One morning the scream of our whistle and the bang of our little signal-gun, followed by the prolonged rattle of the anchor-chain running through the hawse-pipe, showed that we had reached some point of call.  The ship lay about half a mile off shore, and one could see black figures running about the beach and pushing off a big black boat.  The spray shot high in the air as the bow dived through the surf, and soon we could hear the hiss and gasp of the rowers as they drew near.  They were naked negroes, shining with oil and sweat.  Standing up in the boat, with face to bow, they plunged their paddles perpendicularly into the water with a hiss, and drew them out with a gasp.  A swirling circle of foam marked where each stroke had fallen, and the boat surged nearer through the swell, till, with a swish of backing paddles, it stopped alongside the ship’s ladder, like a horse reined up.  Out of the stern there stepped a little figure, just recognisable as a white man.  His helmet was soaked and battered out of shape.  The tattered relics of his white-duck suit were plastered with yellow palm-oil and various kinds of grease.  So was the singlet, which was his only other clothing.  So were his face and hands.  But he was a white man, and he came up the ship’s side with the confident air of Europe.

The purser greeted him on deck, and they disappeared into the purser’s cabin to make out the bill of lading.  The hatch was opened, and the steam crane began hauling barrels and sacks out of the boat, and then depositing other great barrels in their place, according to the simplest form of barter.  The barrels we took smelt of palm-oil; the barrels we gave smelt of rum.  When the boat could hold no more, the little man reappeared with the purser, and was introduced to me as Mr. Jacks.

He took off his battered helmet, inclined his body from the middle of his back, and said, “Enchanted, sair!”

Then he gave me his oily hand, which wanted rubbing down with a bit of deck swabbing.

“You fit for go shore one time?” he asked in the pidjin English of the Coast, still keeping his helmet politely raised.

“Oui, certainement, toute suite,” I replied in the pidjin French of England.

If I had been the King conferring on him the title of Duke with a corresponding income, his face could not have expressed greater surprise and ecstasy.

He replied with a torrent of French, of which I understood nearly all, except the point.

Taking my arm (the coat-sleeve never recovered from the oily stain), he led me to the ship’s side and steadied the rope ladder while I went down, the purser following behind, or rather on my head.  We sat on the barrels, M. Jacques took a paddle to steer, and hissing and gasping, the queer-smelling crew started for the beach.  When we came near, M. Jacques turned with his pleasant smile to the purser, and said, “Surf no good!  Plenty purser live for drown this one place.”