“When will that be?”
“To-morrow, probably, on this same train.”
“But I can’t afford to be delayed twenty-four hours,” I protested. “I’m short on cash and I’ve got to meet a mate.”
“I am sorry,” returned the Englishman, “but as deputy inspector I have no power in the matter. I do not want to lock you up if you will promise not to leave the station precincts. You may sleep in the first-class waiting-room.”
Whether he relied entirely on my promise, I did not learn. At any rate, he ordered the agent to arrange a cane couch for me, and not long after his departure a coolie arrived from the barracks with such a dinner as I did not often enjoy during my days of liberty. The next day the fare was even more generous, and was supplemented by several delicacies which the Eurasian guard sent from the messroom of the railway bungalow. The latter had not neglected to make public my story, and every hour brought Englishmen, Eurasians, or babus to express their conviction that I was being grossly mistreated. Among them was a leathery little Irishman, a traveling photographer with headquarters in Agra, and a discussion of our common interests ended with his writing me a “chit” to his employer, whom he represented as in need of an assistant.
The deputy inspector hovered about the station, and during one of his visits I asked for a book with which to while away the time. He must have pondered long over the shelves in his bungalow in quest of a volume that would appeal to a sailor of slight education, of American nationality, who was ostensibly suffering severe depression of spirits. His choice demonstrated the unfailing perspicacity of the Briton. He came back bearing a thumb-worn copy of “Bill Nye’s History of the United States.”
With nightfall came the inspector to listen to a repetition of my story.
“Your account,” he announced, “agrees entirely with that of the Eurasian guard. I shall release you at once.”
An hour afterward I left Bina and, halting at Jhansi and the free state of Gwalior, arrived in Agra three days later. Until then I had fancied that Marten had passed me during the night of my captivity. But as I alighted, I was surprised to see, in a letter-rack such as is maintained at most Indian stations for the convenience of travelers, a post card across which my name was misspelled in bold, blue letters. On the back was scrawled this simple message:—
Godawara, India—April 25th.