“But we’ll have to hurry or we’ll miss her,” said James, starting towards the side-tracked train.
“Oh, plenty time,” murmured the babu, “Let me take tickets;” and he stretched out a hand.
Apparently it had come to a “show down.”
“Holy cats!” screamed Rice, suddenly springing into the air. “I remember now! I had all the bloody tickets in my pocket, and when the collector hollered fer ’em I give ’em to him. But I went to sleep an’ he never give ’em back.”
“Very poor collector,” condoled the babu, “but, never mind, I will tell to the guard how it is.”
The north-bound train pulled out and he stepped across the track to chatter a moment in excited Hindustanee with a uniformed half-breed.
“Ah! Very nice!” he smiled, coming back, “On this train is riding the sahib superintendent. You telling him and he tell you what do.”
Our jaws fell. No doubt it seemed “very nice” to the babu, but had we suspected that there was an Englishman within a hundred miles of where we stood, Rice certainly would have invented no such tale. It was too late to retract, however, and the Chicago lad, as the author of the story and the only one familiar with its details, crossed to the first-class coach. At his first words, a burly Englishman, dressed in light khaki, opened the door of a compartment and stepped down to the ground.
“It’s all off,” muttered James.
But the Englishman listened gravely, nodded his head twice or thrice, and pointed towards a third-class coach.