give information to the "sahib log." The next
day is fixed upon for the hunt, and away goes
the "shikaree" again to the villages near the
appointed rendezvous to collect beaters. Tents,
servants, provisions, and beer (the last a most
indispensable adjunct), are sent on by each
sportsman, and in the evening all start on their
"tattoos" for the meet. These meetings are
by no means the least agreeable part of the
business, when all are seated outside the tents
after dinner, imbibing brandy-pawny and smoking
cheroots. But many cheroots and much brandy-
pawny are not beneficial to the nerves, so the
wisest and best sportsmen retire early.

Betimes in the morning the camp is all alive.
Horses neigh, horsekeepers shout to one another,
and cries for coffee and boots resound on all
sides. Daylight in India bursts suddenly with
a flash upon the sight, and, though a man has
begun to dress in the dark and with the aid
of candles, before he has finished it is broad
bright day.

On coming forth under such circumstances,
the sight is pretty and exhilarating. The snowy
tents pitched here and there among the green
and shady mangoe-trees; the picketed horses in
the act of being "marlished" and prepared for
the hunt; "boys" boiling coffee at a fire made
under an old mangoe, and at which three or four
followers are toasting their hands and squatting;
a small bonfire, around which are seated some
two hundred individuals of all ages and descriptions,
but nearly all alike as to squalor and dirt,
the sweat caused by former days of toil being
apparent on their bodies in the form of a dry
white scurf, so that they remind one of a cab-horse
that has dried in the wind. It is not cold;
there is a nice cool soft and refreshing breeze;
but natives, even in the heat of the summer,
invariably crouch round a fire in the mornings.

A cup of coffee and cheroot, and we are ready
to start for the cover, but before doing so we
may glance at one or two of the most prominent
men in the hunt, most of whom are out now,
looking to their horses and gear: a precaution
never to be forgotten by a careful huntsman.
The first to attract attention, is a tall good-
looking young fellow talking to his horsekeeper
in a jargon he fondly supposes to be Hindostanee,
but which sorely puzzles his man, who has the
strongest possible idea that it is not, and the
weakest possible idea what it is. The rosy
colour of his cheeks, and the incipient down upon
his lip (which he is constantly stroking as he
speaks), denote the youngster coming under the
denomination of "griffin." This is his first essay
at pig-sticking, and all last night he disturbed
the other occupants of the tent he slept in, by
jumping up, over and over again, to see if it
were nearly morning. Yesterday, too, his
unfortunate tattoo, with exceedingly nobby-looking
legs, was made to go nearly double distance by
reason of his rider's constantly rushing off after
some jackal or antelope, with a wild hope of
spearing the creature—and at other times he
carried his spear always poised and unpleasantly
near to the small of his next neighbour's back.
But time and practice will correct that, for his
heart is in the right place. He is looking with
admiring eyes upon a wiry bull-necked Persian
horse, which no amount of argument will
persuade him is not an Arab of the purest breed.
It looks sulky just now, probably foreseeing a
hard day's work. At a little distance from this
ardent young sportsman is a small spare wiry
man of about fifty years of age, as straight as
an arrow, dressed in an old-fashioned but neat
brown coat and trousers to match, and a flat
low-crowned hat nearly the colour of his
coat. His features are sharp, and tanned with
exposure to the climate, but he has a bright
piercing eye. He has been some thirty years in
the service, only three of which have been passed
in England. But he is as hard as he looks, and
would outlive any younger man in a hard day's
work. He is as good a sportsman as he is an
officer, and he is considered to be one of the
best in the service. The grey muscular Arab
that he is mounted on, is the very counterpart
of its rider, and in condition to gallop for a
man's life. All its equipments are in first-rate
order—so is his horsekeeper, who is just now
shouldering a serviceable Joe Manton, and a
spear with a head so bright that it glistens again
in the sun. The next person, with a face like
Don Quixote's, barring the beard, and with a
complexion perhaps a little more ruddy than the
famous knight, has an immensely long body and
very short legs, and is clothed in a large-patterned
check cotton cloth jacket, of a cut
peculiarly its owner's. He is smoking a huge Trichinopoly
cheroot, and is a mighty collector of cheroots.
Also, of boots: rows upon rows of which, in
immense numbers, decorate all his rooms.

But the coolies, headed by the "shikaree," are
moving slowly forward in the direction of a long
narrow belt of toddy jungle: a most likely looking
spot. The " shikaree" has an old single-barrel
gun, his badge of office, and a large broad-bladed
knife stuck in his girdle. Each coolie is armed
with a thick long bamboo, and very many of
them have tom-toms, cholera horns, and rattles.
The toddy bund, which extends nearly due east
and west, is about a mile long, and a quarter of
a mile broad. On the north side there is a sandy
plain stretching away some three or four miles,
and bounded by a low range of rocky hills covered
with cactus and thorn-bushes. This is the direction
the boar will most probably take, and as
there are beaters enough to extend along the
whole line of the bund, it is decided to beat it
from south to north. A short council is held as
to where the different horsemen shall place themselves,
and soon the signal for the commencement
of the beat is given. Then arises most unearthly
noises; noises calculated, one would say, to
frighten the most courageous of beasts, and
noises that no human beings but natives could
make. But to the "pig-sticker" it is a charming
noise, and as melodious to him as the whimper