I approached one of the artistes—a lean and dejected Fakir, picturesquely attired in a suit of patched atmosphere.
"That's very nice," I said conciliatorily, "very nice indeed, in its way. But we don't much care for Wagner's music, nor Christy Minstrels. We would prefer to take a walk until your cornerman is through: at what time will the Nautch Girls appear?"
"Yes, yes," the heathen Hindu replied, with a knowing leer, "Nautch Girl ver' good, ver' good; Lonndonn Charlee, he likee Nautch Girl, ver' good."
"Yes," I said. "What time do they kick off?"
"Yes, yes, ver' good, ver' good, Nautch Girl," the mysterious Oriental replied; "she Nautch Girl bimeby done now; me go do conjur, ver' good, ver' good."
"Nautch Girl nearly done?" I cried. "Why, where is the Nautch Girl!"
"That Nautch Girl is dance now, ver' good, ver' good. Lonndonn Charlee, he likee Nautch Girl, ver' good."
At last the horrible truth dawned on me!
The person we had taken for a Christy Minstrel was the wantonly winding, lingeringly languishing Nautch Girl!!!