"If you judge by the heels of the former and the beards of the latter,
it is true," he said.

This little passage was based on the experience of the last relay,
which was, however, little more than a repetition of many previous
ones. My friend and I having arranged ourselves comfortably in the
_dâk-gharri_ as soon as it was announced ready to start, the long and
marvelously lean Indian who was our driver signified to his team by
the usual horse-language that we should be glad to go. The horse did
not even agitate his left ear--a phenomenon which I associate with
a horse in that moment when he is quietly making up his mind to be
fractious. "Go, my brother," said the driver in a mellifluous and
really fraternal tone of voice. The horse disdained to acknowledge the
tie: he stood still.

[Illustration: A NAUTCHNI (OR BAYADÈRE) OF BARODA.]

Then the driver changed the relationship, with an access of tenderness
in voice and in adjuration. "Go, my son," he entreated. But the son
stood as immovable as if he were going to remain a monument of filial
impiety to all time.

"Go, my grandson, my love." This seemed entirely too much for the
animal, and produced apparently a sense of abasement in him which was
in the highest degree uncomplimentary to his human kinsman and lover.
He lay down. In so doing he broke several portions of the ragged
harness, and then proceeded, with the most deliberate absurdity, to
get himself thoroughly tangled in the remainder.