Beside University Village was to rise the Araneta Center and at its centerpiece was the Araneta Coliseum. Like a wall guarding it was the Aurora Arcade where one could find restaurants like Hong Ning and Ma Mon Luk.

Aurora Boulevard was the road between University Village and Araneta Center. It was and is still called Cubao. But where did the name come from?

Some people say that it came from the Tagalog word Kuba or Hunchback because in the early days Cubao has a number of hills – the house of Pablo and Olympia Sonido was situated on top of a hill. It is said that the during the Spanish-Filipino War the Revolutionaries, the Katipuneros, stopped for a short while in Cubao on their way to Balara. I would be worthwhile to check Ceres S.C. Alabado’s book KangKong 1896 – a novel a boy during the Philippine Revolution against Spain. It is said Kubao or Cubao is mentioned in the text.

Inside Araneta was said to be a radio tower that was guarded by the Japanese Imperial Forces during World War II. In certain parts of New Manila there are bunkers and bunker networks. Built by the Japanese it was probably meant as defensive position against the Americans. It is said that the network reach as far as Santa Mesa and beyond. Along Lantana road there was a house that had an intact bunker – once. There are further stories of gold supposedly left by the Japanese. One in particular lay inside the Christ the King compound. It was so much believed that a businessman once tried to buy the land and structure because he believed there was gold their. Of coure it was never sold to the business But as of this not a speckle of gold has been found.

Going back to Cubao. One of the more prominent structure is the Araneta Coliseum. It was and it still is the most famous landmark in Cubao. When Pope John Pail II visited the Philippines he had a talk at the Araneta Coliseum. The Coliseum as well as the street outside were filled with people waiting to see the Pope.

Old Rustan

Overtime so many things have changed. Grass fields give way to open lots and open lots give way to buildings and buildings give way to bigger buildings. So much has shanged. Gone are the open canals the only one’s left can be found on the other side of Cubao near New Manila.

The Sonido’s still live there in Cubao. The sons and daughters of Pablo and Olynmpia. The grandchildren and greatgrandchildren as well live there now.

The Social Media: Is the set of social media sites that have a relationship with one another through an individual or a group individuals that are represented in sites. Such sites may include but are not limited to Blogs; Social Networking Sites – like Facebook; Microblogging networks – like Twitter; Forums; Wikis; Chat ; and even Email. Collectively they can be called The Social Media or can be grouped based on interest or nationationality or geography. Definitions and limitations are made to fit the study. This the Philippine Social Media can be defined and limitied to social media that originates and focuses on the Philippines.

I know this may sound big and grand but in actuality this is limited further by the one crucial element – ACCESS to the Internet: or DIGITAL DIVIDE. In the Philippines those that are actively accessing social media are about twenty percent or those that have enough money to engage the Internet for the purpose of engaging. And this is why in the last National Election – the comeback of Joseph Estrada was a surprise and the result of the Senate Election was a total surprise for the Social Media Crowd.

I love social media and the Philippine Social Media with it one can share things irregardless of physical distance and more importantly the talk: the conversation: the dialogue. Without it I would not be able to know what happened and is happening with friends and relatives who are not here. Without, I would mot have neem able to talk to friends. It is a wonderful thing. Almost conversation on tap. Both serious and playful. Exchanges normally done at scoial gatherings or when one meets during parties or dinners. Its Social Bonding.

And it is no surprise then that a number interests have well taken interest in social media for the pupose business and the purpose of business for other businesses. Which is not bad but approached and done incorrectly may do more damage and result in the business and the person being branded as a (i) nuisance/pest, (ii) boor, and/or user.

Social media uses social interaction to spread media. And a spoiled social interaction spoils the message. Often times its not what you say it but how you act and how you say it that counts.

Person A: Oops, I am sorry I seemed to have made a mistake, how can I help?
Person B: Oops, It is not my fault but I am sorry.

In Social Media or if you were going to enter Social Media for the business or the business of business or for personal business it would be mindful to walk barefoot. As such lessons can be learned from the old missionaries of old and social community workers.

In the Philippines, the friars and missionaries who converted the Filipinos did two important things. First was to live among the people and Second was to learn their language. This allowed them to interact and grow with the community.

In modern times teachers, scientists and social workers work with the community. I was with a professor from the University of the Philippines. He had a project up North that involved dealing with the local community. The Professor descended from a Spanish Conquistador and still maintained the Castillian look and lived in big old family compound in Pasay. An Insulares. Now when he visited the house of the house of the barangay Captain of the community the first thing he did was to take of his shoes. A custom in those parts. Any other person would have just walked shoe and all. He also took time to converse in the vernacular and ate with relish using his hands.

In Social Media, What you would probably want to avoid is what happened during a dinner scene in the movie the Joy Luck Club. The couple an American man and a Chinese American woman were going to have dinner at her mother’s house. As family custom the Mother prepared the dinner and during dinner time proceeded to tell the people that the dinner was unworthy and she would do better the next time. The American promptly agreed with her and to her surprise (and indignation) started sprinkling soy sauce on one of her dish.

Walk Barefoot …

It is surprising to see how time flies. Aileen and Jay are now married. Batang Yagit does not look like a Yagit anymore. At least the t-shirt still fits. Markku and Hana together. Karla and Sha happy together. Jayvee is into diving and coffee. Manolo is in government. Marocharim has added wisdom and gut to his belt. Rico from Fool for Five is now The Technogra ..ph. Nina is still wandering. Arpee is large, i mean still Pinoy Life at Large. Kring is Direk while a more healthy Coy has become a manager. Poyt is Flippish. Arbet is still giving daily colorful mrt commentary . Fritz is chasing his star. And Benj is Benj.

Anyway here is my list of Blogs for the Top 10 Emerging Influential Blogs for 2010:

GandaEverSoMuch.com
Donna Mae’s
Project 52 Weeks
Alexis Chua’s
Rabsky Villanueva’s
GENSANGEMS
Kusina Maria
Mabuhay ang Bagong Kasal
Mozilla Philippines Community
Rock Your Firefox

Events and Corporate Video, Budget hotel in Makati, Pinoy Party Food, Copyediting Services, PR Agency Philippines, Budget Travel Philippines, Send Gifts to the Philippines, Black Friday Deals, Roomrent – units for rent, Search Profile Index, and Corporate Events Organizer.

With the rest of the Filipino people, I wish to offer our deepest condolences to the families of the victims whose lives were lost in the hostage situation at the Quirino Grandstand. The Secretary of Foreign Affairs has conveyed our deep feelings of sorrow to the Foreign Minister of the People’s Republic of China and the people of Hong Kong through Hong Kong Chief Executive Donald Tsang. I have tasked Secretaries Soliman and Lim to provide everything necessary for the recovery and return home of the survivors. I have directed the fullest cooperation with the Hong Kong authorities on the part of our officials.

From the onset of this incident, the hostage-taker seemed to not be belligerent, as shown by the release of hostages. These were encouraging signs.

We were going to wait him out. The idea was to let the ground commanders who are the experts in this field handle the operation with minimal interference from people who are less expert.

But the situation deteriorated rapidly when, during the course of the negotiations, he was given the letter of the Ombudsman in which she promised to personally review his case. As he was reading the contents of the letter, while talking to an unknown individual on the phone, he became increasingly agitated.

The presence of his brother also added to the tension.

At this point, he threatened to kill a hostage. The police decided to remove the brother from the scene. As the negotiators were departing, the negotiators were shot at.

Media coverage of his brother being taken into custody further agitated the hostage-taker.

Shots were fired. They seemed to be warning shots, as there was no audible indication of tumult or chaos to show that the hostages were in immediate danger.

Nonetheless, the negotiators tried to reestablish contact the hostage-taker but they were unsuccessful as the cellphone of the hostage-taker was continuously busy. He also refused to answer the throw-phone provided for him by the authorities.

The escape of the driver, combined with his reports that the hostages were being harmed, forced the assault to happen. When the vehicle began to move, and with reports that he had hand grenades, a decision was made to immobilize the vehicle as it would have made the situation even more dangerous.

As we know, the incident tragically ended in the deaths of eight innocent civilians.

We expect more of the facts to come to light and I have ordered Interior and Local Government Secretary Jesse Robredo and Justice Secretary Leila de Lima to thoroughly lead this review.

Media was severly criticized in Philippine Social Media and even in commentary within main stream media. In Social Media specially in twitter several exchanges were observed.

WITHIN A FEW DAYS MEDIA COMPANY ABS-CBN CAME OUT WITH OFFICIAL THIS STATEMENT ON ITS FACEBOOK PAGE:

ABS-CBN STATEMENT ON AUG. 23 HOSTAGE TRAGEDY
by ANC 24/7 on Thursday, August 26, 2010 at 3:21pm

Media’s job is to tell the story, but no story is worth even one life.

We will always cooperate with authorities in trying to resolve complex situations like the Aug 23 hostage crisis.

If the government had called for a news blackout, ABS-CBN would have supported it.

We are done with an initial assessment of our coverage and continue to review our policies.

We exercised self-restraint on Monday:

1. We refused to air the hostage taker’s threats live about a 3 pm deadline to avoid fuelling public fear.

2. We refused to air the hostage taker’s interview until after negotiations were finished.

3. We refused to be part of hostage negotiations.

4. All throughout the day and until the first shots were aired, we kept our cameras 400 meters away from the bus, giving us shaky video that viewers complained about. Our teams never crossed the police line.

5. Although we had access to members of the police reaction team, we held back interviews which could compromise their plans and/or location.

6. After the police tried to arrest the hostage taker’s brother, our team physically stepped back to comply with police request.

7. After the assault began, we tried to limit our shots to avoid showing police movements. We stayed with extreme close-ups or wide shots.

8. We immediately complied when police asked us to turn off our lights explaining the grainy shots viewers complained about.

9. We avoided tampering with evidence at crime scene. Instead, we asked Soco to shoot the video instead of entering the bus ourselves.

This wasn’t enough.

We acknowledge airing a report that detailed the position of the police during the assault.

During the arrest of Gregorio Mendoza, we considered pulling away from the coverage but a man was crying for help.

In other countries around the world, governments set the ground rules for situations like this. One network cannot unilaterally declare a news blackout. Press freedom issues take a back seat during situations like this – where the government already has the power to define the terms to media.

We are taking the public’s views to heart. Monday’s tragic events triggered intense soul-searching for us. Such is the irony of a profession that wields so much power but relies entirely on self-doubt to gain — and keep — its credibility.

We ask our broadcast colleagues to join us in an industry review. Let us unite and work together to put in place measures to collectively decide when we stop live coverage in the absence of government presence of mind.

SIMILARLY GMA 7 RELEASED THIS PRESS RELEASE:

GMA News’ statement on its coverage of the bus siege at Quirino Grandstand

ENGLISH VERSION

Immediately after our live coverage of the hostage taking and its bloody outcome last Monday, we reviewed how we covered the situation.

We are now taking a second look at our existing policies and processes to determine how these can be improved and how we can fill up what is lacking.

At the end of this review, we will come up with a revised set of rules and guidelines to be implemented during situations that pose risks to our personnel and to the public.

We are also open to dialogue with authorities on how we can work together in situations like this in the interest of the safety of the public, especially hostages.

FILIPINO VERSION

Agad-agad matapos ang aming live coverage ng hostage taking at sa madugong pagwawakas nito noong Lunes, sinimulang suriin ng GMA News ang aming naging paraan ng pagbabalita ng naturang insidente.

Pinag-aaralan naming muli ang kasulukuyang mga patakaran at palakad upang malaman kung paano pa ito mapabubuti at mapunan ang mga kakulangan.

Sa pagtatapos ng pagsusuring ito, bubuo ang GMA News and Public Affairs ng mga bagong patakaran na ipatutupad sa mga coverage na sadyang may bantang panganib sa aming mga news and public affairs coverage teams at maging sa publiko.

Bukas ang GMA News na makipag-dialogo sa mga otoridad upang mapag-usapan ang pinakamabuting paraaan upang mapangalagaan ang kaligtasan ng publiko, lalo ng mga hostage. – GMANews.TV

Dear President Aquino,

The Hong Kong Journalists Association expresses its deepest condolences to the families of those who died in Manila’s hostage tragedy. We also want to express our appreciation and respect to those who acted bravely and astutely during the long standoff, thus allowing some of the hostages to survive. We are, however, filled with anger and concern over the blame being heaped on the media for allegedly contributing to the tragedy.

The HKJA notes with concern that President Benigno Aquino of the Philippines made the media the scapegoat when he said: “Media coverage of his brother being taken into custody further agitated the hostage-taker…” Using this flimsy excuse, Mr. Aquino said he would consider imposing new restrictions on media coverage should a similar crisis occur.

We have no idea what further restrictions are under consideration but what we are sure of is that President Benigno Aquino’s words were uttered hastily and without careful consideration. Without a thorough investigation such conclusions cannot be taken seriously and the HKJA views the president’s hasty conclusions with grave misgivings.

The role of the media is to tell the world what is happening and what has happened. This is the essence of what the democratic world has come to know and to accept as freedom of the press and freedom of expression. The media’s presence is vital to the preservation of human rights of minorities in any conflict. As in the case of Manila’s killings, nobody can tell if the same tragedy would not have taken place without the presence of the media. What we can be sure of is that without the presence of the media no knowledge of this horrific tragedy would have been known to the outside world.

Moreover, the police force of the Philippines should have known that negotiations were going on between the gunman and his brother, and that this was being telecast. The act of arresting the brother would, clearly, irritate the gunman. Yet the police forcibly wrestled the brother down and handcuffed him, all directly in front of the media.

The police, clearly, had neither strategy nor the necessary know-how to deal with such a situation. With the development of the new media, it is unrealistic to ask the media not to broadcast live in a matter of huge public interest not only to the Filipinos themselves, but also to people in Hong Kong and elsewhere. Proper media arrangements, including a safe area for the media at the scene, in accordance with internationally accepted standards, are of paramount importance. None were forthcoming.

The Hong Kong Journalists Association calls on the Philippines government to refrain from using this incident to introduce harsh measures against the media in order to cover up their incompetence. We will closely monitor the incident and any further deterioration of press freedom in Philippines arising from this tragedy.

With Kind Regards,
Hong Kong Journalists Association

AND TODAY THE PHILIPPINE DAILY INQUIRER WROTE THE EDITORIAL:

A Black Day for Media -which ended with this statement: “Every journalist knows the adage that no story is worth dying for. TV stations should realize the adage’s corollary meaning: No story is worth putting other people’s lives in danger.”

During the crisis Social Network Sites have been as aggressive as media in promoting the news and talk. Wave after wave of messages can be seen in Twitter, Face Book and Plurk ( the other sibling of Twitter. It was a mix of reportage and comments often as a result of things seen on tv or seen live – although this time it would seem more on what was heard and seen on radio and tv was being tweeted and re-tweeted. In a sense you did not need to watch TV to know what was happening a read of twitter updated you on what was happening.

Truly, a more tech savvy hostage talker could have been as well updated if he had a smart phone since what was seen and heard on TV and radio was being relayed again blow by blow. Something netizens would think about when a crisis like this happens. I mean it is quite useful during natural disasters or tragedy but during a hostage taking or war … well it is something to think about.

Topic of Conversation: Would You?

As my friend and I talked about it yesterday – assuming there was a failure of control by the government if you were the media organization there would you cover and air libe the sensitive information? Specially if there were hostages? And what if they were your family? If it were your daughter or son inside would you do it?

One need not have to contribute to the wave upon wave of comments and statements. It was all there the news, the reactions and the rumors. One could sense the frustration and anger of those watching the events unfold. Hostages to this hostage drama. Hostage to the coverage. Reacting to every bit of news that comes in.

I observed mostly Twitter and the Plurk community. And things were heating up like a soup that had gone past boiling point. Plurk was of course more emotional since the posts there were potential threads and conversation can be easily achieved.

Then it happened, the tragedy and one could feel the anger, apprehension and depression the tragic ending caused. This was soon followed by angry questions and comments – like where was the President and why did certain media groups decided to air a sensitive video that was one of the factors that led to the hostage going amok – this was later verified by the bus driver.

The President and media organizations who established presence in social network sites began to feel the collective pinch of social media citizens. The President’s facebook page was filled with negative comments. So far the Presdient through his online team has decided to bear it out and answer if only warranted and through statements and press conferences.

On the other hand…

Media personalities were asked and their answers commented on by an angry and frustrated members of the Social Network Sites.

And the issue of media and the crisis began to become a national issue. Brought about by the statement of President Aquino regarding the crisis and media’s role; the increasing analysis from abroad about how things went wrong; and the increasing negative reaction from the social network sites.

Two interesting reactions came from media. One (I) was seen in the coverage and news program featuring independent experts giving there opinion about how media dealt with the crisis and the other (II) was involving in the discussion – which often times can get spirited and may lead to several paths and conclusions – not usually putting the object of criticism in a positive light.

This has been made possible because a lot of the members of media have become citizens of social media sites. And this puts them in a quandry in a social network do you represent yourself or do you also represent the company you are working for. And if you represent the company you are working for are you equip and authorized to speak for your company? Do you weaken or strengthen your case? Does your answer only provoke more negative reaction? Are you a help or a bane?

Welcome to the social media jungle. And one can be trapped in a never ending debate over what action should one take in a crisis or who was the best James Bond. Or you can simply mute, un-follow, hide a post or a person or just click the log off button.

1. Nomination and Categories for the 2010 Philippine Blog Awards
2. The 2010 Philippine Blog Awards
3. The 2010 Philippioe Blog Awards and the European Union Music Video Award: Ang Aking Europa

1. Nomination and Categories for the 2010 Philippine Blog Awards

Here are the categories for the 2010 Philippine Blog Awards. Nominations will start August 22, 2010.

MAIN CATEGORIES
Technology
Travel
Entertainment
Personal (Diary/Journal)
Food & Beverage
Home and Parenting
Lifestyle
Business
Sports
Hobby & Recreation
Beauty & Fashion
Photoblog
Culture and Arts
Society, Politics and History
Science and Nature
Videocast and Podcast
Literature
Pets
Advocacy
Filipiana
Filipino Abroad

SPECIAL AWARDS CATEGORIES

Best Blog Design
Top Three Post for 2010
Top Three Video Post and Podcast for 2010
Top Three Photo Post for 2010
Top Post for 2010
Bloggers’ Choice
Readers’ Choice

Further updates on this as the week progresses.

2. The 2010 Philippine Blog Awards

The 2010 Philippine Blog Awards will be held on three different dates and venues in Mindanao, Visayas and Luzon. This has been made possible with the partnership of the PBA with bloggers across the country the Awards Night will be held alongside the Visayan Blogging Summit in Iloilo City and the Mindanao Blogger Summit in Zamboanga City.

Further updates on this as the week and months progresses.

3. The 2010 Philippioe Blog Awards and the European Union Music Video Award: Ang Aking Europa

CONTEST : CREATE YOUR OWN MUSIC VIDEO ABOUT THE EU “Ang Aking Europa” (“My Europe”)

GUIDELINES FOR THE CONTEST:

1. WHO MAY JOIN:

The competition is open to all Filipinos, except for officers and staff of organisations and institutions implementing projects and programmes funded by the Delegation of the European Union to the Philippines. Staff of the EU Delegation, or of EU Member States’ Embassies or cultural institutes.

2. THEME :

Music video entries should address the theme “Aking Europa” (“My Europe”) taking into account participants’ perceptions of the role of the European Union in the Philippines.

References including video illustrations of the European Union in the Philippines are available here.

General information on the EU is available here.

In creating their music videos, participants should draw upon their own perceptions / impressions about the European Union and its role in the Philippines .

These impressions might for example be drawn from the following:
- What the EU is, what it means to you?
- The European Union’s bilateral relationship with the Philippines, for example through EU-funded co-operation programmes (eg in areas such as human rights, good governance, environment, health, peace-building, sustainable development), humanitarian assistance, trade and investment links, social or educational links, etc.
- The rich and shared cultural values linking the European Union and the Philippines, or the cultural heritage and legacy of the European Union in the Philippines. Music videos may also draw on past and current EU cultural activities in the Philippines, such as “Europe Month celebrations including events and activities attached to the celebrations, for example, “Lakbayin Natin ang EU”, EU Choral Competitions, “Bersong Euro-Pinoy”
Cine Europa, Amazing EU Christmas, Europe Ko To and and “Linggo de Lingua Europa 3″.

3. TECHNICAL AND LEGAL REQUIREMENTS:

a. Any format, camera and/or video editing or authoring software may be used. When selecting the system/s to use, participants must be aware of the need to produce a quality suitable for internet viewing.

b. The video must have a maximum total running time of two and a half minutes, including opening and closing credits.

c. The video must either be:

- uploaded in megaupload.com (free account) 1024 MB per file
- submitted to the Delegation of the European Union to the Philippines in CD format;

d. . The video must not contain materials (music, images, etc.) which have copyright restrictions, and all materials used must either be original or copyright-free. Any entries which breach this rule shall be automatically disqualified, and legal responsibility for any such breaches shall rest entirely with the person/s who submitted the entry.

e. A maximum of five entries per participant is allowed.

f. The video must not have been previously submitted to any video contest.

g. Participants must fill in a form which can be found here

4. SUBMISSION OF ENTRIES

The naming format should contain the following tag:

AkingEUTitleoftheMTVInitialsoftheauthor”, for example
Aking EU, EU at Ako, JS

Entries may be submitted to either of the following:

akingeu@gmail.com.
DELEGATION-PHILIPPINES@ec.europa.eu

Others may submit, both video and details:

via snail mail or courier to
The Delegation of the European Union to the Philippines
30th Floor, Tower II
RCBC Plaza, 6819 Ayala Avenue
Makati City

5. JUDGING AND CRITERIA

a. The Board of Judges will comprise respected film and music industry professionals as well as representatives from the academic sector, and officials of the Delegation of the European Union to the Philippines

b. Criteria for Judging:
- clarity in exposition / showing of EU role/s in the Philippines (20%)
- originality of interpretation of EU role/s, programme/s and/or involvement in the Philippines (25%)
- relevance of exposition / interpretation to theme “Aking Europa” (15%)
- creative choice of imagery / subjects / locations in exposition / interpretation (15%)
- technical quality (25%)

6. DEADLINE AND SCHEDULE:

a. All entries must be submitted on or before 12 noon, 15 October 2010:

7. OTHER IMPORTANT INFORMATION:

a. The copyright to the music videos entered to the competition shall remain with the author, except that the Delegation of the European Union to the Philippines, and the European Commission, shall have the right to use any such material free of charge for a maximum of two years from the date of awarding.

b. Awarding of prizes will be accompanied by a special screening of the winning music videos.

c. Five winners will be chosen. Winners will each receive a trophy plus, in-kind prizes as follows:
First Prize € 1,000
Special Prize for Original Music Scoring € 800
Second Prize € 800
Third Prize € 600

d. The top 15 finalists will be notified one week prior to the awarding ceremony. Prizes not claimed within 30 days after the awarding ceremony shall be forfeited.

e. Copyright-free sources for music can, for example, be found at :
www.stockmusic.net
www.cssmusic.com
www.royaltyfreemusic.com
www.freeplaymusic.com
CDs featuring Romanian music are available on loan from the Delegation of the European Union to the Philippines through the courtesy of the Embassy of Romania

f. The Delegation of the European Union to the Philippines, and the European Commission, and their partners in this competition, can under no circumstances be held responsible for any failure of participants to observe their own obligations in relation to intellectual property rights.

Further information:

Thelma Gecolea
Public Affairs Officer
Delegation of the European Union to the Philippines
Phone 8595124; Mobile 09209441371

This takes me back. Not far back but during the time I was taking up Graduate Studies at the University of the Philippines. Those were my volkswagen and coke regular days. Mobile CD players were expensive but there were walkmans and their cousions. Mine was an Aiwa and to make up for the lack of music in the beetle while waiting for my father to finish his class at the National Institute of Geology. And one of the tapes I had was the UltraElectoMagneticPop!

A slideshow of the Heads Set

This is and still is my favorite album of the Eraserheads. From Pare Ko whose lyrics led the Philippine Senate to hold a public investigation – even then they were prone to hold hearings on almost anything and everything. And incidentally resulted in two versions of the song being released – Pare Ko and Walang Hiyang Pare Ko. The album contained a number of enjoyable songs

1. “Easy Ka Lang” (“Take It Easy”)
2. “Maling Akala” (“Wrong Guess”)
3. “Pare Ko” (“My Buddy”)
4. “Shake Yer Head”
5. “Ganjazz”
6. “Toyang”
7. “Ligaya” (“Joy”)
8. “Tindahan Ni Aling Nena” (“Ms. Nena’s Store”)
9. “Honky-Toinks Granny”
10. “Shirley”
11. “Walang Hiyang Pare Ko” (My Shameless Buddy)
12. “Combo on the Run”

- you could just play it over and over. Well at least twice and with a headset several times.

Jump to the present. The Beetle Volkswagen is gone and Coke Zero has replaced Regular Coke who would have thought that at the launcg of the new dishes from Philippine Food Company Greenwich one would win the Eraserheads: Heads Set Collection – a black tin box that contained cds of nearly all the Eraserheads album; a shirt and a book. And to my amazement and surprise Karla and Sha went to the house just to see the set at ten in the evening from the Timog area to Harvard Street Cubao.

This is an amazing set of Eraserhead collectibles and keepsakes. Apparently, Greenwich will be giving away other sets this September if you order food from them. Of course the first CD i listented to was the UltraElectroMagneticPop! album. Only to realize how One can truly relate to Pare Ko and Maling Akala. Then it was off to search for Huling El Bimbo in the Cutterpillow album.

A Surprise

This morning before leaving for work. I played one CD called POP-U-Mentary. As I slipped into the player it began to show the menus and scenes: It was a DVD – a documentary of the group. So it is not only CDs but a DVD as well.

A nice end to yesterday I think.

Sha and Karla’s video

In effect for a bried period of time Singapore was home for me.

Singapore has always impressed me as clean, tourist friendly city and governed by the model Mandarin Lee Kwan Yu. Although at that time it was Go Tok Chong was the one handling the reins of the government. It was a city one hoped the Philippines could be in terms public service – the train and the buses were on time and there was one ticket used for both trains and buses

But it was not always like this. At one point of our stay in Singapore aside from going to Sentosa, Jurong Bird Park and th Haw Par Villa we also went to Palau Ubin. A place that reflected back what Singapore was before it was developed. It was a fishing village.

I guess what is common with the Philippines and Singapore is that both have been and are cultural melting pots and this can be seen in the way we and the Singaporeans live and treat other people.

The diverse culture was both familiar and exotic to me.

Singapore was and I guess still a nice place to visit, live, work and study.

Several years have passed since I went to Singapore. And from the lunch meeting with Singapore officials from the YourSingapore.com and Contact Singapore have brought back a flood of memories from the Lion City – my home for a while.

As we walk towards the bay where the ship was anchored names and images began to appear in the mind. Old George Dewey, then a Commodore and not yet the Admiral of the Navy, entering Manila Bay, with the USS Olympia and its squadron, to fight the old Spanish ships of Admiral Patricio Montojo y Pasarón It was no contest the wooden ships were no match for the iron and steel ships. If I remember correctly Old George once fancied the idea of becoming US President. If this was true or not … who knows but like Gen Douglas MacArthur this was not fated to be. Instead, two other gentlemen who were part of the US Colonial Past of the Philippines would become US Presidents – William Howard Taft and General Dwight Eisenhower.

When Dewey arrived – he came with the Olympia. A few nights it was the USS Blue Ridge that came, It did not come to defeat a ship. It did not come to colonize. It did not come bearing teachers – another ship did and its name was the USS Thomasites – they were called Thomasites. It came on a mission of goodwill and friendship.

And it is amazing to see the USS Blue Ridge. And this particular ship and its crew seemed to be apt for the task. The ship played a historical role in the Vietnam-US conflict when it housed and shipped thg US Embassy staff at the end of the war. And at present its crew is composed of a number of person whose roots can be traced to this country.

And yes it is an important thing in that sense. The Filipinos are a product of the never-ending interaction and collission with people, events and things. In that sense we have ties with the Spaniards, Chinese, Malays, Mexicans, French, Japanese, British, Indians, Germans and Americans.

As such the title Barcelona, Manila ad Blue Ridge seems to have a connection on a historical-social-culural basis but it maybe not what you think. What I have I mind is something else/ Something … perhaps worth remembering. And it has something to do with Walt Stillman and his movie Barcelona.

The movie Barcelona is the movie I remember – because:

One, I have a copy and enjoy watching it from time to time. A good rule I think when one thinks of purchasing a movie.

Two, The story is set in Barcelona in the closing days of the Cold War.

Three, The story is about people Americans and Iberians. And it is a story about cousins, friends, relationships and perceptions.

In particular perceptions and Ants.

Without giving away the story, which I strongly recommend you watch, one brief moment in the movie the characters talk about how people view the US. The Consul talked about how the world viewed the United States as an Ant Farm. Now an Ant Farm is a vivarium composed of two clear glass on each side held together by a from that completes this slim rectangle shaped object. Inside one can place earth or sand. One places Ants in and hope they form a colony. Most probably by placing a candidate Queen.

Going back to the Consul and the Ant Story.

He, the Consul, likened the US to an Ant Colony that was viewed by the world. But often the world was dependent on journalists and commentators to describe the colony. The problem was the journalists ant commentators hated Ants.

The story stuck inside my mind and indeed made me think how our opinions are shaped by those around us, who we read, who we listen to and who we watch. And perhaps it might not be a bad idea to decide for ourselves.

Going back to the USS Blue Ridge a Combat Communication ship on a mission of goodwill and friendship. – May it have more than 10,000 goodwill and friendship missions.

I met this particular story when it was featured in one of those movies they show on a Friday and Saturday. The film bore the same title of the short story and was directed by John Huston and featured as its prime actors Sean Connery, Michael Caine and Christopher Plummer.

A Rogues Adventure and justly so also a story of friendship. It is enjoyable, interesting and pondering. In between the actions-reactions and consequences what comes out in the end is a story of friendship … of fellowship. I guess something that attracted me to story.

Here it is…

THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING
By
Rudyard Kipling
SOurce: The Gutenberg Project

“Brother to a Prince and fellow to a beggar if he be found worthy.”

The Law, as quoted, lays down a fair conduct of life, and one not easy to follow. I have been fellow to a beggar again and again under circumstances which prevented either of us finding out whether the other was worthy. I have still to be brother to a Prince, though I once came near to kinship with what might have been a veritable King and was promised the reversion of a Kingdom — army, law-courts, revenue and policy all complete. But, to-day, I greatly fear that my King is dead, and if I want a crown I must go and hunt it for myself.

The beginning of everything was in a railway train upon the road to Mhow from Ajmir. There had been a deficit in the Budget, which necessitated travelling, not Second-class, which is only half as dear as First-class, but by Intermediate, which is very awful indeed. There are no cushions in the Intermediate class, and the population are either Intermediate, which is Eurasian, or native, which for a long night journey is nasty; or Loafer, which is amusing though intoxicated. Intermediates do not patronize refreshment-rooms. They carry their food in bundles and pots, and buy sweets from the native sweetmeat-sellers, and drink the roadside water. That is why in the hot weather Intermediates are taken out of the carriages dead, and in all weathers are most properly looked down upon.

My particular Intermediate happened to be empty till I reached Nasirabad, when a huge gentleman in shirt-sleeves entered, and, following the custom of Intermediates, passed the time of day. He was a wanderer and a vagabond like myself, but with an educated taste for whiskey. He told tales of things he had seen and done, of out-of-the-way corners of the Empire into which he had penetrated, and of adventures in which he risked his life for a few days’ food. “If India was filled with men like you and me, not knowing more than the crows where they’d get their next day’s rations, it isn’t seventy millions of revenue the land would be paying — it’s seven hundred million,” said he; and as I looked at his mouth and chin I was disposed to agree with him. We talked politics — the politics of Loaferdom that sees things from the underside where the lath and plaster is not smoothed off — and we talked postal arrangements because my friend wanted to send a telegram back from the next station to Ajmir, which is the turning-off place from the Bombay to the Mhow line as you travel westward. My friend had no money beyond eight annas which he wanted for dinner, and I had no money at all, owing to the hitch in the Budget before mentioned. Further, I was going into a wilderness where, though I should resume touch with the Treasury, there were no telegraph offices. I was, therefore, unable to help him in any way.

“We might threaten a Station-master, and make him send a wire on tick,” said my friend, “but that’d mean inquiries for you and for me, and I’ve got my hands full these days. Did you say you are travelling back along this line within any days?”

“Within ten,” I said.

“Can’t you make it eight?” said he. “Mine is rather urgent business.”

“I can send your telegram within ten days if that will serve you,” I said.

“I couldn’t trust the wire to fetch him now I think of it. It’s this way. He leaves Delhi on the 23d for Bombay. That means he’ll be running through Ajmir about the night of the 23d.”

“But I’m going into the Indian Desert,” I explained.

“Well and good,” said he. “You’ll be changing at Marwar Junction to get into Jodhpore territory — you must do that — and he’ll be coming through Marwar Junction in the early morning of the 24th by the Bombay Mail. Can you be at Marwar Junction on that time? ’Twon’t be inconveniencing you because I know that there’s precious few pickings to be got out of these Central India States — even though you pretend to be correspondent of the Backwoodsman.”

“Have you ever tried that trick?” I asked.

“Again and again, but the Residents find you out, and then you get escorted to the Border before you’ve time to get your knife into them. But about my friend here. I must give him a word o’ mouth to tell him what’s come to me or else he won’t know where to go. I would take it more than kind of you if you was to come out of Central India in time to catch him at Marwar Junction, and say to him:— ‘He has gone South for the week.’ He’ll know what that means. He’s a big man with a red beard, and a great swell he is. You’ll find him sleeping like a gentleman with all his luggage round him in a second-class compartment. But don’t you be afraid. Slip down the window, and say:— ‘He has gone South for the week,’ and he’ll tumble. It’s only cutting your time of stay in those parts by two days. I ask you as a stranger — going to the West,” he said with emphasis.

“Where have you come from?” said I.

“From the East,” said he, “and I am hoping that you will give him the message on the Square — for the sake of my Mother as well as your own.”

Englishmen are not usually softened by appeals to the memory of their mothers, but for certain reasons, which will be fully apparent, I saw fit to agree.

“It’s more than a little matter,” said he, “and that’s why I ask you to do it — and now I know that I can depend on you doing it. A second-class carriage at Marwar Junction, and a red-haired man asleep in it. You’ll be sure to remember. I get out at the next station, and I must hold on there till he comes or sends me what I want.”

“I’ll give the message if I catch him,” I said, “and for the sake of your Mother as well as mine I’ll give you a word of advice. Don’t try to run the Central India States just now as the correspondent of the Backwoodsman. There’s a real one knocking about here, and it might lead to trouble.”

“Thank you,” said he simply, “and when will the swine be gone? I can’t starve because he’s ruining my work. I wanted to get hold of the Degumber Rajah down here about his father’s widow, and give him a jump.”

“What did he do to his father’s widow, then?”

“Filled her up with red pepper and slippered her to death as she hung from a beam. I found that out myself and I’m the only man that would dare going into the State to get hush-money for it. They’ll try to poison me, same as they did in Chortumna when I went on the loot there. But you’ll give the man at Marwar Junction my message?”

He got out at a little roadside station, and I reflected. I had heard, more than once, of men personating correspondents of newspapers and bleeding small Native States with threats of exposure, but I had never met any of the caste before. They lead a hard life, and generally die with great suddenness. The Native States have a wholesome horror of English newspapers, which may throw light on their peculiar methods of government, and do their best to choke correspondents with champagne, or drive them out of their mind with four-in-hand barouches. They do not understand that nobody cares a straw for the internal administration of Native States so long as oppression and crime are kept within decent limits, and the ruler is not drugged, drunk, or diseased from one end of the year to the other. Native States were created by Providence in order to supply picturesque scenery, tigers and tall-writing. They are the dark places of the earth, full of unimaginable cruelty, touching the Railway and the Telegraph on one side, and, on the other, the days of Harun-al-Raschid. When I left the train I did business with divers Kings, and in eight days passed through many changes of life. Sometimes I wore dress-clothes and consorted with Princes and Politicals, drinking from crystal and eating from silver. Sometimes I lay out upon the ground and devoured what I could get, from a plate made of a flapjack, and drank the running water, and slept under the same rug as my servant. It was all in a day’s work.

Then I headed for the Great Indian Desert upon the proper date, as I had promised, and the night Mail set me down at Marwar Junction, where a funny little, happy-go-lucky, native managed railway runs to Jodhpore. The Bombay Mail from Delhi makes a short halt at Marwar. She arrived as I got in, and I had just time to hurry to her platform and go down the carriages. There was only one second-class on the train. I slipped the window and looked down upon a flaming red beard, half covered by a railway rug. That was my man, fast asleep, and I dug him gently in the ribs. He woke with a grunt and I saw his face in the light of the lamps. It was a great and shining face.

“Tickets again?” said he.

“No,” said I. “I am to tell you that he is gone South for the week. He is 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 impudence. 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 “stuck up” 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 except 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 commands 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 punkah-pulling machines, carriage couplings and unbreakable swords and axle-trees 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 clamor to have the glories of their last dance more fully expounded; 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 copy-boys are whining, “kaa-pi chayha-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 other six months wherein 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 of 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 as 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° to almost 84° for almost half an hour, and in that chill — you have no idea how cold is 84° on the grass until you begin to pray for it — a very tired man could set off to sleep ere the heat roused him.

One Saturday night it was my pleasant duty to put the paper to bed alone. A King or courtier or a courtesan or a community was going to die or get a new Constitution, or do something that was important on the other side of the world, and the paper was to be held open till the latest possible minute in order to catch the telegram. It was a pitchy black night, as stifling as a June night can be, and the loo, the red-hot wind from the westward, was booming among the tinder-dry trees and pretending that the rain was on its heels. Now and again a spot of almost boiling water would fall on the dust with the flop of a frog, but all our weary world knew that was only pretence. It was a shade cooler in the press-room than the office, so I sat there, while the type ticked and clicked, and the night-jars hooted at the windows, and the all but naked compositors wiped the sweat from their foreheads and called for water. The thing that was keeping us back, whatever it was, would not come off, though the loo dropped and the last type was set, and the whole round earth stood still in the choking heat, with its finger on its lip, to wait the event. I drowsed, and wondered whether the telegraph was a blessing, and whether this dying man, or struggling people, was aware of the inconvenience the delay was causing. There was no special reason beyond the heat and worry to make tension, but, as the clock-hands crept up to three o’clock and the machines spun their fly-wheels two and three times to see that all was in order, before I said the word that would set them off, I could have shrieked aloud.

Then the roar and rattle of the wheels shivered the quiet into little bits. I rose to go away, but two men in white clothes stood in front of me. The first one said:— “It’s him!” The second said — “So it is!” And they both laughed almost as loudly as the machinery roared, and mopped their foreheads. “We see there was a light burning across the road and we were sleeping in that ditch there for coolness, and I said to my friend here, the office is open. Let’s come along and speak to him as turned us back from the Degumber State,” said the smaller of the two. He was the man I had met in the Mhow train, and his fellow was the red-bearded man of Marwar Junction. There was no mistaking the eyebrows of the one or the beard of the other.

I was not pleased, because I wished to go to sleep, not to squabble with loafers. “What do you want?” I asked.

“Half an hour’s talk with you cool and comfortable, in the office,” said the red-bearded man. “We’d like some drink — the Contrack doesn’t begin yet, Peachey, so you needn’t look — but what we really want is advice. We don’t want money. We ask you as a favor, because you did us a bad turn about Degumber.”

I led from the press-room to the stifling office with the maps on the walls, and the red-haired man rubbed his hands. “That’s something like,” said he. “This was the proper shop to come to. Now, Sir, let me introduce to you Brother Peachey Carnehan, that’s him, and Brother Daniel Dravot, that is me, and the less said about our professions the better, for we have been most things in our time. Soldier, sailor, compositor, photographer, proof-reader, street-preacher, and correspondents of the Backwoodsman when we thought the paper wanted one. Carnehan is sober, and so am I. Look at us first and see that’s sure. It will save you cutting into my talk. We’ll take one of your cigars apiece, and you shall see us light.” I watched the test. The men were absolutely sober, so I gave them each a tepid peg.

“Well and good,” said Carnehan of the eyebrows, wiping the froth from his mustache. “Let me talk now, Dan. We have been all over India, mostly on foot. We have been boiler-fitters, engine-drivers, petty contractors, and all that, and we have decided that India isn’t big enough for such as us.”

They certainly were too big for the office. Dravot’s beard seemed to fill half the room and Carnehan’s shoulders the other half, as they sat on the big table. Carnehan continued: — “The country isn’t half worked out because they that governs it won’t let you touch it. They spend all their blessed time in governing it, and you can’t lift a spade, nor chip a rock, nor look for oil, nor anything like that without all the Government saying — ‘Leave it alone and let us govern.’ Therefore, such as it is, we will let it alone, and go away to some other place where a man isn’t crowded and can come to his own. We are not little men, and there is nothing that we are afraid of except Drink, and we have signed a Contrack on that. Therefore, we are going away to be Kings.”

“Kings in our own right,” muttered Dravot.

“Yes, of course,” I said. “You’ve been tramping in the sun, and it’s a very warm night, and hadn’t you better sleep over the notion? Come to-morrow.”

“Neither drunk nor sunstruck,” said Dravot. “We have slept over the notion half a year, and require to see Books and Atlases, and we have decided that there is only one place now in the world that two strong men can Sar-a-whack. They call it Kafiristan. By my reckoning its the top right-hand corner of Afghanistan, not more than three hundred miles from Peshawar. They have two and thirty heathen idols there, and we’ll be the thirty-third. It’s a mountainous country, and the women of those parts are very beautiful.”

“But that is provided against in the Contrack,” said Carnehan. “Neither Women nor Liquor, Daniel.”

“And that’s all we know, except that no one has gone there, and they fight, and in any place where they fight a man who knows how to drill men can always be a King. We shall go to those parts and say to any King we find — ‘D’ you want to vanquish your foes?’ and we will show him how to drill men; for that we know better than anything else. Then we will subvert that King and seize his Throne and establish a Dy-nasty.”

“You’ll be cut to pieces before you’re fifty miles across the Border,” I said. “You have to travel through Afghanistan to get to that country. It’s one mass of mountains and peaks and glaciers, and no Englishman has been through it. The people are utter brutes, and even if you reached them you couldn’t do anything.”

“That’s more like,” said Carnehan. “If you could think us a little more mad we would be more pleased. We have come to you to know about this country, to read a book about it, and to be shown maps. We want you to tell us that we are fools and to show us your books.” He turned to the book-cases.

“Are you at all in earnest?” I said.

“A little,” said Dravot, sweetly. “As big a map as you have got, even if it’s all blank where Kafiristan is, and any books you’ve got. We can read, though we aren’t very educated.”

I uncased the big thirty-two-miles-to-the-inch map of India, and two smaller Frontier maps, hauled down volume INF-KAN of the Encyclopædia Britannica, and the men consulted them.

“See here!” said Dravot, his thumb on the map. “Up to Jagdallak, Peachey and me know the road. We was there with Roberts’s Army. We’ll have to turn off to the right at Jagdallak through Laghmann territory. Then we get among the hills — fourteen thousand feet — fifteen thousand — it will be cold work there, but it don’t look very far on the map.”

I handed him Wood on the Sources of the Oxus. Carnehan was deep in the Encyclopædia.

“They’re a mixed lot,” said Dravot, reflectively; “and it won’t help us to know the names of their tribes. The more tribes the more they’ll fight, and the better for us. From Jagdallak to Ashang. H’mm!”

“But all the information about the country is as sketchy and inaccurate as can be,” I protested. “No one knows anything about it really. Here’s the file of the United Services’ Institute. Read what Bellew says.”

“Blow Bellew!” said Carnehan. “Dan, they’re an all-fired lot of heathens, but this book here says they think they’re related to us English.”

I smoked while the men pored over Raverty, Wood, the maps and the Encyclopædia.

“There is no use your waiting,” said Dravot, politely. “It’s about four o’clock now. We’ll go before six o’clock if you want to sleep, and we won’t steal any of the papers. Don’t you sit up. We’re two harmless lunatics, and if you come, to-morrow evening, down to the Serai we’ll say good-by to you.”

“You are two fools,” I answered. “You’ll be turned back at the Frontier or cut up the minute you set foot in Afghanistan. Do you want any money or a recommendation down-country? I can help you to the chance of work next week.”

“Next week we shall be hard at work ourselves, thank you,” said Dravot. “It isn’t so easy being a King as it looks. When we’ve got our Kingdom in going order we’ll let you know, and you can come up and help us to govern it.”

“Would two lunatics make a Contrack like that!” said Carnehan, with subdued pride, showing me a greasy half-sheet of note-paper on which was written the following. I copied it, then and there, as a curiosity:—

This Contract between me and you persuing witnesseth in the name of God — Amen and so forth.

(One) That me and you will settle this matter together: i.e., to be Kings of Kafiristan.

(Two) That you and me will not while this matter is being settled, look at any Liquor, nor any Woman black, white or brown, so as to get mixed up with one or the other harmful.

(Three) That we conduct ourselves with Dignity and Discretion, and if one of us gets into trouble the other will stay by him.

Signed by you and me this day.
Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan.
Daniel Dravot.
Both Gentlemen at Large.

“There was no need for the last article,” said Carnehan, blushing modestly; “but it looks regular. Now you know the sort of men that loafers are — we are loafers, Dan, until we get out of India — and do you think that we could sign a Contrack like that unless we was in earnest? We have kept away from the two things that make life worth having.”

“You won’t enjoy your lives much longer if you are going to try this idiotic adventure. Don’t set the office on fire,” I said, “and go away before nine o’clock.”

I left them still poring over the maps and making notes on the back of the “Contrack.” “Be sure to come down to the Serai to-morrow,” were their parting words.

The Kumharsen Serai is the great four-square sink of humanity where the strings of camels and horses from the North load and unload. All the nationalities of Central Asia may be found there, and most of the folk of India proper. Balkh and Bokhara there meet Bengal and Bombay, and try to draw eye-teeth. You can buy ponies, turquoises, Persian pussy-cats, saddle-bags, fat-tailed sheep and musk in the Kumharsen Serai, and get many strange things for nothing. In the afternoon I went down there to see whether my friends intended to keep their word or were lying about drunk.

A priest attired in fragments of ribbons and rags stalked up to me, gravely twisting a child’s paper whirligig. Behind him was his servant, bending under the load of a crate of mud toys. The two were loading up two camels, and the inhabitants of the Serai watched them with shrieks of laughter.

“The priest is mad,” said a horse-dealer to me. “He is going up to Kabul to sell toys to the Amir. He will either be raised to honor or have his head cut off. He came in here this morning and has been behaving madly ever since.”

“The witless are under the protection of God,” stammered a flat-cheeked Usbeg in broken Hindi. “They foretell future events.”

“Would they could have foretold that my caravan would have been cut up by the Shinwaris almost within shadow of the Pass!” grunted the Eusufzai agent of a Rajputana trading-house whose goods had been feloniously diverted into the hands of other robbers just across the Border, and whose misfortunes were the laughing-stock of the bazar. “Ohé, priest, whence come you and whither do you go?”

“From Roum have I come,” shouted the priest, waving his whirligig; “from Roum, blown by the breath of a hundred devils across the sea! O thieves, robbers, liars, the blessing of Pir Khan on pigs, dogs, and perjurers! Who will take the Protected of God to the North to sell charms that are never still to the Amir? The camels shall not gall, the sons shall not fall sick, and the wives shall remain faithful while they are away, of the men who give me place in their caravan. Who will assist me to slipper the King of the Roos with a golden slipper with a silver heel? The protection of Pir Kahn be upon his labors!” He spread out the skirts of his gaberdine and pirouetted between the lines of tethered horses.

“There starts a caravan from Peshawar to Kabul in twenty days, Huzrut,” said the Eusufzai trader. “My camels go therewith. Do thou also go and bring us good luck.”

“I will go even now!” shouted the priest. “I will depart upon my winged camels, and be at Peshawar in a day! Ho! Hazar Mir Khan,” he yelled to his servant “drive out the camels, but let me first mount my own.”

He leaped on the back of his beast as it knelt, and turning round to me, cried:—

“Come thou also, Sahib, a little along the road, and I will sell thee a charm — an amulet that shall make thee King of Kafiristan.”

Then the light broke upon me, and I followed the two camels out of the Serai till we reached open road and the priest halted.

“What d’ you think o’ that?” said he in English. “Carnehan can’t talk their patter, so I’ve made him my servant. He makes a handsome servant. ’Tisn’t for nothing that I’ve been knocking about the country for fourteen years. Didn’t I do that talk neat? We’ll hitch on to a caravan at Peshawar till we get to Jagdallak, and then we’ll see if we can get donkeys for our camels, and strike into Kafiristan. Whirligigs for the Amir, O Lor! Put your hand under the camel-bags and tell me what you feel.”

I felt the butt of a Martini, and another and another.

“Twenty of ’em,” said Dravot, placidly.

“Twenty of ’em, and ammunition to correspond, under the whirligigs and the mud dolls.”

“Heaven help you if you are caught with those things!” I said. “A Martini is worth her weight in silver among the Pathans.”

“Fifteen hundred rupees of capital — every rupee we could beg, borrow, or steal — are invested on these two camels,” said Dravot. “We won’t get caught. We’re going through the Khaiber with a regular caravan. Who’d touch a poor mad priest?”

“Have you got everything you want?” I asked, overcome with astonishment.

“Not yet, but we shall soon. Give us a momento of your kindness, Brother. You did me a service yesterday, and that time in Marwar. Half my Kingdom shall you have, as the saying is.” I slipped a small charm compass from my watch-chain and handed it up to the priest.

“Good-by,” said Dravot, giving me his hand cautiously. “It’s the last time we’ll shake hands with an Englishman these many days. Shake hands with him, Carnehan,” he cried, as the second camel passed me.

Carnehan leaned down and shook hands. Then the camels passed away along the dusty road, and I was left alone to wonder. My eye could detect no failure in the disguises. The scene in the Serai attested that they were complete to the native mind. There was just the chance, therefore, that Carnehan and Dravot would be able to wander through Afghanistan without detection. But, beyond, they would find death, certain and awful death.

Ten days later a native friend of mine, giving me the news of the day from Peshawar, wound up his letter with:— “There has been much laughter here on account of a certain mad priest who is going in his estimation to sell petty gauds and insignificant trinkets which he ascribes as great charms to H. H. the Amir of Bokhara. He passed through Peshawar and associated himself to the Second Summer caravan that goes to Kabul. The merchants are pleased because through superstition they imagine that such mad fellows bring good-fortune.”

The two then, were beyond the Border. I would have prayed for them, but, that night, a real King died in Europe, and demanded an obituary notice.

The wheel of the world swings through the same phases again and again. Summer passed and winter thereafter, and came and passed again. The daily paper continued and I with it, and upon the third summer there fell a hot night, a night-issue, and a strained waiting for something to be telegraphed from the other side of the world, exactly as had happened before. A few great men had died in the past two years, the machines worked with more clatter, and some of the trees in the Office garden were a few feet taller. But that was all the difference.

I passed over to the press-room, and went through just such a scene as I have already described. The nervous tension was stronger than it had been two years before, and I felt the heat more acutely. At three o’clock I cried, “Print off,” and turned to go, when there crept to my chair what was left of a man. He was bent into a circle, his head was sunk between his shoulders, and he moved his feet one over the other like a bear. I could hardly see whether he walked or crawled — this rag-wrapped, whining cripple who addressed me by name, crying that he was come back. “Can you give me a drink?” he whimpered. “For the Lord’s sake, give me a drink!”

I went back to the office, the man following with groans of pain, and I turned up the lamp.

“Don’t you know me?” he gasped, dropping into a chair, and he turned his drawn face, surmounted by a shock of gray hair, to the light.

I looked at him intently. Once before had I seen eyebrows that met over the nose in an inch-broad black band, but for the life of me I could not tell where.

“I don’t know you,” I said, handing him the whiskey. “What can I do for you?”

He took a gulp of the spirit raw, and shivered in spite of the suffocating heat.

“I’ve come back,” he repeated; “and I was the King of Kafiristan — me and Dravot — crowned Kings we was! In this office we settled it — you setting there and giving us the books. I am Peachey — Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan, and you’ve been setting here ever since — O Lord!”

I was more than a little astonished, and expressed my feelings accordingly.

“It’s true,” said Carnehan, with a dry cackle, nursing his feet which were wrapped in rags. “True as gospel. Kings we were, with crowns upon our heads — me and Dravot — poor Dan — oh, poor, poor Dan, that would never take advice, not though I begged of him!”

“Take the whiskey,” I said, “and take your own time. Tell me all you can recollect of everything from beginning to end. You got across the border on your camels, Dravot dressed as a mad priest and you his servant. Do you remember that?”

“I ain’t mad — yet, but I will be that way soon. Of course I remember. Keep looking at me, or maybe my words will go all to pieces. Keep looking at me in my eyes and don’t say anything.”

I leaned forward and looked into his face as steadily as I could. He dropped one hand upon the table and I grasped it by the wrist. It was twisted like a bird’s claw, and upon the back was a ragged, red, diamond-shaped scar.

“No, don’t look there. Look at me,” said Carnehan.

“That comes afterwards, but for the Lord’s sake don’t distrack me. We left with that caravan, me and Dravot, playing all sorts of antics to amuse the people we were with. Dravot used to make us laugh in the evenings when all the people was cooking their dinners — cooking their dinners, and … what did they do then? They lit little fires with sparks that went into Dravot’s beard, and we all laughed — fit to die. Little red fires they was, going into Dravot’s big red beard — so funny.” His eyes left mine and he smiled foolishly.

“You went as far as Jagdallak with that caravan,” I said at a venture, “after you had lit those fires. To Jagdallak, where you turned off to try to get into Kafiristan.”

“No, we didn’t neither. What are you talking about? We turned off before Jagdallak, because we heard the roads was good. But they wasn’t good enough for our two camels — mine and Dravot’s. When we left the caravan, Dravot took off all his clothes and mine too, and said we would be heathen, because the Kafirs didn’t allow Mohammedans to talk to them. So we dressed betwixt and between, and such a sight as Daniel Dravot I never saw yet nor expect to see again. He burned half his beard, and slung a sheep-skin over his shoulder, and shaved his head into patterns. He shaved mine, too, and made me wear outrageous things to look like a heathen. That was in a most mountaineous country, and our camels couldn’t go along any more because of the mountains. They were tall and black, and coming home I saw them fight like wild goats — there are lots of goats in Kafiristan. And these mountains, they never keep still, no more than the goats. Always fighting they are, and don’t let you sleep at night.”

“Take some more whiskey,” I said, very slowly. “What did you and Daniel Dravot do when the camels could go no further because of the rough roads that led into Kafiristan?”

“What did which do? There was a party called Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan that was with Dravot. Shall I tell you about him? He died out there in the cold. Slap from the bridge fell old Peachey, turning and twisting in the air like a penny whirligig that you can sell to the Amir — No; they was two for three ha’pence, those whirligigs, or I am much mistaken and woful sore. And then these camels were no use, and Peachey said to Dravot — ‘For the Lord’s sake, let’s get out of this before our heads are chopped off,’ and with that they killed the camels all among the mountains, not having anything in particular to eat, but first they took off the boxes with the guns and the ammunition, till two men came along driving four mules. Dravot up and dances in front of them, singing, — ‘Sell me four mules.’ Says the first man, — ‘If you are rich enough to buy, you are rich enough to rob;’ but before ever he could put his hand to his knife, Dravot breaks his neck over his knee, and the other party runs away. So Carnehan loaded the mules with the rifles that was taken off the camels, and together we starts forward into those bitter cold mountainous parts, and never a road broader than the back of your hand.”

He paused for a moment, while I asked him if he could remember the nature of the country through which he had journeyed.

“I am telling you as straight as I can, but my head isn’t as good as it might be. They drove nails through it to make me hear better how Dravot died. The country was mountainous and the mules were most contrary, and the inhabitants was dispersed and solitary. They went up and up, and down and down, and that other party Carnehan, was imploring of Dravot not to sing and whistle so loud, for fear of bringing down the tremenjus avalanches. But Dravot says that if a King couldn’t sing it wasn’t worth being King, and whacked the mules over the rump, and never took no heed for ten cold days. We came to a big level valley all among the mountains, and the mules were near dead, so we killed them, not having anything in special for them or us to eat. We sat upon the boxes, and played odd and even with the cartridges that was jolted out.

“Then ten men with bows and arrows ran down that valley, chasing twenty men with bows and arrows, and the row was tremenjus. They was fair men — fairer than you or me — with yellow hair and remarkable well built. Says Dravot, unpacking the guns — ‘This is the beginning of the business. We’ll fight for the ten men,’ and with that he fires two rifles at the twenty men and drops one of them at two hundred yards from the rock where we was sitting. The other men began to run, but Carnehan and Dravot sits on the boxes picking them off at all ranges, up and down the valley. Then we goes up to the ten men that had run across the snow too, and they fires a footy little arrow at us. Dravot he shoots above their heads and they all falls down flat. Then he walks over them and kicks them, and then he lifts them up and shakes hands all around to make them friendly like. He calls them and gives them the boxes to carry, and waves his hand for all the world as though he was King already. They takes the boxes and him across the valley and up the hill into a pine wood on the top, where there was half a dozen big stone idols. Dravot he goes to the biggest — a fellow they call Imbra — and lays a rifle and a cartridge at his feet, rubbing his nose respectful with his own nose, patting him on the head, and saluting in front of it. He turns round to the men and nods his head, and says, — ‘That’s all right. I’m in the know too, and these old jim-jams are my friends.’ Then he opens his mouth and points down it, and when the first man brings him food, he says — ‘No;’ and when the second man brings him food, he says — ‘No;’ but when one of the old priests and the boss of the village brings him food, he says — ‘Yes;’ very haughty, and eats it slow. That was how we came to our first village, without any trouble, just as though we had tumbled from the skies. But we tumbled from one of those damned rope-bridges, you see, and you couldn’t expect a man to laugh much after that.”

“Take some more whiskey and go on,” I said. “That was the first village you came into. How did you get to be King?”

“I wasn’t King,” said Carnehan. “Dravot he was the King, and a handsome man he looked with the gold crown on his head and all. Him and the other party stayed in that village, and every morning Dravot sat by the side of old Imbra, and the people came and worshipped. That was Dravot’s order. Then a lot of men came into the valley, and Carnehan and Dravot picks them off with the rifles before they knew where they was, and runs down into the valley and up again the other side, and finds another village, same as the first one, and the people all falls down flat on their faces, and Dravot says, — ‘Now what is the trouble between you two villages?’ and the people points to a woman, as fair as you or me, that was carried off, and Dravot takes her back to the first village and counts up the dead — eight there was. For each dead man Dravot pours a little milk on the ground and waves his arms like a whirligig and, ‘That’s all right,’ says he. Then he and Carnehan takes the big boss of each village by the arm and walks them down into the valley, and shows them how to scratch a line with a spear right down the valley, and gives each a sod of turf from both sides o’ the line. Then all the people comes down and shouts like the devil and all, and Dravot says, — ‘Go and dig the land, and be fruitful and multiply,’ which they did, though they didn’t understand. Then we asks the names of things in their lingo — bread and water and fire and idols and such, and Dravot leads the priest of each village up to the idol, and says he must sit there and judge the people, and if anything goes wrong he is to be shot.

“Next week they was all turning up the land in the valley as quiet as bees and much prettier, and the priests heard all the complaints and told Dravot in dumb show what it was about. ‘That’s just the beginning,’ says Dravot. ‘They think we’re gods.’ He and Carnehan picks out twenty good men and shows them how to click off a rifle, and form fours, and advance in line, and they was very pleased to do so, and clever to see the hang of it. Then he takes out his pipe and his baccy-pouch and leaves one at one village, and one at the other, and off we two goes to see what was to be done in the next valley. That was all rock, and there was a little village there, and Carnehan says, — ‘Send ’em to the old valley to plant,’ and takes ’em there and gives ’em some land that wasn’t took before. They were a poor lot, and we blooded ’em with a kid before letting ’em into the new Kingdom. That was to impress the people, and then they settled down quiet, and Carnehan went back to Dravot who had got into another valley, all snow and ice and most mountainous. There was no people there and the Army got afraid, so Dravot shoots one of them, and goes on till he finds some people in a village, and the Army explains that unless the people wants to be killed they had better not shoot their little matchlocks; for they had matchlocks. We makes friends with the priest and I stays there alone with two of the Army, teaching the men how to drill, and a thundering big Chief comes across the snow with kettledrums and horns twanging, because he heard there was a new god kicking about. Carnehan sights for the brown of the men half a mile across the snow and wings one of them. Then he sends a message to the Chief that, unless he wished to be killed, he must come and shake hands with me and leave his arms behind. The Chief comes alone first, and Carnehan shakes hands with him and whirls his arms about, same as Dravot used, and very much surprised that Chief was, and strokes my eyebrows. Then Carnehan goes alone to the Chief, and asks him in dumb show if he had an enemy he hated. ‘I have,’ says the Chief. So Carnehan weeds out the pick of his men, and sets the two of the Army to show them drill and at the end of two weeks the men can manœuvre about as well as Volunteers. So he marches with the Chief to a great big plain on the top of a mountain, and the Chiefs men rushes into a village and takes it; we three Martinis firing into the brown of the enemy. So we took that village too, and I gives the Chief a rag from my coat and says, ‘Occupy till I come’: which was scriptural. By way of a reminder, when me and the Army was eighteen hundred yards away, I drops a bullet near him standing on the snow, and all the people falls flat on their faces. Then I sends a letter to Dravot, wherever he be by land or by sea.”

At the risk of throwing the creature out of train I interrupted, — “How could you write a letter up yonder?”

“The letter? — Oh! — The letter! Keep looking at me between the eyes, please. It was a string-talk letter, that we’d learned the way of it from a blind beggar in the Punjab.”

I remember that there had once come to the office a blind man with a knotted twig and a piece of string which he wound round the twig according to some cypher of his own. He could, after the lapse of days or hours, repeat the sentence which he had reeled up. He had reduced the alphabet to eleven primitive sounds; and tried to teach me his method, but failed.

“I sent that letter to Dravot,” said Carnehan; “and told him to come back because this Kingdom was growing too big for me to handle, and then I struck for the first valley, to see how the priests were working. They called the village we took along with the Chief, Bashkai, and the first village we took, Er-Heb. The priest at Er-Heb was doing all right, but they had a lot of pending cases about land to show me, and some men from another village had been firing arrows at night. I went out and looked for that village and fired four rounds at it from a thousand yards. That used all the cartridges I cared to spend, and I waited for Dravot, who had been away two or three months, and I kept my people quiet.

“One morning I heard the devil’s own noise of drums and horns, and Dan Dravot marches down the hill with his Army and a tail of hundreds of men, and, which was the most amazing — a great gold crown on his head. ‘My Gord, Carnehan,’ says Daniel, ‘this is a tremenjus business, and we’ve got the whole country as far as it’s worth having. I am the son of Alexander by Queen Semiramis, and you’re my younger brother and a god too! It’s the biggest thing we’ve ever seen. I’ve been marching and fighting for six weeks with the Army, and every footy little village for fifty miles has come in rejoiceful; and more than that, I’ve got the key of the whole show, as you’ll see, and I’ve got a crown for you! I told ’em to make two of ’em at a place called Shu, where the gold lies in the rock like suet in mutton. Gold I’ve seen, and turquoise I’ve kicked out of the cliffs, and there’s garnets in the sands of the river, and here’s a chunk of amber that a man brought me. Call up all the priests and, here, take your crown.’

“One of the men opens a black hair bag and I slips the crown on. It was too small and too heavy, but I wore it for the glory. Hammered gold it was — five pound weight, like a hoop of a barrel.

“‘Peachey,’ says Dravot, ‘we don’t want to fight no more. The Craft’s the trick so help me!’ and he brings forward that same Chief that I left at Bashkai — Billy Fish we called him afterwards, because he was so like Billy Fish that drove the big tank-engine at Mach on the Bolan in the old days. ‘Shake hands with him,’ says Dravot, and I shook hands and nearly dropped, for Billy Fish gave me the Grip. I said nothing, but tried him with the Fellow Craft Grip. He answers, all right, and I tried the Master’s Grip, but that was a slip. ‘A Fellow Craft he is!’ I says to Dan. ‘Does he know the word?’ ‘He does,’ says Dan, ‘and all the priests know. It’s a miracle! The Chiefs and the priest can work a Fellow Craft Lodge in a way that’s very like ours, and they’ve cut the marks on the rocks, but they don’t know the Third Degree, and they’ve come to find out. It’s Gord’s Truth. I’ve known these long years that the Afghans knew up to the Fellow Craft Degree, but this is a miracle. A god and a Grand-Master of the Craft am I, and a Lodge in the Third Degree I will open, and we’ll raise the head priests and the Chiefs of the villages.’

“‘It’s against all the law,’ I says, ‘holding a Lodge without warrant from any one; and we never held office in any Lodge.’

“‘It’s a master-stroke of policy,’ says Dravot. ‘It means running the country as easy as a four-wheeled bogy on a down grade. We can’t stop to inquire now, or they’ll turn against us. I’ve forty Chiefs at my heel, and passed and raised according to their merit they shall be. Billet these men on the villages and see that we run up a Lodge of some kind. The temple of Imbra will do for the Lodge-room. The women must make aprons as you show them. I’ll hold a levee of Chiefs tonight and Lodge to-morrow.’

“I was fair rim off my legs, but I wasn’t such a fool as not to see what a pull this Craft business gave us. I showed the priests’ families how to make aprons of the degrees, but for Dravot’s apron the blue border and marks was made of turquoise lumps on white hide, not cloth. We took a great square stone in the temple for the Master’s chair, and little stones for the officers’ chairs, and painted the black pavement with white squares, and did what we could to make things regular.

“At the levee which was held that night on the hillside with big bonfires, Dravot gives out that him and me were gods and sons of Alexander, and Past Grand-Masters in the Craft, and was come to make Kafiristan a country where every man should eat in peace and drink in quiet, and specially obey us. Then the Chiefs come round to shake hands, and they was so hairy and white and fair it was just shaking hands with old friends. We gave them names according as they was like men we had known in India — Billy Fish, Holly Dilworth, Pikky Kergan that was Bazar-master when I was at Mhow, and so on, and so on.

“The most amazing miracle was at Lodge next night. One of the old priests was watching us continuous, and I felt uneasy, for I knew we’d have to fudge the Ritual, and I didn’t know what the men knew. The old priest was a stranger come in from beyond the village of Bashkai. The minute Dravot puts on the Master’s apron that the girls had made for him, the priest fetches a whoop and a howl, and tries to overturn the stone that Dravot was sitting on. ‘It’s all up now,’ I says. ‘That comes of meddling with the Craft without warrant!’ Dravot never winked an eye, not when ten priests took and tilted over the Grand-Master’s chair — which was to say the stone of Imbra. The priest begins rubbing the bottom end of it to clear away the black dirt, and presently he shows all the other priests the Master’s Mark, same as was on Dravot’s apron, cut into the stone. Not even the priests of the temple of Imbra knew it was there. The old chap falls flat on his face at Dravot’s feet and kisses ’em. ‘Luck again,’ says Dravot, across the Lodge to me, ‘they say it’s the missing Mark that no one could understand the why of. We’re more than safe now.’ Then he bangs the butt of his gun for a gavel and says:— ‘By virtue of the authority vested in me by my own right hand and the help of Peachey, I declare myself Grand-Master of all Freemasonry in Kafiristan in this the Mother Lodge o’ the country, and King of Kafiristan equally with Peachey!’ At that he puts on his crown and I puts on mine — I was doing Senior Warden — and we opens the Lodge in most ample form. It was a amazing miracle! The priests moved in Lodge through the first two degrees almost without telling, as if the memory was coming back to them. After that, Peachey and Dravot raised such as was worthy — high priests and Chiefs of far-off villages. Billy Fish was the first, and I can tell you we scared the soul out of him. It was not in any way according to Ritual, but it served our turn. We didn’t raise more than ten of the biggest men because we didn’t want to make the Degree common. And they was clamoring to be raised.

“‘In another six months,’ says Dravot, ‘we’ll hold another Communication and see how you are working.’ Then he asks them about their villages, and learns that they was fighting one against the other and were fair sick and tired of it. And when they wasn’t doing that they was fighting with the Mohammedans. ‘You can fight those when they come into our country,’ says Dravot. ‘Tell off every tenth man of your tribes for a Frontier guard, and send two hundred at a time to this valley to be drilled. Nobody is going to be shot or speared any more so long as he does well, and I know that you won’t cheat me because you’re white people — sons of Alexander — and not like common, black Mohammedans. You are my people and by God,’ says he, running off into English at the end — ‘I’ll make a damned fine Nation of you, or I’ll die in the making!’

“I can’t tell all we did for the next six months because Dravot did a lot I couldn’t see the hang of, and he learned their lingo in a way I never could. My work was to help the people plough, and now and again to go out with some of the Army and see what the other villages were doing, and make ’em throw rope-bridges across the ravines which cut up the country horrid. Dravot was very kind to me, but when he walked up and down in the pine wood pulling that bloody red beard of his with both fists I knew he was thinking plans I could not advise him about, and I just waited for orders.

“But Dravot never showed me disrespect before the people. They were afraid of me and the Army, but they loved Dan. He was the best of friends with the priests and the Chiefs; but any one could come across the hills with a complaint and Dravot would hear him out fair, and call four priests together and say what was to be done. He used to call in Billy Fish from Bashkai, and Pikky Kergan from Shu, and an old Chief we called Kafuzelum — it was like enough to his real name — and hold councils with ’em when there was any fighting to be done in small villages. That was his Council of War, and the four priests of Bashkai, Shu, Khawak, and Madora was his Privy Council. Between the lot of ’em they sent me, with forty men and twenty rifles, and sixty men carrying turquoises, into the Ghorband country to buy those hand-made Martini rifles, that come out of the Amir’s workshops at Kabul, from one of the Amir’s Herati regiments that would have sold the very teeth out of their mouths for turquoises.

“I stayed in Ghorband a month, and gave the Governor the pick of my baskets for hush-money, and bribed the colonel of the regiment some more, and, between the two and the tribes-people, we got more than a hundred hand-made Martinis, a hundred good Kohat Jezails that’ll throw to six hundred yards, and forty manloads of very bad ammunition for the rifles. I came back with what I had, and distributed ’em among the men that the Chiefs sent in to me to drill. Dravot was too busy to attend to those things, but the old Army that we first made helped me, and we turned out five hundred men that could drill, and two hundred that knew how to hold arms pretty straight. Even those cork-screwed, hand-made guns was a miracle to them. Dravot talked big about powder-shops and factories, walking up and down in the pine wood when the winter was coming on.

“‘I won’t make a Nation,’ says he. ‘I’ll make an Empire! These men aren’t niggers; they’re English! Look at their eyes — look at their mouths. Look at the way they stand up. They sit on chairs in their own houses. They’re the Lost Tribes, or something like it, and they’ve grown to be English. I’ll take a census in the spring if the priests don’t get frightened. There must be a fair two million of ’em in these hills. The villages are full o’ little children. Two million people — two hundred and fifty thousand fighting men — and all English! They only want the rifles and a little drilling. Two hundred and fifty thousand men, ready to cut in on Russia’s right flank when she tries for India! Peachey, man,’ he says, chewing his beard in great hunks, ‘we shall be Emperors — Emperors of the Earth! Rajah Brooke will be a suckling to us. I’ll treat with the Viceroy on equal terms. I’ll ask him to send me twelve picked English — twelve that I know of — to help us govern a bit. There’s Mackray, Sergeant-pensioner at Segowli — many’s the good dinner he’s given me, and his wife a pair of trousers. There’s Donkin, the Warder of Tounghoo Jail; there’s hundreds that I could lay my hand on if I was in India. The Viceroy shall do it for me. I’ll send a man through in the spring for those men, and I’ll write for a dispensation from the Grand Lodge for what I’ve done as Grand-Master. That — and all the Sniders that’ll be thrown out when the native troops in India take up the Martini. They’ll be worn smooth, but they’ll do for fighting in these hills. Twelve English, a hundred thousand Sniders run through the Amir’s country in driblets — I’d be content with twenty thousand in one year — and we’d be an Empire. When everything was ship-shape, I’d hand over the crown — this crown I’m wearing now — to Queen Victoria on my knees, and she’d say:— “Rise up, Sir Daniel Dravot.” Oh, its big! It’s big, I tell you! But there’s so much to be done in every place — Bashkai, Khawak, Shu, and everywhere else.’

“‘What is it?’ I says. ‘There are no more men coming in to be drilled this autumn. Look at those fat, black clouds. They’re bringing the snow.’

“‘It isn’t that,’ says Daniel, putting his hand very hard on my shoulder; ‘and I don’t wish to say anything that’s against you, for no other living man would have followed me and made me what I am as you have done. You’re a first-class Commander-in-Chief, and the people know you; but — it’s a big country, and somehow you can’t help me, Peachey, in the way I want to be helped.’

“‘Go to your blasted priests, then!’ I said, and I was sorry when I made that remark, but it did hurt me sore to find Daniel talking so superior when I’d drilled all the men, and done all he told me.

“‘Don’t let’s quarrel, Peachey,’ says Daniel without cursing. ‘You’re a King too, and the half of this Kingdom is yours; but can’t you see, Peachey, we want cleverer men than us now — three or four of ’em that we can scatter about for our Deputies? It’s a hugeous great State, and I can’t always tell the right thing to do, and I haven’t time for all I want to do, and here’s the winter coming on and all.’ He put half his beard into his mouth, and it was as red as the gold of his crown.

“‘I’m sorry, Daniel,’ says I. ‘I’ve done all I could. I’ve drilled the men and shown the people how to stack their oats better, and I’ve brought in those tinware rifles from Ghorband — but I know what you’re driving at. I take it Kings always feel oppressed that way.’

“‘There’s another thing too,’ says Dravot, walking up and down. ‘The winter’s coming and these people won’t be giving much trouble, and if they do we can’t move about. I want a wife.’

“‘For Gord’s sake leave the women alone!’ I says. ‘We’ve both got all the work we can, though I am a fool. Remember the Contrack, and keep clear o’ women.’

“‘The Contrack only lasted till such time as we was Kings; and Kings we have been these months past,’ says Dravot, weighing his crown in his hand. ‘You go get a wife too, Peachey — a nice, strappin’, plump girl that’ll keep you warm in the winter. They’re prettier than English girls, and we can take the pick of ’em. Boil ’em once or twice in hot water, and they’ll come as fair as chicken and ham.’

“‘Don’t tempt me!’ I says. ‘I will not have any dealings with a woman not till we are a dam’ side more settled than we are now. I’ve been doing the work o’ two men, and you’ve been doing the work o’ three. Let’s lie off a bit, and see if we can get some better tobacco from Afghan country and run in some good liquor; but no women.’

“‘Who’s talking o’ women?’ says Dravot. ‘I said wife — a Queen to breed a King’s son for the King. A Queen out of the strongest tribe, that’ll make them your blood-brothers, and that’ll lie by your side and tell you all the people thinks about you and their own affairs. That’s what I want.’

“‘Do you remember that Bengali woman I kept at Mogul Serai when I was plate-layer?’ says I. ‘A fat lot o’ good she was to me. She taught me the lingo and one or two other things; but what happened? She ran away with the Station Master’s servant and half my month’s pay. Then she turned up at Dadur Junction in tow of a half-caste, and had the impidence to say I was her husband — all among the drivers of the running-shed!’

“‘We’ve done with that,’ says Dravot. ‘These women are whiter than you or me, and a Queen I will have for the winter months.’

“‘For the last time o’ asking, Dan, do not,’ I says. ‘It’ll only bring us harm. The Bible says that Kings ain’t to waste their strength on women, ’specially when they’ve got a new raw Kingdom to work over.’

“‘For the last time of answering, I will,’ said Dravot, and he went away through the pine-trees looking like a big red devil. The low sun hit his crown and beard on one side, and the two blazed like hot coals.

“But getting a wife was not as easy as Dan thought. He put it before the Council, and there was no answer till Billy Fish said that he’d better ask the girls. Dravot damned them all round. ‘What’s wrong with me?’ he shouts, standing by the idol Imbra. ‘Am I a dog or am I not enough of a man for your wenches? Haven’t I put the shadow of my hand over this country? Who stopped the last Afghan raid?’ It was me really, but Dravot was too angry to remember. ‘Who bought your guns? Who repaired the bridges? Who’s the Grand-Master of the sign cut in the stone?’ and he thumped his hand on the block that he used to sit on in Lodge, and at Council, which opened like Lodge always. Billy Fish said nothing and no more did the others. ‘Keep your hair on, Dan,’ said I; ‘and ask the girls. That’s how it’s done at home, and these people are quite English.’

“‘The marriage of a King is a matter of State,’ says Dan, in a white-hot rage, for he could feel, I hope, that he was going against his better mind. He walked out of the Council-room, and the others sat still, looking at the ground.

“‘Billy Fish,’ says I to the Chief of Bashkai, ‘what’s the difficulty here? A straight answer to a true friend.’ ‘You know,’ says Billy Fish. ‘How should a man tell you who know everything? How can daughters of men marry gods or devils? It’s not proper.’

“I remembered something like that in the Bible; but if, after seeing us as long as they had, they still believed we were gods it wasn’t for me to undeceive them.

“‘A god can do anything,’ says I. ‘If the King is fond of a girl he’ll not let her die.’ ‘She’ll have to,’ said Billy Fish. ‘There are all sorts of gods and devils in these mountains, and now and again a girl marries one of them and isn’t seen any more. Besides, you two know the Mark cut in the stone. Only the gods know that. We thought you were men till you showed the sign of the Master.’

“‘I wished then that we had explained about the loss of the genuine secrets of a Master-Mason at the first go-off; but I said nothing. All that night there was a blowing of horns in a little dark temple half-way down the hill, and I heard a girl crying fit to die. One of the priests told us that she was being prepared to marry the King.

“‘I’ll have no nonsense of that kind,’ says Dan. ‘I don’t want to interfere with your customs, but I’ll take my own wife. ‘The girl’s a little bit afraid,’ says the priest. ‘She thinks she’s going to die, and they are a-heartening of her up down in the temple.’

“‘Hearten her very tender, then,’ says Dravot, ‘or I’ll hearten you with the butt of a gun so that you’ll never want to be heartened again.’ He licked his lips, did Dan, and stayed up walking about more than half the night, thinking of the wife that he was going to get in the morning. I wasn’t any means comfortable, for I knew that dealings with a woman in foreign parts, though you was a crowned King twenty times over, could not but be risky. I got up very early in the morning while Dravot was asleep, and I saw the priests talking together in whispers, and the Chiefs talking together too, and they looked at me out of the corners of their eyes.

“‘What is up, Fish?’ I says to the Bashkai man, who was wrapped up in his furs and looking splendid to behold.

“‘I can’t rightly say,’ says he; ‘but if you can induce the King to drop all this nonsense about marriage, you’ll be doing him and me and yourself a great service.’

“‘That I do believe,’ says I. ‘But sure, you know, Billy, as well as me, having fought against and for us, that the King and me are nothing more than two of the finest men that God Almighty ever made. Nothing more, I do assure you.’

“‘That may be,’ says Billy Fish, ‘and yet I should be sorry if it was.’ He sinks his head upon his great fur cloak for a minute and thinks. ‘King,’ says he, ‘be you man or god or devil, I’ll stick by you to-day. I have twenty of my men with me, and they will follow me. We’ll go to Bashkai until the storm blows over.’

“A little snow had fallen in the night, and everything was white except the greasy fat clouds that blew down and down from the north. Dravot came out with his crown on his head, swinging his arms and stamping his feet, and looking more pleased than Punch.

“‘For the last time, drop it, Dan,’ says I in a whisper. ‘Billy Fish here says that there will be a row.’

“‘A row among my people!’ says Dravot. ‘Not much. Peachy, you’re a fool not to get a wife too. Where’s the girl?’ says he with a voice as loud as the braying of a jackass. ‘Call up all the Chiefs and priests, and let the Emperor see if his wife suits him.’

“There was no need to call any one. They were all there leaning on their guns and spears round the clearing in the centre of the pine wood. A deputation of priests went down to the little temple to bring up the girl, and the horns blew up fit to wake the dead. Billy Fish saunters round and gets as close to Daniel as he could, and behind him stood his twenty men with matchlocks. Not a man of them under six feet. I was next to Dravot, and behind me was twenty men of the regular Army. Up comes the girl, and a strapping wench she was, covered with silver and turquoises but white as death, and looking back every minute at the priests.

“‘She’ll do,’ said Dan, looking her over. ‘What’s to be afraid of, lass? Come and kiss me.’ He puts his arm round her. She shuts her eyes, gives a bit of a squeak, and down goes her face in the side of Dan’s flaming red beard.

“‘The slut’s bitten me!’ says he, clapping his hand to his neck, and, sure enough, his hand was red with blood. Billy Fish and two of his matchlock-men catches hold of Dan by the shoulders and drags him into the Bashkai lot, while the priests howls in their lingo, — ‘Neither god nor devil but a man!’ I was all taken aback, for a priest cut at me in front, and the Army behind began firing into the Bashkai men.

“‘God A-mighty!’ says Dan. ‘What is the meaning o’ this?’

“‘Come back! Come away!’ says Billy Fish. ‘Ruin and Mutiny is the matter. We’ll break for Bashkai if we can.’

“I tried to give some sort of orders to my men — the men o’ the regular Army — but it was no use, so I fired into the brown of ’em with an English Martini and drilled three beggars in a line. The valley was full of shouting, howling creatures, and every soul was shrieking, ‘Not a god nor a devil but only a man!’ The Bashkai troops stuck to Billy Fish all they were worth, but their matchlocks wasn’t half as good as the Kabul breech-loaders, and four of them dropped. Dan was bellowing like a bull, for he was very wrathy; and Billy Fish had a hard job to prevent him running out at the crowd.

“‘We can’t stand,’ says Billy Fish. ‘Make a run for it down the valley! The whole place is against us.’ The matchlock-men ran, and we went down the valley in spite of Dravot’s protestations. He was swearing horribly and crying out that he was a King. The priests rolled great stones on us, and the regular Army fired hard, and there wasn’t more than six men, not counting Dan, Billy Fish, and Me, that came down to the bottom of the valley alive.

“‘Then they stopped firing and the horns in the temple blew again. ‘Come away — for Gord’s sake come away!’ says Billy Fish. ‘They’ll send runners out to all the villages before ever we get to Bashkai. I can protect you there, but I can’t do anything now.’

“My own notion is that Dan began to go mad in his head from that hour. He stared up and down like a stuck pig. Then he was all for walking back alone and killing the priests with his bare hands; which he could have done. ‘An Emperor am I,’ says Daniel, ‘and next year I shall be a Knight of the Queen.

“‘All right, Dan,’ says I; ‘but come along now while there’s time.’

“‘It’s your fault,’ says he, ‘for not looking after your Army better. There was mutiny in the midst, and you didn’t know — you damned engine-driving, plate-laying, missionary’s-pass-hunting hound!’ He sat upon a rock and called me every foul name he could lay tongue to. I was too heart-sick to care, though it was all his foolishness that brought the smash.

“‘I’m sorry, Dan,’ says I, ‘but there’s no accounting for natives. This business is our Fifty-Seven. Maybe we’ll make something out of it yet, when we’ve got to Bashkai.’

“‘Let’s get to Bashkai, then,’ says Dan, ‘and, by God, when I come back here again I’ll sweep the valley so there isn’t a bug in a blanket left!’

“‘We walked all that day, and all that night Dan was stumping up and down on the snow, chewing his beard and muttering to himself.

“‘There’s no hope o’ getting clear,’ said Billy Fish. ‘The priests will have sent runners to the villages to say that you are only men. Why didn’t you stick on as gods till things was more settled? I’m a dead man,’ says Billy Fish, and he throws himself down on the snow and begins to pray to his gods.

“Next morning we was in a cruel bad country — all up and down, no level ground at all, and no food either. The six Bashkai men looked at Billy Fish hungry-wise as if they wanted to ask something, but they said never a word. At noon we came to the top of a flat mountain all covered with snow, and when we climbed up into it, behold, there was an army in position waiting in the middle!

“‘The runners have been very quick,’ says Billy Fish, with a little bit of a laugh. ‘They are waiting for us.’

“Three or four men began to fire from the enemy’s side, and a chance shot took Daniel in the calf of the leg. That brought him to his senses. He looks across the snow at the Army, and sees the rifles that we had brought into the country.

“‘We’re done for,’ says he. ‘They are Englishmen, these people, — and it’s my blasted nonsense that has brought you to this. Get back, Billy Fish, and take your men away; you’ve done what you could, and now cut for it. Carnehan,’ says he, ‘shake hands with me and go along with Billy. Maybe they won’t kill you. I’ll go and meet ’em alone. It’s me that did it. Me, the King!’

“‘Go!’ says I. ‘Go to Hell, Dan. I’m with you here. Billy Fish, you clear out, and we two will meet those folk.’

“‘I’m a Chief,’ says Billy Fish, quite quiet. ‘I stay with you. My men can go.’

“The Bashkai fellows didn’t wait for a second word but ran off, and Dan and Me and Billy Fish walked across to where the drums were drumming and the horns were horning. It was cold-awful cold. I’ve got that cold in the back of my head now. There’s a lump of it there.”

The punkah-coolies had gone to sleep. Two kerosene lamps were blazing in the office, and the perspiration poured down my face and splashed on the blotter as I leaned forward. Carnehan was shivering, and I feared that his mind might go. I wiped my face, took a fresh grip of the piteously mangled hands, and said:— “What happened after that?”

The momentary shift of my eyes had broken the clear current.

“What was you pleased to say?” whined Carnehan. “They took them without any sound. Not a little whisper all along the snow, not though the King knocked down the first man that set hand on him — not though old Peachey fired his last cartridge into the brown of ’em. Not a single solitary sound did those swines make. They just closed up, tight, and I tell you their furs stunk. There was a man called Billy Fish, a good friend of us all, and they cut his throat, Sir, then and there, like a pig; and the King kicks up the bloody snow and says:— ‘We’ve had a dashed fine run for our money. What’s coming next?’ But Peachey, Peachey Taliaferro, I tell you, Sir, in confidence as betwixt two friends, he lost his head, Sir. No, he didn’t neither. The King lost his head, so he did, all along o’ one of those cunning rope-bridges. Kindly let me have the paper-cutter, Sir. It tilted this way. They marched him a mile across that snow to a rope-bridge over a ravine with a river at the bottom. You may have seen such. They prodded him behind like an ox. ‘Damn your eyes!’ says the King. ‘D’you suppose I can’t die like a gentleman?’ He turns to Peachey — Peachey that was crying like a child. ‘I’ve brought you to this, Peachey,’ says he. ‘Brought you out of your happy life to be killed in Kafiristan, where you was late Commander-in-Chief of the Emperor’s forces. Say you forgive me, Peachey.’ ‘I do,’ says Peachey. ‘Fully and freely do I forgive you, Dan.’ ‘Shake hands, Peachey,’ says he. ‘I’m going now.’ Out he goes, looking neither right nor left, and when he was plumb in the middle of those dizzy dancing ropes, ‘Cut, you beggars,’ he shouts; and they cut, and old Dan fell, turning round and round and round, twenty thousand miles, for he took half an hour to fall till he struck the water, and I could see his body caught on a rock with the gold crown close beside.

“But do you know what they did to Peachey between two pine-trees? They crucified him, sir, as Peachey’s hands will show. They used wooden pegs for his hands and his feet; and he didn’t die. He hung there and screamed, and they took him down next day, and said it was a miracle that he wasn’t dead. They took him down — poor old Peachey that hadn’t done them any harm — that hadn’t done them any…”

He rocked to and fro and wept bitterly, wiping his eyes with the back of his scarred hands and moaning like a child for some ten minutes.

“They was cruel enough to feed him up in the temple, because they said he was more of a god than old Daniel that was a man. Then they turned him out on the snow, and told him to go home, and Peachey came home in about a year, begging along the roads quite safe; for Daniel Dravot he walked before and said:— ‘Come along, Peachey. It’s a big thing we’re doing.’ The mountains they danced at night, and the mountains they tried to fall on Peachey’s head, but Dan he held up his hand, and Peachey came along bent double. He never let go of Dan’s hand, and he never let go of Dan’s head. They gave it to him as a present in the temple, to remind him not to come again, and though the crown was pure gold, and Peachey was starving, never would Peachey sell the same. You knew Dravot, sir! You knew Right Worshipful Brother Dravot! Look at him now!”

He fumbled in the mass of rags round his bent waist; brought out a black horsehair bag embroidered with silver thread; and shook therefrom on to my table — the dried, withered head of Daniel Dravot! The morning sun that had long been paling the lamps struck the red beard and blind sunken eyes; struck, too, a heavy circlet of gold studded with raw turquoises, that Carnehan placed tenderly on the battered temples.

“You behold now,” said Carnehan, “the Emperor in his habit as he lived — the King of Kafiristan with his crown upon his head. Poor old Daniel that was a monarch once!”

I shuddered, for, in spite of defacements manifold, I recognized the head of the man of Marwar Junction. Carnehan rose to go. I attempted to stop him. He was not fit to walk abroad. “Let me take away the whiskey, and give me a little money,” he gasped. “I was a King once. I’ll go to the Deputy Commissioner and ask to set in the Poor-house till I get my health. No, thank you, I can’t wait till you get a carriage for me. I’ve urgent private affairs — in the south — at Marwar.”

He shambled out of the office and departed in the direction of the Deputy Commissioner’s house. That day at noon I had occasion to go down the blinding hot Mall, and I saw a crooked man crawling along the white dust of the roadside, his hat in his hand, quavering dolorously after the fashion of street-singers at Home. There was not a soul in sight, and he was out of all possible earshot of the houses. And he sang through his nose, turning his head from right to left:—

“The Son of Man goes forth to war,
A golden crown to gain;

His blood-red banner streams afar—
Who follows in his train?”

I waited to hear no more, but put the poor wretch into my carriage and drove him off to the nearest missionary for eventual transfer to the Asylum. He repeated the hymn twice while he was with me whom he did not in the least recognize, and I left him singing to the missionary.

Two days later I inquired after his welfare of the Superintendent of the Asylum.

“He was admitted suffering from sun-stroke. He died early yesterday morning,” said the Superintendent. “Is it true that he was half an hour bareheaded in the sun at midday?”

“Yes,” said I, “but do you happen to know if he had anything upon him by any chance when he died?”

“Not to my knowledge,” said the Superintendent.

And there the matter rests.