Part 13 (2/2)

For they were troublous days for officers in charge. Someone somewhere had been unwise enough to take the thumb-marks of a peripatetic preacher who was suspected of being an anarchist. He was proved to be an apostle of unrest; he was also unfortunately a man not only of thumb-mark, but of mark. A professor, briefly, in some far-away college. So the official who had ordered the indignity in the interests of public order was degraded; and thereinafter, naturally, began a campaign of would-be terrorism amongst the schoolboys and students of the province which shattered the nerves of government.

”By the Lord who made me,” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Tim O'Brien angrily, as he flung aside the last urgent _communiquee_ from headquarters, ”one would think from that bosh, we were in danger of losing India to-morrow. Can't they see it's only schoolboy rot, sheer daredevil schoolboy mischief, like throwing caps under a motor car and heads you win tails I lose, you're over last. I'll tell you what it is, Smith,”--here he addressed his a.s.sistant, a pale-faced boy not yet recovered from the strain of examinations--”if I was worth my salt and had the courage of my opinions, I'd have up those boys' masters and give 'em each thirty with the cane for not keeping their pupils in order. That 'ud stop it.

Instead of that, I have to arrest a poor child of thirteen who threw a badly made bomb, as harmless--it turned out--as a squib. However! my pension stares me in the face. There isn't even a House of Lords left to which I could appeal. So here goes for the innocent victim av'

education! Inspector! arrange the arrest, please!”

Naturally, of course, as Tim O'Brien had known, every other schoolboy in the district marched about singing patriotic songs and doing wanton mischief to their hearts' content; thus there was quite a crop of minor arrests.

In fact, when the Bench of Hereditary Enemies held its next sitting it was confronted with a lengthy police case against a gang of boys whose ages varied from ten to thirteen.

Bikrama Singh listened gravely to the details and twirled his grey moustache. Buktiyar Khan also listened gravely and stroked his purple beard. They listened very patiently, yet a vague impatience came to their old faces. Then they looked in each other's eyes, and at last the wisdom of their hearts found speech.

”Where is the teacher of these children? Bring him hither that he may show cause for himself.”

To be brief. That night the head master of the sub-divisional school could neither sit down nor stand up comfortably. But the streets were quiet; the boys peacefully in their beds.

”Glory be to them,” cried Tim O'Brien exultantly, when the news was brought to him. ”They've more s.p.u.n.k than I have--so now to get them out of the sc.r.a.pe.”

He did his best, and that was a good deal, but the law and lies were against him. The schoolmaster happened to be somebody's nephew by marriage, and though there was ample evidence to prove that he had misused his position as a Government servant, the utmost favour Tim O'Brien could screw out of the Powers was permission for the offenders to retire instead of being dismissed from the Honorary Magistracy.

He broke this to the old men with his usual tact, applauding them between the lines for their courage. To his surprise and relief they accepted the position calmly. The better the subordinate, they said, the less likely he was to be always in agreement with others. During their three years' work, which, in truth, had been laborious, not one of their decisions had been upset on appeal. How many judges could say the same! And as for head master-_jee?_ Would _Brine sahib_, if he could, remove those thirty stripes from the miscreant's back. ”Ye have me there, _sahiban_,” Tim O'Brien replied, with conviction, ”I would not; an' that's G.o.d's truth.”

So the old men sent in their resignations, not altogether regretfully.

For one thing, the unanimity of their opinions had been disturbing; the old antagonism seemed more natural. And there the matter should have ended. Unfortunately for all, it did not. To be brief. Tim O'Brien was asked one day, as District Officer, to sign a warrant for the arrest of Sirdar Bikrama Singh and Khan Buktiyar Khan on a charge of a.s.sault and battery against the head master-_jee_, who turned out to be sib to half the local Bar.

There is no reason to go into the legal points of the incident, or to tell of the vain efforts of Tim O'Brien to save the whilom Bench from this last affront. An epidemic of cases against magistrates had set in, and late one evening the District Officer started to ride over and break the news of the coming arrest to the Hereditary Enemies.

Nagadrug stood on the nearest scarp of sand, so he went there first. He found the old Sirdar, looking rather frail, engaged as usual in glaring out over the arid fields to Shakingarh.

But this time all Tim O'Brien's tact did not avail for calm.

Incredulous anger, half dazed indignation, took its place. It could not be true. What! was he, Rajput of Rajput, to be dragged to court at the bidding of a miserable hound whom he had whipped, and rightly whipped?

Had not _Brine sahib_ himself applauded the act? Had they not done right?--the plural p.r.o.noun came out naturally. Was not a false _guree_ G.o.d's basest creature? Did not the law say so: ”He who teaches false teaching, who kills his own soul and another, let him die.” Why had they not given the vile reptile an hundred stripes and so got rid of him altogether.

And now were they to have a degree (decree) against them! s.h.i.+njee! It should never be, never! never! They would not have it! The old tongue found no difficulty in thus claiming companions.h.i.+p in revolt, the old heart knew it was certain of sympathy in the ancient enmity.

Utterly sickened at a tragedy he could not prevent, the District Officer went, tactfully as ever, to Shakingarh; only to meet with even deeper indignation. Innocent though he knew himself to be, the Englishman positively writhed under the contemptuous unsparing scorn of the old Pathan. What! was the Sirkar not strong enough to protect itself? Then let it pack up its bundle and get out of Hindustan. Let it leave India and its problems to _his_ people--those northern folk who had harried Bengal in the past, who, G.o.d willing, would harry it again.

Had _Brine sahib_ not heard the saying: ”He who uses his public office to betray the State commits a crime against himself, his country, and his G.o.d.” And had not the base hound betrayed the State? A thousand times, yes! it was a pity they had not flogged him to death.

The moon rose over the low sandhills before the District Officer, bruised and broken by the verdict of past India on the present, rode back to the sessions bungalow, where he meant to pa.s.s the night. For with the dawn he would go up with the police officer and so soften the arrest of the Hereditary Enemies so far as it could be softened.

They would be let out on bail, of course, and, at the worst, a fine more or less heavy would see them through. It was not so bad--not so very bad.

The District Officer tried to comfort himself with such reflections; in his heart he knew they were futile; that nothing would soften the degradation to those two old warriors.

Nothing! unless it was the calm moonlight that lay over the arid valley and turned the round old fortresses to dim mysterious palaces of light.

Perhaps the peace of it sank into the wearied hot old eyes that looked out from the ancestral roofs with a new feeling of comrades.h.i.+p, each for each, dulling the hereditary hatred, yet bringing with it old memories, old tales of past enmity.

<script>