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I agree with you, Abdulla Effendi. One will then be able to deal more efficiently with stray animals— less danger of hydrophobia and that sort of thing, eh, doctor? The Inspector turned to the Senior Medical Officer.

Parkinson-Smythe felt that he have it done.
was not going to like his new
billet. He had been bitten
by sandflies during the night,
and he hated the thought of
having to sleep in a mosquito
curtain; there were no tennis
courts; there were only enough
people to get three a side at
polo; there was no ice; his
pony was looking wretched;
his syce complained that the
local forage was poor-in fact
everything was beastly.

At this point two lean yellow pie-dogs joined him, yapping and snarling at his pony's heels. The animal, a well-bred Syrian Arab imported from Khartoum, resented their attentions and, after lashing out at them viciously, tried to bolt. Parkinson-Smythe, who was a fair, though rather fussy, horseman, regained control by brute force, but it was a wildeyed pony and an exasperated rider that received the salute of the group of officials waiting outside the police station. The new Inspector, hampered though he was by the pony's desire to turn his back on the assembly, carried off the situation remarkably well. After bidding the officers good-morning, he turned to the Mamur.

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"I daresay you're right," returned Bimbashi M'William, "though I've never considered that there was much danger. We've always had the stray dogs caught and killed up to this as soon as they became troublesome, but we've never had a register."

"Rather haphazard, don't you think?" suggested Parkinson-Smythe, with a smile; "I fancy we had better try to get things on to a more efficient basis. Will you see to it please, Abdulla Effendi? "

"Very good, sir," replied the police officer, with mental reservations.

The tour of inspection began. Greek and Syrian merchants at the doors of their little shops salaamed politely to the newcomer, and answered his questions with voluble eagerness. The Inspector appeared to have an amazing grasp of wholesale and retail prices, and could calculate with staggering ease the cost of carrying a camel-load of sugar from Khartoum to Berinnis, and knew in a moment how much this extra transport should add to the price per ras. Such specialised knowledge amazed the simple - minded Officer of Works; the far-seeing M'William shook a doubtful head,

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and the merchants seemed less eager. Pleased with himself, Parkinson-Smythe rode on.

Iron workers, fashioning rude hoes and spearheads under little straw shelters; shoe makers, with countless rows of red slippers hanging outside their stalls; tailors, saddlers, and sellers of earthenware pots; all these were passed in review. A slight clash with M'William over the efficiency of the filter at the soda-water factory, and with the Officer of Works as to the employment of mud bricks in the local buildings, left these two gentlemen on the defensive and a trifle shaken, but it was not until the slaughterhouse was reached that the new broom raised a cloud of dust-no bigger than a man's hand, and giving no hint of the coming storm, but charged nevertheless with lightning.

The visit to the slaughterhouse was always the most popular item of the weekly inspection. The building lies about half a mile to the west of the town across a level stretch of firm sand, and it is probably this opportunity for a gallop which gives the routine visit such importance, though M'William insists that the smell of blood is the attraction, and he ought to know. On this particular morning, as the cavalcade pulled up after its gallop, a courtly figure emerged from the door and salaamed to the acting Governor and his staff. This was the sheik of the butchers, a person of con

sequence, responsible to the authorities for the cleanliness and good behaviour of all who used the building and the market in the town, where the meat was exposed for sale. Parkinson - Smythe acknowledged the salute punctiliously and, dismounting from his pony, glanced sharply about him. All traces of the grisly business of the early hours had been removed, and it seemed impossible that the most carping of critics could find any fault. Abdulla Effendi smiled confidently and greeted the sheik, who, having welcomed the constituted authority in a becoming manner, now made obeisance to the more immediate arbiter of his fortunes by touching his forehead and laying both hands upon his heart. Their salutations were cut short by the voice. of the "constituted authority," whose critical eye, finding no fault in the building, had fallen on the personnel.

He addressed himself to the

most

ill - favoured of the butchers, a dark-skinned Arab with a twist of blood-stained bandage round one of his ankles.

"What is your name?" he demanded.

"Mansur," replied the gentleman addressed.

"Good, O Mansur, and what is the matter with your leg?

"Ha?" questioned the Arab, turning for enlightenment to the Mamur.

Abdulla Effendi was too well versed in the foibles of inspecting officers to attempt to intervene, but M'William had

no such scruples. "His Hon-
our, the Inspector, says, 'What
is wrong with your ankle?
he interpreted.

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"Thank you, M'William,' said Parkinson-Smythe sarcastically.

"It's nothing, that isn't," put in Mansur, speaking to the Medical Officer. "I hit it, that's all." He turned away carelessly.

Parkinson-Smythe frowned. He was not pleased. "These butchers are all licensed, of course, Abdulla Effendi?" he asked the Mamur, in a tone which implied "of course they are not."

"Yes, sir; at least, no, sir," returned the police officer, "that is to say, sir, there is no list kept in our office, but the sheik here-Abd el Nebbi Yunis-keeps a register and is responsible."

"You'll see to the medical examination, M'William, won't you?" continued the Inspector genially, turning to the Senior Medical Officer.

"Certainly, sir, if you wish it," answered that gentleman, with almost insubordinate politeness.

Bimbashi William M'William was not accustomed to having his medical arrangements criticised, and he returned to his quarters after the inspection in a state of mind quite at variance with his usual cheerful tolerance. He felt an active dislike for the new Inspector; he was an interloper, an ass, a disturber of the peace. Why couldn't he wait until the Governor came back before he started his infernal reforms? Things were running quite smoothly; there was no urgent need for any change; why all the hurry? Certainly the filter at the soda-water factory was cracked-it hadn't been inspected for a couple of months

but, after all, most of the people drank well-water without any boiling or filtration, so why worry. And as to having the butchers medically exam

rot!

"Oh," commented Parkinson-Smythe, smiling happily. "He keeps a list, does he? I think we can improve on that, Abdulla Effendi. We can't have every diseased loafer employed as a butcher just because he happens to be a friend of the sheik. Let us get this thing on a proper ined and registered-it was footing. Have all these fellows paraded at the hospital and medically examined, and then the ones that are all right must be registered at your office and given a badge. That will When he had breakfasted put the matter on an efficient and smoked a pipe he felt basis; eh, Abdulla Effendi ? better. After all, the fellow "Splendid, Excellence! wasn't so bad. The things cried the Mamur, with every appearance of admiration.

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You weren't going to eat uncooked meat, and anyway you couldn't examine all the servants who handled it before it reached the table.

that he had suggested were all right in their way-rather

desirable, in fact-but a confounded nuisance all the same. In any case it was no good worrying about trifles. He mounted his pony and rode over to the civil hospital, to make arrangements for the examination of the candidates for licensed butcher.

Abdulla Effendi Tantowi, the Mamur, was an excellent official; never sick; always tactful; a master of compromise. Possibly, at times, he may have resembled the gentleman in the parable who said "I go, sir"-and went not, but, if he did, there was always some good excuse presented in a manner calculated to disarm the most justifiable indignation. In person he was large and fat, with a jolly brown face and sparkling black eyes. He got through an amazing amount of work with the least possible exertion; appeared to know everything, and if there were dark undercurrents in his lifeas no doubt there were he kept them carefully concealed from his superior officers.

curse on all dogs! Pushing his tarboosh back from his forehead he wiped away the perspiration and called for the sergeant-major of police. The thing must be done; let the sergeant-major do it.

Three days later the gathering in the open space outside the Zabtieh, or local town hall, was larger than usual at 10 A.M. There was always a crowd in front of the Zabtieh at this hour, when litigants, officeseekers, contractors and others came to interview the local magistrate, but on this particular day the numbers were augmented by butchers bearing aloft medical certificates, and by dog-owners of all ages, each leading at the end of a rope some nondescript member of the canine race. It was an orderly crowd. The men, in white garments, with white turbans on their heads, squatted in the centre. The women, in blue tobes, and unveiled, as is the custom of the lower orders in the Sudan, sat in a group at some distance from their lords. The children and dogs wandered in and out among the groups. The children were quiet and wide-eyed with interest; the dogs looked depressed, as well they might with the threat of a rope round their necks.

Twenty-five years service in the army and Civil Administration had taught him that a British Bimbashi must be handled with discretion. Senior officers were all right, their weaknesses were common knowledge, but with a Bimbashi you never could tell. To register Everything was going butchers-yes, that was good, beautifully. Batches of applicthe registration would be in ants, summoned by the police, his gift and might be useful, would rise, disappear into the but dogs. ... As a good Zabtieh and emerge a few Mohammedan he cleared his minutes later, the licensed throat noisily and spat. A butchers wearing red embroi

dered armlets (a nice touch of bard from the top of the symbolism), the dogs with cir- steps where he had deposited cular tin badges hanging from it when he entered the office their ropes. Over all brooded and, slinging it over his the hot stillness of an April shoulder, pushed his way morning. From the distant through the crowd. Idly the barracks came the discordant stranger accosted him as he notes of the battalion buglers, passed. each man practising a different call with maddening perseverance. Somewhere in the town a tom - tom thudded rhythmically.

Presently, drawn by curiosity, a young and smartly dressed Arab strolled across the square and joined the group. His handsome effeminate face betrayed no trace of baser blood. His new red shoes and carefully folded turban proclaimed the dandy, while the long rhinoceros-hide whip hanging from his wrist showed that he was a mounted man. Leaning at ease upon a staff, he glanced with cynical amusement at the crowd. Brazenly he appraised the qualities of the unveiled women, quite conscious of their interest in his finery. A dog with a bright new metal tag came down the steps, towing a small boy in his wake. The stranger glanced at them contemptuously. And then there emerged Mansur, the illfavoured cause of all the trouble. Mansur with a clean bandage round his ankle and a scarlet badge upon his sleeve. He scowled as he came out. He had paid five milliemes to have his leg dressed, and now five piastres for his registration. He picked up his sword in its red leather scab

"Ho, my brother," he said, "what's all this about?"

Mansur glowered at him. "They are registering butchers," he growled, and indicated the badge upon his arm.

"Wallahi! A good combination," cried the Arab. "Butchers and dogs-a pretty jest!" His wit was aimed to impress the women, and now he laughed loud as he turned towards them. But he had gone too far. Quick as a flash Mansur plucked his blade from its sheath. A deadly upward thrust, a cry ending in a groan, and the jester lay, a blood-stained heap, upon the sand. The crowd gasped. A woman screamed. Men struggled to their feet. Two dogs, freed by the dropping of their ropes, flew, snarling, at each other's throats. Every dog in the assembly rushed in to join the fray. The crowd surged backwards.

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