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diff --git a/2569-h/2569-h.htm b/2569-h/2569-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f667f41 --- /dev/null +++ b/2569-h/2569-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,16350 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Day’s Work, by Rudyard Kipling</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Day’s Work, by Rudyard Kipling</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Day’s Work</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Rudyard Kipling</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: March, 2001 [eBook #2569]<br /> +[Most recently updated: February 11, 2022]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: An Anonymous Project Gutenberg Volunteer and David Widger</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DAY’S WORK ***</div> + +<h1>The Day’s Work</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by Rudyard Kipling</h2> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0001">THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0002">A WALKING DELEGATE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0003">THE SHIP THAT FOUND HERSELF</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0004">THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0005">THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0006">WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_PART1">PART I</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_PART2">PART II</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0009">･007</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0010">THE MALTESE CAT</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0011">“BREAD UPON THE WATERS”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0012">AN ERROR IN THE FOURTH DIMENSION</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0013">MY SUNDAY AT HOME</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0014">THE BRUSHWOOD BOY</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<hr /> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"></a> +THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS</h2> + +<p> +The least that Findlayson, of the Public Works Department, expected was a C. I. +E.; he dreamed of a C. S. I.: indeed, his friends told him that he deserved +more. For three years he had endured heat and cold, disappointment, discomfort, +danger, and disease, with responsibility almost too heavy for one pair of +shoulders; and day by day, through that time, the great Kashi Bridge over the +Ganges had grown under his charge. Now, in less than three months, if all went +well, his Excellency the Viceroy would open the bridge in state, an archbishop +would bless it, and the first trainload of soldiers would come over it, and +there would be speeches. +</p> + +<p> +Findlayson, C. E., sat in his trolley on a construction line that ran along one +of the main revetments—the huge stone-faced banks that flared away north +and south for three miles on either side of the river—and permitted +himself to think of the end. With its approaches, his work was one mile and +three-quarters in length; a lattice-girder bridge, trussed with the Findlayson +truss, standing on seven-and-twenty brick piers. Each one of those piers was +twenty-four feet in diameter, capped with red Agra stone and sunk eighty feet +below the shifting sand of the Ganges’ bed. Above them was a railway-line +fifteen feet broad; above that, again, a cart-road of eighteen feet, flanked +with footpaths. At either end rose towers of red brick, loopholed for musketry +and pierced for big guns, and the ramp of the road was being pushed forward to +their haunches. The raw earth-ends were crawling and alive with hundreds upon +hundreds of tiny asses climbing out of the yawning borrow-pit below with +sackfuls of stuff; and the hot afternoon air was filled with the noise of +hooves, the rattle of the drivers’ sticks, and the swish and roll-down of +the dirt. The river was very low, and on the dazzling white sand between the +three centre piers stood squat cribs of railway-sleepers, filled within and +daubed without with mud, to support the last of the girders as those were +riveted up. In the little deep water left by the drought, an overhead-crane +travelled to and fro along its spile-pier, jerking sections of iron into place, +snorting and backing and grunting as an elephant grunts in the timber-yard. +Riveters by the hundred swarmed about the lattice side-work and the iron roof +of the railway-line, hung from invisible staging under the bellies of the +girders, clustered round the throats of the piers, and rode on the overhang of +the footpath-stanchions; their fire-pots and the spurts of flame that answered +each hammer-stroke showing no more than pale yellow in the sun’s glare. +East and west and north and south the construction-trains rattled and shrieked +up and down the embankments, the piled trucks of brown and white stone banging +behind them till the side-boards were unpinned, and with a roar and a grumble a +few thousand tons more material were flung out to hold the river in place. +</p> + +<p> +Findlayson, C. E., turned on his trolley and looked over the face of the +country that he had changed for seven miles around. Looked back on the humming +village of five thousand workmen; up stream and down, along the vista of spurs +and sand; across the river to the far piers, lessening in the haze; overhead to +the guard-towers—and only he knew how strong those were—and with a +sigh of contentment saw that his work was good. There stood his bridge before +him in the sunlight, lacking only a few weeks’ work on the girders of the +three middle piers—his bridge, raw and ugly as original sin, but +<i>pukka</i>—permanent—to endure when all memory of the builder, +yea, even of the splendid Findlayson truss, had perished. Practically, the +thing was done. +</p> + +<p> +Hitchcock, his assistant, cantered along the line on a little switch-tailed +Kabuli pony who through long practice could have trotted securely over a +trestle, and nodded to his chief. +</p> + +<p> +“All but,” said he, with a smile. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve been thinking about it,” the senior answered. +“Not half a bad job for two men, is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“One—and a half. Gad, what a Cooper’s Hill cub I was when I +came on the works!” Hitchcock felt very old in the crowded experiences of +the past three years, that had taught him power and responsibility. +</p> + +<p> +“You <i>were</i> rather a colt,” said Findlayson. “I wonder +how you’ll like going back to office-work when this job’s +over.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall hate it!” said the young man, and as he went on his eye +followed Findlayson’s, and he muttered, “Isn’t it damned +good?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think we’ll go up the service together,” Findlayson said +to himself. “You’re too good a youngster to waste on another man. +Cub thou wast; assistant thou art. Personal assistant, and at Simla, thou shalt +be, if any credit comes to me out of the business!” +</p> + +<p> +Indeed, the burden of the work had fallen altogether on Findlayson and his +assistant, the young man whom he had chosen because of his rawness to break to +his own needs. There were labour contractors by the half-hundred—fitters +and riveters, European, borrowed from the railway workshops, with, perhaps, +twenty white and half-caste subordinates to direct, under direction, the bevies +of workmen—but none knew better than these two, who trusted each other, +how the underlings were not to be trusted. They had been tried many times in +sudden crises—by slipping of booms, by breaking of tackle, failure of +cranes, and the wrath of the river—but no stress had brought to light any +man among men whom Findlayson and Hitchcock would have honoured by working as +remorselessly as they worked themselves. Findlayson thought it over from the +beginning: the months of office-work destroyed at a blow when the Government of +India, at the last moment, added two feet to the width of the bridge, under the +impression that bridges were cut out of paper, and so brought to ruin at least +half an acre of calculations—and Hitchcock, new to disappointment, buried +his head in his arms and wept; the heart-breaking delays over the filling of +the contracts in England; the futile correspondences hinting at great wealth of +commissions if one, only one, rather doubtful consignment were passed; the war +that followed the refusal; the careful, polite obstruction at the other end +that followed the war, till young Hitchcock, putting one month’s leave to +another month, and borrowing ten days from Findlayson, spent his poor little +savings of a year in a wild dash to London, and there, as his own tongue +asserted and the later consignments proved, put the fear of God into a man so +great that he feared only Parliament and said so till Hitchcock wrought with +him across his own dinner-table, and—he feared the Kashi Bridge and all +who spoke in its name. Then there was the cholera that came in the night to the +village by the bridge works; and after the cholera smote the smallpox. The +fever they had always with them. Hitchcock had been appointed a magistrate of +the third class with whipping powers, for the better government of the +community, and Findlayson watched him wield his powers temperately, learning +what to overlook and what to look after. It was a long, long reverie, and it +covered storm, sudden freshets, death in every manner and shape, violent and +awful rage against red tape half frenzying a mind that knows it should be busy +on other things; drought, sanitation, finance; birth, wedding, burial, and riot +in the village of twenty warring castes; argument, expostulation, persuasion, +and the blank despair that a man goes to bed upon, thankful that his rifle is +all in pieces in the gun-case. Behind everything rose the black frame of the +Kashi Bridge—plate by plate, girder by girder, span by span—and +each pier of it recalled Hitchcock, the all-round man, who had stood by his +chief without failing from the very first to this last. +</p> + +<p> +So the bridge was two men’s work—unless one counted Peroo, as Peroo +certainly counted himself. He was a Lascar, a Kharva from Bulsar, familiar with +every port between Rockhampton and London, who had risen to the rank of sarang +on the British India boats, but wearying of routine musters and clean clothes, +had thrown up the service and gone inland, where men of his calibre were sure +of employment. For his knowledge of tackle and the handling of heavy weights, +Peroo was worth almost any price he might have chosen to put upon his services; +but custom decreed the wage of the overhead men, and Peroo was not within many +silver pieces of his proper value. Neither running water nor extreme heights +made him afraid; and, as an ex-serang, he knew how to hold authority. No piece +of iron was so big or so badly placed that Peroo could not devise a tackle to +lift it—a loose-ended, sagging arrangement, rigged with a scandalous +amount of talking, but perfectly equal to the work in hand. It was Peroo who +had saved the girder of Number Seven pier from destruction when the new wire +rope jammed in the eye of the crane, and the huge plate tilted in its slings, +threatening to slide out sideways. Then the native workmen lost their heads +with great shoutings, and Hitchcock’s right arm was broken by a falling +T-plate, and he buttoned it up in his coat and swooned, and came to and +directed for four hours till Peroo, from the top of the crane, reported +“All’s well,” and the plate swung home. There was no one like +Peroo, serang, to lash, and guy, and hold to control the donkey-engines, to +hoist a fallen locomotive craftily out of the borrow-pit into which it had +tumbled; to strip, and dive, if need be, to see how the concrete blocks round +the piers stood the scouring of Mother Gunga, or to adventure up-stream on a +monsoon night and report on the state of the embankment-facings. He would +interrupt the field-councils of Findlayson and Hitchcock without fear, till his +wonderful English, or his still more wonderful <i>lingua-franca</i>, half +Portuguese and half Malay, ran out and he was forced to take string and show +the knots that he would recommend. He controlled his own gang of +tacklemen—mysterious relatives from Kutch Mandvi gathered month by month +and tried to the uttermost. No consideration of family or kin allowed Peroo to +keep weak hands or a giddy head on the pay-roll. “My honour is the honour +of this bridge,” he would say to the about-to-be-dismissed. “What +do I care for your honour? Go and work on a steamer. That is all you are fit +for.” +</p> + +<p> +The little cluster of huts where he and his gang lived centred round the +tattered dwelling of a sea-priest—one who had never set foot on black +water, but had been chosen as ghostly counsellor by two generations of +sea-rovers all unaffected by port missions or those creeds which are thrust +upon sailors by agencies along Thames bank. The priest of the Lascara had +nothing to do with their caste, or indeed with anything at all. He ate the +offerings of his church, and slept and smoked, and slept again +“for,” said Peroo, who had haled him a thousand miles inland, +“he is a very holy man. He never cares what you eat so long as you do not +eat beef, and that is good, because on land we worship Shiva, we Kharvas; but +at sea on the Kumpani’s boats we attend strictly to the orders of the +Burra Malum [the first mate], and on this bridge we observe what Finlinson +Sahib says.” +</p> + +<p> +Finlinson Sahib had that day given orders to clear the scaffolding from the +guard-tower on the right bank, and Peroo with his mates was casting loose and +lowering down the bamboo poles and planks as swiftly as ever they had whipped +the cargo out of a coaster. +</p> + +<p> +From his trolley he could hear the whistle of the serang’s silver pipe +and the creak and clatter of the pulleys. Peroo was standing on the topmost +coping of the tower, clad in the blue dungaree of his abandoned service, and as +Findlayson motioned to him to be careful, for his was no life to throw away, he +gripped the last pole, and, shading his eyes ship-fashion, answered with the +long-drawn wail of the fo’c’sle lookout: “<i>Ham dekhta +hai</i>” (“I am looking out”). Findlayson laughed and then +sighed. It was years since he had seen a steamer, and he was sick for home. As +his trolley passed under the tower, Peroo descended by a rope, ape-fashion, and +cried: “It looks well now, Sahib. Our bridge is all but done. What think +you Mother Gunga will say when the rail runs over?” +</p> + +<p> +“She has said little so far. It was never Mother Gunga that delayed +us.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is always time for her; and none the less there has been delay. +Has the Sahib forgotten last autumn’s flood, when the stoneboats were +sunk without warning—or only a half-day’s warning?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but nothing save a big flood could hurt us now. The spurs are +holding well on the west bank.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mother Gunga eats great allowances. There is always room for more stone +on the revetments. I tell this to the Chota Sahib”—he meant +Hitchcock— “and he laughs.” +</p> + +<p> +“No matter, Peroo. Another year thou wilt be able to build a bridge in +thine own fashion.” +</p> + +<p> +The Lascar grinned. “Then it will not be in this way—with stonework +sunk under water, as the <i>Quetta</i> was sunk. I like sus-suspen-sheen +bridges that fly from bank to bank, with one big step, like a gang-plank. Then +no water can hurt. When does the Lord Sahib come to open the bridge?” +</p> + +<p> +“In three months, when the weather is cooler.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ho! ho! He is like the Burra Malum. He sleeps below while the work is +being done. Then he comes upon the quarter-deck and touches with his finger, +and says: ‘This is not clean! Dam jibboonwallah!’” +</p> + +<p> +“But the Lord Sahib does not call me a dam jibboonwallah, Peroo.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Sahib; but he does not come on deck till the work is all finished. +Even the Burra Malum of the <i>Nerbudda</i> said once at +Tuticorin—” +</p> + +<p> +“Bah! Go! I am busy.” +</p> + +<p> +“I, also!” said Peroo, with an unshaken countenance. “May I +take the light dinghy now and row along the spurs?” +</p> + +<p> +“To hold them with thy hands? They are, I think, sufficiently +heavy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, Sahib. It is thus. At sea, on the Black Water, we have room to be +blown up and down without care. Here we have no room at all. Look you, we have +put the river into a dock, and run her between stone sills.” +</p> + +<p> +Findlayson smiled at the “we.” +</p> + +<p> +“We have bitted and bridled her. She is not like the sea, that can beat +against a soft beach. She is Mother Gunga—in irons.” His voice fell +a little. +</p> + +<p> +“Peroo, thou hast been up and down the world more even than I. Speak true +talk, now. How much dost thou in thy heart believe of Mother Gunga?” +</p> + +<p> +“All that our priest says. London is London, Sahib. Sydney is Sydney, and +Port Darwin is Port Darwin. Also Mother Gunga is Mother Gunga, and when I come +back to her banks I know this and worship. In London I did poojah to the big +temple by the river for the sake of the God within . . . . Yes, I will not take +the cushions in the dinghy.” +</p> + +<p> +Findlayson mounted his horse and trotted to the shed of a bungalow that he +shared with his assistant. The place had become home to him in the last three +years. He had grilled in the heat, sweated in the rains, and shivered with +fever under the rude thatch roof; the lime-wash beside the door was covered +with rough drawings and formulae, and the sentry-path trodden in the matting of +the verandah showed where he had walked alone. There is no eight-hour limit to +an engineer’s work, and the evening meal with Hitchcock was eaten booted +and spurred: over their cigars they listened to the hum of the village as the +gangs came up from the river-bed and the lights began to twinkle. +</p> + +<p> +“Peroo has gone up the spurs in your dinghy. He’s taken a couple of +nephews with him, and he’s lolling in the stern like a commodore,” +said Hitchcock. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s all right. He’s got something on his mind. +You’d think that ten years in the British India boats would have knocked +most of his religion out of him.” +</p> + +<p> +“So it has,” said Hitchcock, chuckling. “I overheard him the +other day in the middle of a most atheistical talk with that fat old +<i>guru</i> of theirs. Peroo denied the efficacy of prayer; and wanted the +<i>guru</i> to go to sea and watch a gale out with him, and see if he could +stop a monsoon.” +</p> + +<p> +“All the same, if you carried off his <i>guru</i> he’d leave us +like a shot. He was yarning away to me about praying to the dome of St. +Paul’s when he was in London.” +</p> + +<p> +“He told me that the first time he went into the engine-room of a +steamer, when he was a boy, he prayed to the low-pressure cylinder.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not half a bad thing to pray to, either. He’s propitiating his own +Gods now, and he wants to know what Mother Gunga will think of a bridge being +run across her. Who’s there?” A shadow darkened the doorway, and a +telegram was put into Hitchcock’s hand. +</p> + +<p> +“She ought to be pretty well used to it by this time. Only a <i>tar</i>. +It ought to be Ralli’s answer about the new rivets. . . . Great +Heavens!” Hitchcock jumped to his feet. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” said the senior, and took the form. +“<i>That’s</i> what Mother Gunga thinks, is it,” he said, +reading. “Keep cool, young’un. We’ve got all our work cut out +for us. Let’s see. Muir wired half an hour ago: ‘<i>Floods on the +Ramgunga. Look out</i>.’ Well, that gives us—one, two—nine +and a half for the flood to reach Melipur Ghaut and seven’s sixteen and a +half to Lataoli—say fifteen hours before it comes down to us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Curse that hill-fed sewer of a Ramgunga! Findlayson, this is two months +before anything could have been expected, and the left bank is littered up with +stuff still. Two full months before the time!” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s why it comes. I’ve only known Indian rivers for +five-and-twenty years, and I don’t pretend to understand. Here comes +another <i>tar</i>.” Findlayson opened the telegram. “Cockran, this +time, from the Ganges Canal: ‘<i>Heavy rains here. Bad.</i>’ He +might have saved the last word. Well, we don’t want to know any more. +We’ve got to work the gangs all night and clean up the river-bed. +You’ll take the east bank and work out to meet me in the middle. Get +every thing that floats below the bridge: we shall have quite enough rivercraft +coming down adrift anyhow, without letting the stone-boats ram the piers. What +have you got on the east bank that needs looking after.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pontoon—one big pontoon with the overhead crane on it. +T’other overhead crane on the mended pontoon, with the cart-road rivets +from Twenty to Twenty-three piers—two construction lines, and a +turning-spur. The pilework must take its chance,” said Hitchcock. +</p> + +<p> +“All right. Roll up everything you can lay hands on. We’ll give the +gang fifteen minutes more to eat their grub.” +</p> + +<p> +Close to the verandah stood a big night-gong, never used except for flood, or +fire in the village. Hitchcock had called for a fresh horse, and was off to his +side of the bridge when Findlayson took the cloth-bound stick and smote with +the rubbing stroke that brings out the full thunder of the metal. +</p> + +<p> +Long before the last rumble ceased every night-gong in the village had taken up +the warning. To these were added the hoarse screaming of conches in the little +temples; the throbbing of drums and tom-toms; and, from the European quarters, +where the riveters lived, McCartney’s bugle, a weapon of offence on +Sundays and festivals, brayed desperately, calling to “Stables.” +Engine after engine toiling home along the spurs at the end of her day’s +work whistled in answer till the whistles were answered from the far bank. Then +the big gong thundered thrice for a sign that it was flood and not fire; conch, +drum, and whistle echoed the call, and the village quivered to the sound of +bare feet running upon soft earth. The order in all cases was to stand by the +day’s work and wait instructions. The gangs poured by in the dusk; men +stopping to knot a loin-cloth or fasten a sandal; gang-foremen shouting to +their subordinates as they ran or paused by the tool-issue sheds for bars and +mattocks; locomotives creeping down their tracks wheel-deep in the crowd; till +the brown torrent disappeared into the dusk of the river-bed, raced over the +pilework, swarmed along the lattices, clustered by the cranes, and stood still, +each man in his place. +</p> + +<p> +Then the troubled beating of the gong carried the order to take up everything +and bear it beyond highwater mark, and the flare-lamps broke out by the hundred +between the webs of dull iron as the riveters began a night’s work, +racing against the flood that was to come. The girders of the three centre +piers—those that stood on the cribs—were all but in position. They +needed just as many rivets as could be driven into them, for the flood would +assuredly wash out their supports, and the ironwork would settle down on the +caps of stone if they were not blocked at the ends. A hundred crowbars strained +at the sleepers of the temporary line that fed the unfinished piers. It was +heaved up in lengths, loaded into trucks, and backed up the bank beyond +flood-level by the groaning locomotives. The tool-sheds on the sands melted +away before the attack of shouting armies, and with them went the stacked ranks +of Government stores, iron-bound boxes of rivets, pliers, cutters, duplicate +parts of the riveting-machines, spare pumps and chains. The big crane would be +the last to be shifted, for she was hoisting all the heavy stuff up to the main +structure of the bridge. The concrete blocks on the fleet of stone-boats were +dropped overside, where there was any depth of water, to guard the piers, and +the empty boats themselves were poled under the bridge down-stream. It was here +that Peroo’s pipe shrilled loudest, for the first stroke of the big gong +had brought the dinghy back at racing speed, and Peroo and his people were +stripped to the waist, working for the honour and credit which are better than +life. +</p> + +<p> +“I knew she would speak,” he cried. “<i>I</i> knew, but the +telegraph gives us good warning. O sons of unthinkable begetting—children +of unspeakable shame—are we here for the look of the thing?” It was +two feet of wire-rope frayed at the ends, and it did wonders as Peroo leaped +from gunnel to gunnel, shouting the language of the sea. +</p> + +<p> +Findlayson was more troubled for the stone-boats than anything else. McCartney, +with his gangs, was blocking up the ends of the three doubtful spans, but boats +adrift, if the flood chanced to be a high one, might endanger the girders; and +there was a very fleet in the shrunken channel. +</p> + +<p> +“Get them behind the swell of the guard-tower,” he shouted down to +Peroo. “It will be dead-water there. Get them below the bridge.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Accha!</i> [Very good.] <i>I</i> know; we are mooring them with +wire-rope,” was the answer. “Heh! Listen to the Chota Sahib. He is +working hard.” +</p> + +<p> +From across the river came an almost continuous whistling of locomotives, +backed by the rumble of stone. Hitchcock at the last minute was spending a few +hundred more trucks of Tarakee stone in reinforcing his spurs and embankments. +</p> + +<p> +“The bridge challenges Mother Gunga,” said Peroo, with a laugh. +“But when <i>she</i> talks I know whose voice will be the loudest.” +</p> + +<p> +For hours the naked men worked, screaming and shouting under the lights. It was +a hot, moonless night; the end of it was darkened by clouds and a sudden squall +that made Findlayson very grave. +</p> + +<p> +“She moves!” said Peroo, just before the dawn. “Mother Gunga +is awake! Hear!” He dipped his hand over the side of a boat and the +current mumbled on it. A little wave hit the side of a pier with a crisp slap. +</p> + +<p> +“Six hours before her time,” said Findlayson, mopping his forehead +savagely. “Now we can’t depend on anything. We’d better clear +all hands out of the river-bed.” +</p> + +<p> +Again the big gong beat, and a second time there was the rushing of naked feet +on earth and ringing iron; the clatter of tools ceased. In the silence, men +heard the dry yawn of water crawling over thirsty sand. +</p> + +<p> +Foreman after foreman shouted to Findlayson, who had posted himself by the +guard-tower, that his section of the river-bed had been cleaned out, and when +the last voice dropped Findlayson hurried over the bridge till the iron plating +of the permanent way gave place to the temporary plank-walk over the three +centre piers, and there he met Hitchcock. +</p> + +<p> +“All clear your side?” said Findlayson. The whisper rang in the box +of latticework. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, and the east channel’s filling now. We’re utterly out +of our reckoning. When is this thing down on us?” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s no saying. She’s filling as fast as she can. +Look!” Findlayson pointed to the planks below his feet, where the sand, +burned and defiled by months of work, was beginning to whisper and fizz. +</p> + +<p> +“What orders?” said Hitchcock. +</p> + +<p> +“Call the roll—count stores—sit on your hunkers—and +pray for the bridge. That’s all I can think of. Good night. Don’t +risk your life trying to fish out anything that may go down-stream.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I’ll be as prudent as you are! ’Night. Heavens, how +she’s filling! Here’s the rain in earnest!” Findlayson picked +his way back to his bank, sweeping the last of McCartney’s riveters +before him. The gangs had spread themselves along the embankments, regardless +of the cold rain of the dawn, and there they waited for the flood. Only Peroo +kept his men together behind the swell of the guard-tower, where the +stone-boats lay tied fore and aft with hawsers, wire-rope, and chains. +</p> + +<p> +A shrill wail ran along the line, growing to a yell, half fear and half wonder: +the face of the river whitened from bank to bank between the stone facings, and +the faraway spurs went out in spouts of foam. Mother Gunga had come bank-high +in haste, and a wall of chocolate-coloured water was her messenger. There was a +shriek above the roar of the water, the complaint of the spans coming down on +their blocks as the cribs were whirled out from under their bellies. The +stone-boats groaned and ground each other in the eddy that swung round the +abutment, and their clumsy masts rose higher and higher against the dim +sky-line. +</p> + +<p> +“Before she was shut between these walls we knew what she would do. Now +she is thus cramped God only knows what she will do!” said Peroo, +watching the furious turmoil round the guard-tower. “Ohé! Fight, then! +Fight hard, for it is thus that a woman wears herself out.” +</p> + +<p> +But Mother Gunga would not fight as Peroo desired. After the first down-stream +plunge there came no more walls of water, but the river lifted herself bodily, +as a snake when she drinks in midsummer, plucking and fingering along the +revetments, and banking up behind the piers till even Findlayson began to +recalculate the strength of his work. +</p> + +<p> +When day came the village gasped. “Only last night,” men said, +turning to each other, “it was as a town in the river-bed! Look +now!” +</p> + +<p> +And they looked and wondered afresh at the deep water, the racing water that +licked the throat of the piers. The farther bank was veiled by rain, into which +the bridge ran out and vanished; the spurs up-stream were marked by no more +than eddies and spoutings, and down-stream the pent river, once freed of her +guide-lines, had spread like a sea to the horizon. Then hurried by, rolling in +the water, dead men and oxen together, with here and there a patch of thatched +roof that melted when it touched a pier. +</p> + +<p> +“Big flood,” said Peroo, and Findlayson nodded. It was as big a +flood as he had any wish to watch. His bridge would stand what was upon her +now, but not very much more, and if by any of a thousand chances there happened +to be a weakness in the embankments, Mother Gunga would carry his honour to the +sea with the other raffle. Worst of all, there was nothing to do except to sit +still; and Findlayson sat still under his macintosh till his helmet became pulp +on his head, and his boots were over-ankle in mire. He took no count of time, +for the river was marking the hours, inch by inch and foot by foot, along the +embankment, and he listened, numb and hungry, to the straining of the +stone-boats, the hollow thunder under the piers, and the hundred noises that +make the full note of a flood. Once a dripping servant brought him food, but he +could not eat; and once he thought that he heard a faint toot from a locomotive +across the river, and then he smiled. The bridge’s failure would hurt his +assistant not a little, but Hitchcock was a young man with his big work yet to +do. For himself the crash meant everything—everything that made a hard +life worth the living. They would say, the men of his own profession. . . he +remembered the half pitying things that he himself had said when +Lockhart’s new waterworks burst and broke down in brickheaps and sludge, +and Lockhart’s spirit broke in him and he died. He remembered what he +himself had said when the Sumao Bridge went out in the big cyclone by the sea; +and most he remembered poor Hartopp’s face three weeks later, when the +shame had marked it. His bridge was twice the size of Hartopp’s, and it +carried the Findlayson truss as well as the new pier-shoe—the Findlayson +bolted shoe. There were no excuses in his service. Government might listen, +perhaps, but his own kind would judge him by his bridge, as that stood or fell. +He went over it in his head, plate by plate, span by span, brick by brick, pier +by pier, remembering, comparing, estimating, and recalculating, lest there +should be any mistake; and through the long hours and through the flights of +formulae that danced and wheeled before him a cold fear would come to pinch his +heart. His side of the sum was beyond question; but what man knew Mother +Gunga’s arithmetic? Even as he was making all sure by the +multiplication-table, the river might be scooping a pot-hole to the very bottom +of any one of those eighty-foot piers that carried his reputation. Again a +servant came to him with food, but his mouth was dry, and he could only drink +and return to the decimals in his brain. And the river was still rising. Peroo, +in a mat shelter-coat, crouched at his feet, watching now his face and now the +face of the river, but saying nothing. +</p> + +<p> +At last the Lascar rose and floundered through the mud towards the village, but +he was careful to leave an ally to watch the boats. +</p> + +<p> +Presently he returned, most irreverently driving before him the priest of his +creed—a fat old man, with a grey beard that whipped the wind with the wet +cloth that blew over his shoulder. Never was seen so lamentable a <i>guru</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“What good are offerings and little kerosene lamps and dry grain,” +shouted Peroo, “if squatting in the mud is all that thou canst do? Thou +hast dealt long with the Gods when they were contented and well-wishing. Now +they are angry. Speak to them!” +</p> + +<p> +“What is a man against the wrath of Gods?” whined the priest, +cowering as the wind took him. “Let me go to the temple, and I will pray +there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Son of a pig, pray <i>here!</i> Is there no return for salt fish and +curry powder and dried onions? Call aloud! Tell Mother Gunga we have had +enough. Bid her be still for the night. I cannot pray, but I have been serving +in the Kumpani’s boats, and when men did not obey my orders +I—” A flourish of the wire-rope colt rounded the sentence, and the +priest, breaking free from his disciple, fled to the village. +</p> + +<p> +“Fat pig!” said Peroo. “After all that we have done for him! +When the flood is down I will see to it that we get a new <i>guru</i>. +Finlinson Sahib, it darkens for night now, and since yesterday nothing has been +eaten. Be wise, Sahib. No man can endure watching and great thinking on an +empty belly. Lie down, Sahib. The river will do what the river will do.” +</p> + +<p> +“The bridge is mine; I cannot leave it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wilt thou hold it up with thy hands, then?” said Peroo, laughing. +“I was troubled for my boats and sheers <i>before</i> the flood came. Now +we are in the hands of the Gods. The Sahib will not eat and lie down? Take +these, then. They are meat and good toddy together, and they kill all +weariness, besides the fever that follows the rain. I have eaten nothing else +to-day at all.” +</p> + +<p> +He took a small tin tobacco-box from his sodden waistbelt and thrust it into +Findlayson’s hand, saying, “Nay, do not be afraid. It is no more +than opium—clean Malwa opium!” +</p> + +<p> +Findlayson shook two or three of the dark-brown pellets into his hand, and +hardly knowing what he did, swallowed them. The stuff was at least a good guard +against fever—the fever that was creeping upon him out of the wet +mud—and he had seen what Peroo could do in the stewing mists of autumn on +the strength of a dose from the tin box. +</p> + +<p> +Peroo nodded with bright eyes. “In a little—in a little the Sahib +will find that he thinks well again. I too will—” He dived into his +treasure-box, resettled the rain-coat over his head, and squatted down to watch +the boats. It was too dark now to see beyond the first pier, and the night +seemed to have given the river new strength. Findlayson stood with his chin on +his chest, thinking. There was one point about one of the piers—the +seventh—that he had not fully settled in his mind. The figures would not +shape themselves to the eye except one by one and at enormous intervals of +time. There was a sound rich and mellow in his ears like the deepest note of a +double-bass—an entrancing sound upon which he pondered for several hours, +as it seemed. Then Peroo was at his elbow, shouting that a wire hawser had +snapped and the stone-boats were loose. Findlayson saw the fleet open and swing +out fanwise to a long-drawn shriek of wire straining across gunnels. +</p> + +<p> +“A tree hit them. They will all go,” cried Peroo. “The main +hawser has parted. What does the Sahib do?” +</p> + +<p> +An immensely complex plan had suddenly flashed into Findlayson’s mind. He +saw the ropes running from boat to boat in straight lines and angles—each +rope a line of white fire. But there was one rope which was the master rope. He +could see that rope. If he could pull it once, it was absolutely and +mathematically certain that the disordered fleet would reassemble itself in the +backwater behind the guard-tower. But why, he wondered, was Peroo clinging so +desperately to his waist as he hastened down the bank? It was necessary to put +the Lascar aside, gently and slowly, because it was necessary to save the +boats, and, further, to demonstrate the extreme ease of the problem that looked +so difficult. And then—but it was of no conceivable importance—a +wirerope raced through his hand, burning it, the high bank disappeared, and +with it all the slowly dispersing factors of the problem. He was sitting in the +rainy darkness—sitting in a boat that spun like a top, and Peroo was +standing over him. +</p> + +<p> +“I had forgotten,” said the Lascar, slowly, “that to those +fasting and unused, the opium is worse than any wine. Those who die in Gunga go +to the Gods. Still, I have no desire to present myself before such great ones. +Can the Sahib swim?” +</p> + +<p> +“What need? He can fly—fly as swiftly as the wind,” was the +thick answer. +</p> + +<p> +“He is mad!” muttered Peroo, under his breath. “And he threw +me aside like a bundle of dung-cakes. Well, he will not know his death. The +boat cannot live an hour here even if she strike nothing. It is not good to +look at death with a clear eye.” +</p> + +<p> +He refreshed himself again from the tin box, squatted down in the bows of the +reeling, pegged, and stitched craft, staring through the mist at the nothing +that was there. A warm drowsiness crept over Findlayson, the Chief Engineer, +whose duty was with his bridge. The heavy raindrops struck him with a thousand +tingling little thrills, and the weight of all time since time was made hung +heavy on his eyelids. He thought and perceived that he was perfectly secure, +for the water was so solid that a man could surely step out upon it, and, +standing still with his legs apart to keep his balance—this was the most +important point—would be borne with great and easy speed to the shore. +But yet a better plan came to him. It needed only an exertion of will for the +soul to hurl the body ashore as wind drives paper, to waft it kite-fashion to +the bank. Thereafter—the boat spun dizzily—suppose the high wind +got under the freed body? Would it tower up like a kite and pitch headlong on +the far-away sands, or would it duck about, beyond control, through all +eternity? Findlayson gripped the gunnel to anchor himself, for it seemed that +he was on the edge of taking the flight before he had settled all his plans. +Opium has more effect on the white man than the black. Peroo was only +comfortably indifferent to accidents. “She cannot live,” he +grunted. “Her seams open already. If she were even a dinghy with oars we +could have ridden it out; but a box with holes is no good. Finlinson Sahib, she +fills.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Accha!</i> I am going away. Come thou also.” +</p> + +<p> +In his mind, Findlayson had already escaped from the boat, and was circling +high in air to find a rest for the sole of his foot. His body—he was +really sorry for its gross helplessness—lay in the stern, the water +rushing about its knees. +</p> + +<p> +“How very ridiculous!” he said to himself, from his +eyrie—“that is Findlayson—chief of the Kashi Bridge. The poor +beast is going to be drowned, too. Drowned when it’s close to shore. +I’m—I’m onshore already. Why doesn’t it come +along.” +</p> + +<p> +To his intense disgust, he found his soul back in his body again, and that body +spluttering and choking in deep water. The pain of the reunion was atrocious, +but it was necessary, also, to fight for the body. He was conscious of grasping +wildly at wet sand, and striding prodigiously, as one strides in a dream, to +keep foothold in the swirling water, till at last he hauled himself clear of +the hold of the river, and dropped, panting, on wet earth. +</p> + +<p> +“Not this night,” said Peroo, in his ear. “The Gods have +protected us.” The Lascar moved his feet cautiously, and they rustled +among dried stumps. “This is some island of last year’s +indigo-crop,” he went on. “We shall find no men here; but have +great care, Sahib; all the snakes of a hundred miles have been flooded out. +Here comes the lightning, on the heels of the wind. Now we shall be able to +look; but walk carefully.” +</p> + +<p> +Findlayson was far and far beyond any fear of snakes, or indeed any merely +human emotion. He saw, after he had rubbed the water from his eyes, with an +immense clearness, and trod, so it seemed to himself, with world-encompassing +strides. Somewhere in the night of time he had built a bridge—a bridge +that spanned illimitable levels of shining seas; but the Deluge had swept it +away, leaving this one island under heaven for Findlayson and his companion, +sole survivors of the breed of Man. +</p> + +<p> +An incessant lightning, forked and blue, showed all that there was to be seen +on the little patch in the flood—a clump of thorn, a clump of swaying +creaking bamboos, and a grey gnarled peepul overshadowing a Hindoo shrine, from +whose dome floated a tattered red flag. The holy man whose summer resting-place +it was had long since abandoned it, and the weather had broken the red-daubed +image of his god. The two men stumbled, heavy limbed and heavy-eyed, over the +ashes of a brick-set cooking-place, and dropped down under the shelter of the +branches, while the rain and river roared together. +</p> + +<p> +The stumps of the indigo crackled, and there was a smell of cattle, as a huge +and dripping Brahminee bull shouldered his way under the tree. The flashes +revealed the trident mark of Shiva on his flank, the insolence of head and +hump, the luminous stag-like eyes, the brow crowned with a wreath of sodden +marigold blooms, and the silky dewlap that almost swept the ground. There was a +noise behind him of other beasts coming up from the floodline through the +thicket, a sound of heavy feet and deep breathing. +</p> + +<p> +“Here be more beside ourselves,” said Findlayson, his head against +the tree-pole, looking through half-shut eyes, wholly at ease. +</p> + +<p> +“Truly,” said Peroo, thickly, “and no small ones.” +</p> + +<p> +“What are they, then? I do not see clearly.” +</p> + +<p> +“The Gods. Who else? Look!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, true! The Gods surely—the Gods.” Findlayson smiled as +his head fell forward on his chest. Peroo was eminently right. After the Flood, +who should be alive in the land except the Gods that made it—the Gods to +whom his village prayed nightly—the Gods who were in all men’s +mouths and about all men’s ways. He could not raise his head or stir a +finger for the trance that held him, and Peroo was smiling vacantly at the +lightning. +</p> + +<p> +The Bull paused by the shrine, his head lowered to the damp earth. A green +Parrot in the branches preened his wet wings and screamed against the thunder +as the circle under the tree filled with the shifting shadows of beasts. There +was a black Buck at the Bull’s heels—such a Buck as Findlayson in +his far-away life upon earth might have seen in dreams—a Buck with a +royal head, ebon back, silver belly, and gleaming straight horns. Beside him, +her head bowed to the ground, the green eyes burning under the heavy brows, +with restless tail switching the dead grass, paced a Tigress, full-bellied and +deep-jowled. +</p> + +<p> +The Bull crouched beside the shrine, and there leaped from the darkness a +monstrous grey Ape, who seated himself man-wise in the place of the fallen +image, and the rain spilled like jewels from the hair of his neck and +shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +Other shadows came and went behind the circle, among them a drunken Man +flourishing staff and drinking-bottle. Then a hoarse bellow broke out from near +the ground. “The flood lessens even now,” it cried. “Hour by +hour the water falls, and their bridge still stands!” +</p> + +<p> +“My bridge,” said Findlayson to himself. “That must be very +old work now. What have the Gods to do with my bridge?” +</p> + +<p> +His eyes rolled in the darkness following the roar. A Mugger—the +blunt-nosed, ford-haunting Mugger of the Ganges—draggled herself before +the beasts, lashing furiously to right and left with her tail. +</p> + +<p> +“They have made it too strong for me. In all this night I have only torn +away a handful of planks. The walls stand. The towers stand. They have chained +my flood, and the river is not free any more. Heavenly Ones, take this yoke +away! Give me clear water between bank and bank! It is I, Mother Gunga, that +speak. The Justice of the Gods! Deal me the Justice of the Gods!” +</p> + +<p> +“What said I?” whispered Peroo. “This is in truth a Punchayet +of the Gods. Now we know that all the world is dead, save you and I, +Sahib.” +</p> + +<p> +The Parrot screamed and fluttered again, and the Tigress, her ears flat to her +head, snarled wickedly. +</p> + +<p> +Somewhere in the shadow, a great trunk and gleaming tusks swayed to and fro, +and a low gurgle broke the silence that followed on the snarl. +</p> + +<p> +“We be here,” said a deep voice, “the Great Ones. One only +and very many. Shiv, my father, is here, with Indra. Kali has spoken already. +Hanuman listens also.” +</p> + +<p> +“Kashi is without her Kotwal tonight,” shouted the Man with the +drinking-bottle, flinging his staff to the ground, while the island rang to the +baying of hounds. “Give her the Justice of the Gods.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ye were still when they polluted my waters,” the great Crocodile +bellowed. “Ye made no sign when my river was trapped between the walls. I +had no help save my own strength, and that failed—the strength of Mother +Gunga failed—before their guard-towers. What could I do? I have done +everything. Finish now, Heavenly Ones!” +</p> + +<p> +“I brought the death; I rode the spotted sickness from hut to hut of +their workmen, and yet they would not cease.” A nose-slitten, hide-worn +Ass, lame, scissor-legged, and galled, limped forward. “I cast the death +at them out of my nostrils, but they would not cease.” +</p> + +<p> +Peroo would have moved, but the opium lay heavy upon him. +</p> + +<p> +“Bah!” he said, spitting. “Here is Sitala herself; +Mata—the smallpox. Has the Sahib a handkerchief to put over his +face?” +</p> + +<p> +“Little help! They fed me the corpses for a month, and I flung them out +on my sand-bars, but their work went forward. Demons they are, and sons of +demons! And ye left Mother Gunga alone for their fire-carriage to make a mock +of. The Justice of the Gods on the bridge-builders!” +</p> + +<p> +The Bull turned the cud in his mouth and answered slowly: “If the Justice +of the Gods caught all who made a mock of holy things there would be many dark +altars in the land, mother.” +</p> + +<p> +“But this goes beyond a mock,” said the Tigress, darting forward a +griping paw. “Thou knowest, Shiv, and ye, too, Heavenly Ones; ye know +that they have defiled Gunga. Surely they must come to the Destroyer. Let Indra +judge.” +</p> + +<p> +The Buck made no movement as he answered: “How long has this evil +been?” +</p> + +<p> +“Three years, as men count years,” said the Mugger, close pressed +to the earth. +</p> + +<p> +“Does Mother Gunga die, then, in a year, that she is so anxious to see +vengeance now? The deep sea was where she runs but yesterday, and tomorrow the +sea shall cover her again as the Gods count that which men call time. Can any +say that this their bridge endures till tomorrow?” said the Buck. +</p> + +<p> +There was along hush, and in the clearing of the storm the full moon stood up +above the dripping trees. +</p> + +<p> +“Judge ye, then,” said the River, sullenly. “I have spoken my +shame. The flood falls still. I can do no more.” +</p> + +<p> +“For my own part”—it was the voice of the great Ape seated +within the shrine—“it pleases me well to watch these men, +remembering that I also builded no small bridge in the world’s +youth.” +</p> + +<p> +“They say, too,” snarled the Tiger, “that these men came of +the wreck of thy armies, Hanuman, and therefore thou hast aided—” +</p> + +<p> +“They toil as my armies toiled in Lanka, and they believe that their toil +endures. Indra is too high, but Shiv, thou knowest how the land is threaded +with their fire-carriages.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yea, I know,” said the Bull. “Their Gods instructed them in +the matter.” +</p> + +<p> +A laugh ran round the circle. +</p> + +<p> +“Their Gods! What should their Gods know? They were born yesterday, and +those that made them are scarcely yet cold,” said the Mugger, +“tomorrow their Gods will die.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ho!” said Peroo. “Mother Gunga talks good talk. I told that +to the padre-sahib who preached on the <i>Mombassa</i>, and he asked the Burra +Malum to put me in irons for a great rudeness.” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely they make these things to please their Gods,” said the Bull +again. +</p> + +<p> +“Not altogether,” the Elephant rolled forth. “It is for the +profit of my mahajuns —my fat money-lenders that worship me at each new +year, when they draw my image at the head of the account-books. I, looking over +their shoulders by lamplight, see that the names in the books are those of men +in far places—for all the towns are drawn together by the fire-carriage, +and the money comes and goes swiftly, and the account-books grow as fat as +myself. And I, who am Ganesh of Good Luck, I bless my peoples.” +</p> + +<p> +“They have changed the face of the land-which is my land. They have +killed and made new towns on my banks,” said the Mugger. +</p> + +<p> +“It is but the shifting of a little dirt. Let the dirt dig in the dirt if +it pleases the dirt,” answered the Elephant. +</p> + +<p> +“But afterwards?” said the Tiger. “Afterwards they will see +that Mother Gunga can avenge no insult, and they fall away from her first, and +later from us all, one by one. In the end, Ganesh, we are left with naked +altars.” +</p> + +<p> +The drunken Man staggered to his feet, and hiccupped vehemently. +</p> + +<p> +“Kali lies. My sister lies. Also this my stick is the Kotwal of Kashi, +and he keeps tally of my pilgrims. When the time comes to worship +Bhairon—and it is always time—the fire-carriages move one by one, +and each bears a thousand pilgrims. They do not come afoot any more, but +rolling upon wheels, and my honour is increased.” +</p> + +<p> +“Gunga, I have seen thy bed at Pryag black with the pilgrims,” said +the Ape, leaning forward, “and but for the fire-carriage they would have +come slowly and in fewer numbers. Remember.” +</p> + +<p> +“They come to me always,” Bhairon went on thickly. “By day +and night they pray to me, all the Common People in the fields and the roads. +Who is like Bhairon today? What talk is this of changing faiths? Is my staff +Kotwal of Kashi for nothing? He keeps the tally, and he says that never were so +many altars as today, and the fire carriage serves them well. Bhairon am +I—Bhairon of the Common People, and the chiefest of the Heavenly Ones +today. Also my staff says—” +</p> + +<p> +“Peace, thou!” lowed the Bull. “The worship of the schools is +mine, and they talk very wisely, asking whether I be one or many, as is the +delight of my people, and ye know what I am. Kali, my wife, thou knowest +also.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yea, I know,” said the Tigress, with lowered head. +</p> + +<p> +“Greater am I than Gunga also. For ye know who moved the minds of men +that they should count Gunga holy among the rivers. Who die in that +water—ye know how men say—come to us without punishment, and Gunga +knows that the fire-carriage has borne to her scores upon scores of such +anxious ones; and Kali knows that she has held her chiefest festivals among the +pilgrimages that are fed by the fire-carriage. Who smote at Pooree, under the +Image there, her thousands in a day and a night, and bound the sickness to the +wheels of the fire-carriages, so that it ran from one end of the land to the +other? Who but Kali? Before the fire-carriage came it was a heavy toil. The +fire-carriages have served thee well, Mother of Death. But I speak for mine own +altars, who am not Bhairon of the Common Folk, but Shiv. Men go to and fro, +making words and telling talk of strange Gods, and I listen. Faith follows +faith among my people in the schools, and I have no anger; for when all words +are said, and the new talk is ended, to Shiv men return at the last.” +</p> + +<p> +“True. It is true,” murmured Hanuman. “To Shiv and to the +others, mother, they return. I creep from temple to temple in the North, where +they worship one God and His Prophet; and presently my image is alone within +their shrines.” +</p> + +<p> +“Small thanks,” said the Buck, turning his head slowly. “I am +that One and His Prophet also.” +</p> + +<p> +“Even so, father,” said Hanuman. “And to the South I go who +am the oldest of the Gods as men know the Gods, and presently I touch the +shrines of the new faith and the Woman whom we know is hewn twelve-armed, and +still they call her Mary.” +</p> + +<p> +“Small thanks, brother,” said the Tigress. “I am that +Woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Even so, sister; and I go West among the fire-carriages, and stand +before the bridge-builders in many shapes, and because of me they change their +faiths and are very wise. Ho! ho! I am the builder of bridges, +indeed—bridges between this and that, and each bridge leads surely to Us +in the end. Be content, Gunga. +</p> + +<p> +“Neither these men nor those that follow them mock thee at all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Am I alone, then, Heavenly Ones? Shall I smooth out my flood lest +unhappily I bear away their walls? Will Indra dry my springs in the hills and +make me crawl humbly between their wharfs? Shall I bury me in the sand ere I +offend?” +</p> + +<p> +“And all for the sake of a little iron bar with the fire-carriage atop. +Truly, Mother Gunga is always young!” said Ganesh the Elephant. “A +child had not spoken more foolishly. Let the dirt dig in the dirt ere it return +to the dirt. I know only that my people grow rich and praise me. Shiv has said +that the men of the schools do not forget; Bhairon is content for his crowd of +the Common People; and Hanuman laughs.” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely I laugh,” said the Ape. “My altars are few beside +those of Ganesh or Bhairon, but the fire-carriages bring me new worshippers +from beyond the Black Water—the men who believe that their God is toil. I +run before them beckoning, and they follow Hanuman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Give them the toil that they desire, then,” said the River. +“Make a bar across my flood and throw the water back upon the bridge. +Once thou wast strong in Lanka, Hanuman. Stoop and lift my bed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who gives life can take life.” The Ape scratched in the mud with a +long forefinger. “And yet, who would profit by the killing? Very many +would die.” +</p> + +<p> +There came up from the water a snatch of a love-song such as the boys sing when +they watch their cattle in the noon heats of late spring. The Parrot screamed +joyously, sidling along his branch with lowered head as the song grew louder, +and in a patch of clear moonlight stood revealed the young herd, the darling of +the Gopis, the idol of dreaming maids and of mothers ere their children are +born—Krishna the Well-beloved. He stooped to knot up his long wet hair, +and the parrot fluttered to his shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“Fleeting and singing, and singing and fleeting,” hiccupped +Bhairon. “Those make thee late for the council, brother.” +</p> + +<p> +“And then?” said Krishna, with a laugh, throwing back his head. +“Ye can do little without me or Karma here.” He fondled the +Parrot’s plumage and laughed again. “What is this sitting and +talking together? I heard Mother Gunga roaring in the dark, and so came quickly +from a hut where I lay warm. And what have ye done to Karma, that he is so wet +and silent? And what does Mother Gunga here? Are the heavens full that ye must +come paddling in the mud beast-wise? Karma, what do they do?” +</p> + +<p> +“Gunga has prayed for a vengeance on the bridgebuilders, and Kali is with +her. Now she bids Hanuman whelm the bridge, that her honour may be made +great,” cried the Parrot. “I waited here, knowing that thou wouldst +come, O my master!” +</p> + +<p> +“And the Heavenly Ones said nothing? Did Gunga and the Mother of Sorrows +out-talk them? Did none speak for my people?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay,” said Ganesh, moving uneasily from foot to foot; “I +said it was but dirt at play, and why should we stamp it flat?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was content to let them toil—well content,” said Hanuman. +</p> + +<p> +“What had I to do with Gunga’s anger?” said the Bull. +</p> + +<p> +“I am Bhairon of the Common Folk, and this my staff is Kotwal of all +Kashi. I spoke for the Common People.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thou?” The young God’s eyes sparkled. +</p> + +<p> +“Am I not the first of the Gods in their mouths today?” returned +Bhairon, unabashed. “For the sake of the Common People I said very many +wise things which I have now forgotten, but this my staff—” +</p> + +<p> +Krishna turned impatiently, saw the Mugger at his feet, and kneeling, slipped +an arm round the cold neck. “Mother,” he said gently, “get +thee to thy flood again. This matter is not for thee. What harm shall thy +honour take of this live dirt? Thou hast given them their fields new year after +year, and by thy flood they are made strong. They come all to thee at the last. +What need to slay them now? Have pity, mother, for a little and it is only for +a little.” +</p> + +<p> +“If it be only for a little—” the slow beast began. +</p> + +<p> +“Are they Gods, then?” Krishna, returned with a laugh, his eyes +looking into the dull eyes of the River. “Be certain that it is only for +a little. The Heavenly Ones have heard thee, and presently justice will be +done. Go now, mother, to the flood again. Men and cattle are thick on the +waters—the banks fall—the villages melt because of thee.” +</p> + +<p> +“But the bridge—the bridge stands.” The Mugger turned +grunting into the undergrowth as Krishna rose. +</p> + +<p> +“It is ended,” said the Tigress, viciously. “There is no more +justice from the Heavenly Ones. Ye have made shame and sport of Gunga, who +asked no more than a few score lives.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of <i>my</i> people—who lie under the leaf-roofs of the village +yonder—of the young girls, and the young men who sing to them in the dark +of the child that will be born next morn—of that which was begotten +tonight,” said Krishna. “And when all is done, what profit? +Tomorrow sees them at work. Ay, if ye swept the bridge out from end to end they +would begin anew. Hear me! Bhairon is drunk always. Hanuman mocks his people +with new riddles.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, but they are very old ones,” the Ape said, laughing. +</p> + +<p> +“Shiv hears the talk of the schools and the dreams of the holy men; +Ganesh thinks only of his fat traders; but I—I live with these my people, +asking for no gifts, and so receiving them hourly.” +</p> + +<p> +“And very tender art thou of thy people,” said the Tigress. +</p> + +<p> +“They are my own. The old women dream of me turning in their sleep; the +maids look and listen for me when they go to fill their lotahs by the river. I +walk by the young men waiting without the gates at dusk, and I call over my +shoulder to the whitebeards. Ye know, Heavenly Ones, that I alone of us all +walk upon the earth continually, and have no pleasure in our heavens so long as +a green blade springs here, or there are two voices at twilight in the standing +crops. Wise are ye, but ye live far off, forgetting whence ye came. So do I not +forget. And the fire-carriage feeds your shrines, ye say? And the +fire-carriages bring a thousand pilgrims where but ten came in the old years? +True. That is true, today.” +</p> + +<p> +“But tomorrow they are dead, brother,” said Ganesh. +</p> + +<p> +“Peace!” said the Bull, as Hanuman leaned forward again. “And +tomorrow, beloved—what of tomorrow?” +</p> + +<p> +“This only. A new word creeping from mouth to mouth among the Common +Folk—a word that neither man nor God can lay hold of—an evil +word—a little lazy word among the Common Folk, saying (and none know who +set that word afoot) that they weary of ye, Heavenly Ones.” +</p> + +<p> +The Gods laughed together softly. “And then, beloved?” they said. +</p> + +<p> +“And to cover that weariness they, my people, will bring to thee, Shiv, +and to thee, Ganesh, at first greater offerings and a louder noise of worship. +But the word has gone abroad, and, after, they will pay fewer dues to our fat +Brahmins. Next they will forget your altars, but so slowly that no man can say +how his forgetfulness began. +</p> + +<p> +“I knew—I knew! I spoke this also, but they would not hear,” +said the Tigress. “We should have slain—we should have +slain!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is too late now. Ye should have slain at the beginning when the men +from across the water had taught our folk nothing. Now my people see their +work, and go away thinking. They do not think of the Heavenly Ones altogether. +They think of the fire-carriage and the other things that the bridge-builders +have done, and when your priests thrust forward hands asking alms, they give a +little unwillingly. That is the beginning, among one or two, or five or +ten—for I, moving among my people, know what is in their hearts.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the end, Jester of the Gods? What shall the end be?” said +Ganesh. +</p> + +<p> +“The end shall be as it was in the beginning, O slothful son of Shiv! The +flame shall die upon the altars and the prayer upon the tongue till ye become +little Gods again—Gods of the jungle—names that the hunters of rats +and noosers of dogs whisper in the thicket and among the caves—rag-Gods, +pot Godlings of the tree, and the village-mark, as ye were at the beginning. +That is the end, Ganesh, for thee, and for Bhairon—Bhairon of the Common +People.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is very far away,” grunted Bhairon. “Also, it is a +lie.” +</p> + +<p> +“Many women have kissed Krishna. They told him this to cheer their own +hearts when the grey hairs came, and he has told us the tale,” said the +Bull, below his breath. +</p> + +<p> +“Their Gods came, and we changed them. I took the Woman and made her +twelve-armed. So shall we twist all their Gods,” said Hanuman. +</p> + +<p> +“Their Gods! This is no question of their Gods—one or +three—man or woman. The matter is with the people. <i>They</i> move, and +not the Gods of the bridgebuilders,” said Krishna. +</p> + +<p> +“So be it. I have made a man worship the fire-carriage as it stood still +breathing smoke, and he knew not that he worshipped me,” said Hanuman the +Ape. “They will only change a little the names of their Gods. I shall +lead the builders of the bridges as of old; Shiv shall be worshipped in the +schools by such as doubt and despise their fellows; Ganesh shall have his +mahajuns, and Bhairon the donkey-drivers, the pilgrims, and the sellers of +toys. Beloved, they will do no more than change the names, and that we have +seen a thousand times.” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely they will do no more than change the names,” echoed Ganesh; +but there was an uneasy movement among the Gods. +</p> + +<p> +“They will change more than the names. Me alone they cannot kill, so long +as a maiden and a man meet together or the spring follows the winter rains. +Heavenly Ones, not for nothing have I walked upon the earth. My people know not +now what they know; but I, who live with them, I read their hearts. Great +Kings, the beginning of the end is born already. The fire-carriages shout the +names of new Gods that are <i>not</i> the old under new names. Drink now and +eat greatly! Bathe your faces in the smoke of the altars before they grow cold! +Take dues and listen to the cymbals and the drums, Heavenly Ones, while yet +there are flowers and songs. As men count time the end is far off; but as we +who know reckon it is today. I have spoken.” +</p> + +<p> +The young God ceased, and his brethren looked at each other long in silence. +</p> + +<p> +“This I have not heard before,” Peroo whispered in his +companion’s ear. “And yet sometimes, when I oiled the brasses in +the engine-room of the <i>Goorkha</i>, I have wondered if our priests were so +wise—so wise. The day is coming, Sahib. They will be gone by the +morning.” +</p> + +<p> +A yellow light broadened in the sky, and the tone of the river changed as the +darkness withdrew. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly the Elephant trumpeted aloud as though man had goaded him. +</p> + +<p> +“Let Indra judge. Father of all, speak thou! What of the things we have +heard? Has Krishna lied indeed? Or—” +</p> + +<p> +“Ye know,” said the Buck, rising to his feet. “Ye know the +Riddle of the Gods. When Brahm ceases to dream, the Heavens and the Hells and +Earth disappear. Be content. Brahm dreams still. The dreams come and go, and +the nature of the dreams changes, but still Brahm dreams. Krishna has walked +too long upon earth, and yet I love him the more for the tale he has told. The +Gods change, beloved—all save One!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, all save one that makes love in the hearts of men,” said +Krishna, knotting his girdle. “It is but a little time to wait, and ye +shall know if I lie.” +</p> + +<p> +“Truly it is but a little time, as thou sayest, and we shall know. Get +thee to thy huts again, beloved, and make sport for the young things, for still +Brahm dreams. Go, my children! Brahm dreams—and till he wakes the Gods +die not.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +“Whither went they?” said the Lascar, awe-struck, shivering a +little with the cold. +</p> + +<p> +“God knows!” said Findlayson. The river and the island lay in full +daylight now, and there was never mark of hoof or pug on the wet earth under +the peepul. Only a parrot screamed in the branches, bringing down showers of +water-drops as he fluttered his wings. +</p> + +<p> +“Up! We are cramped with cold! Has the opium died out? Canst thou move, +Sahib?” +</p> + +<p> +Findlayson staggered to his feet and shook himself. His head swam and ached, +but the work of the opium was over, and, as he sluiced his forehead in a pool, +the Chief Engineer of the Kashi Bridge was wondering how he had managed to fall +upon the island, what chances the day offered of return, and, above all, how +his work stood. +</p> + +<p> +“Peroo, I have forgotten much. I was under the guard-tower watching the +river; and then. . . . Did the flood sweep us away?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. The boats broke loose, Sahib, and” (if the Sahib had forgotten +about the opium, decidedly Peroo would not remind him) “in striving to +retie them, so it seemed to me—but it was dark—a rope caught the +Sahib and threw him upon a boat. Considering that we two, with Hitchcock Sahib, +built, as it were, that bridge, I came also upon the boat, which came riding on +horseback, as it were, on the nose of this island, and so, splitting, cast us +ashore. I made a great cry when the boat left the wharf, and without doubt +Hitchcock Sahib will come for us. As for the bridge, so many have died in the +building that it cannot fall.” +</p> + +<p> +A fierce sun, that drew out all the smell of the sodden land, had followed the +storm, and in that clear light there was no room for a man to think of the +dreams of the dark. Findlayson stared up-stream, across the blaze of moving +water, till his eyes ached. There was no sign of any bank to the Ganges, much +less of a bridgeline. +</p> + +<p> +“We came down far,” he said. “It was wonderful that we were +not drowned a hundred times.” +</p> + +<p> +“That was the least of the wonder, for no man dies before his time. I +have seen Sydney, I have seen London, and twenty great ports, +but”—Peroo looked at the damp, discoloured shrine under the +peepul—“never man has seen that we saw here.” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” +</p> + +<p> +“Has the Sahib forgotten; or do we black men only see the Gods?” +</p> + +<p> +“There was a fever upon me.” Findlayson was still looking uneasily +across the water. “It seemed that the island was full of beasts and men +talking, but I do not remember. A boat could live in this water now, I +think.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oho! Then it is true.‘When Brahm ceases to dream, the Gods +die.’ Now I know, indeed, what he meant. Once, too, the <i>guru</i> said +as much to me; but then I did not understand. Now I am wise.” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” said Findlayson, over his shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +Peroo went on as if he were talking to himself. +“Six—seven—ten monsoons since, I was watch on the +fo’c’sle of the <i>Rewah</i>—the Kumpani’s big +boat—and there was a big <i>tufan</i>, green and black water beating, and +I held fast to the life-lines, choking under the waters. Then I thought of the +Gods—of Those whom we saw tonight”—he stared curiously at +Findlayson’s back, but the white man was looking across the flood. +“Yes, I say of Those whom we saw this night past, and I called upon Them +to protect me. And while I prayed, still keeping my lookout, a big wave came +and threw me forward upon the ring of the great black bowianchor, and the +<i>Rewah</i> rose high and high, leaning towards the lefthand side, and the +water drew away from beneath her nose, and I lay upon my belly, holding the +ring, and looking down into those great deeps. Then I thought, even in the face +of death: If I lose hold I die, and for me neither the <i>Rewah</i> nor my +place by the galley where the rice is cooked, nor Bombay, nor Calcutta, nor +even London, will be any more for me. ‘How shall I be sure,’ I +said, that the Gods to whom I pray will abide at all?’ This I thought, +and the <i>Rewah</i> dropped her nose as a hammer falls, and all the sea came +in and slid me backwards along the fo’c’sle and over the break of +the fo’c’sle, and I very badly bruised my shin against the +donkey-engine: but I did not die, and I have seen the Gods. They are good for +live men, but for the dead. . . They have spoken Themselves. Therefore, when I +come to the village I will beat the <i>guru</i> for talking riddles which are +no riddles. When Brahm ceases to dream the Gods go.” +</p> + +<p> +“Look up-stream. The light blinds. Is there smoke yonder?” +</p> + +<p> +Peroo shaded his eyes with his hands. “He is a wise man and quick. +Hitchcock Sahib would not trust a rowboat. He has borrowed the Rao +Sahib’s steam launch, and comes to look for us. I have always said that +there should have been a steam-launch on the bridge works for us.” +</p> + +<p> +The territory of the Rao of Baraon lay within ten miles of the bridge; and +Findlayson and Hitchcock had spent a fair portion of their scanty leisure in +playing billiards and shooting black-buck with the young man. He had been +bear-led by an English tutor of sporting tastes for some five or six years, and +was now royally wasting the revenues accumulated during his minority by the +Indian Government. His steam-launch, with its silver-plated rails, striped silk +awning, and mahogany decks, was a new toy which Findlayson had found horribly +in the way when the Rao came to look at the bridge works. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s great luck,” murmured Findlayson, but he was none the +less afraid, wondering what news might be of the bridge. +</p> + +<p> +The gaudy blue and white funnel came down-stream swiftly. They could see +Hitchcock in the bows, with a pair of opera-glasses, and his face was unusually +white. Then Peroo hailed, and the launch made for the tail of the island. The +Rao Sahib, in tweed shooting-suit and a seven-hued turban, waved his royal +hand, and Hitchcock shouted. But he need have asked no questions, for +Findlayson’s first demand was for his bridge. +</p> + +<p> +“All serene! Gad, I never expected to see you again, Findlayson. +You’re seven koss down-stream. Yes; there’s not a stone shifted +anywhere; but how are you? I borrowed the Rao Sahib’s launch, and he was +good enough to come along. Jump in.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, Finlinson, you are very well, eh? That was most unprecedented +calamity last night, eh? My royal palace, too, it leaks like the devil, and the +crops will also be short all about my country. Now you shall back her out, +Hitchcock. I—I do not understand steam engines. You are wet? You are +cold, Finlinson? I have some things to eat here, and you will take a good +drink.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m immensely grateful, Rao Sahib. I believe you’ve saved my +life. How did Hitchcock—” +</p> + +<p> +“Oho! His hair was upon end. He rode to me in the middle of the night and +woke me up in the arms of Morpheus. I was most truly concerned, Finlinson, so I +came too. My head-priest he is very angry just now. We will go quick, Mister +Hitchcock. I am due to attend at twelve forty-five in the state temple, where +we sanctify some new idol. If not so I would have asked you to spend the day +with me. They are dam-bore, these religious ceremonies, Finlinson, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +Peroo, well known to the crew, had possessed himself of the inlaid wheel, and +was taking the launch craftily up-stream. But while he steered he was, in his +mind, handling two feet of partially untwisted wire-rope; and the back upon +which he beat was the back of his <i>guru</i>. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"></a> +A WALKING DELEGATE</h2> + +<p> +According to the custom of Vermont, Sunday afternoon is salting-time on the +farm, and, unless something very important happens, we attend to the salting +ourselves. Dave and Pete, the red oxen, are treated first; they stay in the +home meadow ready for work on Monday. Then come the cows, with Pan, the calf, +who should have been turned into veal long ago, but survived on account of his +manners; and lastly the horses, scattered through the seventy acres of the Back +Pasture. +</p> + +<p> +You must go down by the brook that feeds the clicking, bubbling water-ram; up +through the sugar-bush, where the young maple undergrowth closes round you like +a shallow sea; next follow the faint line of an old county-road running past +two green hollows fringed with wild rose that mark the cellars of two ruined +houses; then by Lost Orchard, where nobody ever comes except in cider-time; +then across another brook, and so into the Back Pasture. Half of it is pine and +hemlock and spruce, with sumach and little juniper bushes, and the other half +is grey rock and boulder and moss, with green streaks of brake and swamp; but +the horses like it well enough—our own, and the others that are turned +down there to feed at fifty cents a week. Most people walk to the Back Pasture, +and find it very rough work; but one can get there in a buggy, if the horse +knows what is expected of him. The safest conveyance is our coupé. This began +life as a buckboard, and we bought it for five dollars from a sorrowful man who +had no other sort of possessions; and the seat came off one night when we were +turning a corner in a hurry. After that alteration it made a beautiful +salting-machine, if you held tight, because there was nothing to catch your +feet when you fell out, and the slats rattled tunes. +</p> + +<p> +One Sunday afternoon we went out with the salt as usual. It was a broiling hot +day, and we could not find the horses anywhere till we let Tedda Gabler, the +bobtailed mare who throws up the dirt with her big hooves exactly as a tedder +throws hay, have her head. Clever as she is, she tipped the coupé over in a +hidden brook before she came out on a ledge of rock where all the horses had +gathered, and were switching flies. The Deacon was the first to call to her. He +is a very dark iron-grey four-year-old, son of Grandee. He has been handled +since he was two, was driven in a light cart before he was three, and now ranks +as an absolutely steady lady’s horse—proof against steam-rollers, +grade-crossings, and street processions. +</p> + +<p> +“Salt!” said the Deacon, joyfully. “You’re dreffle +late, Tedda.” +</p> + +<p> +“Any—any place to cramp the coupé?” Tedda panted. “It +weighs turr’ble this weather. I’d ’a’ come sooner, but +they didn’t know what they wanted—ner haow. Fell out twice, both of +’em. I don’t understand sech foolishness.” +</p> + +<p> +“You look consider’ble het up. Guess you’d better cramp her +under them pines, an’ cool off a piece.” +</p> + +<p> +Tedda scrambled on the ledge, and cramped the coupé in the shade of a tiny +little wood of pines, while my companion and I lay down among the brown, silky +needles, and gasped. All the home horses were gathered round us, enjoying their +Sunday leisure. +</p> + +<p> +There were Rod and Rick, the seniors on the farm. They were the regular +road-pair, bay with black points, full brothers, aged, sons of a Hambletonian +sire and a Morgan dam. There were Nip and Tuck, seal-browns, rising six, +brother and sister, Black Hawks by birth, perfectly matched, just finishing +their education, and as handsome a pair as man could wish to find in a +forty-mile drive. There was Muldoon, our ex-car-horse, bought at a venture, and +any colour you choose that is not white; and Tweezy, who comes from Kentucky, +with an affliction of his left hip, which makes him a little uncertain how his +hind legs are moving. He and Muldoon had been hauling gravel all the week for +our new road. The Deacon you know already. Last of all, and eating something, +was our faithful Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, the black buggy-horse, who had seen +us through every state of weather and road, the horse who was always standing +in harness before some door or other—a philosopher with the appetite of a +shark and the manners of an archbishop. Tedda Gabler was a new +“trade,” with a reputation for vice which was really the result of +bad driving. She had one working gait, which she could hold till further +notice; a Roman nose; a large, prominent eye; a shaving-brush of a tail; and an +irritable temper. She took her salt through her bridle; but the others trotted +up nuzzling and wickering for theirs, till we emptied it on the clean rocks. +They were all standing at ease, on three legs for the most part, talking the +ordinary gossip of the Back Pasture—about the scarcity of water, and gaps +in the fence, and how the early windfalls tasted that season—when little +Rick blew the last few grains of his allowance into a crevice, and said: +</p> + +<p> +“Hurry, boys! Might ha’ knowed that ‘Livery-plug’ would +be around.” +</p> + +<p> +We heard a clatter of hooves, and there climbed up from the ravine below a +fifty-center transient—a wall-eyed, yellow frame-house of a horse, sent +up to board from a livery-stable in town, where they called him “The +Lamb,” and never let him out except at night and to strangers. My +companion, who knew and had broken most of the horses, looked at the ragged +hammer-head as it rose, and said quietly: +</p> + +<p> +“Ni-ice beast. Man-eater, if he gets the chance—see his eye. +Kicker, too—see his hocks. Western horse.” +</p> + +<p> +The animal lumbered up, snuffling and grunting. His feet showed that he had not +worked for weeks and weeks, and our creatures drew together significantly. +</p> + +<p> +“As usual,” he said, with an underhung +sneer—“bowin’ your heads before the Oppressor that comes to +spend his leisure gloatin’ over you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mine’s done,” said the Deacon; he licked up the remnant of +his salt, dropped his nose in his master’s hand, and sang a little grace +all to himself. The Deacon has the most enchanting manners of any one I know. +</p> + +<p> +“An’ fawnin’ on them for what is your inalienable right. +It’s humiliatin’,” said the yellow horse, sniffing to see if +he could find a few spare grains. +</p> + +<p> +“Go daown hill, then, Boney,” the Deacon replied. “Guess +you’ll find somethin’ to eat still, if yer hain’t hogged it +all. You’ve ett more’n any three of us to-day—an’ day +’fore that—an’ the last two months—sence you’ve +been here.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not addressin’ myself to the young an’ immature. I am +speakin’ to those whose opinion <i>an</i>’ experience commands +respect.” +</p> + +<p> +I saw Rod raise his head as though he were about to make a remark; then he +dropped it again, and stood three-cornered, like a plough-horse. Rod can cover +his mile in a shade under three minutes on an ordinary road to an ordinary +buggy. He is tremendously powerful behind, but, like most Hambletonians, he +grows a trifle sullen as he gets older. No one can love Rod very much; but no +one can help respecting him. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish to wake <i>those</i>,” the yellow horse went on, “to +an abidin’ sense o’ their wrongs an’ their injuries an’ +their outrages.” +</p> + +<p> +“Haow’s that?” said Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, dreamily. He +thought Boney was talking of some kind of feed. +</p> + +<p> +“An’ when I say outrages and injuries”—Boney waved his +tail furiously—“I mean ’em, too. Great Oats! That’s +just what I <i>do</i> mean, plain an’ straight.” +</p> + +<p> +“The gentleman talks quite earnest,” said Tuck, the mare, to Nip, +her brother. “There’s no doubt thinkin’ broadens the horizons +o’ the mind. His language is quite lofty.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hesh, sis,” Nip answered. “He hain’t widened +nothin’ ’cep’ the circle he’s ett in pasture. They feed +words fer beddin’ where he comes from.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s elegant talkin’, though,” Tuck returned, with an +unconvinced toss of her pretty, lean little head. +</p> + +<p> +The yellow horse heard her, and struck an attitude which he meant to be +extremely impressive. It made him look as though he had been badly stuffed. +</p> + +<p> +“Now I ask you, I ask you without prejudice an’ without +favour,—what has Man the Oppressor ever done for you?—Are you not +inalienably entitled to the free air o’ heaven, blowin’ acrost this +boundless prairie?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hev ye ever wintered here?” said the Deacon, merrily, while the +others snickered. “It’s kinder cool.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not yet,” said Boney. “I come from the boundless confines +o’ Kansas, where the noblest of our kind have their abidin’ place +among the sunflowers on the threshold o’ the settin’ sun in his +glory.” +</p> + +<p> +“An’ they sent you ahead as a sample?” said Rick, with an +amused quiver of his long, beautifully groomed tail, as thick and as fine and +as wavy as a quadroon’s back hair. +</p> + +<p> +“Kansas, sir, needs no adver<i>tise</i>ment. Her native sons rely on +themselves an’ their native sires. Yes, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +Then Tweezy lifted up his wise and polite old head. His affliction makes him +bashful as a rule, but he is ever the most courteous of horses. +</p> + +<p> +“Excuse me, suh,” he said slowly, “but, unless I have been +misinfohmed, most of your prominent siahs, suh, are impo’ted from +Kentucky; an’ <i>I</i>’m from Paduky.” +</p> + +<p> +There was the least little touch of pride in the last words. +</p> + +<p> +“Any horse dat knows beans,” said Muldoon, suddenly (he had been +standing with his hairy chin on Tweezy’s broad quarters), “gits +outer Kansas ’fore dey crip his shoes. I blew in dere from Ioway in de +days o’ me youth an’ innocence, an’ I wuz grateful when dey +boxed me fer N’ York. You can’t tell <i>me</i> anything about +Kansas I don’t wanter fergit. De Belt Line stables ain’t no Hoffman +House, but dey’re Vanderbilts ’longside o’ Kansas.” +</p> + +<p> +“What the horses o’ Kansas think to-day, the horses of America will +think to-morrow; an’ I tell <i>you</i> that when the horses of America +rise in their might, the day o’ the Oppressor is ended.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a pause, till Rick said, with a little grunt: +</p> + +<p> +“Ef you put it that way, every one of us has riz in his might, +’cep’ Marcus, mebbe. Marky, ’j ever rise in yer might?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nope,” said Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, thoughtfully quidding over +a mouthful of grass. “I seen a heap o’ fools try, though.” +</p> + +<p> +“You admit that you riz?” said the Kansas horse, excitedly. +“Then why—why in Kansas did you ever go under again?” +</p> + +<p> +“Horse can’t walk on his hind legs <i>all</i> the time,” said +the Deacon. +</p> + +<p> +“Not when he’s jerked over on his back ’fore he knows what +fetched him. We’ve all done it, Boney,” said Rick. “Nip +an’ Tuck they tried it, spite o’ what the Deacon told ’em; +an’ the Deacon he tried it, spite o’ what me an’ Rod told +him; an’ me an’ Rod tried it, spite o’ what Grandee told us; +an’ I guess Grandee he tried it, spite o’ what his dam told him. +It’s the same old circus from generation to generation. ’Colt +can’t see why he’s called on to back. Same old rearin’ on +end—straight up. Same old feelin’ that you’ve bested +’em this time. Same old little yank at your mouth when you’re up +good an’ tall. Same old Pegasus-act, wonderin’ where you’ll +’light. Same old wop when you hit the dirt with your head where your tail +should be, and your in’ards shook up like a bran-mash. Same old voice in +your ear: ‘Waal, ye little fool, an’ what did you reckon to make by +that?’ We’re through with risin’ in our might on this farm. +We go to pole er single, accordin’ ez we’re hitched.” +</p> + +<p> +“An’ Man the Oppressor sets an’ gloats over you, same as +he’s settin’ now. Hain’t that been your experience, +madam?” +</p> + +<p> +This last remark was addressed to Tedda; and any one could see with half an eye +that poor, old anxious, fidgety Tedda, stamping at the flies, must have left a +wild and tumultuous youth behind her. +</p> + +<p> +“’Pends on the man,” she answered, shifting from one foot to +the other, and addressing herself to the home horses. “They abused me +dreffle when I was young. I guess I was sperrity an’ nervous some, but +they didn’t allow for that. ’Twas in Monroe County, Noo York, +an’ sence then till I come here, I’ve run away with more men than +’u’d fill a boardin’-house. Why, the man that sold me here he +says to the boss, s’ he: ‘Mind, now, I’ve warned you. +’Twon’t be none of my fault if she sheds you daown the road. +Don’t you drive her in a top-buggy, ner ’thout winkers,’ +s’ he, ‘ner ’thout this bit ef you look to come home behind +her.’ ’N’ the fust thing the boss did was to git the +top-buggy. +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t say as I like top-buggies,” said Rick; “they +don’t balance good.” +</p> + +<p> +“Suit me to a ha’ar,” said Marcus Aurelius Antoninus. +“Top-buggy means the baby’s in behind, an’ I kin stop while +she gathers the pretty flowers—yes, an’ pick a maouthful, too. The +women-folk all say I hev to be humoured, an’ I don’t kerry things +to the sweatin’-point.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Course I’ve no pre<i>jud</i>ice against a top-buggy +s’ long’s I can see it,” Tedda went on quickly. +“It’s ha’f-seein’ the pesky thing bobbin’ +an’ balancin’ behind the winkers gits on <i>my</i> nerves. Then the +boss looked at the bit they’d sold with me, an’ s’ he: +‘Jiminy Christmas! This ’u’d make a clothes-horse stan’ +’n end!’ Then he gave me a plain bar bit, an’ fitted +it’s if there was some feelin’ to my maouth.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hain’t ye got any, Miss Tedda?” said Tuck, who has a mouth +like velvet, and knows it. +</p> + +<p> +“Might ’a’ had, Miss Tuck, but I’ve forgot. Then he +give me an open bridle,—my style’s an open +bridle—an’—I dunno as I ought to tell this by +rights—he—give—me—a kiss.” +</p> + +<p> +“My!” said Tuck, “I can’t tell fer the shoes o’ +me what makes some men so fresh.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pshaw, sis,” said Nip, “what’s the sense in +actin’ so? <i>You</i> git a kiss reg’lar’s hitchin’-up +time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you needn’t tell, smarty,” said Tuck, with a squeal +and a kick. +</p> + +<p> +“I’d heard o’ kisses, o’ course,” Tedda went on, +“but they hadn’t come my way specially. I don’t mind +tellin’ I was that took aback at that man’s doin’s he might +ha’ lit fire-crackers on my saddle. Then we went out jest’s if a +kiss was nothin’, an’ I wasn’t three strides into my gait +’fore I felt the boss knoo his business, an’ was trustin’ me. +So I studied to please him, an’ he never took the whip from the +dash—a whip drives me plumb distracted—an’ the upshot was +that—waal, I’ve come up the Back Pasture to-day, an’ the +coupé’s tipped clear over twice, an’ I’ve waited till +’twuz fixed each time. You kin judge for yourselves. I don’t set up +to be no better than my neighbours,—specially with my tail snipped off +the way ’tis,—but I want you all to know Tedda’s quit +fightin’ in harness or out of it, ’cep’ when there’s a +born fool in the pasture, stuffin’ his stummick with board that +ain’t rightly hisn, ’cause he hain’t earned it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Meanin’ me, madam?” said the yellow horse. +</p> + +<p> +“Ef the shoe fits, clinch it,” said Tedda, snorting. +“<i>I</i> named no names, though, to be sure, some folks are mean enough +an’ greedy enough to do ’thout ’em.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s a deal to be forgiven to ignorance,” said the yellow +horse, with an ugly look in his blue eye. +</p> + +<p> +“Seemin’ly, yes; or some folks ’u’d ha’ been +kicked raound the pasture ’bout onct a minute sence they came—board +er no board.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what you do <i>not</i> understand, if you will excuse me, madam, is +that the whole principle o’ servitood, which includes keep an’ +feed, starts from a radically false basis; an’ I am proud to say that me +an’ the majority o’ the horses o’ Kansas think the entire +concern should be relegated to the limbo of exploded superstitions. I say +we’re too progressive for that. I say we’re too enlightened for +that. ’Twas good enough’s long’s we didn’t think, but +naow—but naow—a new loominary has arisen on the horizon!” +</p> + +<p> +“Meanin’ you?” said the Deacon. +</p> + +<p> +“The horses o’ Kansas are behind me with their multitoodinous +thunderin’ hooves, an’ we say, simply but grandly, that we take our +stand with all four feet on the inalienable rights of the horse, pure and +simple,—the high-toned child o’ nature, fed by the same +wavin’ grass, cooled by the same ripplin’ brook—yes, +an’ warmed by the same gen’rous sun as falls impartially on the +outside an’ the <i>in</i>side of the pampered machine o’ the +trottin’-track, or the bloated coupé-horses o’ these yere Eastern +cities. Are we not the same flesh an’ blood?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not by a bushel an’ a half,” said the Deacon, under his +breath. “Grandee never was in Kansas.” +</p> + +<p> +“My! Ain’t that elegant, though, abaout the wavin’ grass +an’ the ripplin’ brooks?” Tuck whispered in Nip’s ear. +“The gentleman’s real convincin’, <i>I</i> think.” +</p> + +<p> +“I say we <i>are</i> the same flesh an’ blood! Are we to be +separated, horse from horse, by the artificial barriers of a +trottin’-record, or are we to look down upon each other on the strength +o’ the gifts o’ nature—an extry inch below the knee, or +slightly more powerful quarters? What’s the use o’ them advantages +to you? Man the Oppressor comes along, an’ sees you’re likely +an’ good-lookin’, an’ grinds you to the face o’ the +earth. What for? For his own pleasure: for his own convenience! Young an’ +old, black an’ bay, white an’ grey, there’s no distinctions +made between us. We’re ground up together under the remorseless teeth +o’ the engines of oppression!” +</p> + +<p> +“Guess his breechin’ must ha’ broke goin’ +daown-hill,” said the Deacon. “Slippery road, maybe, an’ the +buggy come onter him, an’ he didn’t know ’nough to hold back. +That don’t feel like teeth, though. Maybe he busted a shaft, an’ it +pricked him.” +</p> + +<p> +“An’ I come to you from Kansas, wavin’ the tail o’ +friendship to all an’ sundry, an’ in the name of the uncounted +millions o’ pure-minded, high-toned horses now strugglin’ towards +the light o’ freedom, I say to you, Rub noses with us in our sacred +an’ holy cause. The power is yourn. Without you, I say, Man the Oppressor +cannot move himself from place to place. Without you he cannot reap, he cannot +sow, he cannot plough.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mighty odd place, Kansas!” said Marcus Aurelius Antoninus. +“Seemin’ly they reap in the spring an’ plough in the fall. +’Guess it’s right fer them, but ’twould make me kinder +giddy.” +</p> + +<p> +“The produc’s of your untirin’ industry would rot on the +ground if you did not weakly consent to help him. <i>Let</i> ’em rot, I +say! Let him call you to the stables in vain an’ nevermore! Let him shake +his ensnarin’ oats under your nose in vain! Let the Brahmas roost in the +buggy, an’ the rats run riot round the reaper! Let him walk on his two +hind feet till they blame well drop off! Win no more soul-destroin’ races +for his pleasure! Then, an’ not till then, will Man the Oppressor know +where he’s at. Quit workin’, fellow-sufferers an’ slaves! +Kick! Rear! Plunge! Lie down on the shafts, an’ woller! Smash an’ +destroy! The conflict will be but short, an’ the victory is certain. +After that we can press our inalienable rights to eight quarts o’ oats a +day, two good blankets, an’ a fly-net an’ the best o’ +stablin’.” +</p> + +<p> +The yellow horse shut his yellow teeth with a triumphant snap; and Tuck said, +with a sigh: “Seems’s if somethin’ ought to be done. +Don’t seem right, somehow,—oppressin’ us an all,—to my +way o’ thinkin’.” +</p> + +<p> +Said Muldoon, in a far-away and sleepy voice: +</p> + +<p> +“Who in Vermont’s goin’ to haul de inalienable oats? Dey +weigh like Sam Hill, an’ sixty bushel at dat allowance ain’t +goin’ to last t’ree weeks here. An’ dere’s de winter +hay for five mont’s!” +</p> + +<p> +“We can settle those minor details when the great cause is won,” +said the yellow horse. “Let us return simply but grandly to our +inalienable rights—the right o’ freedom on these yere verdant +hills, an’ no invijjus distinctions o’ track an’ +pedigree:” +</p> + +<p> +“What in stables ’jer call an invijjus distinction?” said the +Deacon, stiffly. +</p> + +<p> +“Fer one thing, bein’ a bloated, pampered trotter jest because you +happen to be raised that way, an’ couldn’t no more help +trottin’ than eatin’.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do ye know anythin’ about trotters?” said the Deacon. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve seen ’em trot. That was enough for me. <i>I</i> +don’t want to know any more. Trottin’s immoral.” +</p> + +<p> +“Waal, I’ll tell you this much. They don’t bloat, an’ +they don’t pamp—much. I don’t hold out to be no trotter +myself, though I am free to say I had hopes that way—onct. But I +<i>do</i> say, fer I’ve seen ’em trained, that a trotter +don’t trot with his feet: he trots with his head; an’ he does more +work—ef you know what <i>that</i> is—in a week than you er your +sire ever done in all your lives. He’s everlastingly at it, a trotter is; +an’ when he isn’t, he’s studyin’ haow. You seen +’em trot? Much you hev! You was hitched to a rail, back o’ the +stand, in a buckboard with a soap-box nailed on the slats, an’ a frowzy +buff’lo atop, while your man peddled rum fer lemonade to little boys as +thought they was actin’ manly, till you was both run off the track +an’ jailed—you intoed, shufflin’, sway-backed, +wind-suckin’ skate, you!” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t get het up, Deacon,” said Tweezy, quietly. “Now, +suh, would you consider a fox-trot, an’ single-foot, an’ rack, +an’ pace, <i>an</i>’ amble, distinctions not worth +distinguishin’? I assuah you, gentlemen, there was a time befo’ I +was afflicted in my hip, if you’ll pardon me, Miss Tuck, when I was quite +celebrated in Paduky for <i>all</i> those gaits; an’ in my opinion the +Deacon’s co’rect when he says that a ho’se of any position in +society gets his gaits by his haid, an’ not by—his, ah, limbs, Miss +Tuck. I reckon I’m very little good now, but I’m rememberin’ +the things I used to do befo’ I took to transpo’tin’ real +estate with the help an’ assistance of this gentleman here.” He +looked at Muldoon. +</p> + +<p> +“Invijjus arterficial hind legs!” said the ex-car-horse, with a +grunt of contempt. “On de Belt Line we don’t reckon no horse wuth +his keep ’less he kin switch de car off de track, run her round on de +cobbles, an’ dump her in ag’in ahead o’ de truck what’s +blockin’ him. Dere is a way o’ swingin’ yer quarters when de +driver says,‘Yank her out, boys!’ dat takes a year to learn. Onct +yer git onter it, youse kin yank a cable-car outer a manhole. I don’t +advertise myself for no circus-horse, but I knew dat trick better than most, +an’ dey was good to me in de stables, fer I saved time on de +Belt—an’ time’s what dey hunt in N’ York.” +</p> + +<p> +“But the simple child o’ nature—” the yellow horse +began. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, go an’ unscrew yer splints! You’re talkin’ through +yer bandages,” said Muldoon, with a horse-laugh. “Dere ain’t +no loose-box for de simple child o’ nature on de Belt Line, wid de +<i>Paris</i> comin’ in an’ de <i>Teutonic</i> goin’ out, +an’ de trucks an’ de coupé’s sayin’ things, an’ +de heavy freight movin’ down fer de Boston boat ’bout t’ree +o’clock of an August afternoon, in de middle of a hot wave when de fat +Kanucks an’ Western horses drops dead on de block. De simple child +o’ nature had better chase himself inter de water. Every man at de end of +his lines is mad or loaded or silly, an’ de cop’s madder an’ +loadeder an’ sillier than de rest. Dey all take it outer de horses. +Dere’s no wavin’ brooks ner ripplin’ grass on de Belt Line. +Run her out on de cobbles wid de sparks flyin’, an’ stop when de +cop slugs you on de bone o’ yer nose. Dat’s N’York; see? +</p> + +<p> +“I was always told s’ciety in Noo York was dreffle refined +an’ high-toned,” said Tuck. “We’re lookin’ to go +there one o’ these days, Nip an’ me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, <i>you</i> won’t see no Belt business where you’ll go, +miss. De man dat wants you’ll want you bad, an’ he’ll summer +you on Long Island er at Newport, wid a winky-pinky silver harness an’ an +English coachman. You’ll make a star-hitch, you an’ yer brother, +miss. But I guess you won’t have no nice smooth bar bit. Dey checks +’em, an’ dey bangs deir tails, an’ dey bits ’em, de +city folk, an’ dey says it’s English, ye know, an’ dey +darsen’t cut a horse loose ’ca’se o’ de cops. N’ +York’s no place fer a horse, ’less he’s on de Belt, an’ +can go round wid de boys. Wisht <i>I</i> was in de Fire Department!” +</p> + +<p> +“But did you never stop to consider the degradin’ servitood of it +all?” said the yellow horse. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t stop on de Belt, cully. You’re stopped. An’ +we was all in de servitood business, man an’ horse, an’ Jimmy dat +sold de papers. Guess de passengers weren’t out to grass neither, by de +way dey acted. I done my turn, an’ I’m none o’ Barnum’s +crowd; but any horse dat’s worked on de Belt four years don’t train +wid no simple child o’ nature—not by de whole length o’ +N’ York.” +</p> + +<p> +“But can it be possible that with your experience, and at your time of +life, you do not believe that all horses are free and equal?” said the +yellow horse. +</p> + +<p> +“Not till they’re dead,” Muldoon answered quietly. +“An’ den it depends on de gross total o’ buttons an’ +mucilage dey gits outer youse at Barren Island.” +</p> + +<p> +“They tell me you’re a prominent philosopher.” The yellow +horse turned to Marcus. “Can <i>you</i> deny a basic and pivotal +statement such as this?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t deny anythin’,” said Marcus Aurelius +Antoninus, cautiously; “but ef you <i>ast</i> me, I should say +’twuz more different sorts o’ clipped oats of a lie than +anythin’ I’ve had my teeth into sence I wuz foaled.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you a horse?” said the yellow horse. +</p> + +<p> +“Them that knows me best ’low I am.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ain’t <i>I</i> a horse?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yep; one kind of.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then ain’t you an’ me equal?” +</p> + +<p> +“How fer kin you go in a day to a loaded buggy, drawin’ five +hundred pounds?” Marcus asked carelessly. +</p> + +<p> +“That has nothing to do with the case,” the yellow horse answered +excitedly. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s nothing I know hez more to do with the case,” Marcus +replied. +</p> + +<p> +“Kin ye yank a full car outer de tracks ten times in de +mornin’?” said Muldoon. +</p> + +<p> +“Kin ye go to Keene—forty-two mile in an afternoon—with a +mate,” said Rick; “an’ turn out bright an’ early next +mornin’?” +</p> + +<p> +“Was there evah any time in your careah, suh—I am not +referrin’ to the present circumstances, but our mutual glorious +past—when you could carry a pretty girl to market hahnsome, an’ let +her knit all the way on account o’ the smoothness o’ the +motion?” said Tweezy. +</p> + +<p> +“Kin you keep your feet through the West River Bridge, with the +narrer-gage comin’ in on one side, an’ the Montreal flyer the +other, an’ the old bridge teeterin’ between?” said the +Deacon. “Kin you put your nose down on the cow-catcher of a locomotive +when you’re waitin’ at the depot an’ let ’em play +‘Curfew shall not ring to-night’ with the big brass bell?” +</p> + +<p> +“Kin you hold back when the brichin’ breaks? Kin you stop fer +orders when your nigh hind leg’s over your trace an’ ye feel good +of a frosty mornin’?” said Nip, who had only learned that trick +last winter, and thought it was the crown of horsely knowledge. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the use o’ talkin’?” said Tedda Gabler, +scornfully. “What kin ye do?” +</p> + +<p> +“I rely on my simple rights—the inalienable rights o’ my +unfettered horsehood. An’ I am proud to say I have never, since my first +shoes, lowered myself to obeyin’ the will o’ man.” +</p> + +<p> +“Must ha’ had a heap o’ whips broke over yer yaller +back,” said Tedda. “Hev ye found it paid any?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sorrer has been my portion since the day I was foaled. Blows an’ +boots an’ whips an’ insults—injury, outrage, an’ +oppression. I would not endoor the degradin’ badges o’ servitood +that connect us with the buggy an’ the farm-wagon.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s amazin’ difficult to draw a buggy ’thout traces +er collar er breast-strap er somefin’,” said Marcus. “A +Power-machine for sawin’ wood is most the only thing there’s no +straps to. I’ve helped saw ’s much as three cord in an afternoon in +a Power-machine. Slep’, too, most o’ the time, I did; but +’tain’t half as inte<i>res</i>tin’ ez goin’ daown-taown +in the Concord.” +</p> + +<p> +“Concord don’t hender <i>you</i> goin’ to sleep any,” +said Nip. “My throat-lash! D’you remember when you lay down in the +sharves last week, waitin’ at the piazza?” +</p> + +<p> +“Pshaw! That didn’t hurt the sharves. They wuz good an’ wide, +an’ I lay down keerful. The folks kep’ me hitched up nigh an hour +’fore they started; an’ larfed—why, they all but lay down +themselves with larfin’. Say, Boney, if you’ve got to be hitched +<i>to</i> anything that goes on wheels, you’ve got to be hitched +<i>with</i> somefin’.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go an’ jine a circus,” said Muldoon, “an’ walk +on your hind legs. All de horses dat knows too much to work [he pronounced it +‘woik,’ New York fashion] jine de circus.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not sayin’ anythin’ again’ work,” said the +yellow horse; “work is the finest thing in the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“Seems too fine fer some of us,” Tedda snorted. +</p> + +<p> +“I only ask that each horse should work for himself, an’ enjoy the +profit of his labours. Let him work intelligently, an’ not as a +machine.” +</p> + +<p> +“There ain’t no horse that works like a machine,” Marcus +began. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s no way o’ workin’ that doesn’t mean +goin’ to pole er single—they never put me in the +Power-machine—er under saddle,” said Rick. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, shucks! We’re talkin’ same ez we graze,” said Nip, +“raound an’ raound in circles. Rod, we hain’t heard from you +yet, an’ you’ve more know-how than any span here.” +</p> + +<p> +Rod, the off-horse of the pair, had been standing with one hip lifted, like a +tired cow; and you could only tell by the quick flutter of the haw across his +eye, from time to time, that he was paying any attention to the argument. He +thrust his jaw out sidewise, as his habit is when he pulls, and changed his +leg. His voice was hard and heavy, and his ears were close to his big, plain +Hambletonian head. +</p> + +<p> +“How old are you?” he said to the yellow horse. +</p> + +<p> +“Nigh thirteen, I guess.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mean age; ugly age; I’m gettin’ that way myself. How long +hev ye been pawin’ this firefanged stable-litter?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you mean my principles, I’ve held ’em sence I was +three.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mean age; ugly age; teeth give heaps o’ trouble then. Set a colt +to actin’ crazy fer a while. <i>You</i>’ve kep’ it up, +seemin’ly. D’ye talk much to your neighbours fer a steady +thing?” +</p> + +<p> +“I uphold the principles o’ the Cause wherever I am +pastured.” +</p> + +<p> +“Done a heap o’ good, I guess?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am proud to say I have taught a few of my companions the principles +o’ freedom an’ liberty.” +</p> + +<p> +“Meanin’ they ran away er kicked when they got the chanst?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was talkin’ in the abstrac’, an’ not in the +concrete. My teachin’s educated them.” +</p> + +<p> +“What a horse, specially a young horse, hears in the abstrac’, +he’s liable to do in the Concord. You was handled late, I presoom.” +</p> + +<p> +“Four, risin’ five.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s where the trouble began. Driv’ by a woman, like ez +not—eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not fer long,” said the yellow horse, with a snap of his teeth. +</p> + +<p> +“Spilled her?” +</p> + +<p> +“I heerd she never drove again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Any childern?” +</p> + +<p> +“Buckboards full of ’em.” +</p> + +<p> +“Men too?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have shed conside’ble men in my time.” +</p> + +<p> +“By kickin’?” +</p> + +<p> +“Any way that come along. Fallin’ back over the dash is as handy as +most.” +</p> + +<p> +“They must be turr’ble afraid o’ you daown taown?” +</p> + +<p> +“They’ve sent me here to get rid o’ me. I guess they spend +their time talkin’ over my campaigns.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>I</i> wanter know!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, <i>sir</i>. Now, all you gentlemen have asked me what I can do. +I’ll just show you. See them two fellers lyin’ down by the +buggy?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yep; one of ’em owns me. T’other broke me,” said Rod. +</p> + +<p> +“Get ’em out here in the open, an’ I’ll show you +something. Lemme hide back o’ you peoples, so’s they won’t +see what I’m at.” +</p> + +<p> +“Meanin’ ter kill ’em?” Rod drawled. There was a +shudder of horror through the others; but the yellow horse never noticed. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll catch ’em by the back o’ the neck, an’ +pile-drive ’em a piece. They can suit ’emselves about livin’ +when I’m through with ’em.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shouldn’t wonder ef they did,” said Rod. +</p> + +<p> +The yellow horse had hidden himself very cleverly behind the others as they +stood in a group, and was swaying his head close to the ground with a curious +scythe-like motion, looking side-wise out of his wicked eyes. You can never +mistake a man-eater getting ready to knock a man down. We had had one to +pasture the year before. +</p> + +<p> +“See that?” said my companion, turning over on the pine-needles. +“Nice for a woman walking ’cross lots, wouldn’t it be?” +</p> + +<p> +“Bring ’em out!” said the yellow horse, hunching his sharp +back. “There’s no chance among them tall trees. Bring out +the—oh! Ouch!” +</p> + +<p> +It was a right-and-left kick from Muldoon. I had no idea that the old car-horse +could lift so quickly. Both blows caught the yellow horse full and fair in the +ribs, and knocked the breath out of him. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s that for?” he said angrily, when he recovered +himself; but I noticed he did not draw any nearer to Muldoon than was +necessary. +</p> + +<p> +Muldoon never answered, but discoursed to himself in the whining grunt that he +uses when he is going down-hill in front of a heavy load. We call it singing; +but I think it’s something much worse, really. The yellow horse blustered +and squealed a little, and at last said that, if it was a horse-fly that had +stung Muldoon, he would accept an apology. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll get it,” said Muldoon, “in de sweet +by-and-bye—all de apology you’ve any use for. Excuse me +interruptin’ you, Mr. Rod, but I’m like Tweezy—I’ve a +Southern drawback in me hind legs.” +</p> + +<p> +“Naow, I want you all here to take notice, an’ you’ll learn +something,” Rod went on. “This yaller-backed skate comes to our +pastur’-” +</p> + +<p> +“Not havin’ paid his board,” put in Tedda. +</p> + +<p> +“Not havin’ earned his board, an’ talks smooth to us abaout +ripplin’ brooks an’ wavin’ grass, an’ his high-toned, +pure-souled horsehood, which don’t hender him sheddin’ women +an’ childern, an’ fallin’ over the dash onter men. You heard +his talk, an’ you thought it mighty fine, some o’ you.” +</p> + +<p> +Tuck looked guilty here, but she did not say anything. +</p> + +<p> +“Bit by bit he goes on ez you have heard.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was talkin’ in the abstrac’,” said the yellow horse, +in an altered voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Abstrac’ be switched! Ez I’ve said, it’s this yer +blamed abstrac’ business that makes the young uns cut up in the Concord; +an’ abstrac’ or no abstrac’, he crep’ on an’ on +till he come to killin’ plain an’ straight—killin’ them +as never done him no harm, jest beca’se they owned horses.” +</p> + +<p> +“An’ knowed how to manage ’em,” said Tedda. “That +makes it worse.” +</p> + +<p> +“Waal, he didn’t kill ’em, anyway,” said Marcus. +“He’d ha’ been half killed ef he had tried.” +</p> + +<p> +“Makes no differ,” Rod answered. “He meant to; an’ ef +he hadn’t—s’pose we want the Back Pasture turned into a +biffin’-ground on our only day er rest? ’S’pose <i>we</i> +want <i>our</i> men walkin’ round with bits er lead pipe an’ a +twitch, an’ their hands full o’ stones to throw at us, same’s +if we wuz hogs er hooky keows? More’n that, leavin’ out Tedda +here—an’ I guess it’s more her maouth than her manners stands +in her light—there ain’t a horse on this farm that ain’t a +woman’s horse, an’ proud of it. An’ this yer bogspavined +Kansas sunflower goes up an’ daown the length o’ the country, +traded off an’ traded on, boastin’ as he’s shed +women—an’ childern. I don’t say as a woman in a buggy +ain’t a fool. I don’t say as she ain’t the lastin’est +kind er fool, ner I don’t say a child ain’t +worse—spattin’ the lines an’ standin’ up an’ +hollerin’—but I <i>do</i> say, ’tain’t none of our +business to shed ’em daown the road.” +</p> + +<p> +“We don’t,” said the Deacon. “The baby tried to git +some o’ my tail for a sooveneer last fall when I was up to the haouse, +an’ I didn’t kick. Boney’s talk ain’t goin’ to +hurt us any. We ain’t colts.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thet’s what you <i>think</i>. Bimeby you git into a tight corner, +’Lection day er Valley Fair, like’s not, daown-taown, when +you’re all het an’ lathery, an’ pestered with flies, +an’ thirsty, an’ sick o’ bein’ worked in an aout +’tween buggies. <i>Then</i> somethin’ whispers inside o’ your +winkers, bringin’ up all that talk abaout servitood an’ inalienable +truck an’ sech like, an’ jest then a Militia gun goes off; er your +wheels hit, an’—waal, you’re only another horse ez +can’t be trusted. I’ve been there time an’ again. +Boys—fer I’ve seen you all bought er broke—on my solemn +repitation fer a three-minute clip, I ain’t givin’ you no bran-mash +o’ my own fixin’. I’m tellin’ you my experiences, +an’ I’ve had ez heavy a load an’ ez high a check’s any +horse here. I wuz born with a splint on my near fore ez big’s a walnut, +an’ the cussed, three-cornered Hambletonian temper that sours up +an’ curdles daown ez you git older. I’ve favoured my splint; even +little Rick he don’t know what it’s cost me to keep my end up +sometimes; an’ I’ve fit my temper in stall an’ harness, +hitched up an’ at pasture, till the sweat trickled off my hooves, +an’ they thought I wuz off condition, an’ drenched me.” +</p> + +<p> +“When my affliction came,” said Tweezy, gently, “I was very +near to losin’ my manners. Allow me to extend to you my sympathy, +suh.” +</p> + +<p> +Rick said nothing, but he looked at Rod curiously. Rick is a sunny-tempered +child who never bears malice, and I don’t think he quite understood. He +gets his temper from his mother, as a horse should. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve been there too, Rod,” said Tedda. “Open +confession’s good for the soul, an’ all Monroe County knows +I’ve had my experriences.” +</p> + +<p> +“But if you will excuse me, suh, that pusson”—Tweezy looked +unspeakable things at the yellow horse—“that pusson who has +insulted our intelligences comes from Kansas. An’ what a ho’se of +his position, an’ Kansas at that, says cannot, by any stretch of the +halter, concern gentlemen of <i>our</i> position. There’s no shadow of +equal’ty, suh, not even for one kick. He’s beneath our +contempt.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let him talk,” said Marcus. “It’s always +inte<i>res</i>tin’ to know what another horse thinks. It don’t tech +us.” +</p> + +<p> +“An’ he talks so, too,” said Tuck. “I’ve never +heard anythin’ so smart for a long time.” +</p> + +<p> +Again Rod stuck out his jaws sidewise, and went on slowly, as though he were +slugging on a plain bit at the end of a thirty-mile drive: +</p> + +<p> +“I want all you here ter understand thet ther ain’t no Kansas, ner +no Kentucky, ner yet no Vermont, in <i>our</i> business. There’s jest two +kind o’ horse in the United States—them ez can an’ will do +their work after bein’ properly broke an’ handled, an’ them +as won’t. I’m sick an’ tired o’ this everlastin’ +tail-switchin’ an’ wickerin’ abaout one State er another. A +horse kin be proud o’ his State, an’ swap lies abaout it in stall +or when he’s hitched to a block, ef he keers to put in fly-time that way; +but he hain’t no right to let that pride o’ hisn interfere with his +work, ner to make it an excuse fer claimin’ he’s different. +That’s colts’ talk, an’ don’t you fergit it, Tweezy. +An’, Marcus, you remember that bein’ a philosopher, an’ +anxious to save trouble,—fer you <i>are</i>,—don’t excuse you +from jumpin’ with all your feet on a slack-jawed, crazy clay-bank like +Boney here. It’s leavin’ ’em alone that gives ’em their +chance to ruin colts an’ kill folks. An’, Tuck, waal, you’re +a mare anyways—but when a horse comes along an’ covers up all his +talk o’ killin’ with ripplin’ brooks, an wavin grass, +an’ eight quarts of oats a day free, <i>after</i> killin’ his man, +don’t you be run away with by his yap. You’re too young an’ +too nervous.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll—I’ll have nervous prostration sure ef +there’s a fight here,” said Tuck, who saw what was in Rod’s +eye; “I’m—I’m that sympathetic I’d run away clear +to next caounty.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yep; I know that kind o’ sympathy. Jest lasts long enough to start +a fuss, an’ then lights aout to make new trouble. I hain’t been ten +years in harness fer nuthin’. Naow, we’re goin’ to keep +school with Boney fer a spell.” +</p> + +<p> +“Say, look a-here, you ain’t goin’ to hurt me, are you? +Remember, I belong to a man in town,” cried the yellow horse, uneasily. +Muldoon kept behind him so that he could not run away. +</p> + +<p> +“I know it. There must be some pore delooded fool in this State hez a +right to the loose end o’ your hitchin’-strap. I’m blame +sorry fer him, but he shall hev his rights when we’re through with +you,” said Rod. +</p> + +<p> +“If it’s all the same, gentlemen, I’d ruther change pasture. +Guess I’ll do it now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t always have your ’druthers. Guess you +won’t,” said Rod. +</p> + +<p> +“But look a-here. All of you ain’t so blame unfriendly to a +stranger. S’pose we count noses.” +</p> + +<p> +“What in Vermont fer?” said Rod, putting up his eyebrows. The idea +of settling a question by counting noses is the very last thing that ever +enters the head of a well-broken horse. +</p> + +<p> +“To see how many’s on my side. Here’s Miss Tuck, anyway; +an’ Colonel Tweezy yonder’s neutral; an’ Judge Marcus, +an’ I guess the Reverend [the yellow horse meant the Deacon] might see +that I had my rights. He’s the likeliest-lookin’ Trotter I’ve +ever set eyes on. Pshaw. Boys. You ain’t goin’ to pound <i>me</i>, +be you? Why, we’ve gone round in pasture, all colts together, this month +o’ Sundays, hain’t we, as friendly as could be. There ain’t a +horse alive I don’t care who he is—has a higher opinion o’ +you, Mr. Rod, than I have. Let’s do it fair an’ true an’ +above the exe. Let’s count noses same’s they do in Kansas.” +Here he dropped his voice a little and turned to Marcus: “Say, Judge, +there’s some green food I know, back o’ the brook, no one +hain’t touched yet. After this little <i>fraças</i> is fixed up, you +an’ me’ll make up a party an’ ’tend to it.” +</p> + +<p> +Marcus did not answer for a long time, then he said: “There’s a pup +up to the haouse ’bout eight weeks old. He’ll yap till he gits a +lickin’, an’ when he sees it comin’ he lies on his back, +an’ yowls. But he don’t go through no cir<i>kit</i>uous +nose-countin’ first. I’ve seen a noo light sence Rod spoke. +You’ll better stand up to what’s served. I’m goin’ to +philosophise all over your carcass.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>I</i>’m goin’ to do yer up in brown paper,” said +Muldoon. “I can fit you on apologies.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hold on. Ef we all biffed you now, these same men you’ve been so +dead anxious to kill ’u’d call us off. Guess we’ll wait till +they go back to the haouse, an’ you’ll have time to think cool +an’ quiet,” said Rod. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you no respec’ whatever fer the dignity o’ our common +horsehood?” the yellow horse squealed. +</p> + +<p> +“Nary respec’ onless the horse kin do something. America’s +paved with the kind er horse you are—jist plain yaller-dog +horse—waitin’ ter be whipped inter shape. We call ’em +yearlings an’ colts when they’re young. When they’re aged we +pound ’em—in this pastur’. Horse, sonny, is what you start +from. We know all about horse here, an’ he ain’t any high-toned, +pure souled child o’ nature. Horse, plain horse, same ez you, is +chock-full o’ tricks, an’ meannesses, an’ cussednesses, +an’ shirkin’s, an’ monkey-shines, which he’s took over +from his sire an’ his dam, an’ thickened up with his own special +fancy in the way o’ goin’ crooked. Thet’s <i>horse,</i> +an’ thet’s about his dignity an’ the size of his soul +’fore he’s been broke an’ rawhided a piece. Now we +ain’t goin’ to give ornery unswitched <i>horse</i>, that +hain’t done nawthin’ wuth a quart of oats sence he wuz foaled, pet +names that would be good enough fer Nancy Hanks, or Alix, or Directum, who +<i>hev</i>. Don’t you try to back off acrost them rocks. Wait where you +are! Ef I let my Hambletonian temper git the better o’ me I’d +frazzle you out finer than rye-straw inside o’ three minutes, you +woman-scarin’, kid-killin’, dash-breakin’, unbroke, unshod, +ungaited, pastur’-hoggin’, saw-backed, shark-mouthed, +hair-trunk-thrown-in-in-trade son of a bronco an’ a +sewin’-machine!” +</p> + +<p> +“I think we’d better get home,” I said to my companion, when +Rod had finished; and we climbed into the coupé, Tedda whinnying, as we bumped +over the ledges: “Well, I’m dreffle sorry I can’t stay fer +the sociable; but I hope an’ trust my friends’ll take a ticket fer +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bet your natchul!” said Muldoon, cheerfully, and the horses +scattered before us, trotting into the ravine. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Next morning we sent back to the livery-stable what was left of the yellow +horse. It seemed tired, but anxious to go. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"></a> +THE SHIP THAT FOUND HERSELF</h2> + +<p> +It was her first voyage, and though she was but a cargo-steamer of twenty-five +hundred tons, she was the very best of her kind, the outcome of forty years of +experiments and improvements in framework and machinery; and her designers and +owner thought as much of her as though she had been the <i>Lucania</i>. Any one +can make a floating hotel that will pay expenses, if he puts enough money into +the saloon, and charges for private baths, suites of rooms, and such like; but +in these days of competition and low freights every square inch of a cargo-boat +must be built for cheapness, great hold-capacity, and a certain steady speed. +This boat was, perhaps, two hundred and forty feet long and thirty-two feet +wide, with arrangements that enabled her to carry cattle on her main and sheep +on her upper deck if she wanted to; but her great glory was the amount of cargo +that she could store away in her holds. Her owners—they were a very well +known Scotch firm—came round with her from the north, where she had been +launched and christened and fitted, to Liverpool, where she was to take cargo +for New York; and the owner’s daughter, Miss Frazier, went to and fro on +the clean decks, admiring the new paint and the brass work, and the patent +winches, and particularly the strong, straight bow, over which she had cracked +a bottle of champagne when she named the steamer the <i>Dimbula</i>. It was a +beautiful September afternoon, and the boat in all her newness—she was +painted lead-colour with a red funnel—looked very fine indeed. Her +house-flag was flying, and her whistle from time to time acknowledged the +salutes of friendly boats, who saw that she was new to the High and Narrow Seas +and wished to make her welcome. +</p> + +<p> +“And now,” said Miss Frazier, delightedly, to the captain, +“she’s a real ship, isn’t she? It seems only the other day +father gave the order for her, and now—and now—isn’t she a +beauty!” The girl was proud of the firm, and talked as though she were +the controlling partner. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, she’s no so bad,” the skipper replied cautiously. +“But I’m sayin’ that it takes more than christenin’ to +mak’ a ship. In the nature o’ things, Miss Frazier, if ye follow +me, she’s just irons and rivets and plates put into the form of a ship. +She has to find herself yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought father said she was exceptionally well found.” +</p> + +<p> +“So she is,” said the skipper, with a laugh. “But it’s +this way wi’ ships, Miss Frazier. She’s all here, but the parrts of +her have not learned to work together yet. They’ve had no chance.” +</p> + +<p> +“The engines are working beautifully. I can hear them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, indeed. But there’s more than engines to a ship. Every inch +of her, ye’ll understand, has to be livened up and made to work wi’ +its neighbour—sweetenin’ her, we call it, technically.” +</p> + +<p> +“And how will you do it?” the girl asked. +</p> + +<p> +“We can no more than drive and steer her and so forth; but if we have +rough weather this trip—it’s likely—she’ll learn the +rest by heart! For a ship, ye’ll obsairve, Miss Frazier, is in no sense a +reegid body closed at both ends. She’s a highly complex structure +o’ various an’ conflictin’ strains, wi’ tissues that +must give an’ tak’ accordin’ to her personal modulus of +elasteecity.” Mr. Buchanan, the chief engineer, was coming towards them. +“I’m sayin’ to Miss Frazier, here, that our little +<i>Dimbula</i> has to be sweetened yet, and nothin’ but a gale will do +it. How’s all wi’ your engines, Buck?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well enough—true by plumb an’ rule, o’ course; but +there’s no spontaneeity yet.” He turned to the girl. “Take my +word, Miss Frazier, and maybe ye’ll comprehend later; even after a pretty +girl’s christened a ship it does not follow that there’s such a +thing as a ship under the men that work her.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was sayin’ the very same, Mr. Buchanan,” the skipper +interrupted. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s more metaphysical than I can follow,” said Miss +Frazier, laughing. +</p> + +<p> +“Why so? Ye’re good Scotch, an’—I knew your +mother’s father, he was fra’ Dumfries—ye’ve a vested +right in metapheesics, Miss Frazier, just as ye have in the +<i>Dimbula</i>,” the engineer said. +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, well, we must go down to the deep watters, an’ earn Miss +Frazier her deevidends. Will you not come to my cabin for tea?” said the +skipper. “We’ll be in dock the night, and when you’re +goin’ back to Glasgie ye can think of us loadin’ her down an’ +drivin’ her forth—all for your sake.” +</p> + +<p> +In the next few days they stowed some four thousand tons dead-weight into the +<i>Dimbula</i>, and took her out from Liverpool. As soon as she met the lift of +the open water, she naturally began to talk. If you lay your ear to the side of +the cabin, the next time you are in a steamer, you will hear hundreds of little +voices in every direction, thrilling and buzzing, and whispering and popping, +and gurgling and sobbing and squeaking exactly like a telephone in a +thunder-storm. Wooden ships shriek and growl and grunt, but iron vessels throb +and quiver through all their hundreds of ribs and thousands of rivets. The +<i>Dimbula</i> was very strongly built, and every piece of her had a letter or +a number, or both, to describe it; and every piece had been hammered, or +forged, or rolled, or punched by man, and had lived in the roar and rattle of +the shipyard for months. Therefore, every piece had its own separate voice, in +exact proportion to the amount of trouble spent upon it. Cast-iron, as a rule, +says very little; but mild steel plates and wrought-iron, and ribs and beams +that have been much bent and welded and riveted, talk continuously. Their +conversation, of course, is not half as wise as our human talk, because they +are all, though they do not know it, bound down one to the other in a black +darkness, where they cannot tell what is happening near them, nor what will +overtake them next. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as she had cleared the Irish coast, a sullen, grey-headed old wave of +the Atlantic climbed leisurely over her straight bows, and sat down on the +steam-capstan used for hauling up the anchor. Now the capstan and the engine +that drove it had been newly painted red and green; besides which, nobody likes +being ducked. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you do that again,” the capstan sputtered through the +teeth of his cogs. “Hi! Where’s the fellow gone?” +</p> + +<p> +The wave had slouched overside with a plop and a chuckle; but “Plenty +more where he came from,” said a brother-wave, and went through and over +the capstan, who was bolted firmly to an iron plate on the iron deck-beams +below. +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t you keep still up there?” said the deckbeams. +“What’s the matter with you? One minute you weigh twice as much as +you ought to, and the next you don’t!” +</p> + +<p> +“It isn’t my fault,” said the capstan. “There’s a +green brute outside that comes and hits me on the head.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell that to the shipwrights. You’ve been in position for months +and you’ve never wriggled like this before. If you aren’t careful +you’ll strain <i>us</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“Talking of strain,” said a low, rasping, unpleasant voice, +“are any of you fellows—you deck-beams, we mean—aware that +those exceedingly ugly knees of yours happen to be riveted into our +structure—<i>ours?</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“Who might you be?” the deck-beams inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, nobody in particular,” was the answer. “We’re only +the port and starboard upper-deck stringers; and if you persist in heaving and +hiking like this, we shall be reluctantly compelled to take steps.” +</p> + +<p> +Now the stringers of the ship are long iron girders, so to speak, that run +lengthways from stern to bow. They keep the iron frames (what are called ribs +in a wooden ship) in place, and also help to hold the ends of the deck-beams, +which go from side to side of the ship. Stringers always consider themselves +most important, because they are so long. +</p> + +<p> +“You will take steps—will you?” This was a long echoing +rumble. It came from the frames—scores and scores of them, each one about +eighteen inches distant from the next, and each riveted to the stringers in +four places. “We think you will have a certain amount of trouble in +<i>that</i>”; and thousands and thousands of the little rivets that held +everything together whispered: “You Will! You will! Stop quivering and be +quiet. Hold on, brethren! Hold on! Hot Punches! What’s that?” +</p> + +<p> +Rivets have no teeth, so they cannot chatter with fright; but they did their +best as a fluttering jar swept along the ship from stern to bow, and she shook +like a rat in a terrier’s mouth. +</p> + +<p> +An unusually severe pitch, for the sea was rising, had lifted the big throbbing +screw nearly to the surface, and it was spinning round in a kind of +soda-water—half sea and half air—going much faster than was proper, +because there was no deep water for it to work in. As it sank again, the +engines—and they were triple expansion, three cylinders in a +row—snorted through all their three pistons. “Was that a joke, you +fellow outside? It’s an uncommonly poor one. How are we to do our work if +you fly off the handle that way?” +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t fly off the handle,” said the screw, twirling +huskily at the end of the screw-shaft. “If I had, you’d have been +scrap-iron by this time. The sea dropped away from under me, and I had nothing +to catch on to. That’s all.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s all, d’you call it?” said the thrust-block, +whose business it is to take the push of the screw; for if a screw had nothing +to hold it back it would crawl right into the engine-room. (It is the holding +back of the screwing action that gives the drive to a ship.) “I know I do +my work deep down and out of sight, but I warn you I expect justice. All I ask +for is bare justice. Why can’t you push steadily and evenly, instead of +whizzing like a whirligig, and making me hot under all my collars?” The +thrust-block had six collars, each faced with brass, and he did not wish to get +them heated. +</p> + +<p> +All the bearings that supported the fifty feet of screw-shaft as it ran to the +stern whispered: “Justice—give us justice.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can only give you what I can get,” the screw answered. +“Look out! It’s coming again!” +</p> + +<p> +He rose with a roar as the <i>Dimbula</i> plunged, and +“whack—flack—whack—whack” went the engines, +furiously, for they had little to check them. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m the noblest outcome of human ingenuity—Mr. Buchanan says +so,” squealed the high-pressure cylinder. “This is simply +ridiculous!” The piston went up savagely, and choked, for half the steam +behind it was mixed with dirty water. “Help! Oiler! Fitter! Stoker! Help! +I’m choking,” it gasped. “Never in the history of maritime +invention has such a calamity over-taken one so young and strong. And if I go, +who’s to drive the ship?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush! oh, hush!” whispered the Steam, who, of course, had been to +sea many times before. He used to spend his leisure ashore in a cloud, or a +gutter, or a flower-pot, or a thunder-storm, or anywhere else where water was +needed. “That’s only a little priming, a little carrying-over, as +they call it. It’ll happen all night, on and off. I don’t say +it’s nice, but it’s the best we can do under the +circumstances.” +</p> + +<p> +“What difference can circumstances make? I’m here to do my +work—on clean, dry steam. Blow circumstances!” the cylinder roared. +</p> + +<p> +“The circumstances will attend to the blowing. I’ve worked on the +North Atlantic run a good many times—it’s going to be rough before +morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“It isn’t distressingly calm now,” said the extra strong +frames—they were called web-frames—in the engine-room. +“There’s an upward thrust that we don’t understand, and +there’s a twist that is very bad for our brackets and diamond-plates, and +there’s a sort of west-northwesterly pull, that follows the twist, which +seriously annoys us. We mention this because we happened to cost a good deal of +money, and we feel sure that the owner would not approve of our being treated +in this frivolous way.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid the matter is out of owner’s hands for the +present,” said the Steam, slipping into the condenser. +“You’re left to your own devices till the weather betters.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wouldn’t mind the weather,” said a flat bass voice below; +“it’s this confounded cargo that’s breaking my heart. +I’m the garboard-strake, and I’m twice as thick as most of the +others, and I ought to know something.” +</p> + +<p> +The garboard-strake is the lowest plate in the bottom of a ship, and the +<i>Dimbula’s</i> garboard-strake was nearly three-quarters of an inch +mild steel. +</p> + +<p> +“The sea pushes me up in a way I should never have expected,” the +strake grunted, “and the cargo pushes me down, and, between the two, I +don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” +</p> + +<p> +“When in doubt, hold on,” rumbled the Steam, making head in the +boilers. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but there’s only dark, and cold, and hurry, down here; and +how do I know whether the other plates are doing their duty? Those +bulwark-plates up above, I’ve heard, ain’t more than +five-sixteenths of an inch thick—scandalous, I call it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I agree with you,” said a huge web-frame, by the main cargo-hatch. +He was deeper and thicker than all the others, and curved half-way across the +ship in the shape of half an arch, to support the deck where deck-beams would +have been in the way of cargo coming up and down. “I work entirely +unsupported, and I observe that I am the sole strength of this vessel, so far +as my vision extends. The responsibility, I assure you, is enormous. I believe +the money-value of the cargo is over one hundred and fifty thousand pounds. +Think of that!” +</p> + +<p> +“And every pound of it is dependent on my personal exertions.” Here +spoke a sea-valve that communicated directly with the water outside, and was +seated not very far from the garboard-strake. “I rejoice to think that I +am a Prince-Hyde Valve, with best Para rubber facings. Five patents cover +me—I mention this without pride—five separate and several patents, +each one finer than the other. At present I am screwed fast. Should I open, you +would immediately be swamped. This is incontrovertible!” +</p> + +<p> +Patent things always use the longest words they can. It is a trick that they +pick up from their inventors. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s news,” said a big centrifugal bilge-pump. “I +had an idea that you were employed to clean decks and things with. At least, +I’ve used you for that more than once. I forget the precise number, in +thousands, of gallons which I am guaranteed to throw per hour; but I assure +you, my complaining friends, that there is not the least danger. I alone am +capable of clearing any water that may find its way here. By my Biggest +Deliveries, we pitched then!” +</p> + +<p> +The sea was getting up in workmanlike style. It was a dead westerly gale, blown +from under a ragged opening of green sky, narrowed on all sides by fat, grey +clouds; and the wind bit like pincers as it fretted the spray into lacework on +the flanks of the waves. +</p> + +<p> +“I tell you what it is,” the foremast telephoned down its +wire-stays. “I’m up here, and I can take a dispassionate view of +things. There’s an organised conspiracy against us. I’m sure of it, +because every single one of these waves is heading directly for our bows. The +whole sea is concerned in it—and so’s the wind. It’s +awful!” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s awful?” said a wave, drowning the capstan for the +hundredth time. +</p> + +<p> +“This organised conspiracy on your part,” the capstan gurgled, +taking his cue from the mast. “Organised bubbles and spindrift! There has +been a depression in the Gulf of Mexico. Excuse me!” He leaped overside; +but his friends took up the tale one after another. +</p> + +<p> +“Which has advanced—” That wave hove green water over the +funnel. +</p> + +<p> +“As far as Cape Hatteras—” He drenched the bridge. +</p> + +<p> +“And is now going out to sea—to sea—to sea!” The third +went out in three surges, making a clean sweep of a boat, which turned bottom +up and sank in the darkening troughs alongside, while the broken falls whipped +the davits. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s all there is to it,” seethed the white water roaring +through the scuppers. “There’s no animus in our proceedings. +We’re only meteorological corollaries.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it going to get any worse?” said the bow-anchor chained down to +the deck, where he could only breathe once in five minutes. +</p> + +<p> +“Not knowing, can’t say. Wind may blow a bit by midnight. Thanks +awfully. Good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +The wave that spoke so politely had travelled some distance aft, and found +itself all mixed up on the deck amidships, which was a well-deck sunk between +high bulwarks. One of the bulwark-plates, which was hung on hinges to open +outward, had swung out, and passed the bulk of the water back to the sea again +with a clean smack. +</p> + +<p> +“Evidently that’s what I’m made for,” said the plate, +closing again with a sputter of pride. “Oh, no, you don’t, my +friend!” The top of a wave was trying to get in from the outside, but as +the plate did not open in that direction, the defeated water spurted back. +</p> + +<p> +“Not bad for five-sixteenths of an inch,” said the bulwark-plate. +“My work, I see, is laid down for the night”; and it began opening +and shutting, as it was designed to do, with the motion of the ship. +</p> + +<p> +“We are not what you might call idle,” groaned all the frames +together, as the <i>Dimbula</i> climbed a big wave, lay on her side at the top, +and shot into the next hollow, twisting in the descent. A huge swell pushed up +exactly under her middle, and her bow and stern hung free with nothing to +support them. Then one joking wave caught her up at the bow, and another at the +stern, while the rest of the water slunk away from under her just to see how +she would like it; so she was held up at her two ends only, and the weight of +the cargo and the machinery fell on the groaning iron keels and +bilge-stringers. +</p> + +<p> +“Ease off! Ease off, there!” roared the garboard-strake. “I +want one-eighth of an inch fair play. D’ you hear me, you rivets!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ease off! Ease off!” cried the bilge-stringers. “Don’t +hold us so tight to the frames!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ease off!” grunted the deck-beams, as the <i>Dimbula</i> rolled +fearfully. “You’ve cramped our knees into the stringers, and we +can’t move. Ease off, you flat-headed little nuisances.” +</p> + +<p> +Then two converging seas hit the bows, one on each side, and fell away in +torrents of streaming thunder. +</p> + +<p> +“Ease off!” shouted the forward collision-bulkhead. “I want +to crumple up, but I’m stiffened in every direction. Ease off, you dirty +little forge-filings. Let me breathe!” +</p> + +<p> +All the hundreds of plates that are riveted to the frames, and make the outside +skin of every steamer, echoed the call, for each plate wanted to shift and +creep a little, and each plate, according to its position, complained against +the rivets. +</p> + +<p> +“We can’t help it! <i>We</i> can’t help it!” they +murmured in reply. “We’re put here to hold you, and we’re +going to do it; you never pull us twice in the same direction. If you’d +say what you were going to do next, we’d try to meet your views. +</p> + +<p> +“As far as I could feel,” said the upper-deck planking, and that +was four inches thick, “every single iron near me was pushing or pulling +in opposite directions. Now, what’s the sense of that? My friends, let us +all pull together.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pull any way you please,” roared the funnel, “so long as you +don’t try your experiments on <i>me</i>. I need fourteen wire-ropes, all +pulling in different directions, to hold me steady. Isn’t that so?” +</p> + +<p> +“We believe you, my boy!” whistled the funnel-stays through their +clinched teeth, as they twanged in the wind from the top of the funnel to the +deck. +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense! We must all pull together,” the decks repeated. +“Pull lengthways.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good,” said the stringers; “then stop pushing sideways +when you get wet. Be content to run gracefully fore and aft, and curve in at +the ends as we do.” +</p> + +<p> +“No—no curves at the end. A very slight workmanlike curve from side +to side, with a good grip at each knee, and little pieces welded on,” +said the deck-beams. +</p> + +<p> +“Fiddle!” cried the iron pillars of the deep, dark hold. “Who +ever heard of curves? Stand up straight; be a perfectly round column, and carry +tons of good solid weight—like that! There!” A big sea smashed on +the deck above, and the pillars stiffened themselves to the load. +</p> + +<p> +“Straight up and down is not bad,” said the frames, who ran that +way in the sides of the ship, “but you must also expand yourselves +sideways. Expansion is the law of life, children. Open out! open out!” +</p> + +<p> +“Come back!” said the deck-beams, savagely, as the upward heave of +the sea made the frames try to open. “Come back to your bearings, you +slack-jawed irons!” +</p> + +<p> +“Rigidity! Rigidity! Rigidity!” thumped the engines. +“Absolute, unvarying rigidity—rigidity!” +</p> + +<p> +“You see!” whined the rivets, in chorus. “No two of you will +ever pull alike, and—and you blame it all on us. We only know how to go +through a plate and bite down on both sides so that it can’t, and +mustn’t, and sha’n’t move.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve got one fraction of an inch play, at any rate,” said +the garboard-strake, triumphantly. So he had, and all the bottom of the ship +felt the easier for it. +</p> + +<p> +“Then we’re no good,” sobbed the bottom rivets. “We +were ordered—we were ordered—never to give; and we’ve given, +and the sea will come in, and we’ll all go to the bottom together! First +we’re blamed for everything unpleasant, and now we haven’t the +consolation of having done our work.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t say I told you,” whispered the Steam, consolingly; +“but, between you and me and the last cloud I came from, it was bound to +happen sooner or later. You <i>had</i> to give a fraction, and you’ve +given without knowing it. Now, hold on, as before.” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the use?” a few hundred rivets chattered. +“We’ve given—we’ve given; and the sooner we confess +that we can’t keep the ship together, and go off our little heads, the +easier it will be. No rivet forged can stand this strain.” +</p> + +<p> +“No one rivet was ever meant to. Share it among you,” the Steam +answered. +</p> + +<p> +“The others can have my share. I’m going to pull out,” said a +rivet in one of the forward plates. +</p> + +<p> +“If you go, others will follow,” hissed the Steam. +“There’s nothing so contagious in a boat as rivets going. Why, I +knew a little chap like you—he was an eighth of an inch fatter, +though—on a steamer—to be sure, she was only twelve hundred tons, +now I come to think of it—in exactly the same place as you are. He pulled +out in a bit of a bobble of a sea, not half as bad as this, and he started all +his friends on the same butt-strap, and the plates opened like a furnace door, +and I had to climb into the nearest fog-bank, while the boat went down.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now that’s peculiarly disgraceful,” said the rivet. +“Fatter than me, was he, and in a steamer not half our tonnage? Reedy +little peg! I blush for the family, sir.” He settled himself more firmly +than ever in his place, and the Steam chuckled. +</p> + +<p> +“You see,” he went on, quite gravely, “a rivet, and +especially a rivet in your position, is really the one indispensable part of +the ship.” +</p> + +<p> +The Steam did not say that he had whispered the very same thing to every single +piece of iron aboard. There is no sense in telling too much. +</p> + +<p> +And all that while the little <i>Dimbula</i> pitched and chopped, and swung and +slewed, and lay down as though she were going to die, and got up as though she +had been stung, and threw her nose round and round in circles half a dozen +times as she dipped, for the gale was at its worst. It was inky black, in spite +of the tearing white froth on the waves, and, to top everything, the rain began +to fall in sheets, so that you could not see your hand before your face. This +did not make much difference to the ironwork below, but it troubled the +foremast a good deal. +</p> + +<p> +“Now it’s all finished,” he said dismally. “The +conspiracy is too strong for us. There is nothing left but to—” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Hurraar! Brrrraaah! Brrrrrrp!</i>” roared the Steam through the +fog-horn, till the decks quivered. “Don’t be frightened, below. +It’s only me, just throwing out a few words, in case any one happens to +be rolling round to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t mean to say there’s any one except us on the sea +in such weather?” said the funnel, in a husky snuffle. +</p> + +<p> +“Scores of ’em,” said the Steam, clearing its throat. +“<i>Rrrrrraaa! Brraaaaa! Prrrrp!</i> It’s a trifle windy up here; +and, Great Boilers! how it rains!” +</p> + +<p> +“We’re drowning,” said the scuppers. They had been doing +nothing else all night, but this steady thrash of rain above them seemed to be +the end of the world. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s all right. We’ll be easier in an hour or two. First +the wind and then the rain. Soon you may make sail again! <i>Grrraaaaaah! +Drrrraaaa! Drrrp!</i> I have a notion that the sea is going down already. If it +does you’ll learn something about rolling. We’ve only pitched till +now. By the way, aren’t you chaps in the hold a little easier than you +were?” +</p> + +<p> +There was just as much groaning and straining as ever, but it was not so loud +or squeaky in tone; and when the ship quivered she did not jar stiffly, like a +poker hit on the floor, but gave with a supple little waggle, like a perfectly +balanced golf-club. +</p> + +<p> +“We have made a most amazing discovery,” said the stringers, one +after another. “A discovery that entirely changes the situation. We have +found, for the first time in the history of ship-building, that the inward pull +of the deck-beams and the outward thrust of the frames locks us, as it were, +more closely in our places, and enables us to endure a strain which is entirely +without parallel in the records of marine architecture.” +</p> + +<p> +The Steam turned a laugh quickly into a roar up the fog-horn. “What +massive intellects you great stringers have,” he said softly, when he had +finished. +</p> + +<p> +“We also,” began the deck-beams, “are discoverers and +geniuses. We are of opinion that the support of the hold-pillars materially +helps us. We find that we lock up on them when we are subjected to a heavy and +singular weight of sea above.” +</p> + +<p> +Here the <i>Dimbula</i> shot down a hollow, lying almost on her side; righting +at the bottom with a wrench and a spasm. +</p> + +<p> +“In these cases—are you aware of this, Steam?—the plating at +the bows, and particularly at the stern—we would also mention the floors +beneath us—help us to resist any tendency to spring.” The frames +spoke, in the solemn awed voice which people use when they have just come +across something entirely new for the very first time. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m only a poor puffy little flutterer,” said the Steam, +“but I have to stand a good deal of pressure in my business. It’s +all tremendously interesting. Tell us some more. You fellows are so +strong.” +</p> + +<p> +“Watch us and you’ll see,” said the bow-plates, proudly. +“Ready, behind there! Here’s the father and mother of waves coming! +Sit tight, rivets all!” A great sluicing comber thundered by, but through +the scuffle and confusion the Steam could hear the low, quick cries of the +ironwork as the various strains took them—cries like these: “Easy, +now—easy! <i>Now</i> push for all your strength! Hold out! Give a +fraction! Hold up! Pull in! Shove crossways! Mind the strain at the ends! Grip, +now! Bite tight! Let the water get away from under—and there she +goes!” +</p> + +<p> +The wave raced off into the darkness, shouting, “Not bad, that, if +it’s your first run!” and the drenched and ducked ship throbbed to +the beat of the engines inside her. All three cylinders were white with the +salt spray that had come down through the engine-room hatch; there was white +fur on the canvas-bound steam-pipes, and even the bright-work deep below was +speckled and soiled; but the cylinders had learned to make the most of steam +that was half water, and were pounding along cheerfully. +</p> + +<p> +“How’s the noblest outcome of human ingenuity hitting it?” +said the Steam, as he whirled through the engine-room. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing for nothing in this world of woe,” the cylinders answered, +as though they had been working for centuries, “and precious little for +seventy-five pounds head. We’ve made two knots this last hour and a +quarter! Rather humiliating for eight hundred horse-power, isn’t +it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it’s better than drifting astern, at any rate. You seem +rather less—how shall I put it—stiff in the back than you +were.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you’d been hammered as we’ve been this night, you +wouldn’t be stiff—iff—iff; either. +Theoreti—retti—retti—cally, of course, rigidity is the thing. +Purrr—purr—practically, there has to be a little give and take. +<i>We</i> found that out by working on our sides for five minutes at a +stretch—chch—chh. How’s the weather?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sea’s going down fast,” said the Steam. +</p> + +<p> +“Good business,” said the high-pressure cylinder. “Whack her +up, boys. They’ve given us five pounds more steam”; and he began +humming the first bars of “Said the young Obadiah to the old +Obadiah,” which, as you may have noticed, is a pet tune among engines not +built for high speed. Racing-liners with twin-screws sing “The Turkish +Patrol” and the overture to the “Bronze Horse,” and +“Madame Angot,” till something goes wrong, and then they render +Gounod’s “Funeral March of a Marionette,” with variations. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll learn a song of your own some fine day,” said the +Steam, as he flew up the fog-horn for one last bellow. +</p> + +<p> +Next day the sky cleared and the sea dropped a little, and the <i>Dimbula</i> +began to roll from side to side till every inch of iron in her was sick and +giddy. But luckily they did not all feel ill at the same time: otherwise she +would have opened out like a wet paper box. +</p> + +<p> +The Steam whistled warnings as he went about his business: it is in this short, +quick roll and tumble that follows a heavy sea that most of the accidents +happen, for then everything thinks that the worst is over and goes off guard. +So he orated and chattered till the beams and frames and floors and stringers +and things had learned how to lock down and lock up on one another, and endure +this new kind of strain. +</p> + +<p> +They found ample time to practise, for they were sixteen days at sea, and it +was foul weather till within a hundred miles of New York. The <i>Dimbula</i> +picked up her pilot, and came in covered with salt and red rust. Her funnel was +dirty-grey from top to bottom; two boats had been carried away; three copper +ventilators looked like hats after a fight with the police; the bridge had a +dimple in the middle of it; the house that covered the steam steering-gear was +split as with hatchets; there was a bill for small repairs in the engine-room +almost as long as the screw-shaft; the forward cargo-hatch fell into +bucket-staves when they raised the iron cross-bars; and the steam-capstan had +been badly wrenched on its bed. Altogether, as the skipper said, it was +“a pretty general average.” +</p> + +<p> +“But she’s soupled,” he said to Mr. Buchanan. “For all +her dead-weight she rode like a yacht. Ye mind that last blow off the +Banks—I am proud of her, Buck.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s vera good,” said the chief engineer, looking along the +dishevelled decks. “Now, a man judgin’ superfeecially would say we +were a wreck, but we know otherwise—by experience.” +</p> + +<p> +Naturally everything in the <i>Dimbula</i> fairly stiffened with pride, and the +foremast and the forward collision-bulkhead, who are pushing creatures, begged +the Steam to warn the Port of New York of their arrival. “Tell those big +boats all about us,” they said. “They seem to take us quite as a +matter of course.” +</p> + +<p> +It was a glorious, clear, dead calm morning, and in single file, with less than +half a mile between each, their bands playing and their tugboats shouting and +waving handkerchiefs, were the <i>Majestic</i>, the <i>Paris</i>, the +<i>Touraine</i>, the <i>Servia</i>, the <i>Kaiser Wilhelm II.</i>, and the +<i>Werkendam</i>, all statelily going out to sea. As the <i>Dimbula</i> shifted +her helm to give the great boats clear way, the Steam (who knows far too much +to mind making an exhibition of himself now and then) shouted: +</p> + +<p> +“Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! Princes, Dukes, and Barons of the High Seas! Know ye +by these presents, we are the <i>Dimbula</i>, fifteen days nine hours from +Liverpool, having crossed the Atlantic with four thousand ton of cargo for the +first time in our career! We have not foundered. We are here. ’<i>Eer! +’Eer!</i> We are not disabled. But we have had a time wholly unparalleled +in the annals of ship-building! Our decks were swept! We pitched; we rolled! We +thought we were going to die! <i>Hi! Hi!</i> But we didn’t. We wish to +give notice that we have come to New York all the way across the Atlantic, +through the worst weather in the world; and we are the <i>Dimbula!</i> We +are—arr—ha—ha—ha-r-r-r!” +</p> + +<p> +The beautiful line of boats swept by as steadily as the procession of the +Seasons. The <i>Dimbula</i> heard the <i>Majestic</i> say, “Hmph!” +and the <i>Paris</i> grunted, “How!” and the <i>Touraine</i> said, +“Oui!” with a little coquettish flicker of steam; and the +<i>Servia</i> said, “Haw!” and the <i>Kaiser</i> and the +<i>Werkendam</i> said, “Hoch!” Dutch fashion—and that was +absolutely all. +</p> + +<p> +“I did my best,” said the Steam, gravely, “but I don’t +think they were much impressed with us, somehow. Do you?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s simply disgusting,” said the bow-plates. “They +might have seen what we’ve been through. There isn’t a ship on the +sea that has suffered as we have—is there, now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as that,” said the Steam, +“because I’ve worked on some of those boats, and sent them through +weather quite as bad as the fortnight that we’ve had, in six days; and +some of them are a little over ten thousand tons, I believe. Now I’ve +seen the <i>Majestic</i>, for instance, ducked from her bows to her funnel; and +I’ve helped the <i>Arizona</i>, I think she was, to back off an iceberg +she met with one dark night; and I had to run out of the <i>Paris’s</i> +engine-room, one day, because there was thirty foot of water in it. Of course, +I don’t deny—” The Steam shut off suddenly, as a tugboat, +loaded with a political club and a brass band, that had been to see a New York +Senator off to Europe, crossed their bows, going to Hoboken. There was a long +silence that reached, without a break, from the cut-water to the +propeller-blades of the <i>Dimbula</i>. +</p> + +<p> +Then a new, big voice said slowly and thickly, as though the owner had just +waked up: “It’s my conviction that I have made a fool of +myself.” +</p> + +<p> +The Steam knew what had happened at once; for when a ship finds herself all the +talking of the separate pieces ceases and melts into one voice, which is the +soul of the ship. +</p> + +<p> +“Who are you?” he said, with a laugh. “I am the +<i>Dimbula</i>, of course. I’ve never been anything else except +that—and a fool!” +</p> + +<p> +The tugboat, which was doing its very best to be run down, got away just in +time; its band playing clashily and brassily a popular but impolite air: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +In the days of old Rameses—are you on?<br/> +In the days of old Rameses—are you on?<br/> +In the days of old Rameses,<br/> +That story had paresis,<br/> +Are you on—are you on—are you on? +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’m glad you’ve found yourself,” said the Steam. +“To tell the truth, I was a little tired of talking to all those ribs and +stringers. Here’s Quarantine. After that we’ll go to our wharf and +clean up a little, and—next month we’ll do it all over +again.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"></a> +THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS</h2> + +<p> +Some people will tell you that if there were but a single loaf of bread in all +India it would be divided equally between the Plowdens, the Trevors, the +Beadons, and the Rivett-Carnacs. That is only one way of saying that certain +families serve India generation after generation, as dolphins follow in line +across the open sea. +</p> + +<p> +Let us take a small and obscure case. There has been at least one +representative of the Devonshire Chinns in or near Central India since the days +of Lieutenant-Fireworker Humphrey Chinn, of the Bombay European Regiment, who +assisted at the capture of Seringapatam in 1799. Alfred Ellis Chinn, +Humphrey’s younger brother, commanded a regiment of Bombay grenadiers +from 1804 to 1813, when he saw some mixed fighting; and in 1834 John Chinn of +the same family—we will call him John Chinn the First—came to light +as a level-headed administrator in time of trouble at a place called Mundesur. +He died young, but left his mark on the new country, and the Honourable the +Board of Directors of the Honourable the East India Company embodied his +virtues in a stately resolution, and paid for the expenses of his tomb among +the Satpura hills. +</p> + +<p> +He was succeeded by his son, Lionel Chinn, who left the little old Devonshire +home just in time to be severely wounded in the Mutiny. He spent his working +life within a hundred and fifty miles of John Chinn’s grave, and rose to +the command of a regiment of small, wild hill-men, most of whom had known his +father. His son John was born in the small thatched-roofed, mud-walled +cantonment, which is even to-day eighty miles from the nearest railway, in the +heart of a scrubby, tigerish country. Colonel Lionel Chinn served thirty years +and retired. In the Canal his steamer passed the outward-bound troop-ship, +carrying his son eastward to the family duty. +</p> + +<p> +The Chinns are luckier than most folk, because they know exactly what they must +do. A clever Chinn passes for the Bombay Civil Service, and gets away to +Central India, where everybody is glad to see him. A dull Chinn enters the +Police Department or the Woods and Forest, and sooner or later he, too, appears +in Central India, and that is what gave rise to the saying, “Central +India is inhabited by Bhils, Mairs, and Chinns, all very much alike.” The +breed is small-boned, dark, and silent, and the stupidest of them are good +shots. John Chinn the Second was rather clever, but as the eldest son he +entered the army, according to Chinn tradition. His duty was to abide in his +father’s regiment for the term of his natural life, though the corps was +one which most men would have paid heavily to avoid. They were irregulars, +small, dark, and blackish, clothed in rifle-green with black-leather trimmings; +and friends called them the “Wuddars,” which means a race of +low-caste people who dig up rats to eat. But the Wuddars did not resent it. +They were the only Wuddars, and their points of pride were these: +</p> + +<p> +Firstly, they had fewer English officers than any native regiment. Secondly, +their subalterns were not mounted on parade, as is the general rule, but walked +at the head of their men. A man who can hold his own with the Wuddars at their +quickstep must be sound in wind and limb. Thirdly, they were the most <i>pukka +shikarries</i> (out-and-out hunters) in all India. Fourthly-up to +one-hundredthly—they were the Wuddars—Chinn’s Irregular Bhil +Levies of the old days, but now, henceforward and for ever, the Wuddars. +</p> + +<p> +No Englishman entered their mess except for love or through family usage. The +officers talked to their soldiers in a tongue not two hundred white folk in +India understood; and the men were their children, all drawn from the Bhils, +who are, perhaps, the strangest of the many strange races in India. They were, +and at heart are, wild men, furtive, shy, full of untold superstitions. The +races whom we call natives of the country found the Bhil in possession of the +land when they first broke into that part of the world thousands of years ago. +The books call them Pre-Aryan, Aboriginal, Dravidian, and so forth; and, in +other words, that is what the Bhils call themselves. When a Rajput chief whose +bards can sing his pedigree backwards for twelve hundred years is set on the +throne, his investiture is not complete till he has been marked on the forehead +with blood from the veins of a Bhil. The Rajputs say the ceremony has no +meaning, but the Bhil knows that it is the last, last shadow of his old rights +as the long-ago owner of the soil. +</p> + +<p> +Centuries of oppression and massacre made the Bhil a cruel and half-crazy thief +and cattle-stealer, and when the English came he seemed to be almost as open to +civilisation as the tigers of his own jungles. But John Chinn the First, father +of Lionel, grandfather of our John, went into his country, lived with him, +learned his language, shot the deer that stole his poor crops, and won his +confidence, so that some Bhils learned to plough and sow, while others were +coaxed into the Company’s service to police their friends. +</p> + +<p> +When they understood that standing in line did not mean instant execution, they +accepted soldiering as a cumbrous but amusing kind of sport, and were zealous +to keep the wild Bhils under control. That was the thin edge of the wedge. John +Chinn the First gave them written promises that, if they were good from a +certain date, the Government would overlook previous offences; and since John +Chinn was never known to break his word—he promised once to hang a Bhil +locally esteemed invulnerable, and hanged him in front of his tribe for seven +proved murders—the Bhils settled down as steadily as they knew how. It +was slow, unseen work, of the sort that is being done all over India to-day; +and though John Chinn’s only reward came, as I have said, in the shape of +a grave at Government expense, the little people of the hills never forgot him. +</p> + +<p> +Colonel Lionel Chinn knew and loved them, too, and they were very fairly +civilised, for Bhils, before his service ended. Many of them could hardly be +distinguished from low-caste Hindoo farmers; but in the south, where John Chinn +the First was buried, the wildest still clung to the Satpura ranges, cherishing +a legend that some day Jan Chinn, as they called him, would return to his own. +In the mean time they mistrusted the white man and his ways. The least +excitement would stampede them, plundering, at random, and now and then +killing; but if they were handled discreetly they grieved like children, and +promised never to do it again. +</p> + +<p> +The Bhils of the regiment—the uniformed men—were virtuous in many +ways, but they needed humouring. They felt bored and homesick unless taken +after tiger as beaters; and their cold-blooded daring—all Wuddars shoot +tigers on foot: it is their caste-mark—made even the officers wonder. +They would follow up a wounded tiger as unconcernedly as though it were a +sparrow with a broken wing; and this through a country full of caves and rifts +and pits, where a wild beast could hold a dozen men at his mercy. Now and then +some little man was brought to barracks with his head smashed in or his ribs +torn away; but his companions never learned caution; they contented themselves +with settling the tiger. +</p> + +<p> +Young John Chinn was decanted at the verandah of the Wuddars’ lonely +mess-house from the back seat of a two-wheeled cart, his gun-cases cascading +all round him. The slender little, hookey-nosed boy looked forlorn as a strayed +goat when he slapped the white dust off his knees, and the cart jolted down the +glaring road. But in his heart he was contented. After all, this was the place +where he had been born, and things were not much changed since he had been sent +to England, a child, fifteen years ago. +</p> + +<p> +There were a few new buildings, but the air and the smell and the sunshine were +the same; and the little green men who crossed the parade-ground looked very +familiar. Three weeks ago John Chinn would have said he did not remember a word +of the Bhil tongue, but at the mess door he found his lips moving in sentences +that he did not understand—bits of old nursery rhymes, and tail-ends of +such orders as his father used to give the men. +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel watched him come up the steps, and laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Look!” he said to the Major. “No need to ask the young +un’s breed. He’s a <i>pukka</i> Chinn. Might be his father in the +Fifties over again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hope he’ll shoot as straight,” said the Major. +“He’s brought enough ironmongery with him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wouldn’t be a Chinn if he didn’t. Watch him blowin’ +his nose. Regular Chinn beak. Flourishes his handkerchief like his father. +It’s the second edition—line for line.” +</p> + +<p> +“Fairy tale, by Jove!” said the Major, peering through the slats of +the jalousies. “If he’s the lawful heir, he’ll.... Now old +Chinn could no more pass that chick without fiddling with it than....” +</p> + +<p> +“His son!” said the Colonel, jumping up. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I be blowed!” said the Major. The boy’s eye had been +caught by a split-reed screen that hung on a slew between the veranda pillars, +and, mechanically, he had tweaked the edge to set it level. Old Chinn had sworn +three times a day at that screen for many years; he could never get it to his +satisfaction. +</p> + +<p> +His son entered the anteroom in the middle of a fivefold silence. They made him +welcome for his father’s sake and, as they took stock of him, for his +own. He was ridiculously like the portrait of the Colonel on the wall, and when +he had washed a little of the dust from his throat he went to his quarters with +the old man’s short, noiseless jungle-step. +</p> + +<p> +“So much for heredity,” said the Major. “That comes of four +generations among the Bhils.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the men know it,” said a Wing officer. “They’ve +been waiting for this youth with their tongues hanging out. I am persuaded +that, unless he absolutely beats ’em over the head, they’ll lie +down by companies and worship him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothin’ like havin’ a father before you,” said the +Major. “I’m a parvenu with my chaps. I’ve only been twenty +years in the regiment, and my revered parent he was a simple squire. +There’s no getting at the bottom of a Bhil’s mind. Now, <i>why</i> +is the superior bearer that young Chinn brought with him fleeing across country +with his bundle?” He stepped into the verandah, and shouted after the +man—a typical new-joined subaltern’s servant who speaks English and +cheats in proportion. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” he called. +</p> + +<p> +“Plenty bad man here. I going, sar,” was the reply. “Have +taken Sahib’s keys, and say will shoot.” +</p> + +<p> +“Doocid lucid—doocid convincin’. How those up-country thieves +can leg it! He has been badly frightened by some one.” The Major strolled +to his quarters to dress for mess. +</p> + +<p> +Young Chinn, walking like a man in a dream, had fetched a compass round the +entire cantonment before going to his own tiny cottage. The captain’s +quarters, in which he had been born, delayed him for a little; then he looked +at the well on the parade-ground, where he had sat of evenings with his nurse, +and at the ten-by-fourteen church, where the officers went to service if a +chaplain of any official creed happened to come along. It seemed very small as +compared with the gigantic buildings he used to stare up at, but it was the +same place. +</p> + +<p> +From time to time he passed a knot of silent soldiers, who saluted. They might +have been the very men who had carried him on their backs when he was in his +first knickerbockers. A faint light burned in his room, and, as he entered, +hands clasped his feet, and a voice murmured from the floor. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is it?” said young Chinn, not knowing he spoke in the Bhil +tongue. +</p> + +<p> +“I bore you in my arms, Sahib, when I was a strong man and you were a +small one—crying, crying, crying! I am your servant, as I was your +father’s before you. We are all your servants.” +</p> + +<p> +Young Chinn could not trust himself to reply, and the voice went on: +</p> + +<p> +“I have taken your keys from that fat foreigner, and sent him away; and +the studs are in the shirt for mess. Who should know, if I do not know? And so +the baby has become a man, and forgets his nurse; but my nephew shall make a +good servant, or I will beat him twice a day.” +</p> + +<p> +Then there rose up, with a rattle, as straight as a Bhil arrow, a little +white-haired wizened ape of a man, with medals and orders on his tunic, +stammering, saluting, and trembling. Behind him a young and wiry Bhil, in +uniform, was taking the trees out of Chinn’s mess-boots. +</p> + +<p> +Chinn’s eyes were full of tears. The old man held out his keys. +</p> + +<p> +“Foreigners are bad people. He will never come back again. We are all +servants of your father’s son. Has the Sahib forgotten who took him to +see the trapped tiger in the village across the river, when his mother was so +frightened and he was so brave?” +</p> + +<p> +The scene came back to Chinn in great magic-lantern flashes. +“Bukta!” he cried; and all in a breath: “You promised nothing +should hurt me. <i>Is</i> it Bukta?” +</p> + +<p> +The man was at his feet a second time. “He has not forgotten. He +remembers his own people as his father remembered. Now can I die. But first I +will live and show the Sahib how to kill tigers. That <i>that</i> yonder is my +nephew. If he is not a good servant, beat him and send him to me, and I will +surely kill him, for now the Sahib is with his own people. Ai, Jan +<i>baba</i>—Jan <i>baba!</i> My Jan <i>baba!</i> I will stay here and see +that this does his work well. Take off his boots, fool. Sit down upon the bed, +Sahib, and let me look. It <i>is</i> Jan <i>baba</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +He pushed forward the hilt of his sword as a sign of service, which is an +honour paid only to viceroys, governors, generals, or to little children whom +one loves dearly. Chinn touched the hilt mechanically with three fingers, +muttering he knew not what. It happened to be the old answer of his childhood, +when Bukta in jest called him the little General Sahib. +</p> + +<p> +The Major’s quarters were opposite Chinn’s, and when he heard his +servant gasp with surprise he looked across the room. Then the Major sat on the +bed and whistled; for the spectacle of the senior native commissioned officer +of the regiment, an “unmixed” Bhil, a Companion of the Order of +British India, with thirty-five years’ spotless service in the army, and +a rank among his own people superior to that of many Bengal princelings, +valeting the last-joined subaltern, was a little too much for his nerves. +</p> + +<p> +The throaty bugles blew the Mess-call that has a long legend behind it. First a +few piercing notes like the shrieks of beaters in a far-away cover, and next, +large, full, and smooth, the refrain of the wild song: “And oh, and oh, +the green pulse of Mundore—Mundore!” +</p> + +<p> +“All little children were in bed when the Sahib heard that call +last,” said Bukta, passing Chinn a clean handkerchief. The call brought +back memories of his cot under the mosquito-netting, his mother’s kiss, +and the sound of footsteps growing fainter as he dropped asleep among his men. +So he hooked the dark collar of his new mess-jacket, and went to dinner like a +prince who has newly inherited his father’s crown. +</p> + +<p> +Old Bukta swaggered forth curling his whiskers. He knew his own value, and no +money and no rank within the gift of the Government would have induced him to +put studs in young officers’ shirts, or to hand them clean ties. Yet, +when he took off his uniform that night, and squatted among his fellows for a +quiet smoke, he told them what he had done, and they said that he was entirely +right. Thereat Bukta propounded a theory which to a white mind would have +seemed raving insanity; but the whispering, level-headed little men of war +considered it from every point of view, and thought that there might be a great +deal in it. +</p> + +<p> +At mess under the oil-lamps the talk turned as usual to the unfailing subject +of <i>shikar</i>—big game-shooting of every kind and under all sorts of +conditions. Young Chinn opened his eyes when he understood that each one of his +companions had shot several tigers in the Wuddar style—on foot, that +is—making no more of the business than if the brute had been a dog. +</p> + +<p> +“In nine cases out of ten,” said the Major, “a tiger is +almost as dangerous as a porcupine. But the tenth time you come home feet +first.” +</p> + +<p> +That set all talking, and long before midnight Chinn’s brain was in a +whirl with stories of tigers—man-eaters and cattle-killers each pursuing +his own business as methodically as clerks in an office; new tigers that had +lately come into such-and-such a district; and old, friendly beasts of great +cunning, known by nicknames in the mess—such as “Puggy,” who +was lazy, with huge paws, and “Mrs. Malaprop,” who turned up when +you never expected her, and made female noises. Then they spoke of Bhil +superstitions, a wide and picturesque field, till young Chinn hinted that they +must be pulling his leg. +</p> + +<p> +“’Deed, we aren’t,” said a man on his left. “We +know all about you. You’re a Chinn and all that, and you’ve a sort +of vested right here; but if you don’t believe what we’re telling +you, what will you do when old Bukta begins his stories? He knows about +ghost-tigers, and tigers that go to a hell of their own; and tigers that walk +on their hind feet; and your grandpapa’s riding-tiger, as well. Odd he +hasn’t spoken of that yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“You know you’ve an ancestor buried down Satpura way, don’t +you?” said the Major, as Chinn smiled irresolutely. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course I do,” said Chinn, who had the chronicle of the Book of +Chinn by heart. It lies in a worn old ledger on the Chinese lacquer table +behind the piano in the Devonshire home, and the children are allowed to look +at it on Sundays. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I wasn’t sure. Your revered ancestor, my boy, according to +the Bhils, has a tiger of his own—a saddle-tiger that he rides round the +country whenever he feels inclined. <i>I</i> don’t call it decent in an +ex-Collector’s ghost; but that is what the Southern Bhils believe. Even +our men, who might be called moderately cool, don’t care to beat that +country if they hear that Jan Chinn is running about on his tiger. It is +supposed to be a clouded animal—not stripy, but blotchy, like a +tortoise-shell tom-cat. No end of a brute, it is, and a sure sign of war or +pestilence or—or something. There’s a nice family legend for +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the origin of it, d’ you suppose?” said Chinn. +</p> + +<p> +“Ask the Satpura Bhils. Old Jan Chinn was a mighty hunter before the +Lord. Perhaps it was the tiger’s revenge, or perhaps he’s +huntin’ ’em still. You must go to his tomb one of these days and +inquire. Bukta will probably attend to that. He was asking me before you came +whether by any ill-luck you had already bagged your tiger. If not, he is going +to enter you under his own wing. Of course, for you of all men it’s +imperative. You’ll have a first-class time with Bukta.” +</p> + +<p> +The Major was not wrong. Bukta kept an anxious eye on young Chinn at drill, and +it was noticeable that the first time the new officer lifted up his voice in an +order the whole line quivered. Even the Colonel was taken aback, for it might +have been Lionel Chinn returned from Devonshire with a new lease of life. Bukta +had continued to develop his peculiar theory among his intimates, and it was +accepted as a matter of faith in the lines, since every word and gesture on +young Chinn’s part so confirmed it. +</p> + +<p> +The old man arranged early that his darling should wipe out the reproach of not +having shot a tiger; but he was not content to take the first or any beast that +happened to arrive. In his own villages he dispensed the high, low, and middle +justice, and when his people—naked and fluttered—came to him with +word of a beast marked down, he bade them send spies to the kills and the +watering-places, that he might be sure the quarry was such an one as suited the +dignity of such a man. +</p> + +<p> +Three or four times the reckless trackers returned, most truthfully saying that +the beast was mangy, undersized—a tigress worn with nursing, or a +broken-toothed old male—and Bukta would curb young Chinn’s +impatience. +</p> + +<p> +At last, a noble animal was marked down—a ten-foot cattle-killer with a +huge roll of loose skin along the belly, glossy-hided, full-frilled about the +neck, whiskered, frisky, and young. He had slain a man in pure sport, they +said. +</p> + +<p> +“Let him be fed,” quoth Bukta, and the villagers dutifully drove +out a cow to amuse him, that he might lie up near by. +</p> + +<p> +Princes and potentates have taken ship to India and spent great moneys for the +mere glimpse of beasts one-half as fine as this of Bukta’s. +</p> + +<p> +“It is not good,” said he to the Colonel, when he asked for +shooting-leave, “that my Colonel’s son who may be—that my +Colonel’s son should lose his maidenhead on any small jungle beast. That +may come after. I have waited long for this which is a tiger. He has come in +from the Mair country. In seven days we will return with the skin.” +</p> + +<p> +The mess gnashed their teeth enviously. Bukta, had he chosen, might have +invited them all. But he went out alone with Chinn, two days in a shooting-cart +and a day on foot, till they came to a rocky, glary valley with a pool of good +water in it. It was a parching day, and the boy very naturally stripped and +went in for a bathe, leaving Bukta by the clothes. A white skin shows far +against brown jungle, and what Bukta beheld on Chinn’s back and right +shoulder dragged him forward step by step with staring eyeballs. +</p> + +<p> +“I’d forgotten it isn’t decent to strip before a man of his +position,” said Chinn, flouncing in the water. “How the little +devil stares! What is it, Bukta?” “The Mark!” was the +whispered answer. +</p> + +<p> +“It is nothing. You know how it is with my people!” Chinn was +annoyed. The dull-red birth-mark on his shoulder, something like a +conventionalised Tartar cloud, had slipped his memory or he would not have +bathed. It occurred, so they said at home, in alternate generations, appearing, +curiously enough, eight or nine years after birth, and, save that it was part +of the Chinn inheritance, would not be considered pretty. He hurried ashore, +dressed again, and went on till they met two or three Bhils, who promptly fell +on their faces. “My people,” grunted Bukta, not condescending to +notice them. “And so your people, Sahib. When I was a young man we were +fewer, but not so weak. Now we are many, but poor stock. As may be remembered. +How will you shoot him, Sahib? From a tree; from a shelter which my people +shall build; by day or by night?” +</p> + +<p> +“On foot and in the daytime,” said young Chinn. +</p> + +<p> +“That was your custom, as I have heard,” said Bukta to himself. +“I will get news of him. Then you and I will go to him. I will carry one +gun. You have yours. There is no need of more. What tiger shall stand against +<i>thee?</i>” +</p> + +<p> +He was marked down by a little water-hole at the head of a ravine, full-gorged +and half asleep in the May sunlight. He was walked up like a partridge, and he +turned to do battle for his life. Bukta made no motion to raise his rifle, but +kept his eyes on Chinn, who met the shattering roar of the charge with a single +shot—it seemed to him hours as he sighted—which tore through the +throat, smashing the backbone below the neck and between the shoulders. The +brute couched, choked, and fell, and before Chinn knew well what had happened +Bukta bade him stay still while he paced the distance between his feet and the +ringing jaws. +</p> + +<p> +“Fifteen,” said Bukta. “Short paces. No need for a second +shot, Sahib. He bleeds cleanly where he lies, and we need not spoil the skin. I +said there would be no need of these, but they came—in case.” +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly the sides of the ravine were crowned with the heads of Bukta’s +people—a force that could have blown the ribs out of the beast had +Chinn’s shot failed; but their guns were hidden, and they appeared as +interested beaters, some five or six waiting the word to skin. Bukta watched +the life fade from the wild eyes, lifted one hand, and turned on his heel. +</p> + +<p> +“No need to show that <i>we</i> care,” said he. “Now, after +this, we can kill what we choose. Put out your hand, Sahib.” +</p> + +<p> +Chinn obeyed. It was entirely steady, and Bukta nodded. “That also was +your custom. My men skin quickly. They will carry the skin to cantonments. Will +the Sahib come to my poor village for the night and, perhaps, forget that I am +his officer?” +</p> + +<p> +“But those men—the beaters. They have worked hard, and +perhaps—” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, if they skin clumsily, we will skin them. They are my people. In the +lines I am one thing. Here I am another.” +</p> + +<p> +This was very true. When Bukta doffed uniform and reverted to the fragmentary +dress of his own people, he left his civilisation of drill in the next world. +That night, after a little talk with his subjects, he devoted to an orgie; and +a Bhil orgie is a thing not to be safely written about. Chinn, flushed with +triumph, was in the thick of it, but the meaning of the mysteries was hidden. +Wild folk came and pressed about his knees with offerings. He gave his flask to +the elders of the village. They grew eloquent, and wreathed him about with +flowers. Gifts and loans, not all seemly, were thrust upon him, and infernal +music rolled and maddened round red fires, while singers sang songs of the +ancient times, and danced peculiar dances. The aboriginal liquors are very +potent, and Chinn was compelled to taste them often, but, unless the stuff had +been drugged, how came he to fall asleep suddenly, and to waken late the next +day—half a march from the village? +</p> + +<p> +“The Sahib was very tired. A little before dawn he went to sleep,” +Bukta explained. “My people carried him here, and now it is time we +should go back to cantonments.” +</p> + +<p> +The voice, smooth and deferential, the step, steady and silent, made it hard to +believe that only a few hours before Bukta was yelling and capering with naked +fellow-devils of the scrub. +</p> + +<p> +“My people were very pleased to see the Sahib. They will never forget. +When next the Sahib goes out recruiting, he will go to my people, and they will +give him as many men as we need.” +</p> + +<p> +Chinn kept his own counsel, except as to the shooting of the tiger, and Bukta +embroidered that tale with a shameless tongue. The skin was certainly one of +the finest ever hung up in the mess, and the first of many. When Bukta could +not accompany his boy on shooting-trips, he took care to put him in good hands, +and Chinn learned more of the mind and desire of the wild Bhil in his marches +and campings, by talks at twilight or at wayside pools, than an uninstructed +man could have come at in a lifetime. +</p> + +<p> +Presently his men in the regiment grew bold to speak of their +relatives—mostly in trouble—and to lay cases of tribal custom +before him. They would say, squatting in his verandah at twilight, after the +easy, confidential style of the Wuddars, that such-and-such a bachelor had run +away with such-and-such a wife at a far-off village. Now, how many cows would +Chinn Sahib consider a just fine? Or, again, if written order came from the +Government that a Bhil was to repair to a walled city of the plains to give +evidence in a law-court, would it be wise to disregard that order? On the other +hand, if it were obeyed, would the rash voyager return alive? +</p> + +<p> +“But what have I to do with these things?” Chinn demanded of Bukta, +impatiently. “I am a soldier. I do not know the law.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hoo! Law is for fools and white men. Give them a large and loud order, +and they will abide by it. Thou art their law.” +</p> + +<p> +“But wherefore?” +</p> + +<p> +Every trace of expression left Bukta’s countenance. The idea might have +smitten him for the first time. “How can I say?” he replied. +“Perhaps it is on account of the name. A Bhil does not love strange +things. Give them orders, Sahib—two, three, four words at a time such as +they can carry away in their heads. That is enough.” +</p> + +<p> +Chinn gave orders then, valiantly, not realising that a word spoken in haste +before mess became the dread unappealable law of villages beyond the smoky +hills was, in truth, no less than the Law of Jan Chinn the First, who, so the +whispered legend ran, had come back to earth, to oversee the third generation, +in the body and bones of his grandson. +</p> + +<p> +There could be no sort of doubt in this matter. All the Bhils knew that Jan +Chinn reincarnated had honoured Bukta’s village with his presence after +slaying his first—in this life—tiger; that he had eaten and drunk +with the people, as he was used; and—Bukta must have drugged +Chinn’s liquor very deeply—upon his back and right shoulder all men +had seen the same angry red Flying Cloud that the high Gods had set on the +flesh of Jan Chinn the First when first he came to the Bhil. As concerned the +foolish white world which has no eyes, he was a slim and young officer in the +Wuddars; but his own people knew he was Jan Chinn, who had made the Bhil a man; +and, believing, they hastened to carry his words, careful never to alter them +on the way. +</p> + +<p> +Because the savage and the child who plays lonely games have one horror of +being laughed at or questioned, the little folk kept their convictions to +themselves; and the Colonel, who thought he knew his regiment, never guessed +that each one of the six hundred quick-footed, beady-eyed rank-and-file, to +attention beside their rifles, believed serenely and unshakenly that the +subaltern on the left flank of the line was a demi-god twice +born—tutelary deity of their land and people. The Earth-gods themselves +had stamped the incarnation, and who would dare to doubt the handiwork of the +Earth-gods? +</p> + +<p> +Chinn, being practical above all things, saw that his family name served him +well in the lines and in camp. His men gave no trouble—one does not +commit regimental offences with a god in the chair of justice—and he was +sure of the best beaters in the district when he needed them. They believed +that the protection of Jan Chinn the First cloaked them, and were bold in that +belief beyond the utmost daring of excited Bhils. +</p> + +<p> +His quarters began to look like an amateur natural-history museum, in spite of +duplicate heads and horns and skulls that he sent home to Devonshire. The +people, very humanly, learned the weak side of their god. It is true he was +unbribable, but bird-skins, butterflies, beetles, and, above all, news of big +game pleased him. In other respects, too, he lived up to the Chinn tradition. +He was fever-proof. A night’s sitting out over a tethered goat in a damp +valley, that would have filled the Major with a month’s malaria, had no +effect on him. He was, as they said, “salted before he was born.” +</p> + +<p> +Now in the autumn of his second year’s service an uneasy rumour crept out +of the earth and ran about among the Bhils. Chinn heard nothing of it till a +brother-officer said across the mess-table: “Your revered +ancestor’s on the rampage in the Satpura country. You’d better look +him up.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t want to be disrespectful, but I’m a little sick of +my revered ancestor. Bukta talks of nothing else. What’s the old boy +supposed to be doing now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Riding cross-country by moonlight on his processional tiger. +That’s the story. He’s been seen by about two thousand Bhils, +skipping along the tops of the Satpuras, and scaring people to death. They +believe it devoutly, and all the Satpura chaps are worshipping away at his +shrine—tomb, I mean—like good ’uns. You really ought to go +down there. Must be a queer thing to see your grandfather treated as a +god.” +</p> + +<p> +“What makes you think there’s any truth in the tale?” said +Chinn. +</p> + +<p> +“Because all our men deny it. They say they’ve never heard of +Chinn’s tiger. Now that’s a manifest lie, because every Bhil +<i>has</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s only one thing you’ve overlooked,” said the +Colonel, thoughtfully. “When a local god reappears on earth, it’s +always an excuse for trouble of some kind; and those Satpura Bhils are about as +wild as your grandfather left them, young ’un. It means something.” +</p> + +<p> +“Meanin’ they may go on the war-path?” said Chinn. +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t say—as yet. Shouldn’t be surprised a little +bit.” +</p> + +<p> +“I haven’t been told a syllable.” +</p> + +<p> +“Proves it all the more. They are keeping something back.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bukta tells me everything, too, as a rule. Now, why didn’t he tell +me that?” +</p> + +<p> +Chinn put the question directly to the old man that night, and the answer +surprised him. +</p> + +<p> +“Why should I tell what is well known? Yes, the Clouded Tiger is out in +the Satpura country.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do the wild Bhils think that it means?” +</p> + +<p> +“They do not know. They wait. Sahib, what <i>is</i> coming? Say only one +little word, and we will be content.” +</p> + +<p> +“We? What have tales from the south, where the jungly Bhils live, to do +with drilled men?” +</p> + +<p> +“When Jan Chinn wakes is no time for any Bhil to be quiet.” +</p> + +<p> +“But he has not waked, Bukta.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sahib”—the old man’s eyes were full of tender +reproof—“if he does not wish to be seen, why does he go abroad in +the moonlight? We know he is awake, but we do not know what he desires. Is it a +sign for all the Bhils, or one that concerns the Satpura folk alone? Say one +little word, Sahib, that I may carry it to the lines, and send on to our +villages. Why does Jan Chinn ride out? Who has done wrong? Is it pestilence? Is +it murrain? Will our children die? Is it a sword? Remember, Sahib, we are thy +people and thy servants, and in this life I bore thee in my arms—not +knowing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bukta has evidently looked on the cup this evening,” Chinn +thought; “but if I can do anything to soothe the old chap I must. +It’s like the Mutiny rumours on a small scale.” +</p> + +<p> +He dropped into a deep wicker chair, over which was thrown his first +tiger-skin, and his weight on the cushion flapped the clawed paws over his +shoulders. He laid hold of them mechanically as he spoke, drawing the painted +hide, cloak-fashion, about him. +</p> + +<p> +“Now will I tell the truth, Bukta,” he said, leaning forward, the +dried muzzle on his shoulder, to invent a specious lie. +</p> + +<p> +“I see that it is the truth,” was the answer, in a shaking voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Jan Chinn goes abroad among the Satpuras, riding on the Clouded Tiger, +ye say? Be it so. Therefore the sign of the wonder is for the Satpura Bhils +only, and does not touch the Bhils who plough in the north and east, the Bhils +of the Khandesh, or any others, except the Satpura Bhils, who, as we know, are +wild and foolish.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is, then, a sign for <i>them</i>. Good or bad?” +</p> + +<p> +“Beyond doubt, good. For why should Jan Chinn make evil to those whom he +has made men? The nights over yonder are hot; it is ill to lie in one bed +over-long without turning, and Jan Chinn would look again upon his people. So +he rises, whistles his Clouded Tiger, and goes abroad a little to breathe the +cool air. If the Satpura Bhils kept to their villages, and did not wander after +dark, they would not see him. Indeed, Bukta, it is no more than that he would +see the light again in his own country. Send this news south, and say that it +is my word.” +</p> + +<p> +Bukta bowed to the floor. “Good Heavens!” thought Chinn, “and +this blinking pagan is a first-class officer, and as straight as a die! I may +as well round it off neatly.” He went on: +</p> + +<p> +“If the Satpura Bhils ask the meaning of the sign, tell them that Jan +Chinn would see how they kept their old promises of good living. Perhaps they +have plundered; perhaps they mean to disobey the orders of the Government; +perhaps there is a dead man in the jungle; and so Jan Chinn has come to +see.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is he, then, angry?” +</p> + +<p> +“Bah! Am <i>I</i> ever angry with my Bhils? I say angry words, and +threaten many things. <i>Thou</i> knowest, Bukta. I have seen thee smile behind +the hand. I know, and thou knowest. The Bhils are my children. I have said it +many times.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay. We be thy children,” said Bukta. +</p> + +<p> +“And no otherwise is it with Jan Chinn, my father’s father. He +would see the land he loved and the people once again. It is a good ghost, +Bukta. I say it. Go and tell them. And I do hope devoutly,” he added, +“that it will calm ’em down.” Flinging back the tiger-skin, +he rose with a long, unguarded yawn that showed his well-kept teeth. +</p> + +<p> +Bukta fled, to be received in the lines by a knot of panting inquirers. +</p> + +<p> +“It is true,” said Bukta. “He wrapped himself in the skin, +and spoke from it. He would see his own country again. The sign is not for us; +and, indeed, he is a young man. How should he lie idle of nights? He says his +bed is too hot and the air is bad. He goes to and fro for the love of +night-running. He has said it.” +</p> + +<p> +The grey-whiskered assembly shuddered. +</p> + +<p> +“He says the Bhils are his children. Ye know he does not lie. He has said +it to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what of the Satpura Bhils? What means the sign for them?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing. It is only night-running, as I have said. He rides to see if +they obey the Government, as he taught them to do in his first life.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what if they do not?” +</p> + +<p> +“He did not say.” +</p> + +<p> +The light went out in Chinn’s quarters. +</p> + +<p> +“Look,” said Bukta. “Now he goes away. None the less it is a +good ghost, as he has said. How shall we fear Jan Chinn, who made the Bhil a +man? His protection is on us; and ye know Jan Chinn never broke a protection +spoken or written on paper. When he is older and has found him a wife he will +lie in his bed till morning.” +</p> + +<p> +A commanding officer is generally aware of the regimental state of mind a +little before the men; and this is why the Colonel said, a few days later, that +some one had been putting the Fear of God into the Wuddars. As he was the only +person officially entitled to do this, it distressed him to see such unanimous +virtue. “It’s too good to last,” he said. “I only wish +I could find out what the little chaps mean.” +</p> + +<p> +The explanation, as it seemed to him, came at the change of the moon, when he +received orders to hold himself in readiness to “allay any possible +excitement” among the Satpura Bhils, who were, to put it mildly, uneasy +because a paternal Government had sent up against them a Mahratta +State-educated vaccinator, with lancets, lymph, and an officially registered +calf. In the language of State, they had “manifested a strong objection +to all prophylactic measures,” had “forcibly detained the +vaccinator,” and “were on the point of neglecting or evading their +tribal obligations.” +</p> + +<p> +“That means they are in a blue funk—same as they were at +census-time,” said the Colonel; “and if we stampede them into the +hills we’ll never catch ’em, in the first place, and, in the +second, they’ll whoop off plundering till further orders. Wonder who the +God-forsaken idiot is who is trying to vaccinate a Bhil. I knew trouble was +coming. One good thing is that they’ll only use local corps, and we can +knock up something we’ll call a campaign, and let them down easy. Fancy +us potting our best beaters because they don’t want to be vaccinated! +They’re only crazy with fear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you think, sir,” said Chinn, the next day, “that +perhaps you could give me a fortnight’s shooting-leave?” +</p> + +<p> +“Desertion in the face of the enemy, by Jove!” The Colonel laughed. +“I might, but I’d have to antedate it a little, because we’re +warned for service, as you might say. However, we’ll assume that you +applied for leave three days ago, and are now well on your way south.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’d like to take Bukta with me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, yes. I think that will be the best plan. You’ve some +kind of hereditary influence with the little chaps, and they may listen to you +when a glimpse of our uniforms would drive them wild. You’ve never been +in that part of the world before, have you? Take care they don’t send you +to your family vault in your youth and innocence. I believe you’ll be all +right if you can get ’em to listen to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think so, sir; but if—if they should accidentally put +an—make asses of ’emselves—they might, you know—I hope +you’ll represent that they were only frightened. There isn’t an +ounce of real vice in ’em, and I should never forgive myself if any one +of—of my name got them into trouble.” +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel nodded, but said nothing. +</p> + +<p> +Chinn and Bukta departed at once. Bukta did not say that, ever since the +official vaccinator had been dragged into the hills by indignant Bhils, runner +after runner had skulked up to the lines, entreating, with forehead in the +dust, that Jan Chinn should come and explain this unknown horror that hung over +his people. +</p> + +<p> +The portent of the Clouded Tiger was now too clear. Let Jan Chinn comfort his +own, for vain was the help of mortal man. Bukta toned down these beseechings to +a simple request for Chinn’s presence. Nothing would have pleased the old +man better than a rough-and-tumble campaign against the Satpuras, whom he, as +an “unmixed” Bhil, despised; but he had a duty to all his nation as +Jan Chinn’s interpreter; and he devoutly believed that forty plagues +would fall on his village if he tampered with that obligation. Besides, Jan +Chinn knew all things, and he rode the Clouded Tiger. +</p> + +<p> +They covered thirty miles a day on foot and pony, raising the blue wall-like +line of the Satpuras as swiftly as might be. Bukta was very silent. +</p> + +<p> +They began the steep climb a little after noon, but it was near sunset ere they +reached the stone platform clinging to the side of a rifted, jungle-covered +hill, where Jan Chinn the First was laid, as he had desired, that he might +overlook his people. All India is full of neglected graves that date from the +beginning of the eighteenth century—tombs of forgotten colonels of corps +long since disbanded; mates of East India men who went on shooting expeditions +and never came back; factors, agents, writers, and ensigns of the Honourable +the East India Company by hundreds and thousands and tens of thousands. English +folk forget quickly, but natives have long memories, and if a man has done good +in his life it is remembered after his death. The weathered marble four-square +tomb of Jan Chinn was hung about with wild flowers and nuts, packets of wax and +honey, bottles of native spirits, and infamous cigars, with buffalo horns and +plumes of dried grass. At one end was a rude clay image of a white man, in the +old-fashioned top-hat, riding on a bloated tiger. +</p> + +<p> +Bukta salamed reverently as they approached. Chinn bared his head and began to +pick out the blurred inscription. So far as he could read it ran +thus—word for word, and letter for letter: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +To the Memory of J<small>OHN</small> C<small>HINN</small>, Esq.<br/> +Late Collector of............<br/> +....ithout Bloodshed or ... error of Authority<br/> +Employ . only .. eans of Conciliat ... and Confiden.<br/> +accomplished the ...tire Subjection...<br/> +a Lawless and Predatory Peop...<br/> +....taching them to ... ish Government<br/> +by a Conque.. over .... Minds<br/> +The most perma... and rational Mode of Domini..<br/> +...Governor General and Counc ... engal<br/> +have ordered thi ..... erected<br/> +....arted this Life Aug. 19, 184. Ag... +</p> + +<p> +On the other side of the grave were ancient verses, also very worn. As much as +Chinn could decipher said: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +.... the savage band<br/> +Forsook their Haunts and b..... is Command<br/> +....mended .. rals check a ...st for spoil.<br/> +And . s . ing Hamlets prove his gene.... toil.<br/> +Humanit ... survey ......ights restor..<br/> +A Nation ..ield .. subdued without a Sword. +</p> + +<p> +For some little time he leaned on the tomb thinking of this dead man of his own +blood, and of the house in Devonshire; then, nodding to the plains: “Yes; +it’s a big work—all of it—even my little share. He must have +been worth knowing.... Bukta, where are my people?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not here, Sahib. No man comes here except in full sun. They wait above. +Let us climb and see.” +</p> + +<p> +But Chinn, remembering the first law of Oriental diplomacy, in an even voice +answered: “I have come this far only because the Satpura folk are +foolish, and dared not visit our lines. Now bid them wait on me <i>here</i>. I +am not a servant, but the master of Bhils.” +</p> + +<p> +“I go—I go,” clucked the old man. Night was falling, and at +any moment Jan Chinn might whistle up his dreaded steed from the darkening +scrub. +</p> + +<p> +Now for the first time in a long life Bukta disobeyed a lawful command and +deserted his leader; for he did not come back, but pressed to the flat +table-top of the hill, and called softly. Men stirred all about +him—little trembling men with bows and arrows who had watched the two +since noon. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is he?” whispered one. +</p> + +<p> +“At his own place. He bids you come,” said Bukta. +</p> + +<p> +“Now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Rather let him loose the Clouded Tiger upon us. We do not go.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nor I, though I bore him in my arms when he was a child in this his +life. Wait here till the day.” +</p> + +<p> +“But surely he will be angry.” +</p> + +<p> +“He will be very angry, for he has nothing to eat. But he has said to me +many times that the Bhils are his children. By sunlight I believe this, +but—by moonlight I am not so sure. What folly have ye Satpura pigs +compassed that ye should need him at all?” +</p> + +<p> +“One came to us in the name of the Government with little ghost-knives +and a magic calf, meaning to turn us into cattle by the cutting off of our +arms. We were greatly afraid, but we did not kill the man. He is here, +bound—a black man; and we think he comes from the west. He said it was an +order to cut us all with knives—especially the women and the children. We +did not hear that it was an order, so we were afraid, and kept to our hills. +Some of our men have taken ponies and bullocks from the plains, and others pots +and cloths and ear-rings.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are any slain?” +</p> + +<p> +“By our men? Not yet. But the young men are blown to and fro by many +rumours like flames upon a hill. I sent runners asking for Jan Chinn lest worse +should come to us. It was this fear that he foretold by the sign of the Clouded +Tiger.” +</p> + +<p> +“He says it is otherwise,” said Bukta; and he repeated, with +amplifications, all that young Chinn had told him at the conference of the +wicker chair. +</p> + +<p> +“Think you,” said the questioner, at last, “that the +Government will lay hands on us?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not I,” Bukta rejoined. “Jan Chinn will give an order, and +ye will obey. The rest is between the Government and Jan Chinn. I myself know +something of the ghost-knives and the scratching. It is a charm against the +Smallpox. But how it is done I cannot tell. Nor need that concern you.” +</p> + +<p> +“If he stands by us and before the anger of the Government we will most +strictly obey Jan Chinn, except—except we do not go down to that place +to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +They could hear young Chinn below them shouting for Bukta; but they cowered and +sat still, expecting the Clouded Tiger. The tomb had been holy ground for +nearly half a century. If Jan Chinn chose to sleep there, who had better right? +But they would not come within eyeshot of the place till broad day. +</p> + +<p> +At first Chinn was exceedingly angry, till it occurred to him that Bukta most +probably had a reason (which, indeed, he had), and his own dignity might suffer +if he yelled without answer. He propped himself against the foot of the grave, +and, alternately dozing and smoking, came through the warm night proud that he +was a lawful, legitimate, fever-proof Chinn. +</p> + +<p> +He prepared his plan of action much as his grandfather would have done; and +when Bukta appeared in the morning with a most liberal supply of food, said +nothing of the overnight desertion. Bukta would have been relieved by an +outburst of human anger; but Chinn finished his victual leisurely, and a +cheroot, ere he made any sign. +</p> + +<p> +“They are very much afraid,” said Bukta, who was not too bold +himself. “It remains only to give orders. They said they will obey if +thou wilt only stand between them and the Government.” +</p> + +<p> +“That I know,” said Chinn, strolling slowly to the table-land. A +few of the elder men stood in an irregular semicircle in an open glade; but the +ruck of people—women and children were hidden in the thicket. They had no +desire to face the first anger of Jan Chinn the First. +</p> + +<p> +Seating himself on a fragment of split rock, he smoked his cheroot to the butt, +hearing men breathe hard all about him. Then he cried, so suddenly that they +jumped: +</p> + +<p> +“Bring the man that was bound!” +</p> + +<p> +A scuffle and a cry were followed by the appearance of a Hindoo vaccinator, +quaking with fear, bound hand and foot, as the Bhils of old were accustomed to +bind their human sacrifices. He was pushed cautiously before the presence; but +young Chinn did not look at him. +</p> + +<p> +“I said—the man that <i>was</i> bound. Is it a jest to bring me one +tied like a buffalo? Since when could the Bhil bind folk at his pleasure? +Cut!” +</p> + +<p> +Half a dozen hasty knives cut away the thongs, and the man crawled to Chinn, +who pocketed his case of lancets and tubes of lymph. Then, sweeping the +semicircle with one comprehensive forefinger, and in the voice of compliment, +he said, clearly and distinctly: “Pigs!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ai!” whispered Bukta. “Now he speaks. Woe to foolish +people!” +</p> + +<p> +“I have come on foot from my house” (the assembly shuddered) +“to make clear a matter which any other Satpura Bhil would have seen with +both eyes from a distance. Ye know the Smallpox who pits and scars your +children so that they look like wasp-combs. It is an order of the Government +that whoso is scratched on the arm with these little knives which I hold up is +charmed against her. All Sahibs are thus charmed, and very many Hindoos. This +is the mark of the charm. Look!” +</p> + +<p> +He rolled back his sleeve to the armpit and showed the white scars of the +vaccination-mark on his white skin. “Come, all, and look.” +</p> + +<p> +A few daring spirits came up, and nodded their heads wisely. There was +certainly a mark, and they knew well what other dread marks were hidden by the +shirt. Merciful was Jan Chinn, that then and there proclaimed his godhead! +</p> + +<p> +“Now all these things the man whom ye bound told you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I did—a hundred times; but they answered with blows,” +groaned the operator, chafing his wrists and ankles. +</p> + +<p> +“But, being pigs, ye did not believe; and so came I here to save you, +first from Smallpox, next from a great folly of fear, and lastly, it may be, +from the rope and the jail. It is no gain to me; it is no pleasure to me: but +for the sake of that one who is yonder, who made the Bhil a man”—he +pointed down the hill—“I, who am of his blood, the son of his son, +come to turn your people. And I speak the truth, as did Jan Chinn.” +</p> + +<p> +The crowd murmured reverently, and men stole out of the thicket by twos and +threes to join it. There was no anger in their god’s face. +</p> + +<p> +“These are my orders. (Heaven send they’ll take ’em, but I +seem to have impressed ’em so far!) I myself will stay among you while +this man scratches your arms with the knives, after the order of the +Government. In three, or it may be five or seven, days, your arms will swell +and itch and burn. That is the power of Smallpox fighting in your base blood +against the orders of the Government. I will therefore stay among you till I +see that Smallpox is conquered, and I will not go away till the men and the +women and the little children show me upon their arms such marks as I have even +now showed you. I bring with me two very good guns, and a man whose name is +known among beasts and men. We will hunt together, I and he and your young men, +and the others shall eat and lie still. This is my order.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a long pause while victory hung in the balance. A white-haired old +sinner, standing on one uneasy leg, piped up: +</p> + +<p> +“There are ponies and some few bullocks and other things for which we +need a <i>kowl</i> [protection]. They were not taken in the way of +trade.” +</p> + +<p> +The battle was won, and John Chinn drew a breath of relief. The young Bhils had +been raiding, but if taken swiftly all could be put straight. +</p> + +<p> +“I will write a <i>kowl</i> so soon as the ponies, the bullocks, and the +other things are counted before me and sent back whence they came. But first we +will put the Government mark on such as have not been visited by +Smallpox.” In an undertone, to the vaccinator: “If you show you are +afraid you’ll never see Poona again, my friend.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is not sufficient ample supply of vaccination for all this +population,” said the man. “They destroyed the offeecial +calf.” +</p> + +<p> +“They won’t know the difference. Scrape ’em and give me a +couple of lancets; I’ll attend to the elders.” +</p> + +<p> +The aged diplomat who had demanded protection was the first victim. He fell to +Chinn’s hand and dared not cry out. As soon as he was freed he dragged up +a companion, and held him fast, and the crisis became, as it were, a +child’s sport; for the vaccinated chased the unvaccinated to treatment, +vowing that all the tribe must suffer equally. The women shrieked, and the +children ran howling; but Chinn laughed, and waved the pink-tipped lancet. +</p> + +<p> +“It is an honour,” he cried. “Tell them, Bukta, how great an +honour it is that I myself mark them. Nay, I cannot mark every one—the +Hindoo must also do his work—but I will touch all marks that he makes, so +there will be an equal virtue in them. Thus do the Rajputs stick pigs. Ho, +brother with one eye! Catch that girl and bring her to me. She need not run +away yet, for she is not married, and I do not seek her in marriage. She will +not come? Then she shall be shamed by her little brother, a fat boy, a bold +boy. He puts out his arm like a soldier. Look! <i>He</i> does not flinch at the +blood. Some day he shall be in my regiment. And now, mother of many, we will +lightly touch thee, for Smallpox has been before us here. It is a true thing, +indeed, that this charm breaks the power of Mata. There will be no more pitted +faces among the Satpuras, and so ye can ask many cows for each maid to be +wed.” +</p> + +<p> +And so on and so on—quick-poured showman’s patter, sauced in the +Bhil hunting-proverbs and tales of their own brand of coarse humour till the +lancets were blunted and both operators worn out. +</p> + +<p> +But, nature being the same the world over, the unvaccinated grew jealous of +their marked comrades, and came near to blows about it. Then Chinn declared +himself a court of justice, no longer a medical board, and made formal inquiry +into the late robberies. +</p> + +<p> +“We are the thieves of Mahadeo,” said the Bhils, simply. “It +is our fate, and we were frightened. When we are frightened we always +steal.” +</p> + +<p> +Simply and directly as children, they gave in the tale of the plunder, all but +two bullocks and some spirits that had gone amissing (these Chinn promised to +make good out of his own pocket), and ten ringleaders were despatched to the +lowlands with a wonderful document, written on the leaf of a note-book, and +addressed to an Assistant District Superintendent of Police. There was warm +calamity in that note, as Jan Chinn warned them, but anything was better than +loss of liberty. +</p> + +<p> +Armed with this protection, the repentant raiders went down-hill. They had no +desire whatever to meet Mr. Dundas Fawne of the Police, aged twenty-two, and of +a cheerful countenance, nor did they wish to revisit the scene of their +robberies. Steering a middle course, they ran into the camp of the one +Government chaplain allowed to the various irregular corps through a district +of some fifteen thousand square miles, and stood before him in a cloud of dust. +He was by way of being a priest, they knew, and, what was more to the point, a +good sportsman who paid his beaters generously. +</p> + +<p> +When he read Chinn’s note he laughed, which they deemed a lucky omen, +till he called up policemen, who tethered the ponies and the bullocks by the +piled house-gear, and laid stern hands upon three of that smiling band of the +thieves of Mahadeo. The chaplain himself addressed them magisterially with a +riding-whip. That was painful, but Jan Chinn had prophesied it. They submitted, +but would not give up the written protection, fearing the jail. On their way +back they met Mr. D. Fawne, who had heard about the robberies, and was not +pleased. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly,” said the eldest of the gang, when the second interview +was at an end, “certainly Jan Chinn’s protection has saved us our +liberty, but it is as though there were many beatings in one small piece of +paper. Put it away.” +</p> + +<p> +One climbed into a tree, and stuck the letter into a cleft forty feet from the +ground, where it could do no harm. Warmed, sore, but happy, the ten returned to +Jan Chinn next day, where he sat among uneasy Bhils, all looking at their right +arms, and all bound under terror of their god’s disfavour not to scratch. +</p> + +<p> +“It was a good <i>kowl</i>,” said the leader. “First the +chaplain, who laughed, took away our plunder, and beat three of us, as was +promised. Next, we meet Fawne Sahib, who frowned, and asked for the plunder. We +spoke the truth, and so he beat us all, one after another, and called us chosen +names. He then gave us these two bundles”—they set down a bottle of +whisky and a box of cheroots—“and we came away. The <i>kowl</i> is +left in a tree, because its virtue is that so soon as we show it to a Sahib we +are beaten.” +</p> + +<p> +“But for that <i>kowl</i>,” said Jan Chinn, sternly, “ye +would all have been marching to jail with a policeman on either side. Ye come +now to serve as beaters for me. These people are unhappy, and we will go +hunting till they are well. To-night we will make a feast.” +</p> + +<p> +It is written in the chronicles of the Satpura Bhils, together with many other +matters not fit for print, that through five days, after the day that he had +put his mark upon them, Jan Chinn the First hunted for his people; and on the +five nights of those days the tribe was gloriously and entirely drunk. Jan +Chinn bought country spirits of an awful strength, and slew wild pig and deer +beyond counting, so that if any fell sick they might have two good reasons. +</p> + +<p> +Between head- and stomach-aches they found no time to think of their arms, but +followed Jan Chinn obediently through the jungles, and with each day’s +returning confidence men, women, and children stole away to their villages as +the little army passed by. They carried news that it was good and right to be +scratched with ghost-knives; that Jan Chinn was indeed reincarnated as a god of +free food and drink, and that of all nations the Satpura Bhils stood first in +his favour, if they would only refrain from scratching. Henceforward that +kindly demi-god would be connected in their minds with great gorgings and the +vaccine and lancets of a paternal Government. +</p> + +<p> +“And to-morrow I go back to my home,” said Jan Chinn to his +faithful few, whom neither spirits, overeating, nor swollen glands could +conquer. It is hard for children and savages to behave reverently at all times +to the idols of their make-belief; and they had frolicked excessively with Jan +Chinn. But the reference to his home cast a gloom on the people. +</p> + +<p> +“And the Sahib will not come again?” said he who had been +vaccinated first. +</p> + +<p> +“That is to be seen,” answered Chinn, warily. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, but come as a white man—come as a young man whom we know and +love; for, as thou alone knowest, we are a weak people. If we again saw +thy—thy horse—” They were picking up their courage. +</p> + +<p> +“I have no horse. I came on foot with Bukta, yonder. What is this?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thou knowest—the thing that thou hast chosen for a +night-horse.” The little men squirmed in fear and awe. +</p> + +<p> +“Night-horses? Bukta, what is this last tale of children?” +</p> + +<p> +Bukta had been a silent leader in Chinn’s presence since the night of his +desertion, and was grateful for a chance-flung question. +</p> + +<p> +“They know, Sahib,” he whispered. “It is the Clouded Tiger. +That that comes from the place where thou didst once sleep. It is thy +horse—as it has been these three generations.” +</p> + +<p> +“My horse! That was a dream of the Bhils.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is no dream. Do dreams leave the tracks of broad pugs on earth? Why +make two faces before thy people? They know of the night-ridings, and +they—and they—” +</p> + +<p> +“Are afraid, and would have them cease.” +</p> + +<p> +Bukta nodded. “If thou hast no further need of him. He is thy +horse.” +</p> + +<p> +“The thing leaves a trail, then?” said Chinn. +</p> + +<p> +“We have seen it. It is like a village road under the tomb.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can ye find and follow it for me?” +</p> + +<p> +“By daylight—if one comes with us, and, above all, stands near +by.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will stand close, and we will see to it that Jan Chinn does not ride +any more.” +</p> + +<p> +The Bhils shouted the last words again and again. +</p> + +<p> +From Chinn’s point of view the stalk was nothing more than an ordinary +one—down-hill, through split and crannied rocks, unsafe, perhaps, if a +man did not keep his wits by him, but no worse than twenty others he had +undertaken. Yet his men—they refused absolutely to beat, and would only +trail—dripped sweat at every move. They showed the marks of enormous pugs +that ran, always down-hill, to a few hundred feet below Jan Chinn’s tomb, +and disappeared in a narrow-mouthed cave. It was an insolently open road, a +domestic highway, beaten without thought of concealment. +</p> + +<p> +“The beggar might be paying rent and taxes,” Chinn muttered ere he +asked whether his friend’s taste ran to cattle or man. +</p> + +<p> +“Cattle,” was the answer. “Two heifers a week. We drive them +for him at the foot of the hill. It is his custom. If we did not, he might seek +us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Blackmail and piracy,” said Chinn. “I can’t say I +fancy going into the cave after him. What’s to be done?” +</p> + +<p> +The Bhils fell back as Chinn lodged himself behind a rock with his rifle ready. +Tigers, he knew, were shy beasts, but one who had been long cattle-fed in this +sumptuous style might prove overbold. +</p> + +<p> +“He speaks!” some one whispered from the rear. “He knows, +too.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, of <i>all</i> the infernal cheek!” said Chinn. There was an +angry growl from the cave—a direct challenge. +</p> + +<p> +“Come out, then,” Chinn shouted. “Come out of that. +Let’s have a look at you.” The brute knew well enough that there +was some connection between brown nude Bhils and his weekly allowance; but the +white helmet in the sunlight annoyed him, and he did not approve of the voice +that broke his rest. Lazily as a gorged snake, he dragged himself out of the +cave, and stood yawning and blinking at the entrance. The sunlight fell upon +his flat right side, and Chinn wondered. Never had he seen a tiger marked after +this fashion. Except for his head, which was staringly barred, he was +dappled—not striped, but dappled like a child’s rocking-horse in +rich shades of smoky black on red gold. That portion of his belly and throat +which should have been white was orange, and his tail and paws were black. +</p> + +<p> +He looked leisurely for some ten seconds, and then deliberately lowered his +head, his chin dropped and drawn in, staring intently at the man. The effect of +this was to throw forward the round arch of his skull, with two broad bands +across it, while below the bands glared the unwinking eyes; so that, head on, +as he stood, he showed something like a diabolically scowling pantomime-mask. +It was a piece of natural mesmerism that he had practised many times on his +quarry, and though Chinn was by no means a terrified heifer, he stood for a +while, held by the extraordinary oddity of the attack. The head—the body +seemed to have been packed away behind it—the ferocious, skull-like head, +crept nearer to the switching of an angry tail-tip in the grass. Left and right +the Bhils had scattered to let John Chinn subdue his own horse. +</p> + +<p> +“My word!” he thought. “He’s trying to frighten +me!” and fired between the saucer-like eyes, leaping aside upon the shot. +</p> + +<p> +A big coughing mass, reeking of carrion, bounded past him up the hill, and he +followed discreetly. The tiger made no attempt to turn into the jungle; he was +hunting for sight and breath—nose up, mouth open, the tremendous +fore-legs scattering the gravel in spurts. +</p> + +<p> +“Scuppered!” said John Chinn, watching the flight. “Now if he +was a partridge he’d tower. Lungs must be full of blood.” +</p> + +<p> +The brute had jerked himself over a boulder and fallen out of sight the other +side. John Chinn looked over with a ready barrel. But the red trail led +straight as an arrow even to his grandfather’s tomb, and there, among the +smashed spirit-bottles and the fragments of the mud image, the life left, with +a flurry and a grunt. +</p> + +<p> +“If my worthy ancestor could see that,” said John Chinn, +“he’d have been proud of me. Eyes, lower jaw, and lungs. A very +nice shot.” He whistled for Bukta as he drew the tape over the stiffening +bulk. +</p> + +<p> +“Ten—six—eight—by Jove! It’s nearly +eleven—call it eleven. Fore-arm, twenty-four—five—seven and a +half. A short tail, too: three feet one. But <i>what</i> a skin! Oh, Bukta! +Bukta! The men with the knives swiftly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is he beyond question dead?” said an awe-stricken voice behind a +rock. +</p> + +<p> +“That was not the way I killed my first tiger,” said Chinn. +“I did not think that Bukta would run. I had no second gun.” +</p> + +<p> +“It—it is the Clouded Tiger,” said Bukta, un-heeding the +taunt. +</p> + +<p> +“He is dead.” +</p> + +<p> +Whether all the Bhils, vaccinated and unvaccinated, of the Satpuras had lain by +to see the kill, Chinn could not say; but the whole hill’s flank rustled +with little men, shouting, singing, and stamping. And yet, till he had made the +first cut in the splendid skin, not a man would take a knife; and, when the +shadows fell, they ran from the red-stained tomb, and no persuasion would bring +them back till dawn. So Chinn spent a second night in the open, guarding the +carcass from jackals, and thinking about his ancestor. +</p> + +<p> +He returned to the lowlands to the triumphal chant of an escorting army three +hundred strong, the Mahratta vaccinator close at his elbow, and the rudely +dried skin a trophy before him. When that army suddenly and noiselessly +disappeared, as quail in high corn, he argued he was near civilisation, and a +turn in the road brought him upon the camp of a wing of his own corps. He left +the skin on a cart-tail for the world to see, and sought the Colonel. +</p> + +<p> +“They’re perfectly right,” he explained earnestly. +“There isn’t an ounce of vice in ’em. They were only +frightened. I’ve vaccinated the whole boiling, and they like it awfully. +What are—what are we doing here, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” said the Colonel. +“I don’t know yet whether we’re a piece of a brigade or a +police force. However, I think we’ll call ourselves a police force. How +did you manage to get a Bhil vaccinated?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir,” said Chinn, “I’ve been thinking it over, +and, as far as I can make out, I’ve got a sort of hereditary influence +over ’em.” +</p> + +<p> +“So I know, or I wouldn’t have sent you; but <i>what</i>, +exactly?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s rather rummy. It seems, from what I can make out, that +I’m my own grandfather reincarnated, and I’ve been disturbing the +peace of the country by riding a pad-tiger of nights. If I hadn’t done +that, I don’t think they’d have objected to the vaccination; but +the two together were more than they could stand. And so, sir, I’ve +vaccinated ’em, and shot my tiger-horse as a sort o’ proof of good +faith. You never saw such a skin in your life.” +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel tugged his moustache thought-fully. “Now, how the +deuce,” said he, “am I to include that in my report?” +</p> + +<p> +Indeed, the official version of the Bhils’ anti-vaccination stampede said +nothing about Lieutenant John Chinn, his godship. But Bukta knew, and the corps +knew, and every Bhil in the Satpura hills knew. +</p> + +<p> +And now Bukta is zealous that John Chinn shall swiftly be wedded and impart his +powers to a son; for if the Chinn succession fails, and the little Bhils are +left to their own imaginings, there will be fresh trouble in the Satpuras. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"></a> +THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +All supplies very bad and dear, and there are no facilities for even the +smallest repairs.—S<small>AILING</small> D<small>IRECTIONS</small>. +</p> + +<p> +Her nationality was British, but you will not find her house-flag in the list +of our mercantile marine. She was a nine-hundred-ton, iron, schooner-rigged, +screw cargo-boat, differing externally in no way from any other tramp of the +sea. But it is with steamers as it is with men. There are those who will for a +consideration sail extremely close to the wind; and, in the present state of a +fallen world, such people and such steamers have their use. From the hour that +the <i>Aglaia</i> first entered the Clyde—new, shiny, and innocent, with +a quart of cheap champagne trickling down her cut-water—Fate and her +owner, who was also her captain, decreed that she should deal with embarrassed +crowned heads, fleeing Presidents, financiers of over-extended ability, women +to whom change of air was imperative, and the lesser law-breaking Powers. Her +career led her sometimes into the Admiralty Courts, where the sworn statements +of her skipper filled his brethren with envy. The mariner cannot tell or act a +lie in the face of the sea, or mislead a tempest; but, as lawyers have +discovered, he makes up for chances withheld when he returns to shore, an +affidavit in either hand. +</p> + +<p> +The <i>Aglaia</i> figured with distinction in the great <i>Mackinaw</i> +salvage-case. It was her first slip from virtue, and she learned how to change +her name, but not her heart, and to run across the sea. As the <i>Guiding +Light</i> she was very badly wanted in a South American port for the little +matter of entering harbour at full speed, colliding with a coal-hulk and the +State’s only man-of-war, just as that man-of-war was going to coal. She +put to sea without explanations, though three forts fired at her for half an +hour. As the <i>Julia M’Gregor</i> she had been concerned in picking up +from a raft certain gentlemen who should have stayed in Noumea, but who +preferred making themselves vastly unpleasant to authority in quite another +quarter of the world; and as the <i>Shah-in-Shah</i> she had been overtaken on +the high seas, indecently full of munitions of war, by the cruiser of an +agitated Power at issue with its neighbour. That time she was very nearly sunk, +and her riddled hull gave eminent lawyers of two countries great profit. After +a season she reappeared as the <i>Martin Hunt</i> painted a dull slate-colour, +with pure saffron funnel, and boats of robin’s-egg blue, engaging in the +Odessa trade till she was invited (and the invitation could not well be +disregarded) to keep away from Black Sea ports altogether. +</p> + +<p> +She had ridden through many waves of depression. Freights might drop out of +sight, Seamen’s Unions throw spanners and nuts at certificated masters, +or stevedores combine till cargo perished on the dock-head; but the boat of +many names came and went, busy, alert, and inconspicuous always. Her skipper +made no complaint of hard times, and port officers observed that her crew +signed and signed again with the regularity of Atlantic liner boatswains. Her +name she changed as occasion called; her well-paid crew never; and a large +percentage of the profits of her voyages was spent with an open hand on her +engine-room. She never troubled the underwriters, and very seldom stopped to +talk with a signal-station, for her business was urgent and private. +</p> + +<p> +But an end came to her tradings, and she perished in this manner. Deep peace +brooded over Europe, Asia, Africa, America, Australasia, and Polynesia. The +Powers dealt together more or less honestly; banks paid their depositors to the +hour; diamonds of price came safely to the hands of their owners; Republics +rested content with their Dictators; diplomats found no one whose presence in +the least incommoded them; monarchs lived openly with their lawfully wedded +wives. It was as though the whole earth had put on its best Sunday bib and +tucker; and business was very bad for the <i>Martin Hunt</i>. The great, +virtuous calm engulfed her, slate sides, yellow funnel, and all, but cast up in +another hemisphere the steam whaler <i>Haliotis</i>, black and rusty, with a +manure-coloured funnel, a litter of dingy white boats, and an enormous stove, +or furnace, for boiling blubber on her forward well-deck. There could be no +doubt that her trip was successful, for she lay at several ports not too well +known, and the smoke of her trying-out insulted the beaches. +</p> + +<p> +Anon she departed, at the speed of the average London four-wheeler, and entered +a semi-inland sea, warm, still, and blue, which is, perhaps, the most strictly +preserved water in the world. There she stayed for a certain time, and the +great stars of those mild skies beheld her playing puss-in-the-corner among +islands where whales are never found. All that while she smelt abominably, and +the smell, though fishy, was not whalesome. One evening calamity descended upon +her from the island of Pygang-Watai, and she fled, while her crew jeered at a +fat black-and-brown gunboat puffing far behind. They knew to the last +revolution the capacity of every boat, on those seas, that they were anxious to +avoid. A British ship with a good conscience does not, as a rule, flee from the +man-of-war of a foreign Power, and it is also considered a breach of etiquette +to stop and search British ships at sea. These things the skipper of the +<i>Haliotis</i> did not pause to prove, but held on at an inspiriting eleven +knots an hour till nightfall. One thing only he overlooked. +</p> + +<p> +The Power that kept an expensive steam-patrol moving up and down those waters +(they had dodged the two regular ships of the station with an ease that bred +contempt) had newly brought up a third and a fourteen-knot boat with a clean +bottom to help the work; and that was why the <i>Haliotis</i>, driving hard +from the east to the west, found herself at daylight in such a position that +she could not help seeing an arrangement of four flags, a mile and a half +behind, which read: “Heave to, or take the consequences!” +</p> + +<p> +She had her choice, and she took it. The end came when, presuming on her +lighter draught, she tried to draw away northward over a friendly shoal. The +shell that arrived by way of the Chief Engineer’s cabin was some five +inches in diameter, with a practice, not a bursting, charge. It had been +intended to cross her bows, and that was why it knocked the framed portrait of +the Chief Engineer’s wife—and she was a very pretty girl—on +to the floor, splintered his wash-hand stand, crossed the alleyway into the +engine-room, and striking on a grating, dropped directly in front of the +forward engine, where it burst, neatly fracturing both the bolts that held the +connecting-rod to the forward crank. +</p> + +<p> +What follows is worth consideration. The forward engine had no more work to do. +Its released piston-rod, therefore, drove up fiercely, with nothing to check +it, and started most of the nuts of the cylinder-cover. It came down again, the +full weight of the steam behind it, and the foot of the disconnected +connecting-rod, useless as the leg of a man with a sprained ankle, flung out to +the right and struck the starboard, or right-hand, cast-iron supporting-column +of the forward engine, cracking it clean through about six inches above the +base, and wedging the upper portion outwards three inches towards the +ship’s side. There the connecting-rod jammed. Meantime, the after-engine, +being as yet unembarrassed, went on with its work, and in so doing brought +round at its next revolution the crank of the forward engine, which smote the +already jammed connecting-rod, bending it and therewith the piston-rod +cross-head—the big cross-piece that slides up and down so smoothly. +</p> + +<p> +The cross-head jammed sideways in the guides, and, in addition to putting +further pressure on the already broken starboard supporting-column, cracked the +port, or left-hand, supporting-column in two or three places. There being +nothing more that could be made to move, the engines brought up, all standing, +with a hiccup that seemed to lift the <i>Haliotis</i> a foot out of the water; +and the engine-room staff, opening every steam outlet that they could find in +the confusion, arrived on deck somewhat scalded, but calm. There was a sound +below of things happening—a rushing, clicking, purring, grunting, +rattling noise that did not last for more than a minute. It was the machinery +adjusting itself, on the spur of the moment, to a hundred altered conditions. +Mr. Wardrop, one foot on the upper grating, inclined his ear sideways, and +groaned. You cannot stop engines working at twelve knots an hour in three +seconds without disorganising them. The <i>Haliotis</i> slid forward in a cloud +of steam, shrieking like a wounded horse. There was nothing more to do. The +five-inch shell with a reduced charge had settled the situation. And when you +are full, all three holds, of strictly preserved pearls; when you have cleaned +out the Tanna Bank, the Sea-Horse Bank, and four other banks from one end to +the other of the Amanala Sea—when you have ripped out the very heart of a +rich Government monopoly so that five years will not repair your +wrong-doings—you must smile and take what is in store. But the skipper +reflected, as a launch put out from the man-of-war, that he had been bombarded +on the high seas, with the British flag—several of +them—picturesquely disposed above him, and tried to find comfort from the +thought. +</p> + +<p> +“Where,” said the stolid naval lieutenant hoisting himself aboard, +“where are those dam’ pearls?” +</p> + +<p> +They were there beyond evasion. No affidavit could do away with the fearful +smell of decayed oysters, the diving-dresses, and the shell-littered hatches. +They were there to the value of seventy thousand pounds, more or less; and +every pound poached. +</p> + +<p> +The man-of-war was annoyed; for she had used up many tons of coal, she had +strained her tubes, and, worse than all, her officers and crew had been +hurried. Every one on the <i>Haliotis</i> was arrested and rearrested several +times, as each officer came aboard; then they were told by what they esteemed +to be the equivalent of a midshipman that they were to consider themselves +prisoners, and finally were put under arrest. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s not the least good,” said the skipper, suavely. +“You’d much better send us a tow—” +</p> + +<p> +“Be still—you are arrest!” was the reply. +</p> + +<p> +“Where the devil do you expect we are going to escape to? We’re +helpless. You’ve got to tow us into somewhere, and explain why you fired +on us. Mr. Wardrop, we’re helpless, aren’t we?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ruined from end to end,” said the man of machinery. “If she +rolls, the forward cylinder will come down and go through her bottom. Both +columns are clean cut through. There’s nothing to hold anything +up.” +</p> + +<p> +The council of war clanked off to see if Mr. Wardrop’s words were true. +He warned them that it was as much as a man’s life was worth to enter the +engine-room, and they contented themselves with a distant inspection through +the thinning steam. The <i>Haliotis</i> lifted to the long, easy swell, and the +starboard supporting-column ground a trifle, as a man grits his teeth under the +knife. The forward cylinder was depending on that unknown force men call the +pertinacity of materials, which now and then balances that other heartbreaking +power, the perversity of inanimate things. +</p> + +<p> +“You see!” said Mr. Wardrop, hurrying them away. “The engines +aren’t worth their price as old iron.” +</p> + +<p> +“We tow,” was the answer. “Afterwards we shall +confiscate.” +</p> + +<p> +The man-of-war was short-handed, and did not see the necessity for putting a +prize-crew aboard the <i>Haliotis</i>. So she sent one sublieutenant, whom the +skipper kept very drunk, for he did not wish to make the tow too easy, and, +moreover, he had an inconspicuous little rope hanging from the stem of his +ship. +</p> + +<p> +Then they began to tow at an average speed of four knots an hour. The +<i>Haliotis</i> was very hard to move, and the gunnery-lieutenant, who had +fired the five-inch shell, had leisure to think upon consequences. Mr. Wardrop +was the busy man. He borrowed all the crew to shore up the cylinders with spars +and blocks from the bottom and sides of the ship. It was a day’s risky +work; but anything was better than drowning at the end of a tow-rope; and if +the forward cylinder had fallen, it would have made its way to the sea-bed, and +taken the <i>Haliotis</i> after. +</p> + +<p> +“Where are we going to, and how long will they tow us?” he asked of +the skipper. +</p> + +<p> +“God knows! and this prize-lieutenant’s drunk. What do you think +you can do?” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s just the bare chance,” Mr. Wardrop whispered, though +no one was within hearing—“there’s just the bare chance +o’ repairin’ her, if a man knew how. They’ve twisted the very +guts out of her, bringing her up with that jerk; but I’m saying that, +with time and patience, there’s just the chance o’ making steam +yet. <i>We</i> could do it.” +</p> + +<p> +The skipper’s eye brightened. “Do you mean,” he began, +“that she is any good?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no,” said Mr. Wardrop. “She’ll need three thousand +pounds in repairs, at the lowest, if she’s to take the sea again, +an’ that apart from any injury to her structure. She’s like a man +fallen down five pair o’ stairs. We can’t tell for months what has +happened; but we know she’ll never be good again without a new inside. Ye +should see the condenser-tubes an’ the steam connections to the donkey, +for two things only. I’m not afraid of them repairin’ her. +I’m afraid of them stealin’ things.” +</p> + +<p> +“They’ve fired on us. They’ll have to explain that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Our reputation’s not good enough to ask for explanations. +Let’s take what we have and be thankful. Ye would not have consuls +remembern’ the <i>Guidin’ Light</i>, an’ the +<i>Shah-in-Shah</i>, an’ the <i>Aglaia</i>, at this most alarmin’ +crisis. We’ve been no better than pirates these ten years. Under +Providence we’re no worse than thieves now. We’ve much to be +thankful for—if we e’er get back to her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Make it your own way, then,” said the skipper. “If +there’s the least chance—” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll leave none,” said Mr. Wardrop—“none that +they’ll dare to take. Keep her heavy on the tow, for we need time.” +</p> + +<p> +The skipper never interfered with the affairs of the engine-room, and Mr. +Wardrop—an artist in his profession—turned to and composed a work +terrible and forbidding. His background was the dark-grained sides of the +engine-room; his material the metals of power and strength, helped out with +spars, baulks, and ropes. The man-of-war towed sullenly and viciously. The +<i>Haliotis</i> behind her hummed like a hive before swarming. With extra and +totally unneeded spars her crew blocked up the space round the forward engine +till it resembled a statue in its scaffolding, and the butts of the shores +interfered with every view that a dispassionate eye might wish to take. And +that the dispassionate mind might be swiftly shaken out of its calm, the +well-sunk bolts of the shores were wrapped round untidily with loose ends of +ropes, giving a studied effect of most dangerous insecurity. Next, Mr. Wardrop +took up a collection from the after-engine, which, as you will remember, had +not been affected in the general wreck. The cylinder escape-valve he abolished +with a flogging-hammer. It is difficult in far-off ports to come by such +valves, unless, like Mr. Wardrop, you keep duplicates in store. At the same +time men took off the nuts of two of the great holding-down bolts that serve to +keep the engines in place on their solid bed. An engine violently arrested in +mid-career may easily jerk off the nut of a holding-down bolt, and this +accident looked very natural. +</p> + +<p> +Passing along the tunnel, he removed several shaft coupling-bolts and nuts, +scattering other and ancient pieces of iron underfoot. Cylinder-bolts he cut +off to the number of six from the after-engine cylinder, so that it might match +its neighbour, and stuffed the bilge- and feed-pumps with cotton-waste. Then he +made up a neat bundle of the various odds and ends that he had gathered from +the engines—little things like nuts and valve-spindles, all carefully +tallowed—and retired with them under the floor of the engine-room, where +he sighed, being fat, as he passed from manhole to manhole of the double +bottom, and in a fairly dry submarine compartment hid them. Any engineer, +particularly in an unfriendly port, has a right to keep his spare stores where +he chooses; and the foot of one of the cylinder shores blocked all entrance +into the regular store-room, even if that had not been already closed with +steel wedges. In conclusion, he disconnected the after-engine, laid piston and +connecting-rod, carefully tallowed, where it would be most inconvenient to the +casual visitor, took out three of the eight collars of the thrust-block, hid +them where only he could find them again, filled the boilers by hand, wedged +the sliding doors of the coal-bunkers, and rested from his labours. The +engine-room was a cemetery, and it did not need the contents of the ash-lift +through the skylight to make it any worse. +</p> + +<p> +He invited the skipper to look at the completed work. +</p> + +<p> +“Saw ye ever such a forsaken wreck as that?” said he, proudly. +“It almost frights <i>me</i> to go under those shores. Now, what d’ +you think they’ll do to us?” +</p> + +<p> +“Wait till we see,” said the skipper. “It’ll be bad +enough when it comes.” +</p> + +<p> +He was not wrong. The pleasant days of towing ended all too soon, though the +<i>Haliotis</i> trailed behind her a heavily weighted jib stayed out into the +shape of a pocket; and Mr. Wardrop was no longer an artist of imagination, but +one of seven-and-twenty prisoners in a prison full of insects. The man-of-war +had towed them to the nearest port, not to the headquarters of the colony, and +when Mr. Wardrop saw the dismal little harbour, with its ragged line of Chinese +junks, its one crazy tug, and the boat-building shed that, under the charge of +a philosophical Malay, represented a dockyard, he sighed and shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“I did well,” he said. “This is the habitation o’ +wreckers an’ thieves. We’re at the uttermost ends of the earth. +Think you they’ll ever know in England?” +</p> + +<p> +“Doesn’t look like it,” said the skipper. +</p> + +<p> +They were marched ashore with what they stood up in, under a generous escort, +and were judged according to the customs of the country, which, though +excellent, are a little out of date. There were the pearls; there were the +poachers; and there sat a small but hot Governor. He consulted for a while, and +then things began to move with speed, for he did not wish to keep a hungry crew +at large on the beach, and the man-of-war had gone up the coast. With a wave of +his hand—a stroke of the pen was not necessary—he consigned them to +the <i>blackgang-tana</i>, the back-country, and the hand of the Law removed +them from his sight and the knowledge of men. They were marched into the palms, +and the back-country swallowed them up—all the crew of the +<i>Haliotis</i>. +</p> + +<p> +Deep peace continued to brood over Europe, Asia, Africa, America, Australasia, +and Polynesia. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +It was the firing that did it. They should have kept their counsel; but when a +few thousand foreigners are bursting with joy over the fact that a ship under +the British flag has been fired at on the high seas, news travels quickly; and +when it came out that the pearl-stealing crew had not been allowed access to +their consul (there was no consul within a few hundred miles of that lonely +port) even the friendliest of Powers has a right to ask questions. The great +heart of the British public was beating furiously on account of the performance +of a notorious race-horse, and had not a throb to waste on distant accidents; +but somewhere deep in the hull of the ship of State there is machinery which +more or less accurately takes charge of foreign affairs. That machinery began +to revolve, and who so shocked and surprised as the Power that had captured the +<i>Haliotis?</i> It explained that colonial governors and far-away men-of-war +were difficult to control, and promised that it would most certainly make an +example both of the Governor and the vessel. As for the crew reported to be +pressed into military service in tropical climes, it would produce them as soon +as possible, and it would apologise, if necessary. Now, no apologies were +needed. When one nation apologises to another, millions of amateurs who have no +earthly concern with the difficulty hurl themselves into the strife and +embarrass the trained specialist. It was requested that the crew be found, if +they were still alive—they had been eight months beyond +knowledge—and it was promised that all would be forgotten. +</p> + +<p> +The little Governor of the little port was pleased with himself. +Seven-and-twenty white men made a very compact force to throw away on a war +that had neither beginning nor end—a jungle and stockade fight that +flickered and smouldered through the wet hot years in the hills a hundred miles +away, and was the heritage of every wearied official. He had, he thought, +deserved well of his country; and if only some one would buy the unhappy +<i>Haliotis</i>, moored in the harbour below his verandah, his cup would be +full. He looked at the neatly silvered lamps that he had taken from her cabins, +and thought of much that might be turned to account. But his countrymen in that +moist climate had no spirit. They would peep into the silent engine-room, and +shake their heads. Even the men-of-war would not tow her further up the coast, +where the Governor believed that she could be repaired. She was a bad bargain; +but her cabin carpets were undeniably beautiful, and his wife approved of her +mirrors. +</p> + +<p> +Three hours later cables were bursting round him like shells, for, though he +knew it not, he was being offered as a sacrifice by the nether to the upper +millstone, and his superiors had no regard for his feelings. He had, said the +cables, grossly exceeded his power, and failed to report on events. He would, +therefore—at this he cast himself back in his hammock—produce the +crew of the <i>Haliotis</i>. He would send for them, and, if that failed, he +would put his dignity on a pony and fetch them himself. He had no conceivable +right to make pearl-poachers serve in any war. He would be held responsible. +</p> + +<p> +Next morning the cables wished to know whether he had found the crew of the +<i>Haliotis</i>. They were to be found, freed and fed—he was to feed +them—till such time as they could be sent to the nearest English port in +a man-of-war. If you abuse a man long enough in great words flashed over the +sea-beds, things happen. The Governor sent inland swiftly for his prisoners, +who were also soldiers; and never was a militia regiment more anxious to reduce +its strength. No power short of death could make these mad men wear the uniform +of their service. They would not fight, except with their fellows, and it was +for that reason the regiment had not gone to war, but stayed in a stockade, +reasoning with the new troops. The autumn campaign had been a fiasco, but here +were the Englishmen. All the regiment marched back to guard them, and the hairy +enemy, armed with blow-pipes, rejoiced in the forest. Five of the crew had +died, but there lined up on the Governor’s verandah two-and-twenty men +marked about the legs with the scars of leech-bites. A few of them wore fringes +that had once been trousers; the others used loin-cloths of gay patterns; and +they existed beautifully but simply in the Governor’s verandah, and when +he came out they sang at him. When you have lost seventy thousand pounds’ +worth of pearls, your pay, your ship, and all your clothes, and have lived in +bondage for five months beyond the faintest pretences of civilisation, you know +what true independence means, for you become the happiest of created +things—natural man. +</p> + +<p> +The Governor told the crew that they were evil, and they asked for food. When +he saw how they ate, and when he remembered that none of the pearl patrol-boats +were expected for two months, he sighed. But the crew of the <i>Haliotis</i> +lay down in the verandah, and said that they were pensioners of the +Governor’s bounty. A grey-bearded man, fat and bald-headed, his one +garment a green-and-yellow loin-cloth, saw the <i>Haliotis</i> in the harbour, +and bellowed for joy. The men crowded to the verandah-rail, kicking aside the +long cane chairs. They pointed, gesticulated, and argued freely, without shame. +The militia regiment sat down in the Governor’s garden. The Governor +retired to his hammock—it was as easy to be killed lying as +standing—and his women squeaked from the shuttered rooms. +</p> + +<p> +“She sold?” said the grey-bearded man, pointing to the +<i>Haliotis</i>. He was Mr. Wardrop. +</p> + +<p> +“No good,” said the Governor, shaking his head. “No one come +buy.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s taken my lamps, though,” said the skipper. He wore one +leg of a pair of trousers, and his eye wandered along the verandah. The +Governor quailed. There were cuddy camp-stools and the skipper’s +writing-table in plain sight. +</p> + +<p> +“They’ve cleaned her out, o’ course,” said Mr. Wardrop. +“They would. We’ll go aboard and take an inventory. See!” He +waved his hands over the harbour. “We—live—there—now. +Sorry?” +</p> + +<p> +The Governor smiled a smile of relief. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s glad of that,” said one of the crew, reflectively. +“I shouldn’t wonder.” +</p> + +<p> +They flocked down to the harbour-front, the militia regiment clattering behind, +and embarked themselves in what they found—it happened to be the +Governor’s boat. Then they disappeared over the bulwarks of the +<i>Haliotis</i>, and the Governor prayed that they might find occupation +inside. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Wardrop’s first bound took him to the engine-room; and when the +others were patting the well-remembered decks, they heard him giving God thanks +that things were as he had left them. The wrecked engines stood over his head +untouched; no inexpert hand had meddled with his shores; the steel wedges of +the store-room were rusted home; and, best of all, the hundred and sixty tons +of good Australian coal in the bunkers had not diminished. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t understand it,” said Mr. Wardrop. “Any Malay +knows the use o’ copper. They ought to have cut away the pipes. And with +Chinese junks coming here, too. It’s a special interposition o’ +Providence.” +</p> + +<p> +“You think so,” said the skipper, from above. “There’s +only been one thief here, and he’s cleaned her out of all <i>my</i> +things, anyhow.” +</p> + +<p> +Here the skipper spoke less than the truth, for under the planking of his +cabin, only to be reached by a chisel, lay a little money which never drew any +interest—his sheet-anchor to windward. It was all in clean sovereigns +that pass current the world over, and might have amounted to more than a +hundred pounds. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s left me alone. Let’s thank God,” repeated Mr. +Wardrop. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s taken everything else; look!” +</p> + +<p> +The <i>Haliotis</i>, except as to her engine-room, had been systematically and +scientifically gutted from one end to the other, and there was strong evidence +that an unclean guard had camped in the skipper’s cabin to regulate that +plunder. She lacked glass, plate, crockery, cutlery, mattresses, cuddy carpets +and chairs, all boats, and her copper ventilators. These things had been +removed, with her sails and as much of the wire rigging as would not imperil +the safety of the masts. +</p> + +<p> +“He must have sold those,” said the skipper. “The other +things are in his house, I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +Every fitting that could be pried or screwed out was gone. Port, starboard, and +masthead lights; teak gratings; sliding sashes of the deckhouse; the +captain’s chest of drawers, with charts and chart-table; photographs, +brackets, and looking-glasses; cabin doors; rubber cuddy mats; hatch-irons; +half the funnel-stays; cork fenders; carpenter’s grindstone and +tool-chest; holystones, swabs, squeegees; all cabin and pantry lamps; +galley-fittings <i>en bloc;</i> flags and flag-locker; clocks, chronometers; +the forward compass and the ship’s bell and belfry, were among the +missing. +</p> + +<p> +There were great scarred marks on the deck-planking over which the +cargo-derricks had been hauled. One must have fallen by the way, for the +bulwark-rails were smashed and bent and the side-plates bruised. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s the Governor,” said the skipper “He’s been +selling her on the instalment plan.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let’s go up with spanners and shovels, and kill ’em +all,” shouted the crew. “Let’s drown him, and keep the +woman!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then we’ll be shot by that black-and-tan regiment—<i>our</i> +regiment. What’s the trouble ashore? They’ve camped our regiment on +the beach.” +</p> + +<p> +“We’re cut off; that’s all. Go and see what they want,” +said Mr. Wardrop. “You’ve the trousers.” +</p> + +<p> +In his simple way the Governor was a strategist. He did not desire that the +crew of the <i>Haliotis</i> should come ashore again, either singly or in +detachments, and he proposed to turn their steamer into a convict-hulk. They +would wait—he explained this from the quay to the skipper in the +barge—and they would continue to wait till the man-of-war came along, +exactly where they were. If one of them set foot ashore, the entire regiment +would open fire, and he would not scruple to use the two cannon of the town. +Meantime food would be sent daily in a boat under an armed escort. The skipper, +bare to the waist, and rowing, could only grind his teeth; and the Governor +improved the occasion, and revenged himself for the bitter words in the cables, +by saying what he thought of the morals and manners of the crew. The barge +returned to the <i>Haliotis</i> in silence, and the skipper climbed aboard, +white on the cheek-bones and blue about the nostrils. +</p> + +<p> +“I knew it,” said Mr. Wardrop; “and they won’t give us +good food, either. We shall have bananas morning, noon, and night, an’ a +man can’t work on fruit. <i>We</i> know that.” +</p> + +<p> +Then the skipper cursed Mr. Wardrop for importing frivolous side-issues into +the conversation; and the crew cursed one another, and the <i>Haliotis</i>, the +voyage, and all that they knew or could bring to mind. They sat down in silence +on the empty decks, and their eyes burned in their heads. The green harbour +water chuckled at them overside. They looked at the palm-fringed hills inland, +at the white houses above the harbour road, at the single tier of native craft +by the quay, at the stolid soldiery sitting round the two cannon, and, last of +all, at the blue bar of the horizon. Mr. Wardrop was buried in thought, and +scratched imaginary lines with his untrimmed finger-nails on the planking. +</p> + +<p> +“I make no promise,” he said, at last, “for I can’t say +what may or may not have happened to them. But here’s the ship, and +here’s us.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a little scornful laughter at this, and Mr. Wardrop knitted his +brows. He recalled that in the days when he wore trousers he had been Chief +Engineer of the <i>Haliotis</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“Harland, Mackesy, Noble, Hay, Naughton, Fink, O’Hara, +Trumbull.” +</p> + +<p> +“Here, sir!” The instinct of obedience waked to answer the +roll-call of the engine-room. +</p> + +<p> +“Below!” +</p> + +<p> +They rose and went. +</p> + +<p> +“Captain, I’ll trouble you for the rest of the men as I want them. +We’ll get my stores out, and clear away the shores we don’t need, +and then we’ll patch her up. <i>My</i> men will remember that +they’re in the <i>Haliotis</i>,—under me.” +</p> + +<p> +He went into the engine-room, and the others stared. They were used to the +accidents of the sea, but this was beyond their experience. None who had seen +the engine-room believed that anything short of new engines from end to end +could stir the <i>Haliotis</i> from her moorings. +</p> + +<p> +The engine-room stores were unearthed, and Mr. Wardrop’s face, red with +the filth of the bilges and the exertion of travelling on his stomach, lit with +joy. The spare gear of the <i>Haliotis</i> had been unusually complete, and +two-and-twenty men, armed with screw-jacks, differential blocks, tackle, vices, +and a forge or so, can look Kismet between the eyes without winking. The crew +were ordered to replace the holding-down and shaft-bearing bolts, and return +the collars of the thrust-block. When they had finished, Mr. Wardrop delivered +a lecture on repairing compound engines without the aid of the shops, and the +men sat about on the cold machinery. The cross-head jammed in the guides leered +at them drunkenly, but offered no help. They ran their fingers hopelessly into +the cracks of the starboard supporting-column, and picked at the ends of the +ropes round the shores, while Mr. Wardrop’s voice rose and fell echoing, +till the quick tropic night closed down over the engine-room skylight. +</p> + +<p> +Next morning the work of reconstruction began. It has been explained that the +foot of the connecting-rod was forced against the foot of the starboard +supporting-column, which it had cracked through and driven outward towards the +ship’s skin. To all appearance the job was more than hopeless, for rod +and column seemed to have been welded into one. But herein Providence smiled on +them for one moment to hearten them through the weary weeks ahead. The second +engineer—more reckless than resourceful—struck at random with a +cold chisel into the cast-iron of the column, and a greasy, grey flake of metal +flew from under the imprisoned foot of the connecting-rod, while the rod itself +fell away slowly, and brought up with a thunderous clang somewhere in the dark +of the crank-pit. The guides-plates above were still jammed fast in the guides, +but the first blow had been struck. They spent the rest of the day grooming the +donkey-engine, which stood immediately forward of the engine-room hatch. Its +tarpaulin, of course, had been stolen, and eight warm months had not improved +the working parts. Further, the last dying hiccup of the <i>Haliotis</i> +seemed—or it might have been the Malay from the boat-house—to have +lifted the thing bodily on its bolts, and set it down inaccurately as regarded +its steam connections. +</p> + +<p> +“If we only had one single cargo-derrick!” Mr. Wardrop sighed. +“We can take the cylinder-cover off by hand, if we sweat; but to get the +rod out o’ the piston’s not possible unless we use steam. Well, +there’ll be steam the morn, if there’s nothing else. She’ll +fizzle!” +</p> + +<p> +Next morning men from the shore saw the <i>Haliotis</i> through a cloud, for it +was as though the deck smoked. Her crew were chasing steam through the shaken +and leaky pipes to its work in the forward donkey-engine; and where oakum +failed to plug a crack, they stripped off their loin-cloths for lapping, and +swore, half-boiled and mother-naked. The donkey-engine worked—at a +price—the price of constant attention and furious stoking—worked +long enough to allow a wire-rope (it was made up of a funnel and a +foremast-stay) to be led into the engine-room and made fast on the +cylinder-cover of the forward engine. That rose easily enough, and was hauled +through the skylight and on to the deck, many hands assisting the doubtful +steam. Then came the tug of war, for it was necessary to get to the piston and +the jammed piston-rod. They removed two of the piston junk-ring studs, screwed +in two strong iron eye-bolts by way of handles, doubled the wire-rope, and set +half a dozen men to smite with an extemporised battering-ram at the end of the +piston-rod, where it peered through the piston, while the donkey-engine hauled +upwards on the piston itself. After four hours of this furious work, the +piston-rod suddenly slipped, and the piston rose with a jerk, knocking one or +two men over into the engine-room. But when Mr. Wardrop declared that the +piston had not split, they cheered, and thought nothing of their wounds; and +the donkey-engine was hastily stopped; its boiler was nothing to tamper with. +</p> + +<p> +And day by day their supplies reached them by boat. The skipper humbled himself +once more before the Governor, and as a concession had leave to get +drinking-water from the Malay boat-builder on the quay. It was not good +drinking-water, but the Malay was anxious to supply anything in his power, if +he were paid for it. +</p> + +<p> +Now when the jaws of the forward engine stood, as it were, stripped and empty, +they began to wedge up the shores of the cylinder itself. That work alone +filled the better part of three days—warm and sticky days, when the hands +slipped and sweat ran into the eyes. When the last wedge was hammered home +there was no longer an ounce of weight on the supporting-columns; and Mr. +Wardrop rummaged the ship for boiler-plate three-quarters of an inch thick, +where he could find it. There was not much available, but what there was was +more than beaten gold to him. In one desperate forenoon the entire crew, naked +and lean, haled back, more or less into place, the starboard supporting-column, +which, as you remember, was cracked clean through. Mr. Wardrop found them +asleep where they had finished the work, and gave them a day’s rest, +smiling upon them as a father while he drew chalk-marks about the cracks. They +woke to new and more trying labour; for over each one of those cracks a plate +of three-quarter-inch boiler-iron was to be worked hot, the rivet-holes being +drilled by hand. All that time they were fed on fruits, chiefly bananas, with +some sago. +</p> + +<p> +Those were the days when men swooned over the ratchet-drill and the hand-forge, +and where they fell they had leave to lie unless their bodies were in the way +of their fellows’ feet. And so, patch upon patch, and a patch over all, +the starboard supporting-column was clouted; but when they thought all was +secure, Mr. Wardrop decreed that the noble patchwork would never support +working engines; at the best, it could only hold the guide-bars approximately +true. The dead weight of the cylinders must be borne by vertical struts; and, +therefore, a gang would repair to the bows, and take out, with files, the big +bow-anchor davits, each of which was some three inches in diameter. They threw +hot coals at Wardrop, and threatened to kill him, those who did not weep (they +were ready to weep on the least provocation); but he hit them with iron bars +heated at the end, and they limped forward, and the davits came with them when +they returned. They slept sixteen hours on the strength of it, and in three +days two struts were in place, bolted from the foot of the starboard +supporting-column to the under side of the cylinder. There remained now the +port, or condenser-column, which, though not so badly cracked as its fellow, +had also been strengthened in four places with boiler-plate patches, but needed +struts. They took away the main stanchions of the bridge for that work, and, +crazy with toil, did not see till all was in place that the rounded bars of +iron must be flattened from top to bottom to allow the air-pump levers to clear +them. It was Wardrop’s oversight, and he wept bitterly before the men as +he gave the order to unbolt the struts and flatten them with hammer and the +flame. Now the broken engine was underpinned firmly, and they took away the +wooden shores from under the cylinders, and gave them to the robbed bridge, +thanking God for even half a day’s work on gentle, kindly wood instead of +the iron that had entered into their souls. Eight months in the back-country +among the leeches, at a temperature of 85° moist, is very bad for the nerves. +</p> + +<p> +They had kept the hardest work to the last, as boys save Latin prose, and, worn +though they were, Mr. Wardrop did not dare to give them rest. The piston-rod +and connecting-rod were to be straightened, and this was a job for a regular +dockyard with every appliance. They fell to it, cheered by a little chalk +showing of work done and time consumed which Mr. Wardrop wrote up on the +engine-room bulkhead. Fifteen days had gone—fifteen days of killing +labour—and there was hope before them. +</p> + +<p> +It is curious that no man knows how the rods were straightened. The crew of the +<i>Haliotis</i> remember that week very dimly, as a fever patient remembers the +delirium of a long night. There were fires everywhere, they say; the whole ship +was one consuming furnace, and the hammers were never still. Now, there could +not have been more than one fire at the most, for Mr. Wardrop distinctly +recalls that no straightening was done except under his own eye. They remember, +too, that for many years voices gave orders which they obeyed with their +bodies, but their minds were abroad on all the seas. It seems to them that they +stood through days and nights slowly sliding a bar backwards and forwards +through a white glow that was part of the ship. They remember an intolerable +noise in their burning heads from the walls of the stoke-hole, and they +remember being savagely beaten by men whose eyes seemed asleep. When their +shift was over they would draw straight lines in the air, anxiously and +repeatedly, and would question one another in their sleep, crying, “Is +she straight?” +</p> + +<p> +At last—they do not remember whether this was by day or by +night—Mr. Wardrop began to dance clumsily, and wept the while; and they +too danced and wept, and went to sleep twitching all over; and when they woke, +men said that the rods were straightened, and no one did any work for two days, +but lay on the decks and ate fruit. Mr. Wardrop would go below from time to +time, and pat the two rods where they lay, and they heard him singing hymns. +</p> + +<p> +Then his trouble of mind went from him, and at the end of the third day’s +idleness he made a drawing in chalk upon the deck, with letters of the alphabet +at the angles. He pointed out that, though the piston-rod was more or less +straight, the piston-rod cross-head—the thing that had been jammed +sideways in the guides—had been badly strained, and had cracked the lower +end of the piston-rod. He was going to forge and shrink a wrought-iron collar +on the neck of the piston-rod where it joined the cross-head, and from the +collar he would bolt a Y-shaped piece of iron whose lower arms should be bolted +into the cross-head. If anything more were needed, they could use up the last +of the boiler-plate. +</p> + +<p> +So the forges were lit again, and men burned their bodies, but hardly felt the +pain. The finished connection was not beautiful, but it seemed strong +enough—at least, as strong as the rest of the machinery; and with that +job their labours came to an end. All that remained was to connect up the +engines, and to get food and water. The skipper and four men dealt with the +Malay boat-builder by night chiefly; it was no time to haggle over the price of +sago and dried fish. The others stayed aboard and replaced piston, piston-rod, +cylinder-cover, cross-head, and bolts, with the aid of the faithful +donkey-engine. The cylinder-cover was hardly steam-proof, and the eye of +science might have seen in the connecting-rod a flexure something like that of +a Christmas-tree candle which has melted and been straightened by hand over a +stove, but, as Mr. Wardrop said, “She didn’t hit anything.” +</p> + +<p> +As soon as the last bolt was in place, men tumbled over one another in their +anxiety to get to the hand starting-gear, the wheel and worm, by which some +engines can be moved when there is no steam aboard. They nearly wrenched off +the wheel, but it was evident to the blindest eye that the engines stirred. +They did not revolve in their orbits with any enthusiasm, as good machines +should; indeed, they groaned not a little; but they moved over and came to rest +in a way which proved that they still recognised man’s hand. Then Mr. +Wardrop sent his slaves into the darker bowels of the engine-room and the +stoke-hole, and followed them with a flare-lamp. The boilers were sound, but +would take no harm from a little scaling and cleaning. Mr. Wardrop would not +have any one over-zealous, for he feared what the next stroke of the tool might +show. “The less we know about her now,” said he, “the better +for us all, I’m thinkin’. Ye’ll understand me when I say that +this is in no sense regular engineerin’.” +</p> + +<p> +As his raiment, when he spoke, was his grey beard and uncut hair, they believed +him. They did not ask too much of what they met, but polished and tallowed and +scraped it to a false brilliancy. +</p> + +<p> +“A lick of paint would make me easier in my mind,” said Mr. +Wardrop, plaintively. “I know half the condenser-tubes are started; and +the propeller-shaftin’ ’s God knows how far out of the true, and +we’ll need a new air-pump, an’ the main-steam leaks like a sieve, +and there’s worse each way I look; but—paint’s like clothes +to a man, an’ ours is near all gone.” +</p> + +<p> +The skipper unearthed some stale ropy paint of the loathsome green that they +used for the galleys of sailing-ships, and Mr. Wardrop spread it abroad +lavishly to give the engines self-respect. +</p> + +<p> +His own was returning day by day, for he wore his loin-cloth continuously; but +the crew, having worked under orders, did not feel as he did. The completed +work satisfied Mr. Wardrop. He would at the last have made shift to run to +Singapore, and gone home without vengeance taken to show his engines to his +brethren in the craft; but the others and the captain forbade him. They had not +yet recovered their self-respect. +</p> + +<p> +“It would be safer to make what ye might call a trial trip, but beggars +mustn’t be choosers; an if the engines will go over to the hand-gear, the +probability—I’m only saying it’s a probability—the +chance is that they’ll hold up when we put steam on her.” +</p> + +<p> +“How long will you take to get steam?” said the skipper. +</p> + +<p> +“God knows! Four hours—a day—half a week. If I can raise +sixty pound I’ll not complain.” +</p> + +<p> +“Be sure of her first; we can’t afford to go out half a mile, and +break down.” +</p> + +<p> +“My soul and body, man, we’re one continuous breakdown, fore +an’ aft! We might fetch Singapore, though.” +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll break down at Pygang-Watai, where we can do good,” was +the answer, in a voice that did not allow argument. “She’s +<i>my</i> boat, and—I’ve had eight months to think in.” +</p> + +<p> +No man saw the <i>Haliotis</i> depart, though many heard her. She left at two +in the morning, having cut her moorings, and it was none of her crew’s +pleasure that the engines should strike up a thundering half-seas-over chanty +that echoed among the hills. Mr. Wardrop wiped away a tear as he listened to +the new song. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s gibberin’—she’s just +gibberin’,” he whimpered. “Yon’s the voice of a +maniac.” +</p> + +<p> +And if engines have any soul, as their masters believe, he was quite right. +There were outcries and clamours, sobs and bursts of chattering laughter, +silences where the trained ear yearned for the clear note, and torturing +reduplications where there should have been one deep voice. Down the +screw-shaft ran murmurs and warnings, while a heart-diseased flutter without +told that the propeller needed re-keying. +</p> + +<p> +“How does she make it?” said the skipper. +</p> + +<p> +“She moves, but—but she’s breakin’ my heart. The sooner +we’re at Pygang-Watai, the better. She’s mad, and we’re +waking the town.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is she at all near safe?” +</p> + +<p> +“What do <i>I</i> care how safe she is? She’s mad. Hear that, now! +To be sure, nothing’s hittin’ anything, and the bearin’s are +fairly cool, but—can ye not hear?” +</p> + +<p> +“If she goes,” said the skipper, “I don’t care a curse. +And she’s <i>my</i> boat, too.” +</p> + +<p> +She went, trailing a fathom of weed behind her. From a slow two knots an hour +she crawled up to a triumphant four. Anything beyond that made the struts +quiver dangerously, and filled the engine-room with steam. Morning showed her +out of sight of land, and there was a visible ripple under her bows; but she +complained bitterly in her bowels, and, as though the noise had called it, +there shot along across the purple sea a swift, dark proa, hawk-like and +curious, which presently ranged alongside and wished to know if the +<i>Haliotis</i> were helpless. Ships, even the steamers of the white men, had +been known to break down in those waters, and the honest Malay and Javanese +traders would sometimes aid them in their own peculiar way. But this ship was +not full of lady passengers and well-dressed officers. Men, white, naked and +savage, swarmed down her sides—some with red-hot iron bars, and others +with large hammers—threw themselves upon those innocent inquiring +strangers, and, before any man could say what had happened, were in full +possession of the proa, while the lawful owners bobbed in the water overside. +Half an hour later the proa’s cargo of sago and trepang, as well as a +doubtful-minded compass, was in the <i>Haliotis</i>. The two huge triangular +mat sails, with their seventy-foot yards and booms, had followed the cargo, and +were being fitted to the stripped masts of the steamer. +</p> + +<p> +They rose, they swelled, they filled, and the empty steamer visibly laid over +as the wind took them. They gave her nearly three knots an hour, and what +better could men ask? But if she had been forlorn before, this new purchase +made her horrible to see. Imagine a respectable charwoman in the tights of a +ballet-dancer rolling drunk along the streets, and you will come to some faint +notion of the appearance of that nine-hundred-ton, well-decked, once +schooner-rigged cargo-boat as she staggered under her new help, shouting and +raving across the deep. With steam and sail that marvellous voyage continued; +and the bright-eyed crew looked over the rail, desolate, unkempt, unshorn, +shamelessly clothed beyond the decencies. +</p> + +<p> +At the end of the third week she sighted the island of Pygang-Watai, whose +harbour is the turning-point of a pearl sea-patrol. Here the gun-boats stay for +a week ere they retrace their line. There is no village at Pygang-Watai; only a +stream of water, some palms, and a harbour safe to rest in till the first +violence of the southeast monsoon has blown itself out. +</p> + +<p> +They opened up the low coral beach, with its mound of whitewashed coal ready +for supply, the deserted huts for the sailors, and the flagless flagstaff. +</p> + +<p> +Next day there was no <i>Haliotis</i>—only a little proa rocking in the +warm rain at the mouth of the harbour, whose crew watched with hungry eyes the +smoke of a gunboat on the horizon. +</p> + +<p> +Months afterwards there were a few lines in an English newspaper to the effect +that some gunboat of some foreign Power had broken her back at the mouth of +some far-away harbour by running at full speed into a sunken wreck. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"></a> +WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_PART1" id="link2H_PART1"></a> +PART I</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +I have done one braver thing<br/> + Than all the worthies did;<br/> +And yet a braver thence doth spring,<br/> + Which is to keep that hid.<br/> +<br/> + T<small>HE</small> U<small>NDERTAKING</small>. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it officially declared yet?” +</p> + +<p> +“They’ve gone as far as to admit ‘extreme local +scarcity,’ and they’ve started relief-works in one or two +districts, the paper says.” +</p> + +<p> +“That means it will be declared as soon as they can make sure of the men +and the rolling-stock. Shouldn’t wonder if it were as bad as the +’78 Famine.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t be,” said Scott, turning a little in the long cane +chair. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ve had fifteen-anna crops in the north, and Bombay and Bengal +report more than they know what to do with. They’ll be able to check it +before it gets out of hand. It will only be local.” +</p> + +<p> +Martyn picked the “<i>Pioneer</i>” from the table, read through the +telegrams once more, and put up his feet on the chair-rests. It was a hot, +dark, breathless evening, heavy with the smell of the newly watered Mall. The +flowers in the Club gardens were dead and black on their stalks, the little +lotus-pond was a circle of caked mud, and the tamarisk-trees were white with +the dust of weeks. Most of the men were at the band-stand in the public +gardens—from the Club verandah you could hear the native Police band +hammering stale waltzes—or on the polo-ground, or in the high-walled +fives-court, hotter than a Dutch oven. Half a dozen grooms, squatted at the +heads of their ponies, waited their masters’ return. From time to time a +man would ride at a foot-pace into the Club compound, and listlessly loaf over +to the whitewashed barracks beside the main building. These were supposed to be +chambers. Men lived in them, meeting the same white faces night after night at +dinner, and drawing out their office-work till the latest possible hour, that +they might escape that doleful company. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you going to do?” said Martyn, with a yawn. +“Let’s have a swim before dinner.” +</p> + +<p> +“Water’s hot. I was at the bath to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Play you game o’ billiards—fifty up.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a hundred and five in the hall now. Sit still and don’t +be so abominably energetic.” +</p> + +<p> +A grunting camel swung up to the porch, his badged and belted rider fumbling a +leather pouch. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Kubber-kargaz-ki-yektraaa</i>,” the man whined, handing down +the newspaper extra—a slip printed on one side only, and damp from the +press. It was pinned up on the green-baize board, between notices of ponies for +sale and fox-terriers missing. +</p> + +<p> +Martyn rose lazily, read it, and whistled. “It’s declared!” +he cried. “One, two, three—eight districts go under the operations +of the Famine Code <i>ek dum</i>. They’ve put Jimmy Hawkins in +charge.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good business!” said Scott, with the first sign of interest he had +shown. “When in doubt hire a Punjabi. I worked under Jimmy when I first +came out and he belonged to the Punjab. He has more <i>bundobust</i> than most +men.” +</p> + +<p> +“Jimmy’s a Jubilee Knight now,” said Martyn. +“He’s a good chap, even though he is a thrice-born civilian and +went to the Benighted Presidency. What unholy names these Madras districts +rejoice in—all <i>ungas</i> or <i>rungas</i> or <i>pillays</i> or +<i>polliums</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +A dog-cart drove up in the dusk, and a man entered, mopping his head. He was +editor of the one daily paper at the capital of a Province of twenty-five +million natives and a few hundred white men: as his staff was limited to +himself and one assistant, his office-hours ran variously from ten to twenty a +day. +</p> + +<p> +“Hi, Raines; you’re supposed to know everything,” said +Martyn, stopping him. “How’s this Madras ‘scarcity’ +going to turn out?” +</p> + +<p> +“No one knows as yet. There’s a message as long as your arm coming +in on the telephone. I’ve left my cub to fill it out. Madras has owned +she can’t manage it alone, and Jimmy seems to have a free hand in getting +all the men he needs. Arbuthnot’s warned to hold himself in +readiness.” +</p> + +<p> +“‘Badger’ Arbuthnot?” +</p> + +<p> +“The Peshawur chap. Yes: and the <i>Pi</i> wires that Ellis and Clay have +been moved from the Northwest already, and they’ve taken half a dozen +Bombay men, too. It’s <i>pukka</i> famine, by the looks of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“They’re nearer the scene of action than we are; but if it comes to +indenting on the Punjab this early, there’s more in this than meets the +eye,” said Martyn. +</p> + +<p> +“Here to-day and gone to-morrow. Didn’t come to stay for +ever,” said Scott, dropping one of Marryat’s novels, and rising to +his feet. “Martyn, your sister’s waiting for you.” +</p> + +<p> +A rough grey horse was backing and shifting at the edge of the verandah, where +the light of a kerosene lamp fell on a brown-calico habit and a white face +under a grey-felt hat. +</p> + +<p> +“Right, O!” said Martyn. “I’m ready. Better come and +dine with us, if you’ve nothing to do, Scott. William, is there any +dinner in the house?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll go home and see,” was the rider’s answer. +“You can drive him over—at eight, remember.” +</p> + +<p> +Scott moved leisurely to his room, and changed into the evening-dress of the +season and the country: spotless white linen from head to foot, with a broad +silk <i>cummerbund</i>. Dinner at the Martyns’ was a decided improvement +on the goat-mutton, twiney-tough fowl, and tinned entrées of the Club. But it +was a great pity that Martyn could not afford to send his sister to the hills +for the hot weather. As an Acting District Superintendent of Police, Martyn +drew the magnificent pay of six hundred depreciated silver rupees a month, and +his little four-roomed bungalow said just as much. There were the usual +blue-and-white-striped jail-made rugs on the uneven floor; the usual +glass-studded Amritsar <i>phulkaris</i> draped on nails driven into the flaking +whitewash of the walls; the usual half-dozen chairs that did not match, picked +up at sales of dead men’s effects; and the usual streaks of black grease +where the leather punka-thong ran through the wall. It was as though everything +had been unpacked the night before to be repacked next morning. Not a door in +the house was true on its hinges. The little windows, fifteen feet up, were +darkened with wasp-nests, and lizards hunted flies between the beams of the +wood-ceiled roof. But all this was part of Scott’s life. Thus did people +live who had such an income; and in a land where each man’s pay, age, and +position are printed in a book, that all may read, it is hardly worth while to +play at pretence in word or deed. Scott counted eight years’ service in +the Irrigation Department, and drew eight hundred rupees a month, on the +understanding that if he served the State faithfully for another twenty-two +years he could retire on a pension of some four hundred rupees a month. His +working-life, which had been spent chiefly under canvas or in temporary +shelters where a man could sleep, eat, and write letters, was bound up with the +opening and guarding of irrigation canals, the handling of two or three +thousand workmen of all castes and creeds, and the payment of vast sums of +coined silver. +</p> + +<p> +He had finished that spring, not without credit, the last section of the great +Mosuhl Canal, and—much against his will, for he hated +office-work—had been sent in to serve during the hot weather on the +accounts and supply side of the Department, with sole charge of the sweltering +sub-office at the capital of the Province. Martyn knew this; William, his +sister, knew it; and everybody knew it. Scott knew, too, as well as the rest of +the world, that Miss Martyn had come out to India four years ago to keep house +for her brother, who, as every one knew, had borrowed the money to pay for her +passage, and that she ought, as all the world said, to have married at once. In +stead of this, she had refused some half a dozen subalterns, a Civilian twenty +years her senior, one Major, and a man in the Indian Medical Department. This, +too, was common property. She had “stayed down three hot weathers,” +as the saying is, because her brother was in debt and could not afford the +expense of her keep at even a cheap hill-station. Therefore her face was white +as bone, and in the centre of her forehead was a big silvery scar about the +size of a shilling—the mark of a Delhi sore, which is the same as a +“Bagdad date.” This comes from drinking bad water, and slowly eats +into the flesh till it is ripe enough to be burned out. +</p> + +<p> +None the less William had enjoyed herself hugely in her four years. Twice she +had been nearly drowned while fording a river; once she had been run away with +on a camel; had witnessed a midnight attack of thieves on her brother’s +camp; had seen justice administered, with long sticks, in the open under trees; +could speak Urdu and even rough Punjabi with a fluency that was envied by her +seniors; had entirely fallen out of the habit of writing to her aunts in +England, or cutting the pages of the English magazines; had been through a very +bad cholera year, seeing sights unfit to be told; and had wound up her +experiences by six weeks of typhoid fever, during which her head had been +shaved and hoped to keep her twenty-third birthday that September. It is +conceivable that the aunts would not have approved of a girl who never set foot +on the ground if a horse were within hail; who rode to dances with a shawl +thrown over her skirt; who wore her hair cropped and curling all over her head; +who answered indifferently to the name of William or Bill; whose speech was +heavy with the flowers of the vernacular; who could act in amateur theatricals, +play on the banjo, rule eight servants and two horses, their accounts and their +diseases, and look men slowly and deliberately between the eyes—even +after they had proposed to her and been rejected. +</p> + +<p> +“I like men who do things,” she had confided to a man in the +Educational Department, who was teaching the sons of cloth-merchants and dyers +the beauty of Wordsworth’s “Excursion” in annotated +cram-books; and when he grew poetical, William explained that she +“didn’t understand poetry very much; it made her head ache,” +and another broken heart took refuge at the Club. But it was all +William’s fault. She delighted in hearing men talk of their own work, and +that is the most fatal way of bringing a man to your feet. +</p> + +<p> +Scott had known her for some three years, meeting her, as a rule, under +canvass, when his camp and her brother’s joined for a day on the edge of +the Indian Desert. He had danced with her several times at the big Christmas +gatherings, when as many as five hundred white people came in to the station; +and had always a great respect for her housekeeping and her dinners. +</p> + +<p> +She looked more like a boy than ever when, the meal ended, she sat, rolling +cigarettes, her low forehead puckered beneath the dark curls as she twiddled +the papers and stuck out her rounded chin when the tobacco stayed in place, or, +with a gesture as true as a school-boy’s throwing a stone, tossed the +finished article across the room to Martyn, who caught it with one hand, and +continued his talk with Scott. It was all “shop,”—canals and +the policing of canals; the sins of villagers who stole more water than they +had paid for, and the grosser sin of native constables who connived at the +thefts; of the transplanting bodily of villages to newly irrigated ground, and +of the coming fight with the desert in the south when the Provincial funds +should warrant the opening of the long-surveyed Luni Protective Canal System. +And Scott spoke openly of his great desire to be put on one particular section +of the work where he knew the land and the people; and Martyn sighed for a +billet in the Himalayan foot-hills, and said his mind of his superiors, and +William rolled cigarettes and said nothing, but smiled gravely on her brother +because he was happy. +</p> + +<p> +At ten Scott’s horse came to the door, and the evening was ended. The +lights of the two low bungalows in which the daily paper was printed showed +bright across the road. It was too early to try to find sleep, and Scott +drifted over to the editor. Raines, stripped to the waist like a sailor at a +gun, lay half asleep in a long chair, waiting for night telegrams. He had a +theory that if a man did not stay by his work all day and most of the night he +laid himself open to fever: so he ate and slept among his files. +</p> + +<p> +“Can you do it?” he said drowsily. “I didn’t mean to +bring you over.” +</p> + +<p> +“About what? I’ve been dining at the Martyns’.” +</p> + +<p> +“The Madras famine, of course. Martyn’s warned, too. They’re +taking men where they can find ’em. I sent a note to you at the Club just +now, asking if you could do us a letter once a week from the +south—between two and three columns, say. Nothing sensational, of course, +but just plain facts about who is doing what, and so forth. Our regular +rates—ten rupees a column.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sorry, but it’s out of my line,” Scott answered, staring +absently at the map of India on the wall. “It’s rough on +Martyn—very. Wonder what he’ll do with his sister? Wonder what the +deuce they’ll do with me? I’ve no famine experience. This is the +first I’ve heard of it. <i>Am</i> I ordered?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes. Here’s the wire. They’ll put you on to +relief-works,” Raines said, “with a horde of Madrassis dying like +flies; one native apothecary and half a pint of cholera-mixture among the ten +thousand of you. It comes of your being idle for the moment. Every man who +isn’t doing two men’s work seems to have been called upon. Hawkins +evidently believes in Punjabis. It’s going to be quite as bad as anything +they have had in the last ten years.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s all in the day’s work, worse luck. I suppose I shall +get my orders officially some time to-morrow. I’m awfully glad I happened +to drop in. Better go and pack my kit now. Who relieves me here—do you +know?” +</p> + +<p> +Raines turned over a sheaf of telegrams. “McEuan,” said he, +“from Murree.” +</p> + +<p> +Scott chuckled. “He thought he was going to be cool all summer. +He’ll be very sick about this. Well, no good talking. +’Night.” +</p> + +<p> +Two hours later, Scott, with a clear conscience, laid himself down to rest on a +string cot in a bare room. Two worn bullock trunks, a leather water-bottle, a +tin ice-box, and his pet saddle sewed up in sacking were piled at the door, and +the Club secretary’s receipt for last month’s bill was under his +pillow. His orders came next morning, and with them an unofficial telegram from +Sir James Hawkins; who was not in the habit of forgetting good men when he had +once met them, bidding him report himself with all speed at some +unpronounceable place fifteen hundred miles to the south, for the famine was +sore in the land, and white men were needed. +</p> + +<p> +A pink and fattish youth arrived in the red-hot noonday, whimpering a little at +fate and famines, which never allowed any one three months’ peace. He was +Scott’s successor—another cog in the machinery, moved forward +behind his fellow whose services, as the official announcement ran, “were +placed at the disposal of the Madras Government for famine duty until further +orders.” Scott handed over the funds in his charge, showed him the +coolest corner in the office, warned him against excess of zeal, and, as +twilight fell, departed from the Club in a hired carriage, with his faithful +body-servant, Faiz Ullah, and a mound of disordered baggage atop, to catch the +southern mail at the loopholed and bastioned railway-station. The heat from the +thick brick walls struck him across the face as if it had been a hot towel; and +he reflected that there were at least five nights and four days of this travel +before him. Faiz Ullah, used to the chances of service, plunged into the crowd +on the stone platform, while Scott, a black cheroot between his teeth, waited +till his compartment should be set away. A dozen native policemen, with their +rifles and bundles, shouldered into the press of Punjabi farmers, Sikh +craftsmen, and greasy-locked Afreedee pedlars, escorting with all pomp +Martyn’s uniform-case, water-bottles, ice-box, and bedding-roll. They saw +Faiz Ullah’s lifted hand, and steered for it. +</p> + +<p> +“My Sahib and your Sahib,” said Faiz Ullah to Martyn’s man, +“will travel together. Thou and I, O brother, will thus secure the +servants’ places close by; and because of our masters’ authority +none will dare to disturb us.” +</p> + +<p> +When Faiz Ullah reported all things ready, Scott settled down at full length, +coatless and bootless, on the broad leather-covered bunk. The heat under the +iron-arched roof of the station might have been anything over a hundred +degrees. At the last moment Martyn entered, dripping. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t swear,” said Scott, lazily; “it’s too late +to change your carriage; and we’ll divide the ice.” +</p> + +<p> +“What are you doing here?” said the police-man. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m lent to the Madras Government, same as you. By Jove, +it’s a bender of a night! Are you taking any of your men down?” +</p> + +<p> +“A dozen. I suppose I shall have to superintend relief distributions. +Didn’t know you were under orders too.” +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t till after I left you last night. Raines had the news +first. My orders came this morning. McEuan relieved me at four, and I got off +at once. Shouldn’t wonder if it wouldn’t be a good thing—this +famine—if we come through it alive.” +</p> + +<p> +“Jimmy ought to put you and me to work together,” said Martyn; and +then, after a pause: “My sister’s here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good business,” said Scott, heartily. “Going to get off at +Umballa, I suppose, and go up to Simla. Who’ll she stay with +there?” +</p> + +<p> +“No-o; that’s just the trouble of it. She’s going down with +me.” +</p> + +<p> +Scott sat bolt upright under the oil-lamps as the train jolted past Tarn-Taran. +“What! You don’t mean you couldn’t afford—” +</p> + +<p> +“’Tain’t that. I’d have scraped up the money +somehow.” +</p> + +<p> +“You might have come to me, to begin with,” said Scott, stiffly; +“we aren’t altogether strangers.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you needn’t be stuffy about it. I might, but—you +don’t know my sister. I’ve been explaining and exhorting and all +the rest of it all day—lost my temper since seven this morning, and +haven’t got it back yet—but she wouldn’t hear of any +compromise. A woman’s entitled to travel with her husband if she wants +to; and William says she’s on the same footing. You see, we’ve been +together all our lives, more or less, since my people died. It isn’t as +if she were an ordinary sister.” +</p> + +<p> +“All the sisters I’ve ever heard of would have stayed where they +were well off.” +</p> + +<p> +“She’s as clever as a man, confound her,” Martyn went on. +“She broke up the bungalow over my head while I was talking at her. +Settled the whole <i>subchiz</i> [outfit] in three hours—servants, +horses, and all. I didn’t get my orders till nine.” +</p> + +<p> +“Jimmy Hawkins won’t be pleased,” said Scott. “A +famine’s no place for a woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Jim—I mean Lady Jim’s in camp with him. At any rate, +she says she will look after my sister. William wired down to her on her own +responsibility, asking if she could come, and knocked the ground from under me +by showing me her answer.” +</p> + +<p> +Scott laughed aloud. “If she can do that she can take care of herself, +and Mrs. Jim won’t let her run into any mischief. There aren’t many +women, sisters or wives, who would walk into a famine with their eyes open. It +isn’t as if she didn’t know what these things mean. She was through +the Jalo cholera last year.” +</p> + +<p> +The train stopped at Amritsar, and Scott went back to the ladies’ +compartment, immediately behind their carriage. William, with a cloth +riding-cap on her curls, nodded affably. +</p> + +<p> +“Come in and have some tea,” she said. “Best thing in the +world for heat-apoplexy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do I look as if I were going to have heat-apoplexy?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never can tell,” said William, wisely. “It’s always +best to be ready.” +</p> + +<p> +She had arranged her compartment with the knowledge of an old campaigner. A +felt-covered water-bottle hung in the draught of one of the shuttered windows; +a tea-set of Russian china, packed in a wadded basket, stood on the seat; and a +travelling spirit-lamp was clamped against the woodwork above it. +</p> + +<p> +William served them generously, in large cups, hot tea, which saves the veins +of the neck from swelling inopportunely on a hot night. It was characteristic +of the girl that, her plan of action once settled, she asked for no comments on +it. Life among men who had a great deal of work to do, and very little time to +do it in, had taught her the wisdom of effacing, as well as of fending for, +herself. She did not by word or deed suggest that she would be useful, +comforting, or beautiful in their travels, but continued about her business +serenely: put the cups back without clatter when tea was ended, and made +cigarettes for her guests. +</p> + +<p> +“This time last night,” said Scott, “we didn’t +expect—er—this kind of thing, did we?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve learned to expect anything,” said William. “You +know, in our service, we live at the end of the telegraph; but, of course, this +ought to be a good thing for us all, departmentally—if we live.” +</p> + +<p> +“It knocks us out of the running in our own Province,” Scott +replied, with equal gravity. “I hoped to be put on the Luni Protective +Works this cold weather, but there’s no saying how long the famine may +keep us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hardly beyond October, I should think,” said Martyn. “It +will be ended, one way or the other, then.” +</p> + +<p> +“And we’ve nearly a week of this,” said William. +“Sha’n’t we be dusty when it’s over?” +</p> + +<p> +For a night and a day they knew their surroundings, and for a night and a day, +skirting the edge of the great Indian Desert on a narrow-gauge railway, they +remembered how in the days of their apprenticeship they had come by that road +from Bombay. Then the languages in which the names of the stations were written +changed, and they launched south into a foreign land, where the very smells +were new. Many long and heavily laden grain-trains were in front of them, and +they could feel the hand of Jimmy Hawkins from far off. They waited in +extemporised sidings while processions of empty trucks returned to the north, +and were coupled on to slow, crawling trains, and dropped at midnight, Heaven +knew where; but it was furiously hot, and they walked to and fro among sacks, +and dogs howled. Then they came to an India more strange to them than to the +untravelled Englishman—the flat, red India of palm-tree, palmyra-palm, +and rice—the India of the picture-books, of “<i>Little Henry and +His Bearer</i>”—all dead and dry in the baking heat. They had left +the incessant passenger-traffic of the north and west far and far behind them. +Here the people crawled to the side of the train, holding their little ones in +their arms; and a loaded truck would be left behind, the men and women +clustering round it like ants by spilled honey. Once in the twilight they saw +on a dusty plain a regiment of little brown men, each bearing a body over his +shoulder; and when the train stopped to leave yet another truck, they perceived +that the burdens were not corpses, but only foodless folk picked up beside dead +oxen by a corps of Irregular troops. Now they met more white men, here one and +there two, whose tents stood close to the line, and who came armed with written +authorities and angry words to cut off a truck. They were too busy to do more +than nod at Scott and Martyn, and stare curiously at William, who could do +nothing except make tea, and watch how her men staved off the rush of wailing, +walking skeletons, putting them down three at a time in heaps, with their own +hands uncoupling the marked trucks, or taking receipts from the hollow-eyed, +weary white men, who spoke another argot than theirs. They ran out of ice, out +of soda-water, and out of tea; for they were six days and seven nights on the +road, and it seemed to them like seven times seven years. +</p> + +<p> +At last, in a dry, hot dawn, in a land of death, lit by long red fires of +railway-sleepers, where they were burning the dead, they came to their +destination, and were met by Jim Hawkins, the Head of the Famine, unshaven, +unwashed, but cheery, and entirely in command of affairs. +</p> + +<p> +Martyn, he decreed then and there, was to live on trains till further orders; +was to go back with empty trucks, filling them with starving people as he found +them, and dropping them at a famine-camp on the edge of the Eight Districts. He +would pick up supplies and return, and his constables would guard the loaded +grain-cars, also picking up people, and would drop them at a camp a hundred +miles south. Scott—Hawkins was very glad to see Scott again—would +that same hour take charge of a convoy of bullock-carts, and would go south, +feeding as he went, to yet another famine-camp, where he would leave his +starving—there would be no lack of starving on the route—and wait +for orders by telegraph. Generally, Scott was in all small things to act as he +thought best. +</p> + +<p> +William bit her under lip. There was no one in the wide world like her one +brother, but Martyn’s orders gave him no discretion. +</p> + +<p> +She came out on the platform, masked with dust from head to foot, a horse-shoe +wrinkle on her forehead, put here by much thinking during the past week, but as +self-possessed as ever. Mrs. Jim—who should have been Lady Jim but that +no one remembered the title—took possession of her with a little gasp. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here,” she almost sobbed. +“You oughtn’t to, of course, but there—there isn’t +another woman in the place, and we must help each other, you know; and +we’ve all the wretched people and the little babies they are +selling.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve seen some,” said William. +</p> + +<p> +“Isn’t it ghastly? I’ve bought twenty; they’re in our +camp; but won’t you have something to eat first? We’ve more than +ten people can do here; and I’ve got a horse for you. Oh, I’m so +glad you’ve come, dear. You’re a Punjabi, too, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Steady, Lizzie,” said Hawkins, over his shoulder. +“We’ll look after you, Miss Martyn. Sorry I can’t ask you to +breakfast, Martyn. You’ll have to eat as you go. Leave two of your men to +help Scott. These poor devils can’t stand up to load carts. +Saunders” (this to the engine-driver, who was half asleep in the cab), +“back down and get those empties away. You’ve ‘line +clear’ to Anundrapillay; they’ll give you orders north of that. +Scott, load up your carts from that B. P. P. truck, and be off as soon as you +can. The Eurasian in the pink shirt is your interpreter and guide. You’ll +find an apothecary of sorts tied to the yoke of the second wagon. He’s +been trying to bolt; you’ll have to look after him. Lizzie, drive Miss +Martyn to camp, and tell them to send the red horse down here for me.” +</p> + +<p> +Scott, with Faiz Ullah and two policemen, was already busied with the carts, +backing them up to the truck and unbolting the sideboards quietly, while the +others pitched in the bags of millet and wheat. Hawkins watched him for as long +as it took to fill one cart. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a good man,” he said. “If all goes well I shall +work him hard.” This was Jim Hawkins’s notion of the highest +compliment one human being could pay another. +</p> + +<p> +An hour later Scott was under way; the apothecary threatening him with the +penalties of the law for that he, a member of the Subordinate Medical +Department, had been coerced and bound against his will and all laws governing +the liberty of the subject; the pink-shirted Eurasian begging leave to see his +mother, who happened to be dying some three miles away: “Only verree, +verree short leave of absence, and will presently return, sar—“; +the two constables, armed with staves, bringing up the rear; and Faiz Ullah, a +Mohammedan’s contempt for all Hindoos and foreigners in every line of his +face, explaining to the drivers that though Scott Sahib was a man to be feared +on all fours, he, Faiz Ullah, was Authority Itself. +</p> + +<p> +The procession creaked past Hawkins’s camp—three stained tents +under a clump of dead trees, behind them the famine-shed, where a crowd of +hopeless ones tossed their arms around the cooking-kettles. +</p> + +<p> +“Wish to Heaven William had kept out of it,” said Scott to himself, +after a glance. “We’ll have cholera, sure as a gun, when the Rains +break.” +</p> + +<p> +But William seemed to have taken kindly to the operations of the Famine Code, +which, when famine is declared, supersede the workings of the ordinary law. +Scott saw her, the centre of a mob of weeping women, in a calico riding-habit, +and a blue-grey felt hat with a gold puggaree. +</p> + +<p> +“I want fifty rupees, please. I forgot to ask Jack before he went away. +Can you lend it me? It’s for condensed-milk for the babies,” said +she. +</p> + +<p> +Scott took the money from his belt, and handed it over without a word. +“For goodness sake, take care of yourself,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I shall be all right. We ought to get the milk in two days. By the +way, the orders are, I was to tell you, that you’re to take one of Sir +Jim’s horses. There’s a grey Cabuli here that I thought would be +just your style, so I’ve said you’d take him. Was that +right?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s awfully good of you. We can’t either of us talk much +about style, I am afraid.” +</p> + +<p> +Scott was in a weather-stained drill shooting-kit, very white at the seams and +a little frayed at the wrists. William regarded him thoughtfully, from his pith +helmet to his greased ankle-boots. “You look very nice, I think. Are you +sure you’ve everything you’ll need—quinine, chlorodyne, and +so on?” +</p> + +<p> +“Think so,” said Scott, patting three or four of his +shooting-pockets as he mounted and rode alongside his convoy. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye,” he cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, and good luck,” said William. “I’m awfully +obliged for the money.” She turned on a spurred heel and disappeared into +the tent, while the carts pushed on past the famine-sheds, past the roaring +lines of the thick, fat fires, down to the baked Gehenna of the South. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_PART2" id="link2H_PART2"></a> +PART II</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +So let us melt and make no noise,<br/> + No tear-floods nor sigh-tempests move;<br/> +’Twere profanation of our joys<br/> + To tell the Laity our love.<br/> +<br/> + A V<small>ALEDICTION</small>. +</p> + +<p> +It was punishing work, even though he travelled by night and camped by day; but +within the limits of his vision there was no man whom Scott could call master. +He was as free as Jimmy Hawkins—freer, in fact, for the Government held +the Head of the Famine tied neatly to a telegraph-wire, and if Jimmy had ever +regarded telegrams seriously, the death-rate of that famine would have been +much higher than it was. +</p> + +<p> +At the end of a few days’ crawling Scott learned something of the size of +the India which he served, and it astonished him. His carts, as you know, were +loaded with wheat, millet, and barley, good food-grains needing only a little +grinding. But the people to whom he brought the life-giving stuffs were +rice-eaters. They could hull rice in their mortars, but they knew nothing of +the heavy stone querns of the North, and less of the material that the white +man convoyed so laboriously. They clamoured for rice—unhusked paddy, such +as they were accustomed to—and, when they found that there was none, +broke away weeping from the sides of the cart. What was the use of these +strange hard grains that choked their throats? They would die. And then and +there very many of them kept their word. Others took their allowance, and +bartered enough millet to feed a man through a week for a few handfuls of +rotten rice saved by some less unfortunate. A few put their share into the +rice-mortars, pounded it, and made a paste with foul water; but they were very +few. Scott understood dimly that many people in the India of the South ate +rice, as a rule, but he had spent his service in a grain Province, had seldom +seen rice in the blade or ear, and least of all would have believed that in +time of deadly need men could die at arm’s length of plenty, sooner than +touch food they did not know. In vain the interpreters interpreted; in vain his +two policemen showed in vigorous pantomime what should be done. The starving +crept away to their bark and weeds, grubs, leaves, and clay, and left the open +sacks untouched. But sometimes the women laid their phantoms of children at +Scott’s feet, looking back as they staggered away. +</p> + +<p> +Faiz Ullah opined it was the will of God that these foreigners should die, and +it remained only to give orders to burn the dead. None the less there was no +reason why the Sahib should lack his comforts, and Faiz Ullah, a campaigner of +experience, had picked up a few lean goats and had added them to the +procession. That they might give milk for the morning meal, he was feeding them +on the good grain that these imbeciles rejected. “Yes,” said Faiz +Ullah; “if the Sahib thought fit, a little milk might be given to some of +the babies”; but, as the Sahib well knew, babies were cheap, and, for his +own part, Faiz Ullah held that there was no Government order as to babies. +Scott spoke forcefully to Faiz Ullah and the two policemen, and bade them +capture goats where they could find them. This they most joyfully did, for it +was a recreation, and many ownerless goats were driven in. Once fed, the poor +brutes were willing enough to follow the carts, and a few days’ good +food—food such as human beings died for lack of—set them in milk +again. +</p> + +<p> +“But I am no goatherd,” said Faiz Ullah. “It is against my +<i>izzat</i> [my honour].” +</p> + +<p> +“When we cross the Bias River again we will talk of <i>izzat</i>,” +Scott replied. “Till that day thou and the policemen shall be sweepers to +the camp, if I give the order.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thus, then, it is done,” grunted Faiz Ullah, “if the Sahib +will have it so”; and he showed how a goat should be milked, while Scott +stood over him. +</p> + +<p> +“Now we will feed them,” said Scott; “twice a day we will +feed them”; and he bowed his back to the milking, and took a horrible +cramp. +</p> + +<p> +When you have to keep connection unbroken between a restless mother of kids and +a baby who is at the point of death, you suffer in all your system. But the +babies were fed. Each morning and evening Scott would solemnly lift them out +one by one from their nest of gunny-bags under the cart-tilts. There were +always many who could do no more than breathe, and the milk was dropped into +their toothless mouths drop by drop, with due pauses when they choked. Each +morning, too, the goats were fed; and since they would straggle without a +leader, and since the natives were hirelings, Scott was forced to give up +riding, and pace slowly at the head of his flocks, accommodating his step to +their weaknesses. All this was sufficiently absurd, and he felt the absurdity +keenly; but at least he was saving life, and when the women saw that their +children did not die, they made shift to eat a little of the strange foods, and +crawled after the carts, blessing the master of the goats. +</p> + +<p> +“Give the women something to live for,” said Scott to himself, as +he sneezed in the dust of a hundred little feet, “and they’ll hang +on somehow. This beats William’s condensed-milk trick all to pieces. I +shall never live it down, though.” +</p> + +<p> +He reached his destination very slowly, found that a rice-ship had come in from +Burmah, and that stores of paddy were available; found also an overworked +Englishman in charge of the shed, and, loading the carts, set back to cover the +ground he had already passed. He left some of the children and half his goats +at the famine-shed. For this he was not thanked by the Englishman, who had +already more stray babies than he knew what to do with. Scott’s back was +suppled to stooping now, and he went on with his wayside ministrations in +addition to distributing the paddy. More babies and more goats were added unto +him; but now some of the babies wore rags, and beads round their wrists or +necks. “<i>That</i>” said the interpreter, as though Scott did not +know, “signifies that their mothers hope in eventual contingency to +resume them offeecially.” +</p> + +<p> +“The sooner, the better,” said Scott; but at the same time he +marked, with the pride of ownership, how this or that little Ramasawmy was +putting on flesh like a bantam. As the paddy-carts were emptied he headed for +Hawkins’s camp by the railway, timing his arrival to fit in with the +dinner-hour, for it was long since he had eaten at a cloth. He had no desire to +make any dramatic entry, but an accident of the sunset ordered it that when he +had taken off his helmet to get the evening breeze, the low light should fall +across his forehead, and he could not see what was before him; while one +waiting at the tent door beheld with new eyes a young man, beautiful as Paris, +a god in a halo of golden dust, walking slowly at the head of his flocks, while +at his knee ran small naked Cupids. But she laughed—William, in a +slate-coloured blouse, laughed consumedly till Scott, putting the best face he +could upon the matter, halted his armies and bade her admire the kindergarten. +It was an unseemly sight, but the proprieties had been left ages ago, with the +tea-party at Amritsar Station, fifteen hundred miles to the north. +</p> + +<p> +“They are coming on nicely,” said William. “We’ve only +five-and-twenty here now. The women are beginning to take them away +again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you in charge of the babies, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—Mrs. Jim and I. We didn’t think of goats, though. +We’ve been trying condensed-milk and water.” +</p> + +<p> +“Any losses?” +</p> + +<p> +“More than I care to think of;” said William, with a shudder. +“And you?” +</p> + +<p> +Scott said nothing. There had been many little burials along his +route—one cannot burn a dead baby—many mothers who had wept when +they did not find again the children they had trusted to the care of the +Government. +</p> + +<p> +Then Hawkins came out carrying a razor, at which Scott looked hungrily, for he +had a beard that he did not love. And when they sat down to dinner in the tent +he told his tale in few words, as it might have been an official report. Mrs. +Jim snuffled from time to time, and Jim bowed his head judicially; but +William’s grey eyes were on the clean-shaven face, and it was to her that +Scott seemed to appeal. +</p> + +<p> +“Good for the Pauper Province!” said William, her chin on her hand, +as she leaned forward among the wine-glasses. Her cheeks had fallen in, and the +scar on her forehead was more prominent than ever, but the well-turned neck +rose roundly as a column from the ruffle of the blouse which was the accepted +evening-dress in camp. +</p> + +<p> +“It was awfully absurd at times,” said Scott. “You see, I +didn’t know much about milking or babies. They’ll chaff my head +off, if the tale goes up North.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let ’em,” said William, haughtily. “We’ve all +done coolie-work since we came. I know Jack has.” This was to +Hawkins’s address, and the big man smiled blandly. +</p> + +<p> +“Your brother’s a highly efficient officer, William,” said +he, “and I’ve done him the honour of treating him as he deserves. +Remember, I write the confidential reports.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you must say that William’s worth her weight in gold,” +said Mrs. Jim. “I don’t know what we should have done without her. +She has been everything to us.” She dropped her hand upon +William’s, which was rough with much handling of reins, and William +patted it softly. Jim beamed on the company. Things were going well with his +world. Three of his more grossly incompetent men had died, and their places had +been filled by their betters. Every day brought the Rains nearer. They had put +out the famine in five of the Eight Districts, and, after all, the death-rate +had not been too heavy—things considered. He looked Scott over carefully, +as an ogre looks over a man, and rejoiced in his thews and iron-hard condition. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s just the least bit in the world tucked up,” said Jim to +himself, “but he can do two men’s work yet.” Then he was +aware that Mrs. Jim was telegraphing to him, and according to the domestic code +the message ran: “A clear case. Look at them!” +</p> + +<p> +He looked and listened. All that William was saying was: “What can you +expect of a country where they call a <i>bhistee</i> [a water-carrier] a +<i>tunni-cutch?</i>” and all that Scott answered was: “I shall be +glad to get back to the Club. Save me a dance at the Christmas Ball, +won’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a far cry from here to the Lawrence Hall,” said Jim. +“Better turn in early, Scott. It’s paddy-carts to-morrow; +you’ll begin loading at five.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aren’t you going to give Mr. Scott a single day’s +rest?” +</p> + +<p> +“Wish I could, Lizzie, ’Fraid I can’t. As long as he can +stand up we must use him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’ve had one Europe evening, at least. By Jove, I’d +nearly forgotten! What do I do about those babies of mine?” +</p> + +<p> +“Leave them here,” said William—“we are in charge of +that—and as many goats as you can spare. I must learn how to milk +now.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you care to get up early enough to-morrow I’ll show you. I have +to milk, you see. Half of ’em have beads and things round their necks. +You must be careful not to take ’em off; in case the mothers turn +up.” +</p> + +<p> +“You forget I’ve had some experience here.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope to goodness you won’t overdo.” Scott’s voice +was unguarded. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll take care of her,” said Mrs. Jim, telegraphing +hundred-word messages as she carried William off; while Jim gave Scott his +orders for the coming campaign. It was very late—nearly nine +o’clock. +</p> + +<p> +“Jim, you’re a brute,” said his wife, that night; and the +Head of the Famine chuckled. +</p> + +<p> +“Not a bit of it, dear. I remember doing the first Jandiala Settlement +for the sake of a girl in a crinoline, and she was slender, Lizzie. I’ve +never done as good a piece of work since. <i>He</i>’ll work like a +demon.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you might have given him one day.” +</p> + +<p> +“And let things come to a head now? No, dear; it’s their happiest +time.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t believe either of the darlings know what’s the +matter with them. Isn’t it beautiful? Isn’t it lovely?” +</p> + +<p> +“Getting up at three to learn to milk, bless her heart! Oh, ye Gods, why +must we grow old and fat?” +</p> + +<p> +“She’s a darling. She has done more work under me—” +</p> + +<p> +“Under <i>you!</i> The day after she came she was in charge and you were +her subordinate. You’ve stayed there ever since; she manages you almost +as well as you manage me.” +</p> + +<p> +“She doesn’t, and that’s why I love her. She’s as +direct as a man—as her brother.” +</p> + +<p> +“Her brother’s weaker than she is. He’s always to me for +orders; but he’s honest, and a glutton for work. I confess I’m +rather fond of William, and if I had a daughter—” +</p> + +<p> +The talk ended. Far away in the Derajat was a child’s grave more than +twenty years old, and neither Jim nor his wife spoke of it any more. +</p> + +<p> +“All the same, you’re responsible,” Jim added, a +moment’s silence. +</p> + +<p> +“Bless ’em!” said Mrs. Jim, sleepily. +</p> + +<p> +Before the stars paled, Scott, who slept in an empty cart, waked and went about +his work in silence; it seemed at that hour unkind to rouse Faiz Ullah and the +interpreter. His head being close to the ground, he did not hear William till +she stood over him in the dingy old riding-habit, her eyes still heavy with +sleep, a cup of tea and a piece of toast in her hands. There was a baby on the +ground, squirming on a piece of blanket, and a six-year-old child peered over +Scott’s shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“Hai, you little rip,” said Scott, “how the deuce do you +expect to get your rations if you aren’t quiet?” +</p> + +<p> +A cool white hand steadied the brat, who forthwith choked as the milk gurgled +into his mouth. +</p> + +<p> +“Mornin’,” said the milker. “You’ve no notion how +these little fellows can wriggle.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, I have.” She whispered, because the world was asleep. +“Only I feed them with a spoon or a rag. Yours are fatter than mine. And +you’ve been doing this day after day?” The voice was almost lost. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; it was absurd. Now you try,” he said, giving place to the +girl. “Look out! A goat’s not a cow.” +</p> + +<p> +The goat protested against the amateur, and there was a scuffle, in which Scott +snatched up the baby. Then it was all to do over again, and William laughed +softly and merrily. She managed, however, to feed two babies, and a third. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t the little beggars take it well?” said Scott. “I +trained ’em.” +</p> + +<p> +They were very busy and interested, when lo! it was broad daylight, and before +they knew, the camp was awake, and they kneeled among the goats, surprised by +the day, both flushed to the temples. Yet all the round world rolling up out of +the darkness might have heard and seen all that had passed between them. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” said William, unsteadily, snatching up the tea and toast, +“I had this made for you. It’s stone-cold now. I thought you +mightn’t have anything ready so early. Better not drink it. +It’s—it’s stone-cold.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s awfully kind of you. It’s just right. It’s +awfully good of you, really. I’ll leave my kids and goats with you and +Mrs. Jim, and, of course, any one in camp can show you about the +milking.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course,” said William; and she grew pinker and pinker and +statelier and more stately, as she strode back to her tent, fanning herself +with the saucer. +</p> + +<p> +There were shrill lamentations through the camp when the elder children saw +their nurse move off without them. Faiz Ullah unbent so far as to jest with the +policemen, and Scott turned purple with shame because Hawkins, already in the +saddle, roared. +</p> + +<p> +A child escaped from the care of Mrs. Jim, and, running like a rabbit, clung to +Scott’s boot, William pursuing with long, easy strides. +</p> + +<p> +“I will not go—I will not go!” shrieked the child, twining +his feet round Scott’s ankle. “They will kill me here. I do not +know these people.” +</p> + +<p> +“I say,” said Scott, in broken Tamil, “I say, she will do you +no harm. Go with her and be well fed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come!” said William, panting, with a wrathful glance at Scott, who +stood helpless and, as it were, hamstrung. +</p> + +<p> +“Go back,” said Scott quickly to William. “I’ll send +the little chap over in a minute.” +</p> + +<p> +The tone of authority had its effect, but in a way Scott did not exactly +intend. The boy loosened his grasp, and said with gravity: “I did not +know the woman was thine. I will go.” Then he cried to his companions, a +mob of three-, four-, and five-year-olds waiting on the success of his venture +ere they stampeded: “Go back and eat. It is our man’s woman. She +will obey his orders.” +</p> + +<p> +Jim collapsed where he sat; Faiz Ullah and the two policemen grinned; and +Scott’s orders to the cartmen flew like hail. +</p> + +<p> +“That is the custom of the Sahibs when truth is told in their +presence,” said Faiz Ullah. “The time comes that I must seek new +service. Young wives, especially such as speak our language and have knowledge +of the ways of the Police, make great trouble for honest butlers in the matter +of weekly accounts.” +</p> + +<p> +What William thought of it all she did not say, but when her brother, ten days +later, came to camp for orders, and heard of Scott’s performances, he +said, laughing: “Well, that settles it. He’ll be <i>Bakri</i> Scott +to the end of his days.” (<i>Bakri</i> in the Northern vernacular, means +a goat.) “What a lark! I’d have given a month’s pay to have +seen him nursing famine babies. I fed some with <i>conjee</i> [rice-water], but +that was all right.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s perfectly disgusting,” said his sister, with blazing +eyes. “A man does something like—like that—and all you other +men think of is to give him an absurd nickname, and then you laugh and think +it’s funny.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” said Mrs. Jim, sympathetically. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, <i>you</i> can’t talk, William. You christened little Miss +Demby the Button-quail, last cold weather; you know you did. India’s the +land of nicknames.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s different,” William replied. “She was only a +girl, and she hadn’t done anything except walk like a quail, and she +<i>does</i>. But it isn’t fair to make fun of a man.” +</p> + +<p> +“Scott won’t care,” said Martyn. “You can’t get a +rise out of old Scotty. I’ve been trying for eight years, and +you’ve only known him for three. How does he look?” +</p> + +<p> +“He looks very well,” said William, and went away with a flushed +cheek. “<i>Bakri</i> Scott, indeed!” Then she laughed to herself, +for she knew her country. “But it will be <i>Bakri</i> all the +same”; and she repeated it under her breath several times slowly, +whispering it into favour. +</p> + +<p> +When he returned to his duties on the railway, Martyn spread the name far and +wide among his associates, so that Scott met it as he led his paddy-carts to +war. The natives believed it to be some English title of honour, and the +cart-drivers used it in all simplicity till Faiz Ullah, who did not approve of +foreign japes, broke their heads. There was very little time for milking now, +except at the big camps, where Jim had extended Scott’s idea and was +feeding large flocks on the useless northern grains. Sufficient paddy had come +now into the Eight Districts to hold the people safe, if it were only +distributed quickly, and for that purpose no one was better than the big Canal +officer, who never lost his temper, never gave an unnecessary order, and never +questioned an order given. Scott pressed on, saving his cattle, washing their +galled necks daily, so that no time should be lost on the road; reported +himself with his rice at the minor famine-sheds, unloaded, and went back light +by forced night-march to the next distributing centre, to find Hawkins’s +unvarying telegram: “Do it again.” And he did it again and again, +and yet again, while Jim Hawkins, fifty miles away, marked off on a big map the +tracks of his wheels gridironing the stricken lands. Others did +well—Hawkins reported at the end they all did well—but Scott was +the most excellent, for he kept good coined rupees by him, settled for his own +cart-repairs on the spot, and ran to meet all sorts of unconsidered extras, +trusting to be recouped later on. Theoretically, the Government should have +paid for every shoe and linchpin, for every hand employed in the loading; but +Government vouchers cash themselves slowly, and intelligent and efficient +clerks write at great length, contesting unauthorised expenditures of eight +annas. The man who wants to make his work a success must draw on his own +bank-account of money or other things as he goes. +</p> + +<p> +“I told you he’d work,” said Jimmy to his wife, at the end of +six weeks. “He’s been in sole charge of a couple of thousand men up +north, on the Mosuhl Canal, for a year; but he gives less trouble than young +Martyn with his ten constables; and I’m morally certain—only +Government doesn’t recognise moral obligations—he’s spent +about half his pay to grease his wheels. Look at this, Lizzie, for one +week’s work! Forty miles in two days with twelve carts; two days’ +halt building a famine-shed for young Rogers. (Rogers ought to have built it +himself, the idiot!) Then forty miles back again, loading six carts on the way, +and distributing all Sunday. Then in the evening he pitches in a twenty-page +Demi-Official to me, saying the people where he is might be +‘advantageously employed on relief-work,’ and suggesting that he +put ’em to work on some broken-down old reservoir he’s discovered, +so as to have a good water-supply when the Rains break. He thinks he can cauk +the dam in a fortnight. Look at his marginal sketches—aren’t they +clear and good? I knew he was <i>pukka</i>, but I didn’t know he was as +<i>pukka</i> as this!” +</p> + +<p> +“I must show these to William,” said Mrs. Jim. “The +child’s wearing herself out among the babies.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not more than you are, dear. Well, another two months ought to see us +out of the wood. I’m sorry it’s not in my power to recommend you +for a V. C.” +</p> + +<p> +William sat late in her tent that night, reading through page after page of the +square handwriting, patting the sketches of proposed repairs to the reservoir, +and wrinkling her eyebrows over the columns of figures of estimated +water-supply. “And he finds time to do all this,” she cried to +herself, “and—well, I also was present. I’ve saved one or two +babies.” +</p> + +<p> +She dreamed for the twentieth time of the god in the golden dust, and woke +refreshed to feed loathsome black children, scores of them, wastrels picked up +by the wayside, their bones almost breaking their skin, terrible and covered +with sores. +</p> + +<p> +Scott was not allowed to leave his cart-work, but his letter was duly forwarded +to the Government, and he had the consolation, not rare in India, of knowing +that another man was reaping where he had sown. That also was discipline +profitable to the soul. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s much too good to waste on canals,” said Jimmy. +“Any one can oversee coolies. You needn’t be angry, William; he +can—but I need my pearl among bullock-drivers, and I’ve transferred +him to the Khanda district, where he’ll have it all to do over again. He +should be marching now. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s <i>not</i> a coolie,” said William, furiously. +“He ought to be doing his regulation work.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s the best man in his service, and that’s saying a good +deal; but if you <i>must</i> use razors to cut grindstones, why, I prefer the +best cutlery.” +</p> + +<p> +“Isn’t it almost time we saw him again?” said Mrs. Jim. +“I’m sure the poor boy hasn’t had a respectable meal for a +month. He probably sits on a cart and eats sardines with his fingers.” +</p> + +<p> +“All in good time, dear. Duty before decency—wasn’t it Mr. +Chucks said that?” +</p> + +<p> +“No; it was Midshipman Easy,” William laughed. “I sometimes +wonder how it will feel to dance or listen to a band again, or sit under a +roof. I can’t believe I ever wore a ball-frock in my life.” +</p> + +<p> +“One minute,” said Mrs. Jim, who was thinking. “If he goes to +Khanda, he passes within five miles of us. Of course he’ll ride +in.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no, he won’t,” said William. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you know, dear?” +</p> + +<p> +“It will take him off his work. He won’t have time.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’ll make it,” said Mrs. Jim, with a twinkle. +</p> + +<p> +“It depends on his own judgment. There’s absolutely no reason why +he shouldn’t, if he thinks fit,” said Jim. +</p> + +<p> +“He won’t see fit,” William replied, without sorrow or +emotion. “It wouldn’t be him if he did.” +</p> + +<p> +“One certainly gets to know people rather well in times like +these,” said Jim, drily; but William’s face was serene as ever, and +even as she prophesied, Scott did not appear. +</p> + +<p> +The Rains fell at last, late, but heavily; and the dry, gashed earth was red +mud, and servants killed snakes in the camp, where every one was weather-bound +for a fortnight—all except Hawkins, who took horse and plashed about in +the wet, rejoicing. Now the Government decreed that seed-grain should be +distributed to the people, as well as advances of money for the purchase of new +oxen; and the white men were doubly worked for this new duty, while William +skipped from brick to brick laid down on the trampled mud, and dosed her +charges with warming medicines that made them rub their little round stomachs; +and the milch goats throve on the rank grass. There was never a word from Scott +in the Khanda district, away to the southeast, except the regular telegraphic +report to Hawkins. The rude country roads had disappeared; his drivers were +half mutinous; one of Martyn’s loaned policemen had died of cholera; and +Scott was taking thirty grains of quinine a day to fight the fever that comes +with the rain: but those were things Scott did not consider necessary to +report. He was, as usual, working from a base of supplies on a railway line, to +cover a circle of fifteen miles radius, and since full loads were impossible, +he took quarter-loads, and toiled four times as hard by consequence; for he did +not choose to risk an epidemic which might have grown uncontrollable by +assembling villagers in thousands at the relief-sheds. It was cheaper to take +Government bullocks, work them to death, and leave them to the crows in the +wayside sloughs. +</p> + +<p> +That was the time when eight years of clean living and hard condition told, +though a man’s head were ringing like a bell from the cinchona, and the +earth swayed under his feet when he stood and under his bed when he slept. If +Hawkins had seen fit to make him a bullock-driver, that, he thought, was +entirely Hawkins’s own affair. There were men in the North who would know +what he had done; men of thirty years’ service in his own department who +would say that it was “not half bad”; and above, immeasurably +above, all men of all grades, there was William in the thick of the fight, who +would approve because she understood. He had so trained his mind that it would +hold fast to the mechanical routine of the day, though his own voice sounded +strange in his own ears, and his hands, when he wrote, grew large as pillows or +small as peas at the end of his wrists. That steadfastness bore his body to the +telegraph-office at the railway-station, and dictated a telegram to Hawkins +saying that the Khanda district was, in his judgment, now safe, and he +“waited further orders.” +</p> + +<p> +The Madrassee telegraph-clerk did not approve of a large, gaunt man falling +over him in a dead faint, not so much because of the weight as because of the +names and blows that Faiz Ullah dealt him when he found the body rolled under a +bench. Then Faiz Ullah took blankets, quilts, and coverlets where he found +them, and lay down under them at his master’s side, and bound his arms +with a tent-rope, and filled him with a horrible stew of herbs, and set the +policeman to fight him when he wished to escape from the intolerable heat of +his coverings, and shut the door of the telegraph-office to keep out the +curious for two nights and one day; and when a light engine came down the line, +and Hawkins kicked in the door, Scott hailed him weakly but in a natural voice, +and Faiz Ullah stood back and took all the credit. +</p> + +<p> +“For two nights, Heaven-born, he was <i>pagal</i>” said Faiz Ullah. +“Look at my nose, and consider the eye of the policeman. He beat us with +his bound hands; but we sat upon him, Heaven-born, and though his words were +<i>tez</i>, we sweated him. Heaven-born, never has been such a sweat! He is +weaker now than a child; but the fever has gone out of him, by the grace of +God. There remains only my nose and the eye of the constabeel. Sahib, shall I +ask for my dismissal because my Sahib has beaten me?” And Faiz Ullah laid +his long thin hand carefully on Scott’s chest to be sure that the fever +was all gone, ere he went out to open tinned soups and discourage such as +laughed at his swelled nose. +</p> + +<p> +“The district’s all right,” Scott whispered. “It +doesn’t make any difference. You got my wire? I shall be fit in a week. +’Can’t understand how it happened. I shall be fit in a few +days.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re coming into camp with us,” said Hawkins. +</p> + +<p> +“But look here—but—” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s all over except the shouting. We sha’n’t need you +Punjabis any more. On my honour, we sha’n’t. Martyn goes back in a +few weeks; Arbuthnot’s returned already; Ellis and Clay are putting the +last touches to a new feeder-line the Government’s built as relief-work. +Morten’s dead—he was a Bengal man, though; you wouldn’t know +him. ’Pon my word, you and Will—Miss Martyn—seem to have come +through it as well as anybody.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, how is she, by-the-way?” The voice went up and down as he +spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Going strong when I left her. The Roman Catholic Missions are adopting +the unclaimed babies to turn them into little priests; the Basil Mission is +taking some, and the mothers are taking the rest. You should hear the little +beggars howl when they’re sent away from William. She’s pulled down +a bit, but so are we all. Now, when do you suppose you’ll be able to +move?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t come into camp in this state. I won’t,” he +replied pettishly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you <i>are</i> rather a sight, but from what I gathered there it +seemed to me they’d be glad to see you under any conditions. I’ll +look over your work here, if you like, for a couple of days, and you can pull +yourself together while Faiz Ullah feeds you up.” +</p> + +<p> +Scott could walk dizzily by the time Hawkins’s inspection was ended, and +he flushed all over when Jim said of his work that it was “not half +bad,” and volunteered, further, that he had considered Scott his +right-hand man through the famine, and would feel it his duty to say as much +officially. +</p> + +<p> +So they came back by rail to the old camp; but there were no crowds near it; +the long fires in the trenches were dead and black, and the famine-sheds were +almost empty. +</p> + +<p> +“You see!” said Jim. “There isn’t much more to do. +Better ride up and see the wife. They’ve pitched a tent for you. +Dinner’s at seven. I’ve some work here.” +</p> + +<p> +Riding at a foot-pace, Faiz Ullah by his stirrup, Scott came to William in the +brown-calico riding-habit, sitting at the dining-tent door, her hands in her +lap, white as ashes, thin and worn, with no lustre in her hair. There did not +seem to be any Mrs. Jim on the horizon, and all that William could say was: +“My word, how pulled down you look!” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve had a touch of fever. You don’t look very well +yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I’m fit enough. We’ve stamped it out. I suppose you +know?” +</p> + +<p> +Scott nodded. “We shall all be returned in a few weeks. Hawkins told +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Before Christmas, Mrs. Jim says. Sha’n’t you be glad to go +back? I can smell the wood-smoke already”; William sniffed. “We +shall be in time for all the Christmas doings. I don’t suppose even the +Punjab Government would be base enough to transfer Jack till the new +year?” +</p> + +<p> +“It seems hundreds of years ago—the Punjab and all +that—doesn’t it? Are you glad you came?” +</p> + +<p> +“Now it’s all over, yes. It has been ghastly here, though. You know +we had to sit still and do nothing, and Sir Jim was away so much.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do nothing! How did you get on with the milking?” +</p> + +<p> +“I managed it somehow—after you taught me.” +</p> + +<p> +Then the talk stopped with an almost audible jar. Still no Mrs. Jim. +</p> + +<p> +“That reminds me, I owe you fifty rupees for the condensed-milk. I +thought perhaps you’d be coming here when you were transferred to the +Khanda district, and I could pay you then; but you didn’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“I passed within five miles of the camp, but it was in the middle of a +march, you see, and the carts were breaking down every few minutes, and I +couldn’t get ’em over the ground till ten o’clock that night. +I wanted to come awfully. You knew I did, didn’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I—believe—I—did,” said William, facing him with +level eyes. She was no longer white. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you understand?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why you didn’t ride in? Of course I did.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because you couldn’t, of course. I knew that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you care?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you had come in—but I knew you wouldn’t—but if you +<i>had</i>, I should have cared a great deal. You know I should.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank God I didn’t! Oh, but I wanted to! I couldn’t trust +myself to ride in front of the carts, because I kept edging ’em over +here, don’t you know?” +</p> + +<p> +“I knew you wouldn’t,” said William, contentedly. +“Here’s your fifty.” +</p> + +<p> +Scott bent forward and kissed the hand that held the greasy notes. Its fellow +patted him awkwardly but very tenderly on the head. +</p> + +<p> +“And <i>you</i> knew, too, didn’t you?” said William, in a +new voice. +</p> + +<p> +“No, on my honour, I didn’t. I hadn’t the—the cheek to +expect anything of the kind, except... I say, were you out riding anywhere the +day I passed by to Khanda?” +</p> + +<p> +William nodded, and smiled after the manner of an angel surprised in a good +deed. +</p> + +<p> +“Then it was just a speck I saw of your habit in the—” +</p> + +<p> +“Palm-grove on the Southern cart-road. I saw your helmet when you came up +from the mullah by the temple—just enough to be sure that you were all +right. D’ you care?” +</p> + +<p> +This time Scott did not kiss her hand, for they were in the dusk of the +dining-tent, and, because William’s knees were trembling under her, she +had to sit down in the nearest chair, where she wept long and happily, her head +on her arms; and when Scott imagined that it would be well to comfort her, she +needing nothing of the kind, she ran to her own tent; and Scott went out into +the world, and smiled upon it largely and idiotically. But when Faiz Ullah +brought him a drink, he found it necessary to support one hand with the other, +or the good whisky and soda would have been spilled abroad. There are fevers +and fevers. +</p> + +<p> +But it was worse—much worse—the strained, eye-shirking talk at +dinner till the servants had withdrawn, and worst of all when Mrs. Jim, who had +been on the edge of weeping from the soup down, kissed Scott and William, and +they drank one whole bottle of champagne, hot, because there was no ice, and +Scott and William sat outside the tent in the starlight till Mrs. Jim drove +them in for fear of more fever. +</p> + +<p> +Apropos of these things and some others William said: “Being engaged is +abominable, because, you see, one has no official position. We must be thankful +we’ve lots of things to do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Things to do!” said Jim, when that was reported to him. +“They’re neither of them any good any more. I can’t get five +hours’ work a day out of Scott. He’s in the clouds half the +time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, but they’re so beautiful to watch, Jimmy. It will break my +heart when they go. Can’t you do anything for him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve given the Government the impression—at least, I hope I +have—that he personally conducted the entire famine. But all he wants is +to get on to the Luni Canal Works, and William’s just as bad. Have you +ever heard ’em talking of barrage and aprons and wastewater? It’s +their style of spooning, I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Jim smiled tenderly. “Ah, that’s in the intervals—bless +’em.” +</p> + +<p> +And so Love ran about the camp unrebuked in broad daylight, while men picked up +the pieces and put them neatly away of the Famine in the Eight Districts. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Morning brought the penetrating chill of the Northern December, the layers of +wood-smoke, the dusty grey-blue of the tamarisks, the domes of ruined tombs, +and all the smell of the white Northern plains, as the mail-train ran on to the +mile-long Sutlej Bridge. William, wrapped in a <i>poshteen</i>—a +silk-embroidered sheepskin jacket trimmed with rough astrakhan—looked out +with moist eyes and nostrils that dilated joyously. The South of pagodas and +palm-trees, the overpopulated Hindu South, was done with. Here was the land she +knew and loved, and before her lay the good life she understood, among folk of +her own caste and mind. +</p> + +<p> +They were picking them up at almost every station now—men and women +coming in for the Christmas Week, with racquets, with bundles of polo-sticks, +with dear and bruised cricket-bats, with fox-terriers and saddles. The greater +part of them wore jackets like William’s, for the Northern cold is as +little to be trifled with as the Northern heat. And William was among them and +of them, her hands deep in her pockets, her collar turned up over her ears, +stamping her feet on the platforms as she walked up and down to get warm, +visiting from carriage to carriage and everywhere being congratulated. Scott +was with the bachelors at the far end of the train, where they chaffed him +mercilessly about feeding babies and milking goats; but from time to time he +would stroll up to William’s window, and murmur: “Good enough, +isn’t it?” and William would answer with sighs of pure delight: +“Good enough, indeed.” The large open names of the home towns were +good to listen to. Umballa, Ludianah, Phillour, Jullundur, they rang like the +coming marriage-bells in her ears, and William felt deeply and truly sorry for +all strangers and outsiders—visitors, tourists, and those fresh-caught +for the service of the country. +</p> + +<p> +It was a glorious return, and when the bachelors gave the Christmas Ball, +William was, unofficially, you might say, the chief and honoured guest among +the Stewards, who could make things very pleasant for their friends. She and +Scott danced nearly all the dances together, and sat out the rest in the big +dark gallery overlooking the superb teak floor, where the uniforms blazed, and +the spurs clinked, and the new frocks and four hundred dancers went round and +round till the draped flags on the pillars flapped and bellied to the whirl of +it. +</p> + +<p> +About midnight half a dozen men who did not care for dancing came over from the +Club to play “Waits,” and that was a surprise the Stewards had +arranged—before any one knew what had happened, the band stopped, and +hidden voices broke into “Good King Wenceslaus,” and William in the +gallery hummed and beat time with her foot: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Mark my footsteps well, my page,<br/> + Tread thou in them boldly.<br/> +Thou shalt feel the winter’s rage<br/> + Freeze thy blood less coldly!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I hope they are going to give us another! Isn’t it pretty, +coming out of the dark in that way? Look—look down. There’s Mrs. +Gregory wiping her eyes!” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s like Home, rather,” said Scott. “I +remember—” +</p> + +<p> +“Hsh! Listen!—dear.” And it began again: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“When shepherds watched their flocks by night—” +</p> + +<p> +“A-h-h!” said William, drawing closer to Scott. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +All seated on the ground,<br/> +The Angel of the Lord came down,<br/> +And glory shone around.<br/> +‘Fear not,’ said he (for mighty dread<br/> +Had seized their troubled mind);<br/> +‘Glad tidings of great joy I bring<br/> +To you and all mankind.’ +</p> + +<p> +This time it was William that wiped her eyes. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"></a> +･007</h2> + +<p> +A locomotive is, next to a marine engine, the most sensitive thing man ever +made; and No. ･007, besides being sensitive, was new. The red paint was hardly +dry on his spotless bumper-bar, his headlight shone like a fireman’s +helmet, and his cab might have been a hard-wood-finish parlour. They had run +him into the round-house after his trial—he had said good-bye to his best +friend in the shops, the overhead travelling-crane—the big world was just +outside; and the other locos were taking stock of him. He looked at the +semicircle of bold, unwinking headlights, heard the low purr and mutter of the +steam mounting in the gauges—scornful hisses of contempt as a slack valve +lifted a little—and would have given a month’s oil for leave to +crawl through his own driving-wheels into the brick ash-pit beneath him. ･007 +was an eight-wheeled “American” loco, slightly different from +others of his type, and as he stood he was worth ten thousand dollars on the +Company’s books. But if you had bought him at his own valuation, after +half an hour’s waiting in the darkish, echoing round-house, you would +have saved exactly nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars and +ninety-eight cents. +</p> + +<p> +A heavy Mogul freight, with a short cow-catcher and a fire-box that came down +within three inches of the rail, began the impolite game, speaking to a +Pittsburgh Consolidation, who was visiting. +</p> + +<p> +“Where did this thing blow in from?” he asked, with a dreamy puff +of light steam. +</p> + +<p> +“it’s all I can do to keep track of our makes,” was the +answer, “without lookin’ after <i>your</i> back-numbers. Guess +it’s something Peter Cooper left over when he died.” +</p> + +<p> +･007 quivered; his steam was getting up, but he held his tongue. Even a +hand-car knows what sort of locomotive it was that Peter Cooper experimented +upon in the far-away Thirties. It carried its coal and water in two +apple-barrels, and was not much bigger than a bicycle. +</p> + +<p> +Then up and spoke a small, newish switching-engine, with a little step in front +of his bumper-timber, and his wheels so close together that he looked like a +broncho getting ready to buck. +</p> + +<p> +“Something’s wrong with the road when a Pennsylvania gravel-pusher +tells us anything about our stock, <i>I</i> think. That kid’s all right. +Eustis designed him, and Eustis designed me. Ain’t that good +enough?” +</p> + +<p> +･007 could have carried the switching-loco round the yard in his tender, but he +felt grateful for even this little word of consolation. +</p> + +<p> +“We don’t use hand-cars on the Pennsylvania,” said the +Consolidation. “That—er—peanut-stand is old enough and ugly +enough to speak for himself.” +</p> + +<p> +“He hasn’t bin spoken to yet. He’s bin spoke <i>at</i>. +Hain’t ye any manners on the Pennsylvania?” said the +switching-loco. +</p> + +<p> +“You ought to be in the yard, Poney,” said the Mogul, severely. +“We’re all long-haulers here.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s what you think,” the little fellow replied. +“You’ll know more ’fore the night’s out. I’ve bin +down to Track 17, and the freight there—oh, Christmas!” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve trouble enough in my own division,” said a lean, light +suburban loco with very shiny brake-shoes. “My commuters wouldn’t +rest till they got a parlourcar. They’ve hitched it back of all, and it +hauls worsen a snow-plough. I’ll snap her off someday sure, and then +they’ll blame every one except their foolselves. They’ll be +askin’ me to haul a vestibuled next!” +</p> + +<p> +“They made you in New Jersey, didn’t they?” said Poney. +“Thought so. Commuters and truck-wagons ain’t any sweet +haulin’, but I tell <i>you</i> they’re a heap better ’n +cuttin’ out refrigerator-cars or oil-tanks. Why, I’ve +hauled—” +</p> + +<p> +“Haul! You?” said the Mogul, contemptuously. “It’s all +you can do to bunt a cold-storage car up the yard. Now, I—” he +paused a little to let the words sink in—“I handle the Flying +Freight—e-leven cars worth just anything you please to mention. On the +stroke of eleven I pull out; and I’m timed for thirty-five an hour. +Costly-perishable-fragile, immediate—that’s me! Suburban +traffic’s only but one degree better than switching. Express +freight’s what pays.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I ain’t given to blowing, as a rule,” began the +Pittsburgh Consolidation. +</p> + +<p> +“No? You was sent in here because you grunted on the grade,” Poney +interrupted. +</p> + +<p> +“Where I grunt, you’d lie down, Poney: but, as I was saying, I +don’t blow much. Notwithstandin’, <i>if</i> you want to see freight +that is freight moved lively, you should see me warbling through the +Alleghanies with thirty-seven ore-cars behind me, and my brakemen +fightin’ tramps so’s they can’t attend to my tooter. I have +to do all the holdin’ back then, and, though I say it, I’ve never +had a load get away from me yet. <i>No</i>, sir. Haulin’s’s one +thing, but judgment and discretion’s another. You want judgment in my +business.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! But—but are you not paralysed by a sense of your overwhelming +responsibilities?” said a curious, husky voice from a corner. +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s that?” ･007 whispered to the Jersey commuter. +</p> + +<p> +“Compound—experiment—N.G. She’s bin switchin’ in +the B. & A. yards for six months, when she wasn’t in the shops. +She’s economical (<i>I</i> call it mean) in her coal, but she takes it +out in repairs. Ahem! I presume you found Boston somewhat isolated, madam, +after your New York season?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am never so well occupied as when I am alone.” The Compound +seemed to be talking from half-way up her smoke-stack. +</p> + +<p> +“Sure,” said the irreverent Poney, under his breath. “They +don’t hanker after her any in the yard.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, with my constitution and temperament—my work lies in +Boston—I find your <i>outrecuidance</i>—” +</p> + +<p> +“Outer which?” said the Mogul freight. “Simple cylinders are +good enough for me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps I should have said <i>faroucherie</i>,” hissed the +Compound. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t hold with any make of papier-mache wheel,” the Mogul +insisted. +</p> + +<p> +The Compound sighed pityingly, and said no more. +</p> + +<p> +“Git ’em all shapes in this world, don’t ye?” said +Poney, “that’s Mass’chusetts all over. They half start, +an’ then they stick on a dead-centre, an’ blame it all on other +folk’s ways o’ treatin’ them. Talkin’ o’ Boston, +Comanche told me, last night, he had a hot-box just beyond the Newtons, Friday. +That was why, <i>he</i> says, the Accommodation was held up. Made out no end of +a tale, Comanche did.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I’d heard that in the shops, with my boiler out for repairs, +I’d know ’t was one o’ Comanche’s lies,” the New +Jersey commuter snapped. “Hot-box! Him! What happened was they’d +put an extra car on, and he just lay down on the grade and squealed. They had +to send 127 to help him through. Made it out a hotbox, did he? Time before that +he said he was ditched! Looked me square in the headlight and told me that as +cool as—as a water-tank in a cold wave. Hot-box! You ask 127 about +Comanche’s hot-box. Why, Comanche he was side-tracked, and 127 (<i>he</i> +was just about as mad as they make ’em on account o’ being called +out at ten o’clock at night) took hold and snapped her into Boston in +seventeen minutes. Hot-box! Hot fraud! that’s what Comanche is.” +</p> + +<p> +Then ･007 put both drivers and his pilot into it, as the saying is, for he +asked what sort of thing a hot-box might be? +</p> + +<p> +“Paint my bell sky-blue!” said Poney, the switcher. “Make me +a surface-railroad loco with a hard-wood skirtin’-board round my wheels. +Break me up and cast me into five-cent sidewalk-fakirs’ mechanical toys! +Here’s an eight-wheel coupled ’American’ don’t know +what a hot-box is! Never heard of an emergency-stop either, did ye? Don’t +know what ye carry jack-screws for? You’re too innocent to be left alone +with your own tender. Oh, you—you flatcar!” +</p> + +<p> +There was a roar of escaping steam before any one could answer, and ･007 nearly +blistered his paint off with pure mortification. +</p> + +<p> +“A hot-box,” began the Compound, picking and choosing her words as +though they were coal, “a hotbox is the penalty exacted from inexperience +by haste. Ahem!” +</p> + +<p> +“Hot-box!” said the Jersey Suburban. “It’s the price +you pay for going on the tear. It’s years since I’ve had one. +It’s a disease that don’t attack shorthaulers, as a rule.” +</p> + +<p> +“We never have hot-boxes on the Pennsylvania,” said the +Consolidation. “They get ’em in New York—same as nervous +prostration.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, go home on a ferry-boat,” said the Mogul. “You think +because you use worse grades than our road ’u’d allow, you’re +a kind of Alleghany angel. Now, I’ll tell you what you... Here’s my +folk. Well, I can’t stop. See you later, perhaps.” +</p> + +<p> +He rolled forward majestically to the turn-table, and swung like a man-of-war +in a tideway, till he picked up his track. “But as for you, you pea-green +swiveling’ coffee-pot [this to ･007], you go out and learn something +before you associate with those who’ve made more mileage in a week than +you’ll roll up in a year. Costly-perishable-fragile +immediate—that’s me! S’ long.” +</p> + +<p> +“Split my tubes if that’s actin’ polite to a new member +o’ the Brotherhood,” said Poney. “There wasn’t any call +to trample on ye like that. But manners was left out when Moguls was made. Keep +up your fire, kid, an’ burn your own smoke. ’Guess we’ll all +be wanted in a minute.” +</p> + +<p> +Men were talking rather excitedly in the roundhouse. One man, in a dingy +jersey, said that he hadn’t any locomotives to waste on the yard. Another +man, with a piece of crumpled paper in his hand, said that the yard-master said +that he was to say that if the other man said anything, he (the other man) was +to shut his head. Then the other man waved his arms, and wanted to know if he +was expected to keep locomotives in his hip-pocket. Then a man in a black +Prince Albert, without a collar, came up dripping, for it was a hot August +night, and said that what <i>he</i> said went; and between the three of them +the locomotives began to go, too—first the Compound; then the +Consolidation; then ･007. +</p> + +<p> +Now, deep down in his fire-box, ･007 had cherished a hope that as soon as his +trial was done, he would be led forth with songs and shoutings, and attached to +a green-and-chocolate vestibuled flyer, under charge of a bold and noble +engineer, who would pat him on his back, and weep over him, and call him his +Arab steed. (The boys in the shops where he was built used to read wonderful +stories of railroad life, and ･007 expected things to happen as he had heard.) +But there did not seem to be many vestibuled fliers in the roaring, rumbling, +electric-lighted yards, and his engineer only said: +</p> + +<p> +“Now, what sort of a fool-sort of an injector has Eustis loaded on to +this rig this time?” And he put the lever over with an angry snap, +crying: “Am I supposed to switch with this thing, hey?” +</p> + +<p> +The collarless man mopped his head, and replied that, in the present state of +the yard and freight and a few other things, the engineer would switch and keep +on switching till the cows came home. ･007 pushed out gingerly, his heart in +his headlight, so nervous that the clang of his own bell almost made him jump +the track. Lanterns waved, or danced up and down, before and behind him; and on +every side, six tracks deep, sliding backward and forward, with clashings of +couplers and squeals of hand-brakes, were cars—more cars than ･007 had +dreamed of. There were oil-cars, and hay-cars, and stock-cars full of lowing +beasts, and ore-cars, and potato-cars with stovepipe-ends sticking out in the +middle; cold-storage and refrigerator cars dripping ice water on the tracks; +ventilated fruit—and milk-cars; flatcars with truck-wagons full of +market-stuff; flat-cars loaded with reapers and binders, all red and green and +gilt under the sizzling electric lights; flat-cars piled high with +strong-scented hides, pleasant hemlock-plank, or bundles of shingles; flat-cars +creaking to the weight of thirty-ton castings, angle-irons, and rivet-boxes for +some new bridge; and hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of box-cars loaded, +locked, and chalked. Men—hot and angry—crawled among and between +and under the thousand wheels; men took flying jumps through his cab, when he +halted for a moment; men sat on his pilot as he went forward, and on his tender +as he returned; and regiments of men ran along the tops of the box-cars beside +him, screwing down brakes, waving their arms, and crying curious things. +</p> + +<p> +He was pushed forward a foot at a time; whirled backward, his rear drivers +clinking and clanking, a quarter of a mile; jerked into a switch (yard-switches +are <i>very</i> stubby and unaccommodating), bunted into a Red D, or +Merchant’s Transport car, and, with no hint or knowledge of the weight +behind him, started up anew. When his load was fairly on the move, three or +four cars would be cut off, and ･007 would bound forward, only to be held +hiccupping on the brake. Then he would wait a few minutes, watching the whirled +lanterns, deafened with the clang of the bells, giddy with the vision of the +sliding cars, his brake-pump panting forty to the minute, his front coupler +lying sideways on his cow-catcher, like a tired dog’s tongue in his +mouth, and the whole of him covered with half-burnt coal-dust. +</p> + +<p> +“’Tisn’t so easy switching with a straight-backed +tender,” said his little friend of the round-house, bustling by at a +trot. “But you’re comin’ on pretty fair. Ever seen a +flyin’ switch? No? Then watch me.” +</p> + +<p> +Poney was in charge of a dozen heavy flat-cars. Suddenly he shot away from them +with a sharp “<i>Whutt!</i>” A switch opened in the shadows ahead; +he turned up it like a rabbit as it snapped behind him, and the long line of +twelve-foot-high lumber jolted on into the arms of a full-sized road-loco, who +acknowledged receipt with a dry howl. +</p> + +<p> +“My man’s reckoned the smartest in the yard at that trick,” +he said, returning. “Gives me cold shivers when another fool tries it, +though. That’s where my short wheel-base comes in. Like as not +you’d have your tender scraped off if <i>you</i> tried it.” +</p> + +<p> +･007 had no ambitions that way, and said so. +</p> + +<p> +“No? Of course this ain’t your regular business, but say, +don’t you think it’s interestin’? Have you seen the +yard-master? Well, he’s the greatest man on earth, an’ don’t +you forget it. When are we through? Why, kid, it’s always like this, day +<i>an</i>’ night—Sundays an’ week-days. See that thirty-car +freight slidin’ in four, no, five tracks off? She’s all mixed +freight, sent here to be sorted out into straight trains. That’s why +we’re cuttin’ out the cars one by one.” He gave a vigorous +push to a west-bound car as he spoke, and started back with a little snort of +surprise, for the car was an old friend—an M. T. K. box-car. +</p> + +<p> +“Jack my drivers, but it’s Homeless Kate! Why, Kate, ain’t +there <i>no</i> gettin’ you back to your friends? There’s forty +chasers out for you from your road, if there’s one. Who’s +holdin’ you now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Wish I knew,” whimpered Homeless Kate. “I belong in Topeka, +but I’ve bin to Cedar Rapids; I’ve bin to Winnipeg; I’ve bin +to Newport News; I’ve bin all down the old Atlanta and West Point; +an’ I’ve bin to Buffalo. Maybe I’ll fetch up at Haverstraw. +I’ve only bin out ten months, but I’m homesick—I’m just +achin’ homesick.” +</p> + +<p> +“Try Chicago, Katie,” said the switching-loco; and the battered old +car lumbered down the track, jolting: “I want to be in Kansas when the +sunflowers bloom.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yard’s full o’ Homeless Kates an’ Wanderin’ +Willies,” he explained to ･007. “I knew an old Fitchburg flat-car +out seventeen months; an’ one of ours was gone fifteen ’fore ever +we got track of her. Dunno quite how our men fix it. Swap around, I guess. +Anyway, I’ve done <i>my</i> duty. She’s on her way to Kansas, via +Chicago; but I’ll lay my next boilerful she’ll be held there to +wait consignee’s convenience, and sent back to us with wheat in the +fall.” +</p> + +<p> +Just then the Pittsburgh Consolidation passed, at the head of a dozen cars. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m goin’ home,” he said proudly. +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t get all them twelve on to the flat. Break ’em in half, +Dutchy!” cried Poney. But it was ･007 who was backed down to the last six +cars, and he nearly blew up with surprise when he found himself pushing them on +to a huge ferry-boat. He had never seen deep water before, and shivered as the +flat drew away and left his bogies within six inches of the black, shiny tide. +</p> + +<p> +After this he was hurried to the freight-house, where he saw the yard-master, a +smallish, white-faced man in shirt, trousers, and slippers, looking down upon a +sea of trucks, a mob of bawling truckmen, and squadrons of backing, turning, +sweating, spark-striking horses. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s shippers’ carts loadin’ on to the +receivin’ trucks,” said the small engine, reverently. “But +<i>he</i> don’t care. He lets ’em cuss. He’s the +Czar-King-Boss! He says ’Please,’ and then they kneel down +an’ pray. There’s three or four strings o’ today’s +freight to be pulled before he can attend to <i>them</i>. When he waves his +hand that way, things happen.” +</p> + +<p> +A string of loaded cars slid out down the track, and a string of empties took +their place. Bales, crates, boxes, jars, carboys, frails, cases, and packages +flew into them from the freight-house as though the cars had been magnets and +they iron filings. +</p> + +<p> +“Ki-yah!” shrieked little Poney. “Ain’t it +great?” +</p> + +<p> +A purple-faced truckman shouldered his way to the yard-master, and shook his +fist under his nose. The yard-master never looked up from his bundle of freight +receipts. He crooked his forefinger slightly, and a tall young man in a red +shirt, lounging carelessly beside him, hit the truckman under the left ear, so +that he dropped, quivering and clucking, on a hay-bale. +</p> + +<p> +“Eleven, seven, ninety-seven, L. Y. S.; fourteen ought ought three; +nineteen thirteen; one one four; seventeen ought twenty-one M. B.; <i>and</i> +the ten westbound. All straight except the two last. Cut ’em off at the +junction. An’ <i>that’s</i> all right. Pull that string.” The +yard-master, with mild blue eyes, looked out over the howling truckmen at the +waters in the moonlight beyond, and hummed: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“All things bright and beautiful,<br/> + All creatures great and small,<br/> +<i>All</i> things wise and wonderful,<br/> + The Lawd Gawd He made all!” +</p> + +<p> +･007 moved out the cars and delivered them to the regular road-engine. He had +never felt quite so limp in his life before. +</p> + +<p> +“Curious, ain’t it?” said Poney, puffing, on the next track. +“You an’ me, if we got that man under our bumpers, we’d work +him into red waste an’ not know what we’d done; but-up +there—with the steam hummin’ in his boiler that awful quiet +way...” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>I</i> know,” said ･007. “Makes me feel as if I’d +dropped my Fire an’ was getting cold. He <i>is</i> the greatest man on +earth.” +</p> + +<p> +They were at the far north end of the yard now, under a switchtower, looking +down on the four-track way of the main traffic. The Boston Compound was to haul +･007’s string to some far-away northern junction over an indifferent +road-bed, and she mourned aloud for the ninety-six pound rails of the B. & +A. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re young; you’re young,” she coughed. “You +don’t realise your responsibilities.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, he does,” said Poney, sharply; “but he don’t lie +down under ’em.” Then, with aside-spurt of steam, exactly like a +tough spitting: “There ain’t more than fifteen thousand +dollars’ worth o’ freight behind her anyway, and she goes on as if +’t were a hundred thousand—same as the Mogul’s. Excuse me, +madam, but you’ve the track.... She’s stuck on a dead-centre +again—bein’ specially designed not to.” +</p> + +<p> +The Compound crawled across the tracks on a long slant, groaning horribly at +each switch, and moving like a cow in a snow-drift. There was a little pause +along the yard after her tail-lights had disappeared; switches locked crisply, +and every one seemed to be waiting. +</p> + +<p> +“Now I’ll show you something worth,” said Poney. “When +the Purple Emperor ain’t on time, it’s about time to amend the +Constitution. The first stroke of twelve is—” +</p> + +<p> +“Boom!” went the clock in the big yard-tower, and far away ･007 +heard a full, vibrating “<i>Yah! Yah! Yah!</i>” A headlight +twinkled on the horizon like a star, grew an overpowering blaze, and whooped up +the humming track to the roaring music of a happy giant’s song: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“With a michnai—ghignai—shtingal! Yah! Yah! Yah!<br/> +Ein—zwei—drei—Mutter! Yah! Yah! Yah!<br/> +She climb upon der shteeple,<br/> +Und she frighten all der people.<br/> +Singin’ michnai—ghignai—shtingal! Yah! Yah!” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +The last defiant “yah! yah!” was delivered a mile and a half beyond +the passenger-depot; but ･007 had caught one glimpse of the superb +six-wheel-coupled racing-locomotive, who hauled the pride and glory of the +road—the gilt-edged Purple Emperor, the millionaires’ south-bound +express, laying the miles over his shoulder as a man peels a shaving from a +soft board. The rest was a blur of maroon enamel, a bar of white light from the +electrics in the cars, and a flicker of nickel-plated hand-rail on the rear +platform. +</p> + +<p> +“Ooh!” said ･007. +</p> + +<p> +“Seventy-five miles an hour these five miles. Baths, I’ve heard; +barber’s shop; ticker; and a library and the rest to match. Yes, sir; +seventy-five an hour! But he’ll talk to you in the round-house just as +democratic as I would. And I—cuss my wheel-base!—I’d kick +clean off the track at half his gait. He’s the Master of our Lodge. +Cleans up at our house. I’ll introdooce you some day. He’s worth +knowin’! There ain’t many can sing that song, either.” +</p> + +<p> +･007 was too full of emotions to answer. He did not hear a raging of +telephone-bells in the switch-tower, nor the man, as he leaned out and called +to ･007’s engineer: “Got any steam?” +</p> + +<p> +“’Nough to run her a hundred mile out o’ this, if I +could,” said the engineer, who belonged to the open road and hated +switching. +</p> + +<p> +“Then get. The Flying Freight’s ditched forty mile out, with fifty +rod o’ track ploughed up. No; no one’s hurt, but both tracks are +blocked. Lucky the wreckin’-car an’ derrick are this end of the +yard. Crew ’ll be along in a minute. Hurry! You’ve the +track.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I could jest kick my little sawed-off self,” said Poney, as +･007 was backed, with a bang, on to a grim and grimy car like a caboose, but +full of tools—a flatcar and a derrick behind it. “Some folks are +one thing, and some are another; but <i>you</i>’re in luck, kid. They +push a wrecking-car. Now, don’t get rattled. Your wheel-base will keep +you on the track, and there ain’t any curves worth mentionin’. Oh, +say! Comanche told me there’s one section o’ sawedged track +that’s liable to jounce ye a little. Fifteen an’ a half out, +<i>after</i> the grade at Jackson’s crossin’. You’ll know it +by a farmhouse an’ a windmill an’ five maples in the dooryard. +Windmill’s west o’ the maples. An’ there’s an +eighty-foot iron bridge in the middle o’ that section with no +guard-rails. See you later. Luck!” +</p> + +<p> +Before he knew well what had happened, ･007 was flying up the track into the +dumb, dark world. Then fears of the night beset him. He remembered all he had +ever heard of landslides, rain-piled boulders, blown trees, and strayed cattle, +all that the Boston Compound had ever said of responsibility, and a great deal +more that came out of his own head. With a very quavering voice he whistled for +his first grade-crossing (an event in the life of a locomotive), and his nerves +were in no way restored by the sight of a frantic horse and a white-faced man +in a buggy less than a yard from his right shoulder. Then he was sure he would +jump the track; felt his flanges mounting the rail at every curve; knew that +his first grade would make him lie down even as Comanche had done at the +Newtons. He whirled down the grade to Jackson’s crossing, saw the +windmill west of the maples, felt the badly laid rails spring under him, and +sweated big drops all over his boiler. At each jarring bump he believed an axle +had smashed, and he took the eighty-foot bridge without the guard-rail like a +hunted cat on the top of a fence. Then a wet leaf stuck against the glass of +his headlight and threw a flying shadow on the track, so that he thought it was +some little dancing animal that would feel soft if he ran over it; and anything +soft underfoot frightens a locomotive as it does an elephant. But the men +behind seemed quite calm. The wrecking-crew were climbing carelessly from the +caboose to the tender—even jesting with the engineer, for he heard a +shuffling of feet among the coal, and the snatch of a song, something like +this: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Oh, the Empire State must learn to wait,<br/> +And the Cannon-ball go hang!<br/> +When the West-bound’s ditched, and the tool-car’s hitched,<br/> +And it’s ’way for the Breakdown Gang (Tare-ra!)<br/> +’Way for the Breakdown Gang! +</p> + +<p> +“Say! Eustis knew what he was doin’ when he designed this rig. +She’s a hummer. New, too.” +</p> + +<p> +“Snff! Phew! She is new. That ain’t paint, +that’s—” +</p> + +<p> +A burning pain shot through ･007’s right rear driver—a crippling, +stinging pain. +</p> + +<p> +“This,” said ･007, as he flew, “is a hot-box. Now I know what +it means. I shall go to pieces, I guess. My first road-run, too!” +</p> + +<p> +“Het a bit, ain’t she?” the fireman ventured to suggest to +the engineer. +</p> + +<p> +“She’ll hold for all we want of her. We’re ’most there. +Guess you chaps back had better climb into your car,” said the engineer, +his hand on the brake lever. “I’ve seen men snapped +off—” +</p> + +<p> +But the crew fled back with laughter. They had no wish to be jerked on to the +track. The engineer half turned his wrist, and ･007 found his drivers pinned +firm. +</p> + +<p> +“Now it’s come!” said ･007, as he yelled aloud, and slid like +a sleigh. For the moment he fancied that he would jerk bodily from off his +underpinning. +</p> + +<p> +“That must be the emergency-stop that Poney guyed me about,” he +gasped, as soon as he could think. “Hot-box-emergency-stop. They both +hurt; but now I can talk back in the round-house.” +</p> + +<p> +He was halted, all hissing hot, a few feet in the rear of what doctors would +call a compound-comminuted car. His engineer was kneeling down among his +drivers, but he did not call ･007 his “Arab steed,” nor cry over +him, as the engineers did in the newspapers. He just bad worded ･007, and +pulled yards of charred cotton-waste from about the axles, and hoped he might +some day catch the idiot who had packed it. Nobody else attended to him, for +Evans, the Mogul’s engineer, a little cut about the head, but very angry, +was exhibiting, by lantern-light, the mangled corpse of a slim blue pig. +</p> + +<p> +“’T were n’t even a decent-sized hog,” he said. +“’T were a shote.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dangerousest beasts they are,” said one of the crew. “Get +under the pilot an’ sort o’ twiddle ye off the track, don’t +they?” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t they?” roared Evans, who was a red-headed Welshman. +“You talk as if I was ditched by a hog every fool-day o’ the week. +<i>I</i> ain’t friends with all the cussed half-fed shotes in the State +o’ New York. No, indeed! Yes, this is him—an’ look what +he’s done!” +</p> + +<p> +It was not a bad night’s work for one stray piglet. The Flying Freight +seemed to have flown in every direction, for the Mogul had mounted the rails +and run diagonally a few hundred feet from right to left, taking with him such +cars as cared to follow. Some did not. They broke their couplers and lay down, +while rear cars frolicked over them. In that game, they had ploughed up and +removed and twisted a good deal of the left-hand track. The Mogul himself had +waddled into a corn-field, and there he knelt—fantastic wreaths of green +twisted round his crankpins; his pilot covered with solid clods of field, on +which corn nodded drunkenly; his fire put out with dirt (Evans had done that as +soon as he recovered his senses); and his broken headlight half full of +half-burnt moths. His tender had thrown coal all over him, and he looked like a +disreputable buffalo who had tried to wallow in a general store. For there lay +scattered over the landscape, from the burst cars, type-writers, +sewing-machines, bicycles in crates, a consignment of silver-plated imported +harness, French dresses and gloves, a dozen finely moulded hard-wood mantels, a +fifteen-foot naphtha-launch, with a solid brass bedstead crumpled around her +bows, a case of telescopes and microscopes, two coffins, a case of very best +candies, some gilt-edged dairy produce, butter and eggs in an omelette, a +broken box of expensive toys, and a few hundred other luxuries. A camp of +tramps hurried up from nowhere, and generously volunteered to help the crew. So +the brakemen, armed with coupler-pins, walked up and down on one side, and the +freight-conductor and the fireman patrolled the other with their hands in their +hip-pockets. A long-bearded man came out of a house beyond the corn-field, and +told Evans that if the accident had happened a little later in the year, all +his corn would have been burned, and accused Evans of carelessness. Then he ran +away, for Evans was at his heels shrieking: “’T was his hog done +it—his hog done it! Let me kill him! Let me kill him!” Then the +wrecking-crew laughed; and the farmer put his head out of a window and said +that Evans was no gentleman. +</p> + +<p> +But ･007 was very sober. He had never seen a wreck before, and it frightened +him. The crew still laughed, but they worked at the same time; and ･007 forgot +horror in amazement at the way they handled the Mogul freight. They dug round +him with spades; they put ties in front of his wheels, and jack-screws under +him; they embraced him with the derrick-chain and tickled him with crowbars; +while ･007 was hitched on to wrecked cars and backed away till the knot broke +or the cars rolled clear of the track. By dawn thirty or forty men were at +work, replacing and ramming down the ties, gauging the rails and spiking them. +By daylight all cars who could move had gone on in charge of another loco; the +track was freed for traffic; and 007 had hauled the old Mogul over a small +pavement of ties, inch by inch, till his flanges bit the rail once more, and he +settled down with a clank. But his spirit was broken, and his nerve was gone. +</p> + +<p> +“’T weren’t even a hog,” he repeated dolefully; +“’t were a shote; and you—<i>you</i> of all of +’em—had to help me on.” +</p> + +<p> +“But how in the whole long road did it happen?” asked 007, sizzling +with curiosity. +</p> + +<p> +“Happen! It didn’t happen! It just come! I sailed right on top of +him around that last curve—thought he was a skunk. Yes; he was all as +little as that. He hadn’t more ’n squealed once ’fore I felt +my bogies lift (he’d rolled right under the pilot), and I couldn’t +catch the track again to save me. Swivelled clean off, I was. Then I felt him +sling himself along, all greasy, under my left leadin’ driver, and, oh, +Boilers! that mounted the rail. I heard my flanges zippin’ along the +ties, an’ the next I knew I was playin’ ’Sally, Sally +Waters’ in the corn, my tender shuckin’ coal through my cab, +an’ old man Evans lyin’ still an’ bleedin’ in front +o’ me. Shook? There ain’t a stay or a bolt or a rivet in me that +ain’t sprung to glory somewhere.” +</p> + +<p> +“Umm!” said 007. “What d’ you reckon you weigh?” +</p> + +<p> +“Without these lumps o’ dirt I’m all of a hundred thousand +pound.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the shote?” +</p> + +<p> +“Eighty. Call him a hundred pound at the outside. He’s worth about +four ’n a half dollars. Ain’t it awful? Ain’t it enough to +give you nervous prostration? Ain’t it paralysin’? Why, I come just +around that curve—” and the Mogul told the tale again, for he was +very badly shaken. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it’s all in the day’s run, I guess,” said 007, +soothingly; “an’—an’ a corn-field’s pretty soft +fallin’.” +</p> + +<p> +“If it had bin a sixty-foot bridge, an’ I could ha’ slid off +into deep water an’ blown up an’ killed both men, same as others +have done, I wouldn’t ha’ cared; but to be ditched by a +shote—an’ you to help me out—in a corn-field—an’ +an old hayseed in his nightgown cussin’ me like as if I was a sick +truck-horse!... Oh, it’s awful! Don’t call me Mogul! I’m a +sewin’-machine, they’ll guy my sand-box off in the yard.” +</p> + +<p> +And 007, his hot-box cooled and his experience vastly enlarged, hauled the +Mogul freight slowly to the roundhouse. +</p> + +<p> +“Hello, old man! Bin out all night, hain’t ye?” said the +irrepressible Poney, who had just come off duty. “Well, I must say you +look it. Costly-perishable-fragile-immediate—that’s you! Go to the +shops, take them vine-leaves out o’ your hair, an’ git ’em to +play the hose on you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Leave him alone, Poney,” said 007 severely, as he was swung on the +turn-table, “or I’ll—” +</p> + +<p> +“’Didn’t know the old granger was any special friend o’ +yours, kid. He wasn’t over-civil to you last time I saw him.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know it; but I’ve seen a wreck since then, and it has about +scared the paint off me. I’m not going to guy anyone as long as I +steam—not when they’re new to the business an’ anxious to +learn. And I’m not goin’ to guy the old Mogul either, though I did +find him wreathed around with roastin’-ears. ’T was a little bit of +a shote—not a hog—just a shote, Poney—no bigger’n a +lump of anthracite—I saw it—that made all the mess. Anybody can be +ditched, I guess.” +</p> + +<p> +“Found that out already, have you? Well, that’s a good +beginnin’.” It was the Purple Emperor, with his high, tight, +plate-glass cab and green velvet cushion, waiting to be cleaned for his next +day’s fly. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me make you two gen’lemen acquainted,” said Poney. +“This is our Purple Emperor, kid, whom you were admirin’ and, I may +say, envyin’ last night. This is a new brother, worshipful sir, with most +of his mileage ahead of him, but, so far as a serving-brother can, I’ll +answer for him.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Happy to meet you,” said the Purple Emperor, with a glance +round the crowded round-house. “I guess there are enough of us here to +form a full meetin’. Ahem! By virtue of the authority vested in me as +Head of the Road, I hereby declare and pronounce No. ･007 a full and accepted +Brother of the Amalgamated Brotherhood of Locomotives, and as such entitled to +all shop, switch, track, tank, and round-house privileges throughout my +jurisdiction, in the Degree of Superior Flier, it bein’ well known and +credibly reported to me that our Brother has covered forty-one miles in +thirty-nine minutes and a half on an errand of mercy to the afflicted. At a +convenient time, I myself will communicate to you the Song and Signal of this +Degree whereby you may be recognised in the darkest night. Take your stall, +newly entered Brother among Locomotives!” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Now, in the darkest night, even as the Purple Emperor said, if you will stand +on the bridge across the freightyard, looking down upon the four-track way, at +2:30 A. M., neither before nor after, when the White Moth, that takes the +overflow from the Purple Emperor, tears south with her seven vestibuled +cream-white cars, you will hear, as the yard-clock makes the half-hour, a +far-away sound like the bass of a violoncello, and then, a hundred feet to each +word, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“With a michnai—ghignai—shtingal! Yah! Yah! Yah!<br/> +Ein—zwei—drei—Mutter! Yah! Yah! Yah!<br/> +She climb upon der shteeple,<br/> +Und she frighten all der people,<br/> +Singin’ michnai—ghignai—shtingal! Yah! Yah!” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +That is 007 covering his one hundred and fifty-six miles in two hundred and +twenty-one minutes. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"></a> +THE MALTESE CAT</h2> + +<p> +They had good reason to be proud, and better reason to be afraid, all twelve of +them; for though they had fought their way, game by game, up the teams entered +for the polo tournament, they were meeting the Archangels that afternoon in the +final match; and the Archangels men were playing with half a dozen ponies +apiece. As the game was divided into six quarters of eight minutes each, that +meant a fresh pony after every halt. The Skidars’ team, even supposing +there were no accidents, could only supply one pony for every other change; and +two to one is heavy odds. Again, as Shiraz, the grey Syrian, pointed out, they +were meeting the pink and pick of the polo-ponies of Upper India, ponies that +had cost from a thousand rupees each, while they themselves were a cheap lot +gathered, often from country-carts, by their masters, who belonged to a poor +but honest native infantry regiment. +</p> + +<p> +“Money means pace and weight,” said Shiraz, rubbing his black-silk +nose dolefully along his neat-fitting boot, “and by the maxims of the +game as I know it—” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, but we aren’t playing the maxims,” said The Maltese Cat. +“We’re playing the game; and we’ve the great advantage of +knowing the game. Just think a stride, Shiraz! We’ve pulled up from +bottom to second place in two weeks against all those fellows on the ground +here. That’s because we play with our heads as well as our feet.” +</p> + +<p> +“It makes me feel undersized and unhappy all the same,” said +Kittiwynk, a mouse-coloured mare with a red brow-band and the cleanest pair of +legs that ever an aged pony owned. “They’ve twice our style, these +others.” +</p> + +<p> +Kittiwynk looked at the gathering and sighed. The hard, dusty polo-ground was +lined with thousands of soldiers, black and white, not counting hundreds and +hundreds of carriages and drags and dogcarts, and ladies with +brilliant-coloured parasols, and officers in uniform and out of it, and crowds +of natives behind them; and orderlies on camels, who had halted to watch the +game, instead of carrying letters up and down the station; and native +horse-dealers running about on thin-eared Biluchi mares, looking for a chance +to sell a few first-class polo-ponies. Then there were the ponies of thirty +teams that had entered for the Upper India Free-for-All Cup—nearly every +pony of worth and dignity, from Mhow to Peshawar, from Allahabad to Multan; +prize ponies, Arabs, Syrian, Barb, country-bred, Deccanee, Waziri, and Kabul +ponies of every colour and shape and temper that you could imagine. Some of +them were in mat-roofed stables, close to the polo-ground, but most were under +saddle, while their masters, who had been defeated in the earlier games, +trotted in and out and told the world exactly how the game should be played. +</p> + +<p> +It was a glorious sight, and the come and go of the little, quick hooves, and +the incessant salutations of ponies that had met before on other polo-grounds +or race-courses were enough to drive a four-footed thing wild. +</p> + +<p> +But the Skidars’ team were careful not to know their neighbours, though +half the ponies on the ground were anxious to scrape acquaintance with the +little fellows that had come from the North, and, so far, had swept the board. +</p> + +<p> +“Let’s see,” said a soft gold-coloured Arab, who had been +playing very badly the day before, to The Maltese Cat; “didn’t we +meet in Abdul Rahman’s stable in Bombay, four seasons ago? I won the +Paikpattan Cup next season, you may remember?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not me,” said The Maltese Cat, politely. “I was at Malta +then, pulling a vegetable-cart. I don’t race. I play the game.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” said the Arab, cocking his tail and swaggering off. +</p> + +<p> +“Keep yourselves to yourselves,” said The Maltese Cat to his +companions. “We don’t want to rub noses with all those goose-rumped +half-breeds of Upper India. When we’ve won this Cup they’ll give +their shoes to know us.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>We</i> sha’n’t win the cup,” said Shiraz. +“How do you feel?” +</p> + +<p> +“Stale as last night’s feed when a muskrat has run over it,” +said Polaris, a rather heavy-shouldered grey; and the rest of the team agreed +with him. +</p> + +<p> +“The sooner you forget that the better,” said The Maltese Cat, +cheerfully. “They’ve finished tiffin in the big tent. We shall be +wanted now. If your saddles are not comfy, kick. If your bits aren’t +easy, rear, and let the <i>saises</i> know whether your boots are tight.” +</p> + +<p> +Each pony had his <i>sais</i>, his groom, who lived and ate and slept with the +animal, and had betted a good deal more than he could afford on the result of +the game. There was no chance of anything going wrong, but to make sure, each +<i>sais</i> was shampooing the legs of his pony to the last minute. Behind the +<i>saises</i> sat as many of the Skidars’ regiment as had leave to attend +the match—about half the native officers, and a hundred or two dark, +black-bearded men with the regimental pipers nervously fingering the big, +beribboned bagpipes. The Skidars were what they call a Pioneer regiment, and +the bagpipes made the national music of half their men. The native officers +held bundles of polo-sticks, long cane-handled mallets, and as the grand stand +filled after lunch they arranged themselves by ones and twos at different +points round the ground, so that if a stick were broken the player would not +have far to ride for a new one. An impatient British Cavalry Band struck up +“If you want to know the time, ask a p’leeceman!” and the two +umpires in light dust-coats danced out on two little excited ponies. The four +players of the Archangels’ team followed, and the sight of their +beautiful mounts made Shiraz groan again. +</p> + +<p> +“Wait till we know,” said The Maltese Cat. “Two of ’em +are playing in blinkers, and that means they can’t see to get out of the +way of their own side, or they <i>may</i> shy at the umpires’ ponies. +They’ve <i>all</i> got white web-reins that are sure to stretch or +slip!” +</p> + +<p> +“And,” said Kittiwynk, dancing to take the stiffness out of her, +“they carry their whips in their hands instead of on their wrists. +Hah!” +</p> + +<p> +“True enough. No man can manage his stick and his reins and his whip that +way,” said The Maltese Cat. “I’ve fallen over every square +yard of the Malta ground, and <i>I</i> ought to know.” +</p> + +<p> +He quivered his little, flea-bitten withers just to show how satisfied he felt; +but his heart was not so light. Ever since he had drifted into India on a +troop-ship, taken, with an old rifle, as part payment for a racing debt, The +Maltese Cat had played and preached polo to the Skidars’ team on the +Skidars’ stony polo-ground. Now a polo-pony is like a poet. If he is born +with a love for the game, he can be made. The Maltese Cat knew that bamboos +grew solely in order that poloballs might be turned from their roots, that +grain was given to ponies to keep them in hard condition, and that ponies were +shod to prevent them slipping on a turn. But, besides all these things, he knew +every trick and device of the finest game in the world, and for two seasons had +been teaching the others all he knew or guessed. +</p> + +<p> +“Remember,” he said for the hundredth time, as the riders came up, +“we <i>must</i> play together, and you <i>must</i> play with your heads. +Whatever happens, follow the ball. Who goes out first?” +</p> + +<p> +Kittiwynk, Shiraz, Polaris, and a short high little bay fellow with tremendous +hocks and no withers worth speaking of (he was called Corks) were being girthed +up, and the soldiers in the background stared with all their eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“I want you men to keep quiet,” said Lutyens, the captain of the +team, “and especially <i>not</i> to blow your pipes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not if we win, Captain Sahib?” asked the piper. +</p> + +<p> +“If we win you can do what you please,” said Lutyens, with a smile, +as he slipped the loop of his stick over his wrist, and wheeled to canter to +his place. The Archangels’ ponies were a little bit above themselves on +account of the many-coloured crowd so close to the ground. Their riders were +excellent players, but they were a team of crack players instead of a crack +team; and that made all the difference in the world. They honestly meant to +play together, but it is very hard for four men, each the best of the team he +is picked from, to remember that in polo no brilliancy in hitting or riding +makes up for playing alone. Their captain shouted his orders to them by name, +and it is a curious thing that if you call his name aloud in public after an +Englishman you make him hot and fretty. Lutyens said nothing to his men, +because it had all been said before. He pulled up Shiraz, for he was playing +“back,” to guard the goal. Powell on Polaris was half-back, and +Macnamara and Hughes on Corks and Kittiwynk were forwards. The tough, bamboo +ball was set in the middle of the ground, one hundred and fifty yards from the +ends, and Hughes crossed sticks, heads up, with the Captain of the Archangels, +who saw fit to play forward; that is a place from which you cannot easily +control your team. The little click as the cane-shafts met was heard all over +the ground, and then Hughes made some sort of quick wrist-stroke that just +dribbled the ball a few yards. Kittiwynk knew that stroke of old, and followed +as a cat follows a mouse. While the Captain of the Archangels was wrenching his +pony round, Hughes struck with all his strength, and next instant Kittiwynk was +away, Corks following close behind her, their little feet pattering like +raindrops on glass. +</p> + +<p> +“Pull out to the left,” said Kittiwynk between her teeth; +“it’s coming your way, Corks!” +</p> + +<p> +The back and half-back of the Archangels were tearing down on her just as she +was within reach of the ball. Hughes leaned forward with a loose rein, and cut +it away to the left almost under Kittiwynk’s foot, and it hopped and +skipped off to Corks, who saw that, if he was not quick it would run beyond the +boundaries. That long bouncing drive gave the Archangels time to wheel and send +three men across the ground to head off Corks. Kittiwynk stayed where she was; +for she knew the game. Corks was on the ball half a fraction of a second before +the others came up, and Macnamara, with a backhanded stroke, sent it back +across the ground to Hughes, who saw the way clear to the Archangels’ +goal, and smacked the ball in before any one quite knew what had happened. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s luck,” said Corks, as they changed ends. “A +goal in three minutes for three hits, and no riding to speak of.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t know,” said Polaris. “We’ve made ’em +angry too soon. Shouldn’t wonder if they tried to rush us off our feet +next time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Keep the ball hanging, then,” said Shiraz. “That wears out +every pony that is not used to it.” +</p> + +<p> +Next time there was no easy galloping across the ground. All the Archangels +closed up as one man, but there they stayed, for Corks, Kittiwynk, and Polaris +were somewhere on the top of the ball, marking time among the rattling sticks, +while Shiraz circled about outside, waiting for a chance. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>We</i> can do this all day,” said Polaris, ramming his quarters +into the side of another pony. “Where do you think you’re shoving +to?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll—I’ll be driven in an <i>ekka</i> if I +know,” was the gasping reply, “and I’d give a week’s +feed to get my blinkers off. I can’t see anything.” +</p> + +<p> +“The dust is rather bad. Whew! That was one for my off-hock. +Where’s the ball, Corks?” +</p> + +<p> +“Under my tail. At least, the man’s looking for it there! This is +beautiful. They can’t use their sticks, and it’s driving ’em +wild. Give old Blinkers a push and then he’ll go over.” +</p> + +<p> +“Here, don’t touch me! I can’t see. +I’ll—I’ll back out, I think,” said the pony in +blinkers, who knew that if you can’t see all round your head, you cannot +prop yourself against the shock. +</p> + +<p> +Corks was watching the ball where it lay in the dust, close to his near +fore-leg, with Macnamara’s shortened stick tap-tapping it from time to +time. Kittiwynk was edging her way out of the scrimmage, whisking her stump of +a tail with nervous excitement. +</p> + +<p> +“Ho! They’ve got it,” she snorted. “Let me out!” +and she galloped like a rifle-bullet just behind a tall lanky pony of the +Archangels, whose rider was swinging up his stick for a stroke. +</p> + +<p> +“Not to-day, thank you,” said Hughes, as the blow slid off his +raised stick, and Kittiwynk laid her shoulder to the tall pony’s +quarters, and shoved him aside just as Lutyens on Shiraz sent the ball where it +had come from, and the tall pony went skating and slipping away to the left. +Kittiwynk, seeing that Polaris had joined Corks in the chase for the ball up +the ground, dropped into Polaris’ place, and then “time” was +called. +</p> + +<p> +The Skidars’ ponies wasted no time in kicking or fuming. They knew that +each minute’s rest meant so much gain, and trotted off to the rails and +their <i>saises</i>, who began to scrape and blanket and rub them at once. +</p> + +<p> +“Whew!” said Corks, stiffening up to get all the tickle of the big +vulcanite scraper. “If we were playing pony for pony, we would bend those +Archangels double in half an hour. But they’ll bring up fresh ones and +fresh ones and fresh ones after that—you see.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who cares?” said Polaris. “We’ve drawn first blood. Is +my hock swelling?” +</p> + +<p> +“Looks puffy,” said Corks. “You must have had rather a wipe. +Don’t let it stiffen. You ’ll be wanted again in half an +hour.” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the game like?” said The Maltese Cat. +</p> + +<p> +“Ground’s like your shoe, except where they put too much water on +it,” said Kittiwynk. “Then it’s slippery. Don’t play in +the centre. There’s a bog there. I don’t know how their next four +are going to behave, but we kept the ball hanging, and made ’em lather +for nothing. Who goes out? Two Arabs and a couple of country-breds! +That’s bad. What a comfort it is to wash your mouth out!” +</p> + +<p> +Kitty was talking with a neck of a lather-covered soda-water bottle between her +teeth, and trying to look over her withers at the same time. This gave her a +very coquettish air. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s bad?” said Grey Dawn, giving to the girth and +admiring his well-set shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“You Arabs can’t gallop fast enough to keep yourselves +warm—that’s what Kitty means,” said Polaris, limping to show +that his hock needed attention. “Are you playing back, Grey Dawn?” +</p> + +<p> +“Looks like it,” said Grey Dawn, as Lutyens swung himself up. +Powell mounted The Rabbit, a plain bay country-bred much like Corks, but with +mulish ears. Macnamara took Faiz-Ullah, a handy, short-backed little red Arab +with a long tail, and Hughes mounted Benami, an old and sullen brown beast, who +stood over in front more than a polo-pony should. +</p> + +<p> +“Benami looks like business,” said Shiraz. “How’s your +temper, Ben?” The old campaigner hobbled off without answering, and The +Maltese Cat looked at the new Archangel ponies prancing about on the ground. +They were four beautiful blacks, and they saddled big enough and strong enough +to eat the Skidars’ team and gallop away with the meal inside them. +</p> + +<p> +“Blinkers again,” said The Maltese Cat. “Good enough!” +</p> + +<p> +“They’re chargers—cavalry chargers!” said Kittiwynk, +indignantly. “<i>They’ll</i> never see thirteen-three again.” +</p> + +<p> +“They’ve all been fairly measured, and they’ve all got their +certificates,” said The Maltese Cat, “or they wouldn’t be +here. We must take things as they come along, and keep your eyes on the +ball.” +</p> + +<p> +The game began, but this time the Skidars were penned to their own end of the +ground, and the watching ponies did not approve of that. +</p> + +<p> +“Faiz-Ullah is shirking—as usual,” said Polaris, with a +scornful grunt. +</p> + +<p> +“Faiz-Ullah is eating whip,” said Corks. They could hear the +leather-thonged polo-quirt lacing the little fellow’s well-rounded +barrel. Then The Rabbit’s shrill neigh came across the ground. +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t do all the work,” he cried, desperately. +</p> + +<p> +“Play the game—don’t talk,” The Maltese Cat whickered; +and all the ponies wriggled with excitement, and the soldiers and the grooms +gripped the railings and shouted. A black pony with blinkers had singled out +old Benami, and was interfering with him in every possible way. They could see +Benami shaking his head up and down, and flapping his under lip. +</p> + +<p> +“There’ll be a fall in a minute,” said Polaris. “Benami +is getting stuffy.” +</p> + +<p> +The game flickered up and down between goal-post and goal-post, and the black +ponies were getting more confident as they felt they had the legs of the +others. The ball was hit out of a little scrimmage, and Benami and The Rabbit +followed it, Faiz-Ullah only too glad to be quiet for an instant. +</p> + +<p> +The blinkered black pony came up like a hawk, with two of his own side behind +him, and Benami’s eye glittered as he raced. The question was which pony +should make way for the other, for each rider was perfectly willing to risk a +fall in a good cause. The black, who had been driven nearly crazy by his +blinkers, trusted to his weight and his temper; but Benami knew how to apply +his weight and how to keep his temper. They met, and there was a cloud of dust. +The black was lying on his side, all the breath knocked out of his body. The +Rabbit was a hundred yards up the ground with the ball, and Benami was sitting +down. He had slid nearly ten yards on his tail, but he had had his revenge, and +sat cracking his nostrils till the black pony rose. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s what you get for interfering. Do you want any more?” +said Benami, and he plunged into the game. Nothing was done that quarter, +because Faiz-Ullah would not gallop, though Macnamara beat him whenever he +could spare a second. The fall of the black pony had impressed his companions +tremendously, and so the Archangels could not profit by Faiz-Ullah’s bad +behaviour. +</p> + +<p> +But as The Maltese Cat said when “time” was called, and the four +came back blowing and dripping, Faiz-Ullah ought to have been kicked all round +Umballa. If he did not behave better next time The Maltese Cat promised to pull +out his Arab tail by the roots and—eat it. +</p> + +<p> +There was no time to talk, for the third four were ordered out. +</p> + +<p> +The third quarter of a game is generally the hottest, for each side thinks that +the others must be pumped; and most of the winning play in a game is made about +that time. +</p> + +<p> +Lutyens took over The Maltese Cat with a pat and a hug, for Lutyens valued him +more than anything else in the world; Powell had Shikast, a little grey rat +with no pedigree and no manners outside polo; Macnamara mounted Bamboo, the +largest of the team; and Hughes Who’s Who, <i>alias</i> The Animal. He +was supposed to have Australian blood in his veins, but he looked like a +clothes-horse, and you could whack his legs with an iron crow-bar without +hurting him. +</p> + +<p> +They went out to meet the very flower of the Archangels’ team; and when +Who’s Who saw their elegantly booted legs and their beautiful satin +skins, he grinned a grin through his light, well-worn bridle. +</p> + +<p> +“My word!” said Who’s Who. “We must give ’em a +little football. These gentlemen need a rubbing down.” +</p> + +<p> +“No biting,” said The Maltese Cat, warningly; for once or twice in +his career Who’s Who had been known to forget himself in that way. +</p> + +<p> +“Who said anything about biting? I’m not playing tiddly-winks. +I’m playing the game.” +</p> + +<p> +The Archangels came down like a wolf on the fold, for they were tired of +football, and they wanted polo. They got it more and more. Just after the game +began, Lutyens hit a ball that was coming towards him rapidly, and it rolled in +the air, as a ball sometimes will, with the whirl of a frightened partridge. +Shikast heard, but could not see it for the minute, though he looked everywhere +and up into the air as The Maltese Cat had taught him. When he saw it ahead and +overhead he went forward with Powell as fast as he could put foot to ground. It +was then that Powell, a quiet and level-headed man, as a rule, became inspired, +and played a stroke that sometimes comes off successfully after long practice. +He took his stick in both hands, and, standing up in his stirrups, swiped at +the ball in the air, Munipore fashion. There was one second of paralysed +astonishment, and then all four sides of the ground went up in a yell of +applause and delight as the ball flew true (you could see the amazed Archangels +ducking in their saddles to dodge the line of flight, and looking at it with +open mouths), and the regimental pipes of the Skidars squealed from the +railings as long as the pipers had breath. Shikast heard the stroke; but he +heard the head of the stick fly off at the same time. Nine hundred and +ninety-nine ponies out of a thousand would have gone tearing on after the ball +with a useless player pulling at their heads; but Powell knew him, and he knew +Powell; and the instant he felt Powell’s right leg shift a trifle on the +saddle-flap, he headed to the boundary, where a native officer was frantically +waving a new stick. Before the shouts had ended, Powell was armed again. +</p> + +<p> +Once before in his life The Maltese Cat had heard that very same stroke played +off his own back, and had profited by the confusion it wrought. This time he +acted on experience, and leaving Bamboo to guard the goal in case of accidents, +came through the others like a flash, head and tail low—Lutyens standing +up to ease him—swept on and on before the other side knew what was the +matter, and nearly pitched on his head between the Archangels’ goal-post +as Lutyens kicked the ball in after a straight scurry of a hundred and fifty +yards. If there was one thing more than another upon which The Maltese Cat +prided himself, it was on this quick, streaking kind of run half across the +ground. He did not believe in taking balls round the field unless you were +clearly overmatched. After this they gave the Archangels five-minuted football; +and an expensive fast pony hates football because it rumples his temper. +Who’s Who showed himself even better than Polaris in this game. He did +not permit any wriggling away, but bored joyfully into the scrimmage as if he +had his nose in a feed-box and was looking for something nice. Little Shikast +jumped on the ball the minute it got clear, and every time an Archangel pony +followed it, he found Shikast standing over it, asking what was the matter. +</p> + +<p> +“If we can live through this quarter,” said The Maltese Cat, +“I sha’n’t care. Don’t take it out of yourselves. Let +them do the lathering.” +</p> + +<p> +So the ponies, as their riders explained afterwards, “shut-up.” The +Archangels kept them tied fast in front of their goal, but it cost the +Archangels’ ponies all that was left of their tempers; and ponies began +to kick, and men began to repeat compliments, and they chopped at the legs of +Who’s Who, and he set his teeth and stayed where he was, and the dust +stood up like a tree over the scrimmage until that hot quarter ended. +</p> + +<p> +They found the ponies very excited and confident when they went to their +saises; and The Maltese Cat had to warn them that the worst of the game was +coming. +</p> + +<p> +“Now <i>we</i> are all going in for the second time,” said he, +“and <i>they</i> are trotting out fresh ponies. You think you can gallop, +but you’ll find you can’t; and then you’ll be sorry.” +</p> + +<p> +“But two goals to nothing is a halter-long lead,” said Kittiwynk, +prancing. +</p> + +<p> +“How long does it take to get a goal?” The Maltese Cat answered. +“For pity’s sake, don’t run away with a notion that the game +is half-won just because we happen to be in luck now! They’ll ride you +into the grand stand, if they can; you must <i>not</i> give ’em a chance. +Follow the ball.” +</p> + +<p> +“Football, as usual?” said Polaris. “My hock’s half as +big as a nose-bag.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t let them have a look at the ball, if you can help it. Now +leave me alone. I must get all the rest I can before the last quarter.” +</p> + +<p> +He hung down his head and let all his muscles go slack, Shikast, Bamboo, and +Who’s Who copying his example. +</p> + +<p> +“Better not watch the game,” he said. “We aren’t +playing, and we shall only take it out of ourselves if we grow anxious. Look at +the ground and pretend it’s fly-time.” +</p> + +<p> +They did their best, but it was hard advice to follow. The hooves were drumming +and the sticks were rattling all up and down the ground, and yells of applause +from the English troops told that the Archangels were pressing the Skidars +hard. The native soldiers behind the ponies groaned and grunted, and said +things in undertones, and presently they heard a long-drawn shout and a clatter +of hurrahs! +</p> + +<p> +“One to the Archangels,” said Shikast, without raising his head. +“Time’s nearly up. Oh, my sire and dam!” +</p> + +<p> +“Faiz-Ullah,” said The Maltese Cat, “if you don’t play +to the last nail in your shoes this time, I’ll kick you on the ground +before all the other ponies.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll do my best when my time comes,” said the little Arab, +sturdily. +</p> + +<p> +The <i>saises</i> looked at each other gravely as they rubbed their +ponies’ legs. This was the time when long purses began to tell, and +everybody knew it. Kittiwynk and the others came back, the sweat dripping over +their hooves and their tails telling sad stories. +</p> + +<p> +“They’re better than we are,” said Shiraz. “I knew how +it would be.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shut your big head,” said The Maltese Cat; “we’ve one +goal to the good yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but it’s two Arabs and two country-breds to play now,” +said Corks. “Faiz-Ullah, remember!” He spoke in a biting voice. +</p> + +<p> +As Lutyens mounted Grey Dawn he looked at his men, and they did not look +pretty. They were covered with dust and sweat in streaks. Their yellow boots +were almost black, their wrists were red and lumpy, and their eyes seemed two +inches deep in their heads; but the expression in the eyes was satisfactory. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you take anything at tiffin?” said Lutyens; and the team shook +their heads. They were too dry to talk. +</p> + +<p> +“All right. The Archangels did. They are worse pumped than we are.” +</p> + +<p> +“They’ve got the better ponies,” said Powell. “I +sha’n’t be sorry when this business is over.” +</p> + +<p> +That fifth quarter was a painful one in every way. Faiz-Ullah played like a +little red demon, and The Rabbit seemed to be everywhere at once, and Benami +rode straight at anything and everything that came in his way; while the +umpires on their ponies wheeled like gulls outside the shifting game. But the +Archangels had the better mounts,—they had kept their racers till late in +the game,—and never allowed the Skidars to play football. They hit the +ball up and down the width of the ground till Benami and the rest were +outpaced. Then they went forward, and time and again Lutyens and Grey Dawn were +just, and only just, able to send the ball away with a long, spitting +backhander. Grey Dawn forgot that he was an Arab; and turned from grey to blue +as he galloped. Indeed, he forgot too well, for he did not keep his eyes on the +ground as an Arab should, but stuck out his nose and scuttled for the dear +honour of the game. They had watered the ground once or twice between the +quarters, and a careless waterman had emptied the last of his skinful all in +one place near the Skidars’ goal. It was close to the end of the play, +and for the tenth time Grey Dawn was bolting after the ball, when his near +hind-foot slipped on the greasy mud, and he rolled over and over, pitching +Lutyens just clear of the goal-post; and the triumphant Archangels made their +goal. Then “time” was called—two goals all; but Lutyens had +to be helped up, and Grey Dawn rose with his near hind-leg strained somewhere. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the damage?” said Powell, his arm around Lutyens. +</p> + +<p> +“Collar-bone, of course,” said Lutyens, between his teeth. It was +the third time he had broken it in two years, and it hurt him. +</p> + +<p> +Powell and the others whistled. +</p> + +<p> +“Game’s up,” said Hughes. +</p> + +<p> +“Hold on. We’ve five good minutes yet, and it isn’t my right +hand. We ’ll stick it out.” +</p> + +<p> +“I say,” said the Captain of the Archangels, trotting up, +“are you hurt, Lutyens? We’ll wait if you care to put in a +substitute. I wish—I mean—the fact is, you fellows deserve this +game if any team does. Wish we could give you a man, or some of our +ponies—or something.” +</p> + +<p> +“You ’re awfully good, but we’ll play it to a finish, I +think.” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain of the Archangels stared for a little. “That’s not half +bad,” he said, and went back to his own side, while Lutyens borrowed a +scarf from one of his native officers and made a sling of it. Then an Archangel +galloped up with a big bath-sponge, and advised Lutyens to put it under his +armpit to ease his shoulder, and between them they tied up his left arm +scientifically; and one of the native officers leaped forward with four long +glasses that fizzed and bubbled. +</p> + +<p> +The team looked at Lutyens piteously, and he nodded. It was the last quarter, +and nothing would matter after that. They drank out the dark golden drink, and +wiped their moustaches, and things looked more hopeful. +</p> + +<p> +The Maltese Cat had put his nose into the front of Lutyens’ shirt and was +trying to say how sorry he was. +</p> + +<p> +“He knows,” said Lutyens, proudly. “The beggar knows. +I’ve played him without a bridle before now—for fun.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s no fun now,” said Powell. “But we haven’t a +decent substitute.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Lutyens. “It’s the last quarter, and +we’ve got to make our goal and win. I’ll trust The Cat.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you fall this time, you’ll suffer a little,” said +Macnamara. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll trust The Cat,” said Lutyens. +</p> + +<p> +“You hear that?” said The Maltese Cat, proudly, to the others. +“It’s worth while playing polo for ten years to have that said of +you. Now then, my sons, come along. We’ll kick up a little bit, just to +show the Archangels <i>this</i> team haven’t suffered.” +</p> + +<p> +And, sure enough, as they went on to the ground, The Maltese Cat, after +satisfying himself that Lutyens was home in the saddle, kicked out three or +four times, and Lutyens laughed. The reins were caught up anyhow in the tips of +his strapped left hand, and he never pretended to rely on them. He knew The Cat +would answer to the least pressure of the leg, and by way of showing +off—for his shoulder hurt him very much—he bent the little fellow +in a close figure-of-eight in and out between the goal-posts. There was a roar +from the native officers and men, who dearly loved a piece of <i>dugabashi</i> +(horse-trick work), as they called it, and the pipes very quietly and +scornfully droned out the first bars of a common bazaar tune called +“Freshly Fresh and Newly New,” just as a warning to the other +regiments that the Skidars were fit. All the natives laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“And now,” said The Maltese Cat, as they took their place, +“remember that this is the last quarter, and follow the ball!” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t need to be told,” said Who’s Who. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me go on. All those people on all four sides will begin to crowd +in—just as they did at Malta. You’ll hear people calling out, and +moving forward and being pushed back; and that is going to make the Archangel +ponies very unhappy. But if a ball is struck to the boundary, you go after it, +and let the people get out of your way. I went over the pole of a four-in-hand +once, and picked a game out of the dust by it. Back me up when I run, and +follow the ball.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a sort of an all-round sound of sympathy and wonder as the last +quarter opened, and then there began exactly what The Maltese Cat had foreseen. +People crowded in close to the boundaries, and the Archangels’ ponies +kept looking sideways at the narrowing space. If you know how a man feels to be +cramped at tennis—not because he wants to run out of the court, but +because he likes to know that he can at a pinch—you will guess how ponies +must feel when they are playing in a box of human beings. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll bend some of those men if I can get away,” said +Who’s Who, as he rocketed behind the ball; and Bamboo nodded without +speaking. They were playing the last ounce in them, and The Maltese Cat had +left the goal undefended to join them. Lutyens gave him every order that he +could to bring him back, but this was the first time in his career that the +little wise grey had ever played polo on his own responsibility, and he was +going to make the most of it. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you doing here?” said Hughes, as The Cat crossed in front +of him and rode off an Archangel. +</p> + +<p> +“The Cat’s in charge—mind the goal!” shouted Lutyens, +and bowing forward hit the ball full, and followed on, forcing the Archangels +towards their own goal. +</p> + +<p> +“No football,” said The Maltese Cat. “Keep the ball by the +boundaries and cramp ’em. Play open order, and drive ’em to the +boundaries.” +</p> + +<p> +Across and across the ground in big diagonals flew the ball, and whenever it +came to a flying rush and a stroke close to the boundaries the Archangel ponies +moved stiffly. They did not care to go headlong at a wall of men and carriages, +though if the ground had been open they could have turned on a sixpence. +</p> + +<p> +“Wriggle her up the sides,” said The Cat. “Keep her close to +the crowd. They hate the carriages. Shikast, keep her up this side.” +</p> + +<p> +Shikast and Powell lay left and right behind the uneasy scuffle of an open +scrimmage, and every time the ball was hit away Shikast galloped on it at such +an angle that Powell was forced to hit it towards the boundary; and when the +crowd had been driven away from that side, Lutyens would send the ball over to +the other, and Shikast would slide desperately after it till his friends came +down to help. It was billiards, and no football, this time—billiards in a +corner pocket; and the cues were not well chalked. +</p> + +<p> +“If they get us out in the middle of the ground they’ll walk away +from us. Dribble her along the sides,” cried The Maltese Cat. +</p> + +<p> +So they dribbled all along the boundary, where a pony could not come on their +right-hand side; and the Archangels were furious, and the umpires had to +neglect the game to shout at the people to get back, and several blundering +mounted policemen tried to restore order, all close to the scrimmage, and the +nerves of the Archangels’ ponies stretched and broke like cob-webs. +</p> + +<p> +Five or six times an Archangel hit the ball up into the middle of the ground, +and each time the watchful Shikast gave Powell his chance to send it back, and +after each return, when the dust had settled, men could see that the Skidars +had gained a few yards. +</p> + +<p> +Every now and again there were shouts of “Side! Off side!” from the +spectators; but the teams were too busy to care, and the umpires had all they +could do to keep their maddened ponies clear of the scuffle. +</p> + +<p> +At last Lutyens missed a short easy stroke, and the Skidars had to fly back +helter-skelter to protect their own goal, Shikast leading. Powell stopped the +ball with a backhander when it was not fifty yards from the goalposts, and +Shikast spun round with a wrench that nearly hoisted Powell out of his saddle. +</p> + +<p> +“Now’s our last chance,” said The Cat, wheeling like a +cockchafer on a pin. “We’ve got to ride it out. Come along.” +</p> + +<p> +Lutyens felt the little chap take a deep breath, and, as it were, crouch under +his rider. The ball was hopping towards the right-hand boundary, an Archangel +riding for it with both spurs and a whip; but neither spur nor whip would make +his pony stretch himself as he neared the crowd. The Maltese Cat glided under +his very nose, picking up his hind legs sharp, for there was not a foot to +spare between his quarters and the other pony’s bit. It was as neat an +exhibition as fancy figure-skating. Lutyens hit with all the strength he had +left, but the stick slipped a little in his hand, and the ball flew off to the +left instead of keeping close to the boundary. Who’s Who was far across +the ground, thinking hard as he galloped. He repeated stride for stride The +Cat’s manoeuvres with another Archangel pony, nipping the ball away from +under his bridle, and clearing his opponent by half a fraction of an inch, for +Who’s Who was clumsy behind. Then he drove away towards the right as The +Maltese Cat came up from the left; and Bamboo held a middle course exactly +between them. The three were making a sort of Government-broad-arrow-shaped +attack; and there was only the Archangels’ back to guard the goal; but +immediately behind them were three Archangels racing all they knew, and mixed +up with them was Powell sending Shikast along on what he felt was their last +hope. It takes a very good man to stand up to the rush of seven crazy ponies in +the last quarters of a Cup game, when men are riding with their necks for sale, +and the ponies are delirious. The Archangels’ back missed his stroke and +pulled aside just in time to let the rush go by. Bamboo and Who’s Who +shortened stride to give The Cat room, and Lutyens got the goal with a clean, +smooth, smacking stroke that was heard all over the field. But there was no +stopping the ponies. They poured through the goalposts in one mixed mob, +winners and losers together, for the pace had been terrific. The Maltese Cat +knew by experience what would happen, and, to save Lutyens, turned to the right +with one last effort, that strained a back-sinew beyond hope of repair. As he +did so he heard the right-hand goalpost crack as a pony cannoned into +it—crack, splinter and fall like a mast. It had been sawed three parts +through in case of accidents, but it upset the pony nevertheless, and he +blundered into another, who blundered into the left-hand post, and then there +was confusion and dust and wood. Bamboo was lying on the ground, seeing stars; +an Archangel pony rolled beside him, breathless and angry; Shikast had sat down +dog-fashion to avoid falling over the others, and was sliding along on his +little bobtail in a cloud of dust; and Powell was sitting on the ground, +hammering with his stick and trying to cheer. All the others were shouting at +the top of what was left of their voices, and the men who had been spilt were +shouting too. As soon as the people saw no one was hurt, ten thousand native +and English shouted and clapped and yelled, and before any one could stop them +the pipers of the Skidars broke on to the ground, with all the native officers +and men behind them, and marched up and down, playing a wild Northern tune +called “Zakhme Began,” and through the insolent blaring of the +pipes and the high-pitched native yells you could hear the Archangels’ +band hammering, “For they are all jolly good fellows,” and then +reproachfully to the losing team, “Ooh, Kafoozalum! Kafoozalum! +Kafoozalum!” +</p> + +<p> +Besides all these things and many more, there was a Commander-in-chief, and an +Inspector-General of Cavalry, and the principal veterinary officer of all India +standing on the top of a regimental coach, yelling like school-boys; and +brigadiers and colonels and commissioners, and hundreds of pretty ladies joined +the chorus. But The Maltese Cat stood with his head down, wondering how many +legs were left to him; and Lutyens watched the men and ponies pick themselves +out of the wreck of the two goal-posts, and he patted The Maltese Cat very +tenderly. +</p> + +<p> +“I say,” said the Captain of the Archangels, spitting a pebble out +of his mouth, “will you take three thousand for that pony—as he +stands?” +</p> + +<p> +“No thank you. I’ve an idea he’s saved my life,” said +Lutyens, getting off and lying down at full length. Both teams were on the +ground too, waving their boots in the air, and coughing and drawing deep +breaths, as the <i>saises</i> ran up to take away the ponies, and an officious +water-carrier sprinkled the players with dirty water till they sat up. +</p> + +<p> +“My aunt!” said Powell, rubbing his back, and looking at the stumps +of the goal-posts, “That was a game!” +</p> + +<p> +They played it over again, every stroke of it, that night at the big dinner, +when the Free-for-All Cup was filled and passed down the table, and emptied and +filled again, and everybody made most eloquent speeches. About two in the +morning, when there might have been some singing, a wise little, plain little, +grey little head looked in through the open door. +</p> + +<p> +“Hurrah! Bring him in,” said the Archangels; and his <i>sais</i>, +who was very happy indeed, patted The Maltese Cat on the flank, and he limped +in to the blaze of light and the glittering uniforms, looking for Lutyens. He +was used to messes, and men’s bedrooms, and places where ponies are not +usually encouraged, and in his youth had jumped on and off a mess-table for a +bet. So he behaved himself very politely, and ate bread dipped in salt, and was +petted all round the table, moving gingerly; and they drank his health, because +he had done more to win the Cup than any man or horse on the ground. +</p> + +<p> +That was glory and honour enough for the rest of his days, and The Maltese Cat +did not complain much when the veterinary surgeon said that he would be no good +for polo any more. When Lutyens married, his wife did not allow him to play, so +he was forced to be an umpire; and his pony on these occasions was a +flea-bitten grey with a neat polo-tail, lame all round, but desperately quick +on his feet, and, as everybody knew, Past Pluperfect Prestissimo Player of the +Game. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"></a> +“BREAD UPON THE WATERS”</h2> + +<p> +If you remember my improper friend Brugglesmith, you will also bear in mind his +friend McPhee, Chief Engineer of the <i>Breslau</i>, whose dingey Brugglesmith +tried to steal. His apologies for the performances of Brugglesmith may one day +be told in their proper place: the tale before us concerns McPhee. He was never +a racing engineer, and took special pride in saying as much before the +Liverpool men; but he had a thirty-two years’ knowledge of machinery and +the humours of ships. One side of his face had been wrecked through the +bursting of a pressure-gauge in the days when men knew less than they do now, +and his nose rose grandly out of the wreck, like a club in a public riot. There +were cuts and lumps on his head, and he would guide your forefinger through his +short iron-grey hair and tell you how he had come by his trade-marks. He owned +all sorts of certificates of extra-competency, and at the bottom of his cabin +chest of drawers, where he kept the photograph of his wife, were two or three +Royal Humane Society medals for saving lives at sea. Professionally—it +was different when crazy steerage-passengers jumped +overboard—professionally, McPhee does not approve of saving life at sea, +and he has often told me that a new Hell awaits stokers and trimmers who sign +for a strong man’s pay and fall sick the second day out. He believes in +throwing boots at fourth and fifth engineers when they wake him up at night +with word that a bearing is redhot, all because a lamp’s glare is +reflected red from the twirling metal. He believes that there are only two +poets in the world; one being Robert Burns, of course, and the other Gerald +Massey. When he has time for novels he reads Wilkie Collins and Charles +Reade—chiefly the latter—and knows whole pages of <i>Very Hard +Cash</i> by heart. In the saloon his table is next to the captain’s, and +he drinks only water while his engines work. +</p> + +<p> +He was good to me when we first met, because I did not ask questions, and +believed in Charles Reade as a most shamefully neglected author. Later he +approved of my writings to the extent of one pamphlet of twenty-four pages that +I wrote for Holdock, Steiner & Chase, owners of the line, when they bought +some ventilating patent and fitted it to the cabins of the <i>Breslau</i>, +<i>Spandau</i>, and <i>Koltzau</i>. The purser of the <i>Breslau</i> +recommended me to Holdock’s secretary for the job; and Holdock, who is a +Wesleyan Methodist, invited me to his house, and gave me dinner with the +governess when the others had finished, and placed the plans and specifications +in my hand, and I wrote the pamphlet that same afternoon. It was called +“Comfort in the Cabin,” and brought me seven pound ten, cash +down—an important sum of money in those days; and the governess, who was +teaching Master John Holdock his scales, told me that Mrs. Holdock had told her +to keep an eye on me, in case I went away with coats from the hat-rack. McPhee +liked that pamphlet enormously, for it was composed in the Bouverie-Byzantine +style, with baroque and rococo embellishments; and afterwards he introduced me +to Mrs. McPhee, who succeeded Dinah in my heart; for Dinah was half a world +away, and it is wholesome and antiseptic to love such a woman as Janet McPhee. +They lived in a little twelve-pound house, close to the shipping. When McPhee +was away Mrs. McPhee read the Lloyds column in the papers, and called on the +wives of senior engineers of equal social standing. Once or twice, too, Mrs. +Holdock visited Mrs. McPhee in a brougham with celluloid fittings, and I have +reason to believe that, after she had played owner’s wife long enough, +they talked scandal. The Holdocks lived in an old-fashioned house with a big +brick garden not a mile from the McPhees, for they stayed by their money as +their money stayed by them; and in summer you met their brougham solemnly +junketing by Theydon Bois or Loughton. But I was Mrs. McPhee’s friend, +for she allowed me to convoy her westward, sometimes, to theatres where she +sobbed or laughed or shivered with a simple heart; and she introduced me to a +new world of doctors’ wives, captains’ wives, and engineers’ +wives, whose whole talk and thought centred in and about ships and lines of +ships you have never heard of. There were sailing-ships, with stewards and +mahogany and maple saloons, trading to Australia, taking cargoes of +consumptives and hopeless drunkards for whom a sea-voyage was recommended; +there were frowzy little West African boats, full of rats and cockroaches, +where men died anywhere but in their bunks; there were Brazilian boats whose +cabins could be hired for merchandise, that went out loaded nearly awash; there +were Zanzibar and Mauritius steamers and wonderful reconstructed boats that +plied to the other tide of Borneo. These were loved and known, for they earned +our bread and a little butter, and we despised the big Atlantic boats, and made +fun of the P. & O. and Orient liners, and swore by our respective +owners—Wesleyan, Baptist, or Presbyterian, as the case might be. +</p> + +<p> +I had only just come back to England when Mrs. McPhee invited me to dinner at +three o’clock in the afternoon, and the notepaper was almost bridal in +its scented creaminess. When I reached the house I saw that there were new +curtains in the window that must have cost forty-five shillings a pair; and as +Mrs. McPhee drew me into the little marble-papered hall, she looked at me +keenly, and cried: +</p> + +<p> +“Have ye not heard? What d’ ye think o’ the hat-rack?” +</p> + +<p> +Now, that hat-rack was oak—thirty shillings, at least. McPhee came +down-stairs with a sober foot—he steps as lightly as a cat, for all his +weight, when he is at sea—and shook hands in a new and awful +manner—a parody of old Holdock’s style when he says good-bye to his +skippers. I perceived at once that a legacy had come to him, but I held my +peace, though Mrs. McPhee begged me every thirty seconds to eat a great deal +and say nothing. It was rather a mad sort of meal, because McPhee and his wife +took hold of hands like little children (they always do after voyages), and +nodded and winked and choked and gurgled, and hardly ate a mouthful. +</p> + +<p> +A female servant came in and waited; though Mrs. McPhee had told me time and +again that she would thank no one to do her housework while she had her health. +But this was a servant with a cap, and I saw Mrs. McPhee swell and swell under +her <i>garance</i>-coloured gown. There is no small free-board to Janet McPhee, +nor is <i>garance</i> any subdued tint; and with all this unexplained pride and +glory in the air I felt like watching fireworks without knowing the festival. +When the maid had removed the cloth she brought a pineapple that would have +cost half a guinea at that season (only McPhee has his own way of getting such +things), and a Canton china bowl of dried lichis, and a glass plate of +preserved ginger, and a small jar of sacred and Imperial chow-chow that +perfumed the room. McPhee gets it from a Dutchman in Java, and I think he +doctors it with liqueurs. But the crown of the feast was some Madeira of the +kind you can only come by if you know the wine and the man. A little +maize-wrapped fig of clotted Madeira cigars went with the wine, and the rest +was a pale blue smoky silence; Janet, in her splendour, smiling on us two, and +patting McPhee’s hand. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll drink,” said McPhee, slowly, rubbing his chin, +“to the eternal damnation o’ Holdock, Steiner & Chase.” +</p> + +<p> +Of course I answered “Amen,” though I had made seven pound ten +shillings out of the firm. McPhee’s enemies were mine, and I was drinking +his Madeira. +</p> + +<p> +“Ye’ve heard nothing?” said Janet. “Not a word, not a +whisper?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not a word, nor a whisper. On my word, I have not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell him, Mac,” said she; and that is another proof of +Janet’s goodness and wifely love. A smaller woman would have babbled +first, but Janet is five feet nine in her stockings. +</p> + +<p> +“We’re rich,” said McPhee. I shook hands all round. +</p> + +<p> +“We’re damned rich,” he added. I shook hands all round a +second time. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll go to sea no more—unless—there’s no +sayin’—a private yacht, maybe—wi’ a small an’ +handy auxiliary.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s not enough for <i>that</i>,” said Janet. +“We’re fair rich—well-to-do, but no more. A new gown for +church, and one for the theatre. We’ll have it made west.” +</p> + +<p> +“How much is it?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Twenty-five thousand pounds.” I drew a long breath. +“An’ I’ve been earnin’ twenty-five an’ twenty +pound a month!” +</p> + +<p> +The last words came away with a roar, as though the wide world was conspiring +to beat him down. +</p> + +<p> +“All this time I’m waiting,” I said. “I know nothing +since last September. Was it left you?” +</p> + +<p> +They laughed aloud together. “It was left,” said McPhee, choking. +“Ou, ay, it was left. That’s vara good. Of course it was left. +Janet, d’ ye note that? It was left. Now if you’d put <i>that</i> +in your pamphlet it would have been vara jocose. It <i>was</i> left.” He +slapped his thigh and roared till the wine quivered in the decanter. +</p> + +<p> +The Scotch are a great people, but they are apt to hang over a joke too long, +particularly when no one can see the point but themselves. +</p> + +<p> +“When I rewrite my pamphlet I’ll put it in, McPhee. Only I must +know something more first.” +</p> + +<p> +McPhee thought for the length of half a cigar, while Janet caught my eye and +led it round the room to one new thing after another—the new vine-pattern +carpet, the new chiming rustic clock between the models of the Colombo +outrigger-boats, the new inlaid sideboard with a purple cut-glass flower-stand, +the fender of gilt and brass, and last, the new black-and-gold piano. +</p> + +<p> +“In October o’ last year the Board sacked me,” began McPhee. +“In October o’ last year the <i>Breslau</i> came in for winter +overhaul. She’d been runnin’ eight months—two hunder +an’ forty days—an’ I was three days makin’ up my +indents, when she went to dry-dock. All told, mark you, it was this side +o’ three hunder pound—to be preceese, two hunder an’ +eighty-six pound four shillings. There’s not another man could ha’ +nursed the <i>Breslau</i> for eight months to that tune. Never +again—never again! They may send their boats to the bottom, for aught I +care.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s no need,” said Janet, softly. “We’re +done wi’ Holdock, Steiner & Chase.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s irritatin’, Janet, it’s just irritatin’. I +ha’ been justified from first to last, as the world knows, but—but +I canna forgie ’em. Ay, wisdom is justified o’ her children; +an’ any other man than me wad ha’ made the indent eight hunder. Hay +was our skipper—ye’ll have met him. They shifted him to the +<i>Torgau</i>, an’ bade me wait for the <i>Breslau</i> under young +Bannister. Ye’ll obsairve there’d been a new election on the Board. +I heard the shares were sellin’ hither an’ yon, an’ the major +part of the Board was new to me. The old Board would ne’er ha’ done +it. They trusted me. But the new Board were all for reorganisation. Young +Steiner—Steiner’s son—the Jew, was at the bottom of it, +an’ they did not think it worth their while to send me word. The first I +knew—an’ I was Chief Engineer—was the notice of the +line’s winter sailin’s, and the <i>Breslau</i> timed for sixteen +days between port an’ port! Sixteen days, man! She’s a good boat, +but eighteen is her summer time, mark you. Sixteen was sheer flytin’, +kitin’ nonsense, an’ so I told young Bannister. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ve got to make it,’ he said. ’Ye should not +ha’ sent in a three hunder pound indent.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Do they look for their boats to be run on air?’ I said. ‘The +Board’s daft.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘E’en tell ’em so,’ he says. ‘I’m a +married man, an’ my fourth’s on the ways now, she +says.’” +</p> + +<p> +“A boy—wi’ red hair,” Janet put in. Her own hair is the +splendid red-gold that goes with a creamy complexion. +</p> + +<p> +“My word, I was an angry man that day! Forbye I was fond o’ the old +<i>Breslau</i>, I looked for a little consideration from the Board after twenty +years’ service. There was Board-meetin’ on Wednesday, an’ I +slept overnight in the engine-room, takin’ figures to support my case. +Well, I put it fair and square before them all. ‘Gentlemen,’ I +said, ‘I’ve run the <i>Breslau</i> eight seasons, an’ I +believe there’s no fault to find wi’ my wark. But if ye haud to +this’—I waggled the advertisement at ’em—‘this +that <i>I</i>’ve never heard of it till I read it at breakfast, I do +assure you on my professional reputation, she can never do it. That is to say, +she can for a while, but at a risk no thinkin’ man would run.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘What the deil d’ ye suppose we pass your indents +for?’ says old Holdock. ‘Man, we’re spendin’ money like +watter.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I’ll leave it in the Board’s hands,’ I said, +‘if two hunder an’ eighty-seven pound is anything beyond right and +reason for eight months.’ I might ha’ saved my breath, for the +Board was new since the last election, an’ there they sat, the damned +deevidend-huntin’ ship-chandlers, deaf as the adders o’ Scripture. +</p> + +<p> +“‘We must keep faith wi’ the public,’ said young +Steiner. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Keep faith wi’ the <i>Breslau</i>, then,’ I said. +‘She’s served you well, an’ your father before you. +She’ll need her bottom restiffenin’, an’ new bed-plates, +an’ turnin’ out the forward boilers, an’ re-turnin’ all +three cylinders, an’ refacin’ all guides, to begin with. It’s +a three months’ job.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Because one employé is afraid?’ says young Steiner. +‘Maybe a piano in the Chief Engineer’s cabin would be more to the +point.’ +</p> + +<p> +“I crushed my cap in my hands, an’ thanked God we’d no bairns +an’ a bit put by. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Understand, gentlemen,’ I said. ‘If the +<i>Breslau</i> is made a sixteen-day boat, ye’ll find another +engineer.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Bannister makes no objection,’ said Holdock. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I’m speakin’ for myself,’ I said. +‘Bannister has bairns.’ An’ then I ‘Ye can run her into +Hell an’ out again if ye pay pilotage,’ I said, ‘but ye run +without me.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘That’s insolence,’ said young Steiner. +</p> + +<p> +“‘At your pleasure,’ I said, turnin’ to go. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Ye can consider yourself dismissed. We must preserve discipline +among our employés,’ said old Holdock, an’ he looked round to see +that the Board was with him. They knew nothin’—God forgie +’em—an’ they nodded me out o’ the line after twenty +years—after twenty years. +</p> + +<p> +“I went out an’ sat down by the hall porter to get my wits again. +I’m thinkin’ I swore at the Board. Then auld +McRimmon—o’ McNaughten & McRimmon—came, oot o’ his +office, that’s on the same floor, an’ looked at me, proppin’ +up one eyelid wi’ his forefinger. Ye know they call him the Blind Deevil, +forbye he onythin’ but blind, an’ no deevil in his dealin’s +wi’ me—McRimmon o’ the Black Bird Line. +</p> + +<p> +“‘What’s here, Mister McPhee?’ said he. +</p> + +<p> +“I was past prayin’ for by then. ‘A Chief Engineer sacked +after twenty years’ service because he’ll not risk the +<i>Breslau</i> on the new timin’, an’ be damned to ye, +McRimmon,’ I said. +</p> + +<p> +“The auld man sucked in his lips an’ whistled. ‘Ah,’ +said he, ‘the new timin’. I see!’ He doddered into the +Board-room I’d just left, an’ the Dandie-dog that is just his blind +man’s leader stayed wi’ me. <i>That</i> was providential. In a +minute he was back again. ‘Ye’ve cast your bread on the watter, +McPhee, an’ be damned to you,’ he says. ‘Whaur’s my +dog? My word, is he on your knee? There’s more discernment in a dog than +a Jew. What garred ye curse your Board, McPhee? It’s expensive.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘They’ll pay more for the <i>Breslau</i>,’ I said. +‘Get off my knee, ye smotherin’ beast.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Bearin’s hot, eh?’ said McRimmon. ‘It’s +thirty year since a man daur curse me to my face. Time was I’d ha’ +cast ye doon the stairway for that.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Forgie’s all!’ I said. He was wearin’ to +eighty, as I knew. ‘I was wrong, McRimmon; but when a man’s shown +the door for doin’ his plain duty he’s not always ceevil.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘So I hear,’ says McRimmon. ‘Ha’ ye ony +objection to a tramp freighter? It’s only fifteen a month, but they say +the Blind Deevil feeds a man better than others. She’s my <i>Kite</i>. +Come ben. Ye can thank Dandie, here. I’m no used to thanks. An’ +noo,’ says he, ‘what possessed ye to throw up your berth wi’ +Holdock?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘The new timin’,’ said I. ‘The <i>Breslau</i> +will not stand it.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Hoot, oot,’ said he. ‘Ye might ha’ crammed her +a little—enough to show ye were drivin’ her—an’ brought +her in twa days behind. What’s easier than to say ye slowed for +bearin’s, eh? All my men do it, and—I believe ’em.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘McRimmon,’ says I, ‘what’s her virginity to a +lassie?’ +</p> + +<p> +“He puckered his dry face an’ twisted in his chair. ‘The +warld an’ a’,’ says he. ‘My God, the vara warld +an’ a’. (But what ha’ you or me to do wi’ virginity, +this late along?)’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘This,’ I said. ‘There’s just one thing that +each one of us in his trade or profession will <i>not</i> do for ony +consideration whatever. If I run to time I run to time, barrin’ always +the risks o’ the high seas. Less than that, under God, I have not done. +More than that, by God, I will not do! There’s no trick o’ the +trade I’m not acquaint wi’—’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘So I’ve heard,’ says McRimmon, dry as a biscuit. +</p> + +<p> +“‘But yon matter o’ fair runnin’ s just my Shekinah, +ye’ll understand. I daurna tamper wi’ <i>that</i>. Nursing weak +engines is fair craftsmanship; but what the Board ask is cheatin’, +wi’ the risk o’ manslaughter addeetional.’ Ye’ll note I +know my business. +</p> + +<p> +“There was some more talk, an’ next week I went aboard the +<i>Kite</i>, twenty-five hunder ton, simple compound, a Black Bird tramp. The +deeper she rode, the better she’d steam. I’ve snapped as much as +eleven out of her, but eight point three was her fair normal. Good food forward +an’ better aft, all indents passed wi’out marginal remarks, the +best coal, new donkeys, and good crews. There was nothin’ the old man +would not do, except paint. That was his deeficulty. Ye could no more draw +paint than his last teeth from him. He’d come down to dock, an’ his +boats a scandal all along the watter, an’ he’d whine an’ cry +an’ say they looked all he could desire. Every owner has his <i>non plus +ultra</i>, I’ve obsairved. Paint was McRimmon’s. But you could get +round his engines without riskin’ your life, an’, for all his +blindness, I’ve seen him reject five flawed intermediates, one after the +other, on a nod from me; an’ his cattle-fittin’s were guaranteed +for North Atlantic winter weather. Ye ken what <i>that</i> means? McRimmon +an’ the Black Bird Line, God bless him! +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I forgot to say she would lie down an’ fill her forward deck +green, an’ snore away into a twenty-knot gale forty-five to the minute, +three an’ a half knots an hour, the engines runnin’ sweet an’ +true as a bairn breathin’ in its sleep. Bell was skipper; an’ +forbye there’s no love lost between crews an’ owners, we were fond +o’ the auld Blind Deevil an’ his dog, an’ I’m +thinkin’ he liked us. He was worth the windy side o’ twa million +sterlin’, an’ no friend to his own blood-kin. Money’s an +awfu’ thing—overmuch—for a lonely man. +</p> + +<p> +“I’d taken her out twice, there an’ back again, when word +came o’ the <i>Breslau’s</i> breakdown, just as I prophesied. +Calder was her engineer—he’s not fit to run a tug down the +Solent—and he fairly lifted the engines off the bed-plates, an’ +they fell down in heaps, by what I heard. So she filled from the after +stuffin’-box to the after bulkhead, an’ lay star-gazing, with +seventy-nine squealin’ passengers in the saloon, till the +<i>Camaralzaman</i> o’ Ramsey & Gold’s Cartagena line gave her +a tow to the tune o’ five thousand seven hunder an’ forty pound, +wi’ costs in the Admiralty Court. She was helpless, ye’ll +understand, an’ in no case to meet ony weather. Five thousand seven +hunder an’ forty pounds, <i>with</i> costs, an’ exclusive o’ +new engines! They’d ha’ done better to ha’ kept me on the old +timin’. +</p> + +<p> +“But, even so, the new Board were all for retrenchment. Young Steiner, +the Jew, was at the bottom of it. They sacked men right an’ left, that +would not eat the dirt the Board gave ’em. They cut down repairs; they +fed crews wi’ leavin’s an’ scrapin’s; and, +reversin’, McRimmon’s practice, they hid their defeeciencies +wi’ paint an’ cheap gildin’. <i>Quem Deus vult perrdere +prrius dementat</i>, ye remember. +</p> + +<p> +“In January we went to dry-dock, an’ in the next dock lay the +<i>Grotkau</i>, their big freighter that was the <i>Dolabella</i> o’ +Piegan, Piegan & Walsh’s line in ’84—a Clyde-built iron +boat, a flat-bottomed, pigeon-breasted, under-engined, bull-nosed bitch of a +five thousand ton freighter, that would neither steer, nor steam, nor stop when +ye asked her. Whiles she’d attend to her helm, whiles she’d take +charge, whiles she’d wait to scratch herself, an’ whiles +she’d buttock into a dockhead. But Holdock and Steiner had bought her +cheap, and painted her all over like the Hoor o’ Babylon, an’ we +called her the <i>Hoor</i> for short.” (By the way, McPhee kept to that +name throughout the rest of his tale; so you must read accordingly.) “I +went to see young Bannister—he had to take what the Board gave him, +an’ he an’ Calder were shifted together from the <i>Breslau</i> to +this abortion—an’ talkin’ to him I went into the dock under +her. Her plates were pitted till the men that were paint, paint, paintin’ +her laughed at it. But the warst was at the last. She’d a great clumsy +iron twelve-foot Thresher propeller—Aitcheson designed the +<i>Kite’s</i>’—and just on the tail o’ the shaft, +behind the boss, was a red weepin’ crack ye could ha’ put a +penknife to. Man, it was an awful crack! +</p> + +<p> +“‘When d’ ye ship a new tail-shaft?’ I said to +Bannister. +</p> + +<p> +“He knew what I meant. ‘Oh, yon’s a superfeecial flaw,’ +says he, not lookin’ at me. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Superfeecial Gehenna!’ I said. ‘Ye’ll not take +her oot wi’ a solution o’ continuity that like.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘They’ll putty it up this evening,’ he said. +‘I’m a married man, an’—ye used to know the +Board.’ +</p> + +<p> +“I e’en said what was gie’d me in that hour. Ye know how a +drydock echoes. I saw young Steiner standin’ listenin’ above me, +an’, man, he used language provocative of a breach o’ the peace. I +was a spy and a disgraced employé, an’ a corrupter o’ young +Bannister’s morals, an’ he’d prosecute me for libel. He went +away when I ran up the steps—I’d ha’ thrown him into the dock +if I’d caught him—an’ there I met McRimmon, wi’ Dandie +pullin’ on the chain, guidin’ the auld man among the railway lines. +</p> + +<p> +“‘McPhee,’ said he, ‘ye’re no paid to fight +Holdock, Steiner, Chase & Company, Limited, when ye meet. What’s +wrong between you?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘No more than a tail-shaft rotten as a kail-stump. For ony sakes +go an’ look, McRimmon. It’s a comedietta.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I’m feared o’ yon conversational Hebrew,’ said +he. ‘Whaur’s the flaw, an’ what like?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘A seven-inch crack just behind the boss. There’s no power +on earth will fend it just jarrin’ off.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘When?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘That’s beyon’ my knowledge,’ I said. +</p> + +<p> +“‘So it is; so it is,’ said McRimmon. ‘We’ve all +oor leemitations. Ye’re certain it was a crack?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Man, it’s a crevasse,’ I said, for there were no +words to describe the magnitude of it. ‘An’ young Bannister’s +sayin’ it’s no more than a superfeecial flaw!’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Weell, I tak’ it oor business is to mind oor business. If +ye’ve ony friends aboard her, McPhee, why not bid them to a bit dinner at +Radley’s?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I was thinkin’ o’ tea in the cuddy,’ I said. +‘Engineers o’ tramp freighters cannot afford hotel prices.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Na! na!’ says the auld man, whimperin’. ‘Not +the cuddy. They’ll laugh at my <i>Kite</i>, for she’s no plastered +with paint like the <i>Hoor</i>. Bid them to Radley’s, McPhee, an’ +send me the bill. Thank Dandie, here, man. I’m no used to thanks.’ +Then he turned him round. (I was just thinkin’ the vara same thing.) +</p> + +<p> +‘Mister McPhee,’ said he, ‘this is <i>not</i> senile +dementia.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Preserve ’s!’ I said, clean jumped oot o’ +mysel’. ‘I was but thinkin’ you’re fey, +McRimmon.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Dod, the auld deevil laughed till he nigh sat down on Dandie. +‘Send me the bill,’ says he. ‘I’m long past champagne, +but tell me how it tastes the morn.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Bell and I bid young Bannister and Calder to dinner at Radley’s. +They’ll have no laughin’ an’ singin’ there, but we took +a private room—like yacht-owners fra’ Cowes.” +</p> + +<p> +McPhee grinned all over, and lay back to think. +</p> + +<p> +“And then?” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“We were no drunk in ony preceese sense o’ the word, but +Radley’s showed me the dead men. There were six magnums o’ dry +champagne an’ maybe a bottle o’ whisky.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean to tell me that you four got away with a magnum and a half a +piece, besides whisky?” I demanded. +</p> + +<p> +McPhee looked down upon me from between his shoulders with toleration. +</p> + +<p> +“Man, we were not settin’ down to drink,” he said. +“They no more than made us wutty. To be sure, young Bannister laid his +head on the table an’ greeted like a bairn, an’ Calder was all for +callin’ on Steiner at two in the morn an’ painting him +galley-green; but they’d been drinkin’ the afternoon. Lord, how +they twa cursed the Board, an’ the <i>Grotkau</i>, an’ the +tail-shaft, an’ the engines, an’ a’! They didna talk o’ +superfeecial flaws that night. I mind young Bannister an’ Calder +shakin’ hands on a bond to be revenged on the Board at ony reasonable +cost this side o’ losing their certificates. Now mark ye how false +economy ruins business. The Board fed them like swine (I have good reason to +know it), an’ I’ve obsairved wi’ my ain people that if ye +touch his stomach ye wauken the deil in a Scot. Men will tak’ a dredger +across the Atlantic if they’re well fed, an’ fetch her somewhere on +the broadside o’ the Americas; but bad food’s bad service the warld +over. +</p> + +<p> +“The bill went to McRimmon, an’ he said no more to me till the +week-end, when I was at him for more paint, for we’d heard the +<i>Kite</i> was chartered Liverpool-side. +</p> + +<p> +‘Bide whaur ye’re put,’ said the Blind Deevil. ‘Man, do +ye wash in champagne? The <i>Kite’s</i> no leavin’ here till I gie +the order, an’—how am I to waste paint on her, wi’ the +<i>Lammergeyer</i> docked for who knows how long an’ a’?’ +</p> + +<p> +“She was our big freighter—McIntyre was engineer—an’ I +knew she’d come from overhaul not three months. That morn I met +McRimmon’s head-clerk—ye’ll not know him—fair +bitin’ his nails off wi’ mortification. +</p> + +<p> +“‘The auld man’s gone gyte,’ says he. ‘He’s +withdrawn the <i>Lammergeyer</i>.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Maybe he has reasons,’ says I. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Reasons! He’s daft!’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘He’ll no be daft till he begins to paint,’ I said. +</p> + +<p> +“‘That’s just what he’s done—and South American +freights higher than we’ll live to see them again. He’s laid her up +to paint her—to paint her—to paint her!’ says the little +clerk, dancin’ like a hen on a hot plate. ‘Five thousand ton +o’ potential freight rottin’ in drydock, man; an’ he +dolin’ the paint out in quarter-pound tins, for it cuts him to the heart, +mad though he is. An’ the <i>Grotkau</i>—the <i>Grotkau</i> of all +conceivable bottoms—soaking up every pound that should be ours at +Liverpool!’ +</p> + +<p> +“I was staggered wi’ this folly—considerin’ the dinner +at Radley’s in connection wi’ the same. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Ye may well stare, McPhee,’ says the head-clerk. +‘There’s engines, an’ rollin’ stock, an’ iron +bridges—d’ye know what freights are noo? an’ pianos, +an’ millinery, an’ fancy Brazil cargo o’ every species +pourin’ into the <i>Grotkau</i>—the <i>Grotkau</i> o’ the +Jerusalem firm—and the <i>Lammergeyer</i>’s bein’ +painted!’ +</p> + +<p> +“Losh, I thought he’d drop dead wi’ the fits. +</p> + +<p> +“I could say no more than ‘Obey orders, if ye break owners,’ +but on the <i>Kite</i> we believed McRimmon was mad; an’ McIntyre of the +<i>Lammergeyer</i> was for lockin’ him up by some patent legal process +he’d found in a book o’ maritime law. An’ a’ that week +South American freights rose an’ rose. It was sinfu’! +</p> + +<p> +“Syne Bell got orders to tak’ the <i>Kite</i> round to Liverpool in +water-ballast, and McRimmon came to bid’s good-bye, yammerin’ +an’ whinin’ o’er the acres o’ paint he’d lavished +on the <i>Lammergeyer</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I look to you to retrieve it,’ says he. ‘I look to +you to reimburse me! ’Fore God, why are ye not cast off? Are ye +dawdlin’ in dock for a purpose?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘What odds, McRimmon?’ says Bell. ‘We’ll be a +day behind the fair at Liverpool. The <i>Grotkau</i>’s got all the +freight that might ha’ been ours an’ the +<i>Lammergeyer</i>’s.’ McRimmon laughed an’ +chuckled—the pairfect eemage o’ senile dementia. Ye ken his +eyebrows wark up an’ down like a gorilla’s. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Ye’re under sealed orders,’ said he, tee-heein’ +an’ scratchin’ himself. ‘Yon’s they’—to be +opened <i>seriatim</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“Says Bell, shufflin’ the envelopes when the auld man had gone +ashore: ‘We’re to creep round a’ the south coast, +standin’ in for orders—this weather, too. There’s no question +o’ his lunacy now.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Well, we buttocked the auld <i>Kite</i> along—vara bad weather we +made—standin’ in all alongside for telegraphic orders, which are +the curse o’ skippers. Syne we made over to Holyhead, an’ Bell +opened the last envelope for the last instructions. I was wi’ him in the +cuddy, an’ he threw it over to me, cryin’: ‘Did ye ever know +the like, Mac?’ +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll no say what McRimmon had written, but he was far from mad. +There was a sou’wester brewin’ when we made the mouth o’ the +Mersey, a bitter cold morn wi’ a grey-green sea and a grey-green +sky—Liverpool weather, as they say; an’ there we lay +choppin’, an’ the crew swore. Ye canna keep secrets aboard ship. +They thought McRimmon was mad, too. +</p> + +<p> +“Syne we saw the <i>Grotkau</i> rollin’ oot on the top o’ +flood, deep an’ double deep, wi’ her new-painted funnel an’ +her new-painted boats an’ a’. She looked her name, an’, +moreover, she coughed like it. Calder tauld me at Radley’s what ailed his +engines, but my own ear would ha’ told me twa mile awa’, by the +beat o’ them. Round we came, plungin’ an’ squatterin’ +in her wake, an’ the wind cut wi’ good promise o’ more to +come. By six it blew hard but clear, an’ before the middle watch it was a +sou’wester in airnest. +</p> + +<p> +“‘She’ll edge into Ireland, this gait,’ says Bell. I +was with him on the bridge, watchin’ the <i>Grotkau’s</i> port +light. Ye canna see green so far as red, or we’d ha’ kept to +leeward. We’d no passengers to consider, an’ (all eyes being on the +<i>Grotkau</i>) we fair walked into a liner rampin’ home to Liverpool. +Or, to be preceese, Bell no more than twisted the <i>Kite</i> oot from under +her bows, and there was a little damnin’ betwix’ the twa bridges. +“Noo a passenger”—McPhee regarded me +benignantly—“wad ha’ told the papers that as soon as he got +to the Customs. We stuck to the <i>Grotkau’s</i> tail that night +an’ the next twa days—she slowed down to five knot by my +reckonin’ and we lapped along the weary way to the Fastnet.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you don’t go by the Fastnet to get to any South American port, +do you?” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>We</i> do not. We prefer to go as direct as may be. But we were +followin’ the <i>Grotkau</i>, an’ she’d no walk into that +gale for ony consideration. Knowin’ what I did to her discredit, I +couldna blame young Bannister. It was warkin’ up to a North Atlantic +winter gale, snow an’ sleet an’ a perishin’ wind. Eh, it was +like the Deil walkin’ abroad o’ the surface o’ the deep, +whuppin’ off the top o’ the waves before he made up his mind. +They’d bore up against it so far, but the minute she was clear o’ +the Skelligs she fair tucked up her skirts an’ ran for it by Dunmore +Head. Wow, she rolled! +</p> + +<p> +“‘She’ll be makin’ Smerwick,’ says Bell. +</p> + +<p> +“‘She’d ha’ tried for Ventry by noo if she meant +that,’ I said. +</p> + +<p> +“‘They’ll roll the funnel oot o’ her, this gait,’ +says Bell. ‘Why canna Bannister keep her head to sea?’ +</p> + +<p> +“It’s the tail-shaft. Ony rollin’s better than pitchin’ +wi’ superfeecial cracks in the tail-shaft. Calder knows that much,’ +I said. +</p> + +<p> +“‘It’s ill wark retreevin’ steamers this +weather,’ said Bell. His beard and whiskers were frozen to his oilskin, +an’ the spray was white on the weather side of him. Pairfect North +Atlantic winter weather! +</p> + +<p> +“One by one the sea raxed away our three boats, an’ the davits were +crumpled like ram’s horns. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Yon’s bad,’ said Bell, at the last. ‘Ye canna +pass a hawser wi’oot a boat.’ Bell was a vara judeecious +man—for an Aberdonian. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not one that fashes himself for eventualities outside the +engine-room, so I e’en slipped down betwixt waves to see how the +<i>Kite</i> fared. Man, she’s the best geared boat of her class that ever +left Clyde! Kinloch, my second, knew her as well as I did. I found him +dryin’ his socks on the main-steam, an’ combin’ his whiskers +wi’ the comb Janet gied me last year, for the warld an’ a’ as +though we were in port. I tried the feed, speered into the stoke-hole, thumbed +all bearin’s, spat on the thrust for luck, gied ’em my +blessin’, an’ took Kinloch’s socks before I went up to the +bridge again. +</p> + +<p> +“Then Bell handed me the wheel, an’ went below to warm himself. +When he came up my gloves were frozen to the spokes an’ the ice clicked +over my eyelids. Pairfect North Atlantic winter weather, as I was sayin’. +</p> + +<p> +“The gale blew out by night, but we lay in smotherin’ cross-seas +that made the auld <i>Kite</i> chatter from stem to stern. I slowed to +thirty-four, I mind—no, thirty-seven. There was a long swell the morn, +an’ the <i>Grotkau</i> was headin’ into it west awa’. +</p> + +<p> +“‘She’ll win to Rio yet, tail-shaft or no tail-shaft,’ +says Bell. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Last night shook her,’ I said. ‘She’ll jar it +off yet, mark my word.’ +</p> + +<p> +“We were then, maybe, a hunder and fifty mile westsou’west o’ +Slyne Head, by dead reckonin’. Next day we made a hunder an’ +thirty—ye’ll note we were not racin-boats—an’ the day +after a hunder an’ sixty-one, an’ that made us, we’ll say, +Eighteen an’ a bittock west, an’ maybe Fifty-one an’ a +bittock north, crossin’ all the North Atlantic liner lanes on the long +slant, always in sight o’ the <i>Grotkau</i>, creepin’ up by night +and fallin’ awa’ by day. After the gale it was cold weather +wi’ dark nights. +</p> + +<p> +“I was in the engine-room on Friday night, just before the middle watch, +when Bell whustled down the tube: ‘She’s done it’; an’ +up I came. +</p> + +<p> +“The <i>Grotkau</i> was just a fair distance south, an’ one by one +she ran up the three red lights in a vertical line—the sign of a steamer +not under control. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Yon’s a tow for us,’ said Bell, lickin’ his +chops. ‘She’ll be worth more than the <i>Breslau</i>. We’ll +go down to her, McPhee!’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Bide a while,’ I said. ‘The seas fair throng +wi’ ships here.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Reason why,’ said Bell. ‘It’s a fortune gaun +beggin’. What d’ ye think, man?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Gie her till daylight. She knows we’re here. If Bannister +needs help he’ll loose a rocket.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Wha told ye Bannister’s need? We’ll ha’ some +rag-an’-bone tramp snappin’ her up under oor nose,’ said he; +an’ he put the wheel over. We were goin’ slow. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Bannister wad like better to go home on a liner an’ eat in +the saloon. Mind ye what they said o’ Holdock & Steiner’s food +that night at Radley’s? Keep her awa’, man—keep her +awa’. A tow’s a tow, but a derelict’s big salvage.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘E-eh!’ said Bell. ‘Yon’s an inshot o’ +yours, Mac. I love ye like a brother. We’ll bide whaur we are till +daylight’; an’ he kept her awa’. +</p> + +<p> +“Syne up went a rocket forward, an’ twa on the bridge, an’ a +blue light aft. Syne a tar-barrel forward again. +</p> + +<p> +“‘She’s sinkin’,’ said Bell. ‘It’s +all gaun, an’ I’ll get no more than a pair o’ night-glasses +for pickin’ up young Bannister—the fool!’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Fair an’ soft again,’ I said. ‘She’s +signallin’ to the south of us. Bannister knows as well as I that one +rocket would bring the <i>Kite</i>. He’ll no be wastin’ fireworks +for nothin’. Hear her ca’!’ +</p> + +<p> +“The <i>Grotkau</i> whustled an’ whustled for five minutes, +an’ then there were more fireworks—a regular exhibeetion. +</p> + +<p> +“‘That’s no for men in the regular trade,’ says Bell. +‘Ye’re right, Mac. That’s for a cuddy full o’ +passengers.’ He blinked through the night-glasses when it lay a bit thick +to southward. +</p> + +<p> +“‘What d’ ye make of it?’ I said. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Liner,’ he says. ‘Yon’s her rocket. Ou, ay; +they’ve waukened the gold-strapped skipper, an’—noo +they’ve waukened the passengers. They’re turnin’ on the +electrics, cabin by cabin. Yon’s anither rocket! They’re +comin’ up to help the perishin’ in deep watters.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Gie me the glass,’ I said. But Bell danced on the bridge, +clean dementit. ‘Mails-mails-mails!’ said he. ‘Under contract +wi’ the Government for the due conveyance o’ the mails; an’ +as such, Mac, ye’ll note, she may rescue life at sea, but she canna +tow!—she canna tow! Yon’s her night-signal. She’ll be up in +half an hour!’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Gowk!’ I said, ‘an’ we blazin’ here +wi’ all oor lights. Oh, Bell, ye’re a fool!’ +</p> + +<p> +“He tumbled off the bridge forward, an’ I tumbled aft, an’ +before ye could wink our lights were oot, the engine-room hatch was covered, +an’ we lay pitch-dark, watchin’ the lights o’ the liner come +up that the <i>Grotkau</i>’d been signallin’ to. Twenty knot an +hour she came, every cabin lighted, an’ her boats swung awa’. It +was grandly done, an’ in the inside of an hour. She stopped like Mrs. +Holdock’s machine; down went the gangway, down went the boats, an’ +in ten minutes we heard the passengers cheerin’, an’ awa’ she +fled. +</p> + +<p> +“‘They’ll tell o’ this all the days they live,’ +said Bell. ‘A rescue at sea by night, as pretty as a play. Young +Bannister an’ Calder will be drinkin’ in the saloon, an’ six +months hence the Board o’ Trade ’ll gie the skipper a pair o’ +binoculars. It’s vara philanthropic all round.’ +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll lay by till day—ye may think we waited for it +wi’ sore eyes an’ there sat the <i>Grotkau</i>, her nose a bit +cocked, just leerin’ at us. She looked paifectly ridiculous. +</p> + +<p> +“‘She’ll be fillin’ aft,’ says Bell; ‘for +why is she down by the stern? The tail-shaft’s punched a hole in her, +an’—we ’ve no boats. There’s three hunder thousand +pound sterlin’, at a conservative estimate, droonin’ before our +eyes. What’s to do?’ An’ his bearin’s got hot again in +a minute: he was an incontinent man. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Run her as near as ye daur,’ I said. ‘Gie me a jacket +an’ a lifeline, an’ I’ll swum for it.’ There was a bit +lump of a sea, an’ it was cold in the wind—vara cold; but +they’d gone overside like passengers, young Bannister an’ Calder +an’ a’, leaving the gangway down on the lee-side. It would +ha’ been a flyin’ in the face o’ manifest Providence to +overlook the invitation. We were within fifty yards o’ her while Kinloch +was garmin’ me all over wi’ oil behind the galley; an’ as we +ran past I went outboard for the salvage o’ three hunder thousand pound. +Man, it was perishin’ cold, but I’d done my job judgmatically, +an’ came scrapin’ all along her side slap on to the lower +gratin’ o’ the gangway. No one more astonished than me, I assure +ye. Before I’d caught my breath I’d skinned both my knees on the +gratin’, an’ was climbin’ up before she rolled again. I made +my line fast to the rail, an’ squattered aft to young Bannister’s +cabin, whaaur I dried me wi’ everything in his bunk, an’ put on +every conceivable sort o’ rig I found till the blood was +circulatin’. Three pair drawers, I mind I found—to begin +upon—an’ I needed them all. It was the coldest cold I remember in +all my experience. +</p> + +<p> +“Syne I went aft to the engine-room. The <i>Grotkau</i> sat on her own +tail, as they say. She was vara shortshafted, an’ her gear was all aft. +There was four or five foot o’ water in the engine-room slummockin’ +to and fro, black an’ greasy; maybe there was six foot. The stoke-hold +doors were screwed home, an’ the stoke-hold was tight enough, but for a +minute the mess in the engine-room deceived me. Only for a minute, though, +an’ that was because I was not, in a manner o’ speakin’, as +calm as ordinar’. I looked again to mak’ sure. ’T was just +black wi’ bilge: dead watter that must ha’ come in fortuitously, ye +ken.” +</p> + +<p> +“McPhee, I’m only a passenger,” I said, “but you +don’t persuade me that six foot o’ water can come into an +engine-room fortuitously.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s tryin’ to persuade one way or the other?” McPhee +retorted. “I’m statin’ the facts o’ the case—the +simple, natural facts. Six or seven foot o’ dead watter in the +engine-room is a vara depressin’ sight if ye think there’s like to +be more comin’; but I did not consider that such was likely, and so, yell +note, I was not depressed.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s all very well, but I want to know about the water,” I +said. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve told ye. There was six feet or more there, wi’ +Calder’s cap floatin’ on top.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where did it come from?” +</p> + +<p> +“Weel, in the confusion o’ things after the propeller had dropped +off an’ the engines were racin’ an’ a’, it’s vara +possible that Calder might ha’ lost it off his head an’ no troubled +himself to pick it up again. I remember seem’ that cap on him at +Southampton.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t want to know about the cap. I’m asking where the +water came from and what it was doing there, and why you were so certain that +it wasn’t a leak, McPhee?” +</p> + +<p> +“For good reason—for good an’ sufficient reason.” +</p> + +<p> +“Give it to me, then.” +</p> + +<p> +“Weel, it’s a reason that does not properly concern myself only. To +be preceese, I’m of opinion that it was due, the watter, in part to an +error o’ judgment in another man. We can a’ mak’ +mistakes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I beg your pardon?” +</p> + +<p> +“I got me to the rail again, an’, ‘What’s wrang?’ +said Bell, hailin’. +</p> + +<p> +“‘She’ll do,’ I said. ‘Send’s o’er a +hawser, an’ a man to steer. I’ll pull him in by the +life-line.’ +</p> + +<p> +“I could see heads bobbin’ back an’ forth, an’ a whuff +or two o’ strong words. Then Bell said: ‘They’ll not trust +themselves—one of ’em—in this watter—except Kinloch, +an’ I’ll no spare him.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘The more salvage to me, then,’ I said. ‘I’ll +make shift <i>solo</i>.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Says one dock-rat, at this: ‘D’ ye think she’s +safe?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I’ll guarantee ye nothing,’ I said, ‘except +maybe a hammerin’ for keepin’ me this long.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Then he sings out: ‘There’s no more than one lifebelt, +an’ they canna find it, or I’d come.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Throw him over, the Jezebel,’ I said, for I was oot +o’ patience; an’ they took haud o’ that volunteer before he +knew what was in store, and hove him over, in the bight of my life-line. So I +e’en hauled him upon the sag of it, hand over fist—a vara welcome +recruit when I’d tilted the salt watter oot of him: for, by the way, he +could na swim. +</p> + +<p> +“Syne they bent a twa-inch rope to the life-line, an’ a hawser to +that, an’ I led the rope o’er the drum of a hand-winch forward, +an’ we sweated the hawser inboard an’ made it fast to the +<i>Grotkau’s</i> bitts. +</p> + +<p> +“Bell brought the <i>Kite</i> so close I feared she’d roll in +an’ do the <i>Grotkau’s</i> plates a mischief. He hove anither +life-line to me, an’ went astern, an’ we had all the weary winch +work to do again wi’ a second hawser. For all that, Bell was right: +we’d along tow before us, an’ though Providence had helped us that +far, there was no sense in leavin’ too much to its keepin’. When +the second hawser was fast, I was wet wi’ sweat, an’ I cried Bell +to tak’ up his slack an’ go home. The other man was by way o’ +helpin’ the work wi’ askin’ for drinks, but I e’en told +him he must hand reef an’ steer, beginnin’ with steerin’, for +I was goin’ to turn in. He steered—oh, ay, he steered, in a manner +o’ speakin’. At the least, he grippit the spokes an’ twiddled +’em an’ looked wise, but I doubt if the <i>Hoor</i> ever felt it. I +turned in there an’ then, to young Bannister’s bunk, an’ +slept past expression. I waukened ragin’ wi’ hunger, a fair lump +o’ sea runnin’, the <i>Kite</i> snorin’ awa’ four knots +an hour; an’ the <i>Grotkau</i> slappin’ her nose under, an’ +yawin’ an’ standin’ over at discretion. She was a most +disgracefu’ tow. But the shameful thing of all was the food. I raxed me a +meal fra galley-shelves an’ pantries an’ lazareetes an’ +cubby-holes that I would not ha’ gied to the mate of a Cardiff collier; +an’ ye ken we say a Cardiff mate will eat clinkers to save waste. +I’m sayin’ it was simply vile! The crew had written what +<i>they</i> thought of it on the new paint o’ the fo’c’sle, +but I had not a decent soul wi’ me to complain on. There was +nothin’ for me to do save watch the hawsers an’ the +<i>Kite’s</i> tail squatterin’ down in white watter when she lifted +to a sea; so I got steam on the after donkey-pump, an’ pumped oot the +engine-room. There’s no sense in leavin’ waiter loose in a ship. +When she was dry, I went doun the shaft-tunnel, an’ found she was +leakin’ a little through the stuffin’box, but nothin’ to make +wark. The propeller had e’en jarred off, as I knew it must, an’ +Calder had been waitin’ for it to go wi’ his hand on the gear. He +told me as much when I met him ashore. There was nothin’ started or +strained. It had just slipped awa’ to the bed o’ the Atlantic as +easy as a man dyin’ wi’ due warning—a most providential +business for all concerned. Syne I took stock o’ the +<i>Grotkau’s</i> upper works. Her boats had been smashed on the davits, +an’ here an’ there was the rail missin’, an’ a +ventilator or two had fetched awa’, an’ the bridge-rails were bent +by the seas; but her hatches were tight, and she’d taken no sort of harm. +Dod, I came to hate her like a human bein’, for I was eight weary days +aboard, starvin’—ay, starvin’—within a cable’s +length o’ plenty. All day I laid in the bunk reading the +<i>Woman-Hater</i>, the grandest book Charlie Reade ever wrote, an’ +pickin’ a toothful here an’ there. It was weary, weary work. Eight +days, man, I was aboard the <i>Grotkau</i>, an’ not one full meal did I +make. Sma’ blame her crew would not stay by her. The other man? Oh I +warked him wi’ a vengeance to keep him warm. +</p> + +<p> +“It came on to blow when we fetched soundin’s, an’ that kept +me standin’ by the hawsers, lashed to the capstan, breathin’ twixt +green seas. I near died o’ cauld an’ hunger, for the <i>Grotkau</i> +towed like a barge, an’ Bell howkit her along through or over. It was +vara thick up-Channel, too. We were standin’ in to make some sort +o’ light, an’ we near walked over twa three fishin’-boats, +an’ they cried us we were overclose to Falmouth. Then we were near cut +down by a drunken foreign fruiter that was blunderin’ between us +an’ the shore, and it got thicker an’ thicker that night, an’ +I could feel by the tow Bell did not know whaur he was. Losh, we knew in the +morn, for the wind blew the fog oot like a candle, an’ the sun came +clear; and as surely as McRimmon gied me my cheque, the shadow o’ the +Eddystone lay across our tow-rope! We were that near—ay, we were that +near! Bell fetched the <i>Kite</i> round with the jerk that came close to +tearin’ the bitts out o’ the <i>Grotkau;</i> an’ I mind I +thanked my Maker in young Bannister’s cabin when we were inside Plymouth +breakwater. +</p> + +<p> +“The first to come aboard was McRimmon, wi’ Dandie. Did I tell you +our orders were to take anything we found into Plymouth? The auld deil had just +come down overnight, puttin’ two an’ two together from what Calder +had told him when the liner landed the <i>Grotkau’s</i> men. He had +preceesely hit oor time. I’d hailed Bell for something to eat, an’ +he sent it o’er in the same boat wi’ McRimmon, when the auld man +came to me. He grinned an’ slapped his legs and worked his eyebrows the +while I ate. +</p> + +<p> +“‘How do Holdock, Steiner & Chase feed their men?’ said +he. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Ye can see,’ I said, knockin’ the top off another +beer-bottle. ‘I did not sign to be starved, McRimmon.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Nor to swim, either,’ said he, for Bell had tauld him how I +carried the line aboard. ‘Well, I’m thinkin’ you’ll be +no loser. What freight could we ha’ put into the <i>Lammergeyer</i> would +equal salvage on four hunder thousand pounds—hull an’ cargo? Eh, +McPhee? This cuts the liver out o’ Holdock, Steiner, Chase & Company, +Limited. Eh, McPhee? An’ I’m sufferin’ from senile dementia +now? Eh, McPhee? An’ I’m not daft, am I, till I begin to paint the +<i>Lammergeyer?</i> Eh, McPhee? Ye may weel lift your leg, Dandie! I ha’ +the laugh o’ them all. Ye found watter in the engine-room?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘To speak wi’oot prejudice,’ I said, ‘there was +some watter.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘They thought she was sinkin’ after the propeller went. She +filled wi’ extraordinary rapeedity. Calder said it grieved him an’ +Bannister to abandon her.’ +</p> + +<p> +“I thought o’ the dinner at Radley’s, an’ what like +o’ food I’d eaten for eight days. +</p> + +<p> +“‘It would grieve them sore,’ I said. +</p> + +<p> +“‘But the crew would not hear o’ stayin’ and +workin’ her back under canvas. They’re gaun up an’ down +sayin’ they’d ha’ starved first.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘They’d ha’ starved if they’d stayed,’ +said I. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I tak’ it, fra Calder’s account, there was a mutiny +a’most.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Ye know more than I, McRimmon,’ I said. +‘Speakin’ wi’oot prejudice, for we’re all in the same +boat, <i>who</i> opened the bilgecock?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Oh, that’s it—is it?’ said the auld man, +an’ I could see he was surprised. ‘A bilge-cock, ye say?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I believe it was a bilge-cock. They were all shut when I came +aboard, but some one had flooded the engine-room eight feet over all, and shut +it off with the worm-an’-wheel gear from the second gratin’ +afterwards.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Losh!’ said McRimmon. ‘The ineequity o’ +man’s beyond belief. But it’s awfu’ discreditable to Holdock, +Steiner & Chase, if that came oot in court.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘It’s just my own curiosity,’ I said. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Aweel, Dandie’s afflicted wi’ the same disease. +Dandie, strive against curiosity, for it brings a little dog into traps +an’ suchlike. Whaur was the <i>Kite</i> when yon painted liner took off +the <i>Grotkau’s</i> people?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Just there or thereabouts,’ I said. +</p> + +<p> +“‘An’ which o’ you twa thought to cover your +lights?’ said he, winkin’. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Dandle,’ I said to the dog, ‘we must both strive +against curiosity. It’s an unremunerative business. What’s our +chance o’ salvage, Dandie?’ +</p> + +<p> +“He laughed till he choked. ‘Tak’ what I gie you, McPhee, +an’ be content,’ he said. ‘Lord, how a man wastes time when +he gets old. Get aboard the Kite, mon, as soon as ye can. I’ve clean +forgot there’s a Baltic charter yammerin’ for you at London. +That’ll be your last voyage, I’m thinkin’, excep’ by +way o’ pleasure.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Steiner’s men were comin’ aboard to take charge an’ +tow her round, an’ I passed young Steiner in a boat as I went to the +<i>Kite</i>. He looked down his nose; but McRimmon pipes up: +‘Here’s the man ye owe the <i>Grotkau</i> to—at a price, +Steiner—at a price! Let me introduce Mr. McPhee to you. Maybe ye’ve +met before; but ye’ve vara little luck in keepin’ your +men—ashore or afloat!’ +</p> + +<p> +“Young Steiner looked angry enough to eat him as he chuckled an’ +whustled in his dry old throat. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Ye’ve not got your award yet,’ Steiner says. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Na, na,’ says the auld man, in a screech ye could hear to +the Hoe, ‘but I’ve twa million sterlin’, an’ no bairns, +ye Judeeas Apella, if ye mean to fight; an’ I’ll match ye +p’und for p’und till the last p’und’s oot. Ye ken +<i>me</i>, Steiner! I’m McRimmon o’ McNaughten & +McRimmon!’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Dod,’ he said betwix’ his teeth, sittin’ back +in the boat, ‘I’ve waited fourteen year to break that Jewfirm, +an’ God be thankit I’ll do it now.’ +</p> + +<p> +“The <i>Kite</i> was in the Baltic while the auld man was warkin’ +his warks, but I know the assessors valued the <i>Grotkau</i>, all told, at +over three hunder and sixty thousand—her manifest was a treat o’ +richness—an’ McRimmon got a third for salvin’ an abandoned +ship. Ye see, there’s vast deeference between towin’ a ship +wi’ men on her an’ pickin’ up a derelict—a vast +deeference—in pounds sterlin’. Moreover, twa three o’ the +<i>Grotkau’s</i> crew were burnin’ to testify about food, an’ +there was a note o’ Calder to the Board, in regard to the tail-shaft, +that would ha’ been vara damagin’ if it had come into court. They +knew better than to fight. +</p> + +<p> +“Syne the <i>Kite</i> came back, an’ McRimmon paid off me an’ +Bell personally, an’ the rest of the crew <i>pro rata</i>, I believe +it’s ca’ed. My share—oor share, I should say—was just +twenty-five thousand pound sterlin’.” +</p> + +<p> +At this point Janet jumped up and kissed him. +</p> + +<p> +“Five-and-twenty thousand pound sterlin’. Noo, I’m fra the +North, and I’m not the like to fling money awa’ rashly, but +I’d gie six months’ pay—one hunder an’ twenty +pounds—to know <i>who</i> flooded the engine-room of the <i>Grotkau</i>. +I’m fairly well acquaint wi’ McRimmon’s eediosyncrasies, and +<i>he</i>’d no hand in it. It was not Calder, for I’ve asked him, +an’ he wanted to fight me. It would be in the highest degree +unprofessional o’ Calder—not fightin’, but openin’ +bilge-cocks—but for a while I thought it was him. Ay, I judged it might +be him—under temptation.” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s your theory?” I demanded. +</p> + +<p> +“Weel, I’m inclined to think it was one o’ those singular +providences that remind us we’re in the hands o’ Higher +Powers.” +</p> + +<p> +“It couldn’t open and shut itself?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not mean that; but some half-starvin’ oiler or, maybe, +trimmer must ha’ opened it awhile to mak’ sure o’ +leavin’ the <i>Grotkau</i>. It’s a demoralisin’ thing to see +an engine-room flood up after any accident to the gear—demoralisin’ +and deceptive both. Aweel, the man got what he wanted, for they went aboard the +liner cryin’ that the <i>Grotkau</i> was sinkin’. But it’s +curious to think o’ the consequences. In a’ human probability, +he’s bein’ damned in heaps at the present moment aboard another +tramp freighter; an’ here am I, wi’ five-an’-twenty thousand +pound invested, resolute to go to sea no more—providential’s the +preceese word—except as a passenger, ye’ll understand, +Janet.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +McPhee kept his word. He and Janet went for a voyage as passengers in the +first-class saloon. They paid seventy pounds for their berths; and Janet found +a very sick woman in the second-class saloon, so that for sixteen days she +lived below, and chatted with the stewardesses at the foot of the second-saloon +stairs while her patient slept. McPhee was a passenger for exactly twenty-four +hours. Then the engineers’ mess—where the oilcloth tables +are—joyfully took him to its bosom, and for the rest of the voyage that +company was richer by the unpaid services of a highly certificated engineer. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"></a> +AN ERROR IN THE FOURTH DIMENSION</h2> + +<p> +Before he was thirty, he discovered that there was no one to play with him. +Though the wealth of three toilsome generations stood to his account, though +his tastes in the matter of books, bindings, rugs, swords, bronzes, lacquer, +pictures, plate, statuary, horses, conservatories, and agriculture were +educated and catholic, the public opinion of his country wanted to know why he +did not go to office daily, as his father had before him. +</p> + +<p> +So he fled, and they howled behind him that he was an unpatriotic Anglomaniac, +born to consume fruits, one totally lacking in public spirit. He wore an +eyeglass; he had built a wall round his country house, with a high gate that +shut, instead of inviting America to sit on his flower-beds; he ordered his +clothes from England; and the press of his abiding city cursed him, from his +eye-glass to his trousers, for two consecutive days. +</p> + +<p> +When he rose to light again, it was where nothing less than the tents of an +invading army in Piccadilly would make any difference to anybody. If he had +money and leisure, England stood ready to give him all that money and leisure +could buy. That price paid, she would ask no questions. He took his cheque-book +and accumulated things—warily at first, for he remembered that in America +things own the man. To his delight, he discovered that in England he could put +his belongings under his feet; for classes, ranks, and denominations of people +rose, as it were, from the earth, and silently and discreetly took charge of +his possessions. They had been born and bred for that sole +purpose—servants of the cheque-book. When that was at an end they would +depart as mysteriously as they had come. +</p> + +<p> +The impenetrability of this regulated life irritated him, and he strove to +learn something of the human side of these people. He retired baffled, to be +trained by his menials. In America, the native demoralises the English servant. +In England, the servant educates the master. Wilton Sargent strove to learn all +they taught as ardently as his father had striven to wreck, before capture, the +railways of his native land; and it must have been some touch of the old bandit +railway blood that bade him buy, for a song, Holt Hangars, whose forty-acre +lawn, as every one knows, sweeps down in velvet to the quadruple tracks of the +Great Buchonian Railway. Their trains flew by almost continuously, with a +bee-like drone in the day and a flutter of strong wings at night. The son of +Merton Sargent had good right to be interested in them. He owned controlling +interests in several thousand miles of track,—not permanent +way,—built on altogether different plans, where locomotives eternally +whistled for grade-crossings, and parlor-cars of fabulous expense and unrestful +design skated round curves that the Great Buchonian would have condemned as +unsafe in a construction-line. From the edge of his lawn he could trace the +chaired metals falling away, rigid as a bowstring, into the valley of the +Prest, studded with the long perspective of the block signals, buttressed with +stone, and carried, high above all possible risk, on a forty-foot embankment. +</p> + +<p> +Left to himself, he would have builded a private car, and kept it at the +nearest railway-station, Amberley Royal, five miles away. But those into whose +hands he had committed himself for his English training had little knowledge of +railways and less of private cars. The one they knew was something that existed +in the scheme of things for their convenience. The other they held to be +“distinctly American”; and, with the versatility of his race, +Wilton Sargent had set out to be just a little more English than the English. +</p> + +<p> +He succeeded to admiration. He learned not to redecorate Holt Hangars, though +he warmed it; to leave his guests alone; to refrain from superfluous +introductions; to abandon manners of which he had great store, and to hold fast +by manner which can after labour be acquired. He learned to let other people, +hired for the purpose, attend to the duties for which they were paid. He +learned—this he got from a ditcher on the estate—that every man +with whom he came in contact had his decreed position in the fabric of the +realm, which position he would do well to consult. Last mystery of all, he +learned to golf—well: and when an American knows the innermost meaning of +“Don’t press, slow back, and keep your eye on the ball,” he +is, for practical purposes, denationalised. +</p> + +<p> +His other education proceeded on the pleasantest lines. Was he interested in +any conceivable thing in heaven above, or the earth beneath, or the waters +under the earth? Forthwith appeared at his table, guided by those safe hands +into which he had fallen, the very men who had best said, done, written, +explored, excavated, built, launched, created, or studied that one +thing—herders of books and prints in the British Museum; specialists in +scarabs, cartouches, and dynasties Egyptian; rovers and raiders from the heart +of unknown lands; toxicologists; orchid-hunters; monographers on flint +implements, carpets, prehistoric man, or early Renaissance music. They came, +and they played with him. They asked no questions; they cared not so much as a +pin who or what he was. They demanded only that he should be able to talk and +listen courteously. Their work was done elsewhere and out of his sight. +</p> + +<p> +There were also women. +</p> + +<p> +“Never,” said Wilton Sargent to himself, “has an American +seen England as I’m seeing it”; and he thought, blushing beneath +the bedclothes, of the unregenerate and blatant days when he would steam to +office, down the Hudson, in his twelve-hundred-ton ocean-going steam-yacht, and +arrive, by gradations, at Bleecker Street, hanging on to a leather strap +between an Irish washerwoman and a German anarchist. If any of his guests had +seen him then they would have said: “How distinctly American!” +and—Wilton did not care for that tone. He had schooled himself to an +English walk, and, so long as he did not raise it, an English voice. He did not +gesticulate with his hands; he sat down on most of his enthusiasms, but he +could not rid himself of The Shibboleth. He would ask for the Worcestershire +sauce: even Howard, his immaculate butler, could not break him of this. +</p> + +<p> +It was decreed that he should complete his education in a wild and wonderful +manner, and, further, that I should be in at that death. +</p> + +<p> +Wilton had more than once asked me to Holt Hangars, for the purpose of showing +how well the new life fitted him, and each time I had declared it creaseless. +His third invitation was more informal than the others, and he hinted of some +matter in which he was anxious for my sympathy or counsel, or both. There is +room for an infinity of mistakes when a man begins to take liberties with his +nationality; and I went down expecting things. A seven-foot dog-cart and a +groom in the black Holt Hangars livery met me at Amberley Royal. At Holt +Hangars I was received by a person of elegance and true reserve, and piloted to +my luxurious chamber. There were no other guests in the house, and this set me +thinking. +</p> + +<p> +Wilton came into my room about half an hour before dinner, and though his face +was masked with a drop-curtain of highly embroidered indifference, I could see +that he was not at ease. In time, for he was then almost as difficult to move +as one of my own countrymen, I extracted the tale—simple in its +extravagance, extravagant in its simplicity. It seemed that Hackman of the +British Museum had been staying with him about ten days before, boasting of +scarabs. Hackman has a way of carrying really priceless antiquities on his +tie-ring and in his trouser pockets. Apparently, he had intercepted something +on its way to the Boulak Museum which, he said, was “a genuine +Amen-Hotepa queen’s scarab of the Fourth Dynasty.” Now Wilton had +bought from Cassavetti, whose reputation is not above suspicion, a scarab of +much the same scarabeousness, and had left it in his London chambers. Hackman +at a venture, but knowing Cassavetti, pronounced it an imposition. There was +long discussion—savant <i>versus</i> millionaire, one saying: “But +I know it cannot be”; and the other: “But I can and will prove +it.” Wilton found it necessary for his soul’s satisfaction to go up +to town, then and there,—a forty-mile run,—and bring back the +scarab before dinner. It was at this point that he began to cut corners with +disastrous results. Amberley Royal station being five miles away, and putting +in of horses a matter of time, Wilton had told Howard, the immaculate butler, +to signal the next train to stop; and Howard, who was more of a man of resource +than his master gave him credit for, had, with the red flag of the ninth hole +of the links which crossed the bottom of the lawn, signalled vehemently to the +first down-train; and it had stopped. Here Wilton’s account became +confused. He attempted, it seems, to get into that highly indignant express, +but a guard restrained him with more or less force—hauled him, in fact, +backyards from the window of a locked carriage. Wilton must have struck the +gravel with some vehemence, for the consequences, he admitted, were a free +fight on the line in which he lost his hat, and was at last dragged into the +guard’s van and set down breathless. +</p> + +<p> +He had pressed money upon the man, and very foolishly had explained everything +but his name. This he clung to, for he had a vision of tall head-lines in the +New York papers, and well knew no son of Merton Sargent could expect mercy that +side the water. The guard, to Wilton’s amazement, refused the money on +the grounds that this was a matter for the Company to attend to. Wilton +insisted on his incognito, and, therefore, found two policemen waiting for him +at St. Botolph terminus. When he expressed a wish to buy a new hat and +telegraph to his friends, both policemen with one voice warned him that +whatever he said would be used as evidence against him; and this had impressed +Wilton tremendously. +</p> + +<p> +“They were so infernally polite,” he said. “If they had +clubbed me I wouldn’t have cared; but it was, ‘Step this way, +sir,’ and, ‘Up those stairs, please, sir,’ till they jailed +me—jailed me like a common drunk, and I had to stay in a filthy little +cubby-hole of a cell all night.” +</p> + +<p> +“That comes of not giving your name and not wiring your lawyer,” I +replied. “What did you get?” +</p> + +<p> +“Forty shillings, or a month,” said Wilton, +promptly,—“next morning bright and early. They were working us off, +three a minute. A girl in a pink hat—she was brought in at three in the +morning—got ten days. I suppose I was lucky. I must have knocked his +senses out of the guard. He told the old duck on the bench that I had told him +I was a sergeant in the army, and that I was gathering beetles on the track. +That comes of trying to explain to an Englishman.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I said nothing. I wanted to get out. I paid my fine, and bought a +new hat, and came up here before noon next morning. There were a lot of people +in the house, and I told ’em I’d been unavoidably detained, and +then they began to recollect engagements elsewhere. Hackman must have seen the +fight on the track and made a story of it. I suppose they thought it was +distinctly American—confound ’em! It’s the only time in my +life that I’ve ever flagged a train, and I wouldn’t have done it +but for that scarab. ’T wouldn’t hurt their old trains to be held +up once in a while.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it’s all over now,” I said, choking a little. +“And your name didn’t get into the papers. It <i>is</i> rather +transatlantic when you come to think of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Over!” Wilton grunted savagely. “It’s only just begun. +That trouble with the guard was just common, ordinary assault—merely a +little criminal business. The flagging of the train is civil, infernally +civil,—and means something quite different. They’re after me for +that now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who?” +</p> + +<p> +“The Great Buchonian. There was a man in court watching the case on +behalf of the Company. I gave him my name in a quiet corner before I bought my +hat, and—come to dinner now; I’ll show you the results +afterwards.” The telling of his wrongs had worked Wilton Sargent into a +very fine temper, and I do not think that my conversation soothed him. In the +course of the dinner, prompted by a devil of pure mischief, I dwelt with loving +insistence on certain smells and sounds of New York which go straight to the +heart of the native in foreign parts; and Wilton began to ask many questions +about his associates aforetime—men of the New York Yacht Club, Storm +King, or the Restigouche, owners of rivers, ranches, and shipping in their +playtime, lords of railways, kerosene, wheat, and cattle in their offices. When +the green mint came, I gave him a peculiarly oily and atrocious cigar, of the +brand they sell in the tessellated, electric-lighted, with +expensive-pictures-of-the-nude-adorned bar of the Pandemonium, and Wilton +chewed the end for several minutes ere he lit it. The butler left us alone, and +the chimney of the oak-panelled dining-room began to smoke. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s another!” said he, poking the fire savagely, and I +knew what he meant. One cannot put steam-heat in houses where Queen Elizabeth +slept. The steady beat of a night-mail, whirling down the valley, recalled me +to business. “What about the Great Buchonian?” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“Come into my study. That’s all—as yet.” +</p> + +<p> +It was a pile of Seidlitz-powders-coloured correspondence, perhaps nine inches +high, and it looked very businesslike. +</p> + +<p> +“You can go through it,” said Wilton. “Now I could take a +chair and a red flag and go into Hyde Park and say the most atrocious things +about your Queen, and preach anarchy and all that, y’ know, till I was +hoarse, and no one would take any notice. The Police—damn +’em!—would protect me if I got into trouble. But for a little thing +like flagging a dirty little sawed-off train,—running through my own +grounds, too,—I get the whole British Constitution down on me as if I +sold bombs. I don’t understand it.” +</p> + +<p> +“No more does the Great Buchonian—apparently.” I was turning +over the letters. “Here’s the traffic superintendent writing that +it’s utterly incomprehensible that any man should... Good heavens, +Wilton, you <i>have</i> done it!” I giggled, as I read on. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s funny now?” said my host. +</p> + +<p> +“It seems that you, or Howard for you, stopped the three-forty Northern +down.” +</p> + +<p> +“I ought to know that! They all had their knife into me, from the +engine-driver up.” +</p> + +<p> +“But it’s <i>the</i> three-forty—the Induna—surely +you’ve heard of the Great Buchonian’s Induna!” +</p> + +<p> +“How the deuce am I to know one train from another? They come along about +every two minutes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite so. But this happens to be the Induna—the one train of the +whole line. She’s timed for fifty-seven miles an hour. She was put on +early in the Sixties, and she has never been stopped—” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>I</i> know! Since William the Conqueror came over, or King Charles +hid in her smoke-stack. You’re as bad as the rest of these Britishers. If +she’s been run all that while, it’s time she was flagged once or +twice.” +</p> + +<p> +The American was beginning to ooze out all over Wilton, and his small-boned +hands were moving restlessly. +</p> + +<p> +“Suppose you flagged the Empire State Express, or the Western +Cyclone?” +</p> + +<p> +“Suppose I did. I know Otis Harvey—or used to. I’d send him a +wire, and he’d understand it was a ground-hog case with me. That’s +exactly what I told this British fossil company here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you been answering their letters without legal advice, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course I have.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, my Sainted Country! Go ahead, Wilton.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wrote ’em that I’d be very happy to see their president +and explain to him in three words all about it; but that wouldn’t do. +’Seems their president must be a god. He was too busy, and—well, +you can read for yourself—they wanted explanations. The stationmaster at +Amberley Royal—and he grovels before me, as a rule—wanted an +explanation, and quick, too. The head sachem at St. Botolph’s wanted +three or four, and the Lord High Mukkamuk that oils the locomotives wanted one +every fine day. I told ’em—I’ve told ’em about fifty +times—I stopped their holy and sacred train because I wanted to board +her. Did they think I wanted to feel her pulse?” +</p> + +<p> +“You didn’t say that?” +</p> + +<p> +“‘Feel her pulse’? Of course not.” +</p> + +<p> +“No. ‘Board her.’” +</p> + +<p> +“What else could I say?” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Wilton, what is the use of Mrs. Sherborne, and the Clays, and +all that lot working over you for four years to make an Englishman out of you, +if the very first time you’re rattled you go back to the +vernacular?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m through with Mrs. Sherborne and the rest of the crowd. +America’s good enough for me. What ought I to have said? +‘Please,’ or ‘thanks awf’ly’ or how?” +</p> + +<p> +There was no chance now of mistaking the man’s nationality. Speech, +gesture, and step, so carefully drilled into him, had gone away with the +borrowed mask of indifference. It was a lawful son of the Youngest People, +whose predecessors were the Red Indian. His voice had risen to the high, +throaty crow of his breed when they labour under excitement. His close-set eyes +showed by turns unnecessary fear, annoyance beyond reason, rapid and +purposeless flights of thought, the child’s lust for immediate revenge, +and the child’s pathetic bewilderment, who knocks his head against the +bad, wicked table. And on the other side, I knew, stood the Company, as unable +as Wilton to understand. +</p> + +<p> +“And I could buy their old road three times over,” he muttered, +playing with a paper-knife, and moving restlessly to and fro. +</p> + +<p> +“You didn’t tell ’em <i>that</i>, I hope!” +</p> + +<p> +There was no answer; but as I went through the letters, I felt that Wilton must +have told them many surprising things. The Great Buchonian had first asked for +an explanation of the stoppage of their Induna, and had found a certain levity +in the explanation tendered. It then advised “Mr. W. Sargent” to +refer his solicitor to their solicitor, or whatever the legal phrase is. +</p> + +<p> +“And you didn’t?” I said, looking up. +</p> + +<p> +“No. They were treating me exactly as if I had been a kid playing on the +cable-tracks. There was not the <i>least</i> necessity for any solicitor. Five +minutes’ quiet talk would have settled everything.” +</p> + +<p> +I returned to the correspondence. The Great Buchonian regretted that, owing to +pressure of business, none of their directors could accept Mr. W. +Sargent’s invitation to run down and discuss the difficulty. The Great +Buchonian was careful to point out that no animus underlay their action, nor +was money their object. Their duty was to protect the interests of their line, +and these interests could not be protected if a precedent were established +whereby any of the Queen’s subjects could stop a train in mid-career. +Again (this was another branch of the correspondence, not more than five heads +of departments being concerned), the Company admitted that there was some +reasonable doubt as to the duties of express-trains in all crises, and the +matter was open to settlement by process of law till an authoritative ruling +was obtained—from the House of Lords, if necessary. +</p> + +<p> +“That broke me all up,” said Wilton, who was reading over my +shoulder. “I knew I’d struck the British Constitution at last. The +House of Lords—my Lord! And, anyway, I’m not one of the +Queen’s subjects.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, I had a notion that you’d got yourself naturalised.” +</p> + +<p> +Wilton blushed hotly as he explained that very many things must happen to the +British Constitution ere he took out his papers. +</p> + +<p> +“How does it all strike you?” he said. “Isn’t the Great +Buchonian crazy?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know. You’ve done something that no one ever thought +of doing before, and the Company don’t know what to make of it. I see +they offer to send down their solicitor and another official of the Company to +talk things over informally. Then here’s another letter suggesting that +you put up a fourteen-foot wall, crowned with bottle-glass, at the bottom of +the garden.” +</p> + +<p> +“Talk of British insolence! The man who recommends <i>that</i> +(he’s another bloated functionary) says that I shall ‘derive great +pleasure from watching the wall going up day by day’! Did you ever dream +of such gall? I’ve offered ’em money enough to buy a new set of +cars and pension the driver for three generations; but that doesn’t seem +to be what they want. They expect me to go to the House of Lords and get a +ruling, and build walls between times. Are they <i>all</i> stark, raving mad? +One ’ud think I made a profession of flagging trains. How in Tophet was I +to know their old Induna from a waytrain? I took the first that came along, and +I’ve been jailed and fined for that once already.” +</p> + +<p> +“That was for slugging the guard.” +</p> + +<p> +“He had no right to haul me out when I was half-way through a +window.” +</p> + +<p> +“What are you going to do about it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Their lawyer and the other official (can’t they trust their men +unless they send ’em in pairs?) are coming here to-night. I told +’em I was busy, as a rule, till after dinner, but they might send along +the entire directorate if it eased ’em any.” +</p> + +<p> +Now, after-dinner visiting, for business or pleasure, is the custom of the +smaller American town, and not that of England, where the end of the day is +sacred to the owner, not the public. Verily, Wilton Sargent had hoisted the +striped flag of rebellion! +</p> + +<p> +“Isn’t it time that the humour of the situation began to strike +you, Wilton?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Where’s the humour of baiting an American citizen just because he +happens to be a millionaire—poor devil.” He was silent for a little +time, and then went on: “Of course. <i>Now</i> I see!” He spun +round and faced me excitedly. “It’s as plain as mud. These ducks +are laying their pipes to skin me.” +</p> + +<p> +“They say explicitly they don’t want money!” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s all a blind. So’s their addressing me as W. Sargent. +They know well enough who I am. They know I’m the old man’s son. +Why didn’t I think of that before?” +</p> + +<p> +“One minute, Wilton. If you climbed to the top of the dome of St. +Paul’s and offered a reward to any Englishman who could tell you who or +what Merton Sargent had been, there wouldn’t be twenty men in all London +to claim it.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s their insular provincialism, then. I don’t care a +cent. The old man would have wrecked the Great Buchonian before breakfast for a +pipe-opener. My God, I’ll do it in dead earnest! I’ll show +’em that they can’t bulldoze a foreigner for flagging one of their +little tinpot trains, and—I’ve spent fifty thousand a year here, at +least, for the last four years.” +</p> + +<p> +I was glad I was not his lawyer. I re-read the correspondence, notably the +letter which recommended him—almost tenderly, I fancied—to build a +fourteen-foot brick wall at the end of his garden, and half-way through it a +thought struck me which filled me with pure joy. +</p> + +<p> +The footman ushered in two men, frock-coated, grey-trousered, smooth-shaven, +heavy of speech and gait. It was nearly nine o’clock, but they looked as +newly come from a bath. I could not understand why the elder and taller of the +pair glanced at me as though we had an understanding; nor why he shook hands +with an unEnglish warmth. +</p> + +<p> +“This simplifies the situation,” he said in an undertone, and, as I +stared, he whispered to his companion: “I fear I shall be of very little +service at present. Perhaps Mr. Folsom had better talk over the affair with Mr. +Sargent.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is what I am here for,” said Wilton. +</p> + +<p> +The man of law smiled pleasantly, and said that he saw no reason why the +difficulty should not be arranged in two minutes’ quiet talk. His air, as +he sat down opposite Wilton, was soothing to the last degree, and his companion +drew me up-stage. The mystery was deepening, but I followed meekly, and heard +Wilton say, with an uneasy laugh: +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve had insomnia over this affair, Mr. Folsom. Let’s settle +it one way or the other, for heaven’s sake!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! Has he suffered much from this lately?” said my man, with a +preliminary cough. +</p> + +<p> +“I really can’t say,” I replied. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I suppose you have only lately taken charge here?” +</p> + +<p> +“I came this evening. I am not exactly in charge of anything.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see. Merely to observe the course of events in case—” He +nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly.” Observation, after all, is my trade. +</p> + +<p> +He coughed again slightly, and came to business. +</p> + +<p> +“Now,—I am asking solely for information’s sake,—do you +find the delusions persistent?” +</p> + +<p> +“Which delusions?” +</p> + +<p> +“They are variable, then? That is distinctly curious, because—but +do I understand that the <i>type</i> of the delusion varies? For example, Mr. +Sargent believes that he can buy the Great Buchonian.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did he write you that?” +</p> + +<p> +“He made the offer to the Company—on a half-sheet of note-paper. +Now, has he by chance gone to the other extreme, and believed that he is in +danger of becoming a pauper? The curious economy in the use of a half-sheet of +paper shows that some idea of that kind might have flashed through his mind, +and the two delusions can coexist, but it is not common. As you must know, the +delusion of vast wealth—the folly of grandeurs, I believe our friends the +French call it—is, as a rule, persistent, to the exclusion of all +others.” +</p> + +<p> +Then I heard Wilton’s best English voice at the end of the study: +</p> + +<p> +“My <i>dear</i> sir, I have explained twenty times already, I wanted to +get that scarab in time for dinner. Suppose you had left an important legal +document in the same way?” +</p> + +<p> +“That touch of cunning is very significant,” my +fellow-practitioner—since he insisted on it—muttered. +</p> + +<p> +“I am very happy, of course, to meet you; but if you had only sent your +president down to dinner here, I could have settled the thing in half a minute. +Why, I could have bought the Buchonian from him while your clerks were sending +me this.” Wilton dropped his hand heavily on the blue-and-white +correspondence, and the lawyer started. +</p> + +<p> +“But, speaking frankly,” the lawyer replied, “it is, if I may +say so, perfectly inconceivable, even in the case of the most important legal +documents, that any one should stop the three-forty express—the +Induna—Our Induna, my dear sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Absolutely!” my companion echoed; then to me in a lower tone: +“You notice, again, the persistent delusion of wealth. <i>I</i> was +called in when he wrote us that. You can see it is utterly impossible for the +Company to continue to run their trains through the property of a man who may +at any moment fancy himself divinely commissioned to stop all traffic. If he +had only referred us to his lawyer—but, naturally, <i>that</i> he would +not do, under the circumstances. A pity—a great pity. He is so young. By +the way, it is curious, is it not, to note the absolute conviction in the voice +of those who are similarly afflicted,—heart-rending, I might say, and the +inability to follow a chain of connected thought.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t see what you want,” Wilton was saying to the lawyer. +</p> + +<p> +“It need not be more than fourteen feet high—a really desirable +structure, and it would be possible to grow pear trees on the sunny +side.” The lawyer was speaking in an unprofessional voice. “There +are few things pleasanter than to watch, so to say, one’s own vine and +fig tree in full bearing. Consider the profit and amusement you would derive +from it. If <i>you</i> could see your way to doing this, <i>we</i> could +arrange all the details with your lawyer, and it is possible that the Company +might bear some of the cost. I have put the matter, I trust, in a nutshell. If +you, my dear sir, will interest yourself in building that wall, and will kindly +give us the name of your lawyers, I dare assure you that you will hear no more +from the Great Buchonian.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why am I to disfigure my lawn with a new brick wall?” +</p> + +<p> +“Grey flint is extremely picturesque.” +</p> + +<p> +“Grey flint, then, if you put it that way. Why the dickens must I go +building towers of Babylon just because I have held up one of your +trains—once?” +</p> + +<p> +“The expression he used in his third letter was that he wished to +‘board her,’” said my companion in my ear. “That was +very curious—a marine delusion impinging, as it were, upon a land one. +What a marvellous world he must move in—and will before the curtain +falls. So young, too—so very young!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if you want the plain English of it, I’m damned if I go +wall-building to your orders. You can fight it all along the line, into the +House of Lords and out again, and get your rulings by the running foot if you +like,” said Wilton, hotly. “Great heavens, man, I only did it +once!” +</p> + +<p> +“We have at present no guarantee that you may not do it again; and, with +our traffic, we must, in justice to our passengers, demand some form of +guarantee. It must not serve as a precedent. All this might have been saved if +you had only referred us to your legal representative.” The lawyer looked +appealingly around the room. The dead-lock was complete. +</p> + +<p> +“Wilton,” I asked, “may I try my hand now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Anything you like,” said Wilton. “It seems I can’t +talk English. I won’t build any wall, though.” He threw himself +back in his chair. +</p> + +<p> +“Gentlemen,” I said deliberately, for I perceived that the +doctor’s mind would turn slowly, “Mr. Sargent has very large +interests in the chief railway systems of his own country.” +</p> + +<p> +“His own country?” said the lawyer. +</p> + +<p> +“At that age?” said the doctor. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly. He inherited them from his father, Mr. Sargent, who was an +American.” +</p> + +<p> +“And proud of it,” said Wilton, as though he had been a Western +Senator let loose on the Continent for the first time. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear sir,” said the lawyer, half rising, “why did you not +acquaint the Company with this fact—this vital fact—early in our +correspondence? We should have understood. We should have made +allowances.” +</p> + +<p> +“Allowances be damned. Am I a Red Indian or a lunatic?” +</p> + +<p> +The two men looked guilty. +</p> + +<p> +“If Mr. Sargent’s friend had told us as much in the +beginning,” said the doctor, very severely, “much might have been +saved.” Alas! I had made a life’s enemy of that doctor. +</p> + +<p> +“I hadn’t a chance,” I replied. “Now, of course, you +can see that a man who owns several thousand miles of line, as Mr. Sargent +does, would be apt to treat railways a shade more casually than other +people.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course; of course. He is an American; that accounts. Still, it +<i>was</i> the Induna; but I can quite understand that the customs of our +cousins across the water differ in these particulars from ours. And do you +always stop trains in this way in the States, Mr. Sargent?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should if occasion ever arose; but I’ve never had to yet. Are +you going to make an international complication of the business?” +</p> + +<p> +“You need give yourself no further concern whatever in the matter. We see +that there is no likelihood of this action of yours establishing a precedent, +which was the only thing we were afraid of. Now that you understand that we +cannot reconcile our system to any sudden stoppages, we feel quite sure +that—” +</p> + +<p> +“I sha’n’t be staying long enough to flag another +train,” Wilton said pensively. +</p> + +<p> +“You are returning, then, to our fellow-kinsmen across +the—ah—big pond, you call it?” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>No</i>, sir. The ocean—the North Atlantic Ocean. It’s +three thousand miles broad, and three miles deep in places. I wish it were ten +thousand.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not so fond of sea-travel myself; but I think it is every +Englishman’s duty once in his life to study the great branch of our +Anglo-Saxon race across the ocean,” said the lawyer. +</p> + +<p> +“If ever you come over, and care to flag any train on my system, +I’ll—I’ll see you through,” said Wilton. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you—ah, thank you. You’re very kind. I’m sure I +should enjoy myself immensely.” +</p> + +<p> +“We have overlooked the fact,” the doctor whispered to me, +“that your friend proposed to buy the Great Buchonian.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is worth anything from twenty to thirty million dollars—four to +five million pounds,” I answered, knowing that it would be hopeless to +explain. +</p> + +<p> +“Really! That is enormous wealth. But the Great Buchonian is not in the +market.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps he does not want to buy it now.” +</p> + +<p> +“It would be impossible under any circumstances,” said the doctor. +</p> + +<p> +“How characteristic!” murmured the lawyer, reviewing matters in his +mind. “I always understood from books that your countrymen were in a +hurry. And so you would have gone forty miles to town and back—before +dinner—to get a scarab? How intensely American! But you talk exactly like +an Englishman, Mr. Sargent.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is a fault that can be remedied. There’s only one question +I’d like to ask you. You said it was inconceivable that any man should +stop a train on your road?” +</p> + +<p> +“And so it is—absolutely inconceivable.” +</p> + +<p> +“Any sane man, that is?” +</p> + +<p> +“That is what I meant, of course. I mean, with excep—” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you.” +</p> + +<p> +The two men departed. Wilton checked himself as he was about to fill a pipe, +took one of my cigars instead, and was silent for fifteen minutes. +</p> + +<p> +Then said he: “Have you got a list of the Southampton sailings on +you?” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Far away from the greystone wings, the dark cedars, the faultless gravel +drives, and the mint-sauce lawns of Holt Hangars runs a river called the +Hudson, whose unkempt banks are covered with the palaces of those wealthy +beyond the dreams of avarice. Here, where the hoot of the Haverstraw +brick-barge-tug answers the howl of the locomotive on either shore, you shall +find, with a complete installation of electric light, nickel-plated binnacles, +and a calliope attachment to her steam-whistle, the twelve-hundred-ton +ocean-going steam-yacht <i>Columbia</i>, lying at her private pier, to take to +his office, at an average speed of seventeen knots an hour,—and the +barges can look out for themselves,—Wilton Sargent, American. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"></a> +MY SUNDAY AT HOME</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +If the Red Slayer think he slays,<br/> + Or if the slain think he is slain,<br/> +They know not well the subtle ways<br/> + I keep and pass and turn again.<br/> + E<small>MERSON</small>. +</p> + +<p> +It was the unreproducible slid r, as he said this was his “fy-ist” +visit to England, that told me he was a New-Yorker from New York; and when, in +the course of our long, lazy journey westward from Waterloo, he enlarged upon +the beauties of his city, I, professing ignorance, said no word. He had, amazed +and delighted at the man’s civility, given the London porter a shilling +for carrying his bag nearly fifty yards; he had thoroughly investigated the +first-class lavatory compartment, which the London and Southwestern sometimes +supply without extra charge; and now, half-awed, half-contemptuous, but wholly +interested, he looked out upon the ordered English landscape wrapped in its +Sunday peace, while I watched the wonder grow upon his face. Why were the cars +so short and stilted? Why had every other freight-car a tarpaulin drawn over +it? What wages would an engineer get now? Where was the swarming population of +England he had read so much about? What was the rank of all those men on +tricycles along the roads? When were we due at Plymouth I told him all I knew, +and very much that I did not. He was going to Plymouth to assist in a +consultation upon a fellow-countryman who had retired to a place called The +Hoe—was that up-town or down-town—to recover from nervous +dyspepsia. Yes, he himself was a doctor by profession, and how any one in +England could retain any nervous disorder passed his comprehension. Never had +he dreamed of an atmosphere so soothing. Even the deep rumble of London traffic +was monastical by comparison with some cities he could name; and the +country—why, it was Paradise. A continuance of it, he confessed, would +drive him mad; but for a few months it was the most sumptuous rest-cure in his +knowledge. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll come over every year after this,” he said, in a burst +of delight, as we ran between two ten-foot hedges of pink and white may. +“It’s seeing all the things I’ve ever read about. Of course +it doesn’t strike you that way. I presume you belong here? What a +finished land it is! It’s arrived. Must have been born this way. Now, +where I used to live—Hello! what’s up?” +</p> + +<p> +The train stopped in a blaze of sunshine at Framlynghame Admiral, which is made +up entirely of the name-board, two platforms, and an overhead bridge, without +even the usual siding. I had never known the slowest of locals stop here +before; but on Sunday all things are possible to the London and Southwestern. +One could hear the drone of conversation along the carriages, and, scarcely +less loud, the drone of the bumblebees in the wallflowers up the bank. My +companion thrust his head through the window and sniffed luxuriously. +</p> + +<p> +“Where are we now?” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“In Wiltshire,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! A man ought to be able to write novels with his left hand in a +country like this. Well, well! And so this is about Tess’s country, +ain’t it? I feel just as if I were in a book. Say, the conduc—the +guard has something on his mind. What’s he getting at?” +</p> + +<p> +The splendid badged and belted guard was striding up the platform at the +regulation official pace, and in the regulation official voice was saying at +each door: +</p> + +<p> +“Has any gentleman here a bottle of medicine? A gentleman has taken a +bottle of poison (laudanum) by mistake.” +</p> + +<p> +Between each five paces he looked at an official telegram in his hand, +refreshed his memory, and said his say. The dreamy look on my companion’s +face—he had gone far away with Tess—passed with the speed of a +snap-shutter. After the manner of his countrymen, he had risen to the +situation, jerked his bag down from the overhead rail, opened it, and I heard +the click of bottles. “Find out where the man is,” he said briefly. +“I’ve got something here that will fix him—if he can swallow +still.” +</p> + +<p> +Swiftly I fled up the line of carriages in the wake of the guard. There was +clamour in a rear compartment—the voice of one bellowing to be let out, +and the feet of one who kicked. With the tail of my eye I saw the New York +doctor hastening thither, bearing in his hand a blue and brimming glass from +the lavatory compartment. The guard I found scratching his head unofficially, +by the engine, and murmuring: “Well, I put a bottle of medicine off at +Andover—I’m sure I did.” +</p> + +<p> +“Better say it again, any’ow,” said the driver. “Orders +is orders. Say it again.” +</p> + +<p> +Once more the guard paced back, I, anxious to attract his attention, trotting +at his heels. +</p> + +<p> +“In a minute—in a minute, sir,” he said, waving an arm +capable of starting all the traffic on the London and Southwestern Railway at a +wave. “Has any gentleman here got a bottle of medicine? A gentleman has +taken a bottle of poison (laudanum) by mistake.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where’s the man?” I gasped. +</p> + +<p> +“Woking. ’Ere’s my orders.” He showed me the telegram, +on which were the words to be said. “’E must have left ’is +bottle in the train, an’ took another by mistake. ’E’s been +wirin’ from Woking awful, an’, now I come to think of, it, +I’m nearly sure I put a bottle of medicine off at Andover.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then the man that took the poison isn’t in the train?” +</p> + +<p> +“Lord, no, sir. No one didn’t take poison <i>that</i> way. ’E +took it away with ’im, in ’is ’ands. ’E’s +wirin’ from Wokin’. My orders was to ask everybody in the train, +and I ’ave, an’ we’re four minutes late now. Are you +comin’ on, sir? No? Right be’ind!” +</p> + +<p> +There is nothing, unless, perhaps, the English language, more terrible than the +workings of an English railway-line. An instant before it seemed as though we +were going to spend all eternity at Framlynghame Admiral, and now I was +watching the tail of the train disappear round the curve of the cutting. +</p> + +<p> +But I was not alone. On the one bench of the down platform sat the largest +navvy I have ever seen in my life, softened and made affable (for he smiled +generously) with liquor. In his huge hands he nursed an empty tumbler marked +“L.S.W.R.”—marked also, internally, with streaks of blue-grey +sediment. Before him, a hand on his shoulder, stood the doctor, and as I came +within ear-shot, this is what I heard him say: “Just you hold on to your +patience for a minute or two longer, and you’ll be as right as ever you +were in your life. <i>I’ll</i> stay with you till you’re +better.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lord! I’m comfortable enough,” said the navvy. “Never +felt better in my life.” +</p> + +<p> +Turning to me, the doctor lowered his voice. “He might have died while +that fool conduct-guard was saying his piece. I’ve fixed him, though. The +stuff’s due in about five minutes, but there’s a heap <i>to</i> +him. I don’t see how we can make him take exercise.” +</p> + +<p> +For the moment I felt as though seven pounds of crushed ice had been neatly +applied in the form of a compress to my lower stomach. +</p> + +<p> +“How—how did you manage it?” I gasped. +</p> + +<p> +“I asked him if he’d have a drink. He was knocking spots out of the +car—strength of his constitution, I suppose. He said he’d go +’most anywhere for a drink, so I lured onto the platform, and loaded him +up. Cold-blooded people, you Britishers are. That train’s gone, and no +one seemed to care a cent.” +</p> + +<p> +“We’ve missed it,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +He looked at me curiously. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll get another before sundown, if that’s your only +trouble. Say, porter, when’s the next train down?” +</p> + +<p> +“Seven forty-five,” said the one porter, and passed out through the +wicket-gate into the landscape. It was then three-twenty of a hot and sleepy +afternoon. The station was absolutely deserted. The navvy had closed his eyes, +and now nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s bad,” said the doctor. “The man, I mean, not +the train. We must make him walk somehow—walk up and down.” +</p> + +<p> +Swiftly as might be, I explained the delicacy of the situation, and the doctor +from New York turned a full bronze-green. Then he swore comprehensively at the +entire fabric of our glorious Constitution, cursing the English language, root, +branch, and paradigm, through its most obscure derivatives. His coat and bag +lay on the bench next to the sleeper. Thither he edged cautiously, and I saw +treachery in his eye. +</p> + +<p> +What devil of delay possessed him to slip on his spring overcoat, I cannot +tell. They say a slight noise rouses a sleeper more surely than a heavy one, +and scarcely had the doctor settled himself in his sleeves than the giant waked +and seized that silk-faced collar in a hot right hand. There was rage in his +face—rage and the realisation of new emotions. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m—I’m not so comfortable as I were,” he said +from the deeps of his interior. “You’ll wait along o’ me, +<i>you</i> will.” He breathed heavily through shut lips. +</p> + +<p> +Now, if there was one thing more than another upon which the doctor had dwelt +in his conversation with me, it was upon the essential law-abidingness, not to +say gentleness, of his much-misrepresented country. And yet (truly, it may have +been no more than a button that irked him) I saw his hand travel backwards to +his right hip, clutch at something, and come away empty. +</p> + +<p> +“He won’t kill you,” I said. “He’ll probably sue +you in court, if I know my own people. Better give him some money from time to +time.” +</p> + +<p> +“If he keeps quiet till the stuff gets in its work,” the doctor +answered, “I’m all right. If he doesn’t... my name is +Emory—Julian B. Emory—193 ’Steenth Street, corner of Madison +and—” +</p> + +<p> +“I feel worse than I’ve ever felt,” said the navvy, with +suddenness. “What-did-you-give-me-the-drink-for?” +</p> + +<p> +The matter seemed to be so purely personal that I withdrew to a strategic +position on the overhead bridge, and, abiding in the exact centre, looked on +from afar. +</p> + +<p> +I could see the white road that ran across the shoulder of Salisbury Plain, +unshaded for mile after mile, and a dot in the middle distance, the back of the +one porter returning to Framlynghame Admiral, if such a place existed, till +seven forty-five. The bell of a church invisible clanked softly. There was a +rustle in the horse-chestnuts to the left of the line, and the sound of sheep +cropping close. +</p> + +<p> +The peace of Nirvana lay upon the land, and, brooding in it, my elbow on the +warm iron girder of the footbridge (it is a forty-shilling fine to cross by any +other means), I perceived, as never before, how the consequences of our acts +run eternal through time and through space. If we impinge never so slightly +upon the life of a fellow-mortal, the touch of our personality, like the ripple +of a stone cast into a pond, widens and widens in unending circles across the +aeons, till the far-off Gods themselves cannot say where action ceases. Also, +it was I who had silently set before the doctor the tumbler of the first-class +lavatory compartment now speeding Plymouthward. Yet I was, in spirit at least, +a million leagues removed from that unhappy man of another nationality, who had +chosen to thrust an inexpert finger into the workings of an alien life. The +machinery was dragging him up and down the sunlit platform. The two men seemed +to be learning polka-mazurkas together, and the burden of their song, borne by +one deep voice, was: “What did you give me the drink for?” +</p> + +<p> +I saw the flash of silver in the doctor’s hand. The navvy took it and +pocketed it with his left; but never for an instant did his strong right leave +the doctor’s coat-collar, and as the crisis approached, louder and louder +rose his bull-like roar: “What did you give me the drink for?” +</p> + +<p> +They drifted under the great twelve-inch pinned timbers of the foot-bridge +towards the bench, and, I gathered, the time was very near at hand. The stuff +was getting in its work. Blue, white, and blue again, rolled over the +navvy’s face in waves, till all settled to one rich clay-bank yellow +and—that fell which fell. +</p> + +<p> +I thought of the blowing up of Hell Gate; of the geysers in the Yellowstone +Park; of Jonah and his whale: but the lively original, as I watched it +foreshortened from above, exceeded all these things. He staggered to the bench, +the heavy wooden seat cramped with iron cramps into the enduring stone, and +clung there with his left hand. It quivered and shook, as a breakwater-pile +quivers to the rush of landward-racing seas; nor was there lacking when he +caught his breath, the “scream of a maddened beach dragged down by the +tide.” His right hand was upon the doctor’s collar, so that the two +shook to one paroxysm, pendulums vibrating together, while I, apart, shook with +them. +</p> + +<p> +It was colossal—immense; but of certain manifestations the English +language stops short. French only, the caryatid French of Victor Hugo, would +have described it; so I mourned while I laughed, hastily shuffling and +discarding inadequate adjectives. The vehemence of the shock spent itself, and +the sufferer half fell, half knelt, across the bench. He was calling now upon +God and his wife, huskily, as the wounded bull calls upon the unscathed herd to +stay. Curiously enough, he used no bad language: that had gone from him with +the rest. The doctor exhibited gold. It was taken and retained. So, too, was +the grip on the coat-collar. +</p> + +<p> +“If I could stand,” boomed the giant, despairingly, +“I’d smash you—you an’ your drinks. I’m +dyin’—dyin’—dyin’!” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s what you think,” said the doctor. “You’ll +find it will do you a lot of good”; and, making a virtue of a somewhat +imperative necessity, he added: “I’ll stay by you. If you’d +let go of me a minute I’d give you something that would settle +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve settled me now, you damned anarchist. Takin’ the +bread out of the mouth of an English workin’man! But I’ll keep +’old of you till I’m well or dead. I never did you no harm. +S’pose <i>I</i> were a little full. They pumped me out once at +Guy’s with a stummick-pump. I could see <i>that</i>, but I can’t +see this ’ere, an’ it’s killin’ of me by slow +degrees.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll be all right in half-an-hour. What do you suppose I’d +want to kill you for?” said the doctor, who came of a logical breed. +</p> + +<p> +“’Ow do <i>I</i> know? Tell ’em in court. You’ll get +seven years for this, you body-snatcher. That’s what you are—a +bloomin’ bodysnatcher. There’s justice, I tell you, in England; and +my Union’ll prosecute, too. We don’t stand no tricks with +people’s insides ’ere. They give a woman ten years for a sight less +than this. An’ you’ll ’ave to pay ’undreds an’ +’undreds o’ pounds, besides a pension to the missus. +<i>You</i>’ll see, you physickin’ furriner. Where’s your +licence to do such? <i>You</i>’ll catch it, I tell you!” +</p> + +<p> +Then I observed what I have frequently observed before, that a man who is but +reasonably afraid of an altercation with an alien has a most poignant dread of +the operations of foreign law. The doctor’s voice was flute-like in its +exquisite politeness, as he answered: +</p> + +<p> +“But I’ve given you a very great deal of +money—fif—three pounds, I think.” +</p> + +<p> +“An’ what’s three pound for poisonin’ the likes +o’ <i>me?</i> They told me at Guy’s I’d fetch +twenty—cold—on the slates. Ouh! It’s comin’ +again.” +</p> + +<p> +A second time he was cut down by the foot, as it were, and the straining bench +rocked to and fro as I averted my eyes. +</p> + +<p> +It was the very point of perfection in the heart of an English May-day. The +unseen tides of the air had turned, and all nature was setting its face with +the shadows of the horse-chestnuts towards the peace of the coming night. But +there were hours yet, I knew—long, long hours of the eternal English +twilight—to the ending of the day. I was well content to be +alive—to abandon myself to the drift of Time and Fate; to absorb great +peace through my skin, and to love my country with the devotion that three +thousand miles of intervening sea bring to fullest flower. And what a garden of +Eden it was, this fatted, clipped, and washen land! A man could camp in any +open field with more sense of home and security than the stateliest buildings +of foreign cities could afford. And the joy was that it was all mine +alienably—groomed hedgerow, spotless road, decent greystone cottage, +serried spinney, tasselled copse, apple-bellied hawthorn, and well-grown tree. +A light puff of wind—it scattered flakes of may over the gleaming +rails—gave me a faint whiff as it might have been of fresh cocoanut, and +I knew that the golden gorse was in bloom somewhere out of sight. Linnæus had +thanked God on his bended knees when he first saw a field of it; and, by the +way, the navvy was on his knees, too. But he was by no means praying. He was +purely disgustful. +</p> + +<p> +The doctor was compelled to bend over him, his face towards the back of the +seat, and from what I had seen I supposed the navvy was now dead. If that were +the case it would be time for me to go; but I knew that so long as a man trusts +himself to the current of Circumstance, reaching out for and rejecting nothing +that comes his way, no harm can overtake him. It is the contriver, the schemer, +who is caught by the Law, and never the philosopher. I knew that when the play +was played, Destiny herself would move me on from the corpse; and I felt very +sorry for the doctor. +</p> + +<p> +In the far distance, presumably upon the road that led to Framlynghame Admiral, +there appeared a vehicle and a horse—the one ancient fly that almost +every village can produce at need. This thing was advancing, unpaid by me, +towards the station; would have to pass along the deep-cut lane, below the +railway-bridge, and come out on the doctor’s side. I was in the centre of +things, so all sides were alike to me. Here, then, was my machine from the +machine. When it arrived; something would happen, or something else. For the +rest, I owned my deeply interested soul. +</p> + +<p> +The doctor, by the seat, turned so far as his cramped position allowed, his +head over his left shoulder, and laid his right hand upon his lips. I threw +back my hat and elevated my eyebrows in the form of a question. The doctor shut +his eyes and nodded his head slowly twice or thrice, beckoning me to come. I +descended cautiously, and it was as the signs had told. The navvy was asleep, +empty to the lowest notch; yet his hand clutched still the doctor’s +collar, and at the lightest movement (the doctor was really very cramped) +tightened mechanically, as the hand of a sick woman tightens on that of the +watcher. He had dropped, squatting almost upon his heels, and, falling lower, +had dragged the doctor over to the left. +</p> + +<p> +The doctor thrust his right hand, which was free, into his pocket, drew forth +some keys, and shook his head. The navvy gurgled in his sleep. Silently I dived +into my pocket, took out one sovereign, and held it up between finger and +thumb. Again the doctor shook his head. Money was not what was lacking to his +peace. His bag had fallen from the seat to the ground. He looked towards it, +and opened his mouth-O-shape. The catch was not a difficult one, and when I had +mastered it, the doctor’s right forefinger was sawing the air. With an +immense caution, I extracted from the bag such a knife as they use for cutting +collops off legs. The doctor frowned, and with his first and second fingers +imitated the action of scissors. Again I searched, and found a most diabolical +pair of cock-nosed shears, capable of vandyking the interiors of elephants. The +doctor then slowly lowered his left shoulder till the navvy’s right wrist +was supported by the bench, pausing a moment as the spent volcano rumbled anew. +Lower and lower the doctor sank, kneeling now by the navvy’s side, till +his head was on a level with, and just in front of, the great hairy fist, +and—there was no tension on the coat-collar. Then light dawned on me. +</p> + +<p> +Beginning a little to the right of the spinal column, I cut a huge demilune out +of his new spring overcoat, bringing it round as far under his left side (which +was the right side of the navvy) as I dared. Passing thence swiftly to the back +of the seat, and reaching between the splines, I sawed through the silk-faced +front on the left-hand side of the coat till the two cuts joined. +</p> + +<p> +Cautiously as the box-turtle of his native heath, the doctor drew away sideways +and to the right, with the air of a frustrated burglar coming out from under a +bed, and stood up free, one black diagonal shoulder projecting through the grey +of his ruined overcoat. I returned the scissors to the bag, snapped the catch, +and held all out to him as the wheels of the fly rang hollow under the railway +arch. +</p> + +<p> +It came at a footpace past the wicket-gate of the station, and the doctor +stopped it with a whisper. It was going some five miles across country to bring +home from church some one,—I could not catch the name,—because his +own carriage-horses were lame. Its destination happened to be the one place in +all the world that the doctor was most burningly anxious to visit, and he +promised the driver untold gold to drive to some ancient flame of +his—Helen Blazes, she was called. +</p> + +<p> +“Aren’t you coming, too?” he said, bundling his overcoat into +his bag. +</p> + +<p> +Now the fly had been so obviously sent to the doctor, and to no one else, that +I had no concern with it. Our roads, I saw, divided, and there was, further, a +need upon me to laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall stay here,” I said. “It’s a very pretty +country.” +</p> + +<p> +“My God!” he murmured, as softly as he shut the door, and I felt +that it was a prayer. +</p> + +<p> +Then he went out of my life, and I shaped my course for the railway-bridge. It +was necessary to pass by the bench once more, but the wicket was between us. +The departure of the fly had waked the navvy. He crawled on to the seat, and +with malignant eyes watched the driver flog down the road. +</p> + +<p> +“The man inside o’ that,” he called, “’as +poisoned me. ’E’s a body-snatcher. ’E’s comin’ +back again when I’m cold. ’Ere’s my evidence!” +</p> + +<p> +He waved his share of the overcoat, and I went my way, because I was hungry. +Framlynghame Admiral village is a good two miles from the station, and I waked +the holy calm of the evening every step of that way with shouts and yells, +casting myself down in the flank of the good green hedge when I was too weak to +stand. There was an inn,—a blessed inn with a thatched roof, and peonies +in the garden,—and I ordered myself an upper chamber in which the +Foresters held their courts for the laughter was not all out of me. A +bewildered woman brought me ham and eggs, and I leaned out of the mullioned +window, and laughed between mouthfuls. I sat long above the beer and the +perfect smoke that followed, till the lights changed in the quiet street, and I +began to think of the seven forty-five down, and all that world of the +“Arabian Nights” I had quitted. +</p> + +<p> +Descending, I passed a giant in moleskins who filled the low-ceiled tap-room. +Many empty plates stood before him, and beyond them a fringe of the +Framlynghame Admiralty, to whom he was unfolding a wondrous tale of anarchy, of +body-snatching, of bribery, and the Valley of the Shadow from the which he was +but newly risen. And as he talked he ate, and as he ate he drank, for there was +much room in him; and anon he paid royally, speaking of Justice and the Law, +before whom all Englishmen are equal, and all foreigners and anarchists vermin +and slime. +</p> + +<p> +On my way to the station, he passed me with great strides, his head high among +the low-flying bats, his feet firm on the packed road-metal, his fists +clinched, and his breath coming sharply. There was a beautiful smell in the +air—the smell of white dust, bruised nettles, and smoke, that brings +tears to the throat of a man who sees his country but seldom—a smell like +the echoes of the lost talk of lovers; the infinitely suggestive odour of an +immemorial civilisation. It was a perfect walk; and, lingering on every step, I +came to the station just as the one porter lighted the last of a truckload of +lamps, and set them back in the lamp-room, while he dealt tickets to four or +five of the population who, not contented with their own peace, thought fit to +travel. It was no ticket that the navvy seemed to need. He was sitting on a +bench, wrathfully grinding a tumbler into fragments with his heel. I abode in +obscurity at the end of the platform, interested as ever, thank Heaven, in my +surroundings. There was a jar of wheels on the road. The navvy rose as they +approached, strode through the wicket, and laid a hand upon a horse’s +bridle that brought the beast up on his hireling hind legs. It was the +providential fly coming back, and for a moment I wondered whether the doctor +had been mad enough to revisit his practice. +</p> + +<p> +“Get away; you’re drunk,” said the driver. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not,” said the navvy. “I’ve been +waitin’ ’ere hours and hours. Come out, you beggar inside +there!” +</p> + +<p> +“Go on, driver,” said a voice I did not know—a crisp, clear, +English voice. +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” said the navvy. “You wouldn’t ’ear +me when I was polite. <i>Now</i> will you come?” +</p> + +<p> +There was a chasm in the side of the fly, for he had wrenched the door bodily +off its hinges, and was feeling within purposefully. A well-booted leg rewarded +him, and there came out, not with delight, hopping on one foot, a round and +grey-haired Englishman, from whose armpits dropped hymn-books, but from his +mouth an altogether different service of song. +</p> + +<p> +“Come on, you bloomin’ body-snatcher! You thought I was dead, did +you?” roared the navvy. And the respectable gentleman came accordingly, +inarticulate with rage. +</p> + +<p> +“Ere’s a man murderin’ the Squire,” the driver shouted, +and fell from his box upon the navvy’s neck. +</p> + +<p> +To do them justice, the people of Framlynghame Admiral, so many as were on the +platform, rallied to the call in the best spirit of feudalism. It was the one +porter who beat the navvy on the nose with a ticket-punch, but it was the three +third-class tickets who attached themselves to his legs and freed the captive. +</p> + +<p> +“Send for a constable! lock him up!” said that man, adjusting his +collar; and unitedly they cast him into the lamp-room, and turned the key, +while the driver mourned over the wrecked fly. +</p> + +<p> +Till then the navvy, whose only desire was justice, had kept his temper nobly. +Then he went Berserk before our amazed eyes. The door of the lamp-room was +generously constructed, and would not give an inch, but the window he tore from +its fastenings and hurled outwards. The one porter counted the damage in a loud +voice, and the others, arming themselves with agricultural implements from the +station garden, kept up a ceaseless winnowing before the window, themselves +backed close to the wall, and bade the prisoner think of the gaol. He answered +little to the point, so far as they could understand; but seeing that his exit +was impeded, he took a lamp and hurled it through the wrecked sash. It fell on +the metals and went out. With inconceivable velocity, the others, fifteen in +all, followed, looking like rockets in the gloom, and with the last (he could +have had no plan) the Berserk rage left him as the doctor’s deadly +brewage waked up, under the stimulus of violent exercise and a very full meal, +to one last cataclysmal exhibition, and—we heard the whistle of the seven +forty-five down. +</p> + +<p> +They were all acutely interested in as much of the wreck as they could see, for +the station smelt to Heaven of oil, and the engine skittered over broken glass +like a terrier in a cucumber-frame. The guard had to hear of it, and the Squire +had his version of the brutal assault, and heads were out all along the +carriages as I found me a seat. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the row?” said a young man, as I entered. “Man +drunk?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, the symptoms, so far as my observation has gone, more resemble +those of Asiatic cholera than anything else,” I answered, slowly and +judicially, that every word might carry weight in the appointed scheme of +things. Up till then, you will observe, I had taken no part in that war. +</p> + +<p> +He was an Englishman, but he collected his belongings as swiftly as had the +American, ages before, and leaped upon the platform, crying: “Can I be of +any service? I’m a doctor.” +</p> + +<p> +From the lamp-room I heard a wearied voice wailing “Another +bloomin’ doctor!” +</p> + +<p> +And the seven forty-five carried me on, a step nearer to Eternity, by the road +that is worn and seamed and channelled with the passions, and weaknesses, and +warring interests of man who is immortal and master of his fate. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"></a> +THE BRUSHWOOD BOY</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Girls and boys, come out to play<br/> +The moon is shining as bright as day!<br/> +Leave your supper and leave your sleep,<br/> +And come with your playfellows out in the street!<br/> +Up the ladder and down the wall— +</p> + +<p> +A child of three sat up in his crib and screamed at the top of his voice, his +fists clinched and his eyes full of terror. At first no one heard, for his +nursery was in the west wing, and the nurse was talking to a gardener among the +laurels. Then the housekeeper passed that way, and hurried to soothe him. He +was her special pet, and she disapproved of the nurse. +</p> + +<p> +“What was it, then? What was it, then? There’s nothing to frighten +him, Georgie dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was—it was a policeman! He was on the Down—I saw him! He +came in. Jane said he would.” +</p> + +<p> +“Policemen don’t come into houses, dearie. Turn over, and take my +hand.” +</p> + +<p> +“I saw him—on the Down. He came here. Where is your hand, +Harper?” +</p> + +<p> +The housekeeper waited till the sobs changed to the regular breathing of sleep +before she stole out. +</p> + +<p> +“Jane, what nonsense have you been telling Master Georgie about +policemen?” +</p> + +<p> +“I haven’t told him anything.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have. He’s been dreaming about them.” +</p> + +<p> +“We met Tisdall on Dowhead when we were in the donkey-cart this morning. +P’r’aps that’s what put it into his head.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Now you aren’t going to frighten the child into fits with your +silly tales, and the master know nothing about it. If ever I catch you +again,” etc. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +A child of six was telling himself stories as he lay in bed. It was a new +power, and he kept it a secret. A month before it had occurred to him to carry +on a nursery tale left unfinished by his mother, and he was delighted to find +the tale as it came out of his own head just as surprising as though he were +listening to it “all new from the beginning.” There was a prince in +that tale, and he killed dragons, but only for one night. Ever afterwards +Georgie dubbed himself prince, pasha, giant-killer, and all the rest (you see, +he could not tell any one, for fear of being laughed at), and his tales faded +gradually into dreamland, where adventures were so many that he could not +recall the half of them. They all began in the same way, or, as Georgie +explained to the shadows of the night-light, there was “the same +starting-off place”—a pile of brushwood stacked somewhere near a +beach; and round this pile Georgie found himself running races with little boys +and girls. These ended, ships ran high up the dry land and opened into +cardboard boxes; or gilt-and-green iron railings that surrounded beautiful +gardens turned all soft and could be walked through and overthrown so long as +he remembered it was only a dream. He could never hold that knowledge more than +a few seconds ere things became real, and instead of pushing down houses full +of grown-up people (a just revenge), he sat miserably upon gigantic door-steps +trying to sing the multiplication-table up to four times six. +</p> + +<p> +The princess of his tales was a person of wonderful beauty (she came from the +old illustrated edition of Grimm, now out of print), and as she always +applauded Georgie’s valour among the dragons and buffaloes, he gave her +the two finest names he had ever heard in his life—Annie and Louise, +pronounced “Annie<i>an</i>louise.” When the dreams swamped the +stories, she would change into one of the little girls round the +brushwood-pile, still keeping her title and crown. She saw Georgie drown once +in a dream-sea by the beach (it was the day after he had been taken to bathe in +a real sea by his nurse); and he said as he sank: “Poor +Annie<i>an</i>louise! She’ll be sorry for me now!” But +“Annie<i>an</i>louise,” walking slowly on the beach, called, +“‘Ha! ha!’ said the duck, laughing,” which to a waking +mind might not seem to bear on the situation. It consoled Georgie at once, and +must have been some kind of spell, for it raised the bottom of the deep, and he +waded out with a twelve-inch flower-pot on each foot. As he was strictly +forbidden to meddle with flower-pots in real life, he felt triumphantly wicked. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +The movements of the grown-ups, whom Georgie tolerated, but did not pretend to +understand, removed his world, when he was seven years old, to a place called +“Oxford-on-a-visit. “Here were huge buildings surrounded by vast +prairies, with streets of infinite length, and, above all, something called the +“buttery,” which Georgie was dying to see, because he knew it must +be greasy, and therefore delightful. He perceived how correct were his +judgments when his nurse led him through a stone arch into the presence of an +enormously fat man, who asked him if he would like some, bread and cheese. +Georgie was used to eat all round the clock, so he took what +“buttery” gave him, and would have taken some brown liquid called +“auditale” but that his nurse led him away to an afternoon +performance of a thing called “Pepper’s Ghost.” This was +intensely thrilling. People’s heads came off and flew all over the stage, +and skeletons danced bone by bone, while Mr. Pepper himself, beyond question a +man of the worst, waved his arms and flapped a long gown, and in a deep bass +voice (Georgie had never heard a man sing before) told of his sorrows +unspeakable. Some grown-up or other tried to explain that the illusion was made +with mirrors, and that there was no need to be frightened. Georgie did not know +what illusions were, but he did know that a mirror was the looking-glass with +the ivory handle on his mother’s dressing-table. Therefore the +“grown-up” was “just saying things” after the +distressing custom of “grown-ups,” and Georgie cast about for +amusement between scenes. Next to him sat a little girl dressed all in black, +her hair combed off her forehead exactly like the girl in the book called +“Alice in Wonderland,” which had been given him on his last +birthday. The little girl looked at Georgie, and Georgie looked at her. There +seemed to be no need of any further introduction. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve got a cut on my thumb,” said he. It was the first work +of his first real knife, a savage triangular hack, and he esteemed it a most +valuable possession. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m tho thorry!” she lisped. “Let me look +pleathe.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s a di-ack-lum plaster on, but it’s all raw +under,” Georgie answered, complying. +</p> + +<p> +“Dothent it hurt?”—her grey eyes were full of pity and +interest. +</p> + +<p> +“Awf’ly. Perhaps it will give me lockjaw.” +</p> + +<p> +“It lookth very horrid. I’m <i>tho</i> thorry!” She put a +forefinger to his hand, and held her head sidewise for a better view. +</p> + +<p> +Here the nurse turned, and shook him severely. “You mustn’t talk to +strange little girls, Master Georgie.” +</p> + +<p> +“She isn’t strange. She’s very nice. I like her, an’ +I’ve showed her my new cut.” +</p> + +<p> +“The idea! You change places with me.” +</p> + +<p> +She moved him over, and shut out the little girl from his view, while the +grown-up behind renewed the futile explanations. +</p> + +<p> +“I am <i>not</i> afraid, truly,” said the boy, wriggling in +despair; “but why don’t you go to sleep in the afternoons, same as +Provost of Oriel?” +</p> + +<p> +Georgie had been introduced to a grown-up of that name, who slept in his +presence without apology. Georgie understood that he was the most important +grown-up in Oxford; hence he strove to gild his rebuke with flatteries. This +grown-up did not seem to like it, but he collapsed, and Georgie lay back in his +seat, silent and enraptured. Mr. Pepper was singing again, and the deep, +ringing voice, the red fire, and the misty, waving gown all seemed to be mixed +up with the little girl who had been so kind about his cut. When the +performance was ended she nodded to Georgie, and Georgie nodded in return. He +spoke no more than was necessary till bedtime, but meditated on new colors and +sounds and lights and music and things as far as he understood them; the +deep-mouthed agony of Mr. Pepper mingling with the little girl’s lisp. +That night he made a new tale, from which he shamelessly removed the +Rapunzel-Rapunzel-let-down-your-hair princess, gold crown, Grimm edition, and +all, and put a new Annie<i>an</i>louise in her place. So it was perfectly right +and natural that when he came to the brushwood-pile he should find her waiting +for him, her hair combed off her forehead more like Alice in Wonderland than +ever, and the races and adventures began. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Ten years at an English public school do not encourage dreaming. Georgie won +his growth and chest measurement, and a few other things which did not appear +in the bills, under a system of cricket, foot-ball, and paper-chases, from four +to five days a week, which provided for three lawful cuts of a ground-ash if +any boy absented himself from these entertainments. He became a +rumple-collared, dusty-hatted fag of the Lower Third, and a light half-back at +Little Side foot-ball; was pushed and prodded through the slack backwaters of +the Lower Fourth, where the raffle of a school generally accumulates; won his +“second-fifteen” cap at foot-ball, enjoyed the dignity of a study +with two companions in it, and began to look forward to office as a +sub-prefect. At last he blossomed into full glory as head of the school, +ex-officio captain of the games; head of his house, where he and his +lieutenants preserved discipline and decency among seventy boys from twelve to +seventeen; general arbiter in the quarrels that spring up among the touchy +Sixth—and intimate friend and ally of the Head himself. When he stepped +forth in the black jersey, white knickers, and black stockings of the First +Fifteen, the new match-ball under his arm, and his old and frayed cap at the +back of his head, the small fry of the lower forms stood apart and worshipped, +and the “new caps” of the team talked to him ostentatiously, that +the world might see. And so, in summer, when he came back to the pavilion after +a slow but eminently safe game, it mattered not whether he had made nothing or, +as once happened, a hundred and three, the school shouted just the same, and +women-folk who had come to look at the match looked at Cottar—Cottar, +<i>major;</i> “that’s Cottar!” Above all, he was responsible +for that thing called the tone of the school, and few realise with what +passionate devotion a certain type of boy throws himself into this work. Home +was a faraway country, full of ponies and fishing and shooting, and +men-visitors who interfered with one’s plans; but school was the real +world, where things of vital importance happened, and crises arose that must be +dealt with promptly and quietly. Not for nothing was it written, “Let the +Consuls look to it that the Republic takes no harm,” and Georgie was glad +to be back in authority when the holidays ended. Behind him, but not too near, +was the wise and temperate Head, now suggesting the wisdom of the serpent, now +counselling the mildness of the dove; leading him on to see, more by half-hints +than by any direct word, how boys and men are all of a piece, and how he who +can handle the one will assuredly in time control the other. +</p> + +<p> +For the rest, the school was not encouraged to dwell on its emotions, but +rather to keep in hard condition, to avoid false quantities, and to enter the +army direct, without the help of the expensive London crammer, under whose roof +young blood learns too much. Cottar, <i>major</i>, went the way of hundreds +before him. The Head gave him six months’ final polish, taught him what +kind of answers best please a certain kind of examiners, and handed him over to +the properly constituted authorities, who passed him into Sandhurst. Here he +had sense enough to see that he was in the Lower Third once more, and behaved +with respect toward his seniors, till they in turn respected him, and he was +promoted to the rank of corporal, and sat in authority over mixed peoples with +all the vices of men and boys combined. His reward was another string of +athletic cups, a good-conduct sword, and, at last, Her Majesty’s +commission as a subaltern in a first-class line regiment. He did not know that +he bore with him from school and college a character worth much fine gold, but +was pleased to find his mess so kindly. He had plenty of money of his own; his +training had set the public school mask upon his face, and had taught him how +many were the “things no fellow can do.” By virtue of the same +training he kept his pores open and his mouth shut. +</p> + +<p> +The regular working of the Empire shifted his world to India, where he tasted +utter loneliness in subaltern’s quarters,—one room and one +bullock-trunk,—and, with his mess, learned the new life from the +beginning. But there were horses in the land-ponies at reasonable price; there +was polo for such as could afford it; there were the disreputable remnants of a +pack of hounds; and Cottar worried his way along without too much despair. It +dawned on him that a regiment in India was nearer the chance of active service +than he had conceived, and that a man might as well study his profession. A +major of the new school backed this idea with enthusiasm, and he and Cottar +accumulated a library of military works, and read and argued and disputed far +into the nights. But the adjutant said the old thing: “Get to know your +men, young un, and they’ll follow you anywhere. That’s all you +want—know your men.” Cottar thought he knew them fairly well at +cricket and the regimental sports, but he never realised the true inwardness of +them till he was sent off with a detachment of twenty to sit down in a mud fort +near a rushing river which was spanned by a bridge of boats. When the floods +came they went forth and hunted strayed pontoons along the banks. Otherwise +there was nothing to do, and the men got drunk, gambled, and quarrelled. They +were a sickly crew, for a junior subaltern is by custom saddled with the worst +men. Cottar endured their rioting as long as he could, and then sent +down-country for a dozen pairs of boxing-gloves. +</p> + +<p> +“I wouldn’t blame you for fightin’,” said he, “if +you only knew how to use your hands; but you don’t. Take these things, +and I’ll show you.” The men appreciated his efforts. Now, instead +of blaspheming and swearing at a comrade, and threatening to shoot him, they +could take him apart, and soothe themselves to exhaustion. As one explained +whom Cottar found with a shut eye and a diamond-shaped mouth spitting blood +through an embrasure: “We tried it with the gloves, sir, for twenty +minutes, and <i>that</i> done us no good, sir. Then we took off the gloves and +tried it that way for another twenty minutes, same as you showed us, sir, +an’ that done us a world o’ good. ’T wasn’t +fightin’, sir; there was a bet on.” +</p> + +<p> +Cottar dared not laugh, but he invited his men to other sports, such as racing +across country in shirt and trousers after a trail of torn paper, and to +single-stick in the evenings, till the native population, who had a lust for +sport in every form, wished to know whether the white men understood wrestling. +They sent in an ambassador, who took the soldiers by the neck and threw them +about the dust; and the entire command were all for this new game. They spent +money on learning new falls and holds, which was better than buying other +doubtful commodities; and the peasantry grinned five deep round the +tournaments. +</p> + +<p> +That detachment, who had gone up in bullock-carts, returned to headquarters at +an average rate of thirty miles a day, fair heel-and-toe; no sick, no +prisoners, and no court martials pending. They scattered themselves among their +friends, singing the praises of their lieutenant and looking for causes of +offense. +</p> + +<p> +“How did you do it, young un?” the adjutant asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I sweated the beef off ’em, and then I sweated some muscle on +to ’em. It was rather a lark.” +</p> + +<p> +“If that’s your way of lookin’ at it, we can give you all the +larks you want. Young Davies isn’t feelin’ quite fit, and +he’s next for detachment duty. Care to go for him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sure he wouldn’t mind? I don’t want to shove myself forward, +you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“You needn’t bother on Davies’s account. We’ll give you +the sweepin’s of the corps, and you can see what you can make of +’em.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” said Cottar. “It’s better fun than +loafin’ about cantonments.” +</p> + +<p> +“Rummy thing,” said the adjutant, after Cottar had returned to his +wilderness with twenty other devils worse than the first. “If Cottar only +knew it, half the women in the station would give their eyes—confound +’em!—to have the young un in tow.” +</p> + +<p> +“That accounts for Mrs. Elery sayin’ I was workin’ my nice +new boy too hard,” said a wing commander. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes; and ‘Why doesn’t he come to the bandstand in the +evenings?’ and ‘Can’t I get him to make up a four at tennis +with the Hammon girls?’” the adjutant snorted. “Look at young +Davies makin’ an ass of himself over mutton-dressed-as-lamb old enough to +be his mother!” +</p> + +<p> +“No one can accuse young Cottar of runnin’ after women, white +<i>or</i> black,” the major replied thoughtfully. “But, then, +that’s the kind that generally goes the worst mucker in the end.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not Cottar. I’ve only run across one of his muster before—a +fellow called Ingles, in South Africa. He was just the same hard trained, +athletic-sports build of animal. Always kept himself in the pink of condition. +Didn’t do him much good, though. Shot at Wesselstroom the week before +Majuba. Wonder how the young un will lick his detachment into shape.” +</p> + +<p> +Cottar turned up six weeks later, on foot, with his pupils. He never told his +experiences, but the men spoke enthusiastically, and fragments of it leaked +back to the colonel through sergeants, batmen, and the like. +</p> + +<p> +There was great jealousy between the first and second detachments, but the men +united in adoring Cottar, and their way of showing it was by sparing him all +the trouble that men know how to make for an unloved officer. He sought +popularity as little as he had sought it at school, and therefore it came to +him. He favoured no one—not even when the company sloven pulled the +company cricket-match out of the fire with an unexpected forty-three at the +last moment. There was very little getting round him, for he seemed to know by +instinct exactly when and where to head off a malingerer; but he did not forget +that the difference between a dazed and sulky junior of the upper school and a +bewildered, browbeaten lump of a private fresh from the depot was very small +indeed. The sergeants, seeing these things, told him secrets generally hid from +young officers. His words were quoted as barrack authority on bets in canteen +and at tea; and the veriest shrew of the corps, bursting with charges against +other women who had used the cooking-ranges out of turn, forbore to speak when +Cottar, as the regulations ordained, asked of a morning if there were +“any complaints.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m full o’ complaints,” said Mrs. Corporal Morrison, +“an’ I’d kill O’Halloran’s fat sow of a wife any +day, but ye know how it is. ’E puts ’is head just inside the door, +an’ looks down ’is blessed nose so bashful, an’ ’e +whispers, ‘Any complaints’ Ye can’t complain after that. +<i>I</i> want to kiss him. Some day I think I will. Heigh-ho! she’ll be a +lucky woman that gets Young Innocence. See ’im now, girls. Do ye blame +me?” +</p> + +<p> +Cottar was cantering across to polo, and he looked a very satisfactory figure +of a man as he gave easily to the first excited bucks of his pony, and slipped +over a low mud wall to the practice-ground. There were more than Mrs. Corporal +Morrison who felt as she did. But Cottar was busy for eleven hours of the day. +He did not care to have his tennis spoiled by petticoats in the court; and +after one long afternoon at a garden-party, he explained to his major that this +sort of thing was “futile piffle,” and the major laughed. Theirs +was not a married mess, except for the colonel’s wife, and Cottar stood +in awe of the good lady. She said “my regiment,” and the world +knows what that means. None the less when they wanted her to give away the +prizes after a shooting-match, and she refused because one of the prize-winners +was married to a girl who had made a jest of her behind her broad back, the +mess ordered Cottar to “tackle her,” in his best calling-kit. This +he did, simply and laboriously, and she gave way altogether. +</p> + +<p> +“She only wanted to know the facts of the case,” he explained. +“I just told her, and she saw at once.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ye-es,” said the adjutant. “I expect that’s what she +did. Comin’ to the Fusiliers’ dance to-night, Galahad?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, thanks. I’ve got a fight on with the major.” The +virtuous apprentice sat up till midnight in the major’s quarters, with a +stop-watch and a pair of compasses, shifting little painted lead-blocks about a +four-inch map. +</p> + +<p> +Then he turned in and slept the sleep of innocence, which is full of healthy +dreams. One peculiarity of his dreams he noticed at the beginning of his second +hot weather. Two or three times a month they duplicated or ran in series. He +would find himself sliding into dreamland by the same road—a road that +ran along a beach near a pile of brushwood. To the right lay the sea, sometimes +at full tide, sometimes withdrawn to the very horizon; but he knew it for the +same sea. By that road he would travel over a swell of rising ground covered +with short, withered grass, into valleys of wonder and unreason. Beyond the +ridge, which was crowned with some sort of street-lamp, anything was possible; +but up to the lamp it seemed to him that he knew the road as well as he knew +the parade-ground. He learned to look forward to the place; for, once there, he +was sure of a good night’s rest, and Indian hot weather can be rather +trying. First, shadowy under closing eyelids, would come the outline of the +brushwood-pile; next the white sand of the beach-road, almost overhanging the +black, changeful sea; then the turn inland and uphill to the single light. When +he was unrestful for any reason, he would tell himself how he was sure to get +there—sure to get there—if he shut his eyes and surrendered to the +drift of things. But one night after a foolishly hard hour’s polo (the +thermometer was 94° in his quarters at ten o’clock), sleep stood away +from him altogether, though he did his best to find the well-known road, the +point where true sleep began. At last he saw the brushwood-pile, and hurried +along to the ridge, for behind him he felt was the wide-awake, sultry world. He +reached the lamp in safety, tingling with drowsiness, when a policeman—a +common country policeman—sprang up before him and touched him on the +shoulder ere he could dive into the dim valley below. He was filled with +terror,—the hopeless terror of dreams,—for the policeman said, in +the awful, distinct voice of dream-people, “I am Policeman Day coming +back from the City of Sleep. You come with me.” Georgie knew it was +true—that just beyond him in the valley lay the lights of the City of +Sleep, where he would have been sheltered, and that this Policeman-Thing had +full power and authority to head him back to miserable wakefulness. He found +himself looking at the moonlight on the wall, dripping with fright; and he +never overcame that horror, though he met the Policeman several times that hot +weather, and his coming was the forerunner of a bad night. +</p> + +<p> +But other dreams—perfectly absurd ones—filled him with an +incommunicable delight. All those that he remembered began by the +brushwood-pile. For instance, he found a small clockwork steamer (he had +noticed it many nights before) lying by the sea-road, and stepped into it, +whereupon it moved with surpassing swiftness over an absolutely level sea. This +was glorious, for he felt he was exploring great matters; and it stopped by a +lily carved in stone, which, most naturally, floated on the water. Seeing the +lily was labelled “Hong-Kong,” Georgie said: “Of course. This +is precisely what I expected Hong-Kong would be like. How magnificent!” +Thousands of miles farther on it halted at yet another stone lily, labelled +“Java”; and this, again, delighted him hugely, because he knew that +now he was at the world’s end. But the little boat ran on and on till it +lay in a deep fresh-water lock, the sides of which were carven marble, green +with moss. Lilypads lay on the water, and reeds arched above. Some one moved +among the reeds—some one whom Georgie knew he had travelled to this +world’s end to reach. Therefore everything was entirely well with him. He +was unspeakably happy, and vaulted over the ship’s side to find this +person. When his feet touched that still water, it changed, with the rustle of +unrolling maps, to nothing less than a sixth quarter of the globe, beyond the +most remote imagining of man—a place where islands were coloured yellow +and blue, their lettering strung across their faces. They gave on unknown seas, +and Georgie’s urgent desire was to return swiftly across this floating +atlas to known bearings. He told himself repeatedly that it was no good to +hurry; but still he hurried desperately, and the islands slipped and slid under +his feet; the straits yawned and widened, till he found himself utterly lost in +the world’s fourth dimension, with no hope of return. Yet only a little +distance away he could see the old world with the rivers and mountain-chains +marked according to the Sandhurst rules of mapmaking. Then that person for whom +he had come to the Lily Lock (that was its name) ran up across unexplored +territories, and showed him away. They fled hand in hand till they reached a +road that spanned ravines, and ran along the edge of precipices, and was +tunnelled through mountains. “This goes to our brushwood-pile,” +said his companion; and all his trouble was at an end. He took a pony, because +he understood that this was the Thirty-Mile-Ride and he must ride swiftly, and +raced through the clattering tunnels and round the curves, always downhill, +till he heard the sea to his left, and saw it raging under a full moon, against +sandy cliffs. It was heavy going, but he recognised the nature of the country, +the dark-purple downs inland, and the bents that whistled in the wind. The road +was eaten away in places, and the sea lashed at him—black, foamless +tongues of smooth and glossy rollers; but he was sure that there was less +danger from the sea than from “Them,” whoever “They” +were, inland to his right. He knew, too, that he would be safe if he could +reach the down with the lamp on it. This came as he expected: he saw the one +light a mile ahead along the beach, dismounted, turned to the right, walked +quietly over to the brushwood-pile, found the little steamer had returned to +the beach whence he had unmoored it, and—must have fallen asleep, for he +could remember no more. “I’m gettin’ the hang of the +geography of that place,” he said to himself, as he shaved next morning. +“I must have made some sort of circle. Let’s see. The +Thirty-Mile-Ride (now how the deuce did I know it was called the +Thirty-Mile-Ride?) joins the sea-road beyond the first down where the lamp is. +And that atlas-country lies at the back of the Thirty-Mile-Ride, somewhere out +to the right beyond the hills and tunnels. Rummy things, dreams. ’Wonder +what makes mine fit into each other so?” +</p> + +<p> +He continued on his solid way through the recurring duties of the seasons. The +regiment was shifted to another station, and he enjoyed road-marching for two +months, with a good deal of mixed shooting thrown in, and when they reached +their new cantonments he became a member of the local Tent Club, and chased the +mighty boar on horseback with a short stabbing-spear. There he met the +<i>mahseer</i> of the Poonch, beside whom the tarpon is as a herring, and he +who lands him can say that he is a fisherman. This was as new and as +fascinating as the big-game shooting that fell to his portion, when he had +himself photographed for the mother’s benefit, sitting on the flank of +his first tiger. +</p> + +<p> +Then the adjutant was promoted, and Cottar rejoiced with him, for he admired +the adjutant greatly, and marvelled who might be big enough to fill his place; +so that he nearly collapsed when the mantle fell on his own shoulders, and the +colonel said a few sweet things that made him blush. An adjutant’s +position does not differ materially from that of head of the school, and Cottar +stood in the same relation to the colonel as he had to his old Head in England. +Only, tempers wear out in hot weather, and things were said and done that tried +him sorely, and he made glorious blunders, from which the regimental +sergeant-major pulled him with a loyal soul and a shut mouth. Slovens and +incompetents raged against him; the weak-minded strove to lure him from the +ways of justice; the small-minded—yea, men whom Cottar believed would +never do “things no fellow can do”—imputed motives mean and +circuitous to actions that he had not spent a thought upon; and he tasted +injustice, and it made him very sick. But his consolation came on parade, when +he looked down the full companies, and reflected how few were in hospital or +cells, and wondered when the time would come to try the machine of his love and +labour. +</p> + +<p> +But they needed and expected the whole of a man’s working-day, and maybe +three or four hours of the night. Curiously enough, he never dreamed about the +regiment as he was popularly supposed to. The mind, set free from the +day’s doings, generally ceased working altogether, or, if it moved at +all, carried him along the old beach-road to the downs, the lamp-post, and, +once in a while, to terrible Policeman Day. The second time that he returned to +the world’s lost continent (this was a dream that repeated itself again +and again, with variations, on the same ground) he knew that if he only sat +still the person from the Lily Lock would help him, and he was not +disappointed. Sometimes he was trapped in mines of vast depth hollowed out of +the heart of the world, where men in torment chanted echoing songs; and he +heard this person coming along through the galleries, and everything was made +safe and delightful. They met again in low-roofed Indian railway-carriages that +halted in a garden surrounded by gilt-and-green railings, where a mob of stony +white people, all unfriendly, sat at breakfast-tables covered with roses, and +separated Georgie from his companion, while underground voices sang deep-voiced +songs. Georgie was filled with enormous despair till they two met again. They +foregathered in the middle of an endless, hot tropic night, and crept into a +huge house that stood, he knew, somewhere north of the railway-station where +the people ate among the roses. It was surrounded with gardens, all moist and +dripping; and in one room, reached through leagues of whitewashed passages, a +Sick Thing lay in bed. Now the least noise, Georgie knew, would unchain some +waiting horror, and his companion knew it, too; but when their eyes met across +the bed, Georgie was disgusted to see that she was a child—a little girl +in strapped shoes, with her black hair combed back from her forehead. +</p> + +<p> +“What disgraceful folly!” he thought. “Now she could do +nothing whatever if Its head came off.” +</p> + +<p> +Then the Thing coughed, and the ceiling shattered down in plaster on the +mosquito-netting, and “They” rushed in from all quarters. He +dragged the child through the stifling garden, voices chanting behind them, and +they rode the Thirty-Mile-Ride under whip and spur along the sandy beach by the +booming sea, till they came to the downs, the lamp-post, and the +brushwood-pile, which was safety. Very often dreams would break up about them +in this fashion, and they would be separated, to endure awful adventures alone. +But the most amusing times were when he and she had a clear understanding that +it was all make-believe, and walked through mile-wide roaring rivers without +even taking off their shoes, or set light to populous cities to see how they +would burn, and were rude as any children to the vague shadows met in their +rambles. Later in the night they were sure to suffer for this, either at the +hands of the Railway People eating among the roses, or in the tropic uplands at +the far end of the Thirty-Mile-Ride. Together, this did no much affright them; +but often Georgie would hear her shrill cry of “Boy! Boy!” half a +world away, and hurry to her rescue before “They” maltreated her. +</p> + +<p> +He and she explored the dark-purple downs as far inland from the brushwood-pile +as they dared, but that was always a dangerous matter. The interior was filled +with “Them,” and “They” went about singing in the +hollows, and Georgie and she felt safer on or near the seaboard. So thoroughly +had he come to know the place of his dreams that even waking he accepted it as +a real country, and made a rough sketch of it. He kept his own counsel, of +course; but the permanence of the land puzzled him. His ordinary dreams were as +formless and as fleeting as any healthy dreams could be, but once at the +brushwood-pile he moved within known limits and could see where he was going. +There were months at a time when nothing notable crossed his sleep. Then the +dreams would come in a batch of five or six, and next morning the map that he +kept in his writing case would be written up to date, for Georgie was a most +methodical person. There was, indeed, a danger—his seniors said +so—of his developing into a regular “Auntie Fuss” of an +adjutant, and when an officer once takes to old-maidism there is more hope for +the virgin of seventy than for him. +</p> + +<p> +But fate sent the change that was needed, in the shape of a little winter +campaign on the Border, which, after the manner of little campaigns, flashed +out into a very ugly war; and Cottar’s regiment was chosen among the +first. +</p> + +<p> +“Now,” said a major, “this’ll shake the cobwebs out of +us all—especially you, Galahad; and we can see what your +hen-with-one-chick attitude has done for the regiment.” +</p> + +<p> +Cottar nearly wept with joy as the campaign went forward. They were +fit—physically fit beyond the other troops; they were good children in +camp, wet or dry, fed or unfed; and they followed their officers with the quick +suppleness and trained obedience of a first-class foot-ball fifteen. They were +cut off from their apology for a base, and cheerfully cut their way back to it +again; they crowned and cleaned out hills full of the enemy with the precision +of well-broken dogs of chase; and in the hour of retreat, when, hampered with +the sick and wounded of the column, they were persecuted down eleven miles of +waterless valley, they, serving as rearguard, covered themselves with a great +glory in the eyes of fellow-professionals. Any regiment can advance, but few +know how to retreat with a sting in the tail. Then they turned to made roads, +most often under fire, and dismantled some inconvenient mud redoubts. They were +the last corps to be withdrawn when the rubbish of the campaign was all swept +up; and after a month in standing camp, which tries morals severely, they +departed to their own place in column of fours, singing: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“’E’s goin’ to do without ’em—<br/> + Don’t want ’em any more;<br/> +’E’s goin’ to do without ’em,<br/> + As ’e’s often done before.<br/> +’E’s goin’ to be a martyr<br/> + On a ’ighly novel plan,<br/> +An’ all the boys and girls will say,<br/> + ’Ow! what a nice young man-man-man!<br/> + Ow! what a nice young man!’” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +There came out a <i>Gazette</i> in which Cottar found that he had been behaving +with “courage and coolness and discretion” in all his capacities; +that he had assisted the wounded under fire, and blown in a gate, also under +fire. Net result, his captaincy and a brevet majority, coupled with the +Distinguished Service Order. +</p> + +<p> +As to his wounded, he explained that they were both heavy men, whom he could +lift more easily than any one else. “Otherwise, of course, I should have +sent out one of my men; and, of course, about that gate business, we were safe +the minute we were well under the walls.” But this did not prevent his +men from cheering him furiously whenever they saw him, or the mess from giving +him a dinner on the eve of his departure to England. (A year’s leave was +among the things he had “snaffled out of the campaign,” to use his +own words.) The doctor, who had taken quite as much as was good for him, quoted +poetry about “a good blade carving the casques of men,” and so on, +and everybody told Cottar that he was an excellent person; but when he rose to +make his maiden speech they shouted so that he was understood to say, “It +isn’t any use tryin’ to speak with you chaps rottin’ me like +this. Let’s have some pool.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +It is not unpleasant to spend eight-and-twenty days in an easy-going steamer on +warm waters, in the company of a woman who lets you see that you are head and +shoulders superior to the rest of the world, even though that woman may be, and +most often is, ten counted years your senior. P.O. boats are not lighted with +the disgustful particularity of Atlantic liners. There is more phosphorescence +at the bows, and greater silence and darkness by the hand-steering gear aft. +</p> + +<p> +Awful things might have happened to Georgie but for the little fact that he had +never studied the first principles of the game he was expected to play. So when +Mrs. Zuleika, at Aden, told him how motherly an interest she felt in his +welfare, medals, brevet, and all, Georgie took her at the foot of the letter, +and promptly talked of his own mother, three hundred miles nearer each day, of +his home, and so forth, all the way up the Red Sea. It was much easier than he +had supposed to converse with a woman for an hour at a time. Then Mrs. Zuleika, +turning from parental affection, spoke of love in the abstract as a thing not +unworthy of study, and in discreet twilights after dinner demanded confidences. +Georgie would have been delighted to supply them, but he had none, and did not +know it was his duty to manufacture them. Mrs. Zuleika expressed surprise and +unbelief, and asked—those questions which deep asks of deep. She learned +all that was necessary to conviction, and, being very much a woman, resumed +(Georgie never knew that she had abandoned) the motherly attitude. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know,” she said, somewhere in the Mediterranean, “I +think you’re the very dearest boy I have ever met in my life, and +I’d like you to remember me a little. You will when you are older, but I +want you to remember me now. You’ll make some girl very happy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Hope so,” said Georgie, gravely; “but there’s +heaps of time for marryin’ an’ all that sort of thing, ain’t +there?” +</p> + +<p> +“That depends. Here are your bean-bags for the Ladies’ Competition. +I think I’m growing too old to care for these <i>tamashas</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +They were getting up sports, and Georgie was on the committee. He never noticed +how perfectly the bags were sewn, but another woman did, and smiled—once. +He liked Mrs. Zuleika greatly. She was a bit old, of course, but uncommonly +nice. There was no nonsense about her. +</p> + +<p> +A few nights after they passed Gibraltar his dream returned to him. She who +waited by the brushwood-pile was no longer a little girl, but a woman with +black hair that grew into a “widow’s peak,” combed back from +her forehead. He knew her for the child in black, the companion of the last six +years, and, as it had been in the time of the meetings on the Lost Continent, +he was filled with delight unspeakable. “They,” for some dreamland +reason, were friendly or had gone away that night, and the two flitted together +over all their country, from the brushwood-pile up the Thirty-Mile-Ride, till +they saw the House of the Sick Thing, a pin-point in the distance to the left; +stamped through the Railway Waiting-room where the roses lay on the spread +breakfast-tables; and returned, by the ford and the city they had once burned +for sport, to the great swells of the downs under the lamp-post. Wherever they +moved a strong singing followed them underground, but this night there was no +panic. All the land was empty except for themselves, and at the last (they were +sitting by the lamp-post hand in hand) she turned and kissed him. He woke with +a start, staring at the waving curtain of the cabin door; he could almost have +sworn that the kiss was real. +</p> + +<p> +Next morning the ship was rolling in a Biscay sea, and people were not happy; +but as Georgie came to breakfast, shaven, tubbed, and smelling of soap, several +turned to look at him because of the light in his eyes and the splendour of his +countenance. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you look beastly fit,” snapped a neighbour. “Any one +left you a legacy in the middle of the Bay?” +</p> + +<p> +Georgie reached for the curry, with a seraphic grin. “I suppose +it’s the gettin’ so near home, and all that. I do feel rather +festive this mornin. ’Rolls a bit, doesn’t she?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Zuleika stayed in her cabin till the end of the voyage, when she left +without bidding him farewell, and wept passionately on the dock-head for pure +joy of meeting her children, who, she had often said, were so like their +father. +</p> + +<p> +Georgie headed for his own country, wild with delight of his first long +furlough after the lean seasons. Nothing was changed in that orderly life, from +the coachman who met him at the station to the white peacock that stormed at +the carriage from the stone wall above the shaven lawns. The house took toll of +him with due regard to precedence—first the mother; then the father; then +the housekeeper, who wept and praised God; then the butler, and so on down to +the under-keeper, who had been dogboy in Georgie’s youth, and called him +“Master Georgie,” and was reproved by the groom who had taught +Georgie to ride. +</p> + +<p> +“Not a thing changed,” he sighed contentedly, when the three of +them sat down to dinner in the late sunlight, while the rabbits crept out upon +the lawn below the cedars, and the big trout in the ponds by the home paddock +rose for their evening meal. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Our</i> changes are all over, dear,” cooed the mother; +“and now I am getting used to your size and your tan (you’re very +brown, Georgie), I see you haven’t changed in the least. You’re +exactly like the pater.” +</p> + +<p> +The father beamed on this man after his own heart,—“youngest major +in the army, and should have had the V.C., sir,”—and the butler +listened with his professional mask off when Master Georgie spoke of war as it +is waged to-day, and his father cross-questioned. +</p> + +<p> +They went out on the terrace to smoke among the roses, and the shadow of the +old house lay long across the wonderful English foliage, which is the only +living green in the world. +</p> + +<p> +“Perfect! By Jove, it’s perfect!” Georgie was looking at the +round-bosomed woods beyond the home paddock, where the white pheasant boxes +were ranged; and the golden air was full of a hundred sacred scents and sounds. +Georgie felt his father’s arm tighten in his. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s not half bad—but <i>hodie mihi, cras tibi</i>, +isn’t it? I suppose you’ll be turning up some fine day with a girl +under your arm, if you haven’t one now, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“You can make your mind easy, sir. I haven’t one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not in all these years?” said the mother. +</p> + +<p> +“I hadn’t time, mummy. They keep a man pretty busy, these days, in +the service, and most of our mess are unmarried, too.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you must have met hundreds in society—at balls, and so +on?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m like the Tenth, mummy: I don’t dance.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t dance! What have you been doing with yourself, +then—backing other men’s bills?” said the father. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes; I’ve done a little of that too; but you see, as things +are now, a man has all his work cut out for him to keep abreast of his +profession, and my days were always too full to let me lark about half the +night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hmm!”—suspiciously. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s never too late to learn. We ought to give some kind of +housewarming for the people about, now you’ve come back. Unless you want +to go straight up to town, dear?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. I don’t want anything better than this. Let’s sit still +and enjoy ourselves. I suppose there will be something for me to ride if I look +for it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Seeing I’ve been kept down to the old brown pair for the last six +weeks because all the others were being got ready for Master Georgie, I should +say there might be,” the father chuckled. “They’re reminding +me in a hundred ways that I must take the second place now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Brutes!” +</p> + +<p> +“The pater doesn’t mean it, dear; but every one has been trying to +make your home-coming a success; and you <i>do</i> like it, don’t +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Perfect! Perfect! There’s no place like England—when you +’ve done your work.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s the proper way to look at it, my son.” +</p> + +<p> +And so up and down the flagged walk till their shadows grew long in the +moonlight, and the mother went indoors and played such songs as a small boy +once clamoured for, and the squat silver candlesticks were brought in, and +Georgie climbed to the two rooms in the west wing that had been his nursery and +his playroom in the beginning. Then who should come to tuck him up for the +night but the mother? And she sat down on the bed, and they talked for a long +hour, as mother and son should, if there is to be any future for the Empire. +With a simple woman’s deep guile she asked questions and suggested +answers that should have waked some sign in the face on the pillow, and there +was neither quiver of eyelid nor quickening of breath, neither evasion nor +delay in reply. So she blessed him and kissed him on the mouth, which is not +always a mother’s property, and said something to her husband later, at +which he laughed profane and incredulous laughs. +</p> + +<p> +All the establishment waited on Georgie next morning, from the tallest +six-year-old, “with a mouth like a kid glove, Master Georgie,” to +the under-keeper strolling carelessly along the horizon, Georgie’s pet +rod in his hand, and “There’s a four-pounder risin’ below the +lasher. You don’t ’ave ’em in Injia, Mast-Major +Georgie.” It was all beautiful beyond telling, even though the mother +insisted on taking him out in the landau (the leather had the hot Sunday smell +of his youth) and showing him off to her friends at all the houses for six +miles round; and the pater bore him up to town and a lunch at the club, where +he introduced him, quite carelessly, to not less than thirty ancient warriors +whose sons were not the youngest majors in the army and had not the D.S.O. +After that it was Georgie’s turn; and remembering his friends, he filled +up the house with that kind of officer who live in cheap lodgings at Southsea +or Montpelier Square, Brompton—good men all, but not well off. The mother +perceived that they needed girls to play with; and as there was no scarcity of +girls, the house hummed like a dovecote in spring. They tore up the place for +amateur theatricals; they disappeared in the gardens when they ought to have +been rehearsing; they swept off every available horse and vehicle, especially +the governess-cart and the fat pony; they fell into the trout-ponds; they +picnicked and they tennised; and they sat on gates in the twilight, two by two, +and Georgie found that he was not in the least necessary to their +entertainment. +</p> + +<p> +“My word!” said he, when he saw the last of their dear backs. +“They told me they’ve enjoyed ’emselves, but they +haven’t done half the things they said they would.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know they’ve enjoyed themselves—immensely,” said the +mother. “You’re a public benefactor, dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now we can be quiet again, can’t we?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, quite. I’ve a very dear friend of mine that I want you to +know. She couldn’t come with the house so full, because she’s an +invalid, and she was away when you first came. She’s a Mrs. Lacy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lacy! I don’t remember the name about here.” +</p> + +<p> +“No; they came after you went to India—from Oxford. Her husband +died there, and she lost some money, I believe. They bought The Firs on the +Bassett Road. She’s a very sweet woman, and we’re very fond of them +both.” +</p> + +<p> +“She’s a widow, didn’t you say?” +</p> + +<p> +“She has a daughter. Surely I said so, dear?” +</p> + +<p> +“Does she fall into trout-ponds, and gas and giggle, and ‘Oh, Major +Cottah!’ and all that sort of thing?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, indeed. She’s a very quiet girl, and very musical. She always +came over here with her music-books—composing, you know; and she +generally works all day, so you won’t—” +</p> + +<p> +“’Talking about Miriam?” said the pater, coming up. The +mother edged toward him within elbow-reach. There was no finesse about +Georgie’s father. “Oh, Miriam’s a dear girl. Plays +beautifully. Rides beautifully, too. She’s a regular pet of the +household. Used to call me—” The elbow went home, and ignorant but +obedient always, the pater shut himself off. +</p> + +<p> +“What used she to call you, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“All sorts of pet names. I’m very fond of Miriam.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sounds Jewish—Miriam.” +</p> + +<p> +“Jew! You’ll be calling yourself a Jew next. She’s one of the +Herefordshire Lacys. When her aunt dies—” Again the elbow. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you won’t see anything of her, Georgie. She’s busy with +her music or her mother all day. Besides, you’re going up to town +tomorrow, aren’t you? I thought you said something about an Institute +meeting?” The mother spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Go up to town <i>now!</i> What nonsense!” Once more the pater was +shut off. +</p> + +<p> +“I had some idea of it, but I’m not quite sure,” said the son +of the house. Why did the mother try to get him away because a musical girl and +her invalid parent were expected? He did not approve of unknown females calling +his father pet names. He would observe these pushing persons who had been only +seven years in the county. +</p> + +<p> +All of which the delighted mother read in his countenance, herself keeping an +air of sweet disinterestedness. +</p> + +<p> +“They’ll be here this evening for dinner. I’m sending the +carriage over for them, and they won’t stay more than a week.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps I shall go up to town. I don’t quite know yet.” +Georgie moved away irresolutely. There was a lecture at the United Services +Institute on the supply of ammunition in the field, and the one man whose +theories most irritated Major Cottar would deliver it. A heated discussion was +sure to follow, and perhaps he might find himself moved to speak. He took his +rod that afternoon and went down to thrash it out among the trout. +</p> + +<p> +“Good sport, dear!” said the mother, from the terrace. +</p> + +<p> +“’Fraid it won’t be, mummy. All those men from town, and the +girls particularly, have put every trout off his feed for weeks. There +isn’t one of ’em that cares for fishin’—really. Fancy +stampin’ and shoutin’ on the bank, and tellin’ every fish for +half a mile exactly what you’re goin’ to do, and then +chuckin’ a brute of a fly at him! By Jove, it would scare <i>me</i> if I +was a trout!” +</p> + +<p> +But things were not as bad as he had expected. The black gnat was on the water, +and the water was strictly preserved. A three-quarter-pounder at the second +cast set him for the campaign, and he worked down-stream, crouching behind the +reed and meadowsweet; creeping between a hornbeam hedge and a foot-wide strip +of bank, where he could see the trout, but where they could not distinguish him +from the background; lying almost on his stomach to switch the blue-upright +sidewise through the checkered shadows of a gravelly ripple under overarching +trees. But he had known every inch of the water since he was four feet high. +The aged and astute between sunk roots, with the large and fat that lay in the +frothy scum below some strong rush of water, sucking as lazily as carp, came to +trouble in their turn, at the hand that imitated so delicately the flicker and +wimple of an egg-dropping fly. Consequently, Georgie found himself five miles +from home when he ought to have been dressing for dinner. The housekeeper had +taken good care that her boy should not go empty, and before he changed to the +white moth he sat down to excellent claret with sandwiches of potted egg and +things that adoring women make and men never notice. Then back, to surprise the +otter grubbing for fresh-water mussels, the rabbits on the edge of the +beechwoods foraging in the clover, and the policeman-like white owl stooping to +the little fieldmice, till the moon was strong, and he took his rod apart, and +went home through well-remembered gaps in the hedges. He fetched a compass +round the house, for, though he might have broken every law of the +establishment every hour, the law of his boyhood was unbreakable: after fishing +you went in by the south garden back-door, cleaned up in the outer scullery, +and did not present yourself to your elders and your betters till you had +washed and changed. +</p> + +<p> +“Half-past ten, by Jove! Well, we’ll make the sport an excuse. They +wouldn’t want to see me the first evening, at any rate. Gone to bed, +probably.” He skirted by the open French windows of the drawing-room. +“No, they haven’t. They look very comfy in there.” +</p> + +<p> +He could see his father in his own particular chair, the mother in hers, and +the back of a girl at the piano by the big potpourri-jar. The gardens looked +half divine in the moonlight, and he turned down through the roses to finish +his pipe. +</p> + +<p> +A prelude ended, and there floated out a voice of the kind that in his +childhood he used to call “creamy” a full, true contralto; and this +is the song that he heard, every syllable of it: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Over the edge of the purple down,<br/> + Where the single lamplight gleams,<br/> +Know ye the road to the Merciful Town<br/> + That is hard by the Sea of Dreams—<br/> +Where the poor may lay their wrongs away,<br/> + And the sick may forget to weep?<br/> +But we—pity us!Oh, pity us!<br/> + We wakeful; ah, pity us!—<br/> +We must go back with Policeman Day—<br/> + Back from the City of Sleep!<br/> +<br/> +Weary they turn from the scroll and crown,<br/> + Fetter and prayer and plough<br/> +They that go up to the Merciful Town,<br/> + For her gates are closing now.<br/> +It is their right in the Baths of Night<br/> + Body and soul to steep<br/> +But we—pity us! ah, pity us!<br/> + We wakeful; oh, pity us!—<br/> +We must go back with Policeman Day—<br/> + Back from the City of Sleep!<br/> +<br/> +Over the edge of the purple down,<br/> + Ere the tender dreams begin,<br/> +Look—we may look—at the Merciful Town,<br/> + But we may not enter in!<br/> +Outcasts all, from her guarded wall<br/> + Back to our watch we creep:<br/> +We—pity us! ah, pity us!<br/> + We wakeful; oh, pity us!—<br/> +We that go back with Policeman Day—<br/> + Back from the City of Sleep +</p> + +<p> +At the last echo he was aware that his mouth was dry and unknown pulses were +beating in the roof of it. The housekeeper, who would have it that he must have +fallen in and caught a chill, was waiting to catch him on the stairs, and, +since he neither saw nor answered her, carried a wild tale abroad that brought +his mother knocking at the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Anything happened, dear? Harper said she thought you +weren’t—” +</p> + +<p> +“No; it’s nothing. I’m all right, mummy. <i>Please</i> +don’t bother.” +</p> + +<p> +He did not recognise his own voice, but that was a small matter beside what he +was considering. Obviously, most obviously, the whole coincidence was crazy +lunacy. He proved it to the satisfaction of Major George Cottar, who was going +up to town to-morrow to hear a lecture on the supply of ammunition in the +field; and having so proved it, the soul and brain and heart and body of +Georgie cried joyously: “That’s the Lily Lock girl—the Lost +Continent girl—the Thirty-Mile-Ride girl—the Brushwood girl! +<i>I</i> know her!” +</p> + +<p> +He waked, stiff and cramped in his chair, to reconsider the situation by +sunlight, when it did not appear normal. But a man must eat, and he went to +breakfast, his heart between his teeth, holding himself severely in hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Late, as usual,” said the mother. “My boy, Miriam.” +</p> + +<p> +A tall girl in black raised her eyes to his, and Georgie’s life training +deserted him—just as soon as he realised that she did not know. He stared +coolly and critically. There was the abundant black hair, growing in a +widow’s peak, turned back from the forehead, with that peculiar ripple +over the right ear; there were the grey eyes set a little close together; the +short upper lip, resolute chin, and the known poise of the head. There was also +the small well-cut mouth that had kissed him. +</p> + +<p> +“Georgie—<i>dear!</i>” said the mother, amazedly, for Miriam +was flushing under the stare. +</p> + +<p> +“I—I beg your pardon!” he gulped. “I don’t know +whether the mother has told you, but I’m rather an idiot at times, +specially before I’ve had my breakfast. It’s—it’s a +family failing.” He turned to explore among the hot-water dishes on the +sideboard, rejoicing that she did not know—she did not know. +</p> + +<p> +His conversation for the rest of the meal was mildly insane, though the mother +thought she had never seen her boy look half so handsome. How could any girl, +least of all one of Miriam’s discernment, forbear to fall down and +worship? But deeply Miriam was displeased. She had never been stared at in that +fashion before, and promptly retired into her shell when Georgie announced that +he had changed his mind about going to town, and would stay to play with Miss +Lacy if she had nothing better to do. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, but don’t let me throw you out. I’m at work. I’ve +things to do all the morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“What possessed Georgie to behave so oddly?” the mother sighed to +herself. “Miriam’s a bundle of feelings—like her +mother.” +</p> + +<p> +“You compose—don’t you? Must be a fine thing to be able to do +that. [‘Pig—oh, pig!’ thought Miriam.] I think I heard you +singin’ when I came in last night after fishin’. All about a Sea of +Dreams, wasn’t it? [Miriam shuddered to the core of the soul that +afflicted her.] Awfully pretty song. How d’ you think of such +things?” +</p> + +<p> +“You only composed the music, dear, didn’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“The words too. I’m sure of it,” said Georgie, with a +sparkling eye. No; she did not know. +</p> + +<p> +“Yeth; I wrote the words too.” Miriam spoke slowly, for she knew +she lisped when she was nervous. +</p> + +<p> +“Now how <i>could</i> you tell, Georgie?” said the mother, as +delighted as though the youngest major in the army were ten years old, showing +off before company. +</p> + +<p> +“I was sure of it, somehow. Oh, there are heaps of things about me, +mummy, that you don’t understand. Looks as if it were goin’ to be a +hot day—for England. Would you care for a ride this afternoon, Miss Lacy? +We can start out after tea, if you’d like it.” +</p> + +<p> +Miriam could not in decency refuse, but any woman might see she was not filled +with delight. +</p> + +<p> +“That will be very nice, if you take the Bassett Road. It will save me +sending Martin down to the village,” said the mother, filling in gaps. +</p> + +<p> +Like all good managers, the mother had her one weakness—a mania for +little strategies that should economise horses and vehicles. Her men-folk +complained that she turned them into common carriers, and there was a legend in +the family that she had once said to the pater on the morning of a meet: +“If you <i>should</i> kill near Bassett, dear, and if it isn’t too +late, would you mind just popping over and matching me this?” +</p> + +<p> +“I knew that was coming. You’d never miss a chance, mother. If +it’s a fish or a trunk I won’t.” Georgie laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s only a duck. They can do it up very neatly at +Mallett’s,” said the mother, simply. “You won’t mind, +will you? We’ll have a scratch dinner at nine, because it’s so +hot.” +</p> + +<p> +The long summer day dragged itself out for centuries; but at last there was tea +on the lawn, and Miriam appeared. +</p> + +<p> +She was in the saddle before he could offer to help, with the clean spring of +the child who mounted the pony for the Thirty-Mile-Ride. The day held +mercilessly, though Georgie got down thrice to look for imaginary stones in +Rufus’s foot. One cannot say even simple things in broad light, and this +that Georgie meditated was not simple. So he spoke seldom, and Miriam was +divided between relief and scorn. It annoyed her that the great hulking thing +should know she had written the words of the song overnight; for though a +maiden may sing her most secret fancies aloud, she does not care to have them +trampled over by the male Philistine. They rode into the little red-brick +street of Bassett, and Georgie made untold fuss over the disposition of that +duck. It must go in just such a package, and be fastened to the saddle in just +such a manner, though eight o’clock had struck and they were miles from +dinner. +</p> + +<p> +“We must be quick!” said Miriam, bored and angry. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s no great hurry; but we can cut over Dowhead Down, and let +’em out on the grass. That will save us half an hour.” +</p> + +<p> +The horses capered on the short, sweet-smelling turf, and the delaying shadows +gathered in the valley as they cantered over the great dun down that overhangs +Bassett and the Western coaching-road. Insensibly the pace quickened without +thought of mole-hills; Rufus, gentleman that he was, waiting on Miriam’s +Dandy till they should have cleared the rise. Then down the two-mile slope they +raced together, the wind whistling in their ears, to the steady throb of eight +hoofs and the light click-click of the shifting bits. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, that was glorious!” Miriam cried, reining in. “Dandy and +I are old friends, but I don’t think we’ve ever gone better +together.” +</p> + +<p> +“No; but you’ve gone quicker, once or twice.” +</p> + +<p> +“Really? When?” +</p> + +<p> +Georgie moistened his lips. “Don’t you remember the +Thirty-Mile-Ride—with me—when ‘They’ were after +us—on the beach-road, with the sea to the left—going toward the +lamp-post on the downs?” +</p> + +<p> +The girl gasped. “What—what do you mean?” she said +hysterically. +</p> + +<p> +“The Thirty-Mile-Ride, and—and all the rest of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“You mean—? I didn’t sing anything about the +Thirty-Mile-Ride. I know I didn’t. I have never told a living +soul.’” +</p> + +<p> +“You told about Policeman Day, and the lamp at the top of the downs, and +the City of Sleep. It all joins on, you know—it’s the same +country—and it was easy enough to see where you had been.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good God!—It joins on—of course it does; but—I have +been—you have been—Oh, let’s walk, please, or I shall fall +off!” +</p> + +<p> +Georgie ranged alongside, and laid a hand that shook below her bridle-hand, +pulling Dandy into a walk. Miriam was sobbing as he had seen a man sob under +the touch of the bullet. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s all right—it’s all right,” he whispered +feebly. “Only—only it’s true, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“True! Am I mad?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not unless I’m mad as well. <i>Do</i> try to think a minute +quietly. How could any one conceivably know anything about the Thirty-Mile-Ride +having anything to do with you, unless he had been there?” +</p> + +<p> +“But where? But <i>where?</i> Tell me!” +</p> + +<p> +“There—wherever it may be—in our country, I suppose. Do you +remember the first time you rode it—the Thirty-Mile-Ride, I mean? You +must.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was all dreams—all dreams!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but tell, please; because I know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me think. I—we were on no account to make any noise—on +no account to make any noise.” She was staring between Dandy’s +ears, with eyes that did not see, and a suffocating heart. +</p> + +<p> +“Because ‘It’ was dying in the big house?” Georgie went +on, reining in again. +</p> + +<p> +“There was a garden with green-and-gilt railings—all hot. Do +<i>you</i> remember?” +</p> + +<p> +“I ought to. I was sitting on the other side of the bed before +‘It’ coughed and ‘They’ came in.” +</p> + +<p> +“You!”—the deep voice was unnaturally full and strong, and +the girl’s wide-opened eyes burned in the dusk as she stared him through +and through. “Then you’re the Boy—my Brushwood Boy, and +I’ve known you all my life!” +</p> + +<p> +She fell forward on Dandy’s neck. Georgie forced himself out of the +weakness that was overmastering his limbs, and slid an arm round her waist. The +head dropped on his shoulder, and he found himself with parched lips saying +things that up till then he believed existed only in printed works of fiction. +Mercifully the horses were quiet. She made no attempt to draw herself away when +she recovered, but lay still, whispering, “Of course you’re the +Boy, and I didn’t know—I didn’t know.” +</p> + +<p> +“I knew last night; and when I saw you at breakfast—” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, <i>that</i> was why! I wondered at the time. You would, of +course.” +</p> + +<p> +“I couldn’t speak before this. Keep your head where it is, dear. +It’s all right now—all right now, isn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +“But how was it <i>I</i> didn’t know—after all these years +and years? I remember—oh, what lots of things I remember!” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me some. I’ll look after the horses.” +</p> + +<p> +“I remember waiting for you when the steamer came in. Do you?” +</p> + +<p> +“At the Lily Lock, beyond Hong-Kong and Java?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do <i>you</i> call it that, too?” +</p> + +<p> +“You told me it was when I was lost in the continent. That was you that +showed me the way through the mountains?” +</p> + +<p> +“When the islands slid? It must have been, because you’re the only +one I remember. All the others were ‘Them.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Awful brutes they were, too.” +</p> + +<p> +“I remember showing you the Thirty-Mile-Ride the first time. You ride +just as you used to—then. You <i>are</i> you!” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s odd. I thought that of you this afternoon. Isn’t it +wonderful?” +</p> + +<p> +“What does it all mean? Why should you and I of the millions of people in +the world have this—this thing between us? What does it mean? I’m +frightened.” +</p> + +<p> +“This!” said Georgie. The horses quickened their pace. They thought +they had heard an order. “Perhaps when we die we may find out more, but +it means this now.” +</p> + +<p> +There was no answer. What could she say? As the world went, they had known each +other rather less than eight and a half hours, but the matter was one that did +not concern the world. There was a very long silence, while the breath in their +nostrils drew cold and sharp as it might have been a fume of ether. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s the second,” Georgie whispered. “You remember, +don’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s not!”—furiously. “It’s not!” +</p> + +<p> +“On the downs the other night—months ago. You were just as you are +now, and we went over the country for miles and miles.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was all empty, too. They had gone away. Nobody frightened us. I +wonder why, Boy?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, if you remember <i>that</i>, you must remember the rest. +Confess!” +</p> + +<p> +“I remember lots of things, but I <i>know</i> I didn’t. I never +have—till just now.” +</p> + +<p> +“You <i>did</i>, dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know I didn’t, because—oh, it’s no use keeping +anything back! because I truthfully meant to.” +</p> + +<p> +“And truthfully did.” +</p> + +<p> +“No; meant to; but some one else came by.” +</p> + +<p> +“There wasn’t any one else. There never has been.” +</p> + +<p> +“There was—there always is. It was another woman—out +there—on the sea. I saw her. It was the 26th of May. I’ve got it +written down somewhere.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, <i>you</i>’ve kept a record of your dreams, too? That’s +odd about the other woman, because I happened to be on the sea just +then.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was right. How do I know what you’ve done when you were +awake—and I thought it was only <i>you!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“You never were more wrong in your life. What a little temper +you’ve got! Listen to me a minute, dear.” And Georgie, though he +knew it not, committed black perjury. “It—it isn’t the kind +of thing one says to any one, because they’d laugh; but on my word and +honour, darling, I’ve never been kissed by a living soul outside my own +people in all my life. Don’t laugh, dear. I wouldn’t tell any one +but you, but it’s the solemn truth.” +</p> + +<p> +“I knew! You are you. Oh, I <i>knew</i> you’d come some day; but I +didn’t know you were you in the least till you spoke.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then give me another.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you never cared or looked anywhere? Why, all the round world must +have loved you from the very minute they saw you, Boy.” +</p> + +<p> +“They kept it to themselves if they did. No; I never cared.” +</p> + +<p> +“And we shall be late for dinner—horribly late. Oh, how can I look +at you in the light before your mother—and mine!” +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll play you’re Miss Lacy till the proper time comes. +What’s the shortest limit for people to get engaged? S’pose we have +got to go through all the fuss of an engagement, haven’t we?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I don’t want to talk about that. It’s so commonplace. +I’ve thought of something that you don’t know. I’m sure of +it. What’s my name?” +</p> + +<p> +“Miri—no, it isn’t, by Jove! Wait half a second, and +it’ll come back to me. You aren’t—you can’t? Why, +<i>those</i> old tales—before I went to school! I’ve never thought +of ’em from that day to this. Are you the original, only +Annie<i>an</i>louise?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was what you always called me ever since the beginning. Oh! +We’ve turned into the avenue, and we must be an hour late.” +</p> + +<p> +“What does it matter? The chain goes as far back as those days? It must, +of course—of course it must. I’ve got to ride round with this +pestilent old bird—confound him!” +</p> + +<p> +“‘Ha! ha!’ said the duck, laughing—do you remember +<i>that?</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I do—flower-pots on my feet, and all. We’ve been +together all this while; and I’ve got to say good bye to you till dinner. +<i>Sure</i> I’ll see you at dinner-time? <i>Sure</i> you won’t +sneak up to your room, darling, and leave me all the evening? Good-bye, +dear—good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, Boy, good-bye. Mind the arch! Don’t let Rufus bolt into +his stables. Good-bye. Yes, I’ll come down to dinner; but—what +shall I do when I see you in the light!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DAY’S WORK ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ +concept and trademark. 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