All afternoon we rode straight toward a long, blue horizon-line that grew, until at sunset, at Ambala, we had the great wall of the Himalayas plainly before us. We changed trains, and jolted over the thirty-five miles to Kalka in complete darkness. At nine o'clock we stumbled through a dark, deserted village to the so-called hotel, which was a little better than a stable only in that it had not yet been used for horses. We spread our bedding in chill, whitewashed, stone-floored rooms opening upon a stone porch; and once more in darkness followed a lantern through the streets to the post-office. There we agreed to pay the government of India, or the postmaster-general, seventy-five rupees for a "tonga phaëton," i. e., a two-pony victoria, with sixteen relays of ponies, for the fifty-seven-mile drive up to Simla and return.
Wholly by our own energies we got the establishment astir the next morning at half-past six o'clock. The worst coffee in India was brought, with the usual smoky toast and repulsive butter-plate—this at perhaps the only hotel in India ever patronized by the official class, and which the smart, the luxury-loving and disdainful, must endure twice a year if they go to Simla. Western civilization in India, taking the hotel as its index, is at lowest ebb at Kalka.
Our tonga, or "fitton" in native colloquial, arrived at our door before sunrise, drawn by two bullocks. We mounted and were slowly dragged to the post-office, from which exact point the government had agreed to transport us. The two ponies were
