By Rudyard Kipling
Cry “Murder！” in the market-place， and eachWill turn upon his neighbor anxious eyes
That ask：—“Art thou the man？”
We hunted CainSome centuries ago， across the world，That bredthe fear our own misdeeds maintainTo-day.
—Vibart’s Moralities.
Shakespeare says something about worms， or it may begiants or beetles， turning if you tread on them too severely.
The safest plan is never to tread on a worm—not even on thelast new subaltern from Home， with his buttons hardly outof their tissue paper， and the red of sappy English beef in hischeeks. This is the story of the worm that turned. For the sakeof brevity， we will call Henry Augustus Ramsay Faizanne， “TheWorm，” although he really was an exceedingly pretty boy，without a hair on his face， and with a waist like a girl’s， whenhe came out to the Second “Shikarris” and was made unhappyin several ways. The “Shikarris” are a high-caste regiment， andyou must be able to do things well—play a banjo， or ride morethan little， or sing， or act—to get on with them.
The Worm did nothing except fall off his pony， and knockchips out of gate posts with his trap. Even that becamemonotonous after a time. He objected to whist， cut the clothat billiards， sang out of tune， kept very much to himself， andwrote to his Mamma and sisters at Home. Four of these fivethings were vices which the “Shikarris” objected to and setthemselves to eradicate. Everyone knows how subalternsare， by brother subalterns， softened and not permitted to beferocious. It is good and wholesome， and does no one anyharm， unless tempers are lost； and then there is trouble. Therewas a man once—but that is another story.
The “Shikarris” shikarred The Worm very much， and he boreeverything without winking. He was so good and so anxious tolearn， and flushed so pink， that his education was cut short， andhe was left to his own devices by everyone except the SeniorSubaltern who continued to make life a burden to The Worm.
The Senior Subaltern meant no harm； but his chaff was coarse，and he didn’t quite understand where to stop. He had beenwaiting too long for his Company； and that always sours a man.
Also he was in love， which made him worse.
One day， after he had borrowed The Worm’s trap for a ladywho never existed， had used it himself all the afternoon， hadsent a note to The Worm， purporting to come from the lady，and was telling the Mess all about it， The Worm rose in hisplace and said， in his quiet， ladylike voice：—“That was a verypretty sell； but I’ll lay you a month’s pay to a month’s paywhen you get your step， that I work a sell on you that You’llremember for the rest of your days， and the Regiment afteryou when you’re dead or broke.” The Worm wasn’t angry inthe least， and the rest of the Mess shouted. Then the SeniorSubaltern looked at The Worm from the boots upward， anddown again and said： “Done， Baby.” The Worm took the restof the Mess to witness that the bet had been taken， and retiredinto a book with a sweet smile.
Two months passed， and the Senior Subaltern still educatedThe Worm， who began to move about a little more as the hotweather came on. I have said that the Senior Subaltern wasin love. The curious thing is that a girl was in love with theSenior Subaltern. Though the Colonel said awful things， andthe Majors snorted， and married Captains looked unutterablewisdom， and the juniors scoffed， those two were engaged.
The Senior Subaltern was so pleased with getting hisCompany and his acceptance at the same time that he forgot tobother The Worm. The girl was a pretty girl， and had money ofher own. She does not come into this story at all.
One night， at beginning of the hot weather， all the Mess，except The Worm who had gone to his own room to writeHome letters， were sitting on the platform outside the MessHouse. The Band had finished playing， but no one wanted togo in. And the Captains’ wives were there also. The folly ofa man in love is unlimited. The Senior Subaltern had beenholding forth on the merits of the girl he was engaged to， andthe ladies were purring approval， while the men yawned， whenthere was a rustle of skirts in the dark， and a tired， faint voicelifted itself.
“Where’s my husband？”
I do not wish in the least to reflect on the morality of the“Shikarris”； but it is on record that four men jumped up as ifthey had been shot. Three of them were married men. Perhapsthey were afraid that their wives had come from Homeunbeknownst. The fourth said that he had acted on the impulseof the moment. He explained this afterwards.
Then the voice cried： “Oh Lionel！” Lionel was the SeniorSubaltern’s name. A woman came into the little circle of lightby the candles on the peg tables， stretching out her hands tothe dark where the Senior Subaltern was， and sobbing. Werose to our feet， feeling that things were going to happen andready to believe the worst. In this bad， small world of ours，one knows so little of the life of the next man—which， afterall， is entirely his own concern—that one is not surprised whena crash comes. Anything might turn up any day for anyone.
Perhaps the Senior Subaltern had been trapped in his youth.
Men are crippled that way occasionally. We didn’t know； wewanted to hear； and the Captains’ wives were as anxious as we.