, when I ask him to obtain me
something to eat, would be laughable in the extreme. "N-a-y, Sahib,
n-a-y." he replies, with a show of mental distraction as great as though
ordered to fetch me the moon. An appeal for rice, milk, dhal,
chuppatties, at several stalls results in the same failure; everybody
seems utterly bewildered at the appearance of a Sahib among them
searching for something to eat. The village policeman is on duty in the
land of dreams, a not unusual circumstance, by the way; but a youth
scuttles off and wakes him up, and notifies him of my arrival. Anxious to
atone for his shortcomings in slumbering at his post, he bestirs himself
to obtain the wherewithal to satisfy my hunger, his authoritative efforts
culminating in the appearance of a big dish of dhal.

The country becomes hillier, and the wild, jungle-covered hills and dark
ravines alongside the road are highly suggestive of royal Bengal tigers.
The striped monsters infest these jungles in plenty; during the afternoon
I pass through a village where a depredatory man-eater has been carrying
off women and children within the last few days.

The chowkeedar at Burhee, my stopping-place for the night in the hill
country, is a helpless old duffer, who replies "nay-hee, Sahib, nay-hee,"
with a decidedly woe-begone utterance in response to all queries about
refreshments. A youth capable of understanding a little English turns up
shortly, and improves the situation by agreeing to undertake the
preparation of supper. Still more hopeful is the outlook when a Eurasian
and a native school-master appear upon the scene, the former acting as
interpreter to the genial pedagogue, who is desirous of contributing to
my comfort by impressing upon my impromptu cook the importance of his
duties. They become deeply interested in my tour of the world, which the
scholarly pedagogue has learned of through the medium of the vernacular
press. The Eurasian, not being a newspaper-reader, has not heard anything
of the journey. But he has casually heard of the River Thames, and his
first wondering question is as to "how I managed to cross the Thames!"

My saturated karki clothing has been duly wrung out and hung up inside
the dak bungalow, the only place where it will not get wetter instead of
dryer, and my cook is searching the town in quest of meat, when an
English lady and gentleman drive up in a dog-cart and halt before the
bungalow. Unaware of the presence of English people in