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86 pages

English

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In the mood for some swashbuckling tales of explorers' adventures in the exotic Orient? This varied collection is sure to fit the bill. A must-read for fans of fiction from the colonial period, these stories offer a tantalizing glimpse into the tumultuous era when the West and East first intersected.

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Short story

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 août 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781775418559
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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STORIES OF THE ORIENT
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VARIOUS

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Stories of the Orient ISBN 978-1-775418-55-9 © 2010 The Floating Press
While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike.
Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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The Man Who Would Be King, by Rudyard Kipling Tajima, by Miss Mitford A Chinese Girl Graduate, by R. K. Douglas The Revenge of Her Race, by Mary Beaumont King Billy of Ballarat, by Morley Roberts Thy Heart's Desire, by Netta Syrett
The Man Who Would Be King, by Rudyard Kipling
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Brother to a Prince and fellow to a beggar if he be found worthy.
The Law, as quoted, lays down a fair conduct of life, and one noteasy to follow. I have been fellow to a beggar again and again undercircumstances which prevented either of us finding out whether the otherwas worthy. I have still to be brother to a Prince, though I once camenear to kinship with what might have been a veritable King, and waspromised the reversion of a Kingdom—army, law-courts, revenue, andpolicy all complete. But, to-day, I greatly fear that my King is dead,and if I want a crown I must go hunt it for myself.
The beginning of everything was in a railway-train upon the road to Mhowfrom Ajmir. There had been a Deficit in the Budget, which necessitatedtravelling, not Second-class, which is only half as dear as First-Class,but by Intermediate, which is very awful indeed. There are no cushionsin the Intermediate class, and the population are either Intermediate,which is Eurasian, or native, which for a long night journey is nasty,or Loafer, which is amusing though intoxicated. Intermediates do not buyfrom refreshment-rooms. They carry their food in bundles and pots, andbuy sweets from the native sweetmeat-sellers, and drink the roadsidewater. This is why in hot weather Intermediates are taken out of thecarriages dead, and in all weathers are most properly looked down upon.
My particular Intermediate happened to be empty till I reachedNasirabad, when the big black-browed gentleman in shirt-sleeves entered,and, following the custom of Intermediates, passed the time of day. Hewas a wanderer and a vagabond like myself, but with an educatedtaste for whisky. He told tales of things he had seen and done, ofout-of-the-way corners of the Empire into which he had penetrated, andof adventures in which he risked his life for a few days' food.
"If India was filled with men like you and me, not knowing more thanthe crows where they'd get their next day's rations, it isn't seventymillions of revenue the land would be paying—it's seven hundredmillions," said he; and as I looked at his mouth and chin I was disposedto agree with him.
We talked politics,—the politics of Loaferdom that sees things fromthe under side where the lath and plaster is not smoothed off,—and wetalked postal arrangements because my friend wanted to send a telegramback from the next station to Ajmir, the turning-off place from theBombay to the Mhow line as you travel westward. My friend had no moneybeyond eight annas which he wanted for dinner, and I had no money atall, owing to the hitch in the Budget before mentioned. Further, I wasgoing into a wilderness where, though I should resume touch with theTreasury, there were no telegraph offices. I was, therefore, unable tohelp him in any way.
"We might threaten a Station-master, and make him send a wire on tick,"said my friend, "but that'd mean inquiries for you and for me, and I 've got my hands full these days. Did you say you were travellingback along this line within any days?"
"Within ten," I said.
"Can't you make it eight?" said he. "Mine is rather urgent business."
"I can send your telegrams within ten days if that will serve you," Isaid.
"I couldn't trust the wire to fetch him, now I think of it. It's thisway. He leaves Delhi on the 23rd for Bombay. That means he'll be runningthrough Ajmir about the night of the 23rd."
"But I'm going into the Indian Desert," I explained.
"Well and good," said he. "You'll be changing at Marwar Junction toget into Jodhpore territory,—you must do that,—and he'll be comingthrough Marwar Junction in the early morning of the 24th by theBombay Mail. Can you be at Marwar Junction on that time? 'T won't beinconveniencing you, because I know that there's precious few pickingsto be got out of these Central India States—even though you pretend tobe correspondent of the 'Backwoodsman.'"
"Have you ever tried that trick?" I asked.
"Again and again, but the Residents find you out, and then you getescorted to the Border before you've time to get your knife into them.But about my friend here. I must give him a word o' mouth to tell himwhat's come to me, or else he won't know where to go. I would take itmore than kind of you if you was to come out of Central India in time tocatch him at Marwar Junction, and say to him, 'He has gone South for theweek.' He'll know what that means. He's a big man with a red beard, anda great swell he is. You'll find him sleeping like a gentleman withall his luggage round him in a Second-class apartment. But don't you beafraid. Slip down the window and say, 'He has gone South for the week,'and he'll tumble. It's only cutting your time of stay in those partsby two days. I ask you as a stranger—going to the West," he said, withemphasis.
"Where have you come from?" said I.
"From the East," said he, "and I am hoping that you will give him themessage on the Square—for the sake of my Mother as well as your own."
Englishmen are not usually softened by appeals to the memory of theirmothers; but for certain reasons, which will be fully apparent, I sawfit to agree.
"It's more than a little matter," said he, "and that's why I askedyou to do it—and now I know that I can depend on you doing it. ASecond-class carriage at Marwar Junction, and a red-haired man asleepin it. You'll be sure to remember. I get out at the next station, and Imust hold on there till he comes or sends me what I want."
"I'll give the message if I catch him," I said, "and for the sake ofyour Mother as well as mine I'll give you a word of advice. Don't tryto run the Central India States just now as the correspondent of the'Backwoodsman.' There's a real one knocking about here, and it mightlead to trouble."
"Thank you," said he, simply; "and when will the swine be gone? Ican't starve because he's ruining my work. I wanted to get hold of theDegumber Rajah down here about his father's widow, and give him a jump."
"What did he do to his father's widow, then?"
"Filled her up with red pepper and slippered her to death as she hungfrom a beam. I found that out myself, and I'm the only man that woulddare going into the State to get hush-money for it. They'll try topoison me, same as they did in Chortumna when I went on the loot there.But you'll give the man at Marwar Junction my message?"
He got out at a little roadside station, and I reflected. I had heard,more than once, of men personating correspondents of newspapers andbleeding small Native States with threats of exposure, but I had nevermet any of the caste before. They lead a hard life, and generally diewith great suddenness. The Native States have a wholesome horror ofEnglish newspapers, which may throw light on their peculiar methods ofgovernment, and do their best to choke correspondents with champagne,or drive them out of their mind with four-in-hand barouches. They do notunderstand that nobody cares a straw for the internal administrationof Native States so long as oppression and crime are kept within decentlimits, and the ruler is not drugged, drunk, or diseased from one endof the year to the other. They are the dark places of the earth, fullof unimaginable cruelty, touching the Railway and the Telegraph on oneside, and, on the other, the days of Harun-al-Raschid. When I left thetrain I did business with divers Kings, and in eight days passed throughmany changes of life. Sometimes I wore dress-clothes and consorted withPrinces and Politicals, drinking from crystal and eating from silver.Sometimes I lay out upon the ground and devoured what I could get, froma plate made of leaves, and drank the running water, and slept under thesame rug as my servant. It was all in the day's work.
Then I headed for the Great Indian Desert upon the proper date, as Ihad promised, and the night Mail set me down at Marwar Junction, wherea funny little, happy-go-lucky, native-managed railway runs to Jodhpore.The Bombay Mail from Delhi makes a short halt at Marwar. She arrivedjust as I got in, and I had just time to hurry to her platform and godown the carriages. There was only one Second-class on the train.I slipped the window and looked down upon a flaming-red beard, halfcovered by a railway-rug. That was my man, fast asleep, and I dug himgently in the ribs. He woke with a grunt, and I saw his face in thelight of the lamps. It was a great and shining face.
"Tickets again?" said he.
"No," said I. "I am to tell you that he is gone South for the week. Hehas gone South for the week!"
The train had begun to move out. The red man rubbed his eyes. "Hehas gone South for the week," he repeated. "Now that's just like hisimpidence. Did he say that I was to give you anything? 'Cause I won't."
"He didn't," I said, and dropped away, and watched the red lights dieout in the dark. It was horribly cold because the wind was blowing offthe sands. I climbed into my own train—not an Intermediate carriagethis time—and went to sleep.
If the man with the beard had given me a rupee I should have kept it asa memento of a rather curious affair. B