BEGGARS AND VAGABONDS: THE BLIND BEGGAR.

HALF-WAY between the town and the English colony stands a tram or 'bonde' shelter. It is only a cemented floor with a tinhelmet hat, but invaluable in the hot weather as a protection from the sun and in the rainy season as the only dry foothold in a wilderness of puddles. A square of houses surround it; two or three mansions with their electric-lighted tennis courts, their exotic bird ponds and marbled atrocities; one or more so-called cottages, capable however of housing a round dozen; close by the convent schools with their wondrous flower-gardens, a good source of income to the careful nuns. At this woebegone spot on the Equator flower shops are non-existent. In moments of belated stress one can buy a beery bunch of wilted flowers in the smaller taverns, but can search for the gay window sporting the fancy buttonhole, the lover's basket, or the 'prima donna's' bouquet till one fades away in exasperated perspiration. This little district belongs to the élite with their grand homes and educational centres, yet the roads are so incredibly bad that they are rivers of mud, and the little oasis in the centre, though a marked and pathetic contrast to the surrounding wealth, forms an agreeable meeting-place for the niggers and all those poor unfortunates who frequent half termini throughout their lives.

Here for interminable ages an old man, respectably clothed, with shaved grey head and palish stubble on his chin, sat day in and day out; in his hand he held the rounded half of an old Dutch cheese tin, which he swung to and fro as he sang. He was blind, but one only noticed the fact from the curious sunken appearance of the eyes, which for some indefinable reason added to his respectability and made his loss of sight as much part of him as other men's eyes. He was a beggar, of course, but he worked hard. All day long without a drink, apparently without food, the old man slouched on a backless stool, singing. His real work began when the 'bondes' wheezed up to the junction. He heralded the approach by song, the principal object of which was to manufacture a sound sufficiently loud to publish his being and to overcome that produced by the terrible brakes of an outworn 'bonde' system. He did that!

The words were rarely distinguishable, but they ran something

after this style:

'Give your tithes to the poor and needy,

Give for the love of Christ;
Protect the dying and the seedy,

By the sacred blood of Christ.'

A ribald rhyme to non-Catholics and mere doggerel, but it served. Just an old and weary man planted on a scrap of cement among the filthy roads, swaying and waving a battered tin and shouting above the noise of modern civilisation for alms, bandying a hundred times a day, carelessly and irreverently, the name of Christ. But it served. . . for none cared.

Clatter comes the bonde, the song loudens, passengers hurry up and down trying to find a seat, agitated and hatless nigger girls giggle and jump in, others push up their unwieldy elders, and through the confusion, whistling, screaming, and shouting, comes the raucous voice, the blasphemous voice, and the piercing, professional whine of the small boy who touts the tram passengers for money for the old blind singer. This boy also is remarkable in his way, for he is the image of a greenland faun, but so dirty and unwashed that he is only a poor image, sullied and muddied by the merciless rain of a long winter night. The imp's love of mischief, the listening, sensitive, pointed ears are his, and the graceful spring as if he had been blown there by a puff of wind and having laughed his fill would be off again to cleaner, better places. The child's wide smile is so infectious and the suppressed humour in his eyes is so amazing . . . for amazing it is to find laughter where pathos and sordidness only seem to exist . . . that many a man throws a coin for the old beggar's song and the young boy's spirit. Immediately the money falls he becomes the ordinary Cockney waif or Parisian gamin, dives under the bonde, puts it between his teeth and, with a knowing wink, to show it has passed the test, tosses it, jingling madly, into the old man's tin. Instantly the song ceases at the end, middle, or beginning of line or word . . . no matter where. He slithers it into a fumbling hand, and feeling it expectantly puts it in the patched pocket, and the old rattling voice cracks on in hope of further alms, once again evoking the name of Christ. The tram screeches on its noisy way, and the song stops for lack of audience.

Day in and day out the old man held the fort, known and loved

by all regular travellers; but one day as we neared the station we missed the customary song: instead, an infernal clamour as of souls in direct bondage hurtled through the air. There the old man sat, as usual, singing, but close to him a woman stood with an accordion and, if the song was that of an amateur, the playing was that of a mad woman. Sounds issued from the instrument which occasionally bore a slight resemblance to some archaic tune, but more generally it was excitedly inflated and deflated with a pure desire for noise and a blissful disregard for melody. The poor old singer was doing his best, but his quavering worn-out voice stood no chance against that mechanical horror wielded by an enemy's hand. Intermittently, when the player paid some attention to her fingering, you could hear a fleeting echo in the background: 'Protect the dying and the seedy,' but only for a mere flicker of the eyelid, for the moment her adversary became audible the woman clenched her teeth and her fingers and plumped for noise again. The poor imp did his best, but his shrill treble was also drowned, and the few coppers that were flung were now fought for by the woman's boy, who being stronger and bigger was generally victorious. The bonde moved on into silence; I smiled awhile and then forgot.

The next time I chanced that way the struggle was still continuing, though it was a one-sided business at best, and the poor old man was putting up but a feeble fight. His voice was perceptibly weaker; his self-confidence gone. He had a tin of water by his side now, and he only sang at intervals after a pull at the drink. His sad old voice was jagged and worn, and his song, no longer a pæan of thanksgiving, had degenerated into the customary prolonged wail of the door-to-door mendicant.

The noise, indeed, of the half-way station was nigh unbearable, and hands that were pressed to ears could not be occupied in almsgiving, as both the participators in the contest were discovering. The woman, however, would not surrender and, as her object for being there was obviously less for gaining money than for personal vindictiveness, there could be no doubt of the issue. I gave a penny to the faun of the wayside ditches and passed on regretfully.

Again I passed, and this time the old man had gone, though still the crazy accordion blared out its well-worn tune. I thought the woman, though triumphant, was finding victory unprofitable and unpalatable, for we were all peevish at being deprived of our old, blind beggar, who had sung to us through the ages, wet or fine;

we were also full of wonderment as to his whereabouts and inclined to be jealous of that other station who had gained our antique. Many there were who laughed and did nothing; others were indignant and did less; some stood up and, gesticulating, cursed loudly, creating much excitement, the first heat of which, as the bonde tactfully bumped on its way and they were forced to resume the normal, gradually subsided. We all, however, talked and thought of nothing else.

The next day, I, having been deputed by the regular travellers to right the matter, instituted inquiries.

The old man had not been stolen away to some rival line, but had simply disappeared. It seemed an impossible feat to discover his whereabouts in a place where thousands of broken-down mud huts were thrown up by the roadside, on the rivers, in the marshes, anywhere and everywhere. By dint of alternately bribing and bullying the woman's boy I found out that he lived, or used to live, in the most God-forsaken spot in a devil-haunted town. I went down there one day to see what I could find. Climbing out of the bonde I began a search for the house, which alone required untiring pertinacity, as none of them had numbers, the street had no name; there was, in fact, no road. Rows of mud huts, some tattered and torn, some all forlorn, some heeling drunkenly over to one side; others had a wicked leer, and grinning rents in the walls, and roofs made of rusty bits of scrap iron complained and clattered in the breeze. A few on the roadway were respectable citizens, who held themselves proudly with an attempt at a garden and new plaster, but even they had their parasites, for leaning affectionately at the back would be a less worthy brother, or slantwise to one wall a dusty tramp of a house would sprawl nonchalantly. In all, black, yellow, white, hundreds and thousands of naked, big-bellied, spindle-shanked children; in all of them slept, ate, and drank numerous Severinas, Josés, Marias, Antonios, quite indiscriminately mixed as to wives, children, and relations, but fiercely possessive with their money, coloured rugs, bits of broken china.

Aghast at the difficulty of finding one old man and a small grubby boy amongst such a seething mixture of nationalities, I stood for a moment, and, being an obvious foreigner, was instantly besieged by a crowd of children. From all corners they ran, like the rats in the streets of Hamelin, big ones, little ones, brown ones, white ones, lean ones, fat ones, ran they scuttled to the Pied Piper.

"Esmolas! Alms!' they shrilled. 'Money!' they wailed. Eager little grubby paws patted my arms, shining greasy bodies dried their sweat on my trousers, tiny faces with their dog-like eyes and long, curling lashes and their sore mouths and noses gazed at me as if I represented their last and only hope of salvation. Being an old hand and wise, I remained outwardly calm, nor did I drive them away. I should never have found my blind beggar; I should have been pelted with abuse and dirt from the curved corner of their houses, from behind the water tubs; dogs would have yelped, women would have screamed, and children danced, and I... well, I should have retired in bad order. I slipped a judicious hand in my pocket, and the nickel rattled. The clamour renewed a thousandfold, but as I at once withdrew it and regarded them in stony and disapproving silence for a while a comparative quiet ensued.

'Does anyone know where a Senhor José' (note the 'Senhor ') ' lives, an old man?' I brought out a handful of money.

'Senhor José ? Do you mean José the son of Antonio, or José the Carpenter, or José the Dustman?' or So-and-so, ad infinitum, till I held up my hand in despair.

'Listen, children: I do not know which José it is, but it is an old blind beggar who used to sing at the Pont d'Uchoa station. He had a small pointed-eared boy with him. . . .'

'Oh, José the Songster he means. ..' 'No, he doesn't. . . It's José the Beggar.' 'But, you little fool, he hasn't a boy. 'No, it is José the Songster. . . .' 'Yes, it is,' the voices chattered on, arguing and disagreeing among themselves, but finally they joined in a triumphant shout:

'Si, Senhor, it is José the Songster you want.' Then a babel and a jostling and a pushing.

'Here, Senhor, I'll take you! . . .' 'No, I will! . . .' 'Look, Senhor, how big I am! . . .' 'Have me, Senhor, have me!'

In desperation, I seized upon a coal-black infant with intelligent eyes and demanded to be led, forthwith, to Senhor José the Songster, inwardly convulsed at the ineptitude of the title. We were still, however, followed by the entire crowd, beseeching me to give them their reward, threatening me with an evil future, vaunting their claims as a guide.

'Little one, if you take me there, I have something in my pocket, understand? If you do not I go away, I have no one. I do not need a hundred boys to guide me to one man's house, nor have

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