These worthy individuals are troubled about the khan’s independent conduct in going off alone to spend money where they cannot witness the transaction.  They are sorely troubled as to probable sharp practice on the part of their social superior in the division of the spoils.

The “spoils!” Shades of Croesus!  The whole transaction is but an affair of battered kermis, intrinsically not worth a moment’s consideration; but it serves its purpose of affording an interesting insight into the character of my escort.

The poor mirza and the mudbake are, no doubt, fully justified in entertaining the worst opinions possible of the khan; he is a sad scoundrel, on a small scale, to say the least.  While they are growling out to each other their grievances and apprehensions, that artful schemer is riding his poor horse miles and miles over the stony hills to the camping-ground of some hospitable Eliaute chieftain, from whom he can obtain goosht-i-goosfany for nothing, and come back and say he bought it.

Several miles are slowly travelled by us three, when, no sign of the khan appearing, we decide upon a halt until he rejoins us.  In an hour or so the bizarre figure of the absentee is observed approaching us from over the hills, and before many minutes he is welcomed by a simultaneous query of “chand pool?” (how much money?) from his keenly suspicious comrades, delivered in a ludicrously sarcastic tone of voice.

“Doo Tceran,” promptly replies the khan, making a most hopeless effort to conceal his very palpable guilt beneath a transparent assumption of innocence.  The mirza and the mudbake make no false pretence of taking him at his word, but openly accuse him of deceiving them.  The khan maintains his innocence with vehement language and takes refuge in counter-accusations.  The wordy warfare goes merrily on for some minutes as earnestly as if they were quarrelling over their own honest money instead of over mine.  The joint query of “chand pool?” gathers an additional load of irony from the fact that they didn’t seem to think it worth while to even ask him what he had bought.

Across the pommel of his saddle he carries a young kid, which is now handed to the mudbake to be tethered to a shrub; he then dismounts and produces three or four pounds of cold goat meat.  Before proceeding again on our way we consume this cold meat, together with bread brought from last night’s rendezvous.  By reason of his social inferiority the mudbake is now required to assume the burden of carrying the youthful goat; he takes the poor kid by the scruff of the neck and flings it roughly across his saddle in a manner that causes the gleeful spirits of the khan to find vent in a peal of laughter.  Even the usually imperturbable countenance of the mirza lightens up a little, as though infected by the khan’s overflowing merriment and the mudbake’s rough handling of the young goat.  They know each other thoroughly—­as thoroughly as orchard-looting, truant-playing, teacher-deceiving school-boys—­these three hopeful aspirants to the favor of Allah; they are an amusing trio, and not a little instructive.