The Fan are cunning workers in iron, which is their wealth.  Their money is composed of Ikia, dwarf bars shaped like horse-fleams, a coinage familiar to old travellers in West Africa, and of this Spartan currency a bundle of ten represents sixpence.  “White man’s Ikia” would be silver, for which the more advanced Mpongwe have corrupted the English to “solove.”  An idea exists on the Lower River that our hardware is broken up for the purpose of being made into spear-heads and other weapons.  Such is not generally the case.  The Wamasai, the Somal and the Cape Kafirs—­ indeed, all the metal-working African barbarians—­call our best Sheffield blades “rotten iron.”  They despise a material that chips and snaps, and they prefer with ample cause their native produce, charcoal-smelted, and tempered by many successive heatings and hammerings, without quenching in water.  Nor will they readily part with it when worked.  The usual trade medium is a metal rod; two of these are worth a franc if of brass, while three of copper represent two francs.  There is a great demand for beads and salt, the latter especially throughout the interior.

Thus ended my “first impressions” amongst the Fan cannibals.

Chapter X.

To the Mbika (Hill) ; the Sources of the Gaboon.——­return to the
                            Plateau.

Not yet despairing of a shot at or of capturing a “poor relation,” I persuaded Mr. Tippet to assemble the lieges and offer them double what was proposed at Mbata.  No one, however, appeared sanguine of success, the anthropoid keeps his distance from the Fan.  A trip to the interior was suggested, first up the Mbokwe, and finally arranged for the Londo River.  Information about the country was, as usual, vague; one man made the stream head two days off, the other a few hours, and Mr. Tippet’s mind fluctuated between fifty and one hundred miles.

The party was easily assembled, and we set out at 7 A.M. on April 14th.  I and Selim had the dignity of a “dingy” to ourselves:  Mr. Tippet out of a little harem of twenty-five had chosen two wives and sundry Abigails, his canoe, laden with some fifteen souls, was nearly flush with the water.  The beauties were somewhat surly, they complained, like the sluggard, of too early waking and swore that they would do nothing in the way of work, industry being essentially servile Anne Coombe (Ankombe, daughter of Qua ben), was a short, stout, good humoured lass, “’Lizer” (Eliza), I regret to say, would not make the least exertion, and, when called, always turned her back.