The two wheelmen of the Connaught Rangers, accompany me five miles to the
Bane River ferry, in the cool of early morning. They would have escorted
me as far as Umballa, they say, had they known of my coming in time to
arrange leave' of absence. Twenty-five miles of continuously smooth and
level kunkah, bring me to Phillour, a Mohammedan town of several thousand
inhabitants. The fort of Phillour is a conspicuous object on the left of
the road; it was formerly an important depot of military supplies, and in
the time of Sikh independence was regarded by them as the key to the
Punjab. Since the mutiny it has dwindled in importance as a military
stronghold, but is held by a detachment of native infantry.
A mile or so from Phillour is a splendid girder railway bridge crossing
the River Sutlej. The overflow of the river extends for miles, converting
the depressions into lakes and the dry ditches into sloughs and creeks.
Resting under the shade of a peepul-tree, I while away a passing hour
watching native fishermen endeavoring to beguile the finny denizens of
the overflow into their custody. Their tactics are to stir up the water
and make it muddy for a space around, so that the fish cannot see them;
they then toss a flat disk of wood so that it falls with an audible
splash a few yards away.
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