LITMIR.BIZ

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country itch for mile-stones! Let Fred warble. I'll fight whoever comes!"

      Monty eyed him and me swiftly, but made no comment.

      "Bill's homesick!" said Fred. "The U. S. eagle wants its Bowery! We'll soothe the fowl with thoughts of other things—where's the concertina?"

      "No, no, Fred, that'll be too much din!"

      Monty made a grab for the instrument, but Fred raised it above his head and brought it down between his knees with chords that crashed like wedding bells. Then he changed to softer, languorous music, and when he had picked out an air to suit his mood, sat down and turned art loose to do her worst.

      He has a good voice. If he would only not pull such faces, or make so sure that folk within a dozen blocks can hear him, he might pass for a professional.

      "Music suggestive of moonlight!" he said, and began:

      "The sentry palms stand motionless. Masts move against the sky.

       With measured creak of curving spars dhows gently to the

       jeweled stars

       Rock out a lullaby.

      "Silver and black sleeps Zanzibar. The moonlit ripples croon

       Soft songs of loves that perfect are, long tales of

       red-lipped spoils of war,

       And you—you smile, you moon!

       For I think that beam on the placid sea

       That splashes, and spreads, and dips, and gleams,

       That dances and glides till it comes to me

       Out of infinite sky, is the path of dreams,

       And down that lane the memories run

       Of all that's wild beneath the sun!"

      "You fellows like that one? Anybody coming? Nobody for Will to fight yet? Too bad! Well—we'll try a-gain! There's no chorus. It's all poetic stuff, too gentle to be yowled by three such cannibals as you! Listen!

      "Old as the moonlit silences, to-night's loves are the same

       As when for ivory from far, and cloves and gems of Zanzibar

       King Solomon's men came.

      "Sinful and still the same roofs lie that knew da Gama's heel,

       Those beams that light these sleepy waves looked on when

       men threw murdered slaves

       To make the sharks a meal.

       And I think that beam on the silvered swell

       That spreads, and splashes, and gleams, and dips,

       That has shone on the cruel and brave as well,

       On the trail o' the slaves and the ivory ships,

       Is the lane down which the memories run

       Of all that's wild beneath the sun."

      The concertina wailed into a sort of minor dirge and ceased. Fred fastened the catch, and put the instrument away.

      "Why don't you applaud?" he asked.

      "Oh, bravo, bravo!" said Will and I together.

      Monty looked hard at both of us.

      "Strange!" he remarked. "You're both distracted, and you've each got a slight cut over the jugular!"

      "Been trying out razors," said Yerkes.

      "Um-m-m!" remarked Monty. "Well—I'm glad it's no worse. How about bed, eh? Better lock your door—that lady up-stairs is what the Germans call gefaehrlich!* Goo'night!"

      —————- * Gefaehrlich, dangerous. —————-

CHAPTER THREE

       Table of Contents

      THE NJO HAPA SONG

      Tongues! Oh, music of eastern tongues, harmonied murmur

       of streets ahum!

       Trade! Oh, frasila weights of clove—ivory—copra—copal

       gum—

       Rubber—vanilla and tortoise-shell! The methods change.

       The captains come.

      I was old when the clamor o' Babel's end

       (All seas were chartless then!)

       Drove forth the brood, and Solitude

       Was the newest quest of men.

       I lay like a gem in a silken sea

       Unseen, uncoveted, unguessed

       Till scented winds that waft afar

       Bore word o' the warm delights there are

       Where ground-swells sing by Zanzibar

       Long rhapsodies of rest.

      Wild, oh wilder than winter blasts my wet skies shriek when

       the winds are freed.

       Mild, oh milder than virgin mirth is the laugh o' the reefs

       where sea-birds feed,

       Screaming and skirling and down again. (Though the sea-birds

       warn do captains heed?)

      There is no public landing wharf at Zanzibar. Passengers have to submit their persons into the arms of loud-lunged Swahili longshoremen, who recognize one sole and only point of honor: neither passenger nor luggage shall be dropped into the surf.

      Their invariable habit, the instant the view-halloa is raised, is to scamper headlong, pounce on the victim and pull him apart (or so it feels) until fortune, superior strength, or some such element decides the point; and then more often than not it is the victim's fate to be carried between two men, each hold of a thigh, each determined to get ashore or to the boat first, and each grimly resolved not to let go until three times the proper fee shall have been paid. Of only these two things let the passenger assure himself—fight how he may, he will neither escape their clutches nor get wet. Rather they will hold him upside-down until the contents of his pockets fall into the surf. Dry on the beach or into the boat they will dump him. And whatever he shall pay them will surely be insufficient.

      But we had a privy councilor of England of our party, and favors were shown us that never fall to the lot of ordinary travelers. Opposite the Sultan's palace is the Sultan's private wharf, so royal and private that it is a prison offense to trespass on it without written permission. Because of his official call at the Residency, and of his card left on the Sultan, wires had been pulled, and a pompous individual whose black face sweated greasily, and whose palm itched for unearned increment, called on Monty very shortly after breakfast with intimation that the wharf had been placed at our disposal, since His Highness the Sultan desired to do us honor.

      So when the B. I. steamer dropped anchor in the great roadstead shortly after noon we were taken to the wharf by one of the Sultan's household—a very civil-spoken Arab gentleman—and three English officers met us there who made a fuss over Monty and were at pains to be agreeable to the rest of us. While we stood chatting and waiting for the boat that should row us and belongings the mile-and-a-half or so to the steamer, I saw something that made me start. Fred gazed presently in the same direction.

      "Johnson is number one!" he said, as if checking off my mental processes. He meant Hassan. "Number two is Georges Coutlass, our friend the Greek. Number three is—am I drunk this early in the day?—what do you see?—doesn't she look to you like?—by the big blind god of men's mistakes it's—Monty! Didums, you deaf idiot, look! See!"

      At that everybody naturally looked the same way. Everybody nodded. Coutlass the Greek, and Hassan, reputed nephew of Tippoo Tib, were headed in one boat toward the steamer, the worse for

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