A Holiday in the Happy Valley with Pen and Pencil | Page 8

in fact I do not think he really left the ship,
but simply sought a secluded perch, secure from prying observation. He
reappeared upon the port stay, and proceeded to preen himself and
observe the ship's course. He is evidently bound for Aden, casting
glances of quiet unconcern on Perim and the coast of Araby the blest.
Towards sunset we passed the fantastic peaks of little Aden, and,

drawing up to Steamer Point, cast anchor under the "Barren Rocks of
Aden."
_Monday, 13th_.--We had a shocking time last night. All ports closed
for coaling left us gasping, whilst a fiendish din arose from the bowels
of the ship, whence cargo was being extracted. The stifling air, reeking
with damp, developed in the early morning a steady rain, which
dripped mournfully on the grimy decks. Rain in Aden! We are told on
the best authority that this is most unusual.
Aden, to the passing stranger, shows few attractions. We went on shore
when the rain showed signs of ceasing, and after buying a few odds and
ends, such as a pith hat and some cigarettes, we betook ourselves to the
principal hotel, where an excessively bad breakfast was served to us,
after which we were not sorry to shake the mud of Aden off our feet, so
we chartered a shore boat amid a fearful clamour for extra pay and
backshish, and set forth to rejoin our ship, now swept and garnished,
and showing little trace of the coal she had swallowed.
_Monday, 20th_.--We reached Karachi yesterday morning after a quiet,
calm, and utterly uneventful passage across the Indian Ocean.
It was never hot--merely calm, grey, and even showery, our only
excitements being an occasional school of porpoises or the sight of a
passing tramp steamer.
Some time before leaving England I had written to my old friend
General Woon, commanding the troops at Abbotabad, asking him to
provide me with a servant capable of dry-nursing a pair of Babes in the
Wood throughout their sojourn in a strange land. The General promised
to supply us with such an one, who, he said, would rob us to a certain
extent himself, but would take good care that nobody else did so!
Immediately, then, upon our arrival in Karachi roads, a dark and
swarthy person, with a black beard and gleaming white teeth, appeared
on board, and reported himself as Sabz Ali, our servant and our master!
His knowledge of English "as she is spoke" was scanty and of strange

quality, but his masterful methods of dealing with the boatmen and
Custom-house subordinates inspired us with awe and a blind
confidence that he could--and would--pull us through.
There was no difficulty at the Custom-house until it transpired that I
wanted to take three firearms into the country. This appeared to be a
most unusual and reprehensible desire, and my statement that one
weapon was a rifle which I was taking charge of for a friend did not
improve the situation. It being Sunday, the principal authorities were
sunning themselves in their back parlours, and the thing in charge
(called a Baboo, I understand) became exceedingly fussy, and desired
that the guns should be unpacked and exhibited lest they should be of
service pattern. This was simple, as far as my battery was concerned,
and I promptly laid bare the beauties of my Mannlicher and ancient
12-bore; but, alas! Mrs. Smithson's rifle was soldered like a sardine into
a strong tin case, and no cold-chisel or screwdriver was forthcoming.
Messengers were sent forth to seek the needful instruments, while I
proceeded to cut another Gordian knot.... An acquaintance of mine,
hearing that I was coming to India, suggested that I should take charge
of a parcel for a friend of hers, who wanted to send it to her fiancé in
Bombay. As all the heavy baggage was sent from London to join us at
Port Saïd, I had not seen the "parcel," and, finding no case or box
addressed to any one but myself, I had to select one that seemed most
likely to be right, and forward that.
At last the needful appliances were got and the rifle unpacked; but,
although it proved to be (as I had said) a large-bore Express, the Baboo
refused, like a very Pharaoh, to let it go, and I, after a two-hour
vexatious delay, paid the duty on my own guns, and, leaving a note for
the chief Customs official, explaining the case and begging him to send
the rifle on forthwith, packed myself--hot, hungry, and angry--into a
"gharri," and set forth to the Devon Place Hotel, whither the rest of the
party had preceded me.
I have gone into this little episode somewhat at length in order to
impress upon the voyager to India the necessity for