BY RUDYARD KIPLING
And some are sulky, while some will plunge
[So ho! Steady! Stand still, you!]
Some you must gentle, and some you must lunge.
[There! There! Who wants to kill you?]
Some--there are losses in every trade--
Will break their hearts ere bitted and made,
Will fight like fiends as the rope cuts hard,
And die dumb-mad in the breaking-yard.
Toolungala Stockyard Chorus.
To rear a boy under what parents call the "sheltered life system"
is, if the boy must go into the world and fend for himself, not
wise. Unless he be one in a thousand he has certainly to pass
through many unnecessary troubles; and may, possibly, come to
extreme grief simply from ignorance of the proper proportions
Let a puppy eat the soap in the bath-room or chew a newly-blacked
boot. He chews and chuckles until, by and by, he finds out that
blacking and Old Brown Windsor make him very sick; so he argues
that soap and boots are not wholesome. Any old dog about the house
will soon show him the unwisdom of biting big dogs' ears. Being
young, he remembers and goes abroad, at six months, a well-mannered
little beast with a chastened appetite. If he had been kept away
from boots, and soap, and big dogs till he came to the trinity
full-grown and with developed teeth, consider how fearfully
sick and thrashed he would be! Apply that motion to the "sheltered
life," and see how it works. It does not sound pretty, but it is
the better of two evils.
There was a Boy once who had been brought up under the "sheltered
life" theory; and the theory killed him dead. He stayed with
his people all his days, from the hour he was born till the hour
he went into Sandhurst nearly at the top of the list. He was
beautifully taught in all that wins marks by a private tutor, and
carried the extra weight of "never having given his parents an
hour's anxiety in his life." What he learnt at Sandhurst beyond
the regular routine is of no great consequence. He looked about
him, and he found soap and blacking, so to speak, very good. He
ate a little, and came out of Sandhurst not so high as he went
in. Then there was an interval and a scene with his people, who
expected much from him. Next a year of living unspotted from the
world in a third-rate depot battalion where all the juniors were
children and all the seniors old women; and lastly he came out to
India where he was cut off from the support of his parents and
had no one to fall back on in time of trouble except himself.
Now India is a place beyond all others where one must not take
things too seriously--the midday sun always excepted. Too much
work and too much energy kill a man just as effectively as too
much assorted vice or too much drink. Flirtation does not matter,
because every one is being transferred and either you or she leave
the Station, and never return. Good work does not matter, because
a man is judged by his worst output and another man takes all the
credit of his best as a rule. Bad work does not matter, because
other men do worse and incompetents hang on longer in India
than anywhere else. Amusements do not matter, because you must
repeat them as soon as you have accomplished them once, and
most amusements only mean trying to win another person's money.
Sickness does not matter, because it's all in the day's work, and
if you die, another man takes over your place and your office in
the eight hours between death and burial. Nothing matters except
Home-furlough and acting allowances, and these only because they
are scarce. It is a slack, country where all men work with
imperfect instruments; and the wisest thing is to escape as
soon as ever you can to some place where amusement is
amusement and a reputation worth the having.
But this Boy--the tale is as old as the Hills--came out, and took
all things seriously. He was pretty and was petted. He took the
pettings seriously and fretted over women not worth saddling a
pony to call upon. He found his new free life in India very good.
It does look attractive in the beginning, from a subaltern's point
of view--all ponies, partners, dancing, and so on. He tasted it as
the puppy tastes the soap. Only he came late to the eating, with
a growing set of teeth. He had no sense of balance--just like the
puppy--and could not understand why he was not treated with the
consideration he received under his father's roof. This hurt his
He quarrelled with other boys, and, being sensitive to the marrow,
remembered these quarrels, and they excited him. He found whist,
and gymkhanas, and things of that kind (meant to amuse one after
office), good; but he took them seriously too, just as seriously as
he took the "head" that followed after drink. He lost his money
over whist and gymkhanas because they were new to him.
He took his losses seriously, and wasted as much energy and
interest over a two-goldmohur race for maiden ekka-ponies with
their manes hogged, as if it had been the Derby. One-half of this
came from inexperience--much as the puppy squabbles with the corner
of the hearth-rug--and the other half from the dizziness bred by
stumbling out of his quiet life into the glare and excitement of
a livelier one. No one told him about the soap and the blacking
because an average man takes it for granted that an average man is
ordinarily careful in regard to them. It was pitiful to watch The
Boy knocking himself to pieces, as an over-handled colt falls down
and cuts himself when he gets away from the groom.
This unbridled license in amusements not worth the trouble
of breaking line for, much less rioting over, endured for six
months--all through one cold weather--and then we thought that the
heat and the knowledge of having lost his money and health and lamed
his horses would sober The Boy down, and he would stand steady.
In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred this would have happened.
You can see the principle working in any Indian Station. But this
particular case fell through because The Boy was sensitive and took
things seriously--as I may have said some seven times before. Of
course, we could not tell how his excesses struck him personally.
They were nothing very heartbreaking or above the average. He
might be crippled for life financially, and want a little nursing.
Still the memory of his performances would wither away in one hot
weather, and the bankers would help him to tide over the money
troubles. But he must have taken another view altogether and have
believed himself ruined beyond redemption. His Colonel talked
to him severely when the cold weather ended. That made him more
wretched than ever; and it was only an ordinary "Colonel's
What follows is a curious instance of the fashion in which we are
all linked together and made responsible for one another. The
thing that kicked the beam in The Boy's mind was a remark that
a woman made when he was talking to her. There is no use in
repeating it, for it was only a cruel little sentence, rapped out
before thinking, that made him flush to the roots of his hair. He
kept himself to himself for three days, and then put in for two
days' leave to go shooting near a Canal Engineer's Rest House about
thirty miles out. He got his leave, and that night at Mess was
noisier and more offensive than ever. He said that he was "going
to shoot big game," and left at half-past ten o'clock in an ekka.
Partridge--which was the only thing a man could get near the Rest
House--is not big game; so every one laughed.
Next morning one of the Majors came in from short leave, and heard
that The Boy had gone out to shoot "big game." The Major had taken
an interest in The Boy, and had, more than once, tried to check him.
The Major put up his eyebrows when he heard of the expedition and
went to The Boy's room, where he rummaged.
Presently he came out and found me leaving cards on the Mess.
There was no one else in the ante-room.
He said, "The Boy has gone out shooting. Does a man shoot tetur
with a revolver and writing-case?"
I said, "Nonsense, Major!" for I saw what was in his mind.
He said, "Nonsense or no nonsense, I'm going to the Canal now--at
once. I don't feel easy."
Then he thought for a minute, and said: "Can you lie?"
"You know best," I answered. "It's my profession."
"Very well," said the Major; "you must come out with me now--at
once--in an ekka to the Canal to shoot black-buck. Go and put
on shikar-kit--quick--and drive here with a gun."
The Major was a masterful man; and I knew that he would not give
orders for nothing. So I obeyed, and on return found the Major
packed up in an ekka--gun-cases and food slung below--all ready
for a shooting-trip.
He dismissed the driver and drove himself. We jogged along quietly
while in thetation; but, as soon as we got to the dusty road
across the plains, he made that pony fly. A country-bred can do
nearly anything at a pinch. We covered the thirty miles in under
three hours, but the poor brute was nearly dead.
Once I said, "What's the blazing hurry, Major?"
He said, quietly, "The Boy has been alone, by himself, for--one,
two, five--fourteen hours now! I tell you, I don't feel easy."
This uneasiness spread itself to me, and I helped to beat the
When we came to the Canal Engineer's Rest House the Major called
for The Boy's servant; but there was no answer. Then we went up to
the house, calling for The Boy by name; but there was no answer.
"Oh, he's out shooting," said I.
Just then, I saw through one of the windows a little hurricane-lamp
burning. This was at four in the afternoon. We both stopped dead
in the verandah, holding our breath to catch every sound; and we
heard, inside the room, the "brr--brr--brr" of a multitude of
flies. The Major said nothing, but he took off his helmet and we
entered very softly.
The Boy was dead on the bed in the centre of the bare, lime-washed
room. He had shot his head nearly to pieces with his revolver. The
gun-cases were still strapped, so was the bedding, and on the table
lay The Boy's writing-case with photographs. He had gone away to
die like a poisoned rat!
The Major said to himself softly, "Poor Boy! Poor, poor devil!"
Then he turned away from the bed and said, "I want your help in
Knowing The Boy was dead by his own hand, I saw exactly what that
help would be, so I passed over to the table, took a chair, lit
a cheroot, and began to go through the writing-case; the Major
looking over my shoulder and repeating to himself, "We came too
late!--Like a rat in a hole!--Poor, poor devil!"
The Boy must have spent half the night in writing to his people,
to his Colonel, and to a girl at Home; and as soon as he had
finished, must have shot himself, for he had been dead a long time
when we came in.
I read all that he had written, and passed over each sheet to the
Major as I finished it.
We saw from his accounts how very seriously he had taken
everything. He wrote about "disgrace which he was unable to
bear"--"indelible shame"--"criminal folly"--"wasted life," and so
on; besides a lot of private things to his father and mother too much
too sacred to put into print. The letter to the girl at Home was
the most pitiful of all; and I choked as I read it. The Major made
no attempt to keep dry-eyed. I respected him for that. He read
and rocked himself to and fro, and simply cried like a woman
without caring to hide it. The letters were so dreary and hopeless
and touching. We forgot all about The Boy's follies, and only
thought of the poor Thing on the bed and the scrawled sheets
in our hands. It was utterly impossible to let the letters go Home.
They would have broken his father's heart and killed his mother
after killing her belief in her son.
At last the Major dried his eyes openly, and said, "Nice sort of
thing to spring on an English family! What shall we do?"
I said, knowing what the Major had brought me out for, "The Boy
died of cholera. We were with him at the time. We can't commit
ourselves to half-measures. Come along."
Then began one of the most grimy comic scenes I have ever taken
part in--the concoction of a big, written lie, bolstered with
evidence, to soothe The Boy's people at Home. I began the rough
draft of the letter, the Major throwing in hints here and there while
he gathered up all the stuff that The Boy had written and burnt it
in the fireplace. It was a hot, still evening when we began, and
the lamp burned very badly. In due course I made the draft to my
satisfaction, setting forth how The Boy was the pattern of all
virtues, beloved by his regiment, with every promise of a great
career before him, and so on: how we had helped him through the
sickness--it was no time for little lies, you will understand--and
how he had died without pain. I choked while I was putting down
these things and thinking of the poor people who would read them.
Then I laughed at the grotesqueness of the affair, and the laughter
mixed itself up with the choke--and the Major said that we both
I am afraid to say how much whiskey we drank before the letter was
finished. It had not the least effect on us. Then we took off The
Boy's watch, locket, and rings.
Lastly, the Major said, "We must send a lock of hair too. A woman
But there were reasons why we could not find a lock fit to send.
The Boy was black-haired, and so was the Major, luckily. I cut off
a piece of the Major's hair above the temple with a knife, and put
it into the packet we were making. The laughing-fit and the chokes
got hold of me again, and I had to stop. The Major was nearly as
bad; and we both knew that the worst part of the work was to come.
We sealed up the packet, photographs, locket, seals, ring, letter,
and lock of hair with The Boy's sealing-wax and The Boy's seal.
Then the Major said, "For God's sake let's get outside--away from
the room--and think!"
We went outside, and walked on the banks of the Canal for an hour,
eating and drinking what we had with us, until the moon rose.
I know now exactly how a murderer feels. Finally, we forced
ourselves back to the room with the lamp and the Other Thing in
it, and began to take up the next piece of work. I am not going to
write about this. It was too horrible. We burned the bedstead and
dropped the ashes into the Canal; we took up the matting of the
room and treated that in the same way. I went off to a village and
borrowed two big hoes,--I did not want the villagers to help,--while
the Major arranged--the other matters. It took us four hours' hard
work to make the grave. As we worked, we argued out whether it was
right to say as much as we remembered of the Burial of the Dead.
We compromised things by saying the Lord's Prayer with a private
unofficial prayer for the peace of the soul of The Boy. Then we
filled in the grave and went into the verandah--not the house--to
lie down to sleep. We were dead-tired.
When we woke the Major said wearily, "We can't go back till
to-morrow. We must give him a decent time to die in. He died early
this morning, remember. That seems more natural." So the Major
must have been lying awake all the time, thinking.
I said, "Then why didn't we bring the body back to
The Major thought for a minute:--"Because the people bolted when
they heard of the cholera. And the ekka has gone!"
That was strictly true. We had forgotten all about the ekka-pony,
and he had gone home.
So, we were left there alone, all that stifling day, in the Canal
Rest House, testing and re-testing our story of The Boy's death
to see if it was weak at any point. A native appeared in the
afternoon, but we said that a Sahib was dead of cholera, and he
ran away. As the dusk gathered, the Major told me all his fears
about The Boy, and awful stories of suicide or nearly-carried-out
suicide--tales that made one's hair crisp. He said that he himself
had once gone into the same Valley of the Shadow as the Boy, when
he was young and new to the country; so he understood how things
fought together in The Boy's poor jumbled head. He also said that
youngsters, in their repentant moments, consider their sins much
more serious and ineffaceable than they really are. We talked
together all through the evening and rehearsed the story of
the death of The Boy. As soon as the moon was up, and The Boy,
theoretically, just buried, we struck across country for the
Station. We walked from eight till six o'clock in the morning;
but though we were dead-tired, we did not forget to go to The
Boy's room and put away his revolver with the proper amount of
cartridges in the pouch. Also to set his writing-case on the
table. We found the Colonel and reported the death, feeling more
like murderers than ever. Then we went to bed and slept the
clock round; for there was no more in us.
The tale had credence as long as was necessary; for every one
forgot about The Boy before a fortnight was over. Many people,
however, found time to say that the Major had behaved scandalously
in not bringing in the body for a regimental funeral. The saddest
thing of all was the letter from The Boy's mother to the Major
and me--with big inky blisters all over the sheet. She wrote
the sweetest possible things about our great kindness, and the
obligation she would be under to us as long as she lived.
All things considered, she was under an obligation; but not exactly
as she meant.
~~~~~~~ THE END ~~~~~~~