Rudyard Kipling: 440+ Short Stories in One Edition (Illustrated). Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг
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‘Jist then, little Buldoo kim up,’oo was the son of one of the Artillery grooms—’e would’av made a’evinly newspaper-boy in London, bein’ sharp an’ fly to all manner o’ games.’E’ad bin watchin’ us puttin’ Mister Benhira into’is temporary baroush, an’’e sez, “What’ave you been a doin’ of, Sahibs?” sez’e. Learoyd ’e caught ’im by the ear an ’e sez-’
‘Ah says,’ went on Learoyd, “Young mon, that mon’s gooin’ to have t’ goons out o’ Thursday —to-morrow — an’ thot’s more work for you, young mon. Now, sitha, tak’ a tat an’ a lookri, an’ ride tha domdest to t’ Padsahi Jhil. Cotch thot there hekka, and tell t’ driver iv your lingo thot you’ve coom to tak’ his place. T’ Sahib doesn’t speak t’ bat, an’ he’s a little mon. Drive t’ hekka into t’ Padsahi Jhil into t’ watter. Leave t’ Sahib theer an’ roon hoam ; an’ here’s a rupee for tha.”’
Then Mulvaney and Ortheris spoke together in alternate fragments: Mulvaney leading [You must pick out the two speakers as best you can]—‘He was a knowin’ little divil was Bhuldoo,—’e sez bote achee an’ cuts—wid a wink in his oi—but Hi sez there’s money to be made—an’ I wanted to see the ind av the campaign—so Hi says we’ll double hout to the Padsahi Jhil—an’ save the little man from bein’ dacoited by the murtherin’ Bhuldoo—an’ turn hup like reskooers in a Vic’oria Melodrama—so we doubled for the jhil, an’ prisintly there was the divil av a hurroosh behind us an’ three bhoys on grasscuts’ ponies come by, poundin’ along for the dear life—s’elp me Bob, hif Buldoo ’adn’t raised a rig’lar harmy of decoits—to do the job in shtile. An’ we ran, an’ they ran, shplittin’ with laughin’, till we gets near the jhil—and ’ears sounds of distress floatin’ molloncolly on the hevenin’ hair.’ [Ortheris was growing poetical under the influence of the beer. The duet recommenced: Mulvaney leading again.]
‘Thin we heard Bhuldoo, the dacoit, shoutin’ to the hekka man, an’ wan of the young divils brought his stick down on the top av the hekka-cover, an’ Benira Thrigg inside howled “Murther an’ Death.” Buldoo takes the reins and dhrives like mad for the jhil, havin’ dishpersed the hekka-dhriver—’oo cum up to us an’ ’e sez, sez ’e, “That Sahib’s nigh mad with funk ! Wot devil’s work ’ave you led me into?” —“Hall right,” sez we, “you catch that there pony an’ come along. This Sahib’s been decoited, an’ we’re going to resky ’im !” Says the driver, “Decoits ! Wot decoits? That’s Buldoo the budmash”—“Bhuldoo be shot!” sez we. “’Tis a woild dissolute Pathan frum the hills. There’s about eight av thim coercin’ the Sahib. You remimber that an you’ll get another rupee!” Thin we heard the whop-whop-whop av the hekka turnin’ over, an’ a splash av water an’ the voice av Benira Thrigg callin’ upon God to forgive his sins—an’ Buldoo an’ ’is friends squatterin’ in the water like boys in the Serpentine.’
Here the Three Musketeers retired simultaneously into the beer.
‘Well? What came next?’ said I.
‘Fwhat nex’?’ answered Mulvaney, wiping his mouth. ‘Wud ye let three bould sodger-bhoys lave the ornamint av the House av Lords to be dhrowned an’ dacoited in a jhil? We formed line av quarther-column an’ we discinded upon the inimy. For the better part av tin minutes you could not hear yerself spake. The tattoo was screamin’ in chune wid Benira Thrigg an’ Bhuldoo’s army, an’ the shticks was whistlin’ roun’ the hekka, an’ Orth’ris was beatin’ the hekka-cover wid his fistes, an’ Learoyd yellin’, “Look out for their knives!” an’ me cuttin’ into the dark, right an’ lef’, dishpersin’ arrmy corps av Pathans. Holy Mother av Moses! ’twas more disp’rit than Ahmid Kheyl wid Maiwand thrown in. Afther a while Bhuldoo an’ his bhoys flees. Have ye iver seen a rale live Lord thryin’ to hide his nobility undher a fut an’ a half av brown swamp-wather?’ Tis the livin’ image av a water-carrier’s goatskin wid the shivers. It tuk toime to pershuade me frind Benira he was not disimbowilled : an’ more toime to get out the hekka. The dhriver come up afther the battle, swearin’ he tuk a hand in repulsin’ the inimy. Benira was sick wid the fear. We escorted him back, very slow, to cantonmints, for that an’ the chill to soak into him. It suk ! Glory be to the Rigimintil Saint, but it suk to the marrow av Lord Benira Thrigg !’
Here Ortheris, slowly, with immense pride—‘’E sez, “You har my noble preservers,” sez ’e. “You har a honour to the British Harmy,” sez ’e. With that ’e describes the hawful band of dacoits wot set on ’im. There was about forty of ’em an’ ’e was hoverpowered by numbers, so ’e was ; but ’e never lorst ’is presence of mind, so ’e didn’t. ’E guv the hekka-driver five rupees for ’is noble assistance, an’ ’e said ’e would see to us after ’e ’ad spoken to the Kernul. For we was a honour to the Regiment, we was.’
‘An’ we three,’ said Mulvaney, with a seraphic smile, ‘have dhrawn the par-ti-cu-lar attinshin av Bobs Bahadur more than wanst. But he’s a rale good little man is Bobs. Go on, Orth’ris, my son.’
‘Then we leaves ’im at the Kernul ’s ’ouse, werry sick, an’ we cuts hover to B Comp’ny barrick an’ we sez we ’ave saved Benira from a bloody doom, an’ the chances was agin there bein’ p’raid on Thursday. About ten minutes later come three envelicks, one for each of us. S’elp me Bob, if the old bloke ’adn’t guv us a fiver apiece—sixty-four rupees in the bazar! On Thursday ’e was in ’orspital recoverin’ from ’is sanguinary encounter with a gang of Pathans, an’ B Comp’ny was drinkin’ ’emselves into Clink by squads. So there never was no Thursday p’raid. But the Kernul, when ’e ’eard of our galliant conduct, ’e sez, “Hi know there’s been some devilry somewheres,” sez ’e, “but I can’t bring it ’ome to you three.”’
‘An’ my privit imprisshin is,’ said Mulvaney, getting off the bar and turning his glass upside down, ‘that, av they had known they wudn’t have brought ut home. ’Tis flyin’ in the face, firstly av Nature, secon’ av the Rig’lations, an’ third the will av Terence Mulvaney, to hold p’rades av Thursdays.’
‘Good, ma son!’ said Learoyd ; ‘but, young mon, what’s t’ notebook for?’
‘Let be,’ said Mulvaney; ‘ this time next month we’re in the Sherapis. ’Tis immortial fame the gentleman’s goin’ to give us. But kape it dhark till we’re out av the range av me little frind Bobs Bahadur.’
And I have obeyed Mulvaney’s order.
The Taking of Lungtungpen
So we loosed a bloomin’ volley,
An’ we made the beggars cut,
An’ when our pouch was emptied out,
We used the bloomin’ butt.
Ho! My!
Don’t yer come anigh,
When Tommy is a-playin’ with the baynit an’ the butt.
—Barrack Room Ballad.
My friend Private Mulvaney told me this, sitting on the parapet of the road to Dagshai, when we were hunting butterflies together. He had theories about the Army, and coloured clay pipes perfectly. He said that the young soldier is the best to work with, ‘on account av the surpassing innocinse av the child.’
‘Now, listen!’ said Mulvaney, throwing himself full length on the wall in the sun. ‘I’m a born scutt av the barrick-room! The Army’s mate an’ dhrink to me, bekaze I’m wan av the few that can’t quit ut. I’ve