“Sure.”
“There will be many people go to Chittagong. Much nicer if the sahibs buy their tickets early.”
“We bought tickets in Goalando,” I answered.
“Ah! Just so,” smiled the babu, but the smile suggested that he knew as well as we the destination of those Goalando tickets.
He dropped gradually behind and was swallowed up in the crowd. Rumor runs with incredible swiftness among the Hindus, and the natives who stepped aside to let us pass stared suspiciously at us. We turned back at the end of the platform to find a police officer strolling along a few paces in the rear, ostensibly absorbed in the study of the firmament. Three others flitted in and out among the travelers. The police of Chandpore could not, of course, arrest us, could not, indeed, keep us out of any compartment we chose to enter. But well we knew that, if they reported us on board, the station-master would hold the train until we dismounted, were it not till morning.
We strolled haughtily past the baggage-car and dodged around to the other side of the train. Here in the darkness it should be easy to escape observation. Barely three steps had we taken, however, when we ran almost into the arms of a native sentry, and his cry was answered by at least three others out of the night. The coaches were well guarded indeed.
“The nerve o’ that damn babu!” exploded Rice, “thinkin’ he can keep you’n me, what’s got away from half the yard bulls in the States, from holdin’ down his two-fer-a-nickle train! Bet he never heard of a hobo. Come on! We’ll put James onto the ropes an’ do it in Amurican style. It’ll be like takin’ cowries away from a blind nigger baby wid elephanteesees.”
We returned to the station to glance at the clock. Rice, in his scorn, could not refrain from making a pair of ass’s ears at the astonished babu. With a half hour to spare, we struck off through the bazaars and, munching as we went, picked our way along the track to a box-car a furlong from the station. In an American railroad yard the detectives would have been thickest at this vantage-point, but the babu knew naught of the ways of hoboes.
A triumphant screech from the engine put an end to James’ schooling; and, as the silhouette of the fireman before the open furnace door sped by, we darted out of our hiding place. The Australian, urged on by our bellowing, dived at an open window and dragged himself onto the running-board. We swung up after him, and making our way forward, entered an empty compartment.
“Well, we made her,” gasped James, throwing aside his topee and mopping his face, “but what about the collectors?”