It was necessary to row across the harbour in a native boat. The men handed the girls in and sat beside them on the rough seats. A "boy" in a red fez, with his shirt hanging loose over his cotton drawers, who was to act as guide, directed operations. Two grinning negroes, their muscles knotted beneath their flimsy vests, drove the boat over the dark waters with long sweeps of oars. There was no moon, but the stars gave a soft light. And as the blunt prow cut the sea, a thousand molten ripples broke in little waves left and right, silver streamers melted into the darkness on either side, while the blades of the oars turned up liquid fire. Every little drop that fell from them was a diamond of light. As they looked over the side, gleaming flights of living silver gems of fish fled before their approach. Over the black waters ahead, shone a yellow flicker or two from lanterns on the quay.
They landed, laughing and joking, and found themselves on a roadway that was, as the Major had said, all sand, except for granite curbstones that ran ahead into the night and marked its course. Now and again, a board announced the site of a church or hotel; and at a cross-road in the waste, building operations had been begun for a big shop, a theatre and a restaurant.
"Piccadilly Circus here," said Jardine, "all in good time!"
"Which way now?" laughed Muriel.
"Down towards those lights. There are makeshift stores there, and the native quarter. I expect we might find a native café and music hall going strong."
"What fun," said Ursula. "Lead on, Major."
Their guide jabbered in Swahili and Jardine interpreted. "He says there's a theatre," he said smiling, "if the ladies care to see it."
"A theatre!" ejaculated Paul. "Heavens above! What in the world do they show here?"
"There'll be a cinematograph," said the Major judicially, "and a band, and dances, and songs screeched loud enough to drown even the band. We might look in. If it's a bit too much for the ladies, we can leave."
As if in ready answer, the sound of a chorus was borne on the night air to them. The party stood still and stared at each other. Then they broke into mutual laughter. There was no mistaking it: Africa was singing in what it called English: "I'm a bro-ken doll."