CHAPTER XIV THREE HOBOES IN INDIA

The departure of Ole for home as a consul passenger, closely followed by that of Askins for India, “ere his elusive chips made their escape,” left me the oldest “comber” on the beach. That honor might quickly have fallen to the next of heir but for the pleading of a fellow-countryman; for the merry circus days had left me a fortune that would carry me far afield in the vast peninsula to the north. Marten of Tacoma, tally clerk of the British Steam Navigation Company, promised to secure me a place in the same capacity if I would delay my departure until pay day, that he might accompany me. I agreed, for the ex-pearl-fisher spoke Hindustanee fluently. Within an hour I was seated, notebook in hand, at the edge of a hatch of a newly arrived vessel, drawing four rupees a day and free from the dread of losing caste.

On the morning of April fourth, we took leave of the navigation company and, having purchased tickets on the afternoon steamer to Tuticorin, set out to bid farewell to our acquaintances in the city. The hour of sailing was close at hand when Haywood, the much-wanted, burst in upon us at Almeida’s.

“I hear,” he shouted, “that you fellows are off for India.”

We nodded.

“I’m going along,” he announced.

Naturally, we scowled. But on what ground could we protest? One does not choose his fellow-passengers on an ocean voyage. Moreover, I owed the erstwhile resident of Sing Sing some consideration. For a week before, as we were leaving the favorite shop in Pettah, after a midnight lunch, a Singhalese, mad with hasheesh smoking, had sought a quarrel with us. Knowing the weakness of a native fist, I made no attempt to ward off a threatened blow. Before it fell, Haywood suddenly flung the screaming fellow into the gutter, and only then did I note that the hand I had thought empty clutched a long, thin knife.

We held our peace, therefore, resolving to shake off our unwelcome companion at the first opportunity, and, marching down to the quarantine 290station, tumbled with a multitude of Indian coolies into a barge that soon set us on board the S. S. Kasara.

“You see,” said Haywood, two hours later, pointing away to Ceylon hovering on the evening horizon, “if I’d hung round that joint another week, I’d been pinched sure. I got to get out of British territory, and with no show to ship out of Colombo, the only chance was to make a break through India. If I’d come alone, I’d ’ave been spotted. But with three of us I won’t be noticed half as quick.”

Suddenly a cabin door within reach of our hands opened, and into our midst stepped Bobby, in full uniform.

“What the devil!” I gasped, “Thought your beat was between the clock tower and the Gardens?”

Over Haywood’s face had spread the hue of a shallow sea, and his lower jaw hung loose on its hinges.

“Aha! Bobs,” grinned Marten, “doin’ a skip act, eh? Well, I’m mum.”

“Skip bloody ’ell,” snorted Bobby, “I’m h’off to Madras to snake back a forger they’ve rounded up there.”

“Sure that’s all?” demanded my partner.

“Yep,” smiled Bobs.

Haywood drew a deep breath and rose to his feet.

“By God, Bobs,” he muttered, “do you want to give me heart-failure? Thought sure you was campin’ on my trail.”

“Naw,” answered the policeman, “none o’ the toffs in Colombo ayn’t seen them notices yet. But you’d best keep on the move.”

The rumor that there were three white men “on deck with the niggers” soon found its way to the cabin, and brought down upon us a visitation that poor Jack Tar must often suffer in the Orient. He was a missionary from Kansas, stationed in the hills of Mysore. Marten and I, refusing to admit his assertion that, as sailors, we were, ex officio, drunken, dissolute, ambitionless louts, were cruelly abandoned to future damnation. But Haywood, who had been wondering till then where he could “raise the dust for an eye-opener in the morning,” pleaded guilty to every charge and, in the course of a half-hour, was duly “converted.”

“Do you men know why you have no money; why you must travel on deck with natives?” demanded the missionary, in parting. “It’s because you’re not Christians.”

We might have pointed out that the Lascars chattering about the deck drew a monthly wage because they were Hindus. But why prolong 291the argument? Haywood had already pocketed the two rupees that made our toleration worth while.

We landed with Bobby in the early morning and bade him farewell sooner than we had expected. For a native on the wharf handed him a telegram announcing that the forger was already en route for Colombo in charge of a Madras officer. Tuticorin was an uninspiring collection of mud huts and reeking bazaars. Our halt there was brief. It would have been briefer had we not chanced to run across Askins. The erudite wanderer had stranded sooner than he had anticipated. I took pleasure in setting him afloat again, and caught the last glimpse of his familiar figure, beginning to bend a bit now under the weight of twenty years of “knocking about,” as the train bearing us northward rumbled through the village.

Even the beachcomber does not walk in India. To ride is cheaper. Third-class fare ranges from two-fifths to a half a cent a mile, and on every train is a compartment reserved for “Europeans and Eurasians only,” into which no native may enter on penalty of being frightened out of his addled wits by a bellowing official.

Descending at the first station to quench a tropical thirst, I was astonished to see Bobby peering out of a second-class window.

“I couldn’t read the bloody wire without me glasses,” he confided, as I drew near, “an’ I don’t think I’ll be able to find ’em before this ’ere ticket’s run out. We don’t git h’off fer a run up to Madras every fortn’ght, an’ I ayn’t goin’ to miss this one.”

As I turned back to join my companions, the missionary from Kansas appeared at the door of the same compartment. Evidently he had thought better of his heartless decision to leave me to perdition, for he flung the door wide open.

“Come and ride with me to the next station,” he commanded; “I want to talk to you.”

“I’m third-class,” I answered.

“Never mind,” said the padre, “I know the guard.”

Having no other plausible excuse to offer, I complied, and endured a half-hour sermon. Through it all, Bobby sat stiffly erect in his corner, for to my amazement the minister did not once address him.

“How’s this?” I demanded, as we drew into the first station. The Kansan was choosing some tracts from his luggage in the next compartment. “Why don’t he try to convert you, being so good a subject?”

“’E did,” growled Bobby, “bloody ’ell, ’e did. But I shut ’im off. 292Told ’im I was one o’ the shinin’ lights o’ the Salvation Army in Colombo. Blawst me h’eyes, why can’t these padres sing their song to the niggers an’ let h’onest Englishmen alone! One of ’em gits to wind’ard o’ me every time I breaks h’out fer a little holidye.”

Armed with the tracts, I returned to my solicitous companions and settled down to view the passing landscape. It bore small resemblance to that of Ceylon. On either hand stretched treeless flat-lands, parched and brown as Sahara, a desert blazed at by an implacable sun and unwatered for months. A few native husbandmen, remnant of the workers in abundant season, toiled on in the face of frustrated hopes, scratching with worthless wooden plows the arid soil, that refused to give back the seed intrusted to it. There is no sadder, more forlorn, more hopeless of human creatures than this man of the masses in India. His clothing in childhood consists of a string around his belly and a charm-box on his left arm. Grown to man’s estate, he adds to this a narrow strip of cotton, tied to the string behind and hanging over it in front. Regularly, each morning, he draws forth a preparation of coloring matter and cow-dung—for the cow is a sacred animal—and daubs on his forehead the sign of his caste, but the strip of cotton he renews only when direst necessity demands. His home is a wretched mud hut, too low to stand in, where he burrows by night and squats on his heels by day. With the buoyant Singhalese he has little in common. Sad-faced ever, if he smiles there is no joy in the grimace. Enchained and bound down by an inexorable system of caste, held in the bondage of an enforced habit of mind, habitually overcome with a sense of his own inferiority, he is disgusting in his groveling.

A hundred miles north of the seacoast, we halted to visit the famous Brahmin temple of Madura. Haywood’s interest in architecture was confined to such details as the strength and resistance of window bars, but he had developed a quaking fear of daytime solitude and would not be separated from us.

The temple served well as an introduction to the fantastic extravagance of Oriental building. Its massive outer walls inclosed a vast plot of ground. In the center, surrounded by a chaos of smaller edifices, rose the inner temple, its cone-shaped roof and slender domes a great field of burnished gold before which the eye quailed in the cutting sunlight. Above all, the four gateways to the inclosure challenged attention. Identical in form, yet vastly different in minor detail, they towered twelve stories above the lowly huts and swarming 293bazaars of the city that radiates from the sacred area. Four thousand statues of Hindu gods—to quote mathematical experts—adorned each gateway, hideous-faced idols, each pouring down from four pairs of hands his blessing on the groveling humans who starved beneath.

Within the gates, under vaulted archways, swarmed multitudes; pilgrims in the rags of contrition, shopkeepers shrieking the virtues of their wares from their open booths, screaming vendors of trinkets, abject coolies cringing before their countrymen of higher caste, loungers seeking relief from the sunshine outside. A sunken-eyed youth wormed his way through the throng and offered us guidance at two annas. We accepted, and followed him down a branch passageway to the lead-colored pond in which unfastidious pilgrims washed away their sins; then out upon an open space for a nearer view of the golden roofs. High up within, whispered the youth, while Marten interpreted, dwelt a god; but we, as white men, dared not enter to verify the assertion.

We turned back instead to the quarters of the sacred elephants. Here seven of the jungle monsters, chained by a foot, thrashed about over their supper of hay in a roofless stable. They were as ready to accept a tuft of fodder from a heathen sahib as from the dust-clad faquir who had tramped many a burning mile to perform this holy act for the acquiring of merit. Children played in and out among the animals. The largest was amusing himself by setting the urchins, one by one, on his back. But in the far corner stood another that even the clouted keepers shunned. The most sacred of a holy troop, our guide assured us, for he was mad, and wreaked a furious vengeance on whomsoever came within reach of his writhing trunk. Yet—if the sunken-eyed youth spoke truly—it was no misfortune to have life crushed out by this holiest of animals. The coolie suffering that fate was reborn a farmer, the peasant a shopkeeper, the merchant a warrior. Was it satisfaction with their station in life or a weakness of faith? We noted that even the despised sudras avoided the far corner.

“And how about a white man?” asked Haywood.

“A sahib,” said our guide, “when he dies, becomes a crow. Therefore are white men afraid to die.”

We turned out again into the bazaars. Naked girls, carrying baskets, were quarreling over the offal of passing beasts. The fa?ade of every hut was decorated with splashes of manure, each bearing the imprint of a hand. For fuel is there none in this treeless land, save bois de vache.

294With nightfall, Haywood, promising to return quickly, set out to visit the missionaries of Madura, to each of whom the Kansan had given him a note. Before he rejoined us at the station he had succeeded in “raising the wind” to the sum of three full fares to the next city. Yet he sneered at our extravagance in purchasing tickets for a night ride, and, tucking away the “convert money” in the band of his tropical helmet, followed us out upon the platform. The train was crowded. A band of coolies, whom the station master, in the absence of white travelers, had thrust into the European compartment, tumbled out as rats scurry from a suddenly lighted room, and left us in full possession.

In India, as in Europe, tickets are not taken up on the train; they are punched at various stations en route by local officials, misnamed “collectors.” The collectors, however, are commonly Eurasian youths, deferential to white men and no match in wits for beachcombers.

Having turned out the light in the ceiling of our compartment, we stretched out on the two wooden benches and laid plans for the morrow. At each halt Marten kept look-out. If the collector carried no lantern, Haywood had merely to roll under a bench until he had passed. At a whisper of “bull’s-eye” our unticketed companion slipped through the opposite door, and watched the progress of the half-breed by peering under the train at his uniformed legs. Once he was taken red-handed. It was after midnight, and we had all three fallen asleep. Suddenly there came the rapping of a punch on the sill of the open window.

“Tickets, sahibs,” said an apologetic voice.

“Say, mate,” whispered Haywood, “I’m on the rocks. Can’t you slip me? Have a cigar.”

The Eurasian declined the proffered stogie with a startled shake of the head, punched our tickets, and passed on without a word. Haywood sat on tenter-hooks for several moments, but the engine screeched at last, and he lay down again, vowing to wake thereafter at every halt.

We arrived at Trinchinopoly in the small hours and stretched out on a station bench to sleep out the night undisturbed. The chief of Haywood’s difficulties, however, was still to be overcome, for the only exit from the platform was guarded by a Eurasian who was sure to call for tickets. It was Marten, given to sudden inspirations, who saved the day for the New Yorker. As we approached the gate, he ran forward and, to my astonishment, attempted to force his way through it without producing his ticket.

A Hindu of Madras with caste-mark, of cow-dung and coloring-matter, on his forehead

295“Here! Ticket, please, sahib,” cried the Eurasian.

“Oh! Go to the devil!” growled Marten.

“Ticket! Where is your ticket? Stop!”

Marten pushed the collector aside and stepped out.

“Ah!” screeched the official, “I know! You haven’t any ticket. You stole your ride. Come back, or I’ll call a policeman.”

The man of inspiration sprang at the half-breed with a savage snarl and grasped him by the collar.

“What in hell do you mean by saying I haven’t any ticket? I’ll break your head.”

“But I know you haven’t,” persisted the collector, though somewhat meekly.

“Do you think that sahibs travel without tickets?” roared Marten, drawing the bit of cardboard from his pocket. “Take your bloody ticket, but don’t ever tell a sahib again that he’s stealing his rides.”

The Eurasian stretched out a hand to me, mumbling an apology, but was so overcome with fear and the dread of accusing another innocent sahib that Haywood stepped out behind us unchallenged.

We were waylaid by a peregrinating barber, and took turns in squatting on our heels for a quick shave and a slap in the face with a damp cloth. The service cost two pice (one cent). The barber was, perhaps, twelve years old, but an American “tonsorialist” would have gasped at the dexterity with which he manipulated his razor, as he would have wondered at several long, slim instruments, not unlike hat pins, which he rolled up in his kit as he finished. These were tools rarely employed on sahibs, but no native would consider a shave complete until his ears had been cleaned with one of them.

The city of Trichinopoly was some miles distant from the station. Though we were agreed that such action was the height of extravagance, we hailed a bullock cart and offered four annas for the trip to the town. An anna, let it be understood once for all, is the equivalent of the English penny. The cart was the crudest of two-wheeled vehicles, so exactly balanced on its axle that the attempt of two of us to climb in behind came near suspending the tiny, raw-boned bullock in mid-air. A screech from the driver called our attention to the peril of his beast, and under his directions we succeeded in boarding the craft by approaching opposite ends and drawing ourselves up simultaneously. 296The wagon was some four feet long and three wide, with an arched roof; too short to lie down in, too low to sit up in. One of us, in turn, crouched beside the driver on the knife-like edge of the head-board, with knees drawn up on a level with the eyes, clinging desperately to the projecting roof. The other two lay in close embrace within, with legs projecting some two feet behind.

The bullock was a true Oriental. After much urging, he set out at the mincing gait of a man in a sack-race—a lame man, of very limited vitality. A dozen heavy welts from the driver’s pole and as many shrill screams urged him, occasionally, into a trot. But it lasted always just four paces, at the end of which the animal shook his head slowly from side to side, as though shocked at his unseemly conduct, and fell again into a walk. The cart was innocent of springs, the roadway an excellent imitation of an abandoned quarry. Our sweltering progress was marked by a series of shocks as from an electric battery.

Marten ordered the driver to conduct us to an eating-shop. The native grinned knowingly and turned his animal into a by-path leading to a sahib hotel. When we objected to this as too high-priced, he shook his head mournfully and protested that he knew of no native shop which white men might enter. We bumped by a score of restaurants, but all bore the sign “For Hindus Only.”

At last, in a narrow alleyway, the bullock fell asleep before a miserable hut. The driver screeched, and a startled coolie tumbled out of the shanty. There ensued a heated debate in the dialect of southern India, in which Marten fully held his own. For a time, the coolie refused to run the risk of losing caste through our polluting touch, but the princely offer of three annas each won him over, and we disembarked, to squat on his creaking veranda.

The bullock cart crawled on. The coolie ran screaming into the hut and reappeared with three banana leaves, a wife, and a multitude of naked urchins, all but the youngest of whom carried a cocoanut shell filled with water or curries. These being deposited within reach, the native spread the leaves before us, and his better half dumped in the center of each a small peck of rice that burned our over-eager fingers. The meal over, we rose to depart; but the native shrieked with dismay and insisted that we carry the leaves and shells away with us, as no member of his family dared touch them.

We wandered on through the bazaars towards the towering rock at the summit of which sits Tommy Atkins, puffing drowsily at his pipe, 297in utter indifference to the approach of that day when his soul, in punishment for eating of the flesh of the sacred cow, shall take up its residence in the body of a pig. Our dinner had been more abundant than substantial. Within an hour I caught myself eyeing the food spread out in the open booths on either side. There were coils of rope-like pastry fried in oil, lumps, balls, cakes of sweetmeats, chappatties—bread-sheets smaller and more brittle than those of the Arab—pans of dark red chillies, potatoes cut into small cubes and covered with a green curry sauce. The Hindu is as much given to nibbling as the Mohammedan. By choice, perhaps, he would eat seldom and heartily, but he lives the most literally from hand to mouth of any human creature, and no sooner earns a half-anna than he hurries away to sacrifice it to his ever-unsatisfied hunger. The coolie is rarely permitted to enter a Hindu restaurant, the white man never; and brief were the intervals during my wanderings in India that I lived on other fare than that of the low-caste native. The prices could not have been lower, but to eat of the messes displayed under the ragged awnings of Indian shops requires an imperturbable temperament, an unrestrainable appetite, and a taste for edible fire acquired only by Oriental residence.

There are caste rules, too, of which I was supremely ignorant when I dropped behind my companions and aroused a shopkeeper asleep among his pots and pans. For months I had been accustomed, in my linguistic ignorance, to pick out my own food; but no sooner had I laid hand on a sweetmeat than the merchant shot into the air with an agonized scream that brought my fellow-countrymen running back upon me.

“What’s the nigger bawling about, Marten?” demanded Haywood.

“Oh, Franck’s gone and polluted his pan of sweets.”

“But I only touched the one I picked up,” I protested, “and I’m going to eat that.”

“These fool niggers won’t see it that way,” replied Marten; “if you put a finger on one piece, the whole dish is polluted. He’s sending for a low-caste man now to carry the panful away and dump it. Nobody’ll buy anything while it stays here.”

The keeper refused angrily to enter into negotiations after this disaster and we moved on to the next booth. Under the tutelage of Marten, I stood afar off and pointed a respectful finger from one dish to another. The proprietor, obeying my orders of “ek annika do, cheh pisika da” (one anna of that, six pice of this) filled several canoe-shaped 298sacks made of leaves sewn together with thread-like weeds, and, motioning to me to stand aloof, dropped the bundles into my hands, taking care to let go of each before it had touched my palm.

Go where we would, the cry of pollution preceded us. The vendor of green cocoanuts entreated us to carry away the shells when we had drunk the milk; passing natives sprang aside in terror when we tossed a banana skin on the ground. The seller of water melons would have been compelled to sacrifice his entire stock if one seed of the slice in our hands had fallen on the extreme edge of the banana leaf that covered his stand.

As we turned a corner in the crowded market place, Haywood, who was smoking, accidentally spat on the flowing gown of a turbaned passer-by.

“Oh! sahib!” screamed the native, in excellent English, “See what you have done! You have made me lose caste. For weeks I may not go among my friends nor see my family. I must stop my business, and wear rags, and sit in the street, and pour ashes on my head, and go often to the temple to purify myself.”

“Tommy-rot,” said Haywood.

But was it? Certainly not to the weeping Hindu, who turned back the way he had come.

These strange superstitions make India a land of especial hardship to the white vagabond “on the road.” He is, in the natural course of events, as safe from violence as in England; but once off the beaten track he finds it difficult to obtain not only food and lodging, but the sine qua non of the tropics—water. In view of this fact the rulers of India have established a system which, should it come to his ears, would fill the American “hobo” with raging envy. The peninsula, as the world knows, is divided into districts, each governed by a commissioner and a deputy commissioner. Except in isolated cases, these executives are Englishmen, of whom the senior commonly dwells in the most important city of his territory, and the deputy in the second in size. The law provides that any penniless European shall, upon application to any one of these governors, be provided with a third-class railway ticket to the capital of the next district, and also with “batter”—money with which to buy food—to the amount of one rupee a day. The beachcomber who wanders inland, therefore, is relayed from one official to another, at the expense of the government, to any port which he may select. This ideal state of affairs is well known to every white vagrant in India, who takes it duly into account, like every published charity, in summing up the ways and means of a projected journey.

Hindus of all castes now travel by train

“Haywood” snaps me as I am getting a shave in Trichinopoly

299Not many hours after our arrival in Trichinopoly, Marten had “gone broke.” The four rupees a day of a tally clerk was a princely income in the Orient; but the ex-pearl-fisher was imbued with the adventurer’s philosophy that “money is made to spend,” and as the final act of a day of extravagance had tossed his last anna to an idiot roaming through the bazaars. Haywood was anxious to “salt down” the rupees in his hat band, I to make the acquaintance of so important a personage as a district commissioner. Thus it happened that as noonday fell over Trichinopoly, three cotton-clad Americans emerged from the native town and turned northward towards the governor’s bungalow.

Heat waves hovered like fog before us. Here and there a pathetic tree cast its slender shadow, like a splash of ink, across the white highway. A few coolies, their skins immune to sunburn, shuffled through the sand on their way to the town. We accosted one to inquire our way, but he sprang with a side jump to the extreme edge of the roadway, in terror of our polluting touch.

“Commissioner sahib keh bungalow kéhdereh?” asked Marten.

“Hazur hum malum neh, sahib (I don’t know, sir),” stammered the native, backing away as we approached.

“Stand still, you fellows,” shouted Marten; “you’re scaring him so he can’t understand. Every nigger knows where the commissioner lives. Commissioner sahib keh bungalow kéhdereh?”

“Far down the road, oh, protector of the unfortunate.”

We came upon the low rambling building in a grove among rocky hillocks. Along the broad veranda crouched a dozen punkah-wallahs, pulling drowsily at the cords that moved the great velvet fans within. Under the punkahs, at their desks, sat a small army of native officials, mere secretaries and clerks, most of them, yet quite majestic of appearance in the flowing gowns, great black beards, and brilliant turbans of the high-class Hindu. Servants swarmed about the writers, groveling on their knees each time a social superior deigned to issue a command. White men were there none.

The possessor of the most regal turban rose from his cushions as we entered and addressed us in English:—

“Can I be of service to you, sahibs?”

“We want to see the commissioner,” said Marten.

“The commissioner sahib,” replied the Hindu, “is at his bungalow. 300He will perhaps come here for a half hour at three o’clock.”

“But we want tickets for the one o’clock train,” Haywood blurted out.

“I am the assistant commissioner,” answered the native. “What the commissioner sahib can do I can do. But it is a very long process to draw upon the funds of the district, and you cannot, perhaps, catch the one o’clock train. Still, I shall hurry as much as possible.”

In his breathless haste he resumed his seat, carefully folded his legs, rolled a cigarette with great deliberation, blew smoke at the punkahs for several moments, and, pulling out the drawers of his desk, examined one by one the ledgers and documents within them. The object of his search was not forthcoming. He rose gradually to his feet, made inquiry among his hirsute colleagues, returned to his cushions, and, calling a dozen servants around him, despatched them on as many errands.

“It’s the ledger in which we enter the names of those who apply for tickets,” he explained, “it will soon be found”; and he lighted another cigarette.

A servant came upon the book at last—plainly in sight on the top of the assistant’s desk. That official opened the volume with unnecessary reverence, read half the entries it contained, and, choosing a native pen, prepared to write. He was not amusing himself at our expense. He was fully convinced that he was moving with all possible celerity.

Slowly his sputtering pen rendered into the crippled orthography of his native tongue comprehensive biographies of the two mythological beings whom Marten and Haywood chose to represent; and the writer turned to me. I protested that I intended to buy my own ticket; but the assistant, regarding me, evidently, as an accessory before the fact, insisted that the story of my life must also adorn the pages of his ledger. The entry completed, he laid the book away in a drawer, locked it, and called for a time-table.

“The third-class fare to Tanjore,” he mused, “is twelve annas. Two tickets will be one and eight. Batter for a half-day for two, one rupee. Total, two rupees and eight annas. I shall now draw upon the treasurer for that amount,” and he dragged forth another gigantic tome.

“Tanjore?” cried Marten. “Why, that ain’t fifty miles from here! Is that as far as you’re going to ship us?”

“A commissioner lives there,” replied the Hindu, “and he will send 301you on. Each district is allowed to spend only enough for a ticket to the next one.”

“If we have to go through this every forty miles,” groaned Marten, “we’ll die before we get anywhere.”

“Let’s try the commish,” suggested Haywood; “where’s his joint?”

The assistant pointed at the back door, and we struck off through the rock-strewn grove. On the way, Marten fell victim to another inspiration.

“I’ve got it!” he crowed, as we came in sight of the bodyguard of servants, flitting in and out among the plants and vines of the commissioner’s veranda, “Just watch my smoke.”

A native conducted us into a broad, low room, richly furnished and cooled by rhythmically moving punkahs. The governor of the district was a very young man, the junior, perhaps, of some of our trio. He bade us be seated, ordered a servant to bring us cooling drinks, and, when they were served, signified his readiness to hear our story. Marten stepped forward and, assuming the attitude of an orator on whose word hangs the fate of nations, proceeded to trot out the inspiration.

“We have come to you, Mr. Commissioner,” he began, “because we must be in Madras to-morrow morning, and we can’t make it unless we go through on the one o’clock train. We’re seamen, sir, from a tramp that tied up in Colombo last month. A couple of nights ago we got shore leave and went for a cruise around the city. The skipper told us to be on board at midnight. We landed on the wharf at eleven, an’ paid off our ’rickshaws an’ yelled for a sampan. But blast me eyes, sir, if she wasn’t gone! She’d pulled ’er mud-hook at ten o’clock, sir, we found out, an’ was off two hours before the skipper told us to come back, an’ we was left on the beach. We knowed she was makin’ fer Madras, so we comes over to Tuticorin an’ started to catch ’er. She’ll be off to-morrow morning for ’ome, an’ if we don’t make ’er we’ll be left on the beach, an’ all our clothes is on board, sir. One of us”—pointing at me—“’as dibs enough to take ’im through, but the assistant commissioner won’t give us two tickets only to Tanjore, an’ eight annas batter, an’ if we stop in every district it’ll take a week to get there, an’ cost the gover’ment a lot o’ batter. Couldn’t you give us a ticket straight through, sir, so’s we can make ’er, an’ all our clothes an’ papers is on board, sir.”

“Are you sure your captain will let you back on board?” asked the commissioner.

302“Sure,” cried Marten and Haywood as one man.

The Englishman snatched an official sheet from a drawer, scrawled a few lines on it, and handed it to our spokesman.

“Here’s an order for through tickets and a day’s batter,” he said. “Hurry down to the office and give it to my assistant.”

The Hindu force was dismayed at the note. The assistant scanned the signature suspiciously, while secretaries and clerks crowded around him.

“Why, that will be nearly ten rupees!” gasped an official, perusing the time-table.

“I wonder,” mused the assistant, “has the commissioner sahib power to grant such an order?”

The force did not know. There were few things of importance, apparently, that it did know; but the haste with which it abandoned more irksome duties and fell to pulling out ponderous volumes proved that it was eager to learn.

“Yes, here it is,” sighed the senior officer at last, pointing out a page to his colleagues, “‘within the discretion of the commissioner.’”

“Well, julty karow!” shouted Marten.

There is, you see, a Hindu equivalent for “hurry up.” Philologists have noted it, translators have found it valuable, natives use it to interpret the expression that falls so often from sahib lips. But the records make no mention of a man who has induced a Hindu actually and physically to julty karow.

“Come,” urged Haywood, “we want to make the one o’clock train.”

“I will hurry,” promised the assistant, transforming his turban into a sheet and gravely rearranging it. “I shall now make out the order.”

“But give us the tickets and cut out the red tape,” growled Marten.

“Oh, sahib, that is impossible,” gasped the Hindu. “I must make out the order and send it to the secretary to be sealed. Then it will go to the treasurer, who will make a note of it and send it to the auditor to be stamped and signed. Then it will be returned to the treasurer, who will file it and make out a receipt to send back to the secretary, who will send it to me to be signed, and the auditor—”

But Marten had fled through the back door and we dashed after him.

“You know,” said the commissioner, as he finished writing a second note, “you can’t hurry the Aryan brown. Kipling has written four 303lines that cover the subject. I’ve told them to give you the tickets at once and look up the law afterward. But you probably cannot catch the one o’clock train. There is, however, a night express that reaches Madras in the morning, and you may take that, even though there is an excess fare, if they cannot get you off by the other.”

The second note demoralized the force. Urged on by the threat of new expenditures, the assistant strove bravely for once against his lethargic Oriental nature. But hurry he could not, from lack of practice. His pen refused to write smoothly, the treasurer’s keys were out of place, and, when found, refused to fit the lock of the strong box. The senior gave up at last, and, promising that a secretary would meet us at the station in the evening with the higher-priced tickets, bade us good day.

As we rose to depart, Marten asked for water. The high-caste officials scowled almost angrily at the request; they cried out in horrified chorus when Haywood stepped towards a chettie in the corner of the room.

“Don’t touch that, sahib!” shrieked the assistant; “I shall arrange to give you a drink.”

He spoke like a man on whom had suddenly fallen the task of launching a first-class battleship. One can smile with indulgence at the naked, illiterate coolie who clings to the silly superstitions of caste. The ignorance and sterility of a brain weakened by centuries of habitual desuetude pardons him. But to see educated, full-grown men among men descend to the fanatical childishness of ridiculous customs seems, in this twentieth century, the height of absurdity.

Among the servants within the building were none low enough in caste to be assigned the task of bringing us water. The assistant sent for a punkah-wallah. One of the great folds of velvet fell motionless and there sneaked into the room the most abject of human creatures. A curt order sounded. The sudra dropped to a squat, raised his clasped hands to his forehead, and shuffled off towards the chettie. Certainly, had he had a tail it would have been close drawn between his legs.

Picking up a heavy brass goblet, he placed it, not on the table, but on the floor in the middle of the room. The officials nearest the blighted spot abandoned their desks, and the entire company formed a circle around us. Haywood stepped forward to pick up the cup.

“No, no,” cried the force, “stand back!”

The coolie slunk forward with the chettie and, holding it fully two 304feet above the goblet, filled the vessel, and drew back several paces.

“Now you may drink,” said the assistant.

“Do you want more?” he asked, when the cup was empty.

“Yes.”

“Then leave the lota on the floor and stand back.”

The punkah-wallah filled it as before.

“Good day,” repeated the assistant, when we acknowledged ourselves satisfied, “but you must carry the lota away with you.”

“But it costs a good piece of money,” suggested Haywood.

“Yes,” sighed the Hindu, “but no one dares touch it any more.”

A native clerk met us on the station platform at nightfall, with tickets and “batter.” On the express that thundered in a moment later were two European compartments; but Haywood was roused to the virile profanity of the Bowery at finding one of them occupied by natives. At the climax of an aria that displayed to advantage his remarkable vocabulary of execrations, a deep, solemn bass sounded from the next compartment:—

“Young man! Have you no fear of the fires of hell?”

“Oh! Lord!” gasped Marten, “Another padre!”

“Will you drive these niggers out of here!” screamed Haywood to a passing guard.

“Take the next compartment behind,” answered the official, over his shoulder; “There’s only one man in it.”

“Yes! But he’s a missionary!” bawled Marten.

The guard was gone. The station master gave the signal for departure and we boarded the express with a sigh of resignation. Haywood swore to wait for the next train rather than endure a sermon; but the fear of being left behind fell upon him, and, as the engine screeched, he scrambled through the door after us.

The sermon was immediately forthcoming, and the information we gleaned anent the future dwelling-place of blasphemous seamen was more voluminous than encouraging. Luckily, towards midnight the missionary exhausted both his text and his voice, and left us to enjoy such sleep as the ticket punchers permitted.

The Hindu affects many strange coiffures. Natives of Madras

A Hindu basket-weaver of Madras

In Haywood, as in others of his ilk, neither the Hindu nor his institutions awakened any noticeable degree of respect. To him all natives, from Brahmins to sudras, were “niggers,” and such of their customs as did not conform to the standards set up in the vicinity of Mulberry Bend he branded “damn nonsense.” He was a graduate of a school in which differences of opinion are decided in favor of the 305disputant first able to crawl to his feet at the end of the controversy. Nay, more: he had won public recognition in that brand of oratory, and had long since outgrown the notion that there was any court of last appeal other than a “knock-out.” There were several little points on which Marten and I should have been convinced in spite of our better judgment had not a cruel fate enrolled the New Yorker in the welter-weight class.

Now the Hindu has never been able to see what advantage or satisfaction arises from marring the visage of an enemy. He takes great joy in giving a foe unpleasant information concerning the doings of his ancestors back to the sixth generation, in carrying off his wife, or in gathering together a band of friends to accuse him in court of some atrocious crime. But his anger rarely expresses itself in muscular activity.

“When a sahib becomes angry,” a babu once confided to me, “he goes insane. He loses his mind and makes his hands hard and pushes them often and swiftly into the face or the stomach of the other man, or makes his feet go against him behind. It is because he is crazy that he does such foolish things, that have not something to do with the thing that has made him angry.”

Having no fear, therefore, of being repaid in his own coin, Haywood had contracted the pleasant little habit of “beating up” a native on the slightest provocation. Such conduct, of course, is not confined to beachcombers. Many a European hotel in the Orient displays conspicuous placards politely requesting guests not to beat or kick the servants; but to make their complaints to the manager.

Beyond the shadow of a doubt, the Hindu heartily deserves an occasional chastisement. The subtle ways in which he can annoy a white man without committing an act that can legally be punished, transcend the imagination of the Western mind. For centuries past, too, the sahib has been permitted to defend himself against such persecution after the orthodox manner of the Occident. But the good old days, alas, are gone. A very few years ago an act was passed making assault upon a native a crime. The world outside credited it to the humanity of Lord Curzon. Residents within the country whisper that an overwhelming desire to win the good will of the natives had its rise at the moment when a certain great European power began to gaze longingly from its bleak steppes in the north upon this vast peninsula below the Himalayas. The Hindu, of course, has not been slow to realize his new power. Slap a native lightly 306in the face, and the probability is that he will appear in court to-morrow with a lacerated and bleeding countenance and a score of friends prepared to swear on anything from the Vedas to the ashes of a sacred bull that you inflicted the injury.

Haywood was fully cognizant of this state of affairs. Certainly it would have been wisdom, too, on the part of one anxious to pass through India as unostentatiously as possible to have endured an occasional petty annoyance, rather than to attract attention by resenting it. But endurance was not Haywood’s strong point, and a score of times we felt called upon to warn him that his belligerency would bring him to grief.

In the early morning after our departure from Trichinopoly, the prophecy was fulfilled. The express stopped at a suburban station of Madras, and Haywood beckoned to a vendor of bananas on the platform. Now the youths of India are wont to gamble with bananas, because matches are too costly, and we were not surprised that the New Yorker blazed up wrathfully when the hawker demanded two annas for four.

He paid the exorbitant price under protest, and settled down to break his fast. The fruit, however, proved to be long past the stage when it could appeal to a sahib taste, and the purchaser rose to shake his fist at the deceitful vendor. The shadow of a derisive grin played on the features of the native; the thumb of his outspread hand hovered, entirely by accident, around the end of his nose; and he fell to chanting a ditty that a man ignorant of the tongue of Madras would have considered quite harmless.

“He says,” interpreted Marten, “that your grandfather was the son of a pig, and fed your father on the entrails of a yellow dog; that your grandmother gave birth to seven puppies, and your mo—”

But Haywood had snatched open the door, and, before the terrified native could move, he “made his foot go against him behind” in no uncertain manner. The Hindu shrieked like a lost soul thrown into the bottomless pit, abandoned his basket, and ran screaming down the platform.

Barely had the New Yorker regained his seat when a native officer appeared at the window.

“What for you strike the coolie?” he stammered, angrily; “You come with me! I arrest you,” and he attempted to step into the compartment.

307“Oh, rot!” shouted Marten, “you arrest a white man! Get out of here or I’ll break your neck.”

The policeman tumbled out precipitately.

“Don’t let him bother you, Haywood,” went on my partner. “Make him get a white cop if he wants to arrest you.”

“Huh! Don’t imagine for a minute any nigger is going to pinch me,” snorted the New Yorker, settling down and lighting his pipe.

“I’ll get you a white policeman,” screamed the officer, “down at the Beach station, and I’ll ride there with you.”

He stepped up on the running board once more.

“You’ll ride with the rest of the niggers,” roared Marten. “This compartment is reserved for Europeans.”

The officer was fully aware of that fact. He stepped into the next compartment and, ordering the natives who had been peering at us over the top of the partition to sit down, glued his eyes upon us. The train went on. As far as the next station, Haywood laughed at the threat of arrest on so slight a charge. Before we had reached the second, he had grown serious, and, as we drew near the third, he addressed us in an undertone:—

“Say! I’m going to let this fellow pinch me.”

“What!” whispered Marten, “you’re a fool! A nigger policeman can’t arrest a white man!”

“He can if the white man lets him,” retorted Haywood. “There’s always a bunch of Bobbies at the Beach station and any white cop in Madras would recognize me, an’ they’d hand me out about five years of the lock-step. One of you claim my bundle’s yours, an’ take it an’ this note from the padre to the Christer it’s addressed to, an’ leave ’em there.”

“Heh, you,” he called to the officer above us; “if you want to run me in I’ll go along.”

The officer came near smiling. What native would not have envied him the honor of conducting a sahib to a police station? I swung the New Yorker’s bundle over my shoulder and we stepped out. The policeman walked at a respectful distance from his prisoner and led the way across the Maidan. Three furlongs from the railway, he entered the yard of a small, brick cottage, framed in shrubbery and flowers, and, opening the door for Haywood, closed it in our faces.

We turned away towards the Y. M. C. A. building, an imposing modern edifice that housed the addressee of Haywood’s note.

308“I’ll pick you up again in a day or two,” said Marten, at the foot of the steps. “I’ve got an uncle living in town with a nigger wife, and I always touch him for a few good meals when I land here.”

The association manager consented to take charge of Haywood’s bundle, and offered me one night’s lodging until I could “look around.” I accepted gladly, though there were still four sovereigns in the band of my trousers. Force of habit led me down to the harbor; but, as I anticipated, I ran no danger of employment in that quarter. The boarding-houses swarmed with native seamen, and the shipping master had not signed on a white sailor in so long that he had concluded the type was extinct. I drifted away into the bazaars and, turning up at the association building at nightfall, retreated to a veranda of the second story with a blanket supplied by the manager.