see; and it was a good dinner, though rather tinny.


_Manpur, Thursday 12th_.

This delayed letter must be posted before we leave by the night train
for our next trek. We came back late last night from Misanpore after a
nice but very queer time. On Saturday, when, after a long dusty
drive of eight miles from the station, we arrived at the bungalow
of Boggley's friend, there was every evidence that no visitors were
expected. Just think! Boggley had never let him know we were coming;
the poor man was ignorant of the fearful joy in store for him.

I gripped Boggley by the arm. "Wretch," I hissed in his ear. "Why
didn't you write? What sort of man is he? Will he hate having me?"

"_Qui hai_?" bellowed Boggley to the deserted-looking bungalow. Then,
turning to me, "Oh yes, he'll hate it," he said calmly; "but he'll be
pleased afterwards." I could have shaken him. Making me play the part
of a visit to the dentist!

When our host appeared, very dishevelled (it turned out that he was
feeling far from well and had been lying down), and beheld me, dismay
was written large on his countenance. He glared round in a hunted
way, and it looked as if he were going to make a bolt for it; but he
remembered in time his manhood, and faced me. (His name is Ferris, and
he is tall and bald, and about forty, and so shy that when he blushes
his eyes water.) Somehow, we all got inside the house, and Boggley and
I sat in the drawing-room while Mr. Ferris rushed out to summon his
minions and make arrangements. We heard a whispered discussion going