Read WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR of The Day's Work‚ Volume 1 , free online book, by Rudyard Kipling, on


I have done one braver thing
Than all the worthies did;
And yet a braver thence doth spring,
Which is to keep that hid.

The Undertaking.

“Is it officially declared yet?”

“They’ve gone as far as to admit ‘extreme local scarcity,’ and they’ve started relief-works in one or two districts, the paper says.”

“That means it will be declared as soon as they can make sure of the men and the rolling-stock.  Shouldn’t wonder if it were as bad as the ’78 Famine.”

“’Can’t be,” said Scott, turning a little in the long cane chair.

“We’ve had fifteen-anna crops in the north, and Bombay and Bengal report more than they know what to do with.  They’ll be able to check it before it gets out of hand.  It will only be local.”

Martyn picked the “Pioneer” from the table, read through the telegrams once more, and put up his feet on the chair-rests.  It was a hot, dark, breathless evening, heavy with the smell of the newly watered Mall.  The flowers in the Club gardens were dead and black on their stalks, the little lotus-pond was a circle of caked mud, and the tamarisk-trees were white with the dust of weeks.  Most of the men were at the band-stand in the public gardens ­from the Club verandah you could hear the native Police band hammering stale waltzes ­or on the polo-ground, or in the high-walled fives-court, hotter than a Dutch oven.  Half a dozen grooms, squatted at the heads of their ponies, waited their masters’ return.  From time to time a man would ride at a foot-pace into the Club compound, and listlessly loaf over to the whitewashed barracks beside the main building.  These were supposed to be chambers.  Men lived in them, meeting the same white faces night after night at dinner, and drawing out their office-work till the latest possible hour, that they might escape that doleful company.

“What are you going to do?” said Martyn, with a yawn.  “Let’s have a swim before dinner.”

“Water’s hot.  I was at the bath to-day.”

“Play you game o’ billiards ­fifty up.”

“It’s a hundred and five in the hall now.  Sit still and don’t be so abominably energetic.”

A grunting camel swung up to the porch, his badged and belted rider fumbling a leather pouch.

“Kubber-kargaz-ki-yektraaa,” the man whined, handing down the newspaper extra ­a slip printed on one side only, and damp from the press.  It was pinned up on the green-baize board, between notices of ponies for sale and fox-terriers missing.

Martyn rose lazily, read it, and whistled.  “It’s declared!” he cried.  “One, two, three ­eight districts go under the operations of the Famine Code ek dum.  They’ve put Jimmy Hawkins in charge.”

“Good business!” said Scott, with the first sign of interest he had shown.  “When in doubt hire a Punjabi.  I worked under Jimmy when I first came out and he belonged to the Punjab.  He has more bundobust than most men.”

“Jimmy’s a Jubilee Knight now,” said Martyn.  “He’s a good chap, even though he is a thrice-born civilian and went to the Benighted Presidency.  What unholy names these Madras districts rejoice in ­all ungas or rungas or pillays or polliums!”

A dog-cart drove up in the dusk, and a man entered, mopping his head.  He was editor of the one daily paper at the capital of a Province of twenty-five million natives and a few hundred white men:  as his staff was limited to himself and one assistant, his office-hours ran variously from ten to twenty a day.

“Hi, Raines; you’re supposed to know everything,” said Martyn, stopping him.  “How’s this Madras ‘scarcity’ going to turn out?”

“No one knows as yet.  There’s a message as long as your arm coming in on the telephone.  I’ve left my cub to fill it out.  Madras has owned she can’t manage it alone, and Jimmy seems to have a free hand in getting all the men he needs.  Arbuthnot’s warned to hold himself in readiness.”

“‘Badger’ Arbuthnot?”

“The Peshawur chap.  Yes:  and the Pi wires that Ellis and Clay have been moved from the Northwest already, and they’ve taken half a dozen Bombay men, too.  It’s pukka famine, by the looks of it.”

“They’re nearer the scene of action than we are; but if it comes to indenting on the Punjab this early, there’s more in this than meets the eye,” said Martyn.

“Here to-day and gone to-morrow.  ’Didn’t come to stay for ever,” said Scott, dropping one of Marryat’s novels, and rising to his feet.  “Martyn, your sister’s waiting for you.”

A rough grey horse was backing and shifting at the edge of the verandah, where the light of a kerosene lamp fell on a brown-calico habit and a white face under a grey-felt hat.

“Right, O!” said Martyn.  “I’m ready.  Better come and dine with us, if you’ve nothing to do, Scott.  William, is there any dinner in the house?”

“I’ll go home and see,” was the rider’s answer.  “You can drive him over ­at eight, remember.”

Scott moved leisurely to his room, and changed into the evening-dress of the season and the country:  spotless white linen from head to foot, with a broad silk cummerbund.  Dinner at the Martyns’ was a decided improvement on the goat-mutton, twiney-tough fowl, and tinned entrees of the Club.  But it was a great pity that Martyn could not afford to send his sister to the hills for the hot weather.  As an Acting District Superintendent of Police, Martyn drew the magnificent pay of six hundred depreciated silver rupees a month, and his little four-roomed bungalow said just as much.  There were the usual blue-and-white-striped jail-made rugs on the uneven floor; the usual glass-studded Amritsar phulkaris draped on nails driven into the flaking whitewash of the walls; the usual half-dozen chairs that did not match, picked up at sales of dead men’s effects; and the usual streaks of black grease where the leather punka-thong ran through the wall.  It was as though everything had been unpacked the night before to be repacked next morning.  Not a door in the house was true on its hinges.  The little windows, fifteen feet up, were darkened with wasp-nests, and lizards hunted flies between the beams of the wood-ceiled roof.  But all this was part of Scott’s life.  Thus did people live who had such an income; and in a land where each man’s pay, age, and position are printed in a book, that all may read, it is hardly worth while to play at pretence in word or deed.  Scott counted eight years’ service in the Irrigation Department, and drew eight hundred rupees a month, on the understanding that if he served the State faithfully for another twenty-two years he could retire on a pension of some four hundred rupees a month.  His working-life, which had been spent chiefly under canvas or in temporary shelters where a man could sleep, eat, and write letters, was bound up with the opening and guarding of irrigation canals, the handling of two or three thousand workmen of all castes and creeds, and the payment of vast sums of coined silver.

He had finished that spring, not without credit, the last section of the great Mosuhl Canal, and ­much against his will, for he hated office-work ­had been sent in to serve during the hot weather on the accounts and supply side of the Department, with sole charge of the sweltering sub-office at the capital of the Province.  Martyn knew this; William, his sister, knew it; and everybody knew it.  Scott knew, too, as well as the rest of the world, that Miss Martyn had come out to India four years ago to keep house for her brother, who, as every one knew, had borrowed the money to pay for her passage, and that she ought, as all the world said, to have married at once.  In stead of this, she had refused some half a dozen subalterns, a Civilian twenty years her senior, one Major, and a man in the Indian Medical Department.  This, too, was common property.  She had “stayed down three hot weathers,” as the saying is, because her brother was in debt and could not afford the expense of her keep at even a cheap hill-station.  Therefore her face was white as bone, and in the centre of her forehead was a big silvery scar about the size of a shilling ­the mark of a Delhi sore, which is the same as a “Bagdad date.”  This comes from drinking bad water, and slowly eats into the flesh till it is ripe enough to be burned out.

None the less William had enjoyed herself hugely in her four years.  Twice she had been nearly drowned while fording a river; once she had been run away with on a camel; had witnessed a midnight attack of thieves on her brother’s camp; had seen justice administered, with long sticks, in the open under trees; could speak Urdu and even rough Punjabi with a fluency that was envied by her seniors; had entirely fallen out of the habit of writing to her aunts in England, or cutting the pages of the English magazines; had been through a very bad cholera year, seeing sights unfit to be told; and had wound up her experiences by six weeks of typhoid fever, during which her head had been shaved and hoped to keep her twenty-third birthday that September.  It is conceivable that the aunts would not have approved of a girl who never set foot on the ground if a horse were within hail; who rode to dances with a shawl thrown over her skirt; who wore her hair cropped and curling all over her head; who answered indifferently to the name of William or Bill; whose speech was heavy with the flowers of the vernacular; who could act in amateur theatricals, play on the banjo, rule eight servants and two horses, their accounts and their diseases, and look men slowly and deliberately between the eyes ­even after they had proposed to her and been rejected.

“I like men who do things,” she had confided to a man in the Educational Department, who was teaching the sons of cloth-merchants and dyers the beauty of Wordsworth’s “Excursion” in annotated cram-books; and when he grew poetical, William explained that she “didn’t understand poetry very much; it made her head ache,” and another broken heart took refuge at the Club.  But it was all William’s fault.  She delighted in hearing men talk of their own work, and that is the most fatal way of bringing a man to your feet.

Scott had known her for some three years, meeting her, as a rule, under canvass, when his camp and her brother’s joined for a day on the edge of the Indian Desert.  He had danced with her several times at the big Christmas gatherings, when as many as five hundred white people came in to the station; and had always a great respect for her housekeeping and her dinners.

She looked more like a boy than ever when, the meal ended, she sat, rolling cigarettes, her low forehead puckered beneath the dark curls as she twiddled the papers and stuck out her rounded chin when the tobacco stayed in place, or, with a gesture as true as a school-boy’s throwing a stone, tossed the finished article across the room to Martyn, who caught it with one hand, and continued his talk with Scott.  It was all “shop,” ­canals and the policing of canals; the sins of villagers who stole more water than they had paid for, and the grosser sin of native constables who connived at the thefts; of the transplanting bodily of villages to newly irrigated ground, and of the coming fight with the desert in the south when the Provincial funds should warrant the opening of the long-surveyed Luni Protective Canal System.  And Scott spoke openly of his great desire to be put on one particular section of the work where he knew the land and the people; and Martyn sighed for a billet in the Himalayan foot-hills, and said his mind of his superiors, and William rolled cigarettes and said nothing, but smiled gravely on her brother because he was happy.

At ten Scott’s horse came to the door, and the evening was ended.  The lights of the two low bungalows in which the daily paper was printed showed bright across the road.  It was too early to try to find sleep, and Scott drifted over to the editor.  Raines, stripped to the waist like a sailor at a gun, lay half asleep in a long chair, waiting for night telegrams.  He had a theory that if a man did not stay by his work all day and most of the night he laid himself open to fever:  so he ate and slept among his files.

“Can you do it?” he said drowsily.  “I didn’t mean to bring you over.”

“About what?  I’ve been dining at the Martyns’.”

“The Madras famine, of course.  Martyn’s warned, too.  They’re taking men where they can find ’em.  I sent a note to you at the Club just now, asking if you could do us a letter once a week from the south ­between two and three columns, say.  Nothing sensational, of course, but just plain facts about who is doing what, and so forth.  Our regular rates ­ten rupees a column.”

“’Sorry, but it’s out of my line,” Scott answered, staring absently at the map of India on the wall.  “It’s rough on Martyn ­very.  ’Wonder what he’ll do with his sister?  ’Wonder what the deuce they’ll do with me?  I’ve no famine experience.  This is the first I’ve heard of it.  Am I ordered?”

“Oh, yes.  Here’s the wire.  They’ll put you on to relief-works,” Raines said, “with a horde of Madrassis dying like flies; one native apothecary and half a pint of cholera-mixture among the ten thousand of you.  It comes of your being idle for the moment.  Every man who isn’t doing two men’s work seems to have been called upon.  Hawkins evidently believes in Punjabis.  It’s going to be quite as bad as anything they have had in the last ten years.”

“It’s all in the day’s work, worse luck.  I suppose I shall get my orders officially some time to-morrow.  I’m awfully glad I happened to drop in.  Better go and pack my kit now.  Who relieves me here ­do you know?”

Raines turned over a sheaf of telegrams.  “McEuan,” said he, “from Murree.”

Scott chuckled.  “He thought he was going to be cool all summer.  He’ll be very sick about this.  Well, no good talking.  ’Night.”

Two hours later, Scott, with a clear conscience, laid himself down to rest on a string cot in a bare room.  Two worn bullock trunks, a leather water-bottle, a tin ice-box, and his pet saddle sewed up in sacking were piled at the door, and the Club secretary’s receipt for last month’s bill was under his pillow.  His orders came next morning, and with them an unofficial telegram from Sir James Hawkins; who was not in the habit of forgetting good men when he had once met them, bidding him report himself with all speed at some unpronounceable place fifteen hundred miles to the south, for the famine was sore in the land, and white men were needed.

A pink and fattish youth arrived in the red-hot noonday, whimpering a little at fate and famines, which never allowed any one three months’ peace.  He was Scott’s successor ­another cog in the machinery, moved forward behind his fellow whose services, as the official announcement ran, “were placed at the disposal of the Madras Government for famine duty until further orders.”  Scott handed over the funds in his charge, showed him the coolest corner in the office, warned him against excess of zeal, and, as twilight fell, departed from the Club in a hired carriage, with his faithful body-servant, Faiz Ullah, and a mound of disordered baggage atop, to catch the southern mail at the loopholed and bastioned railway-station.  The heat from the thick brick walls struck him across the face as if it had been a hot towel; and he reflected that there were at least five nights and four days of this travel before him.  Faiz Ullah, used to the chances of service, plunged into the crowd on the stone platform, while Scott, a black cheroot between his teeth, waited till his compartment should be set away.  A dozen native policemen, with their rifles and bundles, shouldered into the press of Punjabi farmers, Sikh craftsmen, and greasy-locked Afreedee pedlars, escorting with all pomp Martyn’s uniform-case, water-bottles, ice-box, and bedding-roll.  They saw Faiz Ullah’s lifted hand, and steered for it.

“My Sahib and your Sahib,” said Faiz Ullah to Martyn’s man, “will travel together.  Thou and I, O brother, will thus secure the servants’ places close by; and because of our masters’ authority none will dare to disturb us.”

When Faiz Ullah reported all things ready, Scott settled down at full length, coatless and bootless, on the broad leather-covered bunk.  The heat under the iron-arched roof of the station might have been anything over a hundred degrees.  At the last moment Martyn entered, dripping.

“Don’t swear,” said Scott, lazily; “it’s too late to change your carriage; and we’ll divide the ice.”

“What are you doing here?” said the police-man.

“I’m lent to the Madras Government, same as you.  By Jove, it’s a bender of a night!  Are you taking any of your men down?”

“A dozen.  I suppose I shall have to superintend relief distributions.  ’Didn’t know you were under orders too.”

“I didn’t till after I left you last night.  Raines had the news first.  My orders came this morning.  McEuan relieved me at four, and I got off at once.  ’Shouldn’t wonder if it wouldn’t be a good thing ­this famine ­if we come through it alive.”

“Jimmy ought to put you and me to work together,” said Martyn; and then, after a pause:  “My sister’s here.”

“Good business,” said Scott, heartily.  “Going to get off at Umballa, I suppose, and go up to Simla.  Who’ll she stay with there?”

“No-o; that’s just the trouble of it.  She’s going down with me.”

Scott sat bolt upright under the oil-lamps as the train jolted past Tarn-Taran.  “What!  You don’t mean you couldn’t afford ­”

“’Tain’t that.  I’d have scraped up the money somehow.”

“You might have come to me, to begin with,” said Scott, stiffly; “we aren’t altogether strangers.”

“Well, you needn’t be stuffy about it.  I might, but ­you don’t know my sister.  I’ve been explaining and exhorting and all the rest of it all day ­lost my temper since seven this morning, and haven’t got it back yet ­but she wouldn’t hear of any compromise.  A woman’s entitled to travel with her husband if she wants to; and William says she’s on the same footing.  You see, we’ve been together all our lives, more or less, since my people died.  It isn’t as if she were an ordinary sister.”

“All the sisters I’ve ever heard of would have stayed where they were well off.”

She’s as clever as a man, confound ­Martyn went on.  “She broke up the bungalow over my head while I was talking at her.  ’Settled the whole thing in three hours ­servants, horses, and all.  I didn’t get my orders till nine.”

“Jimmy Hawkins won’t be pleased,” said Scott “A famine’s no place for a woman.”

“Mrs. Jim ­I mean Lady Jim’s in camp with him.  At any rate, she says she will look after my sister.  William wired down to her on her own responsibility, asking if she could come, and knocked the ground from under me by showing me her answer.”

Scott laughed aloud.  “If she can do that she can take care of herself, and Mrs. Jim won’t let her run into any mischief.  There aren’t many women, sisters or wives, who would walk into a famine with their eyes open.  It isn’t as if she didn’t know what these things mean.  She was through the Jalo cholera last year.”

The train stopped at Amritsar, and Scott went back to the ladies’ compartment, immediately behind their carriage.  William, with a cloth riding-cap on her curls, nodded affably.

“Come in and have some tea,” she said. “’Best thing in the world for heat-apoplexy.”

“Do I look as if I were going to have heat-apoplexy?”

“’Never can tell,” said William, wisely.  “It’s always best to be ready.”

She had arranged her compartment with the knowledge of an old campaigner.  A felt-covered water-bottle hung in the draught of one of the shuttered windows; a tea-set of Russian china, packed in a wadded basket, stood on the seat; and a travelling spirit-lamp was clamped against the woodwork above it.

William served them generously, in large cups, hot tea, which saves the veins of the neck from swelling inopportunely on a hot night.  It was characteristic of the girl that, her plan of action once settled, she asked for no comments on it.  Life among men who had a great deal of work to do, and very little time to do it in, had taught her the wisdom of effacing, as well as of fending for, herself.  She did not by word or deed suggest that she would be useful, comforting, or beautiful in their travels, but continued about her business serenely:  put the cups back without clatter when tea was ended, and made cigarettes for her guests.

“This time last night,” said Scott, “we didn’t expect ­er ­this kind of thing, did we?”

“I’ve learned to expect anything,” said William.  “You know, in our service, we live at the end of the telegraph; but, of course, this ought to be a good thing for us all, departmentally ­if we live.”

“It knocks us out of the running in our own Province,” Scott replied, with equal gravity.  “I hoped to be put on the Luni Protective Works this cold weather, but there’s no saying how long the famine may keep us.”

“Hardly beyond October, I should think,” said Martyn.  “It will be ended, one way or the other, then.”

“And we’ve nearly a week of this,” said William.  “Sha’n’t we be dusty when it’s over?”

For a night and a day they knew their surroundings, and for a night and a day, skirting the edge of the great Indian Desert on a narrow-gauge railway, they remembered how in the days of their apprenticeship they had come by that road from Bombay.  Then the languages in which the names of the stations were written changed, and they launched south into a foreign land, where the very smells were new.  Many long and heavily laden grain-trains were in front of them, and they could feel the hand of Jimmy Hawkins from far off.  They waited in extemporised sidings while processions of empty trucks returned to the north, and were coupled on to slow, crawling trains, and dropped at midnight, Heaven knew where; but it was furiously hot, and they walked to and fro among sacks, and dogs howled.  Then they came to an India more strange to them than to the untravelled Englishman ­the flat, red India of palm-tree, palmyra-palm, and rice ­the India of the picture-books, of “Little Harry and His Bearer” ­all dead and dry in the baking heat.  They had left the incessant passenger-traffic of the north and west far and far behind them.  Here the people crawled to the side of the train, holding their little ones in their arms; and a loaded truck would be left behind, the men and women clustering round it like ants by spilled honey.  Once in the twilight they saw on a dusty plain a regiment of little brown men, each bearing a body over his shoulder; and when the train stopped to leave yet another truck, they perceived that the burdens were not corpses, but only foodless folk picked up beside dead oxen by a corps of Irregular troops.  Now they met more white men, here one and there two, whose tents stood close to the line, and who came armed with written authorities and angry words to cut off a truck.  They were too busy to do more than nod at Scott and Martyn, and stare curiously at William, who could do nothing except make tea, and watch how her men staved off the rush of wailing, walking skeletons, putting them down three at a time in heaps, with their own hands uncoupling the marked trucks, or taking receipts from the hollow-eyed, weary white men, who spoke another argot than theirs.  They ran out of ice, out of soda-water, and out of tea; for they were six days and seven nights on the road, and it seemed to them like seven times seven years.

At last, in a dry, hot dawn, in a land of death, lit by long red fires of railway-sleepers, where they were burning the dead, they came to their destination, and were met by Jim Hawkins, the Head of the Famine, unshaven, unwashed, but cheery, and entirely in command of affairs.

Martyn, he decreed then and there, was to live on trains till further orders; was to go back with empty trucks, filling them with starving people as he found them, and dropping them at a famine-camp on the edge of the Eight Districts.  He would pick up supplies and return, and his constables would guard the loaded grain-cars, also picking up people, and would drop them at a camp a hundred miles south.  Scott ­Hawkins was very glad to see Scott again ­would that same hour take charge of a convoy of bullock-carts, and would go south, feeding as he went, to yet another famine-camp, where he would leave his starving ­there would be no lack of starving on the route ­and wait for orders by telegraph.  Generally, Scott was in all small things to act as he thought best.

William bit her under lip.  There was no one in the wide world like her one brother, but Martyn’s orders gave him no discretion.

She came out on the platform, masked with dust from head to foot, a horse-shoe wrinkle on her forehead, put here by much thinking during the past week, but as self-possessed as ever.  Mrs. Jim ­who should have been Lady Jim but that no one remembered the title ­took possession of her with a little gasp.

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here,” she almost sobbed.  “You oughtn’t to, of course, but there ­there isn’t another woman in the place, and we must help each other, you know; and we’ve all the wretched people and the little babies they are selling.”

“I’ve seen some,” said William.

“Isn’t it ghastly?  I’ve bought twenty; they’re in our camp; but won’t you have something to eat first?  We’ve more than ten people can do here; and I’ve got a horse for you.  Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come, dear.  You’re a Punjabi, too, you know.”

“Steady, Lizzie,” said Hawkins, over his shoulder.  “We’ll look after you, Miss Martyn.  ’Sorry I can’t ask you to breakfast, Martyn.  You’ll have to eat as you go.  Leave two of your men to help Scott.  These poor devils can’t stand up to load carts.  Saunders” (this to the engine-driver, who was half asleep in the cab), “back down and get those empties away.  You’ve ‘line clear’ to Anundrapillay; they’ll give you orders north of that.  Scott, load up your carts from that B. P. P. truck, and be off as soon as you can.  The Eurasian in the pink shirt is your interpreter and guide.  You’ll find an apothecary of sorts tied to the yoke of the second wagon.  He’s been trying to bolt; you’ll have to look after him.  Lizzie, drive Miss Martyn to camp, and tell them to send the red horse down here for me.”

Scott, with Faiz Ullah and two policemen, was already busied with the carts, backing them up to the truck and unbolting the sideboards quietly, while the others pitched in the bags of millet and wheat.  Hawkins watched him for as long as it took to fill one cart.

“That’s a good man,” he said.  “If all goes well I shall work him hard.”  This was Jim Hawkins’s notion of the highest compliment one human being could pay another.

An hour later Scott was under way; the apothecary threatening him with the penalties of the law for that he, a member of the Subordinate Medical Department, had been coerced and bound against his will and all laws governing the liberty of the subject; the pink-shirted Eurasian begging leave to see his mother, who happened to be dying some three miles away:  “Only verrée, verrée short leave of absence, and will presently return, sar ­“; the two constables, armed with staves, bringing up the rear; and Faiz Ullah, a Mohammedan’s contempt for all Hindoos and foreigners in every line of his face, explaining to the drivers that though Scott Sahib was a man to be feared on all fours, he, Faiz Ullah, was Authority Itself.

The procession creaked past Hawkins’s camp ­three stained tents under a clump of dead trees, behind them the famine-shed, where a crowd of hopeless ones tossed their arms around the cooking-kettles.

“’Wish to Heaven William had kept out of it,” said Scott to himself, after a glance.  “We’ll have cholera, sure as a gun, when the Rains break.”

But William seemed to have taken kindly to the operations of the Famine Code, which, when famine is declared, supersede the workings of the ordinary law.  Scott saw her, the centre of a mob of weeping women, in a calico riding-habit, and a blue-grey felt hat with a gold puggaree.

“I want fifty rupees, please.  I forgot to ask Jack before he went away.  Can you lend it me?  It’s for condensed-milk for the babies,” said she.

Scott took the money from his belt, and handed it over without a word.  “For goodness sake, take care of yourself,” he said.

“Oh, I shall be all right.  We ought to get the milk in two days.  By the way, the orders are, I was to tell you, that you’re to take one of Sir Jim’s horses.  There’s a grey Cabuli here that I thought would be just your style, so I’ve said you’d take him.  Was that right?”

“That’s awfully good of you.  We can’t either of us talk much about style, I am afraid.”

Scott was in a weather-stained drill shooting-kit, very white at the seams and a little frayed at the wrists.  William regarded him thoughtfully, from his pith helmet to his greased ankle-boots.  “You look very nice, I think.  Are you sure you’ve everything you’ll need ­quinine, chlorodyne, and so on?”

“’Think so,” said Scott, patting three or four of his shooting-pockets as he mounted and rode alongside his convoy.

“Good-bye,” he cried.

“Good-bye, and good luck,” said William.  “I’m awfully obliged for the money.”  She turned on a spurred heel and disappeared into the tent, while the carts pushed on past the famine-sheds, past the roaring lines of the thick, fat fires, down to the baked Gehenna of the South.


So let us melt and make no noise,
No tear-floods nor sigh-tempests move;
’Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the Laity our love.

A Valediction.

It was punishing work, even though he travelled by night and camped by day; but within the limits of his vision there was no man whom Scott could call master.  He was as free as Jimmy Hawkins ­freer, in fact, for the Government held the Head of the Famine tied neatly to a telegraph-wire, and if Jimmy had ever regarded telegrams seriously, the death-rate of that famine would have been much higher than it was.

At the end of a few days’ crawling Scott learned something of the size of the India which he served, and it astonished him.  His carts, as you know, were loaded with wheat, millet, and barley, good food-grains needing only a little grinding.  But the people to whom he brought the life-giving stuffs were rice-eaters.  They could hull rice in their mortars, but they knew nothing of the heavy stone querns of the North, and less of the material that the white man convoyed so laboriously.  They clamoured for rice ­unhusked paddy, such as they were accustomed to ­and, when they found that there was none, broke away weeping from the sides of the cart.  What was the use of these strange hard grains that choked their throats?  They would die.  And then and there very many of them kept their word.  Others took their allowance, and bartered enough millet to feed a man through a week for a few handfuls of rotten rice saved by some less unfortunate.  A few put their share into the rice-mortars, pounded it, and made a paste with foul water; but they were very few.  Scott understood dimly that many people in the India of the South ate rice, as a rule, but he had spent his service in a grain Province, had seldom seen rice in the blade or ear, and least of all would have believed that in time of deadly need men could die at arm’s length of plenty, sooner than touch food they did not know.  In vain the interpreters interpreted; in vain his two policemen showed in vigorous pantomime what should be done.  The starving crept away to their bark and weeds, grubs, leaves, and clay, and left the open sacks untouched.  But sometimes the women laid their phantoms of children at Scott’s feet, looking back as they staggered away.

Faiz Ullah opined it was the will of God that these foreigners should die, and it remained only to give orders to burn the dead.  None the less there was no reason why the Sahib should lack his comforts, and Faiz Ullah, a campaigner of experience, had picked up a few lean goats and had added them to the procession.  That they might give milk for the morning meal, he was feeding them on the good grain that these imbéciles rejected.  “Yes,” said Faiz Ullah; “if the Sahib thought fit, a little milk might be given to some of the babies”; but, as the Sahib well knew, babies were cheap, and, for his own part, Faiz Ullah held that there was no Government order as to babies.  Scott spoke forcefully to Faiz Ullah and the two policemen, and bade them capture goats where they could find them.  This they most joyfully did, for it was a recreation, and many ownerless goats were driven in.  Once fed, the poor brutes were willing enough to follow the carts, and a few days’ good food ­food such as human beings died for lack of ­set them in milk again.

“But I am no goatherd,” said Faiz Ullah.  “It is against my izzat [my honour].”

“When we cross the Bias River again we will talk of izzat,” Scott replied.  “Till that day thou and the policemen shall be sweepers to the camp, if I give the order.”

“Thus, then, it is done,” grunted Faiz Ullah, “if the Sahib will have it so”; and he showed how a goat should be milked, while Scott stood over him.

“Now we will feed them,” said Scott; “twice a day we will feed them”; and he bowed his back to the milking, and took a horrible cramp.

When you have to keep connection unbroken between a restless mother of kids and a baby who is at the point of death, you suffer in all your system.  But the babies were fed.  Each morning and evening Scott would solemnly lift them out one by one from their nest of gunny-bags under the cart-tilts.  There were always many who could do no more than breathe, and the milk was dropped into their toothless mouths drop by drop, with due pauses when they choked.  Each morning, too, the goats were fed; and since they would straggle without a leader, and since the natives were hirelings, Scott was forced to give up riding, and pace slowly at the head of his flocks, accommodating his step to their weaknesses.  All this was sufficiently absurd, and he felt the absurdity keenly; but at least he was saving life, and when the women saw that their children did not die, they made shift to eat a little of the strange foods, and crawled after the carts, blessing the master of the goats.

“Give the women something to live for,” said Scott to himself, as he sneezed in the dust of a hundred little feet, “and they’ll hang on somehow.  This beats William’s condensed-milk trick all to pieces.  I shall never live it down, though.”

He reached his destination very slowly, found that a rice-ship had come in from Burmah, and that stores of paddy were available; found also an overworked Englishman in charge of the shed, and, loading the carts, set back to cover the ground he had already passed.  He left some of the children and half his goats at the famine-shed.  For this he was not thanked by the Englishman, who had already more stray babies than he knew what to do with.  Scott’s back was suppled to stooping now, and he went on with his wayside ministrations in addition to distributing the paddy.  More babies and more goats were added unto him; but now some of the babies wore rags, and beads round their wrists or necks.  “That” said the interpreter, as though Scott did not know, “signifies that their mothers hope in eventual contingency to resume them offeecially.”

“The sooner, the better,” said Scott; but at the same time he marked, with the pride of ownership, how this or that little Ramasawmy was putting on flesh like a bantam.  As the paddy-carts were emptied he headed for Hawkins’s camp by the railway, timing his arrival to fit in with the dinner-hour, for it was long since he had eaten at a cloth.  He had no desire to make any dramatic entry, but an accident of the sunset ordered it that when he had taken off his helmet to get the evening breeze, the low light should fall across his forehead, and he could not see what was before him; while one waiting at the tent door beheld with new eyes a young man, beautiful as Paris, a god in a halo of golden dust, walking slowly at the head of his flocks, while at his knee ran small naked Cupids.  But she laughed ­William, in a slate-coloured blouse, laughed consumedly till Scott, putting the best face he could upon the matter, halted his armies and bade her admire the kindergarten.  It was an unseemly sight, but the proprieties had been left ages ago, with the tea-party at Amritsar Station, fifteen hundred miles to the north.

“They are coming on nicely,” said William.  “We’ve only five-and-twenty here now.  The women are beginning to take them away again.”

“Are you in charge of the babies, then?”

“Yes ­Mrs. Jim and I. We didn’t think of goats, though.  We’ve been trying condensed-milk and water.”

“Any losses?”

“More than I care to think of;” said William, with a shudder.  “And you?”

Scott said nothing.  There had been many little burials along his route ­one cannot burn a dead baby ­many mothers who had wept when they did not find again the children they had trusted to the care of the Government.

Then Hawkins came out carrying a razor, at which Scott looked hungrily, for he had a beard that he did not love.  And when they sat down to dinner in the tent he told his tale in few words, as it might have been an official report.  Mrs. Jim snuffled from time to time, and Jim bowed his head judicially; but William’s grey eyes were on the clean-shaven face, and it was to her that Scott seemed to appeal.

“Good for the Pauper Province!” said William, her chin on her hand, as she leaned forward among the wine-glasses.  Her cheeks had fallen in, and the scar on her forehead was more prominent than ever, but the well-turned neck rose roundly as a column from the ruffle of the blouse which was the accepted evening-dress in camp.

“It was awfully absurd at times,” said Scott.  “You see, I didn’t know much about milking or babies.  They’ll chaff my head off, if the tale goes up North.”

“Let ’em,” said William, haughtily.  “We’ve all done coolie-work since we came.  I know Jack has.”  This was to Hawkins’s address, and the big man smiled blandly.

“Your brother’s a highly efficient officer, William,” said he, “and I’ve done him the honour of treating him as he deserves.  Remember, I write the confidential reports.”

“Then you must say that William’s worth her weight in gold,” said Mrs. Jim.  “I don’t know what we should have done without her.  She has been everything to us.”  She dropped her hand upon William’s, which was rough with much handling of reins, and William patted it softly.  Jim beamed on the company.  Things were going well with his world.  Three of his more grossly incompetent men had died, and their places had been filled by their betters.  Every day brought the Rains nearer.  They had put out the famine in five of the Eight Districts, and, after all, the death-rate had not been too heavy ­things considered.  He looked Scott over carefully, as an ogre looks over a man, and rejoiced in his thews and iron-hard condition.

“He’s just the least bit in the world tucked up,” said Jim to himself, “but he can do two men’s work yet.”  Then he was aware that Mrs. Jim was telegraphing to him, and according to the domestic code the message ran:  “A clear case.  Look at them!”

He looked and listened.  All that William was saying was:  “What can you expect of a country where they call a bhistee [a water-carrier] a tunni-cutch?” and all that Scott answered was:  “I shall be glad to get back to the Club.  Save me a dance at the Christmas Ball, won’t you?”

“It’s a far cry from here to the Lawrence Hall,” said Jim.  “Better turn in early, Scott.  It’s paddy-carts to-morrow; you’ll begin loading at five.”

“Aren’t you going to give Mr. Scott a single day’s rest?”

“’Wish I could, Lizzie, but I’m afraid I can’t.  As long as he can stand up we must use him.”

“Well, I’ve had one Europe evening, at least.  By Jove, I’d nearly forgotten!  What do I do about those babies of mine?”

“Leave them here,” said William ­“we are in charge of that ­and as many goats as you can spare.  I must learn how to milk now.”

“If you care to get up early enough to-morrow I’ll show you.  I have to milk, you see.  Half of ’em have beads and things round their necks.  You must be careful not to take ’em off; in case the mothers turn up.”

“You forget I’ve had some experience here.”

“I hope to goodness you won’t overdo.”  Scott’s voice was unguarded.

“I’ll take care of her,” said Mrs. Jim, telegraphing hundred-word messages as she carried William off; while Jim gave Scott his orders for the coming campaign.  It was very late ­nearly nine o’clock.

“Jim, you’re a brute,” said his wife, that night; and the Head of the Famine chuckled.

“Not a bit of it, dear.  I remember doing the first Jandiala Settlement for the sake of a girl in a crinoline, and she was slender, Lizzie.  I’ve never done as good a piece of work since.  He’ll work like a demon.”

“But you might have given him one day.”

“And let things come to a head now?  No, dear; it’s their happiest time.”

“I don’t believe either of the darlings know what’s the matter with them.  Isn’t it beautiful?  Isn’t it lovely?”

“Getting up at three to learn to milk, bless her heart!  Oh, ye Gods, why must we grow old and fat?”

“She’s a darling.  She has done more work under me ­”

“Under you?  The day after she came she was in charge and you were her subordinate.  You’ve stayed there ever since; she manages you almost as well as you manage me.”

“She doesn’t, and that’s why I love her.  She’s as direct as a man ­as her brother.”

“Her brother’s weaker than she is.  He’s always to me for orders; but he’s honest, and a glutton for work.  I confess I’m rather fond of William, and if I had a daughter ­”

The talk ended.  Far away in the Derajat was a child’s grave more than twenty years old, and neither Jim nor his wife spoke of it any more.

“All the same, you’re responsible,” Jim added, a moment’s silence.

“Bless ’em!” said Mrs. Jim, sleepily.

Before the stars paled, Scott, who slept in an empty cart, waked and went about his work in silence; it seemed at that hour unkind to rouse Faiz Ullah and the interpreter.  His head being close to the ground, he did not hear William till she stood over him in the dingy old riding-habit, her eyes still heavy with sleep, a cup of tea and a piece of toast in her hands.  There was a baby on the ground, squirming on a piece of blanket, and a six-year-old child peered over Scott’s shoulder.

“Hai, you little rip,” said Scott, “how the deuce do you expect to get your rations if you aren’t quiet?”

A cool white hand steadied the brat, who forthwith choked as the milk gurgled into his mouth.

“’Mornin’,” said the milker.  “You’ve no notion how these little fellows can wriggle.”

“Oh, yes, I have.”  She whispered, because the world was asleep.  “Only I feed them with a spoon or a rag.  Yours are fatter than mine.  And you’ve been doing this day after day?” The voice was almost lost.

“Yes; it was absurd.  Now you try,” he said, giving place to the girl.  “Look out!  A goat’s not a cow.”

The goat protested against the amateur, and there was a scuffle, in which Scott snatched up the baby.  Then it was all to do over again, and William laughed softly and merrily.  She managed, however, to feed two babies, and a third.

“Don’t the little beggars take it well?” said Scott.  “I trained ’em.”

They were very busy and interested, when lo! it was broad daylight, and before they knew, the camp was awake, and they kneeled among the goats, surprised by the day, both flushed to the temples.  Yet all the round world rolling up out of the darkness might have heard and seen all that had passed between them.

“Oh,” said William, unsteadily, snatching up the tea and toast, “I had this made for you.  It’s stone-cold now.  I thought you mightn’t have anything ready so early.  ’Better not drink it.  It’s ­it’s stone-cold.”

“That’s awfully kind of you.  It’s just right.  It’s awfully good of you, really.  I’ll leave my kids and goats with you and Mrs. Jim, and, of course, any one in camp can show you about the milking.”

“Of course,” said William; and she grew pinker and pinker and statelier and more stately, as she strode back to her tent, fanning herself with the saucer.

There were shrill lamentations through the camp when the elder children saw their nurse move off without them.  Faiz Ullah unbent so far as to jest with the policemen, and Scott turned purple with shame because Hawkins, already in the saddle, roared.

A child escaped from the care of Mrs. Jim, and, running like a rabbit, clung to Scott’s boot, William pursuing with long, easy strides.

“I will not go ­I will not go!” shrieked the child, twining his feet round Scott’s ankle.  “They will kill me here.  I do not know these people.”

“I say,” said Scott, in broken Tamil, “I say, she will do you no harm.  Go with her and be well fed.”

“Come!” said William, panting, with a wrathful glance at Scott, who stood helpless and, as it were, hamstrung.

“Go back,” said Scott quickly to William.  “I’ll send the little chap over in a minute.”

The tone of authority had its effect, but in a way Scott did not exactly intend.  The boy loosened his grasp, and said with gravity:  “I did not know the woman was thine.  I will go.”  Then he cried to his companions, a mob of three-, four-, and five-year-olds waiting on the success of his venture ere they stampeded:  “Go back and eat.  It is our man’s woman.  She will obey his orders.”

Jim collapsed where he sat; Faiz Ullah and the two policemen grinned; and Scott’s orders to the cartmen flew like hail.

“That is the custom of the Sahibs when truth is told in their presence,” said Faiz Ullah.  “The time comes that I must seek new service.  Young wives, especially such as speak our language and have knowledge of the ways of the Police, make great trouble for honest butlers in the matter of weekly accounts.”

What William thought of it all she did not say, but when her brother, ten days later, came to camp for orders, and heard of Scott’s performances, he said, laughing:  “Well, that settles it.  He’ll be Bakri Scott to the end of his days.” (Bakri in the Northern vernacular, means a goat.) “What a lark!  I’d have given a month’s pay to have seen him nursing famine babies.  I fed some with conjee [rice-water], but that was all right.”

“It’s perfectly disgusting,” said his sister, with blazing eyes.  “A man does something like ­like that ­and all you other men think of is to give him an absurd nickname, and then you laugh and think it’s funny.”

“Ah,” said Mrs. Jim, sympathetically.

“Well, you can’t talk, William.  You christened little Miss Demby the Button-quail, last cold weather; you know you did.  India’s the land of nicknames.”

“That’s different,” William replied.  “She was only a girl, and she hadn’t done anything except walk like a quail, and she does.  But it isn’t fair to make fun of a man.”

“Scott won’t care,” said Martyn.  “You can’t get a rise out of old Scotty.  I’ve been trying for eight years, and you’ve only known him for three.  How does he look?”

“He looks very well,” said William, and went away with a flushed cheek.  “Bakri Scott, indeed!” Then she laughed to herself, for she knew her country.  “But it will he Bakri all the same”; and she repeated it under her breath several times slowly, whispering it into favour.

When he returned to his duties on the railway, Martyn spread the name far and wide among his associates, so that Scott met it as he led his paddy-carts to war.  The natives believed it to be some English title of honour, and the cart-drivers used it in all simplicity till Faiz Ullah, who did not approve of foreign japes, broke their heads.  There was very little time for milking now, except at the big camps, where Jim had extended Scott’s idea and was feeding large flocks on the useless northern grains.  Sufficient paddy had come now into the Eight Districts to hold the people safe, if it were only distributed quickly, and for that purpose no one was better than the big Canal officer, who never lost his temper, never gave an unnecessary order, and never questioned an order given.  Scott pressed on, saving his cattle, washing their galled necks daily, so that no time should be lost on the road; reported himself with his rice at the minor famine-sheds, unloaded, and went back light by forced night-march to the next distributing centre, to find Hawkins’s unvarying telegram:  “Do it again.”  And he did it again and again, and yet again, while Jim Hawkins, fifty miles away, marked off on a big map the tracks of his wheels gridironing the stricken lands.  Others did well ­Hawkins reported at the end they all did well ­but Scott was the most excellent, for he kept good coined rupees by him, settled for his own cart-repairs on the spot, and ran to meet all sorts of unconsidered extras, trusting to be recouped later on.  Theoretically, the Government should have paid for every shoe and linchpin, for every hand employed in the loading; but Government vouchers cash themselves slowly, and intelligent and efficient clerks write at great length, contesting unauthorised expenditures of eight annas.  The man who wants to make his work a success must draw on his own bank-account of money or other things as he goes.

“I told you he’d work,” said Jimmy to his wife, at the end of six weeks.  “He’s been in sole charge of a couple of thousand men up north, on the Mosuhl Canal, for a year; but he gives less trouble than young Martyn with his ten constables; and I’m morally certain ­only Government doesn’t recognise moral obligations ­he’s spent about half his pay to grease his wheels.  Look at this, Lizzie, for one week’s work!  Forty miles in two days with twelve carts; two days’ halt building a famine-shed for young Rogers. (Rogers ought to have built it himself, the idiot!) Then forty miles back again, loading six carts on the way, and distributing all Sunday.  Then in the evening he pitches in a twenty-page Demi-Official to me, saying the people where he is might be ‘advantageously employed on relief-work,’ and suggesting that he put ’em to work on some broken-down old reservoir he’s discovered, so as to have a good water-supply when the Rains break.  ’Thinks he can cauk the dam in a fortnight.  Look at his marginal sketches ­aren’t they clear and good?  I knew he was pukka, but I didn’t know he was as pukka as this.”

“I must show these to William,” said Mrs. Jim.  “The child’s wearing herself out among the babies.”

“Not more than you are, dear.  Well, another two months ought to see us out of the wood.  I’m sorry it’s not in my power to recommend you for a V. C.”

William sat late in her tent that night, reading through page after page of the square handwriting, patting the sketches of proposed repairs to the reservoir, and wrinkling her eyebrows over the columns of figures of estimated water-supply.  “And he finds time to do all this,” she cried to herself, “and ­well, I also was present.  I’ve saved one or two babies.”

She dreamed for the twentieth time of the god in the golden dust, and woke refreshed to feed loathsome black children, scores of them, wastrels picked up by the wayside, their bones almost breaking their skin, terrible and covered with sores.

Scott was not allowed to leave his cart-work, but his letter was duly forwarded to the Government, and he had the consolation, not rare in India, of knowing that another man was reaping where he had sown.  That also was discipline profitable to the soul.

“He’s much too good to waste on canals,” said Jimmy.  “Any one can oversee coolies.  You needn’t be angry, William; he can ­but I need my pearl among bullock-drivers, and I’ve transferred him to the Khanda district, where he’ll have it all to do over again.  He should be marching now.

“He’s not a coolie,” said William, furiously.  “He ought to be doing his regulation work.”

“He’s the best man in his service, and that’s saying a good deal; but if you must use razors to cut grindstones, why, I prefer the best cutlery.”

“Isn’t it almost time we saw him again?” said Mrs. Jim.  “I’m sure the poor boy hasn’t had a respectable meal for a month.  He probably sits on a cart and eats sardines with his fingers.”

“All in good time, dear.  Duty before decency ­wasn’t it Mr. Chucks said that?”

“No; it was Midshipman Easy,” William laughed.  “I sometimes wonder how it will feel to dance or listen to a band again, or sit under a roof.  I can’t believe I ever wore a ball-frock in my life.”

“One minute,” said Mrs. Jim, who was thinking.  “If he goes to Khanda, he passes within five miles of us.  Of course he’ll ride in.”

“Oh, no, he won’t,” said William.

“How do you know, dear?”

“It will take him off his work.  He won’t have time.”

“He’ll make it,” said Mrs. Jim, with a twinkle.

“It depends on his own judgment.  There’s absolutely no reason why he shouldn’t, if he thinks fit,” said Jim.

“He won’t see fit,” William replied, without sorrow or emotion.  “It wouldn’t be him if he did.”

“One certainly gets to know people rather well in times like these,” said Jim, drily; but William’s face was serene as ever, and even as she prophesied, Scott did not appear.

The Rains fell at last, late, but heavily; and the dry, gashed earth was red mud, and servants killed snakes in the camp, where every one was weather-bound for a fortnight ­all except Hawkins, who took horse and plashed about in the wet, rejoicing.  Now the Government decreed that seed-grain should be distributed to the people, as well as advances of money for the purchase of new oxen; and the white men were doubly worked for this new duty, while William skipped from brick to brick laid down on the trampled mud, and dosed her charges with warming medicines that made them rub their little round stomachs; and the milch goats throve on the rank grass.  There was never a word from Scott in the Khanda district, away to the southeast, except the regular telegraphic report to Hawkins.  The rude country roads had disappeared; his drivers were half mutinous; one of Martyn’s loaned policemen had died of cholera; and Scott was taking thirty grains of quinine a day to fight the fever that comes with the rain:  but those were things Scott did not consider necessary to report.  He was, as usual, working from a base of supplies on a railway line, to cover a circle of fifteen miles radius, and since full loads were impossible, he took quarter-loads, and toiled four times as hard by consequence; for he did not choose to risk an epidemic which might have grown uncontrollable by assembling villagers in thousands at the relief-sheds.  It was cheaper to take Government bullocks, work them to death, and leave them to the crows in the wayside sloughs.

That was the time when eight years of clean living and hard condition told, though a man’s head were ringing like a bell from the cinchona, and the earth swayed under his feet when he stood and under his bed when he slept.  If Hawkins had seen fit to make him a bullock-driver, that, he thought, was entirely Hawkins’s own affair.  There were men in the North who would know what he had done; men of thirty years’ service in his own department who would say that it was “not half bad”; and above, immeasurably above, all men of all grades, there was William in the thick of the fight, who would approve because she understood.  He had so trained his mind that it would hold fast to the mechanical routine of the day, though his own voice sounded strange in his own ears, and his hands, when he wrote, grew large as pillows or small as peas at the end of his wrists.  That steadfastness bore his body to the telegraph-office at the railway-station, and dictated a telegram to Hawkins saying that the Khanda district was, in his judgment, now safe, and he “waited further orders.”

The Madrassee telegraph-clerk did not approve of a large, gaunt man falling over him in a dead faint, not so much because of the weight as because of the names and blows that Faiz Ullah dealt him when he found the body rolled under a bench.  Then Faiz Ullah took blankets, quilts, and coverlets where he found them, and lay down under them at his master’s side, and bound his arms with a tent-rope, and filled him with a horrible stew of herbs, and set the policeman to fight him when he wished to escape from the intolerable heat of his coverings, and shut the door of the telegraph-office to keep out the curious for two nights and one day; and when a light engine came down the line, and Hawkins kicked in the door, Scott hailed him weakly but in a natural voice, and Faiz Ullah stood back and took all the credit.

“For two nights, Heaven-born, he was pagal” said Faiz Ullah.  “Look at my nose, and consider the eye of the policeman.  He beat us with his bound hands; but we sat upon him, Heaven-born, and though his words were tez, we sweated him.  Heaven-born, never has been such a sweat!  He is weaker now than a child; but the fever has gone out of him, by the grace of God.  There remains only my nose and the eye of the constabeel.  Sahib, shall I ask for my dismissal because my Sahib has beaten me?” And Faiz Ullah laid his long thin hand carefully on Scott’s chest to be sure that the fever was all gone, ere he went out to open tinned soups and discourage such as laughed at his swelled nose.

“The district’s all right,” Scott whispered.  “It doesn’t make any difference.  You got my wire?  I shall be fit in a week.  ’Can’t understand how it happened.  I shall be fit in a few days.”

“You’re coming into camp with us,” said Hawkins.

“But look here ­but ­”

“It’s all over except the shouting.  We sha’n’t need you Punjabis any more.  On my honour, we sha’n’t.  Martyn goes back in a few weeks; Arbuthnot’s returned already; Ellis and Clay are putting the last touches to a new feeder-line the Government’s built as relief-work.  Morten’s dead ­he was a Bengal man, though; you wouldn’t know him.  ’Pon my word, you and Will ­Miss Martyn ­seem to have come through it as well as anybody.”

“Oh, how is she, by-the-way?” The voice went up and down as he spoke.

“Going strong when I left her.  The Roman Catholic Missions are adopting the unclaimed babies to turn them into little priests; the Basil Mission is taking some, and the mothers are taking the rest.  You should hear the little beggars howl when they’re sent away from William.  She’s pulled down a bit, but so are we all.  Now, when do you suppose you’ll be able to move?”

“I can’t come into camp in this state.  I won’t,” he replied pettishly.

“Well, you are rather a sight, but from what I gathered there it seemed to me they’d be glad to see you under any conditions.  I’ll look over your work here, if you like, for a couple of days, and you can pull yourself together while Faiz Ullah feeds you up.”

Scott could walk dizzily by the time Hawkins’s inspection was ended, and he flushed all over when Jim said of his work that it was “not half bad,” and volunteered, further, that he had considered Scott his right-hand man through the famine, and would feel it his duty to say as much officially.

So they came back by rail to the old camp; but there were no crowds near it; the long fires in the trenches were dead and black, and the famine-sheds were almost empty.

“You see!” said Jim.  “There isn’t much more to do.  ’Better ride up and see the wife.  They’ve pitched a tent for you.  Dinner’s at seven.  I’ve some work here.”

Riding at a foot-pace, Faiz Ullah by his stirrup, Scott came to William in the brown-calico riding-habit, sitting at the dining-tent door, her hands in her lap, white as ashes, thin and worn, with no lustre in her hair.  There did not seem to be any Mrs. Jim on the horizon, and all that William could say was:  “My word, how pulled down you look!”

“I’ve had a touch of fever.  You don’t look very well yourself.”

“Oh, I’m fit enough.  We’ve stamped it out.  I suppose you know?”

Scott nodded.  “We shall all be returned in a few weeks.  Hawkins told me.”

“Before Christmas, Mrs. Jim says.  Sha’n’t you be glad to go back?  I can smell the wood-smoke already”; William sniffed.  “We shall be in time for all the Christmas doings.  I don’t suppose even the Punjab Government would be base enough to transfer Jack till the new year?”

“It seems hundreds of years ago ­the Punjab and all that ­doesn’t it?  Are you glad you came?”

“Now it’s all over, yes.  It has been ghastly here, though.  You know we had to sit still and do nothing, and Sir Jim was away so much.”

“Do nothing!  How did you get on with the milking?”

“I managed it somehow ­after you taught me.  ’Remember?”

Then the talk stopped with an almost audible jar.  Still no Mrs. Jim.

“That reminds me, I owe you fifty rupees for the condensed-milk.  I thought perhaps you’d be coming here when you were transferred to the Khanda district, and I could pay you then; but you didn’t.”

“I passed within five miles of the camp, but it was in the middle of a march, you see, and the carts were breaking down every few minutes, and I couldn’t get ’em over the ground till ten o’clock that night.  I wanted to come awfully.  You knew I did, didn’t you?”

“I ­believe ­I ­did,” said William, facing him with level eyes.  “She was no longer white.”

“Did you understand?”

“Why you didn’t ride in?  Of course I did.”


“Because you couldn’t, of course.  I knew that.”

“Did you care?”

“If you had come in ­but I knew you wouldn’t ­but if you had, I should have cared a great deal.  You know I should.”

“Thank God I didn’t!  Oh, but I wanted to!  I couldn’t trust myself to ride in front of the carts, because I kept edging ’em over here, don’t you know?”

“I knew you wouldn’t,” said William, contentedly.  “Here’s your fifty.”

Scott bent forward and kissed the hand that held the greasy notes.  Its fellow patted him awkwardly but very tenderly on the head.

“And you knew, too, didn’t you?” said William, in a new voice.

“No, on my honour, I didn’t.  I hadn’t the ­the cheek to expect anything of the kind, except...  I say, were you out riding anywhere the day I passed by to Khanda?”

William nodded, and smiled after the manner of an angel surprised in a good deed.

“Then it was just a speck I saw of your habit in the ­”

“Palm-grove on the Southern cart-road.  I saw your helmet when you came up from the mullah by the temple ­just enough to be sure that you were all right.  D’ you care?”

This time Scott did not kiss her hand, for they were in the dusk of the dining-tent, and, because William’s knees were trembling under her, she had to sit down in the nearest chair, where she wept long and happily, her head on her arms; and when Scott imagined that it would be well to comfort her, she needing nothing of the kind, she ran to her own tent; and Scott went out into the world, and smiled upon it largely and idiotically.  But when Faiz Ullah brought him a drink, he found it necessary to support one hand with the other, or the good whisky and soda would have been spilled abroad.  There are fevers and fevers.

But it was worse ­much worse ­the strained, eye-shirking talk at dinner till the servants had withdrawn, and worst of all when Mrs. Jim, who had been on the edge of weeping from the soup down, kissed Scott and William, and they drank one whole bottle of champagne, hot, because there was no ice, and Scott and William sat outside the tent in the starlight till Mrs. Jim drove them in for fear of more fever.

Apropos of these things and some others William said:  “Being engaged is abominable, because, you see, one has no official position.  We must be thankful we’ve lots of things to do.”

“Things to do!” said Jim, when that was reported to him.  “They’re neither of them any good any more.  I can’t get five hours’ work a day out of Scott.  He’s in the clouds half the time.”

“Oh, but they’re so beautiful to watch, Jimmy.  It will break my heart when they go.  Can’t you do anything for him?”

“I’ve given the Government the impression ­at least, I hope I have ­that he personally conducted the entire famine.  But all he wants is to get on to the Luni Canal Works, and William’s just as bad.  Have you ever heard ’em talking of barrage and aprons and waste-water?  It’s their style of spooning, I suppose.”

Mrs. Jim smiled tenderly.  “Ah, that’s in the intervals ­bless ’em.”

And so Love ran about the camp unrebuked in broad daylight, while men picked up the pieces and put them neatly away of the Famine in the Eight Districts.

Morning brought the penetrating chill of the Northern December, the layers of wood-smoke, the dusty grey-blue of the tamarisks, the domes of ruined tombs, and all the smell of the white Northern plains, as the mail-train ran on to the mile-long Sutlej Bridge.  William, wrapped in a poshteen ­a silk-embroidered sheepskin jacket trimmed with rough astrakhan ­looked out with moist eyes and nostrils that dilated joyously.  The South of pagodas and palm-trees, the overpopulated Hindu South, was done with.  Here was the land she knew and loved, and before her lay the good life she understood, among folk of her own caste and mind.

They were picking them up at almost every station now ­men and women coming in for the Christmas Week, with racquets, with bundles of polo-sticks, with dear and bruised cricket-bats, with fox-terriers and saddles.  The greater part of them wore jackets like William’s, for the Northern cold is as little to be trifled with as the Northern heat.  And William was among them and of them, her hands deep in her pockets, her collar turned up over her ears, stamping her feet on the platforms as she walked up and down to get warm, visiting from carriage to carriage and everywhere being congratulated.  Scott was with the bachelors at the far end of the train, where they chaffed him mercilessly about feeding babies and milking goats; but from time to time he would stroll up to William’s window, and murmur:  “Good enough, isn’t it?” and William would answer with sighs of pure delight:  “Good enough, indeed.”  The large open names of the home towns were good to listen to.  Umballa, Ludianah, Phillour, Jullundur, they rang like the coming marriage-bells in her ears, and William felt deeply and truly sorry for all strangers and outsiders ­visitors, tourists, and those fresh-caught for the service of the country.

It was a glorious return, and when the bachelors gave the Christmas Ball, William was, unofficially, you might say, the chief and honoured guest among the Stewards, who could make things very pleasant for their friends.  She and Scott danced nearly all the dances together, and sat out the rest in the big dark gallery overlooking the superb teak floor, where the uniforms blazed, and the spurs clinked, and the new frocks and four hundred dancers went round and round till the draped flags on the pillars flapped and bellied to the whirl of it.

About midnight half a dozen men who did not care for dancing came over from the Club to play “Waits,” and that was a surprise the Stewards had arranged ­before any one knew what had happened, the band stopped, and hidden voices broke into “Good King Wenceslaus,” and William in the gallery hummed and beat time with her foot: 

“Mark my footsteps well, my page,
Tread thou in them boldly. 
Thou shalt feel the winter’s rage
Freeze thy blood less coldly!”

“Oh, I hope they are going to give us another!  Isn’t it pretty, coming out of the dark in that way?  Look ­look down.  There’s Mrs. Gregory wiping her eyes!”

“It’s like Home, rather,” said Scott.  “I remember ­”

“Hsh!  Listen! ­dear.”  And it began again: 

“When shepherds watched their flocks by night ­”

“A-h-h!” said William, drawing closer to Scott.

“All seated on the ground,
The Angel of the Lord came down,
And glory shone around. 
‘Fear not,’ said he (for mighty dread
Had seized their troubled mind);
’Glad tidings of great joy I bring
To you and all mankind.’”

This time it was William that wiped her eyes.


A locomotive is, next to a marine engine, the most sensitive thing man ever made; and No. .007, besides being sensitive, was new.  The red paint was hardly dry on his spotless bumper-bar, his headlight shone like a fireman’s helmet, and his cab might have been a hard-wood-finish parlour.  They had run him into the round-house after his trial ­he had said good-bye to his best friend in the shops, the overhead travelling-crane ­the big world was just outside; and the other locos were taking stock of him.  He looked at the semicircle of bold, unwinking headlights, heard the low purr and mutter of the steam mounting in the gauges ­scornful hisses of contempt as a slack valve lifted a little ­and would have given a month’s oil for leave to crawl through his own driving-wheels into the brick ash-pit beneath him. .007 was an eight-wheeled “American” loco, slightly different from others of his type, and as he stood he was worth ten thousand dollars on the Company’s books.  But if you had bought him at his own valuation, after half an hour’s waiting in the darkish, echoing round-house, you would have saved exactly nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars and ninety-eight cents.

A heavy Mogul freight, with a short cow-catcher and a fire-box that came down within three inches of the rail, began the impolite game, speaking to a Pittsburgh Consolidation, who was visiting.

“Where did this thing blow in from?” he asked, with a dreamy puff of light steam.

“it’s all I can do to keep track of our makes,” was the answer, “without lookin’ after your back-numbers.  Guess it’s something Peter Cooper left over when he died.”

.007 quivered; his steam was getting up, but he held his tongue.  Even a hand-car knows what sort of locomotive it was that Peter Cooper experimented upon in the far-away Thirties.  It carried its coal and water in two apple-barrels, and was not much bigger than a bicycle.

Then up and spoke a small, newish switching-engine, with a little step in front of his bumper-timber, and his wheels so close together that he looked like a broncho getting ready to buck.

“Something’s wrong with the road when a Pennsylvania gravel-pusher tells us anything about our stock, I think.  That kid’s all right.  Eustis designed him, and Eustis designed me.  Ain’t that good enough?”

.007 could have carried the switching-loco round the yard in his tender, but he felt grateful for even this little word of consolation.

“We don’t use hand-cars on the Pennsylvania,” said the Consolidation.  “That ­er ­peanut-stand is old enough and ugly enough to speak for himself.”

“He hasn’t bin spoken to yet.  He’s bin spoke at.  Hain’t ye any manners on the Pennsylvania?” said the switching-loco.

“You ought to be in the yard, Poney,” said the Mogul, severely.  “We’re all long-haulers here.”

“That’s what you think,” the little fellow replied.  “You’ll know more ’fore the night’s out.  I’ve bin down to Track 17, and the freight there ­oh, Christmas!”

“I’ve trouble enough in my own division,” said a lean, light suburban loco with very shiny brake-shoes.  “My commuters wouldn’t rest till they got a parlourcar.  They’ve hitched it back of all, and it hauls worsen a snow-plough.  I’ll snap her off someday sure, and then they’ll blame every one except their foolselves.  They’ll be askin’ me to haul a vestibuled next!”

“They made you in New Jersey, didn’t they?” said Poney.  “Thought so.  Commuters and truck-wagons ain’t any sweet haulin’, but I tell you they’re a heap better ‘n cuttin’ out refrigerator-cars or oil-tanks.  Why, I’ve hauled ­”

“Haul!  You?” said the Mogul, contemptuously.  “It’s all you can do to bunt a cold-storage car up the yard.  Now, I ­” he paused a little to let the words sink in ­“I handle the Flying Freight ­e-leven cars worth just anything you please to mention.  On the stroke of eleven I pull out; and I’m timed for thirty-five an hour.  Costly-perishable-fragile, immediate ­that’s me!  Suburban traffic’s only but one degree better than switching.  Express freight’s what pays.”

“Well, I ain’t given to blowing, as a rule,” began the Pittsburgh Consolidation.

“No?  You was sent in here because you grunted on the grade,” Poney interrupted.

“Where I grunt, you’d lie down, Poney:  but, as I was saying, I don’t blow much.  Notwithstandin’, if you want to see freight that is freight moved lively, you should see me warbling through the Alleghanies with thirty-seven ore-cars behind me, and my brakemen fightin’ tramps so’s they can’t attend to my tooter.  I have to do all the holdin’ back then, and, though I say it, I’ve never had a load get away from me yet.  No, sir.  Haulin’s’s one thing, but judgment and discretion’s another.  You want judgment in my business.”

“Ah!  But ­but are you not paralysed by a sense of your overwhelming responsibilities?” said a curious, husky voice from a corner.

“Who’s that?".007 whispered to the Jersey commuter.

“Compound-experiment-N.G.  She’s bin switchin’ in the B. & A. yards for six months, when she wasn’t in the shops.  She’s economical (I call it mean) in her coal, but she takes it out in repairs.  Ahem!  I presume you found Boston somewhat isolated, madam, after your New York season?”

“I am never so well occupied as when I am alone.”  The Compound seemed to be talking from half-way up her smoke-stack.

“Sure,” said the irreverent Poney, under his breath.  “They don’t hanker after her any in the yard.”

“But, with my constitution and temperament ­my work lies in Boston ­I find your outrecuidance ­”

“Outer which?” said the Mogul freight.  “Simple cylinders are good enough for me.”

“Perhaps I should have said faroucherie,” hissed the Compound.

“I don’t hold with any make of papier-mâche wheel,” the Mogul insisted.

The Compound sighed pityingly, and said no more.

“Git ’em all shapes in this world, don’t ye?” said Poney, “that’s Mass’chusetts all over.  They half start, an’ then they stick on a dead-centre, an’ blame it all on other folk’s ways o’ treatin’ them.  Talkin’ o’ Boston, Comanche told me, last night, he had a hot-box just beyond the Newtons, Friday.  That was why, he says, the Accommodation was held up.  Made out no end of a tale, Comanche did.”

“If I’d heard that in the shops, with my boiler out for repairs, I’d know ‘t was one o’ Comanche’s lies,” the New Jersey commuter snapped.  “Hot-box!  Him!  What happened was they’d put an extra car on, and he just lay down on the grade and squealed.  They had to send 127 to help him through.  Made it out a hotbox, did he?  Time before that he said he was ditched!  Looked me square in the headlight and told me that as cool as ­as a water-tank in a cold wave.  Hot-box!  You ask 127 about Comanche’s hot-box.  Why, Comanche he was side-tracked, and 127 (he was just about as mad as they make ’em on account o’ being called out at ten o’clock at night) took hold and snapped her into Boston in seventeen minutes.  Hot-box!  Hot fraud! that’s what Comanche is.”

The put both drivers and his pilot into it, as the saying is, for he asked what sort of thing a hot-box might be?

“Paint my bell sky-blue!” said Poney, the switcher.  “Make me a surface-railroad loco with a hard-wood skirtin’-board round my wheels.  Break me up and cast me into five-cent sidewalk-fakirs’ mechanical toys!  Here’s an eight-wheel coupled ‘American’ don’t know what a hot-box is!  Never heard of an emergency-stop either, did ye?  Don’t know what ye carry jack-screws for?  You’re too innocent to be left alone with your own tender.  Oh, you ­you flatcar!”

There was a roar of escaping steam before any one could answer, and .007 nearly blistered his paint off with pure mortification.

“A hot-box,” began the Compound, picking and choosing her words as though they were coal, “a hotbox is the penalty exacted from inexperience by haste.  Ahem!”

“Hot-box!” said the Jersey Suburban.  “It’s the price you pay for going on the tear.  It’s years since I’ve had one.  It’s a disease that don’t attack shorthaulers, as a rule.”

“We never have hot-boxes on the Pennsylvania,” said the Consolidation.  “They get ’em in New York ­same as nervous prostration.”

“Ah, go home on a ferry-boat,” said the Mogul.  “You think because you use worse grades than our road ’u’d allow, you’re a kind of Alleghany angel.  Now, I’ll tell you what you...  Here’s my folk.  Well, I can’t stop.  See you later, perhaps.”

He rolled forward majestically to the turn-table, and swung like a man-of-war in a tideway, till he picked up his track.  “But as for you, you pea-green swiveling’ coffee-pot (this t’), you go out and learn something before you associate with those who’ve made more mileage in a week than you’ll roll up in a year.  Costly-perishable-fragile immediate ­that’s me!  S’ long.”

“Split my tubes if that’s actin’ polite to a new member o’ the Brotherhood,” said Poney.  “There wasn’t any call to trample on ye like that.  But manners was left out when Moguls was made.  Keep up your fire, kid, an’ burn your own smoke.  ’Guess we’ll all be wanted in a minute.”

Men were talking rather excitedly in the roundhouse.  One man, in a dingy jersey, said that he hadn’t any locomotives to waste on the yard.  Another man, with a piece of crumpled paper in his hand, said that the yard-master said that he was to say that if the other man said anything, he (the other man) was to shut his head.  Then the other man waved his arms, and wanted to know if he was expected to keep locomotives in his hip-pocket.  Then a man in a black Prince Albert, without a collar, came up dripping, for it was a hot August night, and said that what he said went; and between the three of them the locomotives began to go, too ­first the Compound; then the Consolidation; the.

Now, deep down in his fire-box, .007 had cherished a hope that as soon as his trial was done, he would be led forth with songs and shoutings, and attached to a green-and-chocolate vestibuled flyer, under charge of a bold and noble engineer, who would pat him on his back, and weep over him, and call him his Arab steed. (The boys in the shops where he was built used to read wonderful stories of railroad life, and .007 expected things to happen as he had heard.) But there did not seem to be many vestibuled fliers in the roaring, rumbling, electric-lighted yards, and his engineer only said: 

“Now, what sort of a fool-sort of an injector has Eustis loaded on to this rig this time?” And he put the lever over with an angry snap, crying:  “Am I supposed to switch with this thing, hey?”

The collarless man mopped his head, and replied that, in the present state of the yard and freight and a few other things, the engineer would switch and keep on switching till the cows came home. .007 pushed out gingerly, his heart in his headlight, so nervous that the clang of his own bell almost made him jump the track.  Lanterns waved, or danced up and down, before and behind him; and on every side, six tracks deep, sliding backward and forward, with clashings of couplers and squeals of hand-brakes, were cars ­more cars than .007 had dreamed of.  There were oil-cars, and hay-cars, and stock-cars full of lowing beasts, and ore-cars, and potato-cars with stovepipe-ends sticking out in the middle; cold-storage and refrigerator cars dripping ice water on the tracks; ventilated fruit ­and milk-cars; flatcars with truck-wagons full of market-stuff; flat-cars loaded with reapers and binders, all red and green and gilt under the sizzling electric lights; flat-cars piled high with strong-scented hides, pleasant hemlock-plank, or bundles of shingles; flat-cars creaking to the weight of thirty-ton castings, angle-irons, and rivet-boxes for some new bridge; and hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of box-cars loaded, locked, and chalked.  Men ­hot and angry ­crawled among and between and under the thousand wheels; men took flying jumps through his cab, when he halted for a moment; men sat on his pilot as he went forward, and on his tender as he returned; and regiments of men ran along the tops of the box-cars beside him, screwing down brakes, waving their arms, and crying curious things.

He was pushed forward a foot at a time; whirled backward, his rear drivers clinking and clanking, a quarter of a mile; jerked into a switch (yard-switches are very stubby and unaccommodating), bunted into a Red D, or Merchant’s Transport car, and, with no hint or knowledge of the weight behind him, started up anew.  When his load was fairly on the move, three or four cars would be cut off, and .007 would bound forward, only to be held hiccupping on the brake.  Then he would wait a few minutes, watching the whirled lanterns, deafened with the clang of the bells, giddy with the vision of the sliding cars, his brake-pump panting forty to the minute, his front coupler lying sideways on his cow-catcher, like a tired dog’s tongue in his mouth, and the whole of him covered with half-burnt coal-dust.

“’Tisn’t so easy switching with a straight-backed tender,” said his little friend of the round-house, bustling by at a trot.  “But you’re comin’ on pretty fair.  ‘Ever seen a flyin’ switch?  No?  Then watch me.”

Poney was in charge of a dozen heavy flat-cars.  Suddenly he shot away from them with a sharp “Whutt!” A switch opened in the shadows ahead; he turned up it like a rabbit as it snapped behind him, and the long line of twelve-foot-high lumber jolted on into the arms of a full-sized road-loco, who acknowledged receipt with a dry howl.

“My man’s reckoned the smartest in the yard at that trick,” he said, returning.  “Gives me cold shivers when another fool tries it, though.  That’s where my short wheel-base comes in.  Like as not you’d have your tender scraped off if you tried it.”

.007 had no ambitions that way, and said so.

“No?  Of course this ain’t your regular business, but say, don’t you think it’s interestin’?  Have you seen the yard-master?  Well, he’s the greatest man on earth, an’ don’t you forget it.  When are we through?  Why, kid, it’s always like this, day an’ night ­Sundays an’ week-days.  See that thirty-car freight slidin’ in four, no, five tracks off?  She’s all mixed freight, sent here to be sorted out into straight trains.  That’s why we’re cuttin’ out the cars one by one.”  He gave a vigorous push to a west-bound car as he spoke, and started back with a little snort of surprise, for the car was an old friend ­an M. T. K. box-car.

“Jack my drivers, but it’s Homeless Kate!  Why, Kate, ain’t there no gettin’ you back to your friends?  There’s forty chasers out for you from your road, if there’s one.  Who’s holdin’ you now?”

“Wish I knew,” whimpered Homeless Kate.  “I belong in Topeka, but I’ve bin to Cedar Rapids; I’ve bin to Winnipeg; I’ve bin to Newport News; I’ve bin all down the old Atlanta and West Point; an’ I’ve bin to Buffalo.  Maybe I’ll fetch up at Haverstraw.  I’ve only bin out ten months, but I’m homesick ­I’m just achin’ homesick.”

“Try Chicago, Katie,” said the switching-loco; and the battered old car lumbered down the track, jolting:  “I want to be in Kansas when the sunflowers bloom.”

“‘Yard’s full o’ Homeless Kates an’ Wanderin’ Willies,” he explained t.  “I knew an old Fitchburg flat-car out seventeen months; an’ one of ours was gone fifteen ’fore ever we got track of her.  Dunno quite how our men fix it.  ’Swap around, I guess.  Anyway, I’ve done my duty.  She’s on her way to Kansas, via Chicago; but I’ll lay my next boilerful she’ll be held there to wait consignee’s convenience, and sent back to us with wheat in the fall.”

Just then the Pittsburgh Consolidation passed, at the head of a dozen cars.

“I’m goin’ home,” he said proudly.

“Can’t get all them twelve on to the flat.  Break ’em in half, Dutchy!” cried Poney.  But it wa who was backed down to the last six cars, and he nearly blew up with surprise when he found himself pushing them on to a huge ferry-boat.  He had never seen deep water before, and shivered as the flat drew away and left his bogies within six inches of the black, shiny tide.

After this he was hurried to the freight-house, where he saw the yard-master, a smallish, white-faced man in shirt, trousers, and slippers, looking down upon a sea of trucks, a mob of bawling truckmen, and squadrons of backing, turning, sweating, spark-striking horses.

“That’s shippers’ carts loadin’ on to the receivin’ trucks,” said the small engine, reverently.  “But he don’t care.  He lets ’em cuss.  He’s the Czar-King-Boss!  He says ‘Please,’ and then they kneel down an’ pray.  There’s three or four strings o’ today’s freight to be pulled before he can attend to them.  When he waves his hand that way, things happen.”

A string of loaded cars slid out down the track, and a string of empties took their place.  Bales, crates, boxes, jars, carboys, frails, cases, and packages flew into them from the freight-house as though the cars had been magnets and they iron filings.

“Ki-yah!” shrieked little Poney.  “Ain’t it great?”

A purple-faced truckman shouldered his way to the yard-master, and shook his fist under his nose.  The yard-master never looked up from his bundle of freight receipts.  He crooked his forefinger slightly, and a tall young man in a red shirt, lounging carelessly beside him, hit the truckman under the left ear, so that he dropped, quivering and clucking, on a hay-bale.

“Eleven, seven, ninety-seven, L. Y. S.; fourteen ought ought three; nineteen thirteen; one one four; seventeen ought twenty-one M. B.; and the ten westbound.  All straight except the two last.  Cut ’em off at the junction.  An’ that’s all right.  Pull that string.”  The yard-master, with mild blue eyes, looked out over the howling truckmen at the waters in the moonlight beyond, and hummed: 

“All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small,
All things wise and wonderful,
The Lawd Gawd He made all!”

.007 moved out the cars and delivered them to the regular road-engine.  He had never felt quite so limp in his life before.

“Curious, ain’t it?” said Poney, puffing, on the next track.  “You an’ me, if we got that man under our bumpers, we’d work him into red waste an’ not know what we’d done; but-up there ­with the steam hummin’ in his boiler that awful quiet way...”

“I know,” sai.  “Makes me feel as if I’d dropped my Fire an’ was getting cold.  He is the greatest man on earth.”

They were at the far north end of the yard now, under a switchtower, looking down on the four-track way of the main traffic.  The Boston Compound was to haul .007’s string to some far-away northern junction over an indifferent road-bed, and she mourned aloud for the ninety-six pound rails of the B. & A.

“You’re young; you’re young,” she coughed.  “You don’t realise your responsibilities.”

“Yes, he does,” said Poney, sharply; “but he don’t lie down under ’em.”  Then, with aside-spurt of steam, exactly like a tough spitting:  “There ain’t more than fifteen thousand dollars’ worth o’ freight behind her anyway, and she goes on as if ’t were a hundred thousand ­same as the Mogul’s.  Excuse me, madam, but you’ve the track....  She’s stuck on a dead-centre again ­bein’ specially designed not to.”

The Compound crawled across the tracks on a long slant, groaning horribly at each switch, and moving like a cow in a snow-drift.  There was a little pause along the yard after her tail-lights had disappeared; switches locked crisply, and every one seemed to be waiting.

“Now I’ll show you something worth,” said Poney.  “When the Purple Emperor ain’t on time, it’s about time to amend the Constitution.  The first stroke of twelve is ­”

“Boom!” went the clock in the big yard-tower, and far awa heard a full, vibrating “Yah!  Yah!  Yah!” A headlight twinkled on the horizon like a star, grew an overpowering blaze, and whooped up the humming track to the roaring music of a happy giant’s song: 

  “With a michnai ­ghignai ­shtingal!  Yah!  Yah!  Yah! 
   Ein ­zwei ­drei ­Mutter!  Yah!  Yah!  Yah! 
        She climb upon der shteeple,
        Und she frighten all der people. 
   Singin’ michnai ­ghignai ­shtingal!  Yah!  Yah!”

The last defiant “yah! yah!” was delivered a mile and a half beyond the passenger-depot; but .007 had caught one glimpse of the superb six-wheel-coupled racing-locomotive, who hauled the pride and glory of the road ­the gilt-edged Purple Emperor, the millionaires’ south-bound express, laying the miles over his shoulder as a man peels a shaving from a soft board.  The rest was a blur of maroon enamel, a bar of white light from the electrics in the cars, and a flicker of nickel-plated hand-rail on the rear platform.

“Ooh!” sai.

“Seventy-five miles an hour these five miles.  Baths, I’ve heard; barber’s shop; ticker; and a library and the rest to match.  Yes, sir; seventy-five an hour!  But he’ll talk to you in the round-house just as democratic as I would.  And I ­cuss my wheel-base! ­I’d kick clean off the track at half his gait.  He’s the Master of our Lodge.  Cleans up at our house.  I’ll introdooce you some day.  He’s worth knowin’!  There ain’t many can sing that song, either.”

.007 was too full of emotions to answer.  He did not hear a raging of telephone-bells in the switch-tower, nor the man, as he leaned out and called to .007’s engineer:  “Got any steam?”

“‘Nough to run her a hundred mile out o’ this, if I could,” said the engineer, who belonged to the open road and hated switching.

“Then get.  The Flying Freight’s ditched forty mile out, with fifty rod o’ track ploughed up.  No; no one’s hurt, but both tracks are blocked.  Lucky the wreckin’-car an’ derrick are this end of the yard.  Crew ’ll be along in a minute.  Hurry!  You’ve the track.”

“Well, I could jest kick my little sawed-off self,” said Poney, as .007 was backed, with a bang, on to a grim and grimy car like a caboose, but full of tools ­a flatcar and a derrick behind it.  “Some folks are one thing, and some are another; but you’re in luck, kid.  They push a wrecking-car.  Now, don’t get rattled.  Your wheel-base will keep you on the track, and there ain’t any curves worth mentionin’.  Oh, say!  Comanche told me there’s one section o’ sawedged track that’s liable to jounce ye a little.  Fifteen an’ a half out, after the grade at Jackson’s crossin’.  You’ll know it by a farmhouse an’ a windmill an’ five maples in the dooryard.  Windmill’s west o’ the maples.  An’ there’s an eighty-foot iron bridge in the middle o’ that section with no guard-rails.  See you later.  Luck!”

Before he knew well what had happened, .007 was flying up the track into the dumb, dark world.  Then fears of the night beset him.  He remembered all he had ever heard of landslides, rain-piled boulders, blown trees, and strayed cattle, all that the Boston Compound had ever said of responsibility, and a great deal more that came out of his own head.  With a very quavering voice he whistled for his first grade-crossing (an event in the life of a locomotive), and his nerves were in no way restored by the sight of a frantic horse and a white-faced man in a buggy less than a yard from his right shoulder.  Then he was sure he would jump the track; felt his flanges mounting the rail at every curve; knew that his first grade would make him lie down even as Comanche had done at the Newtons.  He whirled down the grade to Jackson’s crossing, saw the windmill west of the maples, felt the badly laid rails spring under him, and sweated big drops all over his boiler.  At each jarring bump he believed an axle had smashed, and he took the eighty-foot bridge without the guard-rail like a hunted cat on the top of a fence.  Then a wet leaf stuck against the glass of his headlight and threw a flying shadow on the track, so that he thought it was some little dancing animal that would feel soft if he ran over it; and anything soft underfoot frightens a locomotive as it does an elephant.  But the men behind seemed quite calm.  The wrecking-crew were climbing carelessly from the caboose to the tender ­even jesting with the engineer, for he heard a shuffling of feet among the coal, and the snatch of a song, something like this: 

   “Oh, the Empire State must learn to wait,
    And the Cannon-ball go hang! 
    When the West-bound’s ditched, and the tool-car’s hitched,
    And it’s ’way for the Breakdown Gang (Tare-ra!)
    ’Way for the Breakdown Gang!”

“Say!  Eustis knew what he was doin’ when he designed this rig.  She’s a hummer.  New, too.”

“Snff!  Phew!  She is new.  That ain’t paint, that’s ­”

A burning pain shot through .007’s right rear driver ­a crippling, stinging pain.

“This,” said .007, as he flew, “is a hot-box.  Now I know what it means.  I shall go to pieces, I guess.  My first road-run, too!”

“Het a bit, ain’t she?” the fireman ventured to suggest to the engineer.

“She’ll hold for all we want of her.  We’re ’most there.  Guess you chaps back had better climb into your car,” said the engineer, his hand on the brake lever.  “I’ve seen men snapped off ­”

But the crew fled back with laughter.  They had no wish to be jerked on to the track.  The engineer half turned his wrist, and .007 found his drivers pinned firm.

“Now it’s come!” said .007, as he yelled aloud, and slid like a sleigh.  For the moment he fancied that he would jerk bodily from off his underpinning.

“That must be the emergency-stop that Poney guyed me about,” he gasped, as soon as he could think.  “Hot-box-emergency-stop.  They both hurt; but now I can talk back in the round-house.”

He was halted, all hissing hot, a few feet in the rear of what doctors would call a compound-comminuted car.  His engineer was kneeling down among his drivers, but he did not cal his “Arab steed,” nor cry over him, as the engineers did in the newspapers.  He just bad worde, and pulled yards of charred cotton-waste from about the axles, and hoped he might some day catch the idiot who had packed it.  Nobody else attended to him, for Evans, the Mogul’s engineer, a little cut about the head, but very angry, was exhibiting, by lantern-light, the mangled corpse of a slim blue pig.

“T were n’t even a decent-sized hog,” he said. “’T were a shote.”

“Dangerousest beasts they are,” said one of the crew.  “Get under the pilot an’ sort o’ twiddle ye off the track, don’t they?”

“Don’t they?” roared Evans, who was a red-headed Welshman.  “You talk as if I was ditched by a hog every fool-day o’ the week.  I ain’t friends with all the cussed half-fed shotes in the State o’ New York.  No, indeed!  Yes, this is him ­an’ look what he’s done!”

It was not a bad night’s work for one stray piglet.  The Flying Freight seemed to have flown in every direction, for the Mogul had mounted the rails and run diagonally a few hundred feet from right to left, taking with him such cars as cared to follow.  Some did not.  They broke their couplers and lay down, while rear cars frolicked over them.  In that game, they had ploughed up and removed and twisted a good deal of the left-hand track.  The Mogul himself had waddled into a corn-field, and there he knelt ­fantastic wreaths of green twisted round his crankpins; his pilot covered with solid clods of field, on which corn nodded drunkenly; his fire put out with dirt (Evans had done that as soon as he recovered his senses); and his broken headlight half full of half-burnt moths.  His tender had thrown coal all over him, and he looked like a disreputable buffalo who had tried to wallow in a general store.  For there lay scattered over the landscape, from the burst cars, type-writers, sewing-machines, bicycles in crates, a consignment of silver-plated imported harness, French dresses and gloves, a dozen finely moulded hard-wood mantels, a fifteen-foot naphtha-launch, with a solid brass bedstead crumpled around her bows, a case of telescopes and microscopes, two coffins, a case of very best candies, some gilt-edged dairy produce, butter and eggs in an omelette, a broken box of expensive toys, and a few hundred other luxuries.  A camp of tramps hurried up from nowhere, and generously volunteered to help the crew.  So the brakemen, armed with coupler-pins, walked up and down on one side, and the freight-conductor and the fireman patrolled the other with their hands in their hip-pockets.  A long-bearded man came out of a house beyond the corn-field, and told Evans that if the accident had happened a little later in the year, all his corn would have been burned, and accused Evans of carelessness.  Then he ran away, for Evans was at his heels shrieking:  “’T was his hog done it ­his hog done it!  Let me kill him!  Let me kill him!” Then the wrecking-crew laughed; and the farmer put his head out of a window and said that Evans was no gentleman.

But .007 was very sober.  He had never seen a wreck before, and it frightened him.  The crew still laughed, but they worked at the same time; and 007 forgot horror in amazement at the way they handled the Mogul freight.  They dug round him with spades; they put ties in front of his wheels, and jack-screws under him; they embraced him with the derrick-chain and tickled him with crowbars; while .007 was hitched on to wrecked cars and backed away till the knot broke or the cars rolled clear of the track.  By dawn thirty or forty men were at work, replacing and ramming down the ties, gauging the rails and spiking them.  By daylight all cars who could move had gone on in charge of another loco; the track was freed for traffic; and 007 had hauled the old Mogul over a small pavement of ties, inch by inch, till his flanges bit the rail once more, and he settled down with a clank.  But his spirit was broken, and his nerve was gone.

“’T weren’t even a hog,” he repeated dolefully; “’t were a shote; and you ­you of all of ’em ­had to help me on.”

“But how in the whole long road did it happen?” asked 007, sizzling with curiosity.

“Happen!  It didn’t happen!  It just come!  I sailed right on top of him around that last curve ­thought he was a skunk.  Yes; he was all as little as that.  He hadn’t more ’n squealed once ’fore I felt my bogies lift (he’d rolled right under the pilot), and I couldn’t catch the track again to save me.  Swivelled clean off, I was.  Then I felt him sling himself along, all greasy, under my left leadin’ driver, and, oh, Boilers! that mounted the rail.  I heard my flanges zippin’ along the ties, an’ the next I knew I was playin’ ‘Sally, Sally Waters’ in the corn, my tender shuckin’ coal through my cab, an’ old man Evans lyin’ still an’ bleedin’ in front o’ me.  Shook?  There ain’t a stay or a bolt or a rivet in me that ain’t sprung to glory somewhere.”

“Umm!” said 007.  “What d’ you reckon you weigh?”

“Without these lumps o’ dirt I’m all of a hundred thousand pound.”

“And the shote?”

“Eighty.  Call him a hundred pound at the outside.  He’s worth about four ‘n’ a half dollars.  Ain’t it awful?  Ain’t it enough to give you nervous prostration?  Ain’t it paralysin’?  Why, I come just around that curve ­” and the Mogul told the tale again, for he was very badly shaken.

“Well, it’s all in the day’s run, I guess,” said 007, soothingly; “an’ ­an’ a corn-field’s pretty soft fallin’.”

“If it had bin a sixty-foot bridge, an’ I could ha’ slid off into deep water an’ blown up an’ killed both men, same as others have done, I wouldn’t ha’ cared; but to be ditched by a shote ­an’ you to help me out ­in a corn-field ­an’ an old hayseed in his nightgown cussin’ me like as if I was a sick truck-horse!...  Oh, it’s awful!  Don’t call me Mogul!  I’m a sewin’-machine, they’ll guy my sand-box off in the yard.”

And 007, his hot-box cooled and his experience vastly enlarged, hauled the Mogul freight slowly to the roundhouse.

“Hello, old man!  Bin out all night, hain’t ye?” said the irrepressible Poney, who had just come off duty.  “Well, I must say you look it.  Costly-perishable-fragile-immediate ­that’s you!  Go to the shops, take them vine-leaves out o’ your hair, an’ git ’em to play the hose on you.”

“Leave him alone, Poney,” said 007 severely, as he was swung on the turn-table, “or I’ll ­”

“‘Didn’t know the old granger was any special friend o’ yours, kid.  He wasn’t over-civil to you last time I saw him.”

“I know it; but I’ve seen a wreck since then, and it has about scared the paint off me.  I’m not going to guy anyone as long as I steam ­not when they’re new to the business an’ anxious to learn.  And I’m not goin’ to guy the old Mogul either, though I did find him wreathed around with roastin’-ears.  ’T was a little bit of a shote ­not a hog ­just a shote, Poney ­no bigger’n a lump of anthracite ­I saw it ­that made all the mess.  Anybody can be ditched, I guess.”

“Found that out already, have you?  Well, that’s a good beginnin’.”  It was the Purple Emperor, with his high, tight, plate-glass cab and green velvet cushion, waiting to be cleaned for his next day’s fly.

“Let me make you two gen’lemen acquainted,” said Poney.  “This is our Purple Emperor, kid, whom you were admirin’ and, I may say, envyin’ last night.  This is a new brother, worshipful sir, with most of his mileage ahead of him, but, so far as a serving-brother can, I’ll answer for him.’

“’Happy to meet you,” said the Purple Emperor, with a glance round the crowded round-house.  “I guess there are enough of us here to form a full meetin’.  Ahem!  By virtue of the authority vested in me as Head of the Road, I hereby declare and pronounce No..007 a full and accepted Brother of the Amalgamated Brotherhood of Locomotives, and as such entitled to all shop, switch, track, tank, and round-house privileges throughout my jurisdiction, in the Degree of Superior Flier, it bein’ well known and credibly reported to me that our Brother has covered forty-one miles in thirty-nine minutes and a half on an errand of mercy to the afflicted.  At a convenient time, I myself will communicate to you the Song and Signal of this Degree whereby you may be recognised in the darkest night.  Take your stall, newly entered Brother among Locomotives!”

Now, in the darkest night, even as the Purple Emperor said, if you will stand on the bridge across the freightyard, looking down upon the four-track way, at 2:30 A. M., neither before nor after, when the White Moth, that takes the overflow from the Purple Emperor, tears south with her seven vestibuled cream-white cars, you will hear, as the yard-clock makes the half-hour, a far-away sound like the bass of a violoncello, and then, a hundred feet to each word,

“With a michnai ­ghignai ­shtingal!  Yah!  Yah!  Yah! 
Ein ­zwei ­drei ­Mutter!  Yah!  Yah!  Yah! 
She climb upon der shteeple,
Und she frighten all der people,
Singin’ michnai ­ghignai ­shtingal!  Yah!  Yah!”

That is 007 covering his one hundred and fifty-six miles in two hundred and twenty-one minutes.