A PRIVATE’S HONOR
I had not seen Mulledwiney for several days. Knowing the man–this looked bad. So I dropped in on the Colonel. I found him in deep thought. This looked bad, too, for old Cockey Wax–as he was known to everybody in the Hill districts but himself–wasn’t given to thinking. I guessed the cause and told him so.
“Yes,” he said wearily, “you are right! It’s the old story. Mulledwiney, Bleareyed, and Otherwise are at it again,–drink followed by Clink. Even now two corporals and a private are sitting on Mulledwiney’s head to keep him quiet, and Bleareyed is chained to an elephant.”
“Perhaps,” I suggested, “you are unnecessarily severe.”
“Do you really think so? Thank you so much! I am always glad to have a civilian’s opinion on military matters–and vice versa–it broadens one so! And yet–am I severe? I am willing, for instance, to overlook their raid upon a native village, and the ransom they demanded for a native inspector! I have overlooked their taking the horses out of my carriage for their own use. I am content also to believe that my fowls meekly succumb to jungle fever and cholera. But there are some things I cannot ignore. The carrying off of the great god Vishnu from the Sacred Shrine at Ducidbad by The Three for the sake of the priceless opals in its eyes”–
“But I never heard of THAT,” I interrupted eagerly. “Tell me.”
“Ah!” said the Colonel playfully, “that–as you so often and so amusingly say–is ‘Another Story’! Yet I would have overlooked the theft of the opals if they had not substituted two of the Queen’s regimental buttons for the eyes of the god. This, while it did not deceive the ignorant priests, had a deep political and racial significance. You are aware, of course, that the great mutiny was occasioned by the issue of cartridges to the native troops greased with hog’s fat–forbidden by their religion.”
“But these three men could themselves alone quell a mutiny,” I replied.
The Colonel grasped my hand warmly. “Thank you. So they could. I never thought of that.” He looked relieved. For all that, he presently passed his hand over his forehead and nervously chewed his cheroot.
“There is something else,” I said.
“You are right. There is. It is a secret. Promise me it shall go no further–than the Press? Nay, swear that you will KEEP it for the Press!”
“I promise.”
“Thank you SO much. It is a matter of my own and Mulledwiney’s. The fact is, we have had a PERSONAL difficulty.” He paused, glanced around him, and continued in a low, agitated voice: “Yesterday I came upon him as he was sitting leaning against the barrack wall. In a spirit of playfulness–mere playfulness, I assure you, sir–I poked him lightly in the shoulder with my stick, saying ‘Boo!’ He turned–and I shall never forget the look he gave me.”
“Good heavens!” I gasped, “you touched–absolutely TOUCHED– Mulledwiney?”
“Yes,” he said hurriedly, “I knew what you would say; it was against the Queen’s Regulations–and–there was his sensitive nature which shrinks from even a harsh word; but I did it, and of course he has me in his power.”
“And you have touched him?” I repeated,–”touched his private honor!”
“Yes! But I shall atone for it! I have already arranged with him that we shall have it out between ourselves alone, in the jungle, stripped to the buff, with our fists–Queensberry rules! I haven’t fought since I stood up against Spinks Major–you remember old Spinks, now of the Bombay Offensibles?–at Eton.” And the old boy pluckily bared his skinny arm.
“It may be serious,” I said.
“I have thought of that. I have a wife, several children, and an aged parent in England. If I fall, they must never know. You must invent a story for them. I have thought of cholera, but that is played out; you know we have already tried it on The Boy who was Thrown Away. Invent something quiet, peaceable and respectable–as far removed from fighting as possible. What do you say to measles?”
“Not half bad,” I returned.
“Measles let it be, then! Say I caught it from Wee Willie Winkie. You do not think it too incredible?” he added timidly.
“Not more than YOUR story,” I said.
He grasped my hand, struggling violently with his emotion. Then he struggled with me–and I left hurriedly. Poor old boy! The funeral was well attended, however, and no one knew the truth, not even myself.
