Next day I arose at 4 A.M., somewhat cramped and stiff, but with nothing that would not yield to half a handful of quinine, a cup of coffee well “laced,” a pipe, and a roaring fire.  Some country people presently came up, and rated us for sleeping in the bush; we retorted in kind, telling them that they should have been more wide-awake.  Whilst the boat was being baled, I walked to the shore, and prospected our day’s work.  The forest showed a novel feature:  flocks of cottony mist-clouds curling amongst the trees, like opals scattered upon a bed of emeralds; a purple haze banked up the western horizon, whilst milk-white foam drew a delicate line between the deep yellow sand and the still deeper blue.  Far to the south lay the Serna or prairillon of Sanga-Tanga, a rolling patch, “or, on a field vert,” backed by the usual dark belt of the same, and fronted by straggling dots that emerged from the wave—­they proved to be a thin line of trees along shore.  We were lying inside the mouth of the “Habanyaa” alias the Shark River, which flows along the south of a high grassy dome, streaked here and there with rows of palms, and broken into the semblance of a verdure-clad crater.  According to the people the Nkonje (Squalus) here is not a dangerous “sea-tiger” unless a man wear red or carry copper bracelets; it is caught with hooks and eaten as by the Chinese and the Suri Arabs.  The streamlet is a favourite haunt of the hippopotamus; a small one dived when it sighted us, and did not reappear.  It was the only specimen that I saw during my three years upon the West African Coast,—­a great contrast to that of Zanzibar, where half a dozen may be shot in a single day.  The musket has made all the difference.

At 6 A.M. on Friday, March 28, the boat was safely carried over the bar of Shark River, and we found ourselves once more hugging the shore southwards.  The day was exceptional for West Africa, and much like damp weather at the end of an English May; the grey air at times indulged us with a slow drizzle.  After two hours we passed another maritime village, where the farce of yesterday evening was re-acted, but this time with more vigour.  Ignorant of my morning’s private work, Hotaloya swore that it was Sanga-Tanga.  I complimented him upon his proficiency in lying, and poor Langobumo, almost in tears, confessed that he had pointed out to me the real place.  Whereupon Hotaloya began pathetically to reproach him for being thus prodigal of the truth.  Nurya, the “head trader,” coming down to the beach, with dignity and in force told me in English that I must land, and was chaffed accordingly.  He then blustered and threatened instant death, at which it was easy to laugh.  About 10 A.M. we lay off our destination, some ten miles south of Dyanye Point.  It was a beautiful site, the end of a grassy dune, declining gradually toward the tree-fringed sea; the yellow slopes, cut by avenues and broken by dwarf table-lands, were long afterwards recalled