uld produce the dacoit of the newspaper,
and I knew that a great deal of promiscuous knowledge comes to him who
sits down by the wayside. Then I saw a Face--which explained a good
deal. The chin, jowl, lips, and neck were modelled faithfully on the
lines of the worst of the Roman Empresses--the lolloping, walloping
women that Swinburne sings about, and that we sometimes see pictures
of. Above this gross perfection of form came the Mongoloid nose, narrow
forehead, and flaring pig's eyes. I stared intently, and the man stared
back again, with admirable insolence, that puckered one corner of his
mouth. Then he swaggered forward, and I was richer by a new face and a
little knowledge. "I must make further inquiries at the Club," said I,
"but that man seems to be of the proper dacoit type. He could crucify on
occasion."

Then a brown baby came by in its mother's arms and laughed, wherefore I
much desired to shake hands with it, and grinned to that effect. The
mother held out the tiny soft pud and laughed, and the baby laughed, and
we all laughed together, because that seemed to be the custom of the
country, and returned down the now dark corridor where the lamps of the
stall-keepers were twinkling and scores of people were helping us to
laugh. They must be a mild-mannered nation, the Burmese, for they leave
little three-year-olds in charge of a whole wilderness of clay dolls or
a menagerie of jointed tigers.

I had not actually entered the Shwedagon, but I felt just as happy as
though I had.

In the Pegu Club I found a friend--a Punjabi--upon whose broad bosom I
threw myself and demanded food and entertainment. He had not long since
received a visit from the Commissioner of Peshawar, of all places in the
world, and was not to be upset by sudden arrivals. But he had come down
in the world hideously. Years ago in the Black North he used to speak
the vernacular as it should be spoken, and was one of us.

"_Daniel, how many socks master got?_"

The unfinished peg fell from my fist. "Good Heavens!" said I, "is it
possible that you--you--speak that disgusting pidgin-talk to your
_nauker_? It's enough to make one cry. You're no better than a
Bombaywallah."

"I'm a Madrassi," said he, calmly. "We all talk English to our boys
here. Isn't it beautiful? Now come along to the Gymkhana and then we'll
dine here. Daniel, master's hat and stick get."

There must be a few hundred men who are fairly behind the scenes of the
Burma War-