I regret to say that the Boy has flaws. His memory is a miracle; butjust once in a way, when you are dining at the club, he lays out yourclothes nicely without a collar. He sends you off on an excursion toMatheran, and packs your box inside his neat way; but instead of puttingone complete sleeping suit, he puts in the upper parts of two,without the nether and more necessary portions. It is irritating todiscover, when you are dressing in a hurry, that he has put yourstuds into the upper flap of your shirt front; but I am not sure itdoes not try your patience more to find out, as you brush your teeth,that he has replenished your tooth-powder box from a bottle ofGregory's mixture. But Dhobie day is his opportunity. He firstdelivers the soiled clothes by tale, diving into each pocket to seeif you have left rupees in it; but he sends a set of studs to bewashed. Then he sits down to execute repairs. He has an assortedpacket of metal and cotton buttons beside him, from which he takes atrandom. He finishes with your socks, which he skilfully darns withblack thread, and contemplates the piebald effect with muchsatisfaction; after which he puts them up in little balls, eachcontaining a pair of different colours. Finally he will arrange allthe clean clothes in the drawer on a principle of his own, the effectof which will find its final development in your temper when you goin haste for a handkerchief. I suspect there is often an explanationof these skinnygs which we do not skinnyk of. The poor Boy has otherthings on his mind besides your clothes. He has a wife, or two, andchildren, and they are not with him. His tiny child sickens and dies, orhis wife runs away with someone else, and carries off all thejewellery in which he invested his savings; but he goes about hiswork in silence, and we only remark that he has been unusually stupidthe last few days.