“It is His pleasure that you should leave the station.  The sooner you leave this place Saheb the better for you or you will starve.  You can stay as long as you like here—­but you will eat no food outside this hut of mine—­you can try.

“You can go now and come back for your dinner when you require it—.”

Mr. Anderson came back to the Fakir’s cottage for his dinner, with his wife at nine in the evening.

Early, the next morning, he left the station and never came back.

Within a month he left India for good.  The hospitable gentlemen of the station who had asked Mr. and Mrs. Anderson to have a meal with them will never forget the occasion.

This story, though it reads like a fairy tale, is nevertheless true.

All the European gentlemen of J——­ knew it and if anyone of them happens to read these pages he will be able to certify that every detail is correct.

* * * * *

In this connection it will not be out of place to mention some of the strange doings of the once famous Hasan Khan, the black artist of Calcutta.  Fifty years ago there was not an adult in Calcutta who did not know his name and had not seen or at least heard of his marvellous feats.

I have heard any number of wonderful stories but I shall mention only two here which, though evidently not free from exaggeration, will give an idea of what the people came to regard him as capable of achieving, and also of the powers and attributes which he used to arrogate to himself.

What happened was this.

There was a big reception in Government House at Calcutta.  Now a native of Calcutta of those days knew what such a reception meant.

All public roads within half a mile of Government House were closed to wheeled and fast traffic.

The large compound was decorated with lamps and Chinese Lanterns in a manner that baffled description.  Thousands of these Chinese Lanterns hung from the trees and twinkled among the foliage like so many coloured fire-flies.  The drives from the gates to the building had rows of these coloured lanterns on both sides; besides, there were coloured flags and Union Jacks flying from the tops of the poles, round which were coiled wreaths of flowers, and which also served to support the ropes or wires from which these lanterns were suspended.

The main building itself was illuminated with hundreds of thousands of candles or lamps and looked from a distance like a house on fire.  From close quarters you could read “Long live the Queen” written in letters of fire on the parapets of the building, and could see the procession of carriages that passed up and down the drives so artistically decorated, and wonder that the spirited horses did not bolt or shy or kick over the traces when entering those lanes of fire.

There were no electric lights then in Calcutta or in any part of India, no motor cars and no rubber-tyred carriages.