“Ah! Yes, sahib,” bleated the babu; “but we must have the informations. Please, sir, which is your birthplace?”
“If you don’t chase yourself, I’ll break your neck!” roared Marten, springing to his feet.
The assembled officers fell over each other in their haste to escape the onslaught. Marten returned to the bench and sat down in moody silence. The sergeant, urged forward by his fellow officers, advanced timidly to within several paces of us and, poised ready to spring, addressed me in gentle tones:—
“Sahib, the police wish, please, sir, to know why the sahibs have come to Burdwan.”
“Because the local dropped us here, and we had to wait for the express.”
“But why have you not take the express all the time?”
“We were at Hoogly. It doesn’t stop there.”
“Then, why have you not stay in the station? Why have you walked in the bazaars and in the temples?”
“To see the sights, of course.”
“But there are not sights in Burdwan. It is a dirty village and very poor and very small. Europeans are coming to Benares and to Calcutta, but they are not coming in Burdwan. Why have the sahibs come in Burdwan, and the sun is very hot?”