"Yes, he is from America," said Captain Petersen.
"I have a brother in America, in Minnesota," exclaimed one.
A second said: "I have a sister in Dakota."
A third: "I also have a brother in America; he sails on the Great Lakes."
From that moment those fishermen and I were great friends. They asked me my name. I replied, "My name is Paul Du Chaillu."
"Why!" some of the younger fishermen said, "we have read in school the translation of your travels in Africa. Are you really he?"
"Yes," I replied.
Twenty-eight men, the crews of four boats, including the captains, lived together. A cooking-stove was in the centre of the room; a few wooden benches and a table composed the rest of the furniture, while a number of chests contained the garments of the men, several coffee kettles, a pan and a big pot, etc.
All these twenty-eight men insisted that I should have a whole bunk to myself—the occupant would shift and go to another fellow. I must be comfortable, they said. I was not accustomed to living in their way.
A man took his things from his bunk. He was the captain of one of the boats. He said to me: "Paul, my bunk is yours." I had to accept.