PR 4854 
 
 1890 
 
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 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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THE PHANTOM 'RICKSHAW 
 
 CITY OF DREADFUL NIGHT 
 
 AND OTHER TALES 
 
 BY 
 
 RUDYARD KIPLING 
 
 New York 
 THE LOVELL COMPANY 
 
 23 DuANE Street 
 
mo 
 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 7 
 
 My Own True Ghost Story 43 
 
 The Strange Ride of Morrowbie Jukes 56 
 
 The Man Who Would be King 92 
 
 City of the Dreadful Night i 
 
PREFACE 
 
 This is not exactly a book of downright 
 ghost-stories as the cover makes believe. It 
 is rather a collection of facts that never quite 
 explained themselves. All that the collector 
 is certain of is, that one man insisted upon 
 dying because he believed himself to be 
 haunted ; another man either made up a won- 
 derful lie and stuck to it, or visited a very 
 strange place ; while the third man was in- 
 dubitably crucified by some person or persons 
 unknown, and gave an extraordinary account 
 of himself. 
 
 The peculiarity of ghost-stories is that they 
 are never told first-hand. I have managed, 
 with infinite trouble, to secure one exception 
 to this rule. It is not a very good specimen, 
 but you can credit it from beginning to end. 
 The other three stories you must take or 
 trust ; as I did. 
 
 RUDYARD KIPLING. 
 
THE PHANTOM 'RICKSHAW 
 
 May no ill dreams disturb my rest, 
 Nor Powers of Darkness me molest. 
 
 Evening Hymn. 
 
 One of the few advantages that India has 
 over England is a great Knowability. After 
 five years' service a man is directly or in- 
 directly acquainted with the two or three hun- 
 dred Civilians in his Province, all the Messes 
 of ten or twelve Regiments and Batteries, 
 and some fifteen hundred other people of the 
 non-ofiicial caste. In ten years his knowl- 
 edge should be doubled, and at the end of 
 twenty he knows, or knows something about, 
 every Englishman in the Empire, and may 
 travel anywhere and everywhere without pay- 
 ing hotel-bills. 
 
 Globe-trotters who expect entertainment as 
 a right have, even within my memory, blunted 
 this open-heartedness, but none the less to- 
 day, if you belong to the Inner Circle and 
 are neither a Bear nor a Black Sheep, all 
 houses are open to you, and our small world 
 is very, very kind and helpful. 
 
 7 
 
8 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 Rickett of Kamartha stayed with Polder of 
 Kumaon some fifteen years ago. He meant 
 to stay two nights, but was knocked down by 
 rheumatic fever, and for six weeks disorgan- 
 ized Polder's establishment, stopped Polder's 
 work, and nearly died in Polder's bedroom. 
 Polder behaves as though he had been placed 
 under eternal obligation by Rickett, and 
 yearly sends the little Ricketts a box of pres- 
 ents and toys. It is the same everywhere. 
 The men who do not take the trouble to con- 
 ceal from you their opinion that you are an 
 incompetent ass, and the women who blacken 
 your character and misunderstand your wife's 
 amusements, will work themselves to the 
 bone in your behalf if you fall sick or into 
 serious trouble. 
 
 Heatherlegh, the Doctor, kept, in addition 
 to his regular practise, a hospital on his pri- 
 vate account — an arrangement of loose boxes 
 for Incurables, his friend called it — but it was 
 really a sort of fitting-up shed for craft that 
 had been damaged by stress of weather. The 
 weather in India is often sultry, and since the 
 tale of bricks is always a fixed quantity, and 
 the only liberty allowed is permission to work 
 overtime and get no thanks, men occasionally 
 break down and become as mixed as the met- 
 aphors in this sentence. 
 
 Heatherlegh is the dearest doctor that ever 
 was, and his invariable prescription to all his 
 patients is, " lie low, go slow, and keep cool." 
 He says that more men are killed by over- 
 
The Phantom 'Rickshaw 9 
 
 work than the importance of this world justi- 
 fices. He maintains that overwork slew 
 Pansay, who died under his hands about three 
 years ago. He has, of course, the right to 
 speak authoritatively, and he laughs at my 
 theory that there was a crack in Pansay's 
 head and a little bit of the Dark World came 
 through and pressed him to death. " Pansay 
 went off the handle," says Heatherlegh, 
 " after the stimulus of long leave at Home. 
 He may or he may not have behaved like a 
 blackguard to Mrs. Keith-Wessington. My 
 notion is that the work of the Katabundi Set- 
 tlement ran him off his legs, and that he took 
 to brooding and making much of an ordinary 
 P. & O. flirtation. He certainly was engaged 
 to Miss Mannering, and she certainly broke 
 off the engagement. Then he took a feverish 
 chill and all that nonsense about ghosts de- 
 veloped. Overwork started his illness, kept it 
 alight, and killed him, poor devil. Write him 
 off to the System — one man to take the work 
 of two and a half men." 
 
 I do not believe this. I used to sit up 
 with Pansay sometimes when Heatherlegh 
 was called out to patients, and I happened to 
 be within claim. The man would make me 
 most unhappy by describing in a low^ even 
 voice, the procession that was always pass- 
 ing at the bottom of his bed. He had a sick 
 man's command of language. When he re- 
 covered I suggested that he should write out 
 the whole affair from beginning to end, know- 
 
10 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 ing that ink might assist him to ease his mind. 
 When little boys have learned a new bad 
 word they are never happy till they have 
 chalked it up on a door. And this also is 
 Literature. 
 
 He was in a high fever while he was writ- 
 ing, and the blood-and-thunder Magazine 
 diction he adopted did not calm him. Two 
 months afterwards he was reported fit for 
 duty, but, in spite of the fact that he was 
 urgently needed to help an undermanned 
 Commission stagger through a deficit, he pre- 
 ferred to die ; vowing at the last that he was 
 hag-ridden. I got his manuscript before he 
 died, and this is his version of the affair, 
 dated 1885 :— 
 
 My doctor tells me that I need rest and 
 change of air. It is not improbable that I 
 shall get both ere long — rest that neither the 
 red-coated messenger nor the midday gun 
 can break, and change of air far beyond that 
 which any homeward-bound steamer can give 
 me. In the meantime I am resolved to stay 
 where I am ; and, in flat defiance of my 
 doctor's orders, to take all the world into my 
 confidence. You shall learn for yourselves 
 the precise nature of my malady ; and shall, 
 too, judge for yourselves whether any man 
 born of woman on this weary earth was ever 
 so tormented as I. 
 
 Speaking now as a condemned criminal 
 might speak ere the drop-bolts are drawn, my 
 
The Phantom 'Rickshaw ii 
 
 story, wild and hideously improbable as it 
 may appear, demands at least attention. 
 That it will ever receive credence I utterly 
 disbelieve. Two months ago I should have 
 scouted as mad or drunk the man who had 
 dared tell me the like. Two months ago I 
 was the happiest man in India. To-day, from 
 Peshawar to the sea, there is no one more 
 wretched. My doctor and I are the only two 
 who know this. His explanation is, that my 
 brain, digestion, and eyesight are all slightly 
 affected ; giving rise to my frequent and persist- 
 ent " delusions. " Delusions, indeed ! I call 
 him a fool; but he attends me still with the 
 same unwearied smile, the same bland pro- 
 fessional manner, the same neatly-trimmed 
 red whiskers, till I begin to suspect that I am 
 an ungrateful, evil-tempered invalid. But you 
 shall judge for yourselves. 
 
 Three years ago it was my fortune — my 
 great misfortune — to sail from Gravesend to 
 Bombay, on return from long leave, with one 
 Agnes Keith-Wessington, wife of an officer on 
 the Bombay side. It does not in the least 
 concern you to know what manner of woman 
 she was. Be content with the knowledge 
 that, ere the voyage had ended, both she and 
 I were desperately and unreasoningly in love 
 with one another. Heaven knows that I can 
 make the admission now without one particle 
 of vanity. In matters of this sort there is al- 
 ways one who gives and another who accepts. 
 From the first day of our ill-omened attach- 
 
12 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 ment, I was conscious that Agnes's passion 
 was a stronger, a more dominant, and — if I 
 may use the expression — a purer sentiment 
 than mine. Whether she recognized the fact 
 then, I do not know. Afterwards it was 
 bitterly plain to both of us. 
 
 Arrived at Bombay in the spring of the year, 
 we went our respective ways, to meet no more 
 for the next three or four months, when my 
 leave and her love took us both to Simla. 
 There we spent the season together ; and 
 there my fire of straw burnt itself out to a piti- 
 ful end with the closing year. I attempt no 
 excuse. I make no apology. Mrs. Wessing- 
 ton had given up much for my sake, and was 
 prepared to give up all. From my own lips, 
 in August, 1882, she learnt that I was sick 
 of her presence, tired of her company, and 
 weary of the sound of her voice. Ninety-nine 
 women out of a hundred would have wearied 
 of me as I wearied of them ; seventy-five of 
 that number would have promptly avenged 
 themselves by active and obtrusive flirtation 
 with other men. Mrs. W^essington was the 
 hundredth. On her neither my openly ex- 
 pressed aversion nor the cutting brutalities 
 with which I garnished our interviews had the 
 least effect. 
 
 " Jack, darling ! " was her one eternal 
 cuckoo cry : " I'm sure it's all a mistake — a 
 hideous mistake ; and we'll be good friends 
 again some day. Please forgive me. Jack, 
 dear." 
 
The Phantom 'Rickshaw 13 
 
 I was the offender, and I knew it. That 
 knowledge transformed my pity into passive 
 endurance, and, eventually, into blind hate 
 — the same instinct, I suppose, which prompts 
 a man to savagely stamp on the spider he has 
 but half killed. And with this hate in my 
 bosom the season of 1882 came to an end. 
 
 Next year we met again at Simla — she with 
 her monotonous face and timid attempts at 
 reconciliation, and I with loathing of her in 
 every fiber of my frame. Several times I 
 could not avoid meeting her alone; and on 
 each occasion her words were identically the 
 same. Still the unreasoning wail that it was 
 all a " mistake ; " and still the hope of event- 
 ually " making friends." I might have seen, 
 had I cared to look, that that hope only was 
 keeping her alive. She grew more wan and 
 thin month by month. You will agree with 
 me, at least, that such conduct would have 
 driven any one to despair. It was uncalled for ; 
 childish ; unwomanly. I maintain that she 
 was much to blame. And again, sometimes, 
 in the black, fever-stricken night watches, 
 I have begun to think that I might have been 
 a little kinder to her. But that really is a 
 " delusion." I could not have continued pre- 
 tending to love her when I didn't ; could I ? 
 It would have been unfair to us both. 
 
 Last year we met again — on the same terms 
 as before. The same weary appeals, and the 
 same curt answers from my lips. At least I 
 would make her see how wholly wrong and 
 
14 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 hopeless were her attempts at resuming the 
 old relationship. As the season wore on, we 
 fell apart — that is to say, she found it difficult 
 to meet me, for I had other and more absorb- 
 ing interests to attend to. When I think it 
 over quietly in my sick-room, the season of 
 1884 seems a confused nightmare wherein 
 light and shade were fantastically intermingled 
 — my courtship of little Kitty Mannering ; my 
 hopes, doubts, and fears ; our long rides to- 
 gether ; my trembling avowal of attachment ; 
 her reply ; and now and again a vision of a 
 white face flitting by in the 'rickshaw with the 
 black and white liveries I once watched for 
 so earnestly ; the wave of Mrs. Wessington's 
 gloved hand ; and, when she met me alone, 
 which was but seldom, the irksome monotony 
 of her appeal. I loved Kitty Mannering; 
 honestly, heartily loved her, and with my love 
 for her grew my hatred for Agnes. In August, 
 Kitty and I were engaged. The next day I 
 met those accursed " magpie " jhampaiiies at 
 the back of Jakko, and, moved by some pass- 
 ing sentiment of pity, stopped to tell Mrs. 
 Wessington everything. She knew it already. 
 
 " So I hear you're engaged. Jack dear." 
 Then, without a moment's pause : — " I'm sure 
 it's all a mistake — a hideous mistake. We 
 shall be as good friends some day, Jack, as 
 we ever were." 
 
 My answer might have made even a man 
 wince. It cut the dying woman before me like 
 the blow of a whip. 
 
The Phantom 'Rickshaw 15 
 
 " Please forgive me, Jack ; I didn't mean 
 to make you angry ; but it's true, it's true ! " 
 
 And Mrs. Wessington broke down com- 
 pletely. I turned away and left her to finish 
 her journey in peace, feeling, but only for a 
 moment or two, that I had been an unutterably 
 mean hound. I looked back^ and saw that 
 she had turned her 'rickshaw with the idea, I 
 suppose, of overtaking me. 
 
 The scene and its surroundings were photo- 
 graphed on my memory. The rain-swept sky 
 (we were at the end of the wet weather), the 
 sodden, dingy pines, the muddy road, and the 
 black powder-riven cliffs formed a gloomy 
 background against which the black and 
 white liveries of i\\Qj'hampanies, the yellow- 
 paneled 'rickshaw and Mrs. Wessington's 
 down-bowed golden head stood out clearly. 
 She was holding her handkerchief in her left 
 hand and was leaning back exhausted against 
 the 'rickshaw cushions. I turned my horse 
 up a by-path near the Sanjowlie Reservoir and 
 literally ran away. Once I fancied I heard a 
 faint call of '' Jack ! " This may have been 
 imagination. I never stopped to verify it. 
 Ten minutes later I came across Kitty on 
 horseback ; and, in the delight of a long ride 
 with her, forgot all about the interview. 
 
 A week later Mrs. Wessington died, and 
 the inexpressible burden of her existence was 
 removed from my life. I went Plainsward 
 perfectly happy. Before three months were 
 over I had forgotten all about her, except that 
 
1 6 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 at times the discover}^ of some of her old 
 letters reminded me unpleasantly of our b}'- 
 gone relationship. By January I had disin- 
 terred what was left of our correspondence 
 from among my scattered belongings and had 
 burnt it. At the beginning of April of this 
 year, 1885, I was at Simla — semi-deserted 
 Simla — once more, and was deep in lover's 
 talks and walks with Kitty. It was decided 
 that we should be married at the end of June, 
 You will understand, therefore, that, loving 
 Kitty as I did, I am not saying too much 
 when I pronounce myself to have been, at 
 that time, the happiest man in India. 
 
 Fourteen delightful days passed almost 
 before I noticed their flight. Then, aroused 
 to the sense of what was proper among mor- 
 tals circumstanced as we were, I pointed out 
 to Kitty that an engagement ring was the out- 
 ward and visible sign of her dignity as an en- 
 gaged girl ; and that she must forthwith come 
 to Hamilton's to be measured for one. Up 
 to that moment, I give you my word, we had 
 completely forgotten so trivial a matter. To 
 Hamilton's we accordingly went on the 15th 
 of April, 1885. Remember that — whatever 
 my doctor may say to the contrary — I was 
 then in perfect health, enjoying a well-bal- 
 anced mind and an absolutely tranquil spirit. 
 Kitty and I entered Hamilton's shop together, 
 and there, regardless of the order of affairs, 
 I measured Kitty for the ring in the presence 
 of the amused assistant. The ring was a sap- 
 
The Phantom 'Rickshaw 17 
 
 phire with two diamonds. We then rode out 
 down the slope that leads to the Combermere 
 Bridge and Peliti's shop. 
 
 While my Waler was cautiously feeling his 
 way over the loose shale, and Kitty was laugh- 
 ing and chattering at my side — while all Simla 
 that is to say as much of it as had then come 
 from the Plains, was grouped round the Read- 
 ing-room and Peliti's veranda, — I was aware 
 that some one, apparently at a vast distance, 
 was calling me by my Christian name. It 
 struck me that I had heard the voice before, but 
 when and where I could not at once deter- 
 mine. In the short space it took to cover the 
 road between the path from Hamilton's shop 
 and the first plank of the Combermere Bridge 
 I had thought over half a dozen people who 
 might have committed such a solecism, and 
 had eventually decided that it must have been 
 some singing in my ears. Immediately op- 
 posite Peliti's shop my eye was arrested by 
 the sight of four jhainpaiiies in " magpie " 
 livery, pulling a yellows-paneled, cheap, bazar 
 'rickshaw. In a moment my mind flew back 
 to the previous season and Mrs. Wessington 
 with a sense of irritation and disgust. Was 
 it not enough that the woman was dead and 
 done with, without her black and white ser- 
 vitors reappearing to spoil the day's happi- 
 ness ? Whoever employed them now I thought 
 I would call upon, and ask as a personal favor 
 to change her jhampaiiies livery. I would 
 hire the men myself, and, if necessary, buy 
 2 
 
1 8 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 their coats from off their backs. It is impos- 
 sible to say here what a flood of undesirable 
 memories their presence evoked. 
 
 " Kitty," I cried, " there are poor Mrs.- 
 Wessington'sy/^^/^^/^/^/Vj- turned up again! I 
 wonder who has them now ? " 
 
 Kitty had known Mrs. Wessington slightly 
 last season, and had always been interested 
 in the sickly woman. 
 
 "What? Where?" she asked. "I can't 
 see them anywhere." 
 
 Even as she spoke, her horse, swerving 
 from a laden mule, threw himself directly in 
 front of the advancing 'rickshaw. I had 
 scarcely time to utter a word of warning, when, 
 to my unutterable horror, horse and rider 
 passed through men and carriage as if they 
 had been thin air. 
 
 " What's the matter ? " cried Kitty ; " what 
 made you call out so foolishly, Jack ? If I 
 am engaged I don't want all creation to know 
 about it. There was lots of space between 
 the mule and the veranda ; and, if you think 
 I can't ride There ! " 
 
 Whereupon wilful Kitty set off, her dainty 
 little head in the air, at a hand-gallop in the 
 direction of the Band-stand ; fully expecting, 
 as she herself afterwards told me, that I should 
 follow her. What was the matter ? Nothing 
 indeed. Either that I was mad or drunk, or 
 that Simla was haunted with devils. I reined 
 in my impatient cob, and turned round. The 
 'rickshaw had turned too, and now stood im- 
 
The Phantom 'Rickshaw 19 
 
 mediately facing me, near the left railing of 
 the Combermere Bridge. 
 
 "Jack! Jack, darling!" There was no 
 mistake about the words this time : they rang 
 through my brain as if they had been shouted 
 in my ear. " It's some hideous mistake, I'm 
 sure. Please forgive me, Jack, and let's be 
 friends again." 
 
 The 'rickshaw-hood had fallen back, and 
 inside, as I hope and pray daily for the death 
 I dread by night, sat Mrs. Keith-VVessington, 
 handkerchief in hand, and golden head bowed 
 on her breast. 
 
 How long I stared motionless I do not 
 know. Finally, I was aroused by my syce 
 taking the Waler's bridle and asking whether 
 I was ill. From the horrible to the common- 
 place is but a step. I tumbled off my horse 
 and dashed, half fainting, into Peliti's for a 
 glass of cherry-brandy. There two or three 
 couples were gathered round the coffee-tables 
 discussing the gossip of the day. Their 
 trivialities were more comforting to me just 
 then than the consolations of religion could 
 have been. I plunged into the midst of the 
 conversation at once ; chatted, laughed, and 
 jested with a face (when I caught a glimpse 
 of it in a mirror) as white and drawn as that 
 of a corpse. Three or four men noticed my 
 condition ; and, evidently setting it down to 
 the results of over-many pegs, charitably en- 
 deavored to draw me apart from the rest of 
 the loungers. But I refused to be led away. 
 
20 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 I wanted the company of my kind — as a child 
 rushes into the midst of the dinner-party after 
 a fright in the dark. I must have talked for 
 about ten minutes or so, though it seemed an 
 eternity to me, when I heard Kitty's clear 
 voice outside inquiring for me. In another 
 minute she had entered the shop, prepared 
 to roundly upbraid me for failing so signally 
 in my duties. Something in my face stopped 
 her. 
 
 " Why, Jack," she cried, " what have you 
 been doing t What has happened } Are you 
 ill ? " Thus driven into a direct lie, I said 
 that the sun had been a little too much for 
 me. It was close upon five o'clock of a cloudy 
 April afternoon, and the sun had been hidden 
 all day. I saw my mistake as soon as the 
 words were out of my mouth ; attempted to 
 recover it ; blundered hopelessly and followed 
 Kitty in a regal rage, out of doors, amid the 
 smiles of my acquaintances. I made some 
 excuse (I have forgotten what) on the score of 
 my feeling faint ; and cantered away to my 
 hotel, leaving Kitty to finish the ride by her- 
 self. 
 
 In my room I sat down and tried calmly to 
 reason out the matter. Here was I, Theo- 
 bald Jack Pansay, a well-educated Bengal 
 Civilian in the year of grace 1885, presumably 
 sane, certainly healthy, driven in terror from 
 my sweetheart's side by the apparition of a 
 woman who had been dead and buried eight 
 months ago. These were facts that I could 
 
The Phantom 'Rickshaw 21 
 
 not blink. Nothing was further from my 
 thought than any memory of Mrs. Wessington 
 when Kitty and I left Hamilton's shop. 
 Nothing was more utterly commonplace than 
 the stretch of wall opposite Peliti's. It was 
 broad daylight. The road was full of people ; 
 and yet here, look you, in defiance of every 
 law of probability, in direct outrage of Nature's 
 ordinance, there had appeared to me a face 
 from the grave. 
 
 Kitty's Arab had gone through the 'rick- 
 shaw : so that my first hope that some woman 
 marvelously like Mrs. Wessington had hired 
 the carriage and the coolies with their old 
 livery was lost. Again and again I went round 
 this treadmill of thought ; and again and 
 again gave up baffled and in despair. The 
 voice was as inexplicable as the apparition. 
 I had originally some wild notion of confid- 
 ing it all to Kitty ; of begging her to marry 
 me at once ; and in her arms defying the 
 ghostly occupant of the 'rickshaw. " After 
 all," I argued, " the presence of the 'rickshaw 
 is in itself enough to prove the existence of 
 a spectral illusion. One may see ghosts of 
 men and women, but surely never of coolies 
 and carriages. The whole thing is absurd. 
 Fancy the ghost of a hillman ! " 
 
 Next morning I sent a penitent note to 
 Kitty, imploring her to overlook my strange 
 conduct of the previous afternoon. My 
 Divinity was still very wroth, and a personal 
 apology was necessary. I explained, with a 
 
22 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 fluency born of night-long pondering over a 
 falsehood, that I had been attacked with a sud- 
 den palpitation of the heart — the result of in- 
 digestion. This eminently practical solution 
 had its effect ; and Kitty and I rode out that 
 afternoon with the shadow of my first lie 
 dividing us. 
 
 Nothing would please her save a canter 
 round Jakko. With my nerves still unstrung 
 from the previous night. I feebly protested 
 against the notion, suggesting Observatory 
 Hill, Jutogh, the Boileaugunge road — anything 
 rather than the Jakko round. Kitty was 
 angry and a little hurt : so I yielded from fear 
 of provoking further misunderstanding, and we 
 set out together towards Chota Simla. We 
 walked a greater part of the way, and accord- 
 ing to our custom, cantered from a mile or so 
 below the convent to a stretch of level road 
 by the Sanjowlie Reservoir. The wretched 
 horses appeared to fly, and my heart beat 
 quicker and quicker as we neared the crest of 
 the ascent. My mind had been full of Mrs. 
 Wessington all the afternoon ; and every inch 
 of the Jakko road bore witness to our old-time 
 walks and talks. The bowlders were full of 
 it ; the pines sang it aloud overhead ; the 
 rain-fed torrents giggled and chuckled unseen 
 over the shameful story; and the wind in my 
 ears chanted the iniquity aloud. 
 
 As a fitting climax, in the middle of the level 
 men call the Ladies' Mile the Horror was 
 No other 'rickshaw was in sight 
 
The Phantom 'Rickshaw 23 
 
 — only the four black and white jhauipanics^ 
 the yellow-paneled carriage, and the golden 
 head of the woman within — all apparently 
 just as I had left them eight months and one 
 fortnight ago ! For an instant I fancied that 
 Kitty 7nust see what I saw — we were so mar- 
 velously sympathetic in all things. Her next 
 words undeceived me — " Not a soul in sight ! 
 Come along, Jack, and I'll race you to the 
 Reservoir buildings ! " Her wiry little Arab 
 was off like a bird, my Waler following close 
 behind, and in this order we dashed under the 
 cliffs. Half a minute brought us within fifty 
 yards of the 'rickshaw. I pulled my Waler and 
 fell back a little. The 'rickshaw was directly 
 in the middle of the road; and once more the 
 Arab passed through it, my horse following. 
 " Jack ! Jack dear ! Please forgive me, " rang 
 with a wail in my ears, and, after an interval: 
 — "It's all a mistake, a hideous mistake ! " 
 
 I spurred my horse like a man possessed. 
 When I turned my head at the Reservoir 
 works, the black and white liveries were still 
 waiting — patiently waiting — under the gray 
 hillside, and the wind brought me a mocking 
 echo of the words I had just heard. Kitty 
 bantered me a good deal on my silence through- 
 out the remainder of the ride. I had been 
 talking up till then wildly and at random. 
 To save my life I could not speak afterwards 
 naturally, and from Sanjowlie to the Church 
 wisely held my tongue. 
 
 I was to dine with the Mannerings that 
 
24 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 night, and had barely time to canter home to 
 dress. On the road to Elysium Hill I over- 
 heard two men talking together in the dusk. 
 — "It's a curious thing," said one, "how 
 completely all trace of it disappeared. You 
 know my wife w^as insanely fond of the woman 
 (never could see anything in her myself), and 
 wanted me to pick up her old 'rickshaw and 
 coolies if they were to be got for love or money. 
 Morbid sort of fancy I call it ; but I've got lo 
 do what the Memsahib tells me. Would you 
 believe that the man she hired it from tells me 
 that all four of the men — they were brothers 
 — died of cholera on the way to Hardwar, 
 poor devils ; and the 'rickshaw has been 
 broken up by the man himself. 'Told me he 
 never used a dead Me?nsahib' s 'rickshaw. 
 'Spoilt his luck. Queeij- notion, wasn't it.'' 
 Fancy poor little Mrs. Wessington spoiling 
 any one's luck except her own ! " I laughed 
 aloud at this point ; and my laugh jarred on 
 me as I uttered it. So there tvefe ghosts of 
 'rickshaws after all, and ghostly employments 
 in the other world ! How much did Mrs. 
 Wessington give her men ? What were their 
 hours ? Where did they go } 
 
 And for visible answer to my last question 
 I saw the infernal Thing blocking my path in 
 the twilight. The dead travel fast, and by 
 short cuts unknown to ordinary coolies. I 
 laughed aloud a second time, and checked my 
 laughter suddenly, for I was afraid I was 
 going mad. Mad to a certain extent I must 
 
The Phantom 'Rickshaw 25 
 
 have been, for I recollect that I reined in 
 my horse at the head of the 'rickshaw, and 
 politely wished Mrs. Wessington " Good even- 
 ing." Her answer was one I knew only too 
 well. I listened to the end ; and replied that 
 I had heard it all before, but should be de- 
 lighted if she had anything further to say. 
 Some malignant devil stronger than I must 
 have entered into me that evening, for I have a 
 dim recollection of talking the commonplaces 
 of the day for five minutes to the Thing in 
 front of me. 
 
 " Mad as a hatter, poor devil — or drunk. 
 Max, try and get him to come home." 
 
 Surely that was not Mrs. Wessington's 
 voice ! The two men had overheard me speak- 
 ing to the empty air, and had returned to look 
 after me. They were very kind and consider- 
 ate, and from their words evidently gathered 
 that I was extremely drunk. I thanked them 
 confusedly and cantered away to my hotel, 
 there changed, and arrived at the Mannerings' 
 ten minutes late. I pleaded the darkness of 
 the night as an excuse ; was rebuked by Kitty 
 for my unlover-like tardiness ; and sat down. 
 
 The conversation had already became gen- 
 eral ; and under cover of it, I was addressing 
 some tender small talk to my sweetheart, 
 when I was aware that at the further end of 
 the table a short red-whiskered man was de- 
 scribing, with much broidery, his encounter 
 with a mad unknown that evening. 
 
 A few sentences convinced me that he was 
 
26 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 repeating the incident of half an hour ago. 
 In the middle of the story he looked round 
 for applause, as professional story-tellers 
 do, caught my eye, and straightway collapsed. 
 There was a moment's awkward silence, and 
 the red-whiskered man muttered something to 
 the effect that he had " forgotten the rest," 
 thereby sacrificing a reputation as a good 
 story-teller which he had built up for six sea- 
 sons past. I blessed him from the bottom of 
 my heart, and — went on with my fish. 
 
 In the fulness of time that dinner came to 
 an end ; and with genuine regret I tore my- 
 self away from Kitty — as certain as I was of 
 my own existence that It would be waiting for 
 me outside the door. The red-whiskered man, 
 who had been introduced to me as Dr. Heath- 
 erlegh of Simla, volunteered to bear me com- 
 pany as far as our roads lay together. I ac- 
 cepted his offer with gratitude. 
 
 My instinct had not deceived me. It lay in 
 readiness in the Mall, and, in what seemed 
 devilish mockery of our ways, v/ith a lighted 
 head-lamp. The red-whiskered man went to 
 the point at once, in a manner that showed he 
 had been thinking over it all dinner time. 
 
 " I say, Pansay, what the deuce was the 
 matter with you this evening on the Elysium 
 road ? " The suddenness of the question 
 wrenched an answer from me before I was 
 aware. 
 
 " That ! " said I, pointing to It. 
 
 " That, may be either D. T. or Eyes for 
 
The Phantom 'Rickshaw 27 
 
 aught I know. Now you don't liquor. I saw 
 as much at dinner, so it can't be D. T. 
 There's nothing whatever where you're point- 
 ing, though you're sweating and trembling 
 with fright like a scared pony. Therefore, I 
 conclude that it's Eyes. And I ought to 
 understand all about them. Come along 
 home with me. I'm on the Blessington lower 
 road." 
 
 To my intense delight the 'rickshaw, instead 
 of waiting for us, kept about twenty yards 
 ahead — and this, too, whether we walked, 
 trotted, or cantered. In the course of that 
 long night ride I had told my companion al- 
 most as much as I have told you here. 
 
 " Well, you've spoilt one of the best tales 
 I've ever laid tongue to," said he, "but I'll 
 forgive you for the sake of what you've gone 
 through. Now come home and do what I 
 tell you ; and when I've cured you, young 
 man, let this be a lesson to you to steer clear 
 of women and indigestible food till the day 
 of your death." 
 
 The ^rickshaw kept steady in front ; and my 
 red-whiskered friend seemed to derive great 
 pleasure from my account of its exact where- 
 abouts. 
 
 " Eyes, Pansay — all Eyes, Brain, and Stom- 
 ach. And the greatest of these three is 
 Stomach. You've too much conceited Brain, 
 too little Stomach, and thoroughly unhealthy 
 Eyes. Get your Stomach straight and the 
 rest follows. And all that's French for a 
 
28 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 liver pill. I'll take sole medical charge of 
 you from this hour ! for you're too interesting 
 a phenomenon to be passed over." 
 
 By this time we were deep in the shadow of 
 the Blessington lower road and the 'rickshaw 
 came to a dead stop under a pine-clad, over- 
 hanging shale cliff. Instinctively I halted 
 too, giving my reason, Heatherlegh rapped out 
 an oath. 
 
 ' ' Now, if you think I'm going to spend a 
 cold night on the hillside for the sake of 
 a Stomach r//?;z-Brain-r/^;;z-Eye illusion . . . 
 Lord, ha' mercy ! What's that .? " 
 
 There was a muffled report, a blinding 
 smother of dust just in front of us, a crack, 
 the noise of rent boughs, and about ten yards 
 of the cliff-side — pines, undergrowth, and all 
 — slid down into the road below, completely 
 blocking it up. The uprooted trees swayed 
 and tottered for a moment like drunken giants 
 in the gloom, and then fell prone among their 
 fellows with a thunderous crash. Our two 
 horses stood motionless and sweating with 
 fear. As soon as the rattle of falling earth 
 and stone had subsided, my companion mut- 
 tered : — " Man if we'd gone forward we should 
 have been ten feet deep in our graves by 
 now. ' There are more things in heaven and 
 earth ' . . . Come home, Pansay, and thank 
 God. I want a peg badly." 
 
 We retraced our way over the Church Ridge, 
 and I arrived at Dr. Heatherlegh's house 
 shortly after midnight. 
 
The Phantom 'Rickshaw 29 
 
 His attempts towards my cure commenced 
 almost immediately, and for a week I never 
 left his side. Many a time in the course 
 of that week did I bless the good-fortune 
 which had thrown me in contact with Simla's 
 best and kindest doctor. Day by day my 
 spirits grew lighter and more equable. Day 
 by day, too, I became more and more in- 
 clined to fall in with Heatherlegh's " spectral 
 illusion " theory, implicating eyes, brain, and 
 stomach. I wrote to Kitty, telling her that a 
 slight sprain caused by a fall from my horse 
 kept me indoors for a few days ; and that I 
 should be recovered before she had time to 
 regret my absence. 
 
 Heatherlegh's treatment was simple to a de- 
 gree. It consisted of liver pills, cold-water 
 baths, and strong exercise, taken in the dusk 
 or at early dawn — for, as he sagely observed: 
 — " A man with a sprained ankle doesn't 
 walk a dozen miles a day, and your young 
 woman might be wondering if she saw 
 you." 
 
 At the end of the week, after much examina- 
 tion of pupil and pulse, and strict injunctions 
 as to diet and pedestrianism, Heatherlegh dis- 
 missed me as brusquely as he had taken charge 
 of me. Here is his parting benediction : — 
 " Man, I certify to your mental cure, and that's 
 as much as to say I've cured most of your 
 bodily ailments. Now, get your traps out of 
 this as soon as you can ; and be off to make 
 love to Miss Kitty." 
 
30 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 I was endeavoring to express my thanks for 
 his kindness. He cut me short. 
 
 " Don't think I did this because I like you. 
 I gather that you've behaved like a blackguard 
 all through. But, all the same, you're a phe- 
 nomenon, and as queer a phenomenon as you 
 are a blackguard. No ! " — checking me a 
 second time — " not a rupee, please. Go out 
 and see if you can find the eyes-brain-and- 
 stomach business again. I'll give you a lakh 
 for each time you see it." 
 
 Half an hour later I wasin the Mannerings' 
 drawing-room with Kitty — drunk, with the in- 
 toxication of present happiness and the fore- 
 knowledge that I should never more be trou- 
 bled with Its hideous presence. Strong in the 
 sense of my new-found security, I proposed a 
 ride at once ; and, by preference, a canter 
 round Jakko. 
 
 Never had I felt so well, so overladen with 
 vitality and mere animal spirits, as I did on 
 the afternoon of the 30th of April. Kitty was 
 delighted at the change in my appearance, and 
 complimented me on it in her delightfully frank 
 and outspoken manner. We left the Manner- 
 ings' house together, laughing and talking, and 
 cantered along the Chota Simla road as of 
 old. 
 
 I was in haste to reach the Sanjowlie Reser- 
 voir and there make my assurance doubly sure. 
 The horses did their best, but seemed all too 
 slow to my impatient mind. Kitty was aston- 
 ished at my boisterousness. " Why, Jack ! " 
 
The Phantom 'Rickshaw 31 
 
 she cried at last, " you are behaving like a 
 child. What are you doing?" 
 
 We were just below the Convent, and from 
 sheer wantonness I was making my Waler 
 plunge and curvet across the road as I tickled 
 it with the loop of my riding-whip. 
 
 ''Doing?" I answered: "nothing, dear. 
 That's just it. If you'd been doing nothing 
 for a week except lie up, you'd be as riotous 
 as I. 
 
 *' ' Singing and murmuring in your feastf ul mirth, 
 Joying to feel yourself alive ; 
 Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible Earth, 
 Lord of the senses five.' " 
 
 My quotation was hardly out of my lips be- 
 fore we had rounded the corner above the 
 Convent ; and a few yards further on could 
 see across to Sanjowlie. In the center of the 
 level road stood the black and white liveries, 
 the yellow-paneled 'rickshaw, and Mrs. Keith- 
 Wessington. I pulled up, looked, rubbed my 
 eyes, and, I believe, must have said something. 
 The next thing I knew was that I was lying 
 face downward on the road, with Kitty kneel- 
 ing above me in tears. 
 
 "Has It gone, child?" I gasped. Kitty 
 only wept more bitterly. 
 
 " Has what gone. Jack dear ? What does it 
 all mean ? There must be a mistake some- 
 where. Jack. A hideous mistake." Her last 
 words brought me to my feet — mad — raving 
 for the time being. 
 
 " Yes, there is a mistake somewhere," I re- 
 
32 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 peated, *' a hideous mistake. Come and look 
 at It." 
 
 I have an indistinct idea that I dragged 
 Kitty by the wrist along the road up to where 
 It stood, and implored her for pity's sake to 
 speak to It ; to tell It that we were betrothed ; 
 that neither Death nor Hell could break the 
 tie between us ; and Kitty only knows how 
 much more to the same effect. Now and 
 again I appealed passionately to the Terror 
 in the 'rickshaw to bear witness to all I had 
 said, and to release me from a torture that 
 was killing me. As I talked I suppose I must 
 have told Kitty of my old relations with Mrs. 
 Wessington, for I saw her listen intently with 
 white face and blazing eyes. 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Pansay," she said, " that's 
 quite enough. Syce ghora lao.^^ 
 
 The syces, impassive as Orientals always 
 are, had come up with the recaptured horses ; 
 and as Kitty sprang into her saddle I caught 
 hold of the bridle, entreating her to hear me 
 out and forgive. My answer was the cut of 
 her riding-whip across my face from mouth to 
 eye, and a word or two of farewell that even 
 now I cannot write down. So I judged, and 
 judged rightly, that Kitty knew all; and I 
 staggered back to the side of the 'rickshaw. 
 My face was cut and bleeding, and the blow 
 of the riding-whip had raised a livid blue 
 weal on it. I had no self-respect. Just 
 then, Heatherlegh, who must have been fol- 
 lowing Kitty and me at a distance, cantered up. 
 
The Phantom 'Rickshaw 33 
 
 " Doctor," I said, pointing to my face, 
 " here's Miss Mannering's signature to my 
 order of dismissal and . . . I'll thank you for 
 that lakh as soon as convenient." 
 
 Heatherlegh's face, even in my abject mis- 
 ery, moved me to laughter. 
 
 " I'll stake my professional reputation " — 
 he began. 
 
 " Don't be a fool," I whispered. *' I've lost 
 my life's happiness and you'd better take me 
 home." 
 
 " As I spoke the 'rickshaw was gone. Then 
 I lost all knowledge of what was passing. 
 The crest of Jakko seemed to heave and 
 roll like the crest of a cloud and fall in upon 
 me. 
 
 Seven days later (on the 7th of May, that 
 is to say) I was aware that I was lying in 
 Heatherlegh's room as weak as a little child. 
 Heatherlegh was watching me intently from 
 behmd the papers on his writing-table. His 
 first words were not encouraging ; but I was 
 too far spent to be much moved by them. 
 
 " Here's Miss Kitty has sent back your 
 letters. You correspond a good deal, you 
 young people. Here's a packet that looks 
 like a ring, and a cheerful sort of a note from 
 Mannering Papa, which I've taken the liberty 
 of readmg and burning. The old gentleman's 
 not pleased with you." 
 
 " And Kitty ? " I asked dully. 
 
 " Rather more drawn than her father, from 
 what she says. By the same token you must 
 3 
 
34 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 have been letting out any number of queer 
 reminiscences just before I met you. ' Says 
 that a man who would have behaved to a 
 woman as you did to Mrs. Wessington ought 
 to kill himself out of sheer pity for his kind. 
 She is a hot-headed little virago, your mash. 
 'Will have it too that you were suffering from 
 D. T. when that row on the Jakko road 
 turned up. 'Says she'll die before she ever 
 speaks to you again." 
 
 I groaned and turned over on the other side. 
 
 " Now you've got your choice, my friend. 
 This engagement has to be broken off ; and 
 the Mannerings don't want to be too hard on 
 you. Was it broken through D. T. or 
 epileptic fits ? Sorry I can't offer you a better 
 exchange unless you'd prefer hereditary in- 
 sanity. Say the word and I'll tell 'em it's 
 fits. All Simla knows about that scene on 
 the Ladies' Mile. Come ! I'll give you five 
 minutes to think over it. " 
 
 During those five minutes I believe that I 
 explored thoroughly the lowest circles of the 
 Inferno which it is permitted man to tread on 
 earth. And at the same time I myself was 
 watching myself faltering through the dark 
 labyrinths of doubt, misery, and utter despair. 
 I wondered, as Heatherlegh in his chair might 
 have wondered, which dreadful alternative I 
 should adopt. Presently I heard myself an- 
 swering in a voice that I hardly recognized, — 
 
 "They're confoundedly particular about 
 morality in these parts. Give 'em fits. Heath- 
 
The Phantom 'Rickshaw 35 
 
 erlegh, and my love. Now let me sleep a bit 
 longer." 
 
 Then my two selves joined, and it was only 
 I (half crazed, devil-driven I) that tossed in 
 my bed, tracing step by step the history of the 
 pasfmonth. 
 
 " But I am in Simla," I kept repeating to 
 myself. "I, Jack Pansay, am in Simla, and 
 there are no ghosts here. It's unreasonable 
 of that woman to pretend there are. Why 
 couldn't Agnes have left me alone ? I never 
 did her any harm. It might just as well have 
 been me as Agnes. Only I'd never have 
 come back on purpose to kill her. Why can't 
 I be left alone — left alone and happy t " 
 
 It was high noon when I first awoke : and 
 the sun was low in the sky before I slept — 
 slept as the tortured criminal sleeps on his 
 rack, too worn to feel further pain. 
 
 Next day I could not leave my bed. Heath- 
 erlegh told me in the morning that he had 
 received an answer from Mr. Mannering, and 
 that, thanks to his (Heatherlegh's) friendly 
 offices, the story of my affliction had traveled 
 through the length and breadth of Simla, 
 where I was on all sides much pitied. 
 
 " And that's rather more than you deserve," 
 he concluded pleasantly, " though the Lord 
 knows you've been going through a pretty 
 severe mill. Never mind ; we'll cure you yet, 
 you perverse phenomenon." 
 
 I declined firmly to be cured. "You've 
 been much too good to me already, old man," 
 
36 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 said I ; *' but I don't think I need trouble you 
 further." 
 
 In my heart I knew that nothing Heath- 
 erlegh could do would lighten the burden that 
 had been laid upon me. 
 
 With that knowledge came also a sense of 
 hopeless, impotent rebellion against the un- 
 reasonableness of it all. There were scores 
 of men no better than I whose punishments 
 had at least been reserved, for another world ; 
 and I felt that it was bitterly, cruelly unfair 
 that I alone should have been singled out for 
 so hideous a fate. This mood would in time 
 give place to another where it seemed that the 
 ^rickshaw and I were the only realities in a 
 world of shadows ; that Kitty was a ghost ; 
 that Mannering, Heatherlegh, and all the 
 other men and women I knew were all ghosts ; 
 and the great, gray hills themselves but vain 
 shadows devised to torture me. From mood 
 to mood I tossed backwards and forwards for 
 seven weary days ; my body growing daily 
 stronger and stronger, until the bedroom look- 
 ing-glass told me that I had returned to every 
 day life, and was as other men once more. 
 Curiously enough my face showed no signs of 
 the struggle I had gone through. It was pale 
 indeed, but as expressionless and common- 
 place as ever. I had expected some per- 
 manent alteration — visible evidence of the 
 disease that was eating me away. I found 
 nothing. 
 
 On the 15th of May I left Heatherlegh's 
 
The Phantom 'Rickshaw 37 
 
 house at eleven o'clock in the morning ; and 
 the instinct of the bachelor drove me to the 
 Club. There I found that every man knew 
 my story as told by Heatherlegh, and was, in 
 clumsy fashion, abnormally kind and attentive. 
 Nevertheless I recognized that for the rest of 
 my natural life I should be among but not of 
 my fellows ; and I envied very bitterly indeed 
 the laughing coolies on the Mall below. I 
 lunched at the Club, and at four o'clock wan- 
 dered aimlessly down the Mall in the vague 
 hope of meeting Kitty. Close to the Band- 
 stand the black and white liveries joined me ; 
 and I heard Mrs. Wessington's old appeal at 
 my side. I had been expecting this ever since 
 I came out ; and was only surprised at her 
 delay. The phantom 'rickshaw and I went 
 side by side along the Chota Simla road in 
 silence. Close to the bazar, Kitty and a man 
 on horseback overtook and passed us. For 
 any sign she gave I might have been a dog in 
 the road. She did not even pay me the com- 
 pliment of quickening her pace ; though the 
 rainy afternoon had served for an excuse. 
 
 So Kitty and her companion, and I and my 
 ghostly Light-o'-Love, crept round Jakko in 
 couples. The road was streaming with water ; 
 the pines dripped like roof-pipes on the rocks 
 below, and the air was full of fine, driving 
 rain. Two or three times I found myself say- 
 ing to myself almost aloud : — " I'm Jack 
 Pansay on leave at Simla — at Simla ! Every- 
 day, ordinary Simla. I mustn't forget that — 
 
38 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 I mustn't forget that." Then I would try to 
 recollect some of the gossip I had heard at 
 the Club ; the prices of So-and-So's horses — 
 anything, in fact, that related to the work-a- 
 day Anglo-Indian world I knew so well. I 
 even repeated the multiplication-table rapidly 
 to myself, to make quite sure that I was not 
 taking leave of my senses. It gave me much 
 comfort ; and must have prevented my hear- 
 ing Mrs. Wessington for a time. 
 
 Once more I wearily climbed the Convent 
 slope and entered the level road. Here Kitty 
 and the man started off at a canter, and I was 
 left alone with Mrs. Wessington. "Agnes," 
 said I, " will you put back your hood and tell 
 me what it all means ? " The hood dropped 
 noiselessly, and I was face to face with my 
 dead and buried mistress. She was wearing 
 the dress in which I had last seen her alive ; 
 carried the same tiny handkerchief in her right 
 hand ; and the same card-case in her left. (A 
 woman eight months dead with a card-case ?) 
 I had to pin myself down to the multiplication- 
 table, and to set both hands on the stone 
 parapet of the road, to assure myself that that 
 at least was real. 
 
 " Agnes," I repeated, " for pity's sake tell 
 me what it all means." Mrs. Wessington 
 leant forward with that odd, quick turn of the 
 head I used to know so well, and spoke. 
 
 If my story had not already so madly over- 
 leaped the bounds of all human belief I should 
 apologize to you now. As I know that no 
 
The Phantom 'Rickshaw 39 
 
 one — no, not even Kitty, for whom it is 
 written as some sort of justification of my con- 
 duct — will believe me, I will go on. Mrs. 
 Wessington spoke and I walked with her 
 from the Sanjowlie road to the turning below 
 the Commander-in-chief's house as I might 
 walk by the side of any living woman's 'rick- 
 shaw, deep in conversation. The second and 
 most tormenting of my moods of sickness had 
 suddenly laid hold upon me, and like the 
 Prince in Tennyson's poem, " I seemed to 
 move amid a world of ghosts." There had 
 been a garden-party at the Commander-in- 
 chief's, and we two joined the crowd of home- 
 ward-bound folk. As I saw them then it 
 seemed that they were the shadows — impal- 
 pable fantastic shadows — that divided for 
 Mrs. Wessington's 'rickshaw to pass through. 
 What we said during the course of that weird 
 interview I cannot — indeed, I dare not — tell. 
 Heatherlegh's comment would have been a 
 short laugh and a remark that I had been 
 " mashing a brain-eye-and-stomach chimera." 
 It was a ghastly and yet in some indefinable 
 way a marvelously dear experience. Could it 
 be possible, I wondered, that I was in this 
 life to woo a second time the woman I had 
 killed by my own neglect and cruelty ? 
 
 I met Kitty on the homeward road — a 
 shadow among shadows. 
 
 If I were to describe all the incidents of the 
 next fortnight in their order, my story would 
 never come to an end ; and your patience 
 
40 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 would be exhausted. Morning after morning 
 and evening after evening the ghostly 'rick- 
 shaw and I used to wander through Simla 
 together. Wherever I went there the four 
 black and white liveries followed me and bore 
 me company to and from my hotel. At the 
 Theater I found them amid the crowd of 
 yeWmgj'hampajiks; outside the Club veranda, 
 after a long evening of whist ; at the Birthday 
 Ball, waiting patiently for my reappearance ; 
 and in broad daylight when I went calling. 
 Save that it cast no shadow, the 'rickshaw 
 was in every respect as real to look upon as 
 one of wood and iron. More than once, in- 
 deed, I have had to check myself from warn- 
 ing some hard-riding friend against cantering 
 over it. More than once I have walked down 
 the Mall deep in conversation with Mrs. Wes- 
 sington to the unspeakable amazement of the 
 passers-by. 
 
 Before I had been out and about a week I 
 learned that the " fit " theory had been dis- 
 carded in favor of insanity. However, I 
 made no change in my mode of life, I called, 
 rode, and dined out as freely as ever. I had 
 a passion for the society of my kind which I 
 had never felt before ; I hungered to be 
 among the realities of life ; and at the same 
 time I felt vaguely unhappy when I had been 
 separated too long from my ghostly compan- 
 ion. It would be almost impossilDle to de- 
 scribe my varying moods from the 15th of May 
 up to to-day. 
 
The Phantom 'Rickshaw 41 
 
 The presence of the 'rickshaw filled me by 
 turns with horror, blind fear, a dim sort of 
 pleasure, and utter despair. I dared not 
 leave Simla ; and I knew that my stay there 
 was killing me. I knew, moreover, that it was 
 my destiny to die slowly and a little every day. 
 My only anxiety was to get the penance over 
 as quietly as might be. Alternately I hun- 
 gered for a sight of Kitty and watched her out- 
 rageous flirtations with my successor — to 
 speak more accurately, my successors — with 
 amused interest. She was as much out of my 
 life as I was out of hers. By day I wandered 
 with Mrs. Wessington almost content. By 
 night I implored Heaven to let me return to 
 the world as I used to know it. Above all 
 these varying moods lay the sensation of dull, 
 numbing wonder that the Seen and the Un- 
 seen should mingle so strangely on this earth 
 to hound one poor soul to its grave. 
 
 August 27. — Heatherlegh has been indefat- 
 igable in his attendance on me ; and only 
 yesterday told me that I ought to send in an 
 application for sick leave. An application to 
 escape the company of a phantom ! A request 
 that the Government would graciously permit 
 me to get rid of five ghosts and an airy 'rick- 
 shaw by going to England ! Heatherlegh's 
 proposition moved me almost to hysterical 
 laughter. I told him that I should await the 
 end quietly at Simla ; and I am sure that the 
 
42 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 end is not far off. Believe me that I dread 
 its advent more than any word can say ; and 
 I torture myself nightly with a thousand specu- 
 lations as to the manner of my death. 
 
 Shall I die in my bed decently and as an 
 English gentleman should die ; or, in one last 
 walk on the Mall, will my soul be wrenched 
 from me to take its place forever and ever by 
 the side of that ghastly phantasm ? Shall I re- 
 turn to my old lost allegiance in the next 
 world, or shall I meet Agnes, loathing her 
 and bound to her side through all eternity ? 
 Shall we two hover over the scene of our lives 
 till the end of Time } As the dr.y of my 
 death draws nearer, the intense horror that all 
 living flesh feels towards escaped spirits from 
 beyond the grave grows more and more 
 powerful. It is an awful thing to go down 
 quick among the dead with scarcely one-half 
 of your life completed. It is a thousand times 
 more awful to wait as I do in your midst, for 
 I know not what unimaginable terror. Pity 
 me, at least on the score of my " delusion," 
 for I know you will never believe what I have 
 written here. Yet as surely as ever a man 
 was done to death by the Powers of Darkness 
 I am that man. 
 
 In justice, too, pity her. For as surely as 
 ever woman was killed by man, I killed Mrs. 
 Wessington. And the last portion of my pun- 
 ishment is even now upon me. 
 
MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY. 
 
 As I came through the Desert thus it was — 
 As I came through the Desert. 
 
 The City of Dreadful Night. 
 
 • 
 
 Somewhere in the Other World, where there 
 are books and pictures and plays and shop- 
 windows to look at, and thousands of men 
 who spend their lives in building up all four, 
 lives a gentleman who writes real stories about 
 the real insides of people ; and his name is Mr. 
 Walter Besant. But he will insist upon treat- 
 ing his ghosts — he has published half a work- 
 shopful of them — with levity. He makes his 
 ghost-seers talk familiarly, and, in some cases, 
 flirt outrageously, with the phantoms. You may 
 treat anything, from a Viceroy to a Vernacular 
 Paper, with levity ; but you must behave rev- 
 erently towards a ghost, and particularly an 
 Indian one. 
 
 There are, in this land, ghosts who take the 
 form of fat, cold, pobby corpses, and hide in 
 trees near the roadside till a traveler passes. 
 Then they drop upon his neck and remain. 
 There are also terrible ghosts of women who 
 have died in child-bed. These wander along 
 the pathways at dusk, or hide in the crops 
 near a village, and call seductively. But to 
 43 
 
44 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 answer their call is death in this world and the 
 next. Their feet are turned backwards that 
 all sober men may recognize them. There are 
 ghosts of little children who have been thrown 
 into wells. These haunt well-curbs and the 
 fringes of jungles, and wail under the stars, or 
 catch women by the wrist and beg to be taken 
 up and carried. These and the corpse-ghosts, 
 however, are only vernacular articles and do 
 not attack Sahibs. No native ghost has yet 
 been authentically reported to have frightened 
 an Englishman ; but many English ghosts have 
 scared the life out of both white and black. 
 
 Nearly every other Station owns a ghost. 
 There are said to be two at Simla, not count- 
 ing the woman who blows the bellows at Syree 
 dak-bungalow on the Old Road ; Mussoorie 
 has a house haunted of a very lively Thing ; a 
 White Lady is supposed to do night-watchman 
 round a house in Lahore ; Dalhousie says that 
 one of her houses " repeats " on autumn even- 
 ings all the incidents of a horrible horse-and- 
 precipice accident ; Murree has a merry ghost, 
 and, now that she has been swept by cholera, 
 will have room for a sorrowful one ; there are 
 Officers Quarters, in Mian Mir whose doors 
 open without reason, and whose furniture is 
 guaranteed to creak, not with the heat of June 
 but with the weight of Invisibles who come 
 to lounge in the chairs ; Peshawar possesses 
 houses that none will willingly rent ; and there 
 is something — not fever — wrong with a big 
 bungalow in Allahabad. The older Provinces 
 
My Own True Ghost Story 45 
 
 simply bristle with haunted houses, and march 
 phantom armies along their main thorough- 
 fares. 
 
 Some of the dak-bungalows on the Grand 
 Trunk Road have handy little cemeteries in 
 their compound — witnesses to the " changes 
 and chances of this mortal life " in the days 
 when men drove from Calcutta to the North- 
 west. These bungalows are objectionable 
 places to put up in. They are generally very 
 old, always dirty, while the khaiisamah is as 
 ancient as the bungalow. He either chatters 
 senilely, or falls into the long trances of age. 
 In both moods he is useless. If you get angry 
 with him, he refers to some Sahib dead and 
 buried these thirty years, and says that when 
 he was in that Sahib's service not a khansamah 
 in the Province could touch him. Then he jab- 
 bers and mows and trembles and fidgets 
 among the dishes and you repent of your irri- 
 tation. 
 
 In these dak-bungalows, ghosts are most 
 likely to be found, and when found, they 
 should be made a note of. Not long ago it 
 was my business to live in dak-bungalows. 
 I never inhabited the same house for three 
 nights running, and grew to be learned in the 
 breed. I lived in Government-built ones with 
 red brick walls and rail ceilings, an inventory 
 of the furniture posted in every room, and 
 an excited snake at the threshold to give wel- 
 come. I lived in "converted" ones — old 
 houses officiating as dak-bungalows — where 
 
46 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 nothing was in its proper place and there wasn't 
 even a fowl for dinner. I lived in second- 
 hand palaces where the wind blew through 
 open-work marble tracery just as uncomfort- 
 ably as through a broken pane. I lived in dak- 
 bungalows where the last entry in the visitors' 
 book was fifteen months old, and where they 
 slashed off the curry-kid's head with a sword. 
 It was my good luck to meet all sorts of men, 
 from sober traveling missionaries and deserters 
 flying from British Regiments, to drunken 
 loafers who threw whisky bottles at all who 
 passed; and my still greater good fortune just 
 to escape a maternity case. Seeing that a fair 
 proportion of the tragedy of our lives out here 
 acted itself in dak-bungalows, I wondered that 
 I had met no ghosts. A ghost that would vol- 
 untarily hang about a dak-bungalow would be 
 mad of course ; but so many men have died 
 mad in dak-bungalows that there must be a 
 fair percentage of lunatic ghosts. 
 
 In due time I found my ghost, or ghosts 
 rather, for there were two of them. Up till 
 that hour I had sympathized with Mr. Besant's 
 method of handling them, as shown in " The 
 Straiige Case of Mr. Lucraft and other Stories.'^ 
 I am now in the opposition. 
 
 We will call the bungalow Katmal dak- 
 bungalow. But that was the smallest part of 
 the horror. A man with a sensitive hide has 
 no right to sleep in dak-bungalows. He 
 should marry. Katmal dak-bungalow was 
 old and rotten and unrepaired. The floor 
 
My Own True Ghost Story 47 
 
 was of worn brick, the walls were filthy, and 
 the windows were nearly black with grime. 
 It stood on a by-path largely used by native 
 Sub-Deputy Assistants of all kinds, from 
 Finance to Forests ; but real Sahibs were rare. 
 The k/iajisamah, who was nearly bent double 
 with old age, said so. 
 
 When I arrived, there was a fitful, undecided 
 rain on the face of the land, accompanied by 
 a restless wind, and every gust made a noise 
 like the rattling of dry bones in the stiff toddy- 
 palms outside. The khansamah completely 
 lost his head on my arrival. He had served 
 a Sahib once. Did I know that Sahib ? He 
 gave me the name of a well-known man who 
 has been buried for more than a quarter of a 
 century, and showed me an ancient daguerreo- 
 type of that man in his prehistoric youth. I 
 had seen a steel engraving of him at the head 
 of a double volume of Memoirs a month be- 
 fore, and I felt ancient beyond telling. 
 
 The day shut in and the kha?isatnah went 
 to get me food. He did not go through the 
 pretense of calling it " khana " — man's vic- 
 tuals. He said " 7-atub^^^ and that means, 
 among other things, " grub " — dog's rations. 
 There was no insult in his choice of the term. 
 He had forgotten the other word, I suppose. 
 
 While he was cutting up the dead bodies of 
 animals, I settled myself down, after exploring 
 the dak-bungalow. There w^ere three rooms, 
 beside my own, which was a corner kennel, 
 each giving into the other through dingy white 
 
48 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 doors fastened with long iron bars. Tiie 
 bungalow was a very solid one, but the parti- 
 tion-walls of the rooms were almost jerry- 
 built in their flimsiness. Every step or bang 
 of a trunk echoed from my room down the 
 other three, and every footfall came back 
 tremulously from the far walls. For this 
 reason I shut the door. There were no lamps 
 — only candles in long glass shades. An oil 
 wick was set in the bath-room. 
 
 For bleak, unadulterated misery that dak- 
 bungalow was the worst of the many that I had 
 ever set foot in. There was no fireplace, and 
 the windows would not open ; so a brazier of 
 charcoal would have been useless. The rain 
 and the wind splashed and gurgled and 
 moaned round the house, and the toddy-palms 
 rattled and roared. Half a dozen jackals 
 went through the compound singing, and a 
 hyena stood afar off and mocked them. A 
 hyena would convince a Sadducee of the 
 Resurrection of the Dead — the worst sort of 
 Dead. Then came the 7-ahib — a curious meal, 
 half native and half English in composition — 
 with the old khansamah babbling behind my 
 chair about dead and gone English people, 
 and the wind-blown candles playing shadow- 
 bo-peep with the bed and the mosquito-cur- 
 tains. 
 
 It was just the sort of dinner and evening 
 to make a man think of every single one of 
 his past sins, and of all the others that he in- 
 tended to commit if he lived. 
 
My Own True Ghost Story 49 
 
 Sleep, for several hundred reasons, was not 
 easy. The lamp in the bath-room threw the 
 most absurd shadows into the room, and the 
 wind was beginning to talk nonsense. 
 
 Just when the reasons were drowsy with 
 bloodsucking I heard the regular — "Let-us- 
 take-and-heave-him-over " grunt of doolie- 
 bearers in the compound. First one doolie 
 came in, then a second, and then a third. I 
 heard the doolies dumped on the ground, and 
 the shutter in front of my door shook. " That's 
 some one trying to come in," I said. But no 
 one spoke, and I persuaded myself that it was 
 the gusty wind. The shutter of the room 
 next to mine was attacked, flung back, and 
 the inner door opened. ''That's some Sub- 
 Deputy Assistant," I said, "and he has 
 brought his friends with him. Now they'll 
 talk and spit and smoke for an hour." 
 
 But there were no voices and no footsteps. 
 No one was putting his luggage into the next 
 room. The door shut, and I thanked Provi- 
 dence that I was to be left in peace. But I 
 was curious to know where the doolies had 
 gone. I got out of bed and looked into the 
 darkness. There was never a sign of a doolie. 
 Just as I was getting into bed again, I heard, 
 in the next room, the sound that no man in his 
 senses can possibly mistake — the whir of a 
 billiard ball down the length of the slates 
 when the striker is stringing for break. No 
 other sound is like it. A minute afterwards 
 there was another whir, and I got into bed. I 
 4 
 
50 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 was not frightened — indeed I was not. I was 
 very curious to know what had become of the 
 doolies. I jumped into bed for that reason. 
 
 Next minute I heard the double click of a 
 cannon and my hair sat up. It is a mistake 
 to say that hair stands up. The skin of the 
 head tightens and you can feel a faint, prickly 
 bristling all over the scalp. That is the hair 
 sitting up. 
 
 There was a whir and a click, and both 
 sounds could only have been made by one 
 thing — a billiard ball. I argued the matter 
 out at great length with myself ; and the more 
 I argued the less probable it seemed that one 
 bed, one table, and two chairs — all the furni- 
 ture of the room next to mine — could so ex- 
 actly duplicate the sounds of a game of bil- 
 liards. After another cannon, a three-cushion 
 one to judge by the whir, I argued no more. 
 I had found my ghost and would have given 
 worlds to have escaped from that dak-bun- 
 galow. I listened, and with each listen the 
 game grew clearer. There was whir on whir 
 and click on click. Sometimes there was a 
 double click and a whir and another click. 
 Beyond any sort of doubt, people were play- 
 ing billiards in the next room. And the next 
 room was not big enough to hold a billiard 
 table ! 
 
 Between the pauses of the wind I heard the 
 game go forward — stroke after stroke. I tried 
 to believe that I could not hear voices ; but 
 that attempt was a failure. 
 
My Own True Ghost Story 51 
 
 Do you know what fear is ? Not ordinary 
 fear of insult, injury or death, but abject, 
 quivering dread of something that you can- 
 not see — fear that dries the inside of the mouth 
 and half of the throat — fear that makes you 
 sweat on the palms of the hands, and gulp in 
 order to keep the uvula at work ? This is a 
 fine Fear — a great cowardice, and must be felt 
 to be appreciated. The very improbability of 
 billiards in a dak-bungalow proved the reality 
 of the thing. No man — drunk or sober — could 
 imagine a game at billiards, or invent the spit- 
 ting crack of a *• screw-cannon." 
 
 A severe course of dak-bungalows has this 
 disadvantage — it breeds infinite credulity. If 
 a man said to a confirmed dak-bungalow- 
 haunter : — " There is a corpse in the next room, 
 and there's a mad girl in the next but one, 
 and the woman and man on that camel have 
 just eloped from a place sixty miles away," 
 the hearer would not disbelieve because he 
 would know that nothing is too wild, grotesque, 
 or horrible to happen in a dak-bungalow. 
 
 This credulity, unfortunately, extends to 
 ghosts. A rational person fresh from his own 
 house would have turned on his side and slept. 
 I did not. So surely as I was given up as a 
 bad carcass by the scores of things in the bed 
 because the bulk of my blood was in my heart, 
 so surely did I hear every stroke of a long 
 game at billiards played in the echoing room 
 behind the iron-barred door. My dominant 
 fear was that the players might want a marker. 
 
52 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 It was an absurd fear ; because creatures 
 who could play in the dark would be above 
 such superfluities. I only know that that 
 was my terror ; and it was real. 
 
 After a long long while, the game stopped, 
 and the door banged. I slept because I was 
 dead tired. Otherwise I should have preferred 
 to have kept awake. Not for everything in 
 Asia would I have dropped the door-bar and 
 peered into the dark of the next room. 
 
 When the morning came, I considered that 
 I had done well and wisely and inquired for 
 the means of departure. 
 
 " By the way, khansamah^^^ I said, " what 
 were those three doolies doing in my com- 
 pound in the night ?" 
 
 " There were no doolies," said the khansa- 
 inah. 
 
 I went into the next room and the daylight 
 streamed through the open door. I was im- 
 mensely brave. I would, at that hour, have 
 played Black Pool with the owner of the big 
 Black Pool down below. 
 
 " Has this place always been a dak-bunga- 
 low ? " I asked. 
 
 " No," said the khansamah. " Ten or twenty 
 years ago, I have forgotten how long, it was a 
 billiard-room." 
 
 " A how much ? " 
 
 " A billiard-room for the Sahibs who built 
 the Railway. I was khansa77iah then in the 
 big house where all the Railway-Sahibs lived, 
 and I used to come across with brandy-j^//;'^^. 
 
My Own True Ghost Story 55 
 
 These three rooms were all one, and they held 
 a big table on which the Sahibs played every 
 evening. But the Sahibs are all dead now, 
 and the Railway runs, you say, nearly to 
 Kabul." 
 
 " Do you remember anything about the 
 Sahibs ? " 
 
 " It is long ago, but I remember that one 
 Sahib, a fat man and always angry, was play- 
 ing here one night, and he said to me : — ' Man- 
 gal Khan, brandy pani do,^ and I filled the 
 glass, and he bent over the table to strike, 
 and his head fell lower and lower till it hit the 
 table, and his spectacles came off, and when 
 we — the Sahibs and I myself — ran to lift him 
 he was dead. I helped to carry him out. Aha, 
 he was a strong Sahib ! But he is dead and I, 
 old Mangal Khan, am still living, by your 
 favor." 
 
 That was more than enough ! I had my 
 ghost — a first-hand, authenticated article. I 
 would write to the Society for Psychical Re- 
 search — I would paralyze the Empire with the 
 news ! But I would, first of all, put eighty 
 miles of assessed crop-land between myself 
 and that dak-bungalow before nightfall. The 
 Society might send their regular agent to in- 
 vestigate later on. 
 
 I went into my own room and prepared to 
 pack after noting down the facts of .the case. 
 As I smoked I heard the game begin again, — 
 with a miss in balk this time, for the whir 
 was a short one. 
 
54 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 The door was open and I could see into the 
 room. Click — click ! That was a cannon. I 
 entered the room without fear, for there was 
 sunlight within and a fresh breeze without. 
 The unseen game was going on at a tremen- 
 dous rate. And well it might, when a restless 
 little rat was running to and fro inside the dingy 
 ceiling-cloth, and a piece of loose window- 
 sash was making fifty breaks off the window- 
 bolt as it shook in the breeze ! 
 
 Impossible to mistake the sound of billiard 
 balls ! Impossible to mistake the whir of a 
 ball over the slate ! But I was to be excused. 
 Even when I shut my enlightened eyes the 
 sound was marvelously like that of a fast 
 game. 
 
 Entered angrily the faithful partner of my 
 sorrows, Kadir Baksh. 
 
 "This bungalow is very bad and low-caste ! 
 No wonder the Presence was disturbed and 
 is speckled. Three sets of doolie-bearers 
 came to the bungalow late last night when I 
 was sleeping outside, and said that it was 
 their custom to rest in the rooms set apart for 
 the English people ! What honor has the 
 khansamah ? They tried to enter, but I told 
 them to go. No wonder, if these Oorias have 
 been here, that the Presence is sorely spotted. 
 It is shame, and the work of a dirty man." 
 
 Kadir Baksh did not say that he had taken 
 from each gang two annas for rent in advance, 
 and then, beyond my earshot, had beaten 
 them with the big green umbrella whose use 
 
My Own True Ghost Story 55 
 
 I could never before divine. But Kadir Baksh 
 has no notions of morality. 
 
 There was an interview with the kJiansamah, 
 but as he promptly lost his head, wrath gave 
 place to pity, and pity led to a long conversa- 
 tion, in the course of which he put the fat 
 Engineer-Sahib's tragic death in three separ- 
 ate stations — two of them fifty miles away. 
 The third shift was to Calcutta, and there 
 the Sahib died while driving a dog-cart. 
 
 If I had encouraged him the khansamah 
 would have wandered all through Bengal with 
 his corpse. 
 
 I did not go away as soon as I intended. 
 I stayed for the night, while the wind and the 
 rat and the sash and the window-bolt played 
 a ding-dong " hundred and fifty up. " Then 
 the wind ran out and the billiards stopped, 
 and I felt that I had ruined my one genuine, 
 hall-market ghost story. 
 
 Had I only stopped at the proper time, I 
 could have made anything out of it. 
 
 That was the bitterest thought of all ! 
 
THE STRANGE RIDE OF MORROWBIE 
 JUKES 
 
 Alive or dead — there is no other way. — Native 
 Proverb. 
 
 There is, as the conjurers say, no decep- 
 tion about tliis tale. Jukes by accident 
 stumbled upon a village that is well known 
 to exist, though he is the only Englishman 
 who has been there. A somewhat similar 
 institution used to flourish on the outskirts of 
 Calcutta, and there is a story that if you go 
 into the heart of Bikanir, which is in the 
 heart of the Great Indian Desert, you shall 
 come across not a village, but a town where 
 the Dead who did not die but may not live 
 have established their headquarters. And, 
 since it is perfectly true that in the same 
 Desert is a wonderful city where all the rich 
 money-lenders retreat after they have made 
 their fortunes (fortunes so vast that the owners 
 cannot trust even the strong hand of the Gov- 
 ernment to protect them, but take refuge in 
 the waterless sands), and drive sumptuous 
 C-spring barouches, and buy beautiful girls 
 and decorate their palaces with gold and 
 ivory and INIinton tiles and mother-o'-pearl, I 
 do not see why Jukes's tale should not be 
 
 56 
 
strange Ride of Morrowbie Jukes 57 
 
 true. He is a Civil Engineer, with a head for 
 plans and distances and things of that kind, 
 and he certainly would not take the trouble 
 to invent imaginary traps. He could earn 
 more by doing his legitimate work. He 
 never varies the tale in the telling, and grows 
 very hot and indignant when he thinks of the 
 disrespectful treatment he received. He 
 wrote this quite straightforwardly at first, but 
 he has since touched it up in places and in- 
 troduced Moral Reflections, thus : — 
 
 In the beginning it all arose from a slight 
 attack of fever. My work necessitated my 
 being in camp for some months between 
 Pakpattan and Mubarakpur — a desolate sandy 
 stretch of country as every one who has had 
 the misfortune to go there may know. My 
 coolies were neither more nor less exasperat- 
 ing than other gangs, and my work demanded 
 sufficient attention to keep me from moping, 
 had I been inclined to so unmanly a weak- 
 ness. 
 
 On the 23d December, 1884, I felt a little 
 feverish. There was a full moon at the time, 
 and, in consequence, every dog near my tent 
 was baying it. The brutes assembled in 
 twos and threes and drove me frantic. A few 
 days previously I had shot one loud-mouthed 
 singer and suspended his carcass in tei'rorem 
 about fifty yards from my tent-door. But 
 his friends fell upon, fought for, and ulti- 
 mately devoured the body : and, as it seemed 
 
58 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 to me, sang their hymns of thanksgiving 
 afterwards with renewed energy. 
 
 The light-headedness which accompanies 
 fever acts differently on different men. My 
 irritation gave way, after a short time, to a 
 fixed determination to slaughter one huge 
 black and white beast who had been foremost 
 in song and first in flight throughout the 
 evening. Thanks to a shaking hand and a 
 giddy head I had already missed him twice 
 with both barrels of my shotgun, when it 
 struck me that my best plan would be to ride 
 him down in the open and finish him off with 
 a hog-spear. This, of course, was merely the 
 semi-delirious notion of a fever patient ; but 
 I remember that it struck me at the time as 
 being eminently practical and feasible. 
 
 I therefore ordered my groom to saddle 
 Pornic and bring him round quietly to the 
 rear of my tent. When the pony was ready, 
 I stood at his head prepared to mount and 
 dash out as soon as the dog should again lift 
 up his voice. Pornic, by the wa}'-, had not 
 been out of his pickets for a couple of days ; 
 the night air was crisp and chilly ; and I was 
 armed with a specially long and sharp pair of 
 persuaders with which I had been rousing a 
 sluggish cob that afternoon. You will easily 
 believe, then, that when he was let go he went 
 quickly. In one moment, for the brute bolted 
 as straight as a die, the tent was left far be- 
 hind, and we were flying over the smooth 
 sandy soil at racing speed. In another we 
 
strange Ride of Morrowbie Jukes 59 
 
 had passed the wretched dog, and I had 
 almost forgotten why it was that I had taken 
 horse and hog-spear. 
 
 The delirium of fever and the excitement of 
 rapid motion through the air must have taken 
 away the remnant of my senses. I have a 
 faint recollection of standing upright in my 
 stirrups, and of brandishing my hog-spear at 
 the great white Moon that looked down so 
 calmly on my mad gallop ; and of shouting 
 challenges to the camel-thorn bushes as they 
 whizzed passed. Once or twice, I believe, I 
 swayed forward on Pornic's neck, and literally 
 hung on by my spurs — as the marks next 
 morning showed. 
 
 The wretched beast went forward like a 
 thing possessed, over what seemed to be a lim- 
 itless expanse of moonlit sand. Next, I re- 
 member, the ground rose suddenly in front of 
 us, and as we topped the ascent I saw the 
 waters of the Sutlej shining like a silver bar 
 below. The Pornic blundered heavily on his 
 nose, and we rolled together down some un- 
 seen slope. 
 
 I must have lost consciousness, for when I 
 recovered I was lying on my stomach in a 
 heap of soft white sand, and the dawn was 
 beginning to break dimly over the edge of the 
 slope down which I had fallen. As the light 
 grew stronger I saw that I was at the bottom 
 of a horseshoe-shaped crater of sand, opening 
 on one side directly on to the shoals of the 
 Sutlej. My fever had altogether left me, and 
 
6o The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 with the exception of a slight dizziness in the 
 head, I felt no bad effects from the fall over 
 night. 
 
 Pornic, who was standing a few yards away, 
 was naturally a good deal exhausted, but had 
 not hurt himself in the least. His saddle, a 
 favorite polo one, was much knocked about, 
 and had been twisted under his belly. It 
 took me some time to put him to rights, and 
 in the meantime I had ample opportunities 
 of observing the spot into which I had so 
 foolishly dropped. 
 
 At the risk of being considered tedious, I 
 must describe it at length ; inasmuch as an 
 accurate mental picture of its peculiarities will 
 be of material assistance in enabling the 
 reader to understand what follows. 
 
 Imagine then, as I have said before, a 
 horseshoe-shaped crater of sand with steeply 
 graded sand walls about thirty-five feet high. 
 (The slope, I fancy, must have been about 
 ^5°). This crater enclosed a level piece of 
 ground about fifty yards long by thirty at its 
 broadest part, with a rude well in the center. 
 Round the bottom of a crater, about three 
 feet from the level of the ground proper, ran 
 a series of eighty-three semi-circular, ovoid, 
 square, and multilateral holes, all about three 
 feet at the mouth. Each hole on inspection 
 showed that it was carefully shored internally 
 with driftwood and bamboos, and over the 
 mouth a wooden drip-board projected, like 
 the peak of a jockey's cap, for two feet. No 
 
strange Ride of Morrowbie Jukes 6i 
 
 sign of life was visible in these tunnels, but a 
 most sickening stench pervaded the entire 
 amphitheater — a stench fouler than any which 
 my wanderings in Indian villages have in- 
 troduced me to. 
 
 Having remounted Pornic, who was as anx- 
 ious as 1 to get back to camp, I rode round 
 the base of the horseshoe to find some place 
 whence an exit would be practicable. The 
 inhabitants, whoever they might be, had not 
 thought fit to put in an appearance, so I was 
 left to my own devices. My first attempt to 
 "rush" Pornic up the steep sand-banks 
 showed me that I had fallen into a trap ex- 
 actly on the same model as that which the 
 ant-lion sets for its prey. At each step the 
 shifting sand poured down from above in tons, 
 and rattled on the drip-boards of the holes like 
 small shot. A couple of ineffectual charges 
 sent us both rolling down to the bottom, half 
 choked with the torrents of sand ; and I was 
 constrained to turn my attention to the river- 
 bank. 
 
 Here everything seemed easy enough. The 
 sand hills ran down to the river edge, it is 
 true, but there were plenty of shoals and shal- 
 lows across which I could gallop Pornic, and 
 find my way back to terra firma by turning 
 sharply to the right or the left. As I led Por- 
 nic over the sands I was startled by the faint 
 pop of a rifle across the river ; and at the same 
 moment a bullet dropped with a sharp " whit'^ 
 close to Pornic's head. 
 
62 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 There was no mistaking the nature of the 
 missile — a regulation Martini-Henry" picket." 
 About five hundred yards away a country-boat 
 was anchored in midstream ; and a jet of 
 smoke drifting away from its bows in the still 
 morning air showed me whence the delicate 
 attention had come. Was ever a respectable 
 gentleman in such an i?npasse? The treach- 
 erous sand slope allowed no escape from a spot 
 which I had visited most involuntarily, and 
 a promenade on the river frontage was the 
 signal for a bombardment from some insane 
 native in a boat. I'm afraid that 1 lost my 
 temper very much indeed. 
 
 Another bullet reminded me that I had better 
 save my breath to cool my porridge; and I 
 retreated hastily up the sands and back to the 
 horseshoe, where I saw that the noise of the 
 rifle had drawn sixty-five human beings from 
 the badger-holes which I had up till that point 
 supposed to be untenanted. I found myself 
 in the midst of a crowd of spectators — about 
 forty men, twenty women, and one child who 
 could not have been more than five years old. 
 They were all scantily clothed in that salmon- 
 colored cloth which one associates with Hindu 
 mendicants, and, at first sight, gave m.e the 
 impression of a band of loathsome fakirs. 
 The filth and repulsiveness of the assembly 
 w'ere beyond all description, and I shuddered 
 to think what their life in the badger-holes 
 must be. 
 
 Even in these days, when local self-govern- 
 
strange Ride of Morrowbie Jukes 63 
 
 ment has destroyed the greater part of a na- 
 tive's respect for a Sahib, I have been accus- 
 tomed to a certain amount of civility from my 
 inferiors, and on approaching the crowd natu- 
 rally expected that there would be some recog- 
 nition of my presence. As a matter of fact 
 there was ; but it was by no means what I had 
 looked for. 
 
 The ragged crew actually laughed at me — 
 such laughter I hope I may never hear again. 
 They cackled, yelled, whistled, and howled as 
 I walked into their midst ; some of them liter- 
 ally throwing themselves down on the ground 
 in convulsions of unholy mirth. In a moment 
 I had let go Pornic's head, and, irritated be- 
 yond expression at the morning^s adventure, 
 commenced cuffing those nearest to me with 
 all the force I could. The wretches dropped 
 under my blows like nine-pins, and the laughter 
 gave place to wails for mercy ; while those yet 
 untouched clasped me round the knees, im- 
 ploring me in all sorts of uncouth tongues to 
 spare them. 
 
 In the tumult, and just when I was feeling 
 very much ashamed of myself for having thus 
 easily given way to my temper, a thin, high 
 voice murmured in English from behind my 
 shoulder :—" Sahib ! Sahib! Do you not 
 know me ? Sahib, it is Gunga Dass, the tele- 
 graph-master." 
 
 I spun round quickly and faced the speaker. 
 
 Gunga Dass (I have, of course, no hesita- 
 tion in mentioning the man's real name) I had 
 
64 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 known four years before as a Deccanee Brah- 
 min lent by the Punjab Government to one of 
 the Khalsia States. He was in charge of a 
 branch telegraph-office there, and when I had 
 last met him was a jovial, full-stomached, 
 portly Government servant with a marvelous 
 capacity for making bad puns in English — a 
 peculiarity which made me remember him long 
 after I had forgotten his services to me in his 
 official capacity. It is seldom that a Hindu 
 makes English puns. 
 
 Now, however, the man was changed beyond 
 all recognition. Caste-mark, stomach, slate- 
 colored continuations, and unctuous speech 
 were all gone. I looked at a withered skele- 
 ton, turbanless and almost naked, with long 
 matted hair and deep-set codfish-eyes. But 
 for a crescent-shaped scar on the left cheek — 
 the result of an accident for which I was re- 
 sponsible — I should never have known him. 
 But it was indubitably Gunga Dass, and — for 
 this I was thankful — an English-speaking na- 
 tive who might at least tell me the meaning of 
 all that I had gone through that day. 
 
 The crowd retreated to some distance as I 
 turned towards the miserable figure, and or- 
 dered him to show me some method of escap- 
 ing from the crater. He held a freshly plucked 
 crow in his hand, and in reply to my question 
 climbed slowly on a platform of sand which 
 ran in front of the holes, and commenced 
 lighting a fire there in silence. Dried bents, 
 sand-poppies, and driftwood burn quickly ; 
 
strange Ride of Morrowbie Jukes 65 
 
 and I derived much consolation from the fact 
 that he lit them with an ordinary sulphur- 
 match. When they were in a bright glow, and 
 the crow was neatly spitted in front thereof, 
 Gunga Dass began without a word of pre- 
 amble : — 
 
 " There are only two kinds of men, Sar. 
 The alive and the dead. When you are dead 
 you are dead, but when you are alive you live." 
 (Here the crow demanded his attention for an 
 instant as it twirled before the fire in danger 
 of being burnt to a cinder.) "If you die at 
 home and do not die when you come to the 
 ghat to be burnt you come here." 
 
 The nature of the reeking village was made 
 plain now, and all that I had known or read 
 of the grotesque and the horrible paled before 
 the fact just communicated by the ex-Brahmin. 
 Sixteen years ago, when I first landed in Bom- 
 bay, I had been told by a wandering Armenian 
 of the existence, somewhere in India, of a 
 place to which such Hindus as had the mis- 
 fortune to recover from trance or catalepsy 
 were conveyed and kept, and I recollect laugh- 
 ing heartily at what I was then pleased to con- 
 sider a traveler's tale. Sitting at the bottom 
 of the sand-trap, the memory of Watson's 
 Hotel, with its swinging punkahs, white-robed 
 attendants, and the sallowed faced Armenian, 
 rose up in my mind as vividly as a photograph, 
 and I burst into a loud fit of laughter. The 
 contrast was too absurd ! 
 
 Gunga Dass, as he bent over the unclean 
 5 
 
66 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 bird, watched me curiously. Hindus seldom 
 laugh, and his surroundings were not such as 
 to move Gunga Dass to any undue excess of 
 hilarity. He removed the crow solemnly from 
 the wooden spit and as solemnly devoured it. 
 Then he continued his story, which I give in 
 his own words : — 
 
 " In epidemics of the cholera you are car- 
 ried to be burnt almost before you are dead. 
 When you come to the riverside the cold air, 
 perhaps, makes you alive, and then, if you are 
 only little alive, mud is put on your nose and 
 mouth and you die conclusively. If you are 
 rather more alive, more mud is put; but if you 
 are too lively they let you go and take you away. 
 I was too lively, and made protestation with 
 anger against the indignities that they endeav- 
 ored to press upon me. In those days I was 
 Brahmin and proud man. Now I am dead 
 man and eat "—here he eyed the well-gnawed 
 breast bone with the first sign of emotion 
 that I had seen in him since we met — " crows, 
 and other things. They took me from my 
 sheets when they saw that I was too lively and 
 gave me medicines for one week, and I sur- 
 vived successfully. Then they sent me by 
 rail from my place to Okara Station with a. 
 man to take care of me ; and at Okara Station 
 we met two other men, and they conducted 
 we three on camels, in the night, from Okara 
 Station to this place, and they propelled me 
 from the top to the bottom, and the other two 
 succeeded, and I have been here ever since, two 
 
strange Ride of Morrowbie Jukes 67 
 
 and a half years. Once I was Brahmin and 
 proud man, and now I eat crows." . 
 
 " There is no way of getting out ? " 
 
 " None of what kind at all. When I first 
 came I made experiments frequently and all 
 the others also, but we have always suc- 
 cumbed to the sand which is precipitated 
 upon our heads." 
 
 " But surely," I broke in at this point, 
 " the river-front is open, and it is worth 
 while dodging the bullets ; while at night " 
 
 I had already matured a rough plan of 
 escape which a natural instinct of selfishness 
 forbade me sharing with Gunga Dass. He, 
 however, divined my unspoken thought al- 
 most as soon as it was formed ; and, to my 
 intense astonishment, gave vent to a long 
 low chuckle of derision — the laughter, be it 
 understood, of a superior or at least of an 
 equal. "You will not " — he had dropped the 
 Sir completely after his opening sentence — 
 " make any escape that way. But you can 
 try. I have tried. Once only." 
 
 The sensation of nameless terror and abject 
 fear which I had in vain attempted to strive 
 against overmastered me completely. My 
 long fast — it was now close upon ten o'clock, 
 and I had eaten nothing since tiffin on the 
 previous day — combined with the violent and 
 unnatural agitation of the ride had exhausted 
 me, and I verily believe that, for a few min- 
 utes, I acted as one mad. I hurled myself 
 against the pitiless sand-slope. I ran round 
 
68 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 the base of the crater, blaspheming and 
 praying by turns. I crawled out among the 
 sedges of the river-front, only to be driven 
 back each time in an agony of nervous dread 
 by the rifle-bullets which cut up the sand 
 round me — for I dared not face the death 
 of a mad dog among that hideous crowd — 
 and finally fell, spent and raving, at the curb 
 of the well. No one had taken the slightest 
 notice of an exhibition which makes me blush 
 hotly even when I think of it now. 
 
 Two or three men trod on my panting 
 body as they drew water, but they were evi- 
 dently used to this sort of thing, and had no 
 time to waste upon me. The situation was 
 humiliating. Gunga Dass, indeed, when he 
 had banked the embers of his fire with sand, 
 was at some pains to throw half a cupful of 
 fetid water over my head, an attention for 
 which I could have fallen on my knees and 
 thanked him, but he was laughing all the 
 while in the same mirthless, wheezy key 
 that greeted me on my first attempt to force 
 the shoals. And so, in a semi-comatose 
 condition, I lay till noon. Then, being only 
 a man after all, I felt hungry, and intimated 
 as much to Gunga Dass, whom I had begun 
 to regard as my natural protector. Follow- 
 ing the impulse of the outer world when 
 dealing with natives, I put my hand into my 
 pocket and drew out four annas. The ab- 
 surdity of the gift struck me at once, and I 
 was about to replace ^l^e money. 
 
strange Ride of Morrowbie Jukes 69 
 
 Gunga Dass, however, was of a different 
 opinion. "■ Give me the money," said he ; 
 " all you have, or I will get help, and we 
 will kill you ! " All this as if it were the most 
 natural thing in the world ! 
 
 A Briton's first impulse, I believe, is to 
 guard the contents of his pockets ; but a 
 moment's reflection convinced me of the fu- 
 tility of differing with the one man who had 
 it in his power to make me comfortable ; and 
 with whose help it was possible that I might 
 eventually escape from the crater. I gave 
 him all the money in my possession, Rs. 9-8- 
 5 — nine rupees eight annas and five pie — 
 for I always keep small change as bakshish 
 when I am in camp. Gunga Dass clutched 
 the coins, and hid them at once in his ragged 
 loin-cloth, his expression changing to some- 
 thing diabolical as he looked round to assure 
 himself that no one had observed us. 
 
 '^ Now I will give you something to eat," 
 said he. 
 
 What pleasure the possession of my 
 money could have afforded him I am unable 
 to say ; but inasmuch as it did give him evi- 
 dent delight I was not sorry that I had 
 parted with it so readily, for I had no doubt 
 that he would have had me killed if I had 
 refused. One does not protest against the 
 vagaries of a den of wild beasts ; and my 
 companions w^ere lower than any beasts. 
 While I devoured what Gunga Dass had 
 provided, a coarse chapatti and a cupful 
 
70 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 of the foul well-water, the people showed 
 not the faintest sign of curiosity — that 
 curiosity which is so rampant, as a rule, in 
 an Indian village. 
 
 I could even fancy that they despised me. 
 At all events they treated me with the most 
 chilling indifference, and Gunga Dass was 
 nearly as bad. I plied him with questions 
 about the terrible village, and received ex- 
 tremely unsatisfactory answers. So far as I 
 could gather, it had been in existence from 
 time immemorial — whence I concluded that 
 it was at least a century old — and during that 
 time no one had ever been known to escape 
 from it. [I had to control myself here with 
 both hands, lest the blind terror should lay 
 hold of me a second time and drive me rav- 
 ing round the crater.] Gunga Dass took a 
 malicious pleasure in emphasizing this point 
 and in watching me wince. Nothing that I 
 could do would induce him to tell me who the 
 mysterious " They " were. 
 
 " It is so ordered," he would reply, " and 
 I do not yet know any one who has disobeyed 
 the orders." 
 
 " Only wait till my servants find that I am 
 missing," I retorted, " and I promise you that 
 this place shall be cleared off the face of the 
 earth, and I'll give you a lesson in civility, 
 too, my friend." 
 
 " Your servants would be torn in pieces 
 before they came near this place ; and, be- 
 sides, you are dead, my dear friend. It is 
 
Stran.^'e Ride of Morrowbie Jukes 71 
 
 not your fault, of course, but none the less 
 you are dead ^/^^ buried." 
 
 At irregular intervals supplies of food, I 
 was told, were dropped down from the land 
 side into the amphitheater, and the inhabitants 
 fought for them like wild beasts. When a 
 man felt his death coming on he retreated to 
 his lair and died there. The body was some- 
 times dragged out of the hole and thrown on 
 to the sand, or allowed to rot where it lay. 
 
 The phrase " thrown on to the sand " caught 
 my attention, and I asked Gunga Dass 
 whether this sort of thing was not likely ta 
 breed a pestilence. 
 
 "That," said he, with another of his 
 wheezy chuckles, " you may see for yourself 
 subsequently. You will have much time to 
 make observations." 
 
 Whereat, to his great delight, I winced once 
 more and hastily continued the conversation : 
 — " And how do you live here from day ta 
 day ? What do you do ? " The question 
 elicited exactly the same answer as before — 
 coupled with the information that " this place 
 is like your European heaven ; there is 
 neither marrying nor giving in marriage." 
 
 Gunga Dass had been educated at a Mis- 
 sion School, and, as he himself admitted, had 
 he only changed his religion " like a wise 
 man," might have avoided the living grave 
 which Vv'as now his portion. But as long as 
 I was with him 1 fancy he was happy. 
 
 Here was a Sahib, a representative of the 
 
72 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 dominant race, helpless as a child and com- 
 pletely at the mercy of his native neighbors. 
 In a deliberate lazy way he set himself to 
 torture me as a schoolboy would devote a 
 rapturous half-hour to watching the agonies 
 of an impaled beetle, or as a ferret in a blind 
 burrow might glue himself comfortably to 
 the neck of a rabbit. The burden of his con- 
 versation was that there was no escape " of 
 no kind whatever," and that I should stay 
 here till I died and was " thrown on to the 
 sand." If it were possible to forejudge the 
 conversation of the Damned on the advent of 
 a new soul in their abode, I should say that 
 they would speak as Gunga Dass did to me 
 throughout that long afternoon. I was power- 
 less to protest or answer; all my energies 
 being devoted to a struggle against the inex- 
 plicable terror that threatened to overwhelm 
 me again and again. I can compare the 
 feeling to nothing except the struggles of a 
 man against the overpowering nausea of the 
 Channel passage — only my agony was of the 
 spirit and infinitely more terrible. 
 
 As the day wore on, the inhabitants began 
 to appear in full strength to catch the rays of 
 the afternoon sun, which were now sloping 
 in at the mouth of the crater. They assem- 
 bled in little knots, and talked among them- 
 selves without even throwing a glance in my 
 direction. About four o'clock, as far as I 
 could judge, Gunga Dass rose and dived into 
 his lair for a moment, emerging with a live 
 
strange Ride of Morrowbie Jukes 73 
 
 crow in his hands. The wretched bird was 
 in a most draggled and deplorable condition, 
 but seemed to be in no way afraid of its 
 master. Advancing cautiously to the river- 
 front, Gunga Dass stepped from tussock to 
 tussock until he had reached a smooth patch 
 of sand directly in the line of the boat's fire. 
 The occupants of the boat took no notice. 
 Here he stopped, and with a couple of dexter- 
 ous turns of the wrist, pegged the bird on its 
 back with outstretched wings. As was only 
 natural, the crow began to shriek at once and 
 beat the air with its claws. In a few seconds 
 the clamor had attracted the attention of a 
 bevy of wild crows on a shoal a few hundred 
 yards away, where they were discussing 
 something that looked like a corpse. Half 
 a dozen crows flew over at once to see what 
 was going on, and also, as it proved, to 
 attack the pinioned bird. Gunga Dass, who 
 had lain down on a tussock, motioned to me 
 to be quiet, though I fancy this was a need- 
 less precaution. In a moment, and before I 
 could see how it happened, a wild crow, who 
 had grappled with the shrieking and helpless 
 bird, was entangled in the latter's claws, swift- 
 ly disengaged by Gunga Dass, and pegged 
 down beside its companion in adversity. 
 Curiosity, it seemed, overpowered the rest of 
 the flock, and almost before Gunga Dass and 
 I had time to withdraw to the tussock, two 
 more captives were struggling in the upturned 
 claws of the decoys. So the chase — if I can 
 
74 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 give it so dignified a name — continued until 
 Gunga Dass had captured seven crows. Five 
 of tliem he throttled at once, reserving two 
 for further operations another day. I was a 
 good deal impressed by this, to me, novel 
 method of securing food, and complimented 
 Gunga Dass on his skill. 
 
 " It is nothing to do," said he. " To-mor- 
 row you must do it for me. You are stronger 
 than I am." 
 
 This calm assumption of superiority upset 
 me not a little, and I answered peremptorily : 
 — " Indeed, you old ruffian ! What do you 
 think I have given you money for } " 
 
 " Very well," was the unmoved reply. 
 " Perhaps not to-morrow, nor the day after, 
 nor subsequently; but in the end, and for 
 many years, you will catch crows and eat 
 crows, and you will thank your European 
 Gods that you have crows to catch and eat." 
 
 I could have cheerfully strangled him for 
 this ; but judged it best under the circum- 
 stances to smother my resentment. An hour 
 later I was eating one of the crows; and, as 
 Gunga Dass had said, thanking my God that 
 I had a crow to eat. Never as long as I live 
 shall I forget that evening meal. The whole 
 population were squatting on the hard sand 
 platform opposite their dens, huddled over 
 tiny fires of refuse and dried rushes. Death, 
 having once laid his hand upon these men 
 and forborne to strike, seemed to stand aloof 
 from them now ; for most of our company 
 
strange Ride of Morrovvbie Jukes 75 
 
 were old men, bent and worn and twisted 
 with years, and women aged to all appear- 
 ance as the Fates themselves. They sat to- 
 gether in knots and talked — God only knows 
 what they found to discuss — in low equable 
 tones, curiously in contrast to the strident 
 babble with which natives are accustomed to 
 make day hideous. Now and then an access 
 of that sudden fury which had possessed me 
 in the morning would lay hold on a man or 
 woman ; and with yells and imprecations the 
 sufferer would attack the steep slope until, 
 baffled and bleeding, he fell back on the plat- 
 form incapable of moving a limb. The others 
 would never even raise their eyes when this 
 happened, as men too well aware of the fu- 
 tility of their fellows' attempts and wearied 
 with their useless repetition. I saw four such 
 outbursts in the course of that evening. 
 
 Gunga Dass took an eminently business- 
 like view of my situation, and while we were 
 dining — I can afford to laugh at the recollec- 
 tion now, but it was painful enough at the 
 time — propounded the terms on which he 
 would consent to "do" for me. My nine 
 rupees eight annas, he argued, at the rate of 
 three annas a day, would provide me with 
 food for fifty-one days, or about seven weeks ; 
 that is to say, he would be willing to cater for 
 me for that length of time. At the end of it 
 I was to look after myself. For a further con- 
 sideration — videlicet my boots — he would be 
 willing to allow me to occupy the den next to his 
 
76 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 own, and would supply me with as much dried 
 grass for bedding as he could spare. 
 
 " Very well, Gunga Dass," I replied ; " to 
 the first terms I cheerfully agree, but, as there 
 is nothing on earth to prevent my killing you 
 as you sit here and taking everything that 
 you have" (I thought of the two invaluable 
 crows at the time), " I flatly refuse to give you 
 my boots and shall take whichever den I 
 please." 
 
 The stroke was a bold one, and I was glad 
 when I saw that it had succeeded. Gunga 
 Dass changed his tone immediately, and dis- 
 avowed all intention of asking for my boots. 
 At the time it did not strike me as at all 
 strange that I, a Civil Engineer, a man of 
 thirteen years' standing in the Service, and I 
 trust, an average Englishman, should thus 
 calmly threaten murder and violence against 
 the man who had, for a consideration, it is true, 
 taken me under his wdng. I had left the 
 world, it seemed, for centuries. I was as cer- 
 tain then as I am now of my own existence, 
 that in the accursed settlement there w^as no 
 law save that of the strongest ; that the living 
 dead men had thrown behind them every canon 
 of the world which had cast them out ; and 
 that I had to depend for my own life on my 
 strength and vigilance alone. The crew of 
 the ill-fated Mignonette are the only men who 
 would understand my frame of mind. "At 
 present," I argued to myself, " I am strong and 
 a match for six of these wretches. It is in> 
 
strange Ride of Morrowbie Jukes 77 
 
 peratively necessary that I should, for my own 
 sake, keep both heaUh and strength until the 
 hour of my release comes — if it ever does." 
 
 Fortified with these resolutions, I ate and 
 drank as much as I could, and made Gunga 
 Dass understand that I intended to be his 
 master, and that the least sign of insubordi- 
 nation on his part would be visited with the 
 only punishment I had it in my power to in- 
 flict — sudden and violent death. Shortly after 
 this I went to bed. That is to say, Gunga 
 Dass gave me a double armful of dried bents 
 which I thrust down the mouth of the lair to 
 the right of his, and followed myself, feet fore- 
 most; the hole running about nine feet into 
 the sand with a slight downward inclination, 
 and being neatly shored with timbers. From 
 my den, which faced the river-front, I was 
 able to watch the waters of the Sutlej flowing 
 past under the light of a young moon and 
 composed myself to sleep as best I might. 
 
 The horrors of that night I shall never for- 
 get. My den was nearly as narrow as a coffin, 
 and the sides had been worn smooth and 
 greasy by the contact of innumerable naked 
 bodies, added to which it smelled abominably. 
 Sleep was altogetlier out of question to one in 
 my excited frame of mind. As the night wore 
 on, it seemed that the entire amphitheater was 
 filled with legions of unclean devils that, troop- 
 ing up from the shoals below, mocked the 
 unfortunates in their lairs. 
 
 Personally I am not of an imaginative tern- 
 
78 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 perament, — very few Engineers are, — but on 
 that occasion I was as completely prostrated 
 with nervous terror as any woman. After half 
 an hour or so, however, I was able once more 
 to calmly review my chances of escape. Any 
 exit by the steep sand walls was, of course, 
 impracticable. I had been thoroughly con- 
 vinced of this some time before. It was 
 possible, just possible, that I might, in the 
 uncertain moonlight, safely run the gauntlet 
 of the rifle shots. The place was so full of 
 terror for me that I was prepared to undergo 
 any risk in leaving it. Imagine my delight, 
 then, when after creeping stealthily to the 
 river-front I found that the infernal boat was 
 not there. My freedom lay before me in the 
 next few steps ! 
 
 By walking out to the first shallow pool 
 that lay at the foot of the projecting left horn 
 of the horseshoe, I could wade across, turn 
 the flank of the crater, and make my way in- 
 land. Without a moment's hesitation I 
 marched briskly past the tussocks where 
 Gunga Dass had snared the crows, and out in 
 the direction of the smooth white sand beyond. 
 My first step from the tufts of dried grass 
 showed me how utterly futile was any hope of 
 escape; for, as I put my foot down, I felt an 
 indescribable drawing, sucking motion of the 
 sand below. Another moment and my leg 
 was swallowed up nearly to the knee. In the 
 moonlight the whole surface of the sand 
 seemed to be shaken with devilish delight at 
 
strange Ride of Morrowbie Jukes 79 
 
 my disappointment. I struggled clear, sweat- 
 ing with terror and exertion, back to the tus- 
 socks behind me and fell on my face. 
 
 My only means of escape from the semi- 
 circle was protected with a quicksand ! 
 
 How long I lay I have not the faintest idea ; 
 but I was roused at last by the malevolent 
 chuckle of Gunga Dass at my ear. " I would 
 advise you. Protector of the Poor" (the ruffian 
 was speaking English) " to return to your 
 house. It is unhealthy to lie down here. 
 Moreover, when the boat returns, you will 
 most certainly be rifled at. " He stood over 
 me in the dim light of the dawn, chuckling 
 and laughing to himself. Suppressing my first 
 impulse to catch the man by the neck and 
 throw him on to the quicksand, I rose sullenly 
 and followed him to the platform below the 
 burrows. 
 
 Suddenly, and futilely as I thought while I 
 spoke, I asked: — "Gunga Dass, what is the 
 good of the boat if I can't get out ajiyhow ? " 
 I recollect that even in my deepest trouble I 
 had been speculating vaguely on the waste of 
 ammunition in guarding an already well pro- 
 tected foreshore. 
 
 Gunga Dass laughed again and made 
 answer : — " They have the boat only in day- 
 time. It is for the reason that f/iere is a 7aay. 
 I hope we shall have the pleasure of your com- 
 pany for much longer time. It is a pleasant 
 spot when you have been here some years and 
 eaten roast crow long enough." 
 
8o The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 I staggered, numbed and helpless, towards 
 the fetid burrow allotted to me, and fell asleep. 
 An hour or so later I was awakened by a 
 piercing scream — the shrill, high-pitched 
 scream of a horse in pain. Those who have 
 once heard that will never forget the sound. 
 I found some little difficulty in scrambling out 
 of the burrow. When I was in the open, I 
 saw Pornic, my poor old Pornic, lying dead on 
 the sandy soil. How they had killed him I 
 cannot guess. Gunga Dass explained that 
 horse was better than crow, and " greatest good 
 of greatest number," is political maxim. 
 We are now Republic, Mister Jukes, and 
 you are entitled to a fair share of the beast. If 
 you like, we will pass a vote of thanks. Shall 
 I propose } " 
 
 Yes, we were a Republic indeed ! A Re- 
 public of wild beasts penned at the bottom of 
 a pit, to eat and fight and sleep till we died. 
 I attempted no protest of any kind, but sat 
 down and stared at the hideous sight in front 
 of me. In less time almost than it takes me 
 to write this, Pornic's body was divided, in 
 some unclean way or other; the men and 
 women had dragged the fragments on to the 
 platform and w^ere preparing their morning 
 meal. Gunga Dass cooked mine. The al- 
 most irresistible impulse to fly at the sand 
 walls until I was wearied laid hold of me 
 afresh, and I had to struggle against it with 
 all my might. Gunga Dass was offensively 
 jocular till I told him that if he addressed an- 
 
strange Ride of Morrowbie Jukes 8i 
 
 other remark of any kind whatever to me I 
 should strangle him where he sat. This si- 
 lenced him till silence became insupportable, 
 and I bade him say something. 
 
 " You will live here till you die like the 
 other Feringhi," he said coolly, watching me 
 over the fragment of gristle that he was gnaw- 
 ing. 
 
 " What other Sahib, you swine ? Speak at 
 once, and don't stop to tell me a lie." 
 
 " He is over there," answered Gunga Dass, 
 pointing to a burrow-mouth about four doors 
 to the left of my own. " You can see for 
 yourself. He died in the burrow as you will 
 die, and I will die, and as all these men and 
 women and the one child will also die." 
 
 " For pity's sake tell me all you know about 
 him. Who was he ? When did he come, 
 and when did he die } " 
 
 This appeal was a weak step on my part. 
 Gunga Dass only leered and replied : — " I 
 will not — unless you give me something 
 first." 
 
 Then I recollected where I was, and struck 
 the man between the eyes, partially stunning 
 him. He stepped down from the platform at 
 once, and, cringing and fawning and weeping 
 and attempting to embrace my feet, led me 
 round to the burrow which he had indicated. 
 
 " I know nothing whatever about the gentle- 
 man. Your God be my witness that I do not. 
 He was as anxious to escape as you were, 
 and he was shot from the boat, though we 
 
S2 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 all did all things to prevent him from attempt- 
 ing. He was shot here." Gunga Dass laid 
 his hand on his lean stomach and bowed to 
 the earth. 
 
 " Well, and what then ? Go on ! " 
 
 " And then — and then, Your Honor, we 
 carried him in to his house and gave him 
 water, and put wet cloths on the wound, and 
 he laid down in his house and gave up the 
 ghost. " 
 
 " In how long ? In how long } " 
 
 " About half an hour, after he received his 
 wound. I call Vishn to witness," yelled the 
 wretched man, "that I did everything for 
 him. Everything which was possible, that 
 I did ! " 
 
 He threw himself down on the ground and 
 clasped my ankles. But I had my doubts 
 about Gunga Dass's benevolence, and kicked 
 him off as he lay protesting. 
 
 '' I believe you robbed him of everything 
 he had. But I can find out in a minute or 
 two. How long was the Sahib here } " 
 
 " Nearly a year and a half. I think he 
 must have gone mad. But hear me swear. 
 Protector of the Poor ! Won't Your Honor 
 hear me swear that I never touched an article 
 that belonged to him .'' What is Your Wor- 
 ship going to do ? " 
 
 I had taken Gunga Dass by the waist and 
 had hauled him on to the platform opposite 
 the deserted burrow. As I did so I thought 
 of my wretched fellow-prisoner's unspeakable 
 
strange Ride of Morrowbie Jukes 83 
 
 misery among all these horrors for eighteen 
 months, and the final agony of dying like a 
 rat in a hole, with a bullet-wound in the 
 stomach. Gunga Dass fancied I was going 
 to kill him and howled pitifully. The rest of 
 the population, in the plethora that follows a 
 full flesh meal, watched us without stirring. 
 
 " Go inside, Gunga Dass," said I, " and 
 fetch it out.'' 
 
 I was feeling sick and faint with horror 
 now. Gunga Dass nearly rolled off the plat- 
 form and howled aloud. 
 
 " But I am Brahmin, Sahib — a high-caste 
 Brahmin. By your soul, by your father's soul, 
 do not make me do this thing ! " 
 
 " Brahmin or no Brahmin, by my soul and 
 my father's soul, in you go ! " I said, and, 
 seizing him by the shoulders, I crammed his 
 head into the mouth of the burrow, kicked 
 the rest of him in, and, sitting down, covered 
 my face with my hands. 
 
 At the end of a few minutes I heard a rustle 
 and a creak; then Gunga Dass in a sobbing, 
 choking whisper speaking to himself ; then a 
 soft thud — and I uncovered my eyes. 
 
 The dry sand had turned the corpse en- 
 trusted to its keeping into a yellow-brown 
 mummy. I told Gunga Dass to stand off 
 while I examined it. The body — clad in an 
 olive-green hunting-suit much stained and 
 worn, with leather pads on the shoulders — 
 was that of a man between thirty and forty, 
 above middle height, with light, sandy hair. 
 
84 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 long mustache, and a rough unkempt beard. 
 The left canine of the upper jaw was missing, 
 and a portion of the lobe of the right ear was 
 gone. On the second finger of the left hand 
 was a ring — a shield-shaped bloodstone set in 
 gold, with a monogram that might have been 
 either " B. K." or " B. L." On the third 
 finger of the right hand was a silver ring in 
 the shape of a coiled cobra, much worn and 
 tarnished. Gunga Dass deposited a handful 
 of trifles he had picked out of the burrow at 
 my feet, and, covering the face of the body 
 with my handkerchief, I turned to examine 
 these. I give the full list in the hope that it 
 may lead to the identification of the unfortu- 
 nate man : — 
 
 1. Bowl of a briarwood pipe, serrated at the 
 edge ; much worn and blackened ; bound with 
 string at the screw. 
 
 2. Two patent-lever keys ; wards of both 
 broken. 
 
 3. Tortoise-shell handled penknife, silver 
 or nickel, name-plate, marked with monogram 
 "B.K." 
 
 4. Envelope, post-mark undecipherable, 
 bearing a Victorian stamp, addressed to 
 " Miss Mon — " (rest illegible) — " ham " — 
 "nt." 
 
 5. Imitation crocodile-skin note-book with 
 pencil. First forty-five pages blank ; foui 
 and a half illegible ; fifteen others filled with 
 private memoranda relating chiefly to three 
 persons — a Mrs. L. Singleton, abbreviated 
 
strange Ride of Morrowbie Jukes 85 
 
 several times to "Lot Single," "Mrs. S. 
 May," and " Garmison," referred to in places 
 as " Jerry " or " Jack." 
 
 6. Handle of small-sized hunting-knife. 
 Blade snapped short. Buck's horn, diamond 
 cut, with swivel and ring on the butt ; frag- 
 ment of cotton cord attached. 
 
 It must not be supposed that I inventoried 
 all these things on the spot as fully as I have 
 here written them down. The note-book first 
 attracted my attention, and I put it in my 
 pocket with a view to studying it later on. 
 The rest of the articles I conveyed to my bur- 
 row for safety's sake, and there, being a 
 methodical man, I inventoried them. I then 
 returned to the corpse and ordered Gunga 
 Dass to help me to carry it out to the river- 
 front. While we were engaged in this, the 
 exploded shell of an old brown cartridge 
 dropped out of one of the pockets and rolled 
 at my feet. Gunga Dass had not seen it ; and 
 I fell to thinking that a man does not carry 
 exploded cartridge-cases, especially "browns," 
 which will not bear loading twice, about with 
 him when shooting. In other words, that 
 cartridge-case had been fired inside the crater. 
 Consequently there must be a gun somewhere. 
 I was on the verge of asking Gunga Dass, but 
 checked myself, knowing that he would lie. 
 We laid the body down on the edge of the 
 quicksand by the tussocks. It was my inten- 
 tion to push it out and let it be swallowed up 
 — the only possible mode of burial that I could 
 
86 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 think of. I ordered Gunga Dass to go 
 away. 
 
 Then I gingerly put the corpse out on the 
 quicksand. In doing so, it was lying face 
 downward, I tore the frail and rotten khaki 
 shooting-coat open, disclosing a hideous cavity 
 in the back. I have already told you that the 
 dry sand had, as it were, mummified the body. 
 A moment's glance showed that the gaping 
 hole had been caused by a gun-shot wound ; 
 the gun must have been fired with the muzzle 
 almost touching the back. The shooting-coat, 
 being intact, had been drawn over the body 
 after death, which must have been instanta- 
 neous. The secret of the poor wretch's death 
 was plain to me in a flash. Some one of the 
 crater, presumably Gunga Dass, must have 
 shot him with his own gun — the gun that fitted 
 the brown cartridges. He had never attempted 
 to escape in the face of the rifle-fire from the 
 boat. 
 
 I pushed the corpse out hastily, and saw it 
 sink from sight literally in a few seconds. I 
 shuddered as I watched. In a dazed, half- 
 conscious way I turned to peruse the note- 
 book. A stained and discolored slip of paper 
 had been inserted between the binding and 
 the back, and dropped out as I opened the 
 pages. This is what it contained: — ''Four 
 out fro7n crow-dicmp : three left ; nine out; two 
 right; three back; two left ; fourteen out ; two 
 left; seveji out ; one left ; niiieback; tivo 7'ight ; 
 six back ; four right ; seven back.'^ The paper 
 
strange Ride of Morrowbie Jukes 87 
 
 had been burnt and charred at the edges. 
 What it meant 1 could not understand. 1 sat 
 down on the dried bents turning it over and 
 over between my fingers, until I was aware of 
 Gunga Dass standing immediately behind me 
 with glowing eyes and outstretched hands. 
 
 "Have you got it?" he panted. "Will 
 you not let me look at it also ? I swear that 
 I will return it." 
 
 '' Got what ? Return what ? " I asked. 
 
 "That which you have in your hands. It 
 will help us both." He stretched out his 
 long, bird-like talons, trembling with eager- 
 ness. 
 
 " I could never find it," he continued. 
 " He had secreted it about his person. 
 Therefore I shot him, but nevertheless I was 
 unable to obtain it." 
 
 Gunga Dass had quite forgotten his little 
 fiction about the rifle-bullet. I received the 
 information perfectly calmly. Morality is 
 blunted by consorting with the Dead who are 
 alive. 
 
 " What on earth are you raving about ? 
 What is it you want me to give you .-^ " 
 
 " The piece of paper in the note-book. It 
 will help us both. Oh, you fool ! You fool ! 
 Can you not see what it will do for us .^ We 
 shall escape ! " 
 
 His voice rose almost to a scream, and he 
 danced with excitement before me. I own I 
 was moved at the chance of getting away. 
 
 " Don't skip ! Explain yourself. Do you 
 
88 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 mean to say that this slip of paper will help 
 us ? What does it mean ? " 
 
 " Read it aloud ! Read it aloud! I beg 
 and I pray to you to read it aloud." 
 
 I did so. Gunga Dass listened delightedly, 
 and drew an irregular line in the sand with 
 his fingers. 
 
 " See now ! It was the length of his gun- 
 barrels without the stock. I have those 
 barrels. Four gun-barrels out from the place 
 where I caught crows. Straight out ; do you 
 follow me ? Then three left — Ah ! how well 
 I remember when that man worked it out 
 night after night. Then nine out, and so on. 
 Out is always straight before you across the 
 quicksand. He told me so before I killed him. " 
 
 " But if you knew all this why didn't you 
 get out before ? " 
 
 " I did not know it. He told me that he 
 was working it out a year and a half ago, and 
 how he was working it out night after night 
 when the boat had gone away, and he could 
 get out near the quicksand safely. Then he 
 said that we would get away together. But 
 I was afraid that he would leave me behind 
 one night when he had worked it all out, and 
 so I shot him. Besides, it is not advisable 
 that the men who once get in here should 
 escape. Only I, and /am a Brahmin." 
 
 The prospect of escape had brought Gunga 
 Dass's caste back to him. He stood up, 
 walked about and gesticulated violently. 
 Eventually I managed to make him talk 
 
strange Ride of Morrowbie Jukes 89 
 
 soberly, and he told me how this Englishman 
 had spent six months night after night in ex- 
 ploring, inch by inch, the passage across the 
 quicksand ; how he had declared it to be sim- 
 plicity itself up to within about twenty yards 
 of the river bank after turning the Hank of 
 the left horn of the horseshoe. This much he 
 had evidently not completed when Gunga Dass 
 shot him with his own gun. 
 
 In my frenzy of delight at the possibilities 
 of escape I recollect shaking hands effusively 
 with Gunga Dass, after we had decided that 
 we were to make an attempt to get away that 
 very night. It was weary work waiting 
 throughout the afternoon. 
 
 About ten o'clock, as far as I could judge, 
 when the Moon had just risen above the lip 
 of the crater, Gunga Dass made a move for 
 his burrow to bring out the gun-barrels 
 whereby to measure our path. All the other 
 wretched inhabitants had retired to their lairs 
 long ago. The guardian boat drifted down- 
 stream some hours before, and we were ut- 
 terly alone by the crow-clump. Gunga Dass, 
 while carrying the gun-barrels, let slip the 
 piece of paper which was to be our guide. I 
 stooped down hastily to recover it, and, as I 
 did so, I was aware that the diabolical Brah- 
 min was aiming a violent blow at the back of 
 my head with the gun-barrels. It was too 
 late to turn round. I must have received the 
 blow somewhere on the nape of my neck. A 
 hundred thousand fiery stars danced before 
 
90 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 my eyes, and I fell forward senseless at the 
 edge of the quicksand. 
 
 When I recovered consciousness, the Moon 
 was going down, and I was sensible of intol- 
 erable pain in the back of my head. Gunga 
 Dass had disappeared and my mouth was full 
 of blood. I lay down again and prayed that 
 I might die without more ado. Then the un- 
 reasoning fury which I have before mentioned 
 laid hold upon me, and I staggered inland 
 tow^ards the walls of the crater. It seemed 
 that some one was calling to me in a whisper 
 — " Sahib ! Sahib ! Sahib ! " exactly as my 
 bearer used to call me in the mornings. I 
 fancied that I was delirious until a handful of 
 sand fell at my feet. Then I looked up and 
 saw a head peering down into the amphi- 
 theater — the head of Dunnoo, my dog-boy, 
 who attended to my collies. As soon as he 
 had attracted my attention, he held up his 
 hand and showed a rope. I motioned, stag- 
 gering to and fro the while, that he should 
 throw it down. It was a couple of leather 
 punkah-ropes knotted together, with a loop at 
 one end. I slipped the loop over my head 
 and under my arms ; heard Dunnoo urge 
 something forward ; was conscious that I was 
 being dragged, face downward, up the steep 
 sand slope, and the next instant found myself 
 choked and half fainting on the sand hills 
 overlooking the crater. Dunnoo, with his face 
 ashy gray in the moonlight, implored me not 
 to stay but to get back to my tent at once. 
 
strange Ride of Morrowbie Jukes 91 
 
 It seems that he had tracked Pornic's foot- 
 prints fourteen miles across the sands to the 
 crater ; had returned and told my servants, 
 who flatly refused to meddle with any one, 
 white or black, once fallen into the hideous 
 Village of the Dead ; whereupon Dunnoo had 
 taken one of my ponies and a couple of pun- 
 kah ropes, returned to the crater, and hauled 
 me out as I have described. 
 
 To cut a long story short, Dunnoo is now 
 my personal servant on a gold mohur a month 
 — a sum which I still think far too little for 
 the services he has rendered. Nothing on 
 earth will induce me to go near that devilish 
 spot again, or to reveal its whereabouts more 
 clearly than I have done. Of Gunga Dass I 
 have never found a trace, nor do I wish to do. 
 My sole motive in giving this to be published 
 is the hope that some one may possibly 
 identify, from the details and the inventory 
 which I have given above, the corpse of the 
 man in the olive-green hunting-suit. 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 
 
 " Brother to a Prince and fellow to a beggar if he 
 be found worthy." 
 
 The Law, as quoted, lays down a fair con- 
 duct of life, and one not easy to follow. I 
 have been fellow to a beggar again and again 
 under circumstances which prevented either 
 of us finding out whether the other was 
 worthy. I have still to be brother to a Prince, 
 though I once came near to kinship with what 
 might have been a veritable King and was 
 promised the reversion of a Kingdom — army, 
 law-courts, revenue and policy all complete. 
 But, to-day, I greatly fear that my King is 
 dead, and if I want a crown I must go and 
 hunt it for myself. 
 
 The beginning of everything was in a rail- 
 way train upon the road to Mhow from Ajmir. 
 There had been a Deficit in the Budget, which 
 necessitated traveling, not Second-class, 
 which is only half as dear as First-class, but 
 by Intermediate, which is very awful indeed. 
 There are no cushions in the Intermediate- 
 class, and the population are either Inter- 
 mediate, which is Eurasian, or native, which 
 for a long night journey is nasty, or Loafer, 
 which is amusing though intoxicated. Inter- 
 92 
 
The Man Who Would be King 93 
 
 mediates do not patronize refreshment-rooms. 
 They carry their food in bundles and pots, 
 and buy sweets from the native sweetmeat- 
 sellers, and drink the roadside water. That 
 is why in the hot weather Intermediates are 
 taken out of the carriages dead, and in all 
 weathers are most properly looked down upon. 
 My particular Intermediate happened to be 
 empty till I reached Nasirabad, when a huge 
 gentleman in shirt-sleeves entered and follow- 
 ing the custom of Intermediates, passed the 
 time of day. He was a wanderer and a vaga- 
 bond like myself, but with an educated taste 
 for whisky. He told tales of things he had 
 seen and done, of out-of-the-way corners of 
 the Empire into which he had penetrated, and 
 of adventures in which he risked his life for a 
 few days' food. " If India was filled with 
 men like you and me, not knowing more than 
 the crows where they'd get their next day's 
 rations, it isn't seventy millions of revenue the 
 land would be paying — it's seven hundred 
 millions," said he ; and as I looked at his 
 mouth and chin I was disposed to agree with 
 him. We talked politics — the politics of 
 Loaferdom that sees things from the underside 
 where the lath and plaster is not smoothed off 
 — and we talked postal arrangements because 
 my friend wanted to send a telegram back 
 from the next station to Ajmir, which is the 
 turning-off place from the Bombay to the 
 Mhow line as you travel westward. My friend 
 had no money beyond eight annas which he 
 
94 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 wanted for dinner, and I had no money at all, 
 owing to the hitch in the Budget before men- 
 tioned. Further, I was going into a wilderness 
 where, though I should resume touch with the 
 Treasury, there were no telegraph offices. I 
 was, therefore, unable to help him in any way. 
 
 " We might threaten a Station-master, and 
 make him send a wire on tick," said my friend, 
 "but that'd mean inquiries for you and for 
 me, and I've got my hands full these days. 
 Did you say you are traveling back along this 
 line within any days ? " 
 
 "Within ten," I said. 
 
 " Can't you make it eight ? " said he. "Mine 
 is rather urgent business." 
 
 "I can send your telegram within ten days 
 if that will serve you," I said. 
 
 " I couldn't trust the wire to fetch him now 
 I think of it. It's this way. He leaves Delhi 
 on the 23d for Bombay. That means he'll be 
 running through Ajmir about the night of the 
 23d." 
 
 " But I'm going into the Indian Desert," I 
 explained. 
 
 "Well and good," said he. "You'll be 
 changing at Marwar Junction to get into Jodh- 
 pore territory — you must do that and he'll be 
 coming through Marwar junction in the early 
 morning of the 24th by the Bombay Mail. 
 Can you be at Marwar Junction on that time 1 
 'Twon't be inconveniencing you because I 
 know that there's precious few pickings to be 
 got out of these Central India States — even 
 
The Man Who Would be King 95 
 
 though you pretend to be correspondent of 
 the Backwoods7nanr 
 
 " Have you ever tried that trick ? " I asked. 
 
 " Again and again, but the Residents find you 
 out, and then you get escorted to the Border 
 before you've time to get your knife into them. 
 But about my friend here. I must give him a 
 word o' mouth to tell him what's come to me 
 or else he won't know where to go. I would 
 take it more than kind of you if you was to 
 come out of Central India in time to catch him 
 at Marwar Junction, and say to him : — ' He 
 has gone South for the week.' He'll know 
 what that means. He's a big man with a red 
 beard, and a great swell he is. You'll find him 
 sleeping like a gentleman with all his luggage 
 round him in a Second-class compartment. 
 But don't you be afraid. Slip down the 
 window, and say : — ' He has gone South for 
 the week,' and he'll tumble. It's only cutting 
 your time of stay in those parts by two days, 
 I ask you as a stranger — going to the West," 
 he said with emphasis. 
 
 " Where have you come from t " said I. 
 
 " From the East," said he, " and I am hop- 
 ing that you will give him the message on the 
 Square — for the sake of my Mother as well as 
 your own." 
 
 Englishmen are not usually softened by ap- 
 peals to the memory of their mothers, but for 
 certain reasons, which will be fully apparent, 
 I saw fit to agree. 
 
 *' It's more than a little matter," said he, 
 
96 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 " and that's why I ask you to do it — and now 
 I know that I can depend on you doing it. A 
 Second-class carriage at Marwar Junction, and 
 a red-haired man asleep in it. You'll be sure 
 to remember. I get out at the next station, 
 and I must hold on there till he comes or 
 sends me what I want." 
 
 " I'll give the message if I catch him," I 
 said, " and for the sake of your Mother as 
 well as mine I'll give you a word of advice. 
 Don't try to run the Central India States just 
 now as the correspondent of the Backwoods- 
 man. There's a real one knocking about 
 here, and it might lead to trouble." 
 
 "Thank you," said he simply, "and when 
 will the swine be gone ? I can't starve be- 
 cause he's ruining my work. I wanted to get 
 hold of the Degumber Rajah down here about 
 his father's widow, and give him a jump." 
 
 "What did he do to his father's widow, 
 then ? " 
 
 " Filled her up with red pepper and slip- 
 pered her to death as she hung from a beam. 
 I found that out myself and I'm the only man 
 that would dare going into the State to get 
 hush-money for it. They'll try to poison me, 
 same as they did in Chortumna when I went 
 on the loot there. But you'll give the man at 
 Marwar Junction my message ? " 
 
 He got out at a little roadside station, and 
 I reflected. I had heard, more than once, of 
 men personating correspondents of news- 
 papers and bleeding small Native States with 
 
The Man Who Would be King 97 
 
 threats of exposure, but I had never met any 
 of the caste before. They lead a hard life, 
 and generally die with great suddenness. 
 The Native States have a wholesome horror 
 of English newspapers, which may throw light 
 on their peculiar methods of government, and 
 do their best to choke correspondents with 
 champagne, or drive them out of their mind 
 with four-in-hand barouches. They do not 
 understand that nobody cares a straw for the 
 internal administration of Native States so 
 long as oppression and crime are kept within 
 decent limits, and the ruler is not drugged, 
 drunk, or diseased from one end of the year 
 to the other. Native States were created by 
 Providence in order to supply picturesque 
 scenery, tigers, and tall-writing. They are 
 the dark places of the earth, full of unimagin- 
 able cruelty, touching the Railway and the 
 Telegraph on one side, and, on the other, the 
 days of Harun-al-Raschid. When I left the 
 train 1 did business with divers Kings, and in 
 eight days passed through many changes of 
 life. Sometimes I wore dress-clothes and 
 consorted with Princes and Politicals, drink- 
 ing from crystal and eating from silver. Some- 
 times I lay out upon the ground and devoured 
 what I could get, from a plate made of a flap- 
 jack, and drank the running water, and slept 
 under the same rug as my servant- It was 
 all in the day's work. 
 
 Then I headed for the Great Indian Desert 
 upon the proper date, as I had promised, and 
 7 
 
98 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 the night INIail set me down at Marwar Junc- 
 tion, where a funny little, happy-go-lucky, 
 native-managed railway runs to Jodhpore. 
 The Bombay Mail from Delhi makes a short 
 halt at Marwar. She arrived as I got in, and 
 I had just time to hurry to her platform and 
 go down the carriages. There was only one 
 Second-class on the train. I slipped the win- 
 dow and looked down upon a flaming red 
 beard, half covered by a railway rug. That 
 was my man, fast asleep, and I dug him 
 gently in the ribs. He woke with a grunt and 
 I saw his face in the light of the lamps. It 
 was a great and shining face. 
 
 " Tickets again ? " said he. 
 
 " No," said I. " I am to tell you that he is 
 gone South for the week. He is gone South 
 for the week ! " 
 
 The train had begun to move out. The red 
 man rubbed his eyes. " He has gone South 
 for the week," he repeated. " Now that's 
 just like his impidence. Did he say that I 
 was to give you anything? — 'Cause I won't." 
 
 " He didn't," I said and dropped away, and 
 watched the red lights die out in the dark. It 
 was horribly cold because the wind was blow- 
 ing off the sands. I climbed into my own 
 train — not an Intermediate Carriage this time 
 — and went to sleep. 
 
 If the man with the beard had given me a 
 rupee I should have kept it as a memento of a 
 rather curious affair. But the consciousness 
 of having done my duty was my only reward. 
 
The Man Who Would be King 99 
 
 Later on I reflected that two gentlemen like 
 my friends could not do any good if they 
 foregathered and personated correspondents ot 
 newspapers, and might, if they ^ stuck up 
 one of the little rat-trap states of Central India 
 or Southern Rajputana, get themselves into 
 serious difficulties. I therefore took some 
 trouble to describe them as accurately as i 
 could remember to people who would be m- 
 terested in deporting them: and succeeded 
 sol was later informed, in having them headed 
 back from the Degumber borders. 
 
 Then I became respectable, and returned 
 to an office where there were no Kings and 
 no incidents except the daily manufacture ot 
 a newspaper. A newspaper office seems to 
 attract every conceivable sort of person, to the 
 preiudice of discipline. Zenana-mission ladies 
 arrive, and beg that the Editor will instantly 
 abandon all his duties to describe a Christian 
 nrize-o-ivingin a back-slum of a perfectly inac- 
 cessible village ; Colonels who have been 
 overpassed for commands sit down and sketch 
 the outline of a series of ten, twelve, or 
 twenty-four leading articles on Seniority verstis 
 Selection ; missionaries wish to know why 
 they have not been permitted to escape from 
 their regular vehicles of abuse and swear at a 
 brother-missionary under special patronage ot 
 the editorial We ; stranded theatrical com- 
 panies troop up to explain that they cannot 
 pay for their advertisements, but on their re- 
 turn from New Zealand or Tahiti will do so 
 
100 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 with interest ; inventors of patent punkah- 
 pulling machines, carriage couplings and un- 
 breakable swords and axle-trees call with 
 specifications in their pockets and hours at 
 their disposal ; tea-companies enter and elab- 
 orate their prospectuses with the ofhce pens ; 
 secretaries of ball-committees clamor to have 
 the glories of their last dance more fully ex- 
 pounded ; strange ladies rustle in and say : — 
 I want a hundred lady's cards printed at o?ice, 
 please," which is manifestly part of an Editor's 
 duty ; and every dissolute ruffian that ever 
 tramped the Grand Trunk Road makes it his 
 business to ask for employment as a proof- 
 reader. And, all the time, the telephone-bell 
 is ringing madly, and Kings are being killed 
 on the Continent, and Empires are saying — 
 ** You're another," and Mister Gladstone is 
 calling down brimstone upon the British 
 Dominions, and the little black copy-boys are 
 whining, " kaa-pi-chay-ha-yeh " (copy wanted) 
 like tired bees, and most of the paper is as 
 blank as Modrek's shield. 
 
 But that is the amusing part of the year. 
 There are other six months wherein none ever 
 come to call, and the thermometer walks inch 
 by inch up to the top of the glass, and the 
 office is darkened to just above reading-light, 
 and the press machines are red-hot of touch, 
 and nobody writes anything but accounts of 
 amusements in the Hill-stations or obituary 
 notices. Then the telephone becomes a tink- 
 ling terror, because it tells you of the sudden 
 
The Man Who Would be King loi 
 
 deaths of men and women that you knew in- 
 timately, and the prickly-heat covers you as 
 with a garment, and you sit down and write : 
 • — " A slight increase of sickness is reported 
 from the Khuda Janta Khan District. The 
 outbreak is purely sporadic in its nature, and, 
 thanks to the energetic efforts of the District 
 authorities, is now almost at an end. It is, 
 however, with deep regret we record the death, 
 etc." 
 
 Then the sickness really breaks out, and 
 the less recording and reporting the better 
 for the peace of the subscribers. But the 
 Empires and the Kings continue to divert 
 themselves as selfishly as before, and the 
 Foreman thinks that a daily paper really 
 ought to come out once in twenty-four hours, 
 and all the people at the Hill-stations in the 
 middle of their amusements say : — " Good 
 gracious! Why can't the paper be spark- 
 ling } I'm sure there's plenty going on up 
 here." 
 
 That is the dark half of the moon, and, as 
 the advertisements say, " must be experienced 
 to be appreciated." 
 
 It was in that season, and a remarkably 
 evil season, that the paper began running the 
 last issue of the week on Saturday night, 
 which is to say Sunday morning, after the 
 custom of a London paper. This was a great 
 convenience, for immediately after the paper 
 was put to bed, the dawn would lower the 
 thermometer from 96° to almost 84° for half 
 
102 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 an hour, and in that chill — you have no idea 
 how cold is 84° on the grass until you begin 
 to pray for it — a very tired man could set off 
 to sleep ere the heat roused him. 
 
 One Saturday night it was my pleasant 
 duty to put the paper to bed alone. A King 
 or courtier or a courtesan or a community was 
 going to die or get a new Constitution, or do 
 something that was important on the other 
 side of the world, and the paper was to be 
 held open till the latest possible minute in 
 order to catch the telegram. It was a pitchy 
 black night, as stifling as a June night can be, 
 and the loo^ the red-hot wind from the west- 
 ward, was booming among the tinder-dry 
 trees and pretending that the rain was on its 
 heels. Now and again a spot of almost boil- 
 ing water would fall on the dust with the flop 
 of a frog, but all our weary world knew that 
 was only pretense. It was a shade cooler in 
 the press-room than the office, so I sat there, 
 while the type ticked and clicked, and the 
 night-jars hooted at the windows, and the all 
 but naked compositors wiped the sweat from 
 their foreheads and called for water. The 
 thing that was keeping us back, whatever it 
 was, would not come off, though the loo 
 dropped and the last type was set, and the 
 whole round earth stood still in the choking 
 heat, wdth its finger on its lip, to wait the 
 event. I drowsed, and wondered whether 
 the telegraph was a blessing, and whether 
 this dying man, or struggling people, was 
 
The Man Who Would be King 103 
 
 aware of the inconvenience the delay was 
 causing. There was no special reason beyond 
 the heat and worry to make tension, but, as. 
 the clock-hands crept up to three o'clock and 
 the machines spun their fly-wheels two and 
 three times to see that all was in order, before 
 I said the word that would set them off, I 
 could have shrieked aloud. 
 
 Then the roar and rattle of the wheels 
 shivered the quiet into little bits. I rose tO' 
 go away, but two men in white clothes stood 
 in front of me. The first one said : — " It's 
 him!" The second said : — " So it is ! " And 
 they both laughed almost as loudly as the 
 machinery roared, and mopped their fore- 
 heads. " We see there was a light burning 
 across the road and we were sleeping in that 
 ditch there for coolness, and I said to my 
 friend here, ' The office is open. Let's come 
 along and speak to him as turned us back 
 from the Degumber State," said the smaller 
 of the two. He was the man I had met in 
 the Mhow train, and his fellow was the red- 
 bearded man of Marwar Junction. There was 
 no mistaking the eyebrows of the one or the 
 beard of the other. 
 
 I was not pleased, because I wished to gO' 
 to sleep, not to squabble with loafers. " What 
 do you want ? " I asked. 
 
 "Half an hour's talk with you cool and 
 comfortable, in the office," said the red- 
 bearded man. "We'd Me some drink — the 
 Contrack doesn't begin yet, Peachey, so you 
 
104 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 needn't look — but what we really want is ad- 
 vice. We don't want money. We ask you 
 as a favor, because you did us a bad turn 
 about Degumber." 
 
 I led from the press-room to the stifling 
 office with the maps on the walls, and the 
 red-haired man rubbed his hands. "That's 
 something like," said he. " This was the 
 proper shop to come to. Now, Sir, let me 
 introduce to you Brother Peachey Carnehan, 
 that's him, and Brother Daniel Dravot, that 
 is 7ne^ and the less said about our professions 
 the better, for we have been most things in 
 our time. Soldier, sailor, compositor, pho- 
 tographer, proof-reader, street-preacher, and 
 correspondents of the Backwoods7?ia?i when 
 we thought the paper wanted one. Carne- 
 han is sober, and so am I. Look at us first 
 and see that's sure. It will save you cutting 
 into my talk. We'll take one of your cigars 
 apiece, and you shall see us light." 
 
 I watched the test. The men were abso- 
 lutely sober, so I gave them each a tepid 
 
 peg. 
 
 "Well a7id good," said Carnehan of the 
 eyebrows, wiping the froth from his mus- 
 tache. " Let me talk now, Dan. We have 
 been all over India, mostly on foot. We 
 have been boiler-fitters, engine-drivers, petty 
 contractors, and all that, and we have de- 
 cided that India isn't big enough for such 
 as us." 
 
 They certainly were too big for the office. 
 
The Man Who Would be King 105 
 
 Dravot's beard seemed to fill half the room 
 and Carnehan's shoulders the other half, as 
 they sat on the big table. Carnehan contin- 
 ued : — " The country isn't half worked out 
 because they that governs it won't let you 
 touch it. They spend all their blessed time 
 in governing it, and you can't lift a spade, 
 nor chip a rock, nor look for oil, nor any- 
 thing like that without all the government 
 saying — ' Leave it alone and let us govern.' 
 Therefore, such as it is, we will let it alone, 
 and go away to some other place where a 
 man isn't crowded and can come to his own. 
 We are not little men, and there is nothing 
 that we are afraid of except Drink, and we 
 have signed a Contrack on that. Therefoi'e^ 
 we are going away to be Kings." 
 
 " Kings in our own right," muttered 
 Dravot. 
 
 " Yes, of course," I said. "You've been 
 tramping in the sun, and it's a very warm 
 night, and hadn't you better sleep over the 
 notion ? Come to-morrow. " 
 
 "Neither drunk nor sunstruck, " said 
 Dravot. " We have slept over the notion 
 half a year, and require to see Books and 
 Atlases, and we have decided that there is 
 only one place now in the world that two 
 strong men can Z2.x-'^-whack. They call it 
 Kafiristan. By my reckoning it's the top 
 right-hand corner of Afghanistan, not more 
 than three hundred miles from Peshawar. 
 They have two and thirty heathen idols 
 
io6 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 there, and we'll be the thirty-third. It's a 
 mountaineous country, and the women of those 
 parts are very beautiful." 
 
 " But that is provided against in the Con- 
 track," said Carnehan. "Neither Women 
 nor Liqu-or, Daniel." 
 
 '' And that's all we know, except that no 
 one has gone there, and they fight, and in any 
 place where they fight a man who knows how 
 to drill men can always be a King. We shall 
 go to those parts and say to any King we 
 find — ' D' you want to vanquish your foes ? ' 
 and we will show him how to drill men ; for 
 that we know better than anything else. Then 
 we will subvert that King and seize his 
 throne and establish a Dy-nasty." 
 
 " You'll be cut to pieces before you're 
 fifty miles across the Border," I said. " You 
 have to travel through Afghanistan to get to 
 that country. It's one mass of mountains 
 and peaks and glaciers, and no Englishman 
 has been through it. The people are utter 
 brutes, and even if you reached them you 
 couldn't do anything." 
 
 " That's more like," said Carnehan. " If 
 you could think us a little more mad we 
 would be more pleased. We have come to 
 you to know about this country, to read a 
 book about it, and to be shown maps. We 
 want you to tell us that we are fools and to 
 show us your books." He turned to the 
 book-cases. 
 
 " Are you at all in earnest } " I said. 
 
The Man Who Would be King 107 
 
 *' A little," said Dravot sweetly. " As big 
 a map as you have got, even if it's all blank 
 where Kafiristan is, and any books you've 
 got. We can read, though we aren't very 
 educated." 
 
 I uncased the big thirty-two-miles-to-the- 
 inch map of India, and two smaller Frontier 
 maps, hauled down volume INF-KAN of 
 the E?icydopcedia Britannica, and the men 
 consulted them. 
 
 " See here ! " said Dravot, his thumb on 
 the map. " Up to Jagdallak, Peachey and me 
 know the road. We was there with Roberts's 
 Army. We'll have to turn off to the right at 
 Jagdallak through Laghmann territory. Then 
 we get among the hills — fourteen thousand 
 feet — fifteen thousand — it will be cold work 
 there, but it don't look very far on the 
 map." 
 
 I handed him Wood on the Sources of the 
 Oxus. Carnehan was deep in the Ency- 
 dopcBciia. 
 
 " They're a mixed lot," said Dravot reflec- 
 tively ; " and it won't help us to know the 
 names of their tribes. The more tribes the 
 more they'll fight, and the better for us. 
 From Jagdallak to Ashang. H'mm ! " 
 
 " But all the information about the country 
 is as sketchy and inaccurate as can be," I 
 protested. " No one knows anything about 
 it really. Here's the file of the United Ser- 
 vices^ Institute. Read what Bellew says." 
 
 " Blow Bellew ! " said Carnehan. " Dan, 
 
io8 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 they're an all-fired lot of heathens, but this 
 book here says they think they're related to 
 us English." 
 
 I smoked while the men pored over Raverty, 
 Wood, the maps and the Encyclopcedia. 
 
 " There is no use your waiting," said Dravot 
 politely. " It's about four o'clock now. We'll 
 go before six o'clock if you want to sleep, and 
 we won't steal any of the papers. Don't you 
 sit up. We're two harmless lunatics, and if 
 you come, to-morrow evening, down to the 
 Serai we'll say good-by to you." 
 
 " You a7'e two fools," I answered. " You'll 
 be turned back at the Frontier or cut up the 
 minute you set foot in Afghanistan. Do you 
 want any money or a recommendation down- 
 country ? I can help you to the chance of 
 work next week." 
 
 *' Next week we shall be hard at work our- 
 selves, thank you," said Dravot. " It isn't 
 so easy being a King as it looks. When we've 
 got our Kingdom in going order we'll let you 
 know, and you can come up and help us to 
 govern it." 
 
 "Would two lunatics make a Contrack like 
 that ? " said Carnehan, with subdued pride, 
 showing me a greasy half-sheet of note-paper 
 on which was written the following. I copied 
 it, then and there, as a curiosity : — 
 
 This Contract between me and you persuing 
 witnesseth in the name of God — Amen and so 
 forth. 
 
The Man Who Would be King 109 
 
 ( One) That me and you will settle this matter 
 together : i. e., to be Kings of Kafir - 
 istan. 
 {Two) That you a7id me will not, zvhile this 
 matter is heing settled, look at any 
 Liquor, 7ior any Woman black, 
 white or b7'ow?i, so as to get mixed 
 up with 07ie or the other harmful. 
 {Three) That we conduct ourselves ivith dignity 
 and discretiofi, and if one of us gets 
 into trouble the other will stay by 
 hi77i. 
 Sig7ied by you a7id 7ne this day. 
 
 Peachey Taliaferro Car7ieha7i. 
 
 Da7iiel Dravot. 
 
 Both Ge7itle77ien at Lag7'e. 
 
 "There was no need for the last article,"" 
 said Carnehan, blushing modestly; "but it 
 looks regular. Now you know the sort of 
 men that loafers are — we a7'e loafers, Dan, 
 until we get out of India — and do you think 
 that we would sign aContrack like that unless 
 we was in earnest ? We have kept away from 
 the two things that make life worth having." 
 
 " You won't enjoy your lives much longer 
 if you are going to try this idiotic adventure. 
 Don't set the office on fire," I said, "and go 
 away before nine o'clock." 
 
 I left them still poring over the maps and 
 making notes on the back of the " Contrack." 
 " Be sure to come down to the Serai to-mor- 
 row," were their parting words. 
 
no The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 The Kumharsen Serai is the great four- 
 square sink of humanity where the strings of 
 camels and horses from the North load and 
 unload. All the nationalities of Central Asia 
 may be found there, and most of the folk of 
 India proper. Balkh and Bokhara there meet 
 Bengal and Bombay, and try to draw eye- 
 teeth. You can buy ponies, turquoises^ Per- 
 sian pussy-cats, saddle-bags, fat-tailed sheep 
 and musk in the Kumharsen Serai, and get 
 many strange things for nothing. In the 
 afternoon I went down there to see whether 
 my friends intended to keep their word or 
 were lying about drunk. 
 
 A priest attired in fragments of ribbons and 
 rags stalked up to me, gravely twisting a 
 child's paper whirligig. Behind him was his 
 servant bending under the load of a crate of 
 mud toys. The two were loading up two 
 camels, and the inhabitants of the Serai 
 watched them with shrieks of laughter. 
 
 "The priest is mad," said a horse-dealer 
 to me. " He is going up to Kabul to sell 
 toys to the Amir. He will either be raised to 
 honor or have his head cut off. He came in 
 here this morning and has been behaving 
 madly ever since." 
 
 " The witless are under the protection of 
 God," stammered a flat-cheeked Usberg in 
 broken Hindi. " They foretell future events." 
 
 " Would they could have foretold that my 
 caravan would have been cut up by the Shin- 
 waris almost within shadow of the Pass ! " 
 
The Man Who Would be King iii 
 
 grunted the Eusufzai agent of a Rajputana 
 trading-house whose goods had been felo- 
 niously diverted into the hands of other rob- 
 bers just across the Border, and whose mis- 
 fortunes were the laughing-stock of the 
 bazar. " Ohe, priest, whence come you and 
 whither do you go ? " 
 
 " From Roum have I come," shouted the 
 priest, waving his whirligig ; " from Roum, 
 blown by the breath of a hundred devils 
 across the sea ! O thieves, robbers, liars, the 
 blessing of Pir Khan on pigs, dogs, and per- 
 jurers ! Who will take the Protected of God 
 to the North to sell charms that are never 
 still to the Amir ? The camels shall not gall, 
 the sons shall not fall sick, and the wives 
 shall remain faithful while they are away, of 
 the men who give me place in their caravan. 
 Who will assist me to slipper the King of the 
 Roos with a golden slipper with a silver heel .'' 
 The protection of Pir Khan be upon his la- 
 bors ! " He spread out the skirts of his ga- 
 berdine and pirouetted between the lines of 
 tethered horses. 
 
 '* There starts a caravan from Peshawar to 
 Kabul in twenty days, Huznit,''' said the 
 Eusufzai trader. " My camels go therewith. 
 Do thou also go and bring us good-luck." 
 
 " I will go even now ! " shouted the priest. 
 " I will depart upon my winged camels, and 
 be at Peshawar in a day ! Ho ! Hazar Mir 
 Khan," he yelled to his servant, " drive out 
 the camels, but let me first mount my own." 
 
112 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 He leaped on the back of his beast as it 
 knelt, and, turning round to me, cried: — 
 " Come thou also. Sahib, a little along the road, 
 and I will sell thee a charm — an amulet that 
 shall make thee King of Kafiristan." 
 
 Then the light broke upon me, and I fol- 
 lowed the two camels out of the Serai, till we 
 reached open road and the priest halted. 
 
 " What d' you think o' that ? " said he in 
 English. " Carnehan can't talk their patter, 
 so I've made him my servant. He makes a 
 handsome servant. 'Tisn't for nothing that 
 I've been knocking about the country for 
 fourteen years. Didn't I do that talk neat ? 
 We'll hitch on to a caravan at Peshawar till 
 we get to Jagdallak, and then we'll see if we 
 can get donkeys for our camels, and strike 
 into Kafiristan. Whirligigs for the Amir, 
 O Lor ! Put your hand under the camel-bags 
 and tell me what you feel." 
 
 I felt the butt of a Martini, and another and 
 another. 
 
 "Twenty of 'em," said Dravot placidly. 
 "Twenty of 'em, and ammunition to corre- 
 spond, under the whirligigs and the mud 
 dolls." 
 
 " Heaven help you if you are caught with 
 those things ! " I said. " A Martini is worth 
 her weight in silver among the Pathans." 
 
 " Fifteen hundred rupees of capital — every 
 rupee we could beg, borrow, or steal — are in- 
 vested on these two camels," said Dravot. 
 We won't get caught. We're going through 
 
The Man Who Would be King 113 
 
 the Khaiber with a regular caravan. Who'd 
 touch a poor mad priest ? " 
 
 " Have you got everything you want ? " I 
 asked, overcome with astonishment. 
 
 " Not yet, but we shall soon. Give me a 
 memento of your kindness, Bi'other. You did 
 me a service yesterday, and that time in Mar- 
 war. Half my Kingdom shall you have, as 
 the saying is." I slipped a small charm com- 
 pass from my watch-chain and handed it up to 
 the priest. 
 
 " Good-by," said Dravot, giving me his hand 
 cautiously. " It's the last time we'll shake 
 hands with an Englishman these many days. 
 Shake hands with him, Carnehan," he cried, 
 as the second camel passed me. 
 
 Carnehan leaned down and shook hands. 
 
 Then the camels passed away along the 
 dusty road, and I was left alone to wonder. 
 My eye could detect no failure in the dis- 
 guises. The scene in the Serai attested that 
 they were complete to the native mind. 
 There was just the chance, therefore, that 
 Carnehan and Dravot would be able to wan- 
 der through Afghanistan without detection. 
 But, beyond, they would find death, certain 
 and awful death. 
 
 Ten days later a native friend of mine, 
 giving me the news of the day from Peshawar, 
 wound up his letter with : — " There has been 
 much laughter here on account of a certain 
 mad priest who is going in his estimation to 
 sell petty gauds and insignificant trinkets 
 
114 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 which he ascribes as great charms to H. H. 
 the Amir of Bokhara. He passed through 
 Peshawar and associated himself to the 
 Second Summer caravan that goes to Kabul. 
 The merchants are pleased because through 
 superstition they imagine that such mad fel- 
 lows bring good-fortune." 
 
 The two, then, were beyond the Border. I 
 would have prayed for them, but, that night, 
 a real King died in Europe, and demanded an 
 obituary notice. 
 
 The wheel of the world swings through the 
 same phases again and again. Summer 
 passed and winter thereafter, and came and 
 passed again. The daily paper continued and 
 I with it, and upon the third summer there fell 
 a hot night, a night-issue, and a strained wait- 
 ing for something to be telegraphed from the 
 other side of the world, exactly as had hap- 
 pened before. A few great men had died in 
 the past two years, the machines worked with 
 more clatter, and some of the trees in the 
 Office garden were a few feet taller. But that 
 was all the difference. 
 
 I passed over to the press-room, and went 
 through just such a scene as I have already 
 described. The nervous tension was stronger 
 than it had been two years before, and I felt 
 the heat more acutely. At three o'clock I 
 cried, " Print off," and turned to go, when 
 there crept to my chair what was left of a 
 man. He was bent into a circle, his head was 
 
The Man Who Would be King 115 
 
 sunk between his shoulders, and he moved his 
 feet one over the other like a bear. I could 
 hardly see whether he walked or crawled — 
 this rag-wrapped, whining cripple who ad- 
 dressed me by name, crying that he was come 
 back. " Can you give me a drink ? " he whim- 
 pered. " For the Lord's sake, give me a 
 drink ! " 
 
 I went back to the office, the man following 
 with groans of pain, and I turned up the lamp. 
 
 "Don't you know me?" he gasped, drop- 
 ping into a chair, and he turned his drawn 
 face, surmounted by a shock of gray hair, to 
 the light. 
 
 I looked at him intently. Once before had 
 I seen eyebrows that met over the nose in an 
 inch-broad black band, but for the life of me 
 I could not tell where. 
 
 " I don't know you," I said, handing him 
 the whisky. *' What can I do for you ? " 
 
 He took a gulp of the spirit raw, and shiv- 
 ered in spite of the suffocating heat. 
 
 " I've come back," he repeated ; " and I 
 was the King of Kafiristan — me and Dravot 
 — crowned Kings we was ! In this office 
 we settled it — you setting there and giving us 
 the books. I am Peachey — Peachey Talia- 
 ferro Carnehan, and you've been setting here 
 ever since — O Lord ! " 
 
 I was more than a little astonished, and 
 expressed my feelings accordingly. 
 
 " It's true," said Carnehan, with a dry 
 cackle, nursing his feet, which were wrapped 
 
ii6 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 in rags. " True as gospel. Kings we were, 
 with crowns upon our heads — me and Dravot 
 — poor Dan — oh, poor, poor Dan, that would 
 never take advice, not though I begged of 
 him ! " 
 
 "Take the whisky," I said, "and take 
 your own time. Tell me all you can recollect 
 of everything from beginning to end. You 
 got across the border on your camels, Dravot 
 dressed as a mad priest and you his servant. 
 Do you remember that ? " 
 
 " I ain't mad — yet, but I shall be that way 
 soon. Of course I remember. Keep looking 
 at me, or maybe my words will go all to 
 pieces. Keep looking at me in my eyes and 
 don't say anything.'' 
 
 I leaned forward and looked into his face 
 as steadily as I could. He dropped one hand 
 upon the table and I grasped it by the wrist. 
 It was twisted like a bird's claw, and upon 
 the back was a ragged, red, diamond-shaped 
 scar. 
 
 '• No, don't look there. Look at ?;/^," said 
 Carnehan. 
 
 " That comes afterwards, but for the Lord's 
 sake don't distrack me. We left with that 
 caravan, me and Dravot playing all sorts of 
 antics to amuse the people we were with. 
 Dravot used to make us laugh in the evenings 
 when all the people was cooking their dinners 
 — cooking their dinners, and .... what did 
 they do then ? They lit little fires with sparks 
 that went into Dravot's beard, and we all 
 
The Man Who Would be King 117 
 
 laughed — fit to die. Little red fires they was, 
 going into Dravot's big red beard — so funny." 
 His eyes left mine and he smiled foolishly. 
 
 " You went as far as Jagdallak with that 
 caravan," I said at a venture, " after you had 
 lit those fires. To Jagdallak, where you 
 turned off to try to get into Kafiristan." 
 
 " No, we didn't neither. What are you 
 talking about ? We turned off before Jagdallak, 
 because we heard the roads was good. But 
 they wasn't good enough for our two camels — 
 mine and Dravot's. When we left the caravan, 
 Dravot took off all his clothes and mine too, 
 and said we would be heathen, because the 
 Kafirs didn^t allow Mohammedans to talk to 
 them. So we dressed betwixt and between, 
 and such a sight as Daniel Dravot I never 
 saw yet nor expect to see again. He burned 
 half his beard, and slung a sheepskin over his 
 shoulder, and shaved his head into patterns. 
 He shaved mine, too, and made me wear 
 outrageous things to look like a heathen. 
 That was in a most mountaineous country, and 
 our camels couldn't go along any more because 
 of the mountains. They were tall and black, 
 and coming home I saw them fight like wild 
 goats — there are lots of goats in Kafiristan. 
 And these mountains, they never keep still, no 
 more than the goats. Always fighting they are, 
 and don't let you sleep at night." 
 
 " Take some more whisky," I said very 
 slowly. " What did you and Daniel Dravot 
 do when the camels could go no further 
 
li8 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 because of the rough roads that led into 
 Kafiristan ? " 
 
 " What did which do ? There was a party 
 called Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan that was 
 with Dravot. Shall I tell you about him ? 
 He died out there in the cold. Slap from the 
 bridge fell old Peachey, turning and twisting 
 in the air like a penny whirligig that you can 
 sell to the Amir. — No ; they was two for three 
 ha'pence, those whirligigs, or I am much 
 mistaken and woful sore. And then these 
 camels were no use, and Peachey said to 
 Dravot — ' For the Lord's sake, let's get out 
 of this before our heads are chopped off,' and 
 with that they killed the camels all among 
 the mountains, not having anything in partic- 
 ular to eat, but first they took off the boxes 
 with the guns and the ammunition, till two 
 men came along driving four mules. Dravot 
 up and dances in front of them, singing, — 
 ' Sell me four mules.' Says the first man, — 
 ' If you are rich enough to buy, you are rich 
 enough to rob ; ' but before ever he could put 
 his hand to his knife, Dravot breaks his neck 
 over his knee, and the other party runs away. 
 So Carnehan loaded the mules with the rifies 
 that was taken off the camels, and together 
 we starts forward into those bitter cold 
 mountaineous parts, and never a road broader 
 than the back of your hand.'^ 
 
 He paused for a moment, while I asked him 
 if he could remember the nature of the coun- 
 try through which he had journeyed. 
 
The Man Who Would be King 119 
 
 *' I am telling you as straight as I can, but 
 my head isn't as good as it might be. They 
 drove nails through it to make me hear better 
 how Dravot died. The country was moun- 
 taineous and the mules were most contrary, and 
 the inhabitants was dispersed and solitary. 
 They went up and up, and down and down, 
 and that other party, Carnehan, was implor- 
 ing of Dravot not to sing and whistle so loud, 
 for fear of bringing down the tremenjus ava- 
 lanches. But Dravot says that if a King 
 couldn't sing it wasn't worth being King, and 
 whacked the mules over the rump, and never 
 took no heed for ten cold days. We came to 
 a big level valley all among the mountains, 
 and the mules were near dead, so we killed 
 them, not having anything in special for them 
 or us to eat. We sat upon the boxes, and 
 played odd and even with the cartridges that 
 was jolted out. 
 
 " Then ten men with bows and arrows ran 
 down that valley, chasing twenty men with 
 bows and arrows, and the row was tremenjus. 
 They was fair men — fairer than you or me 
 — with yellow hair and remarkable well built. 
 Says Dravot, unpacking the guns — ' This is 
 the beginning of the business. We'll fight for 
 the ten men,' and with that he fires two rifles 
 at the twenty men, and drops one of them at 
 two hundred yards from the rock where we 
 was sitting. The other men began to run, but 
 Carnehan and Dravot sits on the boxes pick- 
 ing them off at all ranges, up and down the 
 
120 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 valley. Then we goes up to the ten men that 
 had run across the snow too, and they fires a 
 footy little arrow at us. Dravot he shoots 
 above their heads and they all falls down flat. 
 Then he walks over them and kicks them, and 
 then he lifts them up and shakes hands all 
 round to make them friendly like. He calls 
 them and gives them the boxes to carry, and 
 waves his hand for all the world as though he 
 was King already. They takes the boxes and 
 him across the valley and up the hill into a 
 pine wood on the top, where there was half a 
 dozen big stone idols. Dravot he goes to the 
 biggest — a fellow they call Imbra — and lays a 
 rifle and a cartridge at his feet, rubbing his 
 nose respectful with his own nose, patting him 
 on the head, and saluting in front of it. He 
 turns round to the men and nods his head, 
 and says, — ' That's all right. I'm in the know 
 too, and all these old jim-jams are my friends.' 
 Then he opens his mouth and points down it, 
 and when the first man brings him food, he 
 says — ' No ; ' and when the second man brings 
 him food, he says — ' No ; ' but when one of 
 the old priests and the boss of the village 
 brings him food, he says — 'Yes;' very 
 haughty, and eats it slow. That was how we 
 came to our first village, without any trouble, 
 just as though we had tumbled from the skies. 
 But we tumbled from one of those damned 
 rope-bridges, you see, and you couldn't expect 
 a man to laugh much after that." 
 
 "Take some more whisky and go on," I 
 
The Man Who Would be King 121 
 
 said. " That was the first village you came 
 into. How did you get to be King? " 
 
 '^ I wasn't King," said Carnehan. " Dravot 
 he was the King, and a handsome man he 
 looked with the gold crown on his head and 
 all. Him and the other party stayed in that 
 village, and every morning Dravot sat by the 
 side of old Imbra, and the people came and 
 worshiped. That was Dravot's order. Then 
 a lot of men came into the valley, and Carne- 
 han and Dravot picks them off with the rifles 
 before they knew where they was, and runs 
 down into the valley and up again the other 
 side, and finds another village, same as the 
 first one, and the people all falls down flat on 
 their faces and Dravot says, — ' Now what is 
 the trouble between you two villages ? ' and 
 the people points to a woman, as fair as you 
 or me, that was carried off, and Dravot takes 
 her back to the first village and counts up the 
 dead — eight there was. For each dead man 
 Dravot pours a little milk on the ground and 
 waves his arms like a whirligig and ' That's 
 all right,' says he. Then he and Carnehan 
 takes the big boss of each village by the arm 
 and walks them down into the valley, and 
 shows them how to scratch a line with a spear 
 right down the valley, and gives each a sod 
 of turf from both sides o' the line. Then all 
 the people comes down and shouts like the 
 devil and all, and Dravot says, — ' Go and dig 
 the land, and be fruitful and multiply,' which 
 they did, though they didn't understand. Then 
 
122 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 we asks the names of things in their lingo- 
 bread and water and fire and idols and such, 
 and Dravot leads the priest of each village up 
 to the idol, and says he must sit there and 
 judge the people, and if anything goes wrong 
 he is to be shot. 
 
 " Next week they was all turning up the 
 land in the valley as quiet as bees and much 
 prettier, and the priests heard all the com- 
 plaints and told Dravot in dumb show what 
 it was about. ' That's just the beginning,' 
 says Dravot. ' They think we're Gods.' He 
 and Carnehan picks out twenty good men and 
 shows them how to click off a rifle, and form 
 fours, and advance in line, and they was very 
 pleased to do so, and clever to see the hang of 
 it. Then betakes out his pipe and his baccy- 
 pouch and leaves one at one village and one 
 at the other, and off we two goes to see what 
 was to be done in the next valley. That was 
 all rock and there was a little village there, 
 and Carnehan says, — ' Send 'em to the old 
 valley to plant,' and takes ^em there and gives 
 'em some land that wasn't took before. 
 They were a poor lot, and we blooded 'em 
 with a kid before letting 'em into the new 
 Kingdom. That was to impress the people, 
 and then they settled down quiet, and Carne- 
 han went back to Dravot who had got into 
 another valley, all snow and ice and most 
 mountaineous. There was no people there 
 and the Army got afraid, so Dravot shoots 
 one of them, and goes on till he finds some 
 
The Man Who Would be King 123 
 
 people in a village, and the Army explains 
 that unless the people wants to be killed they 
 had better not shoot their little matchlocks ; 
 for they had matchlocks. We makes friends 
 with the priest and I stays there alone with 
 two of the Army, teaching the men how to 
 drill, and a thundering big Chief comes across 
 the snow with kettle-drums and horns twang- 
 ing, because he heard there was a new God 
 kicking about. Carnehan sights for the brown 
 of the men half a mile across the snow and 
 wings one of them. Then he sends a mes- 
 sage to the Chief that, unless he wishes to be 
 killed, he must come and shake hands with me 
 and leave his arms behind. The Chief comes 
 alone first, and Carnehan shakes hands with 
 him and whirls his arms about, same as Dravot 
 used, and very much surprised that Chief was, 
 and strokes my eyebrows. Then Carnehan 
 goes alone to the Chief, and asks him in dumb 
 show if he had an enemy he hated. ' I have,' 
 says the Chief. So Carnehan weeds out the 
 pick of his men, and sets the two of the Army 
 to show them drill and at the end of two weeks 
 the men can maneuver about as well as Vol- 
 unteers. So he marches with the Chief to a 
 great big plain on the top of a mountain, and 
 the Chief's men rushes into a village and 
 takes it ; we three Martinis firing into the 
 brown of the enemy. So we took that village 
 too, and I gives the Chief a rag from my coat 
 and says, ' Occupy till I come : ' which was 
 scriptural. By way of a reminder, when me 
 
124 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 and the Army was eighteen hundred yards 
 away, I drops a bullet near him standing on 
 the snow, and all the people falls flat on their 
 faces. Then I sends a letter to Dravot, wher- 
 ever he be by land or by sea." 
 
 At the risk of throwing the creature out of 
 train I interrupted, — "How could you write 
 a letter up yonder .'* " 
 
 " The letter ?— Oh !— The letter ! Keep 
 looking at me between the eyes, please. It 
 was a string-talk letter, that we'd learned the 
 way of it from a blind begger in the Punjab." 
 
 I remember that there had once come to 
 the office a blind man with a knotted twig and 
 a piece of string which he wound round the 
 twig according to some cipher of his own. 
 He could, after the lapse of days or hours, 
 repeat the sentence which he had reeled up. 
 He had reduced the alphabet to eleven prim- 
 itive sounds ; and tried to teach me his method, 
 but failed. 
 
 " I sent that letter to Dravot," said Carne- 
 han ; " and told him to come back because 
 this Kingdom was growing too big for me to 
 handle, and then I struck for the first valley, 
 to see how the priests were working. They 
 called the village we took along with the Chief, 
 Bashkai, and the first village we took, Er-Heb. 
 The priests at Er-Heb was doing all right, but 
 they had a lot of pending cases about land to 
 show me, and some men from another village 
 had been firing arrows at night ; I went out and 
 looked for that village and fired four rounds 
 
The Man Who Would be King 125 
 
 at it from a thousand yards. That used all 
 the cartridges I cared to spend, and I waited 
 for Dravot, who had been away two or three 
 months, and I kept my people quiet. 
 
 " One morning I heard the devil's own noise 
 of drums and horns, and Dan Dravot marches 
 down the hill with his Army and a tail of 
 hundreds of men, and, which was the most 
 amazing — a great gold crown on his head. 
 ' My Gord, Carnehan,' says Daniel, ' this is a 
 tremenjus business, and we've got the whole 
 country as far as it's worth having. I am the 
 son of Alexander by Queen Semiramis, and 
 you're my younger brother and a God too ! 
 It's the biggest thing we've ever seen. I've 
 been marching and fighting for six weeks with 
 the Army, and every footy little village for 
 fifty miles has come in rejoiceful ; and more 
 than that, I've got the key of the whole show, 
 as you'll see, and I've got a crown for you ! 
 I told 'em to make two of 'em at a place called 
 Shu, where the gold lies in the rock like suet 
 in mutton. Gold I've seen, and turquoise I've 
 kicked out of the cliffs, and there's garnets in 
 the sands of the river, and here's a chunk of 
 amber that a man brought me. Call up all 
 the priests and, here, take your crown.' 
 
 " One of the men opens a black hair bag, 
 and I slips the crown on. It was too small and 
 too heavy, but I wore it for the glory. Ham- 
 mered gold it was — five-pound weight, like a 
 hoop of a barrel. 
 
 " ' Peachey,' says Dravot, ' we don't want 
 
126 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 to fight no more. The Craft's the trick so 
 help me!' and he brings forward, that same 
 Chief that I left at Bashkai— Billy Fish we 
 called him afterwards, because he was so like 
 Billy Fish that drove the big tank-engine at 
 Mach on the Bolan in the old days. * Shake 
 hands with him,' says Dravot, and I shook 
 hands and nearly dropped, for Billy Fish gave 
 me the Grip. I said nothing, but tried him with 
 the Fellow Craft Grip. He answers, all right, 
 and I tried the Master's Grip, but that was a 
 slip. ' A Fellow Crafts he is ! ' I says to Dan. 
 
 * Does he know the world } ' ' He does,' says 
 Dan, ^ and all the priests know. It's a mir- 
 acle ! The Chiefs and the priests can work a 
 Fellow Craft Lodge in a way that's very like 
 ours, and they've cut the marks on the rocks, 
 but they don't know the Third Degree, and 
 they've come to find out. It's Gord's Truth. 
 I've known these long years that the Afghans 
 knew up to the Fellow Craft Degree, but this 
 is a miracle. A God and a Grand-Master of 
 the Craft am I, and a Lodge in the Third 
 Degree I will open, and we'll raise the head 
 priests and the Chiefs of the villages.' 
 
 " ' It's against all the law,' I says, * holding 
 a Lodge without warrant from any one ; and 
 we never held office in any Lodge.' 
 " * It's a master-stroke of policy,' says Dravot. 
 
 * It means running the country as easy as a 
 four-wheeled bogy on a down grade. We can't 
 stop to inquire now, or they'll turn against us. 
 I've forty Chiefs' at my heel, and passed and 
 
The Man Who Would be King 127 
 
 raised according to their merit they shall be. 
 Billet these men on the villages and see that 
 we run up a Lodge of some kind. The temple 
 of Imbra will do for the Lodge-room. The 
 women must make aprons as you show them. 
 I'll hold a levee of Chiefs to-nisjht and Lodge 
 to-morrow.' 
 
 '' I was fair run off my legs, but I wasn't 
 such a fool as not to see what a pull this Craft 
 business gave us. I showed the priests' 
 ■amilies how to make aprons of the degrees, 
 but for Dravot's apron the blue border and 
 marks was made of turquoise lumps on white 
 hide, not cloth. We took a great square 
 stone in the temple for the Master's chair, and 
 little stones for the officers' chairs, and painted 
 the black pavement with white squares, and 
 did what we could to make things regular. 
 
 " At the levee which was held that night on 
 the hillside with big bonfires, Dravot gives 
 out that him and me were Gods and sons of 
 Alexander, and Past Grand-Masters in the 
 Craft, and was come to make Kafiristan a 
 country where every man should eat in peace 
 and drink in quiet, and especially obey us. 
 Then the Chiefs come round to shake hands, 
 and they was so hairy and white and fair it 
 was just shaking hands with old friends. We 
 gave them names according as they was like 
 men we had known in India — Billy Pish, 
 Holly Dilworth, Pikky Kergan that was Bazar- 
 master when I was at Mhow, and so on and 
 so on. 
 
128 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 " The most amazing miracle was at Lodge 
 next night. One of the old priests was 
 watching us continuous, and I felt uneasy, for 
 I knew we'd have to fudge the Ritual, and I 
 didn't know what the men knew. The old 
 priest was a stranger come in from beyond 
 the village of Bashkai. The minute Dravot 
 puts on the Master's apron that the girls had 
 made for him, the priest fetches a whoop and 
 a howl, and tries to overturn the stone that 
 Dravot was sitting on. * It's all up now,' I 
 says. ' That comes of meddling with the 
 Craft without warrant ! ' Dravot never winked 
 an eye, not when ten priests took and tilted 
 over the Grand-Master's chair — which was to 
 say the stone of Imbra. The priest begins 
 rubbing the bottom end of it to clear away 
 the black dirt, and presently he shows all the 
 other priests the Master's Mark, same as was 
 on Dravot's apron, cut into the stone. Not 
 even the priests of the temple of Imbra knew 
 it was there. The old chap falls flat on his 
 face at Dravot's feet and kisses 'em. ' Luck 
 again,' says Dravot, across the Lodge to me, 
 ' they say it's the missing Mark that no one 
 could understand the why of. We're more 
 than safe now.' Then he bangs the butt of 
 his gun for a gavel and says : — ' By virtue of 
 the authority vested in me by my own right 
 hand and the help of Peachey, I declare myself 
 Grand-Master of all Freemasonry in Kafiristan 
 in this the Mother Lodge o' the country, and 
 King of Kafiristan equally with Peachey ! ' 
 
The Man Who Would be King 129 
 
 At that he puts on his crown and I puts on 
 mine — I was doing Senior Warden — and we 
 opens the Lodge in most ample form. It was 
 a amazing miracle ! The priests moved in 
 Lodge through the first two degrees almost 
 without telling, as if the memory was coming 
 back to them. After that, Peachey and Dravot 
 raised such as was worthy — high priests and 
 Chiefs of far-off villages. Billy Fish was the 
 first, and I can tell you we scared the soul out 
 of him. It was not in any way according to 
 Ritual, but it served our turn. We didn't 
 raise more than ten of the biggest men be- 
 cause we didn't want to make the Degree 
 common. x\nd they was clamoring to be 
 raised. 
 
 " ' In another six months,' says Dravot, 
 ' we'll hold another Communication and see 
 how you are working.' Then he asks them 
 about their villages, and learns that they was 
 fighting one against the other and were fair 
 sick and tired of it. And when they wasn't 
 doing that they was fighting with the Moham- 
 medans. ' You can fight those when they 
 come into our country,' says Dravot. ' Tell 
 off every tenth man of your tribes for a Fron- 
 tier guard, and send two hundred at a time to 
 this valley to be drilled. Nobody is going to 
 be shot or speared any more so long as he 
 does well, and I know that you won't cheat me 
 because you're white people — sons of Alex- 
 ander — and not like common, black Moham- 
 medans. You are my people and by God,' 
 
130 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 says he, running off into English at the end — 
 ' I'll make a damned fine Nation of you, or 
 I'll die in the making ! ' 
 
 " I can't tell all we did for the next six 
 months because Dravot did a lot I couldn't 
 see the hang of, and he learned their lingo in 
 a way I never could. My work was to help 
 the people plow, and now and again go out 
 with some of the Army and see what the other 
 villages were doing, and make 'em throw rope- 
 bridges across the ravines which cut up the 
 country horrid. Dravot was very kind to me, 
 but when he walked up and down in the pine 
 wood pulling that bloody red beard of his with 
 both fists I knew he was thinking plans I 
 could not advise him about, and I just waited 
 for orders. 
 
 '^ But Dravot never showed me disrespect 
 before the people. They were afraid of me 
 and the Army, but they loved Dan. He was 
 the best of friends with the priests and the 
 Chiefs ; but any one could come across the 
 hills with a complaint and Dravot would hear 
 him out fair, and call four priests together and 
 say what was to be done. He used to call in 
 Billy Fish from Bashkai, and Pikky Kergan 
 from Shu, and an old Chief we called Kafuzelum 
 — it was like enough to his real name — and 
 hold councils with 'em when there was any 
 fighting to be done in small villages. That 
 was his Council of War, and the four priests 
 of Bashkai, Shu, Khawak, and Madora was 
 his Privy Council. Between the lot of 'em 
 
The Man Who Would be King 131 
 
 they sent me, with forty men and twenty rifles, 
 and sixty men carrying turquoises, into the 
 Ghorband country to buy those hand-made 
 Martini rifles, that come out of the Amir's 
 workshops at Kabul, from one of the Amir's 
 Herati regiments that would have sold the 
 very teeth out of their mouths for turquoises. 
 
 " I stayed in Ghorband a month, and gave 
 the Governor there the pick of my baskets for 
 hush-money, and bribed the Colonel of the 
 regiment some more, and, between the two 
 and the tribes-people, we got more than a 
 hundred hand-made Martinis, a hundred good 
 Kohat Jezails that'll throw to six hundred 
 yards, and forty man-loads of very bad am- 
 munition for the rifles. I came back with 
 what I had, and distributed 'em among the 
 men that the Chiefs sent in to me to drill. 
 Dravot was too busy to attend to those things, 
 but the old Army that we first made helped 
 me, and we turned out five hundred men that 
 could drill, and two hundred that knew how 
 to hold arms pretty straight. Even those 
 cork-screwed, hand-made guns was a miracle 
 to them. Dravot talked big about powder- 
 shops and factories, walking up and down in 
 the pine wood when the winter was coming 
 on. 
 
 " ' I won't make a Nation,' says he. ' I'll 
 make an Empire ! These men aren't nig- 
 gers ; they're English ! Look at their eyes 
 — look at their mouths. Look at the way 
 they stand up. They sit on chairs in their 
 
132 The Phantom 'Rickshaw- 
 own houses. They're the Lost Tribes, or 
 something like it, and they've grown to be 
 English. I'll take a census in the spring if 
 the priests don't get frightened. There 
 must be a fair two million of 'em in these 
 hills. The villages are full o' little children. 
 Two million people — two hundred and fifty 
 thousand fighting men — and all English ! 
 They only want the rifles and a little drilling. 
 Two hundred and fifty thousand men, ready 
 to cut in on Russia's right flank when she 
 tries for India ! Peache}^, man,' he says, 
 chewing his beard in great hunks, ' we shall 
 be Emperors — Emperors of the Earth ! 
 Rajah Brooke will be a suckling to us. I'll 
 treat with the Viceroy on equal terms. I'll 
 ask him to send me twelve picked English 
 — twelve that I know of — to help us govern 
 a bit. There's IMackray, Sergeant-pensioner 
 at Segowli — many's the good dinner he's 
 given me, and his wife a pair of trousers. 
 There's Donkin, the Warder of Tounghoo 
 Jail ; there's hundreds that I could lay my 
 hand on if I was in India. The Viceroy 
 shall do it for me. I'll send a man through 
 in the spring for those men^ and TU write for 
 a dispensation from the Grand Lodge for 
 what I've done as Grand-Master. That — and 
 all the Sniders that'll be thrown out when the 
 native troops in India take up the Martini. 
 They'll be worn smooth, but they'll do for 
 fighting in these hills. Twelve English, a 
 hundred thousand Sniders run through the 
 
The Man Who Would be King 133 
 
 Amir's country in driblets — I'd be content 
 with twenty thousand in one year — and we'd 
 be an Empire. When everything was ship- 
 shape, I'd hand over the crown — this crown 
 I'm wearing now — to Queen Victoria on my 
 knees, and she'd say : — " Rise up, Sir Daniel 
 Dravot." Oh, it's big ! It's big, I tell you ! 
 But there's so much to be done in every place 
 — Bashkai, Khawk, Shu, and everywhere else.' 
 
 " ' What is it ? ' I says. ' There are no 
 more men coming in to be drilled this autumn. 
 Look at those fat, black clouds. They're 
 bringing the snow^' 
 
 " ' It isn't that,' says Daniel, putting his 
 hand very hard on my shoulder ; ' and I don't 
 wish to say anything that's against you, for 
 no ^ther living man would have followed me 
 and made me what I am as you have done. 
 You're a first-class Commander-in-Chief, and 
 the people know you ; but — it's a big country, 
 and somehow you can't help me, Peachey, in 
 the way I want to be helped.' 
 
 " ' Go to your blasted priests, then ! ' I 
 said, and I was sorry when I made that re- 
 mark, but it did hurt me sore to find Daniel 
 talking so superior when I'd drilled all the 
 men, and done all he told me. 
 
 " ' Don't let's quarrel, Peachey,^ says Daniel 
 without cursing. ' You're a King too, and 
 the half of this Kingdom is yours ; but can't 
 you see, Peachey, we want cleverer men than 
 us now — three or four of 'em that we can 
 scatter about for our Deputies. It's a huge- 
 
134 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 ous great State, and I can't always tell the 
 right thing to do, and I haven't time for all 
 I want to do, and here's the winter coming on 
 and all.' He put half his beard into his 
 mouth, and it was as red as the gold of his 
 crown. 
 
 '**I'm sorry Daniel,' says I. 'I've done 
 all I could. I've drilled the men and shown 
 the people how to stack their oats better ; 
 and I've brought in those tinware rifles from 
 Ghorband — but I know what you're driving 
 at. I take it Kings always feel oppressed 
 that way.' 
 
 " ' There's another thing too,' says Dravot, 
 walking up and down. ' The winter's coming 
 and these people won't be giving much 
 trouble, and if they do we can't move about. 
 I want a wife.' 
 
 " ' For Gord's sake leave the women alone ! ' 
 I says. ' We've both got all the work we can, 
 though I am a fool. Remember the Contrack, 
 and keep clear o' women.' 
 
 " 'The Contrack only lasted till such time 
 as we was Kings ; and Kings we have been 
 these months past,' says Dravot, weighing his 
 crown in his hand. ' You go get a wife too, 
 Peachey — a nice, strappin', plump girl that'll 
 keep you warm in the winter. They're pret- 
 tier than English girls, and we can take the pick 
 of 'em. Boil 'em once or twic^ in hot water, 
 and they'll come as fair as chicken and ham.' 
 
 " ' Don't tempt me ! ' I says. * I will not 
 have any dealings with a woman not till we are 
 
The Man Who Would be King 135 
 
 a dam' side more settled than we are now. I've 
 been doing the work o' two men, and you've 
 been doing the work o' three. Let's lie off a 
 bit, and see if we can get some better tobacco 
 from Afghan country and run in some good 
 liquor; but no women.' 
 
 " ' Who's talking o' women ? ' says Dravot, 
 ' I said wife — a Queen to breed a King's son 
 for the King. A Queen out of the strongest 
 tribe, that'll make them your blood-brothers, 
 and that'll lie by your side and tell you all the 
 people thinks about you and their own affairs. 
 That's what I want.' 
 
 " ' Do you remember that Bengali woman I 
 kept at Mogul Serai when I was a plate-layer ? ' 
 says I. ' A fat lot o' good she was to me. 
 She taught me the lingo and one or two 
 other things ; but what happened } She ran 
 away with the Station Master's servant and 
 half my month's pay. Then she turned up at 
 Dadur Junction in tow of a half-caste, and had 
 the impidence to say I was her husband — all 
 among the drivers in the running shed ! ' 
 
 " ' We've done with that,' says Dravot. 
 * These women are whiter than you or me, 
 and a Queen I will have for the winter months.' 
 
 " ' For the last time o' asking, Dan, do not,' I 
 say. 'It'll only bring us harm. The Bible 
 says that Kings ain't to waste their strength 
 on women, 'specially when they've got a new 
 raw Kingdom to work over.' 
 
 " * For the last time of answering I will,' 
 said Dravot, and he went away through the 
 
136 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 pine-trees looking like a big red devil. The 
 low sun hit his crown and beard on one side 
 and the two blazed like hot coals. 
 
 " But getting a wife was not as easy as Dan 
 thought. He put it before the Council, and 
 there was no answer till Billy Fish said that 
 he'd better ask the girls. Dravot damned 
 them all round. ' What's wrong with me ? ' 
 he shouts, standing by the idol Imbra. ' Am 
 I a dog or am I not enough of a man for your 
 wenches ? Haven't I put the shadow of my 
 hand over this country ? Who stopped the 
 last Afghan raid .'' ' It was me really, but 
 Dravot was too angry to remember. ' Who 
 bought your guns ? Who repaired the bridges ? 
 Who's the Grand-Master of the sign cut in the 
 stone?' and he thumped his hand on the 
 block that he used to sit on in Lodge, and at 
 Council, which opened like Lodge always. 
 Billy Fish said nothing and no more did the 
 others. ' Keep your hair on, Dan,' said I; 
 ' and ask the girls. That's how it's done at 
 Home, and these people are quite English.^ 
 
 '" ' The marriage of the King is a matter of 
 State,' says Dan, in a white-hot rage, for he 
 could feel, I hope, that he was going against 
 his better mind. He walked out of the Coun- 
 cil-room, and the others sat still, looking at 
 the ground. 
 
 " ' Billy Fish,' says I to the Chief of Bash- 
 kai, ' what's the difficulty here ? A straight 
 answer to a true friend.' 'You know,' says 
 Billy Fish. ' How should a man tell you 
 
The Man Who Would be King 137 
 
 who know everything? How can daughters 
 of men marry Gods or Devils ? It's not proper. ' 
 
 " I remembered something like that in the 
 Bible ; but if, after seeing us as long as they 
 had, they still believed we were Gods, it wasn't 
 for me to undeceive them. 
 
 " ' A God can do anything,' says I. ' If 
 the King is fond of a girl he'll not let her 
 die. ' ' She'll have to,' said Billy Fish. 
 " There are all sorts of Gods and Devils in 
 these mountains, and now and again a girl 
 marries one of them and isn't seen any more. 
 Besides, you two know the Mark cut in the 
 stone. Only the Gods know that. We 
 thought you were men till you showed the 
 sign of the Master.' 
 
 " I wished then that we had explained about 
 the loss of the genuine secrets of a Master- 
 Mason at the first go-off ; but I said nothing. 
 All that night there was a blowing of horns in 
 a little dark temple half-way down the hill, 
 and I heard a girl crying fit to die. One of 
 the priests told us that she was being prepared 
 to marry the King. 
 
 " * I'll have no nonsense of that kind,' says 
 Dan. ' I don't want to interfere with your 
 customs, but I'll take my own wife.' ' The 
 girl's a little bit afraid,' says the priest. ' She 
 thinks she's going to die, and they are a-heart- 
 ening of her up down in the temple.' 
 
 " ' Hearten her very tender, then,' says 
 Dravot, ' or I'll hearten you with the butt of a 
 gun so that you^U never want to be heartened 
 
138 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 again.' He licked Iiis lips, did Dan, and 
 stayed up walking about more than half the 
 night, thinking of the wife that he was going 
 to get in the morning. I wasn't any means 
 comfortable, for I knew that dealings with a 
 woman in foreign parts, though you was a 
 crowned King twenty times over, could not 
 but be risky. I got up very early in the morn- 
 ing while Dravot was asleep, and I saw the 
 priests talking together in whispers, and the 
 Chiefs talking together too, and they looked 
 at me out of the corners of their eyes. 
 
 " ' What is up, Fish .? ' I says to the Bashkai 
 man, who was wrapped up in his furs and 
 looking splendid to behold. 
 
 " ' I can't rightly say,' says he ; ' but if you 
 can induce the King to drop all this nonsense 
 about marriage, you'll be doing him and me 
 and yourself a great service.' 
 
 " ' That I do believe,' says I. * But sure, 
 you know Billy, as well as me, having fought 
 against and for us, that the King and me are 
 nothing more than two of the finest men that 
 God Almighty ever made. Nothing more, I 
 do assure you.' 
 
 " ' That may be,' says Billy Fish, ' and yet 
 1 should be sorry if it was.' He sinks his 
 head upon his great fur cloak for a minute 
 and thinks. ' King,' says he, ' be you man 
 or God or Devil, Fll stick by you to-day. I 
 have twenty of my men with me, and they 
 will follow me. We'll go to Bashkai until the 
 storm blows over.' 
 
The Man Who Would be King 139 
 
 *' A little snow had fallen in the night, and 
 everyUiing was white except the greasy fat 
 clouds that blew down and down from the 
 north. Dravot came out with his crown on 
 his head, swinging his arms and stamping 
 his feet, and looking more pleased than 
 Punch. 
 
 " ' For the last time, drop it, Dan,' says I 
 in a whisper. ' Billy Fish here says that 
 there Avill be a row.' 
 
 " ' A row among my people ! ' says Dravot. 
 ' Not much. Peachey, you're a fool not to get 
 a wife too. Where's the girl ? ' says he with 
 a voice as loud as the braying of a jackass. 
 ' Call up all the Chiefs and priests and let the 
 Emperor see if his wife suits him.' 
 
 " There was no need to call any one. 
 They were all there leaning on their guns and 
 spears round the clearing in the center of the 
 pine wood. A deputation of priests went down 
 to the little temple to bring up the girl, and 
 the horns blew up fit to wake the dead. 
 Billy Fish saunters round and gets as close 
 to Daniel as he could, and behind him stood 
 his twenty men with matchlocks. Not a man 
 of them under six feet. I was next to Dravot, 
 and behind me was twenty men of the regular 
 Army. Up comes the girl, and a strapping 
 wench she was, covered with silver and tur- 
 quoises, but white as death, and looking back 
 every minute at the priests. 
 
 " ' She'll do,' said Dan, looking her over. 
 * What's to be afraid of, lass? Come and 
 
140 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 kiss me.' He puts his arm round her. She 
 shuts her eyes, gives a bit of a squeak, and 
 down goes her face in the side of Dan's flam- 
 ing red beard. 
 
 " ' The slut's bitten me ! ' says he, clapping 
 his hand to his neck, and, sure, enough, his 
 hand was red with blood. Billy Fish and 
 two of his matchlock-men catches hold of Dan 
 by the shoulders and drags him into the Bash- 
 kai lot, while the priests howls in their lingo, 
 — ' Neither God nor Devil but a man ! ' I 
 was all taken aback, for a priest cut at me in 
 front, and the Army behind began firing into 
 the Bashkai men. 
 
 " ' God A-mighty ! ' says Dan. ' What is 
 the meaning o' this } ' 
 
 " ' Come back ! Come away ! ' says Billy 
 Fish. ' Ruin and Mutiny is the matter. 
 We'll break for Bashkai if we can.' 
 
 " I tried to give some sort of orders to my 
 men — the men o' the regular Army — but it 
 was no use, so I fired into the brown of 'em 
 with an English Martini and drilled three beg- 
 gars in a line. The valley was full of shout- 
 ing, howling creatures, and every soul was 
 shrieking ' Not a God nor a Devil but only a 
 man ! ' The Bashkai troops stuck to Billy 
 Fish all they were worth, but their matchlocks 
 wasn't half as good as the Kabul breech- 
 loaders, and four of them dropped. Dan was 
 bellowing like a bull, for he was very wrathy ; 
 and Billy Fish had a hard job to prevent 
 him running out at the crowd. 
 
The Man Who Would be King 141 
 
 " ' We can't stand/ says Billy Fish. * Make 
 a run for it down the valley ! The whole 
 place is against us.' The matchlock-men 
 ran, and we went down the valley in spite of 
 Dravot's protestations. He was swearing 
 horribly and crying out that he was a King. 
 The priests rolled great stones on us, and the 
 regular Army fired hard, and there wasn't 
 more than six men, not counting Dan, Billy 
 Fish, and Me, that came down to the bottom 
 of the valley alive. 
 
 " Then they stopped firing and the horns 
 in the temple blew again. ' Come away — for 
 Gord's sake come away ! ' says Billy Fish. 
 ' They'll send runners out to all the villages 
 before ever we get to Bashkai. I can protect 
 you there, but 1 can't do anything now.' 
 
 " My own notion is that Dan began to go 
 mad in his head from that hour. He stared 
 up and down like a stuck pig. Then he was 
 all for walking back alone and killing the 
 priests with his bare hands ; which he could 
 have done. ' An Emperor am I,' says 
 Daniel, ' and next year I shall be a Knight of 
 the Queen.' 
 
 "'AH right, Dan,' says I; 'but come 
 along now while there's time.' 
 
 " ' It's your fault,' says he, ' for not looking 
 after your Army better. There was mutiny 
 in the midst, and you didn't know — you 
 damned engine-driving, plate-laying, mission- 
 ary's pass-hunting hound ! ' He sat upon a 
 rock and called me every foul name he could 
 
142 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 lay tongue to. I was too heart-sick to care 
 though it was all his foolishness that brought 
 the smash. 
 
 " ' I'm sorry, Dan,' says I, ' but there's no 
 accounting for natives. This business is our 
 Fifty-Seven. Maybe we'll make something 
 out of it yet, when we've got to Bashkai.' 
 
 " ' Let's get to Bashkai, then,' says Dan, 
 ' and, by God, when I come back here again 
 I'll sweep the valley so there isn't a bug in a 
 blanket left ! ' 
 
 " We walked all that day, and all that night 
 Dan was stumping up and down on the snow, 
 chewing his beard and muttering to himself. 
 
 " ' There's no hope o' getting clear,' said 
 Billy Fish. ' The priests will have sent run- 
 ners to the villages to say that you are only 
 men. Why didn't you stick on as Gods till 
 things was more settled? I'm a dead man,' 
 says Billy Fish, and he throws himself down 
 on the snow and begins to pray to his Gods. 
 
 " Next morning we was in a cruel bad coun- 
 try — all up and down, no level ground at all, 
 and no food either. The six Bashkai men 
 looked at Billy Fish hungry-wise as if they 
 wanted to ask something, but they said never 
 a word. At noon we came to the top of a flat 
 mountain all covered with snow, and when we 
 climbed up into it, behold, there was an Army 
 in position waiting in the middle ! 
 
 *' ' The runners have been very quick,' says 
 Billy Fish, with a little bit of a laugh. ' They 
 are waiting for us.' 
 
The Man Who Would be King 143 
 
 " Three or four men began to fire from the 
 enemy's side, and a chance shot took Daniel 
 in the calf of the leg. That brought him to 
 his senses. He looks across the snow at the 
 Army, and sees the rifles that we had brought 
 into the country. 
 
 " ' We're done for/ says he. ' They are 
 Englishmen, these people, — and it's my 
 blasted nonsense that has brought you to this. 
 Get back, Billy Fish, and take your men 
 away ; you've done what you could, and now 
 cut for it. Carnehan,' says he, ' shake hands 
 with me and go along with Billy. Maybe 
 they won't kill you. I'll go and meet 'em 
 alone. It's me that did it. Me, the King ! ' 
 
 '" Go ! ' says I. ' Go to Hell, Dan ! I'm 
 with you here. Billy Fish, you clear out, and 
 we two will meet those folk.' 
 
 " ' I'm a Chief,' says Billy Fish, quite quiet. 
 ' I stay with you. My men can go.' 
 
 " The Bashkai fellows didn't wait for a 
 second word but ran off, and Dan and Me 
 and Billy Fish walked across to where the 
 drums were drumming and the horns were 
 horning. It was cold — awful cold. I've got 
 that cold in the back of my head now. There's 
 a lump of it there." 
 
 The punkah-coolies had gone to sleep. 
 Two kerosene lamps were blazing in the 
 of^ce, and the perspiration poured down my 
 face and splashed on the blotter as I leaned 
 forward. Carnehan was shivering, and I 
 feared that his mind might go. I wiped my 
 
144 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 face, took a fresh grip of the piteously man- 
 gled hands, and said : — " What happened 
 after that ? " 
 
 The momentary shift of my eyes had broken 
 the clear current. 
 
 " What was you pleased to say ? " whined 
 Carnehan. " They took them without any 
 sound. Not a little whisper all along the 
 snow, not though the King knocked down 
 the first man that set hand on him — not though 
 old Peachey fired his last cartridge into the 
 brown of 'em. Not a single solitary sound 
 did those swines make. They just closed up 
 tight, and I tell you their furs stunk. There 
 was a man called Billy Fish, a good friend of 
 us all, and they cut his throat, Sir, then and 
 there, like a pig ; and the King kicks up the 
 bloody snow and says : — 'We've had a dashed 
 fine run for our money. What's coming 
 next ? ' But Peachey, Peachey Taliaferro, I 
 tell you, Sir, in confidence as betwixt two 
 friends, he lost his head. Sir. No, he didn't 
 neither. The King lost his head, so he did, 
 all along o'one of those cunning rope-bridges. 
 Kindly let me have the paper-cutter, Sir. It 
 tilted this way. They marched him a mile 
 across that snow to a rope-bridge over a ravine 
 with a river at the bottom. You may have 
 seen such. They prodded him behind like 
 an ox. ' Damn your eyes ! ' says the King. 
 * D'you suppose I can^t die like a gentleman ? ' 
 He turns to Peachey — Peachey that was cry- 
 ing like a child. ' I've brought you to this, 
 
The Man Who Would be King 145 
 
 Peachey,' says he. ' Brought you out of your 
 happy life to be killed in Kafiristan, where 
 you was late Commander-in-Chief of the Em- 
 peror's forces. Say you forgive me, Peachey.' 
 ' I do,' says Peachey. '■ Fully and freely do 
 I forgive you, Dan.' ' Shake hands, Peachey,' 
 says he. * I'm going now. ' Out he goes, 
 looking neither right nor left, and when he 
 was plumb in the middle of those dizzy danc- 
 ing ropes, ' Cut, you beggars,' he shouts ; and 
 they cut, and old Dan fell, turning round and 
 round and round, twenty thousand miles, for 
 he took half an hour to fall till he struck the 
 water, and I could see his body caught on a 
 rock with the gold crown close beside. 
 
 " But do you know what they did to Peachey 
 between two pine trees ? They crucified him, 
 Sir, as Peachey's hands will show. They used 
 wooden pegs for his hands and his feet ; and 
 he didn't die. He hung there and screamed, 
 and they took him down next day, and said 
 it was a miracle that he wasn't dead. They 
 took him down — poor old Peachey that hadn't 
 done them any harm — that hadn't done them 
 any . . . " 
 
 He rocked to and fro and wept bitterly, 
 wiping his eyes with the back of his scarred 
 hands and moaning like a child for some ten 
 minutes. 
 
 " They was cruel enough to feed him up in 
 
 the temple, because they said he was more of 
 
 a God than old Daniel that was a man. Then 
 
 they turned him out on the snow, and told 
 
 10 
 
146 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 him to go home, and Peachey came home in 
 about a year, begging along the roads quite 
 safe ; for Daniel Dravot he walked before 
 and said: — 'Come along, Peachey. It's a 
 big thing we're doing.' The mountains they 
 danced at night, and the mountains they tried 
 to fall on Peachey's head, but Dan he held 
 up his hand, and Peachey came along bent 
 double. He never let go of Dan's hand, and 
 he never let go of Dan's head. They gave it 
 to him as a present in the temple, to remind 
 him not to come again, and though the crown 
 was pure gold, and Peachey was starving, 
 never would Peachey sell the same. You 
 knew Dravot, Sir ! You knew Right Worship- 
 ful Brother Dravot ! Look at him now ! " 
 
 He fumbled in the mass of rags round his 
 bent waist ; brought out a black horsehair 
 bag embroidered with silver thread ; and 
 shook therefrom on to my table — the dried, 
 withered head of Daniel Dravot ! The morn- 
 ing sun that had long been paling the lamps 
 struck the red beard and blind sunken eyes ; 
 struck, too, a heavy circlet of gold studded 
 with raw turquoises, that Carnehan placed 
 tenderly on the battered temples. 
 
 " You behold now," said Carnehan, " the 
 Emperor in his habit as he lived — the King 
 of Kafiristan with his crown upon his head. 
 Poor old Daniel that ^vas a monarch once ! " 
 
 I shuddered, for, in spite of defacements 
 manifold, I recognized the head of the man 
 of Marwar Junction. Carnehan rose to go. 
 
The Man Who Would be King 147 
 
 I attempted to stop him. He was not fit to 
 walk abroad. " Let me take away the 
 whisky, and give me a little money," he 
 gasped. " I was a King once. I'll go to the 
 Deputy Commissioner and ask to set in the 
 Poorhouse till I get my health. No, thank 
 you, I can't wait till you get a carriage for me. 
 I've urgent private affairs — in the south — at 
 Marwar. " 
 
 He shambled out of the office and departed 
 in the direction of the Deputy Commissioner's 
 house. That day at noon I had occasion to 
 go down the blinding hot Mall, and I saw a 
 crooked man crawling along the white dust of 
 the roadside, his hat in his hand, quavering 
 dolorously after the fashion of street-singers 
 at Home. There was not a soul in sight, and 
 he was out of all possible earshot of the 
 houses. And he sang through his nose, turn- 
 ing his head from right to left : — 
 
 *' The Son of Man goes forth to war, 
 A golden crown to gain ; 
 His blood-red banner streams afar — 
 Who follows in his train ? " 
 
 I waited to hear no more, but put the poor 
 wretch into my carriage and drove him off to 
 the nearest missionary for eventual transfer 
 to the Asylum. He repeated the hymn twice 
 while he was with me whom he did not in the 
 least recognize, and I left him singing it to 
 the missionary. 
 
 Two days later I inquired after his welfare 
 of the Superintendent of the Asylum. 
 
148 The Phantom 'Rickshaw 
 
 "He was admitted suffering from sun- 
 stroke. He died early yesterday morning," 
 said the Superintendent. " Is it true that he 
 was half an hour bareheaded in the sun at 
 midday ? " 
 
 "Yes," said I, "but do you happen to 
 know if he had anything upon him by any 
 chance when he died ? " 
 
 "Not to my knowledge," said the Superin- 
 tendent. 
 
 And there the matter rests. 
 
CITY OF THE DREADFUL NIGHT, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A REAL LIVE CITY. 
 
 We are all backwoodsmen and barbarians 
 together — we others dwelling beyond the 
 Ditch, in the outer darkness of the Mofussil. 
 There are no such things as commissioners 
 and heads of departments in the world, and 
 there is only one city in India. Bombay is too 
 green, too pretty and too stragglesome ; and 
 Madras died ever so long ago. Let us take 
 off our hats to Calcutta, the many-sided, the 
 smoky, the magnificent, as we drive in over 
 the Hugh Bridge in the dawn of a still Feb- 
 ruary morning. We have left India behind 
 us at Howrah Station, and now we enter for- 
 eign parts. No, not wholly foreign. Say 
 rather too familiar. 
 
 All men of certain age know the feeling of 
 caged irritation — an illustration in the Graphic, 
 a bar of music of the light words of a friend 
 from home may set it ablaze — that comes from 
 the knowledge of our lost heritage of London. 
 
2 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 At home they, the other men, our equals, have 
 at their disposal all that town can supply — 
 the roar of the streets, the lights, the music, 
 the pleasant places, the millions of their own 
 kind, and a wilderness full of pretty, fresh- 
 colored English-women, theaters and restau- 
 rants. It is their right. They accept it as 
 such, and even affect to look upon it with con- 
 tempt. And we, we have nothing except the 
 few amusements that we painfully build up 
 for ourselves — the dolorous dissipations of 
 gymkhanas where every one knows everybody 
 else, or the chastened intoxication of dances 
 where all engagements are booked, in ink, ten 
 days ^head, and where everybody's antece- 
 dents are as patent as his or her method of 
 waltzing. We have been deprived of our in- 
 heritance. The men at home are enjoying it 
 all, not knowing how fair and rich it is, and 
 we at the most can only fly westward for a few 
 months and gorge what, properly speaking, 
 should take seven or eight or ten luxurious 
 years. That is the lost heritage of London ; 
 and the knowledge of the forfeiture, wilful or 
 forced, comes to most men at times and sea- 
 sons, and they get cross. 
 
 Calcutta holds out false hopes of some re- 
 turn. The dense smoke hangs low, in the 
 chill of the morning, over an ocean of roofs, 
 and, as the city wakes, there goes up to the 
 smoke a deep, full-throated boom of life and 
 motion and humanity. For this reason does 
 he who sees Calcutta for the first time hang 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 3 
 
 joyously out of the ticca-gharri and sniff the 
 smoke, and turn his face toward the tumult, 
 saying : " This is, at last, some portion of my 
 heritage returned to me. This is a city. 
 There is life here, and there should be all 
 manner of pleasant things for the having, 
 across the river and under the smoke." When 
 Leland, he who wrote the Hans Ereitmann 
 Ballads, once desired to know the name of an 
 austere, plug-hatted red-skin of repute, his 
 answer, from the lips of a half-breed, was : 
 
 " He Injun. He big Injun. He heap big 
 Injun. He dam big heap Injun. He dam 
 mighty great big heap Injun. He Jones!" 
 The litany is an expressive one, and exactly 
 describes the first emotions of a wandering 
 savage adrift in Calcutta. The eye has lost 
 its sense of proportion, the focus has con- 
 tracted through overmuch residence in up- 
 country stations — twenty minutes' canter from 
 hospital to parade-ground, you know — and the 
 mind has shrunk with the eye. Both say to- 
 gether, as they take in the sweep of shipping 
 above and below the Hugli Bridge : " Why, 
 this is London ! This is the docks. This is 
 Imperial. This is worth coming across India 
 to see ! " 
 
 Then a distinctly wicked idea takes posses- 
 sion of the mind : " What a divine — what a 
 heavenly place to loot!'' This gives place to 
 a much worse devil — that of Conservatism. It 
 seems not only a WTong but a criminal thing 
 to allow natives to have any voice in the con- 
 
4 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 trol of such a city — adorned, docked, wharfed, 
 fronted and reclaimed by Englishmen, exist- 
 ing only because England lives, and depen- 
 dent for its life on England. All India knows 
 of the Calcutta Municipality ; but has any 
 one thoroughly investigated the Big Calcutta 
 Stink! There is only one. Benares is fouler 
 in point of concentrated, pent-up muck, and 
 there are local stenches in Peshawur which are 
 stronger than the B. C. S. ; but, for diffused, 
 soul-sickening expansiveness, the reek of Cal- 
 cutta beats both Benares and Peshawur. 
 Bombay cloaks her stenches with a veneer of 
 assafoetida and huq a-tohdicco ; Calcutta is 
 above pretense. There is no tracing back the 
 Calcutta plague to any one source. It is faint, 
 it is sickly, and it is indescribable ; but 
 Americans at the Great Eastern Hotel say 
 that it is something like the smell of the 
 Chinese quarter in San Francisco. It is cer- 
 tainly not an Indian smell. It resembles the 
 essence of corruption that has rotted for the 
 second time — the clammy odor of blue slime. 
 And there is no escape from it. It blows 
 across the maidan; it comes in gusts into the 
 corridors of the Great Eastern Hotel ; what 
 they are pleased to call the " Palaces of Chou- 
 ringhi " carry it ; it swirls round the Bengal 
 Club ; it pours out of by-streets with sicken- 
 ing intensity, and the breeze of the morning 
 is laden with it. It is first found, in spite of 
 the fume of the engines, in Howrah Station. 
 It seems to be worst in the little lanes at the 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 5 
 
 back of Lai Bazar where the drinking-shops 
 are, but it is nearly as bad opposite Govern- 
 ment House and in the Public Offices. The 
 thing is intermittent. Six moderately pure 
 mouthfuls of air may be drawn without offense. 
 Then comes the seventh wave and the queasi- 
 ness of an uncultured stomach. If you live 
 long enough in Calcutta you grow used to it. 
 The regular residents admit the disgrace, but 
 their answer is : " Wait till the wind blows off 
 the Salt Lakes where all the sewage goes, and 
 then youll smell something." That is their 
 defense ! Small wonder that they consider 
 Calcutta is a fit place for a permanent Viceroy. 
 Englishmen who can calmly extenuate one 
 shame by another are capable of asking for 
 anything — and expecting to get it. 
 
 If an up-country station holding three 
 thousand troops and twenty civilians owned 
 such a possession as Calcutta does, the Dep- 
 uty Commissioner or the Cantonment Magis- 
 trate would have all the natives off the board 
 of management or decently shoveled into the 
 background until the mess was abated. Then 
 they might come on again and talk of " high- 
 handed oppression " as much as they liked. 
 That stink, to an unprejudiced nose, damns 
 Calcutta as a City of Kings. And, in spite 
 of that stink, they allow, they even encourage, 
 natives to look after the place ! The damp, 
 drainage-soaked soil is sick with teeming 
 life of a hundred years, and the Municipal 
 Board list is choked with the names of 
 
6 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 natives — men of the breed born in and raised 
 off this surfeited muck-heap ! They own prop- 
 erty, these amiable Aryans on the Municipal 
 and the Bengal Legislative Council. Launch 
 a proposal to tax them on that property, and 
 they naturally howl. They also howl up- 
 country, but there the halls for mass-meetings 
 are few, and the vernacular papers fewer, 
 and with a ziibbar dusti Secretary and a Presi- 
 dent whose favor is worth the having and 
 whose wrath is undesirable, men are kept 
 clean despite themselves, and may not poison 
 their neighbors. Why, asks a savage, let 
 them vote at all .? They can put up with this 
 filthiness. They cannot have any feelings 
 worth caring a rush for. Let them live 
 quietly and hide away their money under our 
 protection, while we tax them till they know 
 through their purses the measure of their neg- 
 lect in the past, and when a little of the smell 
 has been abolished, bring them back again to 
 talk and take the credit of enlightenment. 
 The better classes own their broughams and 
 barouches ; the worse can shoulder an 
 Englishman into the kennel and talk to him 
 as though he were a khitmatgai-. They can 
 refer to an English lady as ?cciaurat; they are 
 permitted a freedom — not to put it too coarsely 
 — of speech which, if used by an Englishman 
 toward an Englishman, would end in serious 
 trouble. They are fenced and protected and 
 made inviolate. Surely they might be con- 
 tent with all those things without entering into 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 7 
 
 matters which they cannot, by the nature of 
 their birth, understand. 
 
 Now, whether all this genial diatribe be the 
 outcome of an unbiased mind or the result 
 first of sickness caused by that ferocious 
 stench, and secondly of headache due to day- 
 long smoking to drown the stench, is an open 
 question. Anyway, Calcutta is a fearsome 
 place for a man not educated up to it. 
 
 A word of advice to other barbarians. Do 
 not bring a north-country servant into Cal- 
 cutta. He is sure to get into trouble, because 
 he does not understand the customs of the 
 city. A Punjabi in this place for the first 
 time esteems it his bounden duty to go to the 
 Ajaib-ghar — the Museum. Such an one has 
 gone and is even now returned very angry 
 and troubled in the spirit. " I went to the 
 Museum," says he, " and no one gave me any 
 gali. I went to the market to buy my food, 
 and then I sat upon a seat. There came a 
 chaprissi who said : ' Go away, I want to sit 
 here.' I said : *I am here first.' He said : 
 'I am chaprissi ! nikal jao !^ and hit he me. 
 Now that sitting-place was open to all, so I 
 hit him till he wept. He ran away for the 
 Police, and I went away too, for the Police 
 here are all Sahibs. Can I have leave from 
 two o'clock to go and look for that chapiHssi 
 and hit him again ? " 
 
 Behold the situation ! An unknown city 
 full of smell that makes one long for rest and 
 retirement, and a champing naukar^ not yet 
 
8 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 six hours in the stew, who has started a blood- 
 feud with an unknown cliaprissi and clamors 
 to go forth to the fray. General orders that, 
 whatever may be said or done to him, he must 
 not say or do anyting in return lead to an elo- 
 quent harangue on the quality of izzat and the 
 nature of "face blackening." There is no 
 izzat in Calcutta, and this Awful Smell black- 
 ens the face of any Englishman who sniffs it. 
 
 Alas ! for the lost delusion of the heritage 
 that was to be restored. Let us sleep,.let us 
 sleep, and pray that Calcutta may be better 
 to-morrow. 
 
 At present it is remarkably like sleeping 
 with a corpse. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE REFLECTIONS OF A SAVAGE. 
 
 Morning brings counsel. Docs Calcutta 
 smell so pestiferously after all } Heavy rain 
 has fallen in the night. She is newly-washed, 
 and the clear sunlight shows her at her best. 
 Where, oh where, in all this wilderness of life 
 shall a man go ? Newman and Co. publish a 
 three-rupee guide which produces first despair 
 and then fear in the mind of the reader. Let 
 us drop Newman and Co. out of the topmost 
 window of the Great Eastern, trusting to luck 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 9 
 
 and the flight of the hours to evolve wonders 
 and mysteries and amusements. 
 
 The Great Eastern hums with life through 
 all its hundred rooms. Doors slam merrily, 
 and all the nations of the earth run up and 
 down the staircases. This alone is refreshing, 
 because the passers bump you and ask you to 
 stand aside. Fancy finding anyplace outside 
 a Levee-room where Englishmen are crowded 
 together to this extent ! Fancy sitting down 
 seventy strong to table cfhote and with a 
 deafening clatter of knives and forks ! Fancy 
 finding a real bar whence drinks may be ob- 
 tained ! and, joy of joys, fancy stepping out 
 of the hotel into the arms of a live, white, 
 helmeted, buttoned, truncheoned Bobby ! A 
 beautiful, burly Bobby — just the sort of man 
 who, seven thousand miles away, staves off 
 the stuttering witticism of the three-o'clock- 
 in-the-morning reveler by the strong badged 
 arm of authority. What would happen if one 
 spoke to this Bobby .'* Would he be offended ? 
 He is not offended. He is affable. He has 
 to patrol the pavement in front of the Great 
 Eastern and to see that the crowding ticca- 
 gharris do not jam. Toward a presumably 
 respectable white he behaves as a man and a 
 brother. There is no arrogance about him. 
 And this is disappointing. Closer inspection 
 shows that he is not a real Bobby after all. 
 He is a Municipal Police something and his 
 uniform is not correct ; at least if they have 
 not changed the dress of the men at home. 
 
10 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 But no matter. Later on we will inquire into 
 the Calcutta Bobby, because he is a white 
 man, and has to deal with some of the " tough- 
 est " folk that ever set out of malice afore- 
 thought to paint Job Charnock's city vermil- 
 ion. You must not, you cannot cross Old 
 Court House Street without looking carefully 
 to see that you stand no chance of being run 
 over. This is beautiful. There is a steady 
 roar of traffic, cut every two minutes by the 
 deeper roll of the trams. The driving is 
 eccentric, not to say bad, but there is the 
 traffic — more than unsophisticated eyes have 
 beheld for a certain number of years. It 
 means business, it means money-making, it 
 means crowded and hurrying life, and it gets 
 into the blood and makes it move. Here be 
 big shops with plate-glass fronts — all display- 
 ing the well-known names of firms that we 
 savages only correspond with through the 
 V. P. P. and Parcels Post. They are all 
 here, as large as life, ready to supply any- 
 thing you need if you only care to sign. 
 Great is the fascination of being able to 
 obtain a thing on the spot without having 
 to write for a week and wait for a month, 
 and then get something quite different. No 
 wonder pretty ladies, who live anywhere with- 
 in a reasonable distance, come down to do 
 their shopping personally. 
 
 " Look here. If you want to be respectable 
 you mustn't smoke in the streets. Nobody 
 does it." This is advice kindly tendered by a 
 
City of the Dreadful Night ii 
 
 friend in a black coat. There is no Levee or 
 Lieutenant-Governor in sight ; but he wears 
 the frock-coat because it is daylight, and he 
 can be seen. He also refrains from smoking 
 for the same reason. He admits that Provi- 
 dence built the open air to be smoked in, but 
 he says that " it isn't the thing. " This man 
 has a brougham, a remarkably natty little pill- 
 box with a curious wabble about the wheels. 
 He steps into the brougham and puts on — a 
 top hat, a shiny black " plug." 
 
 There was a man up-country once who 
 owned a top-hat. He leased it to amateur 
 theatrical companies for some seasons until 
 the nap wore off. Then he threw it into a 
 tree and wild bees hived in it. Men were 
 wont to come and look at the hat, in its palmy 
 days, for the sake of feeling homesick. It in- 
 terested all the station, and died with two 
 seers of babul flower honey in its bosom. But 
 top-hats are not intended to be worn in India. 
 They are as sacred as home letters and old 
 rosebuds. The friend cannot see this. He 
 allows that if he stepped out of his brougham 
 and walked about in the sunshine for ten 
 minutes he would get a bad headache. In 
 half an hour he would probably catch sun- 
 stroke. He allows all this, but he keeps to 
 his hat and cannot see why a barbarian is 
 moved to inextinguishable laughter at the 
 sight. Every one who owns a brougham and 
 many people who hire ticca-gharris keep top- 
 hats and black frock-coats. The effect is 
 
12 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 curious, and at first fills the beholder with 
 surprise. 
 
 And now, " let us see the handsome houses 
 where the wealthy nobles dwell." Northerly 
 lies the great human jungle of the native city, 
 stretching from Burra Bazar to Chitpore. 
 That can keep. Southerly is the maidan and 
 Chouringhi. " If you get out into the center 
 of the maidan you will understand why Cal- 
 cutta is called the City of Palaces." The 
 traveled American said so at the Great 
 Eastern. There is a short tower, falsely 
 called a " memorial," standing in a waste of 
 soft, sour green. That is as good a place to 
 get to as any other. Near here the newly- 
 landed waler is taught the whole duty of the 
 trap-horse and careers madly in a brake. 
 Near here young Calcutta gets upon a horse 
 and is incontinently run away with. Near 
 here hundreds of kine feed, close to the 
 innumerable trams and the whirl of traffic 
 along the face of Chouringhi Road. The 
 size of the maidan takes the heart out of 
 any one accustomed to the "gardens" of up- 
 country, just as they say Newmarket Heath 
 cows a horse accustomed to more shut-in 
 course. The huge level is studded with 
 brazen statues of eminent gentlemen riding 
 fretful horses on diabolically severe curbs. 
 The expanse dwarfs the statues, dwarfs every- 
 thing except the frontage of the far-away 
 Chouringhi Road. It is big — it is impressive. 
 There is no escaping the fact. They built 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 13 
 
 houses in the old days when the rupee was 
 two shillings and a penny. Those houses are 
 three-storied, and ornamented with service- 
 staircases Uke houses in the Hills. They are 
 also very close together, and they own garden 
 walls of pukka-vc\ci?>ouxy pierced with a single 
 gate. In their shut-upness they are British. 
 In their spaciousness they are Oriental, but 
 those service-staircases do not look healthy. 
 We will form an amateur sanitary commission 
 and call upon Chouringhi. 
 
 A first introduction to the Calcutta dm-ivan 
 is not nice. If he is chewing/^;?, he does 
 not take the trouble to get rid of his quid. 
 If he is sitting on his chai-poy chewing sugar- 
 cane, he does not think it worth his while to 
 rise. He has to be taught those things, and 
 he cannot understand why he should be re- 
 proved. Clearly he is a survival of a played- 
 out system. Providence never intended that 
 any native should be made a concierge more 
 insolent than any of the French variety. The 
 people of Calcutta put an Uria in a little lodge 
 close to the gate of their house, in order that 
 loafers may be turned away, and the houses 
 protected from theft. The natural result is 
 that the durwaii treats everybody whom he 
 does not know as a loafer, has an intimate 
 and vendible knowledge of all the outgoings 
 and incomings in that house, and controls, to 
 a large extent, the nomination of the naukar- 
 log. They say that one of the estimable class 
 is now suing a bank for about three lakhs of 
 
14 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 rupees. Up-country, a Lieutenant-Governor's 
 chaprissi has to work for thirty years before 
 he can retire on seventy thousand rupees of 
 savings. The Calcutta durwan is a great in- 
 stitution. The head and front of his offense 
 is that he will insist upon trying to talk En- 
 glish. How he protects the houses Calcutta 
 only knows. H^ can be frightened out of his 
 wits by severe speech, and is generally asleep 
 in calling hours. If a rough round of visits 
 be any guide, three times out of seven he is 
 fragrant of drink. So much for the dm-wafi. 
 Now for the houses he guards. 
 
 Very pleasant is the sensation of being 
 ushered into a pestiferously stablesome draw- 
 ing-room. "Does this always happen.?" 
 " No, not unless you shut up the room for 
 some time ; but if you open xh^J/uhni/ls there 
 are other smells. You see the stables and the 
 servants' quarters are close too." People pay 
 five hundred a month for half-a-dozen rooms 
 filled with attr of this kind. They make no 
 complaint. When they think the honor of the 
 city is at stake they say defiantly : " Yes, but 
 you must remember we're a metropolis. We 
 are crowded here. We have no room. We 
 aren't like your little stations." Chouringhi 
 is a stately place full of sumptuous houses, 
 but it is best to look at it hastily. Stop to 
 consider for a moment what the cramped com- 
 pounds, the black soaked soil, the netted in- 
 tricacies of the service-staircases, the packed 
 stables, the seethment of human life round the 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 15 
 
 durivans^ lodges and the curious arrangement 
 of little open drains means, and you will call it 
 a whited sepulcher. 
 
 Men living in expensive tenements suffer 
 from chronic sore-throat, and will tell you 
 cheerily that " we've got typhoid in Calcutta 
 now." Is the pest ever out of it ? Everything 
 seems to be built with a view to its comfort. 
 It can lodge comfortably on roofs, climb along 
 from the gutter-pipe to piazza, or rise from 
 sink to veranda and thence to the topmost 
 story. But Calcutta says that all is sound and 
 produces figures to prove it ; at the same time 
 admitting that healthy cut flesh will not 
 readily heal. Further evidence may be dis- 
 pensed with. 
 
 Here come pouring down Park Street on 
 the maidan a rush of broughams, neat buggies, 
 the lightest of gigs, trim office brownberrys, 
 shining victorias, and a sprinkling of veritable 
 hansom cabs. In the broughams sit men in 
 top-hats. In the other carts, young men, all 
 very much alike, and all immaculately turned 
 out. A fresh stream from Chouringhi joins 
 the Park Street detachment, and the two to- 
 gether stream away across the maidan toward 
 the business quarter of the city. This is Cal- 
 cutta going to office — the civilians to the 
 Government Buildings and the young men 
 to their firms and their blocks and their 
 wharves. Here one sees that Calcutta has 
 the best turn-out in the Empire. Horses 
 and traps alike are enviably perfect, and — 
 
1 6 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 mark the touchstone of civilization — the lamps 
 are hi the sockets. This is distinctly refresh- 
 ing. Once more we will take off our hats 
 to Calcutta, the well-appointed, the luxuri- 
 ous. The country-bred is a rare beast here ; 
 his place is taken by the waler, and the 
 waler, though a ruffian at heart, can be made 
 to look like a gentleman. It would be inde- 
 corous as well as insane to applaud the wink- 
 ing harness, the perfectly lacquered panels, 
 and the liveried saises. They show well in 
 the outwardly fair roads shadowed by the 
 Palaces. 
 
 How many sections of the complex society 
 of the place do the carts carry ? I7npri7nis, 
 the Bengal Civilian who goes to Writers' Build- 
 ings and sits in a perfect office and speaks 
 flippantly of "sending things into India," 
 meaning thereby the Supreme Government. 
 He is a great person, and his mouth is full of 
 promotion-and-appointment " shop." Gener- 
 ally he is referred to as a " rising man." Cal- 
 cutta seems full of " rising men." Secondly, 
 the Government of India man, who wears a 
 familiar Simla face, rents a flat when he is 
 not up in the Hills, and is rational on the 
 subject of the drawbacks of Calcutta. Thirdly, 
 the man of the " firms," the pure non-official 
 who fights under the banner of one of the 
 great houses of the City, or for his own hand 
 in a neat office, or dashes about Clive Street 
 in a brougham doing " share w'ork " or some- 
 thing of the kind. He fears not "Bengal," 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 17 
 
 nor regards he "India." He swears im- 
 partially at both when their actions interfere 
 with his operations. His " shop " is quite 
 unintelligible. He is like the English city 
 man with the chill off, lives well and enter- 
 tains hospitably. In the old days he was 
 greater than he is now, but still he bulks large. 
 He is rational in so far that he will help the 
 abuse of the Municipality, but womanish in 
 his insistence on the excellencies of Calcutta. 
 Over and above these who are hurrying to 
 work are the various brigades, squads and 
 detachments of the other interests. But they 
 are sets and not sections, and revolve round 
 Belvedere, Government House, and Fort 
 William. Simla and Darjeeling claim them 
 in the hot weather. Let them go. They wear 
 top-hats and frock-coats. 
 
 It is time to escape from Chouringhi Road 
 and get among the long-shore folk, who have 
 no prejudices against tobacco, and who all 
 use pretty nearly the same sort of hat. 
 2 
 
i8 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE COUNCIL OF THE GODS. 
 
 He set up conclusions to the number of nine thousand 
 seven hundred and sixty four ... he went after- 
 ward to the Sorbonne, where he maintained argument 
 against the theologians for the space of six weeks, from 
 four o'clock in the morning till six in the evening, ex- 
 cept for an interval of two hours to refresh themselves 
 and take their repasts, and at this were present the 
 greatest part of the lords of the court, the masters of 
 request, presidents, counselors, those of the accompts, 
 secretaries, advocates, and others ; as also the sheriffs 
 of the said town. — Pantagricel. 
 
 " The Bengal Legislative Council is sitting 
 now. You will find it in an octagonal wing 
 of Writers' Buildings : straight across the 
 maidan. It's worth seeing." " What are they 
 sitting on ? " " Municipal business. No end 
 of a debate." So much for trying to keep 
 low company. The long-shore loafers must 
 stand over. Without doubt this Council is 
 going to hang some one for the state of the 
 City, and Sir Steuart Bayley will be chief ex- 
 ecutioner. One does not come across Councils 
 every day. 
 
 Writers' Buildings are large. You can 
 trouble the busy workers of half-a-dozen de- 
 partments before you stumble upon the black- 
 stained staircase that leads to an upper cham- 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 19 
 
 ber looking out over a populous street. Wild 
 chaprissis block the way. The Councilor 
 Sahibs are sitting, but any one can enter. 
 " To the right of the Lat Sahib's chair, and 
 go quietly." Ill-mannered minion ! Does he 
 expect the awe-stricken spectator to prance in 
 with a jubilant war-whoop or turn Catherine- 
 wheels round that sumptuous octagonal room 
 with the blue-domed roof I There are gilt 
 capitals to the half pillars and an Egyptian 
 patterned lotus-stencil makes the walls de- 
 corously gay. A thick piled carpet covers all 
 the floor, and must be delightful in the hot 
 weather. On a black wooden throne, com- 
 fortably cushioned in green leather, sits Sir 
 Steuart Bayley, Ruler of Bengal. The rest 
 are all great men, or else they would not be 
 there. Not to know them argues oneself un- 
 known. There are a dozen of them, and sit 
 six aside at two slightly curved lines of beauti- 
 fully polished desks. Thus Sir Steuart Bayley 
 occupies the frog of a badly made horseshoe 
 split at the toe. In front of him, at a table 
 covered with books and pamphlets and papers, 
 toils a secretary. There is a seat for the Re- 
 porters, and that is all. The place enjoys a 
 chastened gloom, and its very atmosphere 
 fills one with awe. This is the heart of Bengal, 
 and uncommonly well upholstered. If the 
 work matches the first-class furniture, the ink- 
 pots, the carpets, and the resplendent ceiling, 
 there will be something worth seeing. But 
 where is the criminal who is to be hanged for 
 
20 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 the stench that runs up and down Writers' 
 Buildings staircases, for the rubbish heaps 
 in the Chitpore Road, for the sickly savor of 
 Chouringhi, for the dirty little tanks at the 
 back of Belvedere, for the street full of small- 
 pox, for the reeking gharri-stand outside the 
 Great Eastern, for the state of the stone and 
 dirt pavements, for the condition of the gullies 
 of Shampooker, and for a hundred other 
 things ? 
 
 " This, I submit, is an artificial scheme in 
 supersession of Nature's unit, the individual." 
 The speaker is a slight, spare native in a flat 
 hat-turban, and a black alpaca frock-coat. 
 He looks like a vakil to the boot-heels, and, 
 with his unvarying smile and regulated ges- 
 ticulation, recalls memories of up-country 
 courts. He never hesitates, is never at a loss 
 for a word, and never in one sentence repeats 
 himself. He talks and talks and talks in a 
 level voice, rising occasionally half an octave 
 when a point has to be driven home. Some 
 of his periods sound very familiar. This, for 
 instance, might be a sentence from the Mi?-- 
 ror : "So much for the principle. Let us 
 now examine how far it is supported by prec- 
 edent.'^ This sounds bad. When a fluent 
 native is discoursing of "principles" and 
 "precedents," the chances are that he will go 
 on for some time. IMoreover, where is the 
 criminal, and what is all this talk about ab- 
 stractions ? They want shovels not senti- 
 ments, in this part of the world. 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 21 
 
 A friendly whisper brings enlightenment; 
 " They are plowing through the Calcutta Mu- 
 nicipal Bill — plurality of votes you know ; 
 here are the papers." And so it is ! Amass 
 of motions and amendments on matters relat- 
 ing to ward votes. Is A to be allowed to give 
 two votes in one ward and one in another.? 
 Is section ten to be omitted, and is one man 
 to be allowed one vote and no more ? How 
 many votes does three hundred rupees' worth 
 of landed property carry? Is it better to kiss 
 a post or throw it in the fire .'* Not a word 
 about carbolic acid and gangs of douies. The 
 little man in the black choga revels in his sub- 
 ject. He is great on principles and prece- 
 dents, and the necessity of '' popularizing our 
 system." He fears that under certain cir- 
 cumstances " the status of the candidates will 
 decline." He riots in "self-adjusting major- 
 ities,^' and the healthy influence of the edu- 
 cated middle classes. 
 
 For a practical answer to this, there steals 
 across the council chamber just one faint 
 whiff. It is as though some one laughed low 
 and bitterly. But no man heeds. The English- 
 men look supremely bored, the native mem- 
 bers stare stolidly in front of them. Sir 
 Steuart Bayley's face is as set as the face of 
 the Sphinx. For these things he draws his 
 pay, and his is a low wage for heavy labor. 
 But the speaker, now adrift, is not altogether 
 to be blamed. He is a Bengali, who has got 
 before him just such a subject as his soul 
 
22 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 loveth — an elaborate piece of academical re- 
 form leading no-whither. Here is a quiet 
 room full of pens and papers, and there are 
 men who must listen to him. Apparently there 
 is no time limit to the speeches. Can you 
 wonder that he talks ? He says " I submit " 
 once every ninety seconds, varying the form 
 wnth " I do submit." The popular element 
 in the electoral body should have prominence. 
 Quite so. He quotes one John Stuart Mill to 
 prove it. There steals over the listener a 
 numbing sense of nightmare. He has heard 
 all this before somewhere — yea ; even down 
 to J. S. Mill and the references to the " true 
 interests of the ratepayers." He sees what 
 is coming next. Yes, there is the old Sabha 
 Anjuman journalistic formula — " Western edu- 
 cation is an exotic plant of recent importa- 
 tion. " How on earth did this man drag West- 
 ern education into this discussion ? W^ho 
 knows ? Perhaps Sir Steuart Bayley does. 
 He seems to be listening. The others are 
 looking at their watches. The spell of the 
 level voice sinks the listener yet deeper into 
 a trance. He is haunted by the ghosts of all 
 the cant of all the political platforms of Great 
 Britain. He hears all the old, old vestry 
 phrases, and once more he smells the smell. 
 That is no dream. Western education is an 
 exotic plant. It is the upas tree, and it is all 
 our fault. We brought it out from England 
 exactly as we brought out the ink bottles and 
 the patterns for the chairs. We planted it 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 23 
 
 and it grew — monstrous as a banian. Now 
 we are choked by tlie roots of it spreading so 
 thickly in this fat soil of Bengal. The speaker 
 continues. Bit by bit. We builded this 
 dome, visible and invisible, the crown of 
 Writers' Buildings, as we have built and 
 peopled the buildings. Now we have gone 
 too far to retreat, being " tied and bound with 
 the chain of our own sins." The speech con- 
 tinues. We made that florid sentence. That 
 torrent of verbiage is ours. We taught him 
 what was constitutional and what was uncon- 
 stitutional in the days when Calcutta smelt. 
 Calcutta smells still, but we must listen to all 
 that he has to say about the plurality of votes 
 and the threshing of wind and the weaving of 
 ropes of sand. It is our own fault absolutely. 
 The speech ends, and there rises a gray 
 Englishman in a black frock-coat. He looks 
 a strong man, and a worldly. Surely he will 
 say : " Yes, Lala Sahib, all this may be true 
 talk, but there's a biirra krab smell in this 
 place, and everything must be safkaroed in a 
 week, or the Deputy Commissioner will not 
 take any notice of you in durbarT He says 
 nothing of the kind. This is a Legislative 
 Council where they call each other " Honor- 
 able So-and-So's." The Englishman in the 
 frock-coat begs all to remember that " we are 
 discussing principles, and no consideration of 
 the details ought to influence the verdict on 
 the principles." Is he then like the rest ? 
 How does this strange thing come about ? 
 
24 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 Perhaps these so English office fittings are re- 
 sponsible for the warp. The Council Chamber 
 might be a London Board-room. Perhaps 
 after long years among the pens and papers 
 its occupants grow to think that it really is, 
 and in this belief give resumes of the history 
 of Local Self-Government in England. 
 
 The black frock-coat, emphasizing his points 
 with his spectacle-case, is telling his friends 
 how the parish was first the unit of self-gov- 
 ernment. He then explains how burgesses 
 were elected, and in tones of deep fervor 
 announces : " Commissioners of Sewers are 
 elected in the same way." Whereunto all 
 this lecture.'* Is he trying to run a motion 
 through under cover of a cloud of words, es- 
 saying the well-known " cuttle-fish trick " of 
 the West ? 
 
 He abandons England for a while, 2LX\dji07v 
 we get a glimpse of the cloven hoof in a casual 
 reference to Hindus and Mahomedans. The 
 Hindus will lose nothing by the complete es- 
 tablishment of plurality of votes. They will 
 have the control of their own wards as they 
 used to have. So there is race-feeling, to be 
 explained away, even among these beautiful 
 desks. Scratch the Council, and you come to 
 the old, old trouble. The black frock-coat 
 sits down, and a keen-eyed, black-bearded 
 Englishman rises with one hand in his pocket 
 to explain his views on an alteration of the 
 vote qualification. The idea of an amend- 
 ment seems to have just struck him. He 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 25 
 
 hints that he will bring it forward later on. 
 He is academical like the others, but not half 
 so good a speaker. All this is dreary beyond 
 words. Why do they talk and talk about 
 owners and occupiers and burgesses in Eng- 
 land and the growth of autonomous institu- 
 tions when the city, the great city, is here cry- 
 ing out to be cleansed ? What has England to 
 do with Calcutta's evil, and why should En- 
 glishmen be forced to wander tlirough mazes 
 of unprofitable argument against men who 
 cannot understand the iniquity of dirt .? 
 
 A pause follows the black-bearded man's 
 speech. Rises another native, a heavily- 
 built Babu, in a black gown and a strange 
 head-dress. A snowy white strip of cloth is 
 thrown y/^<z;7/;/-wise over his shoulders. His 
 voice is high, and not always under control. 
 He begins : " I will try to be as brief as pos- 
 sible." This is ominous. By the way, in 
 Council there seems to be no necessity for a 
 form of address. The orators plunge in 
 inedias res^ and only when they are well 
 launched throw an occasional " Sir " toward 
 Sir Steuart Bayley, who sits with one leg 
 doubled under him and a dry pen in his hand. 
 This speaker is no good. He talks, but he 
 says nothing, and he only knows where he is 
 drifting to. He says : "We must remember 
 that we are legislating for the Metropolis of 
 India, and therefore we should borrow our 
 institutions from large English towns, and not 
 from parochial institutions." If you think for 
 
26 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 a minute, that shows a large and healthy 
 knowledge of the history of Local Self-Gov- 
 ernment. It also reveals the attitude of-Cal- 
 cutta. If the city thought less about itself as 
 a metropolis and more as a midden, its state 
 would be better. The speaker talks patroniz- 
 ingly of " my friend," alluding to the black 
 frock-coat. Then he flounders afresh, and his 
 voice gallops up the gamut as he declares, 
 " and therefore that makes all the difference." 
 He hints vaguely at threats, something to do 
 with the Hindus and the Mahomedans, but 
 what he means it is difficult to discover. 
 Here, however, is a sentence taken verbati7}i. 
 It is not likely to appear in this form in the 
 Calcutta papers. The black frock-coat had 
 said that if a wealthy native " had eight 
 votes to his credit, his vanity would prompt 
 him to go to the polling-booth, because he 
 would feel better than half-a-dozen gharri- 
 wans or petty traders." (Fancy allowing a 
 gharri-wan to vote ! He has yet to learn how 
 to drive !) Hereon the gentleman with the 
 white cloth : '' Then the complaint is that in- 
 fluential voters will not take the trouble to 
 vote. In my humble opinion, if that be so, 
 adopt voting papers. That is the way to meet 
 them. In the same way — The Calcutta 
 Trades' Association — you abolish all plurality 
 of votes : and that is the way to meet thein.'^ 
 Lucid, is it not? Up flies the irresponsible 
 voice, and delivers this statement : " In the 
 election for the House of Commons plurality 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 27 
 
 are allowed for persons having interest indif- 
 ferent districts." Then hopeless, hopeless fog. 
 It is a great pity that India ever heard of 
 anybody higher than the heads of the Civil 
 Service. The country appeals from the Chota 
 to the Bu7'ra Sahib all too readily as it is. 
 Once more a whiff. The gentleman gives a 
 defiant jerk of his shoulder-cloth, and sits 
 down. 
 
 Then Sir Steuart Bayley : "The question 
 before the Council is," etc. There is a ripple 
 of " Ayes " and " Noes, and the " Noes " have 
 it, whatever it may be. The black-bearded 
 gentleman springs his amendment about the 
 voting qualifications. A large senator in a 
 white waistcoat, and with a most genial smile, 
 rises and proceeds to smash up the amend- 
 ment. Can't see the use of it. Calls it in 
 effect rubbish. The black frock-coat rises to 
 explain his friend's amendment, and inciden- 
 tally makes a funny little slip. He is a knight, 
 and his friend has been newly knighted. He 
 refers to him as "Mister." The black choga, 
 he who spoke first of all, speaks again, and 
 talks of the ^^ sojorjier v^'ho comes here for a 
 little time, and then leaves the land." Well 
 it is for the black choga that the sojourner 
 does come, or there would be no comfy places 
 wherein to talk about the power that can be 
 measured by wealth and the intellect " which, 
 sir, I submit, cannot be so measured." The 
 amendment is lost, and trebly and quadruply 
 lost is the listener. In the name of sanity and 
 
28 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 to preserve the tattered shirt tails of a torn 
 illusion, let us escape. This is the Calcutta 
 Municipal Bill. They have been at it for 
 several Saturdays. Last Saturday Sir Steuart 
 Bayley pointed out that at their present rate 
 they would be about two years in getting it 
 through. Now they will sit till dusk, unless 
 Sir SteuartBayley, who wants to see Lord Con- 
 nemara off, puts up the black frock-coat to 
 move an adjournment. It is not good to see 
 a Government close to. This leads to the 
 formation of blatantly self-satisfied judgments, 
 which may be quite as wrong as the cramping 
 system with which we have encompassed 
 ourselves. And in the streets outside English- 
 men summarize the situation brutally, thus : 
 *'The whole thing is a farce. Time is money 
 to us. We can't stick out those everlasting 
 speeches in the municipality. The natives 
 choke us off, but we know that if things get too 
 bad the Government will step in and interfere, 
 and so we worry along somehow." Meantime 
 Calcutta continues to cry out for the bucket 
 and the broom. 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 29 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ON THE BANKS OF THE HUGLI. 
 
 The clocks of the city have struck two. 
 Where can a man get food ? Calcutta is not 
 rich in respect of dainty accommodation. You 
 can stay your stomach at Peliti's or Bonsard's 
 but their shops are not to be found in liasting 
 Street, or in the places where brokers fly to 
 and fro in office-jauns, sweating and growing 
 visibly 7'icli. There must be some sort of 
 entertainment where sailors congregate. 
 " Honest Bombay Jack " supplies nothing but 
 Burma cheroots and whisky in liquor glasses, 
 but in Lai Bazar, not far from " The Sailors ' 
 Coffee-rooms," a board gives bold advertise- 
 ment that " officers and seamen can find good 
 quarters. " IiT evidence a row of neat officers 
 and seamen are sitting on a bench by the 
 "hotel " door smoking. There is an almost 
 military likeness in their clothes. Perhaps 
 " Honest Bombay Jack " only keeps one kind 
 of felt hat and one brand of suit. When Jack 
 of the mercantile marine is sober, he is very 
 sober. When he is drunk he is — but ask the 
 river police what a lean, mad Yankee can do 
 with his nails and teeth. These gentlemen 
 smoking on the bench are impassive almost as 
 Red Indians. Their attitudes are unrestrained, 
 
30 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 and they do not wear braces. Nor, it would 
 appear from the bill of fare, are they particular 
 as to what they eat when they attend table 
 d'hote. The fare is substantial and the regula- 
 tion peg — every house has its own depth of 
 peg if you will refrain from stopping Gany- 
 mede — something to wonder at. Three fingers 
 and a trifle over seems to be the use of the 
 officers and seamen who are talking so quietly 
 in the doorway. One says — he has evidently 
 finished a long story — " and so he shipped for 
 four pound ten with a first mate's certificate 
 and all, and that was in a German barque." 
 Another spits with conviction and says genially, 
 without raising his voice : " That was a hell 
 of a ship ; who knows her ? " No answer 
 from the panchayet., but a Dane or a German 
 wants to know whether the Myra is " up " yet. 
 A dry, red-haired man gives her exact position 
 in the river — (How in the world can he know ?) 
 — and the probable hour of her arrival. The 
 grave debate drifts into a discussion of a re- 
 cent river accident, whereby a big steamer was 
 damaged, and had to put back and discharge 
 cargo. A burly gentleman who is taking a con- 
 stitutional down Lai Bazar strolls up and says : 
 " I tell you she fouled her own chain with her 
 own forefoot. Hev you seen the plates ? " 
 
 *' No." Then how the can any like 
 
 you say what it well was ? " He passes 
 
 on, having delivered his highly-flavored opin- 
 ion without heat or passion. No one seems to 
 resent the expletives. 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 31 
 
 Let us get down to the river and see this 
 stamp of men more thoroughly. Clarke Rus- 
 sell has told us that their lives are hard 
 enough in all conscience. What are their 
 pleasures and diversions ? The Port Office, 
 where lives the gentlemen who make improve- 
 ments in the Port of Calcutta, ought to supply 
 information. It stands large and fair, and 
 built in an orientalized manner after the 
 Italians at the corner of Fairlie Place upon 
 the great Strand Road, and a continual clamor 
 of traffic by land and by sea goes up through- 
 out the day and far into the night against its 
 windows. This is a place to enter more rev- 
 erently than the Bengal Legislative Council, 
 for it houses the direction of the uncertain 
 Hugli down to the Sandheads, owns enormous 
 wealth, and spends huge sums on the front- 
 aging of river banks, the expansion of jetties, 
 and the manufacture of docks costing two 
 hundred lakhs of rupees. Two million tons 
 of sea-going shippage yearly find their way 
 up and down the river by the guidance of the 
 Port Office, and the men of the Port Office 
 know more than it is good for men to hold in 
 their heads. They can without reference to 
 telegraphic bulletins give the position of all 
 the big steamers, coming up or going down, 
 from the Hugli to the sea, day by day with 
 their tonnage, the names of their captains and 
 the nature of their cargo. Looking out from 
 the veranda of their officer over a lancer-regi- 
 ment of masts, they can declare truthfully the 
 
32 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 name of every ship within eye-scope, with the 
 day and hour when she will depart. 
 
 In a room at the bottom of the building 
 lounge big men, carefully dressed. Now 
 there is a type of face which belongs almost 
 exclusively to Bengal Cavalry officers — majors 
 for choice. Everybody knows the bronzed, 
 black-mustached, clear-speaking Native Cav- 
 alry officer. He exists unnaturally in novels, 
 and naturally on the frontier. These men in 
 the big room have its caste of face so strongly 
 marked that one marvels what officers are 
 doing by the river. " Have they come to book 
 passengers for home?" "Those men! 
 They're pilots. Some of them draw between 
 two and three thousand rupees a month. They 
 are responsible for half-a-million pounds' 
 worth of cargo sometimes." They certainly 
 are men, and they carry themselves as such. 
 They confer together by twos and threes, and 
 appeal frequently to shipping lists. 
 
 " Zr;/'/ a pilot a man who always wears a 
 peajacket and shouts through a speaking- 
 trumpet ? " " Well, you can ask those gentle- 
 men if you like. You've got your notions 
 from home pilots. Ours aren't that kind ex- 
 actly. They are a picked service, as carefully 
 weeded as the Indian Civil. Some of 'em 
 have brothers in it, and some belong to the 
 old Indian army families." But they are not 
 all equally well paid. The Calcutta papers 
 sometimes echo the groans of the junior pil- 
 ots who are not allowed the handling of ships 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 33 
 
 over a certain tonnage. As it is yearly grow- 
 ing cheaper to build one big steamer than two 
 little ones, these juniors are crowded out, and, 
 while the seniors get their thousands, some of 
 the youngsters make at the end of one month 
 exactly thirty rupees. This is a grievance 
 with tliem ; and it seems well-founded. 
 
 In the flats above the pilots' room are 
 hushed and chapel-like offices, all sumptuously 
 fitted, where Englishmen write and telephone 
 and telegraph, and deft Babus forever draw 
 maps of the shifting Hugli. Any hope of 
 understanding the work of the Port Commis- 
 sioners is thoroughly dashed by being taken 
 through the Port maps of a quarter of a cen- 
 tury past. Men have played with the Hugli 
 as children play with a gutter-runnel, and, in 
 return, the Hugli once rose and played with 
 men and ships till the Strand Road was littered 
 with the raffle and the carcasses of big ships. 
 There are photos on the walls of the cyclone 
 of '64, when the Thunder came inland and sat 
 upon an American barque, obstructing all the 
 traffic. Very curious are these photos, and 
 almost impossible to believe. How can a big, 
 strong steamer have her three masts razed to 
 deck level ? How can a heavy, country boat 
 be pitched on to the poop of a high-walled 
 liner ? and how can the side be bodily torn out 
 of a ship ? The photos say that all these things 
 are possible, and men aver that a cyclone may 
 come again and scatter the craft like chaff. 
 Outside the Port Office are the export and im- 
 3 
 
34 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 port sheds, buildings that can hold a ship's 
 cargo a-piece, all standing on reclaimed ground. 
 Here be several strong smells, a mass of rail- 
 way lines, and a multitude of men. " Do you 
 see where that trolly is standing, behind the 
 big P. and O. berth ? In that place as nearly as 
 maybe the Govindpiir \^^x\\. down about twenty 
 years ago, and began to shift out ! " " But 
 that is solid ground." " She sank there, and 
 the next tide made a scour-hole on one side 
 of her. The returning tide knocked her into 
 it. Then the mud made up behind her. Next 
 tide the business was repeated — always the 
 scour-hole in the mud and the filling up be- 
 hind her. So she rolled and was pushed out 
 and out until she got in the way of the ship- 
 ping right out yonder, and we had to blow her 
 up. When a ship sinks in mud or quicksand 
 she regularly digs her own grave and wriggles 
 herself into it deeper and deeper till she 
 reaches moderately solid stuff. Then she 
 sticks." Horrible idea, is it not, to go down 
 and down with each tide into the foul Hugli 
 mud ? 
 
 Close to the Port Offices is the Shipping 
 Office, where the captains engage their crews. 
 The men must produce their discharges from 
 their last ships in the presence of the ship- 
 ping master, or as they call him — "The 
 Deputy Shipping." He passes them as cor- 
 rect after having satisfied himself that they 
 are not deserters from other ships, and they 
 then sign articles for the voyage. This is the 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 35 
 
 ceremony, beginning with the " dearly be- 
 loved " of the crew-hunting captain down to 
 the " amazement " of the identified deserter. 
 There is a dingy building, next door to the 
 Sailors' Home, at whose gate stand the cast- 
 ups of all the seas in all manner of raiment. 
 There are Seedee boys, Bombay serangs and 
 Madras fishermen of the salt villages, Malays 
 who insist upon marrying native women grow 
 jealous and run amok : Malay-Hindus, Hindu- 
 Malay-whites, Burmese, Burma-whites, Bur- 
 ma-native-whites, Italians with gold earrings 
 and a thirst for gambling, Yankees of all the 
 States, with Mulattoes and pure buck-niggers, 
 red and rough Danes, Cingalese, Cornish 
 boys who seem fresh taken from the plow- 
 tail " corn-stalks " from colonial ships where 
 they got four pound ten a month as seamen, 
 tun-bellied Germans, Cockney mates keeping 
 a little aloof from the crowd and talking in 
 knots together, unmistakable " Tommies " 
 who have tumbled into seafaring life by some 
 mistake, cockatoo-tufted Welshmen spitting 
 and swearing like cats, broken-down loafers, 
 gray-headed, penniless, and pitiful, swagger- 
 ing boys, and very quiet men with gashes and 
 cuts on their faces. It is an ethnological 
 museum where all the specimens are playing 
 comedies and tragedies. The head of it all 
 is the " Deputy Shipping," and he sits, sup- 
 ported by an English policeman whose fists 
 are knobby, in a great Chair of State. The 
 *' Deputy Shipping '' knows all the iniquity of 
 
36 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 the riverside, all the ships, all the captains, 
 and a fair amount of the men. He is fenced 
 off from the crowd by a strong wooden rail- 
 ing, behind which are gathered those who 
 " stand and wait," the unemployed of the mer- 
 cantile marine. They have had their spree — 
 poor devils — and now they will go to sea 
 again on as low a wage as three pound ten a 
 month, to fetch up at the end in some Shang- 
 hai stew or San Francisco hell. They have 
 turned their backs on the seductions of the 
 Howrah boarding-houses and the delights of 
 Colootollah. If Fate will, " Nightingales " 
 will know them no more for a season, and 
 their successors may paint Collinga Bazar 
 vermilion. But what captain will take some 
 of these battered, shattered wrecks whose 
 hands shake and whose eyes are red ? 
 
 Enter suddenly a bearded captain, who has 
 made his selection from the crowd on a pre- 
 vious day, and now wants to get his men 
 passed. He is not fastidious in his choice. 
 His eleven seem a tough lot for such a mild- 
 eyed, civil-spoken man to manage. But the 
 captain in the Shipping Office and the captain 
 on the ship are two different things. He 
 brings his crew up to the " Deputy Ship- 
 ping's " bar, and hands in their greasy, tattered 
 discharges. But the heart of the " Deputy 
 Shipping " is hot within him, because, two days 
 ago, a Howrah crimp stole a whole crew from 
 a dowMi-dropping ship, insomuch that the cap- 
 tain had to come back and whip up a new 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 37 
 
 crew at one o'clock in the day. Evil will it 
 be if the '^ Deputy Shipping "' finds one of 
 these bounty-jumpers in the chosen crew of 
 the Bleiikindoon, let us say. 
 
 The " Deputy Shipping " tells the story 
 with heat. " I didn't know they did such 
 things in Calcutta, " says the captain. "Do 
 such things ! They'd steal the eye-teeth out 
 of your head there, Captain." He picks up a 
 discharge and calls for Michael Donelly, who 
 is a loose-knit, vicious-looking Irish-Ameri- 
 can who chews. *' Stand up, man, stand up ! " 
 Michael Donelly wants to lean against the 
 desk, and the English policeman won't have 
 it. "What was your last ship?" ^^ Fairy 
 Qneen,^' *' When did you leave her ? " "'Bout 
 'leven days." " Captain's name .-* " " Flahy." 
 " That'll do. Next man : Jules Anderson." 
 Jules Anderson is a Dane. His statements 
 tally with the discharge-certificate of the 
 United States, as the Eagle attesteth. He is 
 passed and falls back. Slivey, the English- 
 man, and David, a huge plum-colored negro 
 who ships as cook, are also passed. Then 
 comes Bassompra, a little Italian, who speaks 
 English. " What's your last ship ? " " Ferdi- 
 naiidr " No, after that ? " " German barque." 
 Bassompra does not look happy. " When 
 did she sail?" "About three weeks ago." 
 " What's her name ? " " Baidee:' '' You 
 deserted from her?" "Yes, but she's left 
 port." The " Deputy Shipping " runs rapidly 
 through a shipping-list, throws it down with 
 
38 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 a bang. " 'Twon't do. No German barque 
 Haidee here for three months. How do I 
 know you don't belong to \\-\^ Jackson's crew? 
 Cap'ain, I'm afraid you'll have to shipanother 
 man. He must stand over. Take the rest 
 away and make 'em sign." 
 
 The bead-eyed Bassompra seems to have 
 lost his chance of a voyage, and his case will 
 be inquired into. The captain departs with 
 his men and they sign articles for the voyage, 
 while the "Deputy Shipping" tells strange 
 tales of the sailorman's life. " They'll quit a 
 good ship for the sake of a spree, and catch 
 on again at three pound ten, and by Jove, 
 they'll let their skippers pay 'em at ten rupees 
 to the sovereign — poor beggars ! As soon as 
 the money's gone they'll ship, but not before. 
 Every one under rank of captain engages here. 
 The competition makes first mates ship some- 
 times for five pounds or as low as four ten a 
 month." (The gentleman in the boarding- 
 house was right, you see.) "A first mate's 
 wages are seven ten or eight, and foreign cap- 
 tains ship for twelve pounds a month and 
 bring their own small stores — everything, that 
 is to say, except beef, peas, flour, coffee and 
 molasses." 
 
 These things are not pleasant to listen to 
 while the hungry-eyed men in the bad clothes 
 lounge and scratch and loaf behind the rail- 
 ing. What comes to them in the end ? They 
 die, it seems, though that is not altogether 
 strange. They die at sea in strange and hor- 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 39 
 
 rible ways ; they die, a few of them, in the 
 Kintals, being lost and suffocated in the great 
 sink of Calcutta ; they die in strange places 
 by the waterside, and the Hugli takes them 
 away under the mooring chains and the buoys, 
 and casts them up on the sands below, if the 
 River Police have missed the capture. They 
 sail the sea because they must live ; and there 
 is no end to their toil. Very, very few find 
 haven of any kind, and the earth, whose ways 
 they do not understand, is cruel to them, 
 when they walk upon it to drink and be 
 merry after the manner of beasts. Jack 
 ashore is a pretty thing when he is in a book 
 or in the blue jacket of the Navy. Mercan- 
 tile Jack is not so lovely. Later on, we will 
 see where his " sprees " lead him. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 WITH THE CALCUTTA POLICE. 
 
 " The City was of Night — perchance of Death, 
 But certainly of Night." 
 
 — The City of Dreadful Night. 
 
 In the beginning, the Police were respon- 
 sible. They said in a patronizing way that, 
 merely as a matter of convenience, they would 
 prefer to take a wanderer round the great 
 
40 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 city themselves, sooner than let him contract 
 a broken head on his own account in the 
 slums. They said that there were places and 
 places where a white man, unsupported by 
 the arm of the law, would be robbed and 
 mobbed ; and that there were other places 
 where drunken seamen would make it very 
 unpleasant for him. There was a night fixed 
 for the patrol, but apologies were offered be- 
 forehand for the comparative insignificance of 
 the tour. 
 
 " Come up to the fire lookout in the first 
 place, and then you'll be able to see the city." 
 This was at No. 22, Lai Bazar, which is the 
 headquarters of the Calcutta Police, the center 
 of the great web of telephone wires where 
 Justice sits all day and all night looking after 
 one million people and a floating population 
 of one hundred thousand. But her work shall 
 be dealt with later on. The fire lookout is a 
 little sentry-box on the top of the three-storied 
 police of^ces. Here a native watchman waits 
 always, ready to give warning to the brigade 
 below if the smoke rises by day or the flames 
 by night in any ward of the city. From this 
 eyrie, in the warm night, one hears the heart 
 of Calcutta beating. Northward, the city 
 stretches away three long miles, with three 
 more miles of suburbs beyond, to Dum-Dum 
 and Barrackpore. The lamplit dusk on this 
 side is full of noises and shouts and smells. 
 Close to the Police Ofifice, jovial mariners at 
 the sailors' coffee-shop are roaring hymns. 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 41 
 
 Southerly, the city's confused lights give place 
 to the orderly lamp-rows of the tiiaidan and 
 Chouringhi, where the respectabilities live 
 and the Police have very little to do. From 
 the east goes up to the sky the clamor of 
 Sealdah, the rumble of the trams, and the 
 voices of all Bow Bazar chaffering and mak- 
 ing merry. Westward are the business quar- 
 ters, hushed now, the lamps of the shipping 
 on the river, and the twinkling lights on the 
 Howrah side. It is a wonderful sight — this 
 Pisgah view of a huge city resting after the 
 labors of the day. " Does the noise of traffic 
 goon all through the hot weather.?" "Of 
 course. The hot months are the busiest in 
 the year and money's tightest. You should 
 see the brokers cutting about at that season. 
 Calcutta can't stop, my dear sir." "What 
 happens then?'' "Nothing happens; the 
 death-rate goes up a little. That's all ! " 
 Even in February, the weather would, up- 
 country, be called muggy and stifling, but 
 Calcutta is convinced that it is her cold sea- 
 son. The noises of the city grow perceptibly ; 
 it is the night side of Calcutta waking up and 
 going abroad. Jack in the sailors' coffee-shop 
 is singing joyously : " Shall we gather at the 
 River — the beautiful, the beautiful, the 
 River ? " What an incongruity there is about 
 his selections. However, that it amuses be- 
 fore it shocks the listeners, is not to be 
 doubted. An Englishman, far from his native 
 land is liable to become careless, and it would 
 
42 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 be remarkable if he did otherwise in ill-smell- 
 ing Calcutta. There is a clatter of hoofs in 
 the courtyard below. Some of the Mounted 
 Police have come in from somewhere or other 
 out of the great darkness. A clog-dance of 
 iron hoof follows, and an' Englishman's voice 
 is heard soothing an agitated horse who seems 
 to be standing on his hind legs. Some of the 
 Mounted Police are going out into the great 
 darkness. " What's on ? " " Walk round at 
 Government House. The Reserve men are 
 being formed up below. They're calling the 
 roll.'' The Reserve men are all English, and 
 big English at that. They form up and tramp 
 out of the courtyard to line Government Place, 
 and see that Mrs. Lollipop's brougham does 
 not get smashed up by Sirdar Chuckerbutty 
 Bahadur's lumbering C-spring barouche with 
 the two raw Walers. Very military men are 
 the Calcutta European Police in their set-up, 
 and he who knows their composition knows 
 some startling stories of gentlemen-rankers and 
 the like. They are, despite the wearing cli- 
 mate they work in and the wearing work they 
 do, as fine five-score of P2nglishmen as you 
 shall find east of Suez. 
 
 Listen for a moment from the fire lookout to 
 the voices of the night, and you will see why 
 they must be so. Two thousand sailors of fifty 
 nationalities are adrift in Calcutta every 
 Sunday, and of these perhaps two hundred 
 are distinctly the worse for liquor. There is 
 a mild row going on, even now, somewhere at 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 43 
 
 the back of Bow Bazar, which at nightfall 
 fills with sailor-men who have a wonderful 
 gift of falling foul of the native population. 
 To keep the Queen's peace is of course only a 
 small portion of Police duty, but it is trying. 
 The burly president of the lock-up for 
 European drunks — Calcutta central lock-up is 
 worth seeing — rejoices in a sprained thumb just 
 now, and has to do his work left-handed in con- 
 sequence. But his left hand is a marvelously 
 persuasive one, and when on duty his sleeves 
 are turned up to the shoulder that the jovial 
 mariner may see that there is no deception. 
 The president's labors are handicapped in that 
 the road of sin to the lock-up runs through a 
 grimy little garden — the brick paths are worn 
 deep with the tread of many drunken feet — 
 where a man can give a great deal of trouble 
 by sticking his toes into the ground and get- 
 ting mixed up with the shrubs. " A straight 
 run in ^' would be much more convenient both 
 for the president and the drunk. Generally 
 speaking — and here Police experience is pretty 
 much the same all over the civilized world — a 
 woman drunk is a good deal worse than a man 
 drunk. She scratches and bites like a China- 
 man and swears like several fiends. Strange 
 people may be unearthed in the lock-ups. 
 Here is a perfectly true story, not three weeks 
 old. A visitor, an unofficial one, wandered 
 into the native side of the spacious accommoda- 
 tion provided for those who have gone or done 
 wrong. A wild-eyed Babu rose from the fixed 
 
44 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 charpoy and said in the best of English : 
 *' Good-morning, sir." " 6^^^<^-morning ; who 
 are you, and what are you in for?" Then 
 the Babu, in one breath : " I would have you 
 know that I do not go to prison as a criminal 
 but as a reformer. You've read the Vicar of 
 Wakefield V " Ye-es." "Well, /am the 
 Vicar of Bengal — at least that's what I call 
 myself." The visitor collapsed. He had not 
 nerve enough to continue the conversation. 
 Then said the voice of the authority : *' He's 
 down in connection with a cheating case at 
 Serampore. May be shamming. But he'll 
 be looked to in time." 
 
 The best place to hear about the Police 
 is the fire lookout. From that eyrie one can 
 see how difficult must be the work of control 
 over the great, growling beast of a city. By 
 all means let us abuse the Police, but let us 
 see what the poor wretches have to do with 
 their three thousand natives and one hundred 
 Englishmen. From Howrah and Bally and 
 the other suburbs at least a hundred thousand 
 people come in to Calcutta for the day and 
 leave at night. Also Chandernagore is handy 
 for the fugitive law-breaker, who can enter in 
 the evening and get away before the noon of 
 the next day, having marked his house and 
 broken into it. 
 
 " But how can the prevalent offense be 
 house-breaking in a place like this? " 
 " Easily enough. When you've seen a little 
 of the city you'll see. Natives sleep and lie 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 45 
 
 about all over the place, and whole quarters 
 are just so many rabbit-warrens. Wait till 
 you see the Machua Bazar. Well, besides 
 the petty theft and burglary, we have heavy 
 cases of forgery and fraud, that leaves us 
 with our wits pitted against a Bengali's. 
 When a Bengali criminal is working a fraud 
 of the sort he loves, he is about the cleverest 
 soul you could wish for. He gives us cases 
 a year long to unravel. Then there are the 
 murders in the low houses — very curious 
 things they are. You'll see the house where 
 Sheikh Babu was murdered presently, and 
 you'll understand. The Burra Bazar and Jora 
 Bagan sections are the two worst ones for 
 heavy cases ; but Colootollah is the most ag- 
 gravating. There's Colootollah over yonder 
 — that patch of darkness beyond the lights. 
 That section is full of tuppenny-ha'penny 
 petty cases, that keep the men up all night 
 and make 'em swear. You'll see Colootollah, 
 and then perhaps you'll understand. Bamun 
 Bustee is the quietest of all, and Lai Bazar 
 and Bow Bazar, as you can see for yourself, 
 are the rowdiest. You've no notion what the 
 natives come to the thannahs for. A naickar 
 will come in and want a summons against his 
 master for refusing him half-an-hour's chiiti. 
 I suppose it does seem rather revolutionary to 
 an up-country man, but they try to do it here. 
 Now wait a minute, before we go down into the 
 city and see the Fire Brigade turned out. 
 Business is slack with them just now, but you 
 
46 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 time 'em and see." An order is given, and a 
 bell strikes softly thrice. There is an orderly 
 rush of men, the click of a bolt, a red fire- 
 engine, spitting and swearing with the sparks 
 flying from the furnace, is dragged out of its 
 shelter. A huge brake, which holds supple- 
 mentary horses, men, and hatchets, follows, 
 and a hose-cart is the third on the list. The 
 men push the heavy things about as though 
 they were pith toys. Five horses appear. 
 Two are shot into the fire-engine, two — mon- 
 sters these — into the brake, and the fifth, a 
 powerful beast, warranted to trot fourteen 
 miles an hour, backs into the hose-cart shafts. 
 The men clamber up, some one says softly, 
 ''AH ready there," and with an angry whistle 
 the fire-engine, followed by the other two, flies 
 out into Lai Bazar, the sparks trailing behind. 
 Time — i min. 40 sees. " They'll find out it's 
 a false alarm, and come back again in five 
 minutes." "Why?" "Because there will 
 be no constables on the road to give 'em the 
 direction of the fire, and because the driver 
 wasn't told the ward of the outbreak when he 
 went out ! " " Do you mean to say that you 
 can from this absurd pigeon-loft locate the 
 wards in the night-time?" "Of course: 
 what would be the good of a lookout if the 
 man couldn't tell where the fire was ? " " But 
 it's all pitchy black, and the lights are so con- 
 fusing." 
 
 "Ila! Ha! You'll be more confused in 
 ten minutes. You'll have lost your way as you 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 47 
 
 never lost it before. You're going to go 
 round Bow Bazar section." 
 
 " And the Lord have mercy on my soul ! " 
 Calcutta, the darker portion of it, does not 
 look an inviting place to dive into at night. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE CITY OF DREADFUL NIGHT. 
 
 " And since they cannot spend or use aright 
 The Uttle time here given them in trust, 
 But lavish it in weary undeUght 
 
 Of foolish toil, and trouble, strife and lust — 
 They naturally claimeth to inherit 
 The Everlasting Future — that their merit 
 
 May have full scope. ... As surely is most 
 just." 
 
 — The City of Dreadful Night. 
 
 The difficulty is to prevent this account 
 from growing steadily unwholesome. But one 
 cannot rake through a big city without encoun- 
 tering muck. 
 
 The Police kept their word. In five short 
 minutes, as they had prophesied, their charge 
 was lost as he had never been lost before. 
 " Where are we now ? " " Somewhere off the 
 the Chitpore Road, but you wouldn't under- 
 stand if you were told. Follow now, and step 
 pretty much where we step — there's a good 
 deal of filth hereabouts." 
 
48 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 The thick, greasy night shuts in everything. 
 We have gone beyond the ancestral houses of 
 the Ghoses of the Boses, beyond the lamps, 
 the smells, and the crowd of Chitpore Road, 
 and have come to a great wilderness of packed 
 houses — just such mysterious, conspiring ten- 
 ements as Dickens would have loved. There 
 is no breath of breeze here, and the air is per- 
 ceptibly warmer. There is little regularity in 
 the drift, and the utmost niggardliness in the 
 spacing of what, for want of a better name, we 
 must call the streets. If Calcutta keeps such 
 luxuries as Commissioners of Sewers and Pav- 
 ing, they die before they reach this place. The 
 air is heavy with a faint, sour stench — the 
 essence of long-neglected abominations — and 
 it cannot escape from among the tall, three- 
 storied houses. " This, my dear sir, is ?i per- 
 fectly respectable quarter as quarters go. That 
 house at the head of the alley, with the elabo- 
 rate stucco-work round the top of the door, was 
 built long ago by a celebrated midwife. Great 
 people used to live here once. Now it's the 
 — Aha ! Look out for that carriage." A big 
 mail-phaeton crashes out of the darkness and, 
 recklessly driven, disappears. The wonder is 
 how it ever got into this maze of narrow 
 streets, w^here nobody seems to be moving, and 
 where the dull throbbing of the city's life only 
 comes faintly and by snatches. " Now it's the 
 what ? " " St. John's Wood of Calcutta— for 
 the rich Babus. That ' fitton ' belonged to one 
 of them." " Well, it's not much of a place to 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 49 
 
 look at?" "Don't judge by appearances. 
 About here live the women who have beggared 
 kings. We aren't going to let you down into 
 unadulterated vice all at once. You must see 
 it first with the gilding on — and mind that 
 rotten board." 
 
 Stand at the bottom of a lift and look up- 
 ward. Then you will get both the size and 
 the design of the tiny courtyard round which 
 one of these big dark houses is built. The 
 central square may be perhaps ten feet every 
 way, but the balconies that run inside it over- 
 hang, and seem to cut away half the available 
 space. To reach the square a man must go 
 round many corners, down a covered-in way, 
 and up and down two or three baffling and 
 confused steps. There are no lamps to guide, 
 and the janitors of the establishment seem to 
 be compelled to sleep in the passages. The 
 central square, the patio or whatever it must 
 be called, reeks with the faint, sour smell which 
 finds its way impartially into every room. 
 " Now you will understand," say the Police 
 kindly, as their charge blunders, shin-first, into 
 a well dark winding staircase, " that these are 
 not the sort of places to visit alone." " Who 
 wants to ? Of all the disgusting, inaccessible 
 dens — Holy Cupid, what's this?" 
 
 A glare of light on the stair-head, a clink of in- 
 numerable bangles, a rustle of much fine gauze, 
 and the Dainty Iniquity stands revealed, blazing 
 — literally blazing — with jewelry from head 
 to foot. Take one of the fairest miniatures 
 4 
 
50 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 that the Delhi painters draw, and multiply it 
 by ten ; throw in one of Angelica Kaufmann's 
 best portraits, and add anything that you can 
 think of from Beckford to Lalla Rookh, and 
 you will still fall short of the merits of that 
 perfect faice. For an instant, even the grim, 
 professional gravity of the police is relaxed 
 in the presence of the Dainty Iniquity with the 
 gems, who so prettily invites every one to be 
 seated, and proffers such refreshments as she 
 conceives the palates of the barbarians would 
 prefer. Her Abigails are only one degree less 
 gorgeous than she. Half a lakh, or fifty 
 thousand pounds' worth — it is easier to credit 
 the latter statement than the former — are dis- 
 posed upon her little body. Each hand carries 
 five jeweled rings which are connected by 
 golden chains to a great jeweled boss of gold 
 in the center of the back of the hand. Ear- 
 rings weighted with emeralds and pearls, 
 diamond nose-rings, and how many other 
 hundred articles make up the list of adorn- 
 ments. English furniture of a gorgeous and 
 gimcrack kind, unlimited chandeliers and a 
 collection of atrocious Continental prints — 
 something, but not altogether, like the glazed 
 plaques on boii-ho7i boxes — are scattered about 
 the house, and on every landing — let us trust 
 this is a mistake — lies, squats, or loafs a 
 Bengali who can talk English with unholy 
 fluency. The recurrence suggests — only sug- 
 gests, mind — a grim possibility of the affec- 
 tation of excessive virtue by day tempered 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 51 
 
 with the sort of unwholesome enjoyment after 
 dusk — this loafing and lobbying and chatter- 
 ing and smoking, and unless the bottles lie, 
 tippling among the foul-tongued handmaidens 
 of the Dainty Iniquity. How many men fol- 
 low this double, deleterious sort of life? The 
 Police are discreetly dumb. 
 
 "Now don^t go talking about 'domiciliary 
 visits' just because this one happens to be a 
 pretty woman. We've gotio know these crea- 
 tures. They make the rich man and the poor 
 spend their money ; and when a man can't get 
 money for 'em honestly, he comes under otir 
 notice. JVow do you see.'* If there was any 
 domiciliary ' visit ' about it, the whole house- 
 ful would be hidden past our finding as soon 
 as we turned up in the courtyard. We're 
 friends — to a certain extent." And indeed, it 
 seemed no difficult thing to be friends to any 
 extent with the Dainty Iniquity who was so 
 surpassingly different from all that experience 
 taught of the beauty of the East. Here was 
 the face from which a man could write La/la 
 Rookhs by the dozen, and believe every word 
 that he wrote. Hers was the beauty that 
 Byron sang of when he wrote — 
 
 ^' Remember, if you come here alone, the 
 chances are that you'll be clubbed, or stuck, 
 or, anyhow, mobbed. You'll understand that 
 this part of the world is shut to Europeans — 
 absolutely. Mind the steps, and follow on." 
 The vision dies out in the smells and gross 
 darkness of the night, in evil, time-rotten- 
 
52 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 brickwork, and another wilderness of shut-up 
 houses, wherein it seems that people do con- 
 tinually and feebly strum stringed instruments 
 of a plaintive and wailsome nature. 
 
 Follows, after another plunge into a passage 
 of a courtyard, and up a staircase, the appari- 
 tion of a Fat Vice, in whom is no sort of ro- 
 mance, nor beauty, but unlimited coarse humor. 
 She too is studded with jewels, and her house 
 is even finer than the house of the other, and 
 more infested with the extraordinary men who 
 speak such good English and are so defer- 
 ential to the Police. The Fat Vice has been 
 a great leader of fashion in her day, and 
 stripped a zemindar Raja to his last acre — in- 
 so much that he ended in the House of Cor- 
 rection for a theft committed for her sake. 
 Native opinion has it that she is a " mon- 
 strous well preserved woman." On this point, 
 as on some others, the races will agree to differ. 
 
 The scene changes suddenly as a slide in a 
 magic lantern. Dainty Iniquity and Fat Vice 
 slide away on a roll of streets and alleys, each 
 more squalid than its predecessor. We are 
 "somewhere at the back of the Machua 
 Bazar," well in the heart of the city. There 
 are no houses here — nothing but acres and 
 acres, it seems, of foul wattle-and-dab huts, 
 any one of which would be a disgrace to a 
 frontier village. The whole arrangement is a 
 neatly contrived germ and fire trap, reflecting 
 great credit upon the Calcutta Municipality. 
 
 " What happens when these pigsties catch 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 53 
 
 fire?" '^They're built up again," say the 
 Police, as though this were the natural order 
 of things. " Land is immensely valuable 
 here." All the more reason, then, to turn 
 several Hausmanns loose into the city, with 
 instructions to make barracks for the popula- 
 tion that cannot find room in the huts and 
 sleeps in the open ways, cherishing dogs and 
 worse, much worse, in its unwashed bosom. 
 " Here is a licensed coffee-shop. This is 
 where your 7iaukers go for amusement and to 
 see nautches." There is a huge chappar shed 
 ingeniously ornamented with insecure kero- 
 sene lamps, and crammed with gharri-zvans^ 
 k/iit7?iatgars, small storekeepers and the like. 
 Never a sign of a European. Why.? "Be- 
 cause if an Englishman messed about here, 
 he'd get into trouble. Men don't come here 
 unless they're drunk or have lost their way." 
 The gharri-wa7is — they have the privilege of 
 voting, have they not.'' — look peaceful enough 
 as they squat on tables or crowd by the doors 
 to watch the nautch that is going forward. 
 Five pitiful draggle-tails are huddled together 
 on a bench under one of the lamps, while the 
 sixth is squirming and shrieking before the 
 impassive crowd. She sings of love as un- 
 derstood by the Oriental — the love that dries 
 the heart and consumes the liver. In this 
 place, the words that would look so well on 
 paper, have an evil and ghastly significance. 
 The gharri-wans stare or sup tumblers and 
 cups of a filthy decoction, and the kunclmiee 
 
54 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 howls with renewed vigor in the presence of 
 the Police. Where the Dainty Iniquity was 
 hung with gold and gems, she is trapped with 
 pewter and glass ; and where there was heavy 
 embroidery on the Fat Vice's dress, defaced, 
 stamped tinsel faithfully reduplicates the pat- 
 tern on the tawdry robes of the kunchenee. 
 So you see, if one cares to moralize, they are 
 sisters of the same class. 
 
 Two or three men, blessed with uneasy 
 consciences, have quietly slipped out of the 
 coffee-shop into the mazes of the huts beyond. 
 The Police laugh, and those nearest in the 
 crowd laugh applausively, as in duty bound. 
 Perhaps the rabbits grin uneasily when the 
 ferret lands at the bottom of the burrow and 
 begins to clear the warren. 
 
 "The chandoo-s\\o^s shut up at six, so you'll 
 have to see opium-smoking before dark some 
 day. No, you won't though." The detective 
 nose sniffs, and the detective body makes for 
 a half-opened door of a hut whence floats the 
 fragrance of the black smoke. Those of the 
 inhabitants who are able to stand promptly 
 clear out — they have no love for the Police — 
 and there remain only four men lying down 
 and one standing up. This latter has a pet 
 mongoose coiled round his neck. He speaks 
 English fluently. Yes, he has no fear. It 
 was a private smoking party and — "No busi- 
 ness to-night — show how you smoke opium." 
 " Aha ! You want to see. Very good, I show. 
 Hiya ! you " — he kicks a man on the floor — 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 55 
 
 *'show how opium-smoking." The kickee 
 grunts lazily and turns on his elbow. The 
 mongoose, always keeping to the man's neck, 
 erects every hair of its body like an angry cat, 
 and chatters in its owner's ear. The lamp for 
 the opium-pipe is the only one in the room, 
 and lights a scene as wild as anything in the 
 witches' revel ; the mongoose acting as the 
 familiar spirit. A voice from the ground says, 
 in tones of infinite weariness : " You take afiniy 
 so " — a long, long pause, and another kick 
 from the man possessed of the devil — the 
 mongoose. " You take aji77i ? " He takes a 
 pellet of the black, treacly stuff on the end of 
 a knitting-needle. " And light ajim.^^ He 
 plunges the pellet into the night-light, where 
 it swells and fumes greasily. " And then you 
 put it in your pipe-" The smoking pellet is 
 jammed into the tiny bowl of the thick, bam- 
 boo-stemmed pipe, and all speech ceases, ex- 
 cept the unearthly noise of the mongoose. 
 The man on the ground is sucking at his pipe, 
 and when the smoking pellet has ceased to 
 smoke will be half way to Nibhan. " Now 
 you go," says the man with the mongoose. 
 " I am going smoke." The hut door closes 
 upon a red-lit view of huddled legs and bodies, 
 and the man with the mongoose sinking, sink- 
 ing on to his knees, his head bowed forward, 
 and the little hairy devil chattering on the 
 nape of his neck. 
 
 After this the fetid night air seems almost 
 cool, for the hut is as hot as a furnace. " See 
 
S6 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 the pukka chandu shops in full blast to-mor- 
 row. Now for Colootollah. Come throuo^h 
 the huts. There is no decoration about this 
 vice." 
 
 The huts now gave place to houses very 
 tall and spacious and very dark. But for the 
 narrowness of the streets we might have stum- 
 bled upon Chouringhi in the dark. An 
 hour and a half has passed, and up to this 
 time we have not crossed our trail once. 
 " You might knock about the city for a night 
 and never cross the same line. Recollect Cal- 
 cutta isn't one of your poky upcountry cities 
 of a lakh and a half of people." 
 
 " How long does it take to know it then t " 
 " About a lifetime, and even then some of 
 the streets puzzle you." '' How much has 
 the head of a ward to know ? " " Every house 
 in his ward if he can, who owns it, what 
 sort of character the inhabitants are, who are 
 their friends, who go out and in, who loaf 
 about the place at night, and so on and so 
 on." " And he knows all this by night as 
 well as by day ? " " Of course. Why shouldn't 
 he t " " No reason in the world. Only it's 
 pitchy black just now, and I'd like to see 
 where this alley is going to end. " ''Round 
 the corner beyond that dead wall. There's a 
 lamp there. Then you'll be able to see." 
 A shadow flits out of a gully and disappears. 
 " Who's that ? " " Sergeant of Police just to 
 see where we're going in case of accidents." 
 Another shadow staggers into the darkness. 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 57 
 
 "Who's thatV "Man from the fort or a 
 sailor from the ships. I couldn't quite see." 
 The Police open a shut door in a high wall, 
 and stumble unceremoniously among a gang 
 of women cooking their food. The floor is of 
 beaten earth, the steps that lead into the 
 upper, stories are unspeakably grimmy, and 
 the heat is the heat of April. The women 
 rise hastily, and the light of the bull's eye — 
 for the Police have now lighted a lantern in 
 regular " rounds of London " fashion — shows 
 six bleared faces — one a half native half 
 Chinese one, and the others Bengali. " There 
 are no men here ! " they cry. " The house is 
 empty." Then they grin and jabber and 
 chew/<^;/ and spit, and hurry up the steps 
 into the darkness. A range of three big 
 rooms has been knocked into one here, and 
 there is some sort of arrangement of mats. 
 But an average country-bred is more sumptu- 
 ously accommodated in an Englishman's 
 stable. A home horse would snort at the 
 accommodation. 
 
 " Nice sort of place, isn't it .'' " says the 
 Police, genially. "This is where the sailors 
 get robbed and drunk." " They must be blind 
 drunk before they come." " Na^ — Na ! Na 
 sailor men ee — yah ! " chorus the women, 
 catching at the one word they understand. 
 " Arl gone ! " The Police take no notice, but 
 tramp down the big room with the mat loose- 
 boxes. A woman is shivering in one of these. 
 " What's the matter ? " *" Fever. Seek. 
 
58 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 Vary, vary seek." She huddles herself into a 
 heap on the charpoy and groans. 
 
 A tiny, pitch-black closet opens out of the 
 long room, and into this the police plunge. 
 " Hullo ! What's here ?" Down flashes the 
 lantern, and a white hand with black nails 
 comes out of the gloom. Somebody is asleep 
 or drunk in the cot. The ring of lantern light 
 travels slowly up and down the body. " A 
 sailor from the ships. He's got his dimgarees 
 on. He'll be robbed before the morning most 
 likely." The man is sleeping like a little child, 
 both arms thrown over his head, and he is 
 not unhandsome. He is shoeless, and there 
 are huge holes in his stockings. He is a pure- 
 blooded white, and carries the flush of inno- 
 cent sleep on his cheeks. 
 
 The light is turned off, and the Police 
 depart ; while the woman in the loose-box 
 shivers, and moans that she is "seek: vary, 
 va7y seek." It is not surprising. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 DEEPER AND DEEPER STILL. 
 
 I built myself a lordly pleasure-house, 
 Wherein at ease for aye to dwell ; 
 
 I said: O Soul, make merry and carouse. 
 Dear Soul — for all is well." 
 
 — The Palace of Art. 
 
 " And where next ? I don't like Colootol- 
 lah." The Police and their charge are stand- 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 59 
 
 ing in the interminable waste of houses under 
 the starhght. " To the lowest sink of all," 
 says the Police after the manner of Virgil 
 when he took the Italian with the indigestion 
 to look at the frozen sinners. " And where's 
 that?" ''Somewhere about here; but you 
 wouldn't know if you were told." They lead 
 and they lead and they lead, and they cease 
 not from leading till they come to the last 
 circle of the Inferno — a long, long, winding, 
 quiet road. " There you are ; you can see for 
 yourself." 
 
 But there is nothing to be seen. On one 
 side are houses — gaunt and dark, naked and 
 devoid of furniture ; on the other, low, mean 
 stalls, lighted, and with shamelessly open 
 doors, wherein women stand and lounge, and 
 mutter and whisper one to another. There is 
 a hush here or at least the busy silence of an 
 officer of counting-house in working hours. 
 One look down the street is sufficient. Lead 
 on, gentlemen of the Calcutta Police. Let us 
 escape from the lines of open doors, the flaring 
 lamps within, the glimpses of the tawdry toilet- 
 tables adorned with little plaster dogs, glass 
 balls from Christmas-trees, and — for religion 
 must not be despised though women be fallen 
 — pictures of the saints and statuettes of the 
 Virgin. The street is a long one, and other 
 streets, full of the same pitiful wares, branch 
 off from it. 
 
 " Why are they so quiet } Why don't they 
 make a row and sing and shout, and so on ? " 
 
6o City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 *' Wh)- should they, poor devils ? " say the 
 Police, and fall to telling tales of horror, of 
 women decoyed mto palkis and shot into this 
 trap. Then other tales that shatter one's 
 belief in all things and folk of good repute. 
 " How can you Police have faith in hu- 
 manity ? " 
 
 "That's because you're seeing it all in a 
 lump for the first time, and it's not nice that 
 way. Makes a man jump rather, doesn't it .'' 
 But, recollect, you've <7J-/^(?^ for the worst places, 
 and you can't complain." "Who's complaining? 
 Bring on your atrocities. Isn't that a European 
 
 woman at that door.? " " Yes. Mrs D. , 
 
 widow of a soldier, mother of seven children." 
 " Nine, if you please, and good-evening to 
 
 you," shrills Mrs. D , leaning against the 
 
 door-post her arms folded on her bosom. She 
 is a rather pretty, slightly-made Eurasian, and 
 whatever shame she may have owned she has 
 long since cast behind her. A shapeless 
 Burmo-native trot, with high cheek-bones and 
 mouth like a shark, calls Mrs. D " Mem- 
 Sahib." The word jars unspeakably. Her 
 life is a matter between herself and her 
 Maker, but in that she — the widow of a soldier 
 of the Queen — has stooped to this common 
 foulness in the face of the city, she has offend- 
 ed against the white race. The Police fail to 
 fall in with this righteous indignation. More. 
 They laugh at it out of the wealth of their un- 
 holy knowledge. " You're from up-country, 
 and of course you don't understand. There 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 6i 
 
 are any amount of that lot in the city." Then 
 the secret of the insolence of Calcutta is made 
 plain. Small wonder the natives fail to re- 
 .spect the Sahib, seeing what they see and 
 knowing what they know. In the good old 
 days, the honorable the directors deported 
 him or her who misbehaved grossly, and the 
 white man preserved his izzat. He may have 
 been a ruffian, but he was a ruffian on a larger 
 scale. He did not sink in the presence of the 
 people. The natives are quite right to take 
 the wall of the Sahib who has been at great 
 pains to prove that he is of the same flesh and 
 blood. 
 
 All this time Mrs. D stands on the 
 
 threshold of her room and looks upon the men 
 with unabashed eyes. If the spirit of that 
 English soldier, who married her long ago by 
 the forms of the English Church, be now flit- 
 ting bat-wise above the roofs, how singularly 
 
 pleased and proud it must be ! Mrs. D 
 
 is a lady with a story. She is not averse to 
 telling it. " What was — ahem — the case in 
 which you were — er — hmn — concerned, Mrs. 
 D .? " "They said I'd poisoned my hus- 
 band by putting something into his drinking 
 water." This is interesting. How much 
 modesty has this creature ? Let us see. 
 " And— ah— ^/^ you ? " *' 'Twasn't proved," 
 
 says Mrs. D with a laugh, a pleasant, 
 
 lady-like laugh that does infinite credit to her 
 education and upbringing. V/orthy Mrs. 
 D ! It would pay a novelist — a French 
 
62 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 one let us say — to pick you out of the stews 
 and make you talk. 
 
 The Police move forward, into a region of 
 
 Mrs. D 's. This is horrible ; but they 
 
 are used to it, and evidently consider indig- 
 nation affectation. Everywhere are the empty 
 houses, and the babbling women in print 
 gowns. The clocks in the city are close upon 
 midnight, but the Police show no signs of 
 stopping. They plunge hither and thither 
 like wreckers into the surf ; and each plunge 
 brings up a sample of misery, filth and woe. 
 
 " Sheikh Babu was murdered just here,'' 
 they say, pulling up in one of the most trouble- 
 some houses in the ward. It would never do 
 to appear ignorant of the murder of Sheikh 
 Babu. " I only wonder that more aren't 
 killed." The houses with their breakneck 
 staircases, their hundred corners, low roofs, 
 hidden courtyards and winding passages, seem 
 specially built for crime of every kind. A 
 woman — Eurasian — rises to a sitting position 
 on a board-charpoy and blinks sleepily at the 
 Police. Then she throws herself down with 
 a grunt. " What's the matter with you } " 
 " I live in Markiss Lane and " — this with in- 
 tense gravity — "I'm so drunk." She has a 
 rather striking gipsy-like face, but her lan- 
 guage might be improved. 
 
 " Come along," say the Police, " we'll head 
 back to Bentinck Street, and put you on the 
 road to the Great Eastern." They walk long 
 and steadily, and the talk falls on gambling 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 63 
 
 hells. "You ought to see our men rush one 
 of 'em. They like the work — natives of 
 course. When we've marked a hell down, we 
 post men at the entrances and carry it. Some- 
 times the Chinese bite, but as a rule they 
 fight fair. It's a pity we hadn't a hell to show 
 you. Let's go in here — there may be some- 
 thing forward." " Here " appears to be in 
 the heart of a Chinese quarter, for the pig- 
 tails — do they ever go to bed ? — are scuttling 
 about the streets. " Never go into a Chinese 
 place alone," say the Police, and swung open 
 a postern gate in a strong, green door. Two 
 Chinamen appear. 
 
 " What are we going to see .? " " Japanese 
 gir — No, we aren't by Jove ! Catch that 
 Chinaman quicks The pigtail is trying to 
 double back across a courtyard into an inner 
 chamber ; but a large hand on his shoulder 
 spins him round and puts him in rear of the 
 line of advancing Englishmen, who are, be it 
 observed, making a fair amount of noise with 
 their boots. A second door is thrown open, 
 and the visitors advance into a large, square 
 room blazing with gas. Here thirteen pig- 
 tails, deaf and blind to the outer world, are 
 bending over a table. The captured China- 
 man dodges uneasily in the rear of the pro- 
 cession. Five — ten — fifteen seconds pass, the 
 Englishmen standing in the full light less 
 than three paces from the absorbed gang who 
 see nothing. Then burly Superintendent 
 Lamb brings down his hand on his thigh with a 
 
64 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 crack like a pistol-shot and shouts : " How do, 
 John I " Follows a frantic rush of scared Celes- 
 tials, almost tumbling over each other in their 
 anxiety to get clear. Gudgeon before the rush 
 of the pike are nothing to John Chinaman 
 detected in the act of gambling. One pigtail 
 scoops up a pile of copper money, another a 
 chinaware soup-bowl and only a little mound 
 of accusing cowries remains on the white mat- 
 ting that covers the table. In less than half 
 a minute two facts are forcibly brought home 
 to the visitor. First, that a pigtail is largely 
 composed of silk, and rasps the palm of the 
 hand as it slides through ; and secondly, that 
 the forearm of a Chinaman is surprisingly 
 muscular and well-developed. " What's going 
 to be done?" "Nothing. They're only three 
 of us, and all the ringleaders would get away. 
 Look at the doors. We've got 'em safe any 
 time we want to catch 'em, if this little visit 
 doesn't make 'em shift their quarters. Hi ! 
 John. No pidgin to-night. Show how you 
 makee play. That fat youngster there is our 
 informer." 
 
 Half the pigtails have fled into the dark- 
 ness, but the remainder, assured and trebly 
 assured that the Police really mean "no 
 pidgin," return to the table and stand round 
 while the croupier proceeds to manipulate the 
 cowries, the little curved slip of bamboo and 
 the soup-bowl. They never gamble, these in- 
 nocents. They only come to look on, and 
 smoke opium in the next room. Yet as the 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 65 
 
 game progresses their eyes light up, and one 
 by one they lose in to deposit their price on 
 odd or even — the number of the cowries that 
 are covered and left uncovered by the little 
 soup-bowl. Mythaii is the name of the 
 amusement, and, whatever may be its de- 
 merits, it is dean. The Police look on while 
 their charge plays and oots a parchment- 
 skinned horror — one of Swift's Struldburgs, 
 strayed from Laputa — of the enormous sum 
 of two annas. The return of this wealth, 
 doubled, sets the loser beating his forehead 
 against the table from sheer gratitude. 
 
 "J/<?>$-/ immortal game this. A man might 
 drop five whole rupees, if he began playing at 
 sun-down and kept it up all night. Don^jyou 
 ever play whist occasionally ? " 
 
 *' Now, we didn't bring you round to make 
 fun of this department. A man can lose as 
 much as ever he likes and he can fight as well, 
 and if he loses all his money he steals to get 
 more. A Chinaman is insane about gambling, 
 and half his crime comes from it. It must be 
 kept down." " And the other business. Any 
 sort of supervision there .'' " " No ; so long 
 as they keep outside the penal code. Ask 
 Dr. about that. It's outside our depart- 
 ment. Here we are in Bentinck Street and 
 you can be driven to the Great Eastern in a 
 few minutes. Joss houses ? Oh, yes. If 
 you want more horrors. Superintendent Lamb 
 will take you round with him to-morrow after- 
 noon at five. Report yourself at the Bow 
 5 
 
66 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 Bazar Thanna at five minutes to. Good- 
 night." 
 
 The Police depart, and in a few minutes 
 the silent, well-ordered respectability of Old 
 Council House Street, with the grim Free 
 Kirk at the end of it, is reached. All good 
 Calcutta has gone to bed, the last tram has 
 passed, and the peace of the night is upon the 
 world. Would it be wise and rational to climb 
 the spire of that kirk, and shout after the 
 fashion of the great Lion-slayer of Tarescon : 
 " O true believers ! Decency is a fraud and 
 a sham. There is nothing clean or pure or 
 wholesome under the stars, and we are all 
 going to perdition together. Amen ! " On 
 second thoughts it would not ; for the spire 
 is slippery, the night is hot, and the Police 
 have been specially careful to warn their 
 charge that he must not be carried away by 
 the sight of horrors that cannot be written or 
 hinted at. 
 
 " Good-morning," says the Policeman, 
 tramping the pavement in front of the Great 
 Eastern, and he nods his head pleasantly to 
 show that he is the representative of Law and 
 Peace and that the city of Calcutta is safe 
 from itself for the present. 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 67 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 CONCERNING LUCIA. 
 
 " Was a woman such a woman — cheeks so round and 
 
 lips so red ? 
 On the neck the small head buoyant like the bell flower 
 
 in its bed." 
 
 Time must be filled in somehow till five 
 this afternoon, when Superintendent Lamb 
 will reveal more horrors. Why not, the trams 
 aiding, go to the Old Park Street Cemetery ? 
 It is presumption, of course, because none 
 other than the great Sir W. W. Hunter once 
 went there, and wove from his visit certain 
 fascinating articles for the Englishinaii ; the 
 memory of which lingers even to this day, 
 though they were written fully two years since. 
 
 But the Great Sir W. W. went in his Legis- 
 lative Consular brougham and never in an 
 unbridled tram-car which pulled up some 
 where in the middle of DhurrumtoUah. " You 
 want go Park Street t No trams going Park 
 Street. You get out here." Calcutta tram 
 conductors are not polite. Some day one 
 of them will be hurt. The car shuffles un- 
 sympathetically down the street, and the 
 evicted is stranded in DhurrumtoUah, which 
 may be the Hammersmith Highway of Cal- 
 cutta. Providence arranged this mistake, and 
 paved the way to a Great Discovery now 
 published for the first time. Dhurrumtol- 
 
68 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 lah is full of the People of India, walking 
 in family parties and groups and confiden- 
 tial couples. And the people of India are 
 neither Hindu nor Mussulman — Jew Ethiop, 
 Gueber nor expatriated British. They are 
 the Eurasians, and there are hundreds and 
 hundreds of them in Dhurrumtollah now. 
 There is Papa with a shining black hat fit 
 for a counsellor of the Queen, and Mama, 
 whose silken attire is tight upon her portly 
 figure, and The Brood made up of straw- 
 hatted, olive-cheeked, sharp-eyed little boys, 
 and leggy maidens wearing white, open-work 
 stockings calculated to show dust. There are 
 the young men who smoke bad cigars and 
 carry themselves lordily — such as have in- 
 comes. There are also the young women 
 with the beautiful eyes and wonderful dresses 
 which always fit so badly across the shoulders. 
 And they carry prayer-books or baskets, be- 
 cause they are either going to mass or the 
 market. Without doubt, these are the people 
 of India. They were born in it, bred in it, and 
 v;ill die in it. The Englishman only comes to 
 the country, and the natives of course were 
 there from the first, but these people have 
 been made here, and no one has done any- 
 thing for them except talk and write about 
 them. Yet they belong, some of them, to old 
 and honorable families, hold "houses, mes- 
 suages, and tenements " in Sealdah, and are 
 rich, a few of them. They all look prosper- 
 ous and contented, and they chatter eternally 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 69 
 
 in that curious dialect that no one has yet re- 
 duced to print. Beyond what little they 
 please to reveal now and again in the news- 
 papers, we know nothing about their life 
 which touches so intimately the white on the 
 one hand and the black on the other. It 
 must be interesting — more interesting than 
 the colorless Anglo-Indian article ; but who 
 has treated of it ? There was one novel once 
 in which the second heroine was an Eura- 
 sienne. She was a strictly subordinate char- 
 acter, and came to a sad end. The poet of 
 the race, Henry Derozio — he of whom Mr. 
 Thomas Edwards wrote a history — was bitten 
 with Keats and Scott and Shelley, and over- 
 looked in his search for material things that lay 
 nearest to him. All this mass of humanity in 
 Dhurrumtollah is unexploited and almost un- 
 known. Wanted, therefore, a writer from 
 among the Eurasians, who shall write so that 
 men shall be pleased to read a story , of 
 Eurasian life ; then outsiders will be interested 
 in the People of India, and will admit that the 
 race has possibilities. 
 
 A futile attempt to get to Park Street from 
 Dhurrumtollah ends in the market — the Hogg 
 Market men call it. Perhaps a knight of that 
 name built it. It is not one-half as pretty as 
 the Crawford Market, in Bombay but ... it 
 appears to be the trysting-place of Young 
 Calcutta. The natural inclination of youth is 
 to lie abed late, and to let the senior do all 
 the hard work. Why^ therefore, should Pyr- 
 
70 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 amus who has to be ruling account forms at 
 ten, and Thisbe, who cannot be interested in 
 the price of second quality beef, wander, in 
 studiously correct raiment, round and about 
 the stalls before the sun is well clear of the 
 earth ? Pyramus carries a walking stick with 
 imitation silver straps upon it, and there are 
 cloth tops to his boots ; but his collar has 
 been two days worn. Thisbe crowns her 
 dark head with a blue velvet Tam-o'-Shanter ; 
 but one of her boots lacks a button, and there 
 is a tear in the left hand glove. Mama, who 
 despises gloves, is rapidly filling a shallow bas- 
 ket, that the coolie-boy carries, with vegeta- 
 bles, potatoes, purple brinjals, and — Oh, Pyr- 
 amus ! Do you ever kiss Thisbe when 
 Mama is not near ? — garlic — yea, lusson of 
 the bazar. Mama is generous in her views 
 on garlic. Pyramus comes round the corner 
 of the stall looking for nobody in particular — 
 not he — and is elaborately polite to Mama. 
 Somehow, he and Thisbe drift off together, 
 and Mama, very portly and very voluble, is 
 left to chaffer and sort and select alone. In 
 the name of the Sacred Unities do not, young 
 people, retire to the meat-stalls to exchange 
 confidences ! Come up to this end, where the 
 roses are arriving in great flat baskets, where 
 the air is heavy with the fragrance of flowers, 
 and the young buds and greenery are littering 
 all the floor. They won't — they prefer talking 
 by the dead, unromantic muttons, where there 
 are not so many buyers. How they babble ! 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 71 
 
 There must have been a quarrel to make up. 
 Thisbe shakes the blue velvet Tam-o'-Shanter 
 and says : " O yess ! " scornfully. Pyramus 
 answers: " No-a, no-a. Do-ant say thatt.'' 
 Mama's basket is full and she picks up 
 Thisbe hastily. Pyramus departs. He never 
 came here to do any marketing. He came 
 to meet Thisbe, who in ten years will own a 
 figure very much like Mama's. May their 
 way be smooth before them, and after honest 
 service of the Government, may Pyramus re- 
 tire on Rs. 250 per mensen, into a nice little 
 house somewhere in Monghyr or Chunar. 
 
 From love by natural sequence to death. 
 Where is the Park Street Cemetery.? A 
 hundred gharri-wans leap from their Boxes 
 and invade the market, and after a short 
 struggle one of them uncarts his capture 
 in a burial-ground — a ghastly new place, 
 close to a tramway. This is not what is 
 wanted. The living dead are here — the people 
 whose names are not yet altogether perished 
 and whose tombstones are tended. " Where 
 are the old dead.?" "Nobody goes there," 
 says the gharri-iiuan. " It is up that road." 
 He points up a long and utterly deserted 
 thoroughfare, running between high walls. 
 This is the place, and the entrance to it, with 
 its mallee waiting with one brown, battered 
 rose, its grilled door and its professional 
 notices, bears a hideous likeness to the en- 
 trance of Simla churchyard. But, once inside, 
 the sightseer stands in the heart of utter des- 
 
72 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 olation — all the more forlorn for being swept 
 up. Lower Park Street cuts a great graveyard 
 in two. riie guide-books will tell you when 
 the place was opened and when it was closed. 
 The eye is ready to swear that it is as old as 
 Herculaneum and Pompeii, The tombs are 
 small houses. It is as though we walked 
 down the streets of a town, so tall are they 
 and so closely do they stand — a town 
 shriveled by fire, and scarred by frost and 
 siege. They must have been afraid of their 
 friends rising up before the due time that 
 they weighted them with such cruel mounds 
 of masonry. Strong man, weak woman, or 
 somebody's "infant son aged fifteen months" 
 — it is all the same. For each the squat 
 obelisk, the defaced classic temple, the cel- 
 laret of chunam, or the candlestick of brick- 
 work — the heavy slab, the rust-eaten railings, 
 the whopper-jawed cherubs and the apoplectic 
 angels. Men were rich in those days and 
 could afford to put a hundred cubic feet of 
 masonry into the grave of even so humble a 
 person as "Jno. Clements, Captain of the 
 Country Service, 1820." When the " dearly 
 beloved " had held rank answering to that of 
 Commissioner, the efforts are still more sump- 
 tuous and the verse . . . Well, the following 
 speaks for itself : 
 
 " Soft on thy tomb shall fond Remembrance shed 
 The warm yet unavailing tear, 
 And purple flowers that deck the honored dead 
 Shall strew the loved and honored bier." 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 73 
 
 Failure to comply with the contract does not, 
 let us hope, entail to forfeiture of the earnest- 
 money ; or the honored dead might be grieved. 
 The slab is out of his tomb, and leans foolishly 
 against it ; the railings are rotted, and there 
 are no more lasting ornaments than blisters 
 and stains, which are the work of the weather, 
 and not the result of the " warm yet unavail- 
 ing tear." The eyes that promised to shed 
 them have been closed any time these seventy 
 years. 
 
 Let us go about and moralize cheaply on 
 the tombstones, trailing the robe of pious re- 
 flection up and down the pathways of the 
 grave. Here is a big and stately tomb sacred 
 to "Lucia," who died in 1776 a. d., aged 23. 
 Here also be verses which an irreverent 
 thumb can bring to light. Thus they wrote, 
 when their hearts were heavy in them, one 
 hundred and sixteen years ago : 
 
 " What needs the emblem, what the plaintive strain, 
 What all the arts that sculpture e'er expressed, 
 To tell the treasure that these walls contain ? 
 Let those declare it most who knew her best. 
 
 The tender pity she would oft display 
 
 Shall be with interest at her shrine returned, 
 
 Connubial love, connubial tears repay, 
 
 And Lucia loved shall still be Lucia mourned. 
 
 Though closed the lips, though stopped the tuneful 
 breath, 
 
 The silent, clay-cold monitress shall teach — 
 In all the alarming eloquence of death 
 
 With double pathos to the heart shall preach. 
 
74 City of the Dreadful Ni^ht 
 
 Shall teach the virtuous maid, the faithful wife, 
 If young and fair, that young and fair was she, 
 
 Then close the useful lesson of her life, 
 
 And tell them what she is, they soon must be." 
 
 That goes well, even after all these years, 
 does it not ? and seems to bring Lucia very- 
 near, in spite of what the later generation is 
 pleased to call the stiltedness of the old-time 
 verse. 
 
 Who will declare the merits of Lucia — dead 
 in her spring before there was even 2,Hickefs 
 Gazette to chronicle the amusements of Cal- 
 cutta, and publish, with scurrilous asterisks, 
 the Iiaiso?is of heads of departments? What 
 pot-bellied East Indiaman brought the "virtu- 
 ous maid " up the river, and did Lucia " make 
 her bargain," as the cant of those times went, 
 on the first, second, or third day after her 
 arrival ? Or did she, with the others of the 
 batch, give a spinsters' ball as a last trial — 
 following the custom of the country ? No. 
 She was a fair Kentish maiden, sent out, at a 
 cost of five hundred pounds, English money, 
 under the captain's charge, to wed the man of 
 her choice, and he knew Clive well, had had 
 dealings with Omichand, and talked to men 
 who had lived through the terrible night in 
 the Black Hole. He was a rich man, Lucia's 
 battered tomb proves it, and he gave Lucia all 
 that her heart could wish. A green-painted 
 boat to take the air in on the river of evenings. 
 Coffree slave-boys who could play on the 
 French horn, and even a very elegant, neat 
 
City of the Dreadful Night 75 
 
 coach with a genteel rutlan roof ornamented 
 with flowers very highly finished, ten best 
 polished plate glasses, ornamented with a few 
 elegant medallions enriched with mother-o'- 
 pearl, that she might take her drive on the 
 course as befitted a factor's wife. All these 
 things he gave her. And when the convoys 
 came up the river, and the guns thundered, 
 and the servants of the Honorable the East 
 India Company drank to the king's health, be 
 sure that Lucia before all the other ladies in 
 the fort had her choice of the new stuffs from 
 England and was cordially hated in conse- 
 quence. Tilly Kettle painted her picture a 
 little before she died, and the hot-blooded 
 young writers did duel with small swords in 
 the fort ditch for the honor of piloting her 
 through a minuet at the Calcutta theater or 
 the Punch House. But Warren Hastings 
 danced with her instead, and the writers were 
 confounded — every man of them. She was a 
 toast far up the river. And she walked in the 
 evening on the bastions of Fort-William, and 
 said: "La! I protest!" It was there that 
 she exchanged congratulations with all her 
 friends on the 20th of October, when those 
 who were alive gather together to felicitate 
 themselves on having come through another 
 hot season ; and the men — even the sober 
 factor saw no wrong here — got most royally 
 and Britishly drunk on Madeira that had twice 
 rounded the Cape. But Lucia fell sick, and 
 the doctor — he who went home after seven 
 
76 City of the Dreadful Night 
 
 years with five lakhs and a half, and a corner 
 of this vast graveyard to his account — said 
 that it was a pukka or putrid fever, and the 
 system required strengthening. So they fed 
 Lucia on hot curries, and mulled wine worked 
 up with spirits and fortified with spices, 
 for nearly a week ; at the end of which 
 time she closed her eyes on the weary, weary 
 river and the fort forever, and a gallant, with 
 a turn for belles lettres, wept openly as men 
 did then and had no shame of it, and composed 
 the verses above set, and thought himself a 
 neat hand at the pen — stap his vitals ! But 
 the factor was so grieved that he could write 
 nothing at all — could only spend his money — 
 and he counted his wealth by lakhs — on a 
 sumptuous grave. A little later on he took 
 comfort, and when the next batch came out — 
 But this has nothing whatever to do with 
 the story of Lucia, the virtuous maid, the 
 faithful wife. Her ghost went to Mrs. West- 
 land's powder ball, and looked very beautiful. 
 
RUDYARD KIPLING'S PORTRAIT 
 
 COUPON— VOLUME V. 
 
 This coupon, when presented with 
 the other fourteen that will be found, 
 one in each volume of this edition, en- 
 titles the holder to the Beautiful Steel 
 Line Etching Portrait of Rudyard 
 Kipling, suitable for framing, FREE. 
 
 INSTRUCTIONS. Send the fifteen coupons, numbered 
 Volumes I to XV, to the publishers, The Lovell Com- 
 pany, 23 Duane Street, New York, and they will send 
 you the above portrait, post-paid, free of all charge. 
 
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