“I am the assistant commissioner,” answered the native. “What the commissioner sahib can do I can do. But it is a very long process to draw upon the funds of the district, and you cannot, perhaps, catch the one o’clock train. Still, I shall hurry as much as possible.”
In his breathless haste he resumed his seat, carefully folded his legs, rolled a cigarette with great deliberation, blew smoke at the punkahs for several moments, and, pulling out the drawers of his desk, examined one by one the ledgers and documents within them. The object of his search was not forthcoming. He rose gradually to his feet, made inquiry among his hirsute colleagues, returned to his cushions, and, calling a dozen servants around him, despatched them on as many errands.
“It’s the ledger in which we enter the names of those who apply for tickets,” he explained, “it will soon be found”; and he lighted another cigarette.
A servant came upon the book at last—plainly in sight on the top of the assistant’s desk. That official opened the volume with unnecessary reverence, read half the entries it contained, and, choosing a native pen, prepared to write. He was not amusing himself at our expense. He was fully convinced that he was moving with all possible celerity.
Slowly his sputtering pen rendered into the crippled orthography of his native tongue comprehensive biographies of the two mythological beings whom Marten and Haywood chose to represent; and the writer turned to me. I protested that I intended to buy my own ticket; but the assistant, regarding me, evidently, as an accessory before the fact, insisted that the story of my life must also adorn the pages of his ledger. The entry completed, he laid the book away in a drawer, locked it, and called for a time-table.
“The third-class fare to Tanjore,” he mused, “is twelve annas. Two tickets will be one and eight. Batter for a half-day for two, one rupee. Total, two rupees and eight annas. I shall now draw upon the treasurer for that amount,” and he dragged forth another gigantic tome.
“Tanjore?” cried Marten. “Why, that ain’t fifty miles from here! Is that as far as you’re going to ship us?”
“A commissioner lives there,” replied the Hindu, “and he will send you on. Each district is allowed to spend only enough for a ticket to the next one.”
“If we have to go through this every forty miles,” groaned Marten, “we’ll die before we get anywhere.”
“Let’s try the commish,” suggested Haywood; “where’s his joint?”