"Good idea," exclaimed Richardson. "I will get a cart. Let's haul away every biscuit the poor beggar has."
The word rupee sounded good to the ears of the shop-keeper who had looked upon the cakes as a total loss, and he accepted my offer at once. The next minute, Richardson and I were in the bakery business. A two-wheeled cart had backed up to the shop and we were loading on cakes as though we had done nothing else all our lives. Scores of Hindus congregated to see us buy out the shop-keeper. The cart was soon heaped high with cakes. They packed like bricks, being more substantial than the same variety of food in America. Richardson and I climbed on the seat with the driver and pursued our way down Harrison Road. Our little bread wagon excited more comment and caused more commotion than a circus in an American country town. Every one was speculating on what we were going to do with all the cakes. We did not know ourselves. We couldn't give them to the poor, for the poor wouldn't eat them. I threw a couple at a group of natives on the street corner. They scattered like birds at the shot of a gun. We drove on. We came to our host's house. He thought we were crazy. We unloaded the cargo of cakes and placed them all in our bedroom. There they remained. We tried to eat them up but the job was too large. They finally found their way to the rubbish barrel.
Darjeerling is a beautiful settlement at an elevation of seven thousand feet. Here we had come to view the Himalaya Mountains. On a strange little train, which was as elastic as a snake, we wound in and out among the valleys, scaled the sides of the mountains and arrived at this little town among the clouds. The scenery was stupendous. The world's greatest peaks were about us like tremendous church spires.
Everything out of doors was wonderful and beautiful. Everything inside was wonderfully inconvenient, uncomfortable and unhealthful. We stayed at the "Rockhouse"—appropriately named—and it was one of the worst shelters I have ever occupied. The place was run by a woman with a dirty apron. I doubt if she had ever done up her hair since childhood. Her children were the most untidy white youngsters in the Indian Empire. That's a safe statement. The carpets were filthy with spots and dust; a couple of mangy dogs hung listlessly about; the guests of the house looked like a bunch of cripples; the food was poorly cooked and tasteless and the atmosphere of the place was stale and musty from lack of ventilation. If there is any other affliction a boarding house can have, I should like to know it.
With the "Rockhouse" as a background for comparison, the beauty of the Himalayas stood forth stronger than ever. We arose one morning at 2:30 o'clock and went on horseback to Tiger Hill to see the sunrise. It was a sight that no one can describe and one that I shall never forget. The world's greatest peaks, white with snow and tinged with the glistening gold of the sun, appeared one by one above the clouds at the break of dawn. First, Kinchenjanga with its 28,156 feet arose like a monster iceberg, and then, in turn, appeared Kaby (24,015 feet), Jannu (25,304), Pandim (22,017), and Jabanu (19,450). Last of all, far away, Mount Everest (29,002)—the giant of them all—thrust its gold-tipped summit into view. The sea of clouds shone like a vast sheet of light, and the rugged snowy peaks, aglow with the rays of the sun, stood like mighty towers of marble. It is one of the most beautiful scenes the world has to offer.
The native population of Darjeerling is a mixture of Paharis, Nepalese, Tibetans and Bhutians, people from the small kingdoms of the mountains. They look like a cross between a North American Indian and a Chinese—with their almond eyes and red skin. They are very fond of colours and jewelry. Some of them wore earrings two inches in diameter and others had ear ornaments six inches long which were so heavy that they had to be supported by a band over the head. The people of India adorn every part of their bodies with trinkets. I have seen women with rings on their toes, anklets all the way to their knees, bracelets up to their elbows, ear ornaments, rings in their noses and beads pinned to their foreheads. The whole outfit would hardly be worth a dollar.
At Benares, the Holy City of the Hindus, we put up at a Dak Bungalow, a small house with bedrooms, sitting room and kitchen, provided by the government for travellers. We were charged only eight annas (sixteen cents) a day for our accommodations.
We met a British missionary in the station and asked him to outline an itinerary for us to aid us in seeing Benares.
"Have you any business to attend to here?" he asked.
"No, why?" I said.