“Hazur hum malum neh, sahib” (“I don’t know, sir”), stammered the native, backing away as we stepped toward him.
“Stand still, you fellows,” shouted Marten; “you’re scaring him so he can’t understand. Every coolie knows where the governor lives. Commissioner sahib keh bungalow kéhdereh?”
“Far down the road, O protector of the unfortunate.”
We came upon the low, rambling building in a grove among rocky hillocks. Along the broad veranda crouched a dozen servants (called punkah-wallahs), pulling drowsily at the cords that moved the great velvet fans (called punkahs) that hung from the ceiling within. Under the punkahs, at their desks, sat a small army of native secretaries and clerks, looking rather grand in their flowing gowns, great black beards, and the bright-colored turbans of the high-class Hindu. Servants swarmed about the writers, and fell on their knees with their faces to the ground each time an official gave a command. White men there were none.
The official wearing the brightest 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. He 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 governor,” answered the native. “What the governor sahib can do I can do. But it takes a long time to get the ticket, and you cannot, perhaps, catch the one o’clock train. Still, I shall hurry as much as possible.”