“Agreed,” I answered; for, of all those at the institute, there was no one I should sooner have chosen as a partner for the rough days to come than James.
“How’ll we make it?” he inquired. “It’s a long jump.”
“I’ll set you right to Goalando,” I replied. “We can go down on the Ganges boat to Chittagong. From there I think we can beat our way through the jungle to Mandalay. Then we’ll drop down to Rangoon. They say shipping is good there. But let’s have it understood that when we reach Hong-Kong each one goes where he likes.”
“All right,” said the Australian, lying down once more.
Thursday passed quickly in looking over our belongings; and, having stuffed them all into James’s carpet-bag, we set off at nightfall for the station.
“What! Two?” cried the conductor, when I had introduced James. “Well, pile on.”
He passed on, and, as the train started, James tumbled into an empty compartment after me. When daylight awakened us, our car stood alone on a side-track at the end of the line.
Goalando was a village of mud huts, perched on a slimy, sloping bank of the Ganges River, like turtles ready to slip into the stream at the first sign of danger.
Two days later we reached Chittagong after dark night had fallen.
As the sun was setting the next afternoon, we climbed the highest of the green hills in Chittagong to seek information from the district commissioner; for the natives in the city knew nothing of the route to Mandalay. The governor, aroused from a Sunday afternoon nap on his vine-curtained veranda, received us kindly, even delightedly, and, having called a servant to look after our thirst, went inside to astonish his wife with the news that he had European callers. That lady, after being properly introduced, consented to play upon the piano for us.