Indian Tales eBook

I’ve seen so many die here on the mats that I should be afraid of dying in the open now.  I’ve seen some things that people would call strange enough; but nothing is strange when you’re on the Black Smoke, except the Black Smoke.  And if it was, it wouldn’t matter.  Fung-Tching used to be very particular about his people, and never got in any one who’d give trouble by dying messy and such.  But the nephew isn’t half so careful.  He tells everywhere that he keeps a “first-chop” house.  Never tries to get men in quietly, and make them comfortable like Fung-Tching did.  That’s why the Gate is getting a little bit more known than it used to be.  Among the niggers of course.  The nephew daren’t get a white, or, for matter of that, a mixed skin into the place.  He has to keep us three of course—­me and the Memsahib and the other Eurasian.  We’re fixtures.  But he wouldn’t give us credit for a pipeful—­not for anything.

One of these days, I hope, I shall die in the Gate.  The Persian and the Madras man are terribly shaky now.  They’ve got a boy to light their pipes for them.  I always do that myself.  Most like, I shall see them carried out before me.  I don’t think I shall ever outlive the Memsahib or Tsin-ling.  Women last longer than men at the Black Smoke, and Tsin-ling has a deal of the old man’s blood in him, though he does smoke cheap stuff.  The bazar-woman knew when she was going two days before her time; and she died on a clean mat with a nicely wadded pillow, and the old man hung up her pipe just above the Joss.  He was always fond of her, I fancy.  But he took her bangles just the same.

I should like to die like the bazar-woman—­on a clean, cool mat with a pipe of good stuff between my lips.  When I feel I’m going, I shall ask Tsin-ling for them, and he can draw my sixty rupees a month, fresh and fresh, as long as he pleases.  Then I shall lie back, quiet and comfortable, and watch the black and red dragons have their last big fight together; and then....  Well, it doesn’t matter.  Nothing matters much to me—­only I wish Tsin-ling wouldn’t put bran into the Black Smoke.

THE INCARNATION OF KRISHNA MULVANEY

   Wohl auf, my bully cavaliers,
     We ride to church to-day,
   The man that hasn’t got a horse
     Must steal one straight away.

* * * * *

   Be reverent, men, remember
     This is a Gottes haus. 
   Du, Conrad, cut along der aisle
     And schenck der whiskey aus.

Hans Breitmann’s Ride to Church.