hilarity. When this had died away, Captain
Fermor saw the opportunity for putting out Mr.
Mudie's information to interest.

"They call a wallah, sir," he said, with quiet
respect, "one of those unhappy creatures who
are obliged to work at forced labour—at the
Suez Canal, for instance."

"Ah, quite so," said Sir Charles, interested,
making his glass adhere.

"And a ryot," continued Fermor, half turning,
"is, I believe, a—a man who works in the fields
for a few pots of rice, one of the greatly
oppressed castes of India."

The colonel was looking round as if this
explanation reflected great credit on the depôt, and
the general seemed a little impressed, when John
Hanbury, who had been listening with wonder,
broke out with honest expostulation, "No, no,
no! Come now. What are you talking of? That is
the funniest jumble—I beg your pardon for
saying so—but it's all wrong. And I think you
know it is!"

Fermor's lip trembled a little. This was the
fruit of being ever so little familiar with these
horribly low and familiarly free persons!

"Why 'fellahs,'" continued Hanbury, laughing
heartily, "are the Suez people. I wish a
wallah heard you speak of him in that way, or a
ryot either."

"There'd be a ryot, I suppose," said General
Shortall, encouraged to repeat his joke.

"By Jove, yes! Why, they are farmers,
cultivators, merchants. It's so funny how you
contrived to jumble them."

"It may be funny," said Fermor, with an
effort at calmness, "but, with all respect, sir, I
think I am right."

"Nonsense, you're not serious."

"Have you read, might I ask, Jenkinson's or
Thurlow's travels?" said Fermor, with chilly
politeness.

"Not a line of them," said the other, laughing,
"but if they say that, they're not worth
reading."

"The world thinks differently," said Fermor,
looking round with calm triumph. "Jenkinson
is a standard book. I have the second edition
up-stairs; got it down from London. He travelled
five years in India."

"If it comes to that," said Hanbury, with a
good-humoured smile, "I was there five-and-
twenty, but I don't go upon that,."

"Ha, ha!" said Thersites, "not bad that!"

The statement produced a weighty impression.

"That settles it," added Thersites.

"By Jove!" said little Brett, suddenly, "how
lucky! I have a Hindustanee dictionary
somewhere!"

There was a cry of "Fetch it! fetch it!"

It was fetched, but it confirmed Hanbury and
degraded Fermor. Hanbury became the Moonshee
or Pundit of the night, an office Fermor had
always claimed. He suffered acutely. His
"faculties" were now taken from him, and he
could see that the (in his eyes) uncouth, half-
civilised fighting miscellany were enjoying his
deprivation. He saw the general whisper grimly
to the chief with an inquiring smile, and he had
a faithful instinct that this was about him.

Presently that potentate rose and went his
way. The dining crowd dispersed. They brought
away with them the honest John Hanbury into
a snug private room, where they lounged and
stretched themselves after the rigours of the
night, and clouded the air with fumes of tobacco
and spirits. These were happy moments. The
fighting men were boys again. They were
attached by the genial simplicity of Hanbury,
and the link was the horse. That noble brute
was led out and admired over and over again.
They became eloquent, witty, even wise, in that
curious tongue. These simple natives interchanged
the blank counters and cowries they had
for ideas, with a marvellous fluency. They talked
of the "National," now close at hand, of the
course, of the great horse Baron, of the greater
Irish horse that was coming, of the gentlemen
riders, of the odds. Then of the "Welter
Stakes," and of a grievance against the
"handicapper," and monstrous oppression and
injustice. And Hanbury, who in some other
societies might have been insignificant and overlooked,
riding in here on his horse, was immensely
respected and hearkened to.

Fermor did not hear the last of that night's
defeat for many days. In the barrack life there
is a barrenness of incident, and this was
welcome. He was sensitive to "low chaff," and
though he habitually awed them as being inferior
in intellect, it made him shudder one day to hear
a low "ungentlemanly" nickname associated
with his own. "The Wallah" was actually
profanely joined with his sacred being, and one
morning he heard "fellows" below, in the court,
asking familiarly if "The Wallah" was in his
room.

       GOING TO LAW IN CEYLON.

WHAT cock-fighting is to a Malay, what horse-
racing is to an Englishman, what quail-fighting is
to a Chinaman, what pitch-and-toss is to a stable-
boy, that Law is to a Singhalese or aTamulian.
It is the amusement that rouses him to exertion;
that occupies his waking and his sleeping
thoughts; that keeps him going to and fro
between the district court and his village, forty
miles away in the interior; that leads him to
spend his last farthing on the desperate stake;
to pledge his wife's last bangle, and his own last
earring; that reduces him to beggary and
worthlessness, and leaves him nothing to bequeath to
his children save lawsuits.

Litigation seems to possess for the Eastern
mind a charm little short of fascination. Like
drink, the taste once acquired gains fresh force
after each indulgence; and when no longer able
to gamble in lawsuits himself, the hoary litigant
becomes tutor and adviser of embryo disputants,
and opens a school for false witnesses in his