late that afternoon we were reunited at the sailors’ home. as time wore on the conviction grew that we must shake off haywood once for all. go where we would, he was ever at our heels, bringing disgrace upon us. picking pockets was his glee. when other excitement failed he turned to filching small articles from the booths along the way. the last straw was added to our burden as we were returning to the home along the strand on our second day in calcutta. the sophisticated inhabitants of the metropolis, far from springing aside at the approach of a european, are more accustomed to push him into the gutter. to be jostled by a “nigger” was an insult that haywood could not brook. he resorted to bowery tactics; but to little effect, for the strand was crowded. the day was hot. the higher caste natives, our chief annoyers, carried umbrellas that soon suggested to the new yorker a better means of retaliation. opening his pocket knife, he marched boldly through the throng, slashing viciously at every sunshade whose owner provoked his ire. an angry murmur rose behind us. before we had reached the home, a screaming mob of tradesmen surged around us, waving ruined umbrellas in our faces. decidedly it was time to abandon the perpetrator of such outrages. hints had availed nothing, frankness less. violence against a “pal” was out of keeping with the code of morals of “the road.” there was nothing left but strategy.
the new yorker ate heartily that evening. his plate was still heaped high with currie and rice when marten and i retired to a bench in the garden of the home. plan had i none, as yet, for continuing my journey, for calcutta was worth a week of sight-seeing. but plans are quickly made in the vagabond world.
“look here, mate,” said marten, in a stage whisper, “we’ve got to ditch that fellow. the cops’ll be running us in along with him some day.”
i nodded. a seaman came to stretch himself out in the grass near at hand, and we fell silent. darkness was striding upon us when a 328servant of the home advanced to close the gate leading into the street. suddenly marten raised a hand and shouted to the gateman.
“let’s dig out,” he muttered.
“where?” i queried.
“up country.”
“sure,” i answered, springing to my feet.
we slipped out through the gate, stalked across the maidan among the statues of sahibs who have made history in india, past old fort william, and down to the banks of the hoogly. the tropical night had fallen, and above the city behind blazed the brilliant southern cross. for an hour we tramped along the docks, jostled now and then by black stevedores and native seamen. the cobble stones under our feet gave way to a soft country road. a railway crossed our path and we stumbled along it in the darkness. out of the night rose a large, two-story bungalow.
“guards’ shack,” said marten.
a “goods train” was making up in the yards. a european in the uniform of a brakeman ran down the steps of the bungalow, a lantern in his hand. behind him came a coolie, carrying his lunch-basket.
“goin’ out soon, mate?” bawled marten.
“all made up,” answered the englishman, peering at us a moment with the lantern high above his head, and hurrying on.
“think we’ll go along,” shouted marten.
the guard was already swallowed up in the darkness, but his voice came back to us out of the night:—
“all right! lay low!”
a moment later the tiny british engine shrieked, a man in the neighboring tower opened the block, and the diminutive freight screamed by us. we grasped the rods of a high, open car and swung ourselves up. on the floor, folded to the size of a large mattress, lay a tarpaulin car-cover. a cooling breeze, sweeping over the moving train, lulled us to sleep. once we were awakened by the roar of a passing express, and peered over the edge of the car to find ourselves on a switch. then the train rattled on and we stretched out again. a second time we were aroused by shunting engines, and the guard, passing by, called out that he had reached the end of his run. we climbed out, and, retreating to a grassy slope, slept out the night.
the morning sun showed an extensive forest close at hand. a red, sandy roadway, deep-shaded by thick overhanging branches, led off through the trees. here and there in a tiny clearing a scrawny native 329cooked a scanty breakfast over a fire of leaves and twigs before his thatch hut. above us sounded the note of a tropical bird. the jostling multitudes and sullen roar of calcutta seemed innumerable leagues distant.
the forest opened and fell away on either hand; and we paused on the high, grassy bank of a broad river, glistening in the slanting sunlight. below, in two groups, natives, male and female, were bathing. along a highway following the course of the river stretched a one-row town, low hovels of a single story for the most part, above which a government building and a modest little church stood out conspicuously.
a quaint, old-fashioned spire against the background of an india horizon is a landmark not easily forgotten.
“thunder!” snorted martin. “is this all we’ve made? that bloody train must have been side-tracked half the time we was poundin’ our list’ners. i know this burg. it’s hoogly, not forty miles from cally. but there’s a commish here. he’s a real sport, and ticketed me to cally four years ago. don’t believe he’ll remember my figure-’ead, neither. come on.”
we strolled on down the highway. before the government building a score of prisoners, with belts and heavy anklets of iron connected by two jointed bars, were piling cobble stones.
“but here!” i cried suddenly; “he’ll only give you a ticket back to calcutta if we’re so near there.”
“no bloody fear,” retorted marten; “he’ll ticket me the way i want to go. that’s old lord curzy’s law.”
“then you’ll have to drop that yarn about the guiseppe sarto.”
marten had thus christened his phantom ship, not because he hoped to win favor with the pope, but because he had been hard-pressed for an italian name. commissioners who listened to his “song and dance” had a disconcerting habit of drawing from a pigeon-hole the latest marine guide at the mention of an english vessel. but italian windjammers, unlisted, might be moved about as freely as pawns on a chessboard.
“drop nothing,” snapped the ex-pearl fisher. “think i’m goin’ to let a good yarn like that go to waste, an’ after me spendin’ a whole bloody day learnin’ to pronounce that dago name—an’ the skipper’s? not me! i’m goin’ to send the joe taylor”—in familiar parlance he preferred the english version of the name—“over to bombay, this time. i’ll have ’er due there in four days.”
330we turned in at an imposing lodge gate and followed a graveled walk towards a great, white bungalow with windows commanding a vista of the sparkling hoogly and the rolling plains beyond. from the veranda, curtained by trailing vines, richly-garbed servants watched our approach with the half-belligerent, half-curious air of faithful house dogs. having no personal interest in the proceedings, i dropped into a rustic bench beside the highway. a chatter of hindustanee greeted my companion; a stocky punjabi rose from his heels and entered the bungalow.
there ensued a scene without precedent in my indian experience. a tall, comely englishman, dressed in the whitest of ducks, stepped briskly out upon the veranda, and, totally ignoring the awful gulf that separates a district commissioner from a penniless beachcomber, bawled out:—
“i say, you chaps, come inside and have some breakfast.”
much less would have been my astonishment had he suddenly opened fire on us from a masked battery. i looked up to see marten leaning weakly against a veranda post.
“i only come with my mate, sir,” i explained. “it’s him as wants the ticket. i’m only waitin’, sir.”
“then come along and have some breakfast while you wait,” retorted the englishman. “early risers have good appetites, and where would you buy anything fit to eat in hoogly? i’ve finished, but maghmoód has covers laid for you.”
we entered the bungalow on tiptoe and took places at a flower-decked table. two turbaned servants slipped noiselessly into the room and served us viands of other lands. a punkah-wallah on the veranda kept the great fans in motion. upon me fell the vague sense of having witnessed scenes like this in some former existence. even here, then, on the banks of the hoogly, men ate with knives and forks from delicate china ware, wiping their fingers on snow-white linen rather than on a leg of their trousers, and left fruit peelings on their plates instead of throwing them under the table! it seemed anachronistic.
“i told you,” murmured marten, finishing his steak and a long silence, and mopping his plate dry with a slice of bread plastered with butter from far-off denmark; “i told you he was a real sport. he’s the same one, an’ give me a swell hand-out four years ago.”
maghmoód entered bearing cigars and cigarettes on a silver tray, 331and the information that we were to follow the commissioner to his office, two miles distant.
an hour later we were journeying leisurely northwestward in a crowded train that halted at every hamlet and cross-road. marten had received a ticket to bankipore, far beyond the destination of the local at burdwan, where we alighted three hours before the arrival of the night express. a gaping crowd surrounded us as we halted to purchase sweetmeats in the bazaars and, flocking at our heels, quickly drew upon us the attention of the local police.
dreading russian spies, the indian government has, during the few years past, required its officers to follow closely the trail of foreigners within the country. the native policeman, however, could not distinguish a suspicious character from a member of the viceroy’s council, and takes a childish delight in demonstrating his importance to society by subjecting every sahib stranger who will suffer it to a lengthy cross-examination. half the gendarmes of burdwan, eager to win from their superiors reputation for perspicacity, sought to bring us before the recorders at the police station. their methods were ludicrous. they neither commanded nor requested; they invited us in the flowery phrases of compliment to accompany them, and, when we passed on unheeding, turned back in sorrow to their posts.
two lynx-eyed officers, however, hung on our heels, and, following us to the station as night fell, joined a group of railway gendarmes on the platform. a lengthy conference ensued; then the squad lined up before the bench on which we were seated, and a sergeant drew out one of the small volumes which the government has adopted as a register for transient europeans.
“will the sahibs be pleased to give me their names?” wheedled the sergeant, in the timid voice of a half-starved villon addressing his verses to a noble patron.
i took the book and pencil from his hand and filled out the blanks on a page.
“and you, sahib?” said the officer, turning to marten.
“oh, go to the devil!” growled my companion; “i ain’t no roossian. you got no damn business botherin’ europeans. go chase yourself.”
“the sahib must give the informations or he cannot go on the train,” murmured the native.
“how the devil will you stop me from goin’?” demanded marten.
332the officer muttered something in the vernacular to his companions.
“you would, would you?” bellowed marten.
“ah! the sahib speaks hindustanee?” gasped the sergeant. “what is your name, please, sir?”
“look here,” growled marten, “i’ll give you my name if you’ll promise not to ask any more fool questions.”
the native smiled with delight and poised his pencil.
“and the name, sir?”
“higgeldy piggeldy,” said marten.
“ah! and how is it spelled, please, sahib?”
the sergeant wrote the words slowly and solemnly at my companion’s dictation.
“and which is the sahib’s birthplace?” he wheedled.
“you bloody liar,” roared marten; “didn’t you say you wouldn’t ask anything else?”
“ah! yes, sahib,” bleated the babu; “but we must have the informations. please, sir, which is your birthplace?”
“if you don’t chase yourself, i’ll break your neck!” roared marten, springing to his feet.
the assembled officers fell over each other in their haste to escape the onslaught. marten returned to the bench and sat down in moody silence. the sergeant, urged forward by his fellow officers, advanced timidly to within several paces of us and, poised ready to spring, addressed me in gentle tones:—
“sahib, the police wish, please, sir, to know why the sahibs have come to burdwan.”
“because the local dropped us here, and we had to wait for the express.”
“but why have you not take the express all the time?”
“we were at hoogly. it doesn’t stop there.”
“then, why have you not stay in the station? why have you walked in the bazaars and in the temples?”
“to see the sights, of course.”
“but there are not sights in burdwan. it is a dirty village and very poor and very small. europeans are coming to benares and to calcutta, but they are not coming in burdwan. why have the sahibs come in burdwan, and the sun is very hot?”
“i told you why. the sun doesn’t bother us.”
“then why have the sahibs bought sweets and chappaties in the bazaars?”
333“because we were hungry.”
“sahibs are not eating native food; they must have european food. why have you bought these?”
“for lord’s sake, hit that nigger on the head with something!” burst out marten. “i want to sleep.”
the sergeant retreated several paces and continued his examination.
“and why have the sahibs gone to the tem—?”
the shriek of an incoming train drowned the rest, and we hastened towards the european compartment.
“you must not go in the train!” screamed the sergeant, while the squad danced excitedly around us. “stop! you must answer—”
we stepped inside and slammed the door.
“the train cannot be allowed to go!” screeched the babu, racing up and down the platform. “the sahibs are not allowed to go. you must hold the train, sahib!” he cried to a european guard hurrying by.
“hold nothing,” answered the official. “are you crazy? this is the bombay mail,” and he blew his whistle.
the sergeant grasped the edge of the open window with one hand and, waving his notebook wildly in the other, raced along the platform beside us.
“you must answer the questions, sahibs—”
the train was rapidly gaining headway.
“get down, sahibs! come out! you are not allowed—”
he could hold the pace no longer. with a final shriek he released his hold and we sped on into the night.
hours afterward we were awakened by a voice at the open window. a native officer was peering in upon us.
“i have received a telegraph from burdwan for a sahib who has not answered some questions,” he smiled, holding up his notebook.
“my name’s franck,” i yawned.
“then it must be the other sahib,” said the native. “you are, sir, i think, mr. higgeldy piggeldy?”
“naw! mine’s marten,” said my companion, drawing out his papers. “bloody funny name, that. can’t be no englishman. must be a roossian.”
we left the express at daybreak. bankipore was suffering from one of the long droughts that have ever been the blight of this section of india. the flat plains of the surrounding country spread out an 334arid, sun-baked desert as far as the eye could see. along the roadway the dust rose in clouds at every step, the trees stood lifeless in ragged shrouds of dead, brown leaves. the few low-caste natives still energetic enough to bestir themselves dragged by at the listless pace of animals turned out to die, utter hopelessness in their shriveled faces, their tongues lolling from their mouths. the sear grass of the great maidan was crushed to powder under our feet; a half-mile stroll brought on all the symptoms of physical fatigue; the moistureless, dust-laden air smarted in our throats and lungs and left our lips and nostrils parched and cracking.
in the center of the maidan, as far as possible from the human kennels of the surrounding town, were pitched several sun-bleached tents. a dun-colored coolie, squatting in a dusty patch, cried out at our approach; and a native of higher caste pushed aside the flap of the tent and, shading his eyes under an outstretched hand, gazed towards us. he was dressed in uniform, his jacket open at the throat, and his bare feet thrust into a pair of shabby slippers. a figure commonplace enough, yet at sight of him we gasped with delight. for on his head sat a fez! it was far from becoming to its wearer; a turban would have offered more protection against the indian sun, but it heralded a mohammedan free from the fanatical superstitions of the brahmin faith. we might quench our thirst at once with no pollution of the cup; and depart without feeling that creepy sensation of guilt that one experiences at home in stopping in a saloon for a drink of water—if such things happen. how the point of view towards one’s fellow men change with every advance to the eastward! in this superstitious land an islamite seemed almost a brother.
but we were thirsty.
“pawnee hai? oh! maghmoód, we would drink,” cried marten.
the follower of the prophet smiled at the words of the vernacular as he answered in perfect english:—
“assuredly, gentlemen. i should be delighted. step inside, where it is cooler.”
his was no crude-builded language of the babu. an oxford fellow could not have expressed his thoughts more clearly, nor given more immediate evidence of a sahib point of view.
the tent was furnished with mats and couches. in one corner stood a chair and a desk littered with papers. the mohammedan 335handed us a chettie of water. when we had drunk our fill, he offered cigarettes and motioned to a couch.
“be seated, gentlemen,” he said. “unless you have urgent business you may as well rest a bit.”
“gee!” puffed my companion, leaning back on his elbows; “i’m glad a mohammedan’s superstitions don’t make him believe all this tommy-rot about pollution.”
marten of tacoma was not distinguished for tact.
“we try, at any rate,” smiled the officer, “to be sane in our beliefs.”
“of course,” went on my mate, “you have plenty of fool superstitions, too; and you put rings in your wives’ noses, to lead ’em around by, i suppose?”
a flash of fire kindled the eye of our host, but he smiled again as he replied:
“we try, though, sir, to be sparing of unnecessary insults.”
“gee!” murmured marten, without looking up; “this is a good cigarette.”
“is this an encampment?” i put in, feeling it my duty to lead the conversation into other channels. “i don’t see any sepoys about.”
“oh, by no means,” said the mohammedan; “this is police headquarters. the smaller tents house the men.”
“then you are not a soldier?”
“not in recent years. i am chief of police for bankipore.”
marten cast a half-startled glance at the profile of the man he had taken for a simple sergeant, and assumed a more dignified posture.
“the police, then, live in tents here?” i went on.
“if we didn’t, few of us would be living at all,” replied the chief. “early in march, with the famine, the plague broke out, and the inhabitants have been dying in hundreds ever since. ten of the force were carried from their huts to the funeral pyres in the first week. then we set up the tents.”
“doesn’t the government try to check the epidemic?”
“try! we have been fighting it tooth and nail since the day it began. but what can we do among ignorant, superstitious hindus? our people are poor. they live in filthy huts with dirt floors, into which rats can dig easily. if we attempt to fumigate a house, the family abandons it and sleeps on the ground outside, the surest way of taking the plague. if we try to purify their water and food we 336have a riot on our hands. the huts, too, are so packed together and burdened with filth that the only way to clean them would be to burn up the town. we have a force of government doctors. medicine, also, is free to all. but you know my people. they would far rather die of plague than run the risk of losing caste through the doctor’s touch. if a man dies, his family prefers to scoop a hole in the floor and squat on his grave, rather than to turn his body over to christians or mohammedans. we have strict laws against concealing sickness and death, but it is difficult to enforce them. to make things worse, the rumor is always going the rounds that the sahib government has ordered the doctors to poison their patients or cast a spell upon them; and among the masses such tales are readily believed. what can you expect of ignorant, fanatical people who barely realize that reading and writing exist, and who never learn anything except on hearsay? police and doctors and government medicine will never wipe out the plague. the only thing that can stop it is rain, and until that comes bankipore will keep on dying.”
marvelous was the manner in which this son of the orient ran on in an alien tongue, never at a loss for the word to express his meaning precisely.
“do all those attacked by the plague die?” i asked.
“i have been keeping tab on the cases,” returned the chief, “and i find that a fraction of less than ninety-six per cent result fatally. i know of men who have recovered. our former district commissioner was one. if the victim is a european or a well-to-do native he has about one chance for life to three for death. but among the sudras, the coolies, the peasants, the poor shopkeepers, there is small hope. they have always half starved on a rice diet, the drought has left us famine-stricken for a year; obviously, having no constitutions to fall back upon, they merely lie down and die, never making an effort unless their religious superstitions are in danger of violation. no, it is only rain that will save us,” he concluded, pushing aside the flap of the tent and gazing hopelessly at the cloudless sky.
we turned away into the town. it needed no word from the chief of police to call attention to the ravages of plague and famine. the shopkeepers, humped over their wares, wore the air of dogs ever in the fear of a beating; the low-caste natives stared greedily at the stale, dust-covered foodstuffs spread out along the way; fleshless personifications of misery crawled by, whining for cowries—the sea-shells that charitable india bestows on her beggar army. the inhabitants 337were not hungry. that is their normal condition. they were starving. yet the general misery made them none the less slaves of their omnipresent superstitions. the gaunt, sunken-eyed merchant screamed in frenzy when our fingers approached his octogenarian rice cakes and chappaties; he held his bony claw on a level with our knees to catch the coppers we offered. his stock was plentiful, if grey-bearded; his prices as low as in the days of abundance. it was, after all, chiefly a famine of annas.
at the great government bungalow, on a low hill to the eastward of the town, were few evidences of affliction. the official force, from the richly-gowned and turbaned judge, holding court on the veranda, to the punkah-wallah who cooled his court-room, were glossy, well-fed creatures. the commissioner, who drove up in a dog cart ornamented with two footmen in scarlet and white livery, and who marched with majestic tread through a lane of kowtowing inferiors, certainly had not come without his breakfast. but even he must have known of the famine, for in the stringy shade of thin-foliaged trees nearby huddled scores of wretches waiting for leave to appeal for government assistance.
native starvelings, obviously, should not take precedence over a sahib. while i dropped into a proffered seat at the right hand of the judge, marten followed the englishman inside. a long line of prisoners, shackled in pairs and guarded by many native policemen, awaited judgment. two by two they dropped on their knees in the sun-scorched dust, sat down on their heels, and, raising clasped hands to their faces, rocked slowly back and forth. the judge muttered a half-dozen words, which writers behind him jotted down in ponderous volumes, waved a flabby hand, and the culprits passed on.
“these,” whispered an interpreter in my ear, “are wicked thieves. they have stolen chappaties in the bazaars. they have prison for three months. these next escape quickly with six weeks. they have cut a coolie with knives. those who kneel now have polluted high-caste food.”
close to an hour the procession continued. an aged coolie, wrinkled and creased of skin as if he had been wrung out and hung up to dry, and a naked, half-grown boy brought up the rear. while they knelt, the secretary turned over the pages of his book.
“more thieves,” said the interpreter. “the boy has stolen a brass lota; the man, the lunch of a train guard, three months ago. their prison is ended.”
338the judge spoke and a policeman produced a large bunch of keys and removed their shackles. man and boy fell on their faces in the dust, and rising, wandered away over the brow of the hill.
a moment later marten emerged from the bungalow.
“the old song and dance is as good as ever!” he cried, when we were out of earshot. “i got a boost to allahabad an’ two days’ batter an’ the commish’s sympathy. come on; let’s take in the sights.”
bankipore’s chief object of interest was a stone granary, in shape an immense bee-hive or hay-cock, depository in days of plenty for years of famine. as such things go in india, it was a very modern structure, having been erected in the time of the american revolution. it was empty. an outside stairway, winding upward, led to a circular opening in the apex, through which trains of coolies, in days gone by, poured a steady stream of grain. within was stygian darkness. we were rewarded for the perspiring ascent by a far-reaching view of the famine-stricken plains, and off to the eastward i caught my first glimpse of the ganges.
we halted late that night at buxar, far short of allahabad, and took slower train next morning to moghul serai. for to have remained on board the express would have been to pass in the darkness the holy city of benares.
the pilgrim train was densely packed with wildly-excited natives and their precious bundles. not once during the seven-mile journey across the arid plateau did a vista of protruding brown feet greet us as we looked back along the carriages. the windows of every compartment framed eager, longing faces, straining for the first glimpse of the sacred city. to many of our fellow-travelers this twentieth of april had been in anticipation, and would be in retrospect, the greatest day of their worldly existence. for the mere sight of holy “kashi” suffices to wipe out many sins of past decades. even the gods of the brahmin come here to consummate their purification.
bankipur’s chief object of interest is a vast granary built in the time of the american revolution to keep grain for times of famine. from its top the traveler catches his first glimpse of the ganges
women of delhi near gate forced during the sepoy rebellion. one carries water in a standard oil can, another a basket of dung-cakes
as we rounded a low sand dune, a muffled chorus of exclamations sounded above the rumble of the train, and called me to the open window. to the left, a half-mile distant, the sacred river ganges swept round from the eastward in a graceful curve and continued southward across our path. on the opposite shore, bathing its feet in the sparkling stream, sprawled the holy city. travelers familiar with all urban dwelling places of man name three as most distinctive in sky-line,—new york, constantinople and benares. the last, certainly, 339is not least impressive. long before gautama, seeking truth, journeyed thither, multitudes of hindus had been absolved of their sins at the foot of this village on the ganges. to the bathing ghats and shrines of the brahmin the buddhist added his temples. then came the mohammedan conquerors with new beauties of saracenic architecture. in the toleration of british rule jain and sihk and even christian have contributed their share to this composite monument to the world’s religions. through it all, the city has grown without rhyme or reason. temples, monasteries, shrines, kiosks, topes, mosques, chapels have vied with each other and the huts and shops of the inhabitants in a wild scramble for place close to the absolving waters of the ganges, until the crescent-shaped “kashi” of to-day lies heaped upon itself, as different from the orderly cities of the western world as a mass of football players in hot scrimmage from a company of soldiers. from the very midst of the architectural scramble, giving center to the picture, rise two slender minarets of the mosque aurunzebe, needing but a connecting bar to suggest two goal posts.
the train rumbled across the railway bridge and halted on the edge of the city. no engineering genius could have surveyed a line through it. we plunged into the riot of buildings and were at once engulfed in a whirlpool of humanity. damascus and cairo had seemed over-populated; compared with benares, they were deserted. where the chattering stream flowed against us, we advanced by short spurts, pausing for breath when we were tossed aside into the wares of bawling shopkeepers, or against a fa?ade decorated with bois de vache. worshipers, massed before outdoor shrines, blocked the way as effectually as stone walls. cross currents of pilgrims, bursting forth from jain or hindu temple, bore us away with them through side streets we had not chosen to explore. pilgrims there were everywhere, of every caste, of every shade, from the brass-tinted hillman to the black madrasi, representatives of all the land of india from the snow line of the himalayas to tuticorin by the sea. among them the inhabitants of benares were a mere handful.
sacred bulls shouldered us aside with utter indifference to what had once been the color of our skins. twice the vast bulk of a holy elephant loomed up before us. on the friezes and roofs of hindu temples monkeys wearing glittering and apparently costly rings on every finger scampered and chattered with an audacity that to the natives was an additional proof of their divinity.
340we had been buffeted back and forth through the tortuous channels for more than an hour when a frenzied beating of drums and a wailing of pipes bore down upon us.
“religious procession!” screamed marten, dragging me after him up the steps of a jain temple. “we’ll have to hang out here till it gets by. how’s them fer glad rags?”
the paraders were, indeed, attired in astonishing costumes, even for india. the street below us was quickly filled with a screaming of colors no less discordant than the harrowing “music” to which a thousand marchers kept uncertain step. some of the fanatics, not satisfied with an exaggeration of native garb, masqueraded in the most fantastic of guises, among which the most amusing was that of a bold fellow burlesquing a sahib. he was “made up” to emphasize the white man’s idiosyncrasies, and marched in a hollow square where no point could be hidden from the view of the delighted bystanders. to the hindu, he is an ass who wears jacket and trousers in preference to a cool, flowing robe; the tenderness of sahib feet is the subject of many a vulgar jest. the burlesquer was attired in a suit of shrieking checks that fitted his slender form as tightly as a glove; on his feet were shoes with great projecting soles in which he might have walked with impunity on red-hot irons. his flour-powdered face was far paler than that of the latest subaltern to arrive from england; over his long hair he wore a close-cropped wig of sickly yellow hue; and his tropical helmet would have given ample shade for four men. he was smoking a homemade imitation of a “bulldog” pipe, and swung a small fence rail jauntily back and forth as he walked. every dozen yards he feigned to fall into a rage and, dancing about in a simulation of insanity, rushed upon the surrounding paraders, striking wildly about him with his clenched fists. the fact that he never opened his lips during this performance brought great delight to the natives, accustomed to give vent to their anger by taxing their vocal organs to the utmost.
there were other suggestions of the hindu’s hatred of his rulers, the boldest of which brought up the rear of the procession. two natives bore aloft a rough wooden cross on which a monkey was crucified—with cords rather than with nails. how widespread are the teachings of christian missionaries was suggested by the fact that the most illiterate countryman “saw the point,” and twisted his lean features into the ugly grimace that is the low-caste hindu’s manner of expressing mirth.
one of the many flights of steps leading down to the bathing ghats and funeral pyres of benares
341we fought our way onward to the center of the town and descended a great stone stairway beneath the slender minarets. up and down the embankment groups of thinly-clad pilgrims, dripping from their ablutions, smoked vile-smelling cigarettes in the shadow of temple walls or purchased holy food at the straw-thatched booths. here and there members of the most despised caste in india stood before ponderous scales, weighing out the wood that must be used in the cremation of the hindu dead who hope to attain salvation. the abhorrence of their fellow-beings hung lightly upon the wood-sellers, tempered as it was by the enjoyment of a monopoly compared with which an american trust is a benevolent institution.
in the bathing ghats, segregation of sexes prevailed. the men wore loin clothes, the women white winding sheets through which the contour and hue of their brown bodies shone plainly as they rose from the water. from time to time bands of natives, covered with the dust of travel, tumbled down the stairways and plunged eagerly into the purging river. there is no sin so vile, says the hindu, that it cannot be washed away in the ganges at the foot of benares. let us hope so, for its waters certainly have no other virtues. gladly would i, for one, bear away any portable burden of peccadillos in preference to descending into that fever-infected flow of mud. a ray of sunlight will not pass through a wineglassful of ganges water. yet pilgrims not only splashed about in it, ducking their heads beneath the surface and dashing it over their faces, they rinsed their mouths in it, scraped their tongues with sticks dipped in it, spat it out in great jets, as if bent on dislodging some tenacious sin from between their back molars.
our circuit of the city brought us back to the station long enough before train time to give opportunity for a duty that falls often to the roadster in india,—a general “wash up.” twice that day we had been taken for eurasians. benares ends abruptly at the railway line; beyond, stretches a flat, monotonous landscape of arid, unpeopled moorland. armed with a two-pice lump of soap of the hue of maple sugar, we slid down the steep bank below the railway bridge in an avalanche of sand and rubble. once there, marten decided that he was “too tired” to turn dhoby, and stretched out in the shade of the bank. i approached the stream, sinking halfway to my knees in the slime. there would have been no indian impropriety in disrobing at once, but there would certainly have been a sadly sunburned sahib ten minutes afterward. ordinary beachcombers, like my companion, 342being possessed of but two cotton garments, must have retired unlaundered or blistered. i, however, was no ordinary vagabond. my wardrobe included three pieces. it was the simplest matter in the world, therefore, to scrub the jacket while wearing the shirt and the shirt while wearing the jacket, and to wrap the garment de luxe around my legs while i soaked the third in the accumulation of hindu sins.
“say, mate,” drawled marten, while i daubed my trousers with the maple-sugar soap, “you’ll sure go to heaven fer scrubbin’ your rags in that mud. there’s always a bunch of hindu gods hangin’ around here. i don’t want to disturb a honest laborin’ man, o’ course, but i’d be so lonesome if you was gone that i’m goin’ to tell you that there’s one comin’ to take you to heaven now, an’ if you’re finished with livin’—”
i looked up suddenly. barely ten feet away the ugly snout of a crocodile was moving towards me.
“stand still!” shouted marten, as i struggled to pull my legs from the clinging mud. “he’s a god, i tell you. besides, he’s probably hungry. don’t be so damn selfish.”
the trouser, well aimed, ended his speech abruptly as i reached dry land. i worked, thereafter, with wide-open eyes; and before the task was ended, caught sight of no less than fourteen of the river gods of india.
we regained the station in time for the train to moghul serai, and, catching the northwest express, arrived in allahabad late at night. the strangers’ rest, vagabonds’ retreat a half mile from the station, was long since closed; but the irish superintendent was a light sleeper, and we were soon weighing down two charpoys under the trees of the inner courtyard.
the jangling of the breakfast bell awakened us. the allahabad “rest” was famed far and wide for its “european chow.” all through the night we had embraced ourselves in joyful anticipation of reviving our flagging memories on the subject of the taste of meat. marten had even dared to dream a wondrous dream, wherein he had pursued a gargantuan beefsteak as broad as the arid plain below benares, in thickness like unto a native hut, across half the land of india, only to wake as he was falling upon it in the foothills of the himalayas.
“an’ the bloomin’ thing was steamin’ hot,” he driveled, as we raced for the dining-room with a mob of ordinarily phlegmatic roadsters, 343“an’ the juice was runnin’ out all over the fields”—we dropped into places at the table—“an’ it was that bloody rare that—ah—er—wha—what the devil’s this?” he gasped, pointing at the plate before him.
“eh?” cried the superintendent, from the doorway.
“i was askin’,” murmured marten, “what kind o’ meat this might be.”
“that?” smiled our portly host. “why, ’tis dhried fish, to be sure. the day’s good friday, you’ll be remimberin’.”
so we were glad rather than sorry that the piety of the english rector, to whom that power was deputed, forbade him issuing tickets to stranded seamen until the next day.
nothing short of a promise to set up a bottle of arrack would have enticed another sojourner at the rest outside its shady grove. i set off to explore the city of allah alone. life moved sluggishly in its broad, straight streets; for the day’s inactivity of europeans and eurasians had clogged the wheels of industry. lepers swarmed under the trees along the boulevard passing the rest—lepers male and female, without fingers, or lips, or eyelids, some with stumps for feet, and others with great running sores where their faces should have been. still others had lost their vocal cords, so that their speech, as they crept close up behind the passing sahib to solicit alms, was an inarticulate gurgle.
great credit should be given to the mohammedan women of allahabad and beyond, who, with no worth to do them service, display individuality of dress sufficient to attract a flagging attention. to be exact, it isn’t a dress at all, being merely a jacket and a pair of thin, cotton trousers, full above the knee and close-fitting below, like riding-breeches. the costume originated with its wearers, no doubt. far be it from me, at least, to accuse them of copying the garb of the sahibs who gallop along the broader thoroughfares.
we slept again under the spreading trees, and might have slept well, had not the spot chanced to be the rendezvous of all the mosquitoes of the northwest provinces. with morning our host marched away at the head of a band of wandering minstrels to carry entertainment to the english rector. the performance endured beyond all precedent. one by one the artists straggled back to the grove, some glad, some sorrowful; and among the latter was marten. in accordance with our plan to continue towards the punjab, he had promised to send the “guiseppe sarto” from the harbor of bombay, 344where it had ridden at anchor since the day that we entered hoogly, to kurachee at the mouth of the indus. the classic tale had aroused the old-time sympathy; the rector had listened gravely; the story must surely have brought its reward had not the teller, too cock-sure of his lines, forgotten momentarily the contemplated revision of the text and blurted out the familiar name so distinctly that correction was impossible. he had drawn, therefore, when the division of lots fell, a ticket to bombay.
there were two reasons why marten had no desire to visit that port: first, because i had refused to accompany him; second, because the commissioners of that uncharitable presidency have contracted the reprehensible habit of committing to the workhouse the penniless white man taken within their borders. but the die was cast. the law required that the holder of a government ticket depart by the first train, and even had it not, there was no one else in allahabad to whom to appeal. the grief of the former pearl fisher was acute, lachrymose, in fact. to dry his tears i consented to accompany him to the capital of the next district.
we took leave of the irishman as darkness fell and before the night was well on its wane had sought a sharp-cornered repose at the station of jubbulpore. the commissioner of that district, moved by a more carefully constructed tale, granted the stranded mariner a ticket to jhansi. the route mapped out for him led southward to the junction with the main line, which i, anxious to explore a territory off the beaten track, chose to gain by an unimportant branch. we separated, therefore, promising to meet again next day at bina.
returning northward to the village of khatni, i spent the night on a station settee, and boarded the mixed train that sallies forth daily from that rural terminal. it was in charge of a eurasian driver and guard, of whom the latter gave me full possession of a roomy compartment adjoining his own. the country was rolling in outline, a series of broad ridges across which the train rose and fell regularly. to right and left stretched jungle, uninhabited and apparently impenetrable. the villages rarely comprised more than a cluster of huts behind the railway bungalow, to which the inhabitants flocked to greet the arrival of the train, the one event that enlivened a monotonous daily existence. now and then i caught sight of some species of deer bounding away through the low tropical shrubbery, and once of that dreaded beast of india—a tiger. he was a gaunt, agile creature, more dingy in color than those in captivity, who advanced 345rapidly, yet almost cautiously, clearing the low jungle growth in long, easy bounds. on the track he halted a moment, gazed scornfully at the sluggard locomotive, then sprang into the thicket and was gone.
we halted at midday at the station of damoh. certain that my private carriage could not be invaded in a district where europeans were almost unknown, i left my knapsack on a bench and retreated to the station buffet. at my exit a strange sight greeted my eyes. before the door of my compartment was grouped the population of damoh. inside stood a native policeman, in khaki and red turban. under one arm he held the guidebook, a tobacco box, a pipe, a spool of film, and the leaf-wrapped lunch that had made up the contents of my knapsack. the sack itself, a half-dozen letters, and the kodak-cover lay on the floor under his feet. by some stroke of genius he had found the springs that released the back of the kodak, and having laid that on the bench beside him, was complacently turning the screw that unwound the ruined film, to the delight of his admiring fellow-countrymen.
the natives fled at my approach, and the officer, dropping my possessions on the floor, dashed for the shelter of the station-master’s office. i followed after to make complaint, and came upon him cowering behind a heap of baggage, his hands tightly clasped over the badge that bore his number.
“he says,” interpreted the eurasian agent, when i had demanded an explanation, “that it is his duty to look in empty compartments for lost articles, but that he has not taken the littlest thing, not even a box of matches, and asks that you forgive him. if you cannot put the queer machine together again, he will.”
“these fellows are always prying into things like monkeys,” put in the guard, “i’d make complaint to the inspector at bina.”
a change came over the face of the policeman. till then he had been the picture of contrition; now he advanced boldly and poured forth a deluge of incomprehensible lingo.
“why, what’s this?” cried the station-master. “he says you assaulted him.”
“does he look like it?” i demanded.
“no,” admitted the agent, “most sahibs leave marks.”
“oh! that’s the old trick,” snorted the guard. “he understood the word ‘inspector’ and thinks he’ll keep out of hot water by making a counter accusation.”
346“i don’t believe the tale,” said the agent, “but he insists on making a complaint, and i shall have to telegraph it to the inspector at the end of the line.”
the train went on. there being no european officers in the district i could not be placed under arrest, but it was not long before i found the police drag-net drawing close around me. the first station beyond damoh was a populous town, and among the natives who crowded the platform my attention was drawn to two sturdy fellows in the garb of countrymen who elbowed their way through the throng and stared boldly in upon me. apparently they had designs on my depleted pocketbook, but, indifferent to so slight a loss, i returned their scowls and settled back in my seat. we were well under way again when i turned from my contemplation of the distant landscape and glanced along the swaying cars. from the next compartment, his eyes glued on my own, hung one of the countrymen. annoyed, i moved to the opposite side of the car. the head and shoulders of the second rascal protruded from the window ahead. the situation burst upon me. these, then, were “plain-clothes guys” assigned the duty of shadowing me to my destination.
as long as the journey lasted, the detectives sat motionless in their places, their heads twisted halfway round on their shoulders, staring like observant owls at the only means of exit from my compartment. i descended at bina as twilight fell, and they hung on my heels until i had been accosted by a young englishman in khaki uniform.
“the station-master at damoh,” began the briton, “reports that you assaulted a native officer. will you come with me, please?”
he led the way to the waiting-room, and, producing a notebook, jotted down my story.
“he needed a good drubbing whether he got it or not,” he admitted, when i had concluded. “unfortunately i cannot release you until the inspector comes.”
“when will that be?”
“to-morrow, probably, on this same train.”
“but i can’t afford to be delayed twenty-four hours,” i protested. “i’m short on cash and i’ve got to meet a mate.”
“i am sorry,” returned the englishman, “but as deputy inspector i have no power in the matter. i do not want to lock you up if you will promise not to leave the station precincts. you may sleep in the first-class waiting-room.”
whether he relied entirely on my promise, i did not learn. at 347any rate, he ordered the agent to arrange a cane couch for me, and not long after his departure a coolie arrived from the barracks with such a dinner as i did not often enjoy during my days of liberty. the next day the fare was even more generous, and was supplemented by several delicacies which the eurasian guard sent from the messroom of the railway bungalow. the latter had not neglected to make public my story, and every hour brought englishmen, eurasians, or babus to express their conviction that i was being grossly mistreated. among them was a leathery little irishman, a traveling photographer with headquarters in agra, and a discussion of our common interests ended with his writing me a “chit” to his employer, whom he represented as in need of an assistant.
the deputy inspector hovered about the station, and during one of his visits i asked for a book with which to while away the time. he must have pondered long over the shelves in his bungalow in quest of a volume that would appeal to a sailor of slight education, of american nationality, who was ostensibly suffering severe depression of spirits. his choice demonstrated the unfailing perspicacity of the briton. he came back bearing a thumb-worn copy of “bill nye’s history of the united states.”
with nightfall came the inspector to listen to a repetition of my story.
“your account,” he announced, “agrees entirely with that of the eurasian guard. i shall release you at once.”
an hour afterward i left bina and, halting at jhansi and the free state of gwalior, arrived in agra three days later. until then i had fancied that marten had passed me during the night of my captivity. but as i alighted, i was surprised to see, in a letter-rack such as is maintained at most indian stations for the convenience of travelers, a post card across which my name was misspelled in bold, blue letters. on the back was scrawled this simple message:—
godawara, india—april 25th.
felow beechcomer:—
missed the train to bina becaze i knoked the block off a nigger polisman. they draged me down hear and the comish finned me 15 dibs and then payed the fine and put me rite as far as agra. i wil pick you up ther on the 27th.
yours,
busted head.
the twenty-seventh was past. the ex-pearl-fisher had evidently gone on, and i saw him no more.
348reduced now to a handful of coppers, i lost no time in seeking out the photographer to whom my “chit” was addressed. he was a parsee of slender build, dressed in european garb, the trousers of which, fitting his long legs all too snugly, gave him a strangely spiderlike appearance. a small velvet skull-cap, embroidered in red and pink with representations of flowers and leaves, sat imperturbable on the top of his head, holding its place with every movement of his lithe body as if nailed there. suggestion was there none, in his mien, of strange religious beliefs. his english was fluent, his manner affable, yet tempered with a ceremonial coldness, as of one convinced of the necessity of being ever on his dignity.
we came quickly to terms. the shop, well stocked with photographic supplies, was in charge of a eurasian clerk, and my new duties confined me within the narrow limits of the dark-room. he who would taste purgatory has but to find employment in a photographer’s workshop in india. as the door closed behind me, i muttered a determination to hold my new-found position for a fortnight. before the first set of plates had been transferred to the fixing-bath, the resolution weakened; when an hour had passed, a voice within me whispered that three days’ wages would be amply sufficient for all present needs. there were new elements of the photographer’s craft to be learned in the parsee’s laboratory, too, such as the use of ice in every process, and during the learning i conducted, all unintentionally, a series of researches in the action of nacl on the various chemicals in my charge. in short, the stoke-hole of an ocean-liner would have been hibernal by comparison. my employer’s tap on the door, with the suggestion that it was time to set up the shutters, did not need to be repeated.
once in the street, the parsee hailed a hindu hansom, a sort of stranded ferryboat set up on two circular table-tops and attached to what had once been a pair of bullocks, and we were driven off. that we reached the residence of my employer before morning and in good health was reason for self-congratulation, for it was nearly a mile distant. the axle-grooves in the misapplied table-tops were as near the center as if they had been bored by a musket in the hands of a blind man at one hundred paces. the driver was with great difficulty inspired to action, and was totally incapable of transmitting such inspiration to his animals. along the boulevard the craft moved at the cumbersome gait of a land crab; in the rougher streets it pitched and rolled like a derelict in the trough of the waves.
the taj mahal, agra, india
349the parsee, accustomed to this fancied solution of the transit problem of agra, fell into that half doze of dreamy contentment typical of the home-coming suburbanite the world over, and roused himself only when the rattle of the cobble stones of his own courtyard disturbed his ruminations. we alighted equi-distant from two squat bungalows, of which the fire-worshiper gave me leave to enter the former, ere he retired to the bosom of his family in the other. my new home housed a band of servants and a lodger. the deep veranda was curtained by a network of creeping vines that the drought had touched with autumn colors. as i mounted the steps, a long-drawn groan sounded from the semi-darkness, and i was greeted by the sight of the lodger tossing deliriously on one of two dilapidated willow armchairs with which the piazza was furnished. a fever raged within him—the first symptoms, he was convinced, of the plague that would carry him off before dawn. plainly he did not care to go. the charpoys within were all occupied. i pre?mpted the unoccupied chair and listened through the night to the eurasian’s frenzied endeavor to frighten off the grim visitor.
to the grief of the parsee, i fled from his sweat-box the next afternoon, and, having visited agra and her incomparable taj mahal, took night train to delhi. the traveler who journeys slowly northward through this land of strange scenes and superstitions loses sight, oftentimes, of the fact that no other political entity includes within its borders so many heterogeneous elements. india is not the dwelling place of one people. the punjabi of the north differs as much from the maduran as the scotchman from the neapolitan. the hillman and the man of the plains prove on close acquaintance to have little more in common than their brown skins and their misery. shake your fist at a madrasi and he will take to his heels. deny a gurka the privilege of fighting and you have robbed him of all that makes life worth living.
the casual tourist, noting only slight changes from day to day, may not realize this diversity of population. but let him push on to shahjehanabad, the city of king john, which they who dwell elsewhere call delhi. here is a different world, an arab world almost, to remind him that islam once held vast sway in the land of hind. easily might he fancy himself again in damascus. as in “shaam,” here are labyrinthian streets, each given up to a single trade. in shaded nooks and corners the black-bearded scribe plies his art; from many a minaret sounds the chant of the muezzin; the fez vies with 350the turban for supremacy. lean-faced bedouins and files of cushion-shod camels bring with them a suggestion of the wild sweep of the desert; and, if another touch is needed, over all hovers those crowning symbols of mohammedan civilization,—filth and pariah dogs.
but with the squalor came new privileges to sahib wanderers. of mohammedan eating-shops there were plenty, and never a protest rose against me when i paused to choose from the steaming kettles framed in the doorway. the messes, if the blear-eyed islamite who stirred the fires under them was to be believed, contained no other flesh than mutton. there were bones in more than one dish that looked suspiciously small for those of the sheep; and the rabbit is not indigenous to india. but quién sabe? the light-skinned vagrant is too thankful, certainly, for an opportunity to satisfy his carnivorous tastes to appoint himself a committee of investigation or to inquire into the status of the pure food law.
it was this scent of a more western world perhaps, which soon brought upon me the realization that our unplanned excursion “up country” had carried me a thousand miles afield. i awoke one morning resolved to turn eastward once more. unfortunately the turning lacked impetus, for in my pocket were four lonely coppers. a half-day’s search in the native city failed to bring to light any demand for white-skinned labor, and i concluded to make public my offer of services through the district commissioner.
the afternoon siesta was ended and the élite of delhi were awakening to new life when i crossed the bridge spanning the railway yards and entered the cantonment and the european section. over miles of rolling country, thinly streaked by the shade of those few withered trees that had outlived the drought, were scattered the barracks, government offices, and the bungalows of white residents. at the district court a lonely babu clerk welcomed me with the information that the government force was enjoying a mohammedan holiday, that the next day was sacred to some hindu saint or sacred ape, and the third, the christian day of rest. the road to the commissioner’s residence passed those of a score of english officials, each situated in a private park, on the lodge gate of which an ensign set forth the name of the owner and the titles which a grateful monarch permitted him to attach thereto. an hour beyond the court, i was confronted by the astonishing pedigree of the ruler of the district and turned aside with bated breath into his estate. the honorable commissioner sahib was not at home, asserted the native butler who was whitewashing canvas shoes on the back veranda; he had gone to the honorable englishmen’s club.
a market-day in delhi, india. many castes of hindus and mohammedans are represented
the hindu street-sprinkler does not lay much dust
351a score of smart traps and dog carts, in charge of gorgeously liveried sa?s were drawn up about the long, two-story club-house. on the neighboring courts four pairs of linen-clad englishmen, surrounded by a select audience of admiring memsahibs and a hundred wondering servants, were playing tennis with that deliberate, dispassionate energy which the briton of the “clawsses” puts into everything from a casual greeting to a suicide. the honorable commissioner sahib k. c. b., m. a., v. c, bart, etc., was stretched out in a reclining chair in the smoking-room of the club, his attention divided between a cigarette and cooling beverage and the activities of several other distinguished preservers of the alphabet, who were driving a red and two white balls about a green table with characteristic vim and vigor. the native who pointed out the mighty man from the shelter of a veranda fern refused in an awe-struck whisper to deliver my message until i had threatened to enter this sanctum of social superiority unannounced. the englishman bellowed a protest at being disturbed, but rose and advanced to the door, glass in hand.
“i say, you know,” he cried, in a voice having its domicile in the pit of his stomach, “this isn’t my office, my man. i cawn’t be attending to official duties day and night. come to the high-court to-morrow and i will look into your case.”
“if any of the gentlemen inside, sir, or you, could put me onto a job where i could earn the price of a tick—”
“a job! in delhi? do you fawncy there are full-rigged ships on the jumna? come to my office at ten-thirty or eleven in the morning.”
“but to-morrow is a holiday.”
“hah! by jove, so it is! well, come to my bungalow instead.”
“how about some work about the club? anything at all.”
“see here, my man,” protested the commissioner, turning away, “this is no employment bureau. i’m going over for a game of tennis and i’ll bid you good day.”
“then you’ll need someone to chase tennis balls for you,” i called after him, “i’m fairly fast on my feet.”
“chase tennis balls!” cried the governor, coming back. “do you mean you would run around before a crowd of native servants—you—a white man—and—”
“sure. won’t you?”
352“eh—er—wha—i? when i play tennis? why, of course, for exercise; but you were talking about work.”
“well, let’s call it exercise if you’d rather.”
he stared at me a moment in silence, but, being an unusually quick-witted englishman, grinned as he turned away.
“very well,” he said, over his shoulder, “wait for me over at the second court. i’ll give you a rupee a set—in railway fare—to-morrow.”
i was perspiringly engaged as official ball-chaser of the delhi tennis club until twilight put an end to the sport, fagging three games for the commissioner and as many more for his friends. the reward, however, was not immediately forthcoming; and i turned back as penniless as i had come, towards delhi, four miles distant. the half-audible melody of a summer night was broken now and then by the patter of native feet along the dusty roadway, but i tramped on for the most part in silence. once i was startled by a lusty chorus of male voices that burst out suddenly from the darkness ahead in words of my own tongue; and a moment later a squad of red-coats, bound barrack-ward after a merry afternoon on leave, trooped by me, arm in arm, singing at the top of their lungs, “the place where the punkah-wallah died.” it is a sorrowful ditty, this favorite ballad of the tommy atkins of india, bearing as it does the final word on the infernal calidity of the peninsula. the punkah-wallah is as insensible to the sun’s rays as any living mortal, his station is a shaded veranda, his labor the languid moving of a weightless fan. he of the ballad died of the heat at his post.
bent on finding lodging in a deserted coach, i slid down the steep slope at the edge of the european section into the broad railway yards. a policeman patrolled the bank above; detectives lurked in the narrow alleyways between the long rows of side-tracked cars; and the headlights of puffing switch-engines turned streaks of the night into broad day. i escaped detection only by vigilant dodging. there were goods’ vans without number, an endless forest of them, but they were sealed or loaded with some vile-smelling cargo; passenger coach was there none. i struck off boldly across the tracks towards the lighted station. the glare of a head-light was turned full upon me and without the slightest warning i felt myself launched into space so suddenly that i did not lose my upright posture. the sensation of falling seemed of several minutes’ duration, as one experiences in a dream of being thrown from a high building. long after the world above had disappeared, i landed in utter darkness, all unhurt except for the barking of my nose. near at hand several live coals gleamed like watching eyes. i had walked into a cinder-pit on the round-house track.
a lady of quality of delhi out for a drive
hindu women drinking cocoanut-milk
353by dint of a cat-like spring from the top of the largest heap of ashes, i grasped the rail above and drew myself out, to find the engine crew preparing to descend into the pit to recover my body. the station platform was crowded. beyond, surrounded on all sides by the teeming bazaars, lay a thick-wooded park known as queen’s gardens. placards on the ten-foot picket fence forbade trespassing after nightfall; but though i climbed the barrier in full sight of strollers and shopkeepers they held their peace, convinced, no doubt, that the sahib who entered at that hour was called thither by official duties. i stretched out in the long grass, but the foliage overhead offered no such shelter as the trees of equatorial ceylon, and i awoke in the morning dripping wet from the fallen dew.
again that afternoon i did service at the tennis court, earning two rupees more than the sum required to carry me back to calcutta, and, returning to the city, boarded the saturday night express. the european compartment was commodious and furnished not only with a wash-room but with two wooden shelves on which i slept by night, undisturbed by eurasian collectors. following the direct line through cawnpore and allahabad, the train drew into howrah on monday morning. not once during the journey had my box-stall been invaded. nine hundred and fifty-four miles i had traveled, in a private car on an express—and the ticket had cost $2.82! truly, impecunious victims of the wanderlust should look upon india as the promised land.