“Did someone buy it for you?”
“Yes, always buy it for bearers.”
“Well, where’s that coat?”
“Worn out.”
I questioned Cook’s about that also and was told, “He’s trying to do you. Probably he already has two or three, and if you give him another he’ll just sell it.”
We hardened our hearts, and Joseph had to get along without his coat.
As we progressed north the nights grew cold, the mornings cold, four in the afternoon was cold. Joseph had changed to a hideous black hat which he said was warmer than his turban, but he had no overcoat and began to cough.
We arrived at Siliguri at six of a brisk morning, just in time to watch the rose-colored dawn break over the snow-covered mountains. After a cup of hot but vile coffee we wrapped ourselves in rugs and off we went on the full hour’s drive to Kalimpong, up and around hairpin curves, mostly following the river, often through bits of jungle whence you knew a tiger might spring out on the road any minute. The scenery was the most superb I had ever seen, grander than the Rockies or Pyrenees or Alps, a blend of green tangle and white peaks touching the clear sky, with wreaths of clouds far below.
As we neared Kalimpong there was a distinct difference in the type of native; Thibetans and Nepalese were frequent. The swarms of women looked like squaws, although, instead of papooses, they carried on their backs huge baskets of charcoal or from six to eight massive blocks of stone, all for six cents a day. No horses, no mules, no wagons, only women as beasts of burden hauling these rocks from the quarry to the site, jingling with rings on their ankles and rings on their toes. What struck me as most peculiar was that many of them wore ugly shawls, assuredly products of Scottish mills; the entire hillside was dotted with plaids.
As soon as I reached Mrs. Odling’s home and heard the accent of her medical missionary father, I knew the answer. “We never think of going home to Scotland without bringing some back,” she said. “They much prefer plaids to their own designs.”