To us, of course, the crossing presented no difficulty. The road on the far side of the river, too, though rocky, is fairly good, undulating up and down, and twining in and out amongst an open bush country until the foot of the Malfakasa Mountain is reached. Then commences a fearful climb of about two hours' duration. For the greater part of the way riding was out of the question. We had to lead our horses, clambering painfully up slippery slopes, dragging them after us, often threading our way between huge boulders where there was hardly room for them to pass. Arrived at the top of the shoulder of the mountain, we had to go along the ridge for about half an hour, then followed an exceedingly steep, well-nigh perpendicular descent of about two hundred feet, to the almost dry boulder-strewn bed of a small stream; and out of which a corresponding though not so steep rise led up to a little plateau where the rest-house is situated.

From here a lovely view is obtained over the whole surrounding country, reminding me somewhat of that seen from our old house at Aledjo. The round huts, too, were very clean and comfortable; but, owing to lack of room on the tiny plateau, they are situated rather too close to the native compound and songu, whence the smell of cooking, and other even more potent odours, was wafted in a manner more pronounced than pleasant. I noticed this the more on account of a splitting headache from which I suffered, due no doubt to the heat and the hardships of the ascent. I was, too, exceedingly tired; so for the last time I rolled myself in my horse-rug, with my saddle for a pillow, and despite the pain from my throbbing temples, was soon lost in blissful unconsciousness.

I awoke feeling almost my old self, and able to properly appreciate the magnificent scenery that surrounded us on all sides. One needs to spend, as I had done, two or three months traversing the brown sun-baked veldt of the northern Togoland Sudan, in order to fully enjoy the sight of these verdure-clad mountains. Here one seemed alone with Nature, and with Nature's God. There was no village near, only a few resident negroes to look after the rest-house for European travellers, and its native equivalent, the songu. To right and left, in front and behind, wherever the eye ranged, it rested on a wilderness of wild mountain country, peak on peak jumbled together in chaotic, yet magnificent confusion. To the north was the outstanding mass of Tabalo Mountain, where is situated a curious village, called by the natives Uro-Ganede-Bo, which means "The-Place-where-the-Crown-Prince-is-educated." Here, in the olden days of Togo native history, the eldest son of the reigning Uro, or king, of Paratau, lived alone with his tutors, who instructed him in the arts of war and of peace, and in the duties appertaining to a native ruler. The place, I was informed, is practically impregnable to attack from a native army, no matter how large, and even a European force would find it a hard nut to crack. Here, in this mountain fortress, the young prince remained closely secluded until he came of age, and even afterwards he was only permitted to pay an occasional brief, flying visit to Paratau, never permanently leaving his rocky retreat until such time as his father, the old Uro, died, and he was called down with much ceremony, and the beating of many drums, to reign in his stead.

We are now looking forward eagerly to a return to civilisation. At Sokode, our next stage, we are in touch with the telegraph once more, and there are rumours that a big motor car has been put upon the road since we have been away, and is available for the journey down to the rail-head at Atakpame. It is time we emerged from the wilderness, for our stock of provisions is beginning to give out. Here at Malfakasa we opened our last tin of condensed milk. The last of our coffee and butter we used before reaching Bassari. Our table salt gave out long previously, and we have had to make shift with the coarse native article, carefully sifted.

The country round here is the home of a curious little bush fowl, which looks exactly like an English bantam. We used to see them running alongside the road on our way up, and when I first caught sight of one I called out to Schomburgk: "Hullo! We must be nearing a village. Here's a chicken straying about the track." Later on I learnt that they were wild birds, and indigenous to the mountain regions of West Africa.

Malfakasa means "Long Gun"; malfa—gun, and kasa—long; and the story goes that it derived its name from a famous outlaw who, many years ago, used to sit up here with a gun and rob the caravans, and levy blackmail on such solitary travellers as desired to pass. Of course I cannot vouch for the truth of this yarn, which is in the nature of a native tradition, but it seems to me that it is very likely to be true. Anyhow, it is difficult to conceive a better place for a robber stronghold than this rocky, isolated peak, with its steep, tortuous, boulder-strewn approaches.

After resting the usual part of a day and a night at Malfakasa, we set out for Sokode very early the next morning, the conversation during the first part of the journey turning almost entirely on whether we should be able to secure the motor car of which we had heard, to take us down to Atakpame. If this is available, and native rumours crystallize as to its existence, at all events, the nearer we get to Sokode, then we shall be able to accomplish in one day what otherwise will take us seven. Moreover, just south of Sokode one enters the tsetse-fly belt, which extends downwards as far as a point above twenty-five miles north of Lome; so if we cannot get the car, we must either travel by hammock and bicycle, or else ride our horses down after dark, as these animals cannot, of course, be taken through a fly-infested area in the daytime.

The view on the road leading down from Malfakasa is fully as beautiful and picturesque as that leading up to it from the north. On quitting the plateau, one sees far away to the north-east the Sudu Mountains, and in between the great level Tim plain. This plain, or steppe, got its name in rather a curious way. Mostly the various districts, or areas of country, in West Africa take their names from the tribes inhabiting them. Thus, one speaks of the Konkombwa country, the Gourma country, and so on. Now the Tim plain is inhabited by our old friends the Tschaudjo, who, as I have previously explained, came riding on horses from the north, conquering or driving out the aborigines before them, and harrying the country with fire and sword. The invaders were called by the original inhabitants of the soil Kotokoli, which means "warriors" or "robbers," the two terms being interchangeable, and, amongst primitive peoples, frequently identical; and the strange, barbaric "lingo" they spoke—strange and barbaric that is to say to the peaceful aborigines—was dubbed by them "tim." When they took possession of the plain, and settled there, the neighbouring tribes no longer cared, perhaps no longer dared, to call them by the opprobrious name of Kotokoli (robbers), and so they used to refer to them as the folk who spoke "tim," and in time this became a general term for the country inhabited by them. It is perhaps the only instance in West Africa of a land being named after a language, and not after a people.

After a not unpleasant and interesting twenty-mile ride, we at length reached Sokode, where the District Commissioner, Herr von Parpart, being still absent, we made a bee-line for the post office. Here we found a huge mail awaiting us, and many cablegrams. We soon set the wires humming in return; in fact, we indulged in a regular telegraphic orgie: after which we went over to the house of our old friend Mr. Kuepers, the Government schoolmaster at the station, from whom we received a most hearty and hospitable welcome. We also heard from him full particulars concerning the motor car, about the very existence of which up till now we had been more or less doubtful. It was, he told us, a big and powerful automobile, capable not only of carrying our entire party, but also of transporting our personal luggage, leaving only the heavy baggage to be carried by man transport. It had been put on the road by the Togo Company, and was now at Atakpame, whence it could be summoned by telegraph, the cost of hiring it for the journey being ninepence per mile.

This, of course, was splendid news, and put us all in the best of spirits, which were further enhanced by the receipt of a second communication from the Moving Picture Sales Agency in London, saying that all the rest of the films to hand had turned out well, and were of the highest possible quality. That night we stayed at the rest-house near the station, and sat up late talking of home and friends. The one drop of bitterness in our overflowing cup of happiness was the knowledge that we should now have to part from our horses, to whom we had become very much attached. Next day, however, we received a wire from the Hon. W. H. Grey, whom we had met on the steamer on the outward voyage, offering to take over all our animals, and to transport them to Accra, where they would be well cared for and looked after. This, again, was very acceptable news, for it would have caused us infinite pain and regret to have had to sell the faithful animals, that had carried us safely for so many hundreds of miles, back to the natives, to be ill-treated as only a native can ill-treat a horse, and to be tortured by the horrible bits they habitually use. Nevertheless, when they left that night for the coast, after a final caress and a feed of sugar, we all felt a bit down-hearted. I know I felt it like parting from old friends. Schomburgk had detailed a soldier to accompany them on the downward journey, and had given him the strictest and most minute instructions as to each day's itinerary. He was also warned on no account to permit them to travel before nightfall, after which the dreaded tsetse-fly sleeps. This is, of course, the insect that is responsible for the fatal sleeping-sickness in man. We, however, saw no cases of this terrible disease while we were in Togo, although it is known to exist there and according to some accounts is spreading. As regards domestic animals—horses, oxen, and so forth—they can be moved safely through the worst fly-belts if proper care be taken. They must be shut up in a hut during the daytime, and for preference in a hut situated in or near a village, since the tsetse invariably shuns the habitations of man, preferring to live out its life in the low, unhealthy localities it most frequents, near to water, stagnant if possible, and with plenty of thick tropical undergrowth wherein it can breed and take refuge from its many enemies.

We stayed five days in Sokode, paying visits, resting from the fatigue of our long journey, and generally enjoying ourselves. Amongst other notable people we called upon, was the Mallam of Dedaure. "Mallam," I perhaps ought to explain, meant originally a priest or teacher, but the term is now applied loosely in West Africa to any native who, owing to his wealth or learning, has raised himself far above the common herd. This particular Mallam struck me as being absolutely the finest-looking native I had seen during our trip. Tall, beautifully proportioned, with clear-cut aquiline features, a small well-kept beard, and always exquisitely dressed, he would have been a striking figure anywhere, let alone out here in the heart of the African bush. Schomburgk said he was the best specimen of a native he had come across anywhere in Africa, and I can quite believe him. I imagine, though, that he is by no means a full-blooded Togo native, but has Arab blood in his veins, and probably a goodly proportion of it. He was a well-educated man, and before we left he wrote on a board in exquisite Arabic characters what he assured me was a eulogistic account, and personal description, of my humble self.

What impressed me most during my stay in Sokode, however, was the splendidly-appointed Government school, of which Mr. Kuepers is the principal. He is assisted by several native teachers, and it is really wonderful to see the way in which the scholars—all boys—from the bush villages hereabouts assimilate the knowledge that is put before them. Mr. Kuepers assured me that they make far apter and better pupils than do European children of a similar age. Their minds seem to be more quick and ready to receive outside impressions. It is like writing with a new pen on a perfectly blank sheet of paper, or sowing seed in virgin soil. And this rapid progress they make is the more remarkable, in view of the fact that these little African kiddies, when they begin to attend school, have first to be taught the German language, or at least enough of it to enable them to understand their lessons, to grasp the purport of the questions asked, and to frame their answers. Unfortunately, however, this quickness of perception, and the desire to learn, does not last beyond a certain age. Directly the boy begins to blossom into a man, which in this climate and amongst the black races is somewhere between the thirteenth and the fourteenth year, he comes to a dead stop as it were. Restless and uneasy, he cannot be brought to fix his mind upon his tasks, and seizes the first opportunity to return to his native village, where, it is to be feared, he quickly forgets most, if not all, of what he has learnt. There are exceptions, of course, but this is the general rule. In the pregnant words of one of the native teachers, spoken with no touch of lightness, but solemnly and even sadly: "When the young native Afrikander begins to think about women, he thinks no longer any more about lessons."

On one of my visits to the school, I was asked to put some questions to the children, and I asked a small boy of eight or thereabouts, "What is a mouse?" His answer, transcribed word for word from my note-book, was as follows: "A mouse is a small animal, with four legs, two eyes, and a thin long tail; on its back are brown hairs, and it has white hairs under its stomach." The description is incomplete, but I doubt if one English or German child out of a hundred, of a like age, could have given offhand as good a one. I also asked a class generally the old, old "catch" question in mental arithmetic of our childhood's days: "If a herring and a half cost three-halfpence, what is the price of eleven herrings?" I had previously announced that I would give a penny to every child who answered it correctly, and that I would allow them three minutes by my watch to think it out. It was most interesting to watch their thoughtful, intent little black faces, as they wrestled inwardly with the puzzling problem. When time was called, hardly a child but gave some sort of an answer, many being obviously mere guess-work; but two of the scholars earned their pennies, and more than earned them, for not only were their answers correct, but they explained to me how they arrived at them.

The children are very prettily mannered. If one meets a group of them on the road, they will line up, stand rigidly to attention, and give one a smiling "Good morning." If, as frequently happens, one comes across them seated by a stream, and repeating their lessons together in the sort of a sing-song chorus they greatly affect, the same thing happens. Of course, however, these children are picked children. Only a certain number are taken from each village, and not above a certain number in all. At present the sum total for whom accommodation is available is about one hundred; but new school buildings are being erected; then the classes will be very largely augmented. The children are taken entire charge of by the Government during the time they are at school. A small daily sum is allowed each child for food and lodging, this being handed over pro rata to certain approved native women living in the village, who undertake in return to board and sleep so many of them. Each child is also given by the Government a little blue smock, and books, slates, pencils, and so forth are of course provided free.

On the evening before the day we had fixed for our departure, Herr von Parpart asked us to dinner. This gentleman, by the way, was not at Sokode when we were here on our upward journey. If he had been, we certainly should not have stayed at Paratau. He is a most courteous, considerate man, who radiates energy, kindness, and good-nature; altogether a splendid example of the best type of German official. At the dinner-party were a Mr. and Mrs. Dehn, who were going up to Bassari to relieve Mr. Muckè, who was going home on leave. It follows, therefore, that she will be the second white woman in Togoland north of Sokode.

Prior to going in to dinner, we were seated outside the house on a little hillock, the top of which had been artificially flattened, chatting together and enjoying the cool evening air. It was a dark night, with very little moonlight. Suddenly, from a grove behind us, came the sound of children's voices singing an old German part-song. It was a choir of Mr. Kuepers' little scholars, and the musical treat had been arranged by him in our honour. I never heard anything more beautiful; or, under the circumstances, more affecting. Song after song of our childhood's days the young choristers reeled forth. Mrs. Dehn, who had only recently come out, started to use her handkerchief; and I think I should shortly have followed suit, had not our host come up at the crucial moment and led me into dinner.

The meal was a grand success, reminding me of the one Baron Codelli had treated us to on our arrival at Kamina from the coast six months previously. There was the same beautifully arranged table, the same sheen of damask and glitter of silver, the same noiseless, trained service, the same carefully chosen and perfectly cooked food. Everybody was in the highest spirits, and I enjoyed myself immensely. We sat late, and should have sat later at our host's urgent invitation, only that the motor-car had arrived that day from Atakpame, and we were due to start early in the morning. It seemed strange, by the way, to find my hammock—thoughtfully provided by my kind host—waiting at the door to take me home, in the same way as the electric brougham belonging to the house waits at home to whisk away the late-departing guest.

We had told our boys to call us at 5 A.M., but I confess that, for my part, it required no small effort of will to induce me to rise and dress. Out in the bush one is not used to dissipation. I wished now that I had refused that last half glass of champagne, or had dispensed with the liqueur. I will say no more.

Outside, the cold morning air acted as a tonic. There was the big car, panting to be off. It held seven people comfortably, and our ten boxes. Soon we were speeding along our homeward road, and my spirits rose with each succeeding mile. It was grand to fly along down the route up which we had toiled so slowly, to cover in an hour a stage that had taken us a whole day to traverse on cycles or by hammock. At Djabotaure, however, there came a sudden halt. Our left-hand hind wheel tyre burst with a loud report, and my heart sank within me at the prospect of being stranded here in this desolate spot, two days—by carriers—from Sokode and five from Atakpame. Luckily we carried a spare tyre, but it was a non-skidder, and from now on our driver had to be very careful.

The road in the Sokode district was perfect, that in the Atakpame district was not quite so good; and we were all more or less anxious, for we carried no more spare tyres, and another breakdown would have meant several days' delay. The bridges of planks, covered in some instances with clay, were negotiated in fear and trembling, for they had, of course, not been constructed for heavy motor traffic, and our big car, with its load, weighed a good bit over a ton. The natives we met seemed greatly interested in the new machine, which had not yet lost its novelty for them, and stood gaping after it much as the rustics used to do in Europe, I am told, when motor-cars first began to be used there. One big negro varied the ordinary proceeding by standing facing the car in the middle of the road, and backed as we approached, at the same time edging sideways. As a result he tumbled over backwards into a ditch, and the last I saw of him, as we sped by, was a pair of big flat feet projecting upwards, and waving wildly from the side of the road.

We overtook our horses at a village en route, and paused to see that our instructions were being properly carried out. At Blita, too, we stopped for breakfast, selecting this particular rest-house because it is the only one between Sokode and Atakpame that boasts a table. Here we used up absolutely the last of our provisions, and I remember thinking to myself that if a breakdown were to occur now, we should not only be subject to an irritating and vexatious delay, but that we should probably go hungry into the bargain. However, nothing happened; mechanism and tyres both held; and shortly after noon we rolled into Atakpame, and thence to Kamina.

CHAPTER XX
KAMINA—LOME—HOME

We were expected in Kamina by our old friend Baron Codelli von Fahnenfeld, and by the baroness, his wife, a young woman of about my own age, whom he had recently brought out from Europe, a new-wed bride, to share his home and fortunes in this out-of-the-way corner of the German colonial empire.

All the week long I had been looking forward to this meeting with the wife of one of my best friends, and picturing it in the rosiest colours. We should have so much to say to each other, I said to myself, for I had been so long cut off from all association with my own sex—the meeting with Mrs. Dehn at Sokode being only a casual one—that I was simply dying for a good long chat about—well, about the things women love to talk of. Yet now, when the hour had come for our mutual introduction, I felt a strange kind of bashfulness creep over me. I had been so long in the bush, practically cut off from civilised society. True, I had met a few men. But then men friends and acquaintances are so different from women friends and acquaintances. They are less critical; more apt to take one at one's own valuation.

Shall I like her? What is she like? Shall we get on together? The questions one woman always asks herself of another woman whom she hopes to favourably impress, surged uppermost. But my doubts and fears were quickly dispelled. A tall, graceful girl, golden-haired and blue-eyed, advanced towards me with hands outstretched in warm welcome. Soon we were deep in an earnest, animated conversation; she asking all sorts of questions about the "back of the beyond" of the country that was now her home; I anxious to hear the latest "gup" of Berlin, of Paris, of Vienna. But there was one piece of information that I wanted to acquire, now and at once, that to me was all-important, and at the risk of being thought ill-mannered, I blurted out the personal query: "My boxes? My treasured boxes? What had become of them?"

It will be remembered that a wire had been forwarded to us by post-runner from Mangu, telling us of their destruction by a fire that had burned down Baron von Codelli's house at Kamina while he was away in Europe. Since then we had received several more or less contradictory reports from his employés. Some personal luggage had been rescued from the flames, we were told at one time; at another, the rumour reached us that everything that was on the premises when the fire broke out had gone up in smoke. Now, to my unbounded relief and delight, I learnt that all the boxes containing my personal belongings were safe; only a few parcels containing hats, lingerie, and comparatively valueless articles of personal apparel, had been burned.

I owed their safety, it transpired, to the efforts of my black boy, Kabrischika, who had been with me during our stay at Kamina on the upward journey, and who had become very much attached to me. It appeared that a big grass fire was burning near Kamina, and that a sudden change in the strength and direction of the wind had sent it, roaring and raging, straight for Codelli's house, which was of wood, thatched with many thicknesses of straw for coolness. The house was unoccupied, of course, and, it being the end of the dry season, about as inflammable as a box of matches. Kabrischika, quick to realise the danger, had dashed through the flames and smoke and lugged my boxes out of danger. He knew them, it seemed, because they were new; my name, which was stamped in big letters upon each one of them, meaning nothing to him.

We spent ten days in Kamina, recuperating, and filming the big wireless station which Codelli is building there, and about which I wrote in an earlier chapter. I was amazed at the progress which had been made during our six months' absence. Kamina itself had changed utterly; had grown tremendously. Everywhere were substantial stone houses; mostly finished and ready for occupation, some few in course of erection. The great steel towers, and the immense power-station, were finished, contrasting curiously with the little wattle and straw huts that had lodged the hundreds of workmen, whose labours were now nearing completion. When the dynamos and turbines are installed, which they will be by the time this book is in print, Kamina will be able to talk direct with Berlin, 3450 miles distant. Even during my stay there, although messages could not yet be transmitted, they could be received, and each morning on our breakfast-table there lay a little type-written broadsheet, our morning paper as it were, summarising for us the news that had come through to the station overnight. In this way we knew what was happening in Europe, almost as quickly as if we had been living in, say, London, or Paris, or Berlin.

I need hardly say, however, that it is not for such comparatively trivial purposes as these that this powerful installation has been erected in the heart of the wilderness. The wireless station at Kamina is intended to be the chief receiving and distributing centre for the whole of Africa; so far, that is to say, as Germany is concerned. It will communicate with the similar but smaller wireless station in the Cameroons, and also with that at Windhuk in German South-West Africa, as well as with Tabora in German East Africa. Furthermore, it will in course of time constitute one of the principal links in the chain of wireless stations with which Germany, like Britain, is seeking to girdle the globe; connecting her East and West African possessions with German New Guinea, with Samoa, and with the German protectorate of Kiao-Chau, in the Chinese province of Shantung, which she holds from China on a ninety-nine years' lease since January 1898.

A little railway connects Codelli's house with the northern part of Kamina, where the receiving station is, and we used frequently to remark, after dinner: "Now let us go up and listen to what they have got to say in Berlin." It was, to me at all events, very weird and wonderful to be able to place the receiver to my ears, and listen to sounds having their origin at a point between three or four thousand miles away. No words, of course, were audible, only the short and long sounds of the Morse code; but I soon learnt enough to be able to understand the purport, at all events, of what was coming through. The signals sound very much like musical notes—a series of notes all of the same tone and pitch—played on an ordinary whistle. This particular brand of wireless is called in German the telefunken, meaning "sounding spark"; and this exactly describes it. Sounding sparks! That is what you are listening to.

The temporary receiving station, by the way, is the same building that served me for a house during our stay in Kamina on the upward journey, six months previously. It gave me quite a shock on my first visit to it this time, to find the little home I had decorated and fitted up so comfortably—we rigged up our studio here, you will remember—now all bare and desolate, and filled with complicated wireless instruments. Presently, I got another kind of shock, an unpleasant one. I remarked to Codelli how dusty everything was, and he replied quite gravely that that was so, it wanted a woman's deft hand; and, handing me a cloth, he asked me if I would be so good as to wipe things over a bit with it, while he adjusted the instruments. At the same time he pointed to two little metal points, saying that it was important that every speck of dust should be removed from these if the working was to be satisfactory. In my innocence I did my best to carry out his instructions, with the result that I suffered a mild sort of electrocution. It was merely a practical joke of Codelli's, and not enough electricity passed through me to hurt me, but it gave me a rare start nevertheless.

I was, as I have already said, greatly interested in this wonderful wireless installation; but I fear that I was also fully as much interested—trivial though the confession must sound—in a new nickel-plated collapsible dressing-table that the Baroness Codelli had brought with her from Berlin. It was the first time for six months that I had been able to see myself full length in a large mirror, and only a woman can realise what this means to a woman. When I was first left alone with it, I scrutinised myself closely and anxiously, turning this way and that, peering close and drawing back. On the whole the inspection was eminently satisfactory. My figure was fuller, rounder, and harder, my face also had filled out; otherwise, I was surprised to find how slight a difference half a year's roughing it in the wilds had made in my personal appearance. Why, I have frequently been more sunburnt after a week at the seaside, than I was by this long trek through tropical Togoland. One reason for this was the care one always takes to shade one's face from the sun's rays while on the march; not, however, in order to preserve one's complexion, but with a view to avoiding sunstroke. During the first part of my journey, I always wore, when in the saddle, or out-of-doors even temporarily, a big slouch hat of the cowboy type, but afterwards I discarded this for the pith helmet, than which no more effectual safeguard against heat apoplexy has yet been devised.

While their new stone house was in course of erection, the Baron and Baroness Codelli had taken possession temporarily of the "Stranger's House," a building set apart for the use of stray visitors to the place who may be in want of accommodation, corresponding, in point of fact, to the rest-houses of the up-country stations, but somewhat more solidly constructed, and having a cement floor. There were, however, two rooms completed in their new stone house, and these Codelli very kindly placed at our disposal. But I, with the lately awakened instinct of the bush woman, preferred to camp out in a small grass-and-wattle hut, with only a mat curtain between myself and the outer air.

This was all very well for a couple of days. But the rainy season was now near at hand, and on the third day one of those tornadoes, which always precede the great rains, came on to blow. The wind set in motion great clouds of dust, which filled my frail dwelling, and after a short, sharp struggle between pride and inclination, the latter won, and I took refuge behind stone walls. A day or two later great black clouds came rolling up, threatening to break in one of those terrific tropical thunderstorms of which I had heard such lurid accounts. Still, however, the rain held off; indeed, I was assured, that Kamina had been exceptionally fortunate in respect to its freedom from these storms since the wireless station had been erected, the theory being that the nine great steel towers in some way repelled the electric fluid. Whether this theory has any scientific foundation in fact, I am, of course, unable to say, but everybody seemed agreed that though all round the station might be black, the sky overhead of Kamina was for the most part clear.

At length the time came to say good-bye. Our heavy baggage had arrived from Sokode, and all was ready to entrain. Our horses, none the worse for their journey through the fly belt, had already been sent by rail to Lome, there to await shipment to Accra. The two ostriches had been sent on by road, in charge of their boys. There remained only our pet monkey, Anton, and him I presented to the Baroness Codelli. This time we took care to lay in a proper stock of provisions for the train journey, so that it was at least endurable, if not enjoyable; and the rain coming down just when it was beginning to get uncomfortably hot, still further helped to mitigate the discomfort of what is at best a somewhat tedious and trying trip.

At Lome we were to film the opening scene of our drama, The White Goddess of the Wangora. We had already filmed all the other parts, but the reader will of course understand that in cinema work the scenes are not photographed consecutively; at least not necessarily so. In this first scene, it will be remembered, I am supposed to be cast up by the sea from a wreck as a baby and found by some black savages, and the problem was whereabouts along the Togo coast were we to get a white child of the proper age. It was the problem that had been haunting us at the back of our minds ever since the beginning of the trip. Now it had got to be solved somehow or other.

Various suggestions were brought forward, and gravely discussed. Could we use a doll; and if so, could a sufficiently large and lifelike doll be had in Lome? Would it be possible to paint a black baby white without injury to the infant? Meanwhile Alfred, our interpreter, had spread the news of what was wanted throughout Lome, and soon babies of all sorts and sizes, accompanied of course by their mothers, began to roll up. None of them, however, suited our requirements. Some were too big; all were too black: nor were we able to find any mother who could be induced to regard the whitewashing scheme in a sufficiently favourable light to lend her own offspring for the experiment. They all knew somebody else who had a baby they would no doubt be willing to lend for the purpose, but when it came to the point the "somebody else" invariably declined most emphatically to do anything of the kind. It really looked at one time as if we should have to film the scene at some English seaside resort, with a squad of burnt-cork beach "niggers" as supers, an obviously most unsatisfactory alternative. Just, however, as we were beginning to despair, a coast girl turned up with a half-caste, khaki-coloured infant, of about the right age; and which Hodgson opined might be made, by the liberal use of a powder puff, to come out white on the film.

But when the scheme was explained to the mother, I could see that her enthusiasm for it waned rapidly. The baby was to be hidden in a box close to the edge of the surf. Yes-s-s! That was all very well. But suppose one big wave come roll up, sweep baby away? What then? Oh! No! No! No! And she clasped the little chocolate-coloured coon to her bosom. There was a lot more palaver, but at length she gave a reluctant consent. She was to be paid a sovereign for the loan of the infant, and the clothes we provided, and which cost another ten shillings, were to be hers to keep when all was over. Moreover, while the scene was being filmed, she was to stand on one side of the camera, and I on the other, so that we could both rush into the sea together to the rescue in case of anything untoward happening. As a matter of fact nothing did happen. The scene was filmed on the beach outside Lome, a time being chosen when there was nobody about. We were, however, honoured by the presence of the Governor, H.H. the Duke of Mecklenburg, who expressed himself as being both surprised and pleased at the way we had drilled our black supers to act their parts.

Our time passed very pleasantly in Lome. We had horses lent us by a friend of ours, Lieutenant Manns, and used to go for rides round the neighbourhood. The sea, too, was a source of never-ending pleasure and delight to me, since first I caught a whiff of it towards the end of our railway journey from Atakpame. We used to take walks along the beach by moonlight, and Lome, beneath its silvery enchantment, seemed to me an altogether ideal place of residence. In the daytime, when the sun beat down upon it, and all was glare and dust, I held quite the reverse opinion.

Herr Vollbehr, the famous Munich portrait painter, happened to be in Lome while we were there, and he expressed a wish to paint me in the native dress I wore whilst playing in the White Goddess drama. So I gave him some sittings in the gardens of the Duke of Mecklenburg's palace, and I am told that the picture turned out very well, and has been much admired at Munich, where it is now on exhibition. The Governor's palace, by the way, is quite the finest building in Lome, as indeed is only right. It is four-square, built round a central courtyard, and must have cost no end of money. It is quite new, like all the other buildings in Lome, for not so very many years ago—some seventeen or eighteen, I believe—this town had no existence, at all events as the capital of Togoland, which was then fixed at a place called Little Popo, at the eastern extremity of the Togo seaboard.

The great drawback to Lome as a port is the heavy surf which breaks almost incessantly on the low sandy beach, as indeed it does all along the West African coast. Different methods of minimising the inconvenience caused by this hindrance have been adopted at different places. At Accra they have built a breakwater, which has cost a small fortune, and is not, I hear, a great success. At Lome they have gone the other way to work, and have erected a pier, or bridge, right out into the sea, a third of a mile long, and connected with a massive wharf, or quay, at the seaward end. This simplifies greatly the problem of landing, although it has its drawbacks. One is that there are now no surf boats there, or very few at all events, and the natives, I am told, are forgetting how to handle them, even if any were available. So when, some years back, the bridge which connects the wharf with the shore was destroyed by a tidal wave, supposed to be due to some great submarine volcanic upheaval, Lome was almost entirely isolated from the outside world for a while. However, with commendable energy, the authorities there soon set to work to rebuild their bridge; but because they could not build it over the old foundations, it now takes a curved course, which gives it a somewhat curious, lopsided appearance.

For the rest there is not much to say about Lome. It is a clean and neat little place, like most of our German colonial towns, with well-laidout streets shaded by palm and other trees, and bordered by pretty little bungalows, or, in some cases, more substantially built stone houses, set in well-kept tropical gardens. The native population of Lome, however, did not impress me favourably. The up-country native is a gentleman; the coast native is, too often, a caricature of the street "corner boy" of London or Berlin. Far be it from me, a mere girl, and a stranger and a sojourner in the colony at that, to set myself up as a judge in such matters; but it seems to me that the negro is not fitted for education, in the sense that we in Europe generally understand that much-abused word. Certain it is that no white man I ever came across, who knew his Africa, would hire as a "boy" one of the mission-school type of negro; he would infinitely prefer the wildest bush native from the remotest part of the hinterland.

At last the morning of the 13th of March dawned, the day on which we were to say good-bye to Africa. Frankly I felt sorry. I had come here six months previously, timid, and not a little apprehensive. There had been times since, up in the lonely bush, when, weary with travel and weakened with fever, I would have given anything to have gone to sleep and waked in Europe. But not now. All these feelings were over and done with, and in their place was a consuming regret for the things I was leaving behind, that were passing out of my life; the long lone trail leading onward, and ever onward, through lands new and strange; the black peoples of the far interior unspoilt by civilisation, an interesting study always; the stillness of the tropic night, the stir of the tropic dawn.

We had previously paid off our boys, of course, but all those that were in Lome at the time came down to the pier head to see us off. They were sorry to part with us. One could see it in their black faces, for the negro is nothing but a big child, and his features reflect every passing mood. "You will come back, little mother," they called out in unison, as the screw began to revolve. "Yes," I answered gravely, "I will come back." And I meant what I said. Shall I ever be in a position to redeem my promise, I wonder? Well! well! Time will show!

One thing rather pleased me. None of our boys were left stranded; they all got jobs. Alfred, our interpreter, and Asmani, Schomburgk's personal servant, took service with Baron Codelli at Kamina. Messa, the cook, got employment in the Duke of Mecklenburg's kitchen. Indeed, no boy who has been for any length of time with Europeans, and has a good character, need be long out of employment in Togo. A character, however, is an essential thing; and curiously enough they all seemed to prefer my written recommendation to Schomburgk's. I suppose it was because they had other characters from European men, and wanted to add to their collection one from a European woman, in case others of my sex wanted their services later. Schomburgk, however, said that a woman's recommendation always goes further than a man's, because prospective employers argue in this way: "Oh! so this boy has served under a woman, has he? Well, I'll engage him, because a boy who can stick a woman, can stick anybody—even me." Of course, this was said by way of a joke; but like a good many words spoken in jest, there is a certain amount of truth underlying these. Anyway, I believe it to be a fact that West African personal boys, kitchen boys, and so on, do not care over much to take service with a woman.

The ship that bore us back to England was named the Eleonore Woermamm. She was a good staunch boat, and very seaworthy and steady, like all those belonging to this fine line; but as we were steaming against "the trades," we had a rather rough passage to Las Palmas. There was a pleasant break here, and I went ashore to the "Stranger's Club," where I played roulette for the first time. I knew nothing whatever of the game, and threw down a coin at haphazard, and with the usual luck of the novice I won again and again. In ten minutes I was the richer by £7, and was already beginning to have visions of a golden fortune ahead, when the screeching of the ship's siren called me hurriedly aboard.

The rest of the voyage was uneventful up to the last day. Then, when we were nearing Southampton, we had the very narrowest escape—so I was assured—of going to the bottom. We were seated at dinner, all in the highest spirits at the successful termination of our trip, when the steamer suddenly sounded three sharp, angry blasts, then started to heel over to starboard, sending all the plates and dishes with their contents flying into our laps. Another steamer, it appeared, had come right across our bows, and only the presence of mind of the officer on the bridge of the Eleonore Woermamm in putting the wheel hard a-port, and so causing our ship to describe a circle to starboard, had averted what would otherwise almost certainly have been a very terrible disaster.