A grunting camel swung up to the porch, his badged and belted rider
fumbling a leather pouch.

'_Kubber-kargaz--ki--yektraaa_,' the man whined, handing down the
newspaper extra--a slip printed on one side only, and damp from the
press. It was pinned on the green baize-board, between notices of
ponies for sale and fox-terriers missing.

Martyn rose lazily, read it, and whistled. 'It's declared!' he cried.
'One, two, three--eight districts go under the operation of the
Famine Code _ek dum_. They've put Jimmy Hawkins in charge.'

'Good business!' said Scott, with the first sign of interest he had
shown. 'When in doubt hire a Punjabi. I worked under Jimmy when I
first came out and he belonged to the Punjab. He has more _bundobust_
than most men.'

'Jimmy's a Jubilee Knight now,' said Martyn. 'He was a good chap,
even though he is a thrice-born civilian and went to the Benighted
Presidency. What unholy names these Madras districts rejoice in--all
_ungas_ or _rungas_ or _pillays_ or _polliums_.'

A dog-cart drove up, and a man entered, mopping his head. He was
editor of the one daily paper at the capital of a province of
twenty-five million natives and a few hundred white men, and as his
staff was limited to himself and one assistant, his office hours ran
variously from ten to twenty a day.

'Hi, Raines; you're supposed to know everything,' said Martyn,