Losson used to sit,
swinging
his fat legs, on
the side of the cot, and ask the parrot what it thought of Simmons.
the side of the cot, and ask the parrot what it thought of Simmons.
Kipling - Poems
One man
tried, but he died, and nearly the whole regiment went to his funeral
because it gave them something to do. It was too early for the
excitement of fever or cholera. The men could only wait and wait and
wait, and watch the shadow of the barrack creeping across the blinding
white dust. That was a gay life.
They lounged about cantonments--it was too hot for any sort of game,
and almost too hot for vice--and fuddled themselves in the evening,
and filled themselves to distension with the healthy nitrogenous food
provided for them, and the more they stoked the less exercise they took
and more explosive they grew. Then tempers began to wear away, and men
fell a-brooding over insults real or imaginary, for they had nothing
else to think of. The tone of the repartees changed, and instead of
saying light-heartedly: "I'll knock your silly face in," men grew
laboriously polite and hinted that the cantonments were not big enough
for themselves and their enemy, and that there would be more space for
one of the two in another place.
It may have been the Devil who arranged the thing, but the fact of the
case is that Losson had for a long time been worrying Simmons in an
aimless way. It gave him occupation. The two had their cots side by
side, and would sometimes spend a long afternoon swearing at each other;
but Simmons was afraid of Losson and dared not challenge him to a fight.
He thought over the words in the hot still nights, and half the hate he
felt toward Losson be vented on the wretched punkah-coolie.
Losson bought a parrot in the bazar, and put it into a little cage,
and lowered the cage into the cool darkness of a well, and sat on the
well-curb, shouting bad language down to the parrot. He taught it to
say: "Simmons, ye so-oor," which means swine, and several other things
entirely unfit for publication. He was a big gross man, and he shook
like a jelly when the parrot had the sentence correctly. Simmons,
however, shook with rage, for all the room were laughing at him--the
parrot was such a disreputable puff of green feathers and it looked so
human when it chattered.
Losson used to sit, swinging his fat legs, on
the side of the cot, and ask the parrot what it thought of Simmons. The
parrot would answer: "Simmons, ye so-oor. " "Good boy," Losson used to
say, scratching the parrot's head; "ye 'ear that, Sim? "
And Simmons used to turn over on his stomach and make answer: "I 'ear.
Take 'eed you don't 'ear something one of these days. "
In the restless nights, after he had been asleep all day, fits of blind
rage came upon Simmons and held him till he trembled all over, while he
thought in how many different ways he would slay Losson. Sometimes he
would picture himself trampling the life out of the man, with heavy
ammunition-boots, and at others smashing in his face with the butt, and
at others jumping on his shoulders and dragging the head back till the
neckbone cracked. Then his mouth would feel hot and fevered, and he
would reach out for another sup of the beer in the pannikin.
But the fancy that came to him most frequently and stayed with him
longest was one connected with the great roll of fat under Losson's
right ear. He noticed it first on a moonlight night, and thereafter
it was always before his eyes. It was a fascinating roll of fat. A man
could get his hand upon it and tear away one side of the neck; or he
could place the muzzle of a rifle on it and blow away all the head in
a flash. Losson had no right to be sleek and contented and well-to-do,
when he, Simmons, was the butt of the room, Some day, perhaps, he would
show those who laughed at the "Simmons, ye so-oor" joke, that he was as
good as the rest, and held a man's life in the crook of his forefinger.
When Losson snored, Simmons hated him more bitterly than ever. Why
should Losson be able to sleep when Simmons had to stay awake hour after
hour, tossing and turning on the tapes, with the dull liver pain gnawing
into his right side and his head throbbing and aching after Canteen? He
thought over this for many nights, and the world became unprofitable to
him.
tried, but he died, and nearly the whole regiment went to his funeral
because it gave them something to do. It was too early for the
excitement of fever or cholera. The men could only wait and wait and
wait, and watch the shadow of the barrack creeping across the blinding
white dust. That was a gay life.
They lounged about cantonments--it was too hot for any sort of game,
and almost too hot for vice--and fuddled themselves in the evening,
and filled themselves to distension with the healthy nitrogenous food
provided for them, and the more they stoked the less exercise they took
and more explosive they grew. Then tempers began to wear away, and men
fell a-brooding over insults real or imaginary, for they had nothing
else to think of. The tone of the repartees changed, and instead of
saying light-heartedly: "I'll knock your silly face in," men grew
laboriously polite and hinted that the cantonments were not big enough
for themselves and their enemy, and that there would be more space for
one of the two in another place.
It may have been the Devil who arranged the thing, but the fact of the
case is that Losson had for a long time been worrying Simmons in an
aimless way. It gave him occupation. The two had their cots side by
side, and would sometimes spend a long afternoon swearing at each other;
but Simmons was afraid of Losson and dared not challenge him to a fight.
He thought over the words in the hot still nights, and half the hate he
felt toward Losson be vented on the wretched punkah-coolie.
Losson bought a parrot in the bazar, and put it into a little cage,
and lowered the cage into the cool darkness of a well, and sat on the
well-curb, shouting bad language down to the parrot. He taught it to
say: "Simmons, ye so-oor," which means swine, and several other things
entirely unfit for publication. He was a big gross man, and he shook
like a jelly when the parrot had the sentence correctly. Simmons,
however, shook with rage, for all the room were laughing at him--the
parrot was such a disreputable puff of green feathers and it looked so
human when it chattered.
Losson used to sit, swinging his fat legs, on
the side of the cot, and ask the parrot what it thought of Simmons. The
parrot would answer: "Simmons, ye so-oor. " "Good boy," Losson used to
say, scratching the parrot's head; "ye 'ear that, Sim? "
And Simmons used to turn over on his stomach and make answer: "I 'ear.
Take 'eed you don't 'ear something one of these days. "
In the restless nights, after he had been asleep all day, fits of blind
rage came upon Simmons and held him till he trembled all over, while he
thought in how many different ways he would slay Losson. Sometimes he
would picture himself trampling the life out of the man, with heavy
ammunition-boots, and at others smashing in his face with the butt, and
at others jumping on his shoulders and dragging the head back till the
neckbone cracked. Then his mouth would feel hot and fevered, and he
would reach out for another sup of the beer in the pannikin.
But the fancy that came to him most frequently and stayed with him
longest was one connected with the great roll of fat under Losson's
right ear. He noticed it first on a moonlight night, and thereafter
it was always before his eyes. It was a fascinating roll of fat. A man
could get his hand upon it and tear away one side of the neck; or he
could place the muzzle of a rifle on it and blow away all the head in
a flash. Losson had no right to be sleek and contented and well-to-do,
when he, Simmons, was the butt of the room, Some day, perhaps, he would
show those who laughed at the "Simmons, ye so-oor" joke, that he was as
good as the rest, and held a man's life in the crook of his forefinger.
When Losson snored, Simmons hated him more bitterly than ever. Why
should Losson be able to sleep when Simmons had to stay awake hour after
hour, tossing and turning on the tapes, with the dull liver pain gnawing
into his right side and his head throbbing and aching after Canteen? He
thought over this for many nights, and the world became unprofitable to
him.
