“No!” I was glad his choice of words permitted me to make emphatic reply. Not anger but “divinest melancholy” was responsible, I knew, for my unconventional behavior.
The official then turned to Amar. The duel of wits that followed hardly permitted me to maintain the counseled stoic gravity.
“Where is the third boy?” The man injected a full ring of authority into his voice. “Come on; speak the truth!”
“Sir, I notice you are wearing eyeglasses. Can’t you see that we are only two?” Amar smiled impudently. “I am not a magician; I can’t conjure up a third companion.”
The official, noticeably disconcerted by this impertinence, sought a new field of attack.
“What is your name?”
“I am called Thomas. I am the son of an English mother and a converted Christian Indian father.”
“What is your friend’s name?”
“I call him Thompson.”
By this time my inward mirth had reached a zenith; I unceremoniously made for the train, whistling for departure. Amar followed with the official, who was credulous and obliging enough to put us into a European compartment. It evidently pained him to think of two half- English boys traveling in the section allotted to natives. After his polite exit, I lay back on the seat and laughed uncontrollably. My friend wore an expression of blithe satisfaction at having outwitted a veteran European official.