An express similar to that from which we had alighted twenty-four hours before rumbled into Khurda Road soon after we reached the main line. We strolled along the platform and pulled open the door of the European compartment—and fell back in astonishment. A familiar topee with bulging hatband swung from a peg near the ceiling. On a bench beneath, reposed the bundle which I had once lugged across the Maidan of Madras, and beside it sat Haywood! For some cause unknown he had been released at the end of six days’ imprisonment and had lost no time in taking the north-bound express—without a ticket.

His joy at the reunion exceeded our own. Marten grumbled under his breath at the fate that kept us in such baneful company, and, though he did not hesitate to invent fanciful tales to explain to querulous collectors the presence of three tropical helmets when only two travelers were visible, he said nothing of the extra ticket in his hatband. Several times during the night Haywood found it expedient to drop out the further door for a stroll in the darkness, but he escaped detection and, as the day dawned, alighted with us at the Howrah terminal. He had “held down” the same train without paying an anna of fare, for 1,032 miles!

The pontoon bridge connecting Howrah with Calcutta was alive with coolies tramping from their wretched hovels on the western bank to a day of toil in the city. A multitude of natives disported in the muddy waters of the Hoogly before a sacred bathing ghat. Below the bridge scores of ships lay at anchor, native sampans and barges inveigled their way among them, from the docks came the rattle of steam cranes and the shrill chatter of stevedores at their labor. Here, at last, was a real city, with all its familiar roar and bustle. My companions departed to visit a missionary notorious for his friendliness to beachcombers, and I plunged at random into the stream of humanity that surged through the dusty streets.

CHAPTER XVI
THE HEART OF INDIA

Late that afternoon we were reunited at the Sailors’ Home. As time wore on the conviction grew that we must shake off Haywood once for all. Go where we would, he was ever at our heels, bringing disgrace upon us. Picking pockets was his glee. When other excitement failed he turned to filching small articles from the booths along the way. The last straw was added to our burden as we were returning to the Home along the Strand on our second day in Calcutta. The sophisticated inhabitants of the metropolis, far from springing aside at the approach of a European, are more accustomed to push him into the gutter. To be jostled by a “nigger” was an insult that Haywood could not brook. He resorted to Bowery tactics; but to little effect, for the Strand was crowded. The day was hot. The higher caste natives, our chief annoyers, carried umbrellas that soon suggested to the New Yorker a better means of retaliation. Opening his pocket knife, he marched boldly through the throng, slashing viciously at every sunshade whose owner provoked his ire. An angry murmur rose behind us. Before we had reached the Home, a screaming mob of tradesmen surged around us, waving ruined umbrellas in our faces. Decidedly it was time to abandon the perpetrator of such outrages. Hints had availed nothing, frankness less. Violence against a “pal” was out of keeping with the code of morals of “the road.” There was nothing left but strategy.

The New Yorker ate heartily that evening. His plate was still heaped high with currie and rice when Marten and I retired to a bench in the garden of the Home. Plan had I none, as yet, for continuing my journey, for Calcutta was worth a week of sight-seeing. But plans are quickly made in the vagabond world.

“Look here, mate,” said Marten, in a stage whisper, “we’ve got to ditch that fellow. The cops’ll be running us in along with him some day.”

I nodded. A seaman came to stretch himself out in the grass near at hand, and we fell silent. Darkness was striding upon us when a servant of the Home advanced to close the gate leading into the street. Suddenly Marten raised a hand and shouted to the gateman.

“Let’s dig out,” he muttered.

“Where?” I queried.