The Young Stagers/The Vegetarian Mugger of Soni
XII.
THE VEGETARIAN MUGGER OF SONI.
"Did you ever know any other Virtuous Wild Beasts, besides the Virtuous Tiger of Soni, Buster?" asked the President one day, as they waited for Daddy and Mummy to arrive and make a quorum.
"Lots," was the reply. "The Colour-Sergeant of"
"No," interrupted the President, "not Tosh now. I want to hear all about the Virtuous Tiger of Soni again—unless you know any others. I love Virtuous Beasts."
"Well—there was the Vegetarian Mugger who, in a way, avenged the intended murder of poor Lucy Gray," was the reply.
"A vegetarian crocodile! Why, Buster, I thought they were the worstest beasts in the world, and always ate you up, and then shed crocodile tears about it. Are you trying to talk Tosh?"
"No, this is really truly. By a ford of the Soni River dwelt an eenormous crocodile. I saw it several times myself. And if not a really strict fruitarian and vegetarian, it, at any rate, never took anything stronger than fish. Meat it could not abide."
"If this turns out to be Tosh, I shall be angry with you. Buster," said the President, who was still sceptical. "I want a tale."
"No—this is Honest Injun. Honestest Injun as ever was. There are fish-eating crocodiles, you know. Live on fish altogether. Have conscientious objections to taking the life of a dumb animal. . . ."
"Fishes is dumb animals," interjected the Vice. "We kept some once. I heard them be dumb."
"Quite so, Mr. Vice," assented Buster. "But are they exactly animals, so to speak?"
"They're not vegetables nor minerables," opined the President.
"Look here—you little dev—I mean darlings,—are too much for me," said Buster. "This mugger ate fish, the whole fish, and nothing but fish, anyhow. He was a strict vegetarian, in the sense that he never ate butcher's meat—so I maintain that he was a Vegetarian Crocodile and, to that extent, a conscientious, and therefore a Virtuous Crocodile. Also he was instrumental in avenging poor Lucy Gray."
"Did he think the Traveller looked fishy and eat him?" asked Boodle.
"No—he did much better than just eat him. He made him look an ass!" was the reply.
The children settled down firmly to hear the thrilling true tale of How the Vegetarian Mugger of Soni made the Travelling M. P. look an Ass.
"Well, it was like this, dear old Things," began Buster. "The headman of Soni, to whom Lucy Gray was worth such a lot, simply loathed the Travelling M.P. He hated him for trying to shoot Virtuous Lucy like you'd hate anybody who came along and shot Venus, and then wagged his tale as though he'd done something you oughter be very pleased about. But of course he dared not show the Traveller that he hated him, and that made him hate him all the more. Then, one day, almost before Lucy's understudy was cold in his grave and the laughter-tears of the Simple Villagers dry upon their cheeks, this Member—or Limb—of Parliament suddenly sent for the headman and told him, through his butler, that he was going to confer another blessing upon the village. The poor headman fetched an awful groan at hearing this good news, and said he felt that they ought to name the village after their benefactor.
"‘To-day I saw one of those Dread Scourges of your rivers, a terrible reptile that has battened and fattened upon you and your wives, your sons and your daughters, upon your flocks and herds, your men-servants and your maid-servants, your oxes and your asses, for ages. Make arrangements, tie up a calf or a goat by the water-side, and I will also slay this monster,' said he. Then he told his 'Travelling-butler' to translate exactly what he had said.
"‘The Sahib wants to shoot a mugger. Make bundobust," said the butler.
"‘But there is only one mugger in these parts,' said the poor headman. 'There is only Grandfather, who lives by the ford—and he has been there for a thousand years at least. He Is very holy. Why murder him?’
"‘Make bundobust," said the butler. 'Tie up a goat'
"‘But our Grandfather would never touch flesh!' said the headman. 'He is a Brahmin among crocodiles and very holy.'
"‘What does the worthy fellow say?' asked the Travelling M.P.
"‘He is calling blessings upon the head of your Honour, the Protector of the Poor, and says the goat will be ten rupees.'
"‘Very well,' said the P.o.P., 'I will shoot the savage saurian before breakfast to-morrow.'
"‘What does the Presence say?' asked the headman.
"‘He says he will give you one rupee for the goat, and the mugger must be there early in the morning,' said the butler, whose name was Truthful James, he having consorted long with travelling Limbs of Parliament. . . ."
"Don't talk like a Grown-up, Buster," besought the President, "or you'll spoil the story."
"Sorry, Madam. Well—the poor but honest headman, being only a Simple Villager, smiled at the back of his simple mind.
"‘It shall be as the Huzoor orders,' said he.
"And he went forth. Then he went fifth—to the shikari of the village. Then they went nap—on the Vegetarian Mugger of Soni.
They made a lovely machan place for the Travelling M.P. to sit on—where there was no shade but plenty of nice glare, and then, on a sand-bank, right in the very spot where their vegetarian Grandpa was wont to come daily and bask in the sun, they drove a strong stake. And all the people smiled and said 'Amen'. . . ."
"A strong steak of goat?" inquired the President.
Buster laughed.
"No, a strong stake of wood. The kind you use for burning holy martyrs and things. Then they got a stout cord, and, from a thin iron rod, the village blacksmith made a very big strong hook. Well, next morning, down to the ford marched the Travelling M.P. with his rifle, to rid the village of this Frightful Scourge also. Then the headman and the shikari showed him how good they'd been, and produced the rope and the big hook and explained, by signs and wonders, that they would tie the rope to the stake and fasten the hook to a pariah-dog. Then when the Frightful Scourge rushed out of the water, roaring, with flashing eyes, lashing its tail and flapping its ears, it would see the pi-dog, snap him up in its terrible jaws, and swallow both him and the hook.
"Then while the fearful reptile was unavoidably detained by the stake, rope, and hook, the intrepid sportsman could take pot-shots at it until he did hit it.
"The Travelling M.P. smiled upon them. He beamed hard to show his good-will, approval, and intelligence.
"Then the shikari, accompanied by Faithful Fido, the village pi-dog, went and tied the rope to the stake. Then he suddenly grabbed Faithful Fido and drove the hook through the scruff of his neck, and F.F. made himself perfectly miserable about it. He also made the welkin ring. . . ."
"Wat'th a welkin?" inquired the Vice.
"I'll bring one and make it ring for you, one of these days," was the reply. . . .
"‘The poor doggie does not seem to like being tied up,' said the Travelling M.P. (Perhaps he thought they had tied a pretty ribbon round Faithful Fido's neck and slipped the hook under it—or bought him a nice collar for the purpose.) Fido's howls were appalling. The more he tugged the more it hurt him.
"‘Naughty doggie!' said the Travelling M.P. 'He wants to run about and play.' However, the good gentleman realised that, even as the bleating of the kid excites the tiger, the yowling of the pi-dog must attract the crocodile. He hoped he would be able to shoot it before it got near enough to really frighten poor Fido. He was that sort of kind gentleman, you know. . . . Well, Fido howled and yowled and chy-iked and made a fearful row. So much so that he frightened Grandpa nearly out of his twenty-foot crocodile-skin, and caused him to bury himself in the mud at the bottom of his deep hole for a fortnight. He was a very sensitive and retiring old party, like all fish-eating muggers, and he could not bear noise and commotion. He didn't really like it even when his old pals, the villagers, used to come and wash their clothes at the ford and beat them on the stones. . . .
"You should have heard Fido. I heard him miles away. I was staying with the Collector and he was touring in that part of the district.
"‘Sounds as though some one has trod on a pi-dog's toe,' said I to him, as we rode toward Soni.
"‘Sounds as though they're still standing on it,' said he, as the pleasing sounds continued. Then we saw the sight.
"There was the Travelling M.P. on the machan with a look of great determination, a rifle, and a lot of flies, staring hard along his sights at Fido. Under the machan sat the headman, thinking of good Lucy Gray, but looking happier than you might have expected. . . .
"‘What's up?' said the Collector, as we rode to the spot.
"‘I am heah devoting my time to ridding this village of a Scourge,' was the reply. 'This ford is—ah—infested by a huge crocodile. I saw it myself. I understand it has been here for yeahs and yeahs. I consider it disgraceful. Think of the toll of human life. . . .'
"Then the headman hopped out salaaming, and unburdened his simple mind, and the Collector grinned.
"‘It wouldn't take long to "think of the toll of human life "taken by a garial, a fish-eating, bottle-nosed crocodile, would it?' he murmured to me, with a snigger.
"‘You are a public benefactor, Sir,' said he to the Political Pimple.
"‘Yes—but I maintain that it is disgraceful that the public duty should be left to—ah—chance benevolence and the sense of responsibility of the casual wayfarer. What are the officials about? What is the Collector about? . . . If I find that in the stomach of this dreadful reptile there are anklets and bracelets and armlets and'
"’Cutlets,' said the Collector.
"’I shall make the matter public. The Press of the Empire shall ring with it. . . .'
"‘'Ear! 'Ear!' said I, moved almost to tears by his eloquence, and then the Collector stopped him.
"‘Do my eyes deceive me,' said he, 'or is that poor wretched dog impaled upon a hook? What ghastly barbarity! What fiendish, awful, unparalleled brutality! . . . I am sorry to take such action against a Public Benefactor—but I am afraid that Section 748693211⁄2, πr² of the Indian Penal Code leaves me no option. I must order your arrest and'
"‘What?’ yelped the Travelling M.P., in a voice that much resembled the voice of suffering Fido.
"‘That dog is impaled, living, upon a barbed hook,' repeated the Collector. Barbarity, as I said before. The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals would rightly prosecute me if I did not prosecute you. The Press of the Empire is going to ring some more. Talk of the Unspeakable Turk and Armenian atrocities,—that dog has as much feeling as an Armenian if you haven't as much mercifulness as a Turk. . . .'
"The kind gentleman was purple and gasping. He fairly threw himself off the machan and galloped to where Faithful Fido sat and sang his siren song.
"Sure enough, the hook was through a bit of the scruff of poor Fido's neck.
"‘If I were that dog, I'd bite you,' said the Collector, 'even if it made me sick to do it.'
"I don't really suppose that Fido understood English. Not properly. But you'd have thought he did, if you'd seen Fido take the Collector's tip! Directly the Traveller put out his hand to pat the faithful hound, it began to feed. . . ."
"It bit him?" asked the Vice. "Good dog!"
"It did so. The kind M.P. wasn't fishing, but he had a bite. 'Twas no mere nibble either.
"‘Well—are you going to remove that hook, Sir,' asked the Collector, 'or must I whistle for my mounted-police orderlies and have you arrested at once?'
"The poor Limb almost wept. You see he went through life being a Kind Gentleman to everybody (except over-worked officials, soldiers, and all people of the useful classes), and here he was caught in an act of horrible brutality, and going to be prosecuted.
"*The shikari did it," he bleated, as he dodged Fido's rushes.
"‘Yes. I fully expected you'd put the blame on the poor ignorant native and try and get him into trouble, to save your own skin—but it won't do, Sir. Let me have your name and address at once. . . .' You should have heard him! Well—at last the Collector softened a little, and then, much against his will, agreed to let the Traveller off—provided he shot the Dreadful Scourge. And he was to tie up a calf one day, a goat the next, and a dog the next—and so on to give them off-days and rests. (Fish-eating muggers are equally alarmed by lowings, bleatings, and barkings, you know.)"
"And he never shot the Virtuous Mugger?" asked Boodle.
"He hasn't yet," replied Buster. "He's still trying."
"When did he make the bargain with the Collector?" asked the delighted President.
"About seven years ago," was the truthful or untruthful reply.