“Didn’t call me a liar an’ didn’t say he believed me,” explained Rice, when the compartment door had closed behind us. “Says he’ll look into the matter when we get back to the junction. I see somethin’ doin’ when we land there.”
Late in the afternoon the train drew up at the scene of our pummelling the night before, and the Englishman led the way to the station-master’s quarters. That official, however, was as certain as we that no tickets for Chittagong had been taken up.
“Three sahibs have gone through in the night,” asserted his assistant, “but with much noise we have not made them awake. Certainly our collectors do not take up Chittagong tickets here.”
“You see how it is, my men?” said the superintendent, “If they had been taken up he would have them.”
“By thunder,” shouted Rice, “I’ll bet a pack o’ Sweet-Caps the guy that took ’em was no collector at all. He was some bloomin’ nigger that wanted to take his family to Chittagong.”
“It is possible,” replied the Englishman, as gravely as though he were discussing a philosophical problem, “but the company does not guarantee travelers against theft. As we have found no trace of the tickets you will have to pay your fare to Chittagong.”
“We can’t!” cried the three of us, in chorus. On that point we could second Rice without feeling a prick of conscience.
“Yes,” murmured the superintendent, as if he had not heard, “you will have to pay.”
He took a turn about the platform.
“But we’re busted!” we wailed, when he again stopped before us.