
 
 'Yes,' said I, 'but do you happen to know if he had 
 anything upon him by any chance when he died? ' 
 
 'Not to my knowledge,' said the Superintendent. 
 
 And there the matter rests. 
 
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-iJaJa, but as he never paid the 
 faintest attention to anything that the ayah said, her 
 wisdom did not help matters. 
 
 His father was the Colonel of the 195th, and as soon 
 as Wee Willie Winkie was old enough to understand 
 what Military Discipline meant, Colonel 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 many chances of going wrong to little six-' 
 year-olds. 
 
 Children resent familiarity from strangers, and Wee' 
 Willie Winkie was a very particular child. Once he 
 accepted an acquaintance, he was graciously pleased to 
 thaw. He accepted Brandis, a subaltern of the 195th, 
 on sight. Brandis was having tea at the Colonel's, 
 and Wee Willie Winkie entered strong in the possession 
 of a good-conduct badge won for not chasing the hens 
 round the compound. He regarded Brandis with grav- 
 ity for at least ten minutes, and then delivered himself 
 of his opinion. 
 
 'I like you,' said he slowly, getting off his chair and 
 
228 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 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 warning 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 Commissioner's wife 'Pobs'; but noth- 
 ing that the Colonel could do made the Station forego 
 the nickname, and Mrs. Collen remained 'Pobs' till the 
 end of her ptay. So Brandis was christened 'Coppy,' 
 and rose, therefore, in the estimation of the regiment. 
 
 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-inter- 
 est. 'The Colonel's son' was idolised 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 military fashion. 'I 
 want my hair like Sergeant Tummil's,' said Wee Willie 
 Winkie, and, his father abetting, the sacrifice was ac- 
 complished. 
 
 Three weeks after the bestowal of his youthful affec- 
 tions 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 com- 
 prehension. 
 
 Coppy returned Lis 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 
 
WEE WILLIE WINKIE 229 
 
 him a terrier puppy; and Coppy had permitted him to wit- 
 ness the miraculous operation of shaving. Nay, more — ■ 
 Coppy had said that even he, Wee Willie 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-con- 
 duct 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 un- 
 manly weakness of kissing — vehemently kissing — a 'big 
 girl,' Miss Allardyce to wit? In the course of a morning 
 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 out- 
 side 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 had done nothing notoriously bad 
 for three days, and so stood on a pinnacle of virtue. 
 
 'I've been doing nothing bad,' said he, curling himself 
 into fi long chair with a studious affectation of the Colo- 
 nelVlanguor 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? 
 
230 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 'No one. My muwer'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 Allardyce had 
 with great craft managed to keep their engagement secret 
 for a fortnight. There were urgent and imperative 
 reasons why Major Allardyce 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 
 sais didn't see. I said, "Hutjao I " ' 
 
 ' Oh, you had that much sense, you young Rip,' 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 bvtffalo ven my pony was lame; and I fought you 
 wouldn't like.' 
 
 'Winkie,' said Coppy enthusiastically, shaking the 
 small hand, 'you're the best of good fellows. 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 Allardyce, and then she'll be Mrs. Coppy, as 
 you say. If your young mind is so scandalised 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 omnipotent. 
 
 '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 it too. Youi 
 father meant it's not good for little boys.' 
 
WEE WILLIE WINKIE \ 231 
 
 'Ah!' said Wee Willie Winkie, now fully enlightened. 
 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 muwer. 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 Regiment 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 now you can tell if you 
 like — tell any one you like.' 
 
 Thus the secret of the Brandis-AUardyce engagement 
 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 Allar- 
 dyce, and, slowly revolving round that embarrassed 
 young lady, was used to regard her gravely with unwink- 
 ing 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 belong 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 common with 
 Coppy kept Wee Willie Winkie unusually virtuous for 
 
232 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 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 hay-rick 
 and consumed a week's store for the horses? Sudden and 
 swift was the punishment — deprivation of the good-con- 
 duct badge and, most sorrowful of all, two days' confine- 
 ment 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 quarters.' Coppy came in the after- 
 noon and attempted to console the culprit. 
 
 'I'm under awwest,' said Wee Willie Winkie mourn- 
 fully, '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 for- 
 bidden to go across the river, and had noted that even 
 Coppy — the almost almighty 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 B --d Men. Even 
 
WEE WILLIE WINKIE 233 
 
 la his own house the lower halves of the windows were 
 covered with green paper on account of the Bad Men who 
 might, if allowed clear view, fire into peaceful drawing- 
 rooms and comfortable 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 happened to her? If the 
 Goblins ran off with her as they did with Curdie's Prin- 
 cess? She must at all hazards be turned back. 
 
 The house was still. Wee Willie Winkie reflected for a 
 moment on the very terrible wrath 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 bidden to stand still 
 and look at Wee Willie Winkie guilty of mutiny. The 
 drowsy so&gave 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 mould of the flow- 
 er-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-posts, 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 b«- 
 
234 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 hind him. 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 
 over night 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, but her ankle had been 
 severely twisted, and she could not stand. Having fully 
 shown her spirit, she wept, and was surprised by the ap- 
 parition 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 his pony. 'And no- 
 body — not even Coppy — must go acwoss ve wiver, and I 
 cafne 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 cantonments, 
 little man? What for?' 
 
 'You belonged to Coppy. Coppy told me so!' 
 wailed Wee Willie Winkie disconsqlately. 'I saw him 
 
WEE WILLIE WINKIE 235 
 
 hissing 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 Allardyce, with a 
 groan. 'I've hurt my foot. What shall I do? ' 
 
 She showed a readiness to weep anew, which steadied 
 Wee Willie Winkie, who had been brought up to be- 
 lieve that tears were the depth of unmanliness. Still, 
 when one is as great a sinner as Wee Willie Winkie, even 
 a man may be permitted 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 fearfully.' 
 
 The child sat still for a little time and Miss Allardyce 
 closed her eyes; the pain was nearly making her .'aint. 
 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 towards 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 faver 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 three had_ajpj>earedjrpm 
 Jjghjnd_t he rocks of the hffls^ amTthTheart opffiee Willie 
 pWuiiie~lamT~witEin^m^Tor just in this^manner were^ 
 I the Goblins wont- to steal out and velf Curdie's soul, i 
 j Thus had they played in Curdie's garden, he had seen ! 
 I the picture; and thus had they fpgbtened_^e_Prmcess's 
 \ nurse./He heard them talking to each other, anoTrec- 
 egmsed with joy the bastard Pushto that he had picked 
 
236 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 up from one of his father's grooms lately dismissed. 
 People who spoke that tongue could not be the Bad Men. 
 They were only natives after all. 
 
 They came up to the bowlders on which MissAllar- 
 dyce'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 'Jaol' The pony had 
 crossed the river-bed. 
 
 The men laughed, and laughter from natives 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 was face to face with an audi- 
 ence 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 frightening the 
 Miss Sahib. One of you must run into 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 for the ransom. 
 Ours are the villages on the heights,' said a voice in the 
 background. 
 
 These were the Bad Men — worse than Goblins — and 
 it needed all Wee Willie Winkie's training to prevent 
 him from bursting into tears. But he felt that to cry 
 before a native, excepting only his mother's ayah, would 
 
WEE WILLIE WINKIE 237 
 
 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 Bahadur,' said the tallest of the 
 men, 'and eat you afterwards.' 
 
 'That is child's talk,' said Wee Willie Winkie. 'Men 
 do not eat men.' 
 
 A yell of laughter interrupted him, but he went 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: c O fool- 
 ish men ! What this babe says is true. He is the heart's 
 heart of those white troops. For the sake of peace let 
 them go both, 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 breastbone 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 re- 
 mains. Better to Bend 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 Willie Winkie, stand- 
 
238 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 ing over Miss Allardyce, waited the upshot. Surely 
 his 'wegiment,' his own 'wegiment,' would not desert 
 him if they knew of his extremity. 
 
 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 bar- 
 racks, where the men were settling down to play Spoil- 
 five till the afternoon. Devlin, the Colour-Sergeant of 
 E Company, glanced at the empty saddle and tumbled 
 through the barrack-rooms, kicking up each Room Cor- 
 poral as he passed. 'Up, ye beggars! There's some- 
 thing 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' maybe 
 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 Com- 
 pany, double out to the river — sharp!' 
 
 So E Company, in its shirt-sleeves mainly, doubled 
 for the dear life, and in the rear toiled the perspiring 
 Sergeant, adjuring it to double yet faster. The canton- 
 ment 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 look-out fired two shots. 
 
 'What have I said?' shouted Din Mahc nmed. 'There 
 
WEE WILLIE WINKIE 239 
 
 is the warning! The pulton are out already 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 cwy!' 
 
 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 ridden a 
 horse into a lather, met him, and, to his intense dis- 
 gust, kissed him openly in the presence of the men. 
 
 But there was balm for his dignity. His father as- 
 sured him that not only would the breaking of 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 Will'ams.' 
 
 And in this manner did Wee Willie Winkie enter into 
 bis manhood. 
 
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 ac- 
 corded 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 bis bare legs 
 defiantly. 
 
 'Punch-tafia going to bye-lo?' said the ayah sug- 
 gestively. 
 
 'No,' said Punch. 'Punch-fia&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 waked,' piped a small voice from the 
 
BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP 241 
 
 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-6a6a is going away,' 'said the ayah. 'In an- 
 other week there will be no Punch-6a6a to pull my hair 
 any more.' She sighed softly, for the boy of the house- 
 hold was very dear to her heart. 
 
 'Up the Ghauts in a train?' said Punch, standing on 
 his bed. 'All the way to Nassick where the Ranee- 
 Tiger lives? ' 
 
 '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 you take Meeta with you to 
 Belait ?' 
 
 'You shall all come,' said Punch, from the height of 
 Meeta's strong arms. 'Meeta and the ayah and the 
 hamal and Bhini-in-the-Garden, and the salaam-Cap- 
 tain-Sahib-snake-man.' 
 
 There was no mockery in Meeta's voice when he 
 replied — 'Great is the Sahib's favour,' 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 wonder- 
 
24a UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 ful 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. 
 
 Papa and Mamma sold the brougham and the piano, 
 and stripped the house, and curtailed the allowance of 
 crockery for the daily meals, and took long council to- 
 gether over a bundle of letters bearing the Rocklington 
 postmark. 
 
 'The worst of it is that one can't be certain of any- 
 thing,' said Papa, pulling his moustache. ' 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 nursery 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 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. 
 
BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP H3 
 
 Summarised 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 confidence for ever and ever. Amen.' 
 Punch scratched himself in his sleep, and Judy moaned a 
 little. 
 
 .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 behind. But Punch found a thousand fasci- 
 nating 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, Vvmch-baba,' said the ayah. 
 
 ' Come back,' said Meeta, ' and be. a Burr a Sahib ' (a big 
 man). 
 
 ' Yes,' said Punch, lifted up in his father's arms to wave 
 good-bye. ' Yes, I will come back, and I will be a Buna 
 Sahib Bahadur I ' (a very big man indeed). 
 
 At the end of the first day Punch demanded to 
 be set down in England, which he was certain 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 recovery, '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 remembered a few words of the Hindustani, 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 
 
244 UNDER THE DEODARS . 
 
 to the stretch of sea that had swallowed all her tiny past, 
 and said : ' Ayah I What ayah ? ' 
 
 Mamma cried over her and Punch marvelled. It was 
 then that he heard for the first time Mamma'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 mysterious 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 bemember 
 Mamma? ' 
 
 "Torse I do,' said Judy. 
 
 'Then always bemember Mamma, 'r 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 Mamma.' 
 
 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 'bemembering,' they 
 choked. If Punch sprawled on the sofa in the Southamp- 
 ton lodging-house and sketched his future in purple and 
 gold, they choked; and so they did if Judy put 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, 
 
BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP 245 
 
 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 
 — 'where is our bioom-gharri ? This thing talks so much 
 that / can't talk. Where is our own \>xoom-gharri ? When 
 I was at Bandstand before we corned away, I asked Inver- 
 arity Sahib why he was sitting in it, and he said it was his 
 own. And I said, "I 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. / 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 fourwheeler: 
 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 ' Downe Lodge.' Punch gathered himself 
 together and eyed the house with disfavour. It stood on 
 a sandy road, and a cold wind tickled his knickerbock- 
 ered legs. 
 
 'Letusgoaway,' saidPunch. 'Thisisnotaprettyplace.' 
 
 But Mamma and Papa and Judy had left the cab, and 
 all the luggage was being taken into the house. At the 
 doorstep 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 ac- 
 customed to do in Bombay when callers came and he 
 happened to be playing in the veranda. 
 
 'How do you do?' said he. 'I am Punch.' But they 
 were all looking at the luggage — all except the gray man, 
 
246 UNDER THE -DEODARS 
 
 who shook hands with Punch, and said he was 'a smart 
 little fellow.' There was much running about and bang- 
 ing 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 never 
 mind. We'll go away soon. We have always went away 
 soon from everywhere. I wish we was gone back to Bom- 
 bay 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 resented. ' But 
 p'raps 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 Mammi, who knew everything, per- 
 mitted everything, and loved everybody — even Punch 
 when he used to go into the garden at Bombay and fill his 
 nails with mould after the weekly nail-cutting, because, 
 as he explained 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 ' Uncleharri.' They nodded at each other when 
 they met, and the gray man showed him a little ship with 
 rigging that took up and down. 
 
 'She is the 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 
 
BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP j 4 y 
 
 you about Navarino, Punch, when we go for walks to- 
 gether; 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 cry- 
 ing 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 remembers 
 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 be good 
 to Judy, and make haste to leam to write and — and — 
 and ' 
 
 Punch was back in his bed again. Judy was fast asleep, 
 and there was therattleof acab below. Papa and Mamma 
 had gone away. Not to Nassick; that was across the sea. 
 To some place much nearer, of course, and equally of 
 course they would return. They came back after dinner- 
 parties, 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 'for ever.' Antirosa, tearfully appealed to 
 for a contradiction, said that Harry had spoken the truth, 
 and that it behooved Punch to fold up his clothes neatly 
 
248 UNDER THE" DEODARS 
 
 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 cast, 
 without help, comfort, or sympathy, upon a world which 
 is new and strange to him, his despair, which may find 
 expression in evil-living, the writing of his experiences, or 
 the more satisfactory diversion of suicide, is generally 
 supposed to be impressive. A child, under exactly simi- 
 lar circumstances as far as its knowledge goes, cannot 
 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 look- 
 ing 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. Anti- 
 rosa had decided that it was better to let the children 
 'have their cry out,' and the boy had gone to school. 
 Punch raised his head from the floor and sniffed mourn- 
 fully. Judy was nearly asleep. Three short years had 
 not taught her how 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 trav- 
 ersed before any one could get to Bombay. 
 
 'Quick, Jul' he cried, 'we're close to the sea. I can 
 hear it! Listen! That's where they've went. P'raps 
 
BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP 249 
 
 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 forgotted. Less go 
 to the sea.' 
 
 The hall-door was open and so was the garden-gate. 
 
 Tt's very, very big, this place,' he said, looking cau- 
 tiously down the road, 'and we will get lost; but / 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 ran hatless 
 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 field of brick-mounds, to a heath 
 where gypsies occasionally camped and where the Gar- 
 rison Artillery of Rocklington practised. There were 
 few people 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-patch, and sand-dune. 
 
 'I'se so tired,' said Judy, 'and Mamma will be 
 angry.' 
 
 'Mamma's never angry. I suppose she is waiting 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 
 
2S0 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 wailing to the pitiless horizon for 'Mamma, Mamma!'— 
 and again 'Mamma!' 
 
 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 Dreadfid'Night. 
 
 ^ll 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 forbidden 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 intended for the bene- 
 fit 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. 
 
 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 'bemember Mamma.' 
 
 This lapse was excusable, because in the interval 
 he had been introduced by Aunty Rosa to two very 
 
BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP 251 
 
 impressive things — an abstraction called God, the inti- 
 mate friend and ally of Amity Rosa, generally believed 
 to live behind the kitchen-range because it was hot 
 there — and a dirty brown book filled with unintelli- 
 gible 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 scandalised, 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 offence, because 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 mind. Afterwards 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. Wh, 
 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 har- 
 
85« UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 bours where ships lay at anchor, and the dockyards 
 where the hammers were 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 sovereigns in exchange^ 
 for he held a wound-pension. Punch heard, too, from 
 his lips the story of the battle of Navarino, where the 
 sailors of the Fleet, for three days afterwards, were deaf 
 as posts and could only sign to each other. ■ ' That was 
 because of the noise of the guns,' said Uncle Harry, 
 'and I have got the wadding of a bullet somewhere 
 inside me now.' 
 
 Punch regarded him with curiosity. He had not the 
 least idea what wadding was, and his notion of a bullet 
 was a dockyard cannon-ball bigger 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 pro- 
 tested. 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 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 state- 
 ment that 'the Cat lay on the Mat and the Rat came in.' 
 
BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP iss 
 
 '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, labelled Sharpe's 
 Magazine. There was the most portentous 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 tithe of the 
 meaning, but tantalised by glimpses of new worlds here- 
 after to be revealed. 
 
 'What is a "falchion"? What is a "e-wee lamb"? 
 What is a "base wssurper "? What is a "verdant me- 
 ad"?' he demanded with flushed cheeks, at bedtime, of 
 the astonished Aunty Rosa. 
 
 'Say your prayers and go to sleep,' she replied, and 
 that was all the help Punch then or afterwards found 
 at her hands in the new and delightful exercise of reading. 
 
 'Aunty 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 further 
 afield, for the house held large store of old books that 
 no one ever opened — from Frank Fairlegh in serial 
 numbers, and the earlier poems of Tennyson, con- 
 tributed anonymously to Sharpe's Magazine, to '62 Exhi- 
 
JS4 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 bition Catalogues, gay with colours and delightfully in- 
 comprehensible, and odd leaves of Gulliver's Travels. 
 
 As soon as Punch could string a few pot-hooks to- 
 gether, he wrote to Bombay, demanding by return 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 prohibition which 
 puzzled him. 
 
 'It's what I like to do,' he said, 'and she's 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 under- 
 ground, to which they were regularly sent after the mid- 
 day dinner while Aunty Rosa slept. She drank wine 
 — that is to say, something from a bottle in the cellaret— 
 for her stomach's sake, but if she did not fall ^^ep she 
 
BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP «Ss 
 
 would sometimes come into the nursery to see that the 
 children were really playing. Now bricks, wooden hoops, 
 ninepins, and chinaware cannot amuse for ever, 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 offence 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 doing 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, leaving the fourth clear 
 to bring down on the floor. He would 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 tem- 
 per 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 revelation to him. The room-door 
 was shut, and he was left to weep himself into repent- 
 ance 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 imply, 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 
 
256 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 been accused of wishing to ' show off.' He had ' shown off 
 before visitors when he had attacked a strange gentleman 
 — Harry's uncle, not his own — with requests for infor- 
 mation 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, eying 
 Punch, a dishevelled 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 upstairs with the news that Punch was 
 still rebellious. 
 
 Uncle Harry sat uneasily in the dining-room. 'Damn 
 it all, Rosa,' said he at last, 'can't you leave the child 
 alone? He's a good enough little chap when I meet 
 him.' 
 
 'He puts on his best manners with you, Henry,' 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 re- 
 turn of Punch to the upper regions and a private sitting at 
 which all the blinding horrors of Hell were revealed to 
 Punch with such store of imagery as Aunty Rosa's narrow 
 mind possessed. 
 
BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP 257 
 
 Most previous of all was Judy's round-eyed reproach, 
 and Punch went to bed in the depths of the Valley of Hu- 
 miliation. He shared his room with Harry and knew the 
 torture in store. For an hour and a half he had to answer 
 that young gentleman's question as to his motives for 
 telling a He, and a grievous lie, the precise quantity of 
 punishment inflicted by Aunty Rosa, and had also to pro- 
 fess his deep gratitude for such religious instruction 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 wake him up in the 
 night to ask him why he was such a har. 
 
 '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 pray, 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 laboured 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, awestricken 
 
258 UNDER THE DEODARS . 
 
 at the catalogue of Black Sheep's crimes. 'Why are you 
 so bad now? ' 
 
 ' 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 
 kittle 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? ' 
 
 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. 
 
BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP 259 
 
 'Pull harder— as hard as you can! There! I don't 
 mind how much you pull it now. If you'll speak to me 
 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 ex- 
 treme caution and careful avoidance of Harry he acquired 
 virtue, and was allowed 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 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 he there soon,' said he to Black Sheep, one 
 winter evening, when his face showed white as a worn 
 silver coin under the light of the lych-gate. ' 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 
 downstairs, 
 
26o UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 'Uncle Harry's going to die,' said Judy, who 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 uncomprehending interest. 
 He had been forbidden to open it on account of its ' sinful- 
 ness,' 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 he, though. / 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, came through the dark- 
 ness: — 
 
 '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. But the blood 
 froze at his little heart as he thought. The voice leapt an 
 octave, and rang shrill as a boatswain's pipe: — 
 
 'And next came on the lovely Rose, 
 The Philomel, her fire-ship, dosed, 
 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, 
 
BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP 261 
 
 A door opened, and Aunty Rosa screamed up the stair- 
 case: 'Hush! For God's sake hush, you little devjl 
 Uncle Harry is dead I ' 
 
 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 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 
 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 refreshing. 'Harry'll 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 preceded him, and 
 that life was a burden in consequence. 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 some one quite as dark, in the 
 assembly. 'That's a kubshi,' said Black Sheep to him- 
 self. 'Even Meeta used to laugh at a hubshi. I don't 
 think this is a proper place.' He was indignant 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. 
 
262 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 'How do you like school?' said Aunty Rosa at the end 
 of the day. 
 
 ' I think it is a very nice place,' said Punch quietly. 
 
 'I suppose you warned the boys of Black Sheep's char- 
 acter? ' said Aunty Rosa to Harry. 
 
 'Oh yes,' said the censor of Black Sheep's morals. 
 'They know all 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 result that 
 several boys, including the hubshi, demonstrated to 
 Black Sheep the eternal equality of the human race by 
 smacking his head, and his consolation 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 get a little peace. His existence was not too 
 joyful. From nine till twelve he was at school, and 
 from two to four, except on Saturdays. In the eve- 
 nings 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 interest. 
 
BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP 263 
 
 and Judy, when she dared, took advantage of this foi 
 the remission of Black Sheep's penalties. Failures in 
 lessons at school were punished at home by a week 
 without reading other than schoolbooks, and Harry 
 brought the news of such a failure with glee. Further, 
 Black Sheep was then bound to repeat his lessons at 
 bedtime 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 deputy 
 executioner. He filled his many posts to admiration. 
 From his actions, now that Uncle Harry was dead, 
 there was no appeal. Black Sheep had not been per- 
 mitted to keep any self-respect at school: at home he 
 was of course utterly discredited, and grateful for any 
 pity that the servant-girls — they changed frequently 
 at Downe Lodge because they, too, were h^rs— 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 officially '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 writ- 
 ing them letters, under Aunty Rosa's eye, each Sunday, 
 Black Sheep forgot what manner 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 
 ;rdcrs and Mamma kissed me.' 
 
264 UNDER THE DEODARS. 
 
 'Aunty Rosa will kiss you if you are good,' pleaded 
 Judy. 
 
 '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 intd 
 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 un- 
 lucky 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 col- 
 leagues, and cuffed home tingling but exultant. Aunty 
 Rosa was out: pending her arrival, Harry set himself 
 to lecture Black Sheep on the sin of murder — which he 
 described as the offence of Cain. 
 
 'Why didn't you fight him fair? What did 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 
 blubbed. 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,' 
 
BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP s6j 
 
 'Will he die?' said Black Sheep. 
 
 'I dare say,' said Harry, 'and then you'll be hanged, 
 and go to Hell'.' 
 
 'All right,' said Black Sheep, picking up the table- 
 knife. 'Then I'll kill you now. You say things and 
 do things and — and I 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 that he 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 at 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 no 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 disused Noah's 
 Ark, and sucked the paint off as many animals as re- 
 mained. It tasted abominable, but he had licked 
 Noah's Dove clean by the time Aunty Rosa and Judy 
 returned. He went upstairs 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 
 
-.66 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 explained on the ground of possession by the Devn. 
 Wherefore Black Sheep was not only 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 sin 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 questioning 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. Certain it is 
 that the common, weary next morning broke through 
 the windows and found Black Sheep quite well and a 
 good deal ashamed of himself, but richer by the knowl- 
 edge that he could, 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 latest outbreak suited Aunty Rosa's 
 plans admirably. It gave her good excuse for leaving 
 the extra boy behind. Papa in Bombay, who really 
 ceemed to know a young sinner's wants to the hour, 
 
BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP ,67 
 
 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 twelve 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 
 measuring the length and breadth of every room in 
 handspans — 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 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 bedroom 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 loyal little Judy? In 
 return for all her merry babblement, Black Sheep con- 
 fided to her that the distance from the hall-door to the 
 top of the first landing was exactly one hundred and 
 eighty-four handspans. He had found it out himself. 
 
 Then the old life recommenced; but with a differ- 
 ence, and a new sin. To his other iniquities Black 
 Sheep had now added a phenomenal clumsiness — was 
 as unfit to trust in action as he was in word. He himself 
 could not account for spilling everything he touched, 
 
J6& under the deodars 
 
 upsetting glasses as he 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 hereby 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 de- 
 prived of his allowance of pleasure-reading. Conse- 
 quently when he failed at school he reported that all 
 was well, and conceived 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 had credited him in the past with petty cun- 
 ning 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 motives, 
 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 
 <ould penetrate certain kinds of hypocrisy, but not all. 
 He set his child's wits against hers and was no more 
 
BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP 269 
 
 beaten. It grew monthly more and more of a trouble 
 to read the schoolbooks, 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 horrible punish- 
 ments 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 impossible to foresee everything. Aunty Rosa 
 made personal enquiries as to Black Sheep's progress and 
 received information that startled her. Step by step, 
 with a delight as keen as when she convicted an underfed 
 housemaid 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 and 
 pray for me, and she will pray for 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 bed- 
 room — 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 count, 
 
»7o UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 and then the placard was produced. Aunty Rosa 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 visitor 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 suddenly: ' 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 
 
BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP iji 
 
 Mamma was coming. There was a chance, then, of an- 
 other 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 reve- 
 lations, 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 grimly, 
 wid mounted guard over Judy lest that small maiden 
 should attempt to comfort her brother, to the peril of her 
 soul. 
 
 And Mamma came — in a four-wheeler — fluttered with 
 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 appeal of outstretched arms to draw little ones to her 
 heart. Judy ran straight to her, but Black Sheep hesi- 
 tated. Could this wonder be 'showing off'? She would, 
 not put out her arms when she knew of his crimes. Mean- 
 time 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 before. 
 
 '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 yo». 
 
872 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 every week, anyhow. That isn't to show off, but 'cause 
 of what comes afterwards.' 
 
 '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 any one,' 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 endear- 
 ments manifold. Faithless little Judy had shown her de- 
 fection 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. Black Sheep 
 flung up his right arm. It wasn't fair to come and hit 
 him in the dark. Even Aunty Rosa never tried that. But 
 no blow followed. 
 
 'Are you showing off? I won't tell you anything 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? For- 
 give 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 
 
BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP 273 
 
 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. Punch-Jaia, come back to me! I am your 
 Mother— your own Mother— and never mind the rest. I 
 know— yes, Iknow, dear. Itdoesn'tmatternow. 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 be- 
 fore, and here was this beautiful 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 everything?' 
 
 '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 gravity as her religious opinions — only eight, 
 Jack! — a venerable horsehair atrocity which she calls her Bustle! I 
 have just burnt it, and the child is asleep in my bed as I write. She 
 will come to me at once. Punch I cannot 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 
 recollect our own upbringing, dear, when the Fear of the Lord was so 
 often the beginning of falsehood? 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 content, or shall be when you come home, dear 
 boy, and then, thank God, we shall be all under one roof again at last! 
 
374 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 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 conversation. 
 
 '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 walks through the ditch and mires himself to the 
 knees. 'Mother, dear,' he shouts, 'I'm just as dirty as I 
 canpos-w'J-lybe!' 
 
 'Then change your clothes as quickly as you pos-M&-ly 
 can!' Mother's clear voice rings out from the house. 
 ' And don't be a little pagal ! ' 
 
 ' There ! 'Told you so,' says Punch. ' It's all different 
 now, and we are just as much Mother's as if she had never 
 gone.' 
 
 Not altogether, Punch, for when young lips have 
 drunk deep of the bitter waters of Hate, Suspicion, and 
 Despair, all the Love in the world will not wholly take 
 away that knowledge; though it may turn darkened eyes 
 for a while to the light, and teach Faith where no Faith 
 was. 
 
HIS MAJESTY THE KING 
 
 Where the word of a King is, there is power: And who may s»y 
 mto him — What doest thou? 
 
 'Yeth! And Chimo to sleep at ve foot of ve bed, and 
 ve pink pikky-book, and ve bwead — 'cause I will be 
 hungwy in ve night — and vat's all, Miss Biddums. And 
 now give me one kiss and I'll go to sleep. — So! Kite 
 quiet. Ow! Ve pink pikky-book has slidded under ve 
 pillow and ve bwead is cwumbling! Miss Biddums! Miss 
 Bid-dvmsl I'msouncomfy! Come and tuck me up, Miss 
 Biddums.' 
 
 His Majesty the King was going to bed; and poos, 
 patient Miss Biddums, who had advertised herself humbly 
 as a 'young person, European, accustomed to the care of 
 'ittle children,' was forced to wait upon his royal caprices. 
 The going to bed was always a lengthy process, because 
 His Majesty had a convenient knack of forgetting which 
 of his many friends, from the mehter's son to the Com- 
 missioner's daughter, he had prayed for, and, lest the 
 "Deity should take offence, was used to toil through his 
 little prayers, in all reverence, five times in one evening. 
 His Majesty the King believed in the efficacy of prayer as 
 devoutly as he believed in Chimo, the patient spaniel, or 
 Miss Biddums, who could reach him down his gun — 'with 
 cursuffun caps — reel ones' — from the upper shelves of 
 the big nursery cupboard. 
 
 At the door of the nursery his authority stopped. Be- 
 yond lay the empire of his father and mother — two very 
 
 ?75 
 
876 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 terrible people who had no time to waste upon Hi» 
 Majesty the King. His voice was lowered when he passed 
 + Jie frontier of his own dominions, his actions were fettered, 
 and his soul was filled with awe because of the grim 
 man who lived among a wilderness of pigeon-holes and the 
 most fascinating pieces of red tape, and the wonderful 
 woman who was always getting into or stepping out of the 
 big carriage. 
 
 To the one belonged the mysteries of the 'duftar- 
 room,' to the other the great, reflected wilderness of 
 the 'Memsahib's room' where the shiny, scented dresses 
 hung on pegs, miles and miles up in the air, and the 
 just-seen plateau of the toilet-table revealed an acreage 
 of speckly combs, broidered ' hanafitch-bags,' and 'white- 
 headed' brushes. 
 
 There was no room for His Majesty the King either 
 in official reserve or worldly gorgeousness. He had 
 discovered that, ages and ages ago — before even Chimo 
 came to the house, or Miss Biddums had ceased griz- 
 zling 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 simple 
 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 trem- 
 bling soul of His Majesty the King that terrible time 
 in July when it rained continuously for seven days and 
 seven nights, and — there was no Ark ready and all 
 
HIS MAJESTY THE KTNG VI 
 
 the ravens had flown away! She was the most powerful 
 person with whom he was brought into contact — always 
 excepting the two remote and silent people beyond 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 woman who had been 
 carried away by the silent man's strength and personal 
 beauty? How could he tell what evil the overlooked 
 slip of notepaper had wrought in the mind of a desper- 
 ately jealous wife? How could he, despite his wis- 
 dom, 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 skele- 
 ton in the cupboard, had trained it into a household 
 God which should be about their path and about their 
 bed, and poison all their ways? 
 
 These things were beyond the province of His Maj- 
 esty 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 Burrakhana. To these enter- 
 tainments she was escorted by a Captain-Man for whom 
 His Majesty the King had no regard. 
 
 'He doesn't laugh,' he argued with Miss Biddums, 
 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 this 
 world. 
 
 Morning and evening it was his duty to salute his 
 father and mother— the former with a grave shake of 
 
278 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 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 towards Miss Biddums. 
 The openwork of his sleeve-edge caught in an earring, 
 and the last stage of His Majesty's little overture was 
 a suppressed 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 amem- 
 ber.' He never repeated the experiment. 
 
 Miss Biddums, it must be confessed, spoilt him as 
 much as his nature admitted, in some sort of recom- 
 pense, for what she called 'the hard ways of his Papa 
 and Mamma.' She, like her charge, knew nothing of 
 the trouble between man and wife — the savage con- 
 tempt for a woman's stupidity 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 
 ohserved little and said less, and, when her pupils went 
 over the sea to the Great Unknown, which she, with 
 touching confidence in her hearers, called 'Home,' 
 packed up her slender belongings and sought for em- 
 ployment afresh, lavishing all her love on each successive 
 batch of ingrates. Only His Majesty the King had re- 
 paid 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 daz- 
 zling 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 Bid- 
 dums had crossed his royal will, he reversed the epithet 
 to vex that estimable lady, and all things evil were. 
 
HIS MAJESTY THE KING 279 
 
 until the tears of repentance swept away spite, 'Cal- 
 cutta bad.' 
 
 Now and again Miss Biddums begged for him the 
 rare pleasure of a day in the society of the Commis- 
 oioner's child — the wilful four-year-old Patsie, who, 
 to the intense amazement of His Majesty the King, 
 was idolised 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. Th«? 
 yellow hair was absolutely beyond his power, his own 
 tousled wig being potato-brown; but something might 
 be done towards the blue sash. He tied a large knot 
 in his mosquito-curtains in order to remember to con- 
 sult Patsie on their next meeting. 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 wiban,' said His Majesty 
 the King. 
 
 'You'll bewy it,' said Patsie doubtfully, mindful of 
 certain atrocities committed on her doll. 
 
 'No, I won't— twoofanhonour. It's for me to wear.' 
 
 'Pooh!' said Patsie. 'Boys don't wear sa-ashes. 
 Zey's only for dirls.' 
 
 'I didn't know.' The face of His Majesty the King 
 fell. 
 
 'Who wants ribands? Are you playing horses, chick- 
 abiddies?' said the Commissioner's wife, stepping into 
 the veranda. 
 
 'Toby wanted my sash,' explained Patsie. 
 
 'I don't now,' said His Majesty the King hastily, 
 
s8o UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 feeling that with one of these terrible 'grown ups' his 
 poor little secret would be shamelessly wrenched from 
 him, and perhaps — most burning desecration of all — 
 laughed at. 
 
 'I'll give you a cracker-cap,' said the Commissioner's 
 wife. ' Come along with me, Toby, and we'll choose it.' 
 
 The cracker-cap was a stiff, three-pointed vermilion- 
 and-tinsel splendour. 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 middle spike, was tender. 
 
 'Will it do as well?' stammered His Majesty the 
 King. 
 
 'As what, little one?' 
 
 'As ve wiban?' 
 
 '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' amusement 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?' 
 
 The torrent of sobs and speech met, and fought for a 
 
HIS MAJESTY THE KING 2S1 
 
 time, with chokings and gulpings and gasps. Then, in 
 a sudden rush, His Majesty the King was delivered of 
 a few inarticulate sounds, followed 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 said 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 
 wiban, he'd let me play in ve waste-paper basket under 
 ve table.' 
 
 'What blue riband, childie?' 
 
 ' Ve same vat Patsie had — ve big blue wiban w-w-wound 
 my t-ttummy!' 
 
 '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 had ve blue wiban, and — 
 and if I'd had ve blue wiban too, m-my Papa w-would 
 pet me.' 
 
 The secret was out, and His Majesty the King sobbed 
 bitterly in spite of the arms around him, and the murmui 
 of comfort on his heated little forehead. 
 
 Enter Patsie tumultuously, embarrassed by several 
 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.' 
 
 comin',' said His Majesty the King, climbing 
 
«82 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 down from the Commissioner's wife's knee after a hasty 
 kiss. 
 
 Two minutes later, the chu-chu lizard's tail was wrig- 
 gling 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 doorway and 
 
 watched — 'Poor little mite! A blue sash and my 
 
 own precious Patsie! I wonder if the best of us, or we 
 who love them best, ever understood what goes on in 
 their topsy-turvy little heads.' 
 
 She went indoors to devise a tea for 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 fellow!' 
 
 With simple craft, the Commissioner's wife called 
 on Mrs. Austell and spoke long and lovingly about chil- 
 dren; inquiring specially for His Majesty the King. 
 
 'He's with his governess,' said Mrs. Austell, and the 
 tone showed, that she was not interested. 
 
 The Commissioner's wife, unskilled in the art oi 
 war, continued her questionings. 'I don't know,' said 
 Mrs. Austell. 'These things are left to Miss Biddums, 
 and, of course, she does not ill-treat the child.' 
 
 The Commissioner's wife left hastily. The last sen- 
 tence jarred upon her nerves. 'Doesn't ill-treat the child ! 
 As if that were all! I wonder what Tom would say if I 
 only "didn't ill-treat" Patsie!' 
 
 Thenceforward, His Majesty the King was an hon- 
 oured guest at the Commissioner's house, and the 
 chosen friend of Patsie, with whom he blundered into 
 
HIS MAJESTY THE KING 284 
 
 as many scrapes as the compound and the servants' 
 quarters afforded. Patsie's Mamma was always ready 
 to give counsel, help, and sympathy, 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 
 Bang fell grievously from grace, and committed no less a 
 sin than that of theft — unknown, it is true, but burden- 
 some. 
 
 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, and said that there was no 
 answer, and departed. 
 
 Presently, the pattern of the dado ceased to interest 
 His Majesty, while the packet, a white, neatly wrapped 
 one of fascinating shape, interested him very much in- 
 deed. His Mamma was out, so was Miss Biddums, and 
 there was pink string round the packet. He greatly 
 desired 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 nobody would be any the wiser. 
 He certainly could not pluck up sufficient courage to ask 
 Mamma for it. Wherefore, mounting upon a chair, he 
 carefully untied the string and, behold, the stiff white 
 paper^pread out in four directions, and revealed a beauti- 
 ful 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 satisfaction for his iniquity, and sow a 
 
284 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 most beautiful Star that shone and winked, and was al- 
 together 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 Biddums says so. I would like 
 to wear it now. 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 con- 
 science, and he knew it, for he thought immediately after: 
 ' Never mind, I will keep it to play wiv until Mamma says 
 where it is, 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 Majesty 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 en- 
 quiries, and it seemed to him, in his furtive peeps, 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 in- 
 side? 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. 
 
HIS MAJESTY THE KING 285 
 
 Each day that he delayed rendered confession to the 
 people beyond the nursery doors more impossible. 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 unenquired for. But 
 she passed hurriedly to her carriage, and the opportunity 
 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 Com- 
 missioner'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 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 revolted 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 buzz-buzz 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 Biddums! I'msokirsty!' 
 
«86 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 No answer. Miss Biddums had leave to attend the 
 wedding of a Calcutta schoolmate. 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 mur- 
 mur 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 bis feet were 
 strangely wilful, 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 tumbler. Then every one seemed 
 to go away — every one except the huge man in black and 
 white, who 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 
 
HIS MAJESTY THE KING 287 
 
 I tookt it to play wif , 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 dearest 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 notepaper whereon were written a few 
 words. 
 
 Somebody was crying at the head of the bed, and a 
 man's hand touched the forehead of His 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 splendour 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. '// you wear this to-morrow night I 
 shall know what to expect.' The date was three weeks old. 1 
 
 A whisper followed, and the deeper voice returned: 
 ' And you drifted as far apart as that I 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 — peopled by his 
 father and mother as well as Miss Biddums: and there 
 was much love in that world and no morsel of fear, and 
 more petting than was good for several little boys. Hi* 
 
488 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 Majesty the King was too young to moralise on the un- 
 certainty of things human, or he would have been im- 
 pressed 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 afternoon with Patsie, and 
 the Commissioner's wife would have kissed him. 'No, 
 not vere,' said His Majesty the King, with superb inso- 
 lence, fencing one comer 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 DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 
 
 In the Army List they still stand as 'The Fore and Fit 
 Princess Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen-Anspach'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 
 honourable, 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 certain 
 Cavalry Regiment will bring the men out 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 theiJ 
 world knows that they were openly beaten, whipped, 
 dumb-cowed, shaking and afraid. The men know it; 
 their officers know it; the Horse Guards know it, and 
 when 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 inconvenient for the troops 
 upon whom they do their wiping. 
 
 The courage of the British soldier is officially supposed 
 to be above proof, and, as a general rule, it is so. The 
 exceptions are decently shovelled out of sight, only Zo be 
 referred to in the freshest of unguarded talk that occas- 
 
 l8g 
 
«go UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 ionally swamps a Mess-table at midnight. Then one 
 hears strange and horrible stories of men not following 
 their officers, of orders being given by those who had no 
 right to give them, and of disgrace that, but for the stand- 
 ing 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 be- 
 have unhandily. 
 
 The British soldier is not altogether to be blamed 
 for occasional lapses; but this verdict he should not know. 
 A moderately intelligent General will waste six months 
 in mastering the craft of the particular war that he may 
 be waging; a Colonel may utterly misunderstand the 
 capacity of his regiment for three months 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 afterwards — 
 to encourage the others; 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 
 npt sufficient to drive toughness into his fibre, or to 
 teach him how holy a thing is his Regiment. He wants 
 to drink, he wants to enjoy himself — in India he wants 
 to save money — and he does not in the least like get- 
 ting hurt. He has received just sufficient education to 
 make him understand half the purport of the orders he 
 receives, and to speculate on the nature of clean, incised; 
 
THE DRUMS OF THE FORE, AND AFT 291 
 
 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 de- 
 ploying, and suspects 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 unsupported by any 
 regimental associations, this young man is suddenly in- 
 troduced 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 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 playing with their 
 triggers and saying: 'What the Hell'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 
 
292 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 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 gen- 
 eral 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 light of the Sun there is nothing more terrible than 
 a broken British regiment. When the worst comes to 
 the worst and the panic is really epidemic, the men 
 must be e'en let go, and the Company 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 unreliable 
 machine. It will know too much and it will do too 
 little. Later still, when all men are at the mental level 
 of the officer of to-day, it will sweep the earth. Speak- 
 ing roughly, you must employ either blackguards or 
 gentlemen, or, best of all, blackguards commanded by 
 gentlemen, to do butcher's work with efficiency and 
 despatch. The ideal soldier should, of course, think 
 for himself — 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 Regi- 
 ment, officered by rank Presbyterians, is, perhaps, one 
 
THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 293 
 
 degree more terrible in action than a hard-bitten thou- 
 sand of irresponsible 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 
 upbringing that has not taught them to go on and take 
 the chances. They are carefully unprovided with a 
 backing of comrades who have been shot over, and until 
 that backing is re-introduced, as a great many Regi- 
 mental Commanders 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 begins 
 early, and God has arranged that a clean-run youth of 
 the British middle classes shall, in the matter of back- 
 bone, 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 writep Home that he has 
 been 'potted,' 'sniped,' 'chipped,' or 'cut over,' and 
 sits down to besiege Government for a wound-gratuity 
 until the next little war breaks out, when he perjures 
 himself before a Medical Board, blarneys his Colonel, 
 burns incense round his Adjutant, and is allowed to go 
 to the Front once more. 
 
 Which homily brings me directly to a brace of the 
 most finished little fiends that ever banged drum or 
 tootled fife in the Band of a British Regiment. They 
 ended their sinful career by open and flagrant mutiny 
 and were shot for it. Their names were Jakin and 
 Lew — Piggy Lew — and they were bold, bad drummer- 
 boys, both of them frequently birched by the Drum- 
 Major of the Fore and Aft. 
 
294 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 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. Barnardo's hands ere he arrived at the dignity of 
 drummer-boy. Lew could remember nothing except 
 the Regiment and the delight of listening to the Band 
 from his earliest years. He hid somewhere in his grimy 
 little soul a genuine love for music, and was most mis- 
 takenly 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 offence against 
 Jakin. 
 
 The other drummer-boys hated both lads on account 
 of their illogical conduct. Jakin might be pounding 
 Lew, or Lew might be rubbing Jakin's head in the 
 dirt, but any attempt at 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 smok- 
 ing, which is bad for little boys who use plug-tobacco, 
 and Lew's contention was that Jakin had 'stunk so 
 'orrid bad from keepin' the pipe in pocket,' that he and 
 
THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 295 
 
 he alone was responsible for the birching they were both 
 tingling under. 
 
 'I tell you I 'id the pipe back 0' barracks,' said Jakin 
 pacifically. 
 
 'You're a bloomin' liar,' said Lew without heat. 
 
 'You're a bloomin' little barstard,' said Jakin, strong 
 in the knowledge that his own ancestry was unknown. 
 Now there is one word in the extended vocabulary 
 of Barrack-room abuse that cannot pass without com- 
 ment. You may call a man a thief and risk nothing. 
 You may even call him a coward without finding more 
 than a boot whiz past your ear, but you must not call a 
 man a bastard unless you are prepared to prove it on 
 his front teeth. 
 
 'You might ha' kep' that till I wasn't so sore,' said 
 Lew sorrowfully, dodging round Jakin's guard. 
 
 'I'll make you sorer,' said Jakin genially, and got 
 home on Lew's alabaster forehead. All would have 
 gone well and this story, as the books say, would never 
 have been written, had not his evil fate prompted the 
 Bazar-Sergeant's son, a long, employless man of five- 
 and-twenty, to put in an appearance after the first 
 round. He was eternally in need of money, and knew 
 that the boys had silver. 
 
 'Fighting again,' said he. 'I'll report you to my 
 father, and he'll report you to the Colour-Sergeant.' 
 
 'What's that to you?' said Jakin with an unpleasant 
 dilation of the nostrils. 
 
 'Oh! nothing to me. You'll get into trouble, and 
 you've been up too often to afford that.' 
 
 'What the Hell do you know about what we've 
 done? ' asked Lew the Seraph. ' You aren't in the Army, 
 you lousy, cadging civilian.' 
 
 He closed in on the man's left flank. 
 
296 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 'Jes' 'cause you find two gentlemen settlin' theit 
 diff'rences with their fistes you stick in your ugly nose 
 where you aren't wanted. Run 'ome to your 'arf-caste 
 slut of a Ma — or we'll give you what-for,' said Jakin. 
 
 The man attempted reprisals by knocking the boys' 
 heads together. The scheme would have succeeded 
 had not Jakin punched him vehemently in the stomach, 
 or had Lew refrained from kicking his shins. They 
 fought together, bleeding and breathless, for half an 
 hour, and, after heavy punishment, 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 anatomy. 
 Chivalry is not a strong point in the composition oi 
 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 Bazar-Sergeant. Awful too was the scene 
 in Orderly-room when the two reprobates appeared to 
 answer the charge of half -murdering a 'civilian.' The 
 Bazar-Sergeant thirsted for a criminal action, and his 
 son lied. The boys stood to attention while the black 
 clouds of evidence accumulated. 
 
 'You little devils are more trouble than the rest of the 
 Regiment put together,' said the Colonel angrily. ' One 
 might as well admonish thistledown, and I can't well 
 put you in cells or under stoppages. You must be 
 birched again.' 
 
 'Beg y' pardon, Sir. Can't we say nothin' in our 
 own defence, Sir?' shrilled Jakin. 
 
 'Hey! What? Are you going to argue with me?' 
 said the Colonel. 
 
 'No, Sir,' said Lew. 'But if a man cone to you, Sir 4 
 
THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 297 
 
 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 laughter. 
 '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 inter- 
 fere with us, Sir. I don't mind bein' birched by the Drum- 
 Major, Sir, nor yet reported by any Corp'ral, but I'm — 
 but I don't think it's fair, Sir, for a civilian to come an' 
 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 Colonel 
 testily, and when the boys had gone he read the Bazar- 
 Sergeant's son a lecture on the sin of unprofitable med- 
 dling, and gave orders that the Bandmaster should keep 
 the Drums in better discipline. 
 
 ' If either of you come to practice again with so much as 
 a scratch on your two ugly little faces,' thundered the 
 Bandmaster, 'I'll tell the Drum-Major to take the skin 
 off your backs. Understand that, you young devils.' 
 
 Then he repented of his speech for just the length of 
 time that Lew, looking like a seraph in red worsted em- 
 bellishments, took the place of one of the trumpets— in 
 hospital — and rendered the echo of a battle-piece. Lew 
 
*)8 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 certainly was a musician, and had often in his more 
 exalted moments expressed a yearning to master every in- 
 strument of the Band. 
 
 'There's nothing to prevent your becoming a Band- 
 master, Lew,' said the Bandmaster, who had composed 
 waltzes of his own, and worked day and night in the in- 
 terests 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-combatant, 
 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 as a privit. Then 
 I'll be a Lance in a year — knowin' what I know about the 
 ins and 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 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 I'm going to be a Bandmaster? Not I, quite. 
 I'll be a orf'cer too. There's nothin' like takin' to a thing 
 an' stickin' to it, the Schoolmaster says. The Reg'ment 
 don't go 'ome for another seven years. I'll be a Lance 
 then or near to.' 
 
 Thus the boys discussed their futures, and conducted 
 themselves piously for a week. That is to say, Lew 
 started a flirtation with the Colour-Sergeant's daughter, 
 aged thirteen — 'not,' as he explained to Jakin, 'with any 
 intention o' matrimony, but by way o' keepin' my 'and 
 in.' And the black-haired Cris Delighan enjoyed that 
 
THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 299 
 
 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' petti- 
 coats.' 
 
 But neither love nor virtue would have held Lew long 
 in the paths of propriety had not the rumour gone abroad 
 that the Regiment was to be sent on active service, to take 
 part in a war which, for the sake of brevity, we will call 
 'The War of the Lost Tribes.' 
 
 The barracks had the rumour 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 oi 
 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 forgotten to speak of the 
 stories written in brief upon the Colours — the New 
 Colours that had been formally blessed by an Archbishop 
 in England ere the Regiment came away. 
 
 They wanted to go to the Front — they were enthusias- 
 tically anxious to go — but they had no knowledge of what 
 war meant, and there was none to tell them. They were an 
 educated regiment, 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 recruited in 
 loyal observance of the territorial idea; but they them- 
 selves had no notion of that idea. They were made up of 
 drafts from an over-populated manufacturing district. 
 The system had put flesh and muscle upon their small 
 bones, but it could not put heart into the sons of those 
 
3oo UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 who for generations had done overmuch work for over- 
 scanty pay, had sweated in drying-rooms, stooped over 
 looms, coughed among white-lead, and shivered on lime- 
 barges. The men had found food and rest in the Army, 
 and now they were going to fight 'niggers'— people who 
 ran away if you shook a stick at them. Wherefore they 
 cheered lustily when the rumour ran, and the shrewd, 
 clerkly non-commissioned officers speculated on the 
 chances of batta and of saving their pay. At Head- 
 quarters, men said: 'The Fore and Fit have never been 
 under fire within the last generation. Let us, therefore, 
 break them in easily by setting them to guard lines of com- 
 munication.' 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 Regi- 
 ments that could fill the minor duties. ' Brigade 'em with 
 two strong Regiments,' said Headquarters. 'They may 
 be knocked about a bit, but they'll learn their business be- 
 fore they come through. Nothing like a night-alarm and 
 a little cutting-up of stragglers to make a Regiment smart 
 in the field. Wait till they've had half a dozen sentries' 
 throats cut.' 
 
 The Colonel wrote with delight that the temper of his 
 men was excellent, that the Regiment was all that could 
 be wished, and as sound as a bell. The Majors smiled 
 with a sober joy, and the subalterns waltzed in pairs down 
 the Mess-room after dinner, and nearly shot themselves 
 at 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 smok* 
 ing. 
 
 'It's more than a bloomin' toss-up they'll leave us 
 
THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 301 
 
 be'ind at the Dep6t with the women. You'll like that,' 
 said Jakin sarcastically. 
 
 "Cause o' Cris, y' mean? Wot's a woman, or a 'ole 
 bloomin' dep6t o' women, 'longside o' the 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 'im,' 
 said Lew, wriggling on the branch. 
 
 'That ain't no good neither. We ain't the sort o' char- 
 acters to presoon on our rep'tations — they're bad. If they 
 have the Band at the Dep6t we don't go, and no error 
 there. If they take the Band we may get cast for medi- 
 cal 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 
 J 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.' 
 
 'You'll do,' said Lew. 'I've 'eard o' men dying when 
 you 'it 'em fair on the breastbone.' 
 
 'Don't bring us no nearer goin', though,' said Jakin. 
 'Do you know where we're ordered?' 
 
 ' Gawdknows, 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 Door 
 
302 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 lot.' Jakin stood upright on the branch and gazed across 
 the plain. 
 
 ' Lew,' said he, ' there's the Colonel coming. 'Colonel's 
 a goodold 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 re- 
 garded he Man, but there are limits even to the audacity 
 of a 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. B. — yes, even a K. 
 C. B., for had he not at command one of the best Regi- 
 ments 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 ring- 
 leaders. This looked like an organised conspiracy. 
 
 The boys halted at twenty yards, walked to the regula- 
 tion four paces, and saluted together, each as well set-up 
 as a ramrod and little taller. 
 
 The Colonel was in a genial mood; the boys appeared 
 very forlorn and unprotected on the desolate plain, and 
 one of them was handsome. 
 
 'Well!' said the Colonel, recognising them. 'Are you 
 going to pull me down in the open? I'm sure I never in- 
 interfere with you, even though' — he sniffed suspiciously 
 ■ — 'you have been smoking.' 
 
 It was time to strike while the iron was hot. Their 
 hearts beat tumultuously. 
 
 'Beg y' pardon, Sir,' began Jakin. 'The Reg'ment's 
 ordered on active service, Sir? ' 
 
 ' So I believe,' said the Colonel courteously. 
 
 'Is the Band goin', Sir?' said both together. Then, 
 without pause, 'We're goin', Sir, ain't we? " 
 
THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 303 
 
 '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 anywheres— p'rade an' anywhere else,' said Jakin. 
 
 'If Tom Kidd goes 'e'll shut up like a clasp-knife,' said 
 Lew. ' Tom 'as very-close veins in both 'is legs, Sir. ' 
 
 'Very how much?' 
 
 'Very-close veins, Sir. That's why they swells after 
 long p'rade, Sir. If 'e can go, we can go, Sir.' 
 
 Again the Colonel looked at them long and intently. 
 
 ' Yes, the Band is going,' he said as gravely as though he 
 had been addressing a brother officer. 'Have you any 
 parents, either of you two? ' 
 
 ' No, Sir , ' rejoicingly from Lew and Jakin. ' We're both 
 orphans, Sir. There's no one to be considered of on our 
 account, Sir. ' 
 
 'You poor little sprats, and you want to go up to the 
 Front with the Regiment, do you? Why? ' 
 
 'I've wore the Queen's Uniform for two years,' said 
 Jakin. 'It's very 'ard, Sir, that a man don't get no rec- 
 ompense for doin' of '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 statefiness, and refused to hold any conversation 
 
304 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 with their comrades for at least ten minutes. Then, 
 bursting with pride, Jakin drawled: 'I've bin inter- 
 vooin' 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, if you throw your 'courtrements at me 
 for tellin' you the truth to your own advantage, your 
 legs'll 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 situation. 
 
 'I'm goin' to the Front with the Reg'ment,' he said 
 valiantly. 
 
 'Piggy, you're a little liar,' said Cris, but her heart 
 misgave her, for Lew was not in the habit of lying. 
 
 'Liar yourself, Cris,' said Lew, slipping an arm round 
 her. 'I'm goin'. When the Reg'ment marches out 
 you'll see me with 'em, all galliant and gay. Give us 
 another kiss, Cris, on the strength of it.' 
 
 'If you'd on'y a-stayed at the Depot — where you 
 ought to ha' bin — you could get as many of 'em as — as 
 you dam please,' whimpered Cris, putting up her mouth. 
 
 'It's 'ard, Cris. I grant you it's 'ard. But what's a 
 
THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 305 
 
 man to do? If I'd a-stayed at the Depdt, 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 yus, I shall though. Me an' Jakin are the only 
 acting-drummers that'll be took along. All the rest is 
 full men, an' we'll get our medals with them.' 
 
 'They might ha' taken anybody but you, Piggy. 
 You'll get killed — you're so venturesome. Stay with 
 me, Piggy, darlin', down at the Dep6t, 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 comfortable. 
 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 ic 
 my pocket so long's I'm alive.' 
 
3©6 UNDER THE DEODAR^ 
 
 Then Cris wept anew, and the interview ended. Pub- 
 lic feeling among the drummer-boys rose to fever pitch 
 and the lives of Jakin and Lew became unenviable. 
 Not only had they been permitted to enlist two years 
 before the regulation boy's age — fourteen — but, by 
 virtue, it seemed, of their extreme youth, they were 
 allowed to go to the Front— which thing had not hap- 
 pened to acting-drummers within the knowledge of 
 boy. The Band which was to accompany the Regi- 
 ment had been cut down to the regulation twenty men, 
 the surplus returning to the ranks. Jakin and Lew were 
 attached to the Band as supernumeraries, though they 
 would much have preferred being company buglers. 
 
 "Don't matter much,' said Jakin after the medical 
 inspection. 'Be thankful that we're 'lowed to go at 
 all. The Doctor 'e said that if we could stand what we 
 took from the Bazar-Sergeant's son we'd stand pretty 
 nigh 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 hundred 
 and sixty strong, and every soul in cantonments turned 
 out to see them go. The drummers gnashed their teeth 
 at Jakin and Lew marching with the Band, the married 
 women wept upon the platform, and the Regiment 
 cheered its noble self black in the face. 
 
 'A nice level lot,' said the Colonel to the Second-in- 
 Command as they watched the first four companies en- 
 training. 
 
THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 3 » ? 
 
 'Fit to do anything,' said the Second-in-Command 
 enthusiastically. 'But it seems to me they're a thought 
 too young and tender for the work in hand. It's bitter 
 cold up at the Front now.' 
 
 'They're sound enough,' said the Colonel. 'We must 
 take our chance of sick casualties.' 
 
 So they went northward, ever northward, past droves 
 and droves of camels, armies of camp-followers, and 
 legions of laden mules, the throng thickening day by 
 day, till with a shriek the train pulled up at a hopelessly 
 congested junction where six lines of temporary track 
 accommodated six forty-waggon 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,' .was 
 the message that greeted the Fore and Aft, and the oc- 
 cupants 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 admiring 
 Fore and Afts. "Tisn't so much the bloomin' fightin', 
 though there's enough o' that. It's the bloomin' food 
 an' the bloomin' climate. Frost all night 'cept when it 
 hails, and biling sun all day, and the water stinks fit 
 to knock you down. I got my 'ead chipped like a egg; 
 I've got pneumonia too, an' my guts is all out o' order. 
 'Tain't no bloomin' picnic in those parts, I can tell you.' 
 
 ' Wot are the niggers like? ' demanded a private. 
 
 'There's some prisoners in that train yonder. Go 
 an' look at 'em. They're the aristocracy o' the country. 
 The common folk are a dashed sight uglier. If you 
 want to know what they fight with, reach under my 
 seat an' pull out the long knife that's there.' 
 
308 UNDER THE^ DEODARS 
 
 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 thing to jint ye,' said the trooper 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're devils to slice.' 
 
 The men strolled across the tracks to inspect the 
 Afghan prisoners. They were unlike any 'niggers' 
 that the Fore and Aft had ever met — these huge, black- 
 haired, scowling sons of the Beni-Israel. As the men 
 stared the Afghans spat freely and muttered one to 
 another with lowered eyes. 
 
 'My eyes! Wot awful swine!' said Jakin, who was 
 in the rear of the procession. 'Say, old man, how you 
 got puckrowed, 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 Push to. 'They send 
 children against us. What a people, and what fools!' 
 
 l Hya!' said Jakin, nodding his head cheerily. 'You 
 go down-country. Khana get, peenikapanee get — live 
 like a bloomin' Raja ke marfik. That's ~a better ban- 
 dobust than baynit get it in your innards. Good-bye, 
 ole 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 'Paythans,' and more with 
 the exceeding discomfort of their own surroundings. 
 
THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 309 
 
 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 animalculse in water, and 
 developed a few cases of dysentery in their study. 
 
 At the end of their third march they were disagreea- 
 bly surprised by the arrival in their camp of a hammered 
 iron slug which, fired from a steady rest at seven hun- 
 dred 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 end. In the daytime they saw noth- 
 ing except an unpleasant 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, occasionally, 
 into opposite tents. Then they swore vehemently and 
 vowed that this was magnificent but not war. 
 
 Indeed it was not. The Regiment could not halt for 
 reprisals against the sharpshooters of the country-side. 
 Its duty was to go forward and make connection with 
 the Scotch and Gurkha troops with which it was bri- 
 gaded. 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 
 
3io UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 praying to their God in the night-watches, and whose 
 peace of mind no amount of 'sniping' could shake — 
 or with those vile Sikhs, who marched so ostentatiously 
 unprepared and who dealt out such grim reward to those 
 who tried to profit by that unpreparedness. This white 
 regiment was different — quite different. It slept like 
 a hog, and, like a hog, charged in every direction when 
 it was roused. Its sentries walked with a 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 offence against the morn- 
 ing sun. Then there were camp-followers who strag- 
 gled and could be cut up without fear. Their shrieks 
 would disturb the white boys, and the loss of their ser- 
 vices would inconvenience them sorely. 
 
 Thus, at every march, the hidden enemy became 
 bolder and the regiment writhed and twisted under 
 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 sodden canvas and a 
 glorious knifing of the men who struggled and kicked 
 below. It was a great deed, neatly carried out, and it 
 shook the already shaken nerves of the Fore and Aft. 
 All the courage that they had been required to exercise 
 up to this point was the 'two o'clock in the morning 
 courage,' and, so far, they had only succeeded in shoot- 
 ing their comrades and losing their sleep. 
 
 Sullen, discontented, cold, savage, sick, with their uni- 
 forms 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. 
 
THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 3 n 
 
 ' 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 recover in.' 
 
 The Colonel winced. ' On my honour, Sir,' he returned, 
 'there is not the least necessity to think of sparing us. 
 My men have been rather mauled and upset without a 
 fair return. They only want to go in somewhere where 
 they can see what's before them.' 
 
 ' Can't say I think much of the Fore and Fit,' said the 
 Brigadier in confidence to his Brigade-Major. ' They've 
 lost all their soldiering, and, by the trim of them, 
 might have marched through the country from the 
 other side. A more fagged-out set of men I never put 
 eyes on.' 
 
 ' Oh, they'll improve as the work goes on. The parade 
 gloss has been rubbed off a little, but they'll put on field 
 polish before long,' said the Brigade-Major. 'They've 
 been mauled, and they quite don't understand it.' 
 
 They did not. All the hitting was on one side, and it 
 was cruelly hard hitting with accessories that made them 
 sick. There was also the real sickness that laid hold of a 
 strong man and dragged him howling to the grave. 
 Worst of all, their officers knew just as little of the 
 country as the men themselves, and looked as if they did. 
 The Fore and Aft were in a thoroughly unsatisfactory 
 condition, but they believed that all would be well if they 
 could once get a fair go-in at the enemy. Pot-shots up 
 and down the valleys were unsatisfactory, and the bayo- 
 net 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 lead that would disable three 
 Englishmen. 
 
 The Fore and Aft would like some rifle-practice at the 
 
312 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 enemy — all seven hundred rifles blazing together. That 
 wish showed the mood of the men. 
 
 The Gurkhas walked into their camp, and in broken, 
 Barrack-room English strove to fraternise 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 theirfirm friends the Highlanders, and with many 
 grins confided to them : ' That dam white regiment no dam 
 use. Sulky — ugh! Dirty— ugh! Hya, any tot for 
 Johnny? ' Whereat the Highlanders smote the Gurkhas 
 as to the head, and told them not to vilify a British Regi- 
 ment, and the Gurkhas grinned cavernously, for the 
 Highlanders were their elder brothers and 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 ac- 
 cording to the rules of war and the peculiarity of the 
 Afghan temperament. The enemy were massing in in- 
 convenient strength among the hills, and the moving of 
 many green standards warned him that the tribes were 
 ' up ' in aid of the Afghan regular troops. A Squadron and 
 a half of Bengal Lancers represented the available 
 Cavalry, and two screw-guns borrowed from a column 
 thirty miles away, the Artillery at the General's disposal. 
 
 'If they stand, as I've a very strong notion that they 
 will, I fancy we shall see an infantry fight that will be 
 worth watching,' said the 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 
 
THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 313 
 
 them up,' said the Brigadier, who was an extraordinary 
 Brigadier, and did not believe in the value of a reserve 
 when dealing with Asiatics. 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 centre, left, and right upon what we 
 will call the Afghan army, then stationed towards 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 guerilla tribes in aid would 
 cover their retreat. In the event of victory these same 
 tribes would rush down and lend their weight to the rout 
 of the British. 
 
 The screw-guns were to shell the head of each Afghan 
 rush that was made in close formation, and the Cavalry, 
 held in reserve in the right valley, were to gently stimu- 
 late the break-up which would follow on the combined 
 attack. The Brigadier, sitting upon a rock overlooking 
 the valley, would watch the battle unrolled at his feet. 
 The Fore and Aft would debouch from the central gorge, 
 the Gurkhas from the left, and the Highlanders from the 
 right, for the reason that the left flank of the enemy 
 seemed as though it required the most hammering. It 
 was not every day that an Afghan force would take ground 
 in the open, and the Brigadier was resolved to make the 
 most of it. 
 
 'If we only had a few more men,' he said plaintively, 
 'we could surround the creatures and crumple 'em up 
 
514 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 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 dysentery, to recover 
 their nerve. But they were not happy, for they did 
 not know the work in hand, and had they known, would 
 not have known how to do it. Throughout those five 
 days in which old soldiers might have taught them the 
 craft of the game, they discussed together their misad- 
 ventures 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 bar- 
 racks had done nothing to make them look upon it with 
 less dread. 
 
 Very early in the dawn the bugles began to blow, and 
 the Fore and Aft, filled with a misguided enthusiasm, 
 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 regiments 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 minutes be- 
 fore the proper hour. Their Band wheeled to the right 
 
THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 315 
 
 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 unin- 
 structed view, for the lower end of the valley appeared to 
 be filled by an army in position — real and actual regi- 
 , ments attired in red coats, and—of this there was no 
 doubt — firing Martini-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 shoulder and pulling the trigger. 
 The bullets may have accounted for some of the watchers 
 on the hillside, 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 spoilt the whole show. 
 Hurry up the others, and let the screw-guns get off. ' 
 
 But the screw-guns, in working round the heights, had 
 stumbled upon a wasp's nest of a small mud fort which 
 they incontinently shelled at eight hundred yards, to the 
 huge discomfort of the occupants, who were unaccus- 
 tomed to weapons of such devilish precision. 
 
 The Fore and Aft continued to go forward but with 
 shortened stride. Where were the other regiments, and 
 why did these niggers use Martinis? They took open 
 order instinctively, lying down and firing at random, 
 rushing a few paces forward and lying down again, ac- 
 cording to the regulations. Once in this formation, each 
 man felt himself desperately alone, and edged in towards 
 his fellow for comfort's sake. 
 
316 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 Then the crack of his neighbour'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 impene- 
 trable 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 to the right 
 qrms wearied with holding the kick of the leaping Martini. 
 The Company Commanders peered helplessly through the 
 smoke, the more nervous mechanically trying to fan it 
 away with their helmets. 
 
 'High and to the left!' bawled a Captain till he was 
 hoarse. 'No good! Cease firing, and let it drift away a 
 bit.' 
 
 Three and four times the bugles shrieked the order, and 
 when it was obeyed the Fore and Aft looked that their foe 
 should be lying before them in mown swaths of men. A 
 light wind drove the smoke to leeward, and showed the 
 enemy still in position and apparently unaffected. A 
 quarter of a ton of lead had been buried a furlong in front 
 of them, as the ragged earth attested. 
 
 That was not demoralising to the Afghans, who have 
 not European nerves. They were waiting for the mad 
 riot to die down, and were firing quietly into the heart of 
 the smoke. A private of the Fore and Aft spun up his 
 company shrieking with agony, another was kicking the 
 earth and gasping, and a third, ripped through the lower 
 intestines by a jagged bullet, was calling aloud on his com- 
 rades to put him out of his pain. These were the casual- 
 ties, 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 shouting and 
 a mass — a black mass — detached itself from the main 
 body, and rolled over the ground at horrid speed. It was 
 
THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 317 
 
 composed of, perhaps, three hundred men, who would 
 shout and fire and 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 linger- 
 ing prejudice in favour of life. Where they should have 
 closed and gone forward, the Fore and Aft opened out and 
 skirmished, and where they should have opened out and 
 fired, they closed and waited. 
 
 A man dragged from his blankets half awake and unfed 
 is never in a pleasant 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 
 whose hands are yard-long knives. 
 
 The Fore and Aft heard the Gurkha bugles bringing 
 that regiment forward at the double, while the neighing 
 of the Highland pipes came from the left. They strove to 
 stay where they were, though the bayonets wavered down 
 the line like the oars of a ragged boat. Then they felt 
 body to body the amazing physical strength of their foes; 
 a shriek of pain ended the rush, and the knives fell amid 
 scenes not to be told. The men clubbed together and 
 smote blindly — as often as not at their own fellows. 
 Their front crumpled like paper, and the fifty Ghazis 
 passed on; their backers, nowdrunk with success, fighting 
 as madly as they. 
 
ji8 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 Then the rear-ranks were bidden to close up, and the 
 subalterns dashed into the stew — alone. For the rear- 
 ranks had heard the clamour in front, the yells and the 
 howls of pain, and had seen the dark stale blood that 
 makes afraid. They were not going to stay. It was the 
 rushing of the camps over again. Let their officers go to 
 Hell, if they chose; they would get away from the knives. 
 
 'Come on!' shrieked the subalterns, and their men, 
 cursing them, drew back, each closing into his neighbour 
 and wheeling round. 
 
 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 Devlin and 
 dropped, cut from the shoulder-strap to the centre of the 
 chest, and a fresh detachment of his men retreating, 
 always retreating, trampled him under foot as they made 
 for the pass whence they had emerged. 
 
 I kissed her in the kitchen, and I kissed her in the hall. 
 
 Child 'um, child'um, 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 invitation of their 
 Regimental Quick-step. The black rocks were crowned 
 with dark green spiders as the bugles gave tongue 
 jubilantly: — 
 
 In the morning! In the morning by the bright light! 
 When Gabriel blows his trumpet in the morning! 
 
 The Gurkha rear-companies tripped and blundered 
 over loose stones. The front-files halted for a moment to 
 
THE DRUMS OP THE FORE AND APT 319 
 
 take stock of the valley and to settle stray boot-laces. 
 Then a happy little sigh of contentment soughed down 
 the ranks, and it was as though the land smiled, for be- 
 hold 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 ex- 
 pectantly 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 as- 
 sisting to repulse a Ghazi rush more than half a mile away. 
 Let the white men look to their own front. 
 
 'Hi! yi!' said the Subadar-Major, who was sweating 
 profusely. 'Dam fools yonder, stand close-order! This 
 is no time for close order, it is the time for volleys. 
 Ugh!' 
 
 Horrified, amused, and indignant, the Gurkhas beheld 
 the retirement of the Fore and Aft with a running chorus 
 of oaths and commentaries. 
 
 'They run! The white men run! Colonel Sahib, may 
 we also do a little running? ' murmured Runbir Thappa, 
 the Senior Jemadar. 
 
 B ut the Colonel would have none of it. ' Let 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 — damned conscripts! 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-ranks delivered some sort of 
 
330 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 a wavering volley. The Ghazis drew off, for they did not 
 know what reserve the gorge might hide. Moreover, it 
 was never wise to chase white men too far. They re- 
 turned as wolves return to cover, satisfied with the 
 slaughter that they had done, and only stopping to slash 
 at the wounded on the ground. A quarter of a mile had 
 the Fore and Aft retreated, and now, jammed in the pass, 
 was quivering with pain, shaken and demoralised with 
 fear, while the officers, maddened beyond control, smote 
 the men with the hilts and the flats of their swords. 
 
 'Get back! Get back, you cowards — you women! 
 Right about face — column of companies, form — you 
 hounds!' shouted the Colonel, and the subalterns swore 
 aloud. But the Regiment wanted to go — to go anywhere 
 out of the range of those merciless knives. It swayed to 
 and fro irresolutely with shouts and outcries, while from 
 the right the Gurkhas dropped volley after volley of 
 cripple-stopper Snider bullets at long range into the mob 
 of the Ghazis returning to their own troops. 
 
 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, throwing him- 
 self full length on the ground. 'A bloomin' fine show for 
 British Infantry! Oh, the devils! They've gone an' left 
 us alone here ! Wot'll we do? ' 
 
THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 321 
 
 Lew took possession of a cast-off water bottle, which 
 naturally was full of canteen rum, and drank till he 
 coughed again. 
 
 'Drink,' said he shortly. 'They'll come back in a 
 minute or two — you see.' 
 
 Jakin drank, but there was no sign of the Regiment's 
 return. They could hear a dull clamour 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, fumbling 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 splendour of a sudden thought due 
 chiefly to rum. 'Tip our bloomin' cowards yonder the 
 word to come back. The Paythan beggars are well away. 
 Come on, Lew! We won't get hurt. Take the fife an' 
 give me the drum. The Old Step for all your bloomin' 
 guts are worth! There's a few of our men coming back 
 now. Stand up, ye drunken little defaulter. By your 
 right — quick march ! ' 
 
 He slipped the drum-sling over his shoulder, thrust the 
 fife into Lew's hand, and the two boys marched out of the 
 cover of the rock into the open, making a hideous hash of 
 the first bars of the 'British Grenadiers.' 
 
 As Lew had said, a few of the Fore and Aft were coming 
 back sullenly and shamefacedly under the stimulus of 
 blows and abuse; their red coats shone at the head of the 
 valley, and behind them were wavering bayonets. But 
 between this shattered line and the enemy, who with 
 Afghan suspicion feared that the hasty retreat meant an 
 
332 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 ambush, and had not moved therefore, lay half a mile of 
 a 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 pos- 
 sessed. The one fife made a thin and pitiful squeaking, 
 but the tune carried far, even to the Gurkhas. 
 
 ' Come on, you dogs ! ' muttered Jakin to himself. ' Are 
 we to play forhever? ' Lew was staring straight in front of 
 him and 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: — 
 
 Some talk of Alexander, 
 
 And some of Hercules; 
 Of Hector and Lysander, 
 
 And such great names as these I 
 
 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 1 
 
 The men of the Fore and Aft were gathering thick at 
 the entrance into the plain. The Brigadier 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 Assembly, 
 while the fife squealed despairingly. 
 
THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 323 
 
 ' Right about face ! Hold up, Lew, you're drunk,' said 
 Jakin. They wheeled and marched back : — 
 
 Those heroes of antiquity 
 Ne'er saw a cannon-ball, 
 Nor knew the force o' powder, 
 
 ' Here they come ! ' said Jakin. ' Go on, Lew ' : — 
 
 To scare their foes withal! 
 
 The Fore and Aft were pouring out of the valley. What 
 officers had said to men in that time of shame and humili- 
 ation 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 col- 
 lapsed, as the Fore and Aft came forward, the curses 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 firs. 
 
 'This,' said the Colonel of Gurkhas, softly, 'is the real 
 attack, as it should have been delivered. Come on, my 
 children.' 
 
 'Ulu-lu-lu-lu!' squealed the Gurkhas, and came down 
 with a joyful clicking of kukris — those vicious Gurkha 
 knives. 
 
 On the right there was no rush. The Highlanders, 
 cannily commending their souls to God (for it matters as 
 
J24 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 much to a dead man whether he has been shot in a Border 
 scuffle or at Waterloo), 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 aforementioned, dropped shell after 
 shell into the clusters round the flickering green standards 
 on the heights. 
 
 ' Charrging is an unfortunate necessity,' murmured the 
 Colour-Sergeant of the right company of the Highlanders. 
 ' It makes the men sweer so, but I am thinkin' that it will 
 come tc a charrge if these black devils stand much longer. 
 Stewarrt, man, you're firing into the eye of the sun, and 
 • he'll not take any harm for Government ammuneetion. 
 A foot lower and a great deal slower! What are the Eng- 
 lish doing? They're very quiet there in the centre. Run- 
 ning again? ' 
 
 The English were not running. They were hacking and 
 hewing and stabbing, for though one white man is seldom 
 physically a match for an Afghan in a sheepskin or 
 wadded coat, yet, through the pressure of many white 
 men behind, and a certain thirst for revenge in his heart, 
 he becomes capable of doing much with both ends of his 
 rifle. The Fore and Aft held their fire till one bullet could 
 drive through five or six men, and the front of the Afghan 
 force gave on the volley. They then selected their men, 
 and slew them with deep gasps and short hacking coughs, 
 and groanings of leather belts against strained bodies, and 
 realised for the first time that an Afghan attacked is far 
 less formidable than an Afghan attacking; which fact old 
 soldiers might have told them. 
 
 But they had no old soldiers in their ranks. 
 
 The Gurkhas' stall at the bazar was the noisiest, for the 
 men were engaged — to a nasty noise as of beef being cut 
 on the block — with the kukri, which they preferred to the 
 
THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 325 
 
 bayonet; well knowing 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. This 
 was unwise. The Lancers chafing in the right gorge had 
 thrice despatched their only subaltern as galloper to re- 
 port on the progress of affairs. On the third occasion he 
 returned, with a.bullet-graze on his knee, swearing strange 
 oaths in Hindustani, 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 pen- 
 nons 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 de- 
 tached the enemy from his base as a sponge is torn from a 
 ■ rock, and left him ringed about with fire in that pitiless 
 plain. And as a sponge is chased round the bath-tub by 
 the hand of the bather, so were the Afghans chased till 
 they broke into little detachments much more difficult to 
 dispose of than large masses. 
 
 ' See ! ' quoth the Brigadier. ' Everything has come as 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 he forgiven for turning Chance into 
 Design. The bucketing went forward merrily. The 
 
326 UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 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 bayonets and a wall of rock, and 
 the flash of the rifles was lighting the wadded coats. 
 
 'We cannot hold them, Captain Sahib!' panted a Res- 
 saidar of Lancers. 'Let us try the carbine. The lance is 
 good, but it wastes time.' 
 
 They tried the carbine, and still the enemy melted away 
 — fled up the hills by hundreds when there were only 
 twenty bullets to stop them. On the heights the screw- 
 guns ceased firing — they had run out of ammunition — and 
 the Brigadier groaned, for the musketry fire could not 
 sufficiently smash the retreat. Long before the last vol- 
 leys were fired, the doolies 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 Highlanders, 
 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 your- 
 
, THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 3 a 7 
 
 self enough for one day! Go and look to the wounded. 
 It's all you're fit for,' said the Colonel. Yet for the past 
 hour the Fore and Aft had been doing all that mortal com- 
 mander could expect. They had lost heavily 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 Colour-Sergeant, who had begun 
 to imagine himself a hero, offered his water bottle to a 
 Highlander, whose tongue was black with thirst. ' I drink 
 with no cowards,' answered the youngster huskily, and, 
 turning to a Gurkha, said, 'Hya, Johnny! Drink water 
 got it? ' The Gurkha grinned and passed his bottle. Th& 
 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 complimentary to them. The 
 Colonel was heart-broken, and the officers were savage 
 and sullen. 
 
 'Well,' said the Brigadier, 'they are young troops of 
 course, and it was not unnatural that they should retire in 
 disorder for a bit.' 
 
 'Oh, my only Aunt Maria!' murmured a junior Staff 
 Officer. 'Retire in disorder! It was a bally run!' 
 
 'But they came again as we all know,' cooed the Brig- 
 adier, 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 
 
3 aS UNDER THE DEODARS 
 
 dozen rifle flirtations, that will — later — run alone and 
 bite. Poor old Colonel, though.' 
 
 All that afternoon the heliograph winked and flickered 
 on the hflls, 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 cam- 
 paign,' said the Correspondent to the Brigadier, and the 
 Brigadier, nothing loth, told him how an Army of Com- 
 munication had been 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 hillside, that that battle was won by Jakin 
 and Lew, whose little bodies were borne up just in time to 
 fit two gaps at the head of the big ditch-grave for the dead 
 under the heights of Jagai. 
 
 THE END 
 
IHE COCNTBY LITE PRESS 
 •9ABDEN CITY, W. Y.