I have still to be brother to a Prince, though I once came near to kinship with what might have been a veritable King, and was promised the reversion of a Kingdom, army, law-courts, revenue, and policy, all complete. But, today, I greatly fear that my King is dead, and if I want a crown I must go and hunt it for myself. The beginning of everything was in a railway train upon the road to Mhow from Ajmir. There had been a deficit in the Budget, which necessitated travelling, not Second class, which is only half as dear as First class, but by Intermediate, which is very awful indeed. There are no cushions in the Intermediate class, and the population is either Intermediate, which is Eurasian, or native, which for a long night journey is nasty; or Loafer, which is amusing though intoxicated. Intermediates do not patronize refreshment rooms. They carry their food in bundles and pots, and buy sweets from the native sweet meat sellers, and drink the roadside water. That is why in the hot weather Intermediates are taken out of the carriages dead, and in all weathers are most properly looked down upon.
My particular Intermediate happened to be empty till I reached Nasirabad, when a huge gentleman in shirt sleeves entered, and following the custom of Intermediates, passed the time of day. He was a wanderer and a vagabond like myself, but with an educated taste for alcohol. He told daring tales of things he had seen and done, of out-of-the-way corners of the Empire into which he had penetrated, and of adventures in which he risked his life for a few days’ food. “If India was filled with men like you and me, not knowing more than the crows where they’d get their next day’s rations, it isn’t seventy millions of revenue the land would be paying, it’s seven hundred millions,” said he; and as I looked at his mouth and chin I was disposed to agree with him.
We talked politics, the politics of Loaferdom that sees things from the underside 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, which is the turning off place from the Bombay to the Mhow line as you travel westward. He had the air of one who had seen strange countries and stranger men, yet bore himself without vanity. There was a restless light in his eyes, the sort that belongs to men who have lived too long without a fixed purpose. When he spoke of the Empire, it was not with loyalty nor with bitterness, but with the detached amusement of one who has played his part and lost interest in the game. His laughter came easily, though it seemed to echo from some remembered hardship. It struck me then that his stories were less of adventure than of survival.