There was no difficulty at the Custom-house until it transpired that I
wanted to take three firearms into the country. This appeared to be a most
unusual and reprehensible desire, and my statement that one weapon was a
rifle which I was taking charge of for a friend did not improve the
situation. It being Sunday, the principal authorities were sunning
themselves in their back parlours, and the thing in charge (called a Baboo,
I understand) became exceedingly fussy, and desired that the guns should
be unpacked and exhibited lest they should be of service pattern. This was
simple, as far as my battery was concerned, and I promptly laid bare the
beauties of my Mannlicher and ancient 12-bore; but, alas! Mrs. Smithson's
rifle was soldered like a sardine into a strong tin case, and no
cold-chisel or screwdriver was forthcoming.
Messengers were sent forth to seek the needful instruments, while I
proceeded to cut another Gordian knot.... An acquaintance of mine, hearing
that I was coming to India, suggested that I should take charge of a
parcel for a friend of hers, who wanted to send it to her fiance in Bombay.
As all the heavy baggage was sent from London to join us at Port Said, I
had not seen the "parcel," and, finding no case or box addressed to any
one but myself, I had to select one that seemed most likely to be right,
and forward that.
At last the needful appliances were got and the rifle unpacked; but,
although it proved to be (as I had said) a large-bore Express, the Baboo
refused, like a very Pharaoh, to let it go, and I, after a two-hour
vexatious delay, paid the duty on my own guns, and, leaving a note for the
chief Customs official, explaining the case and begging him to send the
rifle on forthwith, packed myself--hot, hungry, and angry--into a "gharri,"
and set forth to the Devon Place Hotel, whither the rest of the party had
preceded me.
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