“Yes. We are getting toward the borders of Nepal,” answered Chick.
“Come again? Is there any difference between Nepal and the rest of this forsaken country? Gee! I’d——”
“Keep quiet, Patsy!” warned Chick. “Jai Singh speaks as good English as we do. He doesn’t like to hear any reflections on his country.”
“Does he belong to Nepal?” asked the irrepressible Patsy.
“He’s a Hindu, and the whole of India is sacred to him,” was Chick’s grave reply. “He’s got the boat ready. We’d better be getting over there.”
It was a small town at which the railroad had come to an end—the extremity of a branch of the main line—and if it had not been for Jai Singh, there would have been difficulty in going any farther.
Hindus of various castes were here, most of them of inferior kind, and they were not disposed to be friendly.
Like all natives of India in out-of-the-way places, they were ever on the lookout for alms, and Nick Carter, like most Americans, would have dealt with them on the basis of many tips if he had been left to himself.
As it was, Jai Singh, with his noble appearance and the prestige he derived from high caste, made the natives get around at his will. He gave a few annas here and there, because you could not deal with men of this kind in any other way, but his tips were never large, and he ordered them about in the offhand manner that had made him a power among his own people.
“A boat that will hold ten men,” had been his order to a surly looking native who stood near the platform when the train came to a halt. “Quick!”