Lal tells the string of porters to put "Master's" baggage into the compartment—no matter how much, put it all in, boxes, bags, bedding, and trunks
This official who has received a wink and half a rupee—never, never forget the half rupee, because half a rupee is sixteen cents—fills in the blanks on the placard which now, in its completed state, reads:
Lower Right Berth reserved for Mr. Allen.
Upper Right Berth reserved for Mr. Jones.
Lower Left Berth reserved for Mr. White.
Upper Left Berth reserved for Mr. Brown.
He hangs up the placard outside of the compartment, wishes "Master" a pleasant journey up to Benares, and closes the door.
Lal starts the electric fan, makes "Master's" bed, lays out "Master's" pajamas, and arranges "Master's" belongings promiscuously over Jones', White's and Brown's berths—Lal, a seasoned guide, is onto his job.
These last-named gentlemen get left—yes, sir, they get left. The train pulls out before they get around, and I am deprived of the pleasure of their company.
But if there is one place where a fellow can dispense with company it's on a hot night's run in a railroad carriage through India.
It's when I step out of the car at Benares the next morning that I learned that the fellow back in Calcutta couldn't read, for, blessed if the outside of that compartment I have occupied all night isn't labeled No. 1 instead of No. 2.
But that really makes no difference.
The compartment labeled No. 2, when you get inside, is just like compartment labeled No. 1, on the other side of the partition in the same car.