the roast of Old England, but any meat, from a field-rat to a hippopotamus.  He boasts that he has slain with his own hand upwards of a hundred gorillas and anthropoid apes, and, since the demand arose in Europe, he has supplied Mr. R.B.N.  Walker and others with an average of one per month, including a live youngster; probably most, if not all, of them were killed by his “bushmen,” of whom he can command about a dozen.

Forteune began by receiving his “dash,” six fathoms of “satin cloth,” tobacco, and pipes.  After inspecting my battery, he particularly approved of a smooth-bored double-barrel (Beattie of Regent Street) carrying six to the pound.  Like all these people, he uses an old and rickety trade-musket, and, when lead is wanting, he loads it with a bit of tile:  as many gorillas are killed with tools which would hardly bring down a wild cat, it is evident that their vital power cannot be great.  He owned to preferring a charge of twenty buckshot to a single ball, and he received with joy a little fine gunpowder, which he compared complimentarily with the blasting article, half charcoal withal, to which he was accustomed.

Presently a decently dressed, white-bearded man of light complexion announced himself, with a flourish and a loud call for a chair, as Prince Koyala, alias “Young Prince,” father to Forteune and Hotaloya and brother to Roi Denis,—­here all tribesmen are of course brethren.  This being equivalent to “asking for more,” it drove me to the limits of my patience.  It was evidently now necessary to assume wrath, and to raise my voice to a roar.

“My hands dey be empty!  I see nuffin, I hear nuffin!  What for I make more dash?”

Allow me, parenthetically, to observe that the African, like the Scotch Highlander, will interpose the personal or demonstrative pronoun between noun and verb:  “sun he go down,” means “the sun sets” and, as genders do not exist, you must be careful to say, “This woman he cry too much.”

The justice of my remark was owned by all; had it been the height of tyranny, the supple knaves would have agreed with me quite as politely.  They only replied that “Young Prince,” being a man of years and dignity, would be dishonoured by dismissal empty-handed, and they represented him as my future host when we moved nearer the bush.

“Now lookee here.  This he be bad plabba (palaver).  This he be bob!  I come up for white man, you come up for black man.  All white man he no be fool, ’cos he no got black face!”

Ensued a chorus of complimentary palaver touching the infinite superiority of the Aryan over the Semite, but the point was in no wise yielded.  At last Young Prince subsided into a request for a glass of rum, which being given “cut the palaver” (i.e. ended the business).  I soon resolved to show my hosts, by threatening to leave them, the difference between traders and travellers.  Barbot relates that the Mpongwe of olden time demanded his “dassy”