uldn't be whistlin' 'My Own Bluebell' now; your pore widowed mother,
what lives in that theer little cottage o' mine at Porberry End--and 'om
I persuaded to insure you in the Popular Thrifty--would 'ave 'ad a bit
o' money comin' in 'andy for 'er Michaelmas rent, an' one or two other
people would be a penny o' th' right side, likewise." He paused, and
shading his bleared eyes under his gnarled hand, looked steadfastly at
two huddled, motionless, grimy figures, lying in the charred grass
beside the pathway. "Dang my old eyes!" he cried. "'Tis George an'
Alfred--Alfred an' George--snatched away i' their drink an' neither of
'em insured. I'll lay a farden. Here's a judgment on their lives, what
wouldn't listen to Old Abey an' put into the Popular Thrifty. Here's a
waste of opportunity--here's----"

Old Abey's voice quavered and broke off suddenly as the corpse of the
engineer, opening a pair of hideously blood-shot eyes, inquired
ferociously what in thunder he meant by making such a blamed row, while
the body of the stoker rolled over, yawned, revealing a split lip, and
sat up staring.

"We--we thought you was dead, mates," faltered Old Abey. "Didn't us,
Billy?"

"At first I did," Billy admitted, "an' then I----"

"Then you wot?" repeated the engineer, bending his brows sternly above a
nose swollen to twice its usual size.

"Out with it!" snarled the stoker, whose lip was painful.

"I was afraid as it couldn't be true," stuttered Billy.

The stoker exchanged a look with the engineer.

"The van's burnt, an' we've both lost our property, to say nothin' of
our prospects, mate," he said with a sardonic sneer, "but one comfort's
left us, Billy's alive!"

A little later the plowing engine with its consort was at work under the
hot September sky. As the Powler cultivator traveled to and fro, ripping
up the stubbles, the boy who sat on the iron seat and manipulated the
guiding-wheel, snivelled gently, realizing that the brief but welcome
interval of icy aloofness on the part of his superiors had passed, never
to return; and that the injunction of the Prophet would thenceforth be
scrupulously obeyed.

IV

HIS HONOR, THE DISTRICT JUDGE

A Tale of India

By JOHN LE BRETON

HIS Honor, Syed Mehta, the District Judge of Golampore, had dined with
the Malcolms, and he was the first of the Collector's guests to leave
the bungalow. He sauntered down the drive, lifting his contemplative
gaze to the magnificence of t