But I have said Mahomed is not a bad fellow. I really meant that. I have only been depicting a type, taking Mahomed as a sample, Mahomed the interpreter. Mahomed the private individual holds testimonials of faithful service, rendered over long periods to European masters, that any man might well be proud to hold. Once, when he was very young, in the fight against the Mad Mullah at Erego, he was placed in charge of the camel carrying the British officers' water chaguls. In the course of the action he and the camel got into a very warm corner, and the poor camel lost its life. Mahomed was only a servant, but he removed a couple of water bags from the corpse, together with a bottle of whisky someone had stowed away in the pack, and made his way back to the British line, where, sitting under a tree, he found his thirsty master and some friends. To them he quietly presented the water and whisky he had risked his life to bring them. Of course they were grateful, but that was a long, long time ago, and most of the officers who sat under that tree are dead. I wonder if those who are alive still remember Mahomed.
II
A human head sculptured from a block of Welsh slate, an exact miniature replica of a sphinx, and you have sub-inspector of police, Buralli Robleh, to the life. Inscrutable but kindly; gentlemanly, with just a touch of fire to warn careless people that he is not a man to be played with. Buralli is one of the most likeable natives I have met in Zeila. For thirty years he has served the government faithfully and well, and the general impression is that even when he be retired on pension he will continue so to serve. He is the terror of all criminals, and the despair of people who intrigue. He sees that the caravans, as they approach the town, are not besieged by a crowd of howling brokers and their satellites, but are allowed to enter the market-place in peace; that the police are doing their duty, and that their lines and equipment are kept clean; that the D.C. hears the other side of the story as opposed to that presented by careless and lazy Akils. He knows the private history of all the litigants who appear in the District Court, and whether they are trying to bring up a claim that has been tried fourteen years ago. He knows whether the poor woman in rags, pleading for a rupee to buy food for her starving child, is what she seems to be, or a humbug who is quite well off. Rarely does he give an opinion until asked, more rarely still is that opinion challenged, and never on the ground that it is not an honest opinion. During his service Buralli has served under many Sahibs, some of whom are now famous men; and Buralli has learned much, among other things the psychology of the Sahib.
He is not a detective; criminal investigation is not in his line; but the prevention of crime is. Yet I have heard him confess that, under certain circumstances, he is prepared to break the law himself. These were the circumstances. Last night a man returning home at midnight found a stranger in his house talking to his wife. He beat the trespasser on the head with a stick, and was arrested by Buralli. Buralli pressed his case hard. "Unless you punish this man, Sahib, there will be trouble between his section and the injured man's section!"
"Buralli," I said, "had you been in the accused's place what would you have done?"
"I should have put my knife into the other fellow," said Buralli, "but, had I done so, I should have deserved punishment."
To-day a mail arrived bringing a circular instructing the sons of all Somal notabilities desirous of undergoing a course of instruction at Gordon College, Khartoum, to present themselves at Berbera, not later than the end of the month, for examination as to fitness for selection. The only candidate in this district is Buralli's eldest son.
"Better get that boy away at once, Buralli," I said, "or he will be too late."
"He must wait," said Buralli.