Chapter III: Preface (3)

He never meant to injure himself, I am certain, and no one was more astonished than he when he backed on the Balumon road, and dropped the carriage into a nullah on the night of the Jamabundi Moguls' dance. I did not go to the dance. I was bent considerably, and one side of the coachwan's face was flayed. When he had pieced the wreck together, he only said, "Sahib!" and I said only "Bohat acha." But we each knew what the other meant. Next morn Tiglath was stiff and strained. I gave him time to recover and to enjoy life. When I heard him squealing to the grass-cutter's ponies I knew that the hour had come. I ordered the carriage, and myself superintended the funeral toilet of Tiglath. His harness brasses shone like gold, his coat like a bottle, and he lifted his feet daintily. Had he even then, at the eleventh hour, given promise of amendment, I should have held my hand. But as I entered the carriage I saw the hunching of his quarters that presaged trouble. "Go forward, Tiglath, my love, my pride, my delight," I murmured. "For a surety it is a matter of life and death this day." The sais ran to his head with a fragment of chupatti, saved from his all too scanty rations; the man loved him. And Tiglath swung round to the left in the portico; round and round swung he, till the near ear touched the muzzle of the shot-gun that waited its coming. He never flinched; he pressed his fate. The coachwan threw down the reins as, with four ounces of No. 5 shot behind the hollow of the root of the ear, Tiglath fell. In his death he accomplished the desire of his life, for he fell upon the shaft and broke it into three pieces. I looked on him as he lay, and of a sudden the reason of the horror in his eyes was made clear. Tiglath, the breaker of carriages, the strong, the rebellious, had passed into the shadowy spirit land, where there was nought to destroy and no power to destroy it with. The ghastly fore-knowledge of the flitting soul was written on the glazing eyeball.

I repented me, then, that I had slain Tiglath, for I had no intention of punishing him in the hereafter.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 13: "Turnovers," Vol. IV.]

THE LIKES O' US[14]

It was the General Officer Commanding, riding down the Mall, on the Arab with the perky tail, and he condescended to explain some of the mysteries of his profession. But the point on which he dwelt most pompously was the ease with which the Private Thomas Atkins could be "handled," as he called it. "Only feed him and give him a little work to do, and you can do anything with him," said the General Officer Commanding. "There's no refinement about Tommy, you know; and one is very like another. They've all the same ideas and traditions and prejudices. They're all big children. Fancy any man in his senses shooting about these hills." There was the report of a shot-gun in the valley. "I suppose they've hit a dog. Happy as the day is long when they're out shooting dogs. Just like a big child is Tommy." He touched up his horse and cantered away. There was a sound of angry voices down the hillside.

"All right, you _soor_--I won't never forget this--mind you, not as long as I live, and s' 'elp me--I'll----" The sentence finished in what could be represented by a blaze of asterisks.

A deeper voice cut it short: "Oh, no, you won't, neither! Look a-here, you young smitcher. If I was to take yer up now, and knock off your 'ead again' that tree, could ye say anythin'? No, nor yet do anythin'. If I was to----Ah! you would, would you? There!" Some one had evidently sat down with a thud, and was swearing nobly. I slid over the edge of the _khud_, down through the long grass, and fetched up, after the manner of a sledge, with my feet in the broad of the back of Gunner Barnabas in the Mountain Battery, my friend, the very strong man. He was sitting upon a man--a khaki-coloured volcano of blasphemy--and was preparing to smoke. My sudden arrival threw him off his balance for a moment. Then, readjusting his chair, he bade me good-day.

"'Im an' me 'ave bin 'avin' an arg'ment," said Gunner Barnabas placidly. "I was going for to half kill him an' 'eave 'im into the bushes 'ere, but, seein' that you 'ave come, sir, and very welcome when you _do_ come, we will 'ave a court-martial instead. Shacklock, are you willin'?" The volcano, who had been swearing uninterruptedly through this oration, expressed a desire, in general and particular terms, to see Gunner Barnabas in Torment and the "civilian" on the next gridiron.

Private Shacklock was a tow-haired, scrofulous boy of about two-and-twenty. His nose was bleeding profusely, and the live air attested that he had been drinking quite as much as was good for him. He lay, stomach-down, on a little level spot on the hillside; for Gunner Barnabas was sitting between his shoulder-blades, and his was not a weight to wriggle under. Private Shacklock could barely draw breath to swear, but he did the best that in him lay. "Amen," said Gunner Barnabas piously, when an unusually brilliant string of oaths came to an end. "Seein' that this gentleman 'ere has never seen the inside o' the orsepitals you've gotten in, and the clinks you've been chucked into like a hay-bundle, _per_-haps, Privite Shacklock, you will stop. You are a-makin' of 'im sick." Private Shacklock said that he was pleased to hear it, and would have continued his speech, but his breath suddenly went from him, and the unfinished curse died out in a gasp. Gunner Barnabas had put up one of his huge feet. "There's just enough room now for you to breathe, Shacklock," said he, "an' not enough for you to try to interrupt the conversashin I'm a-havin' with this gentleman. _Choop!_" Turning to me, Gunner Barnabas pulled at his pipe, but showed no hurry to open the "conversashin." I felt embarrassed, for, after all, the thus strangely unearthed difference between the Gunner and the Line man was no affair of mine. "Don't you go," said Gunner Barnabas. He had evidently been deeply moved by something. He dropped his head between his fists and looked steadily at me.

"I met this child 'ere," said he, "at Deelally--a fish-back recruity as ever was. I knowed 'im at Deelally, and I give 'im a latherin' at Deelally all for to keep 'im straight, 'e bein' such as wants a latherin' an' knowin' nuthin' o' the ways o' this country. Then I meets 'im up here, a butterfly-huntin' as innercent as you please--convalessin'. I goes out with 'im butterfly-huntin', and, as you see 'ere, a-shootin'. The gun betwixt us." I saw then, what I had overlooked before, a Company fowling-piece lying among some boulders far down the hill. Gunner Barnabas continued: "I should ha' seen where he had a-bin to get that drink inside o' 'im. Presently, 'e misses summat. 'You're a bloomin' fool,' sez I. 'If that had been a Pathan, now!' I sez. 'Damn your Pathans, an' you, too,' sez 'e. 'I strook it.' 'You did not,' I sez, 'I saw the bark fly.' 'Stick to your bloomin' pop-guns,' sez 'e, 'an' don't talk to a better man than you.' I laughed there, knowin' what I was an' what 'e was. 'You laugh?' sez he. 'I laugh,' I sez, 'Shacklock, an' for what should I not laugh?' sez I. 'Then go an' laugh in Hell,' sez 'e, 'for I'll 'ave none of your laughin'.' With that 'e brings up the gun yonder and looses off, and I stretches 'im there, and guv him a little to keep 'im quiet, and puts 'im under, an' while I was thinkin' what nex', you comes down the 'ill, an' finds us as we was."

The Private was the Gunner's prey--I knew that the affair had fallen as the Gunner had said, for my friend is constitutionally incapable of lying--and I recognised that in his hands lay the boy's fate.

"What do _you_ think?" said Gunner Barnabas, after a silence broken only by the convulsive breathing of the boy he was sitting on. "I think nothing," I said. "He didn't go at me. He's your property." Then an idea occurred to me. "Hand him over to his own Company. They'll school him half dead." "Got no Comp'ny," said Gunner Barnabas. "'E's a conv'lessint draft--all sixes an' sevens. Don't matter to them what he did." "Thrash him yourself, then," I said. Gunner Barnabas looked at the man and smiled; then caught up an arm, as a mother takes up the dimpled arm of a child, and ran the sleeve and shirt up to the elbow. "Look at that!" he said. It was a pitiful arm, lean and muscleless. "Can you mill a man with an arm like that--such as I would like to mill him, an' such as he deserves? I tell you, sir, an' I am not smokin' (swaggering), as you see--I could take that man--Sodger 'e is, Lord 'elp 'im!--an' twis' off 'is arms an' 'is legs as if 'e was a naked crab. See here!"

Before I could realise what was going to happen, Gunner Barnabas rose up, stooped, and taking the wretched Private Shacklock by two points of grasp, heaved him up above his head. The boy kicked once or twice, and then was still. He was very white. "I could now," said Gunner Barnabas, "I could now chuck this man where I like. Chuck him like a lump o' beef, an' it would not be too much for him if I chucked. Can I thrash such a man with both 'ands? No, nor yet with my right 'and tied behind my back, an' my lef' in a sling."

He dropped Private Shacklock on the ground and sat upon him as before. The boy groaned as the weight settled, but there was a look in his white-lashed, red eyes that was not pleasant.

"I do not know _what_ I will do," said Gunner Barnabas, rocking himself to and fro. "I know 'is breed, an' the way o' the likes o' them. If I was in 'is Comp'ny, an' this 'ad 'appened, an' I 'ad struck 'im, as I _would_ ha' struck him, 'twould ha' all passed off an' bin forgot till the drink was in 'im again--a month, maybe, or six, maybe. An' when the drink was frizzin' in 'is 'ead he would up and loose off in the night or the day or the evenin'. _All acause of that millin' that 'e would ha forgotten in betweens._ That I would be dead--killed by the likes o' 'im, an' me the next strongest man but three in the British Army!"

Private Shacklock, not so hardly pressed as he had been, found breath to say that if he could only get hold of the fowling-piece again the strongest man but three in the British Army would be seriously crippled for the rest of his days. "Hear that!" said Gunner Barnabas, sitting heavily to silence his chair. "Hear that, you that think things is funny to put into the papers! He would shoot me, 'e would, now; an' so long as he's drunk, or comin' out o' the drink, 'e will want to shoot me. Look a-here!"

He turned the boy's head sideways, his hand round the nape of the neck, his thumb touching the angle of the jaw. "What do you call those marks?" They were the white scars of scrofula, with which Shacklock was eaten up. I told Gunner Barnabas this. "I don't know what that means. I call 'em murder-marks an' signs. If a man 'as these things on 'im, an' drinks, so long as 'e's drunk, 'e's mad--a looney. _But_ that doesn't 'elp if 'e kills you. Look a-here, an' here!" The marks were thick on the jaw and neck. "Stubbs 'ad 'em," said Gunner Barnabas to himself, "an' Lancy 'ad 'em, an' Duggard 'ad 'em, an' wot's come to _them_? _You've_ got 'em," he said, addressing himself to the man he was handling like a roped calf, "an' sooner or later you'll go with the rest of 'em. But this time I will not do anything--exceptin' keep you here till the drink's dead in you."

Gunner Barnabas resettled himself and continued: "Twice this afternoon, Shacklock, you 'ave been so near dyin' that I know no man more so. Once was when I stretched you, an' might ha' wiped off your face with my boot as you was lyin'; an' once was when I lifted you up in my fists. Was you afraid, Shacklock?"

"I were," murmured the half-stifled soldier.

"An' once more I will show you how near you can go to Kingdom Come in my 'ands." He knelt by Shacklock's side, the boy lying still as death. "If I was to hit you here," said he, "I would break your chest, an' you would die. If I was to put my 'and here, an' my other 'and here, I would twis' your neck, an' you would die, Privite Shacklock. If I was to put my knees here an' put your 'ead _so_, I would pull off your 'ead, Privite Shacklock, an' you would die. If you think as how I am a liar, say so, an' I'll show you. _Do_ you think so?"

"No," whispered Private Shacklock, not daring to move a muscle, for Barnabas's hand was on his neck.

"Now, remember," went on Barnabas, "neither you will say nothing nor I will say nothing o' what has happened. I ha' put you to shame before me an' this gentleman here, an' that is enough. But I tell you, an' you give 'eed now, it would be better for you to desert than to go on a-servin' where you are now. If I meets you again--if my Batt'ry lays with your Reg'ment, an' Privite Shacklock is on the rolls, I will first mill you myself till you can't see, and then I will say why I strook you. You must go, an' look bloomin' slippy about it, for if you stay, so sure as God made Paythans an' we've got to wipe 'em out, you'll be loosing off o' unauthorised amminition--in or out o' barricks, an' you'll be 'anged for it. I know your breed, an' I know what these 'ere white marks mean. You're mad, Shacklock, that's all--and here you stay, under me. An' now _choop_, an' lie still."

I waited and smoked, and Gunner Barnabas smoked till the shadows lengthened on the hillside, and a chilly wind began to blow. At dusk Gunner Barnabas rose and looked at his captive. "Drink's out o' 'im now," he said.

"I can't move," whimpered Shacklock. "I've got the fever back again."

"I'll carry you," said Gunner Barnabas, swinging him up and preparing to climb the hill. "Good-night, sir," he said to me. "It looks pretty, doesn't it? But never you forget, an' I won't forget neither, that this 'ere shiverin', shakin', convalescent a-hangin' on to my neck is a ragin', tearin' devil when 'e's lushy--an' 'e a boy!"

He strode up to the hill with his burden, but just before he disappeared he turned round and shouted: "It's the likes o' 'im brings shame on the likes o' us. 'Tain't we ourselves, s'elp me Gawd, 'tain't!"

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 14: "Week's News," Feb. 4, 1888.]

HIS BROTHER'S KEEPER[15]

"Whist?"

"Can't make up a four?"

"Poker, then?"

"Never again with you, Robin. 'Tisn't good enough, old man."

"Seeking what he may devour," murmured a third voice from behind a newspaper. "Stop the punkah, and make him go away."

"Don't talk of it on a night like this. It's enough to give a man fits. You've no enterprise. Here I've taken the trouble to come over after dinner----"

"On the off-chance of skinning some one. I don't believe you ever crossed a horse for pleasure."

"That's true, I never did--and there are only two Johnnies in the Club."

"They've all gone off to the Gaff."

"_Wah! Wah!_ They must be pretty hard up for amusement. Help me to a split."

"Split in this weather! Hi, bearer, _do burra--burra_ whiskey-peg _lao_, and just put all the _barf_ into them that you can find."

The newspaper came down with a rustle, as the reader said:

"How the deuce d'you expect a man to improve his mind when you two are _bukking_ about drinks? _Qui hai! Mera wasti bhi._"

"Oh! you're alive, are you? I thought pegs would fetch you out of that. Game for a little poker?"

"Poker--poker--_red-hot_ poker! Saveloy, you're too generous. Can't you let a man die in peace?"

"Who's going to die?"

"I am, please the pigs, if it gets much hotter and that bearer doesn't bring the peg quickly."

"All right. Die away, _mon ami_. Only don't do it in the Club, that's all. Can't have it littered up with dead members. Houligan would object."

"By Jove! I think I can imagine old Houligan doing it. 'Member dead in the ante-room? Good Gud! Bless my soul! Impossible to run a Club this way. Call the Babu and see if his last month's bill is paid. Not paid! Good Gud! Bless my soul! Impossible to run a Club this way. Babu, attach that body till the bill is paid.' Revel, you might just hurry up your dying once in a way to give us the pleasure of seeing Houligan perform."

"I'll die legitimately," said Revel. "I'm not going to create a fresh scandal in the station. I'll wait for heat-apoplexy, or whatever is going, to come and fetch me."

"This is _pukka_ hot-weather talk," said Saveloy. "I come over for a little honest poker, and find two moderately sensible men, Revel and Dallston, talking tombs. I'm sorry I've thrown away my valuable evening."

"D'you expect us to talk about buttercups and daisies, then?" said Dallston.

"No, but there's some sort of medium between those and Sudden Death."

"There isn't. I haven't seen a daisy for seven years, and now I want to die," said Revel, plunging luxuriously into his peg.

"I knew a Johnnie on the Frontier once who _did_," began Dallston meditatively.

"Half a minute. Bearer, _cherut lao_! Tobacco soothes the nerves when a man is expecting to hear a whacker. We know what your Frontier stories are, Martha."

Dallston had once, in a misguided moment, taken the part of Martha in the burlesque of _Faust_, and the nickname stuck.

"'Tisn't a whacker, it's a fact. He told me so himself."

"They always do, Martha. I've noticed that before. But what did he tell you?"

"He told me that he had died."

"Was _that_ all? Explain him."

"It was this way. The man went down with a bad go of fever and was off his head. About the second day it struck him in the middle of the night."

"Steady the Buffs! Martha, you aren't an Irishman yet."

"Never mind. It's too hot to put it correctly. In the middle of the night he woke up quite calm, and it struck him that it would be a good thing to die--just as it might ha' struck him that it would be a good thing to put ice on his head. He lay on his bed and thought it over, and the more he thought about it, the better sort of _bundobust_ it seemed to be. He was quite calm, you know, and he said that he could have sworn that he had no fever on him."

"Well, what happened?"

"Oh, he got up and loaded his revolver--he remembers all this--and let fly, with the muzzle to his temple. The thing didn't go off, so he turned it up and found he'd forgot to load one chamber."

"Better stop the tale there. We can guess what's coming."

"Hang it! It's a _true_ yarn. Well, he jammed the thing to his head _again_, and it missed fire, and he said that he felt ready to cry with rage, he was so disgusted. So he took it by the muzzle and hit himself on the head with it."

"Good man! Didn't it go off _then_?"

"No, but the blow knocked him silly, and he thought he was dead. He was awfully pleased, for he had been fiddling over the show for nearly half an hour. He dropped down and died. When he got his wits again, he was shaking with the fever worse than ever, but he had sense enough to go and knock up the doctor and give himself into his charge as a lunatic. Then he went clean off his head till the fever wore out."

"That's a good story," said Revel critically. "I didn't think you had it in you at this season of the year."

"I can believe it," said the man they called Saveloy. "Fever makes one do all sorts of queer things. I suppose your friend was mad with it when he discovered it would be so healthy to die."

"S'pose so. The fever must have been so bad that he felt all right--same way that a man who is nearly mad with drink gets to look sober. Well, anyhow, there was a man who died."

"Did he tell you what it felt like?"

"He said that he was awfully happy until his fever came back and shook him up. Then he was sick with fear. I don't wonder. He'd had rather a narrow escape."

"That's nothing," said Saveloy. "I know a man who lived."

"So do I," said Revel. "Lots of 'em, confound 'em."

"Now, this takes Martha's story, and it's quite true."

"They always are," said Martha. "I've noticed that before."

"Never mind, I'll forgive you. But this happened to me. Since you _are_ talking tombs, I'll assist at the seance. It was in '82 or '83, I have forgotten which. Anyhow, it was when I was on the Utamamula Canal Headworks, and I was chumming with a man called Stovey. You've never met him because he belongs to the Bombay side, and if he isn't really dead by this he ought to be somewhere there now. He was a _pukka_ sweep, and I hated him. We divided the Canal bungalow between us, and we kept strictly to our own side of the buildings."

"Hold on! I call. What was Stovey to look at?" said Revel.

"Living picture of the King of Spades--a blackish, greasy sort of ruffian who hadn't any pretence of manners or form. He used to dine in the kit he had been messing about the Canal in all day, and I don't believe he ever washed. He had the embankments to look after, and I was in charge of the headworks, but he was always contriving to fall foul of me if he possibly could."

"I know that sort of man. Mullane of Ghoridasah's built that way."

"Don't know Mullane, but Stovey was a sweep. Canal work isn't exactly cheering, and it doesn't take you into _much_ society. We were like a couple of rats in a burrow, grubbing and scooping all day and turning in at night into the barn of a bungalow. Well, this man Stovey didn't get fever. He was so coated with dirt that I don't believe the fever could have got at him. He just began to go mad."

"Cheerful! What were the symptoms?"

"Well, his naturally vile temper grew infamous. It was really unsafe to speak to him, and he always seemed anxious to murder a coolie or two. With me, of course, he restrained himself a little, but he sulked like a bear for days and days together. As he was the only European society within sixty miles, you can imagine how nice it was for me. He'd sit at table and sulk and stare at the opposite wall by the hour--instead of doing his work. When I pointed out that the Government didn't send us into these cheerful places to twiddle our thumbs, he glared like a beast. Oh, he was a thorough hog! He had a lot of other endearing tricks, but the worst was when he began to pray."

"Began to--how much?"

"Pray. He'd got hold of an old copy of the _War Cry_ and used to read it at meals; and I suppose that that, on the top of tough goat, disordered his intellect. One night I heard him in his room groaning and talking at a fearful rate. Next morning I asked him if he'd been taken worse. 'I've been engaged in prayer,' he said, looking as black as thunder. 'A man's spiritual concerns are his own property.' One night--he'd kept up these spiritual exercises for about ten days, growing queerer and queerer every day--he said 'Good-night' after dinner, and got up and shook hands with me."

"Bad sign, that," said Revel, sucking industriously at his cheroot.

"At first I couldn't make out what the man wanted. No fellow shakes hands with a fellow he's living with--least of all such a beast as Stovey. However, I was civil, but the minute after he'd left the room it struck me what he was going to do. If he hadn't shaken hands I'd have taken no notice, I suppose. This unusual effusion put me on my guard."

"Curious thing! You can nearly always tell when a Johnnie means pegging out. He gives himself away by some softening. It's human nature. What did you do?"

"Called him back, and asked him what the this and that he meant by interfering with my coolies in the day. He was generally hampering my men, but I had never taken any notice of his vagaries till then. In another minute we were arguing away, hammer and tongs. If it had been any other man I'd 'a' simply thrown the lamp at his head. He was calling me all the mean names under the sun, accusing me of misusing my authority and goodness only knows what all. When he had talked himself down one stretch, I had only to say a few words to start him off again, as fresh as a daisy. On my word, this jabbering went on for nearly three hours."

"Why didn't you get coolies and have him tied up, if you thought he was mad?" asked Revel.

"Not a safe business, believe me. Wrongful restraint on your own responsibility of a man nearly your own standing looks ugly. Well, Stovey went on bullying me and complaining about everything I'd ever said or done since I came on the Canal, till--he went fast asleep."

"Wha-at?"

"Went off dead asleep, just as if he'd been drugged. I thought the brute had had a fit at first, but there he was, with his head hanging a little on one side and his mouth open. I knocked up his bearer and told him to take the man to bed. We carried him off and shoved him on his charpoy. He was still asleep, and I didn't think it worth while to undress him. The fit, whatever it was, had worked itself out, and he was limp and used up. But as I was going to leave the room, and went to turn the lamp down, I looked in the glass and saw that he was watching me between his eyelids. When I spun round he seemed asleep. 'That's your game, is it?' I thought, and I stood over him long enough to see that he was shamming. Then I cast an eye round the room and saw his Martini in the corner. We were all _bullumteers_ on the Canal works. I couldn't find the cartridges, so to make all serene I knocked the breech-pin out with the cleaning-rod and went to my own room. I didn't go to sleep for some time. About one o'clock--our rooms were only divided by a door of sorts, and my bed was close to it--I heard my friend open a chest of drawers. Then he went for the Martini. Of course, the breech-block came out with a rattle. Then he went back to bed again, and I nearly laughed.

"Next morning he was doing the genial, hail-fellow-well-met trick. Said he was afraid he'd lost his temper overnight, and apologised for it. About half way through breakfast--he was talking thickly about everything and anything--he said he'd come to the conclusion that a beard was a beastly nuisance and made one stuffy. He was going to shave his. Would I lend him my razors? 'Oh, you're a crafty beast, you are,' I said to myself. I told him that I was of the other opinion, and finding my razors nearly worn out had chucked them into the Canal only the night before. He gave me one look under his eyebrows and went on with his breakfast. I was in a stew lest the man should cut his throat with one of the breakfast knives, so I kept one eye on him most of the time.

"Before I left the bungalow I caught old Jeewun Singh, one of the _mistries_ on the gates, and gave him strict orders that he was to keep in sight of the Sahib wherever he went and whatever he did; and if he did or tried to do anything foolish, such as jumping down the well, Jeewun Singh was to stop him. The old man tumbled at once, and I was easier in my mind when I saw how he was shadowing Stovey up and down the works. Then I sat down and wrote a letter to old Baggs, the Civil Surgeon at Chemanghath, about sixty miles off, telling him how we stood. The runner left about three o'clock. Jeewun Singh turned up at the end of the day and gave a full, true and particular account of Stovey's doings. D'you know what the brute had done?"

"Spare us the agony. Kill him straight off, Saveloy!"

"He'd stopped the runner, opened the bag, read my letter and torn it up! There were only two letters in the bag, both of which I'd written. I was pretty _average_ angry, but I lay low. At dinner he said he'd got a touch of dysentery and wanted some chlorodyne. For a man anxious to depart this life he was _about_ as badly equipped as you could wish. Hadn't even a medicine-chest to play with. He was no more suffering from dysentery than I, but I said I'd give him the chlorodyne, and so I did--fifteen drops, mixed in a wine-glass, and when he asked for the bottle I said that I hadn't any more.

"That night he began praying again, and I just lay in bed and shuddered. He was invoking the most blasphemous curses on my head--all in a whisper, for fear of waking me up--for frustrating what he called his 'great and holy purpose.' You never heard anything like it. But as long as he was praying I knew he was alive, and he ran his praying half through the night.

"Well, for the next ten days he was apparently quite rational; but I watched him and told Jeewun Singh to watch him like a cat. I suppose he wanted to throw me off my guard, but I wasn't to be thrown. I grew thin watching him. Baggs wrote in to say he had gone on tour and couldn't be found anywhere in particular for another six weeks. It was a ghastly time.

"One day old Jeewun Singh turned up with a bit of paper that Stovey had given to one of the _lohars_ as a _naksha_. I thought it was mean work spying into another man's very plans, but when I saw what was on the paper I gave old Jeewun Singh a rupee. It was a be-auti-ful little breech-pin. The one-idead idiot had gone back to Martini! I never dreamt of such persistence. 'Tell me when the _lohar_ gives it to the Sahib,' I said, and I felt more comfy for a few days. Even if Jeewun Singh hadn't split I should have known when the new breech-pin was made. The brute came in to dinner with a dashed confident, triumphant air, as if he'd done me in the eye at last; and all through dinner he was fiddling in his waistcoat pocket. He went to bed early. I went, too, and I put my head against the door and listened like a woman. I must have been shivering in my pyjamas for about two hours before my friend went for the dismantled Martini. He could not get the breech-pin to fit at first. He rummaged about, and then I heard a file go. That seemed to make too much noise to suit his fancy, so he opened the door and went out into the compound, and I heard him, about fifty yards off, filing in the dark at that breech-pin as if he had been possessed. Well, he _was_, you know. Then he came back to the light, cursing me for keeping him out of his rest and the peace of Abraham's bosom. As soon as I heard him taking up the Martini, I ran round to his door and tried to enter gaily, as the stage directions say. 'Lend me your gun, old man, if you're awake,' I said. 'There's a howling big brute of a pariah in my room, and I want to get a shot at it.' I pretended not to notice that he was standing over the gun, but just pranced up and caught hold of it. He turned round with a jump and said: 'I'm sick of this. I'll see that dog, and if it's another of your lies I'll----' You know I'm not a moral man."

"Hear! hear!" drowsily from Martha.

"But I simply daren't repeat what he said. 'All right!' I said, still hanging on to the gun. 'Come along and we'll bowl him over.' He followed me into my room with a face like a fiend in torment. And, as truly as I'm yarning here, there _was_ a huge brindled beast of a pariah sitting _on my bed_!"

"Tall, sir, tall. But go on. The audience is now awake."

"Hang it! Could I have invented that pariah? Stovey dropped of the gun and flopped down in a corner and yowled. I went '_ee ki ri ki re!_' like a woman in hysterics, pitched the gun forward and loosed off through a window."

"And the pariah?"

"He quitted for the time being. Stovey was in an awful state. He swore the animal hadn't been there when I called him. That was true enough. I firmly believe Providence put it there to save me from being killed by the infuriated Stovey."

"You've too lively a belief in Providence altogether. What happened?"

"Stovey tried to recover himself and pass it all over, but he let me keep the gun and went to bed. About two days afterwards old Baggs turned up on tour, and I told him Stovey wanted watching--more than I could give him. I don't know whether Baggs or the _pi_ did it, but he didn't throw any more suicidal splints. I was transferred a little while afterwards."

"Ever meet the man again?"

"Yes; once at Sheik Katan dak bungalow--trailing the big brindle _pi_ after him."

"Oh, it was real, then. I thought it was arranged for the occasion."

"Not a bit. It was a _pukka pi_. Stovey seemed to remember me in the same way that a horse seems to remember. I fancy his brain was a little cloudy. We tiffined together--_after_ the _pi_ had been fed, if you please--and Stovey said to me: 'See that dog? He saved my life once. Oh, by the way, I believe you were there, too, weren't you?' I shouldn't care to work with Stovey again."

* * * * *

There was a holy pause in the smoking-room of the Toopare Club.

"What I like about Saveloy's play," said Martha, looking at the ceiling, "is the beautifully artistic way in which he follows up a flush with a full. Go to bed, old man!"

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 15: From the "Week's News," April 7, 1888.]

"SLEIPNER," LATE "THURINDA"[16]

There are men, both good and wise, who hold that in a future state
Dumb creatures we have cherished here below
Will give us joyous welcome as we pass the Golden Gate.
Is it folly if I hope it may be so?

--_The Place Where the Old Horse Died._

If there were any explanation available here, I should be the first person to offer it. Unfortunately, there is not, and I am compelled to confine myself to the facts of the case as vouched for by Hordene and confirmed by "Guj," who is the last man in the world to throw away a valuable horse for nothing.

Jale came up with _Thurinda_ to the Shayid Spring meeting; and besides _Thurinda_ his string included _Divorce_, _Meg's Diversions_ and _Benoni_--ponies of sorts. He won the Officers' Scurry--five furlongs--with _Benoni_ on the first day, and that sent up the price of the stable in the evening lotteries; for _Benoni_ was the worst-looking of the three, being a pigeon-toed, split-chested _dak_ horse, with a wonderful gift of blundering in on his shoulders--ridden out to the last ounce--but _first_. Next day Jale was riding _Divorce_ in the Wattle and Dab Stakes--round the jump course; and she turned over at the on-and-off course when she was leading and managed to break her neck. She never stirred from the place where she dropped, and Jale did not move either till he was carried off the ground to his tent close to the big _shamiana_ where the lotteries were held. He had ricked his back, and everything below the hips was as dead as timber. Otherwise he was perfectly well. The doctor said that the stiffness would spread and that he would die before the next morning. Jale insisted upon knowing the worst, and when he heard it sent a pencil note to the Honorary Secretary, saying that they were not to stop the races or do anything foolish of that kind. If he hung on till the next day the nominations for the third day's racing would not be void, and he would settle up all claims before he threw up his hand. This relieved the Honorary Secretary, because most of the horses had come from a long distance, and, under any circumstance, even had the Judge dropped dead in the box, it would have been impossible to have postponed the racing. There was a great deal of money on the third day, and five or six of the owners were gentlemen who would make even one day's delay an excuse. Well, settling would not be easy. No one knew much about Jale. He was an outsider from down country, but every one hoped that, since he was doomed, he would live through the third day and save trouble.

Jale lay on his charpoy in the tent and asked the doctor and the man who catered to the refreshments--he was the nearest at the time--to witness his will. "I don't know how long my arms will be workable," said Jale, "and we'd better get this business over." The private arrangements of the will concern nobody but Jale's friends; but there was one clause that was rather curious. "Who was that man with the brindled hair who put me up for a night until the tent was ready? The man who rode down to pick me up when I was smashed. Nice sort of fellow he seemed." "Hordene?" said the doctor. "Yes, Hordene. Good chap, Hordene. He keeps Bull whisky. Write down that I give this Johnnie Hordene _Thurinda_ for his own, if he can sell the other ponies. _Thurinda's_ a good mare. He can enter her--post-entry--for the All Horse Sweep if he likes--on the last day. Have you got that down? I suppose the Stewards'll recognise the gift?" "No trouble about that," said the doctor. "All right. Give him the other two ponies to sell. They're entered for the last day, but I shall be dead then. Tell him to send the money to----" Here he gave an address. "Now I'll sign and you sign, and that's all. This deadness is coming up between my shoulders."

Jale lived, dying very slowly, till the third day's racing, and up till the time of the lotteries on the fourth day's racing. The doctor was rather surprised. Hordene came in to thank him for his gift, and to suggest it would be much better to sell _Thurinda_ with the others. She was the best of them all, and would have fetched twelve hundred on her looking-over merits only. "Don't you bother," said Jale. "You take her. I rather liked you. I've got no people, and that Bull whisky was first-class stuff. I'm pegging out now, I think."

The lottery-tent outside was beginning to fill, and Jale heard the click of the dice. "That's all right," said he. "I wish I was there, but--I'm--going to the drawer." Then he died quietly. Hordene went into the lottery-tent, after calling the doctor. "How's Jale?" said the Honorary Secretary. "Gone to the drawer," said Hordene, settling into a chair and reaching out for a lottery paper. "Poor beggar!" said the Honorary Secretary. "'Twasn't the fault of our on-and-off, though. The mare blundered. Gentlemen! gentlemen! Nine hundred and eighty rupees in the lottery, and _River of Years_ for sale!" The lottery lasted far into the night, and there was a supplementary lottery on the All Horse Sweep, where _Thurinda_ sold for a song, and was not bought by her owner. "It's not lucky," said Hordene, and the rest of the men agreed with him. "I ride her myself, but I don't know anything about her and I wish to goodness I hadn't taken her," said he. "Oh, bosh! Never refuse a horse or a drink, however you come by them. No one objects, do they? Not going to refer this matter to Calcutta, are we? Here, somebody, bid! Eleven hundred and fifty rupees in the lottery, and _Thurinda_--absolutely unknown, acquired under the most romantic circumstances from about _the_ toughest man it has ever been my good fortune to meet--for sale. Hullo, Nurji, is that you? Gentlemen, where a Pagan bids shall enlightened Christians hang back? Ten! Going, going, gone!" "You want ha-af, sar?" said the battered native trainer to Hordene. "No, thanks--not a bit of her for me."

The All Horse Sweep was run, and won by _Thurinda_ by about a street and three-quarters, to be very accurate, amid derisive cheers, which Hordene, who flattered himself that he knew something about riding, could not understand. On pulling up he looked over his shoulder and saw that the second horse was only just passing the box. "Now, how did I make such a fool of myself?" he said as he returned to weigh out. His friends gathered round him and asked tenderly whether this was the first time that he had got up, and whether it was _absolutely_ necessary that the winning horse should be ridden out when the field were hopelessly pumped, a quarter of a mile behind, etc., etc. "I--I--thought _River of Years_ was pressing me," explained Hordene. "_River of Years_ was wallowing, absolutely wallowing," said a man, "before you turned into the straight. You rode like a--hang it--like a Militia subaltern!"

The Shayid Spring meeting broke up and the sportsmen turned their steps towards the next carcase--the Ghoriah Spring. With them went _Thurinda's_ owner, the happy possessor of an almost perfect animal. "She's as easy as a Pullman car and about twice as fast," he was wont to say in moments of confidence to his intimates. "For all her bulk, she's as handy as a polo-pony; a child might ride her, and when she's at the post she's as cute--she's as cute as the bally starter himself." Many times had Hordene said this, till at last one unsympathetic friend answered with: "When a man _bukhs_ too much about his wife or his horse, it's a sure sign he's trying to make himself like 'em. I mistrust your _Thurinda_. She's too good, or else----" "Or else what?" "You're trying to believe you like her." "Like her! I _love_ her! I trust that darling as I'm shot if I'd trust you. I'd hack her for tuppence." "Hack away, then. I don't want to hurt your feelings. I don't hack my stable myself, but some horses go better for it. Come and peacock at the band-stand this evening." To the band-stand accordingly Hordene came, and the lovely _Thurinda_ comported herself with all the gravity and decorum that might have been expected. Hordene rode home with the scoffer, through the dusk, discoursing on matters indifferent. "Hold up a minute," said his friend, "there's Gagley riding behind us." Then, raising his voice: "Come along, Gagley! I want to speak to you about the Race Ball." But no Gagley came; and the couple went forward at a trot. "Hang it! There's that man behind us still." Hordene listened and could clearly hear the sound of a horse trotting, apparently just behind them. "Come on, Gagley! Don't play bo-peep in that ridiculous way," shouted the friend. Again no Gagley. Twenty yards farther there was a crash and a stumble as the friend's horse came down over an unseen rat-hole. "How much damaged?" asked Hordene. "Sprained my wrist," was the dolorous answer, "and there is something wrong with my knee-cap. There goes my mount to-morrow, and this gee is cut like a cab-horse."

On the first day of the Ghoriah meeting _Thurinda_ was hopelessly ridden out by a native jockey, to whose care Hordene had at the last moment been compelled to confide her. "You forsaken idiot!" said he, "what made you begin riding as soon as you were clear? She had everything safe, if you'd only left her alone. You rode her out before the home turn, you hog!" "What could I do?" said the jockey sullenly. "I was pressed by another horse." "Whose 'other horse'? There were twenty yards of daylight between you and the ruck. If you'd kept her there even then 'twouldn't ha' mattered. But you rode her out--you rode her out!" "There was another horse and he pressed me to the end, and when I looked round he was no longer there." Let us, in charity, draw a veil over Hordene's language at this point. "Goodness knows whether she'll be fit to pull out again for the last event. D----n you and your other horses! I wish I'd broken your neck before letting you get up!" _Thurinda_ was done to a turn, and it seemed a cruelty to ask her to run again in the last race of the day. Hordene rode this time, and was careful to keep the mare within herself at the outset. Once more _Thurinda_ left her field--with one exception--a grey horse that hung upon her flanks and could not be shaken off. The mare was done, and refused to answer the call upon her. She tried hopelessly in the straight and was caught and passed by her old enemy, _River of Years_--the chestnut of Kurnaul. "You rode well--like a native, Hordene," was the unflattering comment. "The mare was ridden out before _River of Years_." "But the grey," began Hordene, and then ceased, for he knew that there was no grey in the race. _Blue Point_ and _Diamond Dust_, the only greys at the meeting, were running in the Arab Handicap.

He caught his native jockey. "What horse, d'you say, pressed you?" "I don't know. It was a grey with nutmeg tickings behind the saddle." That evening Hordene sought the great Major Blare-Tyndar, who knew personally the father, mother and ancestors of almost every horse, brought from _ekka_ or ship, that had ever set foot on an Indian race-course. "Say, Major, what is a grey horse with nutmeg tickings behind the saddle?" "A curiosity. _Wendell Holmes_ is a grey, with nutmeg on the near shoulder, but there is no horse marked your way, now." Then, after a pause: "No, I'm wrong--you ought to know. The pony that got you _Thurinda_ was grey and nutmeg." "How much?" "_Divorce_, of course. The mare that broke her neck at the Shayid meeting and killed Jale. A big thirteen-three she was. I recollect when she was hacking old Snuffy Beans to office. He bought her from a dealer, who had her left on his hands as a rejection when the Pink Hussars were buying team up country and then----Hullo! The man's gone!" Hordene had departed on receipt of information which he already knew. He only demanded extra confirmation. Then he began to argue with himself, bearing in mind that he himself was a sane man, neither gluttonous nor a wine-bibber, with an unimpaired digestion, and that _Thurinda_ was to all appearance a horse of ordinary flesh and exceedingly good blood. Arrived at these satisfactory conclusions, he reargued the whole matter.

Being by nature intensely superstitious, he decided upon scratching _Thurinda_ and facing the howl of indignation that would follow. He also decided to leave the Ghoriah meet and change his luck. But it would have been sinful--positively wicked--to have left without waiting for the polo-match that was to conclude the festivities. At the last moment before the match, one of the leading players of the Ghoriah team and Hordene's host discovered that, through the kindly foresight of his head _sais_, every single pony had been taken down to the ground. "Lend me a hack, old man," he shouted to Hordene as he was changing. "Take _Thurinda_," was the reply. "She'll bring you down in ten minutes." And _Thurinda_ was accordingly saddled for Marish's benefit. "I'll go down with you," said Hordene. The two rode off together at a hand canter. "By Jove! Somebody's _sais_ 'll get kicked for this!" said Marish, looking round. "Look there! He's coming for the mare! Pull out into the middle of the road." "What on earth d'you mean?" "Well, if _you_ can take a strayed horse so calmly, I can't. Didn't you see what a lather that grey was in?" "What grey?" "The grey that just passed us--saddle and all. He's got away from the ground, I suppose. Now he's turned the corner; but you can hear his hoofs. Listen!" There was a furious gallop of shod horses, gradually dying into silence. "Come along," said Hordene. "We're late as it is. We shall know all about it on the ground." "Anybody lost a tat?" asked Marish cheerily as they reached the ground. "No, we've lost _you_. Double up. You're late enough as it is. Get up and go in. The teams are waiting." Marish mounted his polo-pony and cantered across. Hordene watched the game idly for a few moments. There was a scrimmage, a cloud of dust, and a cessation of play, and a shouting for _saises_. The umpire clattered forward and returned. "What has happened?" "Marish! Neck broken! Nobody's fault. Pony crossed its legs and came down. Game's stopped. Thank God, he hasn't got a wife!" Again Hordene pondered as he sat on his horse's back. "Under any circumstances it was written that he was to be killed. I had no interest in his death, and he had his warning, I suppose. I can't make out the system that this infernal mare runs under. Why _him_? Anyway, I'll shoot her." He looked at _Thurinda_, the calm-eyed, the beautiful, and repented. "No! I'll sell her."

"What in the world has happened to _Thurinda_ that Hordene is so keen on getting rid of her?" was the general question. "I want money," said Hordene unblushingly, and the few who knew how his accounts stood saw that this was a varnished lie. But they held their peace because of the great love and trust that exists among the ancient and honourable fraternity of sportsmen.

"There's nothing wrong with her," explained Hordene. "Try her as much as you like, but let her stay in my stable until you've made up your mind one way or the other. Nine hundred's my price."

"I'll take her at that," quoth a red-haired subaltern, nicknamed Carrots, later Gaja, and then, for brevity's sake, Guj. "Let me have her out this afternoon. I want her more for hacking than anything else."

Guj tried _Thurinda_ exhaustively and had no fault to find with her. "She's all right," he said briefly. "I'll take her. It's a cash deal." "Virtuous Guj!" said Hordene, pocketing the cheque. "If you go on like this you'll be loved and respected by all who know you."

A week later Guj insisted that Hordene should accompany him on a ride. They cantered merrily for a time. Then said the subaltern: "Listen to the mare's beat a minute, will you? Seems to me that you've sold me two horses."