As, in those days, we could issue or withhold a licence at discretion, I questioned Schiller closely.
He didn't look like the ordinary Jew. By that I mean he hadn't a pronounced nose: on the contrary, it was small and snubby. He told me he was a Jew, I should not have guessed it.
He wore a long row of medal ribbons and, in support of his claim to them, produced discharge papers from every irregular force raised in Africa during the last twenty years.
I read the papers carefully and could but conclude that the little man who applied for a licence was a confirmed fire-eater and a very gallant soldier.
No camp follower he. His medals were earned and at the cost of not a few wounds. I later saw these honourable scars.
I gave him his licence and asked him to sign an undertaking designed to control certain undesirable activities in which it was just possible he might wish to indulge.
He couldn't write his name. A large X with a few unnecessary blots thrown in adorned the record of his promise. He never broke his word: in fact that man's word was his bond in the truest sense.
I have always found that an illiterate man is a much more rapid learner than one who keeps a note book. The one relies upon his memory and so strengthens it; the other discourages it by admitting its limitations.
He learnt the local dialect rapidly, and his pronunciation was quite good. This gave him advantage over his rival traders.
Natives like to hear their language spoken by a white man, and, as Schiller was a fluent talker, his company was much sought after.