“Great!” grinned Rice, “Wouldn’t go in the States, though;” and we lay down again.
Three more times during the night we were assaulted by a force of collectors, but slumbered peacefully on. When I awoke again it was broad daylight. The train was speeding along through unpeopled jungle. Evidently it was behind time, or we should long since have reached Chittagong. James stirred on his bench, sat up, and took to filling his pipe. Rice opened his eyes a moment later and fished through his pockets for the “makings” of a cigarette. I took seat at the window and stared ahead for signs of the seaport.
Suddenly a white mile-post flashed by, and my shout of astonishment brought James and Rice to their feet in alarm. My eyes had deceived me, perhaps, but I fancied the stone had borne three figures. We crowded together and waited anxiously for the next.
“There it is!” cried my companions, in chorus. “Two hundred and seventy-three!”
“Two hundred and seventy-three miles?” shrieked James. “The whole run to Chitty’s not half that far! Soorah Budjah! Where have we been snaked off to?”
“Let’s see whether we’re going or coming,” I suggested.
“Two hundred and seventy-four!” bellowed Rice, who was riding half out the window, “An’ they ain’t no dot between ’em! We’re goin’, all right!”
“Oh Lord! And all our swag!” groaned James.
Still it was possible that the posts indicated the distance to some other city than Chittagong, and we sat down and waited anxiously until the train drew up at the next station. It was nothing more than a bamboo hamlet in the wilderness. We sprang out and hurried towards the babu station-master.
“How soon do we get to Chittagong?” I demanded.