Chess is a fine, intellectual game, no doubt, but, somehow or other, a sad tryer of the temper; and, whether beaten or victorious, unless possessed of more than ordinary tact and self-command, you may chance to quarrel with, and possibly alienate, your friend.
Thus, then, with some little variety, reading, or conversation, passed we the evenings of our sojourn together—the pleasantest by far of my griffinage.
The voyage to Burhampore, the first large military station on the river, occupied ten or twelve days. I shall briefly touch on a few more of its incidents.
In spite of General Capsicum’s friendly advice to indulge moderately in field sports, like ninety nine out of every hundred griffins, I commenced my popping operations almost from the day of starting, keeping up a sort of running fire, with little intermission, till I reached my destination.
My knowledge of Indian ornithology being extremely limited, I declared war against all of the feathered race that presented themselves—particularly the paddy-birds and snippets. The first, a sort of small crane, abounding in the rice-fields, and which it is considered by sportsmen the acmé of Johnny-rawism to shoot, under the impression that they are game; the second, a sort of sand-lark, which runs ducking along the banks of the river, and are so tame, being accustomed to boats, that it is difficult to make them take wing. These, in my simplicity, I took for Bengal snipes, and sometimes, poor little devils, opened a point-blank battery on them from my bolio window, knocking them, of course, to “immortal smash.”
I had, it is true, gained an inkling from Tom and Marpeet touching the nature of such proceedings, with some warnings to avoid them, though it was reserved for Captain Belfield, a few days after we left Hoogly, to renew the admonition, with better effect. This arose out of the following occurrence.
I returned one evening to his budgerow, laden—i.e., Ramdial, bearer, and Nuncoo, matar, were charged with the porterage of the following miscellaneous bag of game, to wit: a cock-vulture, with fine red wattles (which I shot, thinking he was a wild turkey), four snippets, five paddy-birds, three doves, a gillarie, or striped squirrel, a braminy kite, and a jackal.
The boats were just coming to, the poor dandies, after a hard day’s pull, winding up their tow-lines, and old Phœbus himself just sinking to rest, spreading his glorious hues over the broad bosom of the Bagheriti, as,
Spent with extreme toil,
Weary and faint,