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T Mogul Sarai junction, three Englishmen stood over as many hillocks of leather- and tin-covered luggage, directing its removal to the Benares train. The servants bore it off and flung it through doors and windows, covering the floor, heaping the seats, filling all the racks and hooks, until the owners themselves, looking in, said: "Oh, I say, now. There is no room left for us. We had best sit in this next carriage, where we can watch them." When I spoke of this dilemma of the men and their luggage to others of their nationality, they said bewilderedly: "For the life of me, I do not see why you Americans should laugh at that. I thought you always traveled with so much luggage. Those enormous trunks—Saratogas, you call them." It argued nothing to them, no matter how much we explained it, that we sent the Saratogas to the baggage-car and never sat with malodorous sole-leather heaped around us in our richly finished and furnished cars.

We crossed a muddy river by a high bridge with fortress turrets at either end—the very bridge of "Voices in the Night"—and were then in the usual