Ranjoor Singh locked the door again, and both trains proceeded.

When our train was beginning to gain speed the newcomer shoved me in the ribs abruptly with his elbow--thus.
"So much for knowing languages!" said he to me in fairly good Punjabi.

"Curse the day I ever saw India, and triple-curse this system of ours that enabled them to lay finger on me in a moving train and transfer me to this funeral procession! Curse you, and curse this train, and curse all Asia!" Then he thrust me in the ribs again, as if that were a method of setting aside formality.
"You know Cawnpore ?" said he, and I nodded.
"You know the Kaiser-i-hind Saddle Factory ?" I nodded again, being minded to waste no words because of Ranjoor Singh's warning.
"I took a job as foreman there twenty years ago because the pay was good.

I lived there fifteen years until I was full to the throat of India--Indian food, Indian women, Indian drinks, Indian heat, Indian smells, Indian everything.

I hated it, and threw up the job in the end.