A NATIVE SCRIMMAGE. 87 



old chuprassie's gentle prods with an umbrella, naturally 

 resented being struck by a stranger, and went for him. 

 Alan and the shikaris had gone after the chikoor (par- 

 tridges) which were calling all around. There was no one 

 to restore order, and the battle raged promiscuously for 

 some time, every one in the camp taking part — even the 

 ayah, whose jaded palate this excitement seemed to 

 titillate. Our Kashmir chuprassie apparently was the 

 field-marshal commanding-in-chief, and directed the fight 

 with his umbrella. I watched, expecting manslaughter 

 each moment, for there was always some one on the 

 ground whom everybody was beating. At last Alan 

 returned, the combatants were separated, and to my 

 great surprise, a scratch on the face of one coolie was 

 the only wound any one could show. 



No attempt up to this had been made to pitch the 

 tents, but peace being restored, all fall to with much 

 enthusiasm wrongly directed, for they fasten the bath- 

 room to the wrong end, and make egress impossible. 



But I had little time to notice this, for the noise of 

 battle arose again. It seems that the cook had been 

 unable to leave his dinner to take part in the last 

 engagement, and he thirsted for blood. His disappoint- 

 ment was so keen that he might have been an Irishman 

 at Donnybrook, but at last his chance came. We had 

 sent Rahman off to get a few more partridges, and in 



