The magistrate took this for fun, laughed immensely, and then said:—
"We had Lord Frederick Pontasguieure staying with us for a week, last winter. A very amusing character he was."
"O, had you? Was he amusing? O! We don't keep his company. Don't know him. I'd give a five-pound note to be in Piccadilly at this moment. This is a nice mess. But the traps are all right, I see. There's the dressing-case, and the writing-desk, and the little medicine-chest."
"Recline upon the bed, my lord, and have a gentle sleep. The punkah, you will find, will very speedily lull you to repose."
"Well, I will," said the valet; and soon fell fast asleep. The venetians were then closed, and the house kept as quiet as possible.
When Lord Jamleigh himself arrived, and established his identity, the scene that ensued may be easily imagined.
The magistrate, with a marvellous want of tact, acknowledged the mistake that he had made: told, in fact, the whole uncomplimentary truth. Lord Jamleigh, and perhaps with reason, was dreadfully annoyed at the idea that the servant should have been mistaken for himself; but he let out, however, that that was the third time the thing had happened, and that in future he should insist upon the fellow wearing livery, instead of plain clothes, and a black wide-awake hat.
The valet was speedily lifted out of the best bed, and transferred to another apartment, where he slept himself sober, and arose at about half-past one to explain to his lordship that he was not much in fault.
I would advise all noblemen and gentlemen who, like Lord Jamleigh, would take a bird's-eye look at India, not to travel with an European servant, who, in that country, is as helpless as an infant, and quite as troublesome, besides being in the way of everybody in every house. It is, moreover, cruel to the servant. He can talk to no one, and becomes perfectly miserable.