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They lounged about cantonments-it was too hot for any sort of
game, and almost too hot for
vic~and fuddled themselves in the evening, and filled themselves
to distension with the healthy
nitrogenous food provided for them, and the more they stoked the
less exercise they took and
more explosive they grew. Then tempers began to wear away, and
men fell a-brooding over
insults real or imaginary, for they had nothing else to think of. The
tone of the repartees
changed, and instead of saying light-heartedly: "I'll knock your
silly face in," men grew
laboriously p0lite and hinted that the cantonments were not big
enough for themselves and their
enemy, and that there would be more space for one of the two in
another place.

It may have been the Devil who arranged the thing, but the fact of
the case is that Losson had for
a long time been worrying Simmons in an aimless way. It gave
him occupation. The two had
their cots side by side, and would
sometimes spend a long afternoon swearing at each other; but
Simmons was afraid of Losson
and dared not challenge him to a fight. He thought over the words
in the hot still nights, and half
the hate he felt toward Losson he vented on the wretched
punkahcoolie.

Losson bought a parrot in the bazar, and put it into a little cage,
and lowered the cage into the
cool darkness of a well, and sat on the well-curb, shouting bad
language down to the parrot. He
taught it to say: "Simmons, ye so-oor," which means swine, and
several other things entirely
unfit for publication. He was a big gross man, and he shook like a
jelly when the parrot had the
sentence correctly. Simmons, however, shook with rage, for all
the room were laughing at
him-the parrot was such a disreputable puff of green feathers and it
looked so human when it
chattered. Losson used to sit, swinging his fat legs, on the side of
the cot, and ask the parrot what
it thought of Simmons. The parrot would answer:
"Simmons, ye so-oor." "Good boy," Losson used to say, scratching
the parrot's head; "ye 'ear
that, Sim?" And Simmons used to turn over on his stomach and
make answer: "I 'ear. Take 'eed
you don't 'ear something one of these days."

In the restless nights, after he had been asleep all day, fits of blind
rage came upon Simmoor and
held him till he trembled all over, while he thought in how many
different ways he would slay
Losson. Sometimes he would picture himself trampling the life
out of the man, with heavy
ammunition-boots, and at others smashing in his face with

244
WORKS OF RUDYARD KiPLING

the butt, and at otheri jumping on his shoulders and dragging the
head back til~ the necKbone
cracked. Then his mouth would feel hot and fevered, and he
would reach out for another sup of
the beer in tile pannikin.

But the fancy that came to him most frequently and stayed with
him longest was one connected
with the great roll of fat under Losson's right ear. He noticed it
first on a moonlight night, and
thereafter it was always before his eyes. It was a fascinating roll of
fat. A man could get his hand
upon it and tear away one side of the neck; or he could place the
muzzle of a rifle on it and blow
away all the head in a flash. Losson had no right to be sleek and
contented and well-to-do,
when he, Simmons, was the butt of the room. Some day, perhaps,
he would show those who
laughed at the "Simmons, ye so-oor" joke, that he was as good as
the rest, and held a man's life
in the crook of his forefinger. When Losson snored, Simmons
hated him more bitterly than ever.
Why should Losson be able to sleep when Simmons had to stay
awake hour after hour, tossing
and turning on the tapes, with the dull liver pain gnawing into his
right side and his head
throbbing and aching after Canteen? He thought over this for
many nights, and the world
became unprofitable to him. He even blunted his naturally fine
appetite with beer and tobacco;
and all the while the parrot talked at and made a mock of him.

The heat continued and the tempers wore away more quickly than
before. A Sergeant's wife died
of heat-apoplexy in the night, and the mmor ran abroad
that it was cholera. Men rejoiced openly, hoping that it would
spread and send them into camp.
But that was a false alarm.

It was late on a Tuesday evening, and the men were waiting in the
deep double verandas for
"Last Posts," when Simmons went to the box at the foot of his bed,
took ~ut his pipe, and
slammed the lid down with a bang that echoed through the
deserted barrack like the crack of a
rifle. Ordinarily speaking, the men would have taken no notice;
but their nerves were fretted to
fiddle-strings. They jumped up, and three or four clattered into the
barrack-room only to find
Simmons kneeling by his box.

"Owl It's you, is it?" they said and laughed foolishly. "We t h 0 u
g h t 'twas"-Simmons rose
slowly. If the accident had so shaken his fellows, what would not
the reality do?

"You thought it was-did you? And what makes you think?" he said,
jashmg himself into madness
as he went on; "to Hell with your thinking, ye dirty spies."

"Simmons, ye so-oor," chuckled the parrot in the veranda, sleepily,
recognizing a well-known
voice. Now that was absolutely all.

The tension snapped. Simmons fell back on the arm-rack
deliberately,-the men were at the far
end of the room,-and took out his rifle and packet of ammunition.
"Don't go nlaying the goat,
Sim!" said Losson. "Put it down," but there was a quaver in his
voice. Another man stooped,
slipped his boot and hurled it at Simmon's head. The prompt
answer was a shot

IN ThE MATTER OF A PRIVATE
245

which, fired at random, found its billet in Losson's throat. Losson
fell forward without a word,
and the others scattered.

"You thought it was!" yelled Simmons. "You're drivin' me to it! I
tell you you're drivin' me to it!
Get up, Losson, an' don't lie shammin' there-you an' your blasted
parrit that druv me to it!"

But there was an unaffected reality ibout Losson's pose that
showed Simmons what he had done.
The men were still clamoring n the veranda. Simmons
appropriated two more packets of
ammunition and ran into the moonlight, muttering: "I'll make a
night of it. Thirty roun's, an' the
last for myself. Take you that, you dogs!"

He dropped on one knee and fired into the brown of the men on
the veranda, but the bullet flew
high, and landed in the brickwork with a vicious phant that made
some of the younger ones turn
pale. It is, as musketry theorists observe, one thing to fire and
another to be fired at.

Then the instinct of the chase flared up. The news spread from
barrack to barrack, and the men
doubled out intent on the capture of Simmons, the wild beast, who
was heading for the Cavalry
parade-ground, stopping now and again to send back a shot and a
Lurse in the direction of his
pursuers.

"I'll learn you to spy on me!" he shouted; "I'll learn you to give me
dorg's names! Come on the
'ole lot 0' you! Colonel John Anthony Deever, C.B.!"-he turned
toward the Infantry Mess and
shook his rifle-"you think yourself the devil of a man-but I tell 'jou
that if you Put your ugly old
car-
cass outside 0' that door, I'll make you the poorest-lookin' man in
the army. Come out, Colonel
John Anthony Deever, C.B.! Come out and see me practiss on the
rainge. I'm the crack shot of
the 'ole bloomin' battalion." In proof of which statement Simmons
fired at the lighted windows
of the mes~house.

"Private Simmons, E Comp'ny, on the Cavalry p'rade-ground, Sir,
with thirty rounds," said a
Sergeant breathlessly to the Colonel. "Shootin' right and lef', Sir.
Shot Private Losson What's to
be done, Sir?"

Colonel John Anthony Deever, C.B., sallied out, only to be saluted
by s spurt of dust at his feet.

"Pull up!" said the Second in Command; "I don't want my step in
that way, Colon~l. He's as
dangerous as a mad dog."

"Shoot him like one, then," said the Colonel, bitterly, "if he won't
take his chance, My regiment,
too! If it had been the Towheads I could have under stood."

Private Simmons had occupied a strong position near a well on the
edge of the parade-ground,
and was defying the regiment to come on. The regiment was not
anxious to comply, for there is
small honor i:1 being shot by a fellow-private. Only Corporal
Slane, rifle in band, threw himself
down on the ground, and wormed his way toward the well.

"Don't shoot," said he to the men round him; "like as not you'll hit
me. I'll catch the beggar,
livin'."

Simmons ceased shouting for a while, and the noise of trap-wheels
could be heard across the
plain. Major Oldyn~.

246
WORKS OF RUDYARD KIPLING

Commanding the Horse Battery, was coming back from a dinner in
the Civil Lines; was driving
after his u-ual custom-that is to say, as fast as the horse could go.

"A orf'cer! A blooming spangled orf'cer," shrieked Simmons; "I'll
make a scarecrow of that
orf'cer!" The trap stopped.

"What's this?" demanded the Major of Gunners. "You there, drop
your rifle."

"Why, it's Jerry Blazes! I ain't got no quarrel with you, Jerry
Blazes. Pass frien', an' all's well!"

But Jerry Blazes had not the faintest intention of passing a
dangerous murderer. He was, as his
adoring Battery swore long and fervently, without knowledge of
fear, and they were surely the
best judges, for Jerry Blazes, it was notorious, had done his
possible to kill a man each time the
Battery went out.

He walked toward Simmons, with the intention of rushing him,
and knocking him down.

"Don't make me do it, Sir," said Simmons; "I ain't got nothing agin
you. Ah! you would?"-the
Major broke into a run-"Take that then!"

The Major dropped with a bullet through his shoulder, and
Simmons stood over him. He had lost
the satisfaction of killing Losson in the desired way: hut here was a
helpless body to his hand.
Should be slip in another cartridge, and blow off the head, or with
the butt smash in the white
face? He stopped to consider, and a cry went up from the far side
of the parade-ground: "He's
killed Jerry Blazes!" But in the shelter of the well-pillars Simmons
was safe except when he
stepped
out to fire. "I'll blow yer 'andsome 'ead off, Jerry Blazes," said
Simmons, reflectively. "Six an'
three is nine an one is ten, an' that leaves me another nineteen, an'
one for myself." He tugged at
the string of the second packet of ammunition. Corporal Slane
crawled out of the shadow of a
bank into the moonlight.

"I see you!" said Simmons. "Come a bit furder on an' I'll do for
you."

"I'm comm'," said Corporal Slane, briefly; "you've done a bad day's
work, Sim. Come out 'ere an'
come back with me."

"Come to,"-laugbed Simmons, sending a cartridge home with his
thumb. '~Not before I've settled
you an' Jerry Blazes."

The Corporal was lying at full length in the dust of the
parade-ground, a rifle under him. Some
of the less-cautious men in the distance shouted:
"Shoot 'im! Shoot 'im, Slane !"

"You move 'and or foot, Slane," said Simmons, "an' I'll kick Jerry
Blazes' 'ead in, and shoot you
after."

"I ain't movin'," said the Corporal, raising his head; "you daren't 'it
a man on 'is legs. Let go 0'
Jerry Blazes an' come out 0' that with your fistes. Come an' 'it me.
You daren't, you bloomin'
dog-shooter!"

"I dare."

"You lie, you man-sticker. You sneakin', Sheeny butcher, you lie.
See there!" Slane kicked the
rifle away, and stood up in the peril of his life. "Come on, now!"

The temptation was more than Simmons could resist, for the
Corporal in his white clothes
offered a perfect mark.

"Don't misname me," shouted Sim
j

IN THE MATTER OF A PRIVATE
247

mons, firing as he spoke. The shot missed, and the shooter, blind
with rage, threw his rifle down
and rushed at Slane from the protection of the well. Within
striking distance, he kicked savagely
at Slane's stomach, but the weedy Corporal knew something of
Simmons's weakness, and knew,
too, the deadly guard for that kick. Bowing forward and drawing
up his right leg till the heel of
the right foot was set some three inches above the inside of the left
knee-cap, he met the blow
standing on one leg~exactly as Gonds stand when they
meditate-and ready for the fall that would
follow. There was an oath, the Corporal fell over his own left as
shinbone met shinbone, and the
Private collapsed, his right leg broken an inch above the ankle.

"'Pity you don't know that guard, Sim," said Slane, spitting out the
dust as he rose. Then raising
his voic~ "Come an' take him orf. I've bruk 'is leg." This was not
strictly true, for the Private
had accomplished his own downfall, since it is the special merit of
that leg-guard that the harder
the kick the greater the kicker's discomfiture.

Slane walked to Jerry Blazes and hung over him with ostentatious
anxiety, while Simmons,
weeping with pain, was carried away. " 'Ope you ain't 'urt badly,
Sir," said Slane. The Major
had fainted, and there was an ugly, ragged hole through the top of
his arm. Slane knelt down
and murmured. "S'elp me, I believe 'e's dead. Well, if that ain't my
blooming luck all over!"

But the Major was destined to lead
his Battery afield for many a long day with unshaken nerve. He
was removed, and nursed and
petted into convalescence, while the Battery discussed the wisdom
of capturing Simmons, and
blowing him from a gun. They idolized their Major, and his
reappearance on parade brought
about a scene nowhere provided for in the Army Regulations.

Great, too, was the glory that fell to Slane's share. The Gunners
would have made him drunk
thrice a day for at least a fortnight. Even the Colonel of his own
regiment complimented him
upon his coolness, and the local paper called him a hero. These
things did not puff him up.
When the Major offered him money and thanks, the virtuous
Corporal took the one and put aside
the other. But he had a request to make and prefaced it with many
a "Beg y'pardon, Sir." Could
the Major see his way to letting the SlaneM'Kenna wedding be
adorned by the presence of four
Battery horses to pull a hired barouche? The Major could, and so
could the Battery. Excessively
so. It was a gorgeous wedding.

*
*
*
*
*
*


"Wot did I do it for?" said Corporal Slane. "For the 'orses 0'
course. Jhansi ain't a beauty to look
at, but I wasn't goin' to 'ave a hired turn-out. Jerry Blazes? If I
'adn't 'a' wanted something, Sim
might ha' blowed Jerry Blazes' blooming 'ead into Hirish stew for
aught I'd 'a' cared."

And they hanged Private Simmons-hanged him as high as Haman
in hollow square of the
regiment; and the Colonel said it was Drink; and the Chaplain

248
WORKS OF RUDYARD KIPLING

was sure it was the Devil; and Simmons fancied it was both, but he
didn't know, and only hoped
his fate would be a warning to his companions; and half a dozen
"intelligent publicists" wrote six
beautiful leading articles on
"'The Prevalenc~ of Crime in the Army."

But not a soul thought of comparing the "bloody-minded
Simmons" to the squawking, gaping
schoolgirl with which this story opens.



The Enlighte~me~ts of Pagett, M.R

"Because half a dozen grasshoppers onder a fern make the field
ring with their importunate
chink while thousands of great cattle, reposed beneath the shadow
of the British oak, chew the
cud and are silent, pray do not imagine that those who make the
noise are the only inhabitants of
the field-that, of course, they are many in number~r that, after all,
they are other than the little,
shrivelled, meagre, hopping, though loud and troublesome insects
of the hour."-Burke:
"Reflections on the Revolution in France."


THEY were sitting in the veranda of "the splendid palace of an
Indian Pro-Consul"; surrounded
by all the glory and mystery of the immemorial East. In plain
English it was a one-storied,
ten-roomed, whitewashed, mud-roofed bungalow, set in a dry
garden of dusty tamarisk trees and
divided from the road by a low mud wall. The green parrots
screamed overhead as they flew in
battalions to the river for their morning drink. Beyond the wall,
clouds of fine dust showed
where the cattle and goats of the city were passing afield to graze.
The remorseless white light of
the winter sunshine of Northern India lay upon everything and
improved nothing, from the
whining Peisian-wheel by the lawn-tennis court to the long perspec
tive of level road and the blue, domed tombs of Mohammedan
saints just visible above the trees.

"A Happy New Year," said Orde to his guest. "It's the first you've
ever spent out of England, isn't
it?"

"Yes. 'Happy New Year," said Pagett, smiling at the sunshine.
"What a divine cl~mat~ you
have here! Just think of the brown cold fog hanging over London
now!" And he rubbed his
hands.

It was more than twenty years since he had last seen Orde, his
schoolmate, and their paths in the
world had divided early. The one had quitted college to become a
cog-wheel in the machinery
of the great Indian Government; the other more blessed with
goods, had been whirled into a
similar position in the English scheme. Three successive elections
had not affected Pagett's
position with a loyal constituency, and he had grown insensibly to
regard himself in some sort as
a pillar of the Empire, whose real worth would be known later
on. After a few years of conscientious attendance at many
divisions, after newspaper battles
innumerable and the publication of interminable
correspondence, and more hasty oratory than


THE ENLIGHTENMENTS OF PAGETT, M.P.
24~

in his calmer moments he cared to think upon, it occurred to him,
as it had occurred to many of
his fellows in Parliament, that a tour to India would enable him to
sweep a larger lyre and
addre3s himself to the problems of Impenal administration with a
firmer hand. Accepting,
therefore, a general invitation extended to him by Orde some years
before, Pagett bad taken ship
to Karachi, and only over-night had been received with joy by the
Deputy-Commissioner of
Amara. They had sat late, discussing the changes and chances of
twenty years, recalling the
names of the dead, and weighing the futures of the living, as is the
custom of men meeting after
intervals of action.

Next morning they smoked the after breakfast pipe in the veranda,
still regarding each other
curiously, Pagett, in a light grey frock-coat and garments much too
thin for the time of the year,
and a puggried sun-hat carefully and wonderfully made. Orde in a
shooting coat, riding
breeches, brown cowhide boots with spurs, and a battered flax
helmet. He had ridden some
miles in the early morning to inspect a doubtful river dam. The
men's faces differed as much as
their attire. Orde's worn and wrinkled around the eyes, and
grizzled at the temples, was the
harder and more square of the two, and it was with something like
envy that the owner looked at
the comfortable outlines of Pagett's blandly receptive countenance,
the clear skin, the untroubled
eye, and the mobile, clean-shaved lips.

"And this is India!" said Pagett for the twentieth time staring long
and intently at the grey
feathering of tbe tamarisks.

"One portion of India only. It's vcry much like this for 300 miles in
every direction. By the way,
now that you have rested a littl~I wouldn't ask the old question
befor~what d'you think of the
country?"

'Tis the most pervasive country that ever yet was seen. I acquired
several pounds of your country
coming up from Karachi. The air is heavy with it, and for miles
and miles along that distressful
eternity of rail there's no horizon to show where air and earth
separate."

"Yes. It isn't easy to see truly or far in India. But you had a decent
passage out, hadn't you?"

"Very good on the whole. Your Anglo-Indian may be
unsympathetic about one's political views;
but he has reduced ship life to a science."

"The Anglo-Indian is a political orphan, and if he's wise he won't
be in a hurry to be adopted by
your party grandmothers. But how were your companions,
unsympathetic?"

"Well, there was a man called Dawlishe, a judge somewhere in
this country it seems, and a
capital partner at whist by the way, and when I wanted to talk to
him about the progress of India
in a political sense (Orde hid a grin, which might or might not
have been sympathetic), the
National Congress movement, and other things in which, as a
Member of Parliament, I'm of
course interested, he shifted the subject, and when I once cornered
him, he looked me calmly in
the eye, and said:
'That's all Tommy rot. Come and have a game at Bull.' You may
laugh; but that isn't the way to
treat a great and important question; and, knowing who I was.
well. I thought it rather rude,

250
WORKS OF RUDYARD KIPLING

don't you know; and yet Dawlishe is a thoroughly good fellow."

"Yes; he's a friend of mine, and one of the straightest men I know.
I suppose, like many
Anglo-Indians, he felt it was hopeless to give you any just idea of
any Indian question without
the documents before you, and in this case the documents you
want are the country and the
people."

"Precisely. That was why I came straight to you, bringing an open
mind to bear on things. I'm
anxious to know what popular feeling in India is really like
y'know, now that it has wakened into
political life. The National Congress, in spite of Dawlishe, must
have caused great excitement
among the masses?"

"On the contrary, nothing could be more tranquil than the state of
popular feeling; and as to
excitement, the people would as soon be excited over the 'Rule of
Three' as over the Congress."

"Excuse me, Orde, but do you think you are a fair judge? Isn't the
official Anglo-Indian naturally
jealous of any external influences that might move the masses, and
so much opposed to liberal
ideas, truly liberal ideas, that he can scarcely be expected to regard
a popular movement with
fairness?"

"What did Dawlishe say about Tommy Rot? Think a moment,
old man. You and I were
brought up together; taught by the same tutors, read the same
books, lived the same life, and new
languages, and work among new races; while you, more fortunate,
remain at home. Why should
I change iny mind~ur mind-because I change my sky? Why should
I and the few
hundred Englishmen in my service become unreasonable,
prejudiced fossils, while you and your
newer friends alone remain bright and open-minded? You surely
don't fancy civilians are
members of a Primrose League?"

"Of course not, but the mere posi tion of an English official gives
him a point of view which
cannot but bias his mind on this question." Pagett moved his knee
up and down a little uneasily
as he spoke.

"That sounds plausible enough, but, like more plausible notions on
Indian matters, I believe it's a
mistake. You'll find when you come to consult the unofficial
Briton that our fault, as a class
-I speak of the civilian now-is rather to magnify the progress that
has been made toward liberal
institutions. It is of English origin, such as it is, and the stress of
our work since the Mutiny-only
thirty years ag~has been in that direction. No, I think you will get
no fairer or more dispassionate
view of the Congress business than such men as I can give you.
But I may as well say at once
that those who know most of India, from the inside, are inclined to
wonder at the noise our
scarcely begun experiment makes in England."

"But surely the gathering together of Congress delegates is of itself
a new thing."

"There's nothing new under the sun When Europe was a jungle
half Asia flocked to the canonical
conferences of Buddhism; and for centuries the people have
gathered at Pun, Hurdwar, Trimbak,
and Benares in immense numbers. A great meeting, what you call
a mass meeting, is really one
of the ~dest and most popular of Indian institutions
THE ENLIGHTENMENTS OF PAGETT, M.P.

251

in this topsy~turvy land, and though they have been employed in
clerical work for generations
they have no practical knowledge of affairs. A ship's clerk is a
useful person, but he i~ scarcely
the captain; and an orderly room writer, however smart he may be,
is not the ~olonel. You see,
the writer class in India has never till now aspired to anything like
command. It wasn't allowed
to. The Indian gentleman, for thousands of years past, has
resembled Victor Hugo's noble:



'Un vrai sire
Chatelain
Laisse ecrire
Le vilain.
Sa main digne
Quand il signe
Egratigne

Le velin.'

And the little egratignures he most likes to make have been scored
pretty deeply by the sword."

"But this is childish and mediaeval nonsense!"

"Precisely; and from your, or rather our, point of view the pen is
mightier than the sword. In this
country it's otherwise. The fault lies in our Indian balances, not yet
adjusted to civilized weights
and measures."

"Well, at all events, this literary class represent the natural
aspirations and wishes of the people
at large, though it may not exactly lead them, and, in spite of all
you say, Orde, I defy you to find
a really sound English Radical who would not sympathize with
those aspirations."

Pagett spoke with some warmth, and he had scarcely ceased when
a weU
In the case of the Congress meetings, the only notable fact is that
the priests of the altar are
British, not Buddhist, Jam or Brabmanical, and that the whole
thing is a British contrivance kept
alive by the efforts of Messrs. Hume, Eardley, Norton, and Dighy."

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