Clad in aquascutic garments, and
surmounted by an ungainly two-rupee bazaar umbrella (my dapper British one
having been annexed by a covetous Mangi)--
"Ombrifuge, Lord love you, case o' rain,
I flopped forth 'sbuddikins on my own ten toes."
The whole slope in front of the hut was a trickle of water, threading the
dying stalks of dock and ragwort, and hurrying down to add its dirty
pittance to the small yellow torrent rushing along the greasy strip of
clay that in happier days was the path.
The whole marg was become lake or stream--lake over the polo-ground and
half the golf-links--fed by the weeping slopes on every side, whence
innumerable rills rioted over the grass, emulating in ferocity and haste,
if not in size, the tawny torrents which drained the sides of Apharwat.
The road from the bazaar to the club was all but impassable, but as it had
still a few inches of freeboard, I followed it to the foot of the church
slope, and, skirting the hill, inspected the desolation which had been
wrought at the Kotal hole, where the stream had torn through its banks and
wrecked the green.
During a visit of condolence to Mrs. Smithson, whose unfortunate husband
is pursuing markhor in Poonch, the sky cleared--a splendid effort in the
way of a "clearing shower" being followed by a decided break-up of the
pall of wet cloud in which we have been too long immersed. Not without a
severe struggle did Jupiter Pluvius consent to turn off the tap, but at
length the sun broke through the hanging clouds and sent their sodden grey
fragments swirling up the Ferozepore Nullah to break in foamy wreaths
round the ragged cliffs of Kulan.
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