The China Bazaar is much farther into the city, quite in the native
quarter. It is a real adventure to make an expedition there, and the
owners allow us to poke in back rooms from which we unearth wondrous
treasures in the way of old brass vases; queer, slender-necked
scent-bottles still faintly smelling of roses; old lacquer boxes, and
bits of rich embroidery. I am becoming a Shylock in the way I beat
down prices. I shouldn't wonder a bit when I go home and am ruffling
it once more in Bond Street if, when told the price of a thing is a
guinea, I laugh in a jocular way and say, "Oh! come now, I'll give you
ten shillings."
But to return to Hindustani. I haven't told you all I know. I can ask
for _tunda_ beef, which is cold beef, just as _tunda pani_ is cold
water, _gurrum pani_ being hot! I can order what I want at meals. At
first when I wanted boiled eggs and heard Boggley order _unda bile_, I
remonstrated, "Not under-boiled, hard-boiled," until it was explained
to me that _unda_ meant egg. The native can't say any word beginning
with s without putting a _y_ before it, thus--y-spice beef, y-street.
When men come to see us I cry, "_Qui hai?_" and, when the servant
appears, order "_Peg lao--cheroot lao_," and feel intensely
Anglo-Indian and rather fast. One trait the language has which appeals
greatly to me is that one can spell it almost any way one likes, but
that is enough about Hindustani for one letter.
_23rd_.
I have come in from a ride with Boggley.
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