Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (750 page)

John’s face was answer enough. ‘No! No! But what’ll I do? What’ll I do?’ he asked wildly. ‘I — I have never been like this before!’

‘I’ll give you a sedative, but you must slack off, and divert your mind. Yes! That’s it. Divert your mind.’

John went back to the Works, and strove to tell his secretary something about the verdict. The man was perfunctorily sympathetic, but what he wanted John to understand (he seemed at the other end of the world as he spoke) was that, owing to John’s ignorance of finance, the whole of the Works stood as John’s personal property. So that, if John died, they would be valued and taxed thirty or forty ‘er cent for death-duties, and that would cripple things badly. Not a minute should be lost before turning the concern into a chain of companies. He had the scheme drafted. It would need but a couple of days’ study. John looked at the papers, listened to the explanation, stared at a calendar on the wall, and heard himself speaking as from the bottom of a black, cold crater:

‘It don’t mean anything — half a million or three quarters or — or — or anything. Oh sorry! It’s gone up like the Ridge, and I’m a dud, you know.’

Then he returned to his expensive flat, which the same secretary had taken for him a year before, and prepared to do nothing for a month except to think upon the night he had passed in Burnea’s old office, and to expect, and get, others like it. A few men came — once each — grinned at him, told him to buck up, and went on to their own concerns. He was ministered to by his ex-batman, Corporal Vincent Shingle, systematically a peculator, intermittently a drunkard, and emphatically a liar. Twice — once underground, where he had penetrated with a thermos full of hot coffee, and a piece of gallery had sat down on him; and once at Bailleul, when the lunatics of the local asylum were let out, and he was chased by a homicidal maniac with a thigh- bone — Marden had saved Shingle’s life. Twice — once out of the crumbling rim of a crater; and once by the slack of his breeches, when a whiff of gas dropped him over the mouth of a shaft — he had saved Marden’s. Therefore, he came along with the rest of the Messines’ veterans to the Works, whence Jerry Floyd kicked him into space at the end of the first month. Upon this, he returned to John Marden’s personal service and the study of John’s private correspondence and most intimate possessions. As he explained to Probert, the janitor of the flats, the night after the doctor had spoken

‘The ‘ole game of gettin’-on is to save your bloke trouble. ‘E don’t know it, but I do ‘is ‘ome work for ‘im while ‘e makes money for me at ‘is office. Na-o! ‘E don’t spend it on me. That I ‘ave to do meself. But I don’t grudge the labour.’

‘Then what’s ‘e been seein’ the doctor about?’ said Probert, who had an impure mind.

‘‘Cause ‘e’s got what Jerry Floyd ‘ad. ‘E’s fed up with repetition- work and richness. I’ve watched it comin’ on. It’s the same as we used to ‘ave it in the War — but t’other way round. You can’t mistake.’

‘What’s goin’ to ‘appen?’

‘Gawd knows! I’m standin’ to. The doctor ‘as told ‘im to lie off everythin’ for a month — in one motion. If you stop runnin’ machinery without slowin’ ‘er down, she’ll lift ‘erself off the bedplate. I’ve seen so with pumps.’

But machinery suddenly arrested has no resources in itself. Human mechanism under strain finds comfort in a drink or two. Running about in cars with no definite object bored John Marden as much as drumming under the clouds in aeroplanes; theatres made him think impotently of new gadgets for handling the scenery, or extracting opera-glasses from their clips; cards and golf ended in his counting the pips in his hand, or the paces between shot and shot; whereas drinks softened the outlines of things, if not at once, then after a little repetition- work.

The result came when a Fear leaped out of the goose-fleshed streets of London between the icy shop-fronts, and drove John to his flat. He argued that it must have been a chill, and fortified himself against it so resolutely that an advertisement, which had caught the tail-end of his eye, stood up before him in the shape of a full-sized red and white bullock, dancing in a tea-cup. It was succeeded a few days later by a small dog, pressed against the skirting-board of his room — an inky, fat horror with a pink tongue, crouched in the attitude of a little beast he had often watched at Mr. William’s fashionable West End pet-shop, where dogs lived in excelsior-floored cubicles, appealing to the passers-by. It began as a spreading blurr, which morning after morning became more definite. It was better than the ox in the tea-cup, till it was borne in on John Marden one dawn that, if It crawled out into the centre of the room, the Universe would crash down on him. He wondered till he sweated, dried and broke out again, what would happen to him then, and how suicides were judged. After a drink or two, he became cunning and diplomatic with — of all experts in the world — his batman, to whom he told the tale of a friend who ‘saw things.’ The result was tabulated that afternoon in the basement, where Shingle and Probert were drinking his whisky.

‘Well, — now we’re arrivin’ at objective A,’ said Shingle. ‘I knew last week ‘e’d begun seein’ ‘em, ‘cause ‘e couldn’t turn ‘is eyes out o’ corners. O’ course, ‘e says it’s overtook a friend of ‘is.’

‘Reasonable enough,’ said Probert. ‘We all keep that friend.’

‘Let’s get down to figures,’ Shingle went on. ‘Two bottles is ‘is week’s whack. An’ we know ‘e don’t use cocktails. Well; that don’t make much more’n four drinks a day. You can’t get nothin’ special on that issue — not in nature.’

‘Women also?’ Probert suggested.

‘Be-e damned! I know there ain’t. No. It’s a black dawg. That’s neither ‘ere nor there. But, if it comes out into the room, ‘is pore friend ‘ll go off ‘is rocker. That is objective B.’

‘Ye-es,’ said Probert. ‘I’ve ‘ad ‘em too. What about it?’

‘I’m askin’ you if reel dawgs are allowed in the flats. Are they?’ said Shingle.

Probert dismissed the matter loftily.

‘As between us!’ he began. ‘Don’t stay awake for it! I’ve sanctioned kittens in two flats this spring. What’s the game?’

‘‘Air o’ the dog that bit ‘im,’ Shingle answered. ‘I mean ‘is pore friend!’

‘What about small-arms in ‘is possession,’ said Probert. ‘You know.’

‘On’y ‘is pistol, an’ ‘e’ll ‘ave a proper ‘unt for that. Now mind you don’t go back on what you said about keepin’ dawgs ‘ere.’

Shingle went off, dressed in most items out of his master’s wardrobe, with the pawnticket for his master’s revolver in his pocket.

John’s state was less gracious. He was walking till he should tire himself out and his brain would cease to flinch at every face that looked so closely at him because he was going mad. If he walked for two hours and a half without halt, round and round the Parks, he might drug his mind by counting his paces till the rush of numbers would carry on awhile after he finished. At seven o’clock he re-entered the flat, and stared at his feet, while he raced through numbers from eleven thousand up. When he lifted his eyes, the black Thing he expected was pressed against the skirting-board. The tonic the doctor had prescribed stood on a table. He drew the cork with his teeth, and gulped down to the first mark on the glass. He fancied he heard small, thumping sounds. Turning, it seemed to him that the Thing by the wall was working outwards.

Then there were two John Mardens — one dissolved by terror; the other, a long way off, detached, but as much in charge of him as he used to be of his underground shift at Messines.

‘It’s coming out into the room,’ roared the first. ‘Now you’ve got to go mad! Your pistol — before you make an exhibition of yourself!’

‘Call it, you fool! Call it! ‘ the other commanded.

‘Come along! Good dog! Come along!’ John whispered.

Slowly, ears pressed to head, the inky blurr crawled across the parquet on to the rug.

‘Go-ood doggie. Come along, then!’ John held out a clenched fist and felt, he thought, a touch of hell-fire that would have sent him through the window, except for the second John, who said: —

‘Right! All right! A cold nose is the sign of a well dog. It’s all right! It’s alive!’

‘No. It’s come alive!’ shouted the first. ‘It’ll grow like the bullock in the cup! Pistol, you!’

‘No — no — alive! Quite alive!’ the other interrupted. ‘It’s licking your fist, and — nff! — it’s made a mess in the corner — on the polished three-eighth-inch oak-parquet, set on cement with brick archings. Shovel! — Not pistol! Get the shovel, you ass!’

Then, John Marden repeated aloud:

‘Yes. It’s made a mess. I’ll get the shovel — shovel — steel — nickel- handled — one. Oh, you filthy little beast!’

He reached among the fire-irons and did what was necessary. The small thing, flat, almost, as a postage-stamp, crawled after him. It was sorry, it whimpered. Indeed, it had been properly brought up, but circumstances had been too much for it, and it apologised — on its back. John stirred it with a toe. Feeling its amends had been accepted, it first licked and then rapturously bit his shoe.

‘It’s a dog right enough,’ said John. He lifted a cracked voice and called aloud:

‘There is a dog here! I mean there’s a dog here.’

As he remembered himself and leaned towards the bell-push, Shingle entered from the bedroom, where he had been laying out dinner-kit, with a story of some badly washed shirts that seemed on his mind.

‘But there’s a dog — ’ said John.

Oh, yes! Now that John mentioned it, a pup had arrived at 5.15 P.M. — brought over from the dog-shop by Mr. Wilham himself who, having observed Captain Marden’s interest in his windows, had taken the liberty of sending on approval — price fifteen guineas — one Dinah, jet black Aberdeen of the dwarf type, aged five months and a fortnight, with pedigree attached to Mr. Wilham’s letter (on the mantelpiece, left when Mr. Wilham found Captain Marden was not at home, sir) and which would confirm all the above statements. Shingle took his time to make everything clear, speaking in a tone that no man of his acquaintance had ever heard. He broke back often to the badly washed shirts, which somehow. John found comforting. The pup ceased to grovel.

‘Wilham was right about ‘er breedin’. Not a white ‘air on ‘er! An’ look at ‘er boo-som frills!’ said Shingle voluptuously.

Dinah, ears just prickable, sat on the floor between them, looking like a bandy-legged bat.

‘But one can’t keep dogs in these flats. It’s forbidden, isn’t it?’ John asked.

‘Me an’ the janitor ‘ll arrange that. Probert’ll come in ‘andy to take ‘er walks, too.’ Shingle mused aloud.

‘But I don’t know anything about dogs.’

‘She’ll look after all that. She’s a bitch, you see, sir. An’ so that’ll be all right.’

Shingle went back to the evening-kit.

John and Dinah faced each other before the fire. His feet, as he sat, were crossed at the ankles. Dinah moved forward to the crotch thus presented, jammed her boat-nosed head into it up to the gullet, pressed down her chin till she found the exact angle that suited her, tucked her forelegs beneath her, grunted, and went to sleep, warm and alive. When John moved, she rebuked him, and Shingle, ten minutes later, found him thus immobilised.

‘H’sh!’ said John.

But Dinah was awake and said so.

‘Oh! That’s it, is it?’ Shingle grinned. ‘She knows ‘oo’s what already.’

‘How d’you mean?’ John asked.

‘She knows where I come in. She’s yours. I’ve got to look after ‘er. That’s all. ‘Tisn’t as if she was a dog-pup.’

‘Yes, but what am I to do about her?’

‘We-ell, o’ course, you must be careful you don’t mix up with others. She’s just the right age for distemper. She’ll ‘ave to be took out on the lead. An’ then there’ll be ‘er basket an’ sundries.’

John Marden did not attend, because in the corner, close to the skirting-board, lay That Other, who had borne him company for the past few days.

‘She — looks like a good ratter,’ he stammered.

‘I’d forgot that. ‘Ere! Young lady!’ said Shingle, following the line of John’s eye. ‘‘Ave you ever ‘eard anything about rats?’

Dinah rose at once and signified that she had — lots.

‘That’s it, then! Rrrats! Rrats, ducky! Rrrout ‘em out! ‘

She in turn followed the hint of Shingle’s hand, scuttled to the corner indicated, and said what she would have done had enemies been present. When she trotted back, That Other took shape again behind her, but John felt relieved.

‘Now about dinner, sir!’ said Shingle. ‘It’s ‘er first night at ‘ome. ‘Twouldn’t do to disappoint ‘er, would it?’

‘Bring something up here then,’ said John. ‘I’ll dress now.’

On Shingle’s departure he rose and, followed by an interested Dinah, trod, not for the first time, firmly in the corners of his room. Then he went to dress. Dinah backed against the bath, the wisdom of centuries in her little solemn mask, till John’s fluttering shirt- tails broke it all up. She leaped, grabbed them, and swung into John’s calves. John kicked back. She retired under the bulge of the porcelain and told him what she thought of him. He sat down and laughed. She scolded till he dropped a stud, and the two hunted for it round the cork mat, and he was just able to retrieve it from between her teeth. Both sat down to meat, a little warm and dishevelled. That Other watched them, but did not insist, though Dinah backed into him twice.