THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING
“Brother to a Prince and fellow to a beggar if he be foundworthy.”
The Law, as quoted, lays down a fair conduct of life, and onenot easy to follow. I have been fellow to a beggar again and againunder circumstances which prevented either of us finding outwhether the other was worthy. I have still to be brother to aPrince, though I once came near to kinship with what might havebeen a veritable King and was promised the reversion of a Kingdom— army, law-courts, revenue and policy all complete. But,to-day, I greatly fear that my King is dead, and if I want a crownI must go and hunt it for myself.
The beginning of everything was in a railway train upon the roadto Mhow from Ajmir. There had been a deficit in the Budget, whichnecessitated travelling, not Second-class, which is only half asdear as First-class, but by Intermediate, which is very awfulindeed. There are no cushions in the Intermediate class, and thepopulation are either Intermediate, which is Eurasian, or native,which for a long night journey is nasty; or Loafer, which isamusing though intoxicated. Intermediates do not patronizerefreshment-rooms. They carry their food in bundles and pots, andbuy sweets from the native sweetmeat-sellers, and drink theroadside water. That is why in the hot weather Intermediates aretaken out of the carriages dead, and in all weathers are mostproperly looked down upon.
My particular Intermediate happened to be empty till I reachedNasirabad, when a huge gentleman in shirt-sleeves entered, and,following the custom of Intermediates, passed the time of day. Hewas a wanderer and a vagabond like myself, but with an educatedtaste for whiskey. He told tales of things he had seen and done, ofout-of-the-way corners of the Empire into which he had penetrated,and of adventures in which he risked his life for a few days’food. “If India was filled with men like you and me, notknowing more than the crows where they’d get their nextday’s rations, it isn’t seventy millions of revenue theland would be paying — it’s seven hundred million,”said he; and as I looked at his mouth and chin I was disposed toagree with him. We talked politics — the politics of Loaferdomthat sees things from the underside where the lath and plaster isnot smoothed off — and we talked postal arrangements because myfriend wanted to send a telegram back from the next station toAjmir, which is the turning-off place from the Bombay to the Mhowline as you travel westward. My friend had no money beyond eightannas which he wanted for dinner, and I had no money at all, owingto the hitch in the Budget before mentioned. Further, I was goinginto a wilderness where, though I should resume touch with theTreasury, there were no telegraph offices. I was, therefore, unableto help him in any way.
“We might threaten a Station-master, and make him send awire on tick,” said my friend, “but that’d meaninquiries for you and for me, and I’ve got my hands fullthese days. Did you say you are travelling back along this linewithin any days?”
“Within ten,” I said.
“Can’t you make it eight?” said he.“Mine is rather urgent business.”
“I can send your telegram within ten days if that willserve you,” I said.
“I couldn’t trust the wire to fetch him now I thinkof it. It’s this way. He leaves Delhi on the 23d for Bombay.That means he’ll be running through Ajmir about the night ofthe 23d.”
“But I’m going into the Indian Desert,” Iexplained.
“Well and good,” said he. “You’ll bechanging at Marwar Junction to get into Jodhporeterritory — you must do that — and he’ll be