THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW

BY RUDYARD KIPLING

“May no ill dreams disturb my rest,
Nor Powers of Darkness me molest.”
—­Evening Hymn.

One of the few advantages that India has over England is a certain great Knowability.  After five years’ service a man is directly or indirectly acquainted with the two or three hundred Civilians in his Province, all the Messes of ten or twelve Regiments and Batteries, and some fifteen hundred other people of the non-official castes.  In ten years his knowledge should be doubled, and at the end of twenty he knows, or knows something about, almost every Englishman in the Empire, and may travel anywhere and everywhere without paying hotel-bills.

Globe-trotters who expect entertainment as a right, have, even within my memory, blunted this open-heartedness, but, none the less, to-day if you belong to the Inner Circle and are neither a bear nor a black sheep all houses are open to you and our small world is very kind and helpful.

Rickett of Kamartha stayed with Polder of Kumaon, some fifteen years ago.  He meant to stay two nights only, but was knocked down by rheumatic fever, and for six weeks disorganized Polder’s establishment, stopped Polder’s work, and nearly died in Polder’s bed-room.  Polder behaves as though he had been placed under eternal obligation by Rickett, and yearly sends the little Ricketts a box of presents and toys.  It is the same everywhere.  The men who do not take the trouble to conceal from you their opinion that you are an incompetent ass, and the women who blacken your character and misunderstand your wife’s amusements, will work themselves to the bone in your behalf if you fall sick or into serious trouble.

Heatherlegh, the Doctor, kept, in addition to his regular practice, a hospital on his private account—­an arrangement of loose-boxes for Incurables, his friends called it—­but it was really a sort of fitting-up shed for craft that had been damaged by stress of weather.  The weather in India is often sultry, and since the tale of bricks is a fixed quantity, and the only liberty allowed is permission to work overtime and get no thanks, men occasionally break down and become as mixed as the metaphors in this sentence.

Heatherlegh is the nicest doctor that ever was, and his invariable prescription to all his patients is “lie low, go slow, and keep cool.”  He says that more men are killed by overwork than the importance of this world justifies.  He maintains that overwork slew Pansay who died under his hands about three years ago.  He has, of course, the right to speak authoritatively, and he laughs at my theory that there was a crack in Pansay’s head and a little bit of the Dark World came through and pressed him to death.  “Pansay went off the handle,” says Heatherlegh, “after the stimulus of long leave at Home.  He may or he may not have behaved like a blackguard to Mrs. Keith-Wessington.