Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated), page 433
“Burning glass is good,” said M’Leod.
“I said it was like a light of blackness turned on us,” cried the girl, twiddling her ring. “That must have been when the tall one thought worst about her sister and the house.”
“Ah, the poor Aggie!” said Mrs. M’Leod. “The poor Aggie, trying to tell every one it was not so! No wonder we felt Something wished to say Something. Thea, Max, do you remember that night?”
“We need not remember any more,” M’Leod interrupted. “It is not our trouble. They have told each other now.”
“Do you think, then,” said Miss M’Leod, “that those two, the living ones, were actually told something — upstairs — in your in the room?”
“I can’t say. At any rate they were made happy, and they ate a big tea afterwards. As your father says, it is not our trouble any longer — thank God!”
“Amen!” said M’Leod. “Now, Thea, let us have some music after all these months. ‘With mirth, thou pretty bird,’ ain’t it? You ought to hear that.”
And in the half-lighted hall, Thea sang an old English song that I had never heard before.
With mirth, thou pretty bird, rejoice
Thy Maker’s praise enhanced;
Lift up thy shrill and pleasant voice,
Thy God is high advanced!
Thy food before He did provide,
And gives it in a fitting side,
Wherewith be thou sufficed!
Why shouldst thou now unpleasant be,
Thy wrath against God venting,
That He a little bird made thee,
Thy silly head tormenting,
Because He made thee not a man?
Oh, Peace! He hath well thought thereon,
Therewith be thou sufficed!
THE RABBI’S SONG
IF THOUGHT can reach to Heaven,
On Heaven let it dwell,
For fear that Thought be given
Like power to reach to Hell.
For fear the desolation
And darkness of thy mind,
Perplex an habitation
Which thou hast left behind.
Let nothing linger after —
No whispering ghost remain,
In wall, or beam, or rafter,
Of any hate or pain:
Cleanse and call home thy spirit,
Deny her leave to cast,
On aught thy heirs inherit,
The shadow of her past.
For think, in all thy sadness,
What road our griefs may take;
Whose brain reflect our madness,
Or whom our terrors shake.
For think, lest any languish
By cause of thy distress
The arrows of our anguish
Fly farther than we guess.
Our lives, our tears, as water,
Are spilled upon the ground;
God giveth no man quarter,
Yet God a means hath found;
Though faith and hope have vanished,
And even love grows dim;
A means whereby His banished
Be not expelled from Him!
ABAFT THE FUNNEL
In 1909 Kipling was forced by his publishers to allow this collection of stories and one poem to be printed. He had not intended that these particular items should be republished after their original appearance in the Civil and Military Gazette, the Pioneer and Pioneer Mail, the Week’s News, and the C&MG ‘Turnovers’ between 1888 and 1890.
The first edition
CONTENTS
ERASTASIUS OF THE WHANGHOA
HER LITTLE RESPONSIBILITY
A MENAGERIE ABOARD
A SMOKE OF MANILA
THE RED LAMP
THE SHADOW OF HIS HAND
A LITTLE MORE BEEF
THE HISTORY OF A FALL
GRIFFITHS THE SAFE MAN
IT!
A FALLEN IDOL
NEW BROOMS
TIGLATH PILESER
THE LIKES O’ US
HIS BROTHER’S KEEPER
“SLEIPNER,” LATE “THURINDA”
A SUPPLEMENTARY CHAPTER
CHATAUQUAED
THE BOW FLUME CABLE-CAR
IN PARTIBUS
LETTERS ON LEAVE
THE ADORATION OF THE MAGE
A DEATH IN THE CAMP
A REALLY GOOD TIME
ON EXHIBITION
THE THREE YOUNG MEN
MY GREAT AND ONLY
“THE BETRAYAL OF CONFIDENCES”
THE NEW DISPENSATION — I
THE NEW DISPENSATION — II
THE LAST OF THE STORIES
PREFACE
THE measure of a man’s popularity is not always — or indeed seldom — the measure of his intrinsic worth. So, when the earlier work of any writer is gathered together in more enduring form, catering to the enthusiasm of his readers in his maturer years, there is always a suspicion that the venture is purely a commercial one, without literary justification.
Fortunately these stories of Mr. Kipling’s form their own best excuse for this, their first appearance together in book form. Not merely because in them may be traced the origin of that style and subject matter that later made their author famous; but because the stories are in themselves worth while — worth writing, worth reading. “The Likes o’ Us” is as true to the type as any of the immortal Mulvaney stories; the beginning of “New Brooms” is as succinctly fine as any prose Mr. Ivipling ever wrote; for searching out and presenting such splendid pieces of fiction as “Sleipner, late Thurinda,” and “A Little More Beef” to a public larger than their original one in India, no apology is necessary.
ERASTASIUS OF THE WHANGHOA
THE old cat’s tumbled down the I ventilator, sir, and he’s swearing away under the furnace- door in the stoke-hole,” said the second officer to the Captain of the Whanghoa.
“Now what in thunder was Erastasius doing at the mouth of the ventilator? It’s four feet from the ground and painted red at that. Any of the children been amusing themselves with him, d’you think? I wouldn’t have Erastasius disturbed in his inside for all the gold in the treasury,” said the Captain. “Tell some one to bring him up, and handle him delicately, for he’s not a quiet beast.”
In three minutes a bucket appeared on deck.
It was covered with a wooden lid. “Think he have make die this time,” said the Chinese sailor who carried the coffin, with a grin. “Catchee him topside coals — no open eye — no spit — no sclatchee my. Have got bucket, allee same, and make tight. See!”
He dived his bare arm under the lid, but withdrew it with a yell, dropping the bucket at the same time. “Hya! Can do. Maskec dlop down — masky spilum coal. Have catchee my light there.”
Blood was trickling from his elbow. He moved aft, while the bucket, mysteriously worked by hidden force, trundled to and fro across the decks, swearing aloud.
Emerged finally Erastasius, tom-cat and grandfather-in-chief of the Whanghoa — a gaunt brindled beast, lacking one ear, with every hair on his body armed and erect. He was patched witli coal-dust, very stiff and sore all over, and very anxious to take the world into his confidence as to his wrongs. For this reason he did not run when he was clear of the bucket, but sitting on his hunkers regarded the Captain, as who would say: “You hold a master’s certificate and call yourself a seaman, and yet you allow this sort of thing on your boat.”
“Guess I must apologise, old man,” said the Captain gravely. “Those ventilators are a little too broad in the beam for a passenger of your build. What made you walk down it? Not a rat, eh? You’re too well fed to trouble of rats. Drink was it.”
Erastasius turned his back on the Captain. He was a tailless Japanese cat, and the abruptness of his termination gave him a specially brusque appearance.
“Shouldn’t wonder if the old man hasn’t been stealing something and was getting away from the galley. He’s the biggest reprobate that ever shipped — and that’s saying something. No, he isn’t my property exactly. I’ve got a notion that he owns the ship. Gathered that from the way he goes round after six bells to see the lights out. The chief engineer says he built the engines. Anyway, the old man sits in the engine-room and sort of keeps an or smoked opium. We had bad weather at the start, and the steerage were powerful sick. I judged they would have no insides to them when the weather lifted, so I didn’t put any guards on them. Wanted all my men to work the ship. Engines rotten as Congress, and under sail half the time. Next time I carry Chinese steerage trash I’ll hire a Gatling and mount it on the ‘tween-decks hatch.
“We were fooling about between islands — about a hundred and fifty thousand islands all wrapped up in fog. When the fog laid the wind, the engines broke down. One of the passengers — we carried no ladies that journey — came to me one evening. ‘I calculate there’s a conspiracy ‘tween-decks,’ he said. ‘Those pigtails are talking together. No good ever came of pigtails talking. I’m from ‘Frisco. I authoritate on these matters.’ ‘Not on this ship/ I said: ‘I’ve no use for duplicate authority.’ ‘You’ll be homesick after nine this time to-morrow,’ he said and quit. I guess he told the other passengers his notions.
“Erastasius shared my cabin in general. I
didn’t care to dispute with a cat that went heeled the way he did. That particular night when I came down he was not inclined for repose. When I shut the door he scrabbled till I let him out. When he was out he scrabbled to come back. When he was back, he jumped all round the shanty yowling. I stroked him, and the sparks irrigated his back as if ‘twas the smoke-stack of a river steamer. ‘I’ll get you a wife, old man,’ I said, ‘next voyage. It is no good for you to be alone with me.’ ‘Whoopee, yoopee-yaw-aw-aw/ said Erastasius. ‘Let me get out of this.’ I looked him square between the eyes to fix the place where I’d come down with a boot-heel (he was getting monotonous), and as I looked I saw the animal was just possessed with deadly fear — human fear — crawling, shaking fear. It crept out of the green of his eyes and crept over me in billowing waves — each wave colder than the last. ‘Unburden your mind, Erastasius,’ I said. ‘What’s going to happen?’ ‘Wheepee-yeepee-ya-ya-ya-woop!’ said Erastasius, backing to the door and scratching.
“I quit my cabin sweating big drops, and somehow my hand shut on my six-shooter. The grip of the handle soothes a man when he is afraid. I heard the whole ship ‘tween-decks rustling under me like all the woods of Maine when the wind’s up. The lamp over the ‘tween-decks was out. The steerage watchman was lying on the ground, and the whole hive of Celestials were on the tramp — soft- footed hounds. A lantern came down the alleyway. Behind it was the passenger that had spoken to me, and all the rest of the crowd, except the half-caste.
“‘Are you homesick any now?’ said my passenger. The ‘tween-decks woke up with a yell at the light, and some one fired up the hatchway. Then we began our share of the fun — the ten passengers and I. Eleven six-shooters. That cleared the first rush of the pigtails, but we continued firing on principle, working our way down the steps. No one came down from the spar-deck to assist, though I heard considerable of a trampling. The pigtails below were growling like cats. I heard the lookout man shout, ‘Junk on the port bow,’ and the bell ring in the engine-room for full speed ahead. Then we struck something, and there was a yell inside and outside the ship that would have lifted your hair out. When the outside yell stopped, our pigtails were on their faces. ‘Run down a junk,’ said my passenger — etheir junk.’ He loosed three shots into the steerage on the strength of it. I went up on deck when things were quiet below. Some one had run our Dahlgren signal-gun forward and pointed it to the break of the fo’c’sle. There was the balance of a war junk — three spars and a head or two on the water, and the first mate keeping his watch in regular style.
“‘What is your share?’ he said. ‘We’ve smashed up a junk that tried to foul us. Seems to have affected the feelings of your friends below. Guess they wanted to make connection.’ ‘It is made,’ said I, ‘on the Glassy Sea. Where’s the watch?’ ‘In the fo’c’sle. The half- caste is sitting on the signal-gun smoking his cigar. The watch are speculatin’ whether he’ll stick the business-end of it in the touch-hole or continue smoking. I gather that gun is not empty.’ ‘Send ‘em down below to wash decks. Tell the quartermaster to go through their boxes while they are away. They may have implements.’
“The watch went below to clean things up. There were eighteen stiff uns and fourteen with holes through their systems. Some died, some survived. I did not keep particular count. The balance I roped up, and it employed most of our spare rigging. When we touched port there was a picnic among the hangmen. Seems that Erastasius had been yowling down the cabins all night before he came to me, and kept the passengers alive. The man that spoke to me said the old man’s eyes were awful to look at. He was dying to tell his fear, but couldn’t. When the passengers came forward with the light, the half-caste quit for topside and got the quartermaster to load the signal-gun with handspikes and bring it forward in case the fo’c’sle wished to assist in the row. That was the best half-caste I ever met. But the fo’c’sle didn’t assist. They were sick. So were the men below — horror-sick. That was the way the old man saved the Whanghoa “
HER LITTLE RESPONSIBILITY
And No Man May Answer for the Soul of His Brother.
IT was two in the morning, and Epstin’s Dive was almost empty, when a Thing staggered down the steps that led to that horrible place and fawned on me disgustingly for the price of a drink. “I’m dying of thirst,” he said, but his tone was not that of a street loafer. There is a freemasonry, the freemasonry of the public schools, stronger than any that the Craft knows. The Thing drank whisky raw, which in itself is not calculated to slake thirst, and I waited at its side because I knew, by virtue of the one sentence above recorded, that it once belonged to my caste. Indeed, so small is the world when one begins to travel round it, that, for aught I
knew, I might even have met the Thing in that menagerie of carefully-trained wild beasts, Decent Society. And the Thing drank more whisky ere the flood-gates of its speech were loosed and spoke of the wonderful story of its fall.
Never man, he said, had suffered more than he, or for slighter sin. Whereat I winked beer- ily into the bottom of my empty glass, having heard that tale before. I think the Thing had been long divided from all social and moral restraint — even longer from the wholesome influence of soap and water.
“What I feel most down here,” said It, and by “down here” I presume he meant the Inferno of his own wretchedness, “is the difficulty about getting a bath. A man can always catch a free lunch at any of the bars in the city, if he has money enough to buy a drink with, and you can sleep out for six or eight months of the year without harm, but San Francisco doesn’t run to free baths. It’s not an amusing life any way you look at it. I’m more or less used to things, but it hurts me even now to meet a decent man who knows something of life in the old country. I was raised at Harrow — Harrow, if you please — and I’m not five-and- twenty yet, and I haven’t got a penny, and I haven’t .got a friend, and there is nothing in creation that I can command except a drink, and I have to beg for that. Have you ever begged for a drink? It hurts at first, but you get used to it. My father’s a parson. I don’t think he knows I beg drink. He lives near Salisbury. Do you know Salisbury at all? And then there’s my mother, too. But I have not heard from either of them for a couple of years. They think I’m in a real estate office in Washington Territory, coining money hand over fist. If ever you run across them — I suppose you will some day — there’s the address. Tell them that you’ve seen me, and that I am well and fit. Understand? — well and fit. I guess I’ll be dead by the time you see ‘em. That’s hard. Men oughtn’t to die at five-and- twenty — of drink. Say, were you ever mashed on a girl? Not one of these you see, girls out here, but an English one — the sort of girl one meets at the Vicarage tennis-party, don’t you know. A girl of our own set. I don’t mean mashed exactly, but dead, clean gone, head over ears; and worse than that I was once, and I fancy I took the thing pretty much as I take liquor now. I didn’t know when to stop. It didn’t seem to me that there was any reason for stopping in affairs of that kind. I’m quite sure there’s no reason for stopping half-way with liquor. Go the whole hog and die. It’s all right, though — I’m not going to get drunk here. Five in the morning will suit me just as well, and I haven’t the chance of talking to one of you fellows often. So you cut about in fine clothes, do you, and take your drinks at the best bars and put up at the Palace? All Englishmen do. Well, here’s luck; you may be what I am one of these days. You’ll find companions quite as well raised as yourself.
“But about this girl. Don’t do what I did. I fell in love with her. She lived near us in Salisbury; that was when I had a clean shirt every day and hired horses to ride. One of the guineas I spent on that amusement would keep me for a week here. But about this girl. I don’t think some men ought to be allowed to fall in love any more than they ought to be allowed to taste whisky. She said she cared for me. Used to say that about a thousand times a day, with a kiss in between. I think about those things now, and they make me nearly as drunk as the whisky does. Do you know anything about that love-making business? I stole a copy of Cleopatra off a.bookstall in Kearney Street, and that priest-chap says a very true thing about it. You can’t stop when it’s once started, and when it’s all over you can’t give it up at the word of command. I forget the precise language. That girl cared for me. I’d give something if she could see me now. She doesn’t like men without collars and odd boots and somebody else’s hat; but anyhow she made me what I am, and some day she’ll know it. I came out here two years ago to a real estate office; my father bought me some sort of a place in the firm. We were all Englishmen, but we were about a match for an average Yankee; but I forgot to tell you I was engaged to the girl before I came out. Never you make a woman swear oaths of eternal constancy. She’ll break every one of them as soon as her mind changes, and call you unjust for making her swear them. I worked enough for five men in my first year. I got a little house and lot in Tacoma fit for any woman. I never drank, I hardly ever smoked, I sold real estate all day, and wrote letters at night. She wrote letters, too, about as full of affection as they make ‘em. You can tell nothing from a woman’s letter, though. If they want to hide anything, they just double the ‘dears’ and ‘darlings,’ and then giggle when the man fancies himself deceived.
