The Man Who Would Be King | Page 6

was there with Roberts’s Army.
We’ll have to turn off to the right at Jagdallak through Laghmann
territory. Then we get among the hills— fourteen thousand
feet—fifteen thousand— it will be cold work there, but it don’t look
very far on the map.”
I handed him Wood on the Sources of the Oxus. Carnehan was deep in
the Encyclopædia.
“They’re a mixed lot,” said Dravot, reflectively; “and it won’t help us
to know the names of their tribes. The more tribes the more they’ll fight,
and the better for us. From Jagdallak to Ashang. H’mm!”
“But all the information about the country is as sketchy and inaccurate
as can be,” I protested. “No one knows anything about it really. Here’s
the file of the United Services’ Institute. Read what Bellew says.”
“Blow Bellew!” said Carnehan. “Dan, they’re an all-fired lot of

heathens, but this book here says they think they’re related to us
English.”
I smoked while the men pored over Raverty, Wood, the maps and the
Encyclopædia.
“There is no use your waiting,” said Dravot, politely. “It’s about four
o’clock now. We’ll go before six o’clock if you want to sleep, and we
won’t steal any of the papers. Don’t you sit up. We’re two harmless
lunatics, and if you come, to-morrow evening, down to the Serai we’ll
say good-by to you.”
“You are two fools,” I answered. “You’ll be turned back at the Frontier
or cut up the minute you set foot in Afghanistan. Do you want any
money or a recommendation down-country? I can help you to the
chance of work next week.”
“Next week we shall be hard at work ourselves, thank you,” said
Dravot. “It isn’t so easy being a King as it looks. When we’ve got our
Kingdom in going order we’ll let you know, and you can come up and
help us to govern it.”
“Would two lunatics make a Contrack like that!” said Carnehan, with
subdued pride, showing me a greasy half-sheet of note-paper on which
was written the following. I copied it, then and there, as a curiosity:—
This Contract between me and you persuing witnesseth in the name of
God—Amen and so forth. (One) That me and you will settle this matter
together: i.e., to be Kings of Kafiristan. (Two) That you and me will
not while this matter is being settled, look at any Liquor, nor any
Woman black, white or brown, so as to get mixed up with one or the
other harmful. (Three) That we conduct ourselves with Dignity and
Discretion, and if one of us gets into trouble the other will stay by him.
Signed by you and me this day. Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan. Daniel
Dravot. Both Gentlemen at Large.
“There was no need for the last article,” said Carnehan, blushing

modestly; “but it looks regular. Now you know the sort of men that
loafers are—we are loafers, Dan, until we get out of India—and do you
think that we could sign a Contrack like that unless we was in earnest?
We have kept away from the two things that make life worth having.”
“You won’t enjoy your lives much longer if you are going to try this
idiotic adventure. Don’t set the office on fire,” I said, “and go away
before nine o’clock.”
I left them still poring over the maps and making notes on the back of
the “Contrack.” “Be sure to come down to the Serai to-morrow,” were
their parting words.
The Kumharsen Serai is the great four-square sink of humanity where
the strings of camels and horses from the North load and unload. All
the nationalities of Central Asia may be found there, and most of the
folk of India proper. Balkh and Bokhara there meet Bengal and
Bombay, and try to draw eye-teeth. You can buy ponies, turquoises,
Persian pussy-cats, saddle-bags, fat-tailed sheep and musk in the
Kumharsen Serai, and get many strange things for nothing. In the
afternoon I went down there to see whether my friends intended to keep
their word or were lying about drunk.
A priest attired in fragments of ribbons and rags stalked up to me,
gravely twisting a child’s paper whirligig. Behind him was his servant,
bending under the load of a crate of mud toys. The two were loading up
two camels, and the inhabitants of the Serai watched them with shrieks
of laughter.
“The priest is mad,” said a horse-dealer to me. “He is going up to
Kabul to sell toys to the Amir. He will either be raised to honor or have
his head cut off. He came in here this morning and has been behaving
madly ever since.”
“The witless are under the protection of God,” stammered a
flat-cheeked Usbeg in broken Hindi. “They foretell future events.”
“Would they could have foretold that