It happened that, just as the aeroplane swooped down upon the golf course, an open vehicle like a victoria was driving slowly along a road that crossed it from the railway towards the city.  The turbaned driver pulled up his horse and stared open-mouthed at this extraordinary apparition from the sky, and when the aeroplane alighted, and from the car stepped a tall, dirty creature with a monstrously ugly face, the native whipped up his horse and with shrill cries sought to escape the clutches of what he felt in his trembling soul must be a djinn of the most evil kind.

Smith shouted to him to stop, but in vain; whereupon he picked up his heels and ran to overtake the carriage.  The horse was a sorry specimen, and Smith, being a very passable sprinter, soon came up with it, jumped in, and called to the driver to take him to Mr. Jenkinson’s godown.  The man yelled with fear, and in sheer panic flogged his horse until it went at a gallop, the vehicle swaying in a manner that any one but a sailor would have found unpleasant.  Both horse and driver seemed to be equally affected with terror, but since the carriage was going towards the city Smith was perfectly well satisfied, and did not turn a hair even when it narrowly escaped a collision with a bullock-wagon.

On they went, past some buildings on the right which appeared to be barracks, until they reached a street in which there were so many people that Smith thought it time to pull up before mischief was done.  Leaning forward, he gripped the driver’s dhoti and drew him slowly backward.  The man yelled again; the passers-by stood in wonderment; but with his backward movement the driver tightened his grip on the reins, and within a few yards the panting horse came to a standstill.

“Where is Mr. Jenkinson’s godown?” said Smith, releasing the driver.  But the man’s terror was too much for him.  Throwing the reins on the horse’s back, he sprang from his seat and fled, a vision of bare brown legs twinkling amid white cotton drapery.

By this time a crowd of chattering natives had gathered round, who, not having seen the aeroplane, were more amazed at the driver’s evident terror than at the passenger.  He was dirty, it is true, and not clad like the sahibs whom they were accustomed to meet, but when he had removed his goggles they saw that he was certainly a sahib.  Smith was about to ask some one to direct him to Mr. Jenkinson’s when a native policeman pushed his way through the crowd, and in a shrill, high-pitched voice and wonderful English, announced that he had come to take the number of the carriage; it was clearly a case of furious driving to the danger of the public.

“Shut up!” said Smith impatiently.  “Find me a driver to take me to Jenkinson sahib.”

“Certainly, your honor,” said the man, becoming deferential at once.

One of the bystanders, seeing the chance of earning a few pice, volunteered to drive.

“Jenkinson sahib? all right, sahib; down by Custom House.  You bet!”