You might not maybe suspect it, but Mukkun is a prey to vanity.The pure oily transparency of his Italian complexion commands hisadmiration, and he thinks much of those glossy love-locks whichemerge from his turban and curl in front of his ears. Several timesa day he goes into his chamber to contemplate himself in a tiny handmirror, and to wind up the love-locks on his finger. Poor Mukkunhas, indeed, a somewhat human side, and the phenomenon which we recogniseas our Mussaul is not the whole of him. By birth he is anagriculturist, and there is in the environs of Surat a little plot ofland and a tiny dilapidated hut in one corner of it, overgrown withmonstrous gourds, which he thinks of as home, sweet home. There arehis youthful barbarians all at play, but he, their sire, is forced toseek service abroad because, as he practically expresses it, theproduce of his tiny field is not sufficient to fill so many bellies.But, wherever he wanders, his heart--for he has a heart--fluttersabout that rickety hut, and as he sits polishing your boots of amorning, you may hear him pensively humming to himself:--