of a little old Malabari woman, dressed in a red "lungi" and white cotton
jacket, and the cry of the "bajri" and "chaval" seller, clad simply in a
coarse "dhoti" and second-hand skull-cap, purchased at the nearest
rag-shop. And as he passes, bending under the weight of his sacks, you
catch the chink of the little empty coffee-cups without handles, which the
itinerant Arab is soon to fill for his patrons from the portable coffee-pot
in his left hand, or the tremulous "malpurwa jaleibi" of the lean Hindu
from Kathiawar who caters for the early breakfast of the millhand. Mark him
as he pauses to oblige a customer; mark his oil-stained shirt, and loose
turban, once white but now deep-brown from continual contact with the
bottom of his tray of oil-fried sweetmeats: watch him as he worships with
clasped hands the first coin that has fallen to his share this morning,
calling it his "Boni" or lucky handsel and striking it twice or thrice
against the edge of his tray to ward off the fiend of "No Custom." But
hark! the children have heard of his arrival; a shrill cry of "Come in,
jaleibiwala" forces him to drop the first coin into his empty pocket; and
with silent steps he disappears down the dark passage of the neighbouring
chal.

[Illustration: The seller of "Malpurwa jaleibi".]

Now, as the Faithful wend their way homewards, bands of cheerful millhands
hasten past you to the mills, and are followed by files of Koli
fisherfolk,--the men unclad and red-hatted, with heavy creels, the women
tight-girt and flower-decked, bearing their headloads of shining fish at a
trot towards the markets. The houses disgorge a continuous stream of
people, bound upon their daily visit to the market, both men and women
carrying baskets of palm-leaf matting for their purchases; and a little
later the verandahs, "otlas," and the streets are crowded with Arabs,
Persians, and north-country Indians, seated in groups to sip their coffee