Afghan war, though neither of us was very much in the humour for animated conversation.  The sweet scent of the pines, the matchless motion of the Arab, and the joyous feeling that the worst part of the tropical year was passed, were enough for me, and I drank in the high, rarefied air, with the intense delight of a man who has been smothered with dust and heat, and then steamed to a jelly by a spring and summer in the plains of Hindustan.

The road abounds in sharp turns, and I, as the heavier mount, rode on the inside as we went round the mountain.  On reaching the open part on the farther side, we drew rein for a moment to look down at the deep valleys, now dark with the early shade, at the higher peaks red with the westering sun, and at the black masses of foliage, through which some giant trunk here and there caught a lingering ray of the departing light.  Then, as we felt the cool of the evening coming on, we wheeled and scampered along the level stretch, stirrup to stirrup and knee to knee.  The sharp corner at the end pulled us up, but before we had quite reined in our horses, as delighted as we to have a couple of minutes’ straight run, we swung past the angle and cannoned into a man ambling peaceably along with his reins on one finger and his large gray felt hat flapping at the back of his neck.  There was a moment’s confusion, profuse apologies on our part, and some ill-concealed annoyance on the part of the victim, who was, however, only a little jostled and taken by surprise.

“Really, sir,” he began.  “Oh!  Mr. Isaacs.  No harm done, I assure you, that is, not much.  Bad thing riding fast round corners.  No harm, no harm, not much.  How are you?” all in a breath.

“How d’ye do!  Mr. Ghyrkins; my friend Mr. Griggs.”

“The real offender,” I added in a conciliatory tone, for I had kept my place on the inside.

“Mr. Griggs?” said Mr. Currie Ghyrkins.  “Mr. Griggs of Allahabad? Daily Howler? Yes, yes, corresponded; glad to see you in the flesh.”

I did not think he looked particularly glad.  He was a Revenue Commissioner residing in Mudnugger; a rank Conservative; a regular old “John Company” man, with whom I had had more than one tiff in the columns of the Howler, leading to considerable correspondence.

“I trust that our collision in the flesh has had no worse results than our tilts in print, Mr. Ghyrkins?”

“Not at all.  Oh don’t mention it.  Bad enough, though, but no harm done, none whatever,” pulling up and looking at me as he pronounced the hist two words with a peculiarly English slowness after a very quick sentence.

While he was speaking, I was aware of a pair of riders walking their horses toward us, and apparently struggling to suppress their amusement at the mishap to the old gentleman, which they must have witnessed.  In truth, Mr. Ghyrkins, who was stout and rode a broad-backed obese “tat,” can have presented no very dignified appearance, for he was jerked half out of the saddle by the concussion, and his near leg, returning to its place, had driven his nether garment half way to his knee, while the large felt hat was settling back on to his head at a rakish angle, and his coat collar had gone well up the back of his neck.