“Commissioner sahib keh bungalow kéhdereh?” asked Marten.
“Hazur hum malum neh, sahib (I don’t know, sir),” stammered the native, backing away as we approached.
“Stand still, you fellows,” shouted Marten; “you’re scaring him so he can’t understand. Every nigger knows where the commissioner lives. Commissioner sahib keh bungalow kéhdereh?”
“Far down the road, oh, protector of the unfortunate.”
We came upon the low rambling building in a grove among rocky hillocks. Along the broad veranda crouched a dozen punkah-wallahs, pulling drowsily at the cords that moved the great velvet fans within. Under the punkahs, at their desks, sat a small army of native officials, mere secretaries and clerks, most of them, yet quite majestic of appearance in the flowing gowns, great black beards, and brilliant turbans of the high-class Hindu. Servants swarmed about the writers, groveling on their knees each time a social superior deigned to issue a command. White men were there none.
The possessor of the most regal turban rose from his cushions as we entered and addressed us in English:—
“Can I be of service to you, sahibs?”
“We want to see the commissioner,” said Marten.
“The commissioner sahib,” replied the Hindu, “is at his bungalow. He will perhaps come here for a half hour at three o’clock.”
“But we want tickets for the one o’clock train,” Haywood blurted out.