Whether they did or not—­whether the commandant writhed as we hoped in the torture of supreme insult, or slept as was likely from the after-effect of too much bottled beer with dinner—­there were others who certainly did hear, and made no secret of it.

To begin with, the part of the township nearest us was the quarter of round grass roofs, where the aborigines lived; and the Bantu heart responds to tuneful noise, as readily as powder to the match.  All that section of Muanza, man, woman and child, came and squatted outside the cactus hedge. (It was streng politzeilich verboten for natives to enter the European camping-ground, so that except when they wanted to steal they absolutely never trespassed past the hedge.)

Enraptured by the unaccustomed strains they sat quite still until some Swahili and Arabs came and beat them to make room.  When the struggle and hot argument that followed that had died down, Indians began coming, and other Greeks, until most of the inhabitants of the eastern side of town were either squatting or standing or pacing to and fro outside the camping-ground.

At last rumor of what was happening reached the D.O.A.G.—­the store at the corner of the drill-ground, where it seemed the non-commissioned officers took their pleasure of an evening.  Pleasure, except as laid down in regulations, is not permitted in German colonies to any except white folk.  No less than eight German sergeants and a sergeant-major, all the worse for liquor, turned out as if to a fire and came down street at a double.

They had kibokos in their hands.  The first we heard of their approach was the crack-crack-crack of the black whips falling on naked or thin-cotton-clad backs and shoulders.  There was no yelling (it was not allowed after dark on German soil, at least by natives) but a sudden pattering in the dust as a thousand feet hurried away.  Then, in the glow of our lamplight, came the sergeant-major standing spraddle-legged in front of us.

He was a man of medium height, in clean white uniform.  The first thing I noticed about him was the high cheek-bones and murderous blue eyes, like a pig’s.  His general build was heavy.  The fair mustache made no attempt to conceal fat lips that curled cruelly.  His general air was that most offensive one to decent folk, of the bully who would ingratiate by seeming a good fellow.

“’nabnd, meine Herren!” he said aggressively, with a smile more than half made up of contempt for courtesy.  “Ich heiess Schubert-Feldwebel Hans Schubert.”

“Wass wollen Sie?” Will asked.  He was the only one of us who knew German well.

But Schubert, it seemed, knew English and was glad to show it off.

“You make fine music!  Ach!  Up at the D.O.A.G. very near here we Unteroffitzieren spend the evening, all very fond of singing, yet without music at all.  Will you not come and play with us?”

“I only know French and English tunes!” lied Fred.