The servants at the Home, knowing that sahibs often take early morning strolls, grinned cheerfully when they saw us returning, and told us breakfast was ready. While we were eating, the chief of police bounded into the room, told a new story, and said that the commissioner wished to see us at once; then bounded away again, complaining that he was being worked to death.
When we reached his bungalow on the hilltop, we found the ruler of the district pacing back and forth between rows of native secretaries and assistants.
“I have given orders that you are not to start for Mandalay,” he began shortly.
“But how shall we get out any other way?” demanded James.
“If you were killed in the jungle,” went on the governor, as if he had heard nothing, “your governments would blame me. But, of course, I have no intention of keeping you in Chittagong. I have arranged, therefore, with the agents of the weekly steamer, to give you deck passages, with European food, to Rangoon. Apply to them at once, and be ready to start to-morrow morning.”
In a blinding tropical shower we were rowed out to the steamer next morning. For four days following we lolled about the winch (a crank for raising weights) on which the Chinese stewards served our European “chow.” The steamer drifted slowly down the eastern coast of the Bay of Bengal, and, rounding the delta of the Irawaddy River on the morning of May thirteenth, dropped anchor three hours later in the harbor of Rangoon.
CHAPTER XXI
TRAMPING THROUGH BURMA
At the time we reached Rangoon, that town was filled with sailors who had been looking for a chance to “sign on” for months past, with no success. Moreover, they assured me that there was no work ashore, that the city was suffering from the plague, and that we had fallen upon the most unlucky port in the Orient.
Nevertheless, we were there, and we had to make the best of it. We struck off through the city to see the sights. The native town, squatting on the flat plain along the river, had streets as wide and straight as those of Western cities. There were no sidewalks, of course. People on foot walked among the wagons and carts, and disputed the way with donkeys and human beasts of burden. A flat city it was, with small two-story huts built on stilts. Above it gleamed a few golden pagodas, and high above all else soared the pride of Burma, the Shwe Dagón pagoda.
There are probably as many pagodas in East India and China as there are churches in our own country. A pagoda is a temple containing idols or statues of gods which the people worship. We climbed the endless stairway up into the great Shwe Dagón in company with hundreds of natives carrying their shoes in their hands. We watched them wandering among the glittering statues, setting up lighted candles or spreading out blossoms before them, bowing until their faces touched the floor, but puffing all the time at long cigars. While we gazed, a breathless woman with closely cropped hair pushed past us, and laid before an idol a braid of oily jet-black hair.