The Ivory Trail. Talbot Mundy

its manager conservative. The amount of the draft we placed to our credit insured politeness.

      "Be cautious," he advised us. "Take a good look round before you commit yourselves!"

      He agreed to manage the interchange of messages between us and Monty, and invited us all to dinner that evening at the club; so we left the bank feeling friendly and more confident. Later, a chance-met English official showed us over the old fort (now jail) where men of more breeds and sorts than Noah knew, better clothed and fed than ever in their lives, drew endless supplies of water in buckets from da Gama's well.

      "Some of them have to be kicked out when their sentences expire!" he told us. "See you at the club tonight. Glad to help welcome you."

      But there was a shock in store, and as time passed the shocks increased in number and intensity. Our guns had not been surrendered to us by the customs people. We had paid duty on them second-hand at the rate for new ones, and had then been told to apply for them at the collector's office, where our names and the guns' numbers would be entered on the register—for a fee.

      We now went to claim them, and on the way down inquired at a store about ammunition. We were told that before we could buy cartridges we would need a permit from the collector specifying how many, and of what bore we might buy. There was an Arab in the store ahead of us. He was buying Martini Henry cartridges. I asked whether he had a permit, and was told he did not need one.

      "Being an Arab?" I asked.

      "Being well known to the government," was the answer.

      We left the store feeling neither quite so confident nor friendly. And the collector's Goanese assistant did the rest of the disillusioning.

      No, we could not have our guns. No, we could have no permit for ammunition. No, the collector was not in the office. No, he would not be there that afternoon. It was provided in regulations that we could have neither guns, sporting licenses, nor permits for ammunition. The guns were perfectly safe in the government godown—would not be tampered with—would be returned to us when we chose to leave the country.

      "But, good God, we've paid duty on them!" Oakes protested.

      "You should not have brought the guns with you unless you desired to pay duty," said the Goanese.

      "But where's the collector?" Yerkes demanded.

      "I am only assistant," was the answer. "How should I know?"

      The man's insolence, of demeanor and words, was unveiled, and the more we argued with him the more sullen and evasive he grew, until at last he ordered us out of the office. At that we took chairs and announced our intention of staying until the collector should come or be fetched. We were informed that the collector was the most important government official in Mombasa—information that so delighted Fred that he grew almost good tempered again.

      "I'd rather twist a big tail than a little one!" he announced. "Shall we sing to pass the time?"

      The Goanese called for the askari,* half-soldier, half-police-man, who drowsed in meek solitude outside the office door.

      ———————— * Askari, soldier. ————————

      "Remove these people, please!" he said in English, and then repeated it in Kiswahili.

      The askari eyed us, shifted his bare feet uncomfortably, screwed up his courage, tried to look stern, and said something in his own tongue.

      "Put them out, I said!" said the Goanese.

      "He orders you to put us out!" grinned Fred.

      "The office closes at three," said the Goanese, glancing at the clock in a half-hearted effort to moderate his own daring.

      "Not unless the collector comes and closes it himself, it doesn't!"

       Fred announced with folded arms.

      Will pulled out two rupees and offered them to the sentry.

      "Go and bring us some food," he said. "We intend to stay in here until your bwana makubwa* comes."

      ——————— * Bwana makubwa, lit. big master, senior government officer. ———————

      The sentry refused the money, waving it aside with the air of a Caesar declining a crown.

      "Gee!" exclaimed Will. "You've got to hand it to the British if they train colored police to refuse money."

      The askari, it seemed, was a man of more than one kind of discretion. Without another word to the Goanese he saluted the lot of us with a sweep of his arm, turned on his heel and vanished—not stopping in his hurry to put on the sandals that lay on the door-step. We amused ourselves while he was gone by flying questions at the Goanese, calculated to disturb what might be left of his equanimity without giving him ground for lawsuits.

      "How old are you?"—"How much pay do you get?"—"How long have you held your job?"—"Do you ever get drunk?"—"Are you married?"—"Does your wife love you?"—"Do you keep white mice?"—"Is your life insured?"—"How often have you been in jail?"—"Are you honest?"—"Are you vaccinated against the jim-jams?"—"Why is your name Fernandez and not Braganza?"

      The man was about distracted, for he had been unwise enough to try to answer, when suddenly the collector came in great haste and stalked through the office into the inner room.

      "Fernandez!" he called as he passed, and the Goanese hurried after him, hugely relieved. There was five minute's consultation behind the partition in tones too low for us to catch more than a word or two, and then Fernandez came out again with a "Now wait and see, my hearties!" smile on his face. He was actually rubbing his palms together, sure of a swift revenge.

      "He says you are to go in there," he announced.

      So we filed in, Fred Oakes first, and it seemed to me the moment I saw the collector's face that the outlook was not so depressing. He looked neither young nor incompetent. His jaw was neither receding nor too prominent. His neck sat on his shoulders with the air of full responsibility, unsought but not refused. And his eyes looked straight into those of each of us in turn with a frank challenge no honest fellow could resent.

      "Take seats, won't you," he said. "Your names, please?"

      We told him, and he wrote them down.

      "My clerk tells me you tried to bribe the askari. You shouldn't do that. We are at great pains to keep the police dependable. It's too bad to put temptation in their way."

      Will, with cold precision, told him the exact facts. He listened to the end, and then laughed.

      "One more Goanese mistake!" he said. "We have to employ them. They mean well. The country has no money to spend on European office assistants. Well—what can I do for you?"

      At that Fred cut loose.

      "We want our guns before dark!" he said. "It's the first time my character has been questioned by any government, and I say the same for my friends!"

      "Oh?" said the collector, eying us strangely.

      "Yes!" said Fred.

      "That is so," said I.

      "Entirely so," said Will.

      "I have information," said the collector, tapping with a pencil on his blotter, "that you men are ivory hunters. That you left Portuguese territory because the German consul there had to request the Portuguese government to expel you."

      "All easily disproved," said Fred. "Confront us, please, with our accusers."

      "And that Lord Montdidier, with whom you have been traveling, became so disgusted with your conduct that he refused to land with you at this port as he at first intended!"

      We all three gasped. The first thing that occurred to me, and I suppose to all of us, was to send for Monty. His steamer was not supposed to sail for an hour yet. But the thought had hardly flashed in mind