“The train cannot be allowed to go!” screeched the babu, racing up and down the platform. “The sahibs are not allowed to go. You must hold the train, sahib!” he cried to a European guard hurrying by.
“Hold nothing,” answered the official. “Are you crazy? This is the Bombay mail,” and he blew his whistle.
The sergeant grasped the edge of the open window with one hand and, waving his notebook wildly in the other, raced along the platform beside us.
“You must answer the questions, sahibs—”
The train was rapidly gaining headway.
“Get down, sahibs! Come out! You are not allowed—”
He could hold the pace no longer. With a final shriek he released his hold and we sped on into the night.
Hours afterward we were awakened by a voice at the open window. A native officer was peering in upon us.
“I have received a telegraph from Burdwan for a sahib who has not answered some questions,” he smiled, holding up his notebook.
“My name’s Franck,” I yawned.