We talked politics,--the politics of Loaferdom that sees things from the under
side where the lath and plaster is not smoothed off,--and we talked postal
arrangements because my friend wanted to send a telegram back from the next
station to Ajmir, the turning-off place from the Bombay to the Mhow line as
you travel westward. My friend had no money beyond eight annas which he wanted
for dinner, and I had no money at all, owing to the hitch in the Budget before
mentioned. Further, I was going into a wilderness where, though I should
resume touch with the Treasury, there were no telegraph offices. I was,
therefore, unable to help him in any way.
"We might threaten a Station-master, and make him send a wire on tick," said
my friend, "but that'd mean inquiries for you and for me, and I've got my
hands full these days. Did you say you were travelling back along this line
within any days?"
"Within ten," I said.
"Can't you make it eight?" said he. "Mine is rather urgent business."
"I can send your telegrams within ten days if that will serve you," I said.
"I couldn't trust the wire to fetch him, now I think of it. It's this way. He
leaves Delhi on the 23rd for Bombay. That means he'll be running through Ajmir
about the night of the 23rd.
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