We little realized at the moment the extent of that consideration; but
understanding dawned fifteen minutes before high noon when we strolled
to the station behind a string of porters carrying our luggage.
Courtney was there to see us off, and he looked worried.

"I'm wondering whether you'll ever get your luggage through," he said
with a sort of feminine solicitude. It was strange to hear the hero of
one's school-days, mighty hunter and fearless leader of forlorn
campaigns, actually troubled about whether we could catch our train.
But so the man was, gentle always and considerate of everybody but
himself.

There was law in this new land, at all events along the railway line.
Not even handbags or rifles could pass by the barrier until weighed and
paid for. Crammed in the vestibule in front of us were fifty people
fretfully marshalling in line their strings of porters lest any later
comer get by ahead of them; foremost, with his breast against the
ticket window, was Georges Coutlass. Things seemed not to be
proceeding as he wished.

There was one babu behind the window--a mild, unhappy-looking Punjabi,
or Dekkani Mussulman. There was another at the scales, who knew almost
no English: his duty was to weigh--do sums--write the result on a
slip, and then justify his arithmetic to office babu and passenger,
before any sort of progress could be made. The fact that all
passengers shouted at him to hurry or be reported to big superiors
complicated the process enormously; and the equally discordant fact
that no passenger--and especially not Georges Coutlass--desired or
intended to pay one anna more than he could avoid by hook, crook, or
argument, made the game amusing to the casual looker-on, but hastened
nothing (except tempers). The temperature within the vestibule was
112' by the official thermometer.

"You pair of black murderers!" yelled Coutlass as we took our place in
line. "You bloody robbers! You pickpockets! You train-thieves! Go
out and dig your graves! I will make an end of you!"

"You should not use abusive language" the babu retorted mildly,
stopping to speak, and then again to wipe his spectacles, and his
forehead, and his hands, and to glance at the clock, and to mutter what
may or may not have been a prayer.

Coutlass exploded.

"Shouldn't, eh? Who the hell are you to tell me what I shouldn't do?
Sell me a ticket, you black plunderer, d'you hear! Look! Listen!"

He snatched a piece of