The Bhootanese came up, swearing outrageously in his native lingo; declaring that the very devil was in the beast. He had bragged about his sure-footed ponies, but had not mentioned that they, too, when in unaccustomed places and particularly on elevations where the air was thin, were apt to become restless, and were then given to shyings and backings and misbehaviors quite foreign to them when on a lower level. The pony was anxious to get down and return home; the beast knew what was best for him. His Bhootanese master, enraged at the animal for behaving so, swore until the air was full of Himalaya imps, Bhootanese blue-devils, Nepaulese demons, and a varied assortment of ejaculatory grunts, both human and equine, all summoned for the occasion. Even in Occidental parlance it might be said that the Devil and his imps had been summoned to meet there on the pinnacle.
Fortunately this assortment of demon-devils were of native production; therefore not recognizable by the rest of the party; although not unknown to the ponies, who soon quieted down.
Miss Winchester, completely surrounded by the ejaculations, of course secured a choice assortment for literary purposes; she and the demons seemed to have it all their own way for the time being.
Adele was so preoccupied with keeping her seat in the saddle that she was conscious of neither imps nor sounds, but after peace was restored she turned to Paul:
“That man swore, didn’t he?”
“Yes, like a trooper.”
“Well, tell him the Bad Spirit will catch him if he does that sort of thing.”
“Then, perhaps, he’ll set the Old Boy on us.”
“I would like to see what the Bhootanese Old Boy is like, if he doesn’t scare my pony.”
“What would you do if you’d see him?”