In three of these vehicles our party of six began the descent on Tuesday morning, wrapped in linen “dusters” of various shades and shapes, and armed with countless varieties of smoking gear.  The roughness of the road precludes all possibility of reading, and, after all, the rapid motion and the constant appearance of danger—­which in reality does not exist—­prevent any overpowering ennui from assailing the dusty traveller.  So we spun along all day, stopping once or twice for a little refreshment, and changing horses every five or six miles.  Everybody was in capital spirits, and we changed seats often, thus obtaining some little variety.  Isaacs, who to every one’s astonishment, seemed not to feel any inconvenience from his accident, clung to his seat in Miss Westonhaugh’s tonga, sitting in front with the driver, while she and her uncle or brother occupied the seat behind, which is far more comfortable.  At last, however, he was obliged to give his place to Kildare, who had been very patient, but at last said it “really wasn’t fair, you know,” and so Isaacs courteously yielded.  At last we reached Kalka, where the tongas are exchanged for dak gharry or mail carriage, a thing in which you can sit up in the daytime and lie down at night, there being an extension under the driver’s box calculated for the accommodation of the longest legs.  When lying down in one of these vehicles the sensation is that of being in a hearse and playing a game of funeral.  On this occasion, however, it was still early when we made the change, and we paired off, two and two, for the last part of the drive.  By the well planned arrangements of Isaacs and Kildare, two carriages were in readiness for us on the express train, and though the difference in temperature was enormous between Simla and the plains, still steaming from the late rainy season, the travelling was made easy for us, and we settled ourselves for the journey, after dining at the little hotel; Miss Westonhaugh bidding us all a cheery “good-night” as she retired with her ayah into the carriage prepared for her.  I will not go into tedious details of the journey—­we slept and woke and slept again, and smoked, and occasionally concocted iced drinks from our supplies, for in India the carriages are so large that the traveller generally provides himself with a generous basket of provisions and a travelling ice-chest full of bottles, and takes a trunk or two with him in his compartment.  Suffice it to say that we arrived on the following day at Fyzabad in Oude, and that we were there met by guides and shikarries—­the native huntsmen—­who assured us that there were tigers about near the outlying station of Pegnugger, where the elephants, previously ordered, would all be in readiness for us on the following day.  The journey from Fyzabad to Pegnugger was not a long one, and we set out in the cool of the evening, sending our servants along in that “happy-go-lucky” fashion which characterises Indian life.  It has