six o'clock
_ Calcutta , Nov. 21 _ . It is the witching hour of 10 a.m. and I am sitting in my little ante-room -- boudoir , call it what you will -- immersed in correspondence , Boggley , hard-worked man that he is , has departed for his office followed by a _ kitmutgar _ carrying some sandwiches and a bottle of soda-water , which is his modest lunch . Really a Government servant 's life is no easy one . He is up every morning by six o'clock , and gets a couple of hours ' work done before breakfast . His office receives him at ten and keeps him till four , when he comes home and has tea , after which we ride or drive or play tennis somewhere . A look in at the Club for a game of billiards , more work , dinner , and , if we are not going to a dance or any frivolity , a quiet talk , a smoke , a few more papers gone through , bed , and the long Indian day is over . All day _ chuprassis _ , like attendant angels , flit in and out bearing piles of documents marked Urgent , which they heap on his writing-table .