“That him Tippoo Tib’s nephew!” said a voice, and we all jumped.  We had not noticed Juma come and stand beside us.

“I suspect nephew is a vague relationship in these parts,” said Monty.  “Do you mean Tippoo’s brother was that man’s father, Juma?”

“No, bwana.* Tippoo Tib bringing slave long ago f’m Bagamoyo.  Him she-slave having chile.  She becoming concubine Tippoo Tib his wife’s brother.  That chile Tippoo Tib’s nephew.  Tea ready, bwana.”

-----------------
* Bwana, Swahili word meaning master.
-----------------

“What does that man do for a living?”

“Do for a living?” Juma was bewildered.

“What does he work at?”

“Not working.”

“Never?”

“No.

“Has he private means, then?”

“I not understand.  Tea ready, bwana!”

“Has he got mali*?” Fred demanded.

“Mali?  No.  Him poor man.”

--------------
Mali, Swahili word meaning possession, property.
--------------

“Then how does he exist, if he has no mali and doesn’t work?”

“Oh, one wife here, one there, one other place, an’
Tippoo Tib byumby him giving food.”

“How many wives has he?”

“Tea ready, bwana!”

“How do they come to be spread all over the place?” (We were shooting questions at him one after the other, and Juma began to look as if be would have preferred a repetition of the toe-nail incident.)

“Oh, he travel much, an’ byumby lose all money, then stay here.  Tea, him growing cold.”

There is no persuading the native servant who has lived under the Union Jack that an Englishman does not need hot tea at frequent intervals, even after three cocktails in an afternoon.  So we trooped to the table to oblige him, and went through the form of being much refreshed.

“What is that man’s name?” demanded Monty.

“Hassan.”

“Do you know him?”

“Everybody know him!”

“Can you get a message to him?”

“Yes, bwana.”

“Tell him to come and talk with us at the hotel as soon as he hears we are out of this.”

We did not know it at the time (for I don’t think that Monty guessed it either) that we had taken the surest way of setting all Zanzibar by the ears.  In that last lingering stronghold of legal slavery,* where the only stories judged worth listening to are the very sources of the Thousand Nights and a Night, intrigue is not perhaps the breath of life, but it is the salt and savory.  There is a woolly-headed sultan who draws a guaranteed, fixed income and has nothing better to do than regale himself and a harem with western alleged amusement.  There are police, and lights, and municipal regulations.  In fact, Zanzibar has come on miserable times from certain points of view.  But there remains the fun of listening to all the rumors borne by sea.  “Play on the flute in Zanzibar and Africa as far as the