the snaffle and picking her way as though she were shod with satin, and the sun shining divinely. The road below Mashobra to Fagoo is officially styled the Himalayan-Thibet Road; but in spite of its name it is not much more than six feet wide in most places, and the drop into the valley below may be anything between one and two thousand feet.
"Now we're going to Thibet," said the Man's Wife merrily as the horses drew near to Fagoo. She was riding on the cliff-side.
"Into Thibet," said the Tertium Quid, "Ever so far from people who say horrid things, and hubbies who write stupid letters. With you—to the end of the world!"
A coolie carrying a log of wood came round a corner and the mare went wide to avoid him—fore-feet in and haunches out, as a sensible mare should go.
"To the world's end," said the Man's Wife, and looked unspeakable things over her near shoulder at the Tertium Quid.
He was smiling, but, while she looked, the smile froze stiff as it were, on his face, and changed to a nervous grin—the sort of grin that men wear when they are not quite easy in their saddles. The mare seemed to be sinking by the stern, and her nostrils cracked while she was trying to realise what was happening. The rain of the previous night had rotted the drop-side of the Himalayan-Thibet Road, and it was giving way under her. "What are you doing?" said the Man's Wife. The Tertium Quid gave no answer. He grinned nervously and set his spurs into the mare who rapped with her fore-feet on the road, and the struggle began. The Man's Wife screamed, "Oh Frank, get off!"
But the Tertium Quid was glued to the saddle—his face blue and white—and he looked into the Man's Wife's eyes. Then the Man's Wife clutched at the mare's head and caught her by the nose instead of the bridle. The mare threw up her head and went down with a scream, the Tertium Quid upon her, and the nervous grin still set on his face.
