handle having, meanwhile, acquired a rich orange hue. Oh, those
knives! those knives!

Etymologically Mukkun is a man of lamps, and, when he has brushed
your boots and stowed them away under your bed, putting the left boot
on the right side and vice versa, in order that the toes may point
outwards, as he considers they should, then he addresses himself to
this part of his duty. Old Bombayites can remember the days of
cocoanut, when he had to begin his operations during the cold season
by putting a row of bottles out in the sun to melt the frozen oil;
but kerosine has changed all that, and he has nothing to do but to
trim the wick into that fork-tailed pattern in which he delights, and
which secures the minimum of light with the maximum destruction of
chimneys, to smear the outside of each lamp with his greasy fingers,
to conjure away a gallon or so of oil, and to meet remonstrance with
a child-like query, "Do I drink kerosene oil?" Then he unbends, and
gives himself up to a gentle form of recreation in which he finds
much enjoyment. This is to perch on a low wall or big stone at the
garden gate, and watch the carriages and horses as they pass by.
Other Mussauls, ghorawallas, and passing ice coolies stop and perch
beside him, and sometimes an ayah or two, with a perambulator and its
weary little occupant, grace the gathering. I suppose the topics of
the day are discussed, the chances of a Russian invasion, the
dearness of rice, and the events which led to the dismissal of Mr.
Smith's old Mussaul Canjee. Then the time for the lighting of lamps
arrives, and Mukkun returns to his duties.

You might not perhaps suspect it, but Mukkun is a prey to vanity.
The pure oily transparency of his Italian complexion commands his
admiration, and he thinks much of those glossy love-locks which