the hartleys soon left their pleasant place of sojourn, and started on their journey towards talwandi. the piano and large packing-cases had been sent on before by a luggage train; and harold had arranged that a big bullock-cart should meet them at the station where the railway-line must be quitted. nothing could be pleasanter to the young couple than the journey as long as it could be made by train, though, for economy’s sake, the carriage which they occupied was second class. the travellers were to descend at the station of chuanwál, twenty miles from talwandi. harold had made every possible arrangement beforehand for the comfort of his young bride. he had secured a dák-gári (the indian substitute for a post-chaise) in which she should accomplish the last part of the journey.

chuanwál was reached. after helping alicia down to the platform, and rapidly emptying the carriage of two big rolls of bedding, umbrellas, a hamper, and six or seven other articles which must on no account be left behind, harold looked for the station-master.

“you have been good enough to lay our dák; a carriage is ready, i hope?” said harold.

“here is the munshi, sir; he will explain,” said the station-master, as a stout, dark, sensuous-looking man came forward, book in hand and pencil behind his thick ear, proud of an opportunity of airing his stock of english.

“dák no lay—can’t lay. no station talwandi way—dusri ráh [other way]. how sahib change horses where no horses be found?” said the munshi.

“well, suppose that we cannot change horses on the journey, one pair of stout animals can easily accomplish twenty miles.” the last part of harold’s sentence was half drowned in the shrill scream of the departing train.

the fat munshi seemed to see mountains of difficulty in the way. “if horses go talwandi, must come back chuanwál,” at last he sagely observed.

“of course; they will return here to-morrow. the question is, have you the gári [carriage] and horses which i ordered three days ago?”

after a good deal of beating about the bush and cross-questioning, harold elicited the fact that there was a gári, and moreover a pair of horses.

“then have the horses put in at once. why were they not ready? the lady is tired of waiting,” said harold, glancing towards alicia, who was sitting on one of the bundles of bedding.

orders were given to a man waiting near, who went off to see about the gári; and the munshi took his pencil from behind his ear. “sahib must pay beforehand,” said the munshi.

“all right. how much have i to pay?” asked young hartley, drawing from his pocket his bag of rupees.

the munshi surveyed the bag, perhaps making a calculation as to its probable contents, then named a sum that was an exorbitant charge for so short a journey. to pay it would more than drain harold’s bag. the missionary remonstrated, but in vain. the munshi knew that the travellers were in his power. they must pay what he chose to demand, or no dák-gári should start.

“i shall inform the government official of the extortion,” began harold; but he was not allowed to conclude the sentence.

“no government dák—private affair,” said the munshi, showing a row of white teeth in a smile of triumph. “if sahib no like pay, sahib try find ekká.”

harold’s first thought was, “so i will;” but when he glanced again at his simply but elegantly dressed wife, he could not bear the idea of her having to climb up into a vehicle so rude, to be jolted over twenty miles of rough road, seated oriental fashion, and holding the ropes at the side to prevent herself from being jerked out on the road. no, no; harold would not take his bride home in an ekká.

“harold, what is all this delay and discussion about?” asked alicia, who, weary of waiting, had sauntered up to the side of her husband.

“this fellow is making an unreasonable demand: he asks for more than i have with me,” said harold, looking slightly annoyed.

“oh, is that all? i’ll be your banker,” cried alicia. “just help me to open my box, and i’ll get out the money.”

in a few minutes alicia’s pretty purse was in the hand of her husband. the lady was rather amused at the idea of lending to harold; but he was by no means pleased at having to borrow from his bride. the money was paid, the amount registered in the munshi’s greasy book, and in due time the gári appeared.

“is it not like an old bathing-machine?” said alicia. “it looks hardly as luxurious as one would expect from the cost of its hire.”

a dák-gári is by no means luxurious, especially on a rough country road. it has neither springs nor windows, and cushions must be improvised from the rugs which travellers carry with them. however, alicia was perfectly satisfied. “mission mem sahibas must not care for luxury,” thought she.

when nearly half the journey had been accomplished, the travellers passed a heavily-laden bullock-cart, slowly jolting on its way.

“there, see! there’s our piano and our big cases!” exclaimed alicia. “i thought that we should find them all ready unpacked on our arrival at home. we sent on the luggage ages ago.”

“there was probably some hitch at the station,” said harold; “and bullocks travel very slowly indeed. but the cart will be in before morning; we shall arrive some hours before it.”

harold was calculating without his host, or rather without his horses. a brief pause was made half-way to talwandi for the driver to quench his own thirst and that of his horses, and to indulge himself with a pull at his hookah. the pause was unfortunate, for it gave one of the animals time to consider that he had not been taken out of harness and relieved by another horse, as he had a right to expect. the creature resolutely determined—and some indian horses have resolute wills—not to go a single step further. the driver had resumed his seat on the box, and cracked his whip as a sign to move on; but in vain was whip-cracking or urging or beating. the horse reared and plunged and kicked, and turned almost right round, after the fashion of nat-kat (naughty) horses in india.

“o harold! harold! what is that dreadful creature doing?” exclaimed alicia, in terror grasping her husband’s arm.

“it is only that we have a nat-kat in the shafts,” replied harold. “there will be a regular battle between the will of man and horse, as shown in the picture which we were looking at in the clever book ‘curry and rice.’”

“oh, this is terrible!” cried alicia, as the horse’s iron hoofs beat a tattoo against the gári. “there—oh, look!—he has turned round—his head will be in the carriage; he’s as fierce as a tiger! what a frightful noise he makes—between a neigh and a scream!”

“i will get out and help the driver,” said harold, with his hand on the sliding panel of the gári, which was but half pushed back.

“oh no; the horse will kick you or bite you—nat-kat horses bite!” cried alicia, almost frantic with terror. stronger nerves than hers have been tried by a nat-kat brute.

neither could the driver master the furious beast, nor harold soothe the terrified lady. a quarter of an hour passed—a half-hour; mindless of rein, only irritated by blows, kicking, snorting, backing, now to the right side of the road, then to the left, doing his utmost to overturn the heavy gári, the nat-kat would go any way but forward.

“o harold, i can bear this no longer; help me out!” gasped alicia, looking so pale that her husband feared that she was going to faint. catching his opportunity, harold sprang from the gári, lifted his wife down on the side nearest the quieter horse, and placed the trembling lady at a safe distance from the heels of the plunging nat-kat.

“harold, i feel so nervous; i will not attempt to get into that carriage again,” faltered alicia hartley.

“but we must go on, my love; the driver will at last get the better in the struggle.”

“there is the bullock-cart coming along the road; we will go in that, the oxen are so quiet. oh, mercy!”

the nat-kat, half-maddened by the punishment which he was receiving, with distended nostrils and flashing eyes, was indeed attempting to bite as well as to kick. harold in vain urged that the bullocks would take hours to accomplish the journey, and that the sun was about to set. alicia declared that to go home slowly was better than not getting home at all. harold was constrained to let the timid creature have her own way, and the furious horse had his; for while alicia was with difficulty squeezing herself behind the piano, and harold trying to arrange the luggage taken from the gári, the nat-kat and his companion were tearing away at the utmost speed that the weight of the gári permitted on their way back to chuanwál station. mightily amused was the fat munshi when he heard of the adventure, and with great satisfaction he stroked his beard and jingled his bag of rupees.

it was some time before the nervous alicia, in her most uncomfortable niche in the bullock-cart, could recover her wonted composure. harold tried to make the best that he could of circumstances, but thought with regret of the despised ekká, in which he might so much more quickly and cheaply, and perhaps more comfortably too, have accomplished a tiresome journey. poor alicia had been so much frightened, and was now so much shaken and tired, that she had difficulty in keeping in her tears. she had a fear that she had displeased, or at least had annoyed, harold, and that robin would laugh at her for making so poor a beginning of missionary life. the slow pace of the bullocks made the journey terribly tedious, and dark night closed in long before they had accomplished five miles.

travelling adventures were not over. a bit of specially bad and boggy road was encountered. first the cart stuck fast in the mud. harold sprang down, and his exertions, combined with those of the driver and the struggles of the belaboured oxen, at last succeeded in setting the clumsy conveyance in motion again. a few yards further on there was a sudden shock and a crash. one of the big wheels had come off. a great deal of the luggage was precipitated on the miry road.

“quite a night of adventures!” cried harold cheerfully, to reassure his young wife and prevent her noticing that a falling box had inflicted on his arm a very severe contusion. he bit his lip with pain, and then added in the same playful tone, “we shall laugh over our little troubles when we reach our destination.”

“but when shall we reach it?” exclaimed alicia; “how far are we now from talwandi?”

“i should say four miles,” replied harold; “but it is difficult to guess in the darkness, when one can see no landmarks. how we are to proceed with a wheel off is a difficult problem to solve. if you permit, i will press forward and bring back a lantern and my fathers tattu [pony], on which you will ride.”

“oh no; you must not leave me!” cried alicia, clinging like a terrified child to her husband’s strong arm. “i can walk—i would far rather walk.”

and walk she did, all the long weary way over a rough road; for the four miles proved to be five, and to the young traveller seemed to be ten. mr. hartley, after staying up till midnight to welcome the pair, had given them up and retired to rest, when harold and his tired—almost exhausted—bride reached the little bungalow at last.