"No," I said, "I am an Englishman."
He sat down on a thwart and stared at me as if I was some strange miracle. His next words let me into the heart of his mystery.
"It is not possible. You speak Pondicherry!"
He did not even know that he was speaking French, the language of a great Western nation. He could not know that I was doing my feeble best to speak the language of a great literature; the language of Voltaire, of Victor Hugo, of diplomacy. No, he and I were speaking Pondicherry, the language of a derelict corner of mighty Hindustan. Now he eyed me with suspicion.
"When were you there?" he demanded in a whisper.
If I was not Pondicherry born I must at least have lived there in order to have learnt the language.
"Pondy, I was never there," I answered.
He evidently did not believe me. I had some mysterious reason for concealing that I was either Pondicherry born or that I had resided there.
"Then you didn't know it?"
"No."