"Delhi is right, sahib?" he asked, to make doubly sure; for in
India where the milk of human kindness is not hawked in the market-
place, men will pay over-measure for a smile.

"Yes. Delhi is right. Thank you, babuji."

He made more room for the Hillman, beaming amusement at the man's
impatience; but the Hillman had no luggage and turned away, making
an unexpected effort to hide his face with a turban end. He who
had forced his way to the front with so much violence and haste
now burst back again toward the train like a football forward tearing
through the thick of his opponents. He scattered a swath a yard
wide, for he had shoulders like a bull. King saw him leap into
third-class carriage. He saw, too, that he was not wanted in the
carriage. There was a storm of protest from tight-packed native
passengers, but the fellow had his way.

The swath through the crowd closed up like water in a ship's wake,
but it opened again for King. He smiled so humorously that the
angry jostled ones smiled too and were appeased, forgetting haste
and bruises and indignity merely because understanding looked at
them through merry eyes. All crowds are that way, but an Indian
crowd more so than all.

Taking his time, and falling foul of nobody, King marked down a
native constable--hot and unhappy, leaning with his back against
the train. He touched him on the shoulder and the fellow jumped.

"Nay, sahib! I am only constabeel--I know nothing--I can do nothing!