About ten o'clock the horses arrived, in charge of a miserable-looking
Shagird, in rags and a huge lamb's-wool cap, the only warm thing about
him. It was pitiful to see the poor wretch, with bare legs and feet,
shivering and shaking in the cutting wind and snow. The ponies, too,
looked tucked up and leg-weary, as if they had just come off a long
stage (which, indeed, they probably had) instead of going on one.
"Don't be alarmed; they are the proverbial rum 'uns to look at," said
our host, who would not hear of our setting out without saddle-bags
crammed with good things: cold meat, sardines, cigarettes, a couple of
bottles of brandy, and a flask of Russian vodka. But for these we must
literally have starved _en route_.
"Good-bye. Good luck to you!" from the colonel.
"En avant!" cries Gerome, with a deafening crack of his heavy chapar
whip. We are both provided with this instrument of torture - a thick
plaited thong about five feet long, attached to a short thick wooden
handle, and terminating in a flat leathern cracker of eight or ten
inches. A cut from this would make an English horse jump out of his
skin, but had little or no effect on the tough hides of our "chapar"
ponies.
