him, and enquired whether he would grant some portion of his wealth to
Government. "Yes, as much as the Government may desire" was the ready
answer. "But" quoth his Excellency, "what will you ask of Government
in return?" "Only this," answered the Koli, "that Government will
grant me the exclusive privilege of roofing my house with silver tiles."
After some little discussion, a compromise was effected, and Zuran
Patel received permission, as a special mark of favour, to place a few
copper tiles above his house.

The house in Dongri Street, where Mahadev Dharma Patel now resides, is
reputed to be the identical house upon which the copper tiles were once
fixed. But many alterations have taken place, and the tiles have
disappeared. For many years, so runs the tale, they were preserved as a
sort of family escutcheon, being taken off the roof and fixed in a
conspicuous position in the wall. Perhaps they were stolen, perhaps
they were worn away by constant polishing, who can say? They have passed
beyond the realm of fact to that of legend. Suffice it to say that the
Kolis firmly believe the whole story, and add that Zuran Patel's house
was the only real strong-house in Bombay at that epoch, the walls being
built upon a framework of iron girders and the cellar, containing
the piles of silver, being stouter than a modern safe. It seems not
improbable that the old cellars of Mandvi Kolivada were originally the
colouring-ponds of the fishermen, which, as building progressed and
crowding set in, were enclosed with tiles and brick and mortar and
utilised as store-rooms.

Such is the history of the quaint ballad of the English Governor, the
Parsi millionaire, and the Koli Patel. It seems to us to crystallise the
honourable connection and friendship which has existed from the earliest
days of British rule in Bombay between the aboriginal-fishermen, the Parsi