elephants and looked down over the edge of the howdah, the great pith hat on his head making him look like an immense mushroom with a very thin stem sprouting suddenly from the back of the huge beast.  He smiled pleasantly at the old sportsman from his elevation, and seemed to know all about it.  It so chanced that when he received Isaacs’ telegrams he had been planning a little excursion on his own account, and had been sending out scouts and beaters for some days to ascertain where the game lay.  This, of course, was so much clear gain to us, and the little man was delighted at the opportune coincidence which enabled him, by the unlimited money supplied, to join in such a hunt as he had not seen since the time when the Prince of Wales disported himself among the royal game, three years before.  As for Miss Westonhaugh, she was in the gayest of spirits, as she sat with her brother on an elephant’s back, while Isaacs, who loved the saddle, circled round her and kept up a fire of little compliments and pretty speeches, to which she was fast becoming inured.  Kildare and I followed them closely on another elephant, discoursing seriously about the hunt, and occasionally shouting some question to John Westonhaugh, ahead, about sport in the south.

Before evening we had arrived at our first camping ground, near a small village on the outskirts of the jungle, and the tents were pitched on a little elevation covered with grass, now green and waving.  The men had mowed a patch clear, and were busy with the pegs and all the paraphernalia of a canvas house, and we strolled about, some of us directing the operations, others offering a sacrifice of cooling liquids and tobacco to the setting sun.  Miss Westonhaugh had heard about living in tents ever since she came to India, and had often longed to sleep in one of those temporary chambers that are set up anywhere in the “compound” of an English bungalow for the accommodation of the bachelor guests whom the house itself is too small to hold; now she was enchanted at the prospect of a whole fortnight under canvas, and watched with rapt interest the driving of the pegs, the raising of the poles, and the careful furnishing of her dwelling.  There was a carpet, and armchairs, and tables, and even a small bookcase with a few favourite volumes.  To us in civilised life it seems a great deal of trouble to transport a lunch basket and a novel to some shady glen to enjoy a day’s rest in the open air, and we would almost rather starve than take the trouble to carry provisions.  In India you speak the word, and as by magic there arises in the wilderness a little village of tents, furnished with every necessary luxury—­and the luxuries necessary to our degenerate age are many—­a kitchen tent is raised, and a skilled dark-skinned artist provides you in an hour with a dinner such as you could eat in no hotel.  The treasures of the huge portable ice-chest reveal cooling wines and soda water to the thirsty soul, and if you are going