“It is not of much consequence—two goods trains disputing the right of way; but we shall have to walk to Okara to catch the Cawnpore mail.”
“Is it far?”
“About three miles, I believe.”
“Oh, that is not much! I have not many things—only a dressing-bag, a rug, and a parasol.”
“All right; if you will pass them down, I will carry them.”
“But surely there is a porter,” expostulated the lady, “and I need not trouble you.”
“I don’t suppose there is what you call a porter nearer than Brindisi, and all the coolies are taking out the luggage. Allow me to help you.”
In another second the young lady, who was both light and active, stood beside him on the line. She was English; she was tall; and she wore a hideously shaped country-made topee—that was all that he could make out in the dim light.
“Now, shall we start?” he asked briskly, taking her bag, rug, and parasol.
“Please let me have the bag,” she entreated. “I—I—that is to say, I would rather keep it myself. All my money is in it.”