“Being an Arab?” I asked.

“Being well known to the government,” was the answer.

We left the store feeling neither quite so confident nor friendly.  And the collector’s Goanese assistant did the rest of the disillusioning.

No, we could not have our guns.  No, we could have no permit for ammunition.  No, the collector was not in the office.  No, he would not be there that afternoon.  It was provided in regulations that we could have neither guns, sporting licenses, nor permits for ammunition.  The guns were perfectly safe in the government godown—­would not be tampered with—­would be returned to us when we chose to leave the country.

“But, good God, we’ve paid duty on them!” Oakes protested.

“You should not have brought the guns with you unless you desired to pay duty,” said the Goanese.

“But where’s the collector?” Yerkes demanded.

“I am only assistant,” was the answer.  “How should I know?”

The man’s insolence, of demeanor and words, was unveiled, and the more we argued with him the more sullen and evasive he grew, until at last he ordered us out of the office.  At that we took chairs and announced our intention of staying until the collector should come or be fetched.  We were informed that the collector was the most important government official in Mombasa—­information that so delighted Fred that he grew almost good tempered again.

“I’d rather twist a big tail than a little one!” he announced.  “Shall we sing to pass the time?”

The Goanese called for the askari,* half-soldier, half-police-man, who drowsed in meek solitude outside the office door.

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* Askari, soldier.
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“Remove these people, please!” he said in English, and then repeated it in Kiswahili.

The askari eyed us, shifted his bare feet uncomfortably, screwed up his courage, tried to look stern, and said something in his own tongue.

“Put them out, I said!” said the Goanese.

“He orders you to put us out!” grinned Fred.

“The office closes at three,” said the Goanese, glancing at the clock in a half-hearted effort to moderate his own daring.

“Not unless the collector comes and closes it himself, it doesn’t!” Fred announced with folded arms.

Will pulled out two rupees and offered them to the sentry.

“Go and bring us some food,” he said.  “We intend to stay in here until your bwana makubwa* comes.”

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* Bwana makubwa, lit. big master, senior government officer.
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The sentry refused the money, waving it aside with the air of a Caesar declining a crown.

“Gee!” exclaimed Will.  “You’ve got to hand it to the British if they train colored police to refuse money.”

The askari, it seemed, was a man of more than one kind of discretion.  Without another word to the Goanese he saluted the lot of us with a sweep of his arm, turned on his heel and vanished—­not stopping in his hurry to put on the sandals that lay on the door-step.  We amused ourselves while he was gone by flying questions at the Goanese, calculated to disturb what might be left of his equanimity without giving him ground for lawsuits.