“Prove it,” snapped the Irishman.
The Hindu accepted the challenge, and for the ensuing half-hour we were witnesses of the novel spectacle of a sahib stoutly defending the faith of the East against a native champion of the religion of the West. Unfortunately, he of the wooden leg was no match for the learned bishop. He began with a parrot-like repetition of Christian catechisms and, having spoken his piece, stood helpless before his adversary. A school boy would have presented the case more convincingly. The Irishman, who knew the Bible by heart, evidently, from Genesis to Revelations, quoted liberally from the Scriptures in support of his arguments, and, when the Hindu questioned a passage, caught up one of the pamphlets and turned without the slightest hesitation to the page on which it was set forth.
Entangled in a network of texts and his own ignorance, the native soon became the laughing-stock of the assembled Burmese. He attempted to withdraw from the controversy by asserting that he spoke no English. Damalaku addressed him in Hindustanee. He pretended even to have forgotten his mother tongue, and snatched childishly at the pamphlets in the hands of the priest. When all other means failed, he fell back on the final subterfuge of the Hindu—and began to weep. Amid roars of laughter he clutched the tracts that the Irishman held out to him and, with tears coursing down his cheeks, hobbled away, looking neither to the right nor left until he had disappeared in the mud village.
The steamer put off an hour later and, winding in and out among the tortuous channels of the delta, landed us at sundown in Chandpore, a replica of Goalando. Our passage—for the captain had refused to “slip” us—had reduced our combined fortunes to less than one fare to Chittagong. We scrambled with the native throng up the slimy bank to the station, resolved to attempt the journey without tickets. It lacked an hour of train time.
“Will you take this to Chittagong?” I asked, thrusting the carpetbag into the hands of the Irish bishop. “We’re going to beat it.”
“Sure,” replied the priest, “it shud be easy be night with this crowd.”
It soon became apparent, however, that some tattling Hindu had warned the railway officials against us. As we strolled along the platform, peering casually into the empty compartments and striving to assume the air of men of unlimited means, the station-master emerged from his office and fell into step with us.
“The evening breeze is very pleasant, is it not, sahibs?” he murmured, smiling benignly.
“Damn hot,” growled James.
“The gentlemen are going by the train?”