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126 not take special care; observe how cruelly they regard the indifferent waiters, and how they scowl on the gallant Major Timpson, who perhaps does savour a little of the pantaloon, which is what we must all come to even if we are statesmen, provided we live long enough. Dreadful are the observations of Blaireau on the Indian wife-market, and scorching his glances at that burly bagsman in the Fez cap and dirty shirt cuffs, who drags all the dishes to him, talks loud, eats with his knife, and roars for a distant joint like a starving giant.

About an hundred and fifty people are dining in one room; there are three long tables full of English people either going to India or returning with livers injured or to be injured; with rupees or without rupees; browned and to be browned; roasted and to be roasted, until further orders.

The dragomen in the gay turbans stand behind their masters’ chairs, securing the food by dexterous dashes at dishes, and subtle swift conveyings, to the infinite wrath of Blaireau, and the other servantless. The champagne corks fly about like bullets, and the pop-pop from left to right of subdivisions is a perfect compliment to the army, and is grateful to the old soldiers’ ears, to judge by the brightening of their old eyes; shouts of congratulations and ship-board jokes pass freely round to the indignation of Blaireau, who is peeling an orange as spitefully as if he was flaying the now rather garrulous Major.

The noise of clattering plates and falling spoons is deafening. All at once “twang-twang” goes a harp; “zoon-zoon” goes a bass violin. It is a German band from an Alexandria café—three women and two men—come on purpose to cheer and welcome the Overland Mail, for Indians returning to England are notoriously generous even to lavishness. They play that pretty regretful “Che faro senza Euridice,” then a Bohemian dance, and a Varsoviana; then a polka. The “punkawallah,” and “Indian shop talk,” blends with the music, together with all sorts of utterances that reach one by fits,—as “Major Timpson, your health.” “My dear boy, I never felt better in my life.” “How were the Neversages when you last heard?” “The tide at Madras, sir, rises fourteen.” “The climate up the country is charming.” “Is the Dromedary a fast boat.” “Captain Plunger has got his step.” “Rum hole this,” and so on. “Waiter, more champagne; and, waiter, a pomegranate,” &c. &c.

Finally the soup, flabby Nile fish, meat, gazelle, turkey, grapes, pomegranates, &c., disappear, and “God save the Queen” is played, as the prettiest of the band comes round with a bottle stand, artfully sprinkled with silver bait, and smiling, shakes it before you. But at that tune, so suggestive of old times and the old country, Major Timpson rises, all rise and cheer the pompous good old time; and the cadets, exhilarated with champagne, go on cheering till Blaireau goes nearly mad, and the proprietor has to come in and stop them.

Then the ladies sweep off with conquering Parthian smiles, and more champagne is drunk; and lastly in cluster, the homeward-bound and outward-bound retire to the platform outside the hotel, and though it is October, sit out and smoke in the white moonlight, or stroll up and down across the silver striped shadows of the trees, discussing the past or guessing at the future.

It will be near midnight, and the moon half across the square, before the last tired waiter will take in the last chair, and water-pipe and charcoal-stand, and sleepily bar the great doors of Shepherd’s Hotel. But long before those doors are shut, and long after when they are, will steal in with the thin moonbeams, through every window, spite of curtains, shutters, and mosquito nets, dreams of dear old English places, beloved by those homeward-bound and outward-bound sleepers—dreams of quiet close shaven lawns, and ivied terraces, and little cottages, smiling through roses and coverts of dwarf oak, alive with restless dogs, and sloping downs where the greyhounds sweep and twist, and solemn old churches and rustic bridges, and chocolate coloured fallows smelling sweetly of fresh turned earth, and summer meadows rank with flowers, and everywhere round and among these scenes some loved face will move in the dark shadow of fear, or in the happy sunshine of hope.

To-morrow the relentless gong sounds soon after daybreak, and the great caravanserai will again return to life. The happy will awake to the reality of their happiness. The unhappy to the gloom of renewed misery. There will be a wailing of children, hurried dressing, hurried packing,—and much of that small anxiety about stray hat-boxes and runaway dressing-cases that tends to lessen the sorrow of a traveller’s parting. The breakfast is swiftly eaten. The carriages and horses are at the door. The homeward-bound and outward-bound part with good wishes and hand-shaking and touching of hats.

In half an hour more the train plunges into the desert, and Cairo’s minarets and palm-tree domes grow smaller and smaller till they disappear from the eyes of the outward-bound. Soon all will be desert on either side, and nothing living but an Indian file of gazelles seen till they reach the first station. That night they will be borne across the Red Sea in a steamer that is as hot as if it was a floating furnace—and so they go to India.

In the meanwhile a reserve train will bear off the happier homeward-bound in fire and vapour of smoke towards Alexandria, through cotton-fields downy-white, and roods of Indian corn, and bunchy sesame, and past myriads of mud huts, and plumed palm-trees.

There is a scamper to Pompey’s pillar; much falling off donkeys, then a hurried dinner, and a scuffling embarkation. The oars dip and drip, and feather and splash. The great steamer looms out larger and larger, and slowly grows to a stupendous reality. Hearty English faces smile over the bulwarks, and from the pendent steps and the grated platform on to which the homeward-bound, tawny and of a curry powder colour, will contrive to leap, with again something of the old vigour. Now the sailors stamp round and get up the anchor. The fife plays “The Roast Beef of Old England.” The busy Captain touches his hat, and welcomes them. The great ship moves, it begins to breathe hard and fierce. The glaring sand-hills on shore recede. The lighthouse is now but a white bodkin. Hurrah! we’re out of the harbour and on our way to dear old England.