“We thought you might have a map,” I put in.
The commissioner stepped into the bungalow. The music ceased and the player followed her husband out onto the veranda.
“This,” he said, spreading out a chart he carried, “is the latest map of the region. You mustn’t suppose, as many people do, that all India has been explored and charted. You see for yourselves that there is nothing between Chittagong and the Irawaddy but a few wavy lines to represent mountain ranges. That’s all any map shows and all any civilized man knows of that section. Bah! Your scheme is idiotic. You might as well try to walk to Lhassa.”
He rolled up the map and dropped again into his chair.
“By the way,” he asked, “where are you putting up in Chittagong?”
“We’re living at the Buddhist monastery,” I answered.
“What!” he shouted, springing up once more. “In the Buddhist monastery? You! White men and Christians? Disgraceful! Why, as the governor of this district, I forbid it. Why haven’t you gone to the Sailors’ Home?”
“Never imagined for a moment,” I replied, “that there was a Home in a little port like this.”
“There is, and a fine one,” answered the commissioner, “and just waiting for someone to occupy it.”
“No place for us,” retorted James. “We’re busted.”