96 THE BONDS OF AFRICA 



I was not sorry to rest for a while under the 

 great shady trees which surround the Httle 

 cluster of grass huts of N'Tanta's people. 

 Presently the old chief came up to greet me. 

 He was a picturesque figure, and I could not help 

 wondering how many years had gone over his 

 head, then crowned by a dirty, well-worn turban, 

 once, no doubt, red, but then a brilliant pink in 

 colour. His skin was wrinkled and furrowed 

 with age, and his stubbly gray beard showed 

 indeed that he was a father of his people. That 

 turban was, no doubt, given him by a party of 

 Arab elephant hunters, who, a quarter of a 

 century ago, overran Central Africa, collect- 

 ing ivory and slaves for the Zanzibar markets. 

 Old N'Tanta had been a mighty hunter in 

 his day, and when I told him that I had for 

 long been following a wounded elephant with 

 very big tusks, he assured me that his people 

 would find the animal for me next day. 

 The Central African native, be he chief or 

 menial, will invariably tell you just what he 

 thinks will be most pleasing to your ears, 

 and I found old N'Tanta no exception to this 

 rule. 



Presently he saluted me in the true and 

 orthodox native style — a style which, should 

 you wander much over Africa, you will notice 

 has no part in the philosophy of the civilized 

 African. A minute afterwards he had disap- 

 peared amongst the huts. By-and-by he re- 

 turned with one or two headmen, each bearing 

 a skinny fowl, a few eggs, and a basket of sweet 

 potatoes— presents for the white man. I gave 

 him some cloth and antelope meat in exchange, 

 and as a smile of satisfaction curled round the 

 twisted corners of his mouth I again fell to 



