Nostalgia
was doing duty to him for imagination. He was wafted to a bedroom in
Marylebone, where in honour of the Day he lay late dozing, with great
contentment; outside, a slush of snow in the street, the sound of
church-bells; from below a savour of especial cookery. "Yes," he said,
"it's a feast-day of my people."
"Of mine also," said the islander humbly.
"Is it though? But they'll do business first?"
"They must first do that."
"And they'll bring their ivory with them?"
"Every man will bring ivory," answered the islander, with a smile
gleaming and wide.
"How soon'll they be here?"
"Has not the sun risen? They are on their way."
"Well, I hope they'll hurry. The sooner we're off this cursed island
of yours the better. Take all those things out," Mr. Williams added,
pointing to the merchandise, "and arrange them--neatly, mind you!"
In certain circumstances it is right that a man be humoured in
trifles. Mahamo, having borne out the merchandise, arranged it very
neatly.
While Mr. Williams made his toilet, the sun and the forest, careless
of the doings of white and black men alike, waged their warfare
implacable and daily. The forest from its inmost depths sent forth
perpetually its legions of shadows that fell dead in the instant
of exposure to the enemy whose rays heroic and absurd its outposts
annihilated.
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