Monday morning is usually the busiest time of the week. Since my arrival here I have arranged on that morning that all the poor people seeking relief shall come to the office. Such an arrangement is looked upon by the scallywags of the town as being tantamount to an invitation to parade with the paupers. Not only the scallywags but shameless old men and women of independent means take the opportunity--trusting to luck or an oversight on my part--to line up with the crowd and beg for a four--anna bit; something for nothing is always worth acquiring. But there is such a collection of cripples and genuine "masakins" (poor people), well known to the police, and ready to eat up our slender fund, that the impostors stand little chance of getting anything. Of course, the first thing to be done is to weed out these latter gentry and send them off with a word or two of discouragement. Then the people who have friends, or whose sections belong to the district, are separated from the absolutely friendless. The former are assisted to make representations to their people of their necessity. Caravans from the interior are approached and asked to help their tribal brethren. The bush Somals, if they have any money, often respond to such an appeal, giving their dole with a pious hope at the back of their minds that "Rubbama"[1] will book it up against them for the future good of their souls. [1] God. And the people who are left are cripples, some of whom crawl on all fours, frail bent old men and women, deformed children, the sight of whose withered twisted limbs and pathetic eyes would wring the last sixpence from anyone but a hard-hearted D.C., who is so used to looking at and seeing these things. Amongst these people we endeavour to divide, as fairly as possible, the moneys of our fund. Four annas, fourpence, will fill those empty stomachs for at least one day, and with care for two. One need have no fear that the money will go in drink; such things are not done here. When our fund is all gone we have a "whip-round" amongst the merchants of the town, who are, according to their means, a very charitable lot. Human nature is human nature all the world over, and who knows but that the D.C. secretly notes a generous donor as a man to be helped when the occasion arises. Some of the subscriptions are consequently very large; even as much as two or three rupees. Here, amongst these simple people, one realises that the Lord loveth a cheerful giver; provided, of course, that he is an "aggressively" cheerful giver--otherwise he might be overlooked.