whereat the attentive
stationmaster is greatly distressed. He advises us to hire a trap and
drive to some place with an unpronounceable name, where Mr. Hunter is
sure to meet us; visitors often do that, he says. I try to discover why
we can't drive all the way, but his answers are not enlightening; "big
hill," he replies, and I don't see why the trap can't go up a hill!
However, we shall see. He engages a trap for us, anyway; with a
scarecrow horse and a friendly looking driver whose hairy legs protrude
from wrappings of cinnamon-coloured cloth--once white, I suppose--and we
are off. The roads at first are very good; and there is none of the dust
we suffered from so much in Egypt, for Ceylon is a moist land. In fact,
it looks rather like rain now, with heavy clouds gathering up.

After going at a slow trot for a considerable distance the driver pulls
up, and pointing with his whip to a tree-covered mountain says something
unintelligible, which turns out to be "'Unter Tuan," after he has
repeated it about six times. This means Mr. Hunter, "Tuan" being the
same term of respect here that "Sahib" is in India.

There is no sign of a house or any living being; the place is
absolutely deserted. In vain I sign to the man to go ahead; he shakes
his head and remains seated on his box like an image of despair. I get
out and see that the road runs away to nothing in the bushes and scrub
in front, it just ends suddenly for no apparent reason, and while I am
looking I hear a slight crackling in the bushes, and a tall, thin, very
dirty-looking youth appears and salaams respectfully. The driver
immediately begins to converse with him, whereupon the youth takes our
bag unceremoniously out of the carriage and putting it on his head
beckons to us to follow him. There is nothing else for it, so, after
paying the driver, we do so, feeling like two infants in charge of this
fellow.

I try the lean lad in English, asking him if he knows Hunter Tuan's
place, but he swings round, looks at me gravely, and continues his
graceful, elastic walk.

It is pretty warm, and the path is narrow and lined by thorn bushes, so
the going is not easy; but the youth seems to float on ahead with
mysterious ease, and we pant after him feeling as if our lives depended
on not losing sight of him. At last the bushes get so thick that we have
to push our way through, and we suddenly see him a good distance ahead,
half-way across a broad and shallow river which bu