’Or thou canst, discarding the impiety of the
cow-maiming, raise him to honour in thy Army.
He comes of a race that will not pay revenue.
A red flame is in his blood which comes out at the
top of his head in that glowing hair. Make him
chief of the Army. Give him honour as may befall,
and full allowance of work, but look to it, O King,
that neither he nor his hold a foot of earth from
thee henceforward. Feed him with words and favour,
and also liquor from certain bottles that thou knowest
of, and he will be a bulwark of defence. But deny
him even a tuft of grass for his own. This is
the nature that God has given him. Moreover he
has brethren——’
The State groaned unanimously.
’But if his brethren come, they will surely
fight with each other till they die; or else the one
will always give information concerning the other.
Shall he be of thy Army, O King? Choose.’
The King bowed his head, and I said, ’Come forth,
Namgay Doola, and command the King’s Army.
Thy name shall no more be Namgay in the mouths of
men, but Patsay Doola, for as thou hast said, I know.’
Then Namgay Doola, new christened Patsay Doola, son
of Timlay Doola, which is Tim Doolan gone very wrong
indeed, clasped the King’s feet, cuffed the
standing Army, and hurried in an agony of contrition
from temple to temple, making offerings for the sin
of cattle maiming.
And the King was so pleased with my perspicacity that
he offered to sell me a village for twenty pounds
sterling. But I buy no villages in the Himalayas
so long as one red head flares between the tail of
the heaven-climbing glacier and the dark birch-forest.
I know that breed.
Pleasant
it is for the Little Tin Gods
When
great Jove nods;
But
Little Tin Gods make their little mistakes
In
missing the hour when great Jove wakes.
As a general rule, it is inexpedient to meddle with
questions of State in a land where men are highly
paid to work them out for you. This tale is a
justifiable exception.
Once in every five years, as you know, we indent for
a new Viceroy; and each Viceroy imports, with the
rest of his baggage, a Private Secretary, who may
or may not be the real Viceroy, just as Fate ordains.
Fate looks after the Indian Empire because it is so
big and so helpless.
There was a Viceroy once who brought out with him
a turbulent Private Secretary—a hard man
with a soft manner and a morbid passion for work.
This Secretary was called Wonder—John Fennil
Wonder. The Viceroy possessed no name—nothing
but a string of counties and two-thirds of the alphabet
after them. He said, in confidence, that he was
the electro-plated figurehead of a golden administration,
and he watched in a dreamy, amused way Wonder’s
attempts to draw matters which were entirely outside
his province into his own hands. ’When we
are all cherubims together,’ said His Excellency
once, ’my dear, good friend Wonder will head
the conspiracy for plucking out Gabriel’s tail
feathers or stealing Peter’s keys. Then
I shall report him.’
