THE EAST COAST 171 



as a marine tavern where every crazy craft must 

 drop in and join in a brawl of bloodshed. With 

 its fine old inscribed gateway and great brass- 

 studded doors, it is a treasure of antiquity that 

 should be guarded as zealously as the Crown 

 jewels. Beyond it, and still hugging the sea- 

 shore, is the Mombasa Club, a place as modern 

 as the fort is old. There you may play snooker 

 on fast-cushioned, up-to-date tables, or learn 

 new ideas on auction-bridge, and while away 

 the scorching hours with " Johnnie Collinses," 

 " Horses' Necks," or some other strangely 

 seductive and strangely intoxicating East Coast 

 drink. 



Were the early European conquerors of Mom- 

 basa to drop in here their ears would sing with 

 strange talk. They would listen in vain for 

 the stern tidings of buccaneers. They would 

 hear that young Sabreton of the K.A.R.'s was 

 coming down to catch the Goorkha, minus an 

 arm chewed up by a lion, that Lord Farmerville 

 was selling all his cattle at the next Nankuru 

 fair, that the Duke of Vienna had been charged 

 by a rhino, and that Jones had ridden three 

 winners at the Nairobi races. They would shout 

 with joy at the sight of the old well in Vasco 

 da Gama street, an antique brother of the 

 desecrated fort. But the Hotel Africa, with its 

 wonderful collection of liquors and cigarette 

 advertisements, would be strangely unfamiliar. 

 Farther along this street are the Mombasa 

 Customs House, where huge stocks of massive 

 ivory are often to be seen, and the Port landing- 

 stage. 



If you are sufficiently adventurous you may 

 leave His Majesty's Excise, and skirting round 

 the waters of the harbour come into Swahilidom, 



