The character of the people has undergone a decided change since leaving Delhi and Agra, and the Bengalis impress one decidedly unfavorably in comparison with the more manly and warlike races of the Punjab.  Abject servility marks the demeanor of many, and utter uselessness for any purpose whatsoever, characterizes one’s intuitive opinion of a large percentage of the population of the villages.  Except for the pressing nature of one’s needs, the look of unutterable perplexity that comes over the face of a Bengali villager, to-day, 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 the place, I am taken completely by surprise.