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But every remembrance and association was, in our homesick thoughts, grouped about an open arch fire, with the sharp, crisp creak of sleigh-runners outside, in a frozen land fourteen thousand miles away. A Tale of Changhi Bungalow We had been out all day from Singapore on a wild-pig hunt.
I said good-by to my companions and the game, and accompanied only by a Hindu guide, struck out across some ploughed lands for the jungle road that led to and ended at Changhi. Changhi was one of three rest bungalows, or summer resorts, if one can be permitted to mention summer in this land of perpetual summer.
The loafer snatched up his helmet with an avidity that admitted of no question as to his earnestness. We made a wild rush down across the oozing compound, through a little strip of dripping jungle, over a swaying foot-bridge that spanned the muddy Sonji Changhi, and along the sandy floor of a cocoanut grove.
They were owned and kept open by the Singapore Government for the convenience of travellers, and as places to which its own officials can flee from the cares of office and the demands of society. I had stopped at Changhi Bungalow once for some weeks when my wife and a party of friends and all our servants were with me.
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