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 ‘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 
