“Do you want more?” he asked, when the cup was empty.
“Yes.”
“Then leave the lota on the floor and stand back.”
The punkah-wallah filled it as before.
“Good day,” repeated the assistant, when we acknowledged ourselves satisfied, “but you must carry the lota away with you.”
“But it costs a good piece of money,” suggested Haywood.
“Yes,” sighed the Hindu, “but no one dares touch it any more.”
A native clerk met us on the station platform at nightfall, with tickets and “batter.” On the express that thundered in a moment later were two European compartments; but Haywood was roused to the virile profanity of the Bowery at finding one of them occupied by natives. At the climax of an aria that displayed to advantage his remarkable vocabulary of execrations, a deep, solemn bass sounded from the next compartment:—
“Young man! Have you no fear of the fires of hell?”
“Oh! Lord!” gasped Marten, “Another padre!”