  The Daily Menace, I presume? Forgive the litter in the room. I can’t explain to you How out of place a man like me Would be without the things you see,— The Shields and Assegais and odds And ends of little savage gods. Be seated; take a pew. (Excuse the phrase. I’m rather rough, And—pardon me!—but have you got A pencil? I’ve another here: The one that you have brought, I fear, Will not be long enough.) Illustration: A journalist taking notes from our traveller, who is talking. And so the Public want to hear About the expedition From which I recently returned: Of how the Fetish Tree was burned; Of how we struggled to the coast, And lost our ammunition; How we retreated, side by side; And how, like Englishmen, we died. Well, as you know, I hate to boast, And, what is more, I can’t abide A popular position. Illustration: Our traveller and the Duke in evening dress (tailcoats), standing and talking. I told the Duke the other day The way I felt about it. He answered courteously—“Oh!” An Editor (who had an air Of what the Dutch call savoir faire) Said, “Mr. Rooter, you are right, And nobody can doubt it.” The Duchess murmured, “Very true.” Her comments may be brief and few, But very seldom trite. Still, representing as you do A public and a point of view, I’ll give you leave to jot A few remarks,—a very few,— But understand that this is not A formal interview. And, first of all, I will begin By talking of Commander Sin. |
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