Published: Pioneer, 19 March 1888; Pioneer Mail, 21 March 1888.

Atrribution: Not in the Scrapbooks, but the story clearly follows from ‘The Tracking of Chuckerbutti’, published eighteen days earlier, which is in the Scrapbooks.

Text: Pioneer.

Note: The story has been reprinted in the Martindell–Ballard pamphlets and in Harbord, iv, 1994– 7.

If his worst enemy had been at his elbow all the time Chuckerbutti could hardly have mismanaged things more thoroughly. He had a splendid chance too. All that he wanted was just the least little bit of reserve – the “judicious impartiality” trick. But he threw his chance away. And in this fashion.

Chuckerbutti had been permitted to call his Viceroys pet names – such as “George Samivel” or “Freddy.” When they pleased him, he slapped them on the back familious-fash, and said:– “Shabash! Babu how he can make eshlave!” Some Viecroys rather winced, but some of them liked it awfully. When they didn't please him, Chuckerbutti used to dance in front of Government Place and snap his fingers at them. “We're the salt of the Earth and you're a dilettante mediocrity. We'll pull the scalp about your ears,” shouted Churkerbutti. Then the Viceroys, who were not altogether unknown men, used to put on their collective eye-glasses and say:– “How interesting? Is it possible that this – ahem – gentleman has never been beyond the Ditch?” Then they would go on with whatever work was most urgent, and Chuckerbutti jumped with indignation. Some years before a man had come along and stroked Chuckerbutti on the head, saying:– “You haven't taken any scrip in railways or mills or any single commercial enterprise: you don't know what cleanliness means, and you keep rayther too tight a hand upon your women folk; but you're a great man – you're the Heir of all the Ages.” Chuckerbutti had been living on that certificate ever since. When he came across a Viceroy who recognised that there were other people in the world besides Chuckerbutti, he naturally ramped. But that was his blunder. If he had said:– “I'm a down-trodden Aryan groaning under a brutal heel. Observe my bleeding chest!” and stopped there, the hat would have gone round for pice, and Chuckerbutti would have secured unlimited pity.