No More Learning

"Why, Jack! " 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 feastful 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 before we had rounded the corner
above the Convent; and a few yards further on could see across to
Sanjowlie. In the centre 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 kneeling 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 somewhere, 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 repeated, "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 wheal on it. I had no self-respect.
Just then, Heatherlegh, who must have been following Kitty and me at a
distance, cantered up.

"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 misery, 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 behind 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 corresponded 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 reading 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 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's 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 to 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 insanity. 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 answering
in a voice that I hardly recognized, "--They're confoundedly particular
about morality in these parts. Give 'em fits, Heatherlegh, 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 past
month.

"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? "

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. Heatherlegh 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," said I; "but I don't think I need trouble you further. "

In my heart I knew that nothing Heatherlegh 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 unreasonableness 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, grey hills themselves but vain shadows devised
to torture me. From mood to mood I tossed backward and forward for
seven weary days; my body growing daily stronger and stronger, until the
bedroom looking-glass told me that I had returned to everyday 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 commonplace as ever. I had expected some permanent
alteration--visible evidence of the disease that was eating me away. I
found nothing.

On the 15th of May, I left Heatherlegh's 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 wandered
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 compliment 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 saying to myself
almost aloud: "I'm Jack Pansay on leave at Simla--at Simla! Everyday,
ordinary Simla. I mustn't forget that--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 workaday 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 hearing 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 cardcase in her left. (A
woman eight months dead with a cardcase! ) 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 leaned 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 overleaped the hounds of all human
belief I should apologize to you now. As I know that no one--no, not
even Kitty, for whom it is written as some sort of justification of
my conduct--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 'rickshaw, 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 homeward-bound folk. As I saw them then it seemed
that they were the shadows--impalpable, 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 would Be
exhausted. Morning after morning and evening after evening the ghostly
'rickshaw 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 Theatre I found them amid the crowd of
yelling jhampanies; 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, indeed, I have had to check myself from warning
some hard-riding friend against cantering over it. More than once I have
walked down the Mall deep in conversation with Mrs. Wessington 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 discarded 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
companion. It would be almost impossible to describe my varying moods
from the 15th of May up to today.

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 hungered for a sight of Kitty and watched her outrageous 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 Unseen should mingle so strangely on this earth to hound one
poor soul to its grave.

* * * * *

August 27. --Heatherlegh has been indefatigable 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 'rickshaw by going to England. Heatherlegh's proposition
moved me to almost hysterical laughter. I told him that I should await
the end quietly at Simla; and I am sure that the 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 speculations 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 return 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 day of my death draws nearer, the intense horror that all living
flesh feels toward 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 punishment is
ever 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 treating his ghosts--he has published half
a workshopful 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 reverently toward 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
answer their call is death in this world and the next. Their feet are
turned backward 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 counting 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 evenings 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; Peshawur
possesses houses that none will willingly rent; and there is
something--not fever--wrong with a big bungalow in Allahabad. The older
Provinces simply bristle with haunted houses, and march phantom armies
along their main thoroughfares.

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
Northwest. These bungalows are objectionable places to put up in. They
are generally very old, always dirty, while the khansamah 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 jabbers and mows and trembles and fidgets among
the dishes, and you repent of your irritation.

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 welcome. I lived in "converted" ones--old houses
officiating as dak-bungalows--where 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
uncomfortably 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 voluntarily 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 Strange 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 was of worn brick, the walls were filthy, and
the windows were nearly black with grime. It stood on a bypath largely
used by native Sub-Deputy Assistants of all kinds, from Finance to
Forests; but real Sahibs were rare. The khansamah, 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 daguerreotype 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
before, and I felt ancient beyond telling.

The day shut in and the khansamah went to get me food. He did not go
through the pretense of calling it "khana"--man's victuals. He said
"ratub," 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 were three rooms, beside
my own, which was a corner kennel, each giving into the other through
dingy white doors fastened with long iron bars. The bungalow was a very
solid one, but the partition 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 bathroom.

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 ratub--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-curtains. 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 intended to commit if he lived.

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 blood-sucking 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 Providence 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 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 furniture of the room next to
mine--could so exactly duplicate the sounds of a game of billiards.
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-bungalow. 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 playing 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.

Do you know what fear is? Not ordinary fear of insult, injury or death,
but abject, quivering dread of something that you cannot 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 spitting 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. 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 compound in the night? "

"There were no doolies," said the khansamah.

I went into the next room and the daylight streamed through the open
door. I was immensely 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-bungalow? " 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 khansamah
then in the big house where all the Railway-Sahibs lived, and I used to
come across with brandy-shrab. 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 playing here one night, and he said to me:--'Mangal 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 firsthand, authenticated
article. I would write to the Society for Psychical Research--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 investigate
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.

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 tremendous
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 I could never before divine. But Kadir
Baksh has no notions of morality.

There was an interview with the khansamah, but as he promptly lost his
head, wrath gave place to pity, and pity led to a long conversation,
in the course of which he put the fat Engineer-Sahib's tragic death in
three separate stations--two of them fifty miles away. The third shift
was to Calcutta, and there the Sahib died while driving a dogcart.

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-marked 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 deception about this 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 Government 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 Minton tiles and mother-of-pearl, I do not see why Jukes's
tale should not be 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 introduced 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
Muharakpur--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 exasperating than other gangs, and my work demanded sufficient
attention to keep me from moping, had I been inclined to so unmanly a
weakness.

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 terrorem about fifty yards from my tent-door. But his friends
fell upon, fought for, and ultimately devoured the body; and, as it
seemed to me, sang their hymns of thanksgiving afterward with renewed
energy.

The light-heartedness 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 shot-gun, 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 way, 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.