Indian Tales. Rudyard 1865-1936 Kipling

look in his eyes I could see that he had come over for a long talk; most probably with poems in his pockets. Charlie's poems were very wearying, but sometimes they led him to talk about the galley.

      Grish Chunder looked at him keenly for a minute.

      "I beg your pardon," Charlie said, uneasily; "I didn't know you had any one with you."

      "I am going," said Grish Chunder,

      He drew me into the lobby as he departed.

      "That is your man," he said, quickly. "I tell you he will never speak all you wish. That is rot—bosh. But he would be most good to make to see things. Suppose now we pretend that it was only play"—I had never seen Grish Chunder so excited—"and pour the ink-pool into his hand. Eh, what do you think? I tell you that he could see anything that a man could see. Let me get the ink and the camphor. He is a seer and he will tell us very many things."

      "He may be all you say, but I'm not going to trust him to your gods and devils."

      "It will not hurt him. He will only feel a little stupid and dull when he wakes up. You have seen boys look into the ink-pool before."

      "That is the reason why I am not going to see it any more. You'd better go, Grish Chunder."

      He went, declaring far down the staircase that it was throwing away my only chance of looking into the future.

      This left me unmoved, for I was concerned for the past, and no peering of hypnotized boys into mirrors and ink-pools would help me to that. But I recognized Grish Chunder's point of view and sympathized with it.

      "What a big black brute that was!" said Charlie, when I returned to him. "Well, look here, I've just done a poem; did it instead of playing dominoes after lunch. May I read it?"

      "Let me read it to myself."

      "Then you miss the proper expression. Besides, you always make my things sound as if the rhymes were all wrong."

      "Read it aloud, then. You're like the rest of 'em."

      Charlie mouthed me his poem, and it was not much worse than the average of his verses. He had been reading his books faithfully, but he was not pleased when I told him that I preferred my Longfellow undiluted with Charlie.

      Then we began to go through the MS. line by line; Charlie parrying every objection and correction with:

      "Yes, that may be better, but you don't catch what I'm driving at."

      Charles was, in one way at least, very like one kind of poet.

      There was a pencil scrawl at the back of the paper and "What's that?" I said.

      "Oh that's not poetry at all. It's some rot I wrote last night before I went to bed and it was too much bother to hunt for rhymes; so I made it a sort of blank verse instead."

      Here is Charlie's "blank verse":

      "We pulled for you when the wind was against us and the sails were low. Will you never let us go? We ate bread and onions when you took towns or ran aboard quickly when you were beaten back by the foe, The captains walked up and down the deck in fair weather singing songs, but we were below, We fainted with our chins on the oars and you did not see that we were idle for we still swung to and fro. Will you never let us go?

      The salt made the oar bandies like sharkskin; our knees were cut to the bone with salt cracks; our hair was stuck to our foreheads; and our lips were cut to our gums and you whipped us because we could not row, Will you never let us go?

      But in a little time we shall run out of the portholes as the water runs along the oarblade, and though you tell the others to row after us you will never catch us till you catch the oar-thresh and tie up the winds in the belly of the sail. Aho! Will you never let us go?"

      "H'm. What's oar-thresh, Charlie?"

      "The water washed up by the oars. That's the sort of song they might sing in the galley, y'know. Aren't you ever going to finish that story and give me some of the profits?"

      "It depends on yourself. If you had only told me more about your hero in the first instance it might have been finished by now. You're so hazy in your notions."

      "I only want to give you the general notion of it—the knocking about from place to place and the fighting and all that. Can't you fill in the rest yourself? Make the hero save a girl on a pirate-galley and marry her or do something."

      "You're a really helpful collaborator. I suppose the hero went through some few adventures before he married."

      "Well then, make him a very artful card—a low sort of man—a sort of political man who went about making treaties and breaking them—a black-haired chap who hid behind the mast when the fighting began."

      "But you said the other day that he was red-haired."

      "I couldn't have. Make him black-haired of course. You've no imagination."

      Seeing that I had just discovered the entire principles upon which the half-memory falsely called imagination is based, I felt entitled to laugh, but forbore, for the sake of the tale.

      "You're right You're the man with imagination. A black-haired chap in a decked ship," I said.

      "No, an open ship—like a big boat."

      This was maddening.

      "Your ship has been built and designed, closed and decked in; you said so yourself," I protested.

      "No, no, not that ship. That was open, or half decked because—By Jove you're right You made me think of the hero as a red-haired chap. Of course if he were red, the ship would be an open one with painted sails,"

      Surely, I thought, he would remember now that he had served in two galleys at least—in a three-decked Greek one under the black-haired "political man," and again in a Viking's open sea-serpent under the man "red as a red bear" who went to Markland. The devil prompted me to speak.

      "Why, 'of course,' Charlie?" said I.

      "I don't know. Are you making fun of me?"

      The current was broken for the time being. I took up a notebook and pretended to make many entries in it.

      "It's a pleasure to work with an imaginative chap like yourself," I said, after a pause. "The way that you've brought out the character of the hero is simply wonderful."

      "Do you think so?" he answered, with a pleased flush. "I often tell myself that there's more in me than my mo—than people think."

      "There's an enormous amount in you."

      "Then, won't you let me send an essay on The Ways of Bank Clerks to Tit-Bits, and get the guinea prize?"

      "That wasn't exactly what I meant, old fellow; perhaps it would be better to wait a little and go ahead with the galley-story."

      "Ah, but I sha'n't get the credit of that. Tit-Bits would publish my name and address if I win. What are you grinning at? They would."

      "I know it. Suppose you go for a walk. I want to look through my notes about our story."

      Now this reprehensible youth who left me, a little hurt and put back, might for aught he or I knew have been one of the crew of the Argo—had been certainly slave or comrade to Thorfin Karlsefne. Therefore he was deeply interested in guinea competitions. Remembering what Grish Chunder had said I laughed aloud. The Lords of Life and Death would never allow Charlie Mears to speak with full knowledge of his pasts, and I must even piece out what he had told me with my own poor inventions while Charlie wrote of the ways of bank clerks.

      I got together and placed on one file all my notes; and the net result was not cheering. I read them a second time. There was nothing that might not have been compiled at secondhand from other people's books—except, perhaps, the story of the fight in the harbor. The adventures of a Viking had been written many times before; the history of a Greek galley-slave