Presently, the pulp and the green stuff made a sort of slimy mildew which ran
over Golightly in several directions--down his back and bosom for choice. The
khaki color ran too--it was really shockingly bad dye--and sections of
Golightly were brown, and patches were violet, and contours were ochre, and
streaks were ruddy red, and blotches were nearly white, according to the
nature and peculiarities of the dye. When he took out his handkerchief to wipe
his face and the green of the hat-lining and the purple stuff that had soaked
through on to his neck from the tie became thoroughly mixed, the effect was
amazing.
Near Dhar the rain stopped and the evening sun came out and dried him up
slightly. It fixed the colors, too. Three miles from Pathankote the last pony
fell dead lame, and Golightly was forced to walk. He pushed on into Pathankote
to find his servants. He did not know then that his khitmatgar had stopped by
the roadside to get drunk, and would come on the next day saying that he had
sprained his ankle. When he got into Pathankote, he couldn't find his
servants, his boots were stiff and ropy with mud, and there were large
quantities of dirt about his body. The blue tie had run as much as the khaki.
So he took it off with the collar and threw it away.
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