"And to him I said, in the tones of one accustomed to command—
"'Hi, you, there! What's your name, and where do you come from?'
"The effect was instantaneous, as, indeed, I had expected. Old memories and associations triumphed, and he spoke to me as a black soldier servant to his officer—
"'Kroo boy, sah, from West Coast, sah. Name Bottled Bass, sah. Hope you quite well, sah. Get you plenty chop one time, sah.'
"It was the perpetuated triumph of the higher civilization over the lower. I lost no time in following it up.
"'That's all right, Bottled Bass,' I said; 'we'll see about the chop later on. Meanwhile get this gate open, and tell Senussi-el-Mahdi I want to see him. Say I've got a letter from an old friend of his at Mecca.'
"To an Arab, of course, I should not have spoken thus; but it was clearly the proper way to speak to Bottled Bass. The Arabs themselves seemed favourably impressed on finding that I spoke to this recent negro convert with less ceremony than to themselves; and he himself seemed proud to be spoken to at all.
"It was not likely, of course, that he would be in a position to convey my message personally. But he was a friendly interpreter, and he would pass it on. Exclusive though the Senussi might be, the rumour would reach him, and his curiosity would be aroused. And so it happened.
"After a pause the city gate was opened, and I was allowed to enter. I was put in a courtyard, closely guarded, and given some dates and a jug of water. The population came and stared at me. But, at last, after weary hours of waiting, a message was delivered to me. Abdullah and Bottled Bass were jointly charged with its interpretation.
"'The unbeliever is summoned to the presence,' was Abdullah's rendering.