From Job to Job around the World

by Alfred C. B. Fletcher

"What in hell is the name of this place?"

"Lahore Cantonment."

All our scramble was for nothing. We had landed in the quarters of the British soldiers. There was no passenger train until evening. That was too long to wait, so we rode into Lahore proper on a freight which went by an hour later.

Lahore was not worth all the trouble it took to get there. I have a hazy recollection of thousands of native shops, many temples and a large museum. I remember, rather distinctly, a large cannon in front of this museum. It was called "Kim's Gun," as it was on this weapon that Kim was supposed to have been sitting when the Llama came along, as recorded by Kipling.

I do remember one other thing in Lahore. We met a shabbily dressed American who related a sad tale to us about being discharged from a theatrical company and how badly he had been treated. He said that he was broke and his appearance certainly indicated that he spoke the truth. The fellow being a countryman of ours, his speech moved us to the extent of ten rupees. One hour later our down-and-out American friend was reeling about the station so intoxicated that he didn't recognise me when I spoke to him. He was drunk at our expense.

We didn't know one soul among Bombay's million inhabitants when we arrived in that city. There were about twenty Americans living there and I think we met them all before we had been there a week. We lived at the Y.M.C.A. and received our board and room—for both of us—for five rupees ($1.65) a day. We met the acting American Consul and through him the American dentist, the Standard Oil crowd and a number of other young business men. They all entertained us royally. We went to their homes for dinner, had the privileges of their clubs and attended a number of social functions at their invitation.

We went to Poona and spent a night in the National Hotel. I will never forget that night if I live a thousand years. We retired at ten o'clock. By eleven I had killed forty-two bed-bugs. This is not an estimate: it is actual count. I didn't ask the proprietor for another bed for I thought all of them would be alike and I estimated that I had killed off nearly all the bugs in my present bed. At midnight I had slaughtered sixty-seven. This is not a parlour subject, I know. But we are not in a parlour. We are in an Indian bedroom. I would raise up the bed-clothes, light the lamp and they would flock in all directions, like the ribs of a fan, to get under cover. At one o'clock I had killed eighty-one. There seemed to be no end. I couldn't stand it any longer. I tried to rout out the proprietor but he was asleep and couldn't be found. I returned to my room and made my couch on the floor. The mosquitoes nearly finished me during the rest of the night. I venture the guess that this hotel entertains only transients. One night is enough.

We drove in a tonga, a two-wheeled cart, to the Karli Cave. This excavation is made out of a solid rock and is said to have been done two hundred years before Christ. It resembles an early Christian church in its arrangement and all the dimensions are similar to those of the choir of Norwich Cathedral.

It was our plan to catch the mail train for Bombay. On our return from the cave one of the shafts of the tonga broke. The driver was unable to mend it. We had six miles to go to the station and we had but little time. We estimated what the tonga had been worth, paid the driver and left him in the road. We ran the entire six miles through a heavy tropical rain. The heat was intense and the atmosphere was sultry and close. Drenched to the skin we arrived at the station only to see the rear-end of the train pulling out of the yards. Two hours later we took a slow train for Bombay.

Driving a bargain in India takes time, if nothing else. All merchants charge what the traffic will bear. Richardson and I wanted two deck chairs and made up our minds that we were going to get them at a fair price. One evening I dropped into a native shop to look over the stock.