Rudyard Kipling: 440+ Short Stories in One Edition (Illustrated). Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг

betune the eyes.

      '"You're a good man," sez he, lookin' me betune the eyes—an' oh he was a gran'-built man to see!—"you're a good man," he sez, "an' I cud wish, for the pure frolic av ut, that I was not a Sargint, or that you were not a Privit; an' you will think me no coward whin I say this thing."

      '"I do not," sez I. "I saw you whin Vulmea mishandled the rifle. But, Sargint," I sez, "take the wurrd from me now, spakin' as man to man wid the shtripes off, tho' 'tis little right I have to talk, me being fwhat I am by natur'. This time ye tuk no harm, an' next time ye may not, but, in the ind, so sure as Slimmy's wife came into the veranda, so sure will ye take harm—an' bad harm. Have thought, Sargint," sez I. "Is ut worth ut?"

      '"Ye're a bould man," sez he, breathin' harrd. "A very bould man. But I am a bould man tu. Do you go your way, Privit Mulvaney, an' I will go mine."

      'We had no further spache thin or afther, but, wan by another, he drafted the twelve av my room out into other rooms an' got thim spread among the Comp'nies, for they was not a good breed to live together, an' the Comp 'ny orf'cers saw ut. They wud ha' shot me in the night av they had known fwhat I knew; but that they did not.

      'An', in the ind, as I said, O'Hara met his death from Rafferty for foolin' wid his wife. He wint his own way too well—Eyah, too well! Shtraight to that affair, widout turnin' to the right or to the lef', he wint, an' may the Lord have mercy on his sowl. Amin!'

      ''Ear! 'Ear!' said Ortheris, pointing the moral with a wave of his pipe. 'An' this is 'im 'oo would be a bloomin' Vulmea all for the sake of Mullins an' a bloomin' button! Mullins never went after a woman in his life. Mrs. Mullins, she saw 'im one day—'

      'Ortheris,' I said, hastily, for the romances of Private Ortheris are all too daring for publication, 'look at the sun. It's a quarter past six!'

      'O Lord! Three quarters of an hour for five an' a 'arf miles! We'll 'ave to run like Jimmy O.'

      The Three Musketeers clambered on to the bridge, and departed hastily in the direction of the cantonment road. When I overtook them I offered them two stirrups and a tail, which they accepted enthusiastically. Ortheris held the tail, and in this manner we trotted steadily through the shadows by an unfrequented road.

      At the turn into the cantonments we heard carriage wheels. It was the Colonel's barouche, and in it sat the Colonel's wife and daughter. I caught a suppressed chuckle, and my beast sprang forward with a lighter step.

      The Three Musketeers had vanished into the night.

L'Envoi

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      And they were stronger hands than mine

       That digged the Ruby from the earth—

       More cunning brains that made it worth

       The large desire of a King;

       And bolder hearts that through the brine

       Went down the Perfect Pearl to bring.

       Lo, I have made in common clay

       Rude figures of a rough-hewn race;

       For Pearls strew not the market-place

       In this my town of banishment,

       Where with the shifting dust I play

       And eat the bread of Discontent.

       Yet is there life in that I make,—

       Oh Thou who knowest, turn and see,

       As Thou hast power over me,

       So I have power over these,

       Because I wrought them for Thy sake,

       And breathed in them mine agonies.

       Small mirth was in the making. Now

       I lift the cloth that clokes the clay,

       And, wearied, at Thy feet I lay

       My wares ere I go forth to sell.

       The long bazar will praise—but Thou— Heart of my heart, have I done well?

Poor Dear Mamma

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      The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky,

       The deer to the wholesome wold,

       And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid,

       As it was in the days of old.

       Gypsy Song.

      SCENE.—Interior of MISS MINNIE THREEGAN'S bedroom at Simla. MISS THREEGAN, in window-seat, turning over a drawerful of things. MISS EMMA DEERCOURT, bosom-friend, who has come to spend the day, sitting on the bed, manipulating the bodice of a ballroom frock and a bunch of artificial lilies of the valley. Time, 5.30 P. M. on a hot May afternoon.

      MISS DEERCOURT. And he said: 'I shall never forget this dance,' and, of course, I said: 'Oh! how can you be so silly!' Do you think he meant anything, dear?

      MISS THREEGAN. (Extracting long lavender silk stocking from the rubbish.) You know him better than I do.

      MISS D. Oh, do be sympathetic, Minnie! I'm sure he does. At least I would be sure if he wasn't always riding with that odious Mrs. Hagan.

      MISS T. I suppose so. How does one manage to dance through one's heels first? Look at this—isn't it shameful? (Spreads stocking-heel on open hand for inspection)

      MISS D. Never mind that! You can't mend it. Help me with this hateful bodice, I've run the string so, and I've run the string so, and I can't make the fulness come right. Where would you put this? (Waves lilies of the valley.)

      MISS T. As high up on the shoulder as possible.

      MISS D. Am I quite tall enough? I know it makes May Olger look lop-sided.

      MISS T. Yes, but May hasn't your shoulders. Hers are like a hock-bottle.

      BEARER. (Rapping at door.) Captain Sahib aya.

      MISS D. (Jumping up wildly, and hunting for body, which she has discarded owing to the heat of the day.) Captain Sahib! What Captain Sahib? Oh, good gracious, and I'm only half dressed! Well, I shan't bother.

      MISS T. (Calmly.) You needn't. It isn't for us. That's Captain Gadsby. He is going for a ride with Mamma. He generally comes five days out of the seven.

      AGONISED VOICE. (From an inner apartment.) Minnie, run out and give Captain Gadsby some tea, and tell him I shall be ready in ten minutes; and, O Minnie, come to me an instant, there's a dear girl!

      MISS T. Oh, bother! (Aloud.) Very well, Mamma.

      Exit, and reappears, after five minutes, flushed, and rubbing her fingers.

      MISS D. You look pink. What has happened?

      MISS T. (In a stage whisper.) A twenty-four-inch waist, and she won't let it out. Where are my bangles? (Rummages on the toilet-table, and dabs at her hair with a brush in the interval.)

      MISS D. Who is this Captain Gadsby? I don't think I've met him.

      MISS T. You must have. He belongs to the Harrar set. I've danced with him, but I've never talked to him. He's a big yellow man, just like a newly-hatched chicken, with an e-normous moustache. He walks like this (imitates Cavalry swagger), and he goes 'Ha-Hmmm!' deep down in his throat when he can't think of anything to say. Mamma likes him. I don't.

      MISS D. (Abstractedly.) Does he wax his moustache?

      MISS