I intend,
therefore, to go to Calcutta first, discharge and fill up there, and
then touch at Madras on my way back.
"I suppose it makes no great difference to you."
"No, indeed," Charlie said. "And I am by no means sorry of the
opportunity of getting a glimpse of Calcutta, which I might never
otherwise have done. I believe things are pretty quiet at Madras, at
present; and I have been so long away, now, that a month or two sooner
or later will make but little difference."
A few hours later, Charlie noticed a change in the colour of the sea,
the mud-stained waters of the Hoogly discolouring the Bay of Bengal,
far out from its mouth. The voyage up was a tedious one. At times the
wind fell altogether and, unable to stem the stream, the ship lay for
days at anchor, the yellow tide running swiftly by it.
"The saints presarve us, Mr. Charles! Did you ever see the like?" Tim
Kelly exclaimed. "There's another dead body, floating down towards us,
and that is the eighth I've seen this morning. Are the poor hathen
craturs all committing suicide together?"
"Not at all, Tim," Charlie said, "the Hoogly is one of the sacred
rivers of India, and the people on its banks, instead of burying their
dead, put them into the river and let them drift away.
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