I went to the big bungalow of the Commissioner, guarded in front by a number of impudent lackeys, the hangers-on often make the man in India. I sent in my card, and was admitted to the presence. I bowed and said “Good morning,” but he did nothing. That was his style. He did not ask me to be seated, and I did what I could not help doing, remained standing. Glancing me over he quickly said, “I have nothing for you, there is no vacancy.” I replied that I did not wish for a situation. “O!” said he, “I thought you were the man that wanted a place.” I answered, “I come to ask you a few questions: were you in Lucknow in the year —.” He stopped me at once, saying, “I deny your right to question me. Say what you have got to say and as briefly as possible, for I have no time to waste.” Then I said, “I will state the matter as briefly as possible. You were in Lucknow in — and were acquainted with a Mussalmani, and I believe you to be my father.” I got this out quickly so as to give him no chance to choke me off. He sprang to his feet, his face livid with rage, and shaking his fist at me exclaimed. “You damned Eurasian! Do you come here to insult me? I dare you to prove what you have said. Out from here at once. Chuprassi! Open the door, and get this man out.” This last was said in Hindustani in the most insulting tone and words. What more or less could I do than go, and at once? I think even the cringing slave at the door, pitied me as the gentleman fairly shouted his insulting command. Did you ever see a dog go into a room wagging his tail and expecting a pleasant reception, then turned out with the forcible aid of a boot? I was that dog. If I had any respect, or desire to be just and fair before I went in, when I came out all had given way to anger and hate. That is about the size of it. I had been humiliated, cursed, spurned. My feelings flashed within me and over me, chills and fever, cold and hot they were. But this was uppermost. He dared me! I have read that the quickest way to get up a shindy at an Irish fair, is to have a man go with his coat tails dragging on the ground and dare any one to step on them, or to put a potato on his shoulder and dare any one to knock it off. Men, that is, real men won’t be dared. I have known a little fellow at school to be dared by a big bully, and he went in for all he was worth, no matter if he came out all bleeding and pummeled, for he wouldn’t be dared. “All right, Mr. Smith, you dared me to prove it. But how shall I do it?” was the question in my mind for days. It was a queer thing to do, prove that a man is your own father, but there are many queer things in the world, as probably all of us have discovered. I concluded to go again to Lucknow, though I had not the remotest idea of what I should do. On arriving there, I at once went to M. Le Maistre. I had formed an opinion that he was very shrewd and quick-witted, and that if any one could help me he could.