The berths were arranged lengthwise, two each side, and one above the other.
It was what they called a mixed train, mixed that is of freight and passengers--third-class in front, second next, then first, and a dozen little iron freight cars of two kinds in front.

In those days there were neither tunnels nor bridges on that railway, and there was a single seat on the roof at each end of first- and second-class compartments reached by a ladder, for any passenger enamored of the view.

Even the third-class compartments (and they were otherwise as deliberately bare and comfortless as wood and iron could make them) had lattice-work shades over the upper half of the windows.
For the babu's encouragement, and to increase the panic of the ticketless, the engineer was blowing the whistle at short intervals.
Passengers, released in quicker order now that a white official was lending the two babus a hand, began coming through the barrier in sudden spurts, baggage in either hand and followed hot-foot by natives with their heavier stuff.

They took headers into the train, and the porters generally came back grinning.
"I see through the whistling stunt," Will announced.

"My, but that fellow on the engine has faith; or else the system's down real fine in these parts! He won't be back for a week.