Putriah, and after a bath and breakfast, he got out his car and ran down to the office of his friend, the commissioner of police.

"The first thing to do obviously is to compare the prints," said that official. "We will send them down to the fingerprint expert."

Calling a peon, he wrote a note and despatched it with the prints. The pilot then told him about the boats coming alongside in the river, and also about the scene made by the master when he had given orders to weigh the anchor.

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"That looks as if your friend Putriah had turned to smuggling," said the commissioner. 'It might be opium or cocaine, or both, although I cannot remember any of the native vessels being caught at it. However, that is a job for our friends, the Customs, and I shall warn them."

Just then the peon returned with a note-undoubtedly the finger-prints were identical.

"I will have friend Putriah carefully watched," said the commissioner. "If anything of interest happens I will let you know. Good morning. Many thanks."

One evening two or three days later the pilot strolled into the club and saw, standing at the bar, the commissioner and two other men. On seeing the pilot he motioned him to an empty table, and soon joined him. After ordering drinks he said

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friend Putriah and the master to-day-two of the most dangerous anarchists in India."

He went on further to relate that, warned by him, the Customs officers had thoroughly searched the brig. They had found no opium or cocaine, and were about to give up the search when one of them happened to ask about some green cocoa-nuts which were stowed apart from the cargo in a small hatch below the saloon. The ever ready Putriah explained that they were special ones, which were to be used for seed. One of the officers casually picked up a cocoa-nut and found it to be as heavy as lead. A police guard was put on board, and the cocoa-nut taken up to the arsenal, where it was found to contain a powerful bomb. The outer skin had been cut to allow the bomb to be inserted, and very cleverly closed again. There were about a hundred of these bombs on board.

At the subsequent trial, when the pilot went into the witnessbox, Putriah was apparently unconcerned.

He even con

trived a little smile of welcome. The second question put by the prosecutor to the pilot

was

"You were in 1918 a prisoner of war at a prison camp in Germany?

Putriah's unconcern vanished. He gazed keenly at the pilot, and a sickly expression came over his face. For the first time he recognised his real

MANY people doubtless know well the picturesque story in the Old Testament in which Rehoboam says unto his people, "My father hath chastised you with whips, but I will chastise with scorpions," and it remains to those who have met with chastisement by the whip to gauge the intensity of pain from a similar infliction from scorpions. As a boy at school I experienced the former in the natural course of events, and later in life I met with the latter, and I can well imagine the effect which Rehoboam's threat had upon his people. I have only been stung by one scorpion at a time, and I shudder to think of the pain from the beast in the plural. Western countries have many things to be thankful for, and I reckon that freedom from insect pests is one of their greatest assets.

Now the scorpion is a curious beast in many ways. For one thing, it does not lay eggs as one would expect, but is viviparous-i.e., produces its young alive, and carries them on its back until they are sufficiently old to fend for themselves. To look at it is like a miniature lobster, varying in size from one inch to three inches in length from head to tip of tail, though I believe that in West Africa they are to be found as big as six inches in length.

But size does not necessarily affect the power of its sting, which is contained in a bag in its tail. When it is likely to meet with danger it proceeds with its tail curled up over its head, and looks rather like a miniature ship under full sail. Another rather surprising thing about our friend is the great speed at which he can travel in proportion to his size, and his marvellous ability to find cover. I have killed them by fifties in a hole, and I cannot say that I have any feelings for them except of loathing and reverence for their sting. And of that I have a profound reverence! as 80 many others have who sojourn during the rains south of latitude 15° in Africa.

In the dry weather one never sees them, for they are busy about their lawful occasions preying on smaller insects in the gaping fissures of the ground, but when the first rains come then begins the scorpion season. For, like most things with life except fishes, the scorpion objects to getting wet, and on the first trickle of water entering his fissure he makes for the open country and another form of shelter, and, moreover, he has to be quick about it, for the rain is of the "bucket " variety, and leaves no time for meditation.

So it is that he makes for

one's bungalow and the shelter afforded thereby. My bungalow from all outward view was impervious to every form of insect and crawler except sandflies, for it was surrounded by fine meshed mosquito wire buried in cement at the verandah level and turned in and secured under the eaves of the roof, so that it would appear impossible for any scorpion to intrude. Yet this was hardly the fact, for last rains I used to kill over thirty a night for many nights, and my bungalow was not nearly so badly infested as many others.

On closer inspection I found many possible places of entry, such as the cracks above and below the doors of the verandah, places where the mortar had fallen away from the lintels of the doors, and holes in the wire-netting under the eaves. How the scorpion finds these holes and cracks I cannot imagine, but find them he does mighty quickly, and evidently passes the "khubar" (news) to his friends. I never actually saw a scorpion entering the bungalow.

Last year I was sharing my bungalow with C. It was his first experience of rains and scorpions, and it takes a sting to treat the season with due respect. I had been lucky the season before and only seen others stung, and I fear I had never failed to be somewhat amused, but that is so often the case when one is not a sufferer oneself.

One sticky night in July I had my angereeb-the native

pattern bed-put on the southeast side of the verandah so as to get what breeze there might be. At that time of year the nights are often sticky to begin with until the rain breaks and a cool breeze springs up to drive one under the blankets. It must have been about 2 A.M. when I leant out of bed to pull up my blankets, which had fallen over the end of the angereeb. Then I got it! It seemed like a red-hot needle jammed into the cushion of my thumb. I had no permanganate of potash very handy, and it was an inky black night, and before I could walk to my bedroom I had to make certain that there were no more scorpions lurking in my slippers. This took a little time, so that by the time I had groped my way to my bedroom and managed to light a shamadan I could feel the poison spreading up my arm. Having tied a handkerchief tourniquet round my wrist, I dabbed the puncture with ammonia, and went back to deal with the brute. By the light of a flickering candle and with one aching arm, I carefully inspected my blankets, taking them up by the corners and looking back and front. Yes, there he was, lying curled up in a fold of the top blanket, and a scrunch disposed of my tormentor. I then made a very careful inspection of all the bedding, and found two more-one under my pillow and a second under the mattress. Having dealt with them successfully I crawled back into

bed again, and thought of sleep, but not a wink had I for over four hours. It is a most extraordinary kind of pain-one cannot put a finger on it. The actual wound is not over sore, yet the pain seems to be all over the body; it will not allow one to remain still in any position for more than half a minute, and try as I would I could not get comfortable. I got up and walked about the verandah, and it still ached; I sat down, and it drove me to my feet; I lay down, and I wanted to get up again immediately. The hours dragged by, and in those hours I swore death and damnation to every scorpion alive, dead, and unborn! My ammonia was stale and the tourniquet useless, and there was nothing for it but to grin and bear it. And all through those weary hours I wondered how many more of the fraternity were crawling up the legs of the angereeb !

When the sun rose I felt too rotten to go out, and at about 7 A.M. managed to get some sleep. This was after my boy had brought my tea and I had told him of the fatality, and after much sympathy and kalam (talk), in which he averred that I should be aiyan khallas (very ill) all day, I managed to impress upon him that in future he was entirely responsible for my immunity from scorpions during the night season. My words evidently had a good effect, for in spite of his "Hadr Genabak" (All right, sir, which usually means nothing at all),

I never had any cause for complaining of the presence of scorpions. However, he, doubtless, found a good many in the bedding when I was out.

C was still very blearyeyed when I told him, and besides he was busy cracking a ginger-nut and, of course, smiled at my misfortune. I will not say he laughed; it was too early!

"A war starts this evening," said I, "and you and I will have to go round the bungalow after sundown and strafe these fiends."

"Leave it to the boys," replied C—; "there are enough of them falling over each other to kill a few agrabs (scorpions) every evening."

And so the war started. C was not very keen at first; in fact, not nearly so keen as my suffragi (houseboy). However, that night after a sundowner, we each took a shamadan and went the rounds. We started with the side door by opening it gently in case any should fall off the top. Then the door-latchprobably a couple lurking in the slot into which the lock fits. Then the lintels of the doorsperhaps a couple lying curled up in the corner of the mosquito wire. Scrunch! Next the walls, to find a few unsuspecting brutes in the indentations of the mortar, the shutters, window-sills, dining-room shutters and doors-yes, a couple in the crack of the hingeswalls again-shouts of " agrab!”

a scrunch. The bathroom; a big one on the ceiling necessi

As the days of the war went on 80 we were continually finding new places where they lurked, until quite a small assortment of tools were in nocturnal use. A polo-stick for the high-flyers was a godsend, while a cold chisel for the floor merchants and " mortar crackers left very little to chance. And besides, the head of the cold chisel made such a delightful noise as it descended on the head of the agrabs. A pair of very fine pincers and a nail file were also quite invaluable to extract them from the door frames. These "lurkers" in the door frames were by far the hardest to kill, for they were in their element. At first they "escaped our notice lying hid," as Liddell and Scott translates the verb λavdávw, but after constant and minute inspection it was possible to espy the two claws protruding very slightly beyond the door frame. Here was where the pincers played their part. C would hold the candle in front of the scorpion, and I would try and nip his nippers and pull him

while in my other hand in case of failure, when I contrived to plunge the sharp end of the file into his back. The satisfaction in drawing him out of his hiding-place with the nippers was great indeed; but I admit it was seldom successful, and by the time I had failed with the pincers it was often too late to hope for a death with the file. Having failed with the tools, it was sometimes possible to dislodge them by pouring water down the crack from the top of the door frame.

Every failure, however, taught us some new method and ruse, until we found that placing a dead brother opposite a lair often enticed out the living, for scorpions are no respecters of their own dead. Also we found that, by making a very light noise with the nail file on the lintel, they often popped out their claws to make an easier target for the pincers. In crannies of this sort they lie up waiting for any game, such as crickets or beetles, who are fools enough to crawl up the wall, and the noise evidently hoodwinked them into thinking of crickets for dinner. So we went on bagging twenties and thirties for many days until C himself got stung, when the bag materially increased through his frenzied efforts to annihilate the whole lot. The tables were turned on that wet Sunday in July, for I had grown somewhat apathetic, and had contented myself with one inspection and