“For goodness’ sake, hit that fellow on the head with something!” burst out Marten. “I want to sleep.”
The sergeant moved away several paces and continued his examination:
“And why have the sahibs gone to the tem—?”
The shriek of an incoming train drowned the rest, and we hurried toward the European compartment.
“You must not go in the train!” screamed the sergeant, while the group of officers danced excitedly around us. “Stop! You must answer—”
We stepped inside and slammed the door.
“The train cannot be allowed to go!” screeched the babu, racing up and down the platform. “The sahibs are not allowed to go. You must hold the train, sahib!” he cried to a European conductor hurrying by.
“Hold nothing,” answered the conductor. “Are you crazy? This is the Bombay mail.” And he blew his whistle.
The sergeant grasped the edge of the open window with one hand, and, waving his note-book wildly in the other, raced along the platform beside us.
“You must answer the questions, sahibs—”