"I think I should be willing," I said to my companion, "to carry that
horse to Jhansi on my own shoulders if I could have the pleasure of
seeing him blown from one of the rajah's cannon in the, fort."

But the driver, without the least appearance of discomposure, had
dismounted, and with his long deft Hindu fingers soon released the
animal, patched up his gear, replaced him between the shafts and
resumed his place.

[Illustration: THE CATHACKS (OR DANCING MEN) OF BHOPAL.]

Another round of consanguinities: the animal still remained immovable,
till presently he lunged out with a wicked kick which had nearly
obliterated at one blow the whole line of his ancestry and collateral
relatives as represented in the driver. At this the latter became
as furious as he had before been patient: he belabored the horse,
assistants ran from the stables, the whole party yelled and
gesticulated at the little beast simultaneously, and he finally broke
down the road at a pace which the driver did not suffer him to relax
until we arrived at the bungalow where we intended to stop for supper.

A venerable old Mohammedan in a white beard that gave him the majesty
of Moses advanced for the purpose of ascertaining our wants.

"Had he any mutton-chops?" asked Bhima Gandharva in Hindustani, the
_lingua franca_ of the country.

"Cherisher of the humble! no."

"Any beefsteak?"