apple was digested. That is why all good Mahomedans fast at Ramathan—according to Mahomed's vision. I advised him to write another book; it would be interesting.

But I have said Mahomed is not a bad fellow. I really meant that. I have only been depicting a type, taking Mahomed as a sample, Mahomed the interpreter. Mahomed the private individual holds testimonials of faithful service, rendered over long periods to European masters, that any man might well be proud to hold. Once, when he was very young, in the fight against the Mad Mullah at Erego, he was placed in charge of the camel carrying the British officers' water chaguls. In the course of the action he and the camel got into a very warm corner, and the poor camel lost its life. Mahomed was only a servant, but he removed a couple of water bags from the corpse, together with a bottle of whisky someone had stowed away in the pack, and made his way back to the British line, where, sitting under a tree, he found his thirsty master and some friends. To them he quietly presented the water and whisky he had risked his life to bring them. Of course they were grateful, but that was a long, long time ago, and most of the officers who sat under that tree are dead. I wonder if those who are alive still remember Mahomed.

II

A human head sculptured from a block of Welsh slate, an exact miniature replica of a sphinx, and you have sub-inspector of police, Buralli Robleh, to the life. Inscrutable but kindly; gentlemanly, with just a touch of fire to warn careless people that he is not a man to be played with. Buralli is one of the most likeable natives I have met in Zeila. For thirty years he has served the government faithfully and well, and the general impression is that even when he be retired on pension he will continue so to serve. He is the terror of all criminals, and the despair of people who intrigue. He sees that the caravans, as they approach the town, are not besieged by a crowd of howling brokers and their satellites, but are allowed to enter the market-place in peace; that the police are doing their duty, and that their lines and equipment are kept clean; that the D.C. hears the other side of the story as opposed to that presented by careless and lazy Akils. He knows the private history of all the litigants who appear in the District Court, and whether they are trying to bring up a claim that has been tried fourteen years ago. He knows whether the poor woman in rags, pleading for a rupee to buy food for her starving child, is what she seems to be, or a humbug who is quite well off. Rarely does he give an opinion until asked, more rarely still is that opinion challenged, and never on the ground that it is not an honest opinion. During his service Buralli has served under many Sahibs, some of whom are now famous men; and Buralli has learned much, among other things the psychology of the Sahib.

He is not a detective; criminal investigation is not in his line; but the prevention of crime is. Yet I have heard him confess that, under certain circumstances, he is prepared to break the law himself. These were the circumstances. Last night a man returning home at midnight found a stranger in his house talking to his wife. He beat the trespasser on the head with a stick, and was arrested by Buralli. Buralli pressed his case hard. "Unless you punish this man, Sahib, there will be trouble between his section and the injured man's section!"

"Buralli," I said, "had you been in the accused's place what would you have done?"

"I should have put my knife into the other fellow," said Buralli, "but, had I done so, I should have deserved punishment."

To-day a mail arrived bringing a circular instructing the sons of all Somal notabilities desirous of undergoing a course of instruction at Gordon College, Khartoum, to present themselves at Berbera, not later than the end of the month, for examination as to fitness for selection. The only candidate in this district is Buralli's eldest son.

"Better get that boy away at once, Buralli," I said, "or he will be too late."

"He must wait," said Buralli.

"Why, don't you wish him to go?"

"Ha, Sahib, I wish him to go more than anything else in the world, but his mother is very ill. She is deeply attached to the boy, and it would upset her to part with him just now. When she is a little better I shall tell her, and the boy can go."

And, do you know, I believe Buralli is deeply attached to his sick wife. He is the first Somal I have ever met who could show such tender consideration for a woman.

III

Mahomed Auwit, Arab, is the court petition writer. The son of an influential Arab resident of Aden, who died many years ago leaving Mahomed a handsome legacy. He belongs to the upper ten of Zeila society. Rumour has it that the residuum of Mahomed's legacy is buried in the floor of his house. He is a scholar, and reads and writes not only Arabic but also English passing well.

It is customary for people with a plaint to engage the services of Mahomed to write it all down in English, in what is called a petition. The defendant and plaintiff in the same case may each write a petition, which is handed up, with the other documents, when the case comes on for trial. A very excellent plan, giving the magistrate some idea of what the dispute is all about. Mahomed is a past master at writing petitions, and some of his epistles might well have been taken straight out of the Old Testament.

He is a most estimable, unassuming character, wears glasses, has a pronounced stoop, and in appearance is not at all unlike a tall thin old woman with a large nose, dressed only in a turban, her nightdress, and a pair of sandals.

Mahomed the interpreter, Buralli, and Mahomed Auwit are the three most important personages in Zeila district court.

CHAPTER IV

COURT WORK

The Court opens—Sultan Mahomed Haji Dideh—Petitions—A case of "being found out"—Gambling—Mr Gandhi.

As I enter the office there is a slight commotion: Buralli, Mahomed the interpreter, and Mahomed Auwit have already arrived, and hurry from the desk of the last named to bid me good morning. We are a polite community. Mahomed Auwit has practically finished his morning's work, as a small pile of petitions prepared by his hand, and placed ready in my basket, testify. When I have taken my seat Buralli informs me that the Sultan of Zeila is waiting to be received. I assent, and a fine old grey-beard is ushered in. His feet are innocent of shoes or sandals, but his cotton shirt and pantaloons are spotlessly clean. A pleasant intelligent looking man is my mental note. He fumbles with a bundle of papers, from which he extracts one and hands it to me.

"Sultan Mahomed Haji Dideh," I read, "was born at Zeila, and is not in a sound state of mind. He is under the delusion that he is king of all the kings. His dominions, he says, extend even beyond the limits of this earthly planet.

"(Signed) Isher Dass,
"Sub-assistant Surgeon."

What can I do for you I asked the old man. Buralli explains that the Sultan sometimes visits the custom-house on an imaginary tour of inspection. As a rule Harrichand, the customs superintendent, is very good natured and puts up with the old man's nonsense. This morning Harrichand was busy, and when the Sultan called could spare him no time and became cross. Sultan Mahomed Haji Dideh was summarily ejected onto the street.