They were referring to a custom that obtains in the colonies of
tea-planters who are scattered in ones, two, and threes on
widely-separated estates. Their one chance of meeting others of their
colour is at the weekly gathering in the so-called club of the district.
This is very unlike the institutions known by that name to dwellers in
civilised cities. No marble or granite palace is it, but a rough wooden
shed with one or two rooms built out in the forest far from human
habitations, but in a spot as central and equi-distant to all the
planters of the district as possible. A few tennis courts are made
beside it, or perhaps a stretch of jungle is cleared, the more obtrusive
roots grubbed up, and the result is called a polo-ground, and on it the
game is played fast and furiously.

A certain day in the week is selected as the one which the planters from
the gardens for ten or twenty miles around will come together to it. Across
rivers, through forest, jungle, and peril of wild beasts they journey on
their ponies to meet their fellow men. Some of them may not have seen
another white face since the last weekly gathering.

Each of them in turn acts as host. By lumbering bullock-cart or on the
heads of coolies he sends in charge of his servants to the club-house miles
away from his bungalow food and drink, crockery, cutlery, and glasses, for
the entertainment of all who will foregather there.

And for a few crowded hours this lonely spot in the jungle is filled with
the sound of human voices, with laughter, friendliness, and good
fellowship. Men who have been isolated for a week rub off the cobwebs,
lunch, play tennis, polo, and cards, and swap stories at the bar until the
declining sun warns them of the necessity for departing before night falls
on the forest. After hearty farewells they swing themselves up into the