Chapter III (3)

From day to day Mkuni's supporters increased in number.

"Come and see the white man's bridge fall into the tumbling waters," was his daily invitation, and many came.

"I am sorry for these white men, for they work to no profit."

And Mkuni's adherents increased.

But, in spite of all, the work progressed. The thin steel arms flung out from either bank crept nearer daily towards the clasping of hands, and yet the bridge did not fall.

Poor old Mkuni, firm in his belief, found it hard to stomach the thinning in the number of his fellow watchers. He became highly indignant. In vain he talked--piled unanswerable argument upon argument unanswerable. Someone put it about that there was nothing the white man could not do. Many agreed with this, and went home.

At last the engineer who built the Victoria Falls Bridge saw his work complete.

Mkuni, too, saw that the work was finished--all but the pole in the middle to keep it from tumbling down.

Under all his anxiety the poor old man had shrunk visibly; so, too, had the number of those who believed in him, and had come at his invitation to watch with him the disaster which he assured them must overtake that bridge.

Poor old Mkuni!

It must be admitted that there is something of the gentleman about the raw, untutored savage, for when the first train had crossed safely over the Victoria Falls Bridge, Mkuni stood alone on his rock. No one remained as witness to his discomfiture.

He climbed slowly down to his village. Everyone in it was busy with his or her ordinary daily occupation; all strangers had quietly gone their several ways.

THE COMPLEAT ANGLER.

R. E. Baker was engaged as conductor of our waggons on one of our journeys from Bulawayo to the Zambesi, and a more capable cattle-man than he did not, I am sure, exist between the Cape and Cairo.

If an ox wouldn't pull, he made it. If an ox went sick, he cured it with amazing rapidity.

Baker, though English by descent, was a Cape Dutchman through and through. A bad-natured ox he named "Englishman," and flogged the wretched beast into a better frame of mind.

On the other hand, he would walk miles to find good grazing for his cattle, and to see Baker caress an ox was a thing to remember. Not being a cattle-man myself, I thought our conductor was gouging out the eye of an ox. It certainly looked uncommonly like it. He was forcing his fist with a rotary movement into the beast's eye.

In answer to my questioning, he explained that he was caressing the ox, that cattle appreciated the attention; you had to be vigorous or you tickled the poor thing, and oxen didn't like being tickled.

He was obviously right, for each ox, as Baker approached, seemed to know what to expect and tamely submitted.

A few days out from Bulawayo Baker came back from the water carrying fish. He had caught them, he said, in the large water-hole. It never occurred to me that there would be any fish in the almost dried-up rivers which we crossed from time to time. Baker assured me that where there was water there were fish, but you must know how to catch them.

A day or two later we outspanned close to some water-holes. Baker said he was going to catch some fish, and asked me whether I would like to come too. I said I should, and began unpacking a rod and some tackle which I had bought in London with the intention of fishing for tiger-fish in the Zambesi.

Baker watched me unpack and make my selection. He seemed much amused. Presently he drew from his pocket his own tackle, which appeared to me to be a confused mass of tangled string and hooks.

We set out. Baker stopped at a small deep hole containing clear water. It was my turn to smile. The pool he was going to fish in was a little larger than a water-butt.

I went on, and found a fairly long pool. The water was rather muddy, and I found little depth anywhere. However, I hoped for the best, and fished just clear of the bottom. I used as bait a small piece of meat from a wild pigeon's breast, recommended by Baker.

I have a certain amount of patience, but not, I fancy, quite sufficient to entitle me to describe myself as a fisherman. After about two hours of this fiddling, I gave it up and went in search of Baker.

To my amazement, he had quite a score of fish on the grass by his side.

"Did you catch all those?" I asked.

"Yes."

"In that hole?"

"Why, yes."

"How on earth do you do it?"

By way of reply he asked me how many I had caught. I said, "None."

"Ah," said Baker, "you shouldn't fish, you should angle. Watch me."

I sat down and watched.

Baker had a short, thick stick in his hand. From the end of the stick hung a thick piece of whipcord. On the end of the cord he had a stone with a hole in it, what we, as children, used to call a lucky stone. Just above the stone he had tied a skinned pigeon--the whole bird. Hooks radiated in every direction from the bird; hooks set at every conceivable angle--dozens of hooks. From time to time Baker threw a few breadcrumbs at his bait. I could plainly see the small fish cluster round. Now and then he struck sharply. Nearly every time he fouled a small fish, mostly under the jaw or in the belly. Each time he hooked a fish he repeated: "My lad, you shouldn't fish; you should angle."

When we reached the Gwai River, Baker produced a long hand-line with an immense hook on the end of it. The bait he used was a lump of washing soap. I didn't go with him because I wasn't ready and he was impatient to begin.

"We shall catch big barbles here," said Baker.

I followed him, and saw him throw his lump of soap well out into the river. I stood on the bank above and watched.

Baker lit his pipe, looked up and down the river, and at his line. Then he shifted the line to his left hand, which he lifted to his left ear. With his right he made a winding movement close to his head, and said: "'Ullo! Exchange; put me on to Mr. Barble, please, miss."

To my intense amusement, and to Baker's obvious surprise, there was a sharp tug at the line. He remained for a while with his hand suspended near his right ear as though still on the handle of the old-fashioned telephone instrument. Then he gave a violent strike. But the barble--if indeed it was a barble--had had time to spit out the piece of soap and so escape.

Baker, still unaware of my presence, said: "Damn the fellow!" He shifted the line to his right hand, and went through the pantomime of getting on to the Exchange again, this time ringing with his left hand.

"'Ullo! Is that you, Exchange? Put me on to Mr. Barble again, please, miss."

No response from the fish.

"'Ullo! Exchange! What? No answer from Mr. Barble? Gone to lunch, eh?"

I moved off quietly up the river, and in course of time succeeded in catching a mud-fish weighing forty-eight pounds. I came back a couple of hours later, and found Baker had landed two immense fish of the same kind; one weighed fifty-three pounds and the other fifty-nine. He had also caught a poisonous looking eel. How he had landed these monsters he would not tell me; he contented himself with repeating: "My lad, you mustn't fish; you must angle."

When we reached the Zambesi, Baker almost neglected his cattle. He had never seen this grand river before. He at once got out a line and went "angling."

Coming down the river bank, I saw Baker standing on a rock a few yards from the bank.

Sitting on the bank was an old man, watching him.

"Any luck?" said I.

"No."

"Been here long?"

"Not very long, but that old man talks too much to please me."

I looked down at the old man. He looked up at me. He greeted me in the local language. In his language I replied. Whereupon he calmly said: "I have been telling that white man that from the rock on which he stands a crocodile took a woman yesterday."

I hurriedly translated. Baker did no more angling that day! He thought the old man had been saying "How do you do?" to him.

In the end we converted Baker to our way of fishing, so that he became an expert spinner and killed many a noble tiger-fish. But he had a mishap the first day he used a rod which almost decided him not to use one again. He was fishing from the bank for bream, which run large in that part of the river. He used a float for the first time. Presently his float disappeared. Baker struck upwards, using both hands. He pulled his fish out of the water, but with such force that it flew over his head and fell with a splash into a pond behind--free.

I think we just saved him from an immediate return to "angling" by pretending not to have seen his discomfiture.

THE SONG OF THE GREAT OCCASION.

The news spread quickly that the "Great Man," his wife and some friends were coming north of the Zambesi to shoot. Williams, the Native Commissioner, heard it from the boy who looked after his fowls a full week before he received official warning from Headquarters.

How the chicken-boy heard of it remains a mystery. He who can tell you how news travels so rapidly in Africa can no doubt explain; but in answer to questioning, the boy replied: "People say so."

Thanks to this advance notice, Williams had time to make his plans at leisure. He had experience of native rumours of this kind, and, invariably acting upon them, gained a reputation for good organising.

No doubt the Sovereign's representative would want to shoot lion, buffalo, eland, sable, and, in addition, at least a specimen of each of the lesser inhabitants of the plain and forest. Well, he would do this and that and the other, and it would not be Williams's fault if a thoroughly representative bag were not made.

Like all sportsmen in official positions, living far from Headquarters and having a large district to control, Williams knew exactly where the game was most plentiful. He kept the information to himself as a general rule, for he well knew that if he did not do so his special reserves would soon cease to exist.

But for the direct representative of the King nothing was too good.

Williams made his plans, built a camp and awaited the arrival of his visitors.

Two days before the "Great Man" was due to arrive, old Garamapingwe, the musician, passed that way. He stopped to pay his respects to Williams.

"Good day, my father."

"Good day to you, Garamapingwe."

"What are the news, my Chief?"

"I look to you for news."

"Oh, there is nothing but the coming of the 'Great Man.'"

"Yes, he is coming."

"I should like to see the 'Great Man.'"

"You shall, Garamapingwe."

"Much thanks to you, my Chief."

An idea occurred to Williams. No doubt the sport which he had planned to provide would be excellent, but what about the evenings spent round the camp fire after dinner?

It might happen that his guests did not want to play bridge. He himself detested the game--most unnatural of him, but there it was. He disliked "shop" out of hours, and one could have too much talk of personal experiences. He must provide for a possible gap.

How many men in a thousand had heard native African music? Not the stuff you can hear any day from the boys' compound at the back of the house, but music, worthy of the name of music, made by men like Garamapingwe? Very few.

So Williams added to his plan.

* * * * *

It was Friday. The Great Man had been shooting for three days. The first two were decidedly promising. Nothing very wonderful had been shot, but very fair heads of eland, buffalo, roan and waterbuck had been secured by various members of the party.

The Great Man had done fairly well, but he was perhaps more at home with a shot gun.

But Friday had been a bad day. At the Great Man's request Williams had gone with him to look for Sable antelope. So far no one had shot a Sable. Well, they came across Sable, and in this manner.

At daylight all had gone their several ways.

The Great Man and Williams had gone east. Good luck, Sable spoor and quite fresh. Williams was a fair tracker: he had picked up something of the art from the bushmen down south. They followed it, Williams leading, carefully. The report of a rifle in the distance! The Great Man stopped. Williams felt savage. Who was this poaching? Who had left his beat and jumped their claim? He motioned the Great Man to sit down.

They waited.

They waited for ten minutes and then the snapping of a twig, somewhere to the left, attracted Williams's attention.

By Jingo, there they were, the Sable.

Led by a cow, a noble herd of Sable antelope came slowly through the forest.

The Great Man looked at Williams, who grinned and commanded quiet by lifting his hand.

On they came, cows, cows and more cows. Where was the bull? Surely a big bull accompanied such a herd of cows?

More cows and young bulls, but as yet no big, black, outstanding bull.

Williams was puzzled.

The Great Man became restive under inaction: to him there was no apparent difference between a cow and a bull. He had never seen Sable antelope before.

The huge herd filed past within forty yards.

Still no bull.

The Great Man looked at Williams and his expression was none too pleasant.

Williams felt desperate. He began to think it best after all to let the Great Man kill a good cow and have done with it when, looking to the left, he saw the bull. It was the bull! Black as ink, with a snow-white belly. Horns seemed above the average.

A great spasm of joy gripped Williams's heart. Here was a bull worthy of the Great Man, the direct representative of the Sovereign.

In response to a sign from Williams, the Great Man looked, saw, raised his rifle and--Williams checked him. Good Heavens, what was the matter with that bull? Seemed to be going short, off fore. It couldn't be.

Then he motioned to the Great Man to take his shot. The next moment the noble bull crashed to the ground and the cows filed on at a gallop and so out of sight.

"A good shot and a good bull, Sir," said Williams, but he was conscious of a sickening sense of dread.

They hurried up. The bull lay stone dead with a bullet exactly placed behind the shoulder.

"Shall I mark out the head skin for you, Sir? You'll want to keep this head?"

"Yes, please."

Williams worked like a man possessed. He cut the sleek, black skin from the withers to the brisket as the bull lay. Without moving the carcass he made a slit up the mane to the base of the skull. Here he stopped and listened. He heard something. Footsteps approaching. With a gasp of despair he dropped his hunting knife and faced the way the bull had come.

Curse the fellow! There he was; the Great Man's A.D.C., babbling like the fool he was. He was talking in English to the native who accompanied him. "Are you sure you are on the right track?" The native said nothing because he didn't understand one word of any language but his own. The A.D.C. headed straight for the Great Man's bull. Presently he looked up and walked forward smiling.

"Hullo, Soames, what are you doing here in my patch of country?"

"I hit a Sable bull about two miles back and followed him."

"You hit a bull?"

"Yes, Sir."

"So I have killed your bull for you, have I?"

"Oh no, Sir. It's your bull, of course."

"My dear boy, I know the laws of shooting. Mr. Williams, was this bull hit before I killed him?"

"I'll look, Sir," said Williams, feeling like a detected thief.

Fancy having to say "yes" to the question! There was the bullet hole in the off fore fetlock. What a shot!

* * * * *

The party dined under a sense of restraint that night. The Great Man congratulated his A.D.C. on having secured a fine bull, but that didn't improve matters.

After dinner it was a silent party round the camp fire.

Williams spoke.

"Would you like to hear some African music, Sir?"

"Very much indeed. Do you play?"

"No, Sir, but I have a man here."

"By all means let us hear him."

Garamapingwe was sent for.

The old musician came, followed by two other natives. He himself carried two curious looking musical instruments, one of the men carried another; the third man, led by a little native boy, was blind and empty handed.

The three natives greeted the Great Man suitably who as suitably replied.

They then sat down on the other side of the fire and Garamapingwe struck a few bold chords. No common musician he.

Williams said something in the vernacular to Garamapingwe, who replied.

"What did he say?" asked the Great Man.

"I asked him what he was going to sing," replied Williams, "and he said: 'The Song of the Great Occasion.'"

"Will you please ask him what this great occasion is of which he is going to sing?"

The question was put and the reply translated. "The great occasion is the visit paid to our poor country by the Great Man who represents the King of the white men."

"How very interesting! Please tell him to proceed."

Garamapingwe sang and played vigorously. He played an instrument with either hand. His companion played one with both his hands. The blind man droned in chorus to Garamapingwe's recitative. It was a very fine performance. The Great Man had an ear for music. Williams was delighted, for the Great Man seemed both pleased and interested.

The second verse was ended and the third began, when suddenly the blind man leaped into the air, interrupting the harmony with a piercing shriek.

All but Williams and the natives thought this part of the performance. They were not left long in doubt. Clutching wildly at his clothing, the blind man moaned and moaned and moaned. He stripped himself and turned to the fire to be inspected by his fellows. The Great Man's wife fled to her tent. Williams had the musicians hustled away.

A large scorpion had crept up and stung the blind man as he sat.

Thus the song of the Great Occasion ended abruptly.

THE DESCENT OF MAN.

Randall was skinning a monkey. He had shot two monkeys during the morning and had already skinned one of them. He collected monkeys and had done so steadily for years.

Randall was District Commissioner and Magistrate of a large tract of British Africa. One of the many men who live and die unheard of by the British public; men who quietly but efficiently "administer" England's African possessions.

Some day, perhaps, England may realise what a debt it owes to these unknown men.

I was Randall's assistant. I had served for four years; that is to say, one year beyond the probationary period. I had made good to the extent of getting on the Establishment, and held the rank of Assistant Native Commissioner.

Randall had been in the Service for twenty-three years. In his dealings with the natives he was firm and just. He had a deep sympathy for the people entrusted to his care, but he successfully concealed it from them. He used to say to me "Play the game with your people but don't slobber over them, they don't understand that sort of thing."

It has often been said that all men who have spent more than ten years in the heart of Africa are mad. I have known few saner men than Randall, but I cannot deny that he had one peculiarity: he collected monkeys.

I could never understand why he shot the wretched things, or why he skinned them in such a peculiar way. Let me explain.

Randall only shot one kind of monkey, and only the mature male of that kind. Having bagged his monkey, he would consult a shabby little black pocket-book, make an entry in it, and then set to work to skin the beast.

From watching him I gathered this much: he kept only the head and shoulders and one arm of each monkey. Sometimes it was the right arm, sometimes the left, never both. Some kind of calculation in the pocket-book appeared to be necessary before he could determine which arm he wanted.

I also observed that he carefully cleaned all particles of flesh from the skull and arm bones and, having put some preservative on the skin, wrapped it round the skull and bones, making a neat little parcel of the whole. After labelling the specimen, he packed it away in a box which was carried, wherever he travelled, by his body servant, Monga.

On reaching the Station, after a journey in the District, Monga and his master would repack the contents of the box in a large tin-lined case. Randall had three such cases. Two of them were quite full, the third nearly so.

I never questioned Randall about his hobby. Once I shot a monkey and gave it to Monga, thinking his master would skin it; but he did not; he simply told his man to throw it away. As he said nothing to me about it, I let the matter drop and made no more advances.

As I said before, on this particular morning Randall had shot two monkeys. He decided to keep the left arm in each case. Monga was squatting on the ground in front of him, holding the body of the dead monkey whilst his master skinned it. The pair were silent; from long practice Monga knew exactly what was required of him and needed no instructions. Presently Randall said "This is the last one, Monga: no more monkeys after this one."

Monga accepted the statement without comment, but it set me speculating afresh upon the object of Randall's quaint hobby. However, as my Chief offered no explanation, I did not ask for one.

When the skinning was all but done, Monga permitted himself to remark, "Monkeys were men like me once, Morena."

Randall paused and looked gravely at Monga for a moment; then, bending to his task once more, he said, "Monga, I believe you, tell me more."

Now, if Monga resembled anything, it was a monkey. His eyes were set close together, his nose was very small, his lower jaw protruded slightly, and his forehead was very low and much puckered. I saw the humour of the conversation and wanted to laugh, but to have done so would, I felt, have lowered me in the estimation of my Chief. Randall had once said to me: "Blackmore, in spite of your ridiculous name, you should get on in the Native Department. Had your name been Whitelaw, or even Smith, you would not have been handicapped. You have a stupid name to live down, for this is a black man's country. However, always remember this: never laugh with a native, and only laugh at him if he is deserving of punishment and you wish to punish him. Only a fool beats a native; ridicule is a cleaner form of punishment, and not as brutalising."

I suppressed my desire to laugh, and Monga resumed.

"Yes, Morena, monkeys were men once just the same as we are. They lived in their own villages in nice huts; they had their own chiefs, and spoke like people do.

"But they became lazy--lazy to hoe their fields and to weed them; lazy to build their huts and to plaster them. So they said to each other: 'It is a bad thing to work; let us go to the forest and live there, and we will find fruits in the forest to eat.' So they went to the forest and lived there.

"One day one said: 'Are we not tired of making clothes? Let us grow hair on our bodies that we may be warm always.' And all agreed and grew hair on their bodies.

"When the autumn came, and the grain in the lands was ripe, the lazy ones came to steal from the men's gardens. The men tried to watch their gardens, but the thieves were too clever.

"The monkeys had their servants, and when they wanted food they sent their servants on to see if there were any men in the lands. If there were no men there they would steal corn and pumpkins and melons and calabashes, and carry them away to the forest.

"And if they found a sleeping man watching the fields they passed by him gently; and when they had finished stealing they would cut some twigs and beat him severely. And when the man woke up and began to run away, they would laugh at him and mock him.

"When the monkeys returned to the forest with the foods which they had stolen, they lit fires and cooked them. Then the people, seeing the smoke, came with sticks and assegais, and beat some monkeys and killed others.

"Then the monkeys said: 'It is not good to have fire, for the men see it and come and kill us.' So now the monkeys steal when the men are not looking, and eat the food uncooked in the trees at night."

Randall made only one comment. He asked Monga where the monkeys got their tails from. But Monga admitted that he did not know.

Randall had now finished his skinning, and had made the usual neat little parcels; Monga brought the box and carefully packed them in with the rest.

The travelling box was quite full!

* * * * *

A few days later Randall developed black-water fever and died. We carried his body back to the Station and buried him at the foot of a large baobab tree. The natives for many miles round attended.

When all was over, and Randall's successor was on his way to take charge of the district, Monga came to me and reminded me that there were some monkey skins in the travelling box to be packed away in the large tin-lined case. As he knew more of his master's strange hobby than I did, he did the packing whilst I looked on.

When the last skin had been transferred I realised that the case was quite full, and would not have held another one. This, I remember, struck me as being uncanny. Between us we soldered up the tin lining and nailed on the lid of the case.

Then Monga looked at me for instructions. This set me thinking. Why on earth did Randall collect monkeys? I examined the lids of the cases and found his name and home address neatly painted on each. Clearly, therefore, he had intended to take them home. But this did not explain why he had collected them. I thought of the shabby little black note-book, so went into the house and looked through it. All I could gather was that Randall had collected three hundred and eighty right-armed and one hundred and twenty left-armed skins. Five hundred wretched monkeys--and what for? And why not two hundred and fifty right arms and two hundred and fifty left; or why not all right or all left?

I went back to where Monga stood by the cases, and asked him why his master had collected the monkeys. He seemed surprised at my question; it apparently never occurred to him to inquire into the why and the wherefore of any of his master's acts. He seems to have accepted all his master did or said as a matter of course.

The whole thing was monstrous. I could not send the wretched things to his people at home. They would think him mad, as perhaps he was as regards his hobby, but no saner man ever lived so far as anything else was concerned.

Then I had an inspiration. I ordered a large hole to be dug at the foot of another tree, which stood about a hundred yards from that under which Randall's grave lay. Into this hole I had the three cases carried, and the earth shovelled back. Monga didn't disapprove, or, if he did, he made no protest. I think he took the whole thing as a matter of course, as was his way.

I never found out, nor can I imagine, why Randall collected the heads and shoulders of five hundred monkeys--three hundred and eighty with right arms and one hundred and twenty with left arms attached.

Someone reading this story may guess or may know. For myself, I frankly admit defeat.

THE RAILWAY CONTRACTOR.

Bositi had returned to his village after six years' absence. Most of the time he had spent on the railway construction, where the work was heavy and the pay light. In physique he was improved almost beyond recognition.

The large blue-and-yellow tin box which he carried on his head contained the miscellaneous goods upon which he had spent some of his wages. Much of his money had gone in drink, more in gambling.

After Bositi had been away two years the headman and elders presumed his death. So, too, did his wife; she married again, and had presented her new husband with two children.

Bositi was unreasonable about it. On being told that he was supposed to be dead, he insulted the headman and beat the woman who was once his wife. When her husband protested, he beat him too.

After he had thus relieved his feelings he opened his box, and took from it many strings of pink and white beads; these he gave to the mothers of the pretty marriageable girls of the village. In return he received much strong beer. The beer made him drunk--too drunk to beat or insult anyone else, but not too drunk to grasp securely in a moist hand the key of his precious box.

Next morning he made his peace with the headman by giving him a hat, but he rudely rebuffed his late wife, whose cupidity was excited by the size of that blue-and-yellow tin box.

He also made friends with the men of the village--not excluding him who had married his wife--by distributing pieces of strong twist tobacco.

After a few days' rest he made certain selections from the treasure in his box and set out for the Chief's village. When there he showed off. He wore his best clothes, and spoke bad English fluently and loudly in the traders' stores. While his money lasted the traders suffered him; when it was spent he was told not to come again.

The Chief soon heard of him and sent for him.

Bositi had never been presented at Court before. He was immensely impressed. He squatted in the sand, one of a long row of strangers to the capital, with his gifts neatly folded before him. Immediately in front of him was a long thatched building. Three sides of it were closed in with reed mats, the fourth was open to the public. This, a lounger told him, was the National Council House, or Khotla.

The Chief had not yet arrived, but his orchestra was playing idly. It consisted of three gigantic harmonicas and a number of drums. The instrumentalists showed their utter contempt of all common people by talking loudly as they strummed and thumped.

The Court Fool was aping birds. He had a bunch of feathers in his hair and a few stuck in his waist-belt behind; this was the extent of his make-up. For the moment he was imitating a crested crane. The bird is beautiful, the Fool was hideous; yet such was his art of mimicry that all recognised the bird he had chosen to represent.

The Town Crier paused for a moment to bawl something unintelligibly, and then passed on his way.

Some oxen straying by stopped to sniff at some rubbish. The armed guards drove them off with a few cuts of their raw hide whips.

Bositi had brought as a present to the Chief a large blanket with a realistic lion printed on it, a highly-coloured pocket handkerchief, and a new brass tinder box. He mentally contrasted his gifts with those brought by other men--mostly to the disadvantage of the others.

One old man was about to offer two goodly tusks of ivory. By the fuss the hangers-on made of this old man it was very evident that a possessor of ivory commanded very much respect.

Bositi had smuggled an old Tower musket across the border and knew where to get powder. He promised himself an elephant with larger tusks than those displayed by his rival.

Presently there was a stir. The Chief was coming! The orchestra struck up energetically; the Fool twirled rapidly round on one foot; the hangers-on crouched and shaded their faces as from the rising sun; the long row of visitors bent forward until their foreheads touched the sand; the guards fell upon one knee and all clapped their hands.

Bositi literally buried his face in the sand; a little got into his right eye and annoyed him for days to come.

The Chief moved towards the Council House, preceded by a number of body servants, one of whom pointed with a long stick to imaginary stumps and stones over which his lord and master, if not warned, might trip.

Another carried the Chief's chair. This chair was strongly made on the European pattern. The seat of it was covered with the hide of a Sable antelope, from which constant use had worn much of the hair. A rude face was carved on the bar which supports the sitter's back. To this face men do reverence when the Chief is not in his chair.

A third man beat with two small drum-sticks upon a large harmonica, which was suspended by a bark rope from his neck.

Another carried a green umbrella, not open, because the Chief himself had a smaller one in his own hand.

The sight of the Chief filled Bositi with awe. He paid no attention to the crowd of councillors following in the footsteps of the august personage. He felt that his own finery, which had been much admired by the common herd, was really very mean.

For the Chief had on a grey top hat with a wide black band to it. He wore a long magenta dressing gown, which fell open as he strode forward, disclosing a pair of pepper and salt trousers. On his feet he had a magnificent--in Bositi's eyes--pair of new bright yellow boots. In his free hand he carried an eland's tail fitted as a fly-whisk, with an ivory and ebony handle.

In spite of his absurd clothes the Chief had a certain air of dignity. He was heavily built and stooped slightly at the shoulders with age; his small beard was tinged with grey.

He stepped along firmly, however, and Bositi noticed with jealousy that his eyes lit up as they rested for a moment on the two great tusks of ivory brought by the old man.

The Chief entered the Council House and sat down. Immediately all present raised their hands and shouted a salutation with such good will that the orchestra was not heard for a space. The Court Fool hopped round with renewed energy. The official Praiser shouted:

The great lion!
The bull elephant!
The thunderer!
The greatest of all lions!

The salutations died down and the orchestra came to its own again.

There is no hurry in a native Council House. The band played out its selection and the Court Fool continued to gyrate. One by one the Councillors took their seats in the Chamber. This was a lengthy business: each man in turn seated himself on the ground before the Chief and clapped his hands and bowed several times; then, collecting his skirts round him, he moved in a crouching position to his accustomed seat.

At length quiet prevailed. One by one the visitors were marshalled forward to present their gifts and state their case--if they had one to state.

Many trivial matters were discussed and trumpery gifts bestowed upon the Chief, when it came to the turn of the old man with the ivory.

"Who is this who brings ivory?" asked the Chief.

"It is Moyo of the Rivoswe country," someone volunteered.

"Oh, the man who is said to have broken our laws. See, he brings two tusks and they are large ones."

"Yes, the tusks he brings are large ones," remarked several of those in the Council House.

"Who accuses this man of law-breaking?" demanded the Chief.

There was no reply. All knew their master's weakness for ivory.

The Chief addressed Moyo: "Tell me, old man, what mischief was in your heart when last you left my village?"

Moyo pointed to the tusks. "I went to hunt elephants for the Chief. For long I hunted before I killed. When I had killed, I brought my ivory to my Chief. I am no law-breaker. Is it against the law for the Chief's slave to hunt elephants for the Chief?"

"If," answered the Chief, "to bring me ivory is to break the law, let many break it. Who accused this man?"

As no answer was forthcoming, the Chief accepted the ivory.

As a matter of fact this old man Moyo had been very troublesome in days gone by. He had refused to pay the annual tribute of honey, corn and skins, and had driven away the tax-gatherers sent to collect. Now, realising that he was getting on in years, he thought it wise to make his peace. No one ventured to remind the Chief of these things in view of the offering of two goodly tusks. Moyo was permitted to go to his home in peace; it was, however, plainly hinted to him that ivory would not save his skin if again he thought fit to defy the Chief's authority.

At length Bositi's turn came. "Who is this slave?" asked the Chief.

Someone spoke for him. "He comes with a small gift. He has been working for many years for the white man."

"Is this the fellow who has been making the white man's stemala?"

(By "stemala" the Chief meant railway, probably an attempt at the word "steamers.")

"Yes, Chief," said Bositi, "I have been making stemalas."

"Can you make good stemalas?"

"Yes, Chief, I can make them. I have been helping the white man to make them for many years."

"What does the white man use stemalas for?"

"To carry goods too heavy for a man to carry, and to travel distances more quickly and greater than a man can travel."

"Could you build a stemala for me?"

Without hesitation Bositi declared he could build a railway for the Chief if he were provided with the necessary men to help him and a few axes and adzes for felling and shaping the timber.

"Is not the stemala made of iron?" inquired the Chief.

"Yes, the white man uses iron from his country where it is found in pieces as long and as straight as a palm tree. He has no big trees in his country. In the Chief's country iron is only found in little pieces, but the trees are large and long."

"If you make a good stemala for me you shall be the headman of your village and the induna of your district. The axes and the adzes shall be given to you. Go and make a stemala for me; go quickly and make the stemala quickly."

"I will go, but the Chief must know that a stemala is a big thing to make. Many men and many days are wanted for its making."

"It is well; I understand," said the Chief. Then turning to one of his principal advisers, he directed him to see that Bositi had all the men and all the tools he required.

That night much fuss was made over Bositi who was to become the headman of his village and the induna of his district--when he had made a railway for his Chief.

As for Bositi, he talked big things and adopted the manner of a big man, bearing himself as if his railway were already built and he installed in his high position.

In due course were settled such small details as where the railway was to be built, how many men were required, and what tools would be wanted from the Chief's store.

At length the party set out. Bositi was the most important member of it. Next, and with authority in some respects even greater than his, was the Chief's representative. This man had power to requisition slave labour in the Chief's name and free food from the villages near to the seat of operations.

The spot chosen for the railway was some two hundred miles from the Chief's village. This was fortunate for Bositi, for the distance freed him from too much tiresome supervision. It was on the main river where free navigation is interrupted by a waterfall of considerable size and a series of formidable rapids. For centuries travellers had been content to drag their canoes overland round these obstacles. The going was very heavy as the soil was loose and sandy. The railway was to save this labour. Canoes were to be put on the rails above the falls and so transported to the quiet water below. A more useful railway, from the natives' point of view, could not have been planned.

I was shown over the works by Bositi himself in the early days of construction, before those difficult problems arose which sooner or later confront all who "bite off more than they can chew."

If Bositi had paid strict attention to business and had attached that importance to details which details have a way of demanding, I think his railway would have been a success. But this is too much to expect of any native.

He began well.

I found firmly fixed to the ground by means of stout wooden pegs half a dozen well-made wooden rails. Much labour had been expended on these, for they were cut from large trees. They were perfectly straight and set in true parallel. Resting on the rails were two pairs of wheels: each pair was linked together by a heavy axle bar, rounded at either extremity to permit the wheels to turn freely, but squared between the wheels. The wheels, which were secured to the axle by wooden pins, were shaped like cotton reels: that is, they were doubly flanged in order to keep them from slipping off the rails.

Bositi ordered his men to put a long, heavy log across the axle of the two pairs of wheels and proudly pushed it backwards and forwards along the short length of line, some sixty feet.

He explained that when the work was finished it would be necessary only to place a canoe, fully loaded, across the axles and push it along.

I asked him how many months he had been at work on the construction. He said six. I pointed out that as the distance to be covered by the rails was some three miles, it would be forty years and more before the railway was ready for use. In the meantime, what about the ravages of the white ant?

Bositi appeared hurt but not discouraged. I think he put my criticism down to the natural jealousy which a white man would feel upon finding that a native is not incapable of great things.

He explained that the work had required some planning out, that the local people had been slow to respond to the calls made upon them by the Chief's representative for food and labour, and that the rains had hindered progress.

I admitted that these were difficulties which required time to overcome, and asked to be shown his working camp.

Bositi led me some distance into the forest. Here I saw a number of men busy with tiny native adzes upon some felled trees, shaping them into wooden rails. In very few instances were the rails in the making as straight as those already laid. It was clear to me that the wheels would somehow have to negotiate very awkward turns and twists in the line, and I wondered how they would do it.

By no amount of questioning and patient explanation could I get Bositi to see the difficulty which lay ahead of him, so I presently continued my journey, encouraged by the promise that when next I passed that way with my canoes I should enjoy a ride on the wooden railway.

* * * * *

That section of the Cape to Cairo railway was never finished. I inspected the abandoned line many months later and found, as I had expected, that the white ants had eaten the rails almost as quickly as they were laid. I also saw that less trouble had been taken in making them. The trees from which they were cut were crooked, so here the rails widened, there they narrowed. Here there was a hump, there a depression.

I made it my business to find out what had become of Bositi. He had not been made a headman of his village nor an induna of his district; but, having failed in his undertaking and squandered all his substance, he had gone south again to live the careless life of the railway camp, where, under the hand of the white man, difficulties seem to disappear as quickly as the morning mist before the rising sun.

THE LICENSED VICTUALLER.

John Smith was an up-country caterer in a remote part of Africa. We called him Joseph, after other shining lights in the trade.

I don't think I ever saw him quite sober, but, on the other hand, never heard of his being drunk. He was not good to look at, being fat, bald and red-faced.

A stranger once called him Joe. Our host was indignant at the familiarity, and snapped: "I'm Joe to me pals, John Smith to me acquaintances, Mr. Smith to you, damn you!" Coming across to my table, he winked heavily, and said in a hoarse stage-whisper: "P'raps you've 'eard a bloke say that afore?"

I admitted I had.

"Come in nice and 'andy, tho'," said Joe.

Joe's place of business was a frame house with walls of canvas. He had named it the "Duke of York's Restuarant." The spelling was his; so, too, was the sign-writing.

He was a man of uncertain temper. One day a hungry guest asked for more beef. Joe thought this unreasonable, and thus addressed the man:

"Yore twist do give yer nerve. 'Ere, tike the bloomin' lot!" With that he hurled the round of beef full at the hungry man's head; it missed him and passed out through the canvas wall. Joe glared at his damaged property for a space, and then in a loud voice made it known to the rest of us that "Beef's off."

On another occasion a boarder declined to partake of a doubtful-looking meat concoction which Joe declared was "frickerdells."

"Wot, yer don't like 'em, don't yer?"

"No."

"Won't eat 'em, won't yer?"

"No."

We all held our breath, wondering what manner of assault Joe would select for this reckless fellow.

But Joe grinned, actually grinned, and replied: "I don't blame yer; I wot makes 'em wouldn't touch 'em; no, not for a fortune."

One Saturday afternoon I happened to be passing through the yard when Joe was discussing with his handy-man, Sammy, the Sunday lunch. (Sammy was an Indian, and in Africa all Indians are "Sammy" to all men.)

"'Ow many dead chickens are there, Sammy?"

"Fourteen, Boss."

"'Ell! 'Ow many died yesterday and 'ow many did yer find dead this mornin'?"

"Eight yesterday and six to-day, Boss."

"Well, we'll curry the eight and roast the six."

On Sunday I refused curry and roast fowl. Joe asked why. I told him.

"Blokes wot 'ang around the cook-'ouse door 'ears things an' sees things o' times wot puts 'em off their grub. 'Ave some bully?"

I did.

Joe seldom had enough waiters, and what he had were mostly black men, quite untrained. I remember one white waiter who answered to the name of William. In our eyes he had many faults--in Joe's, but one. He would talk to the customers, stand and talk instead of attending to wants.

Joe warned him repeatedly, but his warnings were lost on William.

One day Joe lost his temper. "Look 'ere, you snip, wot 'ave I told yer? Wot 'ave I kep' on tellin' yer? You'd talk the 'ind leg off a mule! You'r hat it agen. 'Ere, quit. Sling yer 'ook out o' this. I'm bloomin' well fed up with yer."

William blinked at Joe during this harangue, and then quietly asked: "Do I understand you to mean, Joe, that I'm sacked?"

"Yes," said Joe, "I sack yer. Come to the till for yer pay."

"Do you mean," pursued William, "that I am a free man?"

"You are," said Joe.

William turned and looked up and down the crowded tables. He then walked quietly to an empty seat and sat down, bawling:

"Joe, bring me a plate o' beef; look sharp, I'm in a hurry."

As Joe's business grew (and it did grow in spite of Joe), the waiting became too much for him. He had so many guests that he couldn't get them served quickly enough to please himself, or them. This man wanted one thing, that another, and a third something else; all called their wants loudly and together.

Joe's remedy was, I believe, original. Sharp at one o'clock he had each place set round with generous helpings of all the dishes for the day. You would find a plate piled with roast beef, greens and potatoes; a second equally full of cold pork, potatoes and spring onions; a third with hashed mutton and potatoes; a fourth with hot suet pudding plentifully smeared with treacle; half a loaf of bread on a fifth, and so on. To one arriving a little late, this spectacle was far from appetising. One knife and fork and one spoon had to do duty for the lot.

Most people ate what they wanted and left the rest. Once a guest protested that he could not eat everything set before him. Joe was hurt. "'Oo the 'ell arst yer to?" he thundered savagely. "It won't cost yer no more, nor no less, either way."

Just inside the "restuarant" door there stood what Joe described as a "wash-and-brush-up-nice-and-'andy." It was his claim that he catered for the "better clarse." The "wash-and-brush-up" consisted of a tin basin on an empty upturned whisky case. The water was usually dirty; the towel, suspended from a roller, was always so; the soap was a long bar of "blue mottled." Dangling from a piece of string, tied to a nail driven into the wooden framework of the wall, was a tooth-brush. Heaven knows where Joe got it from; it was by no means new. He had never used one himself. When I questioned him on the subject of this "fitting," he said: "Some people uses 'em. Like as not I should be arst for one quick enough if I didn't have one. Best to tie it to the 'ouse, or some bloke 'ud lift it."

Someone once asked for a table napkin. Joe was puzzled, and looked searchingly at the man. He suspected a "leg-pull."

"What for?" he demanded.

The man explained.

"Oh, it's a servy-yet yer want, is it? Ain't got any! You wait till the railway comes, then we'll get all manner o' things--servy-yets, toothpicks, and suchlike. Don't be unreasonable; you ain't in a drawin'-room now, yer know."

When the railway did come, Joe sold his business for much money and went North. The sight of a starched collar and a tie in his "restuarant" was a sign for him that civilisation had reached his very door. Joe didn't like civilisation, and hated "torfs." He had been known to remark: "The sight of a bloke in a boiled shirt makes me sick."

* * * * *

On the spot once occupied by Joe's eating house now stands a large hotel built of stone, with a bathroom leading out of every bedroom.

THE JOHNNIE-COME-LATELY.

William Blake walked quietly into the bar of the Tantani Hotel. It was obvious to all that he had not been out from England long, because his clothes were so new and clean. Besides, he bore the self-conscious air which is an unmistakeable sign.

All the men who crowded the bar wore reach-me-downs; or, if their clothes had been made in England, it was very, very long ago.