Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (825 page)

“What happened to
you
? We just saved Call-over. Did you stay on? Tell us! Tell us!”

The three smiled pensively. They were not distinguished for telling more than was necessary.

“Oh, we stayed on a bit and then we came away,” said McTurk. “That’s all.”

“You scab! You might tell a chap anyhow.”

“‘Think so? Well, that’s awfully good of you, De Vitré. ‘Pon my sainted Sam, that’s awfully good of you,” said Corkran, shouldering into the centre of the warmth and toasting one slippered foot before the blaze. “So you really think we might tell you?”

They stared at the coals and shook with deep, delicious chuckles.

“My Hat! We
were
stalky,” said McTurk. “I swear we were about as stalky as they make ‘em. Weren’t we?”

“It was a frabjous Stalk,” said Beetle. “‘Much too good to tell you brutes, though.”

The form wriggled under the insult, but made no motion to avenge it. After all, on De Vitré’s showing, the three had saved the raiders from at least a public licking.

“It wasn’t half bad,” said Corkran. “Stalky
is
the word.”

“
You
were the really stalky one,” said McTurk, one contemptuous shoulder turned to a listening world. “By Gum! you
were
stalky.”

Corkran accepted the compliment and the name together. “Yes,” said he; “keep your eye on your Uncle Stalky an’ he’ll pull you through.”

“Well, you needn’t gloat so,” said De Vitré, viciously; “you look like a stuffed cat.”

Corkran, henceforth known as Stalky, took not the slightest notice, but smiled dreamily.

“My Hat! Yes. Of course,” he murmured. “Your Uncle Stalky — a doocid good name. Your Uncle Stalky is no end of a stalker. He’s a Great Man. I swear he is. De Vitré, you’re an ass — a putrid ass.”

De Vitré would have denied this but for the assenting murmurs from Parsons and Orrin.

“You needn’t rub it in, then.”

“But I do. I does. You are such a woppin’ ass. D’you know it? Think over it a bit at prep. Think it up in bed. Oblige me by thinkin’ of it every half hour till further notice. Gummy!
What
an ass you are! But your Uncle Stalky” — he picked up the form-room poker and beat it against the mantelpiece — ”is a Great Man!”

“Hear, hear,” said Beetle and McTurk, who had fought under that general.

“Isn’t your Uncle Stalky a great man, De Vitré? Speak the truth, you fat-headed old impostor.”

“Yes,” said De Vitré, deserted by all his band. “I — I suppose he is.”

“‘Mustn’t suppose.
Is
he?”

“Well, he is.”

“A Great Man?”

“A Great Man.
Now
won’t you tell us?” said De Vitré pleadingly.

“Not by a heap,” said “Stalky” Corkran.

Therefore the tale has stayed untold till to-day.

THE HOUR OF THE ANGEL

SOONER or late — in earnest or in jest —
    (But the stakes are no jest) Ithuriel’s Hour
Will spring on us, for the first time, the test
    Of our sole unbacked competence and power
    Up to the limit of our years and dower
Of judgment — or beyond. But here we have
Prepared long since our garland or our grave.
    For, at that hour, the sum of all our past,
    Act, habit, thought, and passion, shall be cast
    In one addition, be it more or less,
    And as that reading runs so shall we do;
    Meeting, astounded, victory at the last,
    Or, first and last, our own unworthiness.
And none can change us though they die to save!

1. Ithuriel was that Archangel whose spear had the magic property of showing every one exactly and truthfully what he was.    

“IN AMBUSH.”

In summer all right-minded boys built huts in the furze-hill behind the College — little lairs whittled out of the heart of the prickly bushes, full of stumps, odd root-ends, and spikes, but, since they were strictly forbidden, palaces of delight. And for the fifth summer in succession, Stalky, McTurk, and Beetle (this was before they reached the dignity of a study) had built like beavers a place of retreat and meditation, where they smoked.

Now, there was nothing in their characters as known to Mr. Prout, their house-master, at all commanding respect; nor did Foxy, the subtle red-haired school Sergeant, trust them. His business was to wear tennis-shoes, carry binoculars, and swoop hawklike upon evil boys. Had he taken the field alone, that hut would have been raided, for Foxy knew the manners of his quarry; but Providence moved Mr. Prout, whose school-name, derived from the size of his feet, was Hoofer, to investigate on his own account; and it was the cautious Stalky who found the track of his pugs on the very floor of their lair one peaceful afternoon when Stalky would fain have forgotten Prout and his works in a volume of Surtees and a new briar-wood pipe. Crusoe, at sight of the footprint, did not act more swiftly than Stalky. He removed the pipes, swept up all loose match-ends, and departed to warn Beetle and McTurk.

But it was characteristic of the boy that he did not approach his allies till he had met and conferred with little Hartopp, President of the Natural History Society, an institution which Stalky held in contempt, Hartopp was more than surprised when the boy meekly, as he knew how, begged to propose himself, Beetle, and McTurk as candidates; confessed to a long-smothered interest in first-flowerings, early butterflies, and new arrivals, and volunteered, if Mr. Hartopp saw fit, to enter on the new life at once. Being a master, Hartopp was suspicious; but he was also an enthusiast, and his gentle little soul had been galled by chance-heard remarks from the three, and specially Beetle. So he was gracious to that repentant sinner, and entered the three names in his book.

Then, and not till then, did Stalky seek Beetle and McTurk in their house form-room. They were stowing away books for a quiet afternoon in the furze, which they called the “wuzzy.”

“All up,” said Stalky, serenely. “I spotted Heffy’s fairy feet round our hut after dinner. ‘Blessing they’re so big.”

“Con-found! Did you hide our pipes?” said Beetle.

“Oh, no. Left ‘em in the middle of the hut, of course. What a blind ass you are, Beetle! D’you think nobody thinks but yourself? Well, we can’t use the hut any more. Hoofer will be watchin’ it.”

“‘Bother! Likewise blow!’” said McTurk thoughtfully, unpacking the volumes with which his chest was cased. The boys carried their libraries between their belt and their collar. “Nice job! This means we’re under suspicion for the rest of the term.”

“Why? All that Heffy has found is a hut. He and Foxy will watch it. It’s nothing to do with us; only we mustn’t be seen that way for a bit.”

“Yes, and where else are we to go?” said Beetle. “You chose that place, too — an’ — an’ I wanted to read this afternoon.”

Stalky sat on a desk drumming his heels on the form.

“You’re a despondin’ brute, Beetle. Sometimes I think I shall have to drop you altogether. Did you ever know your Uncle Stalky forget you yet?
His rebus infectis
— after I’d seen Heffy’s man-tracks marchin’ round our hut, I found little Hartopp —
destricto ense
— wavin’ a butterfly-net. I conciliated Hartopp. ‘Told him that you’d read papers to the Bug-hunters if he’d let you join, Beetle. ‘Told him you liked butterflies, Turkey. Anyhow, I soothed the Hartoffles, and we’re Bug-hunters now.”

“What’s the good of that?” said Beetle.

“Oh, Turkey, kick him!”

In the interests of science bounds were largely relaxed for the members of the Natural History Society. They could wander, if they kept clear of all houses, practically where they chose; Mr. Hartopp holding himself responsible for their good conduct.

Beetle began to see this as McTurk began the kicking.

“I’m an ass, Stalky!” he said, guarding the afflicted part. “
Pax
, Turkey. I’m an ass.”

“Don’t stop, Turkey. Isn’t your Uncle Stalky a great man?”

“Great man,” said Beetle.

“All the same bug-huntin’s a filthy business,” said McTurk. “How the deuce does one begin?”

“This way,” said Stalky, turning to some fags’ lockers behind him. “Fags are dabs at Natural History. Here’s young Braybrooke’s botany-case.” He flung out a tangle of decayed roots and adjusted the slide. “‘Gives one no end of a professional air, I think. Here’s Clay Minor’s geological hammer. Beetle can carry that. Turkey, you’d better covet a butterfly-net from somewhere.”

“I’m blowed if I do,” said McTurk, simply, with immense feeling. “Beetle, give me the hammer.”

“All right. I’m not proud. Chuck us down that net on top of the lockers, Stalky.”

“That’s all right. It’s a collapsible jamboree, too. Beastly luxurious dogs these fags are. Built like a fishin’-rod. ‘Pon my sainted Sam, but we look the complete Bug-hunters! Now, listen to your Uncle Stalky! We’re goin’ along the cliffs after butterflies. Very few chaps come there. We’re goin’ to leg it, too. You’d better leave your book behind.”

“Not much!” said Beetle, firmly. “I’m not goin’ to be done out of my fun for a lot of filthy butterflies.”

“Then you’ll sweat horrid. You’d better carry my Jorrocks. ‘Twon’t make you any hotter.”

They all sweated; for Stalky led them at a smart trot west away along the cliffs under the furze-hills, crossing combe after gorzy combe. They took no heed to flying rabbits or fluttering fritillaries, and all that Turkey said of geology was utterly unquotable.

“Are we going to Clovelly?” he puffed at last, and they flung themselves down on the short, springy turf between the drone of the sea below and the light summer wind among the inland trees. They were looking into a combe half full of old, high furze in gay bloom that ran up to a fringe of brambles and a dense wood of mixed timber and hollies. It was as though one-half the combe were filled with golden fire to the cliff’s edge. The side nearest to them was open grass, and fairly bristled with notice-boards.

“Fee-rocious old cove, this,” said Stalky, reading the nearest. “‘
Prosecuted with the utmost rigour of the law
. G. M. Dabney, Col., J.P.,’ an’ all the rest of it. ‘Don’t seem to me that any chap in his senses would trespass here, does it?”

“You’ve got to prove damage ‘fore you can prosecute for anything! ‘Can’t prosecute for trespass,” said McTurk, whose father held many acres in Ireland. “That’s all rot!”

“Glad of that, ‘cause this looks like what we wanted. Not straight across, Beetle, you blind lunatic! Anyone could spot us half a mile off. This way; and furl up your beastly butterfly-net.”

Beetle disconnected the ring, thrust the net into a pocket, shut up the handle to a two-foot stave, and slid the cane-ring round his waist. Stalky led inland to the wood, which was, perhaps, a quarter of a mile from the sea, and reached the fringe of the brambles.

“
Now
we can get straight down through the furze, and never show up at all,” said the tactician. “Beetle, go ahead and explore. Snf! Snf! Beastly stink of fox somewhere!”

On all fours, save when he clung to his spectacles, Beetle wormed into the gorse, and presently announced between grunts of pain that he had found a very fair fox-track. This was well for Beetle, since Stalky pinched him
a tergo
. Down that tunnel they crawled. It was evidently a highway for the inhabitants of the combe; and, to their inexpressible joy, ended, at the very edge of the cliff, in a few square feet of dry turf walled and roofed with impenetrable gorse.

“By gum! There isn’t a single thing to do except lie down,” said Stalky, returning a knife to his pocket. “Look here!”

He parted the tough stems before him, and it was as a window opened on a far view of Lundy, and the deep sea sluggishly nosing the pebbles a couple of hundred feet below. They could hear young jackdaws squawking on the ledges, the hiss and jabber of a nest of hawks somewhere out of sight; and, with great deliberation, Stalky spat on to the back of a young rabbit sunning himself far down where only a cliff-rabbit could have found foot-hold. Great gray and black gulls screamed against the jackdaws; the heavy-scented acres of bloom round them were alive with low-nesting birds, singing or silent as the shadow of the wheeling hawks passed and returned; and on the naked turf across the combe rabbits thumped and frolicked.

“Whew! What a place! Talk of natural history; this is it,” said Stalky, filling himself a pipe. “Isn’t it scrumptious? Good old sea!” He spat again approvingly, and was silent.

McTurk and Beetle had taken out their books and were lying on their stomachs, chin in hand. The sea snored and gurgled; the birds, scattered for the moment by these new animals, returned to their businesses, and the boys read on in the rich, warm, sleepy silence.

“Hullo, here’s a keeper,” said Stalky, shutting “Handley Cross” cautiously, and peering through the jungle. A man with a gun appeared on the sky-line to the east. “Confound him, he’s going to sit down.”