“Dák no lay—can’t lay. No station Talwandi way—dusri ráh [other way]. How Sahib change horses where no horses be found?” said the munshi.
“Well, suppose that we cannot change horses on the journey, one pair of stout animals can easily accomplish twenty miles.” The last part of Harold’s sentence was half drowned in the shrill scream of the departing train.
The fat munshi seemed to see mountains of difficulty in the way. “If horses go Talwandi, must come back Chuanwál,” at last he sagely observed.
“Of course; they will return here to-morrow. The question is, Have you the gári [carriage] and horses which I ordered three days ago?”
After a good deal of beating about the bush and cross-questioning, Harold elicited the fact that there was a gári, and moreover a pair of horses.
“Then have the horses put in at once. Why were they not ready? The lady is tired of waiting,” said Harold, glancing towards Alicia, who was sitting on one of the bundles of bedding.
Orders were given to a man waiting near, who went off to see about the gári; and the munshi took his pencil from behind his ear. “Sahib must pay beforehand,” said the munshi.
“All right. How much have I to pay?” asked young Hartley, drawing from his pocket his bag of rupees.
The munshi surveyed the bag, perhaps making a calculation as to its probable contents, then named a sum that was an exorbitant charge for so short a journey. To pay it would more than drain Harold’s bag. The missionary remonstrated, but in vain. The munshi knew that the travellers were in his power. They must pay what he chose to demand, or no dák-gári should start.
“I shall inform the Government official of the extortion,” began Harold; but he was not allowed to conclude the sentence.