Rudyard Kipling : The Complete Novels and Stories. Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг

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      I wish I could describe the scene that followed. It was out of the ordinary and most improper. Miss Kitty fitted her arrows with immense deliberation, so that every one might see what she was doing. She was a perfect shot; and her 46-pound bow suited her to a nicety. She pinned the wooden legs of the target with great care four successive times. She pinned the wooden top of the target once, and all the ladies looked at each other. Then she began some fancy shooting at the white, which if you hit it, counts exactly one point. She put five arrows into the white. It was wonderful archery; but, seeing that her business was to make “golds” and win the bracelet, Barr-Saggott turned a delicate green like young water-grass. Next, she shot over the target twice, then wide to the left twice—always with the same deliberation—while a chilly hush fell over the company, and Mrs. Beighton took out her handkerchief. Then Kitty shot at the ground in front of the target, and split several arrows. Then she made a red—or seven points—just to show what she could do if she liked, and she finished up her amazing performance with some more fancy shooting at the target-supports. Here is her score as it was pricked off:—

	Gold.	Red.	Blue.	Black.	White.	Total Hits.	Total Score.
Miss Beighton	1	1	0	0	5	7	21

      Barr-Saggott looked as if the last few arrow-heads had been driven into his legs instead of the target’s, and the deep stillness was broken by a litte [little] snubby, mottled, half-grown girl saying in a shrill voice of triumph.—“Then I’ve won!”

      Mrs. Beighton did her best to bear up; but she wept in the presence of the people. No training could help her through such a disappointment. Kitty unstrung her bow with a vicious jerk, and went back to her place, while Barr-Saggott was trying to pretend that he enjoyed snapping the bracelet on the snubby girl’s raw, red wrist. It was an awkard [awkward] scene—most awkward. Every one tried to depart in a body and leave Kitty to the mercy of her Mamma.

      But Cubbon took her away instead, and—the rest isn’t worth printing.

      ▲▲▲

The Three Musketeers

      An’ when the war began, we chased the bold Afghan,

      An’ we made the bloomin’ Ghazi for to flee, boys O!

      An’ we marched into Kabul, an[’] we tuk the Balar ’Issar

      An’ we taught’em to respec’ the British Soldier.

      Barrack Room Ballad.

      Mulvaney, Ortheris and Learoyd are Privates in B Company of a Line Regiment, and personal friends of mine. Collectively I think, but am not certain, they are the worst men in the regiment so far as genial blackguardism goes.

      They told me this story, the other day, in the Umballa Refreshment Room while we were waiting for an up-train. I supplied the beer. The tale was cheap at a gallon and a half.

      Of course you know Lord Benira Trig. He is a Duke, or an Earl, or something unofficial; also a Peer; also a Globe-trotter. On all three counts, as Ortheris says, “’e didn’t deserve no consideration.” He was out here for three months collecting materials for a book on “Our Eastern Impedimenta,” and quartering himself upon everybody, like a Cossack in evening-dress.

      His particular vice—because he was a Radical, I suppose—was having garrisons turned out for his inspection. He would then dine with the Officer Commanding, and insult him, across the Mess table, about the appearance of the troops. That was Benira’s way.

      He turned out troops once too often. He came to Helanthami Cantonment on a Tuesday. He wished to go shopping in the bazaars on Wednesday, and he “desired” the troops to be turned out on a Thursday. On—a—Thursday! The Officer Commanding could not well refuse; for Benira was a Lord. There was an indignation-meeting of subalterns in the Mess Room, to call the Colonel pet names.

      “But the rale dimonstrashin,” said Mulvaney, “was in B Comp’ny barrick; we three headin’ it.”

      Mulvaney climbed on to the refreshment-bar, settled himself comfortably by the beer, and went on:—“Whin the row was at ut’s foinest an’ B Comp’ny was fur goin’ out to murther this man Thrigg on the p’rade-groun’, Learoyd here takes up his helmut an’ sez—fwhat was ut ye said?”

      “Ah said,” said Learoyd, “gie us t’ brass. Tak oop a subscripshun, lads, for to put off t’ p’rade, an’ if t’ p’rade’s not put off, ah’ll gie t’ brass back agean. Thot’s wot ah said. All B Coomp’ny knawed me. Ah took oop a big subscripshun—fower rupees eight annas ’twas—an’ ah went oot to turn t’ job over. Mulvaney an’ Orth’ris coom with me.”

      “We three raises the Divil in couples gin’rally” [,”] explained Mulvaney.

      Here Ortheris interrupted. “’Ave you read the papers?” said he.

      “Sometimes,” I said.

      “We ’ad read the papers, an’ we put hup a faked decoity, a—a sedukshun.”

      “Abdukshin, ye cockney,” said Mulvaney.

      “Abdukshun or sedukshun—no great odds. Any ’ow, we arranged to taik an’ put Mister Benhira out o’ the way till Thursday was hover, or ’e too busy to rux ’isself about p’raids. Hi was the man wot said:—‘We’ll make a few rupees off o’ the business.’”

      “We hild a Council av War,” continued Mulvaney “walkin’ roun’ by the Artill’ry Lines. I was Prisidint, Learoyd was Minister av Finance, an’ little Orth’ris here was ——.”

      “A bloomin’ Bismarck! Hi made the ’ole show pay.”

      “This interferin’ bit av a Benira man” said Mulvaney “did the thrick for us himself; for, on me sowl, we hadn’t a notion av what was to come afther the next minut. He was shoppin’ in the bazar on fut. ’Twas dhrawin’ dusk thin, an’ we stud watchin’ the little man hoppin’ in an’ out av the shops, thryin to injuce the naygurs to mallum his bat. Prisintly, he sthrols up, his arrums full av thruck, an’ he sez in a consiquinshal way, shticking out his little belly:—‘Me good men,’ sez he, ‘have ye seen the Kernel’s b’roosh?’ ‘B’roosh?’ says Learoyd. ‘There’s no b’roosh here—nobbut a hekka.’ ‘Fwhat’s that?’ sez Thrigg. Learoyd shows him wan down the sthreet, an’ he sez:—‘How thruly Orientil! I will ride on a hekka.’ I saw thin that our Rigimintal Saint was for givin’ Thrigg over to us neck an’ brisket. I purshued a hekka, an’ I sez to the dhriver-divil, I sez:—‘Ye black limb, there’s a Sahib comin’ for this hekka. He wants to go jildi to the Padsahi Jhil’—’twas about tu moiles away—, [—’] to shoot snipe—chirria. ‘You dhrive Jehannum ke marfik, mallum? ’Tis no manner av faider СКАЧАТЬ