No More Learning

As the hot weather began, the shackles settled on him and ate into his
flesh. First would come letters--big, crossed, seven sheet letters--from
his wife, telling him how she longed to see him, and what a Heaven upon
earth would be their property when they met.

Then some boy of the chummery wherein Dicky lodged would pound on the
door of his bare little room, and tell him to come out and look at a
pony--the very thing to suit him. Dicky could not afford ponies. He had
to explain this. Dicky could not afford living in the chummery, modest
as it was. He had to explain this before he moved to a single room next
the office where he worked all day. He kept house on a green oil-cloth
table-cover, one chair, one charpoy, one photograph, one tooth-glass,
very strong and thick, a seven-rupee eight-anna filter, and messing by
contract at thirty-seven rupees a month. Which last item was extortion.
He had no punkah, for a punkah costs fifteen rupees a month; but he
slept on the roof of the office with all his wife's letters under his
pillow. Now and again he was asked out to dinner where he got both a
punkah and an iced drink. But this was seldom, for people objected
to recognizing a boy who had evidently the instincts of a Scotch
tallow-chandler, and who lived in such a nasty fashion. Dicky could not
subscribe to any amusement, so he found no amusement except the pleasure
of turning over his Bank-book and reading what it said about "loans
on approved security. " That cost nothing. He remitted through a Bombay
Bank, by the way, and the Station knew nothing of his private affairs.
Every month he sent Home all he could possibly spare for his wife--and
for another reason which was expected to explain itself shortly and
would require more money.

About this time, Dicky was overtaken with the nervous, haunting fear
that besets married men when they are out of sorts. He had no pension to
look to. What if he should die suddenly, and leave his wife unprovided
for? The thought used to lay hold of him in the still, hot nights on the
roof, till the shaking of his heart made him think that he was going to
die then and there of heart-disease.

Now this is a frame of mind which no boy has a right to know. It is
a strong man's trouble; but, coming when it did, it nearly drove poor
punkah-less, perspiring Dicky Hatt mad. He could tell no one about it.

A certain amount of "screw" is as necessary for a man as for a
billiard-ball. It makes them both do wonderful things. Dicky needed
money badly, and he worked for it like a horse. But, naturally, the men
who owned him knew that a boy can live very comfortably on a certain
income--pay in India is a matter of age, not merit, you see, and if
their particular boy wished to work like two boys, Business forbid that
they should stop him! But Business forbid that they should give him an
increase of pay at his present ridiculously immature age! So Dicky won
certain rises of salary--ample for a boy--not enough for a wife and
child--certainly too little for the seven-hundred-rupee passage that he
and Mrs. Hatt had discussed so lightly once upon a time. And with this
he was forced to be content.