"Amar, we may soon be closely questioned by railroad officials.
I am not underrating my brother's ingenuity! No matter what the
outcome, I will not speak untruth."
"All I ask of you, Mukunda, is to keep still. Don't laugh or grin
while I am talking."
At this moment, a European station agent accosted me. He waved a
telegram whose import I immediately grasped.
"Are you running away from home in anger?"
"No!" I was glad his choice of words permitted me to make emphatic
reply. Not anger but "divinest melancholy" was responsible, I knew,
for my unconventional behavior.
The official then turned to Amar. The duel of wits that followed
hardly permitted me to maintain the counseled stoic gravity.
"Where is the third boy?" The man injected a full ring of authority
into his voice. "Come on; speak the truth!"
"Sir, I notice you are wearing eyeglasses. Can't you see that
we are only two?" Amar smiled impudently. "I am not a magician; I
can't conjure up a third companion."
The official, noticeably disconcerted by this impertinence, sought
a new field of attack.
"What is your name?"
"I am called Thomas. I am the son of an English mother and a
converted Christian Indian father."
"What is your friend's name?"
"I call him Thompson."
By this time my inward mirth had reached a zenith; I unceremoniously
made for the train, whistling for departure. Amar followed with
the official, who was credulous and obliging enough to put us into
a European compartment.
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