poking about, a light for the cheroot which
you are sure to want by this time. As
the horse which has brought you over the
stage is being led up and down to cool, you
think that you never saw a more wretched-
looking little beast; but you change your
mind on seeing the animal which is to
draw you on. He is a little worse, though
it is evident from the way in which he
kicks at the shafts while being harnessed,
that he has some strength and go in him.
He is in all probability young, and his chief
defects arise from being almost unbroken
when first called upon to make a figure
in the world. It is very likely that the
starting will be attended by as great
difficulties as before; but of course this does
not uniformly happen; some of the horses
vary the proceeding by starting well, and so
beguiling the traveller into a false confidence,
which is dissipated when he finds himself lying
in a ditch at the side of the road, the gharree
smashed, and the horse lying motionless
among the broken shafts. This happened to
the present narrator during a very early period
of his travelling experience, and the same
misadventure occurs to most persons who trust
themselves often on the road. There is only
one course to take; to set the gharree upon
its legs as well as you can, and be drawn in
by bearers to the nearest station, where, if
everybody is as fortunate as myself, they will
be able to borrow another vehicle from the
Dâk Company's agent. It is a very inglorious
mode of transit – being drawn in by a dozen
men, any number of whom are always to be
found in India to do the work of horses – all
howling a monotonous chant.

After these incidents of travel, you
become callous, and make yourself as
comfortable as may be, with the aid of a book,
and those other resources for which you
have made the gharree eminent among its
kind. Reading, however, can of course be
indulged in only by day. During the night
there is nothing for it, but to wrap yourself
in your resai, and sleep if you can. This
is, if you do not feel inclined to stay at a
Dâk bungalow, which one is very apt to spurn
at first setting forth, and take advantage of
afterwards in a mean-spirited manner. The
great trial of sleeping in the gharree is in
the very early morning from two or three
until four or five o'clock, when for a great
part of the year it is piercing cold – a
cold which makes the cheroot doubly dear,
and anything else detestable. There is
no doubt that it is trying, and you determine
to stand it no longer. You will stop
and breakfast. You have tried brandy-
and-water, and it is of no use; some hot tea
will be just the thing. You accordingly
push your legs out of the gharree, getting
duly rasped by the wheel in the process,
and call out to the driver to know how far off
the next Dâk bungalow is. The answer is
very satisfactory. The nearest is two miles
behind you ; you have passed it in your sleep.
What is to be done ? To turn back would
be childish, but the next bungalow is fourteen
miles further on. Still it would be childish
to turn back ; so you go on. In about
three hours the coachman blows on his post-
horn the announcement that you have arrived
at a bungalow. It is carefully closed up at
all points, and presents the appearance of
the family being absent on a foreign tour.
The jalousies, which reach to the ground are
elaborately dusty, and make no sign. The house
has apparently not been entered for ages, and,
as far as the last fortnight is concerned, this
is no doubt strictly true. There is no sign of
life in the vicinity, but this it is, of course,
the business of the traveller to create.
Standing upon the verandah in his slippers,
in a dressing gown and nightcap, his cheek
pale, and his eyes hollow, the bungalow
authority calls out " Qui hai?" – an
equivalent for " Who's there? " Presently a
man with a large beard emerges from some
inscrutable out-building, who calls somebody
else to his assistance, and then makes his
obeisance to the traveller. The somebody else,
who does not seem to like it, somehow gets
into the house, and opens the principal doors,
and the traveller is made free of the desolate
dwelling.

The momentous question comes next.
What can he have for breakfast ? The
man with the beard, who is the
khausamah, or major-domo, goes through the
usual formulae of people of his kind – talks
of mutton chops, of iron-y-stew (by which
Irish stew is understood), and of curry, but
eventually strongly recommends the only
dishes to be had, grilled moorgee, or fowl,
and unda, or eggs, boiled or roasted at
pleasure. The traveller yields to these
delicacies, and agrees to spend the time
employed in their preparation, at his toilette.
Fortunately, there is always a bathing-room
adjoining, and plenty of cold water; for the
rest, the traveller's own resources are sufficient.
In the intervals of dressing he strays out into
the verandah, and has a pleasing view of the
khausamah, who has been for some twenty
minutes occupied in chasing the promised
breakfast round the house. It is an old bird,
and is not to be caught by the kind of chaff
which is proffered; but, in the end, his
head is chopped off, after the Mahommedan
fashion, with sufficient want of resignation
to acquit him of any charge of hypocrisy in
meeting his death. This spectacle is not
cheering, and, the traveller, being by this
time dressed, a change to the interior has its
advantages. The room is of moderate size,
and is not beset with too much furniture.
Besides three chairs, there are two beds –
without curtains and without bedding ;
each traveller being supposed to bring his
own. To these are added a table, and on the
mantel-piece a compact little bookcase, the
books carefully locked in, and a printed list