Our luggage had been sent off some days before in bullock bandies, which were allowed about a month to get through the three hundred and sixty miles between us and the mountain-top, as they travel at somewhat less than railroad speed. Our own conveyance, drawn by a gaunt and rather unpromising horse, drew up before the door just at dusk, after a sultry day in March. We were soon housed in its close quarters, something in the style of two passengers in a steamboat birth on wheels. Off we started in fine style, gazed after by a gaping crowd of men and boys. Through the streets of Black-town, and out at the Elephant gate, we drove; but, alas! this rate of travel was too good to last. We foolishly looked for speed in India, and, like many wiser persons, were disappointed. Our horse was changed every five miles, and usually for the worse, so that morning found us not at Wallaja-pettah, as we had been promised, but far this side of it. Noon came with its glaring sun pouring forth floods of irresistible rays; but we were still toiling wearily on, wilted and well-nigh exhausted by the heat. So great was the difference of opinion, as to the rate at which we ought to go, between the driver and the horses, that the controversy
