“Nothing to do with it,” cried the Englishman. “Money or no money, you’ll stop there while you’re here. I’ll write you a chit to the manager at once.”
Had we rented by cable some private estate we could not have been more comfortably domiciled than in the Sailors’ Home of Chittagong. The city itself was a garden-spot, the Home a picturesque white bungalow, set in the edge of the forest on the river bank. The broad lawn before it was several acres in extent, the graveled walk led through patches of brilliant flowers. Within, the building was furnished almost extravagantly. The library numbered fully a thousand volumes—by no means confined to the output of mission publishing houses—in one corner were ranged the latest English and American magazines, their leaves still uncut. The parlor was carpeted with mats, the dining-room furnished with punkahs. In the recreation room, instead of a dozen broken and greasy checkerboards, stood a pool-table, and—comble de combles—a piano!
Three native servants, housed in an adjoining cottage, were at our beck and call. For, though weeks had passed since the Home had sheltered a guest, everything was as ready for our accommodation as though the manager—for once a babu—had been living in daily expectation of our arrival.
An hour after our installation, we were reclining in veranda chairs with our feet on the railing, watching the cook in hot pursuit of one of the chickens that was doomed to appear before us in the evening currie, when a white man turned into the grounds and advanced listlessly, swinging his cane and striking off a head here and there among the tall flowers that bordered the route. Once in the shade of the bungalow, he sprang up the steps with outstretched hand, and, having vociferated his joy at the meeting, sat down beside us. Whatever other vocation he professed, he was a consummate storyteller, and entertained us with tales of frontier life until the shades of night fell. Suddenly, he interrupted a story at its most interesting point to cry out, à propos of nothing at all:—
“The commissioner sent for me this afternoon.”
“That so?” queried James.
“Yes, he thinks you fellows are going to start to Mandalay on foot. Mighty good joke, that,” and he fell to chuckling, glancing askance at us the while.
“No joke at all,” I protested. “We are going on foot, just as soon as we can find the road.”
“Don’t try it!” cried the Englishman, raising his cane aloft to emphasize his warning. “I haven’t introduced myself. I am chief of police for Chittagong. The commissioner has given orders that you must not go. The force has been ordered to watch you, the boatmen forbidden to row you across the river. Don’t try it, or my department will be called in,” and with that he dropped the subject abruptly and launched forth into another yarn.
Late that night, when Rice had been prevailed upon to leave off pounding atrocious discords on the piano, we made a startling discovery. There was not a bed in the Home! While James hurried off to rout out a servant, we of “the States” went carefully through each room with the parlor lamp, peering under tables and opening drawers in the hope of finding at least a ship’s hammock. We were still engaged in the search when the Australian returned with a frightened native, who assured us that we were wasting our efforts. There had never been a bed nor a charpoy in the Home. Just why, he could not say. Probably because the manager babu had forgotten to get them. Other sailor sahibs had slept, he knew not where, but they had made no protest.