Sporting Trips of a Subaltern 



scene is lifeless, and it is hard to imagine that 

 any beast can make its home here. At the head 

 of the ravine a torrent dashes out under a snow- 

 bridge from the base of a mass of ice and snow. 

 I am roused from under my blankets by " Sahib, 

 sahib, suri char budgi (half-past four) ; time get 

 up, sahib." Bother the man; beastly cold; shan't 

 move. " Master say I no let him go isleep again." 

 So I had, but can't he see I've changed my mind ? 

 Gentle shaking of the shoulder ; more " Sahib, 

 sahib." Why can't he go away? Nothing will 

 induce me to get up. Wait, though. Oh, by 

 Jove ! there's that flock of thar I saw yesterday 

 and want to get at by daybreak, and through the 

 open flap of the tent, letting in streams of icy air, 

 I see the first grey signs of another day coming 

 into the sky. I suddenly become wide awake as I 

 realize that I am losing precious moments, and in 

 a moment am up and getting on my clothes, while 

 I upbraid my servant for calling me a bit late, 

 which he takes as philosophically as he did my 

 remonstrances concerning his early rising of a 

 moment before. Outside the tent is my little 

 folding- table, and a minute or two later I am 

 breakfasting on a fid of "bouilli" beef and a cup 

 of hot tea, anxiously watching the light which, 

 during the short time since I woke, has changed 

 the opposite hillside from an indistinct blur till I 

 can make out first the little torrents, and then 



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