We were.  But we talked, nevertheless, long into the afternoon, and in the end there was not one of us really satisfied.  Over and over we tried to persuade Monty to omit the Brussels part of the plan.  We wanted him with us.  But he stuck to his point, and had his way, as he always did when we were quite sure he really wanted it.

CHAPTER TWO

THE NJO HAPA SONG

Gleam, oh brighter than jewels! gleam my swinging stars in
        the opal dark,
Mirrored along wi’ the fire-fly dance of ’longshore light and
        off-shore mark,
The roof-lamps and the riding lights, and phosphor wake of
        ship and shark.

        I was old when the fires of Arab ships
        (All seas were lawless then!)
        Abode the tide where liners ride
        To-day, and Malays then,—­
        Old when the bold da Gama came
        With culverin and creed
        To trade where Solomon’s men fought,
        And plunder where the banyans bought,
        I sighed when the first o’ the slaves were brought,
        And laughed when the last were freed.

Deep, oh deeper than anchors drop, the bones o’ the outbound
        sailors lie,
Far, oh farther than breath o’ wind the rumors o’ fabled
        fortune fly,
And the ‘venturers yearn from the ends of earth, for none o’
        the isles is as fair as I!

The enormous map of Africa loses no lure or mystery from the fact of nearness to the continent itself.  Rather it increases.  In the hot upper room that night, between the wreathing smoke of oil lamps, we pored over the large scale map Monty had saved from the wreck along with our money drafts and papers.

The atmosphere was one of bygone piracy.  The great black ceiling beams, heavy-legged table of two-inch planks, floor laid like a dhow’s deck—­making utmost use of odd lengths of timber, but strong enough to stand up under hurricanes and overloads of plunder, or to batten down rebellious slaves—­murmurings from rooms below, where men of every race that haunts those shark-infested seas were drinking and telling tales that would make Munchhausen’s reputation—­steaminess, outer darkness, spicy equatorial smells and, above all, knowledge of the nature of the coming quest united to veil the map in fascination.

No man gifted with imagination better than a hot-cross bun’s could be in Zanzibar and not be conscious of the lure that made adventurers of men before the first tales were written.  Old King Solomon’s traders must have made it their headquarters, just as it was Sindbad the Sailor’s rendezvous and that of pirates before he or Solomon were born or thought of.  Vasco da Gama, stout Portuguese gentleman adventurer, conquered it, and no doubt looted the godowns to a lively tune.  Wave after wave of Arabs sailed to it (as they do today) from that other land of mystery, Arabia; and there isn’t a yard of coral beach, cocoanut-fringed shore, clove orchard, or vanilla patch—­not a lemon tree nor a thousand-year-old baobab but could tell of battle and intrigue; not a creek where the dhows lie peacefully today but could whisper of cargoes run by night—­black cargoes, groaning fretfully and smelling of the ’tween-deck lawlessness.