comfortably as through a broken pane. I lived in dak-bungalows where
the last entry in the visitors' book was fifteen months old, and where
they slashed off the curry-kid's head with a sword. It was my good
luck to meet all sorts of men, from sober traveling missionaries and
deserters flying from British Regiments, to drunken loafers who threw
whisky bottles at all who passed; and my still greater good fortune just
to escape a maternity case. Seeing that a fair proportion of the tragedy
of our lives out here acted itself in dak-bungalows, I wondered that
I had met no ghosts. A ghost that would voluntarily hang about a
dak-bungalow would be mad of course; but so many men have died mad in
dak-bungalows that there must be a fair percentage of lunatic ghosts.

In due time I found my ghost, or ghosts rather, for there were two of
them. Up till that hour I had sympathized with Mr. Besant's method of
handling them, as shown in "The Strange Case of Mr. Lucraft and Other
Stories." I am now in the Opposition.

We will call the bungalow Katmal dak-bungalow. But THAT was the smallest
part of the horror. A man with a sensitive hide has no right to sleep in
dak-bungalows. He should marry. Katmal dak-bungalow was old and rotten
and unrepaired. The floor was of worn brick, the walls were filthy, and
the windows were nearly black with grime. It stood on a bypath largely
used by native Sub-Deputy Assistants of all kinds, from Finance to
Forests; but real Sahibs were rare. The _khansamah_, who was nearly bent
double with old age, said so.

When I arrived, there was a fitful, undecided rain on the face of the
land, accompanied by a restless wind, and every gust made a noise
like the rattling of dry bones in the stiff toddy palms outside. The
_khansamah_ completely lost his head on my arrival. He had served a
Sahib once. Did I know that Sahib? He gave me the name of a well-known
man who has been buried for more than a quarter of a century, and showed
me an ancient daguerreotype of that man in his prehistoric youth. I had
seen a steel engraving of him at the head of a double volume of Memoirs
a month before, and I felt ancient beyond telling.

The day shut in and the _khansamah_ went to get me food. He did not go
through the pretense of calling it "_khana_"--man's victuals. He said
"_ratub_," and that means, among other things, "grub"--dog's rations.
There was no insult in his choice of the term. He had forgotten the
other word, I suppose