y servants who would be ready, for the sake of a
good salary and a handsome reward, to brave the many discomforts,
hardships, and perils my expedition into Tibet was likely to involve.
Scores of servants presented themselves. Each one produced a certificate
with praises unbounded of all possible virtues that a servant could
possess. Each certificate was duly ornamented with the signature of some
Anglo-Indian officer--either a governor, a general, a captain, or a
deputy commissioner. What struck me mostly was that bearers of these
testimonials seemed sadly neglected by those who had been so
enthusiastically pleased with their services. They all began by begging,
or else asked, for a loan of rupees in order to buy food, clothes, and
support the dear ones they would be leaving behind.

I was sitting one day in the post resting-house when an odd creature
came to offer his services. "Where are your certificates?" I asked.

"_Sahib, hum 'certificates' ne hai_" (Sir, I have no certificates).

I employed him at once. His facial lines showed much more character than
I had noticed in the features of other local natives. That was quite
sufficient for me. I am a great believer in physiognomy and first
impressions, which are to me more than any certificate in the world. I
have so far never been mistaken.

My new servant's dress was peculiar. His head was wrapped in a white
turban. From under a short waistcoat there appeared a gaudy yellow and
black flannel shirt, which hung outside his trousers instead of being
tucked in them. He had no shoes, and carried in his right hand an old
cricket-stump, with which he "presented arms" every time I came in or
went out of the room. His name was Chanden Sing. He was not a skilful
valet. For instance, one day I found him polishing my shoes with my best
hair-brushes. When opening soda-water bottles he generally managed to
give you a spray bath, and invariably hit you in the face with the
flying cork. It was owing to one of these accidents that Chanden Sing,
having hurt my eye badly, was one day flung bodily out of the door.
Later--as I had no more soda water left--I forgave him, and allowed him
to return. It was this man who turned out to be the one plucky man among
all my followers. It was he who stood by me through thick and thin
during our trials in Tibet.

From Almora up to what is usually called Bhot (the country upon the
Himahlya slopes on the British side of the frontier) our journey wa