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IAA KEAN EAE b

 

 

 

 

 

 


The Day’s Work

 

 

 

Go 343}

 

 

The Day’s Work

 

 

By Rudyard Kipling
Author of Plain Tales from the Hills,”

“ The Seven Seas,” “ The
Jungle Books,” etc,

 

 

 

NEW YORK

DOUBLEDAY & McCLURE CoO.
1898

 

 

 

 

 

 

PAT RIMOINE
DE L'UNIVERSITE

BE LIEGE

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright, 1894, 1895, 1896, 1897, 1898,

By Rupyarp Kipiinc

All rights reserved.

 

 

CONTENTS

Tue Bripce-Buiipers
A Watxinc DELEGATE

Tue Sure THAT Founp HErsELF .

Tre Toms oF Huis ANCESTORS

Tue Devin anp THE Deep SEA
WiuiaM THE CONQUEROR
.007

Tue Matrese Cat .

««Breap Upon THE Waters’?
Aw Error in THE FourtH Dimension .
My Sunpay at Home

Tue Bruspwoop Boy

 

 

 

 

ILLUSTRATIONS

FACING PAGE

*« He took the eighty-foot bridge without the guard-rail

like a hunted cat on the top of a fence.’? Drawn

by W. D. Stevens . Frontispiece

«« An unusually severe pitch . . . had lifted the big
throbbing screw nearly to the surface.’’ Drawn

by W. Louis Sonntag, Jr. .

«One climbed into a tree, and stuck the letter into a
cleft forty feet from the ground.’? Drawn by
E. L. Blumenschein .

«« Lazily as a gorged snake, he dragged himself out of

the cave.” Drawn by E. L. Blumenschein .

«Rolling cigarettes for her brother.’

Py Taylor...

*« Walking slowly at the head of his flocks.’’ Drawn
by W. L. Taylor

144

150

 

 

 

ILLUSTRATIONS

FACING PAGE

«« «When d’ye ship a new tail-shaft?”? I said to

Bannister’? .

<< «It was perishin’ cold, but I’d done my job judg-

matically, an’ came scrapin’ all along her side slap

>

on to the lower gratin’ o’ the gangway.’’’ Drawn

by W. Louis Sonntag, Jr. .

 

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

HE least that Findlayson, of the Public Works De-

partment, expected was a C. I. E.; he dreamed of
aC. 5S. 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.

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 cf those piers

[3]

 

 

     
 

 

   

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

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 climb-
ing 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 trav-
elled 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 stag-
ing 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

ta]

 

 

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

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.

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 vil-
lage 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, lack-
ing only a few weeks’ work on the girders of the three
middle piers—his bridge, raw and ugly as original sin,
but pukka—permanent—to endure when all memory of
the builder, yea, even of the splendid Findlayson truss,
had perished. Practically, the thing was done.

Hitchcock, his assistant, cantered along the line on a
little switch-tailed Kabuli pony who through long prac-
tice could have trotted securely over a trestle, and
nodded to his chief.

‘ All but,’ said he, with a smile.

“‘T ’ve been thinking about it,’’ the senior answered.
‘¢? Not half a bad job for two men, is it?”’

“*One—andahalf. ’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.

“You were rather a colt,’’ said Findlayson. ‘‘ I won-
der how you’ll like going back to office-work when this
job ’s over.’’

[5]

 

 

  

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

  
  

‘“‘T shall hate it!’’ said the young man, and as he
went on his eye followed Findlayson’s, and he muttered,
‘Ts n’t it damned good?’’

‘¢T think we ’ll go up the service together,’’ Findlay-
son 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! ”’

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
f 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

[6]

      
       
     
       
     
      
  
 
 
 
 
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    

 

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

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 as-
serted 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;
andafter the cholera smote the small-pox. Thefever 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 Find-
layson watched him wield his powers temperately, learn-
ing what to overlook and what to look after. It wasa
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,

[7]

 

 

 

 

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

the all-round man, who had stood by his chief without
failing from the very first to this last.

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 serang 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

[8]

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

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 lingua-franca, half Portu-
guese and half Malay, ran out and he was forced to
take string and show the knots that he would recom-
mend. He controlled his own gang of tacklemen—mys-
terious 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-dis-
missed. ‘‘ What do I care for your honour? Go and
work onasteamer. That is all you are fit for.”’

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 Lascars 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

[9]

 

 

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

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.”

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.

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 care-
ful, 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: ‘‘ Ham
dekhta hai”? (‘1am looking out’’). Findlayson laughed
and then sighed. It was years since he had seen a
steamer, and he was sick for home. Ashis trolley passed
under the tower, Peroo descended by a rope, ape-fash-
ion, 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?”’

‘“She has said little so far. It was never Mother
Gunga that delayed us.”’

“There is always time for her; and none the less
there has been delay. Has the Sahib forgotten last au-
tumn’s flood, when the stone-boats were sunk without
warning—or only a half-day’s warning?”’
~ ‘Yes, but nothing save a big flood could hurt us now.
The spurs are holding well on the west bank.”’

[10]

 

 

    
    
  
    
  
 
 
    
        
      
   
        
      
   
   
      
     
    

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

‘‘ 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.”’
j ‘No matter, Peroo. Another year thou wilt be able
to build a bridge in thine own fashion.”’
| The Lascar grinned. ‘‘ Then it will not be in this
| way—with stonework sunk under water, as the Quetta
; wassunk, I like sus-sus-pen-sheen bridges that fly from
bank to bank, with one big step, likea gang-plank. Then
' no water can hurt. When does the Lord Sahib come to
_ open the bridge?”’
| “Tn three months, when the weather is cooler.”
‘‘ 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!’”
‘But the Lord Sahib does not call me a dam jibboon-
_ wallah, Peroo.”’
_ ‘No, Sahib; but he does not come on deck till the work
is all finished. Even the Burra Malum of the Nerbudda
- said once at Tuticorin—”’
‘Bah! Go! Iam busy.’’
em ‘‘ I, also!” said Peroo, with an unshaken countenance.
_‘*May I take the light dinghy now and row along the
- spurs?’’
“To hold them with thy hands? They are, I think,
sufficiently heavy.”

“Nay,Sahib. Itisthus. Atsea, 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.”’

[11]

  

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

Findlayson smiled at the ‘‘ we.”’

‘¢ 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.

‘* 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?”’

‘‘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.”’

 

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 draw- —
ings and formule, 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.

‘‘ 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.

“That ’s all right. He’s got something on his mind. ©

[12]

 

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

You ’d think that ten years in the British India boats
would have knocked most of his religion out of him.”
“‘ So it has,’’ said Hitchcock, chuckling. ‘‘ l overheard
him the other day in the middle of a most atheistical
talk with that fat old guru of theirs. Peroo denied the
efficacy of prayer; and wanted the guru to go to sea
-and watch a gale out with him, and see if he could
: stop a monsoon.”’
‘All the same, if you carried off his guru he ’d leave
’ uslikeashot. He was yarning away to me about pray-
ing to the dome of St. Paul’s when he was in London.”
“(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.”’

“‘ Not half a bad thing to pray to, either. He ’s pro-

_ pitiating his own Gods now, and he wants to know what
| Mother Gunga will think of a bridge being run across
her. Who’sthere?’’? A shadow darkened the doorway,
anda telegram was put into Hitchcock’s hand.
‘ She ought to be pretty well used to it by this time.
| Only atar. It ought to be Ralli’s answer about the new
' rivets. . . . Great Heavens!’’ Hitchcock jumped to
his feet.

‘‘ What is it??? said the senior, and took the form.
| ** That ’s 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: ‘Floods on the Ramgunga. Look out.’ 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.”’

[13]

 

 

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

“‘Qurse that hill-fed sewer of a Ramgunga! Find-
layson, 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!”’

‘That ’s why it comes. I’ve only known Indian rivers

for five-and-twenty years, and I don’t pretend to under-
stand. Here comes another tar.’? Findlayson opened
the telegram. ‘‘ Cockran, this time, from the Ganges
Canal: ‘Heavy rains here. Bad.’ 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 river-
craft coming down adrift anyhow, without letting the
stone-boats ram the piers. What have you got on the
east bank that needs looking after? ’’

‘“Pontoon—one big pontoon with the overhead craneon
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 pile- —

work must take its chance,’’ said Hitchcock.

‘All right. -Roll up everything you can lay hands :

on. We’ll give the gang fifteen minutes more to eat
their grub.”’

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.

[14]

 

‘THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

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.’’ En-
gine 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 vil-
lage 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 disap-
peared 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.

Then the troubled beating of the gong carried the
order to take up everything and bear it beyond high-
water mark, and the flare-lamps broke out by the hun-
dred between the webs of dull iron as the riveters
began a night’s work, racing against the flood that was
tocome. 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,

[15]

 

 

    
 

   

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

 

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 over-
side, 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 Pe-
roo’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.

‘*T knew she would speak,’’ he cried. ‘‘ I knew, but
the telegraph gives us good warning. O sons of un-
thinkable 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 lan-
guage of the sea.

Findlayson was more troubled for the stone-boats

[16]

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

_ 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.

“‘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.”’

‘“‘Acchal [Very good.] J know; we are mooring
_ them with wire-rope,’’ was the answer. ‘‘Heh! Listen
to the Chota Sahib. He is working hard.”’

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 hun-
dred more trucks of Tarakee stone in reinforcing his
spurs and embankments.

‘‘The bridge challenges Mother Gunga,’’ said Peroo,
with a laugh. ‘‘ But when she talks I know whose voice
will be the loudest.”’

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.

‘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
onit, A little wave hit the side of a pier with a crisp
slap.

‘* Six hours before her time,’’ said Findlayson, mopping
his forehead savagely. ‘‘ Now we can’t depend on any-
thing. We’d better clear all hands out of the river-bed.’’

[17]

 

 

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

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.

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.

«> All clear your side?’’ said Findlayson. The whisper
rang in the box of latticework.

‘‘-Yes, and the east channel ’s filling now. We ’re
utterly out of our reckoning. When is this thing down
on us?’’

‘““There’sno 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.

‘‘ What orders?’’ said Hitchcock.

“¢ 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.”’

‘Oh, I ll be as prudent as you are! ’Night. Hea-
vens, 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, regard-
less of the cold rain of the dawn, and there they waited

[18]

   

 

 

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

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.

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 far-
away 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.

‘* 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.”’

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.

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!”

[19]

 

 

 

 

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

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.

‘* 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 hesmiled. The bridge’s failure
would hurt his assistant not a little, but Hitchcock was
a young man with his big work yet todo. For himself
the crash meant everything—everything that made a

[20]

 

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

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 Lock-
hart’s new waterworks burst and broke down in brick-
heaps 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, remember-
ing, comparing, estimating, and recalculating, lest there
should be any mistake; and through the long hours
and through the flights of formule 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.

[21]

 

 

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

 

 

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.

Presently he returned, most irreverently driving be-
fore 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 lamen-
table a guru.

‘¢ 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!”’

‘‘ 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.”’

‘Son of a pig, pray here! 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 serv-
ing in the Kumpani’s boats, and when men did not
obey my orders I—”’
rounded the sentence, and the priest, breaking free from
his disciple, fled to the village.

‘““Wat pig!’’ said Peroo. ‘‘ After all that we have
done for him! When the flood is down I will see to it
that we geta new guru. Finlinson Sahib, it darkens for
night now, and since yesterday nothing has been eaten.
Be wise, Sahib. Noman can endure watching and great
thinking on an empty belly. Lie down, Sahib. The
river will do what the river will do.”’

[ 22 ]

A flourish of the wire-rope colt

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

“The bridge is mine; I cannot leave it.”

‘“‘ Wilt thou hold it up with thy hands, then?’’ said
Peroo, laughing. ‘I was troubled for my boats and
sheers before 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 to-
gether, and they kill all weariness, besides the fever
that follows the rain. I have eaten nothing else to-day
at all.”

He took a small tin tobacco-box from his sodden waist-
belt and thrust it into Findlayson’s hand, saying:
‘‘Nay, do not be afraid. It is no more than opium—
clean Malwa opium!”’

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.

Peroo nodded with bright eyes. ‘‘In a little—in a
little the Sahib will find that he thinks wellagain. 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 ex-
cept one by one and at enormous intervals of time.

[ 23 ]

 

 

  

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

  
     

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.
“A tree hit them. They will all go,’’ cried Peroo.
‘‘ The main hawser has parted. What does the Sahib do?”’
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 won-
dered, 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 ex-
treme ease of the problem that looked so difficult. And
then—but it was of no conceivable importance—a wire-
rope raced through his hand, burning it, the high bank
disappeared, and with it all the slowly dispersing fac-
tors of the problem. He was sitting in the rainy dark-
ness—sitting in a boat that spun like a top, and Peroo
was standing over him.

‘‘T 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
[24]

  

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

have no desire to present myself before such great ones.
Can the Sahib swim?”’

‘What need? Hecan fly—fly as swiftly as the wind,”’
was the thick answer.

‘‘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.”

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 per-
ceived 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? Find-
layson gripped the gunnel to anchor himself, for it

seemed that he was on the edge of taking the flight be-_

[25]

 

 

 

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

 

 

fore he had settled all his plans. Opium has more effect
on the white man than the black. Peroo was only com-
fortably 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.”

“ Accha! Iam going away. Come thou also.”

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 rush-
ing about its knees.

‘« 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 on shore already.
Why does n’t it come along?”’

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 con-
scious of grasping wildly at wet sand, and striding
prodigiously, as one strides in a dream, to keep foot-
hold in the swirling water, till at last he hauled himself
clear of the hold of the river, and dropped, panting, on
wet earth.

‘‘ Not this night,’ said Peroo, in hisear. ‘‘ The Gods
have protected us.’? The Lascar moved his feet cau-
tiously, 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,

[ 26 ]

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

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.”

Findlayson was far and far beyond any fear of snakes,
or indeed any merely human emotion. Hesaw, 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.

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 bam-
boos, 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 hisgod. Thetwomen 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.

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

[27]

 

 

 

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

was a noise behind him of other beasts coming up from
the flood-line through the thicket, a sound of heavy
feet and deep breathing.

‘* Here be more beside ourselves,’’ said Findlayson, his
head against the tree-pole, looking through half-shut
eyes, wholly at ease.

‘Truly,’ said Peroo, thickly, ‘‘ and no small ones.”’

‘* What are they, then? Ido not see clearly.”

‘‘The Gods. Who else? Look!”’

‘‘ Ah, true! The Gods surely—the Gods.’’ Findlay-
son 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. Hecould
not raise his head or stir a finger for the trance that held
him, and Peroo was smiling vacantly at the lightning.

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.

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

[28]

 

   

 
   

 
 

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

_ the rain spilled like jewels from the hair of his neck and
_ shoulders.

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!”’

“My bridge,’ said Findlayson to himself. ‘‘ That
must be very old work now. What have the Gods to do
with my bridge?”

His eyes rolled in the darknoss following the roar. A
Mugger—the blunt-nosed, ford-haunting Mugger of the
Ganges—draggled herself before the beasts, lashing furi-
ously to right and left with her tail.

“They have made it too strong for me. In all this
night I have only torn away a handful of planks. The
walls stand. Thetowersstand. They have chained my
flood, and the river is not free any more. Heavenly
Ones, take this yoke away! Give me clear water be-
tween bank and bank! It is I, Mother Gunga, that
speak. The Justice of the Gods! Deal me the J ustice
of the Gods!’

“< What said 1?’’ 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.”’

The Parrot screamed and fluttered again, and the
Tigress, her ears flat to her head, snarled wickedly.

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.

[29]

 

 

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

‘‘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.””

‘‘ Kashi is without her Kotwal to-night,’’ 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.”’

‘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!”’

‘‘T 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, scis-
sor-legged, and galled, limped forward. ‘‘I cast thedeath
at them out of my nostrils, but they would not cease.’’

Peroo would have moved, but the opium lay heavy
upon him.

‘“‘Bah!”’ he said, spitting. ‘‘ Here is Sitala herself;
Mata—the small-pox. Has the Sahib a handkerchief te
put over his face?’’

‘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! ’’

[30]

 

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

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.’’

‘‘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.”’

The Buck made no movement as he answered: ‘‘ How
long has this evil been? ”’

‘Three years, as men count years,’’ said the Mugger,
close pressed to the earth.

“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 to-morrow the sea
shall cover her again as the Gods count that which men
call time. Can any say that this their bridge endures
till to-morrow?”’ said the Buck.

There was a long hush, and in the clearing of the storm
the full moon stood up above the dripping trees.

‘* Judge ye, then,”’’ said the River, sullenly. ‘‘I have
spoken my shame. The flood falls still. I can do no
more.”’

‘Hor 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.”’

‘‘They say, too,’’ snarled the Tiger, ‘‘ that these men
came of the wreck of thy armies, Hanuman, and there-
fore thou hast aided—’”’

[31]

 

 

 

 

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

‘“« They toil as my armies toiled in Lanka, and they be-
lieve that their toil endures. Indra is too high, but Shiv,
thou knowest how the land is threaded with their fire-
carriages.’’

‘Yea, I know,’ said the Bull. ‘Their Gods in-
structed them in the matter.”’

A laugh ran round the circle.

‘Their Gods! What should their Gods know? They
were born yesterday, and those that made them are
scarcely yet cold,”’ said the Mugger. ‘‘ To-morrow their
Gods will die.”’

‘‘ Ho!’ said Peroo. ‘‘ Mother Gunga talks good talk.
I told that to the padre-sahib who preached on the
Mombassa, and he asked the Burra Malum to put me
in irons for a great rudeness.”’

‘‘ Surely they make these things to please their Gods,”’
said the Bull again.

“ 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.”’

‘“ 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.

“It is but the shifting of a little dirt. Let the dirt

[32 ]

 

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

dig in the dirt if it pleases the dirt,’’ answered the
Elephant.

‘‘ 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.’’

The drunken Man staggered to his feet, and hiccupped
: vehemently.

‘* 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 al-
ways 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 in-
creased.”’

‘““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.”’

“* 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
_ to-day? 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 to-day,

and the fire-carriage serves them well. Bhairon am I
_ —Bhairon of the Common People, and the chiefest of
the Heavenly Ones to-day. Also my staff says—’’

‘* Peace, thou!’’ lowed the Bull. ‘‘The worship of
the schools is mine, and they talk very wisely, asking

[83 ]

 

 

  

 

   

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

 

whether I be one or many, as is the delight of my
people, and ye know what Iam. Kali, my wife, thou
knowest also.”’

‘* Yea, I know,”’ said the Tigress, with lowered head.

‘“‘ 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 pil-
grimages 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-car-
riage 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.”’

“True. Itistrue,’? 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.”’

‘‘Small thanks,’’ said the Buck, turning his head
slowly. ‘(Iam that One and His Prophet also.”

[34]

 

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

**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.”’

‘Small thanks, brother,’’ said the Tigress. ‘‘I am
that Woman.”’

‘Even so, sister; and I go West among the fire-car-
riages, 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, in-
deed—bridges between this and that, and each bridge
leads surely to Us in the end. Be content, Gunga.
Neither these men nor those that follow them mock
thee at all.’

‘“‘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 mein
the sand ere I offend? ”’

‘‘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
praiseme. Shiv has said that the men of the schools do
not forget; Bhairon is content for his crowd of the Com-
mon People; and Hanuman laughs.’’

‘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

[35 ]

 

 

 

 

 

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

—the men who believe that their God is toil. I run be-
fore them beckoning, and they follow Hanuman.”’

‘¢ 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.”’

‘“‘ 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.”

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 chil-
dren are born—Krishna the Well-beloved. He stooped
to knot up his long wet hair, and the parrot fluttered
to his shoulder.

‘‘ Fleeting and singing, and singing and fleeting,”’
hiccupped Bhairon. ‘‘Those make thee late for the
council, brother.’’

“ 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?”’

[36]

 

 

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

““Gunga has prayed for a vengeance on the bridge-
builders, 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!”’

‘* And the Heavenly Ones said nothing? Did Gunga
and the Mother of Sorrows out-talk them? Did none
speak for my people?’’

‘* Nay,’’ said Ganesh, moving uneasily from foot to
foot; ‘‘ I said it was but dirt at play, and why should we
stamp it flat?”’

‘*T was content to let them toil—well content,’’ said
_ Hanuman.

_ “What had I to do with Gunga’s anger?’’ said the
Bull,

‘**T am Bhairon of the Common Folk, and this my staff
is Kotwal ofall Kashi. Ispoke for the Common People.”’

‘*Thou?’’ The young God’s eyes sparkled.

‘* Am I not the first of the Gods in their mouths to-
day?’’ 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—”’

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.
The matter is not for thee. What harm shall thy hon-
our 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.”

‘Tf it be only for a little—’’ the slow beast began.

[387]

 

 

   

 

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

‘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.’’

‘‘But the bridge—the bridge stands.’? The Mugger
turned grunting into the undergrowth as Krishna rose.

‘Tt 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.’’

“Of my 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 to-night,”’
said Krishna. ‘‘ And when all is done, what profit?
To-morrow 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.”’

‘“‘Nay, but they are very old ones,”’ the Ape said,
laughing.

‘¢ 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.’’

‘“‘ And very tender art thou of thy people,’’ said the
Tigress.

‘They are my own. The old women dream of me

[38]

     
   

 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
  

;

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

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 white-beards. 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
tencameinthe old years? True. That is true, to-day.”

“But to-morrow they are dead, brother,’ said
Ganesh.

‘Peace!’ said the Bull, as Hanuman leaned forward
again. ‘‘ And to-morrow, beloved—what of to-morrow?”’

“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, Heav-
enly Ones.’’

The Gods laughed together softly. ‘‘ And then, be-
loved?”’ they said.

‘« 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
your fat Brahmins. Next they will forget your altars,
but so slowly that no man can say how his forgetfulness
began.”’

[39]

 

 

 

   

 

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

‘‘T knew—I knew! I spoke this also, but they would
not hear,’’ said the Tigress. ‘‘ We should have slain—
we should have slain! ’’

‘*Tt is too late now. ‘Ye should have slain at the be-
ginning 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.”’

‘‘ And the end, Jester of the Gods? What shall the
end be?’’ said Ganesh.

‘‘ The end shall be as it was in the beginning, O sloth-
fulson 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.’’

‘‘ It is very far away,’’ grunted Bhairon. ‘‘ Also, it
is a lie.”

‘*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.

‘* Their Gods came, and we changed them. I took the

[40]

      
    

   
 
  
   
  
 
 
 

,
.

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

Woman and made her twelve-armed. So shall we twist
all their Gods,’’ said Hanuman.

‘Their Gods! This is no question of their Gods—one
or three—man or woman. The matter is with the
people. They move, and not the Gods of the bridge-
builders,’’ said Krishna.

‘So be it. I have made a man worship the fire-car-
riage 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. Ishall
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.”’

‘* Surely they will do no more than change the names,”’
echoed Ganesh; but there was an uneasy movement
among the Gods.

‘“‘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. Heav-
enly 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 bornalready. The fire-carriages
shout the names of new Gods that are not 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.

[41]

 

   

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

As men count time the end is far off; but as we who
know reckon it is to-day. I have spoken.”’

The young God ceased, and his brethren looked at each
other long in silence.

‘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 Goorkha, I
have wondered if our priests were so wise—so wise.
The day is coming, Sahib. They will be gone by the
morning.”’

A yellow light broadened in the sky, and the tone of
the river changed as the darkness withdrew.

Suddenly the Elephant trumpeted aloud as though
man had goaded him.

‘Let Indra judge. Father of all, speak thou! What
of the things we have heard? Has Krishna lied in-
deed? Or—”’

‘‘-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!”’

‘« 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.”

“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.

[42]

   
   

 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

Go, my children! Brahm dreams—and till he wakes
the Gods die not.”’
* * * * * * * * * *

‘‘ Whither went they?’’ said the Lascar, awe-struck,
shivering a, little with the cold.

‘¢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.

‘““Up! We are cramped with cold! Has the opium
died out? Canst thou move, Sahib?”’

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.

“Peroo, I have forgotten much. I was under the
guard-tower watching the river; and then. ... Did
the flood sweep us away?”’

‘‘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 horse-
back, as it were, on the nose of this island, and so, split-
ting, cast us ashore. I made a great cry when the boat

[43]

 

   

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

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.”

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 bridge-
line.

‘‘ We came down far,’’ he said. ‘‘It was wonderful
that we were not drowned a hundred times.”’

“‘That was the least of the wonder, for no man dies
before his time. I have seen Sydney, I have seen Lon-
don, and twenty great ports, but ’’—Peroo looked at the
damp, discoloured shrine under the peepul—‘‘ never man
has seen that we saw here.”’

“ What?’’

“Has the Sahib forgotten; or do we black men only
see the Gods?”’

‘“‘ 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.”’

‘“‘Oho! Thenitistrue. ‘When Brahm ceases todream,
the Gods die.’ Now I know, indeed, what he meant.
Once, too, the guru said as much to me; but then I did
not understand. Now I am wise.”’

‘‘ What?’’ said Findlayson, over his shoulder.

Peroo went on as if he were talking to himself. ‘‘ Six
-—seven—ten monsoons since, I was watch on the fo’c’sle

[44]

     
   

 
  
 
   
 
 
 
 
  

 

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

of ths Rewah—the Kumpani’s big boat—and there was
a big tufan; 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 to-night”
—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 bow-anchor, and the
Rewvh rose high and high, leaning towards the left-hand
side, and the water drew away from beneath her nose,
and I lay upon my belly, holding the ring, and looking
dowa into those great deeps. Then t thought, even in
the face of death: If I lose hold I die, and for me neither
the Rewah nor my place by the galley where the rice is
cooked, nor Bombay, nor Calcutta, nor even London,
willbe 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 Rewah dropped her nose as a ham-
mer falls, and all the sea came in and slid me back-
warls along the fo’e’sle and over the break of the
fo’e’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 guru for
talking riddles which are no riddles. When Brahm
ceases to dream the Gods go.”

“Look up-stream. The light blinds. Is there smoke
yonder?”’

[45]

 

 

 

 

Sa,

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

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.”’

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.

“Tt ’s great luck,’’ murmured Findlayson, but he was
none the less afraid, wondering what news might be of
the bridge.

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 shoot-
ing-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.

‘‘Allserene! ’Gad, I never expected to see you again,

[46]

 

 

 

THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

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.”’

‘“‘ Ah, Finlinson, you are very well, ech? 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—Idonot understand steam-
engines. You are wet? You are cold, Finlinson? I
have some things to eat here, and you will take a good
drink.’’

“T’m immensely grateful, Rao Sahib. I believe
you ’ve saved my life. How did Hitchcock—”’

‘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?’’

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 cf his guru.

 

 


A WALKING DELEGATE

SIE Oe ee een eae

 

 

 

 

A WALKING DELEGATE

CCORDING to the custom of Vermont, Sunday after-
noon is salting-time on the farm, and, unless some-
thing 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, scat-
tered through the seventy acres of the Back Pasture.
You must go down by the brook that feeds the click-
ing, 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

[51]

 

 

   
  

A WALKING DELEGATE

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 con-
veyance 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 ina
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. :

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 bob-
tailed 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.

‘Salt!’ said the Deacon, joyfully. ‘‘ You ’re dreffle
late, Tedda.”’

‘“‘Any—any place to cramp the coupé?’’ Tedda
panted. ‘It weighs turr’ble this weather. I ’d ’a’

[52]

 

A WALKING DELEGATE

come sooner, but they did n’t know what they wanted
—ner haow. Fell out twice, both of ’em. I don’t
understand sech foolishness.’’

‘* You look consider’ble het up. ’Guess you ’d better
cramp her under them pines, an’ cool off a piece.”’

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 gath-
ered round us, enjoying their Sunday leisure.

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

[53]

 

 

 

A WALKING DELEGATE

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 nuz-
zling 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:

‘Hurry, boys! ’Might ha’ knowed that livery-plug
would be around.’’ }

We heard a clatter of hoofs, 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:

‘* Ni-ice beast. Man-eater, if he gets the chance—see
his eye. Kicker, too—see his hocks. Western horse.”’

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.

‘“As usual,’’ he said, with an underhung sneer—
‘“bowin’ your heads before the Oppressor that comes to
spend his leisure gloatin’ over you.”’

“Mine ’s done,’’ said the Deacon; he licked up the

[54]

 

 

A WALKING DELEGATE

remnant of his salt, dropped his nose in his master’s
hand, and sang a little grace all to himself. The Dea-
con has the most enchanting manners of any one I know.

“ 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.

“Go daown hill, then, Boney,’ the Deacon replied.
“Guess you ‘ll find somefin’ 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.’’

“T am not addressin’ myself to the young an’ imma-
ture. Iam speakin’ to those whose opinion an’ experi-
ence commands respect.”’

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 power-
ful 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.

‘‘ T wish to wake those,’’ the yellow horse went on, ‘‘ to
an abidin’ sense o’ their wrongs an’ their injuries an’
their outrages.’’

“ Haow ’s that?” said Marcus Aurelius Antoninus,
dreamily. He thought Boney was talking of some kind
of feed.

‘An’ when I say outrages and injuries ’’—Boney
waved his tail furiously—‘‘I mean ’em, too. Great
Oats! That’s just what I do mean, plain an’ straight.”

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A WALKING DELEGATE

‘“‘The gentleman talks quite earnest,’’ said Tuck, the
mare, to Nip, her brother. ‘‘ There ’s no doubt thinkin’
broadens the horizons 0’ the mind. His language is quite
lofty.”’

‘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.”’

“Tt ’s elegant talkin’, though,’’ Tuck returned, with
an unconvinced toss of her pretty, lean little head.

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.

‘“‘ 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
0’ heaven, blowin’ acrost this boundless prairie?”

‘‘ Hev ye ever wintered here? ’?’ said the Deacon, mer-
rily, while the others snickered. ‘‘It ’s kinder cool.’

‘‘ Not yet,”’ said Boney. ‘I come from the boundless
confines 0’ Kansas, where the noblest of our kind have
their abidin’-place among the sunflowers on the thresh-
old o’ the settin’ sun in his glory.”’

‘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.

‘‘ Kansas, sir, needs no advertisement. Her native
sons rely on themselves an’ their native sires. Yes, sir.’’

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.

[56 ]

 

A WALKING DELEGATE

‘(Excuse me, suh,’’ he said slowly, ‘‘ but, unless I
have been misinfchmed, most of your prominent siahs,
suh, are impo’ted from Kentucky; an’ I ’m from
Paduky.”’

There was the least little touch of pride in the last
words.

‘‘ Any horse dat knows beans,’’ said Muldoon, sud-
denly (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 me anything
about Kansas I don’t wanter fergit. De Belt Line
stables ain’t no Hoffman House, but dey ’re Vander-
bilt’s ‘longside o’ Kansas.”’

‘‘ What the horses o’ Kansas think to-day, the horses
of America will think to-morrow; an’ I tell you that
when the horses of America rise in their might, the day
o’ the Oppressor is ended.”

There was a pause, till Rick said, with a little grunt:

‘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?’’

‘‘Nope,’’ said Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, thought-
fully quidding over a mouthful of grass. ‘‘I seen a
heap o’ fools try, though.”

“You admit that you riz?’’ said the Kansas horse, ex-
citedly. ‘‘Then why—why in Kansas did you ever go
under again?’’

‘“« *Horse can’t walk on his hind legs all the time,’’ said
the Deacon.

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A WALKING DELEGATE

‘“‘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 cir-
cus 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 yer mouth when
you ’re up good an’ tall. Same old Pegasus-act, won-
derin’ 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, ac-
cordin’ ez we ’re hitched.”

‘‘ An’ Man the Oppressor sets an’ gloats over you,
same as he’s settin’ now. MHain’t that been your ex-
perience, madam?’’

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.

‘¢ *Pends on the man,’’ she answered, shifting from one
foot to the other, and addressing herself to the home
horses. ‘‘ They abused me dreffile when I was young.
I guess I was sperrity an’ nervous some, but they did n’t
allow for that. ’T was in Monroe County, Noo York,

[58]

 

A WALKING DELEGATE

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’vewarned you. ’T won’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 lock to come home behind her.’ ’N’ the
fust thing the boss did was to git the top-buggy.”’

“‘ Can’t say as I like top-buggies,” said Rick; ‘‘ they
don’t balance good.’’

‘¢ Suit me toa 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 hu-
moured, an’—I don’t kerry things to the sweatin’-point.”’

‘‘*Course I ’ve no prejudice against a top-buggy 8’
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 my 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.”’

‘‘Hain’t ye got any, Miss Tedda?’’ said Tuck, who
has a mouth like velvet, and knows it.

‘‘ 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.”

‘‘My!’’ said Tuck, ‘‘I can’t tell fer the shoes 0’ me
what makes some men so fresh.’’

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A WALKING DELEGATE

‘* Pshaw, sis,’’ said Nip, ‘‘ what ’s the sense in actin’
so? You git a kiss reg’lar ’s hitchin’-up time.”

‘‘ Well, you need n’t tell, smarty,’’ said Tuck, with a
squeal and a kick.

‘I ’d heard o’ kisses, 0’ course,’’? Tedda went on,
‘but they had n’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 was n’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
*t wuz fixed each time. You kin judge for yourselves. I
don’t set up to be no better than my neighbors, —spe-
cially with my tail snipped off the way ’t is, —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.’

‘*Meanin’ me, madam?’’ said the yellow horse.

‘“‘ Ef the shoe fits, clinch it,’ said Tedda, snorting.
‘‘ [named no names, though, to be sure, some folks are
mean enough an’ greedy enough to do ’thout ’em.”’

‘‘ There ’s a deal to be forgiven to ignorance,’ said the
yellow horse, with an ugly look in his blue eye.

‘*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.”’

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‘« But what you do not 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 ma-
jority o’ the horses o’ Kansas think the entire concern
should be relegated to the limbo of exploded supersti-
tions. I say we ’re too progressive for that. I say
we ’re too enlightened for that. °’T was good enough ’s
long ’s we did n’t think, but naow—but naow—a new
loominary has arisen on the horizon!”’

‘‘ Meanin’ you?’’ said the Deacon.

‘¢ The horses o’ Kansas are behind me with their mul-
titoodinous 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 inside of the pampered machine 0’
the trottin’-track, or the bloated coupé-horses o’ these
yere Eastern cities. Are we not the same flesh and
blood? ’’

‘‘ Not by a bushel an’ a half,’’ said the Deacon, under
his breath. ‘‘ Grandee never was in Kansas.”’

‘‘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’, J think.”

‘“« I say we are 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

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A WALKING DELEGATE

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! ”’

“‘Guess his breechin’ must ha’ broke goin’ daown-
hill,’”? said the Deacon. ‘‘ Slippery road, maybe, an’ the
buggy come onter him, an’ he did n’t know ’nough to
hold back. That don’t feel like teeth, though. Maybe
he busted a shaft, an’ it pricked him.”’

‘“ An’ I come to you from Kansas, wavin’ the tail 0’
friendship to all an’ sundry, an’ in the name of the un-
counted millions 0’ pure-minded, high-toned horses now
strugglin’ towards the light 0’ 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 Oppres-
sor cannot move himself from place to place. Without
you he cannot reap, he cannot sow, he cannot plough.’’

‘* 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
‘t would make me kinder giddy.”’

“The produc’s of your untirin’ industry would rot
on the ground if you did not weakly consent to help
him. Let ’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 Brah-

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A WALKING DELEGATE

mas 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-destroyin’
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’.’’

The yellow horse shut his yellow teeth with a tri-
umphant snap; and Tuck said, with a sigh: ‘‘ Seems ’s
if somethin’ ought to be done. Don’t seem right, some-
how,—oppressin’ us an’ all,—to my way o’ thinkin’.”’

Said Muldoon, in a far-away and sleepy voice: ‘‘ 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!”’

‘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.”’

‘‘ What in stables ’jer call an invijjus distinction? ’’
said the Deacon, stiffly.

‘Her one thing, bein’ a bloated, pampered trotter
jest because you happen to be raised that way, an’
could n’t no more help trottin’ than eatin’.’’

‘‘Doye know anythin’ about trotters?’’ said the Deacon.

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A WALKING DELEGATE

‘“‘T ’ve seen ’em trot. That was enough forme. J
don’t want to know any more. Trottin’ ’s immoral.”’

‘ Waal, I’ll tell youthismuch. 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 do 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
that 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 is n’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 bufi’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
and jailed—you intoed, shufflin’, sway-backed, wind-
suckin’ skate, you!”’ :

“Don’t get het up, Deacon,” said Tweezy, quietly.
‘Now, suh, would you consider a fox-trot, an’ single-
foot, an’ rack, an’ pace, an’ 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 all those gaits; an’ in my opinion the Dea-
con ’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 and assis-
tance of this gentleman here.’’ He looked at Muldoon,

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A WALKING DELEGATE

“ 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 0’ swinging 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.”

‘« But the simple child o’ nature—”’ the yellow horse
began.

‘‘Oh, go an’ unscrew your 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 Paris comin’ in an’ de
Teutonic goin’ out, an’ de trucks an de’ coupés 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 0’
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?”’

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A WALKING DELEGATE

“*T 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.”’

‘*Oh, you won’tsee no Belt business where you ’ll go,
miss. De man dat wants you ‘ll want you bad, an’
he ’Il 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,
and dey darsen’t cut a horse loose ’ca’se 0’ 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 was in de Fire
Department! ”’

 
     
        
      
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
    
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

‘But did you never stop to consider the degradin’ _
servitood of it all?’’ said the yellow horse.

‘* You don’t stop on the 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 :
were n’t out to grass neither, by de way dey acted. I
done my turn, an’ I’m none o’ Barnum’s crowd; butany
horse dat ’s worked on de Belt four years don’t train :
wid no simple child o’ nature—not by de whole length :
0’ N’ York.”’ :

“‘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.

‘* 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.’’

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A WALKING DELEGATE

‘‘They tell me you ’re a prominent philosopher.’’
The yellow horse turned to Marcus. ‘‘ Can you deny a
basic and pivotal statement such as this?”’

‘“‘T don’t deny anythin’,’”’ said Marcus Aurelius An-
toninus, cautiously; ‘‘ but ef you ast me, I should say
*t wuz more different sorts o’ clipped oats of a lie than
anythin’ I ’ve had my teeth into sence I wuz foaled."’

‘* Are you a horse?’’ said the yellow horse.

‘«Them that knows me best ’low I am.”

“ Ain’t Ia horse?”’

“Yep; one kind of.”’

‘Then ain’t you an’ me equal?”

‘‘ How fer kin you go in a day to a loaded buggy,
drawin’ five hundred pounds?’’ Marcus asked carelessly.

‘‘That has nothing to do with the case,’’ the yellow
horse answered excitedly.

“‘There ’s nothing I know hez more to do with the
case,’’ Marcus replied.

‘‘Kin ye yank a full car outer de tracks ten times
in de mornin’?’’ said Muldoon.

‘* Kin ye go to Keene—forty-two mile in an afternoon
—with a mate,’’ said Rick, ‘‘ an’ turn out bright an’
early next mornin’?”’

‘(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 0’ the smoothness o’ the motion?’ said Tweezy.

‘‘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'

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A WALKING DELEGATE

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? ”’

‘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.

‘What ’s the use o’ talkin’?’’ said Tedda Gabler,
scornfully. ‘‘ What kin ye do?”’

“‘T 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 0’ man.”’

‘“>Must ha’ had a heap o’ whips broke over yer
yaller back,’’ said Tedda. ‘‘Hev ye found it paid
any?”’

‘‘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 de-
gradin’ badges o’ servitood that connect us with the
buggy an’ the farm-wagon.”’

“Tt ’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 ’t ain’t half as in-
terestin’ ez goin’ daown-taown in the Concord.”’

‘Concord don’t hender you goin’ to sleep any,’’ said

[68]

     

   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

A WALKING DELEGATE

Nip. ‘‘ My throat-lash! D’ youremember when you lay
down in the sharves last week, waitin’ at the piazza?’’

‘‘Pshaw! That did n’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 to any-
thing that goes on wheels, you ’ve got to be hitched
with somefin’.”’

‘*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.”’

“T am not sayin’ anythin’ again’ work,’ said the
yellow horse; ‘‘ work is the finest thing in the world.”’

‘* Seems too fine fer some of us,’’ Tedda snorted.

‘*T only ask that each horse should work for himself,
an’ enjoy the profit of hislabours. Let him work intelli-
gently, an’ not as a machine.”’

‘‘There ain’t no horse that works like a machine,’’
Marcus began.

‘«There ’s no way 0’ workin’ that does n’t mean goin’
to pole or single—they never put me in the Power-ma-
chine—er under saddle,’’ said Rick.

‘‘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.”’

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

[69 ]

 

 

 

   

 

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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.

‘* How old are you?”’ he said to the yellow horse.
‘Nigh thirteen, I guess.’’

‘Mean age; ugly age; I’m gettin’ that way myself.

How long hev ye been pawin’ this fire-fanged stable-'

litter? ’’

‘‘Tf you mean my principles, I ’ve held ’em sence I
was three.’’

‘‘Mean age; ugly age; teeth give heaps o’ trouble
then. ’Set a colt to actin’ crazy fer a while. You ’ve
kep’ it up, seemin’ly. D’ ye talk much to your neigh-
bors fer a steady thing?”’

‘*T uphold the principles o’ the Cause wherever I am
pastured.’’

‘Done a heap o’ good, I guess?”’

‘‘T am proud to say I have taught a few of my com-
panions the principles 0’ freedom an’ liberty.’’

‘‘Meanin’ they ran away er kicked when they got
the chanst?”’

“‘T was talkin’ in the abstrac’, an’ not in the con-
crete. My teachin’s educated them.”’

‘‘ What a horse, specially a young horse, hears in the
abstrac’, he ’s liable to do in the Concord. You wuz
handled late, I presoom.”’

‘* Four, risin’ five.”’

‘‘That’s where the trouble began. Driv’ by a woman,
like ez not—eh?”’

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A WALKING DELEGATE

‘“‘Not fer long,’ said the yellow horse, with a snap
of his teeth.

‘« Spilled her?”’

‘‘T heerd she never drove again.”’

‘¢ Any childern? ”’

‘‘ Buckboards full of ’em.”’

‘* Men too?”’

‘« T have shed conside’ble men in my time.”’

. “ By kickin’?”’

‘““ Any way that come along. Fallin’ back over the
dash is as handy as most.”

‘They must be turr’ble afraid o’ you daown-taown? :

“They ’ve sent me here to get rid o’ me. I guess
they spend their time talkin’ over my campaigns.”’

‘¢ Twanter know!”’

“Yes, sir. 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?”’

‘“Yep; one of ’em owns me. T’ other broke me,”’
said Rod.

‘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.”

‘‘ Meanin’ ter kill ’em?’’ Rod drawled. There was a
shudder of horror through the others; but the yellow
horse never noticed.

“JT "ll catch ’em by the back o’ the neck, an’ pile-
drive ’em apiece. They can suit ’emselves about livin’
when I ’m through with ’em.”’

“ Should n’t wonder ef they did,” said Rod.

The yellow horse had hidden himself very cleverly

[71]

 

 

 

 

 

A WALKING DELEGATE

behind the others as they stood ina group, and was
swaying his head close to the ground with a curious
scythe-like motion, looking sidewise out of his wicked
eyes. You can never mistake a man-eater getting
ready to knock a man down. We had had one to pas-
ture the year before.

“* See that? ’’ said my companion, turning over on the
pine-needles, ‘‘ Nice for a woman walking ’cross lots,
would n’t it be?”’

‘‘ Bring ’em out!’’ said the yellow horse, hunching
his sharp back. ‘There ’s no chance among them tall
trees. Bring out the—oh! Ouch!”

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.

‘What ’s that for?’’ he said angrily, when he re-
covered himself; but I noticed he did not draw any
nearer to Muldoon than was necessary.

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.

“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.’’

“* Naow, I want you all here to take notice, and you ’ll

[72]

 

 

 

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learn something,’’ Rod went on. ‘This yaller-backea
skate comes to our pastur’—”’

‘* Not havin’ paid his board,”’ put in Tedda.

‘* 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.”’

Tuck looked guilty here, but she did not say any-
thing.

‘* Bit by bit he goes on ez you have heard.”’

‘*T was talkin’ in the abstrac’,’’ said the yellow horse,
in an altered voice.

‘* 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.’’

‘An’ knowed how to manage ’em,”’ said Tedda.
‘‘That makes it worse.’’

“Waal, he did n’t kill ’em, anyway,” said Marcus.
“He ’d ha’ been half killed ef he had tried.’’

‘* Makes no differ,’ Rod answered. ‘‘ He meant to;
an’ ef he had n’t—s’pose we want the Back Pasture
turned into a biffin’-ground on our only day er rest?
*S’pose we want our 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

[73]

 

 

 

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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 bog-spavined Kan-
sas sunflower goes up an’ daown the length o’ the coun-
try, traded off and 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—spat-
tin’ the lines an’ standin’ up an’ hollerin’—but Ido say,
*tain’t none of our business to shed ’em daown the road.’’

‘*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 did n’t kick. Boney’s talk ain’t
goin’ to hurt usany. We ain’t colts.’’

‘‘Thet’s what you think. Bimeby you git intoa 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. Then somethin’ whispers inside 0’
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

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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 pas-
ture, till the sweat trickled off my hooves, an’ they
thought I wuz off condition, an’ drenched me.”’

‘When my affliction came,’’ said Tweezy, gently, ‘I
was very near to losin’ my manners. Allow me to ex-
tend to you my sympathy, suh.”’

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.

“T ‘ve been there too, Rod,’’ said Tedda. ‘‘ Open
confession ’s good for the soul, an’ all Monroe County
knows I ’ve had my experriences.”’

‘‘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 our position. There ’s no
shadow of equal’ty, suh, not even for one kick. He’s
beneath our contempt.”’

“Tet him talk,’ said Marcus. ‘It ’s always in-
terestin’ to know what another horse thinks. It don’t
tech us.”’

‘An’ he talks so, too,’? said Tuck. ‘‘I ’ve never
heard anythin’ so smart for a long time.”’

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:

[75]

 

 

 

 

 

Ee a, a a a ca a

EE TA RON TT

A WALKING DELEGATE

“‘T want all you here ter understand thet ther ain’t
no Kansas, ner no Kentucky, ner yet no Vermont, in
our 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 ex-
cuse fer claimin’ he’s different. That’s colts’ talk, an’
don’t you fergit it, Tweezy. An’, Marcus, you remem-
ber that bein’ a philosopher, an’ anxious to save trouble,
—fer you are—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, after killin’ his man, don’t you be run away with
by his yap. You ’re too young an’ too nervous.”’

‘J *Il—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.”’

‘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.”’

[76]

 

SS

 

   
  

A WALKING DELEGATE

 
  
    
   
   
   
   
   
   
      
 
        
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
    
 
 
    

‘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.

‘““T 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.

“Tf it ’s all the same, gentlemen, I ’d ruther change
pasture. Guess I ’ll do it now.”

“Can’t always have your ’druthers. Guess you
won’t,’’ said Rod.

“But look a-here. All of you ain’t so blame un-
friendly to a stranger. S’pose we count noses.”’

‘‘ 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.

“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 me, 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 Ihave. 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

[77]

_ =~ swe *

 

ee

 

 

 

 

FO A FO

i Nc

ge Oe ee ey ne al le Ai

A WALKING DELEGATE

hain’t touched yet. After this little fracas is fixed up,
you an’ me ’!l make up a party an’ ’tend to it.’

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 cirkituous 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 philosophize all over your
carcass.”’

‘*T’m goin’ to do yer up in brown paper,”’ said Mul-
doon. ‘‘TI can fit you on apologies.’’

‘‘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.

‘‘Have you no respec’ whatever fer the dignity 0’
our common horsehood?’’ the yellow horse squealed.

‘“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 0’ 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 horse, an’ thet’s about his dignity an’

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the size of his soul ’fore he ’s been broke an’ rawhided
a piece. Now we ain’t goin’ to give ornery unswitched
horse, 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 hev.
Don’t you try to back off acrost them rocks. Wait
where youare! EfIlet my Hambletonian temper git
the better 0’ 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! ”’

“T think we ’d better get home,’’ I said to my com-
panion, 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;
butI hope an’ trust my friends ’ll take a ticket fer me.”

‘Bet your natchul!’’ said Muldoon, cheerfully, and
the horses scattered before us, trotting into the ravine.

* * * * * * * * * *

Next morning we sent back to the livery-stable what
was left of the yellow horse. It seemed tired, but anx-
ious to go.

 

 


 

THE SHIP THAT FOUND HERSELF


 

THE SHIP THAT FOUND HERSELF

T 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 ma-
chinery ; and her designers and owner thought as much
of her as though she had been the Lucania. Any one
can make a floating hotel that will pay expenses, if he
puts enough money into the saloon, and charges for pri-
vate 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

[83]

 

 

 

 

THE SHIP THAT FOUND HERSELF

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
Dimbula. 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.

‘‘ And now,”’ said Miss Frazier, delightedly, to the
captain, ‘‘ she’s a real ship, is n’t she? It seems only
the other day father gave the order for her, and now—
and now—is n’t she a beauty!’’ The girl was proud of
the firm, and talked as though she were the controlling
partner.

‘“*Oh, she ’s no so bad,’’ the skipper replied cau-
tiously. ‘‘ 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.’’

‘‘T thought father said she was exceptionally well
found.’’

‘So she is,’’ said the skipper, with a laugh. ‘‘ But
it ’s this way wi’ ships, Miss Frazier. Shes all here,
but the parrts of her have not learned to work together
yet. They ’ve had no chance.”’

‘The engines are working beautifully. I can hear
them.’’

[84]

 

THE SHIP THAT FOUND HERSELF

‘< 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—sweet-
enin’ her, we call it, technically.”’

‘* And how will you do it?”’ the girl asked.

‘“'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 0’ various an’ conflictin’ strains, wi’ tissues
that must give an’ tak’ accordin’ to her personal modu-
lus of elasteecity.’’ Mr. Buchanan, the chief engineer,
was coming towards them. ‘‘ I’m sayin’ to Miss Frazier,
here, that our little Dimbula has to be sweetened yet,
and nothin’ but a gale will do it. How ’s all wi’ your
engines, Buck?’’

‘‘ 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 ’Il
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.”

“I was sayin’ the very same, Mr. Buchanan,” the
skipper interrupted.

‘That ’s more metaphysical than I can follow,’ said
Miss Frazier, laughing.

“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 Dimbula,”’ the engineer said.

[85]

 

 

 

THE SHIP THAT FOUND HERSELF

‘‘ 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 ’Il bein
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.”’

In the next few days they stowed some four thou-
sand tons dead weight into the Dimbula, 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 Dimbula 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 ship-
yard 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

[86]

 

THE SHIP THAT FOUND HERSELF

tell what is happening near them, nor what will over-
take them next.

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.

“Don’t you do that again,” the capstan sputtered
through the teeth of his cogs. ‘‘ Hil Where ’s the
fellow gone?”’

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.

‘« Qan’t you keep still up there ?’’ said the deck-beams.
“What ’s the matter with you? One minute you weigh
twice as much as you ought to, and the next you
don’t!”’

“Tt is n’t my fault,” said the capstan. ‘‘ There sa
green brute outside that comes and hits me on the
head.”’

“Tell that to the shipwrights. You ’ve been in
position for months and you ’ve never wriggled like
this before. If you are n’t careful you ‘Il strain us.”’

“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—ours?”’

[87]

 

 

  

 

 

THE SHIP THAT FOUND HERSELF

‘“‘ Who might you be? ’’ the deck-beams inquired.

‘* 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.’

Now the stringers of the ship are long iron girders, so
to speak, that run lengthways from stern tobow. 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.

‘You will take steps—will you?’’ This wasa 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 that’’; 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?”

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.

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

[88]

  

 

  
   

Drawn by W. Louis Sonntag, Fr.

** An unusually severe pitch . . . had lifted the big, throbbing screw
nearly to the surface,”

 

 

 

 

 

   

     
 

THE SHIP THAT FOUND HERSELF

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 out-
side? It’s an uncommonly poor one. How are we to
do our work if you fly off the handle that way?”’

“T did n’t fly off the handle,’’ said the screw, twirl-
ing 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.’

“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.) “TI
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.

All the bearings that supported the fifty feet of screw-
shaft as it ran to the stern whispered: ‘‘ Justice—give
us justice.’’

“T can only give you what I can get,’’ the screw
answered. ‘‘ Look out! It ’s coming again!’’

He rose with a roar as the Dimbula plunged, and
“ whack—flack—whack—whack’’ went the engines,
furiously, for they had little to check them.

‘‘T’m the noblest outcome of human ingenuity—Mr.
Buchanan says so,’’ squealed the high-pressure cylin-

[89]

 

 

 

 

THE SHIP THAT FOUND HERSELF

der. ‘‘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
overtaken one so young and strong. And if Igo, who’s
to drive the ship?”’

‘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 "Il happen all
night, on and off. I don’t say it ’s nice, but it ’s the
best we can do under the circumstances.”’

‘““What difference can circumstances make? I ’m
here to do my work—on clean, dry steam. Blow cir-
cumstances!’ the cylinder roared.

‘« 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.”’

“Tt is n’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.”’

[90]

 

 

 

THE SHIP THAT FOUND HERSELF

“T 'm afraid the matter is out of owner’s hands for
the present,’’ said the Steam, slipping into the con-
denser. ‘‘ You ’re left to your own devices till the
weather betters.’

“T would n’t mind the weather,” said a flat bass
voice below; “‘ it’s this confounded cargo that ’s break-

ing my heart. I’m the garboard-strake, and I’m twice
as thick as most of the others, and I ought to know
something.”’

The garboard-strake is the lowest plate in the bottom
of aship, and the Dimbula’s garboard-strake was nearly

three-quarters of an inch mild steel.

‘“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.”

‘‘ When in doubt, hold on,’’ rumbled the Steam, mak-
ing head in the boilers.

“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.”

“‘T 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 ob-
serve that I am the sole strength of this vessel, so far as
my vision extends. The responsibility, I assure you, is

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THE SHIP THAT FOUND HERSELF

enormous. I believe the money-value of the cargo is
over one hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Think
of that!”’

‘And every pound of it is dependent on my per-
sonal exertions.’ Here spoke a sea-valve that commu-
nicated 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! ”’

Patent things always use the longest words they can.
It is a trick that they pick up from their inventors.

‘That ’s news,’’ said a big centrifugal bilge-pump.
‘‘T 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 thou-
sands, 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! ”’

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.

‘*T tell you what it is,’’ the foremast telephoned down
its wire-stays. ‘‘I’m up here, and I can take a dis-

[92]

 

 

THE SHIP THAT FOUND HERSELF

passionate view of things. There ’s an organized con-
spiracy 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!’’

‘¢ What’s awful?’’ said a wave, drowning the capstan
for the hundredth time.

“This organized conspiracy on your part,’’ the cap-
stan gurgled, taking his cue from the mast.

‘‘ Organized 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.

“(Which has advanced—’’ That wave hove green
water over the funnel.

“ Ag faras Cape Hatteras—’’ He drenched the bridge.

‘* 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 darken-
ing troughs alongside, while the broken falls whipped
the davits.

“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 corol-
laries.”’

“Ts it going to get any worse?’’ said the bow-anchor
chained down to the deck, where he could only breathe
once in five minutes.

“Not knowing, can’t say. Wind may blow a bit by
midnight. Thanks awfully. Good-bye.”

The wave that spoke so politely had travelled some

[93 ]

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE SHIP THAT FOUND HERSELF

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.

‘‘ 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 out-
side, but as the plate did not open in that direction, the
defeated water spurted back.

‘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.

‘‘We are not what you might call idle,’’ groaned all
the frames together, as the Dimbula 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.

‘* Kase off! Ease off, there!’’ roared the garboard-
strake. ‘‘ TI want one eighth of an inch fair play. D’ you
hear me, you rivets!’’

[94]

 

THE SHIP THAT FOUND HERSELF

‘‘Hase off! Ease off!’’ cried the bilge-stringers.
‘‘Don’t hold us so tight to the frames!’’

‘« Hase off!’’ grunted the deck-beams, as the Dimbula
rolled fearfully. ‘‘ You ’ve cramped our knees into the
stringers, and we can’t move. Hase off, you flat-headed
little nuisances.”’

Then two converging seas hit the bows, one on each
side, and fell away in torrents of streaming thunder.

‘¢ Hase off!’’ shouted the forward collision-bulkhead.
‘“‘T want to crumple up, but I ’m stiffened in every
direction. Ease off, you dirty little forge-filings. Let
me breathe!”’

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, com-
plained against the rivets.

‘We can’t help it! We can’t help it!’’ they mur-
mured 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.”’

‘‘ As far as I could feel,’’ said the upper-deck plank-
ing, 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.”’

‘‘ Pull any way you please,’’ roared the funnel, ‘‘ so
long as you don’t try your experiments on me. I need
fourteen wire ropes, all pulling in different directions, to
hold me steady. Is n’t that so?’’

[95 ]

 

THE SHIP THAT FOUND HERSELF

‘‘ 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.

‘‘Nonsense! We must all pull together,’”’ the decks
repeated. ‘‘ Pull lengthways.”’

‘Very good,’’ said the stringers; ‘‘ then stop pushing
sideways when you get wet. Be content to run grace-
fully fore and aft, and curve in at the ends as we do.”

‘“¢No—no curves at theend. A very slight workman-
like curve from side to side, with a good grip at each
knee, and little pieces welded on,’’ said the deck-beams.

‘‘Widdle!’’ 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.

‘‘ 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!’

‘Come back! ’’ said the deck-beams, savagely, as the
upward heave of the sea made the frames try to open.
‘¢Gome back to your bearings, you slack-jawed irons! ”’

‘Rigidity! Rigidity! Rigidity!’’ thumped the en-
gines. ‘‘ Absolute, unvarying rigidity —rigidity!”’

‘¢-Yousee!’’ whined the rivets, inchorus. ‘‘ 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 must n’t, and sha’n’t
move.”’

[96 ]

 

 

THE SHIP THAT FOUND HERSELF

‘*T ’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.

‘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 ’Il
all go to the bottom together! First we ’re blamed for
everything unpleasant, and now we have n’t the con-
solation of having done our work.”’

‘‘ Don’t say I told you,’’ whispered the Steam, con-
solingly ; ‘‘ but, between you and me and the last cloud
I came from, it was bound to happen sooner or later.
You had to give a fraction, and you ’ve given without
knowing it. Now, hold on, as before.”

‘“¢ 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.”’

‘“‘No one rivet was ever meant to. Share it among
you,’’ the Steam answered.

‘The others can have my share. I’m going to pull
out,’’ said a rivet in one of the forward plates.

‘““Tf 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 baa
as this, and he started all his friends on the same butt-

[97]

 

 

   

 

THE SHIP THAT FOUND HERSELF

strap, and the plates opened like a furnace door, and I
had to climb into the nearest fog-bank, while the boat
went down.”’

“Now that ’s peculiarly disgraceful,’’ said the rivet.
“ Hatter than me, was he, and ina 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.

‘‘ You see,’’ he went on, quite gravely, ‘‘a rivet, and
especially a rivet in your position, is really the one in-
dispensable part of the ship.’’

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.

And all that while the little Dimbula 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 every-
thing, 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.

“Now it ’s all finished,’’ he said dismally. ‘‘ The
conspiracy is too strong for us. There is nothing left
but to—”’

* Hurraar! Brrrraaah! Brrrrrrp !’’ roared the Steam
through the fog-horn, till the decks quivered. ‘‘ Don’t
be frightened, below. It's only me, just throwing out
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THE SHIP THAT FOUND HERSELF

a few words, in case any one happens to be rolling
round to-night.”’

‘* 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.

‘Scores of ’em,’’ said the Steam, clearing its throat.
“ Rrrrrraaa! Brraaaaa! Prrrrp! It’s a trifle windy
up here; and, Great Boilers! how it rains!”

‘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.

“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! Grrraaoaaah! Drrrraaaa! Drrrp! I
have a notion that the sea is going down already. If
it does you ll learn something about rolling. We ’ve
only pitched tillnow. By the way, aren’t you chaps in
the hold a little easier than you were?”’

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.

‘‘ 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 with-
out parallel in the records of marine architecture.”

[99]

 

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
 

 

 
 
 

 

THE SHIP THAT FOUND HERSELF

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.

‘‘ We also,’’ began the deck-beams, ‘‘ are discoverers
and geniuses. Weare 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.”’

Here the Dimbula shot down a hollow, lying almost
on her side; righting at the bottom with a wrench
and a spasm.

‘“‘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.

“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.”’

‘“‘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 tnundered 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! Now push
forall yourstrength! Hold out! Give a fraction! Hold
up! Pull in! Shovecrossways! Mind the strain at the

[ 100 ]

 

 

 

 

THE SHIP THAT FOUND HERSELF

ends! Grip, now! Bite tight! Let the water get away
from under—and there she goes!”’

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.

‘‘How ’s the noblest outcome of human ingenuity
hitting it?’’ said the Steam, as he whirled through the
engine-room.

“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, is n’t it?’’

“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.’

‘* Tf you ’d been hammered as we ’ve been this night,
you would n’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.
We found that out by working on our sides for five
minutes at a stretch—chch—chh. How’stheweather?”’

** Sea ’s going down fast,’’ said the Steam.

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THE SHIP THAT FOUND HERSELF

‘‘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 over-
ture to the ‘‘ Bronze Horse,’ and ‘‘ Madame Angot,”’
till something goes wrong, and then they render
Gounod’s ‘‘ Funeral March of a Marionette,’’ with
variations.

“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.

Next day the sky cleared and the sea dropped a little,
and the Dimbula 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: other-
wise she would have opened out like a wet paper box.

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.

They found ample time to practise, for they were six-
teen days at sea, and it was foul weather till within a
hundred miles of New York. The Dimbula picked up
her pilot, and came in covered with salt and red rust.
[ 102]

 

THE SHIP THAT FOUND HERSELF

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.”’

‘« But she ’ssoupled,’’ 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.”

‘“‘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.”’

Naturally everything in the Dimbula 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.”’

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 Majestic, the Paris, the Tou-
raine, the Servia, the Kaiser Wilhelm II., and the Wer-
kendam, all statelily going out to sea. As the Dimbula

[ 103 ]

 

 

 

THE SHIP THAT FOUND HERSELF

 

shifted her helm to give the great boats clear way, the
Steam (who knows far too much to mind making an ex-
hibition of himself now and then) shouted:

** Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! Princes, Dukes, and Barons of
the High Seas! Know ye by these presents, we are the
Dimbula, fifteen days nine hours from Liverpool, hay-
ing crossed the Atlantic with four thousand ton of cargo
for the first time in our career! We have not foundered.
We are here. ’Her! ’Her! 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! Hi! Hi!
But we did n’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 Dimbula! We are—arr—ha—ha—ha-r-r-r!”

The beautiful line of boats swept by as steadily as the
procession of the Seasons. The Dimbula heard the Ma-
Jjestic say, ‘‘ Hmph!” and the Paris grunted, ‘‘ How !”’
and the Touraine said, ‘‘ Oui!”’ with a little coquettish
flicker of steam; and the Servia said, ‘‘ Haw!’’ and the
Kaiser and the Werkendam said, ‘‘ Hoch!’? Dutch fash-
ion—and that was absolutely all.

‘“‘T did my best,” said the Steam, gravely, ‘‘ but I
don’t think they were much impressed with us, some-
how. Do you?’’

‘It ’ssimply disgusting,’’ said the bow-plates. ‘‘ They
might have seen what we’ve been through. Thereis n’t
a ship on the sea that has suffered as we have—is there,
now?’?

‘Well, I would n’t go so far as that,’’ said the Steam,
‘* because I ’ve worked on some of those boats, and sent

[ 104 ]

 

THE SHIP THAT FOUND HERSELF

 

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
Majestic, for instance, ducked from her bows to her fun-
nel; and I ’ve helped the Arizona, I think she was, to
back off an iceberg she met with one dark night; and I
had to run out of the Paris’s engine-room, one day, be-
cause there was thirty foot of water in it. Of course, I
don’t deny—’’ The Steam shut off suddenly, as a tug-
boat, 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 Dimbula.

Then a new, big voice said slowly and thickly, as
though the owner had just waked up: ‘‘It ’s my con-
viction that I have made a fool of myself.’’

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.

‘¢ Who are you?’’ he said, with a laugh.

‘¢Tam the Dimbula, of course. I’ve never been any-
thing else except that—and a fool!”’

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:

In the days of old Rameses—are you on?
Tn the days of old Rameses—are you on?
In the days of old Rameses,

That story had paresis,

Are you on—are you on—are you on ?

[ 105 J

 

 

 

THE SHIP THAT FOUND HERSELF

 

‘‘ 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.”’

[ 106 }

 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

 

 

 

 

 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

OME people will tell you that if there were but a
S single loaf of bread in all India it‘would be divided
equally between the Plowdens, the Trevors, the Bea-
dons, 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.

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 Lieu-
tenant-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

[109 ]

 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

embodied his virtues in a stately resolution, and paid
for the expenses of his tomb among the Satpura hills.

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.

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 regi-
ment 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,

[110]

 

 

 

 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

elcthed in rifle-green with black-leather trimmings;
anil friends called them the ‘‘ Wuddars,’’ which means
a 1ace of low-caste people who dig up rats to eat. But
the Wuddars did not resent it. They were the only
Widdars, and their points of pride were these:

Tirstly, they had fewer English officers than any
najive 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
pucka shikarries (out-and-out hunters) in all India.
Fairthly—up to one hundredthly—they were the Wud-
dars—Chinn’s Irregular Bhil Levies of the old days,
bus now, henceforward and for ever, the Wuddars.

No Englishman entered their mess except for love
or through family usage. The officers talked to their:
solliers in a tongue not two hundred white folk in India
umnlerstood; and the men were their children, all drawn
fram the Bhils, who are, perhaps, the strangest of the
miny strange races in India. They were, and at heart
ar, wild men, furtive, shy, full of untold superstitions.
The races whom we call natives of the country found
th: Bhil in possession of the land when they first broke
inio that part of the world thousands of yearsago. The
books call them Pre-Aryan, Aboriginal, Dravidian, and
soforth; and, in other words, that is what the Bhils call
themselves. When a Rajput chief whose bards can
sirg 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

[111]

  

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

  
  
 

  

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.

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 Com-
pany’s service to police their friends.
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 stead-

   
  
 
 
 
 
   
  
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
    

ily 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.

Colonel Lionel Chinn knew and loved them, too, and

[112]

 

 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

they were very fairly civilised, for Bhils, before his
service ended. Many of them could hardly be distin-
guished 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.

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.

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 for-
lorn as a strayed goat when he slapped the white dust

[113]

 

   

 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

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.

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 sen-
tences that he did not understand—bits of old nursery
rhymes, and tail-ends of such orders as his father used
to give the men.

The Colonel watched him come up the steps, and
laughed.

‘‘Look!’’ he said to the Major. ‘‘ No need to ask
the young un’s breed. He’s a pukka Chinn. ’Might
be his father in the Fifties over again.”’

‘“‘Hope he ’ll shoot as straight,’’ said the Major.
“He ’s brought enough ironmongery with him.”’

‘“‘?Would n’t be a Chinn if he did n’t. Watch him
blowin’ his nose. ’Regular Chinn beak. ’Flourishes
his handkerchief like his father. It ’s the second edi-
tion—line for line.’’

‘“Rairy tale, by Jove!’’ said the Major, peering
through the slats of the jalousies. ‘‘If he ’s the lawful
heir, he 711 . . . Now old Chinn could no more pass
that chick without fiddling with it than . .. ”

‘* His son!’’ said the Colonel, jumping up.

‘‘ Well, I be blowed!’’ said the Major. The boy’s eye
[114]

     
    

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

had been caught by a split-reed screen that hung on a
slew between the verandah 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. 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.

“So much for heredity,’’? said the Major. ‘‘ That
comes of four generations among the Bhils.”’

‘‘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.”’

‘‘ Nothin’ like havin’ a father before you,’’ said the
Major. ‘‘I’ma 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, why 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.

‘What is it?’’ he called.

‘‘Plenty bad man here. I going, sar,’’ was the

[115]

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

reply. ‘‘Have taken Sahib’s keys, and say will
shoot.”

‘*Doocid lucid—doocid convincin’. How those up-
country thieves can leg it! He has been badly fright-
ened by some one.’’ The Major strolled to his quarters
to dress for mess.

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.

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.

‘Who is it?’’? said young Chinn, not knowing he
spoke in the Bhil tongue.

‘*T 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.”’
Young Chinn could not trust himself to reply, and
the voice went on:

[116]

  
   

  

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

‘“‘T 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.”

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.

Chinn’s eyes were full of tears. The old man held
out his keys.

‘‘ 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?”’

The scene came back to Chinn in great magic-lantern
flashes. ‘‘ Bukta!’’ he cried; and all ina breath: ‘‘ You
promised nothing should hurt me. Js it Bukta?”’

The man was at his feet asecond 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 that 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 baba—Jan baba!
My Jan baba! 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 is Jan baba.”’

[117]

 

 

 

   
 

   

 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

He pushed forward the hilt of his sword as a sign of
service, which is an honour paid only to viceroys, gov-
ernors, 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.

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 com-
missioned 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.

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!”’

‘ All little children were in bed when the Sahib heard
that call last,’’ said Bukta, passing Chinn a clean hand-
kerchief. 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.

Old Bukta swaggered forth curling his whiskers. He

[118]

 

 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

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 in-
sanity; 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.

At mess under the oil-lamps the talk turned as usual
to the unfailing subject of skizar—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.

‘Tn 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.”’

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

[119]

 

 

  

 

 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

field, till young Chinn hinted that they must be pulling
his leg.

‘Deed, we are n’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 grand-
papa’s riding-tiger, as well. ’Odd he has n’t spoken of
that yet.’’

‘*'You know you’ve an ancestor buried down Satpura
way, don’t you?” said the Major, as Chinn smiled
irresolutely.

“‘ 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.

‘‘Well, Iwasn’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. J don’t call it decent in an ex-Collector’s
ghost; but that is what the Southern Bhils beliéve.
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.”

[120 ]

  

 

 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

“What ’s the origin of it, d’ you suppose?” said
Chinn.

‘“‘ 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 al-
ready 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.”’

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 re-
turned 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.

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 hap-
pened 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.

[ 121)

 

 

 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

 

 

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.

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, whis-
kered, frisky, and young. He had slain a man in pure
sport, they said.

“‘Let him be fed,’’ quoth Bukta, and the villagers
dutifully drove out a cow to amuse him, that he might
lie up near by.

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.

“‘Tt 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 maiden-
head 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.”’

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

[122]

 

 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

Chinn’s back and right shoulder dragged him forward
step by step with staring eyeballs.

“Td forgotten it is n’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.

“Tt ig nothing. You know how it is with my

people!’? Chinn was annoyed. The dull-red_ birth-

mark on his shoulder, something like a conventional-
ised 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 conde-
scending 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?”’

‘© On foot and in the daytime,’’ said young Chinn.

“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 thee ?”’

He was marked down by a little water-hole at the
head of a ravine, full-gorged and half asleep in the

[123]

 

 

 

     
   

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

      
 
  
 
    
  
   
  
 
 
 
 
    
  
   
   
   
  
 
    

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.

‘* Wifteen,’’ 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.’’

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 inter-
ested 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.

‘*No need to show that we care,”’ said he. ‘‘ Now,
after this, we can kill what we choose. Put out your
hand, Sahib.”’

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? ’’

‘‘But those men—the beaters. They have worked
hard, and perhaps—’’

[124]

 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

‘Oh, if they skin clumsily, we will skin them. They
aremy people. Inthe LinesIam one thing. Here I am
another.”’

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 fiask 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?

‘“‘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 can-
tonments.”’

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.

‘* My people were very pleased to see the Sahib. They
will never forget. When next the Sahib goes out re-

[125 ]

 

 

 

 

 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

cruiting, he will go to my people, and they will give
him as many men as we need.’’

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.

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, squat-
ting in his verandah at twilight, after the easy, confi-
dential 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 voy-
ager return alive?

‘But what have I to do with these things?’’ Chinn
demanded of Bukta, impatiently. ‘‘I ama soldier. I
do not know the law.”’

‘‘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.”’

[126]

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

‘* But wherefore? ’”’

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 ac-
count of thename. 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.”’

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.

There could be no sort of doubt in this matter. Allthe
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.

Because the savage and the child who plays lonely
games have one horror of being laughed at or questioned,

127 4

 

 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

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?

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 regi-
mental 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.

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, but-
terflies, 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
onhim. He was, as they said, ‘‘ salted before he was
born.”’

Now in the autumn of his second year’s service an
uneasy rumour crept out of the earth and ran about

[1238 ]

 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

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.”’

‘JT 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?”’

“Riding cross-country by moonlight on his proces-
sional 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.”

‘“What makes you think there ’s any truth in the
tale?’’ said Chinn.

‘* Because all our men deny it. They say they ‘ve
never heard of Chirin’s tiger. Now that’s a manifest
lie, because every Bhil has.’’

‘“‘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 grand-
father left them, young ’un. It means something.”

‘*Meanin’ they may go on the war-path?”’ said Chinn.

**Can’t say—as yet. Should n’t be surprised a little
bit.’”’

‘“*T have n’t been told a syllable.’’

‘“‘ Proves it all the more. They are keeping some-
thing back.’’

[129 ]

 

 

       
 

 

 

   

 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

 

‘‘ Bukta tells me everything, too, as a rule.
why did n’t he tell me that?”’

Chinn put the question directly to the old man that
night, and the answer surprised him.

‘‘ Why should I tell what is well known? Yes, the
Clouded Tiger is out in the Satpura country.”

‘“‘ What do the wild Bhils think that it means? ”’

‘“‘They do not know. They wait. Sahib, what is
coming? Say only one little word, and we will be con-
tent.”’

‘‘We? What have tales from the south, where the
jungly Bhils live, to do with drilled men?”’
‘¢ When Jan Chinn wakes is no time for any Bhil to be

Wow,

quiet.’’

‘But he has not waked, Bukta.”’

‘‘ Sahib ’’—the old man's eyes were full of tender re-
proof—‘‘ 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? Re-
member, Sahib, we are thy people and thy servants, and
in this life I bore thee in my arms—not knowing.”

‘‘ Bukta has evidently looked on the cup this even-
ing,’’ 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.”’

He dropped into a deep wicker chair, over which was

[ 130 ]

 

  

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

thrown his first tiger-skin, and his weight on the cush-
ion flapped the clawed paws over his shoulders. He
laid hold of them mechanically as he spoke, drawing
the painted hide, cloak-fashion, about him.

‘‘ Now will I tell the truth, Bukta,’’ he said, leaning
forward, the dried muzzle on his shoulder, to invent a
specious lie.

‘“‘T see that it is the truth,’’ was the answer, in a
shaking voice.

‘Jan Chinn goes abroad among the Satpuras, riding
on the Clouded Tiger, ye say? Beit 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.”’

‘‘Tt is, then, a sign for them. Good or bad?”’

‘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.”

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:

[131]

 

 

 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

“Tf 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.”?

‘Ts he, then, angry?”’

“Bah! Am I ever angry with my Bhils? I say
angry words, and threaten many things. Thou know-
est, 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.”’

‘“ Ay, We be thy children,’’ said Bukta.

‘“* 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.

Bukta fled, to be received in the lines by a knot of
panting inquirers.

“Tt is true,” said Bukta. ‘‘ He wrapped himself in
the skin, and spoke fromit. He would see his own coun-
try 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.”’

The grey-whiskered assembly shuddered.

‘‘He says the Bhils are his children. Ye know he
does not lie. He has said it to me.”’

[132]

 

 

 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

“ But what of the Satpura Bhils? What means the
sign for them?”

‘‘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.”’

‘¢ And what if they do not?’’

‘* He did not say.”’

The light went out in Chinn’s quarters.

‘*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.”’

A commanding officer is generally aware of the regi-
mental 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.”’

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
[ 183 ]

 

 

   
 

   

 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

objection to all prophylactic measures,’’ had ‘‘ forcibly

”

detained the vaccinator,’’ and ‘‘ were on the point of
neglecting or evading their tribal obligations.”’

‘‘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.”’

‘*Don’t you think, sir,’’ said Chinn, the next day,
‘that perhaps you could give me a fortnight’s shooting-
leave? ”’

‘* Desertion in the face of the enemy, by Jove!’’ The
Colonel laughed. ‘‘Imight, 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.”’

‘‘T ’d like to take Bukta with me.”’

‘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

[134]

 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

youth and innocence. I believe you "ll be all right if
you can get ’em to listen to you.”

“J 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 is n’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.”’

The Colonel nodded, but said nothing.

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.

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 de-
voutly 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.

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.

They began the steep climb a little after noon, but it

[ 185 J

 

  

 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

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 neg-
lected graves that date from the beginning of the
eighteenth century —tombs of forgotten colonels of corps
long since disbanded; mates of East Indiamen 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 aman has done good
in his life it is remembered after his death. The wea-
thered 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.

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:

To the Memory of JoHN CHINN, Esq.
Late Collector of ........6.
-.. + ithout Bloodshed or. . . error of Authority
Employ . only . . eans of Conciliat . . . and Confiden .
accomplished the. . . tire Subjection...
a Lawless and Predatory Peop...
-... taching them to... . ish Government
by a Conquest over... . Minds

[136 ]

  

  
   

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

The most perma . . . and rational Mode of Domini. .
++ . Governor General and Counc. . . engal
have ordered thi....... erected
... arted this Life Aug. 19, 184.. Ag...

On the other side of the grave were ancient verses,
also very worn. As much as Chinn could decipher
said:

-... the savage band
Forsook their Haunts and b... . is Command
...mended..rals check a... st for spoil
And .s.ing Hamlets prove his gene... . toil
Humanit...survey...... ights restore. .
A Nation. . ield.. . subdued without a Sword.

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 ’sa
big work—all of it—even my little share. He must
have been worth knowing. . . . Bukta, where are
my people?’’

‘“Not here, Sahib. No man comes here except in
full sun. They wait above. Let us climb and see.”’

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
here. Jam nota servant, but the master of Bhils.”’

‘IT go—I go,’’ clucked the old man. Night was fall-
ing, and at any moment Jan Chinn might whistle up
his dreaded steed from the darkening scrub.

Now for the first time in a long life Bukta disobeyed
a lawful command and deserted his leader; for he did

[ 137 ]

   
 

 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

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.

‘* Where is he?’’ whispered one.

‘‘ At his own place. He bids you come,”’ said Bukta.

“* Now?”’

‘¢ Now.”’

‘Rather let him loose the Clouded Tiger uponus. We
do not go.”’

‘‘Nor I, though I bore him in my arms when he was
a child in this his life. Wait here till the day.”’

‘But surely he will be angry.”’

‘‘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 moon-
light Iam not so sure. What folly have ye Satpura pigs
compassed that ye should need him at all?’’

‘* 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.’’

** Are any slain?’’
‘“‘By our men? Not yet. But the young men are

[ 138 ]

 

 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

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.’’

’

‘‘He says it is otherwise,’’ said Bukta; and he re-
peated, with amplifications, all that young Chinn had
told him at the conference of the wicker chair.

‘Think you,’’ said the questioner, at last, ‘‘ that the
Government will lay hands on us?”’

‘* Not I,’’ Bukta rejoined. ‘‘ Jan Chinn will give an
order, and ye willobey. The rest is between the Govern-
ment 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.”’

‘* Tf he stands by us and before the anger of the Govern-
ment we will most strictly obey Jan Chinn, except—ex-
cept we do not go down to that place to-night.”’

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.

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.

(139 ]

 

 

  

 

 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

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 fin-
ished his victual leisurely, and a cheroot, ere he made
any sign.

‘‘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.”’

‘‘That I know,’’ said Chinn, strolling slowly to the
table-land. A few of the elder men stood in an irregu-
lar 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.

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:

‘* Bring the man that was bound! ”’

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 be-
fore the presence; but young Chinn did not look at him.

‘“‘T said—the man that was bound. Is it a jest to
bring me one tied like a buffalo? Since when could the
Bhil bind folk at his pleasure? Cut!’’

Half a dozen hasty knives cut away the thongs, and

[ 140 ]

  

  
   

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

the man crawled to Chinn, who pocketed his case of
lancets and tubes of lymph. Then, sweeping the semi-
circle with one comprehensive forefinger, and in the
voice of compliment, he said, clearly and distinctly:
ff Bigs?

‘« Ail’? whispered Bukta. ‘‘ Now he speaks. Woe to
foolish people! ”’

‘“‘T have come on foot from my house”’ (the assembly
shuddered) ‘‘to make clear a matter which any other
than a 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.
Tt 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!”

He rolled back his sleeve to the armpit and showed
the white scars of the vaccination-mark on the white
skin. ‘‘ Come, all, and look.”’

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 he had not then and there
proclaimed his godhead!

‘‘ Now all these things the man whom ye bound told
you.”’

‘‘T did—a hundred times; but they answered with
blows,”’ groaned the operator, chafing his wrists and
ankles.

‘But, being pigs, ye did not believe; and so came I

[141 ]

 

 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

 

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.”’
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.
“These are my orders. (Heaven send they ’ll take
em, but I seem to have impressed ’em so far!) I my-
self will stay among you while this man scratches your
arms with the knives, after the order of the Govern-
ment. 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.”
There was a long pause while victory hung in the
balance. A white-haired old sinner, standing on one
uneasy leg, piped up:
‘There are ponies and some few bullocks and other
things for which we need a kowl [protection]. They
were not taken in the way of trade.”’

[142]

il a a. |

 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

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.

‘¢T will write a fowl 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.”’

“There is not sufficient ample supply of vaccine for
all this population,’’? said the man. ‘‘ They have de-
stroyed the offeecial calf.’

‘‘They won’t know the difference. Scrape ’em all
round, and give me a couple of lancets; I ’ll attend to
the elders.”’

The aged diplomat who had demanded protection was
the first victim. He fell to Chinn’s hand, and dared not
ery out. As soon as he was freed he dragged up a com-
panion, and held him fast, and the crisis became, as it
were, a child’s sport; for the vaccinated chased the un-
vaccinated 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.

‘Tt is an honour,’’ he cried. ‘‘ Tell them, Bukta, how
great an honour it is that I myself should 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

[143]

 

 

     
 
 
 
    
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
   

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

     

that girl and bring her to me.
yet, for she is not married, and I do not seek her in

She need not run away

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 likeasoldier. Look! He does not
flinch at the blood. Some day he shall be in my regi-
ment. 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.”’

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.

But, nature being the same the world over, the un-
vaccinated grew jealous of their marked comrades, and
came near to blows about it. Then Chinn declared him-
self a court of justice, no longer a medical board, and
made formal inquiry into the late robberies.

‘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.’’

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
[144]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Drawn by E. L. Blumenschein,

“One climbed into a tree, and stuck the letter into a cleft forty feet
from the ground.”

 

 


j

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

warm calamity in that note, as Jan Chinn warned them,
but anything was better than loss of liberty.

Armed with this protection, the repentant raiders
went downhill. 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
himinacloud of dust. Hewasby way of being a priest,
they knew, and, what was more to the point, a good
sportsman who paid his beaters generously.

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.

“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.”

One climbed into a tree, and stuck the letter into a
cleft forty feet from the ground, where it could do no

[145]

 

   
 

   

 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

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.

“Tt was a good kowl,’’ 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 an-
other, 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 wecameaway. The kowl
is left in a tree, because its virtue is that so soon as we
show it to a Sahib we are beaten.”’

‘‘ But for that kowl,’’ 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.”

It is written in the chronicles of the Satpura Bhils, to-
gether 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.

Between head- and stomach-aches they found no time
to think of their arms, but followed Jan Chinn obedi-
ently through the jungles, and with each day’s return-

[146]

 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

ing confidence men, women, and children stole away to
their villages as the little army passed by. They car-
ried news that it was good and right to be scratched
with ghost-knives; that Jan Chinn was indeed reincar-
nated 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.

‘‘ And to-morrow I go back to my home,”’ said Jan
Chinn to his faithful few, whom neither spirits, over-
eating, 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.

“ And the Sahib will not come again?’’ said he who
had been vaccinated first.

‘‘ That is to be seen,’’ answered Chinn, warily.

“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.

“‘T have no horse. I came on foot—with Bukta, yon-
der. What is this?”’

“‘Thou knowest—the thing that thou hast chosen for
a night-horse.’’ The little men squirmed in fear and
awe.

“ Night-horses? Bukta, what is this last tale of
children? ’’

[147]

 

   
    
 
     
   
   
   
   
   
       
  
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
    

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

  

Bukta had been a silent leader in Chinn’s presence
since the night of his desertion, and was grateful for a
chance-flung question.

‘‘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.’’

‘* My horse! That was a dream of the Bhils.”’

‘“‘Itisno 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—”’

‘¢ Are afraid, and would have them cease.”’

Bukta nodded. ‘‘ If thou hast no further need of him.
He is thy horse.”’

‘The thing leaves a trail, then?’’ said Chinn.

‘‘We have seen it. It is like a village road under the
tomb.”’

‘* Can ye find and follow it for me?”’

“By daylight—if one comes with us, and, above all,
stands near by.”’

‘‘T will stand close, and we will see to it that Jan
Chinn does not ride any more.”’

The Bhils shouted the last words again and again.

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 abso-
lutely 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

[148 ]

 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

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 con-
cealment.

“The beggar might be paying rent and taxes,’’ Chinn
muttered ere he asked whether his friend’s taste ran to
cattle or man.

“* 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.”’

“Blackmail and piracy,’’ said Chinn. ‘‘I can’t say I
fancy going into the cave after him. What ’s to be
done?”’

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.

‘‘He speaks!’’ some one whispered from the rear.
““He knows, too.’’

“ Well, of all the infernal cheek!”’ said Chinn. There
was an angry growl from the cave—a direct challenge.

“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 en-
trance. The sunlight fell upon his flat right side, and
Chinn wondered. Never had he seen a tiger marked

[ 149 ]

 

 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

 

after this fashion. Except for his head, which was star-
ingly 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.

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 pan-
tomine-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,

‘ erept 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.

“My word!”’ he thought. ‘‘ He’s trying to frighten
me!’’ and fired between the saucer-like eyes, leaping
aside upon the shot.

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 hunt-
ing for sight and breath—nose up, mouth open, the
tremendous fore-legs scattering the gravel in spurts.

‘*Scuppered!’’ said John Chinn, watching the flight.

[150 ]

 

«C9ATD BI JO JNO JoswTy pos.

SeVIp oy ‘ayeus pasios v sv AyizeT ,,

‘urayosuamn7zg “Tz hg unvag

 

 

 

 

 


 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

‘‘ Now if he was a partridge he ’d tower. Lungs must
be full of blood.”’

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.

‘*Tf 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.

“ Ten—six—eight—by Jove! It ’s nearly eleven—
ealliteleven. Fore-arm, twenty-four—five—seven and
a half. A short tail, too: three feet one. But what a
skin! Oh, Bukta! Bukta! The men with the knives
swiftly.”

**Ts he beyond question dead?” said an awe-stricken
voice behind a rock.

‘‘ That was not the way I killed my first tiger,’ said
Chinn. ‘‘I did not think that Buktawouldrun. Ihad
no second gun.”’

*‘ It—it is the Clouded Tiger,’’ said Bukta, unheeding
the taunt. ‘‘ He is dead.”’

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

[151]

 

 

 

  

 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

bring them back till dawn. So Chinn spent a second
night in the open, guarding the carcass from jackals,
and thinking about his ancestor.

He returned to the lowlands to the triumphal chant
of an escorting army three hundred strong, the Mah-
ratta 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.

‘““They ’re perfectly right,’’ he explained earnestly.
‘There is n’t an ounce of vicein’em. They were only
frightened. I ’ve vaccinated the whole boiling, and
they like it awfully. What are—what are we doing
here, sir?’’

‘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? ’’

‘* 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.”’

‘*So I know, or I would n’t have sent you; but what,
exactly?’’

“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 had n’t done that, I
[152]

  

  
   

 

 

THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS

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.”’

The Colonel tugged his moustache thoughtfully.
‘“Now, how the deuce,”’ said he, ‘‘am I to include
that in my report?”’

Indeed, the official version of the Bhils’ anti-vac-
cination stampede said nothing about Lieutenant
John Chinn, his godship. But Bukta knew, and the
corps knew, and every Bhil in the Satpura hills knew.

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.

 

 

 

THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA

 

 

 

THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA

All supplies very bad and dear, and there are no facilities
for even the smallest repairs. — SAILING DIRECTIONS.

ER 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 steam-
ers 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
Aglaia first entered the Clyde—new, shiny, and inno-
cent, with a quart of cheap champagne trickling down
her cutwater—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 acta

[157]

 

 

 

   

 

THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA

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.

The Aglaia figured with distinction in the great
Mackinaw salvage-case. It was her first slip from vir-
tue, and she learned how to change her name, but not
her heart, and to run across the sea. As the Guiding
Light 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 Julia M‘Gregor
she had been concerned in picking up from a raft cer-
tain 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 Shah-in-Shauh 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 Martin Hunt,
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.

She had ridden through many waves of depression.
Freights might drop out of sight, Seamen’s Unions

[ 158 ]

     
   

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA

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 ob-
served 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 voy-
ages 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.

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 Martin Hunt. The great, virtuous calm
engulfed her, slate sides, yellow funnel, and all, but
cast up in another hemisphere the steam whaler Hali-
otis, 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 suc-

[159]

 

 

 

 

   
  
       
   
   
   
   
   
   
        
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    

 

RN A TS

THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA

cessful, for she lay at several ports not too well
known, and the smoke of her trying-out insulted the
beaches,

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 capa-
city 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 Haliotis did not pause to prove, but held
on at an inspiriting eleven knots an hour till nightfall.
One thing only he overlooked.

The Power that kept an expensive steam-patrol mov-
ing up and down those waters (they had dodged the two
regular ships of the station with an ease that bred con-
tempt) had newly brought up a third and a fourteen-
knot boat with a clean bottom to help the work; and
that was why the Haliotis, 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

[ 160]

  

eee

 

 

THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA

flags, a mile and a-half behind, which read: ‘‘ Heave to,
or take the consequences! ’’

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 por-
trait 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.

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 out-
wards 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

[ 161 ]

 

 

  

   

 

THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA

the crank of the forward engine, which smote the al-
ready jammed connecting-rod, bending it and there-
with the piston-rod cross-head—the big cross-piece that
slides up and down so smoothly.

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 Haliotis 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 wasa 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 en-
gines working at twelve knots an hour in three seconds
without disorganising them. The Haliotis 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
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THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA

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 dis-
posed above him, and tried to find comfort from the
thought.

‘‘ Where,” said the stolid naval lieutenant hoisting
himself aboard, ‘‘ where are those dam’ pearls?”’

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.

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 Haliotis 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.

‘¢Tt ’s not the least good,’’ said the skipper, suavely.
‘‘ You ’d much better send us a tow—”’

‘¢ Be still—you are arrest! ’’ was the reply.

‘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, are n’t we?”’

‘Ruined from end to end,’’ said the man of machi-
nery. ‘‘If she rolls, the forward cylinder will come
down and go through her bottom. Both columns are

[ 163 ]

 

 

   
 

   

 

THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA

clean cut through. There ’s nothing to hold any-
thing up.”

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 Haliotis 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.

‘¢- You see!’’ said Mr. Wardrop, hurrying them away,
‘“The engines are n’t worth their price as old iron,”

‘‘ We tow,’’ was the answer. ‘‘ Afterwards we shall
confiscate.”’

The man-of-war was short-handed, and did not see
the necessity for putting a prize-crew aboard the
Haliotis. 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 inconspicu-
ous little rope hanging from the stern of his ship.

Then they began to tow at an average speed of four
knots an hour. The Haliotis 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

[ 164 ]

 

 

THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA

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 Haliotis after.

‘‘ Where are we going to, and how long will they tow
us?’’ he asked of the skipper.

‘‘God knows! and this prize lieutenant ’s drunk.
What do you think you can do?”’

‘* There ’s just the bare chance,’’ Mr. Wardrop whis-
pered, 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. We could do it.”

The skipper’s eye brightened. ‘‘ Do you mean,’’ he
began, ‘‘ that she is any good?”’

‘‘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.”’

‘““They ’ve fired on us. They ’ll have to explain
that.’’

‘Our reputation ’s not good enough to ask for ex-
planations. Let ’s take what we have and be thankful.
Ye would not have consuls rememberin’ the Guidin’

[ 165 ]

 

 

 

   
 

   

 

THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA

Light an’ the Shah-in-Shah, and the Aglaia, 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.”’

‘* Make it your own way, then,’’ said the skipper. ‘‘ If
there ’s the least chance—’’

‘‘T ‘Il leave none,’’ said Mr. Wardrop—‘‘ none that
they ’ll dare to take. Keep her heavy on the tow, for
we need time.”’

The skipper never interfered with the affairs of the
engine-room, and Mr. Wardrop—an artist in his profes-
sion—turned to and composed a work terrible and for-
bidding. 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
Haliotis behind her hummed like a hive before swarm-
ing. 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 dispassion-
ate eye might wish totake. 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

[ 166 ]

 

THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA

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. Anengine violently
arrested in mid-career may easily jerk off the nut of
a holding-down bolt, and this accident looked very
natural.

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 man-
hole 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 tal-
lowed, 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.

[ 167 ]

 

   
  
 
      
 
      
       
     
    
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
    
  
    

THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA

  

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.

He invited the skipper to look at the completed work.

‘‘Saw ye ever such a forsaken wreck as that?’’ said
he proudly. ‘‘It almost frights me to go under those
shores. Now, what d’ you think they ll do to us?”’

‘* Wait till we see,’’ said the skipper. ‘‘It ‘ll be bad
enough when it comes.”’

He was not wrong. The pleasant days of towing
ended all too soon, though the Haliotis 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 dock-
yard, he sighed and shook his head.

‘“*T did well,’ he said. ‘‘This is the habitation 0’
wreckers an’ thieves. We ’re at the uttermost ends of
the earth. Think you they ’ll ever know in England?”’

“Does n’t look like it,’’ said the skipper.

They were marched ashore with what they stood up
in, under a generous escort, and were judged accord-
ing to the customs of the country, which, though excel-
lent, 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

[ 168 ]

 

THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA

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 blakgang-tana, 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 Haliotis.

Deep peace continued to brood over Europe, Asia,
Africa, America, Australasia, and Polynesia.

* * * * * * * * * *

Tt was the firing that did it. They should have kept
their council; 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 con-
sul (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 perform-
ance 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 Haliotis ?
Tt 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

[ 169 ]

 

 

 

THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA

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.

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 Haliotis, moored in the har-
bour 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.

Three hours later cables were bursting round him like

[170 ]

 

 

THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA

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 Haliotis. 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.

Next morning the cables wished to know whether he
had found the crew of the Haliotis. 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, reason-
ing 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

a gs

 

 

 

 

   

THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA

them wore fringes that had once been trousers; the
others used loin-cloths of gay patterns; and they ex-
isted beautifully but simply in the Governor’s veran-
dah, 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.

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 Haliotis 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 gar-
ment a green-and-yellow loin-cloth, saw the Haliotis 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 Gover-
nor’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.

‘‘She sold?’’ said the grey-bearded man, pointing to
the Haliotis. He was Mr. Wardrop.

‘*No good,’’ said the Governor, shaking his head.
““No one come buy.”’

‘‘He ’s taken my lamps, though,’’ said the skipper
He wore one leg of a pair of trousers, and his eye wan-
Laat

 

     
   

   
 
 
 
 
   
   
 

THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA

dered along the verandah. The Governor quailed.
There were cuddy camp-stools and the skipper’s writ-
ing-table in plain sight.

“They ’ve cleaned her out, 0’ course,’’ said Mr. War-
drop. ‘They would. We ll go aboard and take an
inventory. See!’’ He waved his hands over the har-
bour. ‘‘ We—live—there—now. Sorry?”

The Governor smiled a smile of relief.

“He ’s glad of that,” said one of the crew, reflec-
tively. ‘‘I should n’t wonder.”

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
Haliotis, and the Governor prayed that they might find
occupation inside.

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.

‘‘T 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 0’ Provi-
dence.”

“You think so,” said the skipper, from above.

[173]

 

 

THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA

‘‘There ’s only been one thief here, and he ’s cleaned
her out of all my things, anyhow.”’

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 sover-
eigns that pass current the world over, and might have
amounted to more than a hundred pounds.

‘‘He ’s left me alone. Let ’s thank God,’’ repeated
Mr. Wardrop.

‘He ’s taken everything else; look! ”’

The Haliotis, 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 un-
clean guard had camped in the skipper’s cabin to regu-
late 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 rig-
ging as would not imperil the safety of the masts.

‘* He must have sold those,’”’ said the skipper. ‘‘ The
other things are in his house, I suppose.”’

Every fitting that could be pried or screwed out was
gone. Port, starboard, and masthead lights; teak grat-
ings; sliding sashes of the deck-house; the captain’s
chest of drawers, with charts and chart-table; photo-
graphs, 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 en bloc; flags and flag-locker;

[174]

 

 

THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA

clocks, chronometers; the forward compass and the
ship’s bell and belfry, were among the missing.

There were great scarred marks on the deck-plank-
ing 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.

“Tt ’s the Governor,’ said the skipper. ‘‘He ’s
been selling her on the instalment plan.’’

‘* Let ’s go up with spanners and shovels, and kill ’°em
all,’ shouted the crew. ‘‘ Let ’s drown him, and keep
the woman!”’

“Then we ‘ll be shot by that black-and-tan regiment
—our regiment. What ’s the trouble ashore? They ’ve
camped our regiment on the beach.”’

‘“¢We ’re cut off, that ’s all. Go and see what they
want,’’ said Mr. Wardrop. ‘‘ You ’ve the trousers.”’

In his simple way the Governor was a strategist.
He did not desire that the crew of the Haliotis 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 con-
tinue 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

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THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA

and manners of the crew. The barge returned to the
Haliotis in silence, and the skipper climbed aboard,
white on the cheek-bones and blue about the nostrils.

“‘T 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. We know that.”’

Then the skipper cursed Mr. Wardrop for importing
frivolous side-issues into the conversation ; and the crew
cursed one another, and the Haliotis, 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 can-
non, 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. :

‘‘T make no promise,’’ he said, at last, ‘‘ for I can’t
say what may or may not have happened tothem. But
here ’s the ship, and here ’s us.”’

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 Haliotis. “

‘* Harland, Mackesy, Noble, Hay, Naughton, Fink.
O’Hara, Trumbull.”

“Here, sir!’’ The instinct of obedience waked to
answer the roll-call of the engine-room.
[176]

 

THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA

‘* Below!”

They rose and went.

‘* Captain, I Il 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 ’Il patch her up.
My men will remember that they ’re in the Haliotis,
—under me.”’

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 toend could stirthe Haliotis from her moorings.

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 Haliotis had been unusually com-
plete, 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 wink-
ing. 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.

[177]

 

 

 

   

 

THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA

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 sup-
porting-column, which it had cracked through and
driven outward towards the ship’s skin. To all appear-
ance 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 Haliotis
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.

“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 pis-
ton ’s not possible unless we use steam. Well, there ’Il
be steam the morn, if there ’snothing else. She ’ll fizzle!

[178 ]

   
    

 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 

THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA

Next morning men from the shore saw the Haliotis
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 stok-
ing—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 pis-
ton 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 batter-
ing-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 no thing to tamper with.

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 drink-

(179)

 

 

   

 

THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA

ing water from the Malay boat-builder on the quay. It
was not good drinking water, but the Malay was anx-
ious to supply anything in his power, if he were paid
for it.

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-col-
umns; 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 des-
perate 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.

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, anda

[180]

 
    

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  

THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA

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 star-
board 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 fel-
low, 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

[181 ]

 

 

   

 

THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA

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 tempera-
ture of 84° moist, is very bad for the nerves.

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 appli-
ance, They fell to it, cheered by alittle 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.

It is curious that no man knows how the rods were
straightened. The crew of the Haliotis 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
[182]

   
    

   
  
 
 
 
    
  
  

 

THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA

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,
“Tg she straight? ’’

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.

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.

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

[183 ]

 

 

 

   

 

THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA

that job their labours came toanend. 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 hag-
gle 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 did n’t hit anything.”’

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

[184]

     
   

    
  
 
   
  
 
 
 
 

 

THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA

me when I say that this is in no sense regular engi-
neerin’.”’

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.

“« A lick of paint would make me easier in my mind,”’
said Mr. Wardrop, plaintively. ‘‘I know half the con-
denser-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.”’

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 lav-
ishly to give the engines self-respect.

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.

‘Tt would be safer to make what ye might call a trial
trip, but beggars must n’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,”’

[185 ]

 

 

   
  

THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA

‘‘ How long will you take to get steam?”’ said the
skipper.

‘‘God knows! Four hours—a day—half a week. If
I can raise sixty pound I ’ll not complain.’’

‘Be sure of her first; we can’t afford to go out half
a mile, and break down.”’

‘““My soul and body, man, we ’re one continuous

    
       
     
   
   
   
   
 
        
       
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    

breakdown, fore an’ aft! We might fetch Singapore,
though.”’

‘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 my boat, and—I ’ve had eight
months to think in.”’

No man saw the Haliotis 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.

‘‘She ’s gibberin’—she ’s just gibberin’,’’ he whim-
pered. ‘‘ Yon ’s the voice of a maniac.”’

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 tortur-
ing 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.

‘¢ How does she make it?’’ said the skipper.

“She moves, but—but she ’s breakin’ my heart.

[186 ]

 

THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA

The sooner we ’re at Pygang-Watai, the better. She’s
mad, and we ’re waking the town.”’

‘«Tg she at all near safe?”’

‘‘ What do I care how safe she is! She’smad. Hear
that, now! To be sure, nothing ’s hittin’ anything,
and the bearin’s are fairly cool, but—can ye not
hear?”’

‘If she goes,’? said the skipper, ‘‘I don’t care a
curse. And she ’s my boat, too.”’

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
Haliotis 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 them-
selves 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

[187]

 

 

 

THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA

the proa’s cargo of sago and trepang, as well as a
doubtful-minded compass, was in the Haliotis. 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.

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-hun-
dred-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 mar-
vellous voyage continued; and the bright-eyed crew
looked over the rail, desolate, unkempt, unshorn,
shamelessly clothed—beyond the decencies.

At the end of the third week she sighted the island
of Pygang-Watai, whose harbour is the turning-point
of a pearling sea-patrol. Here the gunboats 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. They opened
up the low coral beach, with its mound of white-
washed coal ready for supply, the deserted huts for the
sailors, and the flagless flagstaff,

Next day there was no Haliotis—only a little proa
rocking in the warm rain at the mouth of the harbour,

[188 ]

THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA

whose crew watched with hungry eyes the smoke of a
gunboat on the horizon.

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 intc
a sunken wreck.

[189]

 

 

 

WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

 

 

 

 

 

WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

PART I

I have done one braver thing
Than all the worthies did;
And yet a braver thence doth spring,
Which is to keep that hid.
THE UNDERTAKING.

“WS it officially declared yet?”’

‘‘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.”’

“That means it will be declared as soon as they can
make sure of the men and the rolling-stock. ’Should n’t
wonder if it were as bad as the ’78 Famine.”’

**°Can’t be,’’ said Scott, turning a little in the long
cane chair. ‘‘ 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.”’

Martyn picked the ‘‘ Pioneer’’ from the table, read
through the telegrams once more, and put up his feet
on the chair-rests. It was a hot, dark, breathless even-

[193]

 

 

 

WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

ing, 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.

‘‘ What are you going to do?’’ said Martyn, with a
yawn. ‘Let ’s have a swim before dinner.”’

‘Water ’s hot. I was at the bath to-day.”

“«*Play you game o’ billiards—fifty up.”

‘‘Tt ’s a hundred and five in the hall now. Sit still
and don’t be so abominably energetic.”’

A grunting camel swung up to the porch, his badged
and belted rider fumbling a leather pouch.

“ Rubber-kargaz-ki-yektraaa,’’? the man whined,
handing down the newspaper extra — aslip 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.

[194]

 

WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

Martyn rose lazily, read it, and whistled. ‘‘ It’s de-
clared!’’ he cried. ‘‘ One, two, three—eight districts
go under the operations of the Famine Code ek dum.

They ’ve put Jimmy Hawkins in charge.”

‘‘ Good business! *’ said Scott, with the first sign of
interest he had shown. ‘‘ When in doubt hire a Pun-
jabi. I worked under Jimmy when I first came out and
he belonged to the Punjab. He has more bundobust

than most men.

‘‘ 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
ungas or rungas or pillays or polliums !”?

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.

“ Hi, Raines; you ’re supposed to know everything,”’
said Martyn, stopping him. ‘‘How ’s this Madras
‘scarcity’ going to turn out?”’

‘Noone knowsasyet. 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 get-
ting all the men he needs. Arbuthnot ’s warned to hold
himself in readiness.”’

‘“* Badger’ Arbuthnot?”’

‘“‘The Peshawur chap. Yes: and the Pi wires that

[195 ]

 

   

WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

Ellis and Clay have been moved from the Northwest
already, and they ’ve taken half a dozen Bombay men,
too. It’s pukka famine, by the looks of it.”

‘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.
‘¢ Here to-day and gone to-morrow. ’Did n’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.”

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.

‘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? ”’

‘‘T ‘ll go home and see,’’ was the rider’s answer.
‘‘ You can drive him over—at eight, remember.”’

Scott moved leisurely to his room, and changed into
the evening-dress of the season and the country: spot-
less white linen from head to foot, with a broad silk
cummerbund. 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 Su-
perintendent 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
{ 196 J

 

      

   
 
 
 
   
 
  
 

WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

rugs on the uneven floor; the usual glass-studded
Amritsar phulkaris draped on nails driven into the flak-
ing 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, fif-
teen 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 hun-
dred rupeesa 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. 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
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WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

sole charge of the sweltering sub-office at the capital
of the Province. Martyn knew this; William, his sis-
ter, 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. Instead
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 com-
mon 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.
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 flu-
ency that was envied by her seniors; had entirely
fallen out of the habit of writing to her aunts in Eng-
land, or cutting the pages of the English magazines,
had been through a very bad cholera year, seeing
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WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

sights unfit to be told; and had wound up her experi-
ences 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 Wil-
liam or Bill; whose speech was heavy with the flowers
of the vernacular; who could act in amateur theatri-
cals, 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.

‘¢T 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
‘‘ did n’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.

Scott had known her for some three years, meet-
ing her, as a rule, under canvas, 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 hun-
dred white people came in to the station; and had

[199]

 

 

 

 

WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

always a great respect for her housekeeping and her
dinners.

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-sur-
veyed Luni Protective Canal System. And Scott
spoke openly of his great desire to be put on one par-
ticular 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 superi-
ors, and William rolled cigarettes and said nothing, but
smiled gravely on her brother because he was happy.

At ten Scott’s horse came to the door, and the even-
ing 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

[ 200 ]

  

  

     
 

 

. BS ran
J9yyoIg Joy 10jJ S9}J9IVGID CUTT[OX ,,

A0pkOl TA hg unvsg

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

for night telegrams. He had a theory that if aman 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.

‘*Can you do it?’’ he said drowsily. ‘‘ I did n’t mean
to bring you over.”’

‘* About what? I’ve been dining at the Martyns’.’’

“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 sen-
sational, of course, but just plain facts about who is
doing what, and so forth. Our regular rates—ten
rupees a column.’’

‘OSorry, 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’venofamine experience. This is the first I ’ve
heard of it. Am I ordered?”’

‘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 is n’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.’’

“Tt ’s all in the day’s work, worse luck. I suppose

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WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

  

I shall get my orders officially some time to-morrow.
I’m awfully glad I happened to drop in. ’Better go
and pack my kitnow. Who relieves me here—do you
know?’’

Raines turned over a sheaf of telegrams. ‘‘ McKuan,’’
said he, ‘‘from Murree.’’

Scott chuckled. ‘‘ He thought he was going to be
cool allsummer. He ‘ll be very sick about this. Well,
no good talking. ’Night.’’

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, bid-
ding him report himself with all speed at some unpro-
nounceable place fifteen hundred miles to the south, for

the famine was sore in the land, and white men were
needed.

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
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WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

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 loop-
holed 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 be-
fore 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.

‘* My Sahib and your Sahib,”’ said Faiz Ullah to Mar-
tyn’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.’’

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 any-
thing over a hundred degrees. At the last moment
Martyn entered, dripping.

‘* Don’t swear,’’ said Scott, lazily; ‘‘ it ’s too late to
change your carriage; and we ’Il divide the ice.”’

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WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

‘“ What are you doing here?’’ said the policeman.

‘*T ’m lent to the Madras Government, same as you.
By Jove, it’s a bender of anight! Are you taking
any of your men down?”’

‘A dozen. I suppose I shall have to superintend
relief distributions. ‘Did n’t know you were under
orders too.’’

‘‘T did n’t till after I left youflast night. Raines had
the news first. My orders came this morning. McEuan
relieved me at four, and I got off at once. ’Should n’t
wonder if it would n’t be a good thing—this famine—if
we come through it alive.”

‘‘ Jimmy ought to put you and me to work together,”’
said Martyn; and then, after a pause: ‘‘ My sister ’s
here.”’

‘* Good business,’’ said Scott, heartily. ‘‘ Going to get
off at Umballa, I suppose, and go up to Simla. Who ’ll
she stay with there? ’’

‘‘No-o; that ’s just the trouble of it. She’s going
down with me.”’

Scott sat bolt upright under the oil lamps as the train
jolted past Tarn-Taran. ‘‘ What! You don’t mean you
could n’t afford—’’

“Tain’t that. I ’d have scraped up the money
somehow.’’

‘‘You might have come to me, to begin with,’’ said
Scott, stiffly; ‘‘ we are n’t altogether strangers.”’

-‘* Well, you need n’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 have n’t got it back yet—

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WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

but she would n’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 is n’t as if she were an ordinary
sister.’’

‘All the sisters I ’ve ever heard of would have stayed
where they were well off.’’

“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 thing
in three hours—servants, horses, and all. I did n’t get
my orders till nine.’’

“ Jimmy Hawkins won’t be pleased,’’ said Scott. ‘‘ A
famine ’s no place for a woman.”’

‘““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.”’

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 are n’t many women, sisters
or wives, who would walk into a famine with their eyes
open. It is n’t as if she did n’t know what these
things mean. She was through the Jaloo cholera last
year.”’

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.

[ 205 ]

WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

“Come in and have some tea,’’ she said. ‘Best
thing in the world for heat-apoplexy.”’

‘*Do I look as if I were going to have heat-apo-
plexy?”’

‘Never can tell,’’ said William, wisely. ‘‘It ’s
always best to be ready.’’

She had arranged her compartment with the know-
ledge of anold 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 bas-
ket, stood on the seat; and a travelling spirit-lamp was
clamped against the woodwork above it.

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 beau-
tiful 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.

‘‘ This time last night,’’ said Scott, ‘‘ we did n’t expect
—er—this kind of thing, did we?’’

‘*T 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.’’

‘Tt knocks us out of the running in our own Prov-

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WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

ince,’’ 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.”’

‘Hardly beyond October, I should think,’’ said
Martyn. ‘‘It wili be ended, one way or the other,
then.”’

“And we ’ve nearly a week of this,

”” said William.
** Sha’n’t we be dusty when it ’s over?”’

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 remem-
bered 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 proces-
sions 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 ‘‘ Little Harry and His Bearer ”’
—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

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WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

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 be-
side 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 skele-
tons, putting them down three at a time in heaps, with
their own hands uncoupling the marked trucks, or tak-
ing 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.

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 com-
mand of affairs.

Martyn, he decreed then and there, was to live on
trains till further orders; was to go back with empty
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WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

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.

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. 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.

‘**Oh, I’m so glad you ’re here,”’ she almost sobbed.
‘““You ought n’t to, of course, but there—there is n’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.”’

‘*T ’ve seen some,”’ said William.

“Is n’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

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WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

got a horse for you. Oh, I’m so glad you ’ve come,
dear. You ’re a Punjabi, too, you know.”

‘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 emptiesaway. 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 wie!
have to look after him. Lizzie, drive Miss Martyn to
camp, and tell them to send the red horse down here
for me.”’

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.

“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.

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

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WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

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.

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.

“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.’’

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.

““T 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.

Scott took the money from his belt, and handed it
over without a word. ‘‘ For goodness sake, take care
of yourself,’’ he said.

“Oh, Ishall be allright. We ought to get the milk in
twodays. By the way, the ordersare, I was to tell you,

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WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

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?”’

“That ’s awfully good of you. We can’t either of
us talk much about style, I am afraid.”’

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 hel-
met to his greased ankle-boots. ‘‘ You look very nice,
Ithink. Are you sure you ’ve everything you ’ll need
—quinine, chlorodyne, and so on?”’

“Think so,” said Scott, patting three or four of his
shooting-pockets as he mounted and rode alongside his
convoy.

‘‘ Good-bye,’’ he cried.

‘« 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.

 

     

  

 

PART II

So let us melt and make no noise,
No tear-floods nor sigh-tempests move};
*T were profanation of our joys
To tell the Laity our love.
A VALEDICTION.

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.

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 la-
boriously, They clamoured for rice—unhusked paddy,

[ 213]

 

 

  

WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

  
  
 

  

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 shares 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. :
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
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WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

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.

‘‘But I am no goatherd,”’ said Faiz Ullah. ‘It is
against my izzat [my honour].”’

‘‘ When we cross the Bias River again we will talk of
tzzat,’’ Scott replied. ‘‘ Till that day thou and the
policemen shall be sweepers to the camp, if I give the
order.”’

‘“‘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.

‘* 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.

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

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WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

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 chil-
dren 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.

‘‘ 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 Wil-
liam’s condensed-milk trick all to pieces. I shall never
live it down, though.”’

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 sup-
pled 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. ‘‘That,’’ said the interpreter,
[216]

     

   
 
 
   
   
  

  

WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

as though Scott did not know, ‘‘ signifies that their
mothers hore in eventual contingency to resume them
offeecially.’’

‘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 even-
ing 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— Wil-
liam, 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.

“ They are coming on nicely,’’ said William. ‘‘ We’ve
only five-and-twenty here now. The women are be-
ginning to take them away again.”

‘* Are you in charge of the babies, then?’’

‘“Yes—Mrs. Jim and I. We did n’t think of goats,
though. We ’ve been trying condensed-milk and
water.’’

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WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

  
        
      
   
   
   
      
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
    

“* Any losses?’’
‘More than I care to think of,’’ said William, with
ashudder. ‘‘ And you?”’

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.

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.

“‘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.

‘ “Tt was awfully absurd at times,’’ said Scott. ‘‘ You
see, I did n’t know much about milking or babies.
They ’ll chaff my head off, if the tale goes up North.”

‘‘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.

“Your brother ’s a highly efficient officer, William,”’

[218]

 

 

ON «SYR Sty JO proy oy} ye ATmoys Suryye ay

 

 

£6 ak ‘ih

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

said he, ‘‘and I ’ve done him the honour of treating
him as he deserves. Remember, I write the confiden-
tial reports.”’

‘‘ 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 every-
thing 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 Hight Districts, and, after all, the
death-rate had not been too heavy —things considered.
He looked Scott over carefully, as an ogre looks overa
man, and rejoiced in his thews and iron-hard condition.

“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 tele-

graphing to him, and according to the domestic code
the message ran: ‘‘ A clear case. Look at them!”’

He looked and listened. All that William was saying
was: ‘‘ What can you expect of a country where they
call a bhistee [a water-carrier] a tunni-cutch?’’ 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?”’

‘‘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.’’

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WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

“Are n’t you going to give Mr. Scott a single day’s
rest?’’

‘* Wish I could, Lizzie, but I’m afraid I can’t. As
long as he can stand up we must use him.’’

‘‘ Well, I’ve had one Europe evening, at least. By
Jove, I’d nearly forgotten! What do I do about those
babies of mine?”’

‘‘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.”’

‘Tf you care to get up early enough to-morrow I ’ll
show you. I havetomilk, yousee. Half of ’em have
beads and things round their necks. You must be care-
ful not to take’em off, in case the mothers turn up.”’

‘* You forget I ’ve had some experience here.”’

‘“T hope to goodness you won’t overdo.’ Scott’s
voice was unguarded.

‘Til 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 cam-
paign. It was very late—nearly nine o’clock.

‘“‘ Jim, you ’re a brute,’’ said his wife, that night; and
the Head of the Famine chuckled.

‘* Nota bit of it, dear. I remember doing the first Jan-
diala 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. He ’ll work like a demon.”’

‘‘ But you might have given him one day.”’

‘* And let things come to ahead now? No, dear; it’s
their happiest time.’’

‘‘T don’t believe either of the darlings know what’s
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WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

the matter with them. Is n’t it beautiful? Is n’t it
lovely? ”’
‘Getting up at three to learn to milk, bless her
heart! Oh, ye Gods, why must we grow old and fat?”’
“She ’s a darling. She has done more work under
0

me—
‘‘Under you! 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.”’

** She does n’t, and that’s why Ilove her. She’s as
direct as a man—as her brother.”’

‘¢ Her brother ’s weaker than she is. He’s always
coming to me for orders; but he ’s honest, and a glut-
ton for work. I confess I’m rather fond of William,
and if I had a daughter—’’

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.

‘¢ All the same, you ’re responsible,’’ Jim added, after
a moment’s silence.

‘Bless ’em!’’ said Mrs. Jim, sleepily.

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.

f221)]

 

 

  

   

 

WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

‘* Hai, you little rip,’’ said Scott, ‘‘ how the deuce do
you expect to get your rations if you are n’t quiet?”’

A cool white hand steadied the brat, who forthwith
choked as the milk gurgled into his mouth.

‘**Mornin’,’’ said the milker. ‘‘ You ’ve no notion
how these little fellows can wriggle.’’

“Oh, yes, I have.’’ She whispered, because the
world was asleep. ‘‘ Only I feed them with a spoon or
arag. Yours are fatter than mine. . .. And you’ve
been doing this day after day?’’ The voice was almost
lost.

‘“Yes; it was absurd. Now you try,’’ he said, giv-
ing place to the girl. ‘‘ Look out! A goat ’s not a
cow.”’

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.

‘*Don’t the little beggars take it well?’’ said Scott.
‘*T trained ’em.’’

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 tothe temples. Yet all the round
world rolling up out of the darkness might have heard
and seen all that had passed between them.

‘*Oh,”’ said William, unsteadily, snatching up the tea
and toast, ‘‘I had this made for you. It’s stone-cold
now. I thought you might n’t have anything ready so
early. ’ Better not drink it. It ’s—it ’s stone-cold.”’

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WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

‘“‘That ’sawfully kind of you. It’sjustright. 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.”

‘¢ 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.

There were shrill lamentations through the camp
when the elder children saw their nurse move off with-
out 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.

A child escaped from the care of Mrs. Jim, and, run-
ning like a rabbit, clung to Scott’s boot, William pur-
suing with long, easy strides.

‘JT 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.”’

‘‘T say,’’ said Scott, in broken Tamil, ‘‘ I say, she will
do youno harm. Go with her and be well fed.”’

“Come!’’ said William, panting, with a wrathful
glance at Scott, who stood helpless and, as it were,
hamstrung.

“Go back,’’ said Scott quickly to William. ‘‘I ll
send the little chap over in a minute.”

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 stam-

[ 223 ]

 

WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

 

 

peded: ‘‘Go back and eat. It is our man’s woman.
She will obey his orders.’’

Jim collapsed where he sat; Faiz Ullah and the two
policemen grinned; and Scott’s orders to the cartmen
flew like hail.

‘“‘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 know-
ledge of the ways of the Police, make great trouble for
honest butlers in the matter of weekly accounts.”’

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 Bakri Scott
to the end of his days.’’ (Bakri, 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 conjee [rice-water], but that
was all right.’’

“Tt ’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.’’

‘* Ah,”’ said Mrs. Jim, sympathetically.

‘* Well, you 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.”’

“That ’s different,’’ William replied. ‘‘ She was only
a girl, and she had n’t done anything except walk like

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WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

a quail, and she does. But it is n’t fair to make fun of
aman.”

‘*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?”’

‘* He looks very well,’’ said William, and went away
with a flushed cheek. ‘‘ Bakri Scott, indeed!’’ Then
she laughed to herself, for she knew her country. ‘‘ But
it will be Bakri allthe same’’; and she repeated it under
her breath several times slowly, whispering it into
favour.

When he returned to his duties on the railway, Mar-
tyn 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 Hight
Districts to hold the people safe, if it were only dis-
tributed 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, unioaded, and went back light by
forced night-march to the next distributing centre, to

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WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

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 uncon-
sidered extras, trusting to be recouped later on. Theo-
retically, the Government should have paid for every
shoe and linchpin, for every hand employed in the load-
ing; 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.

“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 does n’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

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WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

might be ‘advantegeously 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. ’Thinks he
can cauk the dam in a fortnight. Look at his mar-
ginal sketches—are n’t they clear and good? I knew
he was pukka, but I did n’t know he was as pukka‘as
this.’’

‘‘T must show these to William,’’ said Mrs. Jim.
“The child ’s wearing herself out among the babies.”’

‘‘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.”

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 wrin-
kling her eyebrows over the columns of figures of esti-
mated water-supply.

‘* And he finds time to do all this,’’ she cried to her-
self, ‘‘and—well, I also was present. I’ve saved one
or two babies.’’

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, terri-
ble and covered with sores.

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,

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WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

‘He ’s much too good to waste on canals,” said
Jimmy. ‘‘ Any one can oversee coolies. You need n’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.”’

‘He ’s not acoolie,’’ said William, furiously. ‘‘ He
ought to be doing his regulation work.”’

‘‘ He ’s the best man in his service, and that ’s say-
ing a good deal; but if you must use razors to cut
grindstones, why, I prefer the best cutlery.”

‘Tg n’t it almost time we saw him again?’ said Mrs.
Jim. ‘‘I’msure the poor boy has n’t had a respectable
meal for a month. He probably sits on a cart and eats
sardines with his fingers.”’

‘All in good time, dear. Duty before decency—
was n’t it Mr. Chucks said that?”’

“‘No; it was Midshipman Easy,’’ William laughed.
‘I sometimes wonder how it will feel to dance or lis-
ten to a band again, or sit under a roof. I can’t believe
I ever wore a ball-frock in my life.’’

‘One minute,” said Mrs. Jim, who was thinking.
“Tf he goes to Khanda, he passes within five miles of
us. Of course he ’ll ride in.”’

«Oh, no, he won’t,’’ said William.

‘‘ How do you know, dear?”’

“ Tt will take him off his work. He won’t have time.”’

“ He ll make it,’”’ said Mrs. Jim, with a twinkle.

“Tt depends on his own judgment. There ’s abso-
lutely no reason why he should n’t, if he thinks fit,”’

said Jim.

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WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

‘* He won’t see fit,’’ William replied, without sorrow
or emotion. ‘It would n’t be him if he did.”’

‘“¢ 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.

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 Govern-
ment decreed that seed-grain should be distributed to
the people, as well as advances of money for the pur-

chase 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 Haw-
kins. 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
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WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

to risk an epidemic which might have grown uncontrol-
lable 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.

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 tomake hima
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 fur-
ther orders.’’

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

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WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

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 intoler-
able 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.

‘For two nights, Heaven-born, he was pagal,’’ 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 tez, we sweated him. Heaven-born, never
has been such asweat! 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 consta-
beel. 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.

“The district ’s all right,’’ Scott whispered. ‘It
does n’t make any difference. You got my wire? I
shall be fit in a week. ’Can’t understand how it hap-
pened. I shall be fit in a few days.”’

“You ’re coming into camp with us,’’ said Hawkins.

“But look here—but—”’

“Tt ’s all over except the shouting. Wesha’n’t need

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WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

 

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,
thougk; you would n’t know him. ’Pon my word, you
and Will—Miss Martyn—seem to have come through
it as well as anybody.”’

‘*Oh, how is she, by-the-way?’’ The voice went up
and down as he spoke.

‘*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 ’Il be able to move?”’

‘*T can’t come into camp in this state. I won’t,’’ he
replied pettishly.

“‘ Well, you are rather a sight, but from what I gath-
ered 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 acouple of days, and you can pull your-
self together while Faiz Ullah feeds you up.”’

Scott could walk dizzily by the time Hawkins’s in-
spection was ended, and he flushed all over when Jim
said of his work that it was ‘‘ not half bad,’’ and vol-
unteered, further, that he had considered Scott his
right-hand man through the famine, and would feel
it his duty to say as much officially.

So they came back by rail to the old camp; but there

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WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

were no crowds near it; the long fires in the trenches
were dead and black, and the famine-sheds were al-
most empty. :

‘You see!”’ said Jim. ‘‘ There is n’t much more to
do. Better ride up and see the wife. They ’ve pitched
a tent for you. Dinner ’satseven. I’ve some work
here.”’

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 lustrein 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!”’

““T ’ve had a touch of fever. You don’t look very
well yourself.”

‘‘Oh, I’m fit enough. We’ve stamped it out. I sup-
pose you know?”’

Scott nodded. ‘‘ We shall all be returned in a few
weeks. Hawkins told me.’’

“Before Christmas, Mrs. Jim says. Sha’n’t you
be glad to go back? I can smell the wood-smoke al-
ready ’’; William sniffed. ‘‘ We shall be in time for all
the Christmas doings. I don’t suppose even the Pun-
jab Government would be base enough to transfer Jack
till the new year?”’

‘* Tt seems hundreds of years ago—the Punjab and all
that—does n’t it? Are you glad you came?”’

‘* 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.’’

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WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

 

“Do nothing! How did you get on with the milk-
ing?”’

‘“T managed it somehow—after you taught me. ’Re-
member?’’

Then the talk stopped with an almost audible jar.
Still no Mrs. Jim.

‘‘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 did n’t.”’

‘‘T 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 could n’t get
’em over the ground till ten o’clock that night. I
wanted to come awfully. YouknewI did, didn’t you?”’

‘‘T—believe—I—did,”’ said William, facing him with
level eyes. She was no longer white.

‘* Did you understand? ”’

‘Why you did n’t ride in? Of course I did.”

‘eWhy? ”

‘* Because you could n’t, of course. I knew that.”

‘*Did you care?”’

“Tf you had come in—but I knew you would n’t—
but if you had, I should have cared a great deal. You
know I should.’’

“Thank God I did n’t! Oh, but I wanted to! I
could n’t trust myself to ride in front of the carts, be-
cause I kept edging ’em over here, don’t you know?”’

‘‘T knew you would n’t,’’ said William, contentedly.
‘Here ’s your fifty.”’

Scott bent forward and kissed the hand that held the

[ 234 ]

 

WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

greasy notes. Its fellow patted him awkwardly but
very tenderly on the head.

“ And you knew, too, did n’t you?”’ said William, in a
new voice.

“No, on my honour, I did n’t. I had n’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?”’

William nodded, and smiled after the manner of an
angel surprised in a good deed.

‘“‘Then it was just a speck I saw of your habit in
the—”’

‘‘ Palm-grove on the Southern cart-road. Isaw your
helmet when you came up from the nullah by the tem-
ple—just enough to be sure that you were all right.
D’ you care?”’

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.

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

[ 235 ]

 

 

 

WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

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.

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.”’

‘* Things to do!’’ said Jim, when that was reported to
him. ‘‘ They ’re neither of them any goodany more. I
can’t get five hours’ work a day out of Scott. He’s in
the clouds half the time.’’

‘‘Oh, but they ’re so beautiful to watch, Jimmy. It
will break my heart when they go. Can’t you do any-
thing for him?”’

‘‘T’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 waste-
water? It’s their style of spooning, I suppose.”

Mrs. Jim smiled tenderly. ‘‘ Ah, that ’s in the inter-
vals—bless ’em.”’

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 Hight Districts.

* * * * * * * * * *

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

[ 286 ]

 

|

 

 

WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

all the smell of the white Northern plains, as the mail-
train ran on to the mile-long Sutlej Bridge. William,
wrapped in a poshteen—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.

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 every where 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

[ 237 ]

 

 

SSO ll

 

 

———

ea OO aa

Fe I em Sg a in a

WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

 

strangers and outsiders—visitors, tourists, and those
fresh-caught for the service of the country.

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.

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:

“Mark my footsteps well, my page,
Tread thou in them boldly.
Thou shalt feel the winter’s rage
Freeze thy blood less coldly!”

** Oh, [hope they are going to give us another! Is n’t
it pretty, coming out of the dark in that way? Look—
look down, There ’s Mrs. Gregory wiping her eyes! ”’

“Tt ’s like Home, rather,’’ said Scott. ‘I remem-
ber—’”’

‘“‘Hsh! Listen!—dear.’’ And it began again;

“When shepherds watched their flocks by night—”

“‘A-h-h!”’ said William, drawing closer to Scott.
[ 238 J

 

a

q WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR
q ** All seated on the ground,

q The Angel of the Lord came down,

j And glory shone around.

4 ‘Fear not,’ said he (for mighty dread

) Had seized their troubled mind) ;

a ‘Glad tidings of great joy I bring

q To you and all mankind.’ ”

_ This time it was William that wiped her eyes.
4

q

: [239 |

 

 


 

 

 
 

007

 
 

 

 
 


007

LOCOMOTIVEis, next to a marine engine, the most
A sensitive thing man ever made; and No. .007, be-
sides being sensitive, was new. The red paint was hard-
ly iry on his spotless bumper-bar, his headlight shone
like a fireman’s helmet, and his cab might have been a

haid-wood-finish parlour. They had run him into the
round-house after his trial—he had said good-bye to his
bes 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
thnugh his own driving-wheels into the brick ash-pit
bereath 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 Com-
paty’s books. But if you had bought him at his own
valuation, after half an hour’s waiting in the darkish,
[ 243]

 

   
 

   

 

007

echoing round-house, you would have saved exactly
nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars
and ninety-eight cents.

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 Con-
solidation, who was visiting.

‘Where did this thing blow in from?’’ he asked,
with a dreamy puff of light steam.

“Tt ’g all I can do to keep track of our makes,’’ was
the answer, ‘‘ without lookin’ after your back-numbers.
Guess it’s something Peter Cooper left over when he
died.”’

.007 quivered; his steam was getting up, but he held
his tongue. Even a hand-car knows what sort of loco-
motive 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.

Then up and spoke asmall, 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.

“‘ Something ’s wrong with the road when a Pennsyl-
vania gravel-pusher tells us anything about our stock, I
think. That kid’s allright. Eustis designed him, and
Eustis designed me. Ain’t that good enough?”’

.007 could have carried the switching-loco round the
yard in his tender, but he felt grateful for even this
little word of consolation.

‘“ We don’t use hand-cars on the Pennsylvania,”’ said
[244]

 

 

-00%

the Consolidation. ‘‘ That—er—peanut-stand ’s old
enough and ugly enough to speak for himself.’

“ He has n’t bin spoken to yet. He’s bin spoke at.
Hein’t ye any manners on the Pennsylvania? ’’ said the
switching-loco.

“You ought to be in the yard, Poney,’’ said the
Mcgul, severely. *‘ We ’re all long-haulers here.”’

“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!”’

“I’ve trouble enough in my own division,”’ said a
leen, light suburban loco with very shiny brake-shoes.
‘Wy commuters would n’t rest till they got a parlour-
car. They ’ve hitched it back of all, and it hauls
warse ’nasnow-plough. I’ll snap her off some day sure,
ani then they ’ll blame every one except their fool-
selves. They ’ll be askin’ me to haul a vestibuled next!”’

‘They made you in New Jersey, did n’t they?’’ said
Pmey. ‘Thought so. Commuters and truck-wagons
ain’t any sweet haulin’, but I tell you they ’re a heap
beter ’n cuttin’ out refrigerator-cars or oil-tanks. Why,
I ve hauled—”’

‘Haul! You?’’ said the Mogul, contemptuously.
‘Tt ’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
stioke 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
bdter than switching. Express freight ’s what pays.”

[ 245 ]

 

  

007

  
  

‘‘ Well, I ain’t given to blowing, as a rule,’’ began the
Pittsburgh Consolidation.

‘No? You was sent in here because you grunted on
the grade,’’ Poney interrupted.

‘¢ Where I grunt, you ’d lie down, Poney: but, as I
was saying, I don’t blow much. Notwithstandin’, if
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. No,
sir. Haulin’ ’s one thing, but judgment and discretion ’s
another. You want judgment in my business.”’

: ‘“Ah! But—but are you not paralysed by a sense of
your overwhelming responsibilities?’’ said a curious,

   
   
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
   
   
  
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 

husky voice from a corner.

‘“‘Who’s that?’’ .007 whispered to the Jersey commuter.

‘* Compound—experiment—N. G. She’s bin switchin’
in the B. & A. yards for six months, when she was n’t
in the shops. She ’s economical (J call it mean) in her
coal, but she takes it outinrepairs. Ahem! I presume
you found Boston somewhat isolated, madam, after
your New York season?’’

‘‘T am never so well occupied as when I am alone.”’
The Compound seemed to be talking from half-way up
her smoke-stack.

‘‘ Sure,’”’ said the irreverent Poney, under his breath.
‘‘They don’t hanker after her any in the yard.”’

‘But, with my constitution and temperament—my
work lies in Boston—I find your outrecuidance—”’

[ 246 ]

  

 

007

“Outer which?’’ said the Mogul freight. ‘‘ Simple
cylinders are good enough for me.”’

‘* Perhaps I should have said faroucherie,’’ hissed the
Compound.

‘“*T don’t hold with any make of papier-maché wheel,”’
the Mogul insisted.

The Compound sighed pityingly, and said no more.

‘*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, he
says, the Accommodation was held up. Made out no
end of a tale, Comanche did.”’

‘Tf 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 hot-
box, 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, Co-
manche he was side-tracked, and 127 (he was just about
as mad as they make ’em on account 0’ 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.”’

Then .007 put both drivers and his pilot into it, as the

[ 247 ]

 

 

-007

 

 

saying is, for he asked what sort of thing a hot-box
might be?

‘* 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 flat-car!”’

There was a roar of escaping steam before any one
could answer, and .007 nearly blistered his paint off
with pure mortification.

‘A hot-box,’’ began the Compound, picking and
choosing her words as though they were coal, ‘‘a hot-
box is the penalty exacted from inexperience by haste.
Ahem!”’

‘* 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 short-
haulers, as a rule.”’

‘‘We never have hot-boxes on the Pennsylvania,”’
said the Consolidation. ‘‘ They get ’em in New York—
same as nervous prostration.”’

‘‘ 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.’’

He rolled forward majestically to the turn-table, and

[ 248 ]

007

swung like a man-of-war in a tideway, till he picked
uphis track. ‘‘ Butas for you, you pea-green swivelin’
cotee-pot (this to .007), you go out and learn something
before you associate with those who ’ve made more
mieage in a week than you ’ll roll up in a year.
Catly —perishable—fragile—immediate—that ’s me!
8’ long.’’

‘ Split my tubes if that ’s actin’ polite to a new mem-
be: o’ the Brotherhood,’’ said Poney. ‘‘ There was n’t
any call to trample on ye like that. But manners was
lett out when Moguls was made. Keep up your fire,
kil, an’ burn your own smoke. ’Guess we ’ll all be
winted in a minute.”’

Men were talking rather excitedly in the round-
hase. One man, ina dingy jersey, said that he had n’t
ary 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. Thenthe other man waved his arms, and wanted
toknow if he was expected to keep locomotives in his
hb-pocket. Then a man in a black Prince Albert,
wthout a collar, came up dripping, for it was a hot
August night, and said that what he said went; and
between the three of them the locomotives began to
g«, too—first the Compound; then the Consolidation;
tken .007.

Now, deep down in his fire-box, .007 had cherished a
hype that as soon as his trial was done, he woul be led
foth with songs and shoutings, and attached to a green-
aid-chocolate vestibuled flyer, under charge of a bold

[ 249 ]

 

 

  

 

 

-007

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 won-
derful 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:

‘‘ 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 sup-
posed to switch with this thing, hey?’’

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 be-
hind 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 mid-
dle; cold-storage and refrigerator cars dripping ice-
water on the tracks; ventilated fruit- and milk-cars; flat-
cars 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
[ 250 ]

  

 
   

 
 

 

007
of thirty-ton castings, angle-irons, and rivet-boxes for
some new bridge; and hundreds and hundreds and hun-
drels of box-cars loaded, locked, and chalked. Men—
hotand angry—crawled among and between and under
the thousand wheels; men took flying jumps through
hiscab, when he halted for a moment; men sat on his
pilet as he went forward, and on his tender as he re-
tumed; and regiments of men ran along the tops of the
boz-cars beside him, screwing down brakes, waving
ther arms, and crying curious things.

He was pushed forward a foot at a time; whirled back-
ward, his rear drivers clinking and clanking, a quar-
ter of a mile; jerked into a switch (yard-switches are
very stubby and unaccommodating), bunted into a Red
D,or Merchant’s Transport car, and, with no hint or
kmwledge of the weight behind him, started up anew.
Wien his load was fairly on the move, three or four cars
wauld be cut off, and .007 would bound forward, only
to je held hiccupping on the brake. Then he would wait
a fw minutes, watching the whirled lanterns, deafened
wih the clang of the bells, giddy with the vision of the
sliling cars, his brake-pump panting forty to the minute,
hisfront coupler lying sideways on his cow-catcher, like
a tred dog’s tongue in his mouth, and the whole of him
covered with half-burnt coal-dust.

‘’T ig n’t so easy switching with a straight-backed
teider,’’ said his little friend of the round-house, bus-
tlhg by at a trot. ‘‘ But you ’re comin’ on pretty fair.
*Brer seen a flyin’ switch? No? Then watch me.”

?oney was in charge of a dozen heavy flat-cars. Sud-
deily he shot away from them witha sharp ‘‘ Whutt!”
[251]

 

 

 

 

007

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.

‘* 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 you tried it.’’

.007 had no ambitions that way, and said so.

‘“*No? Ofcourse 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 an’ 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.

‘‘ Jack my drivers, but it ’s Homeless Kate! Why,
Kate, ain’t there no 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?”’

‘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

[ 252 ]

 

.007

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.’’

“Try Chicago, Katie,” said the switching-loco; and
the battered old car lumbered down the track, jolting:
‘‘] want to be in Kansas when the sunflowers bloom.”’

“’Yard ’s full o’ Homeless Kates an’ Wanderin’
Willies,” he explained to .007. ‘‘ I knew an old Fitch-
burg flat-car out seventeen months; an’ one of ours was
game fifteen ‘fore ever we got track of her. Dunno
quite how our men fix it. ‘Swap around, I guess.
Auyway, I’ve done my 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,
ard sent back to us with wheat in the fall.”’

Just then the Pittsburgh Consolidation passed, at the
head of a dozen ears.

‘“‘T ’m goin’ home,”’ he said proudly.

‘Can’t get all them twelve on to the flat. Break
’en in half, Dutchy!’’ cried Poney. But it was .007
wio was backed down to the last six cars, and he nearly
bbw 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
let his bogies within six inches of the black, shiny tide.

After this he was hurried to the freight-house, where
hs saw the yard-master, a smallish, white-faced man in
slirt, trousers, and slippers, looking down upon a sea of
tucks, a mob of bawling truckmen, and squadrons of
bicking, turning, sweating, spark-striking horses.

‘That ’s shippers’ carts loadin’ on to the receivin’

[ 258 ]

 

  

007

 
   
 

   

trucks,’’ said the small engine, reverently. ‘‘ But he
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’ to-day’s
freight to be pulled before he can attend to them. When
he waves his hand that way, things happen.”’

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.

‘‘Ki-yah!’’ shrieked little Poney. ‘‘ Ain’t it great?”’

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.

‘* Kleven, seven, ninety-seven, L. Y. 8.; fourteen
ought ought three; nineteen thirteen; one one four;
seventeen ought twenty-one M. B.; and the ten west-
bound. All straight except the two last. Cut ’em off
atthe junction. An’ that’s allright. 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:

 
    
   
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 

** All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small,
All things wise and wonderful,
The Lawd Gawd He made all!”

[ 254 ]

  

007

.07 moved out the cars and delivered them to the
regular road-engine. He had never felt quite so limp
in his life before.

“ 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 hum-
min’ in his boiler that awful quiet way . . .”’

“I know,’ said .007. ‘‘ Makes me feel as if I’d
drepped my fire'an’ was getting cold. He is the great-
estman on earth.”’

They were at the far north end of the yard now,
unier a switch-tower, 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 junc-
tion over an indifferent road-bed, and she mourned
alaid for the ninety-six pound rails of the B. & A.

“You ’re young; you ’re young,’’ she coughed.
‘*You don’t realise your responsibilities.’’

“Yes, he does,’’ said Poney, sharply; ‘‘ but he don’t
liedown under ’em.’’ Then, with a side-spurt of steam,
exictly like a tough spitting: ‘‘ There ain’t more than
fifieen thousand dollars’ worth o’ freight behind her any-
wey, and she goes on as if ’t were a hundred thou-
sard—same as the Mogul’s. Excuse me, madam, but
you ’ve the track. . . . She’s stuck on a dead-centre
aguin—bein’ specially designed not to.”

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
almg the yard after her tail-lights had disappeared:

[ 255 ]

 

     
     
 
 
 
 
 
    
   
    
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
    

-007

switches locked crisply, and every one seemed to be

waiting.

; “Now I’ll show you something worth,’’ said Poney.

1 ‘When the Purple Emperor ain’t on time, it ’s about

ig time to amend the Constitution. The first stroke of

h twelve is—’’

“‘Boom!’’ went the clock in the big yard-tower, and

far away .007 heard a full, vibrating ‘‘ Yah! Yah!

Yah!’ 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:

“With a michnai—ghignai—shtingal! Yah! Yah! Yah!
Ein—zwei—drei—Mutter! Yah! Yah! Yah!

| She climb upon der shteeple,

Und she frighten all der people.

Singin’ michnai—ghignai—shtingal! Yah! Yah!”

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
Y was a blur of maroon ename’, a bar of white light from
the electrics in the cars, and a flicker of nickel-plated
hand-rail on the rear platform.

“*Ooh!’’ said .007.

‘‘ Seventy-five miles an hour these five miles. Baths,
I’ve heard; barber’s shop; ticker; and a library and the
[ 256 ]

 

 

 

  

  

OO

rest tomatch. 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.”’

-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? ”’

“Nough to run her a hundred mile out o’ this, if I
could,” said the engineer, who belonged to the open
road end hated switching.

“Then get. The Flying Freight ’s ditched forty mile
out, with fifty rod o’ track ploughed up. No;noone’s
hurt, dut both tracks are blocked. Lucky the wreckin’-
car an’ derrick are this end of the yard. Crew ’ll be
alongin a minute. Hurry! You ’ve the track.”

“Well, 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 flat-
car and a derrick behind it. ‘‘ Some folks are one thing,
and sane are another; but yow ’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’ saw-edged track that ’s liable
to jouace ye a little. Fifteen an’ a half out, after the
grade at Jackson’s crossin’. You ’ll know it by a farm-

house an’ a windmill an’ five maples in the dooryard.

[ 257 ]

 

 

 

 

 

007

Windmill ’s west 0’ the maples. An’ there ’s an eighty-
foot iron bridge in the middle o’ that section with no
guard-rails. See you later. Luck!”

Before he knew well what had happened, .007 was fly-
ing 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 hisownhead. Withavery quavering voice
he whistled for his first grade-crossing (an event in the
life of a locomotive), and his nerves were in no way re-
stored by the sight of a frantic horse and a white-faced
man in a buggy less than a yard from his right shoul-
der. 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 Co-
manche 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 loco-
motive 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

[ 258 J

 

 

007

with the engineer, for he heard a shuffling of feet among
the coal, and the snatch of a song, something like this:

‘Oh, the Empire State must learn to wait,
And the Cannon-ball go hang!
When the West-bound ’s ditched, and the tool-car ’s hitched,
Aad it ’s ’way for the Breakdown Gang (Tara-ra !)
’Way for the Breakdown Gang!”

“Say! Eustis knew what he was doin’ when he
designed this rig. She’sa hummer. New, too.’’

“Snff! Phew! She is new. That ain’t paint.
That ’s—”’

A burning pain shot through .007’s right rear driver
—acrippling, stinging pain.

‘*This,’’ said .007, as he flew, ‘‘is a hot-box. Now I
know whatit means. I shall go to pieces, I guess. My
firsi road-run, too!’’

‘“Het a bit, ain’t she?’’ the fireman ventured to
sugzest to the engineer.

“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—’’

Bit the crew fled back with laughter. They had no
wisi to be jerked on to the track. The engineer half
turred his wrist, and. 007 found his drivers pinned firm.

‘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.

“That must be the emergency-stop that Poney guyed
me ubout,’’ he gasped, as soon ashe could think. ‘‘ Hot-

[ 259 ]

 

 

 

2007

box—emergency-stop. They both hurt; but now I can
talk back in the round-house.”’

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.

‘oT were n’t even a decent-sized hog,’’ he said.
‘« 1 were a shote.”’

‘‘Dangerousest beasts they are,’’ said one of the
crew. ‘‘ Get under the pilot an’ sort 0’ twiddle ye off
the track, don’t they?”’

“Don’t they?’’ roared Evans, who was a red-headed
Welshman. ‘‘ You talk as if I was ditched by a hog
every fool-day 0’ the week. J 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!”’

It was not a bad night’s work for one stray piglet.
The Flying Freight seemed to have flown in every di-
rection, 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

[ 260 ]

     

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

007

hand track. The Mogul himself had waddled into a
corn-field, and there he knelt—fantastic wreaths of
green twisted round his crank-pins; his pilot covered
with solid clods of field, on which corn nodded drunk-
enly; 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 dis-
reputable 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 har-
ness, 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 cou-
pler-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 ac-
cused 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 mekillhim! Let me kill him!”’
Then the wrecking-crew laughed; and the farmer put
[261 ]

 

 

     
   

   

 

-007

his head out of a window and said that Evans was no
gentleman.

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 hor-
ror 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 an-
other 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.

“oT were n’t even a hog,’’ he repeated dolefully ;
“+ were a shote; and you—yow of all of ’em—had to
help me on.”’

“But how in the whole long road did it happen?”’
asked .007, sizzling with curiosity.

‘‘Happen! Itdidn’thappen! Itjustcome! Isailed
right on top of him around that last curve—thought he
was a skunk. Yes; he was all as little as that. He
had n’t more ’n squealed once ’fore I felt my bogies lift
(he’d rolled right under the pilot), and I could n’t catch
the track again to save me. Swivelled clean off, I was.
Then I felt him sling himself along, all greasy, under
[ 262 ]

 

007

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 0’ me.
Shook? There ain’t a stay or a bolt or a rivet in me
that ain’t sprung to glory somewhere.”

‘“Umm!’? said .007. ‘‘ What d’ you reckon you
weigh?”

‘ Without these lumps o’ dirt I ’m all of a hundred
thousand pound.”

‘¢ And the shote?”’

“Righty. 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.

‘« Well, it ’s all in the day’s run, I guess,’’ said .007,
soothingly ; ‘‘ an’—an’ a corn-field’s pretty soft fallin’.’’

‘““Té 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 would n’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 wasa 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.”’

And .007, his hot-box cooled and his experience vastly
enlarged, hauled the Mogul freight slowly to the round-
house.

‘Hello, old man! Bin out all night, hain’t ye?”’

[ 263 ]

 

 

 

 

 

 

007

said the irrepressible Poney, who had just come off
duty. ‘‘ Well, Imust say you look it. Costly—perish-
able—fragile—immediate—that’s you! Go tothe shops,
take them vine-leaves out o’ your hair, an’ git ‘em to
play the hose on you.”

‘* Leave him alone, Poney,’’ said .007, severely, as he
was Swung on the turn-table, ‘‘ or I ’11—”’

“Did nt know the old granger was any special
friend 0’ yours, kid. He was n’t over-civil to you last
time I saw him.’’

‘‘T 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 any one as long as I steam—not when they ’re new
to the business an’ anxious tolearn. And I’m not goin’
to guy the old Mogul either, though I did find him
wreathed around with roastin’-ears. °T was alittle 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.”

‘Found that out already, have you? Well, that ’sa
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.

‘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 mile-
age ahead of him, but, so far as a serving-brother can,
I?ll answer for him.”’

“Happy to meet you,’’ said the Purple Emperor,
with a glance round the crowded round-house. ‘I

[ 264 ]

),

q

b

-007

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 commu-
nicate 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! ”’
* * * * * * * * * *

Now, in the darkest night, even as the Purple Emperor
said, if you will stand on the bridge across the freight-
yard, 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:

“With a michnai—ghignai—shtingal! Yah! Yah! Yah!
Ein—zwei—drei—Mutter! Yah! Yah! Yah!
She climb upon der shteeple,
Und she frighten all der people,
Singin’ michnai—ghignai—shtingal! Yah! Yah!”
That is .007 covering his one hundred and fifty-six
miles in two hundred and twenty-one minutes.

[ 265 ]

 

 

 

 

 

THE MALTESE CAT

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE MALTESE CAT

HEY had good reason to be proud, and better rea-

son 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 quar-
ters 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.

‘*Money means pace and weight,’’ said Shiraz, rub-
bing his black-silk nose dolefully along his neat-fitting
boot, ‘‘ and by the maxims of the game as I know it—”’

“Ah, but we are n’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

[ 269 ]

 

 

 

 

THE MALTESE CAT

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.’

‘Tt 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.’’

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 dog-carts, 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.

[ 270]

  

ee Se

    
   

    
  
    
  
 
 

THE MALTESE CAT

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.

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.

“Let ’s see,’ said a soft gold-coloured Arab, who
had been playing very badly the day before, to The
Maltese Cat; ‘‘did n’t we meet in Abdul Rahman’s
stable in Bombay, four seasons ago? I won the Paik-
pattan Cup next season, you may remember?”’

“ Not me,’’ said The Maltese Cat, politely. ‘I was
at Malta then, pulling a vegetable-cart. I don’t race.
I play the game.”’

“Qh!” said the Arab, cocking his tail and swag-
gering off.

“ 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.”’

‘¢ We sha’n’t win the Cup,’’ said Shiraz. ‘‘ How do
you feel?”

‘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.

‘‘The sooner you forget that the better,’’ said The
Maltese Cat, cheerfully. ‘‘ They ‘ve finished tiffin in

[271 ]

 

 

 

   

 

THE MALTESE CAT

the big tent. We shall be wanted now. If your saddles
are not comfy, kick. If your bits are n’t easy, rear, and
let the saises know whether your boots are tight.”’

Each pony had his sais, 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 sais was shampooing the legs of his
pony to the last minute. Behind the saises sat as
many of the Skidars’ regiment as had leave to attend
the match—about half the native officers, and a hun-
dred or two dark, black-bearded men with the regi-
mental 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 theirmen. 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’leece-
man!’’ 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 beau-
tiful mounts made Shiraz groan again.

‘* 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 may
shy at the umpires’ ponies. They ’ve all got white web-
reins that are sure to stretch or slip! ”’

[272 ]

      
    

THE MALTESE CAT

‘*And,”’ said Kittiwynk, dancing to take the stiffness
out of her, ‘‘ they carry their whips in their hands in-
stead of on their wrists. Hah!’’

““True enough. Nomancan manage his stick and his
reins and his whip that way,’’ said The Maltese Cat.
‘*T’ve fallen over every square yard of the Malta
ground, and I ought to know.”’

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 polo-
balls 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 sea-
sons had been teaching the others all he knew or guessed.

‘“‘Remember,’’ he said for the hundredth time, as
the riders came up, ‘‘ you must play together, and you
must play with yourheads. Whatever happens, follow
the ball. Who goes out first? ’’

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.

[ 273 ]

 

 

   

 

THE MALTESE CAT

‘T want you men to keep quiet,’’ said Lutyens, the
captain of the team, ‘‘ and especially not to blow your
pipes.”’

‘‘ Not if we win, Captain Sahib?’’ asked the piper.

‘“Tf we win you can do what you please,’’ said Lut-
yens, 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 be-
fore. 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 mid-
dle of the ground, one hundred and fifty yards from the
ends, and Hughes crossed sticks, heads up, with the
Captdin 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
{ 274 ]

   
    

   
 
 
 
 
 
  

THE MALTESE CAT

few yards. Kittiwynk knew that stroke of old, and fol-
lowed 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.

‘*Pull out to the left,’’ said Kittiwynk between her
teeth; ‘‘ it ’s coming your way, Corks!”’

The back and half-back of the Archangels were tear-
ing 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.

‘‘That ’s luck,’’ said Corks, as they changed ends.
‘¢ A goal in three minutes for three hits, and no riding
to speak of.”’

‘Don’t know,’’ said Polaris. ‘‘ We ’ve made ’em
angry too soon. Should n’t wonder if they tried to
rusk us off our feet next time.”’

‘Keep the ball hanging, then,’’ said Shiraz. ‘‘ That
wears out every pony that is not used to it.’’

[275]

 

  

 

 

THE MALTESE CAT

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.

‘* We can do this all day,’”’ said Polaris, ramming his
quarters into the side of another pony. ‘‘ Where do
you think you ’re shoving to?”’

“J ’11—I ’ll be driven in an ekka 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.”’

‘‘The dust is rather bad. Whew! That was one for

my off-hock. Where ’s the ball, Corks?”’

‘* 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 ’1l go over.”’

‘Here, don’t touchme! Ican’tsee. I ’Il—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.

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.

‘*Ho! They ’vegotit,’’ shesnorted. ‘‘ Letmeout!”’
and she galloped like a rifle-bullet just behind a tall
lanky pony of the Archangels, whose rider was swing-
ing up his stick for a stroke.
[ 276 ]

  

  
   

THE MALTESE CAT

“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.

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 saises

began to scrape and blanket and rub them at once.
‘* 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
anhour. But they ’ll bring up fresh ones and fresh ones
and fresh ones after that—you see.”’

‘Who cares?”’ said Polaris. ‘‘ We ’ve drawn first
blood. Is my hock swelling? ”’

‘‘ 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.”’

‘‘ What ’s the game like?’’ said The Maltese Cat.

“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’sbad. What a comfort
it is to wash your mouth out!’

[277]

 

 

 

  
    

 

   

THE MALTESE CAT

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.

‘‘ What ’s bad?” said Grey Dawn, giving to the girth
and admiring his well-set shoulders.

“You Arabs can’t gallop fast enough to keep your-
selves warm—that ’s what Kitty means,” said Polaris,
limping to show that his hock needed attention. ‘‘Are
you playing back, Grey Dawn?”’

‘<*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.

‘« 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.

‘Blinkers again,’? said The Maltese Cat. ‘ Good
enough! ”’

“They ’re chargers—cavalry chargers!’’ said Kitti-
wynk, indignantly. ‘‘They ’ll never see thirteen-three
again.”’

“They ’ve all been fairly measured, and they ’ve all
got their certificates,’ said The Maltese Cat, ‘‘ or they
[ 278 ]

 

 

THE MALTESE CAT

would n’t be here. We must take things as they come
along, and keep your eyes on the ball.”’

The game began, but this time the Skidars were
penned to their own end of the ground, and the watch-
ing ponies did not approve of that.

‘*Waiz-Ullah is shirking—as usual,’’ said Polaris,
with a scornful grunt.

‘¢ Waiz-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.

‘*T can’t do all the work,’’ he cried, desperately.

‘‘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.

‘‘There “ll be a fall in a minute,’”’ said Polaris.
‘‘Benami is getting stuffy.’’

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.

The blinkered black pony came up like a hawk, with
two of his own side behind him, and Benami’s eye glit-
tered ashe raced. The question was which pony should
make way for the other, for each rider was perfectly

[ 279 ]

 

 

  

THE MALTESE CAT

  
  
 

     

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 ap-
ply 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.
“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.

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 prom-
ised to pull out his Arab tail by the roots and—eat it.

There was no time to talk, for the third four were
ordered out.

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.

Lutyens took over The Maltese Cat with a pat and a
hug, for Lutyens valued him more than anything else

[ 280 ]

  

THE MALTESE CAT

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, alias 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.

They went out to meet the very flower of the Arch-
angels’ team; and when Who ’s Who saw their ele-
gantly booted legs and their beautiful satin skins, he
grinned a grin through his light, well-worn bridle.

‘My word!’ said Who ’s Who. ‘‘ We must give ’em
a little football. These gentlemen need a rubbing
down.”’

‘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.

‘‘Who said anything about biting? I’m not playing
tiddly-winks. I’m playing the game.”

The Archangels came down like a wolf on the fold,
for they were tired of football, and they wanted polo.
They gotitmoreand more. Just after the game began,
Lutyens hit a ball that was coming towards him rap-
idly, 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 over-
head 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

[ 281 ]

 

 

 

THE MALTESE CAT

a stroke that sometimes comes off successfully «fter
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 righi leg
shift a trifle on the saddle-fiap, he headed to the boun-
dary, where a native officer was frantically waving a
new stick. Before the shouts had ended, Powell was
armed again.

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 otaers
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

[ 282 ]

  

    
   

   
   
  
  
 
 
 

THE MALTESE CAT

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.

‘‘ Tf we can live through this quarter,” said The Mal-
tese Cat, ‘‘I sha’n’t care. Don’t take it out of your-
selves. Let them do the lathering.”’

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.

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.

[ 283 ]

 

 

 

 

 
 
  
   
   
   
   
    
  
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 

eae SAN TEES

 

 

  

THE MALTESE CAT

‘* Now we are all going in for the second time,’ said
he, ‘‘and they are trotting out fresh ponies. You
think you can gallop, but you ’ll find you can’t; and
then you ’ll be sorry.”

‘* But two goals to nothing is a halter-long lead,”’ said
Kittiwynk, prancing.

‘* How long does it take to get a goal?’’ The Mal-
tese 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 not give ’ema
chance. Follow the ball.”

‘‘ Football, as usual?’’ said Polaris. ‘‘My hock ’s
half as big as a nose-bag.”’

‘‘ 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.’’

He hung down his head and let all his muscles go
slack, Shikast, Bamboo, and Who ’s Who copying his
example. .

‘* Better not watch the game,’’ he said. ‘‘ We are n’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.”’ j

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 press-
ing the Skidars hard. The native soldiers behind the
ponies groaned and grunted, and said things in under-
[ 284 ]

  
  

  

 

THE MALTESE CAT

tones, and presently they heard a long-drawn shout and
a clatter of hurrahs!

‘One to the Archangels,’’ said Shikast, without
raising his head. ‘‘Time’s nearly up. Oh, my sire—
and dam !”’

‘* Faiz-Ullah,’’ said The Maltese Cat, ‘‘ if you don’t
play to the last nail in your shoes this time, I ’Il kick
you on the ground before all the other ponies.’’

‘‘T’ll do my best when my time comes,’’ said the
little Arab, sturdily.

The saises 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.

‘“‘They ’re better than we are,’’ said Shiraz. ‘I
knew how it would be.”’

“Shut your big head,’’ said The Maltese Cat; ‘‘ we ’ve
one goal to the good yet.”’

“Yes; but it ’s two Arabs and two country-breds to
play now,” said Corks. ‘‘ Faiz-Ullah, remember!”’
He spoke in a biting voice.

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.

‘Did you take anything at tiffin?’ said Lutyens; and
the team shook their heads. They were too dry to talk.

[ 285 ]

 

   

 

THE MALTESE CAT

‘‘ All right. The Archangels did. They are worse
pumped than we are.”’

‘They ’ve got the better ponies,’’ said Powell. ‘I
sha’n’t be sorry when this business is over.”’

That fifth quarter was a painful one in every way.
Faiz-Ullah played like a little red demon, and The Rab-
bit 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 out-
paced. 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 back-
hander. 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

[ 286 ]

       

   
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 

i
M

pee

 

to

 

THE MALTESE CAT

to be helped up, and Grey Dawn rose with his near
hird-leg strained somewhere.

‘ What ’s the damage?’ said Powell, his arm around
Lutyens.

“ Collar-bone, of course,’’ said Lutyens, between his
tech. It was the third time he had broken it in two
yeirs, and it hurt him.

Powell and the others whistled.

‘Game ’s up,’’ said Hughes.

“Hold on. We’ve five good minutes yet, and it is n’t
my right hand. We ‘ll stick it out.”

‘I say,’ said the Captain of the Archangels, trotting
up ‘‘are you hurt, Lutyens? We ‘ll wait if you care
to ut in asubstitute. I wish—I mean—the fact is, you
felows deserve this game if any team does. ’Wish we
coud give you a man, or some of our ponies—or some-
thng.”’

“You ’re awfully good, but we ’ll play it to a finish,
I taink.”’

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
fran one of his native officers and made a sling of it.
Then an Archangel galloped up with a big bath-sponge,
anl advised Lutyens to put it under his armpit to ease
hisshoulder, and between them they tied up his left arm
scentifically; and one of the native officers leaped for-
ward with four long glasses that fizzed and bubbled.

The team looked at Lutyens piteously, and he nodded.
It was the last quarter, and nothing would matter after
thit. They drank out the dark golden drink, and

[ 287 ]

 

 

THE MALTESE CAT

 

 

wiped their moustaches, and things looked more hope-
ful.

The Maltese Cat had put his nose into the front of
Lutyens’ shirt and was trying to say how sorry he was.
” said Lutyens, proudly. ‘‘ The beg-
gar knows. I ’ve played him without a bridle be-
fore now—for fun.’’

‘He knows,

‘Tt ’s no fun now,’’ said Powell. ‘‘ But we have n’t
a decent substitute.”’

‘‘No,’’ said Lutyens. ‘‘It’s the last quarter, and
we ’ve got to make our goal and win. Ill trusi The
Cat.”

“Tf you fall this time, you ’ll suffer a little,” said
Macnamara.

‘‘T ll trust The Cat,’’ said Lutyens.

“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 this team have n’t suffered.’’

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 pre-
tended to rely on them. He knew The Cat would an-
swer 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

[ 288 ]

 

 

THE MALTESE CAT

dugabashi (horse-trick work), as they called it, and the
pipes very quietly and scornfully droned out the first
bars ofa 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.

‘‘ And now,” said The Maltese Cat, as they took their
place, ‘‘ remember that this is the last quarter, and fol-
low the ball!’

‘‘Don’t need to be told,’’ said Who ’s Who.

‘‘Les me goon. All those people on all four sides
’ willbegin to crowd in—just as they didat 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.”’

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
crovded 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
 hunan baings.

“T "ll bend some of those men if I can get away,’’ said
Whuo’s Who, as he rocketed behind the ball; and Bamboo
nodied without speaking. They were playing the last

[ 289 ]

 

 

 

 

THE MALTESE CAT

 

 

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.

‘‘ What are you doing here?’’ said Hughes, as The Cat
crossed in front of him and rode off an Archangel.

‘“«The Cat ’s in charge—mind the goal!’’ shouted Lut-
yens, and bowing forward hit the ball full, and followed
on, forcing the Archangels towards their own goal.

‘* No football,’’ said The Maltese Cat. ‘‘ Keep the
ball by the boundaries and cramp ’em. Play open order,
and drive ’em to the boundaries.”’

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.

‘‘Wriggle her up the sides,’’ said The Cat. ‘‘ Keep
her close to the crowd. They hate the carriages. Shi-
kast, keep her up this side.”’

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,

[ 290 ]

 

 

THE MALTESE CAT

this time—billiards in a corner pocket; and the cues were
not well chalked.

“Tf 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.

So they dribbled all along the boundary, where a pony
could not come on their right-hand side; and the Arch-
angels were furious, and the umpires had to neglect the
game to shout at the people to get back, and several
bluadering mounted policemen tried to restore order, all
close to the scrimmage, and the nerves of the Archangels’
ponies stretched and broke like cob-webs.

Five or six times an Archangel hit the ball up into the
middle of the ground, and each time the watchful Shi-
kast gave Powell his chance to send it back, and after
eaca return, when the dust had settled, men could see
tha; the Skidars had gained a few yards.

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
ther maddened ponies clear of the scuffle.

At last Lutyens missed a short easy stroke, and the
Skidars had to fly back helter-skelter to protect their
owz goal, Shikast leading. Powellstopped the ball with
a backhander when it was not fifty yards from the goal-
posis, and Shikast spun round with a wrench that nearly
hoisted Powell out of his saddle.

“Now ’s our last chance,’’ said The Cat, wheeling like
a cockchafer on a pin. ‘‘ We ’ve got to ride it out.
Cone along.’’

Latyens felt the little chap take a deep breath, and, as

L292 |

 

 

 

 

THE MALTESE CAT

it were, crouch under his rider. The ball was hop-
ping 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
manceuvres with another Archangel pony, nipping the
ball away from under his bridle, and clearing his oppo-
nent 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 Arch-
angels’ 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
[ 292 ]

 

 

 

 

THE MALTESE CAT

got the gol with a clean, smooth, smacking stroke
that was herd all over the field. But there was no
stopping the ponies. They poured through the goal-
posts in onemixed mob, winners and losers together, for
the pace hal been terrific. The Maltese Cat knew by
experience vhat would happen, and, to save Lutyens,
turned to tle right with one last effort, that strained a
back-sinew beyond hope of repair. As he did so he
heard the riyht-hand goal-post crack as a pony cannoned
into it—creck, splinter and fall like a mast. It had
been sawedthree parts through in case of accidents, but
it upset th: pony nevertheless, and he blundered into
another, wlo blundered into the left-hand post, and then
there was onfusion and dust and wood. Bamboo was
lying on tke ground, seeing stars; an Archangel pony
rolled besid: him, breathless and angry; Shikast had sat
down dog-fishion to avoid falling over the others, and
was slidingalong on his little bobtail in a cloud of dust;
and Powellwas sitting on the ground, hammering with
his stick anil trying to cheer. All the others were shout-
ing at the op of what was left of their voices, and the
men who Ind been spilt were shouting too. As soon
as the peope saw no one was hurt, ten thousand native
and Englist shouted and clapped and yelled, and before
any one coud stop them the pipers of the Skidars broke
on to the ground, with all the native officers and men
behind then, and marched up and down, playing a wild
Northern tine called ‘‘ Zakhme Bagan,’’ and through
the insolen: blaring of the pipes and the high-pitched
native yells you could hear the Archangels’ band ham-
mering, ‘‘ For they are all jolly good fellows,’’ and then
[293]

 

 

  

 

 

THE MALTESE CAT

reproachfully to the losing team, ‘‘ Ooh, Kafoozalum!
Kafoozalum! Kafoozalum!’’

Besides all these things and many more, there was a
Commander-in-chief, and an Inspector-General of Cav-
alry, 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 commis-
sioners, and hundreds of pretty ladies joined the chorus.
But The Maltese Cat stood with his head down, wonder-
ing 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.

‘““T 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? ”’

‘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 saises ran up to take away the ponies, and an officious
water-carrier sprinkled the players with dirty water till
they sat up.

‘My aunt!’’ said Powell, rubbing his back, and look-
ing at the stumps of the goal-posts, ‘‘That was a
game!”’

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
[ 294 ]

 
   

  

 

THE MALTESE CAT

some singing, a wise little, plain little, grey little head
looked in through the open door.

‘Hurrah! Bring him in,’’ said the Archangels; and
his sais, 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, mov-
ing gingerly; and they drank his health, because he had
done more to win the Cup than any man or horse on the
ground.

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-bit-
ten grey with a neat polo-tail, lame all round, but des-
perately quick on his feet, and, as everybody knew, Past
Pluperfect Prestissimo Player of the Game.

 

 

 

 
 

“BREAD UPON THE WATERS*

 

 

 

 

 

“BREAD UPON THE WATERS”

F you remember my improper friend Brugglesmith,
you will also bear in mind his friend McPhee, Chief
Engineer of the Breslau, 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 burst-
ing 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 ina 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-corapetency, and at the bottom of
his cabin chest of drawers, where he kept the photo-
graph of his wife, were two or three Royal Humane So-
ciety medals for saving lives at sea. Professionally—it
was different when crazy steerage-passengers jumped
[2997]

 

 

“BREAD UPON THE WATERS”

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 astrong 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 red-
hot, 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 ‘‘ Very Hard
Cash’’ by heart. In the saloon his table is next to the
captain’s, and he drinks only water while his engines
work.

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, own-
ers of the line, when they bought some ventilating
patent and fitted it to the cabins of the Breslau, Span-
dau, and Koltzau. The purser of the Breslau recom-
mended 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 specifi-
cations 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

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“BREAD UPON THE WATERS”

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 intro-
duced me to Mrs. McPhee, who succeeded Dinah in my
heart; for Dinah was half a world away, and it is whole-
some and antiseptic to love such a woman as Janet
McPhee. They lived in alittle 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 thea-
tres 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 con-
sumptives and hopeless drunkards for whom a sea-voy-

[ 301 ]

 

 

— ———-

 

 

“BREAD UPON THE WATERS”

age 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 side of Borneo. These were loved
and known, for they earned our bread and a little but-
ter, 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.

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:

‘‘ Have ye not heard? What d’ ye think o’ the hat-
rack?”’

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 skip-
pers. 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 noth-
ing. It was rather a mad sort of meal, because McPhee

[ 302 ]

 

 

“BREAD UPON THE WATERS”

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.

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 garance-coloured
gown. Thereisnosmall free-board to Janet McPhee, nor
is garance any subdued tint; and with all this unex-
plained 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
froma 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.

‘‘We ’ll drink,’’ said McPhee, slowly, rubbing his
chin, ‘‘ to the eternal damnation o’ Holdock, Steiner &
Chase.”

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.

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“BREAD UPON THE WATERS”

 

“Ye ’ve heard nothing?’’ said Janet. ‘‘ Not a word,
not a whisper? ’’

“Nota word, nora whisper. On my word, I have not.”’

‘¢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.

‘© We’rerich,’’ said McPhee. Ishook hands all round.

‘¢ We ’re damned rich,’’ he added. I shook hands all
round a second time.

‘T ‘ll go to sea no more—unless—there ’s no sayin’
—a private yacht, maybe—wi’ a small an’ handy auxil-
iary.”’

“It’s not enough for that,’”’ said Janet. ‘‘ We ’re fair
rich—well-to-do, butno more. A new gown for church,
and one for the theatre. We ’ll have it made west.”’

‘‘ How much is it?’’ I asked.

‘‘Twenty-five thousand pounds.’’? I drew a long
breath. ‘‘ An’ I’ve been earnin’ twenty-five an’ twenty
pound a month!”’’ The last words came away with a
roar, as though the wide world was conspiring to beat
him down.

“ All this time I ’m waiting,’’ I said. ‘‘I know
nothing since last September. Was it left you?”

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 that in your pamphlet
it would have been vara jocose. It was left.’’ He
slapped his thigh and roared till the wine quivered in
the decanter.

[ 304 ]

 

“BREAD UPON THE WATERS”

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.

‘When I rewrite my pamphlet I ’ll put it in, McPhee.
Only I must know something more first.”’

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.

‘Tn October o’ last year the Board sacked me,’’ began
McPhee. ‘‘ In October o’ last year the Breslaw 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 Breslau for eight months to that tune.
Never again—never again! They may send their boats
to the bottom, for aught I care.”’

‘There ’s no need,’’ said Janet, softly. ‘‘ We ’re done
wi’ Holdock, Steiner & Chase.’’

“Tt ’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 ’Il
havemethim. They shifted him to the Torgau, an’ bade

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“BREAD UPON THE WATERS”

 

me wait for the Breslau 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 J knew—an’ I was Chief Engineer—was the
notice of the line’s winter sailin’s, and the Breslau
timed for sixteen days between port an’ port! Sixteen
days,man! She’sa good boat, but eighteen is her sum-
mer time, mark you. Sixteen was sheer flytin’, kitin’
nonsense, an’ so I told young Bannister.

‘** We ’ve got to make it,’ he said. ‘Ye should not
ha’ sent in a three hunder pound indent.’

“** Do they look for their boats to be run on air?’ I
said. ‘The Board ’s daft.’

“¢* Hen tell °em so,’ he says. ‘I’m a married man,
an’ my fourth ’s on the ways now, she says.’ ”’

“‘ A boy—wi’ red hair,’’ Janet put in. Her own hair
is the splendid red-gold that goes with a creamy com-
plexion.

‘* My word, I was an angry man that day! Forbye I
was fond o’ the old Breslau, I looked for a little consid-
eration 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 Breslau eight sea-
sons, an’ I believe there ’s no fault to find wi’ my wark.

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But if ye haud to this’—I waggled the advertisement at
*em—‘ this that I’ve never heard of it till I read it at
breakfast, Ido assure you on my professional reputation,
she can never doit. That is to say, she can for a while,
but at a risk no thinkin’ man would run.’

‘‘* What the deil d’ ye suppose we pass your indents
for?’ says old Holdock. ‘Man, we ’re spendin’ money
like watter.’

“**T 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.

““*We must keep faith wi’ the public,’ said young
Steiner.

‘** Keep faith wi’ the Breslau, then,’ I said. ‘She’s
served you well, an’ your father before you. She ’Il
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’sa
three months’ job.’

‘** Because one employé is afraid?’ says young Steiner.
‘ Maybe a piano in the Chief Engineer’s cabin would be
more to the point.’

‘*T crushed my cap in my hands, an’ thanked God
we ’d no bairns an’ a bit put by.

“** Understand, gentlemen,’ I said. ‘If the Breslau

is made a sixteen-day boat, ye ’ll find another engineer.’
‘*** Bannister makes no objection,’ said Holdock.
“**T’m speakin’ for myself,’ I said. ‘ Bannister has
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“BREAD UPON THE WATERS”

 

bairns.’ An’ then I lost my temper. ‘ Ye can run her
into Hell an’ out again if ye pay pilotage,’ I said, ‘ but
ye run without me.’

‘«¢ That ’s insolence,’ said young Steiner.

‘¢¢ At your pleasure,’ I said, turnin’ to go.

‘“¢-Ye can consider yourself dismissed. We must
preserve discipline among our employés,’ said old Hol-
dock, 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.

“‘T 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’s onythin’ but
blind, an’ no deevil in his dealin’s wi) me—McRimmon
o’ the Black Bird Line.

‘“¢ What ’s here, Mister McPhee?’ said he.

‘“‘T was past prayin’ for by then. ‘A Chief Engineer
sacked after twenty years’ service because he ‘ll not
risk the Breslaw on the new timin’, an’ be damned to
ye, McRimmon,’ I said.

‘“ 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. That
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

[308]

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inadogthanaJew. What garred ye curse your Board,
McPhee? It’s expensive.’

‘*« They ’ll pay more for the Breslau,’ I said. ‘Get
off my knee, ye smotherin’ beast.’

‘** Bearin’s hot, eh?’ said McRimmon. ‘It ’s thirty
year since aman daur curse me to my face. Time was
I'd ha’ cast ye doon the stairway for that.’

‘“* 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.’

*** So I hear,’ says McRimmon. ‘Ha’ ye ony objec-
tion 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 Kite. 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’ Hol-
dock?’

‘“‘*The new timin’,’ said I. ‘The Breslau will not
stand it.’

‘** Hoot, oot,’ said he. ‘Ye might ha’ crammed hera
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.’

““*McRimmon,’ says I, ‘what ’s her virginity to a
lassie? ’

‘“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?’

‘This,’ I said. ‘There ’s just one thing that each

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one of us in his trade or profession will not do for ony
consideration whatever. If I run to time I run to time,
barrin’ always the risks 0’ 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’—’

‘So I ’ve heard,’ says McRimmon, dry as a bis-
cuit.

‘«¢ But yon matter o’ fair runnin’ ’s just my Shekinah,
ye ll understand. I daurna tamper wi’ that. 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.

“There was some more talk, an’ next week I went
aboard the Kite, twenty-five hunder ton, simple com-
pound, 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 don-
keys, 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 non
plus ultra, 1 ’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

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Atlantic winter weather. Ye ken what that means?
McRimmon an’ the Black Bird Line, God bless him!

“‘ 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 0’
twa million sterlin’, an’ no friend to his own blood-kin.
Money ’s an awfu’ thing—overmuch—for a lonely

man.

“T’d taken her out twice, there an’ back again, when
word came o’ the Breslau’s breakdown, just as I pro-
phesied. 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 Camaraiza-
man 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 help-
less, ye ‘ll understand, an’ in no case to meet ony
weather. Five thousand seven hunder an’ forty pounds,
with costs, an’ exclusive o’ new engines! They ’d ha’
done better to ha’ kept me—on the old timin’.

‘‘ But, even so, the new Board were all for retrench-
ment. Young Steiner, the Jew, was at the bottom of it.
They sacked men right an’ left, that would not eat the

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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’. Quem Deus vult perrdere prrius
dementat, ye remember.

‘“In January we went to dry-dock, an’ in the next
dock lay the Grotkau, their big freighter that was the
Dolabelia 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 dock-
head, But Holdock and Steiner had bought her cheap,
and painted her all over like the Hoor o’ Babylon, an’
we called her the Hoor 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 Breslau 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 thelast. She’da great clumsy iron twelve-
foot Thresher propeller—Aitcheson designed the Kites’
—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 awfu’ crack!

‘‘* When d’ ye ship a new tail-shaft?’ I said to Ban-
nister.

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“<* When d’ ye ship a new tail-shaft ?’ I said to Bannister.”

 

 

 

 

 

“BREAD UPON THE WATERS”

‘‘ He knew what I meant. ‘Oh, yon’s a superfeecial
flaw,’ says he, not lookin’ at me.

‘““« Superfeecial Gehenna!’ I said. ‘Ye ll not take
her oot wi’ a solution o’ continuity that like.’

‘«« They ’ll putty it up this evening,’ he said. ‘I’m
a married man, an’—ye used to know the Board.’

‘‘T e’en said what was gied me in that hour. Ye
know how a dry-dock 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 Bannis-
ter’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.

‘«‘ McPhee,’ said he, ‘ ye’re no paid to fight Holdock,
Steiner, Chase & Company, Limited, when ye meet.
What ’s wrong between you?’

‘¢*¢No more than a tail-shaft rotten as a kail-stump.
For ony sakes go an’ look, McRimmon. It’s a come-
dietta.’

‘¢* Tm feared o’ yon conversational Hebrew,’ said he.
‘Whaur ’s the flaw, an’ what like?’

‘«¢ A geven-inch crack just behind the boss. There ’s
no power on earth will fend it just jarrin’ off.’

‘*<« When?’

‘¢<« That ’s beyon’ my knowledge,’ I said.

“So it is; so it is,’ said McRimmon. ‘ We ’ve all
oor leemitations. Ye ’re certain it was a crack?’

‘¢* Man, it ’s a crevasse,’ I said, for there were no

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“BREAD UPON THE WATERS”

  
  
 

     

words to describe the magnitude of it. ‘An’ young
Bannister ’s sayin’ it’s no more than a superfeecial
flaw!’

‘¢* Weell, I tak’ it oor business is to mind oor busi-
ness. If ye ’ve ony friends aboard her, McPhee, why
not bid them to a bit dinner at Radley’s?’

‘¢¢ T was thinkin’ o’ teain the cuddy,’Isaid. ‘ Engi-
neers o’ tramp freighters cannot afford hotel prices.’

““*Nal! na!’ says the auld man, whimperin’. ‘ Not
the cuddy. They ’ll laugh at my Kite, for she ’s no
plastered with paint like the Hoor. Bid them to Rad-
ley’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.)
‘Mister McPhee,’ said he, ‘ this is not senile dementia.’

‘«* Preserve ’s!’ I said, clean jumped oot o’ mysel’.
‘I was but thinkin’ you ’re fey, McRimmon.’

‘* 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.’

‘« Bell and I bid young Bannister and Calder to dinner
at Radley’s. They ’ll haveno laughin’ an’ singin’ there,
but we took a private room—like yacht-owners fra’
Cowes.”’

McPhee grinned all over, and lay back to think.

‘* And then?’’ said I.

‘« We were no drunk in ony preceese sense 0’ the word,
but Radley ’s showed me the dead men. There were six
magnums o’ dry champagne ar’ maybe a bottle o’
whisky.”

‘““Do you mean to tell me that you four got away

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with a magnum and a half a piece, besides whisky?”’ I
demanded.

McPhee looked down upon me from between his
shoulders with toleration.

‘‘ Man, we were not settin’ down to drink,’ he said.
‘They no more than made us wutty. Tobesure, 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 Grotkau, 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 deilina 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.

‘«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 Kite was chartered Liverpool-side.

‘“<¢ Bide whaur ye ’re put,’ said the Blind Deevil.
‘Man, do ye wash in champagne? The Kite’s no leavin’
here till I gie the order, an’—how am I to waste paint
on her, wi’ the Lammergeyer docked for who knows how
long an’ a’?’

‘She was our big freighter—McIntyre was engineer

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—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’ morti-
fication.

‘‘« The auld man’s gone gyte,’ says he. ‘ He’s with-
drawn the Lammergeyer.’

‘*“ Maybe he has reasons,’ says I.

“** Reasons! He’s daft!’

““* He ll no be daft till he begins to paint,’ I said.

‘“« That ’s just what he’s done—and South American
freights higher than we ’Il live to see them again. He’g
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 dry-
dock, man; an’ he dolin’ the paint out in quarter-pound-
tins, for it cuts him to the heart, mad though heis. An’
the Grotkau—the Grotkaw of all conceivable bottoms—
soaking up every pound that should be ours at Liver-
pool!’

‘“‘T was staggered wi’ this folly—considerin’ the din-
ner at Radley’s in connection wi’ the same.

‘**'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’ mil-
linery, an’ fancy Brazil cargo o’ every species pourin’
into the Grotkau—the Grotkau o’ the Jerusalem firm
—and the Lammergeyer ’s bein’ painted!’

‘*Losh, I thought he ’d drop dead wi’ the fits.

‘*T could say no more than ‘ Obey orders, if ye break
owners,’ but on the Kite we believed McRimmon was
mad; an’ McIntyre of the Lammergeyer was for lockin’

[316 ]

  
   

  

“BREAD UPON THE WATERS”

him up by some patent legal process he ’d found in a
book o’ maritime law. An’ a’ that week South Amer-
ican freights rose an’ rose. It was sinfu’!

‘« Syne Bell got orders to tak’ the Kite round to Liver-
pool in water-ballast, and McRimmon came to bid ’s
good-bye, yammerin’ an’ whinin’ o’er the acres 0’ paint
he’d lavished on the Lammergeyer.

‘“«T 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?’

‘“«¢ What odds, McRimmon?’ says Bell. ‘ We ’ll be a
day behind the fair at Liverpool. The Grotkau ’s got
all the freight that might ha’ been ours an’ the Lam-
> McRimmon laughed an’ chuckled—the
pairfect eemage o’ senile dementia. Yeken his eyebrows
wark up an’ down like a gorilla’s.

‘«-Ye ’re under sealed orders,’ said he, tee-heein’ an’
scratchin’ himself. ‘Yon ’s they ’—to be opened seria-
tim.

‘ 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.’

‘Well, we buttocked the auld Kite along—vara bad
weather we made—standin’ in all alongside for tele-

mergeyer’s.

graphic 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?’

“Ill no say what McRimmon had written, but he

[ 817 ]

 

  

 

“BREAD UPON THE WATERS”

  

 

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 —Liver-
pool weather, as they say; an’ there we lay choppin’,
an’thecrewswore. Yecanna keep secrets aboard ship.
They thought McRimmon was mad, too.

“Syne we saw the Grotkau 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 0’ more to come. By six it
blew hard but clear, an’ before the middle watch it was
a sou’wester in airnest.

‘** She ’ll edge into Ireland, this gait,’ says Bell. I
was with him on the bridge, watchin’ the Grotkaw’s 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 Grotkau) we fair walked into a liner
rampin’ home to Liverpool. Or, to be preceese, Bell no
more than twisted the Kite 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 Grotkaw’s 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.’’

‘‘ But you don’t go by the Fastnet to get to any South
American port, do you?’’ I said.

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“BREAD UPON THE WATERS”

“‘ We do not. We prefer to go as direct as may be.
But we were followin’ the Grotkau, 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 0’ 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
0’ the Skelligs she fair tucked up her skirts an’ ran for
it by Dunmore Head. Wow, she rolled!

‘¢« She “ll be makin’ Smerwick,’ says Bell.

“** She ’d ha’ tried for Ventry by noo if she meant
that,’ I said.

‘¢« They ‘ll roll the funnel oot o’ her, this gait,’ says
Bell. ‘ Why canna Bannister keep her head to sea?’

““<Tt ’s the tail-shaft. Ony rollin’’s better than
pitchin’ wi’ superfeecial cracks in the tail-shaft. Calder
knows that much,’ I said.

‘¢< Tt sill 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!

“‘ One by one the sea raxed away our three boats, an’
the davits were crumpled like ram’s horns.

*** 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.

““T’m not one that fashes himself for eventualities
outside the engine-room, so I e’en slipped down betwixt
waves to see how the Kite fared. Man, she’s the best
geared boat of her class that ever left Clyde! Kin-

[319 ]

 

  

 

“BREAD UPON THE WATERS”

loch, 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.

‘‘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. Pair-
fect North Atlantic winter weather, as I was sayin’.

‘The gale blew out by night, but we lay in smotherin’
cross-seas that made the auld Kite chatter from stem to
stern. Islowed to thirty-four, I mind—no, thirty-seven.
There was a long swell the morn, an’ the Grotkaw was
headin’ into it west awa’.

“« She ’ll win to Rio yet, tail-shaft or no tail-shaft,’
says Bell.

‘¢ Last night shook her,’ I said. ‘She ’ll jar it off
yet, mark my word.’

‘‘ We were then, maybe, a hunder and fifty mile west-
sou’west 0’ 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 Grotkau, creepin’ up by night and fallin’
awa’ by day. After the gale it was cold weather wi’
dark nights.

‘‘T was in the engine-room on Friday night, just be-
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“BREAD UPON THE WATERS”

fore the middle watch, when Bell whustled down the
tube: ‘She ’s done it’; an’ up I came.

“The Grotkau 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.

*** Yon ’s a tow for us,’ said Bell, lickin’ his chops.
‘She ’ll be worth more than the Breslau. We'll go
down to her, McPhee!’

‘¢* Bide a while,’ I said. ‘The seas fair throng wi’
ships here.’

“‘* Reason why,’ said Bell. ‘It ’s a fortune gaun
beggin’. What d’ ye think, man?’

“*Gie her till daylight. She knows we ’re here. If
Bannister needs help he ’Il loose a rocket.’

““* Wha told ye Bannister’s need? We ’ll ha’ some
_ Yrag-an’-bone tramp snappin’ her up under oor nose,’
said he; an’ he put the wheel over. We were goin’ slow.

*«* Bannister wad like better to go home on a liner an’
eat in the saloon. Mind ye what they said 0’ Holdock
& Steiner’s food that night at Radley’s? Keep her
awa’, man—keep her awa’. A tow’s a tow, but a dere-

lict ’s big salvage.’

*** H-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’.

‘« Syne up went a rocket forward, an’ twa on the
bridge, an’ a blue light aft. Syne a tar-barrel forward
again.

*¢*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!’

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‘“«¢ Pair 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 Breslaw. He ll no be wastin'
fireworks for nothin’. Hear her ca’!’

“The Grotkau whustled an’ whustled for five min-
utes, an’ then there were more fireworks—a regular
exhibeetion.

‘¢“ That ’s no for men in the regular trade,’ says Bell.
‘Ye’re right, Mac. That ’s for a cuddy full o’ passen-
gers.’ He blinked through the night-glasses when it
lay a bit thick to southward.

‘¢¢ What d’ ye make of it?’ I said.

‘«¢ 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.’

‘«¢ 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 con-
veyance 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!’

““¢ Gowk!’ I said, ‘an’ we blazin’ here wi’ all oor
lights. Oh, Bell, ye ’re a fool!’

“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 Grot-
kau ’d been signallin’ to. Twenty knot an hour she

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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.

*«* They ‘Il 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 ’Il gie the skipper
a pair o’ binoculars. It’s vara philanthropic all round.’

“We ’ll lay by till day—ye may think we waited for
it wi’ sore eyes—an’ there sat the Grotkau, her nose a
bit cocked, just leerin’ at us. She looked paifectly
ridiculous.

***She ’Il 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 inconti-
nent man.

“** Run her as near as ye daur,’ I said. ‘Gie me a
jacket an’ a life-line, an’ I ‘Il 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

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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, whaur I dried me wi’ every-
thing in his bunk, an’ put on every conceivable sort 0’
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.

‘‘ Syne I went aft to the engine-room. The Grotkau
sat on her own tail, as they say. She was vara short-
shafted, 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 en-
gine-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.”’

‘‘ 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.”

‘ 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
[324 ]

 

 

 

Drawn by W. Louis Sonntag, Fr.

** ‘Tt was perishin’ cold, but I’d done my job judgmatically, an’ came scrapin’ all
’ ci J > 7?
along her side slap on to the lower gratin’ o’ the gangway.’”
g p e gangway

 

 

 


“BREAD UPON THE WATERS”

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, ye’ll note, I was
not depressed.’’

‘“* That ’s all very well, but I want to know about the
water,’’ I said.

‘‘T’ve told ye. There was six feet or more there, wi’
Calder’s cap floatin’ on top.”’

‘* Where did it come from?”’

‘‘ 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 upagain. I remember
seein’ that cap on him at Southampton.”’

‘*T 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 was n’t a
leak, McPhee? ”’

‘For good reason—for good an’ sufficient reason.’’

“* Give it to me, then.”’

‘‘ Weel, it ’s a reason that does not properly concern
myself only. Tobe preceese, I’m of opinion that it was
due, the watter, in part to an error o’ judgment in an-
other man. We can a’ mak’ mistakes.’’

‘‘Oh, I beg your pardon!”’

‘*T got me to the rail again, an’, ‘ What ’s wrang?’ said
Bell, hailin’.

‘«*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.’

‘*T could see heads bobbin’ back an’ forth, an’ a whuff
or two o’ strong words. Then Bell said: ‘ They ’ll not

[ 825 ]

 

 

   
     
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
    

“BREAD UPON THE WATERS”

trust themselves—one of ’em—in this watter—except
Kinloch, an’ I Il no spare him.’

‘<¢ The more salvage to me, then,’ Isaid. ‘I’ll make
shift solo.’

‘* Says one dock-rat, at this: ‘ D’ ye think she’s safe?’

“¢T "ll guarantee ye nothing,’ I said, ‘ except maybe
a hammerin’ for keepin’ me this long.’

‘Then he sings out: ‘ There ’s no more than one life-
belt, an’ they canna find it, or I ’’d come.’

‘¢¢ 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.

‘« 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 Grotkaw’s bitts.

‘‘ Bell brought the Kite so close I feared she ’d roli in
an’ do the Grotkaw’s 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 a long tow before us, an’
though Providence had helped us that far, there was no
sense in leavin’ too much to its keepin’. When the sec-
ond 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 0’ helpin’ the work wi’ askin’ for drinks,
but I e’en told him he must hand reef an’ steer, begin-
[ 326 ]

 

“BREAD UPON THE WATERS”

nin’ with steerin’, for I was goin’ to turnin. 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 Hoor 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 Kite snorin’ awa’ four knots an hour;
an’ the Grotkau 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 they thought
of it on the new paint o’ the fo’e’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 Kite’s 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’ watter 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 thegear. He told meas 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 warnin’—a most providential busi-
ness for all concerned. Syne I took stock o’ the Grot-
[327 ]

 
 

 

“BREAD UPON THE WATERS”

 

kau’s 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 ‘ Woman-Hater,’
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 Grotkau, an’ not
one full meal did Imake. Sma’ blame her crew would
not stay by her. The other man? Oh I warked him wi’
a vengeance to keep him warm.

‘‘ Tt 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 0’
cauld an’ hunger, for the Grotkau 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 n‘ght, 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 Kite round

[ 328 ]

  

“BREAD UPON THE WATERS”

with the jerk that came close to tearin’ the bitts out o’
the Grotkau, an’ I mind I thanked my Maker in young
Bannister’s cabin when we were inside Plymouth break-
water.

‘‘ 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 Cal-
der had told him when the liner landed the Grotkaw’s
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.

“** How do Holdock, Steiner & Chase feed their men?’
said he. :

*«* Ye can see,’ I said, knockin’ the top off another
beer-bottle. ‘I did not sign to be starved, McRimmon.’

“** Nor toswum, 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 Lammergeyer would equal salvage on four hunder
thousand pounds—hull an’ cargo? Eh, McPhee? This
cuts the liver out o’ Holdock, Steiner, Chase & Com-
pany, Limited. Hh, McPhee? An’ I’m sufferin’ from
senile dementianow? Eh, McPhee? An’I’m not daft,
am I, till I begin to paint the Lammergeyer? Eh,
McPhee? Ye may weel lift your leg, Dandie! I ha’ the
laugh o’ them all. Ye found watter in the engine-room?’

‘** To speak wi’oot prejudice,’ I said, ‘ there was some
watter.’

[ 329 ]

> ear

 

Se ae a ee

“BREAD UPON THE WATERS”

“They thought she was sinkin’ after the propeller
went. She filled wi’ extraordinary rapeedity. Calder
said it grieved him an’ Bannister to abandon her.’

‘«T thought o’ the dinner at Radley’s, an’ what like 0’
food I’d eaten for eight days.

‘<< Tt would grieve them sore,’ I said.

“¢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.’

‘«« They ’d ha’ starved if they ’d stayed,’ said I.

“¢T tak’ it, fra Calder’s account, there was a mutiny
a’most.’

‘« ©Ye know more than I, McRimmon,’I said. *Speak-
in’ wi’oot prejudice, for we ’re all in the same boat,
who opened the bilge-cock?’

‘“<Oh, that’s it—is it?’ said the auld man, an’ Icould
see he was surprised. ‘A bilge-cock, ye say?’

‘<¢T pelieve it was a bilge-cock. They were all shut
when I came aboard, but some one had flooded the en-
gine-room eight feet over all, and shut it off with the
worm-an’-wheel gear from the second gratin’ after-
wards.’

“<< Tosh!’ said McRimmon. ‘ The ineequity o’ man ’s
beyond belief. But it ’s awfu’ discreditable to Holdock,
Steiner & Chase, if that came oot in court.’

““¢Tt ’g just my own curiosity,’ I said.

““¢ 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 Kite when yon
painted liner took off the Grotkaw’s people?’

[330 ]

“BREAD UPON THE WATERS”

‘“«¢ Just there or thereabouts,’ I said.

‘““¢ An’ which o’ you twa thought to cover your
lights?’ said he, winkin’.

‘“* Dandie,’ I said to the dog, ‘we must both strive
against curiosity. It ’s an unremunerative business.
What ’s our chance 0’ salvage, Dandie?’

‘‘ 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 ‘Il
be your last voyage, I’m thinkin’, excep’ by way 0’
pleasure.’

‘‘ 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 Kite. He looked down his nose; but
McRimmon pipes up: ‘ Here ’s the man ye owe the Girot-
kau to—at a price, Steiner—at a price! Let me intro-
duce Mr. McPhee to you. Maybe ye ’ve met before;
but ye ’ve vara little luck in keepin’ your men—ashore
or afloat!’

“Young Steiner looked angry enough to eat him as
he chuckled an’ whustled in his dry old throat.

“¢Ve ve not got your award yet,’ Steiner says.

‘““¢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 “Ul
match ye p’und for p’und till the last p’und ’s oot. Ye
ken me, Steiner! I ’m McRimmon o’ McNaughten &
McRimmon!’

[ 831 ]

 

 

  

 

“BREAD UPON THE WATERS”

““* Dod,’ he said betwix’ his teeth, sittin’ back in the
boat, ‘I ’ve waited fourteen year to break that Jew-
firm, an’ God be thankit I ’ll do it now.’

‘‘The Kite was in the Baltic while the auld man was
warkin’ his warks, but I know the assessors valued the
Grotkau, all told, at over three hunder and sixty thou-
sand—her manifest was a treat o’ richness—an’ McRim-
mon 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 Grotkau’s
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.

‘‘ Syne the Kite came back, an’ McRimmon paid off
me an’ Bell personally, an’ the rest of the crew pro rata,
I believe it ’s ca’ed. My share—oor share, I should say
—was just twenty-five thousand pound sterlin’.”’

At this point Janet jumped up and kissed him.

‘‘ 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 who flooded the engine-room
of the Grotkau. I’m fairly well acquaint wi’ McRim-
mon’s eediosyncrasies, and he ’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 0’
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.”’

[ 332]

  

 

  
   

“BREAD UPON THE WATERS”

‘“« What ’s your theory?’’ I demanded.

‘Weel, I’m inclined to think it was one o’ those
singular providences that remind us we ’re in the hands
o’ Higher Powers.”’

‘Tt could n’t open and shut itself? ”’

“<T did not mean that; but some half-starvin’ oiler or,
maybe, trimmer must ha’ opened it awhile to mak’ sure
o’ leavin’ the Grotkau. 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 Grotkaw was sinkin’. But it’s curious to think
0’ the consequences. Ina’ 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 passen-
ger, ye ’ll understand, Janet.”’

* * * * * * * * * *

McPhee kept his word. He and Janet went for a voy-
age 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 six-
teen days she lived below, and chatted with the stew-
ardesses 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.
[ 333 ]

 

 

 

 

AN ERROR IN
THE FOURTH DIMENSION

 

 

 

 

eee ON eee ~
— = ee

AN ERROR IN
THE FOURTH DIMENSION

EFORE 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, con-
servatories, 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.

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 eye-
glass; 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.

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

[ 337 ]

yp Se

 

   

AN ERROR IN

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 dis-
covered 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.

The impenetrability of this regulated life irritated him,
and he strove to learn something of the human side of
these people. He retired baffied, to be trained by his
menials. In America, the native demoralises the Eng-
lish 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 per-
manent way, —built on altogether different plans, where
locomotives eternally whistled for grade-crossings, and

[ 338 ]

    
    

 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  

 

 

THE FOURTH DIMENSION

parlor-cars of fabulous expense and unrestful design
skated round curves that the Great Buchonian would
have cordemned 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.

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 versa-
tility of his race, Wilton Sargent had set out to be just a
little more English than the English.

He succeeded to admiration. He learned not to redeco-
rate 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 de-

creed 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

[ 339 ]

 

 

    
   

 

AN ERROR IN

keep your eye on the ball,’’ he is, for practical purposes,
denationalised.

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 Egyp-
tian; 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
asa 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.

There were also women.

‘‘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 unre-
generate 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 toan English walk,

[ 340 |

om

THE FOURTH DIMENSION

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.

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.

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 Han-
gars livery met me at Amberley Royal. At Holt Han-
gars 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.

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, extrava-
gant in its simplicity. It seemed that Hackman of the
British Museum had been staying with him about ten

[ 341 ]

 

 

 

   
 

 

AN ERROR IN

   

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-Hotep—a 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 versus millionaire,
one saying: ‘‘ But I know it cannot be’’; and the other:
‘*But I can and will prove it.’’ Wilton found it neces-
sary 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 sta-
tion being five miles away, and putting in of horses a
matter of time, Wilton had told Howard, the immacu-
late 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, backwards 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

[ 342 ]

 

  

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his hat, and was at last dragged into the guard’s van
and set down breathless.

He had pressed money upon the man, and very fool-

ishly 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 Sar-
gent 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 at-
tend to. Wilton insisted on his incognito, and, there-
fore, 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.

‘They were so infernally polite,’’ he said. ‘‘ If they
had clubbed me I would n’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.”’

‘“« That comes of not giving your name and not wiring
your lawyer,’’ I replied. ‘‘ What did you get? 4

‘« Forty shillings, or a month,”’ said Wilton, promptly,
—‘next morning bright and early. They were work-
ing us off, three a minute. A girl ina pink hat—she
was brought in at three in the morning—got ten days.
I suppose I waslucky. 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

[ 343 ]

 

 

 

   
     
 
 
         
      
   
      
      
   
 
   
  
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
  
    

AN ERROR IN

that I was gathering beetles on the track. That comes
of trying to explain to an Englishman.”’

** And you?’

‘Oh, I said nothing. I wanted to get out. I paid
my fine, and bought a new hat, and came up here be-
fore noon next morning. There were a lot of people in
the house, and I told ’emI’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 dis-
tinctly American—confound ’em! It ’s the only time
in my life that I ve ever flagged a train, and I would n’t
have done it but for that scarab. ’T would n’t hurt
their old trains to be held up once in a while.”’

‘‘ Well, it ’s all over now,’’ I said, choking a little.
‘““And your name didn’t get into the papers. It is
rather transatlantic when you come to think of it.’’

‘““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.”’

‘* Who?’’

‘“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
(344 ]

 

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conversation soothed him. In the course of the dinner,
prompted by a devil of pure mischief, I dwelt with lov-
ing 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 rail-
ways, 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.

“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. ;

‘‘ Come into my study. That ’s all—as yet.”

It was a pile of Seidlitz-powders-coloured correspon-
dence, perhaps nine inches high, and it looked very
businesslike.

‘“‘ You can go through it,’’ said Wilton. ‘‘ Now Icould
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—

[ 345 |

 

AN ERROR IN

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.’’

‘“No more does the Great Buchonian—apparently.”’
I was turning over the letters. ‘‘ Here ’s the. traffic
superintendent writing that it ’s utterly incomprehen-
sible that any man should . . . Good heavens, Wilton,
you have done it!’’ I giggled, as I read on.

“What ’s funny now?’’ said my host.

‘‘It seems that you, or Howard for you, stopped the
three-forty Northern down.”’

‘‘T ought to know that! They all had their knife into
me, from the engine-driver up.”’

‘¢ But it’s the three-forty —the Induna—surely you ’ve
heard of the Great Buchonian’s Induna! ”’

‘« How the deuce am I to know one train from another?
They come along about every two minutes.”’

“‘ 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—’”’

‘‘T 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.”’

The American was beginning to ooze out all over Wil-
ton, and his small-boned hands were moving restlessly.

‘‘Suppose you flagged the Empire State Express, or
the Western Cyclone? ’’

[ 346 ]

 

 

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“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.”’

‘¢ Have you been answering their letters without legal
advice, then?’”’

‘¢ Of course I have.”’

‘¢Oh, my Sainted Country! Go ahead, Wilton.”

‘“‘T wrote ’em that I’d be very happy to see their
president and explain to him in three words all about it;
but that would n’t do. ’Seems their president must be
a god. He was too busy, and—well, you can read for
yourself—they wanted explanations. The station-mas-
ter 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 tem 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?”’

‘¢- You did n’t say that?”’

‘¢* Heel her pulse’? Of course not.”’

‘No. ‘ Board her.’”’

‘¢ What else could I say?’’

‘“¢ 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? ”’

‘‘T ’m through with Mrs. Sherborne and the rest of

[ 347 ]

 

 

 

 

 

AN ERROR IN

the crowd. America ’s good enough for me. What
ought I to have said? ‘ Please,’ or ‘ thanks awf'ly,’ or
how?”’

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 under-
stand.

‘And I could buy their old road three times over,”’
he muttered, playing with a paver bnite, and moving
restlessly to and fro.

‘* You did n’t tell ’em that, I hope!”’

There was no answer; but as I went through the let-
ters, I felt that Wilton must have told them many sur-
prising 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.

‘‘ And you did n’t?’’ I said, looking up.

““No. They were treating me exactly as if I had
been a kid playing on the cable-tracks. There was not
[348 ]

  

     
    

  
    
   
   
   
 

 

 

THE FOURTH DIMENSION

the least necessity for any solicitor. Five minutes’
quiet talk would have settled everything.”

I returned to the correspondence. The Great Bu-
chonian 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 ani-
mus 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.

‘That broke me all up,” said Wilton, who was read-
ing 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.”’

‘‘ Why, I had a notion that you ’d got yourself natu-
ralised.”’

Wilton blushed hotly as he explained that very many
things must happen to the British Constitution ere he
took out his papers.

‘‘ How does it all strike you?’’ he said. ‘‘Is n’t the
Great Buchonian crazy?”’

“‘Tdon’t know. You ’ve done something that no one

[349 ]

 

 

—<——

 

 

 

AN ERROR IN

ever thought of doing before, and the Company don’t
know what to make of it. Isee they offer to send down
their solicitor and another official of the Company to
talk things overinformally. Then here ’s another letter
suggesting that you put up a fourteen-foot wall, crowned
with bottle-glass, at the bottom of the garden.”’

‘*Talk of British insolence! The man who recom-
mends that (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 does n’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 all 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 way-train? I took the first that came along,
and I’ve been jailed and fined for that once already.”

‘‘ That was for slugging the guard.’’

‘* He had no right to haul me out when I was half-way
through a window.”’

‘“ What are you’ going to do about it?”’

‘‘ 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, asa rule, till after
dinner, but they might send along the entire directorate
if it eased ’em any.’’

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

[ 350 ]

 

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owner, not the public. Verily, Wilton Sargent had
hoisted the striped flag of rebellion!

‘Tg n’t it time that the humour of the situation began
to strike you, Wilton?’’ I asked.

‘¢ 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. Now Isee!’’ He spun round and faced me
excitedly. ‘‘It’s as plain as mud. These ducks are
laying their pipes to skin me.”’

‘They say explicitly they don’t want money!”’
‘That ’s alla 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 did n’t I think of
that before? ”’

‘‘One minute, Wilton. If you climbed to the top of
the dome of St. Paul’s and offered a reward to any Eng-
lishman who could tell you who or what Merton Sargent
had been, there would n’t be twenty men in all London
to claim it.”’

‘““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! Ill show ’em that
they can’t bulldoze a foreigner for flagging one of their
little tin-pot trains, and—I ’ve spent fifty thousand a
year here, at least, for the last four years.”’

I was glad I was not his lawyer. I re-read the cor-
respondence, 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

[ 351]

 

 

 

 

AN ERROR IN

through it a thought struck me which filled me with
pure joy.

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
froma bath. Icould 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 un-
English warmth.

‘This simplifies the situation,’’ he said in an under-
tone, and, as I stared, he whispered to his companion:
‘*T fear I shall be of very little service at present. Per-
haps Mr. Folsom had better talk over the affair with
Mr. Sargent.”’

“‘That is what I am here for,’’ said Wilton.

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:

““T ’ve had insomnia over this affair, Mr. Folsom.
Let’s settle it one way or the other, for heaven’s sake! ’’

“Ah! Has he suffered much from this lately?’ said
my man, with a preliminary cough.

‘‘T really can’t say,’’ I replied.

‘“‘Then I suppose you have only lately taken charge
here? ’’

‘*T came this evening. I am not exactly in charge of
anything.”’

[ 352 ]

 

 

THE FOURTH DIMENSION

‘“‘T gee. Merely to observe the course of events in
case—’’ He nodded.

‘‘Bxactly.’’ Observation, after all, is my trade.

He coughed again slightly, and came to business.

‘‘Now,—I am asking solely for information’s sake,
—do you find the delusions persistent? ’’

‘¢ Which delusions? ”’

‘They are variable, then? That is distinctly curious,
because—but do I understand that the type of the delu-
sion varies? For example, Mr. Sargent believes that he
can buy the Great Buchonian.”’

‘* Did he write you that?’’

‘¢ 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, per-
sistent, to the exclusion of all others.”’

Then I heard Wilton’s best English voice at the end of
the study :

‘¢ My dear sir, I have explained twenty times already,
I wanted to get that scarab in timefordinner. Suppose
you had left an important legal document in the same
way?’’

“That touch of cunning is very significant,’’ my fel-

low-practitioner—since he insisted on it—muttered.
““T am very happy, of course, to meet you; butif you

[ 353 ]

 

 

   
 

   

AN ERROR IN

  

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.

‘‘ 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.”’

‘¢ Absolutely! ’’ my companion echoed; then to me in
a lower tone: ‘‘ You notice, again, the persistent delu-
sion of wealth. J 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, that 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, —heartrending, I might say,—and the
inability to follow a chain of connected thought.”’

 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
   
 

‘*T can’t see what you want,’’ Wilton was saying to
the lawyer.

‘“*Ttneed 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 pleas-
anter than to watch, so to say, one’s own vine and fig-

[ 354 ]

 
 
 

 

THE FOURTH DIMENSION

tree in full bearing. Consider the profit and amusement
' you would derive from it. If you could see your way
_ to doing this, we 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.”’

‘But why am I to disfigure my lawn with a new
brick wall?”’

“* Grey flint is extremely picturesque.’’

‘*Grey flint, then, if you put it that way. Why the
dickens must I go building towers of Babylon just be-
cause I have held up one of your trains—once?”’

‘“‘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 im-
pinging, asit were, upon aland one. What amarvellous
world he must move in—and will before the curtain
falls. So young, too—so very young!”’

‘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!”’

‘‘ 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 asa precedent. All this might have been

[ 355 J

 

 

 

 

 

AN ERROR IN

saved if you had only referred us to your legal repre-
sentative.’’ The lawyer looked appealingly around the
room. The dead-lock was complete.

‘‘ Wilton,’’ I asked, ‘‘may I try my hand now ?”’

‘¢ 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.

‘‘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.”’

‘‘ His own country ?’’ said the lawyer.

‘¢ At that age ?’’ said the doctor.

‘‘Certainly. He inherited them from his father, Mr.
Sargent, who was an American.”’

‘‘And proud of it,’’ said Wilton, as though he had
been a Western Senator let loose on the Continent for
the first time.

‘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.”’

‘* Allowances be damned. Am Ia Red Indian or a
lunatic ?”’

The two men looked guilty.

‘Tf 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.

‘‘T had n’t a chance,’’ I replied. ‘‘ Now, of course,

[356]

 

 

THE FOURTH DIMENSION

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.”’

“Of course; of course. He is an American; that
accounts. Still, it was 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? ”’

‘*T should if occasion ever arose; but I ’ve never had
to yet. Are you going to make an international com-
plication of the business? ”’

‘“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 under-
stand that we cannot reconcile our system to any sud-

den stoppages, we feel quite sure that—’’

‘‘T sha’n’t be staying long enough to flag another
train,’’? Wilton said pensively.

‘““You are returning, then, to our fellow-kinsmen
across the—ah—big pond, you call it?”’

‘* No, 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.”’

‘‘T 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.

‘‘Tf ever you come over, and care to flag any train

[ 357 ]

 

 

AN ERROR IN

on my system, I ’ll—I ’ll see you through,” said
Wilton.

‘““Thank you—ah, thank you. You ’re very kind.
I ’m sure I should enjoy myself immensely.’’

‘« We have overlooked the fact,’’ the doctor whispered
to me, ‘‘that your friend proposed to buy the Great
Buchonian.’’

‘“Heis worth anything from twenty to thirty million
dollars—four to five million pounds,’’ I answered,
knowing that it would be hopeless to explain.

‘Really! That is enormous wealth. But the Great
Buchonian is not in the market.”

‘* Perhaps he does not want to buy it now.”

‘Tt would be impossible under any circumstances,”’
said the doctor.

‘‘ How characteristic!’? murmured the lawyer, re-
viewing 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.”’

‘« That is a fault that can be remedied. There ’s only
one question I’d like to ask you. You said it was in-
conceivable that any man should stop a train on your
road?”’

‘« And so it is—absolutely inconceivable.”’

‘ Any sane man, that is?’’

“That is what I meant, of course. I mean, with
excep—”’

“Thank you.’’

[ 358 ]

SPADINA oe ee) Ek ite ale doe tn AN al a RL

THE FOURTH DIMENSION

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.

Then said he: ‘‘ Have you got a list of the Southamp-
ton sailings on you?”’

* * * * * * * * * *

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 Columbia, 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.

[ 359 ]

 

 

 

 

 

 

pony

 

aE TP ATE Wi PATINEL

 

ain ade

 

 

MY SUNDAY AT HOME

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

=p yee

 

 

MY SUNDAY AT HOME

If the Red Slayer think he slays,
Or if the slain think he is slain,
They know not well the subtle ways
I keep and pass and turn again.
EMERSON.

T 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 Water-
loo, he enlarged upon the beauties of his city, I, profess-
ing ignorance, said no word. He had, amazed and de-
lighted 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 compart-
ment, 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 ireight-car a tarpaulin drawn over it? What wages
would an engineer get now? Where was the swarming
[ 363 ]

 

 

 

MY SUNDAY AT HOME

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 wasa
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.

‘‘T 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 does n’t strike you
that way. I presume you belong here? What a fin-
ished land it is! It’s arrived. ’Must have been born
this way. Now, where I used to live— Hello! what’s
up?”’

The train stopped in a blaze of sunshine at Framlyng-
hame 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,

[ 364 ]

 

 

 

MY SUNDAY AT HOME

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.

‘‘ Where are we now?”’ said he.

‘‘In Wiltshire,’’ said I.

‘Ah! A man ought to be able to write novels with
his left hand in a country like this. Well, well! And
go 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?”

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:

‘‘Has any gentleman here a bottle of medicine? A
gentleman has taken a bottle of poison (laudanum) by
mistake.”’

Between each five paces he looked at an official tele-
gram 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.
“T ve got something here that will fix him—if he can
swallow still.”

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

[ 365 ]

 

 

MY SUNDAY AT HOME

a blue and brimming glass from the lavatory compart-
ment. The guard I found scratching his head unoffi-
cially, by the engine, and murmuring: ‘‘ Well, I put a
bottle of medicine off at Andover—I ’m sure I did,”

“Better say it again, any’ow,’’? said the driver.
‘Orders is orders. Say it again.”

Once more the guard paced back, I, anxious to attract
his attention, trotting at his heels.

‘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 (audanum) by mistake.”’

‘““ Where ’s the man?’’ I gasped.

“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 mis-
take. ’E’s been wirin’ from Woking awful, an’, now I
come to think of it, I’m nearly sure I put a bottle of
medicifie off at Andover.’’

‘Then the man that took the poison is n’t in the
train? ’’

‘Lord, no, sir. No one did n’t take poison that 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!”’

There is nothing, unless, perhaps, the English lan-
guage, 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

[ 366 ]

 

 

MY SUNDAY AT HOME

. Admiral, and now I was watching the tail of the train
disappear round the curve of the cutting.

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. IU
stay with you till you ’re better.”’

‘*Lord! I’m comfortable enough,’’ said the navvy.
‘‘ Never felt better in my life.”’

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 to him.
I don’t see how we can make him take exercise.’’

For the moment I felt as though seven pounds of
crushed ice had been neatly applied in the form of a com-
press to my lower stomach.

‘* How—how did you manage it?’’ I gasped.

‘“‘T asked him if he ’d havea drink. He was knock-
ing spots out of the car—strength of his constitution, I
suppose. He said he’d go ’most anywhere for a drink,
so I lured on to the platform, and loaded him up. ’Cold-
blooded people, you Britishers are. That train ’s gone,
and no one seemed to care a cent.”’

‘‘ We ’ve missed it,’’ I said.

[ 367 ]

 

 

MY SUNDAY AT HOME

He looked at me curiously.

‘We ’ll get another before sundown, if that ’s your
only trouble. Say, porter, when ’s the next train
down?’’

”

‘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.

‘* That ’s bad,’’ said the doctor. ‘‘ The man, I mean,
not the train. We must make him walk somehow—
walk up and down.”’

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 cau-
tiously, and I saw treachery in his eye.

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.

‘‘T’m—I ’m not so comfortable as I were,’’ he said
from the deeps of his interior. ‘‘ You ’ll wait along
o’ me, you will.’’ He breathed heavily through shut
lips.

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MY SUNDAY AT HOME

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.
‘*He won’t kill you,’”’? Isaid. ‘‘ He ’ll probably sue you
in court, if I know my own people. Better give him
some money from time to time.’’
_ “Tf he keeps quiet till the stuff gets in its work,”’ the

doctor answered, ‘‘I ’m all right. If he doesn’t...
my name is EKmory—Julian B. Emory—193 ’Steenth
Street, corner of Madison and—”’

‘*T feel worse than I ’ve ever felt,’’ said the navvy,
with suddenness. ‘‘What—did—you—give— me—the—
| drink—for?”’

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.

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 in-
_ visible clanked softly. There was a rustle in the horse-
chestnuts to the left of the line, and the sound of sheep
cropping close.

The peace of Nirvana lay upon the land, and, brooding
in it, my elbow on the warm iron girder of the foot-
bridge (it is a forty-shilling fine to cross by any other

[ 369 }

 

 

 

MY SUNDAY AT HOME

means), I perceived, as never before, how the conse-
quences 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 eons, 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?”’

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?’’

They drifted under the great twelve-inch pinned tim-
bers 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.

I thought of the blowing up of Hell Gate; of the gey-
sers in the Yellowstone Park; of Jonah and his whale:

[ 370 ]

 

 

 

MY SUNDAY AT HOME

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 vibrat-
ing together, while I, apart, shook with them.

It was colossal—immense; but of certain manifesta-
tions the English language stops short. French only,
the caryatid French of Victor Hugo, would have de-
scribed it; so I mourned while I laughed, hastily shuf-
fling and discarding inadequate adjectives. The vehe-
mence 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.

“‘Tf I could stand,’’ boomed the giant, despairingly,
‘Td smash you—you an’ your drinks. I’m dyin’—
dyin’—dyin’!”’

‘“¢That ’s what you think,’’ said thedoctor. ‘‘ You’ll
find it will do you alot 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 Id give
you something that would settle you.”’

[ 371 ]

 

|
|

 

 

MY SUNDAY AT HOME

“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.
Inever did you no ’arm. S’pose I were a little full.
They pumped me out once at Guy’s with a stummick-
pump. I could see that, but I can’t see this ’ere, an’
it ’s killin’ of me by slow degrees.”’

‘* 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.

‘Ow do I know? ‘Tell ’em in court. You ’ll get
seven years for this, you body-snatcher. That ’s what
you are—a bloomin’ body-snatcher. 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, be-
sides a pension tothe missus. Yow ’ll see, you physickin’
furriner. Where ’s your licence to do such? Yow ’ll
catch it, I tell you!’

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:

‘‘But I’ve given you a very great deal of money—
fif—three pounds, I think.”’

‘« An’ what ’s three pound for poisonin’ the likes 0’
me? They told me at Guy’sI’d fetch twenty—cold—on
the slates. Ouh! It’s comin’ again.”’

A second time he was cut down by the foot, as it

[ 372]

 

MY SUNDAY AT HOME

were, and the straining bench rocked to and fro as I
averted my eyes.

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 end-
ing 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 interven-
ing 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. Linnzeus 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.

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

[ 373 ]

 

 

MY SUNDAY AT HOME

long as a man trusts himself to the current of Circum-
stance, 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.

fm 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 vil-
lage 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, some-
thing would happen, or something else. For the rest, I

owned my deeply interested soul.

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) tight-
ened 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.

[ 374 ]

 

MY SUNDAY AT HOME

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 be-
tween 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 mas-
tered 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 fin-
gers 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, paus-
ing 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 ten-
sion on the coat-collar. Then light dawned on me.

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)asIdared. 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.

Cautiously as the box-turtle of his native heath, the
doctor drew away sideways and to the right, with the

[ 375 |

 

 

MY SUNDAY AT HOME

air of a frustrated burglar coming out from under a bed,
and stood up free, one black diagonal shoulder project-
ing 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.

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.

“Are n’t you coming, too?’’ he said, bundling his
overcoat into his bag.

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.

““T shall stay here,’’ I said. ‘It’s a very pretty
country.’’

““My God!’’ he murmured, as softly as he shut the
door, and I felt that it was a prayer.

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.

[ 376 ]

 

MY SUNDAY AT HOME

‘‘The man inside o’ that,’’ he called, ‘‘’as poisoned
me. ’E’s a body-snatcher. ’E ’s comin’ back again
when I ’mcold. ’Ere’s my evidence!”’

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.

Descending, I passed a giant in moleskins who filled
the low-ceiled tap-room. Many empty plates stood be-
fore 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 Eng-
lishmen are equal, and all foreigners and anarchists
vermin and slime.

On my way to the station, he passed me with great

[377]

 

 

   
     
   
   
   
   
        
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
       
   
    

MY SUNDAY AT HOME

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
q one porter lighted the last of a truck-load 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
A 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 sur-
roundings. There wasajarofwheelson theroad. The
r 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.
“Get away; you ’re drunk,’’ said the driver.
A “T’m not,’’ said the navvy. ‘‘I’ve been waitin’ ’ere
hours and hours. Come out, you beggar inside there!’’
‘Goon, driver,’’ said a voice I did not know—a crisp,
clear, English voice.
‘‘ All right,’’ said the navvy. ‘‘ You would n’t ’ear
me when I was polite. Now will you come?”’

[ 378 ]

 

 

MY SUNDAY AT HOME

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.

‘‘ Come on, you bloomin’ body-snatcher! You thought
IT was dead, did you?’’ roared the navvy. And the re-
spectable gentleman came accordingly, inarticulate with
rage.

‘‘’Bre ’s a man murderin’ the Squire,’’ the driver
shouted, and fell from his box upon the navvy’s neck.

To do them justice, the people of Framlynghame Ad-
miral, so many as were on the platform, rallied to the
call in the best spirit of feudalism. It was the one por-
ter 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.

“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.

Till then the navvy, whose only desire was justice,
had kept his temper nobly. Then he went Berserk be-
fore 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 agri-
cultural implements from the station garden, kept up a

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MY SUNDAY AT HOME

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.

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 inacucumber-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 measeat.

‘“ What is the row?”’ said a young man, as I entered.
‘**?’Man drunk? ”’

‘‘ Well, the symptoms, so far as my observation has
gone, more resemble those of Asiatic cholera than any-
thing 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.

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.”’

[ 380 }

 

 

MY SUNDAY AT HOME

From the lamp-room I heard a wearied voice wailing:

_ *¢ Another bloomin’ doctor! ’’

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.

[881]

 

 

 

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

 

 

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

Girls and boys, come out to play:

The moon is shining as bright as day!

Leave your supper and leave your sleep,

And come with your playfellows out in the street!
Up the ladder and down the wall—

CHILD of three sat up in his crib and screamed at
7a 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.

‘What was it, then? What was it, then? There ’s
nothing to frighten him, Georgie dear.”’

“Tt was—it was a policeman! He was on the Down
—Isaw him! Hecamein. Jane said he would.”

‘¢ Policemen don’t come into houses, dearie. Turn
over, and take my hand.’’

‘‘T saw him—on the Down. Hecame here. Where
is your hand, Harper? ’”’

The housekeeper waited till the sobs changed to the
regular breathing of sleep before she stole out.

‘¢ Jane, what nonsense have you been telling Master
Georgie about policemen? ”’

[ 385 ]

:

 

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

“‘T have n’t told him anything.”’

‘‘ You have. He’s been dreaming about them.”

‘“*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.’’

‘“*Oh! Now you are n’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.

* * * * * * * * * *

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 nur-
sery 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 ex-
plained 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

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THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

long as he remembered it was only adream. 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 multiplica-
tion-table up to four times six.

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 ‘‘ Annieanlouise.’’
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 Annieanlouise! She ‘ll
be sorry forme now!’’ But ‘‘ Annieanlouise,”’ 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 bot-
tom 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 triumph-
antly wicked.

* * * * * * * * * *
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
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THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

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
'“ srown-up’’ was ‘‘ just saying things’’ after the dis-
tressing 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 Won-
derland,’’ which had been given him on his last birthday.
The little girl looked at Georgie, and Georgie looked at
[388 ]

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

her. There seemed to be no need of any further intro-
duction.

““T ’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.

““T ’m tho thorry!’’ she lisped. ‘‘ Let me look—
pleathe.”’

‘There ’s a di-ack-lum plaster on, but it ’s all raw
under,’’ Georgie answered, complying.

“ Dothent it hurt?’’—her grey eyes were full of pity
and interest.

‘‘ Awf’ly. Perhaps it will give me lockjaw.”’

‘Tt lookth very horrid. I ’m tho thorry!’’ She
put a forefinger to his hand, and held her head sidewise
for a better view.

Here the nurse turned, and shook him severely.
“You must n’t talk to strange little girls, Master
Georgie.”’

‘She is n’t strange. She’s very nice. I like her,
an’.I ’ve showed her my new cut.”

‘‘The idea! You change places with me.”’

She moved him over, and shut out the little girl from
his view, while the grown-up behind renewed the futile
explanations.

“T am not afraid, truly,’ said the boy, wriggling in
despair; ‘‘ but why don’t you go to sleep in the after-
noons, same as Provost of Oriel?”

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

[ 389 ]

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

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
q 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. Pep-
per 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-
anlouise 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.

 

 

* * * * * * * * * *

Ten years at an English public school do not encour-
age dreaming. Georgie won his growth and chest
measurement, and a few other things which did not ap-
pear 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 arumple-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 back-waters of
[ 390 ]

a

 

a

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

- 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 knick-
ers, 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 mat-
tered 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, major; ‘‘ that ’s Cot-
tar!’? 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 him-
self into this work. Home was a far-away 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

[391]

Ss

 

 

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

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 tem-
perate 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.

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,
major, 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 wasin 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 re-
ward was another string of athletic cups, a good-con-
duct 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

[ 392]

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

 

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.
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 dis-
puted 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, gam-
bled, 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,

[ 393 ]

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

and then sent down-country for a dozen pairs of boxing-
gloves.

‘‘T would n’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 that 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.”’

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.

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,

[394 ]

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

d no court martials pending. They scattered them-
elves among their friends, singing the praises of their
ieutenant and looking for causes of offense.

‘‘ How did you do it, young un?”’ the adjutant asked.

‘‘ Oh, I sweated the beef off ’em, and then I sweated
some muscle on to’em. It was rather a lark.”

“Tf that ’s your way of lookin’ at it, we can give
you all the larks you want. Young Davies is n’t feelin’
quite fit, and he ’s next for detachment duty. Care to
go for him?”’

“Sure he would n’t mind? I don’t want to shove
myself forward, you know.”

“You need n’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.”’

“All right,’ said Cottar. ‘‘It’s better fun than
loafin’ about cantonments.”’

“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.”’

“That accounts for Mrs. Elery sayin’ I was workin’
my nice new boy too hard,”’ said a wing commander.

“Oh, yes; and ‘Why does n’t he come to the band-
stand in the evenings?’ and ‘ Can’t I get him to make
up a four at tennis with the Hammon girls?’ ’”’ the ad-
jutant snorted. ‘‘ Look at young Davies makin’ an
ass of himself over mutton-dressed-as-lamb old enough
to be his mother! ”’

‘No one can accuse young Cottar of runnin’ after

[ 395 J

 

 

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

women, white or black,’’ the major replied thoughtfully.
‘‘ But, then, that’s the kind that generally goes the
worst mucker in the end.”’

‘*Not Cottar. I’ve only run across one of his mus- —
ter 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.
Did n’t do him much good, though. ’Shot at Wessel-
stroom the week before Majuba. Wonder how the
young un will lick his detachment into shape.”’

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, baétmen, and the like.

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 unex-
pected 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 malin-
gerer; but he did not forget that the difference between
a dazed and sulky junior of the upper school and a be-
wildered, 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

[ 396 ]

 

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

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.”

“‘T ’m full o’ complaints,’’ said Mrs. Corporal Mor-
- rison, ‘‘an’ Id kill O’Halloran’s fat sow of a wife any
. day, but ye know howitis. ’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 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?”’

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

[ 397 ]

 

 

 

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

ordered Cottar to ‘‘ tackle her,’’ in his best calling-kit.
This he did, simply and laboriously, and she gave way

altogether.
‘She only wanted to know the facts of the case,’’ he
explained. ‘‘I just told her, and she saw at once,”’

‘*Ye-es,’’ said the adjutant. ‘‘I expect that ’s what
she did. Comin’ to the Fusiliers’ dance to-night, Gala-
had?’’

‘“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 com-
passes, shifting little painted lead-blocks about a four-
inch map.

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 won-
der 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

[398 ]

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

closing eyelids, would come the outline of the brush-
wood-pile, next the white sand of the beach-road, almost
overhanging the black, changeful sea; then the turn in-
land and uphill to the single light. When he was unrest-
ful 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, sul-
_ try world. He reached the lamp in safety, tingling
with drowsiness, when a policeman—a common coun-
try 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, dis-
tinct 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 Police-
man-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.
But other dreams—perfectly absurd ones—filled him

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THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

with an incommunicable delight. All those that he
remembered began by the brushwood-pile. For in-
stance, 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 surpass-
ing 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 natu-
rally, floated on the water. Seeing the lily was labelled
‘* Hong-Kong,’’ Georgie said: ‘‘ Of course. This is pre-
cisely 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. Lily-pads
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. There-
fore everything was entirely well with him. He was
unspeakably happy, and vaulted over the ship’s side to
find thisperson. 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 des-

[ 400 ]

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

perately, 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
map-making. Then that person for whom he had come
to the Lily Lock (that was its name) ran up across un-
explored territories, and showed hima way. They fied
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 atanend. 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 recogs
‘nised 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

[401 ]

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

unmoored it, and—must have fallen asleep, for he could
remember nomore. ‘‘I’m gettin’ the hang of the geog-
raphy 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?”’

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 mahseer of the Poonch, beside
whom the tarpon is as a herring, and he who lands him
can say that heisa 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.

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

[ 402]

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

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
_aloyal soul anda shut mouth. Slovens and incompe-
tents 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 circuit-
ous to actions that he had not spent a thought upon;
and he tasted injustice, and itmade him very sick. But
his consolation came on parade, when he looked down
the full companies, and reflected how few were in hos-
pital or cells, and wondered when the time would come
to try the machine of his love and labour.

‘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 work-
ing altogether, or, if it moved at all, carried him along
the old beach-road to the downs, the lamp-post, and,
once ina 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

[ 403 ]

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THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

songs; and he heard this person coming along through
the galleries, and everything was made safe and delight-
ful. They met again in low-roofed Indian railway-car-
riages 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 com-
panion 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.

‘What disgraceful folly!’’ he thought. ‘‘ Now she
could do nothing whatever if Its head came off.’’

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 thy downs, the lamp-post, and the brush-
wood-pile, which was safety. Very often dreams would

[ 404 ]

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

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 chil-
_ dren 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.

He and she explored the dark-purple downs as far
inland from the brushwood-pile as they dared, but that
was always adangerous 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 form-
less 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 ata 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

[ 405 J

 

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

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.

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.

‘*Now,’’ said a major, ‘‘ this ’Il shake the cobwebs

[ 406 ]

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

out of us all—especially you, Galahad; and we can see
what your hen-with-one-chick attitude has done for the
regiment.”

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 rear-
guard, 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:

“°F, ’s goin’ to do without ’em—
Don’t want ’em any more ;
*E’s goin’ to do without ’em,
As ’e’s often done before.
*E’s goin’ to be a martyr
On a ’ighly novel plan,
[ 407 ]

 

 

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

An’ all the boys and girls will say,
‘Ow! what a nice young man—man—man!
Ow! what a nice young man!’”

There came out a ‘‘ Gazette’’ in which Cottar found
that he had been behaving with ‘“‘ courage and coolness
and discretion’’ in all his capacities; that he had as-
sisted the wounded under fire, and blown in a gate, also
under fire. Net result, his captaincy and a brevet ma-
jority, coupled with the Distinguished Service Order. _

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 go that
he was understood to say, ‘‘It is n’t any use tryin’ to
speak with you chaps rottin’ me like this. Let ’s have
some pool.”’

* * * a = * * * * *

It is not unpleasant to spend eight-and-twenty days
in an easy-going steamer on warm waters, in the com-
pany of a woman who lets you see that you are head

[ 408 ]

 

 

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

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.

Awful things might have happened to Georgie but for
the little fact that he had never studied the first prir-
ciples of the game he was expected to play. So when
Mrs. Zuleika, at Aden, told him how motherly an inter-
est 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 houratatime. 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 manu-
facture 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 at-
titude.

“‘Do you know,”’’ she said, somewhere in the Medi-
terranean, ‘‘I think you ’re the very dearest boy I
have ever met in my life, and I ’d like you to remem-
ber me a little. You will when you are older, but I

[ 409 ]

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

want you to remember me now. You ’ll make some
girl very happy.”

‘‘Oh! Hope so,”’ said Georgie, gravely; ‘‘ but there’s
heaps of time for marryin’ an’ all that sort of thing,
ain’t there? ”’

““That depends. Here are your bean-bags for the
Ladies’ Competition. I think I ’m growing too old to
care for these tamashas.”’

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.

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 coun-
try, 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 break-
fast-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

[ 410]

 

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

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 sit-
ting 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.

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.

‘Well, you look beastly fit,’ snapped a neighbour.
“ Any one left you a legacy in the middle of the Bay?’”’

Georgie reached for the curry, with a seraphic grin.
‘“T suppose it ’s the gettin’ so near home, and all that.
I do feel rather festive this mornin’. Rolls a bit,
does n’t she?”’

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.

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

[411]

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

the butler, and so on down to the under-keeper, who
had been dog-boy in Georgie’s youth, and called him
‘‘ Master Georgie,’’ and was reproved by the groom who
had taught Georgie to ride.

‘‘ Not a thing changed,”’ he sighed contentedly, when
the three of them sat down to dinner in the late sun-
light, 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.

‘* Our 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 have n’t
changed in the least. You ’re exactly like the pater.’’

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 pro-
fessional mask off when Master Georgie spoke of war as
it is waged to-day, and his father cross-questioned.

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.

‘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.

“It ’s not half bad—but hodie mihi, cras tibi, is n’t
it? I suppose you ’ll be turning up some fine day with
a girl under your arm, if you have n’t one now, eh?’’

[ 412]

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

“You can make your mind easy, sir. Ihaven’t one.”

‘‘ Not in all these years?’ said the mother.

“Thad n’t time, mummy. They keep a man pretty

_ busy, these days, in the service, and most of our mess
are unmarried, too.”’

“But you must have met hundreds in society —at
balls, and so on?”’

‘Tm like the Tenth, mummy: I don’t dance.”’

“Don’t dance! What have you been doing with
yourself, then—backing other men’s bills?’’ said the

father.

‘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.”’

‘‘ Hmm! ’’—suspiciously.

‘Tt g never too late tolearn. 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?’’

‘‘“No, Idon’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?”

“« 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.”’

‘* Brutes!””

[413]

 

 

   

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

‘‘ The pater does n’t mean it, dear; but every one has
been trying to make your home-coming a success; and
you do like it, don’t you?”’

‘‘ Perfect! Perfect! There ’s no place like England
—when you ’ve done your work.”’

‘‘That ’s the proper way to look at it, my son.”’

And so up and down the flagged walk till their shad-
ows 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 play-
room 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.

All the establishment waited on Georgie next morn-
ing, 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

[414]

wala: Malate Rese beniotaeieaabaehinienainamet meotatte ttt eit ee exdetemaaie

 

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

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. 8. 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 theat-
ricals; 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 enter-
tainment.

‘‘ My word!’’ said he, when he saw the last of their
dear backs. ‘‘ They told me they ’ve enjoyed ’emselves,
but they have n’t done half the things they said they
would.”

‘«T know they ’ve enjoyed themselves—immensely,”’
said the mother. ‘‘ You’re a public benefactor, dear.”’

‘‘ Now we can be quiet again, can’t we?”’

[ 415 |

 

 

 

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

“‘Oh, quite. I’ve a very dear friend of mine that I
want you to know. She could n’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.’’

‘“Lacy! I don’t remember the name about here.”’

‘*No; they came after you went to India—from Ox-
ford. 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.”’

‘‘ She ’s a widow, did n’t you say?”’

‘‘She has a daughter. Surely I said so, dear?”

‘* Does she fall into trout-ponds, and gas and giggle,
and ‘Oh, Major Cottah!’ and all that sort of thing?”

‘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—”’ %

“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 beau-
tifully, too. She’s a regular pet of the household.
Used to call me—’’ The elbow went home, and igno-
rant but obedient always, the pater shut hinaself off.

‘¢ What used she to call you, sir?”’

‘* All sorts of pet names. I’m very fond of Miriam.”’

“Sounds Jewish—Miriam.”’

““Jew! You’ll be calling yourself a Jewnext. She’s
one of the Herefordshire Lacys. When her aunt dies—”’
Again the elbow.

[416 ]

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

‘Qh, 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 to-morrow, are n’t you? I
thought you said something about an Institute meet-
ing?’’ The mother spoke.

‘*Go up to town now! What nonsense!’’ Once more
the pater was shut off.

‘‘T 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 pa-
rent were expected? He did not approve of unknown
females calling his father petnames. He would observe
these pushing persons who had been only seven years
in the county.

All of which the delighted mother read in his coun-
tenance, herself keeping an air of sweet disinterested-
ness.

‘They ll be here this evening for dinner. I ’m send-
ing the carriage over for them, and they won’t stay
more than a week.”’

‘Perhaps I shall go up totown. 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 spesk. He took his rod
that afternoon and went down to thrash it out among
the trout.

‘‘Good sport, dear!’’ said the mother, from the
terrace.

[ 417 ]

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

‘“oRraid it won’t be, mummy. All those men from
town, and the girls particularly, have put every trout
off his feed for weeks. There is n’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 me if I was a
trout!”

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 meadow-sweet; 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 side-
wise through the checkered shadows of a gravelly rip-
ple 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. Conse-
quently, 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

[ 418 ]

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

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 field-
mice, 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 estab-
lishment every hour, the law of his boyhood was un-
breakable: 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.

“‘ Half-past ten, by Jove! Well, we ’ll make the sport
anexcuse. They would n’t want to see me the first even-
ing, at any rate. Gone to bed, probably.’’ He skirted
by the open French windows of the drawing-room.
‘‘No, they have n’t. They look very comfy in there.”

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.

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:

Over the edge of the purple down,
Where the single lamplight gleams,

Know ye the road to the Merciful Town
That is hard by the Sea of Dreams—

[ 419 ]

 

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

Where the poor may lay their wrongs away,
And the sick may forget to weep?

But we—pity us! Oh, pity us!
We wakeful; ah, pity us!—

We must go back with Policeman Day—
Back from the City of Sleep!

Weary they turn from the scroll and crown,
Fetter and prayer and plough—

They that go up to the Merciful Town,
For her gates are closing now.

It is their right in the Baths of Night
Body and soul to steep:

But we—pity us! ah, pity us!
We wakeful; oh, pity us!—

We must go back with Policeman Day—
Back from the City of Sleep !

Over the edge of the purple down,
Ere the tender dreams begin,
Look—we may look—at the Merciful Town,
But we may not enter in!
Outeasts all, from her guarded wall
Back to our watch we creep:
We-—pity us! ah, pity us!
We wakeful; oh, pity us!—
We that go back with Policeman Day—
Back from the City of Sleep!

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

[ 420 ]

 

 

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

on the stairs, and, since he neither saw nor answered
her, carried a wild tale abroad that brought his mother
knocking at the door.

‘« Anything happened, dear? Harper said she thought
_ you were n’t—”’

“No; it’s nothing. I’m all right, mummy. Please
don’t bother.”’

He did not recognise his own voice, but that was a
small matter beside what he was considering. Obvi-
ously, 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! J know her!”’

He waked, stiff and cramped in his chair, to recon-
sider the situation by sunlight, when it did not appear
normal. But a man must eat, and he went to break-
fast, his heart between his teeth, holding himself
severely in hand.

‘‘ Late, as usual,”’ said the mother. ‘‘’My boy, Miss
Lacy.”’

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, reso-

[ 421 ]

 

 

 

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

lute chin, and the known poise of the head. There was
also the small well-cut mouth that had kissed him.

‘‘ Georgie—dear!’’ said the mother, amazedly, for
Miriam was flushing under the stare.

‘‘T—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.

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 an-
nounced 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.

‘*Oh, but don’t let me throw you out. I’m at work.
I’ve things to do all the morning.”’

‘‘ What possessed Georgie to behave so oddly?’’ the
mother sighed to herself. ‘‘ Miriam ’s a bundle of feel-
ings—like her mother.’’

‘* 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, was n’t it?
[Miriam shuddered to the core of the soul that afflicted

[ 422 ]

 

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

her.] Awfully pretty song. How d’ you think of such
things? ”’

“You only composed the music, dear, did n’t you?”’

“The words too. I ’msure of it,’* said Georgie, with
a sparkling eye. No; she did not know.

“ Yeth; I wrote the words too.” Miriam spoke slowly,
for she knew she lisped when she was nervous.

“‘ Now how could you tell, Georgie? ”’ said the mother,
as delighted as though the youngest major in the army
were ten years old, showing off before company.

“Twas 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.”

Miriam could not in decency refuse, but any woman
might see she was not filled with delight.

“‘ 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.

Like all good managers, the mother had her one
weakness—a mania for little strategies that should
economise horses and vehicles. Her men-folk com-
plained 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 should
kill near Bassett, dear, and if it is n’t too late, would
you mind just popping over and matching me this?”’

““T knew that was coming. You ’d never miss a
chance, mother. If it’s a fish or a trunk I won't.”
Georgie laughed.

[ 423 ]

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD Boy

“Tt ’s only a duck. They can do it up very neatly at
Mallett’s,’’ said the mother, simply. ‘‘ You won’t mind,
will aie We ’ll have a scratch dinner at nine, because
it ’s so hot.’

The long summer day dragged itself out for centuries;
but at last there was tea on the lawn, and Miriam ap-
peared.

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.

‘“ We must be quick! ’’ said Miriam, bored and angry.

‘There ’s no great hurry; but we can cut over Dow-
head Down, and let ’em out on the grass. That will
save us half an hour.’’

The horses capered on the short, sweet-smelling turf,
and the delaying shadows gathered in the valley as

[424 ]

 

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

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.

‘Qh, that was glorious! ’’ Miriam cried, reining in.
‘Dandy and I are old friends, but I don’t think we ’ve
ever gone better together.”’

‘© No; but you ’ve gone quicker, once or twice.”’

‘Really? When?”’

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?”’

The girl gasped. ‘‘ What—what do you mean?’’ she
said hysterically.

‘The Thirty-Mile Ride, and—and all the rest of it.”

“You mean—? I didn’t sing anything about the
Thirty-Mile Ride. IknowIdidn’t. I have never told
a living soul.’’

“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.”’

“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! ”’

Georgie ranged alongside, and laid a hand that shook

[ 425 ]

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

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.

‘Tt ’s all right—it ’s all right,’’ he whispered feebly.
‘© Only—only it ’s true, you know.”’

‘True! Am I mad?”’

‘‘Not unless I’m mad as well. Do 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?”’

“But where? But where? Tell me!”’

‘‘ There—wherever it may be—in our country, I sup-
pose. Do youremember the first time you rode it—the
Thirty-Mile Ride, I mean? You must.’’

‘Tt was all dreams—all dreams! ”’

‘‘ Yes, but tell, please; because I know.”’

‘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.

‘* Because ‘It’ was dying in the big house?’’ Georgie
went on, reining in again.

‘‘There was a garden with green-and-gilt railings—
all hot. Do you remember?’’

‘‘T ought to. I was sitting on the other side of the
bed before ‘It’ coughed and ‘ They’ came in.”’

‘“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! ”’

[ 426 J

 

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

She fell forward on Dandy’s neck. Georgie forced
himself out of the weakness that was overmastering his
limbs, and élid 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, whis-
pering, ‘‘ Of course you ’re the Boy, and I did n’t know
—I did n’t know.”

“‘T knew last night; and when I saw you at break-
fast—’”’

‘Oh, that was why! I wondered at the time. You
would, of course.”’

‘‘T could n’t speak before this. Keep your head
where it is, dear. It ’s all right now—all right now,
is n’t it?”

“But how was it I did n’t know—after all these
years and years? Tremember—oh, what lots of things
I remember! ”’

‘«Tell me some. Ill look after the horses.”

““T remember waiting for you when the steamer
came in. Do you?”

‘* At the Lily Lock, beyond Hong-Kong and Java?”’

«Do you call it that, too?”

“You told me it was when I was lost in the continent.
That was you that showed me the way through the
mountains? ”’

‘When the islands slid? It must have been, because
you ’re the only one I remember. All the others were
‘Them.’

[ 427 ]

 

 

 

 

  

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

  

‘* Awful brutes they were, too.’’

‘‘T remember showing you the Thirty-Mile Ride the
first time. You ride just as you used tothen. You
are you!”’

‘““That ’s odd. I thought that of you this afternoon.
Is n’t it wonderful? ’’

‘‘ 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 fright-
ened.”’

‘‘ This!’’ said Georgie. The horses quickened their
pace. They thought they had heard an order. ‘‘ Per-
haps when we die we may find out more, but it means
this now.”’

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 avery long
silence, while the breath in their nostrils drew cold and
sharp as it might have been a fume of ether.

‘“That ’s the second,’’ Georgie whispered. ‘‘ You
remember, don’t you?”’

‘Tt ’s not!’’—furiously. ‘‘ It’s not!”’

‘*On the downs the other night—months ago. You
were just as you are now, and we went over the coun-
try for miles and miles.”’

‘Tt was all empty, too. They had gone away.
Nobody frightened us. I wonder why, Boy?”

‘* Oh, if you remember that, you must remember the
rest. Confess! ’’

[ 428 ]

 

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

‘T remember lots of things, but I know I didn’t. I
never have—till just now.”’

“You did, dear.”’

“JT know I did n’t, because—oh, it ’s no use keeping
anything back !—because T truthfully meant to.”’

“ And truthfully did.”

‘“No; meant to; but some one else came by.”’

“There was n’tany oneelse. There never has been.”’

«There was—there alwaysis. It was another woman
—out there on the sea. Isaw her. It was the 26th of
May. I’ve got it written down somewhere.”’

‘Oh, you ’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.”’

“JT was right. How do I know what you ’ve done
when you were awake—and I thought it was only
you!’

‘You never were more wrong in your life. What a
little temper you've got! Listen tomea minute, dear.”’
And Georgie, though he knew it not, committed black
perjury. ‘‘It—it is n’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 would n’t tell any one but you, but it ’s the
solemn truth.”’

“J knew! You are you. Oh, I knew you’d come
some day; but I did n’t know you were you in the least
till you spoke.”’

‘‘ Then give me another.”

[ 429 ]

 

 

 

———

 

 

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

‘“‘And you never cared or looked anywhere? Why,
all the round world must have loved you from the very
minute they saw you, Boy.”

‘‘ They kept it to themselves if they did. No; I never
cared.”’

‘‘ And we shall be late for dinner—horribly late. Oh,
how can I look at you in the light before your mother
—and mine!”’

‘We °ll play you ’re Miss Lacy till the proper time
comes. What ’s the shortest limit for people to get en-
gaged? S’pose we have got to go through all the fuss
of an engagement, have n’t we?”’

‘“‘Oh, I don’t want to talk about that. It’s so com-
monplace. I ’ve thought of something that you don’t
know. I’msure of it. What’s my name?’’

‘‘ Miri—no, it isn’t, by Jove! Wait half a second,
and it ‘llcome back to me. You are n’t—you can’t?
Why, those old tales—before I went to school! I ’ve
never thought of ’em from that day to this. Are you
the original, only Annieanlouise? ”’

“Tt was what you always called me ever since the
beginning. Oh! Weve turned into the avenue, and
we must be an hour late.”

‘“ 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—con-
found him!”’

“<< Hal ha!’’ said the duck, laughing ’—do you re-
member that?’

‘Yes, I do—flower-pots on my feet, and all. We ’ve
been together all this while; and I ’ve got to say good-

[ 430 ]

 

 

 

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

bye to you tilldinner. SureI’llsee you at dinner-time?
Sure you won’t sneak up to your room, darling, and
leave me all the evening? Good-bye, dear—goodsbye.”’

‘‘ 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!”

[431]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

         

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