cherishes his good name, so that you do not strain the truth to say
that he is strictly honest. Veracity is the point on which he is
weakest, but even in this there are exceptions. My last Boy was
curiously scrupulous about the truth, and would rarely tell a lie,
even to shield himself from blame, though he would do so to get the
hamal into a scrape.

I regret to say that the Boy has flaws. His memory is a miracle; but
just once in a way, when you are dining at the club, he lays out your
clothes nicely without a collar. He sends you off on an excursion to
Matheran, and packs your box in his neat way; but instead of putting
one complete sleeping suit, he puts in the upper parts of two,
without the nether and more necessary portions. It is irritating to
discover, when you are dressing in a hurry, that he has put your
studs into the upper flap of your shirt front; but I am not sure it
does not try your patience more to find out, as you brush your teeth,
that he has replenished your tooth-powder box from a bottle of
Gregory's mixture. But Dhobie day is his opportunity. He first
delivers the soiled clothes by tale, diving into each pocket to see
if you have left rupees in it; but he sends a set of studs to be
washed. Then he sits down to execute repairs. He has an assorted
packet of metal and cotton buttons beside him, from which he takes at
random. He finishes with your socks, which he skilfully darns with
white thread, and contemplates the piebald effect with much
satisfaction; after which he puts them up in little balls, each
containing a pair of different colours. Finally he will arrange all
the clean clothes in the drawer on a principle of his own, the effect
of which will find its final development in your temper when you go
in haste for a handkerchief. I suspect there is often an explanation
of these things which we do not think of. The poor Boy has other