An hour later we were journeying leisurely northwestward in a crowded train that halted at every hamlet and cross-road. Marten had received a ticket to Bankipore, far beyond the destination of the local at Burdwan, where we alighted three hours before the arrival of the night express. A gaping crowd surrounded us as we halted to purchase sweetmeats in the bazaars and, flocking at our heels, quickly drew upon us the attention of the local police.
Dreading Russian spies, the Indian government has, during the few years past, required its officers to follow closely the trail of foreigners within the country. The native policeman, however, could not distinguish a suspicious character from a member of the viceroy’s council, and takes a childish delight in demonstrating his importance to society by subjecting every sahib stranger who will suffer it to a lengthy cross-examination. Half the gendarmes of Burdwan, eager to win from their superiors reputation for perspicacity, sought to bring us before the recorders at the police station. Their methods were ludicrous. They neither commanded nor requested; they invited us in the flowery phrases of compliment to accompany them, and, when we passed on unheeding, turned back in sorrow to their posts.
Two lynx-eyed officers, however, hung on our heels, and, following us to the station as night fell, joined a group of railway gendarmes on the platform. A lengthy conference ensued; then the squad lined up before the bench on which we were seated, and a sergeant drew out one of the small volumes which the government has adopted as a register for transient Europeans.
“Will the sahibs be pleased to give me their names?” wheedled the sergeant, in the timid voice of a half-starved Villon addressing his verses to a noble patron.
I took the book and pencil from his hand and filled out the blanks on a page.
“And you, sahib?” said the officer, turning to Marten.
“Oh, go to the devil!” growled my companion; “I ain’t no Roossian. You got no damn business botherin’ Europeans. Go chase yourself.”
“The sahib must give the informations or he cannot go on the train,” murmured the native.
“How the devil will you stop me from goin’?” demanded Marten.
The officer muttered something in the vernacular to his companions.