The water population is complete in itself, and is perfectly independent of its terrestrial neighbours in every way. It has not only its own houses and shops, its water omnibuses and hansoms, but even its floating restaurants and pedlars. The restaurant is contained in a fairly small canoe, but it is surprising what a quantity of cooking apparatus and what a varied assortment of food the _chef_ manages to carry. He passes from house to house, from boat to boat, boiling and cooking as he goes, and easily disposes of his curries and boiled rice. [Illustration: "CAN I GIVE YOU A LIFT, REVEREND FATHERS?"] The river has its own police, with duties corresponding to those of their brethren ashore, but they wear, instead of a battered helmet, a neat white or blue cap, on whose black ribbon is printed in gold letters the words that describe their particular functions. Both the water and the land policemen are called "polit", the word being a modification of our own word "police" according to a rule of pronunciation in the native language, according to which all final consonants of the nature of 's' are pronounced as 't'. There is a water market, but unlike the land market which remains open all day, this one opens and closes before the sun has risen very high. Scores of boats are massed together in one compact crowd. Each boat is sunk to the gunwale with piles of fruit or fish. The occupants barter and bargain with the same incessant deafening noise of shouting, laughing, and swearing that is characteristic of all markets the world over. The women wear flat-topped hats made of leaves, which slope outwards from the crown, and are stuck on their heads by a circular frame-work of cane placed inside. Boats pass in and out of the crowd without accident or trouble, and though not an inch of water is to be seen from the edge of the throng, the market gardeners, fishermen and florists never lose any of their merchandise as they move in some mysterious fashion from one spot to another.