Chapter I

The _Daily Menace_, I presume?
Forgive the litter in the room.
I can’t explain to you
How out of place a man like me
Would be without the things you see,--
The Shields and Assegais and odds
And ends of little savage gods.
Be seated; take a pew.
(Excuse the phrase. I’m rather rough,
And--pardon me!--but have you got
A pencil? I’ve another here:
The one that you have brought, I fear,
Will not be long enough.)

And so the Public want to hear
About the expedition
From which I recently returned:
Of how the Fetish Tree was burned;
Of how we struggled to the coast,
And lost our ammunition;
How we retreated, side by side;
And how, like Englishmen, we died.
Well, as you know, I hate to boast,
And, what is more, I can’t abide
A popular position.
I told the Duke the other day
The way I felt about it.
He answered courteously--“Oh!”
An Editor (who had an air
Of what the Dutch call _savoir faire_)
Said, “Mr. Rooter, you are right,
And nobody can doubt it.”
The Duchess murmured, “Very true.”
Her comments may be brief and few,
But very seldom trite.
Still, representing as you do
A public and a point of view,
I’ll give you leave to jot
A few remarks,--a very few,--
But understand that this is not
A formal interview.
And, first of all, I will begin
By talking of Commander Sin.