ed, scantily clad boy, who keeps beckoning and
shouting "Sahib." We follow him as he leads us to a well, and almost
before we realise what he is doing he goes down head first, a drop of at
least eighty feet, into the black water below. There is a tradition that
the water of this well cannot drown anyone. At anyrate it hasn't rid the
world of this rascal, for here he comes shaking the water off his oily
body and grinning. He has earned his bakshish!

As we are in Delhi for several days more we can go at our leisure
through the bazaars, which really are well worth seeing. We choose a
late afternoon, when there is no hurry and we can watch the people in
their daily life and get a glimpse into the real India.

The streets are narrow, mere passages mostly, and lined by the open-air
stalls or wooden sheds which are what the native understands by shops. A
marvellous array of slippers greets us first, for all of one trade tend
to congregate together, a curious custom and one which you would think
was not very good for trade, though convenient to the customer. There
are slippers of all colours from scarlet to brown; you would never have
thought they could be so decorative. They hang in bunches, festoons, and
chains. Every man here wears slippers when he puts anything at all on
his feet. Boots would be of no use to him, for he has so often to
shuffle off his foot-gear in a hurry. Modern streets, with their stones
and liability to nails and broken glass and other sharp things, has led
to the native taking to strong soled slippers when he walks about his
business.

[Illustration: HE GOES HEAD FOREMOST INTO THE BLACK WATER.]

There is a sizzling and a delicious smell from the next shop, and
peeping in we see a huddled form crouched over a pot placed on a few red
embers; it might be a witch stirring potions and muttering incantations.
But it is only a native looking after a pan full of Indian corn popping
out in the most fluffy and tempting way. I have often popped it on a
shovel over the school fire. A native soldier, who is passing, stops and
bargains for a handful, and carries it off, eating it as he goes; when
he has had enough he will stow the rest in his turban, which serves as
his pocket, his private trunk, and play-box all in one. This is the food
he best thrives on, so his wants are easily supplied. A tailor sitting
cross-legged on his board attracts us next; he is a good-looking old man
with a grey beard and kindly eyes