The syce for some reason had descended, and the lady was alone.
Just then a huge elephant with painted sides came swinging down the steep street, at the head of a religious procession, singing and clashing cymbals.
The lady's pony, a dun country-bred, took fright and bolted.
Ernie saw her face, quite calm beneath her solar topee, as she rushed past him, pulling at the run-away. It was Mrs. Lewknor.
A few yards down the street the wheels of the tum-tum cannoned into a sack borne by a small donkey. The donkey, already tottering beneath his load, collapsed and lay in the dust unable to rise.
The driver of the donkey, an unsavoury giant, pock-marked, abused the mem-sahib. A crowd gathered. The religious procession was held up, the elephant swinging his trunk discontentedly and spouting showers of dust over his flanks.
Ernie didn't like the look of things, for it was common talk in the lines that the native city was mutinous.
He came up quickly. The presence of the man in khaki steadied the crowd and stopped the chatter.
"Best get out of this, 'm," he suggested. "They look a bit funny."
He took the pony's head and turned him.