No More Learning

He
has gone South for the week! "

The train had begun to move out. The red man rubbed his eyes.

"He has gone South for the week," he repeated. "Now that's just like his
impidence. Did he say that I was to give you anything? 'Cause I won't. "

"He didn't," I said, and dropped away, and watched the red lights die
out in the dark. It was horribly cold because the wind was blowing off
the sands. I climbed into my own train--not an Intermediate carriage
this time--and went to sleep.

If the man with the beard had given me a rupee I should have kept it as
a memento of a rather curious affair. But the consciousness of having
done my duty was my only reward.

Later on I reflected that two gentlemen like my friends could not do any
good if they foregathered and personated correspondents of newspapers,
and might, if they blackmailed one of the little rat-trap States
of Central India or Southern Rajputana, get themselves into serious
difficulties. I therefore took some trouble to describe them as
accurately as I could remember to people who would be interested in
deporting them; and succeeded, so I was later informed, in having them
headed back from the Degumber borders.

Then I became respectable, and returned to an office where there were no
Kings and no incidents outside the daily manufacture of a newspaper.
A
newspaper office seems to attract every conceivable sort of person, to
the prejudice of discipline. Zenana-mission ladies arrive, and beg that
the Editor will instantly abandon all his duties to describe a Christian
prize-giving in a back slum of a perfectly inaccessible village;
Colonels who have been overpassed for command sit down and sketch the
outline of a series of ten, twelve, or twenty-four leading articles on
Seniority versus Selection; missionaries wish to know why they have not
been permitted to escape from their regular vehicles of abuse, and swear
at a brother missionary under special patronage of the editorial We.
Stranded theatrical companies troop up to explain that they cannot pay
for their advertisements, but on their return from New Zealand or Tahiti
will do so with interest; inventors of patent punka-pulling machines,
carriage couplings, and unbreakable swords and axletrees call with
specifications in their pockets and hours at their disposal; tea
companies enter and elaborate their prospectuses with the office pens;
secretaries of ball committees clamour to have the glories of their last
dance more fully described; strange ladies rustle in and say, "I want a
hundred lady's cards printed at once, please," which is manifestly part
of an Editor's duty; and every dissolute ruffian that ever tramped
the Grand Trunk Road makes it his business to ask for employment as a
proof-reader. And, all the time, the telephone-bell is ringing madly,
and Kings are being killed on the Continent, and Empires are saying,
"You're another," and Mister Gladstone is calling down brimstone upon
the British Dominions, and the little black copyboys are whining,
"kaa-pi chay-ha-yeh" ("Copy wanted"), like tired bees, and most of the
paper is as blank as Modred's shield.

But that is the amusing part of the year. There are six other months
when none ever come to call, and the thermometer walks inch by inch
up to the top of the glass, and the office is darkened to just above
reading-light, and the press-machines are red-hot to touch, and nobody
writes anything but accounts of amusements in the Hill-stations or
obituary notices. Then the telephone becomes a tinkling terror, because
it tells you of the sudden deaths of men and women that you knew
intimately, and the prickly heat covers you with a garment, and you
sit down and write: "A slight increase of sickness is reported from
the Khuda Janta Khan District. The outbreak is purely sporadic in
its nature, and, thanks to the energetic efforts of the District
authorities, is now almost at an end. It is, however, with deep regret
we record the death," etc.

Then the sickness really breaks out, and the less recording and
reporting the better for the peace of the subscribers. But the Empires
and the Kings continue to divert themselves as selfishly as before, and
the Foreman thinks that a daily paper really ought to come out once in
twenty-four hours, and all the people at the Hill-stations in the
middle of their amusements say, "Good gracious! why can't the paper be
sparkling? I'm sure there's plenty going on up here. "

That is the dark half of the moon, and, as the advertisements say, "must
be experienced to be appreciated. "

It was in that season, and a remarkably evil season, that the paper
began running the last issue of the week on Saturday night, which is to
say Sunday morning, after the custom of a London paper. This was a great
convenience, for immediately after the paper was put to bed the dawn
would lower the thermometer from 96 degrees to almost 84 degrees for
half an hour, and in that chill--you have no idea how cold is 84 degrees
on the grass until you begin to pray for it--a very tired man could get
off to sleep ere the heat roused him.