The Works of Rudyard Kipling Part 145

Curtiss. (Quoting motto of Irregular Moguls.) "We are what we are," eh, old man? But Gadsby was such a superior animal as a rule. Why didn't he go Home and pick his wife there?

Mackesy. They are all alike when they come to the turn into the straight. About thirty a man begins to get sick of living alone.

Curtiss. And of the eternal mutton--chop in the morning.

Doone. It's a dead goat as a rule, but go on, Mackesy.

Mackesy. If a man's once taken that way nothing will hold him, Do you remember Benoit of your service, Doone? They transferred him to Tharanda when his time came, and he married a platelayer's daughter, or something of that kind. She was the only female about the place.

Doone. Yes, poor brute. That smashed Benoit's chances of promotion altogether. Mrs. Benoit used to ask "Was you goin' to the dance this evenin'?"

Curtiss. Hang it all! Gadsby hasn't married beneath him. There's no tar-brush in the family, I suppose.

Jervoise. Tar-brush! Not an anna. You young fellows talk as though the man was doing the girl an honor in marrying her. You're all too conceited--nothing's good enough for you.

Blayne. Not even an empty Club, a dam' bad dinner at the Judge's, and a Station as sickly as a hospital. You're quite right. We're a set of Sybarites.

Doone. Luxurious dogs, wallowing in--

Curtiss. p.r.i.c.kly heat between the shoulders. I'm covered with it. Let's hope Beora will be cooler.

Blayne. Whew! Are you ordered into camp, too? I thought the Gunners had a clean sheet.

Curtiss. No, worse luck. Two cases yesterday--one died--and if we have a third, out we go. Is there any shooting at Beora, Doone?

Doone. The country's under water, except the patch by the Grand Trunk Road. I was there yesterday, looking at a bund, and came across four poor devils in their last stage. It's rather bad from here to Kuchara.

Curtiss. Then we're pretty certain to have a heavy go of it. Heigho!

I shouldn't mind changing places with Gaddy for a while. 'Sport with Amaryllis in the shade of the Town Hall, and all that. Oh, why doesn't somebody come and marry me, instead of letting me go into cholera-camp?

Mackesy. Ask the Committee.

Curtiss. You ruffian! You'll stand me another peg for that. Blayne, what will you take? Mackesy is fine on moral grounds. Done, have you any preference?

Doone. Small gla.s.s k.u.mmel, please. Excellent carminative, these days.

Anthony told me so.

Mackesy. (Signing voucher for four drinks.) Most unfair punishment.

I only thought of Curtiss as Actaeon being chivied round the billiard tables by the nymphs of Diana.

Blayne. Curtiss would have to import his nymphs by train. Mrs. c.o.c.kley's the only woman in the Station. She won't leave c.o.c.kley, and he's doing his best to get her to go.

Curtiss. Good, indeed! Here's Mrs. c.o.c.kley's health. To the only wife in the Station and a d.a.m.ned brave woman!

OMNES. (Drinking.) A d.a.m.ned brave woman

Blayne. I suppose Gadsby will bring his wife here at the end of the cold weather. They are going to be married almost immediately, I believe.

Curtiss. Gadsby may thank his luck that the Pink Hussars are all detachment and no headquarters this hot weather, or he'd be torn from the arms of his love as sure as death. Have you ever noticed the thorough-minded way British Cavalry take to cholera? It's because they are so expensive. If the Pinks had stood fast here, they would have been out in camp a month ago. Yes, I should decidedly like to be Gadsby.

Mackesy. He'll go Home after he's married, and send in his papers--see if he doesn't.

Blayne. Why shouldn't he? Hasn't he money? Would any one of us be here if we weren't paupers?

Doone. Poor old pauper! What has become of the six hundred you rooked from our table last month?

Blayne. It took unto itself wings. I think an enterprising tradesman got some of it, and a shroff gobbled the rest--or else I spent it.

Curtiss. Gadsby never had dealings with a shroff in his life.

Doone. Virtuous Gadsby! If I had three thousand a month, paid from England, I don't think I'd deal with a shroff either.

Mackesy. (Yawning.) Oh, it's a sweet life! I wonder whether matrimony would make it sweeter.

Curtiss. Ask c.o.c.kley--with his wife dying by inches!

Blayne. Go home and get a fool of a girl to come out to--what is it Thackeray says?--"the splendid palace of an Indian pro-consul."

Doone. Which reminds me. My quarters leak like a sieve. I had fever last night from sleeping in a swamp. And the worst of it is, one can't do anything to a roof till the Rains are over.

Curtiss. What's wrong with you? You haven't eighty rotting Tommies to take into a running stream.

Doone. No: but I'm mixed boils and bad language. I'm a regular Job all over my body. It's sheer poverty of blood, and I don't see any chance of getting richer--either way.

Blayne. Can't you take leave?

Doone. That's the pull you Army men have over us. Ten days are nothing in your sight. I'm so important that Government can't find a subst.i.tute if I go away. Ye-es, I'd like to be Gadsby, whoever his wife may be.

Curtiss. You've pa.s.sed the turn of life that Mackesy was speaking of.

Doone. Indeed I have, but I never yet had the brutality to ask a woman to share my life out here.

Blayne. On my soul I believe you're right. I'm thinking of Mrs. c.o.c.kley.

The woman's an absolute wreck.

Doone. Exactly. Because she stays down here. The only way to keep her fit would be to send her to the Hills for eight months--and the same with any woman. I fancy I see myself taking a wife on those terms.

Mackesy. With the rupee at one and sixpence. The little Doones would be little Debra Doones, with a fine Mussoorie @chi-chi anent to bring home for the holidays.

Curtiss. And a pair of be-ewtiful sambhur--horns for Doone to wear, free of expense, presented by--Doone. Yes, it's an enchanting prospect. By the way, the rupee hasn't done falling yet. The time will come when we shall think ourselves lucky if we only lose half our pay.

Curtiss. Surely a third's loss enough. Who gains by the arrangement?

That's what I want to know.

Blayne. The Silver Question! I'm going to bed if you begin squabbling Thank Goodness, here's Anthony--looking like a ghost.

Enter ANTHONY, Indian Medical Staff, very white and tired.

Anthony. 'Evening, Blayne. It's raining in sheets. Whiskey peg lao, khitmatgar. The roads are something ghastly.