Morbid sort of
fancy I call it; but I've got to do what the Memsahib tells me.
"Would you believe that the man she hired it from tells me that all four of
the men--they were brothers--died of cholera on the way to Hardwar, poor
devils, and the 'rickshaw has been broken up by the man himself. 'Told me he
never used a dead Memsahib's 'rickshaw. 'Spoiled his luck.' Queer notion,
wasn't it? Fancy poor little Mrs. Wessington spoiling any one's luck except
her own!" I laughed aloud at this point; and my laugh jarred on me as I
uttered it. So there were ghosts of 'rickshaws after all, and ghostly
employments in the other world! How much did Mrs. Wessington give her men?
What were their hours? Where did they go?
And for visible answer to my last question I saw the infernal Thing blocking
my path in the twilight. The dead travel fast, and by short cuts unknown to
ordinary coolies. I laughed aloud a second time and checked my laughter
suddenly, for I was afraid I was going mad. Mad to a certain extent I must
have been, for I recollect that I reined in my horse at the head of the
'rickshaw, and politely wished Mrs. Wessington "Good evening." Her answer was
one I knew only too well. I listened to the end; and replied that I had heard
it all before, but should be delighted if she had anything further to say.
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