Mr. Gregson glanced out on the prospect—the dusty cactus hedge, the white telegraph posts, the expanse of brownish grass, black goats, and jungle.
“Any village, any dâk bungalow?” demanded the political agent, who might have known better than to ask.
“I’m afraid not, your honour. If your honour will wait here, we will send a messenger to the next station on foot, and tell them to telegraph for another train from the junction. This will arrive at the other side of the break, and take you on about twelve o’clock to-morrow.”
“And meanwhile we are to sit here!” cried Mr. Gregson, indignantly. “A pretty state of affairs! I’ll send a memo to the railway engineer that will astonish him,” he said, turning to Goring. “It’s four now, and we shall be here till twelve o’clock to-morrow, if we don’t mind. We shall be late for the durbar, and I shall have to wire, ‘unavoidably absent.’”
“I wonder if there is any sport to be had?” said Goring, descending from the carriage, and stretching his long legs. “Any shooting, any black buck?” looking at the guard interrogatively.
“Ah, that reminds me!” exclaimed Mr. Gregson. “The Rajah has a hunting box somewhere in these parts—Kori; we can go there for the night.”
“Yes, your honour,” assented a listener, with profound respect; “but it is four koss from here—a ‘Kutcha’ road—and a very poor part of the state.”
“I vote we stop here,” said Goring. “We can shoot a bit, and come back and dine, and sleep in the train. We shall be all right and jolly; twice as comfortable as in some tumble-down old summer-house.”
“I shall go to Kori, at any rate,” rejoined his superior officer, who resented opposition. “The place is kept up, and I’ve never seen it. This will be a capital opportunity to inspect it.”
“But it’s four koss away; and how are we to get our baggage, and bedding, and grub over?”