In a way the rascals were gentlemanly enough in their manner. I could not help admiring their mixture of courtesy and cruelty, either of which they could switch on at a moment's notice regardless of the other. They had now reached the bottom of a water-tight case. The Pombo drew out with much suspicion a curious flattened article. "What is that?" inquired he, lifting the thing up in the air. My sight had been so injured that at that distance I could not clearly discern what it was; but when they waved it in front of my nose, I recognized it to be my long-mislaid bath-sponge, dry and flattened, which Chanden Sing, with his usual ability for packing, had stored away at the bottom of the box, piling upon it the heavy cases of photographic plates. The sponge, a large one, was now reduced to the thickness of less than an inch, owing to the weight that had for weeks lain upon it. The Tibetans were greatly puzzled at this new discovery. They had never seen or even heard of sponges. Some said it resembled tinder. The wiser Lamas said it might explode. It was touched with caution. When their curiosity was satisfied, they threw it away. It fell near me in a small pool of water. This was a golden opportunity to frighten my jailers. I addressed the sponge in English, and with any word that came in my head, pretending to utter incantations. The attention of the Lamas and soldiers was quickly drawn to this unusual behavior on my part. They could not conceal their terror when, as I spoke louder and louder to the sponge, it gradually swelled to its normal size with the moisture it absorbed. The Tibetans, who at first could hardly believe their eyes at this incomprehensible occurrence, became panic-stricken at what they believed to be an exhibition of my occult powers. There was a general stampede in every direction. In a way, all this was entertaining. Anyhow, it served to pass away the time. The most amusing scene that afternoon was, however, still to come. After some time the Lamas screwed up their courage, and returned to where my baggage had been overhauled. One of them picked up my Martini-Henry. The others urged him to fire it off. He came to me, and when I had explained to him how to load it, he took a cartridge and placed it in the breech, but would insist on not closing the bolt firmly home. When I warned him of the consequences, he struck me on the head with the butt of the rifle.