We took the fast express for Boston and only had to transfer at one point. From that point I had engaged seats in the chair car and berths for both Philly and myself. There was but one day coach attached to the train when we changed, and we were scarcely aboard when a tall, turbanned figure appeared at the window beside my seat.
“Oh, Dao Singh!” cried Philly, and then rattled away to him in his own tongue.
He made me a low obeisance. “I have come, Sahib, as I promised,” he said, softly. “I take train here with you and the Memsahib. I ride forward in the other coach;” and bowing he left us.
I saw that he had a complete new outfit—a costume of his own country. He was a strange looking object as he stalked away to take his place in the day car.
I sent Ham another wire to say what hour we would arrive at Darringford station. I was sincerely worried about my mother. Perhaps she was ill. Perhaps—I dared not ruminate farther on that subject.
Phillis was greatly interested in the country through which the train flew. We looked pretty shabby—both of us—to be riding in a first-class coach, and the other passengers were curious about us. But we made no acquaintances on the way.
We arrived safely in Boston in the morning, and crossed the city to the other station. We had not long to wait for a local train that stopped at Darringford. It was not long after nine o’clock when the train stopped and we disembarked.
I saw Ham instantly; but he did not have our carriage. There was nobody else to welcome me—there was nobody about the station, indeed, who recognized me. I had changed a good deal during the twenty-two months I had been away.
But old Ham knew me. He rushed at me and wrung my hands and sputtered something at first that I could not understand. At last he said:
“And ye couldn’t have timed it better, Master Clint. You’re just in the nick of time. The court sits in ha’f an hour.”