Describe the men I met at that party? As well set out to describe the ever-changing sea. Something about their worldly affairs. Yes, I could do that if I cared to abuse confidences; also something about their very private affairs. Whose wife is not above reproach; whose daughter is causing him some anxiety; the main causes of sleepless nights. But beneath it all--of the man's heart--I know nothing. What his outlook on life is. What he really thinks about is as a sealed book sewn up in canvas, weighted with lead and thrown into the ocean. Sometimes I think I know, that I understand, but it is just at such times I am farthest from the truth. When I realise my abysmal ignorance, and trust to blind instinct to guide me along a course inspired by a superficial knowledge, I know I am working on sound lines. Haji Abdi Kheiri, the pure-blooded Somal, who has to-day fired off his gun in my honour, and who sat with me at table looking as harmless as a school miss about to partake of Holy Communion for the first time, is not the same man who came alone to my bungalow, puffed up with pride and prosperity, to donate twenty rupees to the poor fund, as a small boy might who takes one sugar plum from a full bag to present it to a street urchin, the while an admiring mamma looks on. Neither is he the same Haji Abdi Kheiri who yesterday, at the "Peace" sports, behaved like a maniac because the town team was beaten at its first pull by the police in the tug-o'-war. I had counted the men myself ere giving the signal, "Go," and was satisfied that it was a fair pull. But he insisted otherwise. He is no sportsman, and there were few of his breed at that sports meeting who could lay claim to be so called. The second pull I stopped. The spectators were surreptitiously giving a hand to whichever side they fancied, and Haji himself I caught in the act. Finally, when I gave the pull to the police, there was a scene I can liken to nothing else so much as a pack of mad dogs barking and snarling at one another, yet afraid to bite. It is this sort of thing almost makes one lose heart. On this occasion I said to myself, "If I had a machine gun and turned it on to these canaille, no matter how guilty I might appear in the eyes of man, God, Who understands human nature as He meant it to be, and Who knows, would forgive and understand the act." At other times I say to myself, "I know these people are devils, but they are fascinating devils. I like them, and shall make allowances for their devilries." Then, there is always Mahomed Fara, and he is not quite an uncommon type in Somaliland. To have met and known him makes one look for the good side in his tribal brethren.