spurs, and off darts the waler like an arrow in pursuit. He is gaining
fast, and tops the last hurdle leading to the straight just as the
hoofs of the other two reach the ground.

It is now a matter of pace and good riding. It will be a close finish;
the waler is first to feel the whip; there is a roar from the crowd; he
is actually leading; whips and spurs are hard at work now; it is a mad,
headlong rush; every muscle is strained, and the utmost effort made;
the poor horses are doing their very best; amid a thunder of hoofs,
clouds of dust, hats in air, waving of handkerchiefs from the grand
stand, and a truly British cheer from the paddock, the 'waler' shoots
in half a length ahead; and so end the morning's races.

Back to camp now, to bathe and breakfast. A long line of dust marks the
track from the course, for the sun is now high in the heavens, the lake
is rippling in placid beauty under a gentle breeze, and the long lines
of natives, as well as vehicles of all sorts, form a quaint but
picturesque sight. After breakfast calls are made upon all the camps
and bungalows round the station. Croquet, badminton, and other games go
on until dinner-time. I could linger lovingly over a camp dinner; the
rare dishes, the sparkling conversation, the racy anecdote, and the
general jollity and brotherly feeling; but we must all dress for the
ball, and so about 9 P.M. the buggies are again in requisition for the
ball room--the fine, large, central apartment in the Planters' club.

The walls are festooned with flowers, gay curtains, flags, and cloths.
The floor is shining like silver, and as polished as a mirror. The band
strikes up the Blue Danube waltz, and amid the usual bustle,
flirtation, scandal, whispering, glancing, dancing, tripping, sipping,
and hand-squeezing, the ball goes gaily on till the stewards announce