Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated), page 133
‘“Fwhat’s wrong wid Hogan, Sargint?” sez I.
‘“Wrong!” sez the Arm’rer Sargint; “I showed him, as though I had been his mother, the way av shtrippin’ a ‘Tini, an’ he shtrup her clane an’ easy. I tould him to put her to again an’ fire a blank into the blow-pit to show how the dirt hung on the groovin’. He did that, but he did not put in the pin av the fallin’-block, an’ av coorse whin he fired he was strook by the block jumpin’ clear. Well for him ‘twas but a blank — a full charge wud ha’ cut his oi out.”
‘I looked a thrifle wiser than a boiled sheep’s head. “How’s that,
Sargint?” sez I.
‘“This way, ye blundherin’ man, an’ don’t you be doin’ ut,” sez he. Wid that he shows me a Waster action — the breech av her all cut away to show the inside — an’ so plazed he was to grumble that he dimonstrated fwhat Hogan had done twice over. “An’ that comes av not knowin’ the wepping you’re purvided wid,” sez he.
‘“Thank ye, Sargint,” sez I; “I will come to you again for further information.”
‘“Ye will not,” sez he. “Kape your clanin’-rod away from the breech-pin or you will get into throuble.”
‘I wint outside an’ I could ha’ danced wid delight for the grandeur av ut. “They will load my rifle, good luck to thim, whoile I’m away,” thinks I, and back I wint to the Canteen to give them their clear chanst.
‘The Canteen was fillin’ wid men at the ind av the day. I made feign to be far gone in dhrink, an’, wan by wan, all my roomful came in wid Vulmea. I wint away, walkin’ thick an’ heavy, but not so thick an’ heavy that any wan cud ha’ tuk me. Sure and thrue, there was a kyartridge gone from my pouch an’ lyin’ snug in my rifle. I was hot wid rage against thim all, an’ I worried the bullet out wid my teeth as fast as I cud, the room bein’ empty. Then I tuk my boot an’ the clanin’-rod and knocked out the pin av the fallin’-block. Oh, ‘twas music when that pin rowled on the flure! I put ut into my pouch an’ stuck a dab av dirt on the holes in the plate, puttin’ the fallin’-block back. “That’ll do your business, Vulmea,” sez I, lyin’ easy on the cot. “Come an’ sit on my chest the whole room av you, an’ I will take you to my bosom for the biggest divils that iver cheated halter.” I wud have no mercy on Vulmea. His oi or his life — little I cared!
‘At dusk they came back, the twelve av thim, an’ they had all been dhrinkin’. I was shammin’ sleep on the cot. Wan man wint outside in the veranda. Whin he whishtled they began to rage roun’ the room an’ carry on tremenjus. But I niver want to hear men laugh as they did — skylarkin’ too! ‘Twas like mad jackals.
‘“Shtop that blasted noise!” sez O’Hara in the dark, an’ pop goes the room-lamp. I cud hear O’Hara runnin’ up an’ the rattlin’ av my rifle in the rack an’ the men breathin’ heavy as they stud roun’ my cot. I cud see O’Hara in the light av the veranda lamp, an’ thin I heard the crack av my rifle. She cried loud, poor darlint, bein’ mishandled. Next minut’ five men were houldin’ me down. “Go easy,” I sez; “fwhat’s ut all about?”
‘Thin Vulmea, on the flure, raised a howl you cud hear from wan ind av cantonmints to the other. “I’m dead, I’m butchered, I’m blind!” sez he. “Saints have mercy on my sinful sowl! Sind for Father Constant! Oh sind for Father Constant an’ let me go clean!” By that I knew he was not so dead as I cud ha’ wished.
‘O’Hara picks up the lamp in the veranda wid a hand as stiddy as a rest. “Fwhat damned dog’s thrick is this av yours?” sez he, an turns the light on Tim Vulmea that was shwimmin’ in blood from top to toe. The fallin’-block had sprung free behin’ a full charge av powther — good care I tuk to bite down the brass af ther takin’ out the bullet that there might be somethin’ to give ut full worth — an’ had cut Tim from the lip to the corner av the right eye, lavin’ the eyelid in tatthers, an’ so up an’ along by the forehead to the hair. ‘Twas more av a rakin’ plough, if you will ondherstand, than a clean cut; an’ niver did I see a man bleed as Vulmea did. The dhrink an’ the stew that he was in pumped the blood strong. The minut’ the men sittin’ on my chest heard O’Hara spakin’ they scatthered each wan to his cot, an’ cried out very politeful: “Fwhat is ut, Sargint?”
‘“Fwhat is ut!” sez O’Hara, shakin’ Tim. “Well an’ good do you know fwhat ut is, ye skulkin’ ditch-lurkin’ dogs! Get a doolie, an’ take this whimperin’ scutt away. There will be more heard av ut than any av you will care for.”
‘Vulmea sat up rockin’ his head in his hand an’ moanin’ for Father
Constant.
‘“Be done!” sez O’Hara, dhraggin’ him up by the hair. “You’re none so dead that you cannot go fifteen years for thryin’ to shoot me.”
‘“I did not,” sez Vulmea; “I was shootin’ mesilf.”
‘“That’s quare,” sez O’Hara, “for the front av my jackut is black wid your powther.” He tuk up the rifle that was still warm an’ began to laugh. “I’ll make your life Hell to you,” sez he, “for attempted murdher an’ kapin’ your rifle onproperly. You’ll be hanged first an’ thin put undher stoppages for four fifteen. The rifle’s done for,” sez he.
‘“Why, ‘tis my rifle!” sez I, comin’ up to look; “Vulmea, ye divil, fwhat were you doin’ wid her — answer me that?”
‘“Lave me alone,” sez Vulmea; “I’m dyin’!”
‘“I’ll wait till you’re betther,” sez I, “an’ thin we two will talk ut out umbrageous.”
‘O’Hara pitched Tim into the doolie, none too tinder, but all the bhoys kep’ by their cots, which was not the sign av innocint men. I was huntin’ ivrywhere for my fallin’-block, but not findin’ ut at all. I niver found ut.
‘“Now fwhat will I do?” sez O’Hara, swinging the veranda light in his hand an’ lookin’ down the room. I had hate and contimpt av O’Hara an’ I have now, dead tho’ he is, but, for all that, will I say he was a brave man. He is baskin’ in Purgathory this tide, but I wish he cud hear that, whin he stud lookin’ down the room an’ the bhoys shivered before the oi av him, I knew him for a brave man an’ I liked him so.
‘“Fwhat will I do?” sez O’Hara agin, an’ we heard the voice av a woman low an’ sof’ in the veranda. ‘Twas Slimmy’s wife, come over at the shot, sittin’ on wan av the benches an’ scarce able to walk.
‘“O Denny! — Denny, dear,” sez she, “have they kilt you?”
‘O’Hara looked down the room again an’ showed his teeth to the gum.
Then he spat on the flure.
‘“You’re not worth ut,” sez he. “Light that lamp, ye dogs,” an’ wid that he turned away, an’ I saw him walkin’ off wid Slimmy’s wife; she thryin’ to wipe off the powther-black on the front av his jackut wid her handkerchief. “A brave man you are,” thinks I — ”a brave man an’ a bad woman.”
‘No wan said a word for a time. They was all ashamed, past spache.
‘“Fwhat d’you think he will do?” sez wan av thim at last. “He knows we’re all in ut.”
‘“Are we so?” sez I from my cot. “The man that sez that to me will be hurt. I do not know,” sez I, “fwhat onderhand divilmint you have conthrived, but by what I’ve seen I know that you cannot commit murdher wid another man’s rifle — such shakin’ cowards you are. I’m goin’ to slape,” I sez, “an’ you can blow my head off whoile I lay.” I did not slape, though, for a long time. Can ye wonder?
‘Next morn the news was through all the rig’mint, an’ there was nothin’ that the men did not tell. O’Hara reports, fair an’ easy, that Vulmea was come to grief through tamperin’ wid his rifle in barricks, all for to show the mechanism. An’ by my sowl, he had the impart’nince to say that he was on the shpot at the time an’ cud certify that ut was an accidint! You might ha’ knocked my roomful down wid a straw whin they heard that. ‘Twas lucky for thim that the bhoys were always thryin’ to find out how the new rifle was made, an’ a lot av thim had come up for easin’ the pull by shtickin’ bits av grass an’ such in the part av the lock that showed near the thrigger. The first issues of the ‘Tinis was not covered in, an’ I mesilf have eased the pull av mine time an’ agin. A light pull is ten points on the range to me.
‘“I will not have this foolishness!” sez the Colonel. “I will twist the tail off Vulmea!” sez he; but whin he saw him, all tied up an’ groanin’ in hospital, he changed his will. “Make him an early convalescint,” sez he to the Doctor, an’ Vulmea was made so for a warnin’. His big bloody bandages an’ face puckered up to wan side did more to kape the bhoys from messin’ wid the insides av their rifles than any punishmint.
‘O’Hara gave no reason for fwhat he’d said, an’ all my roomful were too glad to inquire, tho’ he put his spite upon thim more wearin’ than before. Wan day, howiver, he tuk me apart very polite, for he cud be that at the choosin’.
‘“You’re a good sodger, tho’ you’re a damned insolint man,” sez he.
‘“Fair words, Sargint,” sez I, “or I may be insolint again.”
‘“‘Tis not like you,” sez he, “to lave your rifle in the rack widout the breech-pin, for widout the breech-pin she was whin Vulmea fired. I should ha’ found the break av ut in the eyes av the holes, else,” he sez.
‘“Sargint,” sez I, “fwhat wud your life ha’ been worth av the breech-pin had been in place, for, on my sowl, my life wud be worth just as much to me av I tould you whether ut was or was not. Be thankful the bullet was not there,” I sez.
‘“That’s thrue,” sez he, pulling his moustache; “but I do not believe that you, for all your lip, was in that business.”
‘“Sargint,” I sez, “I cud hammer the life out av a man in ten minuts wid my fistes if that man dishpleased me; for I am a good sodger, an’ I will be threated as such, an’ whoile my fistes are my own they’re strong enough for all work I have to do. They do not fly back towards me!” sez I, lookin’ him betune the eyes.
‘“You’re a good man,” sez he, lookin’ me betune the eyes — an’ oh he was a gran’-built man to see! — ”you’re a good man,” he sez, “an’ I cud wish, for the pure frolic av ut, that I was not a Sargint, or that you were not a Privit; an’ you will think me no coward whin I say this thing.”
‘“I do not,” sez I. “I saw you whin Vulmea mishandled the rifle. But, Sargint,” I sez, “take the wurrd from me now, spakin’ as man to man wid the shtripes off, tho’ ‘tis little right I have to talk, me being fwhat I am by natur’. This time ye tuk no harm, an’ next time ye may not, but, in the ind, so sure as Slimmy’s wife came into the veranda, so sure will ye take harm — an’ bad harm. Have thought, Sargint,” sez I. “Is ut worth ut?”
‘“Ye’re a bould man,” sez he, breathin’ harrd. “A very bould man. But I am a bould man tu. Do you go your way, Privit Mulvaney, an’ I will go mine.”
‘We had no further spache thin or afther, but, wan by another, he drafted the twelve av my room out into other rooms an’ got thim spread among the Comp’nies, for they was not a good breed to live together, an’ the Comp ‘ny orf’cers saw ut. They wud ha’ shot me in the night av they had known fwhat I knew; but that they did not.
‘An’, in the ind, as I said, O’Hara met his death from Rafferty for foolin’ wid his wife. He wint his own way too well — Eyah, too well! Shtraight to that affair, widout turnin’ to the right or to the lef’, he wint, an’ may the Lord have mercy on his sowl. Amin!’
‘‘Ear! ‘Ear!’ said Ortheris, pointing the moral with a wave of his pipe. ‘An’ this is ‘im ‘oo would be a bloomin’ Vulmea all for the sake of Mullins an’ a bloomin’ button! Mullins never went after a woman in his life. Mrs. Mullins, she saw ‘im one day — ’
‘Ortheris,’ I said, hastily, for the romances of Private Ortheris are all too daring for publication, ‘look at the sun. It’s a quarter past six!’
‘O Lord! Three quarters of an hour for five an’ a ‘arf miles! We’ll ‘ave to run like Jimmy O.’
The Three Musketeers clambered on to the bridge, and departed hastily in the direction of the cantonment road. When I overtook them I offered them two stirrups and a tail, which they accepted enthusiastically. Ortheris held the tail, and in this manner we trotted steadily through the shadows by an unfrequented road.
At the turn into the cantonments we heard carriage wheels. It was the Colonel’s barouche, and in it sat the Colonel’s wife and daughter. I caught a suppressed chuckle, and my beast sprang forward with a lighter step.
The Three Musketeers had vanished into the night.
L’ENVOI
And they were stronger hands than mine
That digged the Ruby from the earth —
More cunning brains that made it worth
The large desire of a King;
And bolder hearts that through the brine
Went down the Perfect Pearl to bring.
Lo, I have made in common clay
Rude figures of a rough-hewn race;
For Pearls strew not the market-place
In this my town of banishment,
Where with the shifting dust I play
And eat the bread of Discontent.
Yet is there life in that I make, —
Oh Thou who knowest, turn and see,
As Thou hast power over me,
So I have power over these,
Because I wrought them for Thy sake,
And breathed in them mine agonies.
Small mirth was in the making. Now
I lift the cloth that clokes the clay,
And, wearied, at Thy feet I lay
My wares ere I go forth to sell.
The long bazar will praise — but Thou —
Heart of my heart, have I done well?
POOR DEAR MAMMA
The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky,
The deer to the wholesome wold,
And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid,
As it was in the days of old.
Gypsy Song.
SCENE. — Interior of MISS MINNIE THREEGAN’S bedroom at Simla. MISS THREEGAN, in window-seat, turning over a drawerful of things. MISS EMMA DEERCOURT, bosom-friend, who has come to spend the day, sitting on the bed, manipulating the bodice of a ballroom frock and a bunch of artificial lilies of the valley. Time, 5.30 P. M. on a hot May afternoon.
MISS DEERCOURT. And he said: ‘I shall never forget this dance,’ and, of course, I said: ‘Oh! how can you be so silly!’ Do you think he meant anything, dear?
MISS THREEGAN. (Extracting long lavender silk stocking from the rubbish.) You know him better than I do.
MISS D. Oh, do be sympathetic, Minnie! I’m sure he does. At least
I would be sure if he wasn’t always riding with that odious Mrs.
Hagan.
MISS T. I suppose so. How does one manage to dance through one’s heels first? Look at this — isn’t it shameful? (Spreads stocking-heel on open hand for inspection)
MISS D. Never mind that! You can’t mend it. Help me with this hateful bodice, I’ve run the string so, and I’ve run the string so, and I can’t make the fulness come right. Where would you put this? (Waves lilies of the valley.)
MISS T. As high up on the shoulder as possible.
MISS D. Am I quite tall enough? I know it makes May Olger look lop-sided.
MISS T. Yes, but May hasn’t your shoulders. Hers are like a hock-bottle.
BEARER. (Rapping at door.) Captain Sahib aya.
MISS D. (Jumping up wildly, and hunting for body, which she has discarded owing to the heat of the day.) Captain Sahib! What Captain Sahib? Oh, good gracious, and I’m only half dressed! Well, I shan’t bother.
MISS T. (Calmly.) You needn’t. It isn’t for us. That’s Captain Gadsby. He is going for a ride with Mamma. He generally comes five days out of the seven.
AGONISED VOICE. (From an inner apartment.) Minnie, run out and give Captain Gadsby some tea, and tell him I shall be ready in ten minutes; and, O Minnie, come to me an instant, there’s a dear girl!
MISS T. Oh, bother! (Aloud.) Very well, Mamma.
Exit, and reappears, after five minutes, flushed, and rubbing her fingers.
MISS D. You look pink. What has happened?
MISS T. (In a stage whisper.) A twenty-four-inch waist, and she won’t let it out. Where are my bangles? (Rummages on the toilet-table, and dabs at her hair with a brush in the interval.)
MISS D. Who is this Captain Gadsby? I don’t think I’ve met him.
MISS T. You must have. He belongs to the Harrar set. I’ve danced with him, but I’ve never talked to him. He’s a big yellow man, just like a newly-hatched chicken, with an e-normous moustache. He walks like this (imitates Cavalry swagger), and he goes ‘Ha-Hmmm!’ deep down in his throat when he can’t think of anything to say. Mamma likes him. I don’t.
MISS D. (Abstractedly.) Does he wax his moustache?
MISS T. (Busy with powder-puff.} Yes, I think so. Why?
MISS D. (Bending oner the bodice and sewing furiously.) Oh, nothing — only —
MISS T. (Sternly.) Only what? Out with it, Emma.
MISS D. Well, May Olger — she’s engaged to Mr. Charteris, you know — said — Promise you won’t repeat this?
MISS T. Yes, I promise. What did she say?
MISS D. That — that being kissed (with a rush) by a man who didn’t wax his moustache was — like eating an egg without salt.
MISS T. (At her full height, with crushing scorn.) May Olger is a horrid, nasty Thing, and you can tell her I said so. I’m glad she doesn’t belong to my set — I must go and feed this man! Do I look presentable?
MISS D. Yes, perfectly. Be quick and hand him over to your Mother, and then we can talk. I shall listen at the door to hear what you say to him.
MISS T. ‘Sure I don’t care. I’m not afraid of Captain Gadsby.
In proof of this swings into drawing-room with a mannish stride followed by two short steps, which produces the effect of a restive horse entering. Misses CAPTAIN GADSBY, who is sitting in the shadow of the window-curtain, and gazes round helplessly.
