EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

road for rest. The rocks now shimmered in the heat.
The very leather of the seats was hot. The brilliant
light glanced upward and penetrated, it seemed, the
brain. The bare hills were screened by no trees. Even
the hardy scrub was withered and drooping. It seemed
the land that God forgot.

At the side of the road was the samovar shop. A rude,
tumbledown verandah, and a window from which there
hung a matting cover. There was at first no sign of
activity, but at the sound of the car a man came out of
the back room and stood upon his doorstep. The driver
climbed stiffly out of the driving-seat, and the " ballast "
tumbled out of the back, their bundles dropping into the
road.

Their cheerfulness did not forsake them at sight of the
sparse comfort of the cafe. They entered gaily and
demanded hot bowls of tea and thick slabs of bread.
Conversation with the owner was brisk and loud, and I
could see by the frequent pointings that I was honoured
by being their chief topic.

I pulled out the water-skin and the packet of food that
the genial Mr. Gai, Parsi grocer of Peshawar and general
man of knowledge of all things Afghan, had made up for
me. It was stale and tasteless, and the water was hot.
But the fare seemed better than the refreshment in
the cafe.

On the other side of the road there was a round, slime-
covered pond. The local cow stood in the water up to the
knees. The sores opt her back were open, and her tail was
nearly twisted from the body by the persuasive tactics of
the cowherds. By and by there came an Afghan boy,
leading on a rope a limping pi-dog, without the spirit of
a bark in its throat. Slowly and thoughtfully the boy
began throwing stones at the wretch, lazily and methodi-
cally, while he still held on to the rope. Now and again

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