Hatt had
discussed
so lightly once upon a time.
Kipling - Poems
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.
Somehow, all his money seemed to fade away in Home drafts and the
crushing Exchange, and the tone of the Home letters changed and grew
querulous. "Why wouldn't Dicky have his wife and the baby out? Surely he
had a salary--a fine salary--and it was too bad of him to enjoy himself
in India. But would he--could he--make the next draft a little more
elastic? " Here followed a list of baby's kit, as long as a Parsee's
bill. Then Dicky, whose heart yearned to his wife and the little son
he had never seen--which, again, is a feeling no boy is entitled
to--enlarged the draft and wrote queer half-boy, half-man letters,
saying that life was not so enjoyable after all and would the little
wife wait yet a little longer? But the little wife, however much she
approved of money, objected to waiting, and there was a strange, hard
sort of ring in her letters that Dicky didn't understand. How could he,
poor boy?
Later on still--just as Dicky had been told--apropos of another
youngster who had "made a fool of himself," as the saying is--that
matrimony would not only ruin his further chances of advancement, but
would lose him his present appointment--came the news that the baby, his
own little, little son, had died, and, behind this, forty lines of
an angry woman's scrawl, saying that death might have been averted if
certain things, all costing money, had been done, or if the mother and
the baby had been with Dicky. The letter struck at Dicky's naked heart;
but, not being officially entitled to a baby, he could show no sign of
trouble.
How Dicky won through the next four months, and what hope he kept
alight to force him into his work, no one dare say. He pounded on, the
seven-hundred-rupee passage as far away as ever, and his style of living
unchanged, except when he launched into a new filter.
There was the strain of his office-work, and the strain of his
remittances, and the knowledge of his boy's death, which touched the boy
more, perhaps, than it would have touched a man; and, beyond all, the
enduring strain of his daily life. Gray-headed seniors, who approved
of his thrift and his fashion of denying himself everything pleasant,
reminded him of the old saw that says:
"If a youth would be distinguished in his art, art, art,
He must keep the girls away from his heart, heart, heart.
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.
Somehow, all his money seemed to fade away in Home drafts and the
crushing Exchange, and the tone of the Home letters changed and grew
querulous. "Why wouldn't Dicky have his wife and the baby out? Surely he
had a salary--a fine salary--and it was too bad of him to enjoy himself
in India. But would he--could he--make the next draft a little more
elastic? " Here followed a list of baby's kit, as long as a Parsee's
bill. Then Dicky, whose heart yearned to his wife and the little son
he had never seen--which, again, is a feeling no boy is entitled
to--enlarged the draft and wrote queer half-boy, half-man letters,
saying that life was not so enjoyable after all and would the little
wife wait yet a little longer? But the little wife, however much she
approved of money, objected to waiting, and there was a strange, hard
sort of ring in her letters that Dicky didn't understand. How could he,
poor boy?
Later on still--just as Dicky had been told--apropos of another
youngster who had "made a fool of himself," as the saying is--that
matrimony would not only ruin his further chances of advancement, but
would lose him his present appointment--came the news that the baby, his
own little, little son, had died, and, behind this, forty lines of
an angry woman's scrawl, saying that death might have been averted if
certain things, all costing money, had been done, or if the mother and
the baby had been with Dicky. The letter struck at Dicky's naked heart;
but, not being officially entitled to a baby, he could show no sign of
trouble.
How Dicky won through the next four months, and what hope he kept
alight to force him into his work, no one dare say. He pounded on, the
seven-hundred-rupee passage as far away as ever, and his style of living
unchanged, except when he launched into a new filter.
There was the strain of his office-work, and the strain of his
remittances, and the knowledge of his boy's death, which touched the boy
more, perhaps, than it would have touched a man; and, beyond all, the
enduring strain of his daily life. Gray-headed seniors, who approved
of his thrift and his fashion of denying himself everything pleasant,
reminded him of the old saw that says:
"If a youth would be distinguished in his art, art, art,
He must keep the girls away from his heart, heart, heart.
