Thinking black; 22 years without a break in the long grass of Central ...

"OWN UP AND PAY UP" 119
tribute wrangle, and the demand really amounts to the
astounding idea that we must pay for the very faggots
we break in the forest ; must pay for the very water we
drink; yea, finally and fearfully, we must pay for the
very air we breathe. Pay for the very air we breathe,
and if we don't " stand and deliver," then—why, soon we
will be breathing no air at all. Ah, these road-blocking
days are the Missionary's terrible times, when the feelings
are at flash-point and not at all improved after a sleep-
less night of native drum-dancing. You seem to awake
with the feeling that you have not slept for a hundred
years, and with a complexion like uncooked pastry.
Content as these negroes are to drone through life, they
glory in thus blocking the road with their delusive
and abortive demands.
Let me introduce you to this fiery friend of ours, Mr.
Rob Roy. For a moment you think the whole thing
must be an optical illusion. A globular personage, with
the voice of Stentor and the build of Falstafi*, here he
comes mincing along to the rhythmic music of tight new
boots—bought from the slavers. Personal remarks in
Africa are permissible, and you will perceive that Rob is
dressed in his Sunday best for the occasion, to wit, an
utterly abominable soldier's uniform, probably now entering
its teens. Fat and fifty, our friend is obviously bursting
for relief, for the rag-shop red coat is giving him a claret-
coloured face. With every button straining at its
fastenings, observe how the tight-unto-choking collar
makes his ox-neck overflow in waves of fat. After many