'Not, sir, as there ever is sich an almighty tight place, as a chap can't get out of by leavin' a h'arm or a leg or a bit of hisself generally to be cast into 'ell fire, as it say in 'Oly Writ; for there ain't nothin' impossible, if you've enough of the devil in you--that's 'ow it comes in, sir; here he paused, doubtful, perhaps, whether Holy Writ contained this also, then went on easily, 'for it ain't no manner of use, sir, reachin' round for things as you can't catch no real holt of--you must jes' take wot comes 'andy, though it mayn't be much to be proud of--such as cuss words an' kicks and that like. But they give a powerful grip sometimes, sir, as you'd find, savin' your presence, if you was to give 'em a fair try.' He paused again, looked at Chris tentatively, then smiled a perfectly seraphic smile full of pity, wisdom, almost of tenderness. 'If I might make so bold, sir, w'ot a man you an' me 'd make if we was mixed up! H'arch-h'angels wouldn't 'ave a look in! And w'ot's more, I shouldn't 'ave to clean damn myself keepin' them _Kusseye_ coolies from sneakin' the cold chisels; an' a good name too for the lot, though it is cuss-you as I make it in general.' '_Kuzai?_' echoed Chris quickly. 'What! are those fellows from the butcher's quarter giving trouble--and I only put them on out of charity? Why didn't you tell me before?' But Jân-Ali-shân had reverted to his affable indifference. 'Trouble,' he echoed in his turn, 'Lord, no, sir! I has to read the Riot Act summary most days--they get quarrelling with the 'Indoos over some cow-killin' tommy-rot; but w'en it come to sneakin' cold chisels, I 'ad to knock 'arf a dozen o' 'em down. But they don't give no trouble to speak of. Nor won't,' he added significantly, 'if they're spoke to proper.' 'I'll see to it to-morrow,' said Chris, and then, once more, wondered at his own words. This afternoon a frock-coat; to-morrow an inquiry into a workmen's quarrel; and between the two, inevitably, that decision. The rest was all unreal, but that was certain, that must come. Jân-Ali-shân, however, as--after touching his cap decorously--he moved away, sang 'To-morrow will be Monday' as if all the foundations of his world were absolutely sure. And there were others, besides these two, on the river steps that morning whose outlook on the future showed the same divergence. A couple of municipal scavengers, armed with the broom and basket which under our rule bids defiance to privilege, prejudice, and privacy, talked with cheerful certainty as they swept up the paper Jân-Ali-shân had torn to bits. The _Sirkar_ would have to employ everybody's relations if the plague went on as it had begun. They were shutting the shops already in the butcher's quarter, the hospitals were full, the bazaars empty. Of a surety there was a good time coming for scavengers!