About four o’clock two of the company, who have been thoughtful enough to bring shotguns along, sally forth in quest of ducks.  They come plodding wearily back again shortly after dark, without any game, but with deep designs on the credulity of the non-sporting members of the company.  In reply to the general and stereotyped query, “Shoot anything?” one of the erring pair replies, “Yes, we shot several canvas-backs, but lost them in the reeds; didn’t we, old un?” “Yes, five,” promptly asserts “old un,” a truthful young man of about three-and-twenty summers.  After this, the silence for the space of a minute is so profound that we can hear each other think, until one of the company, acting as spokesman for the silent reflections of the others, inquires, “Anybody know of any reeds about Katoum-abad?” Some one is about to reply, but sportsman No. 1 artfully waives further examination by heaping imprecations on the unkempt head of a dervish, who at this opportune moment commences a sing-song monotone, in a most soul-harrowing key, outside our menzil doorway.

A slight drizzling rain is falling when the early riser of the company wakes up and peeps out at daybreak next morning, but it soon ceases, and by seven o’clock the ground is quite dry.  The road for a mile or so is too lumpy to admit of mounting, as is frequently the case near a village, and my six companions accompany me to ridable ground.  As I mount and wheel away, they wave hats and send up three ringing cheers and a “tiger,” hurrahs that roll across the gray Persian plain to the echoing hills, the strangest sound, perhaps, these grim old hills have ever echoed; certainly, they never before echoed an English cheer.

And now, as my friends of the telegraph staff turn about and wend their way back to Teheran, is as good a time as any to mention briefly the manner in which these genial lightning-jerkers assisted to render my five months’ sojourn in the Persian capital agreeable.  But a few short hours after my arrival in Teheran, I was sought out by Messrs. Meyrick and North, who no sooner learned of my intention to winter here, than they extended a cordial invitation to join them in their already established bachelors’ quarters, where four disconsolate halves of humanity were already messing harmoniously together.  With them I took up my quarters, and, under the liberal and wholesome gastronomic arrangements of the establishment, soon acquired my usual semi-embon-point condition, and recovered from that gaunt, hungry appearance that the hardships and scant fare of the journey from Constantinople had imparted.  The house belonged to Mr. North, and he managed to give me a little room to myself for literary work, and, under the influence of a steady stream of letters and papers from friends and well-wishers in England and America, that snug little apartment, with a round, moon-like hole in the thick mud wall for a window, soon acquired the den-like aspect that seems inseparable from the occupation of distributing ink.