An old yogi stood near an older well. He put a stone in the bucket, and the slave could not draw it up. Suddenly the bottom came out, and the stout water-carrier fell headlong backwards on the grass.
"Did you ever see anything of that kind before, Miss Eastinhoe?" I inquired.
"No, indeed," she replied. "I always before supposed that to fall headlong a man must go forwards."
"I am off to see a Certain Mighty Personage," Mr. Jacobs remarked, stooping casually from his saddle to kiss Miss Eastinhoe on her white gold hair, which shone so that it made the moon look, on the whole, rather sickly, as an electric light pales the gas-jet. "If I want you, I'll send for you. Lamb Ral has a Star Route contract and will bring you word."
He rode away, and I pensively smoked my tiffin.