“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.”