After promising Mrs. Apsley, most faithfully,
that I will not keep Jack later than
half-past twelve, and taking another look
into those sweet eyes of hers, I gallop away
as fast as the pony can carry me. I am
late; there is scarcely a vacant place at
the long table. We have no private tables
The same board shelters the nether limbs of
all of us. We are all intimate friends, and
know exactly each other's circumstances
What a clatter of knives and forks! And
what a lively conversation! It alludes,
chiefly, to the doings of the past night.
Almost every other man has a nickname.
To account for many of them would indeed
be a difficult, if not a hopeless task.

"Dickey Brown! Glass of beer?"

"I am your man," responds Major George,
N. I. Fencibles.

At the other end of the table you hear the
word, "Shiney!" shouted out, and responded
to by Lieutenant Fenwick of the Horse
Artillery.

"Billy! Sherry?"

Adolphus Bruce of the Lancers lifts his
glass with immense alacrity.

It is a curious characteristic of Indian
society that very little outward respect is in
private shown to seniority. I once heard an
ensign of twenty years of age address a
civilian of sixty, in the following terms:
"Now then, old moonsiff, pass that claret,
please."

The tiffin over, a gool, or lighted ball of
charcoal, is passed round the table in a silver
augdan (fire-holder). Every man present
lights a cigar, and in a few minutes there is
a general move. Some retire to the billiard-room,
others cluster round the fire-place;
others pace the platform; and two sets go
up-stairs into the reading-room to have a
quiet rubber— from three till five. Those
four men seated at the table near the window
have the reputation of being the best players
in India. The four at the other table know
very little of the game of whist. Mark the
difference! The one set never speak, except
when the cards are being dealt. The other
set are finding fault with one another during
the progress of the hand. The good players
are playing high. Goldmohur points— five
gold mohurs on the rub— give and take five
to two after the first game. And sometimes,
at game and game, they bet an extra five.
Tellwell and Long, who are playing against
Bean and Fickle, have just lost a bumper
twenty-seven gold mohurs— a matter of forty-three
pounds four shillings.

In the billiard-room, there is a match going
on between four officers who are famed for
their skill, judgment, and execution. Heavy
bets are pending. How cautiously and how
well they play! No wonder, when we consider
the number of hours they practise, and
that they play every day of their lives.
That tall man now about to strike, makes
a revenue out of billiards. I shall be
greatly mistaken if that man does not come
to grief some day. He preys upon every
youngster in every station he goes to with
his regiment. He is a captain in the native
infantry. His name is Tom Locke. He
has scored forty-seven off the red ball. His
confederate, Bunyan, knows full well that
luck has little to do with his success. He,
too, will come to grief before long. Your
clever villains are invariably tripped up sooner
or later, and ignominiously stripped of their
commissions and positions in society.

It is five o'clock. Some thirty horses and
as many ponies are saddled and bridled, and
led up and down in the vicinity of the club.
Everybody will be on the mall presently.
The mall is a part of the road round the
Camel's Back. It is a level of about half a
mile long and twelve feet broad. A slight
fence stands between the riders and a deep
khud (precipice). To gallop along this road
is nothing when you are accustomed to it;
but, at first, it makes one very nervous even
to witness it. Serious and fatal accidents
have happened; but, considering all things,
they have been far fewer than might have
been expected.

The mall is crowded. Ladies and gentlemen
on horseback, and ladies in janpans—
the janpanees dressed in every variety of
livery. Men in the French grey-coats, trimmed
with white serge, are carrying Mrs. Hastings.
Men in the brown clothes, trimmed with
yellow serge, are carrying Mrs. Merrydale.
Jack Apsley's wife is mounted on her husband's
second charger. "Come along, Captain
Wall," she calls out to me, and goes off
at a canter, which soon becomes a hand-gallop,
I follow her, of course. Jack remains behind,
to have a quiet chat with Mrs. Flower of his
regiment; who thinks— and Jack agrees with
her that hard-riding on the mall is a nuisance,
and ought to be put a stop to. But, as we
come back, we meet the hypocrite galloping
with a Miss Pinkerton, a new importation,
with whom— much to the amusement of his
wife— he affects to be desperately in love,
The mall, by the way, is a great place for
flirtations.

Most steady-going people, like Mrs. Flower,
not only think hard-riding on the mall a
nuisance, but make it the theme of letters to
the editors of the papers, and sometimes the
editors will take the matter up, and write
leading articles thereon, and pointedly allude
to the fact— as did the late Sir C. J. Napier,
in a general order— that beggars on horseback
usually ride in the opposite direction to
heaven. But these letters and leaders rarely
have the desired effect; for what can a man.
do when a pretty woman like Mrs. Apsley
says, "Come along— let us have a gallop"?

Why are there so very many people on the
mall this evening? A few evenings ago it
was proposed at the club, that a band should
play twice a week. A paper was sent round
at once, and every one subscribed a sum in