marched
for company's sake. We usually arrived at the mango tope destined to be
our camping-ground about ten o'clock in the morning, and lounged away the
heat of the day in tents; towards the afternoon Jung generally went out
with his gun or rifle, shooting with the former at parrots at ten yards
distance, and with the latter at bottles at a hundred. There was not
much attraction for the sportsman throughout the whole line of march, and
I only bagged a few couple of snipe, partridges, wild-duck, and quail.

Our dinner was always supplied from Jung's own carpet, for he does not
use a table, and it was with no little curiosity that at the end of the
first day's march I looked forward to the productions of a Nepaul
cuisine. We had not forgotten to provide ourselves with a sufficient
_stand-by_ in case it should not prove altogether palatable. Towards
evening an enormous dish, containing rice enough to have satisfied the
whole of the gallant rifle corps, was brought into our tent, closely
followed by about 20 little cups formed of leaves, one inside the other,
each containing about a thimbleful of some exquisite condiment; also
three or four saucers containing some cold gravy, of unpleasant colour,
in which floated about six minute particles of meat.

Filling my plate with rice, which had been well and carefully greased to
improve its flavour, and scientifically mixing the various other
ingredients therewith, I unhesitatingly launched a spoonful into my
mouth, when I was severely punished for my temerity, and almost overcome
by the detestable compound of tastes and smells that at once assailed
both nose and palate: it was a pungent, sour, bitter, and particularly
greasy mouthful; but what chiefly astonished me, so much as to prevent my
swallowing it for some time, was the perfume of Colonel Dhere Shum Shere,
the fat brother, which I was immediately sensible of, as overpowering
everything else. Not that I would for a moment wish to insinuate that it
was a nasty smell; on the contrary, it would have been delicious on a
pocket-handkerchief; but to imagine it going down one's throat, in
company with an immense amount of grease and gravy, was nearly enough to
prevent its doing so at all.

Our march to Ghazipore was through country richly cultivated and
pleasing, if not absolutely pretty. The numerous poppy-plantations were
evidence of our proximity to the headquarters of one of the largest opium
agencies in India. Ghaz