“I’m really glad to see those fellows,” Mr. Linton observed. “So much ‘native’ work is really made in Birmingham or Germany nowadays that one never knows what is genuine.”
“No,” said Wally. “One of my girl cousins was out with a camping-party in the wilds when she was staying in British East Africa, and they came across a few natives who offered curios for sale—rough carvings, bits of ivory, and things like that. Enid was awfully keen on genuine things, and jumped at the chance—as she said, you don’t often find the really untutored savage in these times. One of the things she bought was a big ivory bangle. I think she got it from a woman who was wearing it. Enid was very proud of it. She said it was so real.”
“It certainly should be, bought in those circumstances,” said Mr. Linton.
“It should. She was very annoyed on the voyage home when one of the officers rather doubted it. So they had a bet—he was to put a match to it, and pay up if nothing occurred. But when he applied the match poor Enid’s ‘ivory’ sputtered and went up in flame—and behold, there was no more bangle!”
“Celluloid!” Jim grinned.
Wally nodded. “Made in Birmingham or some such place, and shipped out by the gross to the untutored savage. Hollow world, isn’t it?”
Norah had bought bangles—fresh from the maker’s hand—and they turned away. A long table ran down the centre of the building, with rough benches drawn up to it; and here sat numbers of Kaffirs and Zulus, breakfasting. Many were of the rough coolie type, dressed in ordinary clothes; but here and there a blaze of colour marked the smart rickshaw steed—and in one corner where half a dozen were eating together their rainbow head-dresses were like a flower-bed, the brighter because of the dinginess all round them. On a separate table were immense bowls, heaped with steaming masses of curry and rice and weird-appearing stews. A man would come in and sit down, calling impatiently; and in an instant a native waitress would bring him a gigantic helping, supply him with an iron spoon, take his payment—a small copper coin—and rush off to a newcomer.
“You’d live cheaply here,” Wally remarked, watching a native boy attack a heap of curry like a miniature mountain.
“Yes, but you wouldn’t live long,” Norah answered. “Did you ever see such poisonous-looking food? I don’t think I want to watch this—it’s rather like the zoo at meal times. Let’s find the market.”
A stream of people going in and out guided them to the bazaar. It was almost entirely Indian, so far as the stalls were concerned, though the people who thronged it were of many nationalities. There was an impression of light and colour and cheerfulness. Indian women in bright draperies went up and down, many carrying tiny wise-eyed babies. There were stalls for the sale of native jewellery—gaudy, tinselled stuff that looked appalling as it hung to tempt the passer-by, but somehow became exactly the right thing when worn by the dark-eyed coloured women. It was mingled, however, with cheap jewellery of the kind that England and Germany turn out by the ton—and this did not fit in anywhere, but stood out among the native wares, blatantly vulgar. Then there were stalls for post-cards, and for strange religious pictures—gaudy representations of temples and gods and sacred animals; others covered with weird cooked foods, in bowls and dishes, and with cakes and high-coloured sweetmeats—all appearing, to Australian eyes, extremely unpleasant and indigestible, but apparently devoured with amazing appetite by the children who thronged the bazaar. Almost more interesting were the vegetable stalls, since here were piled such growths as the Australians had never heard of; curious green, twisted things like French beans run mad, masses of salad materials, equally novel, and oddly-shaped gourds of different colours.