eft hand is a marvellously
persuasive one, and when on duty his sleeves are turned up to the
shoulder that the jovial mariner may see that there is no deception. The
president's labours are handicapped in that the road of sin to the
lock-up runs through a grimy little garden--the brick paths are worn
deep with the tread of many drunken feet--where a man can give a great
deal of trouble by sticking his toes into the ground and getting mixed
up with the shrubs. A straight run-in would be much more convenient both
for the president and the drunk. Generally speaking--and here Police
experience is pretty much the same all over the civilised world--a
woman-drunk is a good deal worse than a man-drunk. She scratches and
bites like a Chinaman and swears like several fiends. Strange people may
be unearthed in the lock-ups. Here is a perfectly true story, not three
weeks old. A visitor, an unofficial one, wandered into the native side
of the spacious accommodation provided for those who have gone or done
wrong. A wild-eyed Babu rose from the fixed charpoy and said in the best
of English, "Good morning, sir." "_Good_ morning. Who are you, and what
are you in for?" Then the Babu, in one breath: "I would have you know
that I do not go to prison as a criminal but as a reformer. You've read
the _Vicar of Wakefield_?" "Ye-es." "Well, _I_ am the Vicar of
Bengal--at least that's what I call myself." The visitor collapsed. He
had not nerve enough to continue the conversation. Then said the voice
of the authority: "He's down in connection with a cheating case at
Serampore. May be shamming insane, but he'll be looked to in time."

The best place to hear about the Police is the fire look-out. From that
eyrie one can see how difficult must be the work of control over the
great, growling beast of a city. By all means let us abuse the Police,
but let us see what the poor wretches have to do with their three
thousand natives and one hundred Englishmen. From Howrah and Bally and
the other suburbs at least a hundred thousand people come in to Calcutta
for the day and leave at night. Then, too, Chandernagore is handy for
the fugitive law-breaker, who can enter in the evening and get away
before the noon of the next day, having marked his house and broken into
it.

"But how can the prevalent offence be house-breaking in a place like
this?" "Easily enough. When you've seen a little of the city you'll see.
Natives sleep and lie about all over the plac