Tembu, the boy, opened his eyes in the dark and wondered if his father was ready to leave the hut on his nightly errand.
There was no moon that night, and the deathly stillness of the surrounding jungle was broken only occasionally by the shrill cry of a cicada. Sometimes from far off came the hollow hammering of a woodpecker, carried along on the faint breeze.
Or the grunt of a wild boar could be heard as he dug up a favourite root. But these sounds were rare, and the silence of the forest always returned to swallow them up. Baldeo, the watchman, was awake. He stretched himself slowly unwinding the heavy shawl that covered him. It was close on midnight and the chill air made him shiver. The station, a small shack backed by heavy jungle, was a station in name only; for trains only stopped there, if at all, for a few seconds before entering the deep cutting that led to the tunnel. Most trains merely slowed down before taking the sharp curve before cutting.
Baldeo was responsible for signalling whether or not the tunnel was clear of obstruction, and his manual signal stood before the entrance. At night it was his duty to see that the lamp was burning, and that the overland mail passed through safely. 'Shall I come too, Father?' asked Tembu sleepily, still lying in a huddle in a corner of the hut.
'No, it is cold tonight. Do not get up.'
Tembu, who was twelve, did not always sleep with his father at the station, for he had also to help in the home, where his mother and small sister were usually alone.
They lived in a small tribal village on the outskirts of the forest, about three miles from the station. Their small rice fields did not provide them with more than a bare living and Baldeo considered himself lucky to have got the job of Khalasi at this small wayside signal stop.
Still drowsy, Baldeo, groped for his lamp in darkness then fumbled about in search of matches. When he had produced a light he left the hut, closed the door behind him and set off along the permanent way. Tembu had fallen asleep again.