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Alas! my thrifty little scheme was knocked on the head by a letter from my cousin Algy Langley. He is the eldest son of an eldest son; I am the younger son of a second son: and whereas I am a sub. in an infantry regiment, grilling on the plains of India, and working for my daily bread, Algy has run out for one cold weather, merely in search of variety and amusement.

“Why on earth should relations think it necessary to meet on one particular day, in order to eat a tasteless bird and an indigestible pudding?”

I put this question to Jones, as we sat in our mutual verandah, opening the midday dâk.

“Just look at this; it’s a beastly nuisance!” and I handed him Algy’s note, which said—

“Dear old Perky (my Christian name is Perkin),—This is to give notice that I am coming to eat my Christmas dinner with you. I arrive on the 21st, per mail train.—Yours,

“A. Langley.”

“What is your cousin like?” inquired Jones.

“Oh, a regular young London swell, who has never roughed it in his life. I suppose I shall have to turn out of my room,” I grumbled; “and I must borrow Robinson’s bamboo cart to meet him, for I believe he would faint if I put him in a bullock tonga at first—he must arrive at that by degrees!”