A severe course of dak-bungalows has this disadvantage—itbreeds infinite credulity. If a man said to a confirmed dakbungalow-haunter：—“There is a corpse in the next room， andthere’s a mad girl in the next but one， and the woman and manon that camel have just eloped from a place sixty miles away，”
the hearer would not disbelieve because he would know thatnothing is too wild， grotesque， or horrible to happen in a dakbungalow.
This credulity， unfortunately， extends to ghosts. A rationalperson fresh from his own house would have turned on hisside and slept. I did not. So surely as I was given up as a badcarcass by the scores of things in the bed because the bulk ofmy blood was in my heart， so surely did I hear every strokeof a long game at billiards played in the echoing room behindthe iron-barred door. My dominant fear was that the playersmight want a marker. It was an absurd fear； because creatureswho could play in the dark would be above such superfluities.
I only know that that was my terror； and it was real.
After a long， long while the game stopped， and the doorbanged. I slept because I was dead tired. Otherwise I shouldhave preferred to have kept awake. Not for everything in Asiawould I have dropped the door-bar and peered into the dark ofthe next room.
When the morning came， I considered that I had done welland wisely， and inquired for the means of departure.
“By the way， khansamah，” I said， “what were those threedoolies doing in my compound in the night？”
“There were no doolies，” said the khansamah.
I went into the next room and the daylight streamed throughthe open door. I was immensely brave. I would， at that hour，have played Black Pool with the owner of the big Black Pooldown below.
“Has this place always been a dak-bungalow？” I asked.
“No，” said the khansamah. “Ten or twenty years ago， I haveforgotten how long， it was a billiard room.”
“A how much？”
“A billiard room for the Sahibs who built the Railway. I waskhansamahthen in the big house where all the Railway-Sahibslived， and I used to come across with brandy-shrab. Thesethree rooms were all one， and they held a big table on whichthe Sahibs played every evening. But the Sahibs are all deadnow， and the Railway runs， you say， nearly to Kabul.”
“Do you remember anything about the Sahibs？”
“It is long ago， but I remember that one Sahib， a fat manand always angry， was playing here one night， and he said tome：—’Mangal Khan， brandy-pani do，’ and I filled the glass，and he bent over the table to strike， and his head fell lower andlower till it hit the table， and his spectacles came off， and whenwe—the Sahibs and I myself—ran to lift him he was dead. Ihelped to carry him out. Aha， he was a strong Sahib！ But he isdead and I， old Mangal Khan， am still living， by your favor.”
That was more than enough！ I had my ghost—a first-hand，authenticated article. I would write to the Society for PsychicalResearch—I would paralyze the Empire with the news！ ButI would， first of all， put eighty miles of assessed crop landbetween myself and that dak-bungalow before nightfall. TheSociety might send their regular agent to investigate later on.
I went into my own room and prepared to pack after notingdown the facts of the case. As I smoked I heard the game beginagain，—with a miss in balk this time， for the whir was a short one.
The door was open and I could see into the room. Click—click！ That was a cannon. I entered the room without fear，for there was sunlight within and a fresh breeze without. Theunseen game was going on at a tremendous rate. And well itmight， when a restless little rat was running to and fro insidethe dingy ceiling-cloth， and a piece of loose window-sash wasmaking fifty breaks off the window-bolt as it shook in thebreeze！
Impossible to mistake the sound of billiard balls！ Impossibleto mistake the whir of a ball over the slate！ But I was to beexcused. Even when I shut my enlightened eyes the sound wasmarvelously like that of a fast game.
Entered angrily the faithful partner of my sorrows， KadirBaksh.
“This bungalow is very bad and low-caste！ No wonder thePresence was disturbed and is speckled. Three sets of dooliebearerscame to the bungalow late last night when I wassleeping outside， and said that it was their custom to rest inthe rooms set apart for the English people！ What honor hasthe khansamah？ They tried to enter， but I told them to go. Nowonder， if these Oorias have been here， that the Presence issorely spotted. It is shame， and the work of a dirty man！”
Kadir Baksh did not say that he had taken from each gangtwo annas for rent in advance， and then， beyond my earshot，had beaten them with the big green umbrella whose use Icould never before divine. But Kadir Baksh has no notions ofmorality.
There was an interview with the khansamah， but as hepromptly lost his head， wrath gave place to pity， and pity ledto a long conversation， in the course of which he put the fatEngineer-Sahib’s tragic death in three separate stations—twoof them fifty miles away. The third shift was to Calcutta， andthere the Sahib died while driving a dog-cart.
If I had encouraged him the khansamah would havewandered all through Bengal with his corpse.
I did not go away as soon as I intended. I stayed for thenight， while the wind and the rat and the sash and the windowboltplayed a ding-dong “hundred and fifty up.” Then the windran out and the billiards stopped， and I felt that I had ruinedmy one genuine， hall-marked ghost story.
Had I only stopped at the proper time， I could have madeanything out of it.
That was the bitterest thought of all！