LIFE IN CHINDE 55 



back on the head, pipe inevitable, evidently in 

 difficulties with their razors, and profanely dis- 

 cussing a question relative to angle-irons with an 

 accent redolent of the shadow of Saint Mungo. 

 They stroll along jostling one or two tidy-looking 

 Mohammedans in red fezzes, evidently from the 

 cultured native atmosphere of Zanzibar. A leisurely 

 khaki-clad Customs guard, cigarette in mouth, 

 who appears, in addition to misunderstandings with 

 the barber, to have lost the run of his soap-box, dis- 

 cusses some important point of local customs tariff 

 with a group of dressy Indian merchants, with gold- 

 embroidered caps and spangled waistcoats. A 

 little farther along you see a handsome, brass- 

 mounted machila,* spread with a showy leopard- 

 skin rug, and carried by four muscular A-Mahindo 

 with wild-looking cocks' feathers perkily stuck in 

 their small, jaunty, scarlet fezzes. It awaits the 

 head of some local business agency, who stalks 

 contemplatively down the two rough wooden steps 

 of the counting-house, lighting a Virginia cigarette 

 and ejaculating over his shoulder : " Aweel, Jock, 

 Ah'U no' be gi'in' ye an answer the noo, ye ken. 

 She'U no' be saihn' to-morra ; Ah canna get th' 

 wood alongside, and frae all accoonts there's varra 

 little wather i' th' river. Onny way ye'U hae yer 

 commeeshun, ye ken. So long." 



I do not think, with the exception of that portion 

 of Chinde called the Portuguese town, that there 

 is anything which might be taken as even dimly 

 resembling the most rudimentary form of street 

 or road. Sand, of course, is everywhere, and every- 



* A hammock or canvas seat slung on a strong bamboo pole. 



