“I am a white woman,” I said uncertainly, for I was very weary, and I had an uneasy feeling that this white man, like so many others I had met, might think I had no business to be there, and I didn't feel quite equal to asserting my rights just at that moment, and then I met an outstretched hand. It needed no more. I knew at once. It was a kindly, friendly, helpful hand. Young or old, pretty or plain, ragged, smart, or disreputable, whatever I was, I felt the owner of that hand would be good to me. Dr Duff, for the negro had pronounced his name after his kind, led me upstairs through the darkness, with many apologies for the want of light, into a big room, dimly lighted by a kerosene lamp, and then we looked at each other.
“God bless my soul! Where on earth did you come from?” said he.
“No one told me there was a white man in Elmina,” said I; “and the relief of finding one was immense.”
But not till I was washed and bathed, dressed, fed, and in my right mind did we compare notes, and then we sat up till midnight discussing things.
It seemed to me I had sounded the depths, I had mastered the difficulties of African travel. My new friend listened sympathetically as he drank his whisky-and-soda, and then he flattered my little vanities as they had never been flattered since I had set out on my journeyings.
“Not one woman in ten thousand would have got through.”
I liked it, but I think he was wrong. Any woman who had once started would have got through simply and solely because there was absolutely nothing else to be done. It is a great thing in life to find there is only one way.
Then Dr Duff descended to commonplace matters.
“I hope you don't mind,” said he; “I've kicked your policeman.”
“That,” said I, “is a thing he has been asking someone to do ever since we left Sekondi a thousand years ago.”