“You know,” said the commissioner, as he finished writing a second note, “you can’t hurry the Aryan brown. Kipling has written four lines that cover the subject. I’ve told them to give you the tickets at once and look up the law afterward. But you probably cannot catch the one o’clock train. There is, however, a night express that reaches Madras in the morning, and you may take that, even though there is an excess fare, if they cannot get you off by the other.”
The second note demoralized the force. Urged on by the threat of new expenditures, the assistant strove bravely for once against his lethargic Oriental nature. But hurry he could not, from lack of practice. His pen refused to write smoothly, the treasurer’s keys were out of place, and, when found, refused to fit the lock of the strong box. The senior gave up at last, and, promising that a secretary would meet us at the station in the evening with the higher-priced tickets, bade us good day.
As we rose to depart, Marten asked for water. The high-caste officials scowled almost angrily at the request; they cried out in horrified chorus when Haywood stepped towards a chettie in the corner of the room.
“Don’t touch that, sahib!” shrieked the assistant; “I shall arrange to give you a drink.”
He spoke like a man on whom had suddenly fallen the task of launching a first-class battleship. One can smile with indulgence at the naked, illiterate coolie who clings to the silly superstitions of caste. The ignorance and sterility of a brain weakened by centuries of habitual desuetude pardons him. But to see educated, full-grown men among men descend to the fanatical childishness of ridiculous customs seems, in this twentieth century, the height of absurdity.
Among the servants within the building were none low enough in caste to be assigned the task of bringing us water. The assistant sent for a punkah-wallah. One of the great folds of velvet fell motionless and there sneaked into the room the most abject of human creatures. A curt order sounded. The sudra dropped to a squat, raised his clasped hands to his forehead, and shuffled off towards the chettie. Certainly, had he had a tail it would have been close drawn between his legs.
Picking up a heavy brass goblet, he placed it, not on the table, but on the floor in the middle of the room. The officials nearest the blighted spot abandoned their desks, and the entire company formed a circle around us. Haywood stepped forward to pick up the cup.
“No, no,” cried the force, “stand back!”
The coolie slunk forward with the chettie and, holding it fully two feet above the goblet, filled the vessel, and drew back several paces.
“Now you may drink,” said the assistant.