The Caledonien spent a day at Singapore. This was the hottest day I ever experienced and the sun's rays seemed to have more penetrating powers than usual. I thought I should liquefy from the way in which I perspired and only for my thick pith hat, which protected my head and neck from the sun, I surely should have been a victim of sunstroke.

Richardson and I had planned a trip to Java but gave up the idea and went directly to Ceylon. The Caledonien dropped anchor in the harbour of Colombo and we were taken ashore in a small boat propelled by one oar at the stern. We obtained rooms at the Y.M.C.A. at sixteen cents a day. This rate did not include bed-clothes, which all travellers in Ceylon and India have to furnish themselves. We each bought a blanket which we carried strapped to the outside of our suit cases.

If it were not for the intense heat, I would agree with Mark Twain that Ceylon is the most beautiful island in the world. Eliminating its temperature, it is Paradise on earth. With it, it is Hell. Colombo is built about several small lakes whose shores are a very jungle of graceful palms and other dense tropical plants. There is a beautiful driveway along the beach which is the promenade for the wealthy of the place and, during the afternoon, one can almost imagine that he is on some fashionable European thoroughfare from the numerous grand carriages and well-groomed horses which pass. Richardson and I swept back and forth on this lengthy boulevard in our rickshaws. We continued into Cinnamon Park, where most of the Europeans live. We had foolishly agreed to pay our rickshaw coolies by the hour. My man became so apparent in his efforts to loaf that I remarked to Richardson that he was the slowest and laziest horse I had ever driven.

"Mister, I'm a man, not a horse," said my coolie angrily and in excellent English, stopping and dropping the shafts of the vehicle.

I never was so startled in my life. This was the first horse that I had ever had speak to me. I had become so accustomed to rickshaw men with whom I could not communicate that this man's clear and to-the-point remark completely confused me for a minute.

"Then you are the poorest man I ever saw," I finally said, "and if you don't show some signs of a horse very soon, you will find yourself out of a job."

My threat to discharge him had no effect in increasing his momentum. Richardson and I dismissed both men, paid them off and returned to town on foot.

After a short trip to Kandy in the interior of Ceylon, we sailed for India. It was a night's journey to the little seaport town of Tuticorin and we took second-class passage.

The two hundred or more naked coolies of the steerage were walking down the pier towards the shore. Richardson and I were following close behind. Presently a man in uniform uttered a shrill call. The two hundred coolies stopped and separated into two columns. The uniformed man beckoned to us to come on. "Gangway for two white men," had evidently been the nature of the call. We were not used to such treatment. We were generally included in those swept aside. We were now in a land where the native, if he doesn't respect the white man, at least pretends that he does. This ceremonious entrance into India struck us as funny and we giggled our way down the double line of salaaming Tamils and Singhalese.

"It's too bad you're not a Christian," remarked a strange and simple looking man as I, smoking a cigarette, was waiting for my train at the Tuticorin station.

"Why?" I asked, blowing a cloud of smoke in his face.

"Just think of all the good you could do while travelling around the world."

"How do you know that I am not a Christian?"

"I was simply putting out a feeler," he said, somewhat embarrassed.

"I think I am a Christian but, probably, not according to your ideas."

"Perhaps."

"What is a Christian?" I asked, interested to know what the man's ideas were.

"When a man is saved he is a Christian."

"Isn't it rather difficult to know when such a happy state of affairs exists?" My train drew into the station at this moment and the theological dialogue was brought to a sudden conclusion. I left this simple but well-meaning person, my pocket full of his pamphlets. He was a member of the sect of "Plymouth Brethren" working by himself converting the heathen. If he uses no more tact on the natives than he did on me his efforts should be flat failures. I was told by a prominent missionary that there are many such persons in India who are labouring independently of an ecclesiastical organisation, the results of whose work are not very substantial.

Leaving our baggage at the station at Madura, Richardson and I rode in a springless cart to Pasumalai—a distance of about three miles. This cart was pulled by two bulls who were spurred on to greater speed by their naked driver who sat on the shafts and cruelly twisted their tails. We were going to call on the Rev. Dr. J.P. Jones, a prominent Congregational missionary and author of books on India, and have him outline an itinerary for us.

Dr. Jones was leaving on an inspection tour of several of the mission schools in a near-by jungle, as we arrived at his house. He asked us to accompany him and also invited us to spend a couple of days at his home. We explained that we had left our baggage in Madura and that, although we appreciated his kindness, we did not want to impose on him. He insisted and sent a coolie to Madura for our bags.

It was about noon when we left with Dr. Jones to visit the schools. The three of us rode in another seatless and springless cart drawn by two bulls. We passed through several small native settlements and towards evening came to one of about two hundred inhabitants. It was a thief caste village. Stealing was the sole trade of all the men. They made no pretence at doing anything else. Although closely guarded by the British police they were successful in robbing and looting the neighbouring villages. Each night at twelve o'clock there was a roll call but, even after this hour, they would grease their bodies in order to slip from the grasp of their pursuers, get away and carry on their work.

A number of shirtless women were threshing shocks of wheat as we entered the little settlement of mud huts, each with its thatched roof. Naked children were playing in the streets. Our advent soon became known and the village drummer, squatted by the school house, announced our arrival and summoned the people to come and meet us. It was hardly a minute before we were surrounded by two hundred or more odd and inquisitive-looking people. If I had not known where I was I should have thought myself in the wilds of Africa. The black bodies of the naked men glistened in the sunlight; the young boys and girls, clad in nothing but the happy smile of youth, hovered about us like a swarm of butterflies, and the almost nude women, remaining a little aloof, stared at us with eyes of intense curiosity.

Every man in this interesting group was a thief. I began to get worried for fear one of them might steal my watch or the few coins I had in my purse. Dr. Jones allayed my fears when he informed me that there wasn't a pick-pocket among them. A hundred thieves and not one of them a pick-pocket! This was strange. I couldn't understand it. I had thought that this means of appropriating another man's possessions was fundamental and indispensable to the profession. I discovered also that these robbers never used pass keys, pistols, flash lights or gas pipes as means to hold up their neighbours. They didn't have such things. Now the mystery of a hundred thieves with no pick-pockets was solved. There were no pockets to pick. Their victims wore no clothes and they had had no training along this line. They didn't know a pocket when they saw one.

singapore

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Dr. Jones led the way into the small mud-walled school house. The room was full of naked boys and girls. The fathers and mothers crowded in at the rear of the little hall. They were an interesting and simple lot of savages. Richardson and I were given seats of honour near the teacher's desk and a wreath was placed about our necks. Dr. Jones asked for a report from the native teacher and also questioned several of the pupils on their lessons. He then explained to his audience that Richardson and I were Americans travelling around the world. He went into detail defining an American. He asked the chief of the village, a much whiskered and hairy-chested man, if he had any message to give us.

"Tell them to believe in the Lord Jesus Christ and they will get around all right," were the chief's words of greeting as interpreted by Dr. Jones.

"Why don't you believe in Him yourself?" asked the doctor.

"Don't waste your time on us old fellows. We are past saving. We have been thieves all our lives and you can't change us now. Do all you can to help the children and you will be doing a good work," was the chief's reply.

All the natives gathered in the street in front of the school for the customary foot races which Dr. Jones held on each of his visits. There were four races: one for the boys; one for the girls; one for the women and one for the men. They were all eager to take part for the doctor distributed a few coins as prizes to the winners. The rivalry was intense and, at the conclusion of each race, there was much confusion with many disputes as to who finished first. Dr. Jones insisted on being the judge and all were informed that they must abide by his decision or all the games would be called off.

That evening we enjoyed the hospitality of Dr. Jones. I slept in a comfortable bed, protected by a fine mosquito net and cooled by the breeze of a huge punka—which was operated by a coolie woman who sat on the porch all night and pulled the rope.

In the cities of India foreigners use electric fans and in the rural districts a native-propelled punka. It is so intensely hot in some parts of the country that if the coolie goes to sleep on the job the foreigner immediately awakens.

Twenty thousand people die each year from snake bite in India. I awoke to find a small reptile in my room. The floors of the houses are built close to the ground and the doors and windows are often left open for ventilation. Snakes are so numerous that they frequently find their way into the huts of the natives and occasionally into the houses of the foreigners.

Railroad travel in India is the cheapest I have ever known. From Madura to Trichinopoly is a distance of about one hundred miles. We rode native third-class and our tickets cost us but eight annas (sixteen cents) each.

There are five classes of travel on Indian trains: first-class, second-class, intermediate, European third-class and native third-class. The trains are divided into compartments with a capacity of from twelve to twenty-four passengers. The first-class seats are covered with leather cushions and the seats of the other classes decrease in softness to the hard and cold benches of the native third-class. The first-class accommodations are used exclusively by British officials, missionaries, resident Europeans and tourists. The native third-class is a cattle train. These bare stall-like compartments are crowded with naked coolies—men, women and children—who are jammed in by the train guards like dried prunes. I have seen coolie after coolie slammed into one of these compartments, already full to the roof, until I thought the poor beggars would all die of suffocation.

The first-class fare is usually twelve or fifteen times greater than the native third-class. Our tickets from Madura to Trichinopoly would have cost us about $2.50 each for first-class.

The cheapest possible fare from Calcutta to Bombay, a distance of over fifteen hundred miles and a three-day trip, is about $2.80. This rate is for native third-class accommodations. The first-class fare would be about fifty dollars and the intermediate classes would be proportionately graduated in price.

Richardson and I usually travelled native third-class. We were always able to get an empty compartment, which we would monopolise to the exclusion of the natives. We ordered the poor chaps away as though they had no right in their own country. Conductors do not stay on the trains but remain at the stations where they take up the tickets as the trains arrive. They proved to be a negligent lot and frequently failed to collect our tickets. Richardson saved his uncollected fares and found that they totalled two thousand miles. We were in India two and a half months, travelled over five thousand miles and our railroad fares were only $24.40 each.

We rented bicycles in Trichinopoly. These vehicles were the most decrepit and ancient pieces of machinery in active service on this earth. Richardson's wheel had lost its back pedal feature. In other words, it was impossible to put on the brakes. He could not stop himself unless he fell off or came to a hill. We rode through the crowded streets of Trichinopoly. Rich was a reckless rider. I thought he was trying to kill a native child. With his uncontrollable bicycle it is a mystery to me how he avoided running down several of the thousands of naked little babies who played in the dust of the street. Every moment one of them would dash in front of him. I expected that we should land in jail charged with manslaughter.

Neither Trichinopoly or Tanjore has European hotels and the caste system excludes the unclean foreigner from the native inns. For twelve annas (twenty-four cents) we obtained a clean room on the second floor of the station. It contained a large bed, an electric fan and a private bath. We ate our meals in the station restaurant. Such prices and arrangements are hard to beat.

Life seems to be a battle for coin. I could write a volume on the number of street lights I have seen in different parts of the world over the matter of a few cents. A Japanese coolie will wrangle for an hour over a sen. I have seen a score of Chinese grapple for a cash piece. It is hard to tell what a Filipino wouldn't do for a centavo. However, I think a native of India can kick up more fuss over a two-cent piece than any man alive.

Richardson and I had returned from the Roman Catholic Cathedral in Madras where Saint Thomas is said to be buried. We had made the trip in a double-seated rickshaw drawn by one man. By arrangement in advance the coolie had agreed to make the journey for ten annas. This, we were told, was a generous amount for the distance. I felt that he had had a hard time pulling two heavy men so I gave him a rupee, over-paying him six annas. He wasn't satisfied and bellowed for more. Richardson and I ignored him and went to our room on the third floor of the Y.M.C.A. building. The coolie followed us up the three flights of stairs. He had worked himself into a genuine state of anger. At first it was a pretence. We locked him out in the hall, where he remained at our door for twenty minutes pleading and begging for more money. I made up my mind that he could pursue me to America or haunt me the rest of my life, but I would not pay him any more. I could be stubborn myself. He realised that I had made a mistake in over-paying him in the first place and he now thought that I was a tenderfoot and that I should sooner or later yield. The Y.M.C.A. authorities finally put him out of the building.

The incident did not end here. It became the main topic for discussion among the coolies of Madras. Each time we ventured on the streets a dozen of them would molest us and trail after us jeering and shouting a lot of jargon which we did not understand. They became regular pests and life in Madras grew almost unbearable. We stood firm and resolved not to give an anna more even if we had to fight every coolie in Southern India.

In a few days we left for Calcutta. We rode from the Y.M.C.A. to the railroad station in a bus. As we alighted at the entrance of the station, we were sighted by a group of coolies who made a mad rush at us from across the court. Others dropped their rickshaws and came plunging towards us from all directions like a huge flying wedge. We scrambled into the station, forced our way through the ticket gates, climbed aboard the first car and in two minutes were speeding towards Calcutta. That angry mob would have annihilated us in about five seconds.

CHAPTER XI

TWO TRAMPS IN INDIA

At Calcutta we lived in comfort. We were the guests of college friends of Richardson's. In Japan and China we stayed in native hotels and were constantly in contact with the people. The caste system of India barred us from mingling with the Hindus, even if we had desired to do so. It was impossible for us to eat at their restaurants and the nearest approach we could make to it was to buy our food at the native shops. We often ate at the foreign hotels and cafés when these institutions were to be found. There was usually a restaurant connected with the station.

Harrison Road in Calcutta is one of the most interesting streets in the world. Thousands of people rove its sidewalks and scores of races are represented among them. Hundreds of moving or reclining bulls block the traffic. The natives pass around these sacred beasts and are careful not to disturb them. They belong to no one and wander aimlessly about, fed by the people.

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Richardson and I moved along this bustling street. We had been out seeing the sights for several hours and were hungry. In a native shop before us was a show-case of cakes. We stepped in to purchase a couple. The merchant was putting the first cake in a paper bag when Richardson put out his hand to take one from the pile. The proprietor dropped the sack and dashed towards him. His wife threw her hands in the air and screamed, and two natives standing by shouted at the top of their voices. They were too late, Richardson had grabbed the cake and had part of it in his mouth. I thought the Hindus had gone insane. What they were saying I didn't know but it was something very important if one could judge from their numerous excited gestures. They gave us both a thorough scathing. One would have thought we had insulted the shop-keeper's wife or had set fire to his place. No, it was more serious. Richardson had contaminated every cake in the shop. By touching the top one he had charged them all with uncleanness. We were out-casts. Several hundred cakes—or about one-half the poor shop-keeper's stock—were ruined and could never be used.

This disastrous result of our little transaction caused no end of excitement and twenty or more natives gathered to see what we had done. The shop-keeper and his wife immediately set about to throw away the cakes and with long sharp-pointed sticks like hoe handles began casting the food into the street.

"Hold on!" I shouted, "I will buy the whole bunch for a rupee." We had contaminated the outfit and I thought this was an opportunity to get a bargain.

"Good idea," exclaimed Richardson. "I will get a cart. Let's haul away every biscuit the poor beggar has."

The word rupee sounded good to the ears of the shop-keeper who had looked upon the cakes as a total loss, and he accepted my offer at once. The next minute, Richardson and I were in the bakery business. A two-wheeled cart had backed up to the shop and we were loading on cakes as though we had done nothing else all our lives. Scores of Hindus congregated to see us buy out the shop-keeper. The cart was soon heaped high with cakes. They packed like bricks, being more substantial than the same variety of food in America. Richardson and I climbed on the seat with the driver and pursued our way down Harrison Road. Our little bread wagon excited more comment and caused more commotion than a circus in an American country town. Every one was speculating on what we were going to do with all the cakes. We did not know ourselves. We couldn't give them to the poor, for the poor wouldn't eat them. I threw a couple at a group of natives on the street corner. They scattered like birds at the shot of a gun. We drove on. We came to our host's house. He thought we were crazy. We unloaded the cargo of cakes and placed them all in our bedroom. There they remained. We tried to eat them up but the job was too large. They finally found their way to the rubbish barrel.

Darjeerling is a beautiful settlement at an elevation of seven thousand feet. Here we had come to view the Himalaya Mountains. On a strange little train, which was as elastic as a snake, we wound in and out among the valleys, scaled the sides of the mountains and arrived at this little town among the clouds. The scenery was stupendous. The world's greatest peaks were about us like tremendous church spires.

Everything out of doors was wonderful and beautiful. Everything inside was wonderfully inconvenient, uncomfortable and unhealthful. We stayed at the "Rockhouse"—appropriately named—and it was one of the worst shelters I have ever occupied. The place was run by a woman with a dirty apron. I doubt if she had ever done up her hair since childhood. Her children were the most untidy white youngsters in the Indian Empire. That's a safe statement. The carpets were filthy with spots and dust; a couple of mangy dogs hung listlessly about; the guests of the house looked like a bunch of cripples; the food was poorly cooked and tasteless and the atmosphere of the place was stale and musty from lack of ventilation. If there is any other affliction a boarding house can have, I should like to know it.

With the "Rockhouse" as a background for comparison, the beauty of the Himalayas stood forth stronger than ever. We arose one morning at 2:30 o'clock and went on horseback to Tiger Hill to see the sunrise. It was a sight that no one can describe and one that I shall never forget. The world's greatest peaks, white with snow and tinged with the glistening gold of the sun, appeared one by one above the clouds at the break of dawn. First, Kinchenjanga with its 28,156 feet arose like a monster iceberg, and then, in turn, appeared Kaby (24,015 feet), Jannu (25,304), Pandim (22,017), and Jabanu (19,450). Last of all, far away, Mount Everest (29,002)—the giant of them all—thrust its gold-tipped summit into view. The sea of clouds shone like a vast sheet of light, and the rugged snowy peaks, aglow with the rays of the sun, stood like mighty towers of marble. It is one of the most beautiful scenes the world has to offer.

The native population of Darjeerling is a mixture of Paharis, Nepalese, Tibetans and Bhutians, people from the small kingdoms of the mountains. They look like a cross between a North American Indian and a Chinese—with their almond eyes and red skin. They are very fond of colours and jewelry. Some of them wore earrings two inches in diameter and others had ear ornaments six inches long which were so heavy that they had to be supported by a band over the head. The people of India adorn every part of their bodies with trinkets. I have seen women with rings on their toes, anklets all the way to their knees, bracelets up to their elbows, ear ornaments, rings in their noses and beads pinned to their foreheads. The whole outfit would hardly be worth a dollar.

At Benares, the Holy City of the Hindus, we put up at a Dak Bungalow, a small house with bedrooms, sitting room and kitchen, provided by the government for travellers. We were charged only eight annas (sixteen cents) a day for our accommodations.

We met a British missionary in the station and asked him to outline an itinerary for us to aid us in seeing Benares.

"Have you any business to attend to here?" he asked.

"No, why?" I said.

"There is an epidemic of cholera in Benares and twenty British soldiers in the cantonment within three hundred yards of us died last night. My advice to you is to leave town as soon as you can."

The missionary's warning had no effect on us for we had heard it before and expected to hear it again. Every Indian city generally has a number of cases of cholera and other contagious diseases. If we had taken the advice of every man who told us to move on because of an epidemic we should have been advised out of the country in a very short time. It was our custom to reduce our chances of getting cholera by drinking only bottled liquids and eating only thoroughly cooked food.

We drove about Benares in a jutka. This is one of the most picturesque vehicles in the world. If anybody had the courage to ride in one on Broadway he would at once be arrested. It is a two-wheeled cart drawn by a horse that seldom gets a chance to eat. There is no place for the driver or passenger to sit and they stick on as best they can, letting their feet drag in the street. Richardson and I mounted one of these carriages and took in the sights of the city.

Benares seemed to be the focal point for all the feeble-minded, crippled and destitute persons of India. Ascetics, beggars and religious fanatics were as numerous as were the flies. The temples were thronged with pilgrims from all parts of the empire and the Ganges was crowded with natives bathing in the muddy water and even drinking the filthy liquid. The Jal Sain Ghat was a gruesome place. Here the dead bodies of the high caste Hindus are cremated. They are burned on piles of wood and the ashes are dumped into the river, adding to the pleasant character of the water.

Why is it that religion and filth so often travel together in this world? We visited the Kalighat, a temple in honour of the goddess Kali, the wife of Shiva. We were fortunate or unfortunate, I don't know which, to be present at the celebration of the chief annual festival held in this temple. Many thousands of half-clad people were making pilgrimages to the place. Bullocks and goats were being offered as sacrifices to the numerous Hindu gods. We came to the court where the animals were killed. The place looked more like a slaughter-house than a temple of worship. The dead bodies of a dozen bulls and goats were lying on the stone floor, reeking blood and filth, with their entrails exposed and protruding. This scene might have interested a butcher. To me it was revolting. We picked our way among these carcasses to another part of the temple. Here we saw a green, scummy, unsanitary pool of water. Several hundred people were bathing in it and drinking the putrid stuff. At the entrances to the temple hordes of deformed beggars—many half-eaten with leprosy—extended their partially decayed limbs, soliciting funds. It was a disgusting and depressing scene. I prefer an autopsy.

Our train arrived in Lucknow at two o'clock in the morning. We finished our night's sleep on the stone floor of the men's waiting room in the station. A man who looked like a missionary advised us to leave the city on account of an epidemic of cholera. We smiled at him.

Both Lucknow and Cawnpore are chiefly of interest on account of their connection with the sad events of the Indian Mutiny. These cities are full of monuments and memorials which are kept in excellent condition by the British Government.

My chief recollection of Lucknow is an intense thirst. It is the most difficult city in the world in which to get a drink of any kind. We rented bicycles and toured about the thirty-six square miles of the city. We had visited a number of places and ridden about ten miles when, hot and dusty, we were seized with an intolerable thirst. We were in the midst of the native shops. A sanitary glass of water was as rare as in the middle of the desert. We rode on, hoping to find a better part of the city. We went on for miles. The narrow streets were six inches in dust; the sun was so hot that we fairly simmered in perspiration and the odours from the native shops were enough to make a man faint. A naked ascetic, rolling over and over on the dusty road, would get in our way. In each block a dozen beggars would plead for funds and the rays of the sun would nearly burn us up. We got out of the native quarter into the British section. My throat was parched and Richardson said his tongue felt like a sharp stick in his mouth. We found an oasis. We had been in search of water for two hours.

At Cawnpore we made our beds in an empty box-car on a side track in the freight yards.

"What's up?" asked Richardson, awakening about midnight by a sudden jolt to the car.

"I suppose they're going to take this empty away," I said.

"Let's get out of here," suggested Richardson.

"No, stay in and see where they take us. We may get a free ride to some place."

We were banged back and forth on switches for nearly an hour. There was no chance to sleep. We sat up and smoked. At last the engine whistled and we started for some place: we didn't know or care where it was. With the even motion of going in one direction we were able to sleep. I never slept more comfortably in an American Pullman, when I knew my destination, than I did in that empty Indian freight car bound for I didn't know where.

When we awoke the old box-car was at a stand-still. I opened the door and peered out. We were in a freight yard and appeared to be on a siding. There were trains on both sides of us and I could see nothing but box-cars, flat-cars and engines. We grabbed our bags and in a minute were walking towards one end of our train. We came to the station.

"What are you doing in the yards?" a Britisher in uniform called out.

"Just walked in from Cawnpore," I replied, not knowing how far we had travelled. "That's a pretty good hike, isn't it?" I continued.

"Indeed, it is," said the Englishman. "When did you start?"

"Last night," I answered. "How far is it?"

"One hundred and sixty miles."

"What's the name of this town, anyway?" asked Richardson, changing the subject.

"Agra," said the Britisher, who appeared to take our story without doubting a word of it.

We got by him and in ten minutes were housed in a Dak Bungalow where we cooked our own meals and lived a life of leisure at about fifty cents a day, each.

We were hardly settled in our new home when a missionary knocked at our door and advised us to leave the city on account of an epidemic of cholera. We smiled at him.

Agra is the home of the most beautiful building in the world—the Taj Mahal. Most of the magnificent structures which make Agra so interesting are in the Fort. The Taj Mahal stands by itself about a mile away on the banks of the Junna River and its solitude prevents anything impairing its beauty.

Commenced in 1630 by Emperor Shah Jahan, as a tomb for his favourite wife, it is to-day as fresh and new looking as though it had just been taken out of the band-box. Surrounded by magnificent gardens and fountains, approached by imposing red sandstone gates, it is the perfection of beauty and symmetry. It is built of white marble and, with its huge dome and four stately minarets resting against the azure sky, presents a picture of wonderful colour and perfect harmony. I have never seen a more beautiful edifice.

The whole of India was talking Durbar. We had been told a dozen times that it would be impossible to obtain hotel accommodations in Delhi for less than ten dollars a day. We were advised to eliminate this city from our itinerary as only the rich could afford to stay there during the Coronation festivities.

We arrived in Delhi late in the evening and had a good meal at the station restaurant. This meal cost us only one-half the rate listed on the menu card. This pleasing reduction had happened several times before, during our travels in India, but we did not know the reason until the waiter in the Delhi restaurant asked what regiment we belonged to. We had been taken for British soldiers. It seems that in certain cities Tommy Atkins gets a discount of fifty per cent. in all eating places. India is no place for a woollen suit. White linen or duck are the clothes usually worn by foreigners. Richardson and I didn't have the time or the money to have white suits laundered. We solved the problem by wearing khaki with white suits for special occasions. With our khaki suits and brown pith helmets we looked like British soldiers.

In the Delhi restaurant we got a thirty cent meal for fifteen cents. This wasn't a bad beginning for a city in which ten dollars a day was the minimum expense for living. We went out of the station into the darkness of a large park near-by.

"Can you speak English?" said Richardson to the first passer-by. There was no response.

"Hey, there, do you understand English?" I shouted to a group of natives. They looked at me as though I were crazy.

A lone man strutted towards us. He looked like he might know something.

"Where can we find a good cheap hotel?" Richardson asked.

"The Coronation Hotel," the man replied in good English.

"What kind of a joint is it?" I interrupted.

"A good place. Just built for the Durbar."

"Lead us to it," said Richardson.

The native accompanied us to the hotel which was but a short distance away in the business section of Delhi. It was conducted by a Mohammedan and consisted of about twenty rooms on the roof of a large brick building. We were given a compartment which we had to share with two Moslems. We furnished our own bed-clothes, as is the custom in India. The common wash-basin was at the other end of the roof. The hotel's rates were one rupee (thirty-three cents) a day each! The expensiveness of Delhi was a myth.

The city was busy making preparations for the Durbar. Public buildings were being painted; flags were being hung; grand stands erected and streets paved. The Durbar grounds, about five miles from the city, covered hundreds of acres and consisted of thousands of tents which had been pitched to house the various maharajas, rajas and their retinue of attendants. Richardson and I explored the grounds. We visited the large amphitheatre, where King George was to be crowned emperor. It was a large semi-circular wooden building with a throne in the centre. The circle was completed by a mound of earth on which were placed seats. The structure would accommodate about twenty thousand people and the earthen mound would hold about eighty thousand more.

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Richardson and I were asleep in a third-class compartment of a train with four British soldiers. We were on our way to Lahore, nearly four hundred miles north of Delhi. Our train had been at a stand-still for a few minutes and when it started up I was awakened. I heard some one say "Lahore."

"Rich, this is Lahore. Get up." I shouted and gave him a punch in the ribs. The train was slowly pulling out of the station.

"Get out and catch our luggage as I throw it to you," I said.

We awakened the soldiers. Richardson jumped off the car. I scrambled about the compartment to collect our belongings. The train was increasing its speed. I threw out one suit case. Richardson didn't catch it. I threw out the other. Richardson missed it. I hurled the two hand bags out. I never moved so fast in my life. The soldiers helped me throw. Like a whirlwind we threw trousers, shoes, coats, shirts, hair-brushes, tooth-brushes, socks and toilet articles out through the compartment door. The train was now going about twenty miles an hour. I made a jump and landed on my face. There I was in my underclothes and bare feet. The passengers, looking out of the car windows, thought we were drunk. The train swept by and left us.

What a scene greeted us! Richardson and I stood in our underwear—with all our personal belongings scattered for a hundred yards along the cement platform of the station. A hundred or more natives looked on in profound silence. I surveyed the scene and began to laugh. Dozens of things from shoes, coats and hats to toilet articles stretched from the station for nearly a block and two foreigners arrayed in B.V.D's! Surely it was a rare situation to be in at seven o'clock in the morning. We sat down on the cement platform and laughed ourselves out.

We finally gathered ourselves together and dressed. The station master came out to give us assistance.

"Why doesn't some one announce the stations on these trains?" I enquired. "This is a fine way to land in Lahore."

"This isn't Lahore," said the station master.

"What?" cried Richardson and I together.

"No, Lahore is five miles farther."

"What in hell is the name of this place?"

"Lahore Cantonment."

All our scramble was for nothing. We had landed in the quarters of the British soldiers. There was no passenger train until evening. That was too long to wait, so we rode into Lahore proper on a freight which went by an hour later.

Lahore was not worth all the trouble it took to get there. I have a hazy recollection of thousands of native shops, many temples and a large museum. I remember, rather distinctly, a large cannon in front of this museum. It was called "Kim's Gun," as it was on this weapon that Kim was supposed to have been sitting when the Llama came along, as recorded by Kipling.

I do remember one other thing in Lahore. We met a shabbily dressed American who related a sad tale to us about being discharged from a theatrical company and how badly he had been treated. He said that he was broke and his appearance certainly indicated that he spoke the truth. The fellow being a countryman of ours, his speech moved us to the extent of ten rupees. One hour later our down-and-out American friend was reeling about the station so intoxicated that he didn't recognise me when I spoke to him. He was drunk at our expense.

We didn't know one soul among Bombay's million inhabitants when we arrived in that city. There were about twenty Americans living there and I think we met them all before we had been there a week. We lived at the Y.M.C.A. and received our board and room—for both of us—for five rupees ($1.65) a day. We met the acting American Consul and through him the American dentist, the Standard Oil crowd and a number of other young business men. They all entertained us royally. We went to their homes for dinner, had the privileges of their clubs and attended a number of social functions at their invitation.

We went to Poona and spent a night in the National Hotel. I will never forget that night if I live a thousand years. We retired at ten o'clock. By eleven I had killed forty-two bed-bugs. This is not an estimate: it is actual count. I didn't ask the proprietor for another bed for I thought all of them would be alike and I estimated that I had killed off nearly all the bugs in my present bed. At midnight I had slaughtered sixty-seven. This is not a parlour subject, I know. But we are not in a parlour. We are in an Indian bedroom. I would raise up the bed-clothes, light the lamp and they would flock in all directions, like the ribs of a fan, to get under cover. At one o'clock I had killed eighty-one. There seemed to be no end. I couldn't stand it any longer. I tried to rout out the proprietor but he was asleep and couldn't be found. I returned to my room and made my couch on the floor. The mosquitoes nearly finished me during the rest of the night. I venture the guess that this hotel entertains only transients. One night is enough.

We drove in a tonga, a two-wheeled cart, to the Karli Cave. This excavation is made out of a solid rock and is said to have been done two hundred years before Christ. It resembles an early Christian church in its arrangement and all the dimensions are similar to those of the choir of Norwich Cathedral.

It was our plan to catch the mail train for Bombay. On our return from the cave one of the shafts of the tonga broke. The driver was unable to mend it. We had six miles to go to the station and we had but little time. We estimated what the tonga had been worth, paid the driver and left him in the road. We ran the entire six miles through a heavy tropical rain. The heat was intense and the atmosphere was sultry and close. Drenched to the skin we arrived at the station only to see the rear-end of the train pulling out of the yards. Two hours later we took a slow train for Bombay.

Driving a bargain in India takes time, if nothing else. All merchants charge what the traffic will bear. Richardson and I wanted two deck chairs and made up our minds that we were going to get them at a fair price. One evening I dropped into a native shop to look over the stock.

"How much is this steamer chair?" I asked the shop-keeper.

"Twelve rupees." I started to walk out.

"How much will you give?" the native called out.

"Two rupees," I said emphatically.

"No. I will let you have it for eight."

"Two rupees are all I will give you," I said as I continued to walk towards the door.

"Six rupees." The native reduced his price. I took a few steps nearer the door.

"Four rupees," he uttered reluctantly. This figure began to interest me so I lingered to continue the negotiations.

"I will give you only two rupees," I said again. "That chair isn't worth an anna more."

"No. Four rupees or no sale." The old fellow had reached his rock bottom price.

"I will meet you half way and give you three rupees," I said.

"No, four rupees." He stood pat.

I finally left the shop telling the native that I had to consult a friend before making any purchase and that I would come again in the morning. I informed Richardson of the negotiations. I explained that I had worked the native from twelve rupees down to four and I suggested that he continue to beat down the price from that point.

That same evening we went to the shop and I waited on the sidewalk while Richardson entered to resume the battle with the poor shop-keeper.

"I will give you three rupees for that chair," he said to the native, pointing to the piece of furniture which was the subject of all the wrangle.

"No. I have a man coming in the morning who is going to buy it for four rupees." I was the man. I had made no promises.

Richardson struck a dead-lock at once. As he came out of the shop I went in. It seemed a heartless thing to brow-beat the poor native, but we were out for a record.

"Well, I have decided that I can't pay any more than three rupees for the chair," I said.

"All right, no sale then."

I walked out of the shop, joined Richardson on the sidewalk and started up the street. We hadn't gone half a block when the native came running after us.

"Three rupees, eight annas," he shouted.

"All right," I said. "I have some heart left. We have beaten the poor chap down far enough," I added to Richardson.

We returned and bought two chairs. Three rupees, eight annas, seems a big reduction from twelve rupees but even this figure was exorbitant. Both chairs collapsed before they ever saw the deck of a ship.

CHAPTER XII

A SAILOR TO SUEZ

The first-class fare on the large liners from Bombay to the Suez Canal was two hundred and twenty dollars. The cheapest that Richardson and I could find was one hundred and eighty-five dollars. We had the money to pay this price but considered that it would make a large and unnecessary hole in our coin. We agreed not to pay a cent more than twenty dollars each, even if it meant spending the rest of our lives in Bombay. We shook hands on this.

Bombay is a large shipping port and it appeared, on first impression, to be a fertile field from which two semi-stranded roamers could obtain passage. We made a thorough canvass of the water front in search of a job. Richardson would strike the skipper of one ship while I tried my luck with another, or we would board the same boat together, one of us interview the captain while the other placed the case before the steward. We hung out at the Seamen's Institute, skippers' clubs, water front saloons, sailors' rest houses and about the docks. It was uphill work for we received little encouragement and, often, short and rough treatment at the hands of the hardened old seamen. We didn't give up our search until we had visited all the vessels in the harbour—which took up the greater part of three days. We could find nothing. It was impossible for us to compete with Oriental, South African and Hindu labour on these ships, not to mention the practical impossibility of living on their diet and in their unsanitary quarters. We finally and reluctantly gave up hope of getting out as toilers and decided to do the next best thing. We began our campaign over again and visited all the freighters, asking the captains how much they wanted in money to take us to the Canal. Many of them were insulted at such a proposal. Some regretfully said that their owners had rigid rules against taking any one. Others wanted more than our twenty-dollar limit.

Our luck had been pretty tough and was due to change. We boarded the steamer Levanzo, an old-time Italian freighter, which had ploughed the sea for centuries, if her looks indicated anything. We marched straight up to the bridge where the old skipper was standing, smoking a pipe with an odour strong enough to kill a hog.

"Do you speak English?" I enquired.

"A little," was the reply.

"Which way are you going?" was my second question.

"To Napoli," said the Italian.

"When do you get under way?"

"To-morrow afternoon at one o'clock."

"What do you want to take the two of us through the Canal?"

"I will take you for sixty rupees (twenty dollars) each, I think," he said after a minute's reflection.

"All right."

The captain explained that we must sign on as members of the crew, for he was not allowed to take passengers and we should have to be accounted for both at departure and arrival. We signed up without delay; Richardson as assistant cook and I as deck hand.

Although the boat was not scheduled to leave until one o'clock the following afternoon we were instructed to be on hand at ten in the morning for a quarantine inspection. It is a regulation that the crews of all ships leaving Indian ports have to be examined before the authorities will issue clearing papers, thus insuring that no Indian disease will be transmitted to Europe. Richardson and I lined up at the appointed hour the next day with the rest of the crew and filed by the doctors while they gave us a farcical examination.

This proceeding lasted only a few minutes and at its completion we were driven through the quarantine sheds to the wharf. It was then two hours before our ship was to leave and Richardson returned to town to bid farewell to our friends who had entertained us. I took all the luggage and went to the boat.

At one o'clock, the hour that the Levanzo was to get under way, Richardson had not returned. The British quarantine doctor issued an order for the crew to come off the ship and line up so as to file on one at a time. He beckoned to me and I came down the gangway and fell in at the rear.

"Where's your friend?" the doctor asked, abruptly, addressing me.

"He's not here," I replied with an attempted evasion of the question, not wishing to divulge the fact that my partner had broken quarantine.

"He has broken quarantine and can't go on this ship," the officer said, angrily. "Do you want to go without him?"

I said nothing.

"You must make up your mind at once," added the doctor.

"All right, I will go." I thought that the officer didn't mean every word and that Richardson would arrive in a few minutes and have no difficulty in getting aboard.

The motley Italian crew ascended the gangway and, as I was the last one to go aboard, the plank was removed and several sailors began loosening the lines. I went up on the stern to look across the wharf to see if Richardson was in sight. He was not. The ship was pulling away from the pier. Ideas flew through my mind like water through a sieve. I had all Richardson's baggage and what was worse I had all his money. From Bombay to Suez was three thousand miles. It took at least ten days to make the trip. To leave Richardson stranded on the shores of India would be nothing short of murder. I was provoked at him for not appearing but my conscience vibrated with the guilty pangs of deserting my friend and leaving him probably to starve in a strange land. As these alternating emotions were flashing in and out of my mind, the bow of the ship was swinging away from the pier. At last I saw Richardson's head bobbing in the distance. I shouted, whistled and waved. My frantic efforts finally instilled in him the necessity for speed. He came bounding down the wharf like a big calf and attempted to board the ship. He was abruptly stopped by the captain, who ordered him to stay off. The marine doctor had left and there was nothing for me to do but to go on without my companion. The Levanzo was now making her final swing and I threw Richardson's luggage onto the wharf, hurled him his money wallet and bade him farewell.

"I will wait for you in Cairo," I shouted as the boat was getting under way. Richardson stood on the pier with a philosophic smile.

"All right. I will try and make a getaway to-night. So long."

The old Italian "battleship" was soon out in the channel and in a few hours had her nose pointed towards the west and began her lengthy journey to the Canal. I wondered how Richardson would fare but had no doubt that he would get out some way. I therefore dismissed all conjectures from my mind and decided to wait for the news until we met some time in the future.

The Levanzo was a hardened, rusty old tramp. Her crew was entirely composed of Italians who knew little of this world beyond the range of their ship and the water fronts of the ports to which they had sailed. I was consigned to the hold where my iron, hay-mattressed bunk was sandwiched in amongst those of the Italians, who huddled about like a bunch of gypsies. The dark, foul-smelling atmosphere, the wambling fumes of the ship's kitchen, the greasy and treacherous appearance of the crew—none of whom spoke a word of English—promised a trip whose equal I should never experience. However, I had done sufficient travelling of this sort to feel at home in such surroundings and I played the part to a perfection hard to imagine in one who had seen most of the good things of this life. Attired in a blue flannel shirt and khaki trousers, I went barefooted, grew a beard—such as it was—and chewed quantities of the crew's black tobacco.

At four bells the chief steward appeared on deck and called out, "mangiare." From the empty feeling of my stomach, coupled with the revolting odours emanating from the galley, I recognised the equivalent of the word dinner. I followed the crew in the hope of getting a square meal. We formed a line at the kitchen window, where we were given our eating implements for the voyage. They consisted of a tin cup, a tin sauce-pan, a knife, fork and spoon. We then marched in a body to the forecastle where we were given a piece of hard bread each and a pint of red wine. As we trooped back by the kitchen, the steward placed some macaroni in our sauce-pans and gave us some milkless and sugarless coffee. With this assortment of food we retired to the lower deck, sat on a winch or a coil of rope and proceeded to devour it.

The second day out I lost my knife and, when I made an appeal for another I was so severely snubbed by the steward that I made no more requests during the rest of the voyage. I had to resort to my pocket knife to take the place of the lost article.

Macaroni! Macaroni! I thought my stomach would become paralysed on the greasy stuff before the journey would end. I vowed that, if I ever reached shore, I would never allow the word macaroni to be mentioned in my presence. The bread was actually so hard that each member of the crew was compelled to soften it in a tub of water—provided for the purpose—before it was possible to sink his teeth in it. When a man is hungry enough he will eat anything. Stew that almost turned my stomach one day and which I refused to eat, I would consider delicious the next.

From Bombay to Suez is something over three thousand miles and at the rate our ship was travelling it would require sixteen days to make the trip. How these days did drag—on a macaroni diet! The long, hot, foodless days and the dark, stuffy nights in vermin-infested and unsanitary quarters made these sixteen days seem like sixteen years. Between meals I was supposed to assist the crew. Because I was paying the captain a small sum for my passage I was let down rather easily on the work. However, I had to appear busy. Each morning I scrubbed the stern deck and gave the place a general clean-up. In the afternoon I washed clothes in a ship-bucket or painted the iron railings and life boats.

The days dragged slowly on, and three times between sunrise and sunset the red wine and macaroni diet stared me in the face. We entered the Red Sea, our journey only half completed; and the thought rose in my mind that I had eight days more of macaroni. However, all good things come to an end and, thank God, the bad ones are not exempt in this respect. On the sixteenth day at midnight the Levanzo pulled into Suez, the eastern entrance of the Canal.

As soon as the old tub dropped anchor I gave the captain twenty dollars for my passage and, with the speed of a fly, was on my way to shore in a small boat propelled by an Arab, leaving the Levanzo to sink in her tracks for all I cared. I was taken to the Customs House where I was subjected to the most rigid examination to be found anywhere in the world, at the hands and mercy of impudent, coarse and treacherous Arabs. These heavy featured, horse-sized human beings—if such they can be called—were the worst type of men I had seen in a long time—and I had seen some tough specimens in the past few months. Fortunately my belongings made up such a meagre collection that I proved of little interest to these huge parasites who prey upon innocent travellers who wend their way through the Canal.

sphinx

"I don't know. I can't see the hotel for only four hours. I thought I would crawl in one of those passenger coaches on the siding over there," I said, pointing to several cars on an adjacent track.

"All right, old chap, I will go with you. Wait until I get my wife and daughter," said the acrobat as he stepped around the corner of the station for his family.

In a minute he returned with his wife, a London cockney type, whose general appearance indicated that she had seen chiefly the rough spots of this earth. She wore a dress of many colours and a hat which looked like a vegetable salad. Clinging to her skirt was a frail little girl who showed the effects of her wandering life. The four of us, with our luggage, crossed the tracks and tried the doors of several cars but all were locked. At this moment, a large greedy-looking Arab appeared out of the darkness and asked what we wanted.

"A place to sleep," I replied.

"Come with me," blurted the man.

We were so tired that if the devil himself had appeared on the scene and offered us a bed and shelter we would have eagerly accepted. We followed this burly human being and he led us to a small shed about ten by twelve feet. He opened the door and ushered us in and immediately left, stating that he would call us at six o'clock. This shack was certainly a beautiful bedroom for our homeless little band—nothing but a barren wooden house with the earth for the floor and cracks in the walls through which the cold wind rushed in torrents.

The acrobat's wife coiled up in one corner with the little girl on her lap, the man nestled in another and I stretched myself diagonally across a third. Sleep was impossible. We all were nearly petrified with the cold. The Englishman took to his feet and began walking the floor in silence. I soon followed his example. We paced and repaced that ten by twelve compartment for an hour, as speechless as two ghosts. Finally, into the tomb-like silence, the Englishman thrust these words, "Feed the animals." A few seconds' laughter at this remark and silence reigned again. At the end of the second hour the woman, whom we supposed had dozed off to sleep, murmured, "If my mother could see me now." In this way the night crept on and we ignored our hardships.

The Arab appeared at six o'clock and after paying him an exorbitant fee, which he exacted, we boarded a third-class coach of an Egyptian train and, surrounded by a curious lot of natives, started towards Cairo. I have been told that Egypt was the most expensive country in the world in which to travel and that it would be impossible for me to live on less than several dollars a day. Such information had been given me about so many countries and cities that it was a joke. Egypt turned out to be one of the cheapest sections of the globe I ever encountered.

After nearly a day's journey across the desert the train drew into the huge station at Cairo and in a few minutes I was flowing with the crowds towards the street. I stood for an instant on the sidewalk and surveyed the swarms of people who roamed the large plaza in front of the station. I pulled my hat down securely on my head and dived into this sea of humanity and in a second was lost in the million or more inhabitants of that city—of whom I knew not a single soul.

I was on my way to the Hotel Des Princes, a hostelry recommended to me by my English acrobat friend. By enquiring of every person who gave any indication that he might speak English, I found the hotel. It was a two-story structure operated by a middle-class native. I soon made a deal with him by which I got a room with a double bed for twenty-five cents a day, with the promise of a rate of forty cents for two when Richardson arrived. This was surely cheap enough and I thought it was ridiculously so when I recalled the statements made to me concerning the high cost of living in Cairo.

This hotel had no dining room and it was necessary to rustle a cheap but sanitary eating place. Perhaps this was where Cairo deserved its reputation for being an expensive city. I left the hotel determined to be the first man to live on a reasonable amount in the Egyptian capital. I had hardly walked a block when I saw in an alley a sign which read, "Soldiers' Club." I directed my steps toward it, entered the place and in a minute was studiously reading the daily menu, which was posted on a bulletin board in the hallway. Steak, potatoes, vegetables and tea for three piastres (fifteen cents); tarts and pudding—one piastre, and other eatables were listed at equally low prices. As I stood gazing at the bill of fare, almost paralysed with delight over such a fortunate discovery, an Englishman approached.

"What are you looking for?" he asked.

"For something to eat," I replied. "I am making a sort of tramp trip around the world and expect to be in Cairo a few days. Money is rather a scarce article with me and I would like to know what my chances are of eating here."

"Are you a British soldier?" enquired the Englishman.

"No, sir."

"Are you an ex-soldier?" asked the man, sizing up the hungry-looking traveller.

"No, sir," was my honest reply.

"All right," said the club man with a smile. "You may eat here."

"Thanks," I added and immediately sat down and ate one of the finest meals ever served anywhere for fifteen cents. The Soldiers' Club, an institution of the British soldiers in Cairo, served as a sort of home for me during my stay in the city. I had just left the club when two blocks farther up the street I came across a sign with the inscription "Soldiers' Home" and in this place I found a similar reception and similar prices. To accuse Cairo of being expensive was slander. I labelled it one of the most inexpensive places I had visited.

It was now eighteen days since I had left Richardson on the wharf in Bombay and during this time I had not heard a word from him. Shortly after my arrival in Cairo I called at the office of the American Consul, the Y.M.C.A. and Thomas Cook and Son and left in each place my address with instructions to direct Richardson to me in the event that he came in and enquired. I also met an occasional train coming in from Port Said. It was on one of these that I found him.

As soon as my steamer got under way from Bombay, Richardson walked across the wharf and boarded the British tramp Farington. He went up on the bridge and asked the captain for passage to the Canal. The pleasant-looking skipper stated that he was sorry that he could not take him, as his ship had received her papers and was to leave that night at eight o'clock. Richardson graciously withdrew and descended from the bridge but, instead of leaving the vessel, he threw his luggage down an open hatchway and climbed down himself. Here he crawled off to a crevice in the cargo and remained there until the following morning when the ship was about two hundred miles out to sea. He appeared on deck shortly before breakfast and immediately informed the captain what he had done. The skipper took it very kindly. Instead of putting Richardson to work he greeted him cordially and said if it had been proper he would have suggested that he stow away.

Richardson's trip on the Farington was in strong contrast to mine on the Levanzo. He travelled like a civilised person. The captain was a fine type of Englishman and was very hospitable. The first officer was a thoroughly good chap and was very friendly.

Richardson had a cabin on the main deck adjoining the officers; he ate with the second mate and he had the freedom of the entire ship. He spent many hours on the bridge where the officers answered his questions. At the end of the journey he was almost a past-master at navigation. He understood the use of the log; he could locate a ship at sea by use of the sextant and he was able to handle the wheel and give signals to the engine room.

The Farington arrived at Suez and steamed through the Canal to Port Said. As Richardson was not listed on the ship's papers he had to hide down the hold while the port officials came on board for the inspection. As soon as she was received he slid over the side of the ship, jumped into a native boat and was rowed ashore.

CHAPTER XIII

AN AMERICAN CHRISTMAS IN JERUSALEM

Bakshish is the call of the Near East. Nearly every man, woman and child in Egypt must say this word a thousand times a day. At Memphis two hundred people greeted us a mile from the town with a chorus of bakshish. They trailed along with us for an hour with their hands extended, begging for coins. This group of people was one of the most forlorn I have ever seen. There were all ages of both sexes represented among them. The little children tripped along in front of us, the old men made earnest appeals for money and the women, attired in what appeared to be simply an assortment of rags, tottered along behind us calling bakshish incessantly.

The greatest act of kindness that any one could do these people would be to travel through the little villages with several tons of boracic acid and bathe the eyes of every inhabitant. Seventy-five per cent. of these poor creatures seem to be either blind or suffering from eye infection. It is all due to filth. The children are the most forlorn lot I ever saw. Their faces looked as though they had never been washed. I saw babies with a dozen flies on each eye and a score on their mouths, and their mothers made no effort to brush them off. Every child's face was speckled with flies. It was enough to make a person sick to look at them. The youngsters with flies on their eyes and two-thirds of the aged blind! Why don't these people realise that there is a connection between these two conditions and do something?