“The Headman av Lungtungpen, who surrinder’d himself, asked the Interprut’r—‘’Av the English fight like that wid their clo’es off, what in the wurruld do they do wid their clo’es on?’ Orth’ris began rowlin’ his eyes an’ crackin’ his fingers an’ dancin’ a step-dance for to impress the Headman. He ran to his house; an’ we spint the rest av the day carryin’ the Lift’nint on our showlthers round the town, an’ playin’ wid the Burmese babies—fat, little, brown little divils, as pretty as picturs.
“Whin I was inviladed for the dysent’ry to India, I sez to the Lift’nint, ‘Sorr,’ sez I, ‘you’ve the makin’s in you av a great man; but, av you’ll let an ould sodger spake, you’re too fond of the-ourisin’.’ He shuk hands wid me and sez, ‘Hit high, hit low, there’s no plasin’ you, Mulvaney. You’ve seen me waltzin’ through Lungtungpen like a Red Injin widout the warpaint, an’ you say I’m too fond av the-ourisin’?’—‘Sorr,’ sez I, for I loved the bhoy; ‘I wud waltz wid you in that condishin through Hell, an’ so wud the rest av the men!’ Thin I wint downshtrame in the flat an’ left him my blessin’. May the Saints carry ut where ut shud go, for he was a fine upstandin’ young orficer,
“To reshume. Fwhat I’ve said jist shows the use av three-year-olds. Wud fifty seasoned sodgers have taken Lungtungpen in the dhark that way? No! They’d know the risk av fever and chill. Let alone the shootin’. Two hundher’ might have done ut. But the three-year-olds know little an’ care less; an’ where there’s no fear, there’s no danger. Catch thim young, feed thim high, an’ by the honor av that great, little man Bobs, behind a good orficer ’tisn’t only dacoits they’d smash wid their clo’es off—’tis Con-ti-nental Ar-r-r-mies! They tuk Lungtungpen nakid; an’ they’d take St. Pethersburg in their dhrawers! Begad, they would that!
“Here’s your pipe, sorr. Shmoke her tinderly wid honey-dew, afther letting the reek av the Canteen plug die away. But ’tis no good, thanks to you all the same, fillin’ my pouch wid your chopped hay. Canteen baccy’s like the Army. It shpoils a man’s taste for moilder things.”
So saying, Mulvaney took up his butterfly-net, and returned to barracks.
THE PHANTOM RICKSHAW
May no ill dreams disturb my rest,
Nor Powers of Darkness me molest.
—Evening Hymn.
One of the few advantages that India has over England is a great Knowability. After five years’ service a man is directly or indirectly acquainted with the two or three hundred Civilians in his Province, all the Messes of ten or twelve Regiments and Batteries, and some fifteen hundred other people of the non-official caste, in ten years his knowledge should be doubled, and at the end of twenty he knows, or knows something about, every Englishman in the Empire, and may travel anywhere and everywhere without paying hotel-bills.
Globe-trotters who expect entertainment as a right, have, even within my memory, blunted this open-heartedness, but none the less to-day, if you belong to the Inner Circle and are neither a Bear nor a Black Sheep, all houses are open to you, and our small world is very, very kind and helpful.