  We journeyed on in single file; The march proceeded mile on mile Monotonous and lonely, We saw (if I remember right) The friendly features of a white On two occasions only. The first was when our expedition Came suddenly on a commission, Appointed to determine Whether the thirteenth parallel Ran right across a certain well, Or touched a closely neighbouring tree; And whether elephants should be Exterminated all as “game,” Or, what is not at all the same, Destroyed as common vermin. To this commission had been sent Great bigwigs from the Continent, And on the English side Men of such ancient pedigree As filled the soul of Blood with glee; He started up and cried:— “I’ll go to them at once, and make These young adventurous spirits take A proof of my desire To use in this concern of ours Their unsuspected business powers. The bearers of historic names Shall rise to something higher Than haggling over frontier claims, And they shall find their last estate Enshrined in my directorate.” Illustration: Blood and a military officer sitting outdoors with a palm tree in the background, and a snake wrapped around the tree. In twenty minutes he returned, His face with righteous anger burned, And when we asked him what he’d done, He answered, “They reject us, I couldn’t get a single one, To come on the prospectus. Their leader (though he was a Lord) Stoutly refused to join the board, And made a silly foreign speech Which sounded like No Bless Ableech. I’m used to many kinds of men, And bore it very well; but, when It came to being twitted On my historic Sporting Shirt, I own I felt a trifle hurt; I took my leave and quitted.” There is another side to this; With no desire to prejudice The version of our leader, I think I ought to drop a hint Of what I shall be bound to print, In justice to the reader. I followed, keeping out of sight; And took in this ingenious way A sketch that throws a certain light On why the master went away. No doubt he felt a trifle hurt, It even may be true to say They twitted him upon his shirt. But isn’t it a trifle thick To talk of twitting with a stick? Illustration: Military officer twitting Blood with a stick and kicking him. Well, let it pass. He acted well. This species of official swell, Especially the peer, Who stoops to a delimitation With any European nation Is doomed to disappear. Blood said, “They pass into the night.” And men like Blood are always right. The Second shows the full effect Of ministerial neglect; Sin, walking out alone in quest Of Boa-constrictors that infest The Lagos Hinterland, Got separated from the rest, And ran against a band Of native soldiers led by three— Illustration: Portrait of three men in (very different) military uniforms. A Frenchman, an official Prussian, And what we took to be a Russian— The very coalition Who threaten England’s power at sea, And, but for men like Blood and me, Would drive her navies from the sea, And hurl her to perdition. But did my comrade think to flee? To use his very words—Not he! He turned with a contemptuous laugh. Observe him in the photograph. Illustration: Sin grinning and walking past the three military men (from previous illustration). But still these bureaucrats pursued, Until they reached the Captain’s tent. They grew astonishingly rude; The Russian simply insolent, Announcing that he had been sent Upon a holy mission, To call for the disarmament Of all our expedition. He said “the miseries of war Had touched his master to the core”; It was extremely vexing To hear him add, “he couldn’t stand This passion for absorbing land; He hoped we weren’t annexing.” The German asked with some brutality To have our names and nationality. I had an inspiration, In words methodical and slow I gave him this decisive blow: “I haven’t got a nation.” Perhaps the dodge was rather low, And yet I wasn’t wrong to Escape the consequences so; For, on my soul, I did not know What nation to belong to. The German gave a searching look, And marked me in his little book:— “The features are a trifle Dutch— Perhaps he is a Fenian; He may be a Maltese, but much More probably Armenian.” Blood gave us each a trifling sum To say that he was deaf and dumb, And backed the affirmation By gestures so extremely rum, They marked him on the writing pad: “Not only deaf and dumb, but mad.” It saved the situation. “If such |
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