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Murderers' Island 15
my binoculars and saw that every window was ironbarred. On the tower which crowned the stern structure, there were leaning motionless on their rifles two bearded brown men in khaki, who wore the turbans of the Sikhs. It was a prison. Around and about the prison, I could just make out through the trees the thatched roofs of villages.
On the little island, a signal-flag fluttered up, telling us to anchor. A rowboat came alongside, and a slowspeaking Scotchman, an officer of the Indian marines, stepped on board. He was the Port Officer. One of my companions and I went ashore with him and walked to a low bungalow at the water's edge. This was the club. Breakfasting in its big central room was a onearmed Major, wearing on his tunic the ribbon of the D. S. O. As we were served with cool drinks, the Major asked us our impressions of the Andaman Islands.
"We haven't had much of a chance to get any as yet," I told him, and asked what there was to see.
"Well, not much," he replied. "Only about ten thousand murderers. You know Port Blair, this place, is where they send into exile the murderers from all over India. We have 'em of all kinds here." He called, 1 ' Boy. ' ' Someone outside answered loudly and shrilly, "Sahib" and in trotted a bare-footed Indian to replenish our glasses. The Major laughed. "That boy is a murderer, too."
I thought to myself, "What a life!" And the Major apparently read my thought from my expression. "Oh, it's not so bad as that," he said. "Wish I could