One wondered how the harness held together under our Australian
Jehu's vagaries.
The Maharajah had chosen the site of his camp well. On a bare
_maidan_ overhanging a turbulent river a veritable city of white
tents gleamed in the sunshine, all neatly ranged in streets and lanes.
The river was not, as most Indian rivers in the dry season, a mere
trickle of muddy water meandering through a broad expanse of stones
and sand-spits, but a clear, rushing stream, tumbling and laughing on
its way as gaily as any Scotch salmon river, and forming deep pools
where great mahseer lurked under the waving fringes of water-weeds,
fat fish who could be entrapped with a spoon in the early morning.
Each guest had a great Indian double tent, bigger than most London
drawing-rooms. The one tent was pitched inside the other after the
fashion of the country, with an air-space of about one foot between to
keep out the fierce sun. Indeed, triple-tent would be a more fitting
expression, for the inner tent had a lining dependent from it of that
Indian cotton fabric printed in reds and blues which we use for bed
quilts. Every tent was carpeted with cotton dhurees, and completely
furnished with dressing-tables and chests of drawers, as well as
writing-table, sofa and arm-chairs; whilst there was a little covered
canvas porch outside, fitted with chairs in which to take the air, and
a small attendant satellite of a tent served as a bath-room, with big
tin tub and a little trench dug to carry the water away.
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