in that section of Middle Java, the station platforms were crowded with native sight-seers. Native officials and their trains of attendants, Mohammedan women with gorgeous head-gear and the thinnest pretenses of veils, stolid planters with obsequious, groveling servants, and planters' wives, barefooted, wrapped in scant sarongs, and as often wearing red velvet jackets and other traveling toilets of eccentric combination, the costume of the tropics and a Northern winter at the same time—processions of these entertained us not a little as they went their way to the other compartments of the long train.
After the scorching hours spent running through swamp and jungle, we drew near the mountains; life became more bearable, and we beckoned our Moslem at the next stopping-place.
"Bring the sandwiches; they are not in this basket." He looked blankness, as if a little vaguer and more becalmed in mind than usual. "The sandwiches that you made at the Tjilatjap hotel this morning," I explained slowly. "Where are they?"
"Oh, I eat them—jus' now," said the soft-voiced one, naïvely, his hand unconsciously traveling to the digestive region and comfortably stroking it.
Language was useless at such a crisis, and sadly, silently, I resigned myself to the rest of the ten hours' empty ride. An hour later we reached Tjiawi, near which the finest pineapples of the island are grown; and we bought them on the platform, great fragrant, luscious globes of delight, regardless of the almost prayerful requests made to us on arrival, that we would not touch a pineapple in Java. We did a
