ABSTRACT
I am at the back-door of India, as Steevens so aptly describes Peshawar.Since 11.30 p.m. on Wednesday I have been travelling. True the distance from Umballa to this frontier town is under ve hundred miles; but of the twenty-four hours occupied in the journey four were spent on a couch-bed in the Umballa waiting-room, two at Lahore, and, I should calculate, another three in the exchange of social amenities at the various stations en route. e train was an hour late in arriving at Umballa, so it was close on four o’clock when I pushed my way into a “sleeper” (apologizing to a somnolent bishop whom I perforce disturbed, and whose greeting was a pattern of long-su ering courtesy) prior to lying down in my clothes to continue my interrupted slumbers.
