“Say, mate,” whispered Haywood, “I’m on the rocks. Can’t you slip me? Have a cigar.”
The Eurasian declined the proffered stogie with a startled shake of the head, punched our tickets, and passed on without a word. Haywood sat on tenter-hooks for several moments, but the engine screeched at last, and he lay down again, vowing to wake thereafter at every halt.
We arrived at Trinchinopoly in the small hours and stretched out on a station bench to sleep out the night undisturbed. The chief of Haywood’s difficulties, however, was still to be overcome, for the only exit from the platform was guarded by a Eurasian who was sure to call for tickets. It was Marten, given to sudden inspirations, who saved the day for the New Yorker. As we approached the gate, he ran forward and, to my astonishment, attempted to force his way through it without producing his ticket.
A Hindu of Madras with caste-mark, of cow-dung and coloring-matter, on his forehead
“Here! Ticket, please, sahib,” cried the Eurasian.
“Oh! Go to the devil!” growled Marten.
“Ticket! Where is your ticket? Stop!”
Marten pushed the collector aside and stepped out.
“Ah!” screeched the official, “I know! You haven’t any ticket. You stole your ride. Come back, or I’ll call a policeman.”