Unfortunately, the peace of this day has been upset by people whose nerves have gone a little wrong on account of the long fast and the broken nights. The Midgan, sandal-maker, passed from the hut of one of his wives, where he had been visiting, to that of another, who said to him, "You never take off your shoes when you come to _this_ house," meaning by that he was paying too much attention to the other wife. As the shoemaker made no reply the woman took off her sandal and beat him with it, screaming the while for the police. When the police came she said: "You must lock us both up as we have been fighting." The police did, and at this moment the Midgan is spending some time in the same compartment as his neglected wife--and has his shoes off. Then Fatuma binti Ahamed, aged fourteen, was sent by her mother to buy milk in the bazaar from a woman who measured it out in a dirty cup. Fatuma, being a clean little person, objected, and, as the woman refused to clean the cup, she called her some names, which, by the way, are quite unprintable. But the milk woman had a lusty daughter, and between the pair of them they dealt severely with Fatuma. An Arab says he found them playing at tug-o'-war with her; one pulling at her neck and the other at her legs, also it was a very frightened little girl who ran home half naked to report why the milk was delayed. Her father has been making a great fuss, and the law, as represented by the D.C. right down to the office boy, and even the jail-master, has been called upon by him to vindicate itself. He was so unreasonable that I was strongly tempted to put him in with the Midgan and his wife until he cooled down. But then, some European daddies are just as silly when their little girls get into trouble through their own foolishness, and I have overlooked his nonsense. * * * * * The people have now seen the moon. It is nearly seven o'clock, and, though the sky is grey, the waters of the full tide are tinted with gorgeous colours, a phenomenon I have not yet seen in any part of Africa but here. Policemen, sailors, rich men, poor men, beggarmen, thieves, are all at this moment out in the open praying aloud to Allah. Strangely enough at this hour, and for the first time since I have been in Zeila, I hear the voices of children at play, above the prayers of the adults. The Jibouti gun is booming away, and, as if to mock it, someone is firing an old blunderbuss outside the town. There is, as usual, not a woman in sight, but I can hear a few girls' voices thrilling out the wild African call, "Lu-lu-lu-lu-luuh!" The praying is over, and now to food. We have killed the fat sheep and prepared the tastiest of dishes. Neither little child, old woman, nor any single soul need go hungry to bed in this town to-night. The people are rejoicing, and all must share in their joy. CHAPTER XII A NAUGHTY STORY A remedy for loneliness--Mohamed's Story--Buralli's "unfinished" story.