“God knows.” After another pause, “Nana Shett give Mamletdar 500 rupee for not send his son to prison. Then Nana Shett’s brother he fight with Nana Shett, so he write letter to Commissioner and tell him you come quietly and make inquire.” “The Mamletdar has been taking bribes, has he?” “Everybody taking. Fouzdar take 200 rupee. Dipooty take 500 rupee.” “What! Does the Deputy Collector take bribes?” “God knows. Black man very bad. All black man same like bad.” “Then are you not a black man?” Tom smiles pleasantly and makes a fresh start. “Colonel Saheb’s madam got baby.” “Is it a boy or a girl?” “Girl, sar. Colonel Saheb very angry.” “Why?” “He say, ‘I want boy. Why always girl coming?’ Get very angry. Beat butler with stick.” [Picture: Tom, the Barber] Yes, Tom is a great institution. Who can estimate how much we owe to him for the circulation of that lively interest in one another’s well-being which characterises the little station? Tom comes, like the Pundit, in the morning, but he is different from the Pundit and we welcome him. He is not a shadow of the black examination-cloud which lowers over us. There is no flavour of grammars and dictionaries about him. Even if he finds you still in bed, conscience gets no support from him. He does not awaken you, but slips in with noiseless tread, lifts the mosquito curtains, proceeds with his duty and departs, leaving no token but a gentle dream about the cat which came and licked your cheeks and chin with its soft, warm tongue, and scratched you playfully with its claws, while a cold frog, embracing your nose, looked on and smiled a froggy smile. The barber’s hand _is_ cold and clammy. _Chacun à son gout_. I do not like him. I grow my beard, and Tom looks at me as the Chaplain regards dissenters. OUR “NOWKERS”—THE MARCH PAST. [Picture: Group of people]