Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated), page 645
Naturally Mr. King considered this was an attempt to undermine his authority, and, instead of beginning dictation at once, delivered a lecture on the spirit in which examinations should be approached. As the storm subsided, Beetle fanned it afresh.
“Eh? What? What was that you were saying to MacLagan?”
“I only said I thought the papers ought to have been looked at before they were given out, sir.”
“Hear, hear!” from a back bench. Mr. King wished to know whether Beetle took it upon himself personally to conduct the traditions of the school. His zeal for knowledge ate up another fifteen minutes, during which the prefects showed unmistakable signs of boredom.
“Oh, it was a giddy time,” said Beetle, afterwards, in dismantled Number Five. “He gibbered a bit, and I kept him on the gibber, and then he dictated about a half of Dolabella & Co.”
“Good old Dolabella! Friend of mine. Yes?” said Stalky, pensively.
“Then we had to ask him how every other word was spelt, of course, and he gibbered a lot more. He cursed me and MacLagan (Mac played up like a trump) and Randall, and the ‘materialized ignorance of the unscholarly middle classes,’ ‘lust for mere marks,’ and all the rest. It was what you might call a final exhibition — a last attack — a giddy par-ergon.”
“But o’ course he was blind squiffy when he wrote the paper. I hope you explained that?” said Stalky.
“Oh, yes. I told Tulke so. I said an immoral prefect an’ a drunken house-master were legitimate inferences. Tulke nearly blubbed. He’s awfully shy of us since Mary’s time.”
Tulke preserved that modesty till the last moment — till the journey-money had been paid, and the boys were filling the brakes that took them to the station. Then the three tenderly constrained him to wait a while.
“You see, Tulke, you may be a prefect,” said Stalky, “but I’ve left the Coll. Do you see, Tulke, dear?”
“Yes, I see. Don’t bear malice, Stalky.”
“Stalky? Curse your impudence, you young cub,” shouted Stalky, magnificent in top-hat, stiff collar, spats, and high-waisted, snuff-colored ulster. “I want you to understand that I’m Mister Corkran, an’ you’re a dirty little schoolboy.”
“Besides bein’ frabjously immoral,” said McTurk. “Wonder you aren’t ashamed to foist your company on pure-minded boys like us.”
“Come on, Tulke,’ cried Naughten, from the prefects’ brake.
“Yes, we’re comin’. Shove up and make room, you Collegers. You’ve all got to be back next term, with your ‘Yes, sir,’ and ‘Oh, sir,’ an’ ‘No sir’ an’ ‘Please sir’; but before we say good-by we’re going to tell you a little story. Go on, Dickie” (this to the driver); “we’re quite ready. Kick that hat-box under the seat, an’ don’t crowd your Uncle Stalky.”
“As nice a lot of high-minded youngsters as you’d wish to see,” said McTurk, gazing round with bland patronage. “A trifle immoral, but then — boys will be boys. It’s no good tryin’ to look stuffy, Carson. Mister Corkran will now oblige with the story of Tulke an’ Mary Yeo!”
SLAVES OF THE LAMP: PART II.
That very Infant who told the story of the capture of Boh Na Ghee [A Conference of the Powers: “Many Inventions”] to Eustace Cleaver, novelist, inherited an estateful baronetcy, with vast revenues, resigned the service, and became a landholder, while his mother stood guard over him to see that he married the right girl. But, new to his position, he presented the local volunteers with a full-sized magazine-rifle range, two miles long, across the heart of his estate, and the surrounding families, who lived in savage seclusion among woods full of pheasants, regarded him as an erring maniac. The noise of the firing disturbed their poultry, and Infant was cast out from the society of J.P.’s and decent men till such time as a daughter of the county might lure him back to right thinking. He took his revenge by filling the house with choice selections of old schoolmates home on leave — affable detrimentals, at whom the bicycle-riding maidens of the surrounding families were allowed to look from afar. I knew when a troop-ship was in port by the Infant’s invitations. Sometimes he would produce old friends of equal seniority; at others, young and blushing giants whom I had left small fags far down in the Lower Second; and to these Infant and the elders expounded the whole duty of man in the Army.
“I’ve had to cut the service,” said the Infant; “but that’s no reason why my vast stores of experience should be lost to posterity.” He was just thirty, and in that same summer an imperious wire drew me to his baronial castle: “Got good haul; ex Tamar. Come along.”
It was an unusually good haul, arranged with a single eye to my benefit. There was a baldish, broken-down captain of Native Infantry, shivering with ague behind an indomitable red nose — and they called him Captain Dickson. There was another captain, also of Native Infantry, with a fair mustache; his face was like white glass, and his hands were fragile, but he answered joyfully to the cry of Tertius. There was an enormously big and well-kept man, who had evidently not campaigned for years, clean-shaved, soft-voiced, and cat-like, but still Abanazar for all that he adorned the Indian Political Service; and there was a lean Irishman, his face tanned blue-black with the suns of the Telegraph Department. Luckily the baize doors of the bachelors’ wing fitted tight, for we dressed promiscuously in the corridor or in each other’s rooms, talking, calling, shouting, and anon waltzing by pairs to songs of Dick Four’s own devising.
There were sixty years of mixed work to be sifted out between us, and since we had met one another from time to time in the quick scene-shifting of India — a dinner, camp, or a race-meeting here; a dak-bungalow or railway station up country somewhere else — we had never quite lost touch. Infant sat on the banisters, hungrily and enviously drinking it in. He enjoyed his baronetcy, but his heart yearned for the old days.
It was a cheerful babel of matters personal, provincial, and imperial, pieces of old call-over lists, and new policies, cut short by the roar of a Burmese gong, and we went down not less than a quarter of a mile of stairs to meet Infant’s mother, who had known us all in our school-days and greeted us as if those had ended a week ago. But it was fifteen years since, with tears of laughter, she had lent me a gray princess-skirt for amateur theatricals.
That was a dinner from the “Arabian Nights,” served in an eighty-foot hall full of ancestors and pots of flowering roses, and, what was more impressive, heated by steam. When it was ended and the little mother had gone away — (“You boys want to talk, so I shall say good-night now”) — we gathered about an apple-wood fire, in a gigantic polished steel grate, under a mantel-piece ten feet high, and the Infant compassed us about with curious liqueurs and that kind of cigarette which serves best to introduce your own pipe.
“Oh, bliss!” grunted Dick Four from a sofa, where he had been packed with a rug over him. “First time I’ve been warm since I came home.”
We were all nearly on top of the fire, except Infant, who had been long enough at home to take exercise when he felt chilled. This is a grisly diversion, but much affected by the English of the Island.
“If you say a word about cold tubs and brisk walks,” drawled McTurk, “I’ll kill you, Infant. I’ve got a liver, too. ‘Member when we used to think it a treat to turn out of our beds on a Sunday morning — thermometer fifty-seven degrees if it was summer — and bathe off the Pebbleridge? Ugh!”
“‘Thing I don’t understand,” said Tertius, “was the way we chaps used to go down into the lavatories, boil ourselves pink, and then come up with all our pores open into a young snow-storm or a black frost. Yet none of our chaps died, that I can remember.”
“Talkin’ of baths,” said McTurk, with a chuckle, “‘member our bath in Number Five, Beetle, the night Rabbits-Eggs rocked King? What wouldn’t I give to see old Stalky now! He is the only one of the two Studies not here.”
“Stalky is the great man of his Century,” said Dick Four.
“How d’you know?” I asked.
“How do I know?” said Dick Four, scornfully. “If you’ve ever been in a tight place with Stalky you wouldn’t ask.”
“I haven’t seen him since the camp at Pindi in ‘87,” I said. “He was goin’ strong then — about seven feet high and four feet through.”
“Adequate chap. Infernally adequate,” said Tertius, pulling his mustache and staring into the fire.
“Got dam’ near court-martialed and broke in Egypt in ‘84,” the Infant volunteered. “I went out in the same trooper with him — as raw as he was. Only I showed it, and Stalky didn’t.”
“What was the trouble?” said McTurk, reaching forward absently to twitch my dress-tie into position.
“Oh, nothing. His colonel trusted him to take twenty Tommies out to wash, or groom camels, or something at the back of Suakin, and Stalky got embroiled with Fuzzies five miles in the interior. He conducted a masterly retreat and wiped up eight of ‘em. He knew jolly well he’d no right to go out so far, so he took the initiative and pitched in a letter to his colonel, who was frothing at the mouth, complaining of the ‘paucity of support accorded to him in his operations.’ Gad, it might have been one fat brigadier slangin’ another! Then he went into the Staff Corps.”
“That — is — entirely — Stalky,” said Abanazar from his arm-chair.
“You’ve come across him, too?” I said.
“Oh, yes,” he replied in his softest tones. “I was at the tail of that — that epic. Don’t you chaps know?”
We did not — Infant, McTurk, and I; and we called for information very politely.
“‘Twasn’t anything,” said Tertius. “We got into a mess up in the Khye-Kheen Hills a couple o’ years ago, and Stalky pulled us through. That’s all.”
McTurk gazed at Tertius with all an Irishman’s contempt for the tongue-tied Saxon.
“Heavens!” he said. “And it’s you and your likes govern Ireland. Tertius, aren’t you ashamed?”
“Well, I can’t tell a yarn. I can chip in when the other fellow starts bukhing. Ask him.” He pointed to Dick Four, whose nose gleamed scornfully over the rug.
“I knew you wouldn’t,” said Dick Four. “Give me a whiskey and soda. I’ve been drinking lemon-squash and ammoniated quinine while you chaps were bathin’ in champagne, and my head’s singin’ like a top.”
He wiped his ragged mustache above the drink; and, his teeth chattering in his head, began: “You know the Khye-Kheen-Malo’t expedition, when we scared the souls out of ‘em with a field force they daren’t fight against? Well, both tribes — there was a coalition against us — came in without firing a shot; and a lot of hairy villains, who had no more power over their men than I had, promised and vowed all sorts of things. On that very slender evidence, Pussy dear — ”
“I was at Simla,” said Abanazar, hastily.
“Never mind, you’re tarred with the same brush. On the strength of those tuppenny-ha’penny treaties, your asses of Politicals reported the country as pacified, and the Government, being a fool, as usual, began road-makin’ — dependin’ on local supply for labor. ‘Member that, Pussy? ‘Rest of our chaps who’d had no look-in during the campaign didn’t think there’d be any more of it, and were anxious to get back to India. But I’d been in two of these little rows before, and I had my suspicions. I engineered myself, summa ingenio, into command of a road-patrol — no shovellin’, only marching up and down genteelly with a guard. They’d withdrawn all the troops they could, but I nucleused about forty Pathans, recruits chiefly, of my regiment, and sat tight at the base-camp while the road-parties went to work, as per Political survey.”
“Had some rippin’ sing-songs in camp, too,” said Tertius.
“My pup” — thus did Dick Four refer to his subaltern — ”was a pious little beast. He didn’t like the sing-songs, and so he went down with pneumonia. I rootled round the camp, and found Tertius gassing about as a D.A.Q.M.G., which, God knows, he isn’t cut out for. There were six or eight of the old Coll. at base-camp (we’re always in force for a frontier row), but I’d heard of Tertius as a steady old hack, and I told him he had to shake off his D.A.Q.M.G. breeches and help me. Tertius volunteered like a shot, and we settled it with the authorities, and out we went — forty Pathans, Tertius, and me, looking up the road-parties. Macnamara’s — ’member old Mac, the Sapper, who played the fiddle so damnably at Umballa? — Mac’s party was the last but one. The last was Stalky’s. He was at the head of the road with some of his pet Sikhs. Mac said he believed he was all right.”
“Stalky is a Sikh,” said Tertius. “He takes his men to pray at the Durbar Sahib at Amritzar, regularly as clockwork, when he can.”
“Don’t interrupt, Tertius. It was about forty miles beyond Mac’s before I found him; and my men pointed out gently, but firmly, that the country was risin’. What kind o’ country, Beetle? Well, I’m no word-painter, thank goodness, but you might call it a hellish country! When we weren’t up to our necks in snow, we were rolling down the khud. The well-disposed inhabitants, who were to supply labor for the road-making (don’t forget that, Pussy dear), sat behind rocks and took pot-shots at us. ‘Old, old story! We all legged it in search of Stalky. I had a feeling that he’d be in good cover, and about dusk we found him and his road-party, as snug as a bug in a rug, in an old Malo’t stone fort, with a watch-tower at one corner. It overhung the road they had blasted out of the cliff fifty feet below; and under the road things went down pretty sheer, for five or six hundred feet, into a gorge about half a mile wide and two or three miles long. There were chaps on the other side of the gorge scientifically gettin’ our range. So I hammered on the gate and nipped in, and tripped over Stalky in a greasy, bloody old poshteen, squatting on the ground, eating with his men. I’d only seen him for half a minute about three months before, but I might have met him yesterday. He waved his hand all sereno.
“‘Hullo, Aladdin! Hullo, Emperor!’ he said. ‘You’re just in time for the performance.’”
“I saw his Sikhs looked a bit battered. ‘Where’s your command? Where’s your subaltern?’ I said.
“‘Here — all there is of it,’ said Stalky. ‘If you want young Everett, he’s dead, and his body’s in the watch-tower. They rushed our road-party last week, and got him and seven men. We’ve been besieged for five days. I suppose they let you through to make sure of you. The whole country’s up. ‘Strikes me you’ve walked into a first-class trap.’ He grinned, but neither Tertius nor I could see where the deuce the fun was. We hadn’t any grub for our men, and Stalky had only four days’ whack for his. That came of dependin’ upon your asinine Politicals, Pussy dear, who told us that the inhabitants were friendly.
“To make us quite comfy, Stalky took us up to the watch-tower to see poor Everett’s body, lyin’ in a foot o’ drifted snow. It looked like a girl of fifteen — not a hair on the little fellow’s face. He’d been shot through the temple, but the Malo’ts had left their mark on him. Stalky unbuttoned the tunic, and showed it to us — a rummy sickle-shaped cut on the chest. ‘Member the snow all white on his eyebrows, Tertius? ‘Member when Stalky moved the lamp and it looked as if he was alive?”
“Ye-es,” said Tertius, with a shudder. “‘Member the beastly look on Stalky’s face, though, with his nostrils all blown out, same as he used to look when he was bullyin’ a fag? That was a lovely evening.”
“We held a council of war up there over Everett’s body. Stalky said the Malo’ts and Khye-Kheens were up together; havin’ sunk their blood feuds to settle us. The chaps we’d seen across the gorge were Khye-Kheens. It was about half a mile from them to us as a bullet flies, and they’d made a line of sungars under the brow of the hill to sleep in and starve us out. The Malo’ts, he said, were in front of us promiscuous. There wasn’t good cover behind the fort, or they’d have been there, too. Stalky didn’t mind the Malo’ts half as much as he did the Khye-Kheens. He said the Malo’ts were treacherous curs. What I couldn’t understand was, why in the world the two gangs didn’t join in and rush us. There must have been at least five hundred of ‘em. Stalky said they didn’t trust each other very well, because they were ancestral enemies when they were at home; and the only time they’d tried a rush he’d hove a couple of blasting-charges among ‘em, and that had sickened ‘em a bit.
“It was dark by the time we finished, and Stalky, always serene, said: ‘You command now. I don’t suppose you mind my taking any action I may consider necessary to reprovision the fort?’ I said, ‘Of course not,’ and then the lamp blew out. So Tertius and I had to climb down the tower steps (we didn’t want to stay with Everett) and got back to our men. Stalky had gone off — to count the stores, I supposed. Anyhow, Tertius and I sat up in case of a rush (they were plugging at us pretty generally, you know), relieving each other till the mornin’.
“Mornin’ came. No Stalky. Not a sign of him. I took counsel with his senior native officer — a grand, white-whiskered old chap — Rutton Singh, from Jullunder-way. He only grinned, and said it was all right. Stalky had been out of the fort twice before, somewhere or other, accordin’ to him. He said Stalky ‘ud come back unchipped, and gave me to understand that Stalky was an invulnerable Guru of sorts. All the same, I put the whole command on half rations, and set ‘em to pickin’ out loopholes.
“About noon there was no end of a snow-storm, and the enemy stopped firing. We replied gingerly, because we were awfully short of ammunition. Don’t suppose we fired five shots an hour, but we generally got our man. Well, while I was talking with Rutton Singh I saw Stalky coming down from the watch-tower, rather puffy about the eyes, his poshteen coated with claret-colored ice.
“‘No trustin’ these snow-storms,’ he said. ‘Nip out quick and snaffle what you can get. There’s a certain amount of friction between the Khye-Kheens and the Malo’ts just now.’
