erred out-of-door entertainments,
as the heat, the smoke, the smell of raw plantain skins, the band, and
the jabber were too much for him.

Roscoe, his cicerone, had contrived to learn a little of the difficult
Burmese language, and knew the town to a certain extent--including
something of the vast underworld, and even FitzGerald admitted that
"old man Roscoe" could tell a thing or two, if he liked.

Before he had been long in Rangoon Shafto had also a glimpse into its
depths. One night, returning from a "sing-song," as he reached the
bottom of the outer stairs, he was startled by a voice from the pitch
dark space beneath the house--a voice which said in a husky whisper:

"Is that you, Joe? Joe, for God's sake stop and give me a couple of
rupees."

"It's not Roscoe," said Shafto, striking a match; "who are you?"

The flickering and uncertain light discovered a gaunt and unshaven
European in the shabbiest of clothes.

"Roscoe's out; what do you want?" he brusquely demanded.

"Only a couple of rupees," was the hoarse reply. "I'm ashamed for you
to see me; I'm down and under, as you may guess."

"Drink?" suggested Shafto, lighting another match.

"No; drugs--two devils: cocaine and morphia."

"I say, that's bad; can't you take a pull at yourself?"

"Too late now."

"Nothing's too late," declared Shafto; "believe that and buck up.
Well, here are four rupees for you."

As he put them into a shaking hand the match went out, and the loafer
noiselessly melted away into the soft and impenetrable darkness.

Next morning Shafto informed Roscoe of this strange encounter.

"Such a water-logged derelict was never seen! One of your underworld
friends, I take it?"

"Worse than that," rejoined Roscoe; "he's my own first cousin."

In reply to Shafto's exclamation he added: "His father was the officer
I told you about, who was so terribly worried by the plays. This chap
was erratic, but a clever fellow and great at languages; he passed into
the Woods and Forests out here, and enjoyed the wild jungle life for a
good many years; now you see what he is--a wild man of the bazaars."

"But I say, Roscoe; can you do nothing?"

"Absolutely nothing; a cocaine case is hopeless. Opium you might
tackle; the other is beyond the power of man or woman."

"But how does the fellow live?"'

"God knows!" replied Roscoe. "Most of these chaps keep body and soul
together by stealing; there's a lot of smuggling going on in Burma,