stiff black hats, dark coats drawn in at the waist, and English trousers
and boots. After them come tall Afghans, their hair well-oiled, in the
baggiest of trousers; Makranis dressed like Afghans but distinguished by
their sharper nose and more closely-set eyes; Sindis in many-buttoned
waistcoats; Negroes from Africa clad in striped waist cloths, creeping
slowly through the streets and pausing in wonder at every new sight;
Negroes in the Bombay Mahomedan dress and red fez; Chinese with pig-tails:
Japanese in the latest European attire; Malays in English jackets and loose
turbans; Bukharans in tall sheep skin caps and woollen gabardines, begging
their way from Mecca to to their Central Asian homes, singing hymns in
honour of the Prophet, or showing plans of the Ka'aba or of the
shrine of the saint of saints, Maulana Abdul Kadir Gilani, at Baghdad.

[Illustration: A Millhand.]

[Illustration: A Marwari selling Batassa.]

The ebb and flow of life remains much the same from day to day. The
earliest street sound, before the dawn breaks, is the rattle of the trams,
the meat-carts on their way to the markets, the dust-carts and the
watering-carts; and then, just as the grey thread of the dawn fringes the
horizon, the hymn of the Fakir rings forth, praising the open-handed Ali
and imploring the charity of the early-riser who knows full well that a
copper bestowed unseen during the morning watch is worth far more than
silver bestowed in the sight of men. On a sudden while the penurious widows
and broken respectables are yet prosecuting their rounds of begging, the
great cry "Allaho Akbar" breaks from the mosques and the Faithful troop
forth from their homes to prayer--prayer which is better than sleep. More
commonplace sounds now fill the air, the hoarse "Batasaa, Batasaa" of the
fat Marwari with the cakes, the "Lo phote, lo phote" (Buy my cocoa-cakes)