The last case of any importance is one in which a number of lads are charged with gambling. There has been a police raid, and the usual paraphernalia of such cases is produced. A dirty old pack of cards, some small silver coins, and a number of coppers. Police Constable No. 13—unlucky number, he has a beautiful black eye—deposes that he caught the prisoners red-handed, playing cards in one of the numerous coffee shops in the town; seized the cards and the coins, and arrested the men.
"And did they come quietly, Constable?"
"Yes, Sahib."
"Then whatever on earth has happened to your eye?"
No answer, and I do not press the question. As a matter of fact P.C. No. 13 set out last night to administer a little corporal punishment to his wife. His wife chastised him instead.
The prisoners plead guilty to playing cards, but state they were only playing for cups of coffee. That is an old yarn, and does not go down. Fined one rupee each, and cautioned that they will not get off lightly next time.
And now comes Mr Gandhi, the public superintendent. His coolies have actually gone on strike. For what? More pay? No. for what? More water. Well, Mr Gandhi can settle this strike by giving them as much as they want, and hang the expense.
The court work is over; I go to count pick shovels at the prison, and say "salaam" to the mean unhappy wretches I have sentenced to of durance vile.