“Of course I haven’t, Fred. Is it likely?” exclaimed the justly-indignant housewife.  “Long before you were awake I helped the cook to pack the cold meat and sweets and cakes, and they went off before we left the bungalow.”

They were referring to a custom that obtains in the colonies of tea-planters who are scattered in ones, two, and threes on widely-separated estates.  Their one chance of meeting others of their colour is at the weekly gathering in the so-called club of the district.  This is very unlike the institutions known by that name to dwellers in civilised cities.  No marble or granite palace is it, but a rough wooden shed with one or two rooms built out in the forest far from human habitations, but in a spot as central and equi-distant to all the planters of the district as possible.  A few tennis courts are made beside it, or perhaps a stretch of jungle is cleared, the more obtrusive roots grubbed up, and the result is called a polo-ground, and on it the game is played fast and furiously.

A certain day in the week is selected as the one which the planters from the gardens for ten or twenty miles around will come together to it.  Across rivers, through forest, jungle, and peril of wild beasts they journey on their ponies to meet their fellow men.  Some of them may not have seen another white face since the last weekly gathering.

Each of them in turn acts as host.  By lumbering bullock-cart or on the heads of coolies he sends in charge of his servants to the club-house miles away from his bungalow food and drink, crockery, cutlery, and glasses, for the entertainment of all who will foregather there.

And for a few crowded hours this lonely spot in the jungle is filled with the sound of human voices, with laughter, friendliness, and good fellowship.  Men who have been isolated for a week rub off the cobwebs, lunch, play tennis, polo, and cards, and swap stories at the bar until the declining sun warns them of the necessity for departing before night falls on the forest.  After hearty farewells they swing themselves up into the saddle again and dash off at breakneck speed to escape being trapped by the darkness.

Many and strange are the adventures that befall them on the rough roads or in the trackless wilds.  Sometimes an elephant, a bear, or a tiger confronts them on their way.  But the intrepid planter, and his not less courageous women-folk, if he has any to accompany him, gallops fearlessly by it or, perhaps, rides unarmed at the astonished beast and scares it by wild cries.  Then on again to another week of lonely labour.

This day it had fallen to the lot of the Dalehams to be the hosts of their community.  Noreen had superintended the preparation and despatch of the supplies for their guests and could ride home now with a clear conscience to wait for her brother to return for their second breakfast.  The early morning repast, the chota hazri of an Anglo-Indian household, is a very light and frugal one, consisting of a cup of coffee or tea, a slice of toast, and one or two bananas.