“It seemed incredible as we stood there and thought of the man who had exiled himself from his race and had resorted to the unbridled lust and squalor of all that we saw around us—girls and women in all stages of undress and motherhood. But it was not so strange when one thinks of the criminals and unbridled lust and squalor of the dens of great cities—cities superintended by vigilant police officials with the power of a nation to help them put down crime. And who will deny that, notwithstanding Scotland Yard, London, and White House, New York, crime does exist, that men do revert back to their primitive instincts, resort to bestiality, murder, and all that’s utterly opposed to the instincts of decently trained, clean-minded men. However, the fact remains that there was a white man who dwelt in complete savagery in the mountains to the N.N.W., however incredible it may seem. And nothing could be more certain than the sound of a drunken voice singing an English song, the melody of ‘There is a tavern in the town, in the town!’ coming from the inside of that primitive but palatial-looking dwelling before us!
“‘Keep close to me, Sanga,’ said I, as the chiefs turned and beckoned us. Then Deny’s tall form stooped as he bent forward and entered the doorway, while Sanga and I closely followed him.
“Though I had conjured up all kinds of picturesque types in my mind as to what kind of a man I should see when I entered there, I’ll swear that I was quite unprepared for the villainous type that I did see. Squatting on a mat, native fashion, was a burly-looking man of about fifty years of age. His face was a dull, pasty brown; indeed, the man before us was more like a half-caste than any type I could think of at the moment. Even his hair was done up in a large mop, native style. But the reddish colour of the beard, and the deep-set, keen grey eyes were unmistakable—there squatted a degenerate Britisher, robed in all the glory of primitive royalty. Hanging from the wide, low roof were some forty coconut-oil lamps which added to the mystery of the scene before us. In a semicircle, almost up to his feet, squatted several native women, some of them young girls, presumably his wives. To our astonishment he nodded his head, as though courteously to acquaint us with the fact that he was pleased to see us. This welcome of his seemed incongruous enough, since he wore only a tasselled sulu about his loins, a garb that barely reached to his muscular, hairy knees. As he stood up he resembled nothing so much as some primitive blacksmith who wore a leather apron only—had forgotten to put his trousers on.
“The walls were decorated with fibre matting, skulls, old men’s beards, and other gruesome articles that make up the furniture of barbarian homesteads. On the floor in front of him were large calabashes, some full of fruits, others containing fermenting toddy. These facts I took in at a glance as Deny stood speechless on one side of me and Sanga clutched my hand on the other side.
“Suddenly he looked up, and said: ‘Vinaka, sirs! glader to see you, o le su, ter-day, savve?’
“So long had it been since he had spoken to his countrymen that he had actually got into the habit of speaking pigeon English! For a little while he regarded us with suspicion, then, as he took another drink of toddy from the calabash that the native girls held to his lips, he became garrulous. As he spoke on I noticed that his speech improved; one could almost hear the awakening in his brain of words that had lain dormant for years.
“Though I courteously refused to drink of the toddy that he ordered to be handed to me, Deny, to my regret, swallowed more than was good for him. This convivial understanding of like appetites seemed to awaken his interest in us, for ere long Deny stood before him and sang some old Scottish songs—‘Robin Adair,’ and ‘Will ye no’ come back again?’ I think. He gave orders to his concubines to fetch us sweet taro, pineapples, and many mixed dishes that were made from indigenous fruits. Then he shifted himself, squatted right opposite me, and commenced to ask me questions about England.
“‘Whas London loiker? He! he! he! Does the ole Queen still sit on her throne at Windsor? He! he!’
“Saying that, he gave a lurch forward, and I saw that the pose he had assumed when we entered his dwelling-place had been dispelled by drivelling intoxication. Still he raved on, nudged me in the ribs, and shouted toasts to other days! Thrusting his pallid face forward, he lifted the coco-nut goblet, and yelled again and again, ‘’Ows ye b—— ole Queen!’ then he gave me another violent nudge, and roared with laughter.
“‘Nasty-looking ole swine!’ said Deny, as Sanga pinched my arm and said in a quiet voice: