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 fiance in Bombay.  As all the heavy baggage was sent from London to join us at Port Said, 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 limiting the number of firearms or getting a friend to father the extra ones through the Customs—­a perfectly simple matter had one foreseen the difficulty.  Also the danger of taking parcels for friends—­of which more anon![1]

The Devon Place Hotel may be the best in Karachi, but it is pretty bad....  I am told that all Indian hotels are bad—­still, the breakfast was a considerable improvement on the Marie Valerie, and we sallied forth as giants refreshed to have a look at Karachi and do a little shopping.  It being Sunday, the banks were closed, but a kindly shopman cashed me a cheque for twenty pounds in the most confiding manner, and enabled us to get the few odds and ends we wanted before going up country—­among them a couple of “resais” or quilted cotton wraps and a sola topee for Jane.

Karachi did not strike us as being a particularly interesting town, but that may be to a great extent because we did not see the best part of it.  On landing at Kiamari we had only driven along a hot and glaring mole, bordered by swamps and slimy-looking flats for some two miles.  Then, on reaching the city proper, a dusty road, bordered by somewhat suburban-looking houses, brought us to the Devon Place Hotel, near the Frere station.  After breakfast we merely drove into the bazaars to shop before betaking ourselves to the station, in good time for the 6.30 train.