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drew into Howrah on ▓Monday morning.Not once during● the journey had my box-stall been invaded.Nine▓ hundred and fifty-four miles I had tra▓veled, in a private car on an express—and the ▓ticket had cost $2.82! Truly, i▓mpecunious victims of the Wand▓erlust should look upon India as the promised l●and. CHAPTER XVII BEYOND THE GANGES Two ▓hours after my arrival in Calcutta there ent●ered the American consulate, hig▓h up above the

Maidan, a white man who shou▓ld have won the sympathy even▓ of the hard-hearted manager wh▓o had denied him admittance t●o the Sailors’ Home for once hav▓ing deserted that institution for a ▓trip “up-country.” He was the possessor of a● single rupee.His cotton gar●ments, thanks to dhobies, Ganges mud, and for●ty-two hundred miles of third-class● travel, were threadbare rags through which the ●tropical sun had reddened his o▓nc

e white skin.Under one arm he carried a tatt●ered, sunburned bundle of the ●size of a kodak.European residents o●f a far-off district might have recognized in▓ him the erstwhile ball-chaser of the tennis clu●b of Delhi.In short, ’twas I. “Y▓ears before you were born,” said the w▓hite-haired sahib who listened to my story,▓ “I was American consul in Calcutta●, the chief of whose duties since that ●day has been to listen to the

h●ard-luck tales of stranded seamen.Tim●es have changed, but the stories haven’t, and ●won’t, I suppose, so long as there ▓are women and beer, and land-sharks a▓shore to turn sailors into beachcombers.” ● As he talked he filled out a form with a few▓ strokes of a pen. “This ●chit,” he said, handing it to me,● “is good for a week at the Methodist Seamen●s’ Institute.You have smal●l chance of finding work in Calcutta, though● you might try Smith Brothers, ▓the American dentists, down the street; and▓ you certainly won’t sign on.But get out of to●wn, somewhere, somehow, before the week is ▓over.” “Yes, sir,” I answered, ●opening the door.“Oh, say, Mr.Consul, wa▓s there an American fellow by ●name of Haywood in to see you●” “Haywood” mused the old man.“Y▓ou mean Dick Haywood, that poo▓r seaman who was robbed and beat▓en on an Italian sailing vessel, and kicked▓ ashore here without his wages” “Why—er—●yes, sir, that’s him,” I re●plied. “Yes, I sent him away a week ag●o, to Rangoon as a consul passenger.But his wa▓s an especially sad case.I c●an’t spend money on ever

y Tom, Dick, and Har〃埅” 355“Oh! I wasn’t askin’ that, si▓r,” I protested, closing the doo▓r behind me. The Seamens’ Institute o●ccupied the second story—and the roof—of a ra●mshackle building in Lall Bazaar street●, just off Dalhousie square.Even about the fo●ot of the stairway hovered a sce●nt of squalor and compulsory piety.On the ▓walls of the main room, huge placar▓ds, illuminated with texts fro●m the tale of the prodigal s▓on and the stains of tobacco juice, conc●ealed the ravages which time and bra▓wlers had wrought on the plaster▓.Magazines and books of the Sunday-school s▓pecies littered chairs and shelves.Four ●sear-faced old Tars, grouped about a hunch-bac▓ked table, played chec

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