“Will you drive these niggers out of here!” screamed Haywood to a passing guard.
“Take the next compartment behind,” answered the official, over his shoulder; “There’s only one man in it.”
“Yes! But he’s a missionary!” bawled Marten.
The guard was gone. The station master gave the signal for departure and we boarded the express with a sigh of resignation. Haywood swore to wait for the next train rather than endure a sermon; but the fear of being left behind fell upon him, and, as the engine screeched, he scrambled through the door after us.
The sermon was immediately forthcoming, and the information we gleaned anent the future dwelling-place of blasphemous seamen was more voluminous than encouraging. Luckily, towards midnight the missionary exhausted both his text and his voice, and left us to enjoy such sleep as the ticket punchers permitted.
The Hindu affects many strange coiffures. Natives of Madras
A Hindu basket-weaver of Madras
In Haywood, as in others of his ilk, neither the Hindu nor his institutions awakened any noticeable degree of respect. To him all natives, from Brahmins to sudras, were “niggers,” and such of their customs as did not conform to the standards set up in the vicinity of Mulberry Bend he branded “damn nonsense.” He was a graduate of a school in which differences of opinion are decided in favor of the disputant first able to crawl to his feet at the end of the controversy. Nay, more: he had won public recognition in that brand of oratory, and had long since outgrown the notion that there was any court of last appeal other than a “knock-out.” There were several little points on which Marten and I should have been convinced in spite of our better judgment had not a cruel fate enrolled the New Yorker in the welter-weight class.