passing tramp steamer.

Some time before leaving England I had written to my old friend General
Woon, commanding the troops at Abbotabad, asking him to provide me with a
servant capable of dry-nursing a pair of Babes in the Wood throughout
their sojourn in a strange land. The General promised to supply us with
such an one, who, he said, would rob us to a certain extent himself, but
would take good care that nobody else did so!

Immediately, then, upon our arrival in Karachi roads, a dark and swarthy
person, with a black beard and gleaming white teeth, appeared on board,
and reported himself as Sabz Ali, our servant and our master!

His knowledge of English "as she is spoke" was scanty and of strange
quality, but his masterful methods of dealing with the boatmen and
Custom-house subordinates inspired us with awe and a blind confidence that
he could--and would--pull us through.

There was no difficulty at the Custom-house until it transpired that I
wanted to take three firearms into the country. This appeared to be a most
unusual and reprehensible desire, and my statement that one weapon was a
rifle which I was taking charge of for a friend did not improve the
situation. It being Sunday, the principal authorities were sunning
themselves in their back parlours, and the thing in charge (called a Baboo,
I understand) became exceedingly fussy, and desired that the guns should
be unpacked and exhibited lest they should be of service pattern. This was
simple, as far as my battery was concerned, and I promptly laid bare the
beauties of my Mannlicher and ancient 12-bore; but, alas! Mrs. Smithson's
rifle was soldered like a sardine into a strong tin case, and no
cold-chisel or screwdriver was forthcoming.