“Ah, here it is,” he exclaimed, pointing out an entry; “Richard Haywood, Englishman. Charge, assault. Found in his possession, four annas, three pice, one pocketknife, one pipe, three cigarettes, two buttons.” They were nothing if not exact, but they had overlooked one of the uses of the bands on pith helmets. “Plea, guilty. Sentence, five rupees fine. Prisoner alleging indigence, sentence was changed to one week in the Presidency jail.”
“Suppose I pay his fine?” I asked. “Will he be released at once?”
“Yes, but the case has passed out of my jurisdiction. You must pay it to the warden.”
No sojourner in Madras need make inquiry for the great white building that houses her felons. I reached it in time to find the massive gate still unlocked and gained admittance to the warden’s office. He denied my request for an interview with Haywood, however, on the ground that prisoners for so brief a period were not allowed visitors. I opened my mouth to mention the fine, then stopped. Perhaps the New Yorker had some secret reason for choosing to swelter seven days in an Indian prison. If he was anxious to be free, he had only to take down his hat and, like the magician, produce from it the money that would set him at liberty. I resolved to run no risk of upsetting subtle plans, and turned back into the city.
Two days later, the broker confided to me the sad news that I had been “spotted.” Marten, who had joined me in the grove lodging, the night before, proposed to apply at once to the secretary of the Friend-in-Need Society for a ticket northward. Eager to investigate the Home which the society operates in Madras, I accompanied him. The secretary was an English magistrate who held court in a building facing the harbor. The court room was crowded to suffocation. While we waited for the native policeman to return with an answer to our note I caught enough of the interpreter’s words to learn that the perspiring Briton under the punkahs was weighing the momentous question of the damages due a shopkeeper for temporary loss of caste.
The attaché, after long absence, brought the information that the trial was at its climax and that he dared not disturb proceedings. But Marten, familiar with the “ropes” of official India, snorted in disgust and led the way down a passage that brought us to an anteroom behind the judgment seat. Beckoning to me to follow, he pushed aside the officers who would have barred our progress, and marched boldly into the court room, halting before the stenographer’s table. I anticipated immediate imprisonment for contempt of court; but the magistrate, eager, as who would not have been, for a moment’s relief from native hair-splitting, signed to the interpreter to stay the case, and, sliding down in his daïs until he was all but lying on his back, bade us step up beside him. Marten, who had transferred to Calcutta the phantom ship he was pursuing, applied for a through ticket; I, for admission to the Society Home.
“I’ll give you both a chit to the manager for to-night,” said the justice, when we had spun our yarns. “The Home is rather overcrowded, but we always try to find a place for Englishmen, even if we can’t accommodate all the Germans, Italians, and Turks that turn up.”
“But we’re not Englishmen,” I put in.
“Nonsense,” yawned the judge. “When I say Englishmen of course I include Americans, but as to you”—he turned to Marten—“I can’t give you a ticket to Calcutta. That’s more than a thousand miles. I’ll have the manager ship you to Vizagapatam in the morning. That is half way, and the commissioner there will send you on.”
He made out the notes and we departed. As we passed the street entrance, the corpulent babu was again pouring forth the woes of the polluted plaintiff.