an agitated voice in Hindustani. "With a
little clemency, look quickly in the rubbish heap for the pepper pot.
The _masalchi_,[2] out of the perversity of his youthfulness, has lost
that and every other ingredient for the flavouring of the soup; and now,
what can I do? Of a truth, this night will the Sahib give me much abuse
for that which is no fault of mine. I shall twist the idle one's ear the
moment he returns with firewood from the jungle, just to stimulate his
mind and teach him carefulness."

[Footnote 2: Scullion.]

The _khansaman_[3] uncoiled his legs and rose from the ground where he
had been peeling potatoes at his leisure with a table knife, and
proceeded to do as he was bid. He was of an obliging nature and could be
relied upon to perform odd jobs not strictly his duty, so long as they
did not establish a precedent.

[Footnote 3: Butler.]

After some diligent searching among loose charcoal, dried twigs, kitchen
rags, utensils, and vegetable parings, a rusty tin box was discovered
and handed to the cook. Old Abdul grunted approval of his own
intelligence, and after liberally sprinkling the soup with pepper from
between a dirty finger and thumb, he wiped both, casually, in the folds
of his loin-cloth.

Altogether, the task of preparing dinner in camp was no mean effort. The
business of the moment was to produce a clear soup with its artistic
garniture of sliced carrots and turnips; to be followed by tank fish
captured that afternoon from the property of a local Hindu landowner
and, in the serving, robbed of its earthly flavour by a miracle of
savoury dressing. Considering the lapses of the mate-boy's memory, this
was a marvel of achievement. Next, the _entree_ of devilled goat (called
by courtesy, mutton) was also a difficulty; nevertheless with a lavish
addition of mango chutney, it was on its way to completion. The "chicken
roast" was a tolerable certainty in a deep vessel where it baked in its
own juices, stuffed with onions, cloves, and rice. But the
pudding--alas! black despair, invisible owing to natural pigment, was in
possession of Abdul's soul. What to do, he grumbled, but to serve, in
fear and trembling, that abomination of sahibs, a "custul-bile" (boiled
custard), since every possible ingredient for a respectable pudding had
been left behind at the last Rest Bungalow! What the master would say,
might well be imagined, for these were not the easy-going days of his
bachelorhood, when such makes