“Then it must be the other sahib,” said the native. “You are, sir, I think, Mr. Higgeldy Piggeldy?”
“Naw! Mine’s Marten,” said my companion, drawing out his papers. “Bloody funny name, that. Can’t be no Englishman. Must be a Roossian.”
We left the express at daybreak. Bankipore was suffering from one of the long droughts that have ever been the blight of this section of India. The flat plains of the surrounding country spread out an arid, sun-baked desert as far as the eye could see. Along the roadway the dust rose in clouds at every step, the trees stood lifeless in ragged shrouds of dead, brown leaves. The few low-caste natives still energetic enough to bestir themselves dragged by at the listless pace of animals turned out to die, utter hopelessness in their shriveled faces, their tongues lolling from their mouths. The sear grass of the great Maidan was crushed to powder under our feet; a half-mile stroll brought on all the symptoms of physical fatigue; the moistureless, dust-laden air smarted in our throats and lungs and left our lips and nostrils parched and cracking.
In the center of the Maidan, as far as possible from the human kennels of the surrounding town, were pitched several sun-bleached tents. A dun-colored coolie, squatting in a dusty patch, cried out at our approach; and a native of higher caste pushed aside the flap of the tent and, shading his eyes under an outstretched hand, gazed towards us. He was dressed in uniform, his jacket open at the throat, and his bare feet thrust into a pair of shabby slippers. A figure commonplace enough, yet at sight of him we gasped with delight. For on his head sat a fez! It was far from becoming to its wearer; a turban would have offered more protection against the Indian sun, but it heralded a Mohammedan free from the fanatical superstitions of the Brahmin faith. We might quench our thirst at once with no pollution of the cup; and depart without feeling that creepy sensation of guilt that one experiences at home in stopping in a saloon for a drink of water—if such things happen. How the point of view towards one’s fellow men change with every advance to the eastward! In this superstitious land an Islamite seemed almost a brother.
But we were thirsty.
“Pawnee hai? Oh! Maghmoód, we would drink,” cried Marten.
The follower of the prophet smiled at the words of the vernacular as he answered in perfect English:—
“Assuredly, gentlemen. I should be delighted. Step inside, where it is cooler.”
His was no crude-builded language of the babu. An Oxford fellow could not have expressed his thoughts more clearly, nor given more immediate evidence of a sahib point of view.
The tent was furnished with mats and couches. In one corner stood a chair and a desk littered with papers. The Mohammedan handed us a chettie of water. When we had drunk our fill, he offered cigarettes and motioned to a couch.