AMANULLAH

in the sunshine. Even with those precautions, my
head often struck the top of the hood, at ten miles an
hour.

" This is the beginning of the bad piece of the road to
Kabul," said the driver. He had dispensed by now with
the trappings of the West, assumed for the benefit of
the highly Westernised Customs gentlemen. He had
slipped off his trousers, and donned his dhoti for cool-
ness. The amazing little hat had gone back into the
tool-box. His head was protected and comfortable in
his puggaree.

Another inspiration caused the light to shine in his
impassive face.

" Perhaps the Sahib wishes to sit in the front," he said.
"It is less bumpy, and if the Sahib allows, I will take
passengers in the back to weigh the car down."

He had discovered the great secret of comfortable
motor travel in the East, though whether the coach-
builders would approve is another matter.

So we picked up passengers. We found them in the
next village, resting on their journey. They were real
men of the hills, two of them marching to Kabul with a
small boy. They had bundles slung on their backs, and
a little brightly coloured tin box. After a short con-
versation, no doubt financially beneficial to the driver,
they disposed themselves in the back of the car, lounged
back in utter comfort and happiness, and served their
purpose admirably as ballast.

The change was for the better. As we turned towards
the first of the gradients outside the village, the car
seemed to be ploughing its way through the network of
holes with greater equilibrium and less discomfort, at
least for the weary, shaken, and sweating front-seat
passenger.

At two o'clock, we stopped at a tiny hamlet on the

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