one a.m. Christmas Day drawin' up outside Delhi Station—the very last thing in special trains—blue and gold—all that sort of rot—waitin' until his salute began to descend in state, a twenty-one gunner he is, no end of a swell. Awful joke, the salutes didn't begin. There he sat inside, all ready dressed up in gold lace, any number of big bugs waitin' to receive him. But no salutes. For why? Because the order had gone out—no salutes on Christmas Day. Poor devils at the guns must have a rest sometimes. So, knowing that, that old Johnny of Chandalpur had timed his arrival two hours before Christmas Day began. But a block on the line and there he was—just one hour too late. Big officials yawnin' on the platform at one a.m., all dressed up in uniform, just wild. But what could do? Can't disobey orders. Orders were no salutes on Christmas Day. Yet was that old Johnny of Chandalpur going to get down without 'em? Not he. There he sat. Station-master just mad. Hundreds of other trains waitin' to come in, shriekin' themselves hoarse to know why the devil they were kept waitin'. Big political bug gets into the train, explains, puts it nicely, implores, beseeches, expostulates—that's what politicals are made for, just to coax Rajas and pat 'em on the back—but all no good. Has that old Johnny of Chandalpur travelled two thousand miles and spent fifty lacs to go hoppin' into Delhi without his twenty-one guns? Not he. Station-master at last won't stand it. Shunts Nawab of Chandalpur on to a siding, and what do you think?
