I happened to be in Cairo that evening having a run round in company with three mates. We had got comfortably outside an A1 dinner and a bottle of light Greek wine when the row started. As a matter of fact, we drove slap into the mix-up in a _gharri_, and before we got shut of it the battle had developed into a first-class slather-up. The street was packed full of Australians and New Zealanders, with here and there little groups of badly scared _effendis_ working overtime in their efforts to get clear of the struggling mass of grim Colonials, who, to an ear-splitting accompaniment of yells, cat-calls and coo-ees, were devoting their energies to an all-round wrecking and smashing game. _Crash!_ went a wardrobe as it struck the ground with the impetus acquired by a forty-feet fall from a top-storey balcony. _R-i-p-p!_ went the balcony itself as it followed hard on the heels of the bedroom furniture. Hither and thither rushed the lightly-clad love-ladies screaming as only Eastern women can, and stopping only to hurl a bottle or other missile at some grinning Vandal who ducked quickly, then went on enjoying himself. Soon the street bore the appearance of a West Indian town that had bumped up against a cyclone. It was a work of art threading one's way through it with all those household gods hurtling round one's ears. Presently the street was illuminated with a dancing red glare as the stacks of piled-up furniture broke into flame. Soon a house itself began to belch smoke and fire, the bone-dry woodwork responding eagerly to the licking tongues of flame that ran lizard-like from doorway to eave, and danced merrily through the interstices of the sun-scorched shutters and blistered piazza rails. In a minute the lofty structure was sheathed in rolling smoke clouds, pierced with darting spears of a ruddier hue; the whole house was blazing fiercely, the roar of the fire blending with the wild shouts and cheers of the excited incendiaries as they danced a mad corroboree round the burning wreckage in the street below. Another sound—the clang of a bell—broke on our ears as the fire-engines came racing up. Out came the hose; the police, who had hitherto remained in a state of "armed neutrality," endeavoured to clear a way for the native firemen. That settled _them_; no Colonial will stand the touch of a nigger's hand on his shoulder. "Rush the adjectived, asterisked, double-starred sons of lady dogs, boys!" The "boys" did so. I never saw a command obeyed so promptly and with such unanimity. The black police were just as quick to appreciate the general unhealthiness of the locality, and left with one accord. The firemen, bereft of their lawful guardian angels, followed. The hose was cut, and the engines were captured. This done the mob proceeded with the work they had set out to accomplish—the cleaning up of one of Cairo's cesspools.