“Now you may drink,” said the assistant.
“Do you want more?” he asked, when the cup was empty.
“Yes.”
“Then leave the lota on the floor and stand back.”
The punkah-wallah filled it as before.
“Good day,” repeated the assistant, when we had acknowledged ourselves satisfied; “but you must carry the lota away with you.”
“But it cost a good piece of money,” suggested Haywood.
“Yes,” sighed the Hindu; “but no one dares touch it any more.”
A native clerk met us at the station with the tickets.
We boarded the express that thundered in a moment later, and in the early morning of the next day stopped at a station just outside the city of Madras. It was here that Haywood’s bad temper so overcame him that he rushed out upon the platform and struck an impudent fruit peddler who had sold him some spoiled bananas. Shortly afterward a native policeman arrested him, and we were rid of our fiery-tempered companion at last. The train sped on, and a few minutes later drew up in the station of Madras.