A rest of two days and a few doses of quinine subdue the fever and put me in condition to resume my journey.  Twelve miles from Benares, on the East Indian Kail way, is Mogul Serai, to which I deem it advisable to wheel in the evening, by way of getting started without over-exertion at first.  Two English railroad engineers are stationed at Mogul Serai, and each of them is a wheelman.  They, of course, are delighted to offer me the hospitality of their quarters for the night, and, moreover, put forth various inducements for a longer stay; but being anxious to reach Calcutta, I decide to pull out again next morning.

My entertainers accompany me for a few miles out.  Mogul Serai is four hundred and twelve miles from Calcutta, and at the four hundred and fourth milestone my companions bid me hearty bon voyage and return.  Splendid as are the roads round about Mogul Serai, this eight-mile stone is farther down the road than they have ever ridden before.

Twenty-five miles farther, and a sub-inspector of police begs my acceptance of curried chicken and rice.  He is a five-named Mohammedan, and tells me a long story about his grandfather having been a reminder of a hundred and fifty villages, and an officer in the East India Company’s army.  On the pinions of his grandparents’ virtues, his Oriental soul soars ambitiously after present promotion; on the strength of sundry eulogistic remarks contained in certificates already in his possession, he wants one from myself recommending him to the powers that be for their favorable consideration.  He is the worst “certificate fiend” that I have met.

Near Sassaram I meet a most picturesque subject for my camera, a Kajput hill-man in all the glory of shield, spear, and gayly feathered helmet.  He is leading a pack-pony laden with his travelling kit, and mechanically obeys when I motion for him to halt.  He remains stationary, and regards my movements with much curiosity while I arrange the camera.  When the tube is drawn out, however, and pointed at him, and I commence peeping through to arrange the focus, he gets uneasy, and when I am about ready to perpetuate the memory of his fantastic figure forever, he moves away.  Nor will any amount of beckoning obtain for me another “sitting,” nor the production and holding aloft of a rupee.  Whether he fancied the camera in danger of going off, or dreaded the “evil eye,” can only be surmised.

The famous fleet-footed mail-carriers of Bengal are now frequently encountered on the road; they are invariably going at a bounding trot of eight or ten miles an hour.  The letter-bag is attached to the end of a stick carried over the shoulder, which is also provided with rings that jingle merrily in response to the motions of the runner.  The day is not far distant when all these men will be mounted on bicycles, judging from the beginning already made at Allahabad and Cawnpore.  The village women hereabouts wear massive brass ankle-ornaments, six inches broad, and which are apparently pounds in weight.