He would have been still more glad had he heard the fourth officer announce, at table, to his colleagues: “I offered to drop that chap, Lieutenant Greene, at Kilindini this afternoon, when we go for our grind. He can take the tiller-ropes. . . . I like him the best of the lot—no blooming swank and side about him.”
“Yes,” agreed the “wireless” operator, “he doesn’t talk to you as though he owned the earth, but was really quite pleased to let you stand on it for a bit. . . . I reckon he’ll do all right, though, when he gets-down-to-it with the Huns—if he doesn’t get done in. . . .”
And so it came to pass that Bertram was taken ashore that afternoon by some half-dozen officers and officials (including the doctor, the purser, and the Marconi operator) of the Elymas—worthy representatives of that ill-paid, little-considered service, that most glorious and beyond-praise, magnificent service, the British Mercantile Marine—and, landing in state upon the soil of the Dark Continent, knew “the pleasure that touches the souls of men landing on strange shores.”
Arrived at the top of the stone steps of the Kilindini quay, Bertram encountered Africa in the appropriately representative person of a vast negro gentleman, who wore a red fez cap (or tarboosh), a very long white calico night-dress and an all-embracing smile.
“Jambo!” quoth the huge Ethiopian, and further stretched his lips an inch nearer to his ears on either side.
Not being aware that the African “Jambo” is equivalent to the Indian “Salaam,” and means “Greeting and Good Health,” or words to that effect, Bertram did not counter with a return “Jambo,” but nodded pleasantly and said: “Er—good afternoon.”
Whereupon the ebon one remarked: “Oh, my God, sah, ole chap, thank you,” to show, in the first place, that he quite realised the situation (to wit, Bertram’s excusable ignorance of Swahili-Arabic), and that he was himself, fortunately, a fluent English scholar. Bertram stared in amazement at the pleasant-faced, friendly-looking giant.
“Bwana will wanting servant, ole chap,” continued the negro, “don’t it? I am best servant for Bwana. Speaking English like hell, sah, please. Waiting here for Bwana before long time to come. Good afternoon, thank you, please, Master, by damn, ole chap. Also bringing letter for Bwana. . . . You read, thanks awfully, your mos’ obedient servant by damn, oh, God, thank you, sah,” and produced a filthy envelope from some inner pocket of the aforementioned night-dress, which, innocent of buttons or trimming, revealed his tremendous bare chest.
Bertram felt uncomfortable, and, for a moment, again wished that he was one of those men-with-an-eye-and-a-jaw who could give a glare, a grunt, and a jerk of the head which would cause the most importunate native to fade unobtrusively away.
On the one hand, he knew it would be folly to engage as a servant the first wandering scoundrel who accosted him and suggested that he should do so; while, on the other, he distinctly liked this man’s cheery, smiling face, he realised that servants would probably be at a decided premium, and he recognised the extreme desirability of having a servant, if have one he must, who spoke English, however weird, and understood it when spoken. Should he engage the man then and there? Would he, by so doing, show himself a man of quick decision and prompt action—one of those forceful, incisive men he so admired? Or would he merely be acting foolishly and prematurely, merely exhibiting himself as a rash and unbalanced young ass? Anyhow, he would read the “chits” which the filthy envelope presumably contained. If these were satisfactory, he would tell the man that the matter was under consideration, and that he might look out for him again and hear his decision.