There were Fielding and old Godbole, held up at the level-crossing. Appalling catastrophe! The gates had been closed earlier than usual. They leapt from their tonga; they gesticulated, but what was the good. So near and yet so far! As the train joggled past over the points, there was time for agonized words.
“Bad, bad, you have destroyed me.”
“Godbole’s pujah did it,” cried the Englishman.
The Brahman lowered his eyes, ashamed of religion. For it was so: he had miscalculated the length of a prayer.
“Jump on, I must have you,” screamed Aziz, beside himself.
“Right, give a hand.”
“He’s not to, he’ll kill himself,” Mrs. Moore protested. He jumped, he failed, missed his friend’s hand, and fell back on to the line. The train rumbled past. He scrambled on to his feet, and bawled after them, “I’m all right, you’re all right, don’t worry,” and then they passed beyond range of his voice.
“Mrs. Moore, Miss Quested, our expedition is a ruin.” He swung himself along the footboard, almost in tears.
“Get in, get in; you’ll kill yourself as well as Mr. Fielding. I see no ruin.”
“How is that? Oh, explain to me!” he said piteously, like a child.