The Ghost Story Megapack

by Various Writers

  The players were not conscious of any special regard for each other. They squabbled whenever they met; but they ardently desired to meet, as men without water desire to drink. They were lonely folk who understood the dread meaning of loneliness. They were all under thirty years of age—which is too soon for any man to possess that knowledge.

  “Pilsener?” said Spurstow, after the second rubber, mopping his forehead.

  “Beer’s out, I’m sorry to say, and there’s hardly enough soda-water for tonight,” said Hummil.

  “What filthy bad management!” Spurstow snarled.

  “Can’t help it. I’ve written and wired; but the trains don’t come through regularly yet. Last week the ice ran out—as Lowndes knows.”

  “Glad I didn’t come. I could ha’ sent you some if I had known, though. Phew! it’s too hot to go on playing bumblepuppy.” This with a savage scowl at Lowndes, who only laughed. He was a hardened offender.

  Mottram rose from the table and looked out of a chink in the shutters.

  “What a sweet day!” said he.

  The company yawned all together and betook themselves to an aimless investigation of all Hummil’s possessions—guns, tattered novels, saddlery, spurs, and the like. They had fingered them a score of times before, but there was really nothing else to do.

  “Got anything fresh?” said Lowndes.

  “Last week’s Gazette of India, and a cutting from a home paper. My father sent it out. It’s rather amusing.”

  “One of those vestrymen that call ’emselves M.P.s again, is it?” said Spurstow, who read his newspapers when he could get them.

  “Yes. Listen to this. It’s to your address, Lowndes. The man was making a speech to his constituents, and he piled it on. Here’s a sample, ‘And I assert unhesitatingly that the Civil Service in India is the preserve—the pet preserve—of the aristocracy of England. What does the democracy—what do the masses—get from that country, which we have step by step fraudulently annexed? I answer, nothing whatever. It is farmed with a single eye to their own interests by the scions of the aristocracy. They take good care to maintain their lavish scale of incomes, to avoid or stifle any inquiries into the nature and conduct of their administration, while they themselves force the unhappy peasant to pay with the sweat of his brow for all the luxuries in which they are lapped.’” Hummil waved the cutting above his head. “’Ear! ’ear!” said his audience.

  Then Lowndes, meditatively, “I’d give—I’d give three months’ pay to have that gentleman spend one month with me and see how the free and independent native prince works things. Old Timbersides”—this was his flippant title for an honoured and decorated feudatory prince—“has been wearing my life out this week past for money. By Jove, his latest performance was to send me one of his women as a bribe!”

  “Good for you! Did you accept it?” said Mottram.

  “No. I rather wish I had, now. She was a pretty little person, and she yarned away to me about the horrible destitution among the king’s women-folk. The darlings haven’t had any new clothes for nearly a month, and the old man wants to buy a new drag from Calcutta—solid silver railings and silver lamps, and trifles of that kind. I’ve tried to make him understand that he has played the deuce with the revenues for the last twenty years and must go slow. He can’t see it.”

  “But he has the ancestral treasure-vaults to draw on. There must be three millions at least in jewels and coin under his palace,” said Hummil.

  “Catch a native king disturbing the family treasure! The priests forbid it except as the last resort. Old Timbersides has added something like a quarter of a million to the deposit in his reign.”

  “Where the mischief does it all come from?” said Mottram.

  “The country. The state of the people is enough to make you sick. I’ve known the taxmen wait by a milch-camel till the foal was born and then hurry off the mother for arrears. And what can I do? I can’t get the court clerks to give me any accounts; I can’t raise anything more than a fat smile from the commander-in-chief when I find out the troops are three months in arrears; and old Timbersides begins to weep when I speak to him. He has taken to the King’s Peg heavily, liqueur brandy for whisky, and Heidsieck for soda-water.”

  “That’s what the Rao of Jubela took to. Even a native can’t last long at that,” said Spurstow. “He’ll go out.”

  “And a good thing, too. Then I suppose we’ll have a council of regency, and a tutor for the young prince, and hand him back his kingdom with ten years’ accumulations.”

  “Whereupon that young prince, having been taught all the vices of the English, will play ducks and drakes with the money and undo ten years’ work in eighteen months. I’ve seen that business before,” said Spurstow. “I should tackle the king with a light hand if I were you, Lowndes. They’ll hate you quite enough under any circumstances.

  “That’s all very well. The man who looks on can talk about the light hand; but you can’t clean a pig-sty with a pen dipped in rose-water. I know my risks; but nothing has happened yet. My servant’s an old Pathan, and he cooks for me. They are hardly likely to bribe him, and I don’t accept food from my true friends, as they call themselves. Oh, but it’s weary work! I’d sooner be with you, Spurstow. There’s shooting near your camp.”

  “Would you? I don’t think it. About fifteen deaths a day don’t incite a man to shoot anything but himself. And the worst of it is that the poor devils look at you as though you ought to save them. Lord knows, I’ve tried everything. My last attempt was empirical, but it pulled an old man through. He was brought to me apparently past hope, and I gave him gin and Worcester sauce with cayenne. It cured him; but I don’t recommend it.”

  “How do the cases run generally?” said Hummil.

  “Very simply indeed. Chlorodyne, opium pill, chlorodyne, collapse, nitre, bricks to the feet, and then—the burning-ghaut. The last seems to be the only thing that stops the trouble. It’s black cholera, you know. Poor devils! But, I will say, little Bunsee Lal, my apothecary, works like a demon. I’ve recommended him for promotion if he comes through it all alive.”

  “And what are your chances, old man?” said Mottram.

  “Don’t know; don’t care much; but I’ve sent the letter in. What are you doing with yourself generally?”

  “Sitting under a table in the tent and spitting on the sextant to keep it cool,” said the man of the survey. “Washing my eyes to avoid ophthalmia, which I shall certainly get, and trying to make a sub-surveyor understand that an error of five degrees in an angle isn’t quite so small as it looks. I’m altogether alone, y’ know, and shall be till the end of the hot weather.”

  “Hummil’s the lucky man,” said Lowndes, flinging himself into a long chair. “He has an actual roof-torn as to the ceiling-cloth, but still a roof-over his head. He sees one train daily. He can get beer and soda-water and ice ’em when God is good. He has books, pictures—they were torn from the Graphic—and the society of the excellent sub-contractor Jevins, besides the pleasure of receiving us weekly.”

  Hummil smiled grimly. “Yes, I’m the lucky man, I suppose. Jevins is luckier.”

  “How? Not—”

  “Yes. Went out. Last Monday.”

  “By his own hand?” said Spurstow quickly, hinting the suspicion that was in everybody’s mind. There was no cholera near Hummil’s section. Even fever gives a man at least a week’s grace, and sudden death generally implied self-slaughter.

  “I judge no man this weather,” said Hummil. “He had a touch of the sun, I fancy; for last week, after you fellows had left, he came into the verandah and told me that he was going home to see his wife, in Market Street, Liverpool, that evening.

  “I got the apothecary in to look at him, and we tried to make him lie down. After an hour or two he rubbed his eyes and said he believed he had had a fit, ho
ped he hadn’t said anything rude. Jevins had a great idea of bettering himself socially. He was very like Chucks in his language.”

  “Well?”

  “Then he went to his own bungalow and began cleaning a rifle. He told the servant that he was going to shoot buck in the morning. Naturally he fumbled with the trigger, and shot himself through the head—accidentally. The apothecary sent in a report to my chief; and Jevins is buried somewhere out there. I’d have wired to you, Spurstow, if you could have done anything.”

  “You’re a queer chap,” said Mottram. “If you’d killed the man yourself you couldn’t have been more quiet about the business.”

  “Good Lord! what does it matter?” said Hummil calmly. “I’ve got to do a lot of his overseeing work in addition to my own. I’m the only person that suffers. Jevins is out of it, by pure accident, of course, but out of it. The apothecary was going to write a long screed on suicide. Trust a babu to drivel when he gets the chance.”

  “Why didn’t you let it go in as suicide?” said Lowndes.

  “No direct proof. A man hasn’t many privileges in his country, but he might at least be allowed to mishandle his own rifle. Besides, some day I may need a man to smother up an accident to myself. Live and let live. Die and let die.”

  “You take a pill,” said Spurstow, who had been watching Hummil’s white face narrowly. “Take a pill, and don’t be an ass. That sort of talk is skittles. Anyhow, suicide is shirking your work. If I were Job ten times over, I should be so interested in what was going to happen next that I’d stay on and watch.”

  “Ah! I’ve lost that curiosity,” said Hummil.

  “Liver out of order?” said Lowndes feelingly.

  “No. Can’t sleep. That’s worse.”

  “By Jove, it is!” said Mottram. “I’m that way every now and then, and the fit has to wear itself out. What do you take for it?”

  “Nothing. What’s the use? I haven’t had ten minutes’ sleep since Friday morning.”

  “Poor chap! Spurstow, you ought to attend to this,” said Mottram. “Now you mention it, your eyes are rather gummy and swollen.”

  Spurstow, still watching Hummil, laughed lightly. “I’ll patch him up, later on. Is it too hot, do you think, to go for a ride?”

  “Where to?” said Lowndes wearily. “We shall have to go away at eight, and there’ll be riding enough for us then. I hate a horse when I have to use him as a necessity. Oh, heavens! what is there to do?”

  “Begin whist again, at chick points [“a chick” is supposed to be eight shillings] and a gold mohur on the rub,” said Spurstow promptly.

  “Poker. A month’s pay all round for the pool—no limit—and fifty-rupee raises. Somebody would be broken before we got up,” said Lowndes.

  “Can’t say that it would give me any pleasure to break any man in this company,” said Mottram. “There isn’t enough excitement in it, and it’s foolish.” He crossed over to the worn and battered little camp-piano—wreckage of a married household that had once held the bungalow—and opened the case.

  “It’s used up long ago,” said Hummil. “The servants have picked it to pieces.”

  The piano was indeed hopelessly out of order, but Mottram managed to bring the rebellious notes into a sort of agreement, and there rose from the ragged keyboard something that might once have been the ghost of a popular music-hall song. The men in the long chairs turned with evident interest as Mottram banged the more lustily.

  “That’s good!” said Lowndes. “By Jove! the last time I heard that song was in ’79, or thereabouts, just before I came out.”

  “Ah!” said Spurstow with pride, “I was home in ’8o.” And he mentioned a song of the streets popular at that date.

  Mottram executed it roughly. Lowndes criticized and volunteered emendations. Mottram dashed into another ditty, not of the music-hall character, and made as if to rise.

  “Sit down,” said Hummil. “I didn’t know that you had any music in your composition. Go on playing until you can’t think of anything more. I’ll have that piano tuned up before you come again. Play something festive.”

  Very simple indeed were the tunes to which Mottram’s art and the limitations of the piano could give effect, but the men listened with pleasure, and in the pauses talked all together of what they had seen or heard when they were last at home. A dense dust-storm sprung up outside, and swept roaring over the house, enveloping it in the choking darkness of midnight, but Mottram continued unheeding, and the crazy tinkle reached the ears of the listeners above the flapping of the tattered ceiling-cloth.

  In the silence after the storm he glided from the more directly personal songs of Scotland, half humming them as he played, into the Evening Hymn.

  “Sunday,” said he, nodding his head.

  “Go on. Don’t apologize for it,” said Spurstow.

  Hummil laughed long and riotously. “Play it, by all means. You’re full of surprises today. I didn’t know you had such a gift of finished sarcasm. How does that thing go?”

  Mottram took up the tune.

  “Too slow by half. You miss the note of gratitude,” said Hummil. “It ought to go to the “Grasshopper’s Polka”—this way.” And he chanted, prestissimo,

  “Glory to thee, my God, this night,

  For all the blessings of the light.

  That shows we really feel our blessings. How does it go on?—

  If in the night I sleepless lie,

  My soul with sacred thoughts supply;

  May no ill dreams disturb my rest,—

  Quicker, Mottram!—

  Or powers of darkness me molest!”

  “Bah! what an old hypocrite you are!”

  “Don’t be an ass,” said Lowndes. “You are at full liberty to make fun of anything else you like, but leave that hymn alone. It’s associated in my mind with the most sacred recollections—”

  “Summer evenings in the country, stained-glass window, light going out, and you and she jamming your heads together over one hymnbook,” said Mottram.

  “Yes, and a fat old cockchafer hitting you in the eye when you walked home. Smell of hay, and a moon as big as a bandbox sitting on the top of a haycock; bats, roses, milk and midges,” said Lowndes.

  “Also mothers. I can just recollect my mother singing me to sleep with that when I was a little chap,” said Spurstow.

  The darkness had fallen on the room. They could hear Hummil squirming in his chair.

  “Consequently,” said he testily, “you sing it when you are seven fathom deep in Hell! It’s an insult to the intelligence of the Deity to pretend we’re anything but tortured rebels.”

  “Take two pills,” said Spurstow; “that’s tortured liver.”

  “The usually placid Hummil is in a vile bad temper. I’m sorry for his coolies tomorrow,” said Lowndes, as the servants brought in the lights and prepared the table for dinner.

  As they were settling into their places about the miserable goat-chops, and the smoked tapioca pudding, Spurstow took occasion to whisper to Mottram, “Well done, David!”

  “Look after Saul, then,” was the reply.

  “What are you two whispering about?” said Hummil suspiciously.

  “Only saying that you are a damned poor host. This fowl can’t be cut,” returned Spurstow with a sweet smile. “Call this a dinner?”

  “I can’t help it. You don’t expect a banquet, do you?”

  Throughout that meal Hummil contrived laboriously to insult directly and pointedly all his guests in succession, and at each insult Spurstow kicked the aggrieved persons under the table; but he dared not exchange a glance of intelligence with either of them. Hummil’s face was white and pinched, while his eyes were unnaturally large. No man dreamed for a moment of resenting his savage personalities, but as so
on as the meal was over they made haste to get away.

  “Don’t go. You’re just getting amusing, you fellows. I hope I haven’t said anything that annoyed you. You’re such touchy devils.” Then, changing the note into one of almost abject entreaty, Hummil added, “I say, you surely aren’t going?”

  “In the language of the blessed Jorrocks, where I dines I sleeps,” said Spurstow. “I want to have a look at your coolies tomorrow, if you don’t mind. You can give me a place to lie down in, I suppose?”

  The others pleaded the urgency of their several duties next day, and, saddling up, departed together, Hummil begging them to come next Sunday. As they jogged off, Lowndes unbosomed himself to Mottram—

  “… And I never felt so like kicking a man at his own table in my life. He said I cheated at whist, and reminded me I was in debt! Told you you were as good as a liar to your face! You aren’t half indignant enough over it.”

  “Not I,” said Mottram. “Poor devil! Did you ever know old Hummy behave like that before or within a hundred miles of it?”

  “That’s no excuse. Spurstow was hacking my shin all the time, so I kept a hand on myself. Else I should have—”

  “No, you wouldn’t. You’d have done as Hummy did about Jevins; judge no man this weather. By Jove! the buckle of my bridle is hot in my hand! Trot out a bit, and ’ware rat-holes.”

  Ten minutes’ trotting jerked out of Lowndes one very sage remark when he pulled up, sweating from every pore—

  “Good thing Spurstow’s with him tonight.”

  “Ye-es. Good man, Spurstow. Our roads turn here. See you again next Sunday, if the sun doesn’t bowl me over.”

  “S’pose so, unless old Timbersides’ finance minister manages to dress some of my food. Goodnight, and—God bless you!”

  “What’s wrong now?”

  “Oh, nothing.” Lowndes gathered up his whip, and, as he flicked Mottram’s mare on the flank, added, “You’re not a bad little chap, that’s all.” And the mare bolted half a mile across the sand, on the word.