ange people of the
fall of Basra, which is 230 miles away, within 25 hours of its having
been taken. Mr. Lightfoot says that even if he travels by car Arab news
is always ahead of him, and where he arrives with news it is known
already. Telegraphy is unknown in the places he speaks of, except in
Bagdad, of course, and Persia owns exactly one line of railway, eight
miles long, which leads to a tomb!

More important than any man here are the dogs--Smudge, Jimmy, and the
puppy. Most of the conversation is addressed to them. All of it is about
them.

_28 February. A day on the Persian front._--I wake early because it is
always so cold at 4 a.m., and I generally boil up water for my hot-water
bottle and go to sleep again. Then at 8 comes the usual Resident Sahib's
servant, whom I have known in many countries and in many climes. He is
always exactly alike, and the Empire depends upon him! He is thin, he is
mysterious. He is faithful, and allows no one to rob his master but
himself. He believes in the British. He worships British rule, and he
speaks no language but his own, though he probably knows English
perfectly, and listens to it at every meal without even the cock of an
ear! He is never hurried, never surprised. What he thinks his private
idol may know--no one else does. His master's boots--especially the
brown sort--are part of his religion. He understands an Englishman, and
is unmoved by his behaviour, whatever it may be. I have met him in
India, in Kashmir, at Embassies, in Consulates, on steamers, and I have
never known his conduct alter by a hair's breadth. He is piped in red,
and let that explain him, as it explains much else that is British. Just
a thin red line down the length of a trouser or round a coat, and the
man thus adorned is part of the Empire.

The man piped in red lights my fire every morning in Persia, and
arranges my tub, and we breakfast very late because there is nothing to
do on three days of the week--_i.e._, Friday, the Persian Sabbath,
Saturday, the Jewish Sabbath, and Sunday, the Armenian Sunday. On these
three days neither bazaars nor offices are open. Business is at a
standstill. The Consulate smokes pipes, develops photographs, and reads
old novels. On the four busy days we breakfast at 10 o'clock, and during
the meal we learn what the dogs have done during the night--whether
Jimmy has barked, or Smudge has lain on someone's bed, or the puppy
"coolly put his head on my pillow."

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