"I've

the wrongs of all these storekeepers you will be an old man." "Leave it to me, laddie,' replied my partner. got a feeling I shall get level with Mr Xavier before many weeks have passed," and with that and the fervent thanks of the too trusting storekeeper, we passed out down the trail, and commenced our weary trek back to Siwezi. By this time the rains had settled in good and proper, and it was many months before we again heard any news from the outside world, for no one travels in the monsoon months who can avoid it.

The final act was not played out until the following summer, when we happened to find ourselves at the Boma, P- We had had a long circular hunt lasting over four months, and feeling bored with each other and life in general, we decided to go into P for a week or two, and get some tennis (on their home-made courts) and some bridge. There were two other Britishers in P―, and they were as pleased to see us as we were to see them, so that we made a very cheerful quartette.

Things went with a swing for a week, and no happier folk could be imagined than we four. Then-it was on a Sunday evening, I rememberwe were sitting drinking our sundowners on the verandah when the policeman suddenly narrowed his eyes, and gazed up the big road into the setting

sun.

Within ten minutes he was back again with his face as black as thunder.

he challenged Mahommed to prove his words, and in the event of his not being able to

"Thou has said it," I remarked sweetly.

"Oh! Dash it! You can't larrop a chap of his age, especially when he lies down to it," he mumbled.

I laughed. I had experienced the same feeling. You just could not thrash Greek.

that oily

For a while there was silence. "What do you think he's come for?" asked R. suddenly. "To borrow money," I suggested promptly.

"No. He's come to enter a suit for defamation of character against Mahommed."

I fell back into my chair. "For what?" I stammered. Defamation of character," repeated R. seriously.

'Well, that is the limit! roared the policeman, and for the next minute or two we laughed until our sides ached.

However, next morning at nine o'clock M. Xavier presented himself at the office of the A.O., and duly stated his case. His claim against Mahommed was for libellous utterances that had damaged his character severely. The words he complained of were: (1) Mahommed's statements that he had engaged him (the Greek) to shoot elephants in Portuguese territory; (2) that Ma(2) that Mahommed had given him 2000 rupees; (3) that he had given him six rifles. Furthermore,

That was the gist of the thing, and the A.O., when he had heard the claim and heard what Mahommed had to say, looked very black indeed.

"I believe he'll get away with it, you know," he said, suddenly, at dinner that night. "Oh, never!" we protested violently.

"He will, I'm certain," repeated the A.O. "You see, the whole thing was sub rosa. Mahommed evidently trusted the old swine, and furthermore, he couldn't take a receipt for the rifles, because it's illegal for him to have firearms. Nor could he engage him to shoot ivory, because he can't take out a licence to import it into the country. So that he had to trust him."

"Well, it's a howling shame if he does get away with it,” broke out R. The law's an ass if it can't nab that old villain."

The A.O. spread his hands. "I can only dispense justice as per the book of words," he said.

"Cha!" snorted R. "Bang him into jug and chance it!" Well, despite all our protests which were many-and all our threats-which were more the case proceeded, and as the A.O. had predicted, the Greek won. Mahommed simply hadn't a leg to stand on. He hadn't a shred of evidence to

support his contention, and to all intents and purposes he had made very libellous statements against the shining whiteness of the character of M. Xavier, a Greek gentleman.

Then came the question of the damages. With the yellow and black tooth flapping wildly in and out of his mouth, the unspeakable Greek made an impassioned speech for five thousand rupees. I could have shot him where he stood-the liar!-but, like all other sinners, he succeeded and was awarded five hundred rupees.

R.'s curses were loud and long, and that night we sat in secret conclave with our old friend Mahommed. He simply had not got the five hundred, and we believed him. Poor old fellow, he was most terribly agitated. He would never be able to return to his village in India, and he hated and loathed the idea of dying in Africa. What could he do? And his family?

Softly the Hindustani words floated into our ears. The little store faded back, and into my memory swam the picture of the old regiment as it swung down the Gharial Road to the church on the

Flats. I heard again the soft note of the violins as they sang a dreamy valse tune to the laughing couples on the club floor; smelled again the haunting sweetness of the lotus blossoms on Shalima.

Shaking myself vigorously, I looked across at my partner. His eyes were far away.

"For the sake of the old regiment and in memory of all the mad, gay days in India," he said softly, reaching into his pocket.

"And for all the tongawallahs I've beaten," said I hysterically, dragging out some notes.

"The Sahibs!' exclaimed the old man, tears streaming down his face as he gathered up the notes. "The Sahibs I have heard my father speak of. They never die !"

For the rest of the night we were strangely silent. Not so easily is the magic of the old days to be dispelled.

"Curse that damned Greek," said R. viciously, as he punched his pillow into shape. "Why do the wicked prosper ? "

"Don't spoil it," murmured I, pathetically, closing my eyes to the moonlit witchery of this alien land.

2 K

VOL. CCXVIII.-NO. MCCCXXII.

On the lower reaches of the Tyne, where man has taken charge of this beautiful river and used it for his own purposes, one sees British industry in its most unattractive form. Rusty skeletons of half-built ships, squalid slums and coaling staiths jostle each other for room on the precious river frontage, while the air is full of the reek of furnaces and chemical works.

If there be one reach more hideous than the rest, it is Jarrow Slake. Though one of the least desirable places in the British Isles, it is full of historical interest. Near this spot, a few years ago, were dredged up some old oak timbers, part of the foundations of a Roman bridge, probably built by the Emperor Severus. They were quite sound after having lain submerged for seventeen centuries. On the northern bank is the end of Hadrian's Wall, while on the Durham side is Bede's Church, all that remains of Jarrow Monastery.

Here, during most of the war, moored head and stern in the dirty water, lay the old submarine depôt ship Bonaven ture, with her port side within fifty yards of a row of decayed wooden piles marking the edge of a half-tide timber-pool on the southern bank. It was at

this gloomy berth that I joined submarine "C8" one drizzling evening in September 1916.

We had six boats in the flotilla, which allowed for three to be berthed alongside the ship, one to be refitting, and the other two to be detached to a sub-depôt at Blyth, seven miles up the coast. "C8" had seen much service, as submarines go. She was very small, and had but fifteen men in her crew; but she was my first command, and, as such, I was very proud of her.

We were a training and coast defence flotilla; our days were spent in diving exercises off the coast, and our nights were spoilt by raids and rumours of raids. Often there would be a scare in the middle of the night, and a bugle would sound the call for submarine crews to man their boats-a particularly aggressive piece of music, which fills me with loathing even now. A crowd of sleepy wretches in oilskins and seaboots would stumble along the greasy gang-planks and cast off the "springs." The boats would glide out one by one into the darkness of mid-stream and pick their way past the moored steamers and barges to the open sea. Sometimes we lay at a buoy off Tynemouth in order to be ready to reach our patrol positions be