“Bravo!” cried Harold, as the chorus was concluded; “that is no bad lesson for Miss Sahibas to learn.” “Or _Mem_ Sahibas either,” said Alicia laughing. “I suppose that the duties of married and unmarried are much alike, only the Mems may leave the snake-slaying to their lord and masters.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER IV INDIAN TRAVELLING. THE Hartleys soon left their pleasant place of sojourn, and started on their journey towards Talwandi. The piano and large packing-cases had been sent on before by a luggage train; and Harold had arranged that a big bullock-cart should meet them at the station where the railway-line must be quitted. Nothing could be pleasanter to the young couple than the journey as long as it could be made by train, though, for economy’s sake, the carriage which they occupied was second class. The travellers were to descend at the station of Chuanwál, twenty miles from Talwandi. Harold had made every possible arrangement beforehand for the comfort of his young bride. He had secured a dák-gári (the Indian substitute for a post-chaise) in which she should accomplish the last part of the journey. Chuanwál was reached. After helping Alicia down to the platform, and rapidly emptying the carriage of two big rolls of bedding, umbrellas, a hamper, and six or seven other articles which must on no account be left behind, Harold looked for the station-master. “You have been good enough to lay our dák; a carriage is ready, I hope?” said Harold. “Here is the munshi, sir; he will explain,” said the station-master, as a stout, dark, sensuous-looking man came forward, book in hand and pencil behind his thick ear, proud of an opportunity of airing his stock of English. “Dák no lay—can’t lay. No station Talwandi way—dusri ráh [other way]. How Sahib change horses where no horses be found?” said the munshi. “Well, suppose that we cannot change horses on the journey, one pair of stout animals can easily accomplish twenty miles.” The last part of Harold’s sentence was half drowned in the shrill scream of the departing train. The fat munshi seemed to see mountains of difficulty in the way. “If horses go Talwandi, must come back Chuanwál,” at last he sagely observed. “Of course; they will return here to-morrow. The question is, Have you the gári [carriage] and horses which I ordered three days ago?” After a good deal of beating about the bush and cross-questioning, Harold elicited the fact that there was a gári, and moreover a pair of horses. “Then have the horses put in at once. Why were they not ready? The lady is tired of waiting,” said Harold, glancing towards Alicia, who was sitting on one of the bundles of bedding. Orders were given to a man waiting near, who went off to see about the gári; and the munshi took his pencil from behind his ear. “Sahib must pay beforehand,” said the munshi.