The commissioner stepped into the bungalow. The music ceased and the player followed her husband out to the veranda.
“This,” said the commissioner, spreading out a chart he carried, “is the latest map of the region. You mustn’t suppose, as many people do, that all India has been mapped out. You see for yourselves that there is nothing between Chittagong and the Irawaddy River but a few wavy lines to show mountain ranges. That’s all any map shows, and all any civilized man knows of that part. Bah! Your scheme is idiotic. You might as well try to walk to Llassa.”
He rolled up the map and dropped again into his chair.
“By the way,” he asked, “why don’t you stop at the Sailors’ Home to-night?”
“I never imagined for a moment,” I replied, “that there was a Home in a little town like this.”
“There is, and a fine one,” answered the commissioner; “and just waiting for someone to occupy it.”
“No place for us,” retorted James. “We’ve spent our last coin.”
“Nothing to do with it,” cried the Englishman. “Money or no money, you’ll stop there while you’re here. I’ll send word to the manager at once.”
The Sailors’ Home of Chittagong was a wonder in comfort and beauty. The city itself was a garden spot. The Home was a white bungalow set in the edge of the forest on a river-bank. The parlor was carpeted with mats, the dining-room furnished with punkahs. In another room stood a pool-table and—wonder of wonders—a piano!
Three native servants, housed in a near-by cottage, were ready to come when called and wait on us. For, though weeks had passed since a sailor had stopped at the Home, everything was as ready for our accommodation as if the manager had been expecting us.