their lives, drew endless supplies of water in buckets from da Gama's
well.

"Some of them have to be kicked out when their sentences expire!" he
told us. "See you at the club tonight. Glad to help welcome you."

But there was a shock in store, and as time passed the shocks increased
in number and intensity. Our guns had not been surrendered to us by
the customs people. We had paid duty on them second-hand at the rate
for new ones, and had then been told to apply for them at the
collector's office, where our names and the guns' numbers would be
entered on the register--for a fee.

We now went to claim them, and on the way down inquired at a store
about ammunition. We were told that before we could buy cartridges we
would need a permit from the collector specifying how many, and of what
bore we might buy. There was an Arab in the store ahead of us. He was
buying Martini Henry cartridges. I asked whether he had a permit, and
was told he did not need one.

"Being an Arab?" I asked.

"Being well known to the government," was the answer.

We left the store feeling neither quite so confident nor friendly. And
the collector's Goanese assistant did the rest of the disillusioning.

No, we could not have our guns. No, we could have no permit for
ammunition. No, the collector was not in the office. No, he would not
be there that afternoon. It was provided in regulations that we could