‘But,’ said I, when the tale had been told, ’whatever made the lower court accept all that village evidence?  It was too good on the face of it,’

’The lower court said it could not believe it possible that so many respectable native gentle could have banded themselves together to tell a lie.’

‘Oh!  Had the lower court been long in the country?’

‘It was a native judge,’ was the reply.

If you think this over in all its bearings, you will see that the lower court was absolutely sincere.  Was not the lower court itself a product of Western civilisation, and, as such, bound to play up—­to pretend to think along Western lines—­translating each grade of Indian village society into its English equivalent, and ruling as an English judge would have ruled?  Pathans and, incidentally, English officials must look after themselves.

There is a fell disease of this century called ‘snobbery of the soul.’  Its germ has been virulently developed in modern cultures from the uncomplex bacillus isolated sixty years ago by the late William Makepeace Thackeray.  Precisely as Major Ponto, with his plated dishes and stable-boy masquerading as footman, lied to himself and his guests so—­but the Book of Snobs can only be brought up to date by him who wrote it.

Then, a man struck in from the Sudan—­far and far to the south—­with a story of a discomposed judge and a much too collected prisoner.

To the great bazaars of Omdurman, where all things are sold, came a young man from the uttermost deserts of somewhere or other and heard a gramophone.  Life was of no value to him till he had bought the creature.  He took it back to his village, and at twilight set it going among his ravished friends.  His father, sheik of the village, came also, listened to the loud shoutings without breath, the strong music lacking musicians, and said, justly enough:  ’This thing is a devil.  You must not bring devils into my village.  Lock it up.’

They waited until he had gone away and then began another tune.  A second time the sheik came, repeated the command, and added that if the singing box was heard again, he would slay the buyer.  But their curiosity and joy defied even this, and for the third time (late at night) they slipped in pin and record and let the djinn rave.  So the sheik, with his rifle, shot his son as he had promised, and the English judge before whom he eventually came had all the trouble in the world to save that earnest gray head from the gallows.  Thus: 

‘Now, old man, you must say guilty or not guilty.’

‘But I shot him.  That is why I am here.  I——­’

’Hush!  It is a form of words which the law asks. (Sotte voce.  Write down that the old idiot doesn’t understand.) Be still now.’

’But I shot him.  What else could I have done?  He bought a devil in a box, and——­’

‘Quiet!  That comes later.  Leave talking.’