CHAPTER XIX
IN THE HEART OF INDIA
Late that afternoon we met at the Sailors’ Home. It was not long before Marten and I decided that we must rid ourselves of Haywood once for all. Go where we would, he was ever at our heels, bringing disgrace upon us. Picking pockets was his glee. When there was no other excitement, he took to filching small articles from the stores along the way. As we were returning to the Home along a crowded street on our second day in Calcutta, his behavior became unbearable. The natives of the big city did not spring aside when they came near a white man, as those in the country had done. Instead they were more likely to push him aside. To be jostled by a coolie was more than Haywood could stand. He started striking at those who pushed him, but could not reach them, for the street was crowded, and the higher-caste natives who annoyed us carried umbrellas.
Suddenly he thought of a way to get even with them. Opening his pocket-knife, he marched boldly through the crowd, slashing wickedly at every sun-shade whose owner crowded against him. An angry murmur rose behind us. Before we had reached the Home, a screaming mob of tradesmen surged around us, waving ruined umbrellas in our faces. Certainly it was time to be rid of such a companion. It was useless to tell him of his faults. There was nothing left but to skip out when he wasn’t looking.
Haywood ate heartily that evening. His plate was still heaped high with curry and rice when Marten and I left, to sit on a bench in the garden of the Home.
“Look here, mate,” said Marten in a stage-whisper, as soon as we were seated, “we must get away from that fellow. The police will be running us in along with him some day.”
I nodded. A seaman came to stretch himself out in the grass near at hand, and we fell silent. Darkness was striding upon us when a servant of the Home came to close the gate leading to the street.
Suddenly Marten raised a hand and called to the gateman.
“Wait!”
“Let’s get out,” he said to me.
“Where?” I asked.