He did not invite any of the women aboard his own carriage and we were left to make ourselves comfortable in the single carriage, instead of the two promised, that the Railway Superintendent was able to make available to us. “The engine just won’t be able to pull any more,” he explained. “Not with all your wagons loaded with elephants. You’re lucky as it is that the track is downhill all the way. Well, have a good trip.” It was a car that Pullman or Wagon-Lits would have used for the transportation of criminals, if they had been in that business. The windows were barred, both those on the corridor and those on the outside of the compartment; the door was stout teak with heavy bolts on it and a sign above it, Beware of Dacoits; the seats, which doubled as bunks, were smeared with cracked leather rather than covered with it. It was a mobile slum. “I’m sorry about this,” said Clive, inspecting the accommodation. “I’m afraid things are better for us men.” “I’m sure,”
