Mr Cecil Morrison was not the least little bit of a fool.

It was at exactly two o'clock on the following afternoon that the telephone-bell on the Traffic Manager's table began to ring. Morrison took up the receiver and listened.

"Hullo. . . . Yes, speaking. . . All right. Get off home now, and see me at ten tomorrow morning. I'll see about the rest of it. Yes, that's all. Goo'-bye."

Morrison hung up the receiver and looked across at his assistant.

"R. C.," he said, "what are we getting for cotton-seed sweepings?"

"Sold some this morning; anything from Rs. 1 to Rs. 3 a bag."

"And Dharwar cotton is worth to-day about Rs. 150 a bale," went on the Traffic Manager. "Brown has just 'phoned to say that all the Netravati's stuff has just been carefully checked into shed. There are three hundred unmarked bags of cotton-seed sweepings excess, and three hundred bales of F.P. cotton, Dharwar to Bombay, consignee Cursetji Manekji, short-landed. I know that nothing was shut out at Mormugao. How do you like that?

"Dash it!" said Clayton, we shall have to fuss about a bit.'

Two days later, when the shed had been cleared and all

made, there was no doubt of it. The three hundred bales were missing. Even Mr Mackenzie Lowe seemed inclined to be serious for once in his life.

The Railway held the Shipping Company's receipt for the missing consignment. The date upon which it had arrived at Mormugao and the numbers of the waggons from which it had been unloaded were on record. H. Shed now only contained the three hundred bags of comparatively valueless sweepings, and upon the General Manager's table lay a polite communication from Messrs Cursetji Manekji requesting an early settlement of their claim for forty-five thousand rupees. Three thousand jolly old jimmy-o-goblins,

as

Clayton irreverently expressed it.

Mr Lowe was of opinion that the Company would have to pay up and look pleasant.

"Somebody will have to pay up, of course," said Morrison, with whom he was in private conference. "But I think some further investigations should be made at Mormugao first. A consignment like that can't have absolutely vanished, you know. Besides, this sort of thing is very damaging to our route."

Mr Lowe agreed that further investigations might be made at Murmugao.

"I think," went on Morrison, "I think Clayton had better go down. We won't say any

He

Mr Lowe concurred.

"And oh, while I'm here: Vittal Rao wants a month's leave. I'm letting him go tomorrow. He lives somewhere in Scind, I believe," concluded Morrison, gazing out of the window.

Mr Lowe was quite agreeable to Vittal Rao's going on leave. Now the said Vittal Rao was Morrison's Chief Rates Clerk. What he did not know about Indian Railway methods and the susceptibilities of their native servants no man will ever learn. Moreover, he did not live in Scind.

His home, curiously enough, was at Dharwar, and well Morrison knew it.

"Team work," said the latter to himself as he left the Manager's Office. "A thundering lie, but team work. Wouldn't do to let R. C. think he gets all the bright ideas."

Mormugao Harbour is emerald girt. The hills all round the last little remnant of Portuguese India run, green clad, right down to the quiet waters they partially enclose, and to the eye of a voyager gazing upon them for the first time, with the light of the setting sun behind him, they present a spectacle suggestive of some Eastern Arcady.

But there on the left, hidden from view like poison in a

Rats scurry about upon their untended floors; birds befoul their naked altars; the very priests themselves spit negligently within precincts once deemed holy. Here once every ten years the festival of St Francis Xavier is held. Thousands upon thousands of Portuguese Indians, gathered from all over the great peninsula, behold, with cries of frantic ecstasy, fresh blood issuing from the embalmed body of. their saint.

The miracle is over. Gradually the throng disperses whence it came. The priests, their coffers now refilled, smile behind their hands. And again, in the quiet evening, may be heard the tinkling sounds of falling plaster and of glass; falling, ever falling, from roof, and wall, and window, telling the slow tale of gentle but inevitable decay. But over there, across the harbour, modern Faith and Industry abide.

It was upon the latter, upon the signs of human progress, envisaged in the busy scene upon the Mormugao Quay, that the eyes of Ronald Clayton rested as the Company's steamer Bahaduri, upon the deck of which he stood, slowly approached her moorings. It

was the evening of the second day after he had received from Morrison carte blanche to act as he thought best in the investigation he was to undertake. Not far away, among the two hundred Indian passengers, was a little bespectacled individual who seemed entirely indifferent to the fact that he was within three hundred yards of land. Seated upon a small tin box containing his belongings, he was to all appearances fast asleep.

One Englishman stood upon the quay-side watching the approaching steamer. It was Collins, the Company's local Agent, who had been here for some years. At the sight of Clayton's white-clad figure he raised his hat and waved.

'Jolly good sight that chap must have, recognising me at this distance," thought Clayton, waving back.

In another few minutes the Bahaduri was alongside, and as Collins hurried up the gangway the little bespectacled man woke up with a start. Clayton moved forward to meet the Agent.

"How are you, Collins?" he said pleasantly. "Haven't seen you for ages."

"Oh, I'm all right, thank you, Mr Clayton. I must say I shan't be sorry when the rush is over."

Nor shall we in Bombay. I say, is the A.T.S. here?"

Certainly, Mr Clayton. He's been sitting in his office for the last two days getting out the deuce of a statement for you."

66

"I can't," said Collins simply. 'I can only plead rush of work. Can't be everywhere at once, you know. Must rely on my staff's figures when signing for such tremendous lots as have been coming in lately."

Clayton glanced at his companion. The man looked ill and shaken. "Oh, well," he said quietly, "we'll have a talk about it in the morning, though I don't suppose we shall get much forrader now. It's not my business to criticise our common general boss, Collins, but why he was such a complete juggins as to give the Railway notice that we were going to look a bit more closely into this particular case, I can't imagine. They must be simply laughing at us all along the line. Besides, Mr Morrison told me he had fixed it up that nothing should be said about my coming down."

"You don't think he could have changed his mind?" asked the Agent.

"Who, Morrison? In a matter of this kind? Collins, I'm surprised at you! And even if he had, he would have wired himself. No. I'll bet the G.M. did it on his own. Butted in

66

Right-o. I'll say good-night then, and go straight off now. Oh, and if the A.T.S. looks in before you leave, don't let him come chasing after me. Tell him I've got cholera or something. Good-night."

Clayton hurried off to the hotel that looked down upon the railway sidings, and Collins went into his office. The first thing he did after shutting the door was to fill a small tumbler more than half full of whisky, and drink it off without any soda at all. It is a bad habit that somewhat lonely, overworked, and anxious Englishmen in India frequently acquire; but when they practise it alone, behind closed doors, it is a very bad habit indeed.

from the verandah. Clayton sat up in his chair and spoke softly.

"Come in, Vittal Rao; I've been expecting you," he said, and the small bespectacled man who had been so sleepy on the steamer crossed the threshold, salaamed, and uttered a smiling "Good - evening, your Honour."

'Well, Vittal Rao ? Sir, it is not well." Mr Vittal Rao prided himself on the excellence of his English. "There has, without doubt, been considerable how-to-do."

"I am aware,' answered Clayton. "Mr Lowe evidently changed his mind, and thought it would be better to get the Railway to help us. Sit down, Vittal Rao, sit down."

The Chief Rates Clerk sat down with the gingerly manner of a man not accustomed to such an action in the presence of his English superiors.

"Sir," he went on, "there will be no forthcomings to be ascertained in this alive-anddown place. I have already held some conversings with the station-master, and veree enormouslee regret that, notwithstanding being distant relative of mine, he is altogether too much honest. Or else . . .”

Mr Vittal Rao paused apologetically and fumbled with his clothing.

"Well, or else, Vittal Rao?" prompted Clayton, putting his handkerchief to his mouth.

"Or else this fifty-rupee note which Your Honour gave me last night was not sufficient by

lengthy chalks," concluded the Rates Clerk solemnly.

The Deputy Traffic Manager coughed violently into his handkerchief, and then wiped the resultant tears from his eyes. Life was not all sorrow.

"All right, Vittal Rao," he said presently. "You had better catch the first train to Dharwar."

"Your Honour is not coming?"

"No. Who said I was?"

"Oh, nobody at all. But I think that but for all this hullabubollu, Your Honour would have returned to Bombay by terain, with perhaps a breaking journey at Dharwar."

The little man had risen preparatory to taking his leave. With a sudden impulse he drew himself up proudly

Mr

"Sir, I speak plain. Morrison does not suffer the foolish ones delightfully, and we, Your Honour and I, are the tops of that Department. I, I grow old, and Your Honour is yet in heyday of years. But we are not fools, neither Your Honour nor I . . . Excuse me, Your Honour, I ask pardon, and to take my leave."

Clayton had also risen, and was regarding the little man with eyes that shone in the lamp-light. He held out his hand.

"Thank you, Mr Vittal Rao," he said. "I only hope that some day I may be as wise a man as you. Go to Dharwar in the morning. I shall remain here and and do-er-absolutely nothing until you return.”