“Babu!” yelled F., “Babu!”

From an inner back room came the faint answer in most precise English,—­

“I can-not come; I am pray-ing.”

There followed the sharp, quick tinkle of a little bell—­the Indian manner of calling upon the Lord’s attention.

We both knew better than to hustle the institutions of the East; so we waited with what patience we had, listening to the intermittent tinkling of the little bell.  At the end of fully fifteen minutes the devotee appeared.  He proved to be a mild, deprecating little man, very eager to help, but without resources.  He was a Hindu, and lived mainly on tea and rice.  The rice was all out, but he expected more on the night train.  There was no trading store here.  He was the only inhabitant.  After a few more answers he disappeared, to return carrying two pieces of letter paper on which were tea and a little coarse native sugar.  These, with a half-dozen very small potatoes, were all he had to offer.

It did not look very encouraging.  We had absolutely nothing in which to boil water.  Of course we could not borrow of our host; caste stood in the way there.  If we were even to touch one of his utensils, that utensil was for him defiled for ever.  Nevertheless, as we had eaten nothing since four o’clock that morning, and had put a hard day’s work behind us, we made an effort.  After a short search we captured a savage possessed of a surfuria, or native cooking pot.  Memba Sasa scrubbed this with sand.  First we made tea in it, and drank turn about, from its wide edge.  This warmed us up somewhat.  Then we dumped in our few potatoes and a single guinea fowl that F. had decapitated earlier in the day.  We ate; and passed the pot over to Memba Sasa.

So far, so good; but we were still very wet, and the uncomfortable thought would obtrude itself that the safari might not get in that day.  It behoved us at least to dry what we had on.  I hunted up Memba Sasa, whom I found in a native hut.  A fire blazed in the middle of the floor.  I stooped low to enter, and squatted on my heels with the natives.  Slowly I steamed off the surface moisture.  We had rather a good time chatting and laughing.  After a while I looked out.  It had stopped raining.  Therefore I emerged and set some of the men collecting firewood.  Shortly I had a fine little blaze going under the veranda roof of the station.  F. and I hung out our breeches to dry, and spread the tails of our shirts over the heat.  F. was actually the human chimney, for the smoke was pouring in clouds from the breast and collar of his shirt.  We were fine figures for the public platform of a railway station!