AN OILY OLD CHIEF. 169 



man I ever beheld. Everything about him was 

 suggestive of oil, from his head to his heels, 

 blanket included ; like a compound of salmon 

 and seal's flesh, he smelt quite as oily as he 

 looked. Outside, however, there was no help for 

 it: go where I would, a bodyguard of savages 

 (real untamed savages too, not semi-civilised 

 articles) was always in attendance. 



Once I managed to escape through the pickets 

 at the back of the fort, and stealthily reaching the 

 beach, under cover of the trees, imagined myself 

 safe. A light misty rain fell thickly, and a 

 flock of sanderlings, running along in the ripple, 

 completely absorbed my attention. I was sud- 

 denly startled by hearing the ' crunch, crunch ' of 

 a foot in the shingle behind me. I had looked 

 right and left on reaching the beach, but not a 

 trace of Indian was visible. Turning suddenly 

 round, you can picture my surprise at finding my- 

 self face to face with a savage, unclad from head 

 to heel, carrying what should you imagine ? not 

 a scalping-knife, or a war-club, or bow or spear 

 or gory scalp : it was an immense green gingham 

 umbrella, a thoroughbred c Gamp,' with horn 

 crook, battered brass ferule, furled with a ring 

 such as curtains are hung on. He politely 

 offered me a part, and scarcely deeming it safe 



