Southern Mail at the loopholed and bastioned railway-station. The
heat from the thick brick walls struck him across the face as if it
had been a hot towel, and he reflected that there were at least five
nights and four days of travel before him. Faiz Ullah, used to the
chances of service, plunged into the crowd on the stone platform,
while Scott, a black cheroot between his teeth, waited till his
compartment should be set away. A dozen native policemen, with their
rifles and bundles, shouldered into the press of Punjabi farmers,
Sikh craftsmen, and greasy-locked Afreedee pedlars, escorting with
all pomp Martyn's uniform case, water-bottles, ice-box, and
bedding-roll. They saw Faiz Ullah's lifted hand, and steered for it.

'My Sahib and your Sahib,' said Faiz Ullah to Martyn's man, 'will
travel together. Thou and I, O brother, will thus secure the
servants' places close by, and because of our masters' authority none
will dare to disturb us.'

When Faiz Ullah reported all things ready, Scott settled down
coatless and bootless on the broad leather-covered bunk. The heat
under the iron-arched roof of the station might have been anything
over a hundred degrees. At the last moment Martyn entered, hot and
dripping.

'Don't swear,' said Scott, lazily; 'it's too late to change your
carriage; and we'll divide the ice.'

'What are you doing here?' said the policeman.

'Lent to the Madras Government, same as you. By Jove, it's a bender
of a night! Are you taking any of your men down?'