Rudyard Kipling's Tales of Horror and Fantasy (20 page)

He caught his native jockey. ‘What horse, d'you say, pressed you?'‘I don't know. It was a grey with nutmeg tickings behind the saddle.' That evening Hordene sought the great Major Blare-Tyndar, who knew personally the father, mother andancestors of almost every horse brought from
ekka
or ship, that had ever set foot on an Indian race-course. ‘Say, Major, what is a grey horse with nutmeg tickings behind the saddle?'‘A curiosity.
Wendell Holmes
is a grey, with nutmeg on the near shoulder, but there is no horse marked your way, now.' Then, after a pause: ‘No, I'm wrong – you ought to know. The pony that got you
Thurinda
was grey and nutmeg.'‘How much?'‘
Divorce,
of course. The mare that broke her neck at the Shayid meeting and killed Jale. A big thirteen-three she was. I recollect when she was hacking old Snuffy Beans to office. He bought her from a dealer, who had her left on his hands as a rejection when the Pink Hussars were buying team up country and then—Hullo! The man's gone!' Hordene had departed on receipt of information which he already knew. He only demanded extra confirmation. Then he began to argue with himself, bearing in mind that he himself was a sane man, neither gluttonous nor a wine-bibber, with an unimpaired digestion, and that
Thurinda
was to all appearances a horse of ordinary flesh and exceedingly good blood. Arrived at, these satisfactory conclusions, he reargued the whole matter.

Being by nature intensely superstitious, he decided upon scratching
Thurinda
and facing the howl of indignation that would follow. He also decided to leave the Ghoriah meet and change his luck. But it would have been sinful – positively wicked – to have left without waiting for the polo match that was to conclude the festivities. At the last moment before the match, one of the leading players of the Ghoriah team and Hordene's host discovered that, through the kindly foresight of his head
sais,
every single pony had been taken down to the ground. ‘Lend me a hack, old man,' he shouted to Hordene as he was changing. ‘Take
Thurinda
,'was the reply. ‘She'll bring you down in ten minutes.' And
Thurinda
was accordingly saddled for Marish's benefit. ‘I'll go down with you,' said Hordene. The two rode off together at a hand canter. ‘By Jove! Somebody's
sais
'll get kicked for this!' said Marish, looking round. ‘Look there! He's coming for the mare! Pull out into the middle of the road.'‘What on earth d'you mean?'‘Well, if
you
can take a strayed horse so calmly, I can't. Didn'tyou see what a lather that grey was in?'‘What grey?'‘The grey that just passed us – saddle and all. He's got away from the ground, I suppose. Now he's turned the corner; but you can hear his hoofs. Listen!' There was a furious gallop of shod horses, gradually dying into silence. ‘Come along,' said Hordene. ‘We're late as it is. We shall know all about it on the ground.'‘Anybody lost a tat?' asked Marish cheerily as they reached the ground. ‘No, we've lost
you.
Double up. You're late enough as it is. Get up and go in. The teams are waiting.' Marish mounted his polo-pony and cantered across. Hordene watched the game idly for a few moments. There was a scrimmage, a cloud of dust, and a cessation of play, and a shouting for
saises.
The umpire clattered forward and returned. ‘What has happened?'‘Marish! Neck broken! Nobody's fault. Pony crossed its legs and came down. Game's stopped. Thank God, he hasn't got a wife!' Again Hordene pondered as he sat on his horse's back, ‘Under any circumstances it was written that he was to be killed. I had no interest in his death, and he had his warning, I suppose. I can't make out the system that this infernal mare runs under. Why
him
?Anyway, I'll shoot her.' He looked at
Thurinda,
the calm-eyed, the beautiful, and repented. ‘No! I'll sell her.'

‘What in the world has happened to
Thurinda
that Hordene is so keen on getting rid of her?' was the general question. ‘I want money,' said Hordene unblushingly, and the few who knew how his accounts stood saw that this was a varnished lie. But they held their peace because of the great love and trust that exists among the ancient and honourable fraternity of sportsmen.

‘There's nothing wrong with her,' explained Hordene. ‘Try her as much as you like, but let her stay in my stable until you've made up your mind one way or the other. Nine hundred's my price.'

‘I'll take her at that,' quoth a red-haired subaltern, nicknamed Carrots, later Gaja, and then for brevity's sake, Guj. ‘Let me have her out this afternoon. I want her more for hacking than anything else.'

Guj tried
Thurinda
exhaustively and had no fault to findwith her. ‘She's all right,' he said briefly. ‘I'll take her. It's a cash deal.'‘Virtuous Guj!' said Hordene, pocketing the cheque. If you go on like this you'll be loved and respected by all who know you.'

A week later Guj insisted that Hordene should accompany him on a ride. They cantered merrily for a time. Then said the subaltern: ‘Listen to the mare's beat a minute, will you? Seems to me that you've sold me two horses.'

Behind the mare was plainly audible the cadence of a swiftly trotting horse. ‘D'you hear anything?' said Guj. ‘No – nothing but the regular triplet,' said Hordene; and he lied when he answered. Guj looked at him keenly and said nothing. Two or three months passed and Hordene was perplexed to see his old property running, and running well, under the curious title of ‘
Sleipner
–late
Thurinda.
'He consulted the Great Major, who said: ‘I don't know a horse called
Sleipner,
but I know
of
one
.
He was a northern bred, and belonged to Odin.'‘A mythological beast?'‘Exactly. Like
Bucephalus
and the rest of 'em. He was a great horse. I wish I had some of his get in my stable.'‘Why?'‘Because he had eight legs. When he had used up one set, he let down the other four to come up the straight on. Stewards were lenient in those days.
Now
it's all you can do to get a crock with
three
sound legs.'

Hordene cursed the red-haired Guj in his heart for finding out the mare's peculiarity. Then he cursed the dead man Jale for his ridiculous interference with a free gift. ‘If it was given – it was given,' said Hordene, ‘and he has no right to come messing about after it.' When Guj and he next met, he enquired tenderly after
Thurinda.
The red-haired subaltern, impassive as usual, answered: ‘I've shot her.'‘Well – you know your own affairs best,' said Hordene. ‘You've given yourself away,' said Guj. ‘What makes you think I shot a sound horse? She might have been bitten by a mad dog, or lamed.'‘You didn't say that.'‘No, I didn't, because I've a notion that you knew what was wrong with her.'‘Wrong with her! She was as sound as a bell—‘‘I know that. Don't pretend to misunderstand. You'll believe
me,
and I'll believe
you
in this show; but no one else will believe
us.
That mare was a bally nightmare.' ‘Go on,' said Hordene. ‘I stuck the noise of the other horse as long as I could, and called her
Sleipner
on the strength of it.
Sleipner
was a stallion, but that's a detail. When it got to interfering with every race I rode it was more than I could stick. I took her off racing, and, on my honour, since that time I've been nearly driven out of my mind by a grey and nutmeg pony. It used to trot round my quarters at night, fool about the Mall, and graze about the compound. You
know
that pony. It isn't a pony to catch or ride or hit, is it?'‘No,' said Hordene; ‘I've seen it.'‘So I shot
Thurinda
;that was a thousand rupees out of my pocket. And old Stiffer, who's got his new crematorium in full blast, cremated her. I say, what
was
the matter with the mare? Was she bewitched?'

Hordene told the story of the gift, which Guj heard out to the end. ‘Now, that's a nice sort of yarn to tell in a messroom, isn't it? They'd call it jumps or insanity,' said Guj. ‘There's no reason in it. It doesn't lead up to anything. It only killed poor Marish and made you stick me with the mare; and yet it's true. Are you mad or drunk, or am I? That's the only explanation.'‘Can't be drunk for nine months on end, and madness would show in that time,' said Hordene.

‘All right,' said Guj recklessly, going to the window. ‘I'll lay that ghost.' He leaned out into the night and shouted: ‘Jale! Jale! Jale! Wherever you are.' There was a pause and then up the compound-drive came the clatter of a horse's feet. The red-haired subaltern blanched under his freckles to the colour of glycerine soap. ‘
Thurinda
'sdead,' he muttered, ‘and – and all bets are off. Go back to your grave again.'

Hordene was watching him open-mouthed.

‘Now bring me a strait-jacket or a glass of brandy,' said Guj. ‘That's enough to turn a man's hair white. What did the poor wretch mean by knocking about the earth!'

‘Don't know,' whispered Hordene hoarsely. ‘Let's get over to the Club. I'm feeling a bit shaky.'

THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING

Brother to a Prince and fellow to a beggar if he be found worthy.

The Law, as quoted, lays down a fair conduct of life and one not easy to follow. I have been fellow to a beggar again and again under circumstances which prevented either of us finding out whether the other was worthy. I have still to be brother to a Prince, though I once came near to kinship with what might have been a veritable King, and was promised the reversion of a Kingdom – army, law-courts, revenue and policy all complete. But, to-day, I greatly fear that my King is dead, and if I want a crown I must go and hunt it for myself.

The beginning of everything was in a railway train upon the road to Mhow from Ajmir. There had been a deficit in the Budget which necessitated travelling, not Second-class, which is only half as dear as First-class, but by Intermediate, which is very awful indeed. There are no cushions in the Intermediate-class, and the population are either Intermediate, which is Eurasian, or native, which for a long night journey is nasty, or Loafer, which is amusing though intoxicated. Intermediates do not patronise refreshment rooms. They carry their food in bundles, and pots, and buy sweets from the native sweetmeat sellers, and drink the roadside water. That is why in the hot weather Intermediates are taken out of the carriages dead, and in all weathers are most properly looked down upon.

My particular Intermediate happened to be empty till I reached Nasirabad, when a huge gentleman in shirt-sleeves entered, and, following the custom of Intermediates, passed the time of day. He was a wanderer and a vagabond like myself, but with an educated taste for whiskey. He told tales of things he had seen and done, of out-of-the-way corners ofthe Empire into which he had penetrated, and of adventures in which he risked his life for a few days' food. ‘If India was filled with men like you and me, not knowing more than the crows where they'd get their next day's rations, it isn't seventy millions of revenue the land would be paying – it's seven hundred millions,' said he; and as I looked at his mouth and chin I was disposed to agree with him. We talked politics – the politics of Loaferdom that sees things from, the underside where the lath and plaster is not smoothed off – and we talked postal arrangements because my friend wanted to send a telegram back from the next station to Ajmir which is the turning-off place from the Bombay to the Mhow line as you travel westward. My friend had no money beyond eight annas which he wanted for dinner, and I had no money at all, owing to the hitch in the Budget before mentioned. Further I was going into a wilderness where, though I should resume touch with the Treasury, there were no telegraph offices. I was, therefore, unable to help him in any way.

‘We might threaten a Station-master and make him send a wire on tick,' said my friend, ‘but that'd mean enquiries for you and for me, and I've got my hands full these days. Did you say you are travelling back along this line within any days?'

‘Within ten,'I said.

‘Can't you make it eight?' said he. ‘Mine is rather urgent business.'

‘I can send your telegram within ten days if that will serve you,' I said.

‘I couldn't trust the wire to fetch him now I think of it. It's this way. He leaves Delhi on the 23rdfor Bombay. That means he'll be running through Ajmir about the night of the 23rd.'

‘But I'm going into the Indian Desert,' I explained.

‘Well
and
good,' said he. ‘You'll be changing at Marwar Junction to get into Jodhpore territory – you must do that – and he'll be coming through Marwar Junction in the early morning of the 24th by the Bombay Mail. Can you be at Marwar Junction on that time? 'Twon't be inconveniencing you because I know that there's precious few pickings to be got out of these Central India States – even though you pretend to be correspondent of the
Backwoodsman
.'

‘Have you ever tried that trick?' I asked.

‘Again and again, but the Residents find you out, and then you get escorted to the Border before you've time to get your knife into them. But about my friend here. I
must
give him a word o' mouth to tell him what's come to me or else he won't know where to go. I would take it more than kind of you if you was to come out of Central India in time to catch him at Marwar Junction, and say to him: “He has gone South for the week”. He'll know what that means. He's a big man with a red beard, and a great swell he is. You'll find him sleeping like a gentleman with all his luggage round him in a Second-class compartment. But don't you be afraid. Slip down the window and say: “He has gone South for the week,” and he'll tumble. It's only cutting your time of stay in those parts by two days. I ask you as a stranger – going to the West,' he said with emphasis.