Life's Handicap: Being Stories of Mine Own PeopleKipling, Rudyard
History
Life's Handicap: Being Stories of Mine Own People
Kipling, Rudyard
India -- History -- British occupation, 1765-1947 -- Fiction; India -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Short stories, English
The thick lips curled back over the yellow teeth, and that flushed face
was not pretty to look upon. Mulvaney nodded sympathy, and Ortheris,
moved by his comrade’s passion, brought up the rifle to his shoulder,
and searched the hillside for his quarry, muttering ribaldry about a
sparrow, a spout, and a thunder-storm. The voice of the watercourse
supplied the necessary small talk till Learoyd picked up his story.
‘But it’s none so easy to kill a man like you. When I’d given up my
horses to th’ lad as took my place and I was showin’ th’ preacher th’
workin’s, shoutin’ into his ear across th’ clang o’ th’ pumpin’ engines,
I saw he were afraid o’ naught; and when the lamplight showed his black
eyes, I could feel as he was masterin’ me again. I were no better nor
Blast chained up short and growlin’ i’ the depths of him while a strange
dog went safe past.
‘“Th’art a coward and a fool,” I said to mysen; an’ I wrestled i’ my
mind again’ him till, when we come to Garstang’s Copper-hole, I laid
hold o’ the preacher and lifted him up over my head and held him into
the darkest on it. “Now, lad,” I says “it’s to be one or t’other on
us--thee or me--for ‘Liza Roantree. Why, isn’t thee afraid for thysen?”
I says, for he were still i’ my arms as a sack. “Nay; I’m but afraid
for thee, my poor lad, as knows naught,” says he. I set him down on th’
edge, an’ th’ beck run stiller, an’ there was no more buzzin’ in my head
like when th’ bee come through th’ window o’ Jesse’s house. “What dost
tha mean?” says I.
‘“I’ve often thought as thou ought to know,” says he, “but ‘twas hard
to tell thee. ‘Liza Roantree’s for neither on us, nor for nobody o’
this earth. Dr. Warbottom says--and he knows her, and her mother before
her--that she is in a decline, and she cannot live six months longer.
He’s known it for many a day. Steady, John! Steady!” says he. And that
weak little man pulled me further back and set me again’ him, and talked
it all over quiet and still, me turnin’ a bunch o’ candles in my hand,
and counting them ower and ower again as I listened. A deal on it were
th’ regular preachin’ talk, but there were a vast lot as made me begin
to think as he were more of a man than I’d ever given him credit for,
till I were cut as deep for him as I were for mysen.
‘Six candles we had, and we crawled and climbed all that day while they
lasted, and I said to mysen, “‘Liza Roantree hasn’t six months to live.”
And when we came into th’ daylight again we were like dead men to look
at, an’ Blast come behind us without so much as waggin’ his tail. When
I saw ‘Liza again she looked at me a minute and says, “Who’s telled tha?
For I see tha knows.” And she tried to smile as she kissed me, and I
fair broke down.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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