No More Learning

Sometimes he would hold off from everything
except water for a week. Then, on a rainy night, when no one had asked
him out to dinner, and there was a big fire in his room, and everything
comfortable, he would sit down and make a big night of it by adding
little nip to little nip, planning big schemes of reformation meanwhile,
until he threw himself on his bed hopelessly drunk. He suffered next
morning.

One night, the big crash came. He was troubled in his own mind over his
attempts to make himself "worthy of the friendship" of Mrs. Reiver. The
past ten days had been very bad ones, and the end of it all was that he
received the arrears of two and three-quarter years of sipping in one
attack of delirium tremens of the subdued kind; beginning with suicidal
depression, going on to fits and starts and hysteria, and ending with
downright raving. As he sat in a chair in front of the fire, or walked
up and down the room picking a handkerchief to pieces, you heard what
poor Moriarty really thought of Mrs. Reiver, for he raved about her
and his own fall for the most part; though he ravelled some P. W. D.
accounts into the same skein of thought. He talked, and talked, and
talked in a low dry whisper to himself, and there was no stopping him.
He seemed to know that there was something wrong, and twice tried to
pull himself together and confer rationally with the Doctor; but his
mind ran out of control at once, and he fell back to a whisper and the
story of his troubles. It is terrible to hear a big man babbling like a
child of all that a man usually locks up, and puts away in the deep of
his heart. Moriarty read out his very soul for the benefit of any one
who was in the room between ten-thirty that night and two-forty-five
next morning.

From what he said, one gathered how immense an influence Mrs. Reiver
held over him, and how thoroughly he felt for his own lapse. His
whisperings cannot, of course, be put down here; but they were very
instructive as showing the errors of his estimates. . . . . . . . . .

When the trouble was over, and his few acquaintances were pitying him
for the bad attack of jungle-fever that had so pulled him down, Moriarty
swore a big oath to himself and went abroad again with Mrs. Reiver till
the end of the season, adoring her in a quiet and deferential way as an
angel from heaven. Later on he took to riding--not hacking, but honest
riding--which was good proof that he was improving, and you could slam
doors behind him without his jumping to his feet with a gasp. That,
again, was hopeful.

How he kept his oath, and what it cost him in the beginning, nobody
knows. He certainly managed to compass the hardest thing that a man who
has drank heavily can do. He took his peg and wine at dinner, but he
never drank alone, and never let what he drank have the least hold on
him.

Once he told a bosom-friend the story of his great trouble, and how the
"influence of a pure honest woman, and an angel as well" had saved him.
When the man--startled at anything good being laid to Mrs. Reiver's
door--laughed, it cost him Moriarty's friendship.

Moriarty, who is married now to a woman ten thousand times better than
Mrs. Reiver--a woman who believes that there is no man on earth as
good and clever as her husband--will go down to his grave vowing and
protesting that Mrs. Reiver saved him from ruin in both worlds.

That she knew anything of Moriarty's weakness nobody believed for
a moment. That she would have cut him dead, thrown him over, and
acquainted all her friends with her discovery, if she had known of it,
nobody who knew her doubted for an instant.

oriarty thought her something she never was, and in that belief saved
himself. Which was just as good as though she had been everything that
he had imagined.

But the question is, what claim will Mrs. Reiver have to the credit of
Moriarty's salvation, when her day of reckoning comes?




A BANK FRAUD.

He drank strong waters and his speech was coarse;
He purchased raiment and forebore to pay;
He struck a trusting junior with a horse,
And won Gymkhanas in a doubtful way.

Then, 'twixt a vice and folly, turned aside
To do good deeds and straight to cloak them, lied.
--THE MESS ROOM.

If Reggie Burke were in India now, he would resent this tale being told;
but as he is in Hong-Kong and won't see it, the telling is safe. He was
the man who worked the big fraud on the Sind and Sialkote Bank. He was
manager of an up-country Branch, and a sound practical man with a large
experience of native loan and insurance work. He could combine the
frivolities of ordinary life with his work, and yet do well. Reggie
Burke rode anything that would let him get up, danced as neatly as he
rode, and was wanted for every sort of amusement in the Station.

As he said himself, and as many men found out rather to their surprise,
there were two Burkes, both very much at your service.

"Reggie Burke," between four and ten, ready for anything from a
hot-weather gymkhana to a riding-picnic; and, between ten and four, "Mr.
Reginald Burke, Manager of the Sind and Sialkote Branch Bank. " You might
play polo with him one afternoon and hear him express his opinions when
a man crossed; and you might call on him next morning to raise a
two-thousand rupee loan on a five hundred pound insurance-policy, eighty
pounds paid in premiums. He would recognize you, but you would have some
trouble in recognizing him.

The Directors of the Bank--it had its headquarters in Calcutta and its
General Manager's word carried weight with the Government--picked their
men well. They had tested Reggie up to a fairly severe breaking-strain.
They trusted him just as much as Directors ever trust Managers. You must
see for yourself whether their trust was misplaced.

Reggie's Branch was in a big Station, and worked with the usual
staff--one Manager, one Accountant, both English, a Cashier, and a horde
of native clerks; besides the Police patrol at nights outside.

The bulk of its work, for it was in a thriving district, was hoondi and
accommodation of all kinds. A fool has no grip of this sort of business;
and a clever man who does not go about among his clients, and know more
than a little of their affairs, is worse than a fool.

Reggie was young-looking, clean-shaved, with a twinkle in his eye, and
a head that nothing short of a gallon of the Gunners' Madeira could make
any impression on.

One day, at a big dinner, he announced casually that the Directors had
shifted on to him a Natural Curiosity, from England, in the Accountant
line. He was perfectly correct. Mr. Silas Riley, Accountant, was a MOST
curious animal--a long, gawky, rawboned Yorkshireman, full of the savage
self-conceit that blossoms only in the best county in England. Arrogance
was a mild word for the mental attitude of Mr. S. Riley. He had worked
himself up, after seven years, to a Cashier's position in a Huddersfield
Bank; and all his experience lay among the factories of the North.
Perhaps he would have done better on the Bombay side, where they are
happy with one-half per cent. profits, and money is cheap. He was
useless for Upper India and a wheat Province, where a man wants a large
head and a touch of imagination if he is to turn out a satisfactory
balance-sheet.

He was wonderfully narrow-minded in business, and, being new to the
country, had no notion that Indian banking is totally distinct from
Home work. Like most clever self-made men, he had much simplicity in his
nature; and, somehow or other, had construed the ordinarily polite terms
of his letter of engagement into a belief that the Directors had chosen
him on account of his special and brilliant talents, and that they set
great store by him. This notion grew and crystallized; thus adding to
his natural North-country conceit.

Further, he was delicate, suffered from some trouble in his chest, and
was short in his temper.

You will admit that Reggie had reason to call his new Accountant a
Natural Curiosity. The two men failed to hit it off at all. Riley
considered Reggie a wild, feather-headed idiot, given to Heaven only
knew what dissipation in low places called "Messes," and totally unfit
for the serious and solemn vocation of banking. He could never get
over Reggie's look of youth and "you-be-damned" air; and he couldn't
understand Reggie's friends--clean-built, careless men in the Army--who
rode over to big Sunday breakfasts at the Bank, and told sultry stories
till Riley got up and left the room. Riley was always showing Reggie
how the business ought to be conducted, and Reggie had more than once to
remind him that seven years' limited experience between Huddersfield and
Beverly did not qualify a man to steer a big up-country business. Then
Riley sulked and referred to himself as a pillar of the Bank and a
cherished friend of the Directors, and Reggie tore his hair. If a man's
English subordinates fail him in this country, he comes to a hard time
indeed, for native help has strict limitations. In the winter Riley went
sick for weeks at a time with his lung complaint, and this threw more
work on Reggie. But he preferred it to the everlasting friction when
Riley was well.

One of the Travelling Inspectors of the Bank discovered these collapses
and reported them to the Directors. Now Riley had been foisted on the
Bank by an M. P. , who wanted the support of Riley's father, who, again,
was anxious to get his son out to a warmer climate because of those
lungs. The M. P. had an interest in the Bank; but one of the Directors
wanted to advance a nominee of his own; and, after Riley's father had
died, he made the rest of the Board see that an Accountant who was sick
for half the year, had better give place to a healthy man. If Riley had
known the real story of his appointment, he might have behaved better;
but knowing nothing, his stretches of sickness alternated with restless,
persistent, meddling irritation of Reggie, and all the hundred ways in
which conceit in a subordinate situation can find play. Reggie used to
call him striking and hair-curling names behind his back as a relief to
his own feelings; but he never abused him to his face, because he said:
"Riley is such a frail beast that half of his loathsome conceit is due
to pains in the chest. "

Late one April, Riley went very sick indeed. The doctor punched him
and thumped him, and told him he would be better before long. Then the
doctor went to Reggie and said:--"Do you know how sick your Accountant
is? " "No! " said Reggie--"The worse the better, confound him! He's a
clacking nuisance when he's well. I'll let you take away the Bank Safe
if you can drug him silent for this hot-weather. "

But the doctor did not laugh--"Man, I'm not joking," he said. "I'll give
him another three months in his bed and a week or so more to die in.
On my honor and reputation that's all the grace he has in this world.
Consumption has hold of him to the marrow. "

Reggie's face changed at once into the face of "Mr. Reginald Burke," and
he answered:--"What can I do? "

"Nothing," said the doctor. "For all practical purposes the man is dead
already. Keep him quiet and cheerful and tell him he's going to recover.
That's all. I'll look after him to the end, of course. "

The doctor went away, and Reggie sat down to open the evening mail.

His first letter was one from the Directors, intimating for his
information that Mr. Riley was to resign, under a month's notice, by the
terms of his agreement, telling Reggie that their letter to Riley would
follow and advising Reggie of the coming of a new Accountant, a man whom
Reggie knew and liked.

Reggie lit a cheroot, and, before he had finished smoking, he had
sketched the outline of a fraud. He put away--"burked"--the Directors
letter, and went in to talk to Riley, who was as ungracious as usual,
and fretting himself over the way the bank would run during his illness.
He never thought of the extra work on Reggie's shoulders, but solely of
the damage to his own prospects of advancement. Then Reggie assured him
that everything would be well, and that he, Reggie, would confer with
Riley daily on the management of the Bank. Riley was a little soothed,
but he hinted in as many words that he did not think much of Reggie's
business capacity.

Reggie was humble. And he had letters in his desk from the Directors
that a Gilbarte or a Hardie might have been proud of!

The days passed in the big darkened house, and the Directors' letter of
dismissal to Riley came and was put away by Reggie, who, every evening,
brought the books to Riley's room, and showed him what had been going
forward, while Riley snarled. Reggie did his best to make statements
pleasing to Riley, but the Accountant was sure that the Bank was going
to rack and ruin without him. In June, as the lying in bed told on his
spirit, he asked whether his absence had been noted by the Directors,
and Reggie said that they had written most sympathetic letters, hoping
that he would be able to resume his valuable services before long. He
showed Riley the letters: and Riley said that the Directors ought to
have written to him direct.

A few days later, Reggie opened Riley's mail in the half-light of the
room, and gave him the sheet--not the envelope--of a letter to Riley
from the Directors. Riley said he would thank Reggie not to interfere
with his private papers, specially as Reggie knew he was too weak to
open his own letters. Reggie apologized.

Then Riley's mood changed, and he lectured Reggie on his evil ways:
his horses and his bad friends. "Of course, lying here on my back, Mr.
Burke, I can't keep you straight; but when I'm well, I DO hope you'll
pay some heed to my words. " Reggie, who had dropped polo, and dinners,
and tennis, and all to attend to Riley, said that he was penitent and
settled Riley's head on the pillow and heard him fret and contradict in
hard, dry, hacking whispers, without a sign of impatience. This at the
end of a heavy day's office work, doing double duty, in the latter half
of June.

When the new Accountant came, Reggie told him the facts of the case, and
announced to Riley that he had a guest staying with him. Riley said that
he might have had more consideration than to entertain his "doubtful
friends" at such a time. Reggie made Carron, the new Accountant, sleep
at the Club in consequence. Carron's arrival took some of the heavy work
off his shoulders, and he had time to attend to Riley's exactions--to
explain, soothe, invent, and settle and resettle the poor wretch in
bed, and to forge complimentary letters from Calcutta. At the end of the
first month, Riley wished to send some money home to his mother. Reggie
sent the draft. At the end of the second month, Riley's salary came in
just the same. Reggie paid it out of his own pocket; and, with it, wrote
Riley a beautiful letter from the Directors.

Riley was very ill indeed, but the flame of his life burnt unsteadily.
Now and then he would be cheerful and confident about the future,
sketching plans for going Home and seeing his mother.

Reggie listened patiently when the office work was over, and encouraged
him.

At other times Riley insisted on Reggie's reading the Bible and grim
"Methody" tracts to him. Out of these tracts he pointed morals directed
at his Manager. But he always found time to worry Reggie about the
working of the Bank, and to show him where the weak points lay.

This in-door, sick-room life and constant strains wore Reggie down a
good deal, and shook his nerves, and lowered his billiard-play by forty
points. But the business of the Bank, and the business of the sick-room,
had to go on, though the glass was 116 degrees in the shade.

At the end of the third month, Riley was sinking fast, and had begun
to realize that he was very sick. But the conceit that made him worry
Reggie, kept him from believing the worst. "He wants some sort of mental
stimulant if he is to drag on," said the doctor.

"Keep him interested in life if you care about his living. " So Riley,
contrary to all the laws of business and the finance, received a
25-per-cent, rise of salary from the Directors. The "mental stimulant"
succeeded beautifully. Riley was happy and cheerful, and, as is often
the case in consumption, healthiest in mind when the body was weakest.
He lingered for a full month, snarling and fretting about the Bank,
talking of the future, hearing the Bible read, lecturing Reggie on sin,
and wondering when he would be able to move abroad.

But at the end of September, one mercilessly hot evening, he rose up in
his bed with a little gasp, and said quickly to Reggie:--"Mr. Burke, I
am going to die. I know it in myself. My chest is all hollow inside, and
there's nothing to breathe with. To the best of my knowledge I have done
nowt"--he was returning to the talk of his boyhood--"to lie heavy on my
conscience. God be thanked, I have been preserved from the grosser forms
of sin; and I counsel YOU, Mr. Burke. . . . "

Here his voice died down, and Reggie stooped over him.

"Send my salary for September to my mother. . . . done great things with
the Bank if I had been spared. . . . mistaken policy. . . . no fault
of mine. "

Then he turned his face to the wall and died.

Reggie drew the sheet over Its face, and went out into the verandah,
with his last "mental stimulant"--a letter of condolence and sympathy
from the Directors--unused in his pocket.

"If I'd been only ten minutes earlier," thought Reggie, "I might have
heartened him up to pull through another day. "




TODS' AMENDMENT.

The World hath set its heavy yoke
Upon the old white-bearded folk
Who strive to please the King.

God's mercy is upon the young,
God's wisdom in the baby tongue
That fears not anything.
--The Parable of Chajju Bhagat.

Now Tods' Mamma was a singularly charming woman, and every one in Simla
knew Tods. Most men had saved him from death on occasions.

He was beyond his ayah's control altogether, and perilled his life daily
to find out what would happen if you pulled a Mountain Battery mule's
tail.
He was an utterly fearless young Pagan, about six years old, and
the only baby who ever broke the holy calm of the supreme Legislative
Council.

It happened this way: Tods' pet kid got loose, and fled up the hill, off
the Boileaugunge Road, Tods after it, until it burst into the Viceregal
Lodge lawn, then attached to "Peterhoff. " The Council were sitting at
the time, and the windows were open because it was warm. The Red Lancer
in the porch told Tods to go away; but Tods knew the Red Lancer and most
of the Members of Council personally.

Moreover, he had firm hold of the kid's collar, and was being dragged
all across the flower-beds. "Give my salaam to the long Councillor
Sahib, and ask him to help me take Moti back! " gasped Tods. The Council
heard the noise through the open windows; and, after an interval, was
seen the shocking spectacle of a Legal Member and a Lieutenant-Governor
helping, under the direct patronage of a Commander-in-Chief and a
Viceroy, one small and very dirty boy in a sailor's suit and a tangle
of brown hair, to coerce a lively and rebellious kid. They headed it off
down the path to the Mall, and Tods went home in triumph and told his
Mamma that ALL the Councillor Sahibs had been helping him to catch Moti.
Whereat his Mamma smacked Tods for interfering with the administration
of the Empire; but Tods met the Legal Member the next day, and told him
in confidence that if the Legal Member ever wanted to catch a goat, he,
Tods, would give him all the help in his power. "Thank you, Tods," said
the Legal Member.

Tods was the idol of some eighty jhampanis, and half as many saises.

He saluted them all as "O Brother. " It never entered his head that
any living human being could disobey his orders; and he was the
buffer between the servants and his Mamma's wrath. The working of that
household turned on Tods, who was adored by every one from the dhoby
to the dog-boy. Even Futteh Khan, the villainous loafer khit from
Mussoorie, shirked risking Tods' displeasure for fear his co-mates
should look down on him.

So Tods had honor in the land from Boileaugunge to Chota Simla, and
ruled justly according to his lights. Of course, he spoke Urdu, but he
had also mastered many queer side-speeches like the chotee bolee of the
women, and held grave converse with shopkeepers and Hill-coolies alike.
He was precocious for his age, and his mixing with natives had taught
him some of the more bitter truths of life; the meanness and the
sordidness of it. He used, over his bread and milk, to deliver solemn
and serious aphorisms, translated from the vernacular into the English,
that made his Mamma jump and vow that Tods MUST go home next hot
weather.

Just when Tods was in the bloom of his power, the Supreme Legislature
were hacking out a Bill, for the Sub-Montane Tracts, a revision of the
then Act, smaller than the Punjab Land Bill, but affecting a few
hundred thousand people none the less. The Legal Member had built,
and bolstered, and embroidered, and amended that Bill, till it looked
beautiful on paper. Then the Council began to settle what they called
the "minor details. " As if any Englishman legislating for natives knows
enough to know which are the minor and which are the major points, from
the native point of view, of any measure! That Bill was a triumph of
"safe-guarding the interests of the tenant. " One clause provided that
land should not be leased on longer terms than five years at a stretch;
because, if the landlord had a tenant bound down for, say, twenty years,
he would squeeze the very life out of him. The notion was to keep up
a stream of independent cultivators in the Sub-Montane Tracts; and
ethnologically and politically the notion was correct. The only drawback
was that it was altogether wrong. A native's life in India implies the
life of his son. Wherefore, you cannot legislate for one generation at
a time. You must consider the next from the native point of view.
Curiously enough, the native now and then, and in Northern India more
particularly, hates being over-protected against himself. There was
a Naga village once, where they lived on dead AND buried Commissariat
mules. . . . But that is another story.

For many reasons, to be explained later, the people concerned objected
to the Bill. The Native Member in Council knew as much about Punjabis as
he knew about Charing Cross. He had said in Calcutta that "the Bill was
entirely in accord with the desires of that large and important class,
the cultivators;" and so on, and so on. The Legal Member's knowledge
of natives was limited to English-speaking Durbaris, and his own red
chaprassis, the Sub-Montane Tracts concerned no one in particular,
the Deputy Commissioners were a good deal too driven to make
representations, and the measure was one which dealt with small
landholders only. Nevertheless, the Legal Member prayed that it might be
correct, for he was a nervously conscientious man. He did not know that
no man can tell what natives think unless he mixes with them with the
varnish off. And not always then. But he did the best he knew. And the
measure came up to the Supreme Council for the final touches, while Tods
patrolled the Burra Simla Bazar in his morning rides, and played with
the monkey belonging to Ditta Mull, the bunnia, and listened, as a child
listens to all the stray talk about this new freak of the Lat Sahib's.

One day there was a dinner-party, at the house of Tods' Mamma, and the
Legal Member came. Tods was in bed, but he kept awake till he heard the
bursts of laughter from the men over the coffee. Then he paddled out in
his little red flannel dressing-gown and his night-suit, and took refuge
by the side of his father, knowing that he would not be sent back. "See
the miseries of having a family! " said Tods' father, giving Tods three
prunes, some water in a glass that had been used for claret, and telling
him to sit still. Tods sucked the prunes slowly, knowing that he would
have to go when they were finished, and sipped the pink water like a man
of the world, as he listened to the conversation. Presently, the Legal
Member, talking "shop," to the Head of a Department, mentioned his Bill
by its full name--"The Sub-Montane Tracts Ryotwari Revised Enactment. "
Tods caught the one native word, and lifting up his small voice
said:--"Oh, I know ALL about that! Has it been murramutted yet,
Councillor Sahib? "

"How much? " said the Legal Member.

"Murramutted--mended. --Put theek, you know--made nice to please Ditta
Mull! "

The Legal Member left his place and moved up next to Tods.

"What do you know about Ryotwari, little man? " he said.

"I'm not a little man, I'm Tods, and I know ALL about it. Ditta Mull,
and Choga Lall, and Amir Nath, and--oh, lakhs of my friends tell me
about it in the bazars when I talk to them. "

"Oh, they do--do they? What do they say, Tods? "

Tods tucked his feet under his red flannel dressing-gown and said:--"I
must fink. "

The Legal Member waited patiently. Then Tods, with infinite compassion:

"You don't speak my talk, do you, Councillor Sahib? "

"No; I am sorry to say I do not," said the Legal' Member.

"Very well," said Tods. "I must fink in English. "

He spent a minute putting his ideas in order, and began very slowly,
translating in his mind from the vernacular to English, as many
Anglo-Indian children do. You must remember that the Legal Member
helped him on by questions when he halted, for Tods was not equal to the
sustained flight of oratory that follows.

"Ditta Mull says:--'This thing is the talk of a child, and was made up
by fools. ' But I don't think you are a fool, Councillor Sahib," said
Tods, hastily. "You caught my goat. This is what Ditta Mull says:--'I am
not a fool, and why should the Sirkar say I am a child? I can see if
the land is good and if the landlord is good. If I am a fool, the sin is
upon my own head. For five years I take my ground for which I have saved
money, and a wife I take too, and a little son is born. ' Ditta Mull has
one daughter now, but he SAYS he will have a son, soon. And he says: 'At
the end of five years, by this new bundobust, I must go. If I do not go,
I must get fresh seals and takkus-stamps on the papers, perhaps in the
middle of the harvest, and to go to the law-courts once is wisdom, but
to go twice is Jehannum. ' That is QUITE true," explained Tods, gravely.
"All my friends say so. And Ditta Mull says:--'Always fresh takkus and
paying money to vakils and chaprassis and law-courts every five years or
else the landlord makes me go. Why do I want to go? Am I fool? If I am a
fool and do not know, after forty years, good land when I see it, let
me die! But if the new bundobust says for FIFTEEN years, then it is
good and wise. My little son is a man, and I am burnt, and he takes the
ground or another ground, paying only once for the takkus-stamps on the
papers, and his little son is born, and at the end of fifteen years is
a man too. But what profit is there in five years and fresh papers?
Nothing but dikh, trouble, dikh. We are not young men who take these
lands, but old ones--not jais, but tradesmen with a little money--and
for fifteen years we shall have peace. Nor are we children that the
Sirkar should treat us so. "

Here Tods stopped short, for the whole table were listening. The Legal
Member said to Tods: "Is that all? "

"All I can remember," said Tods. "But you should see Ditta Mull's big
monkey. It's just like a Councillor Sahib. "

"Tods! Go to bed," said his father.

Tods gathered up his dressing-gown tail and departed.

The Legal Member brought his hand down on the table with a crash--"By
Jove! " said the Legal Member, "I believe the boy is right. The short
tenure IS the weak point. "

He left early, thinking over what Tods had said. Now, it was obviously
impossible for the Legal Member to play with a bunnia's monkey, by way
of getting understanding; but he did better. He made inquiries,
always bearing in mind the fact that the real native--not the hybrid,
University-trained mule--is as timid as a colt, and, little by little,
he coaxed some of the men whom the measure concerned most intimately to
give in their views, which squared very closely with Tods' evidence.

So the Bill was amended in that clause; and the Legal Member was filled
with an uneasy suspicion that Native Members represent very little
except the Orders they carry on their bosoms. But he put the thought
from him as illiberal. He was a most Liberal Man.

After a time the news spread through the bazars that Tods had got the
Bill recast in the tenure clause, and if Tods' Mamma had not interfered,
Tods would have made himself sick on the baskets of fruit and pistachio
nuts and Cabuli grapes and almonds that crowded the verandah. Till he
went Home, Tods ranked some few degrees before the Viceroy in popular
estimation. But for the little life of him Tods could not understand
why.

In the Legal Member's private-paper-box still lies the rough draft of
the Sub-Montane Tracts Ryotwari Revised Enactment; and, opposite the
twenty-second clause, pencilled in blue chalk, and signed by the Legal
Member, are the words "Tods' Amendment. "




IN THE PRIDE OF HIS YOUTH.

"Stopped in the straight when the race was his own!
Look at him cutting it--cur to the bone! "
"Ask ere the youngster be rated and chidden,
What did he carry and how was he ridden?
Maybe they used him too much at the start;
Maybe Fate's weight-cloths are breaking his heart. "
--Life's Handicap.

When I was telling you of the joke that The Worm played off on the
Senior Subaltern, I promised a somewhat similar tale, but with all the
jest left out. This is that tale:

Dicky Hatt was kidnapped in his early, early youth--neither by
landlady's daughter, housemaid, barmaid, nor cook, but by a girl so
nearly of his own caste that only a woman could have said she was just
the least little bit in the world below it. This happened a month
before he came out to India, and five days after his one-and-twentieth
birthday. The girl was nineteen--six years older than Dicky in the
things of this world, that is to say--and, for the time, twice as
foolish as he.

Excepting, always, falling off a horse there is nothing more fatally
easy than marriage before the Registrar. The ceremony costs less than
fifty shillings, and is remarkably like walking into a pawn-shop. After
the declarations of residence have been put in, four minutes will
cover the rest of the proceedings--fees, attestation, and all. Then the
Registrar slides the blotting-pad over the names, and says grimly, with
his pen between his teeth:--"Now you're man and wife;" and the couple
walk out into the street, feeling as if something were horribly illegal
somewhere.

But that ceremony holds and can drag a man to his undoing just
as thoroughly as the "long as ye both shall live" curse from the
altar-rails, with the bridesmaids giggling behind, and "The Voice that
breathed o'er Eden" lifting the roof off. In this manner was Dicky Hatt
kidnapped, and he considered it vastly fine, for he had received an
appointment in India which carried a magnificent salary from the Home
point of view. The marriage was to be kept secret for a year. Then Mrs.
Dicky Hatt was to come out and the rest of life was to be a glorious
golden mist. That was how they sketched it under the Addison Road
Station lamps; and, after one short month, came Gravesend and Dicky
steaming out to his new life, and the girl crying in a thirty-shillings
a week bed-and-living room, in a back street off Montpelier Square near
the Knightsbridge Barracks.

But the country that Dicky came to was a hard land, where "men" of
twenty-one were reckoned very small boys indeed, and life was expensive.
The salary that loomed so large six thousand miles away did not go far.
Particularly when Dicky divided it by two, and remitted more than the
fair half, at 1-6, to Montpelier Square. One hundred and thirty-five
rupees out of three hundred and thirty is not much to live on; but
it was absurd to suppose that Mrs. Hatt could exist forever on the 20
pounds held back by Dicky, from his outfit allowance. Dicky saw this,
and remitted at once; always remembering that Rs. 700 were to be paid,
twelve months later, for a first-class passage out for a lady. When you
add to these trifling details the natural instincts of a boy beginning a
new life in a new country and longing to go about and enjoy himself, and
the necessity for grappling with strange work--which, properly speaking,
should take up a boy's undivided attention--you will see that Dicky
started handicapped. He saw it himself for a breath or two; but he did
not guess the full beauty of his future.

As the hot weather began, the shackles settled on him and ate into his
flesh. First would come letters--big, crossed, seven sheet letters--from
his wife, telling him how she longed to see him, and what a Heaven upon
earth would be their property when they met.

Then some boy of the chummery wherein Dicky lodged would pound on the
door of his bare little room, and tell him to come out and look at a
pony--the very thing to suit him. Dicky could not afford ponies. He had
to explain this. Dicky could not afford living in the chummery, modest
as it was. He had to explain this before he moved to a single room next
the office where he worked all day. He kept house on a green oil-cloth
table-cover, one chair, one charpoy, one photograph, one tooth-glass,
very strong and thick, a seven-rupee eight-anna filter, and messing by
contract at thirty-seven rupees a month. Which last item was extortion.
He had no punkah, for a punkah costs fifteen rupees a month; but he
slept on the roof of the office with all his wife's letters under his
pillow. Now and again he was asked out to dinner where he got both a
punkah and an iced drink. But this was seldom, for people objected
to recognizing a boy who had evidently the instincts of a Scotch
tallow-chandler, and who lived in such a nasty fashion. Dicky could not
subscribe to any amusement, so he found no amusement except the pleasure
of turning over his Bank-book and reading what it said about "loans
on approved security. " That cost nothing. He remitted through a Bombay
Bank, by the way, and the Station knew nothing of his private affairs.

Every month he sent Home all he could possibly spare for his wife--and
for another reason which was expected to explain itself shortly and
would require more money.

About this time, Dicky was overtaken with the nervous, haunting fear
that besets married men when they are out of sorts. He had no pension to
look to. What if he should die suddenly, and leave his wife unprovided
for? The thought used to lay hold of him in the still, hot nights on the
roof, till the shaking of his heart made him think that he was going to
die then and there of heart-disease.

Now this is a frame of mind which no boy has a right to know. It is
a strong man's trouble; but, coming when it did, it nearly drove poor
punkah-less, perspiring Dicky Hatt mad. He could tell no one about it.

A certain amount of "screw" is as necessary for a man as for a
billiard-ball. It makes them both do wonderful things. Dicky needed
money badly, and he worked for it like a horse. But, naturally, the men
who owned him knew that a boy can live very comfortably on a certain
income--pay in India is a matter of age, not merit, you see, and if
their particular boy wished to work like two boys, Business forbid that
they should stop him! But Business forbid that they should give him an
increase of pay at his present ridiculously immature age! So Dicky won
certain rises of salary--ample for a boy--not enough for a wife and
child--certainly too little for the seven-hundred-rupee passage that he
and Mrs. Hatt had discussed so lightly once upon a time. And with this
he was forced to be content.

Somehow, all his money seemed to fade away in Home drafts and the
crushing Exchange, and the tone of the Home letters changed and grew
querulous. "Why wouldn't Dicky have his wife and the baby out? Surely he
had a salary--a fine salary--and it was too bad of him to enjoy himself
in India. But would he--could he--make the next draft a little more
elastic? " Here followed a list of baby's kit, as long as a Parsee's
bill. Then Dicky, whose heart yearned to his wife and the little son
he had never seen--which, again, is a feeling no boy is entitled
to--enlarged the draft and wrote queer half-boy, half-man letters,
saying that life was not so enjoyable after all and would the little
wife wait yet a little longer? But the little wife, however much she
approved of money, objected to waiting, and there was a strange, hard
sort of ring in her letters that Dicky didn't understand. How could he,
poor boy?

Later on still--just as Dicky had been told--apropos of another
youngster who had "made a fool of himself," as the saying is--that
matrimony would not only ruin his further chances of advancement, but
would lose him his present appointment--came the news that the baby, his
own little, little son, had died, and, behind this, forty lines of
an angry woman's scrawl, saying that death might have been averted if
certain things, all costing money, had been done, or if the mother and
the baby had been with Dicky. The letter struck at Dicky's naked heart;
but, not being officially entitled to a baby, he could show no sign of
trouble.

How Dicky won through the next four months, and what hope he kept
alight to force him into his work, no one dare say. He pounded on, the
seven-hundred-rupee passage as far away as ever, and his style of living
unchanged, except when he launched into a new filter.

There was the strain of his office-work, and the strain of his
remittances, and the knowledge of his boy's death, which touched the boy
more, perhaps, than it would have touched a man; and, beyond all, the
enduring strain of his daily life. Gray-headed seniors, who approved
of his thrift and his fashion of denying himself everything pleasant,
reminded him of the old saw that says:

"If a youth would be distinguished in his art, art, art,
He must keep the girls away from his heart, heart, heart. "

And Dicky, who fancied he had been through every trouble that a man is
permitted to know, had to laugh and agree; with the last line of his
balanced Bank-book jingling in his head day and night.

But he had one more sorrow to digest before the end. There arrived a
letter from the little wife--the natural sequence of the others if
Dicky had only known it--and the burden of that letter was "gone with
a handsomer man than you. " It was a rather curious production, without
stops, something like this:--"She was not going to wait forever and the
baby was dead and Dicky was only a boy and he would never set eyes on
her again and why hadn't he waved his handkerchief to her when he left
Gravesend and God was her judge she was a wicked woman but Dicky was
worse enjoying himself in India and this other man loved the ground she
trod on and would Dicky ever forgive her for she would never forgive
Dicky; and there was no address to write to. "

Instead of thanking his lucky stars that he was free, Dicky discovered
exactly how an injured husband feels--again, not at all the knowledge
to which a boy is entitled--for his mind went back to his wife as he
remembered her in the thirty-shilling "suite" in Montpelier Square, when
the dawn of his last morning in England was breaking, and she was crying
in the bed. Whereat he rolled about on his bed and bit his fingers. He
never stopped to think whether, if he had met Mrs. Hatt after those
two years, he would have discovered that he and she had grown quite
different and new persons. This, theoretically, he ought to have done.
He spent the night after the English Mail came in rather severe pain.