“You were certainly snoring when I got in, and I was careful not to awaken you—­but not on account of any great sensation of guilt or fear.  I assure you I have no intention of spitting or being in any way rude, unmannerly, or offensive.  And since you object to travelling with ‘blacks’ I suggest—­that you leave the carriage.”

Did Horace’s ears deceive him?  Did he sleep, did he dream, and were visions about? Leave the carriage?

“Look ’ere,” he shouted, “you keep a civil tongue in your ’ead.  Don’t you know I am a gentleman?  What do you mean by getting into a first-class carriage with a gentleman and insulting ’im?  Want me to throw you out before we reach a station?  Do yer?”

“No, to tell you the truth I did not realize that you are a gentleman—­and I have known a great number of English gentlemen in England and India, and generally found them mirrors of chivalry and the pink of politeness and courtesy.  And I hope you won’t try to throw me out either in a station or elsewhere for I might get annoyed and hurt you.”

What a funny nigger it was!  What did he mean by “mirrors of chivalry”.  Talked like a bloomin’ book.  Still, Horace would learn him not to presoom.

The presumptuous one retired to the lavatory; washed, shaved, and reappeared dressed in full Pathan kit.  But for this, there was nothing save his very fine physique and stature to distinguish him from an inhabitant of Southern Europe.

Producing a red-covered official work on Mounted Infantry Training, he settled down to read.

Horace regretted that India provided not his favourite Comic Cuts and Photo Bits.

“May I offer you a cigarette and light one myself?” said the “black” man in his quiet cultured voice.

“I don’t want yer fags—­and I don’t want you smoking while I got a empty stummick,” replied the Englishman.

Anon the train strolled into an accidental-looking station with an air of one who says, “Let’s sit down for a bit—­what?” and Horace sprang to the window and bawled for the guard.

“’Ere—­ask this native for ’is ticket,” he said, on the arrival of that functionary.  “Wot’s ’e doing in ’ere with me?”

“Ticket, please?” said the guard—­a very black Goanese.

The Pathan produced his ticket.

“Will you kindly see if there is another empty first-class carriage, Guard?” said he.

“There iss one next a’door,” replied the guard.

“Then you can escape from your unpleasant predicament by going in there, Sir,” said the Pathan.

“I shall remine where I ham,” was the dignified answer.

“And so shall I,” said the Pathan.

“Out yer go,” said the bagman, rising threateningly.

“I am afraid I shall have to put you to the trouble of ejecting me,” said the Pathan, with a smile.

“I wouldn’t bemean myself,” countered Horace loftily, and didn’t.