FURTHEH EXPERIENCES OP MR. STALE. 
clean shirt must be got. The washerman, on 
hearing this, unties a large bundle of clean clothes, 
wrapped up in a dirty sheet or tablecloth, from 
which he extracts a shirt, the property of one of his 
customers ; Mr. Lank shoves it into the coolie’s hand, 
saying, “Take that.” On arriving at the house, he finds 
a nice little storm has been brewing, on account of 
the length of time he has been away, but when the 
shirt is put on, and found that it will neither button 
at the wrists nor collar, the storm bursts in full 
force upon that coolie, who, instead of bringing master’s 
shirt, has brought one, the property of some one else. 
Take that shirt, go back, and get it changed. 
Odu! Suruha!!^’’ But the coolie does not hear 
'• Suruka” this time, for the first word, “ Odu,*’ he 
has mistaken for a word, especially when 
there is any near prospect of its being put into prac- 
tice, he holds in far greater dread and destestation than 
his constant enemy “ suruJca. ” But when the two 
are used together, the effect is somewhat similar to 
the application of an electric battery to his bare legs.. 
“ If you don’t be quick, run, you will be beaten.” 
Under these circumstances, whoever tries to beat the 
kitchen coolie on a run will be beaten. But it is 
astonishing how people do, or at all events did, 
manage to dress, under adverse circumstances. But, 
in the meantime, the horse is brought round to the 
door. Master is late, and in a great hurry to be off. 
So, one of the originally rejected shirts is again re- 
sorted to, and the boy put in active service. 
“ Some good strong thread, suruha.” This being pro- 
cured, he rolls it round the wristbands several times, 
ties a good double knot, and bites off the ends of 
the string with bis sharp teeth, as cleverly, indeed 
much more so, than a pair of scissors w'ould have 
done. He then, with a penknife, hastily snatched from 
the writing-table, bores two holes in the shirt collar, 
where the button and button hole had, or ought 
to have, been. Into these he inserts another piece of 
string, and, while biting off the ends with his teeth, 
master suddenly feels squeamish, from a strong smell 
of garlic, inhaled into his nostrils. “No buttons on 
the front,” he exclaims, “look sharp and bring a couple 
of pins, ” which being fastened, he now feels sort of 
being rigged out. But there is something else. “ Spurs, 
what have you done with my spurs?” “Here ear, 
coming sar,” shouts the boy, dragging out from 
under the clothesstand, from amongst a heap of old 
useless shoes, all heaped over with equally useless 
dust and dirt, the missing spurs. Without examination, 
they are hastily applied to the heels of the boots, 
but they won’t stick on, one spur is wanting an 
