It was a small town at which the railroad had come to an end--the extremity of a branch of the main line--and if it had not been for Jai Singh, there would have been difficulty in going any farther. Hindus of various castes were here, most of them of inferior kind, and they were not disposed to be friendly. Like all natives of India in out-of-the-way places, they were ever on the lookout for alms, and Nick Carter, like most Americans, would have dealt with them on the basis of many tips if he had been left to himself. As it was, Jai Singh, with his noble appearance and the prestige he derived from high caste, made the natives get around at his will. He gave a few annas here and there, because you could not deal with men of this kind in any other way, but his tips were never large, and he ordered them about in the offhand manner that had made him a power among his own people. “A boat that will hold ten men,” had been his order to a surly looking native who stood near the platform when the train came to a halt. “Quick!” “I have no boat,” had been the short reply. “Get one! And listen to me, dog of an unbeliever!” added Jai Singh. “If it isn’t ready before the sun goes down behind those palms yonder, why----” He finished the admonition by raising his spear and flourishing it with a graceful dexterity that the other man understood at once. The boat was ready at the time set, and Jai Singh superintended the putting into it of such stores as he thought they might need on their journey into the wild country they contemplated invading. Rice, canned meats and fish, fruits, a bag of hard biscuits, and several skins of water were put in the boat. “What’s the idea of putting water in the boat?” inquired Patsy. “Isn’t there enough in this river for us to drink?” “Poison to white men,” replied Jai Singh curtly. “None must drink of the river.” “It does look kind of yellow,” observed Patsy. “Thick, too! Still, that might not be so bad if a fellow happened to be hungry. Meat and drink all in one--like an oyster stew. I don’t know but what----” “Patsy!” interrupted Nick Carter. “On deck!” responded Patsy, with a facetious military salute. “Please reserve your comments on things in general till we’re on the boat and out of this village,” ordered the detective, rather sternly. “Gee! What’s biting the boss?” whispered Patsy to Chick, as Nick Carter turned away. “You’re liable to offend somebody about here if you talk too much about the river,” answered Chick. “This is a branch of the Ganges, the most sacred stream in India. The chief doesn’t want a fight on his hands just because you talk too much.” “I wouldn’t say another word if the Ganges got up on its tail and gave me back slack from here to--to--wherever we’re going,” replied Patsy, who was always bound to have the closing speech if he could get it.