“‘Can’t spare the boys to carry them to the beach,’ I’ll say.

“‘I’ll furnish the boys,’ he’ll answer.  That’s the German way.

“The Elder-Dempster boats lie three miles out at sea and blow a whistle at us.  They act as though by carrying our freight they were doing us a favor.  These German ships, to save you the long pull, anchor close to the beach and lend you their own shore boats and their own boys to work your cargo.  And if you give them a few tons to carry, like as not they’ll ‘dash’ you to a case of ‘fizz.’  And meanwhile the English captain is lying outside the bar tooting his whistle and wanting to know if you think he’s going to run his ship aground for a few bags of rotten kernels.  And he can’t see, and the people at home can’t see, why the Germans are crowding us off the Coast.”

Just outside of Duala, in the native village of Bell Town, is the palace and the harem of the ruler of the tribe that gave its name to the country, Mango Bell, King of the Cameroons.  His brother, Prince William, sells photographs and “souvenirs.”  We bought photographs, and on the strength of that hinted at a presentation at court.  Brother William seemed doubtful, so we bought enough postal cards to establish us as etrangers de distinction, and he sent up our names.  With Pivani, Hatton & Cookson’s chief clerk we were escorted to the royal presence.  The palace is a fantastic, pagoda-like building of three stories; and furnished with many mirrors, carved oak sideboards, and lamp-shades of colored glass.  Mango Bell, King of the Cameroons, sounds like a character in a comic opera, but the king was an extremely serious, tall, handsome, and self-respecting negro.  Having been educated in England, he spoke much more correct English than any of us.  Of the few “Kings I Have Met,” both tame and wild, his manners were the most charming.  Back of the palace is an enormously long building under one roof.  Here live his thirty-five queens.  To them we were not presented.

 [Illustration:  The Palace of the King of the Cameroons.]

Prince William asked me if I knew where in America there was a street called Fifth Avenue.  I suggested New York.  He referred to a large Bible, and finding, much to his surprise, that my guess was correct, commissioned me to buy him, from a firm on that street, just such another Bible as the one in his hand.  He forgot to give me the money to pay for it, but loaned us a half-dozen little princes to bear our purchases to the wharf.  For this service their royal highnesses graciously condescended to receive a small “dash,” and with the chief clerk were especially delighted.  He, being a sleight-of-hand artist, apparently took five-franc pieces out of their Sunday clothes and from their kinky hair.  When we left they were rapidly disrobing to find if any more five-franc pieces were concealed about their persons.