Part 17

"That wouldn't matter, provided _nobody knew_," came the quick reply. "And nobody need know--except, of course, the railway bosses. Just look at it on the map. Points changed at Barâwal Junction--then straight away, past us, to the northern branch, and so back a bit--only a bit--to the main line again. It wouldn't delay them half an hour, if that----"

Horace Alexander's finger traced out the line on the map.

"But the direct line is guarded," he began.

"Inadequately," persisted John Carruthers, "at least, to my mind. Now, by taking this new loop you are safe. It only needs a telegram--for the trains haven't begun yet to run at night, and it will be 'line clear' all through. The usual pilot engine, of course--so no one need know."

Horace Alexander nodded. "No! poor devils!" he assented, a bit irrelevantly, "and dozens of them would have rejoiced to do '_durshan_.'"

The child in the corner of the room looked up at the familiar word and listened.

But the men were too much immersed to notice him.

"Well, it may be wise!" said Horace Alexander at last. "I don't agree with you, Carruthers, of course. The whole thing's a mare's nest. But, as you say, it won't disarrange anything. The Royal train will be up to time for early tea at Sonabad, and there all is safe: so if you'll drive me down to the telegraph office, I'll send the cipher myself."

"H'm," said John Carruthers thoughtfully, "I wouldn't cipher. Don't trust 'em a bit. The clerks in my office know 'em, I'm sure. Try French--it's safer."

Horace Alexander laughed a superior laugh.

"Mine don't! not the _real_ confidential one. Why! I don't suppose you do."

"That's a different matter," replied the police officer drily. "However! it's for you to decide."

"Yes," said the District Officer firmly. "Well! goodnight, Rex! I shan't be back, child, till breakfast to-morrow."

"Where are you going, Daddy?" asked the boy.

"I'm going to do _durshan_," replied his father carelessly.

The child rose and came towards the table with shining eyes, the medal in his hand.

"Daddy!" he said, "I should like to do '_durshan_' too. Mayn't I?"

His father shook his head and smiled. "Impossible, Rex! You can't ride forty miles over the desert along a railway as I shall, can you? You wouldn't like to do what Daddy's got to do to-night, I can tell you, young man! Wait a while! Your turn'll come." He was busy locking the confidential box.

"But I meant _here_, Daddy," persisted the child.

"Here?" echoed his father carelessly, "Oh! here! Yes! You and old Bisvâs can amuse yourselves with doing _durshan_ as much as you like. Now good-night--and--and be sure to say your prayers, Rex." He stooped down to kiss the child, and as he did so, "_Rex Imp_" in red with the _et_ in black, caught his eye. "Rex, Imp," he muttered, "not a bad name for you, though you're a good little chap on the whole."

And he went off, feeling virtuous. Whatever his own beliefs, or rather lack of belief, might be, no one could say that he was forcing it prematurely on the weaker brother. Perhaps, however, the thought that his little son's lips--which had never to his knowledge been soiled by a lie--had begged dear God to take care of his Daddy, was unconsciously a help to the man during the anxious night. For it was anxious. To be responsible meant much to both those men, and this sudden change of plan--though it certainly removed risk--threw a still heavier burden of care on the shoulders of those two who had suggested it.

Therefore, when, just as the primrose dawn of another day had begun to dissipate the shadows of the night, the Royal train, safe and sound, steamed into the station at Sonabad, Horace Alexander and John Carruthers looked at each other as they stood on the platform and positively laughed.

"That nightmare's over," said the latter.

"I always said it was a mare's nest," replied the former.

"Well! we needn't quarrel about it now. I've handed over charge to Evesham, and you to Coleridge, and that's all. And I shall be glad to have a cup of tea. I've been too busy to eat for the last few days."

Half-an-hour afterwards they were in Horace Alexander's motor, going full speed along the Grand Trunk road.

"We shall be back by breakfast time," said John Carruthers, whose thoughts ran upon food.

But Horace, as he steered his way past the long lines of lumbering wains laden with corn, which still, in India, cling to the roads, despite railways, was jubilant over his district.

"I told you it was all right," he said finally, "but you and your sort, Carruthers, can't see that we are in a new age. We are out of the past----"

"That doesn't look like it," interrupted John Carruthers, pointing to a group in the verandah; for at that moment the car swept easily into the gateway of Horace Alexander's house. The latter frowned, for Rex's army was awaiting them, drawn up to stiff military salute, while in front of them, his small broad face full of smiles, was Rex himself holding a box in his hand.

"We got it, Daddy!" he shouted. "We got it all 'wight, and the men 'wan away, and Baba-jee emptied it, because he was the older-est, and it's all quite 'wight."

"Good God," cried John Carruthers, leaping out of the car, his eyes almost out of his head. "It's an infernal machine. I--I--I--'ve seen--'em--before--I--I----"

Horace Alexander turned pale as ashes. "Put it down, Rex. Gently--gently--but--but----"

Old Bisvâs salaamed down to the ground. "The Presence need not fear. The child did not touch it, of course, till the poisonous thing had been emptied of its venom."

"But how----" began Horace Alexander helplessly.

John Carruthers, however, had his wits about him, and said in a low voice, "Look here, sir! This had better be kept dark; for the present, anyhow."

Old Imân, who understood a little English, nodded approvingly. "Without doubt it is a concealed word," he said suavely. "And so I told Bisvâs. Therefore none know of it save those here present. So we had to do often in Mutiny time when news meant much; and _Gineral-Jullunder-Jullunder-sahib-bahadur_ would say----"

The police officer cut the old man's reminiscence short. "You have done well, _risildar-jee_," he said curtly, but the praise brought an unwonted flush to the withered cheek. "We'd better hear the story _in camera_, sir."

So the five old warriors filed into the office room, the doors were shut, and Rex sate on his father's knee, while John Carruthers carefully examined the infernal machine which had been laid on the table.

"Paris," he said laconically, "one of the latest sort. What did I tell you, sir--anarchy isn't a thing of districts."

"Go on, Bisvâs!" replied Horace Alexander evasively.

"As I was saying, Huzoor, when the Huzoor left to do _durshan_ last night, _Jullunder Baba_ came to me and said, 'Bisvâs! get ready to go and do _durshan_ likewise; my father said I might----'"

"And you did, daddy, didn't you?" broke in the little lad's voice confidently. His father hesitated, then remembering his uncomprehending words, nodded and held the child closer.

"So I, knowing that the word of _Jullunder Baba_ is even as the word of a King, unbreakable, said, 'But whither, my lord?' And he said, 'That will I show thee! Do thou as thou art bid, slave!' Now the night, as the Huzoor knows, was dark, and I grow old. So I bethought me of help, lest evil should befall. Therefore I said, 'Lo! it is not meet to go without the Army.' So these came willingly. For, see you, Protector of the Poor, we are all old, and the _durshan_ is even as the sight of a god--it heals sin. Therefore, in the darkness we set off, and I wrapped the _chota sahib_ in blankets and took the _trick_ lamp and a _ternus_ of hot milk also----"

John Carruthers looked up.

"He means electric and thermos," said Horace Alexander, with an odd sort of cackle in his voice; something seemed to have risen in his throat and prevented his speaking clearly.

"We carried the _chota sahib_ by turns, seeing there might have been serpents in the way," continued the old man, "and made for the railway, since that was all the direction _Jullunder Baba_ would give. Then Imân, remembering the old tomb--the Huzoor will remember it also, since there was a case about it in his court----"

"And the Huzoor," broke in Imân, "decided virtuously, that being the tomb of a saint, it should stand, and the railway move----"

"Remembering it," went on old Bisvâs, "he said, 'It would give shelter to the child.' So thither we went, and there the _chota sahib_, having remembered he had not said his prayers as he had promised the Huzoor, said them. He knelt, Huzoor, on that slab, lest the floor should be damp----"

"Yes," assented the child's father as the old man paused. Once again there was that lump in his throat. He saw, as in a vision, the old Mahomedan tomb rearing its half-ruined dome so close to the railway--the white-faced child praying God to bless everyone he loved, those dark faces standing round reverently.

"Lo!" continued old Bisvâs gently, "I think the saint down below must have heard--Imân says he did--for what followed was of no man's making. We were all drowsing in the tomb--'tis a good five miles from the Huzoor's bungalow to the railway, for all it goes so near to the city--when _Baba-jee_--he hath the ears of a mouse still--said 'Hist!'

"So I looked out, and there were men--five or six of them, on the line. Then it came to me what the ill-begotten hounds had been doing in Bengal, and a sort of fury seized on me. So I crept back. _Jullunder Baba_ was asleep among the blankets on the tomb slab, but I whispered the others, and they unbuckled their swords and made ready."

The faces of the four old warriors who, standing two on one side two on the other of the speaker, had watched his every word, were a study. Exultation, pride, absolute satisfaction showed in every line of them, and the lean old fingers gripped their sword-hilts once more.

"Then _Baba-jee_ gave the word--he was '_senior-orfficer_,' and--and--Huzoor, they ran away!!!"

Even John Carruthers' chuckle had a suspicion of a sob in it.

"And then! Oh! hero!" he said, "what then?"

"Huzoor! I looked out over the desert and far, far away on the straight line I saw light. And there was a faint rumble in the air. It was a train. Mayhap the _chota sahib_ had been right, mayhap it was the Train-of-Majesty! So I turned on the 'trick lamp,' and there it was on the line--that thing--it had a string to it that lay on the rail. And--and--Huzoor! my memory fails me--There was the child, and there was the train!--I had to decide----

"Then I cried to Imân, 'Quick! the _chota sahib_! Run far with him--far!--far!' So when that was done I up with my sword and I smote the string that lay on the rail!----" he paused, then went on--

"So that was done also; and Imân brought the child back, and the train sped past, and we all stood in a row and did _durshan_; though I know not if it was _durshan_ or not, since, mayhap, it was not the Royal train after all."

The old eyes looked almost wistfully at those two men in office, but the child's were on his father's confidently:

"But it _was_ the Royal train, wasn't it, daddy?" said the child's voice, and Horace Alexander's answered huskily:

"Perhaps it was, _Rex_; anyhow, you and the others did _durshan_. Of that I am sure."

Content settled to those two faces, the old and the young, and the ancient warrior went on--

"Then there was nothing to do, Huzoor, save to come home and bring the poisonous thing with us. I was for sending the _chota sahib_ on in Imân's care and carrying the thing myself; but _Jullunder Baba_ would not go without it. So Bhim and the Father took the devil's box apart lest it should kill everyone, and with Bhim's _kukri_ they prized it open"--a faint sigh came from the Europeans--"and spilt the witches' brew in the sand. That is all, Huzoor! Your slaves did what they could. The men ran away so fast, it was not possible for us, aged ones, to pursue them."

"But," broke in the most aged, "they were dressed like the Huzoors--in trousers, and my sword was bloody, so I must have hit someone."

"And so was mine," said each of the ancient warriors in turn.

Horace Alexander cleared his throat.

"Really!" he began, "I scarcely know how to thank----"

"Daddy!" said Rex's eager voice, "I know! I'm goin' to give each of 'em my army medal with '_Wex_ and _Imp_ in 'wed, and _et_ in black on it; an' they'll be orful pleased--won't you, Army?"

"Huzoor!" The old arms were stiff in salute, and then the oldest voice struck up quaveringly. "Lo! _sahibân_! it is enough for us that we have done _durshan_ ere death. It brings contentment, even though both sieges of Bhurtpore is denied to some of us."

As, led by Rex, they marched out to the verandah, the two officials looked at one another.

But they said nothing for a minute. Then John Carruthers burst out:

"Damn the cipher! I told you it wasn't safe. Look here, sir, we must keep this quiet for the time."

Horace Alexander nodded.

THERE AROSE A MAN

This was one of the many stories which Nathaniel James Craddock told me in the cab of his engine while we used to go up and down that ribbon of red brick metalling edged with steel which was slowly laying itself out over a wide sandy desert.

Some of these were tragic, some comic, some betwixt and between; but most of them were worth the re-telling, especially as told by him. But the discursiveness of his method does not lend itself to print, so they all suffer in the process; even though, as I write, I seem to hear the steady grind of the engine, to feel the fine fretting of a sand storm on my cheek, and see the clear blue eyes looking at me with a keenness which always came as a surprise out of that bleared dissipated face.

"It was 'arter I 'ad that peep o' the Noo Jerusalem, sir, at the bottom o' the King's Well, 'as I come upon pore old 'Oneyman. I was a bit on the loose, you see, sir; them sort o' peeps wakes up the spiritooal nater o' a man, an' it's heads I win, tails you lose, if 'e takes to prayers or to drink. I tuk to the latter"--here he gave a slight cough, and added gently--"more nor usual. An' so I come across 'Oneyman. 'E'd 'ad a peep o' hell, sir, for 'e'd seen 'is wife's dead body lyin' where he'd left 'er safe an' sound waitin' for 'er baby to be born in doo time." There was always a biblical twang about Craddock's recitations which gave them a mournfully dignified tone. "'E 'ad friends in 'igh places, sir, an' one o' them, w'en he come through 'is brain fever, made 'im Conservancy Inspector down Bandelkhand way. It wasn't the place for 'im. They was wot they call Suckties, sir, down there, though there was precious little o' the babe an' sucklin' about _their_ methods, but contrariwise, battle an' murder an' sudden death. They was for ever killin' goats an' kids, an' smearin' ole Mother Kâli with blood--never knew such chaps for paintin' the town red! So the _Khush-boo sahib_,[3] as they call him in their topsy turvey way, since it weren't perfoom but real stinks down by them temple steps, couldn't never forget the sights he see in Mutiny time. When 'e was in 'is cups, 'e'd sit an' cry about it; for 'e was a little bit of a man, sir, the smallest man as ever I see, an' all wrinkled like an' wizened; just for all the world the same as the monkeys as used to come down in crowds on feast days, an' leg it with the orferings folk used to bring to ole Mother Kâli. That's 'ow 'Oneyman come on reduction, as the sayin' is; tho', pore chap, them as look on 'is face might a-seen that 'e wasn't for long; not even if they'd made 'im Guv'ner-General-in-Council; for what with--savin' your presence, sir--a galloping consumption, both o' drink an' lungs, 'e was wearin' away like snowdrifts in summer." Here Craddock paused to whistle a familiar tune. "Beg pardin, sir, but it comes home to me so, for he was awful fond of 'is wife. Well! whether it was 'is name--'Oneyman, you know, sir, being the God o' monkeys[4]--or whether it was 'is nater, he was uncommon kind to the _bunder logue_. Used to say they was the only Christians in the place, 'cos they wouldn't 'ave no meat offered to hidols, sir. An' it's true as gospel, sir, they wouldn't. You should a' seen them waitin' in the trees, and hover the arches an' crocketty things on the temples, while three or four smug Brahmins was going the rounds with a party o' country folk, full up o' sugar candies, an' parched rice, an' platters o' curds to leave at each 'oly spot. It was a rare sight; for, you see, the monkeys were 'oly too, an' the priests dursn't even 'eave a brick at 'em.

"They 'ad just to lump it when the beasts 'oofed away with all the best things afore their very eyes. An' 'Oneyman used to amoose himself of an evening by sittin' on the steps an' larfin' fit to split. I told 'im it weren't perlite; but there! it ain't no use talkin' to a man as has seen 'is wife lyin' dead.

"Then one day an ole buck monkey 'oofed it with a bag of rupees, an' dropped it, as 'e was climbin' a tree, above 'Oneyman's 'ead. And 'Oneyman, being in no state to know 'is own 'and, much less wot it 'eld, gathered some of 'em up, an' swore 'e'd keep 'em. That's 'ow it was. So 'e got the sack: though anyone as had eyes might a-seen it was the weddin' garment o' a shroud _he_ was wantin', pore chap.

"I was runnin' ballast then on a bit o' new line that was cuttin' its way through jungle land, yard by yard an' inch by inch. It give one a sorter shock, sir, every day, as I come up with my trucks, to find the engine goin' so much further, an' yet to get 'eld up at last by the same ole blocking o' trees an' creepers an' butterflies an' all that. Seemed as though there wasn't nothin' else before one, and as if it wasn't no use trying to get through with it. But they give me good wage, specially after they tuk to runnin' o' nights too, so I was able to put my hand into my breeches pocket when 'Oneyman said, 'You don't 'appen to 'ave a five-rupee about you, do'ee Craddock, for I ain't got a feather to fly with.' Then my stoker tuk sick an' I managed ter get 'Oneyman as _local demon_. It didn't 'urt no one, you see, sir, for I done both works without turnin' more 'airs than 'ad to turn with two shirts, one dryin' the other; an' it give 'Oneyman time to die respectable an' quiet like at the back o' the lamp room in the junction where I 'ad my diggings. Not that it was much of a 'quiet and secluded 'ome for an invalid,' sir, specially after orders come to push on the work as much as may be before His Honner the Guv'ner or some such bigwig, I disremember which, come on tower. Still, 'e got a sight better, an' I used to tote 'im about as stoker up an' down the line, an' many a time as 'e see me 'angin' out my shirt to dry, 'e'd say, pitiful like, 'It had ought ter be mine; but I'd do as much for Nathaniel James Craddock if I could.' And he done it, sir, in the end, for I should a' lost my billet but for 'im.

"This is 'ow it 'appened. The monkeys weren't no better after 'Oneyman left, but rather the worse. They was more Christian-like than ever, an' wouldn't 'ave no bowings down in the house of Rumnings. It got so bad as the Suckties couldn't stand 'em no more; but it was some leeches as a down-country man brought as done the trick at last. I don't mean proper blood leeches, sir, but them whited-sepulcre-the-other-way-round fruits as is marocky leather outside, an' my golly! in--Well! the 'ead bottlewasher Brahman, 'im as they called the Gossoon--though w'y, I can't say, since the only gossoon I ever 'eard tell on was a Hirish gentleman in the Colleen Bawn--was dead on leeches--'e was a real blood leech 'imself, if you like--but, though 'e kep 'is eye on them all the time 'e was palavering away about Mai Kâli an' Shiv-_jee_, the ole buck monkey was too much for 'im, an' 'e 'ad nothin' but the marocky leather trimmings as come floatin' down peaceful-like on 'is bald 'ead and big stummick as he stud dancin' with rage while _bunder-jee_ was eatin' the my golly.

"That, as I said, done the trick. There was a gold-printed letter come from Mai Kâli ter say she was lonesome away in the jungles without 'er Hunoomân--or some such rot. Then 'is Honner the bigwig was coming, an' so on, an' so on. It ain't 'ard to do that sort o' thing, sir, w'en you don't have no Ten Commandments an' everyone is so accustomed to lying that it don't strike 'em as odd.

"How they done it, I don't know. All I know is that one moonlick night I saw the signal against me as I was running through to the junction with sand I'd bin far to fetch. And I didn't like it. I'd bin away two days without 'Oneyman, and bein' a bit lonesome I'd perraps had a drop too much. Or perraps it was the moonlick night as done it." Here Craddock's voice took on a hushed tone. "It wasn't like the Noo Jerusalem, sir, or them yaller bottles in the chimist's shop as I used to think was 'eaven when I was learning my dooty to my neighbour. There wasn't nothin' glittery about it, nothin' to make you think of the far away. It was there, right down beside you on the engine, cold an' clear, taking the colour out of every mortal thing, till there weren't no difference a'twixt earth an' sky; till the pin point of the pole star wasn't no brighter than--than the safety valve; for I keeps 'em bright, you see, sir." Here he laid his hand affectionately on the throttle. "So I wasn't that pleased at 'aving to 'old up, specially as I was a bit late and 'ad to get through the junction afore tha Bigwig's train was due--for 'e was comin' that night.

"'Wot's up?' I sings out to the station-master, with an oath.

"'E laughed. 'Two truck load caged monkeys, zoological specimens rate, attendant priests in charge, consigned to Mai Kâli. We'll hitch 'em on behind in no time. Superintendent's orders.'

"Well, sir! it was no use swearin'; so they was 'itched up, and I went on full steam, givin' them Brahmins a bit o' a swing, wot with the 'eavy sand in front an' the cages behind. The junction was all lit up an' decorated for the Bigwig, flags a-flying an' red baize all along the platform. 'E was to dine there, and the refreshment room looked A 1--a reg'lar spread, I call it. An' there was the Superintendent, waitin' in 'is best uniform----" Craddock paused as if to emphasise further remarks. "'E was a real bone-silly man--there ain't no other word for 'im, sir--bone-silly down to the last drop o' marrow. I dunno if it was the sight o' 'im, or the drink I 'ad on board, but I forgot to choke 'er down in time, an' we went over the points at a rattlin' pace.

"The sand, being 'eavy, took 'em steady, but the zoological consignment, being light, didn't. It ran off the rail, lurched into a shed, upset, and before you cud say 'knife' there was a matter of two 'undred or more o' the specimens let loose in that there junction."

He paused again and shook his head sorrowfully. "It ain't no use tryin' to describe it, sir. All you got to do is say ''ell an' tommy' and leave it alone.

"'Craddock!' shrieks the Superintendent, as I stud laughin' fit to split, as I see limber-legs at their old games, 'make that brute give up my helmet or I'll--I'll----' Then 'e got speechless, save for bad words, sir. You never see such a huproar. Red baize, tore to strips, festooning the roof, 'God bless our Bigwig' flutterin' in bits like a paperchase down the platforms, an' the mail train due in 'arf an hour.

"'You--you brought 'em 'ere, you scoundrel!' shrieks the Superintendent, 'take 'em away again or I'll--I'll----' an' again he refrained even from good words, sir. But 'e was bone-silly. Not as anyone cud do anything; leastways, not till 'Oneyman step out of the lamp room in 'is pyjamas, lookin' more dead nor alive. But there was somethin' in his hair, sir, as made me feel as a man had arose in Israel, for all he was so small.