“Get into your compartment,” he said, quietly. “I will wire the agent at Chittagong to collect three fares.”
“I tell you we haven’t got—”
But he was already out of earshot. No doubt he was convinced that with time for reflection we should be able to unearth several rupees which we had forgotten. Certainly he did not believe that white men would venture into that wilderness without money—no Englishman of his class would.
Dark night had fallen when we alighted at Chittagong. A babu agent awaited us, telegram in hand. Luckily, his superior, an Englishman, had retired to his bungalow. The Hindu led the way to a lighted window and read the message aloud. It was a curt order to collect three fares, with never a hint of the unimportant detail we had confided to the superintendent.
The agent, of course, would not be convinced of our indigency. To our every protest he replied unmoved:—
“But you must pay, sahibs.”
“You bloody fool!” shrieked Rice, “How can we pay when we’re busted?”
“You may not pass through the gates until you have paid,” returned the babu.
“All right,” said James, wearily, “we won’t. Show us where we’re going to sleep and send up supper.”
The shot told. The babu unfolded the telegram meditatively and backed up to the window to read it again. He scratched his head in perplexity, stood now on one leg, now on the other, and stared from us to the paper in his hand. Then he trudged down the platform to seek advice of the baggage master, paused to chatter with the telegraph operator, and returned to the truck on which we were seated.