interfering with my coolies in the day. He was generally hampering
my men, but I had never taken any notice of his vagaries till then.
In another minute we were arguing away, hammer and tongs. If it had
been any other man I'd 'a' simply thrown the lamp at his head. He was
calling me all the mean names under the sun, accusing me of misusing my
authority and goodness only knows what all. When he had talked himself
down one stretch, I had only to say a few words to start him off again,
as fresh as a daisy. On my word, this jabbering went on for nearly
three hours."
"Why didn't you get coolies and have him tied up, if you thought he was
mad?" asked Revel.
"Not a safe business, believe me. Wrongful restraint on your own
responsibility of a man nearly your own standing looks ugly. Well,
Stovey went on bullying me and complaining about everything I'd ever
said or done since I came on the Canal, till--he went fast asleep."
"Wha-at?"
"Went off dead asleep, just as if he'd been drugged. I thought the
brute had had a fit at first, but there he was, with his head hanging
a little on one side and his mouth open. I knocked up his bearer and
told him to take the man to bed. We carried him off and shoved him on
his charpoy. He was still asleep, and I didn't think it worth while
to undress him. The fit, whatever it was, had worked itself out, and
he was limp and used up. But as I was going to leave the room, and
went to turn the lamp down, I looked in the glass and saw that he was
watching me between his eyelids. When I spun round he seemed asleep.
'That's your game, is it?' I thought, and I stood over him long enough
to see that he was shamming. Then I cast an eye round the room and
saw his Martini in the corner. We were all _bullumteers_ on the Canal
works. I couldn't find the cartridges, so to make all serene I knocked
the breech-pin out with the cleaning-rod and went to my own room. I
didn't go to sleep for some time. About one o'clock--our rooms were
only divided by a door of sorts, and my bed was close to it--I heard
my friend open a chest of drawers. Then he went for the Martini. Of
course, the breech-block came out with a rattle. Then he went back to
bed again, and I nearly laughed.
"Next morning he was doing the genial, hail-fellow-well-met trick.
Said he was afraid he'd lost his temper overnight, and apologised for
it. About half way through breakfast--he was talking thickly about
everything and anything--he said he'd come to the conclusion that a
beard was a beastly nuisance and made one stuffy. He was going to shave
his. Would I lend him my razors? 'Oh, you're a crafty beast, you are,'
I said to myself. I told him that I was of the other opinion, and
finding my razors nearly worn out had chucked them into the Canal only
the night before. He gave me one look under his eyebrows and went on
with his breakfast. I was in a stew lest the man should cut his throat
with one of the breakfast knives, so I kept one eye on him most of the
time.
"Before I left the bungalow I caught old Jeewun Singh, one of the
_mistries_ on the gates, and gave him strict orders that he was to
keep in sight of the Sahib wherever he went and whatever he did; and
if he did or tried to do anything foolish, such as jumping down the
well, Jeewun Singh was to stop him. The old man tumbled at once, and
I was easier in my mind when I saw how he was shadowing Stovey up and
down the works. Then I sat down and wrote a letter to old Baggs, the
Civil Surgeon at Chemanghath, about sixty miles off, telling him how
we stood. The runner left about three o'clock. Jeewun Singh turned up
at the end of the day and gave a full, true and particular account of
Stovey's doings. D'you know what the brute had done?"
"Spare us the agony. Kill him straight off, Saveloy!"
"He'd stopped the runner, opened the bag, read my letter and torn it
up! There were only two letters in the bag, both of which I'd written.
I was pretty _average_ angry, but I lay low. At dinner he said he'd got
a touch of dysentery and wanted some chlorodyne. For a man anxious to
depart this life he was _about_ as badly equipped as you could wish.
Hadn't even a medicine-chest to play with. He was no more suffering
from dysentery than I, but I said I'd give him the chlorodyne, and so
I did--fifteen drops, mixed in a wine-glass, and when he asked for the
bottle I said that I hadn't any more.
"That night he began praying again, and I just lay in bed and
shuddered. He was invoking the most blasphemous curses on my head--all
in a whisper, for fear of waking me up--for frustrating what he called
his 'great and holy purpose.' You never heard anything like it. But as
long as he was praying I knew he was alive, and he ran his praying half
through the night.
"Well, for the next ten days he was apparently quite rational; but I
watched him and told Jeewun Singh to watch him like a cat. I suppose he
wanted to throw me off my guard, but I wasn't to be thrown. I grew thin
watching him. Baggs wrote in to say he had gone on tour and couldn't be
found anywhere in particular for another six weeks. It was a ghastly
time.
"One day old Jeewun Singh turned up with a bit of paper that Stovey
had given to one of the _lohars_ as a _naksha_. I thought it was mean
work spying into another man's very plans, but when I saw what was on
the paper I gave old Jeewun Singh a rupee. It was a be-auti-ful little
breech-pin. The one-idead idiot had gone back to Martini! I never
dreamt of such persistence. 'Tell me when the _lohar_ gives it to the
Sahib,' I said, and I felt more comfy for a few days. Even if Jeewun
Singh hadn't split I should have known when the new breech-pin was
made. The brute came in to dinner with a dashed confident, triumphant
air, as if he'd done me in the eye at last; and all through dinner he
was fiddling in his waistcoat pocket. He went to bed early. I went,
too, and I put my head against the door and listened like a woman. I
must have been shivering in my pyjamas for about two hours before my
friend went for the dismantled Martini. He could not get the breech-pin
to fit at first. He rummaged about, and then I heard a file go. That
seemed to make too much noise to suit his fancy, so he opened the door
and went out into the compound, and I heard him, about fifty yards off,
filing in the dark at that breech-pin as if he had been possessed.
Well, he _was_, you know. Then he came back to the light, cursing me
for keeping him out of his rest and the peace of Abraham's bosom. As
soon as I heard him taking up the Martini, I ran round to his door and
tried to enter gaily, as the stage directions say. 'Lend me your gun,
old man, if you're awake,' I said. 'There's a howling big brute of a
pariah in my room, and I want to get a shot at it.' I pretended not
to notice that he was standing over the gun, but just pranced up and
caught hold of it. He turned round with a jump and said: 'I'm sick of
this. I'll see that dog, and if it's another of your lies I'll----' You
know I'm not a moral man."
"Hear! hear!" drowsily from Martha.
"But I simply daren't repeat what he said. 'All right!' I said, still
hanging on to the gun. 'Come along and we'll bowl him over.' He
followed me into my room with a face like a fiend in torment. And,
as truly as I'm yarning here, there _was_ a huge brindled beast of a
pariah sitting _on my bed_!"
"Tall, sir, tall. But go on. The audience is now awake."
"Hang it! Could I have invented that pariah? Stovey dropped of the gun
and flopped down in a corner and yowled. I went '_ee ki ri ki re!_'
like a woman in hysterics, pitched the gun forward and loosed off
through a window."
"And the pariah?"
"He quitted for the time being. Stovey was in an awful state. He swore
the animal hadn't been there when I called him. That was true enough. I
firmly believe Providence put it there to save me from being killed by
the infuriated Stovey."
"You've too lively a belief in Providence altogether. What happened?"
"Stovey tried to recover himself and pass it all over, but he let me
keep the gun and went to bed. About two days afterwards old Baggs
turned up on tour, and I told him Stovey wanted watching--more than
I could give him. I don't know whether Baggs or the _pi_ did it, but
he didn't throw any more suicidal splints. I was transferred a little
while afterwards."
"Ever meet the man again?"
"Yes; once at Sheik Katan dâk bungalow--trailing the big brindle _pi_
after him."
"Oh, it was real, then. I thought it was arranged for the occasion."
"Not a bit. It was a _pukka pi_. Stovey seemed to remember me in the
same way that a horse seems to remember. I fancy his brain was a
little cloudy. We tiffined together--_after_ the _pi_ had been fed,
if you please--and Stovey said to me: 'See that dog? He saved my life
once. Oh, by the way, I believe you were there, too, weren't you?' I
shouldn't care to work with Stovey again."
* * * * *
There was a holy pause in the smoking-room of the Toopare Club.
"What I like about Saveloy's play," said Martha, looking at the
ceiling, "is the beautifully artistic way in which he follows up a
flush with a full. Go to bed, old man!"
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 15: From the "Week's News," April 7, 1888.]
"SLEIPNER," LATE "THURINDA"[16]
There are men, both good and wise, who hold that in a future state
Dumb creatures we have cherished here below
Will give us joyous welcome as we pass the Golden Gate.
Is it folly if I hope it may be so?
--_The Place Where the Old Horse Died._
If there were any explanation available here, I should be the first
person to offer it. Unfortunately, there is not, and I am compelled to
confine myself to the facts of the case as vouched for by Hordene and
confirmed by "Guj," who is the last man in the world to throw away a
valuable horse for nothing.
Jale came up with _Thurinda_ to the Shayid Spring meeting; and
besides _Thurinda_ his string included _Divorce_, _Meg's Diversions_
and _Benoni_--ponies of sorts. He won the Officers' Scurry--five
furlongs--with _Benoni_ on the first day, and that sent up the price of
the stable in the evening lotteries; for _Benoni_ was the worst-looking
of the three, being a pigeon-toed, split-chested _dâk_ horse, with a
wonderful gift of blundering in on his shoulders--ridden out to the
last ounce--but _first_. Next day Jale was riding _Divorce_ in the
Wattle and Dab Stakes--round the jump course; and she turned over at
the on-and-off course when she was leading and managed to break her
neck. She never stirred from the place where she dropped, and Jale did
not move either till he was carried off the ground to his tent close
to the big _shamiana_ where the lotteries were held. He had ricked his
back, and everything below the hips was as dead as timber. Otherwise he
was perfectly well. The doctor said that the stiffness would spread and
that he would die before the next morning. Jale insisted upon knowing
the worst, and when he heard it sent a pencil note to the Honorary
Secretary, saying that they were not to stop the races or do anything
foolish of that kind. If he hung on till the next day the nominations
for the third day's racing would not be void, and he would settle up
all claims before he threw up his hand. This relieved the Honorary
Secretary, because most of the horses had come from a long distance,
and, under any circumstance, even had the Judge dropped dead in the
box, it would have been impossible to have postponed the racing. There
was a great deal of money on the third day, and five or six of the
owners were gentlemen who would make even one day's delay an excuse.
Well, settling would not be easy. No one knew much about Jale. He was
an outsider from down country, but every one hoped that, since he was
doomed, he would live through the third day and save trouble.
Jale lay on his charpoy in the tent and asked the doctor and the man
who catered to the refreshments--he was the nearest at the time--to
witness his will. "I don't know how long my arms will be workable,"
said Jale, "and we'd better get this business over." The private
arrangements of the will concern nobody but Jale's friends; but there
was one clause that was rather curious. "Who was that man with the
brindled hair who put me up for a night until the tent was ready? The
man who rode down to pick me up when I was smashed. Nice sort of fellow
he seemed." "Hordene?" said the doctor. "Yes, Hordene. Good chap,
Hordene. He keeps Bull whisky. Write down that I give this Johnnie
Hordene _Thurinda_ for his own, if he can sell the other ponies.
_Thurinda's_ a good mare. He can enter her--post-entry--for the All
Horse Sweep if he likes--on the last day. Have you got that down? I
suppose the Stewards'll recognise the gift?" "No trouble about that,"
said the doctor. "All right. Give him the other two ponies to sell.
They're entered for the last day, but I shall be dead then. Tell him to
send the money to----" Here he gave an address. "Now I'll sign and you
sign, and that's all. This deadness is coming up between my shoulders."
Jale lived, dying very slowly, till the third day's racing, and up
till the time of the lotteries on the fourth day's racing. The doctor
was rather surprised. Hordene came in to thank him for his gift, and
to suggest it would be much better to sell _Thurinda_ with the others.
She was the best of them all, and would have fetched twelve hundred on
her looking-over merits only. "Don't you bother," said Jale. "You take
her. I rather liked you. I've got no people, and that Bull whisky was
first-class stuff. I'm pegging out now, I think."
The lottery-tent outside was beginning to fill, and Jale heard the
click of the dice. "That's all right," said he. "I wish I was there,
but--I'm--going to the drawer." Then he died quietly. Hordene went into
the lottery-tent, after calling the doctor. "How's Jale?" said the
Honorary Secretary. "Gone to the drawer," said Hordene, settling into
a chair and reaching out for a lottery paper. "Poor beggar!" said the
Honorary Secretary. "'Twasn't the fault of our on-and-off, though. The
mare blundered. Gentlemen! gentlemen! Nine hundred and eighty rupees
in the lottery, and _River of Years_ for sale!" The lottery lasted
far into the night, and there was a supplementary lottery on the All
Horse Sweep, where _Thurinda_ sold for a song, and was not bought by
her owner. "It's not lucky," said Hordene, and the rest of the men
agreed with him. "I ride her myself, but I don't know anything about
her and I wish to goodness I hadn't taken her," said he. "Oh, bosh!
Never refuse a horse or a drink, however you come by them. No one
objects, do they? Not going to refer this matter to Calcutta, are we?
Here, somebody, bid! Eleven hundred and fifty rupees in the lottery,
and _Thurinda_--absolutely unknown, acquired under the most romantic
circumstances from about _the_ toughest man it has ever been my good
fortune to meet--for sale. Hullo, Nurji, is that you? Gentlemen, where
a Pagan bids shall enlightened Christians hang back? Ten! Going, going,
gone!" "You want ha-af, sar?" said the battered native trainer to
Hordene. "No, thanks--not a bit of her for me."
The All Horse Sweep was run, and won by _Thurinda_ by about a street
and three-quarters, to be very accurate, amid derisive cheers, which
Hordene, who flattered himself that he knew something about riding,
could not understand. On pulling up he looked over his shoulder and
saw that the second horse was only just passing the box. "Now, how did
I make such a fool of myself?" he said as he returned to weigh out.
His friends gathered round him and asked tenderly whether this was
the first time that he had got up, and whether it was _absolutely_
necessary that the winning horse should be ridden out when the field
were hopelessly pumped, a quarter of a mile behind, etc., etc.
"I--I--thought _River of Years_ was pressing me," explained Hordene.
"_River of Years_ was wallowing, absolutely wallowing," said a man,
"before you turned into the straight. You rode like a--hang it--like a
Militia subaltern!"
The Shayid Spring meeting broke up and the sportsmen turned their
steps towards the next carcase--the Ghoriah Spring. With them went
_Thurinda's_ owner, the happy possessor of an almost perfect animal.
"She's as easy as a Pullman car and about twice as fast," he was wont
to say in moments of confidence to his intimates. "For all her bulk,
she's as handy as a polo-pony; a child might ride her, and when she's
at the post she's as cute--she's as cute as the bally starter himself."
Many times had Hordene said this, till at last one unsympathetic
friend answered with: "When a man _bukhs_ too much about his wife or
his horse, it's a sure sign he's trying to make himself like 'em. I
mistrust your _Thurinda_. She's too good, or else----" "Or else what?"
"You're trying to believe you like her." "Like her! I _love_ her! I
trust that darling as I'm shot if I'd trust you. I'd hack her for
tuppence." "Hack away, then. I don't want to hurt your feelings. I
don't hack my stable myself, but some horses go better for it. Come and
peacock at the band-stand this evening." To the band-stand accordingly
Hordene came, and the lovely _Thurinda_ comported herself with all the
gravity and decorum that might have been expected. Hordene rode home
with the scoffer, through the dusk, discoursing on matters indifferent.
"Hold up a minute," said his friend, "there's Gagley riding behind
us." Then, raising his voice: "Come along, Gagley! I want to speak
to you about the Race Ball." But no Gagley came; and the couple went
forward at a trot. "Hang it! There's that man behind us still."
Hordene listened and could clearly hear the sound of a horse trotting,
apparently just behind them. "Come on, Gagley! Don't play bo-peep in
that ridiculous way," shouted the friend. Again no Gagley. Twenty yards
farther there was a crash and a stumble as the friend's horse came down
over an unseen rat-hole. "How much damaged?" asked Hordene. "Sprained
my wrist," was the dolorous answer, "and there is something wrong with
my knee-cap. There goes my mount to-morrow, and this gee is cut like a
cab-horse."
On the first day of the Ghoriah meeting _Thurinda_ was hopelessly
ridden out by a native jockey, to whose care Hordene had at the last
moment been compelled to confide her. "You forsaken idiot!" said
he, "what made you begin riding as soon as you were clear? She had
everything safe, if you'd only left her alone. You rode her out before
the home turn, you hog!" "What could I do?" said the jockey sullenly.
"I was pressed by another horse." "Whose 'other horse'? There were
twenty yards of daylight between you and the ruck. If you'd kept her
there even then 'twouldn't ha' mattered. But you rode her out--you
rode her out!" "There was another horse and he pressed me to the end,
and when I looked round he was no longer there." Let us, in charity,
draw a veil over Hordene's language at this point. "Goodness knows
whether she'll be fit to pull out again for the last event. D----n you
and your other horses! I wish I'd broken your neck before letting you
get up!" _Thurinda_ was done to a turn, and it seemed a cruelty to
ask her to run again in the last race of the day. Hordene rode this
time, and was careful to keep the mare within herself at the outset.
Once more _Thurinda_ left her field--with one exception--a grey horse
that hung upon her flanks and could not be shaken off. The mare was
done, and refused to answer the call upon her. She tried hopelessly
in the straight and was caught and passed by her old enemy, _River
of Years_--the chestnut of Kurnaul. "You rode well--like a native,
Hordene," was the unflattering comment. "The mare was ridden out before
_River of Years_." "But the grey," began Hordene, and then ceased, for
he knew that there was no grey in the race. _Blue Point_ and _Diamond
Dust_, the only greys at the meeting, were running in the Arab Handicap.
He caught his native jockey. "What horse, d'you say, pressed you?" "I
don't know. It was a grey with nutmeg tickings behind the saddle."
That evening Hordene sought the great Major Blare-Tyndar, who knew
personally the father, mother and ancestors of almost every horse,
brought from _ekka_ or ship, that had ever set foot on an Indian
race-course. "Say, Major, what is a grey horse with nutmeg tickings
behind the saddle?" "A curiosity. _Wendell Holmes_ is a grey, with
nutmeg on the near shoulder, but there is no horse marked your way,
now." Then, after a pause: "No, I'm wrong--you ought to know. The pony
that got you _Thurinda_ was grey and nutmeg." "How much?" "_Divorce_,
of course. The mare that broke her neck at the Shayid meeting and
killed Jale. A big thirteen-three she was. I recollect when she was
hacking old Snuffy Beans to office. He bought her from a dealer, who
had her left on his hands as a rejection when the Pink Hussars were
buying team up country and then----Hullo! The man's gone!" Hordene
had departed on receipt of information which he already knew. He only
demanded extra confirmation. Then he began to argue with himself,
bearing in mind that he himself was a sane man, neither gluttonous nor
a wine-bibber, with an unimpaired digestion, and that _Thurinda_ was to
all appearance a horse of ordinary flesh and exceedingly good blood.
Arrived at these satisfactory conclusions, he reargued the whole matter.
Being by nature intensely superstitious, he decided upon scratching
_Thurinda_ and facing the howl of indignation that would follow. He
also decided to leave the Ghoriah meet and change his luck. But it
would have been sinful--positively wicked--to have left without waiting
for the polo-match that was to conclude the festivities. At the last
moment before the match, one of the leading players of the Ghoriah team
and Hordene's host discovered that, through the kindly foresight of his
head _sais_, every single pony had been taken down to the ground. "Lend
me a hack, old man," he shouted to Hordene as he was changing. "Take
_Thurinda_," was the reply. "She'll bring you down in ten minutes."
And _Thurinda_ was accordingly saddled for Marish's benefit. "I'll
go down with you," said Hordene. The two rode off together at a hand
canter. "By Jove! Somebody's _sais_ 'll get kicked for this!" said
Marish, looking round. "Look there! He's coming for the mare! Pull
out into the middle of the road." "What on earth d'you mean?" "Well,
if _you_ can take a strayed horse so calmly, I can't. Didn't you see
what a lather that grey was in?" "What grey?" "The grey that just
passed us--saddle and all. He's got away from the ground, I suppose.
Now he's turned the corner; but you can hear his hoofs. Listen!" There
was a furious gallop of shod horses, gradually dying into silence.
"Come along," said Hordene. "We're late as it is. We shall know all
about it on the ground." "Anybody lost a tat?" asked Marish cheerily
as they reached the ground. "No, we've lost _you_. Double up. You're
late enough as it is. Get up and go in. The teams are waiting." Marish
mounted his polo-pony and cantered across. Hordene watched the game
idly for a few moments. There was a scrimmage, a cloud of dust, and a
cessation of play, and a shouting for _saises_. The umpire clattered
forward and returned. "What has happened?" "Marish! Neck broken!
Nobody's fault. Pony crossed its legs and came down. Game's stopped.
Thank God, he hasn't got a wife!" Again Hordene pondered as he sat on
his horse's back. "Under any circumstances it was written that he was
to be killed. I had no interest in his death, and he had his warning,
I suppose. I can't make out the system that this infernal mare runs
under. Why _him_? Anyway, I'll shoot her." He looked at _Thurinda_, the
calm-eyed, the beautiful, and repented. "No! I'll sell her."
"What in the world has happened to _Thurinda_ that Hordene is so keen
on getting rid of her?" was the general question. "I want money," said
Hordene unblushingly, and the few who knew how his accounts stood saw
that this was a varnished lie. But they held their peace because of
the great love and trust that exists among the ancient and honourable
fraternity of sportsmen.
"There's nothing wrong with her," explained Hordene. "Try her as much
as you like, but let her stay in my stable until you've made up your
mind one way or the other. Nine hundred's my price."
"I'll take her at that," quoth a red-haired subaltern, nicknamed
Carrots, later Gaja, and then, for brevity's sake, Guj. "Let me have
her out this afternoon. I want her more for hacking than anything else."
Guj tried _Thurinda_ exhaustively and had no fault to find with her.
"She's all right," he said briefly. "I'll take her. It's a cash deal."
"Virtuous Guj!" said Hordene, pocketing the cheque. "If you go on like
this you'll be loved and respected by all who know you."