"Come here, guard!" He stopped in passing to close our windows and lock our compartment door against railway thieves.
"There's a man asleep in there," I said.
"The 'eat 'll sober 'im!" he grinned, slamming the last window down.
"What'll you bet 'er 'ighness don't want me to fetch dinner to 'er?
She was in the train in Mombasa two hours afore startin' time, an' the things she ordered me to do 'ud have made a 'alf-breed think 'e was demeaning of 'imself! I 'aven't seen the color of 'er money yet.

If she wants dinner she gets out and walks or 'er maid fetches it--you watch!" Coutlass, the other Greek and the Goanese staggered out beside us on to the platform, drunk enough not to know whether Hassan was with them or not.

He came out and stood beside them in a sort of alert defensive attitude.
"Guard!" called the voice again.

"Where is the man ?" We followed the last of the crowd through the screened doors, and took seats at a table marked "First Class Only!" There were four men there ahead of us, two government officials disinclined to talk; a missionary in a gray flannel shirt, suffering from fever and too suspicious to say good evening; and a man in charge of that section of the line, who checked the station master's accounts and counted money in a tray between mouthfuls.

Between us and the second-class tables was a wooden screen on short legs, and beyond that arose babel.
Second-class is democratic always, and talks with its mouth full.