In his breathless haste he returned to his seat, carefully folded his legs, rolled a cigarette with great care, blew smoke at the punkahs for several moments, and, pulling out the drawers of his desk, examined one by one the books and papers within them. He seemed unable to find that for which he was looking. He rose slowly to his feet, inquired among his dark-faced companions, returned to his cushions, and, calling a dozen servants around him, sent them on as many errands.
“It’s the book in which we enter the names of those who ask for tickets,” he explained; “it will soon be found.” And he lighted another cigarette.
A servant came upon the book at last—plainly in sight on the top of the assistant’s desk. That officer opened it slowly, read half the writing it contained, and, carefully choosing a native pen, prepared to write. He was not trying to provoke or tease us: he really thought that he was moving with all possible haste.
Slowly his sputtering pen wrote down whatever Marten and Haywood told him in answer to his questions. Then he laid the volume away in a drawer, locked it, and called for a time-table. He studied it dreamily before dragging forth another heavy book. But his pen refused to write smoothly; he couldn’t find the keys to the strong box for a time; and when he did find them they refused to fit the lock. He gave up at last, and, promising that a servant would meet us at the station in the evening with the tickets, he bade us good day.
As we rose to depart, Marten asked for water. The native officials scowled. They cried out in horrified chorus when Haywood stepped toward a chettie in the corner of the room.
“Don’t touch that, sahib!” shrieked the governor’s assistant. “I shall arrange to give you a drink.”
Among the servants within the building were none low enough in caste to be assigned the task of bringing us water. The assistant sent for a punkah-wallah. One of the great folds of velvet fell motionless, and there sneaked into the room the lowest of human creatures. The assistant gave a sharp order. The sudra dropped to a squat, raised his clasped hands to his forehead, and shuffled off toward the chettie.
Picking up a heavy brass goblet, he placed it, not on the table, but on the floor in the middle of the room. The officials nearest the spot left their desks, and the entire company formed a circle around us. Haywood stepped forward to pick up the cup.
“No, no,” cried the natives; “stand back!”
The coolie slunk forward with the chettie, and, holding it fully two feet above the goblet, filled the vessel, and drew back several paces.