The old musician came, followed by two other natives. He himself carried two curious looking musical instruments, one of the men carried another; the third man, led by a little native boy, was blind and empty handed.

The three natives greeted the Great Man suitably who as suitably replied.

They then sat down on the other side of the fire and Garamapingwe struck a few bold chords. No common musician he.

Williams said something in the vernacular to Garamapingwe, who replied.

"What did he say?" asked the Great Man.

"I asked him what he was going to sing," replied Williams, "and he said: 'The Song of the Great Occasion.'"

"Will you please ask him what this great occasion is of which he is going to sing?"

The question was put and the reply translated. "The great occasion is the visit paid to our poor country by the Great Man who represents the King of the white men."

"How very interesting! Please tell him to proceed."

Garamapingwe sang and played vigorously. He played an instrument with either hand. His companion played one with both his hands. The blind man droned in chorus to Garamapingwe's recitative. It was a very fine performance. The Great Man had an ear for music. Williams was delighted, for the Great Man seemed both pleased and interested.

The second verse was ended and the third began, when suddenly the blind man leaped into the air, interrupting the harmony with a piercing shriek.

All but Williams and the natives thought this part of the performance.

They were not left long in doubt. Clutching wildly at his clothing, the blind man moaned and moaned and moaned. He stripped himself and turned to the fire to be inspected by his fellows. The Great Man's wife fled to her tent. Williams had the musicians hustled away.

A large scorpion had crept up and stung the blind man as he sat.

Thus the song of the Great Occasion ended abruptly.

THE DESCENT OF MAN.

Randall was skinning a monkey. He had shot two monkeys during the morning and had already skinned one of them. He collected monkeys and had done so steadily for years.

Randall was District Commissioner and Magistrate of a large tract of British Africa. One of the many men who live and die unheard of by the British public; men who quietly but efficiently "administer" England's African possessions.

Some day, perhaps, England may realise what a debt it owes to these unknown men.

I was Randall's a.s.sistant. I had served for four years; that is to say, one year beyond the probationary period. I had made good to the extent of getting on the Establishment, and held the rank of a.s.sistant Native Commissioner.

Randall had been in the Service for twenty-three years. In his dealings with the natives he was firm and just. He had a deep sympathy for the people entrusted to his care, but he successfully concealed it from them. He used to say to me "Play the game with your people but don't s...o...b..r over them, they don't understand that sort of thing."

It has often been said that all men who have spent more than ten years in the heart of Africa are mad. I have known few saner men than Randall, but I cannot deny that he had one peculiarity: he collected monkeys.

I could never understand why he shot the wretched things, or why he skinned them in such a peculiar way. Let me explain.

Randall only shot one kind of monkey, and only the mature male of that kind. Having bagged his monkey, he would consult a shabby little black pocket-book, make an entry in it, and then set to work to skin the beast.

From watching him I gathered this much: he kept only the head and shoulders and one arm of each monkey. Sometimes it was the right arm, sometimes the left, never both. Some kind of calculation in the pocket-book appeared to be necessary before he could determine which arm he wanted.

I also observed that he carefully cleaned all particles of flesh from the skull and arm bones and, having put some preservative on the skin, wrapped it round the skull and bones, making a neat little parcel of the whole. After labelling the specimen, he packed it away in a box which was carried, wherever he travelled, by his body servant, Monga.

On reaching the Station, after a journey in the District, Monga and his master would repack the contents of the box in a large tin-lined case.

Randall had three such cases. Two of them were quite full, the third nearly so.

I never questioned Randall about his hobby. Once I shot a monkey and gave it to Monga, thinking his master would skin it; but he did not; he simply told his man to throw it away. As he said nothing to me about it, I let the matter drop and made no more advances.

As I said before, on this particular morning Randall had shot two monkeys. He decided to keep the left arm in each case. Monga was squatting on the ground in front of him, holding the body of the dead monkey whilst his master skinned it. The pair were silent; from long practice Monga knew exactly what was required of him and needed no instructions. Presently Randall said "This is the last one, Monga: no more monkeys after this one."

Monga accepted the statement without comment, but it set me speculating afresh upon the object of Randall's quaint hobby. However, as my Chief offered no explanation, I did not ask for one.

When the skinning was all but done, Monga permitted himself to remark, "Monkeys were men like me once, Morena."

Randall paused and looked gravely at Monga for a moment; then, bending to his task once more, he said, "Monga, I believe you, tell me more."

Now, if Monga resembled anything, it was a monkey. His eyes were set close together, his nose was very small, his lower jaw protruded slightly, and his forehead was very low and much puckered. I saw the humour of the conversation and wanted to laugh, but to have done so would, I felt, have lowered me in the estimation of my Chief. Randall had once said to me: "Blackmore, in spite of your ridiculous name, you should get on in the Native Department. Had your name been Whitelaw, or even Smith, you would not have been handicapped. You have a stupid name to live down, for this is a black man's country. However, always remember this: never laugh with a native, and only laugh at him if he is deserving of punishment and you wish to punish him. Only a fool beats a native; ridicule is a cleaner form of punishment, and not as brutalising."

I suppressed my desire to laugh, and Monga resumed.

"Yes, Morena, monkeys were men once just the same as we are. They lived in their own villages in nice huts; they had their own chiefs, and spoke like people do.

"But they became lazy--lazy to hoe their fields and to weed them; lazy to build their huts and to plaster them. So they said to each other: 'It is a bad thing to work; let us go to the forest and live there, and we will find fruits in the forest to eat.' So they went to the forest and lived there.

"One day one said: 'Are we not tired of making clothes? Let us grow hair on our bodies that we may be warm always.' And all agreed and grew hair on their bodies.

"When the autumn came, and the grain in the lands was ripe, the lazy ones came to steal from the men's gardens. The men tried to watch their gardens, but the thieves were too clever.

"The monkeys had their servants, and when they wanted food they sent their servants on to see if there were any men in the lands. If there were no men there they would steal corn and pumpkins and melons and calabashes, and carry them away to the forest.

"And if they found a sleeping man watching the fields they pa.s.sed by him gently; and when they had finished stealing they would cut some twigs and beat him severely. And when the man woke up and began to run away, they would laugh at him and mock him.

"When the monkeys returned to the forest with the foods which they had stolen, they lit fires and cooked them. Then the people, seeing the smoke, came with sticks and a.s.segais, and beat some monkeys and killed others.

"Then the monkeys said: 'It is not good to have fire, for the men see it and come and kill us.' So now the monkeys steal when the men are not looking, and eat the food uncooked in the trees at night."

Randall made only one comment. He asked Monga where the monkeys got their tails from. But Monga admitted that he did not know.

Randall had now finished his skinning, and had made the usual neat little parcels; Monga brought the box and carefully packed them in with the rest.

The travelling box was quite full!

A few days later Randall developed black-water fever and died. We carried his body back to the Station and buried him at the foot of a large baobab tree. The natives for many miles round attended.

When all was over, and Randall's successor was on his way to take charge of the district, Monga came to me and reminded me that there were some monkey skins in the travelling box to be packed away in the large tin-lined case. As he knew more of his master's strange hobby than I did, he did the packing whilst I looked on.