My zaptieh broke in here. “Effendim,” said he, “it fell out once that I was in Bombay--yes, I was sent from Baṣrah with horses for one of the kings of India. And there I saw a poor man whose passport had been stolen from him, and he carried his complaint to the judge. Now the judge was of the English, and he fined the thief and cut off two of his fingers. That is government; in India the poor are protected.” “Allah!” said one of the coffee-drinkers in undisguised admiration. I knew better than to question the validity of the anecdote, and, with what modesty I could assume, I accepted the credit that accrued from it. “But even the English,” pursued another, “cannot hold the tribes. Effendim, have the Afghans submitted to you? Wallah, no.” He had laid his finger upon a knotty point, and I took up the question from a different side. “Have not you men of ’Ânah sent a deputy to the mejlis?” I asked. “Eh wallah!” they answered. “Let him make known in Constantinople the evils under which you suffer, that the government may seek for a remedy.” The suggestion was received in silent perplexity. “For what purpose did you pay the deputy to go to Stambûl?” I pursued. “The order came,” replied one of my interlocutors. “We do not know why the deputy was sent. Doubtless he has his own business in Stambûl and he is not concerned with ’Ânah.” “His business is yours,” I said; “and if he will not see to it, at the next election you must choose a better man.” “Will there be another election?” said they, and I found all ’Ânah to be under the impression that their representative held a life appointment.