Lifes Handicap | Page 8

the world Hay swept anew,
and overtook the wearied Doctor, who had been sent out to look for
him, in Madras. It was there that he found the reward of his toil and the
assurance of a blessed immortality. In half an hour the Doctor,
watching always the parched lips, the shaking hands, and the eye that
turned eternally to the east, won John Hay to rest in a little house close
to the Madras surf. All that Hay need do was to hang by ropes from the
roof of the room and let the round earth swing free beneath him. This
was better than steamer or train, for he gained a day in a day, and was
thus the equal of the undying sun. The other Hay would pay his
expenses throughout eternity.
It is true that we cannot yet take tickets from Calais to Hongkong,
though that will come about in fifteen years; but men say that if you
wander along the southern coast of India you shall find in a neatly
whitewashed little bungalow, sitting in a chair swung from the roof,

over a sheet of thin steel which he knows so well destroys the attraction
of the earth, an old and worn man who for ever faces the rising sun, a
stop-watch in his hand, racing against eternity. He cannot drink, he
does not smoke, and his living expenses amount to perhaps twenty-five
rupees a month, but he is John Hay, the Immortal. Without, he hears
the thunder of the wheeling world with which he is careful to explain
he has no connection whatever; but if you say that it is only the noise of
the surf, he will cry bitterly, for the shadow on his brain is passing
away as the brain ceases to work, and he doubts sometimes whether the
doctor spoke the truth.
'Why does not the sun always remain over my head?' asks John Hay.

THROUGH THE FIRE [Footnote: Copyright, 1891, by MACMILLAN
& Co.]
The Policeman rode through the Himalayan forest, under the
moss-draped oaks, and his orderly trotted after him.
'It's an ugly business, Bhere Singh,' said the Policeman. 'Where are
they?'
'It is a very ugly business,' said Bhere Singh; 'and as for THEM, they
are, doubtless, now frying in a hotter fire than was ever made of
spruce-branches.'
'Let us hope not,' said the Policeman, 'for, allowing for the difference
between race and race, it's the story of Francesca da Rimini, Bhere
Singh.'
Bhere Singh knew nothing about Francesca da Rimini, so he held his
peace until they came to the charcoal-burners' clearing where the dying
flames said 'whit, whit, whit' as they fluttered and whispered over the
white ashes. It must have been a great fire when at full height. Men had
seen it at Donga Pa across the valley winking and blazing through the
night, and said that the charcoal-burners of Kodru were getting drunk.
But it was only Suket Singh, Sepoy of the load Punjab Native Infantry,
and Athira, a woman, burning--burning--burning.
This was how things befell; and the Policeman's Diary will bear me
out.
Athira was the wife of Madu, who was a charcoal-burner, one-eyed and
of a malignant disposition. A week after their marriage, he beat Athira
with a heavy stick. A month later, Suket Singh, Sepoy, came that way

to the cool hills on leave from his regiment, and electrified the villagers
of Kodru with tales of service and glory under the Government, and the
honour in which he, Suket Singh, was held by the Colonel Sahib
Bahadur. And Desdemona listened to Othello as Desdemonas have
done all the world over, and, as she listened, she loved.
'I've a wife of my own,' said Suket Singh, 'though that is no matter
when you come to think of it. I am also due to return to my regiment
after a time, and I cannot be a deserter--I who intend to be Havildar.'
There is no Himalayan version of 'I could not love thee, dear, as much,
Loved I not Honour more;' but Suket Singh came near to making one.
'Never mind,' said Athira, 'stay with me, and, if Madu tries to beat me,
you beat him.'
'Very good,' said Suket Singh; and he beat Madu severely, to the
delight of all the charcoal-burners of Kodru.
'That is enough,' said Suket Singh, as he rolled Madu down the hillside.
'Now we shall have peace.' But Madu crawled up the grass slope again,
and hovered round his hut with angry eyes.
'He'll kill me dead,' said Athira to Suket Singh. 'You must take me
away.'
'There'll be a trouble in the Lines. My wife will pull out my beard; but
never mind,' said Suket Singh, 'I will take you.'
There was loud trouble in the Lines,