“All right,” said the Australian, lying down once more.
Thursday passed quickly in the overhauling of our gear, and, having stuffed our possessions into James’ carpetbag, we set off at nightfall for the station; not two of us, but three, for Rice of Chicago had invited himself to accompany us.
“What! So many?” cried the guard, when the Eurasian had introduced us, “That’s a big bunch of deadheads for one trip. Well, pile on. I’ll see that the collectors slip you.”
My companions returned to the waiting-room for the carpetbag, and I fell into step with the station policeman, James’ former partner. The platform was swarming with a cosmopolitan humanity. Afghans, Sihks, Bengalis, Tamils, and Mohammedans strolled back and forth or took garrulous leave of their departing friends through the train windows. Suddenly my attention was drawn to a priest of Buddha pushing his way through the throng. The yellow robe is rare in northern India, yet it was something more than the garment that led me to poke the policeman in the ribs. For the arms and shoulder of its wearer were white and the face that grinned beneath the shaven poll could have been designed in no other spot on earth than the Emerald Isle!
“Blow me,” cried the officer, “if it ain’t the Irish Buddhist, the bishop of Rangoon! I met ’im once in Singapore. Everybody in Burma knows ’im;” and he stepped forward with a greeting.
“Do I rimimber ye?” chuckled the priest, “I do thot. Ye were down in the Sthraits. Bless me, and ye’re up here on the force now, eh? Oo’s yer frind?”
“American,” said the Australian, “off fer Chittagong with a pard o’ mine.”
“Foine!” cried the Irishman. “I’m bound the same. I’m second-class, but I’ll see ye on the boat the-morrow.”
He passed on and, as the train started, James and Rice tumbled into an empty compartment after me. The guard kept his promise and not once during the night were we disturbed. When daylight awakened us our car stood alone on a side-track at the end of the line.
Goalando was a village of mud huts, perched on a slimy, sloping bank of the Ganges like turtles ready to slip into the stream at the first hint of danger. A shriveled Hindu, frightened speechless by the appearance of three sahibs before his shop door, sold us a stale and fly-specked breakfast, and we turned down towards the river. On the sagging gangplank of a tiny steamer, moored at the foot of the slippery bank, stood the Irish Buddhist, his yellow robe drawn up about his knees, scrubbing his legs in the muddy water.