“Kismiss,” as the natives call it, is anything but a jovial and merry season to me, and I heartily sympathize with those prudent souls who flee from the station or cantonment, and bury themselves afar off in the jungle, until the festive season has been succeeded by the practical New Year! Christmas in India is an expensive anniversary to a needy subaltern such as I am. Putting aside the necessary tips to the mess-servants, the letter-corporal, and colour-sergeant, I have my own retinue (about ten in number), who overwhelm me with wreaths and flowers culled from my garden, and who expect, in return, solid rupees of the realm. This is reasonable enough; but it passes the limits of reason and patience when other peopled body-servants, peons, syces, and all the barrack dhobies, and every “dog” boy in the station, lie in ambush in order to thrust evil-smelling marigolds under my nose, with expectant salaams! Last Christmas cost me nearly the price of a pony--this Christmas, I resolved to fly betimes with my house-mate, Jones of the D.P.W. We would put in for a week’s leave, and eat our plum-pudding at least sixty miles from Kori. Alas! my thrifty little scheme was knocked on the head by a letter from my cousin Algy Langley. He is the eldest son of an eldest son; I am the younger son of a second son: and whereas I am a sub. in an infantry regiment, grilling on the plains of India, and working for my daily bread, Algy has run out for one cold weather, merely in search of variety and amusement. “Why on earth should relations think it necessary to meet on one particular day, in order to eat a tasteless bird and an indigestible pudding?” I put this question to Jones, as we sat in our mutual verandah, opening the midday dâk. “Just look at this; it’s a beastly nuisance!” and I handed him Algy’s note, which said-- “Dear old Perky (my Christian name is Perkin),--This is to give notice that I am coming to eat my Christmas dinner with you. I arrive on the 21st, per mail train.--Yours, “A. Langley.” “What is your cousin like?” inquired Jones. “Oh, a regular young London swell, who has never roughed it in his life. I suppose I shall have to turn out of my room,” I grumbled; “and I must borrow Robinson’s bamboo cart to meet him, for I believe he would faint if I put him in a bullock tonga at first--he must arrive at that by degrees!” “Is there no chance of our getting off to Karwassa? Wouldn’t he come and have a try for the man-eater?” urged Jones. “Not he!” I rejoined emphatically; “he is a lady-killer--that is his only kind of sport. I’m glad I have not put in for my leave; you and I will go later--the tiger will wait.” “Yes, he has waited a good while,” retorted Jones, sarcastically; “nearly three years, and about a dozen shikar parties have been got up for his destruction, and still he keeps his skin! But, somehow, I have a presentiment that _we_ shall get him.”