out the game. He could do this best as a director; so a director he would be, swore Mr. Goolábdás, and a director was he after some strenuous opposition. Now, this detective director has been putting awkward questions to some of the Aryanmanagers, who had it all their own way, headed as they were by a Mahomedan nawab.[1] Well, the Aryans have their own arithmetic, and Mr. Goolábdás cannot reckon in it. At a recent meeting Goolábdás said so, plain and plump. I can well see that firm Mongolian face of his, immovable and unmoved by the loudest vituperation. He wanted facts; they gave him "abuses." He bowed, they kicked their shins against the benches; he grinned, they roared; he said "gentlemen," they replied "r————l"; and so on and on, till the president lost patience. They want not Vakeel Goolábdás, but he does want them. Strong are his opponents, leading luminaries of the law. But he minds them not, this servant of Gooláb[2]. He asks, "Why spend rupees fifteen on this? I know an old barber could set it to right for rupees three." But the answer is merely a cackle of denuncia-
