Abaft the Funnel. Rudyard Kipling

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СКАЧАТЬ the luckless cayuse that stumbled in that ride. Then fell the hail—blinding and choking and flogging in one and the same stroke. The herd opened like a fan. The red steer headed a contingent he knew not whither. A man with a whip rode at his right flank. Behind him the lightning showed a field of glimmering horns, and of muzzles flecked with foam; a field of red terror-strained eyes and shaggy frontlets. The man looked back also, and his terror was greater than that of the beasts. The herd had surrounded him in the darkness. His salvation lay in the legs of Whisky Peat—and Whisky Peat knew it—knew it until an unseen gopher hole received his near forefoot as he strained every nerve—in the heart of the flying herd, with the red steer at his flanks. Then, being only over-worked cayuse, Whisky Peat fell, and the red steer fancied that there was something soft on the ground.

      It was Michigan, Jim and Lafe who at last brought the herd to a standstill as the dawn was breaking, "What's come to The Corpse?" quoth Lafe. Jim loosened the girths of his quivering pony and made answer slowly: "Onless I'm a blamed fool, the gentleman is now livin' up to his durned appellation 'bout fifteen miles back—what there is of him and the cayuse." "Let's go and look," said Lafe, shuddering slightly, for the morning air, you must understand, was raw. "Let's go to—a much hotter place than Texas," responded Jim. "Get the steers to the Junction first. Guess what's left of The Corpse will keep."

      And it did. And that was how the fat man in Chicago got his beef. It belonged to the red steer.

      FOOTNOTES:

[7] "Turnovers," Vol. VII.

THE HISTORY OF A FALL[8]

       Mere English will not do justice to the event. Let us attempt it according to the custom of the French. Thus and so following:

      Listen to a history of the most painful—and of the most true. You others, the Governors, the Lieutenant-Governors, and the Commissionaires of the Oriental Indias.

      It is you, foolishly outside of the truth in prey to illusions so blind that I of them remain so stupefied—it is to you that I address myself!

      Know you Sir Cyril Wollobie, K.C.S.I., C.M.G., and all the other little things?

      He was of the Sacred Order of Yourself—a man responsible enormously—charged of the conservation of millions. …

      Of people. That is understood. The Indian Government conserves not its rupees.

      He was the well-loved of kings. I have seen the Viceroy—which is the Lorr-Maire—embrace him of both arms.

      That was in Simla. All things are possible in Simla.

      Even embraces.

      His wife! Mon Dieu, his wife!

      The aheuried imagination prostrates itself at the remembrance of the splendours Orientals of the Lady Cyril—the very respectable the Lady Wollobie.

      That was in Simla. All things are possible in Simla. Even wives. In those days I was—what you call—a Schnobb. I am now a much larger Schnobb. Voila the only difference. Thus it is true that travel expands the mind.

      But let us return to our Wollobies.

      I admired that man there with the both hands. I crawled before the Lady Wollobie—platonically. The man the most brave would be only platonic towards that lady. And I was also afraid. Subsequently I went to a dance. The wine equalled not the splendour of the Wollobies. Nor the food. But there was upon the floor an open space—large and park-like. It protected the dignity Wollobi-callisme. It was guarded by Aides-de-Camp. With blue silk in their coat-tails—turned up. With pink eyes and white moustaches to ravish. Also turned up.

      To me addressed himself an Aide-de-Camp.

      That was in Simla. To-day I do not speak to Aides-de-Camp.

      I confine myself exclusively to the cab-drivaire. He does not know so much bad language, but he can drive better.

      I approached, under the protection of the Aide-de-Camp, the luminosity of Sir Wollobie.

      The world entire regarded.

      The band stopped. The lights burned blue. A domestic dropped a plate.

      It was an inspiring moment.

      From the summit of Jakko forty-five monkies looked down upon the crisis.

      Sir Wollobie spoke.

      To me in that expanse of floor cultured and park-like. He said: "I have long desired to make your acquaintance."

      The blood bouilloned in my head. I became pink. I was aneantied under the weight of an embarras insubrimable.

      At that moment Sir Wollobie became oblivious of my personality. That was his custom.

      Wiping my face upon my coat-tails I refugied myself among the foules.

      I had been spoken to by Sir Wollobie. That was in Simla. That also is history.

      Pass now several years. To the day before yesterday!

      This also is history—farcical, immense, tragi-comic, but true.

      Know you the Totnam Cortrode?

      Here lives Maple, who sells washing appliances and tables of exotic legs.

      Here voyages also a Omnibuse Proletariat.

      That is to say for One penny.

      Two pence is the refined volupté of the Aristocrat.

      I am of the people.

      Entre nous the connection is not desired by us. The people address to me epithets, entirely unprintable. I reply that they should wash. The situation is strained. Hence the Strike Docks and the Demonstrations Laborious.

      Upon the funeste tumbril of the Proletariat I take my seat.

      I demand air outside upon the roof.

      I will have all my penny.

      The tumbril advances.

      A man aged loses his equilibrium and deposits himself into my lap.

      Following the custom of the Brutal Londoner I demand the Devil where he shoves himself.

      He apologises supplicatorically.

      I grunt.

      Encore the tumbril shakes herself.

      I appropriate the desired seat of the old man.

      The conductaire cries to loud voice: "Fare, Guvnor."

      He produces one penny.

      A reminiscence phantasmal provokes itself.

      I beat him on the back.

      It СКАЧАТЬ