You look for 'em next mornin' and where are they?
Gone! There are their loads, an' no one to carry 'em! You've got to leave your loads an' return, an' the police you told so stric'ly to go to hell meet you with broad grins and lead you to the gov'ment office.

There the collector, or, what's worse, the 'sistant collector, gives you a lecture on infamy an' the law of doin' as you'd be done by.

You ask for your loads back, an' he laughs at you.

An' that's all about it, excep' that next time you happen to want a favor done you by gov'ment you get a lecture instead! No, you can't get away, an' it's no use tryin'! If you was Greeks maybe, or Arabs, yes.

Bein' English, the Indian Penal Code, which is white man's law in these parts, 'll get you sure!" Brown of Lumbwa sighed at recollection of his wrongs, turned over, and went to sleep again.