Not feeling
the need of either guide or guard particularly, I decline the old
fellow's services "with thanks," and push on; happy, in fact, to find
myself once more untrammelled by native company.
Small towers of refuge, dotting the plain thickly about Karize, tell of
past depredations by the Turkomans. An outlying village like Karize must,
indeed, have had a hard struggle for existence; right in the heart of the
daman country, too. For miles the plain is found to be grassy as the
Western prairies; an innovation from the dreary gray of the camel-thorn
dasht that is quite refreshing. A stream or two has to be forded, and
many Afghans are met returning from pilgrimage to Meshed.
The village of Torbet-i-Sheikh Jahm is reached at noon, a pleasant town
containing many shade-trees. Here, I find, resides Ab-durrahzaak Khan, a
sub-agent of Mirza Abbas Khan, and consequently a servant of the Indian
Government. He is one of the frontier agents, whose duty it is to keep
track of events in a certain section of country and report periodically
to headquarters. He, of course, receives me hospitably, does the
agreeable with tea and kalians, and provides substantial refreshments.
The soothing Shi-razi tobacco provided with his kalians, and the
excellent quality of his tea, provoke me to make comparison between them
and the wretched productions of Afghanistan.
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