I have with me a letter of introduction to an officer stationed at Jullundar.  Upon inquiry, however, I find that he is absent at Simla on leave.  Desirous of seeing something of Tommy Atkins in his Indian quarters, I therefore accept an invitation to remain at the barracks of the Royal Artillery until ready to resume my journey in the morning.  At this season of the year, an Indian cantonment presents the appearance of a magnificent park.  The barracks are large, commodious structures, built with a view to securing the best results for the health and comfort of the troops.

No soldiers in the world are so well fed, housed, and clothed as the British soldiers in India, and none receive as much pay, except the soldiers of the United States army.  That they are justly entitled to everything that can contribute to their happiness and welfare, goes without saying.  For actual service rendered, and the importance of the responsibilities resting on their shoulders, it is little enough to say that the British soldiers in India are entitled to a greater measure of consideration than the soldiers of any other army in existence.  This little army of fifty or sixty thousand men is practically responsible for the good behavior of one-sixth of the world’s population, saying nothing of affairs without.  And in addition to this is the wearisome round of existence in an Indian barrack, the enervating climate and the ennui, so poisonous to the active Anglo-Saxon temperament.

After all that is said for or against the Anglo-Indian army, the unprejudiced critic cannot fail to admit that they are the finest body of fighting men in existence, a force against which it would be impossible for an equal number of the soldiers of any other country to contend.  That the old dominant spirit of the British soldier is yet rampant as ever may be seen, perhaps, plainer in the cantonments of India than anywhere else.  The manifest superiority of Tommy Atkins as a fighter stands out in bold relief against the gentle populations of India, who regard him as the very incarnation of war and warlike attributes.  His own confidence in his ability to whip all the multitudinous enemies of England put together, is as great to-day as it ever was, and nothing would suit him better than a campaign against the military colossus of the North in defence of the British interests in India he now so faithfully guards.

The interest in my appearance is deepened by my recent adventures in Afghanistan and letters partly descriptive of the same that have appeared in late issues of the Indian press.  A mile or so from the Artillery barracks are the quarters of a detachment of the Connaught Rangers.  A couple of non-commissioned officers in the Rangers, I am happy to discover, are wheelmen, and when the tidings of the Around the World rider’s arrival reaches them, they wheel over and endeavor to have me become their guest.  The Royal Artillery boys refuse to give their protege up, however, and the rivalry is compromised by my paying the Rangers a visit and then coming back to my first entertainers’ quarters for the night.