The proper time to ride is
early morning, but I am too lazy and too timid to go when the place is
crowded, and so we ride in the cool of the evening, when we have the
race-course almost to ourselves. I ride one of Boggley's polo ponies,
Solomon by name. Boggley says he is as quiet as a lamb, but I am not
sure that he is speaking the strict truth; he has some nasty little
ways, it seems to me. He bites for one thing. We were riding with a
man the other night and quite suddenly his pony got up in the air and
nearly threw him. _Solomon had bitten him_. The man looked at me as
if it were my fault, and I regret to say I laughed. He has also an
ungentlemanly way of trying to rub me off against the railings, and
then again, for no apparent reason, he suddenly scurries wildly across
the Maidan while I pull desperately, but impotently, with fingers weak
from fright. Boggley coming behind convulsed with laughter, merely
remarks that I am a _funk-stick_--which, I take it, means the worst
kind of coward.
_29th_.
Think where I have been for the last three days!
Down the river in a launch. That kind Mrs. Townley was taking G. and
asked Boggley if I might go. We had to leave on Saturday morning
before seven to catch the tide, so I warned Bella that she must bring
my _chota-hazri_ before six; but I woke and found it was after six,
and there were no signs of the perfidious little black Bella. I wasn't
nearly ready when G. rushed in, but I threw on garments and we
fled, while Boggley, in his dressing-gown, followed with a parting
benediction of Peliti's cake as a substitute for tea and toast.
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