slender brown women, old, gray wrinkled women, little soft brown babies, old men, young men, boys; all poor people, but all the females among them, both big and little, bejeweled with cheap and showy nose-rings, toe-rings, leglets, and armlets, these things constituting all their wealth, no doubt.  These silent crowds sat there with their humble bundles and baskets and small household gear about them, and patiently waited—­for what?  A train that was to start at some time or other during the day or night!  They hadn’t timed themselves well, but that was no matter—­the thing had been so ordered from on high, therefore why worry?  There was plenty of time, hours and hours of it, and the thing that was to happen would happen —­there was no hurrying it.

The natives traveled third class, and at marvelously cheap rates.  They were packed and crammed into cars that held each about fifty; and it was said that often a Brahmin of the highest caste was thus brought into personal touch, and consequent defilement, with persons of the lowest castes—­no doubt a very shocking thing if a body could understand it and properly appreciate it.  Yes, a Brahmin who didn’t own a rupee and couldn’t borrow one, might have to touch elbows with a rich hereditary lord of inferior caste, inheritor of an ancient title a couple of yards long, and he would just have to stand it; for if either of the two was allowed to go in the cars where the sacred white people were, it probably wouldn’t be the august poor Brahmin.  There was an immense string of those third-class cars, for the natives travel by hordes; and a weary hard night of it the occupants would have, no doubt.

When we reached our car, Satan and Barney had already arrived there with their train of porters carrying bedding and parasols and cigar boxes, and were at work.  We named him Barney for short; we couldn’t use his real name, there wasn’t time.

It was a car that promised comfort; indeed, luxury.  Yet the cost of it —­well, economy could no further go; even in France; not even in Italy.  It was built of the plainest and cheapest partially-smoothed boards, with a coating of dull paint on them, and there was nowhere a thought of decoration.  The floor was bare, but would not long remain so when the dust should begin to fly.  Across one end of the compartment ran a netting for the accommodation of hand-baggage; at the other end was a door which would shut, upon compulsion, but wouldn’t stay shut; it opened into a narrow little closet which had a wash-bowl in one end of it, and a place to put a towel, in case you had one with you—­and you would be sure to have towels, because you buy them with the bedding, knowing that the railway doesn’t furnish them.  On each side of the car, and running fore and aft, was a broad leather-covered sofa to sit on in the day and sleep on at night.  Over each sofa hung, by straps, a wide, flat, leather-covered shelf—­to sleep on.  In the daytime