you can hitch it up against the wall, out of the way—­and then you have a big unencumbered and most comfortable room to spread out in.  No car in any country is quite its equal for comfort (and privacy) I think.  For usually there are but two persons in it; and even when there are four there is but little sense of impaired privacy.  Our own cars at home can surpass the railway world in all details but that one:  they have no cosiness; there are too many people together.

At the foot of each sofa was a side-door, for entrance and exit.  Along the whole length of the sofa on each side of the car ran a row of large single-plate windows, of a blue tint-blue to soften the bitter glare of the sun and protect one’s eyes from torture.  These could be let down out of the way when one wanted the breeze.  In the roof were two oil lamps which gave a light strong enough to read by; each had a green-cloth attachment by which it could be covered when the light should be no longer needed.

While we talked outside with friends, Barney and Satan placed the hand-baggage, books, fruits, and soda-bottles in the racks, and the hold-alls and heavy baggage in the closet, hung the overcoats and sun-helmets and towels on the hooks, hoisted the two bed-shelves up out of the way, then shouldered their bedding and retired to the third class.

Now then, you see what a handsome, spacious, light, airy, homelike place it was, wherein to walk up and down, or sit and write, or stretch out and read and smoke.  A central door in the forward end of the compartment opened into a similar compartment.  It was occupied by my wife and daughter.  About nine in the evening, while we halted a while at a station, Barney and Satan came and undid the clumsy big hold-alls, and spread the bedding on the sofas in both compartments—­mattresses, sheets, gay coverlets, pillows, all complete; there are no chambermaids in India —­apparently it was an office that was never heard of.  Then they closed the communicating door, nimbly tidied up our place, put the night-clothing on the beds and the slippers under them, then returned to their own quarters.

January 31.  It was novel and pleasant, and I stayed awake as long as I could, to enjoy it, and to read about those strange people the Thugs.  In my sleep they remained with me, and tried to strangle me.  The leader of the gang was that giant Hindoo who was such a picture in the strong light when we were leaving those Hindoo betrothal festivities at two o’clock in the morning—­Rao Bahadur Baskirao Balinkanje Pitale, Vakeel to the Gaikwar of Baroda.  It was he that brought me the invitation from his master to go to Baroda and lecture to that prince—­and now he was misbehaving in my dreams.  But all things can happen in dreams.  It is indeed as the Sweet Singer of Michigan says—­irrelevantly, of course, for the one and unfailing great quality which distinguishes her poetry from Shakespeare’s and makes it precious to us is its stern and simple irrelevancy: