, when at 3 p.m. I mount and shape my course toward
Amritza, some thirty-five miles down the Grand Trunk Road.

In such a temperature and beneath such a sun it behooves the discreet
Caucasian to dress as carefully for protection against the heat as he
would against the frost of an Arctic winter. The United States army
helmet which I have constantly worn since obtaining it at Fort Sydney,
Neb., has now to be discarded in favor of a huge pith solar topee an inch
thick and but little smaller than an umbrella. This overshadowing
head-dress imparts a cheerful, mushroom-like aspect to my person, and
casts a shadow on the smooth whitish surface of the road, as I ride
along, that well-nigh obliterates the shadow of the wheel and its rider.

Thus sheltered from the rays of the Indian sun, I wheel through the
beautifully shaded suburban streets of Lahore, past dense thickets of
fruitful plantains, across the broad switch-yard of the Scinde, Delhi &
Punjab Railway, and out on to the smooth, level surface of the Grand
Trunk Road. This road is, beyond a doubt, the finest highway in the whole
world. It extends for nearly sixteen hundred miles, an unbroken highway
of marvellous perfection, from Peshawur on the Afghan frontier to
Calcutta. It is metalled for much of its length with a substance peculiar
to the country, known as kunkah. Kunkah is obtained almost anywhere
throughout the Land of the Five Rivers, underlying the surface soil. It
is a sort of loose nodular limestone, which when wetted and rolled
cements together and forms a road-surface smooth and compact as an
asphaltum pavement, and of excellent wearing quality. It is a magnificent
road to bicycle over; not only is it broad, level, and smooth, but for
much of the way it is converted into a veritable avenue by spreading
shade-trees on either side. Far and near the rich Indian vegetation,
stimulated to wear its loveliest garb by the early monsoon rains, is
intensely green and luxuriant; and through the richly verdant landscape
stretches the wide, straight belt of the road, far as eye can reach, a
whitish streak, glaring and quivering with reflected heat.

The natives of the Punjab, the most loyal, perhaps, of the Indian races,
are beginning to regard the Christian Sabbath as a holiday, and happy
crowds of people in holiday attire are gathered at the Shalamar Mango
Gardens, a few miles out of Lahore. Beyond the gardens, I meet a native
in a big red turban and white clothes, e