rd's plumage is soiled and smoke-darkened;
but the eye is clear, wickedly clear, suggesting that its owner is the one
creature in this languid atmosphere that never sleeps. What stories it
could tell, if it could but speak-stories of sorrow, stories of evil, tales
of the little kindnesses which the freemasonry of the opium-club teaches
men to do unto one another. But, as if it shunned inquiry, it retreats to
the back of its perch and drops a film over its eye, just as the smoke-film
shutters in the consciousness of those over whom it mounts guard.

Further down the indescribable passage is a similar room, the occupants of
which are engaged in a novel game. Two men squat against the wall on either
side, surrounded by their adherents, each holding between his knees a
long-stemmed pipe built somewhat on the German fashion. Into the bowls
they push at intervals a round ball of lighted opium or some other drug,
and then after a long pull blow with all the force of their lungs down the
stem, so that the lighted ball leaps forth in the direction of the
adversary. The game is to make seven points by hitting the adversary as
many times, and he who wins receives the exiguous stakes for which they
play. "What do you call this game," you ask; and an obvious Sidi in
the corner replies:--"This Russian and Japanese war, Sar; Japanese
winning!" The game moves very slowly, for both the players and onlookers
are in a condition of semi-coma, but the interest which they take in an
occasional coup is by no means feigned, and is perhaps natural to people
whose daily lives are fraught with little joy. Round the corner lies
a third room or club, likewise filled with starved and sleepy humanity.
Near the door squats a figure without arms, who can scratch his head
with his toes without altering his position, "What do you do for a living,
Baba?" you ask; "I beg, saheb. I beg from sunrise until noon, wandering
about the streets and past the "pedhis" of the rich merchants, and with
luck I obtain six or eight annas. That gives me the one meal I need,
for I am a small man; and the balance I spend in the club, where
I may smoke and lie at peace. No, I am not a Maratha; I am a Panchkalshi;
but I reck nothing of caste now. That belongs to the past."

A light chuckle behind you, as the last words are spoken, brings you sharp
round on your heels; and you discern huddled in the semi-darkness of the
corner what appears in the miserable light of the cocoanut