The Man Who Would Be King
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Rudyard Kipling >> The Man Who Would Be King
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.