Schiller was a cattle trader by profession, and he made a lot of money.

He was incidentally a Jew by birth, an Austrian by accident, a hairdresser by training, and a soldier of fortune when occasion offered. He was quite illiterate.

Although he could neither read nor write he yet kept accurate enough accounts of all his many transactions with the natives. He once showed me his accounts. They consisted of notches on tally sticks. I couldn't make head or tail of them, but Schiller knew to a shilling how much each ox had cost him and how many cattle he had.

One Sunday morning he came over to my bungalow and told me all the gossip of the country-side. Incidentally he remarked that my hair wanted cutting, and asked if he might have the pleasure of operating.

I thanked him and sat down.

To my amazement he produced from a little black bag all the implements of the trade, including a pink print sheet which he proceeded to tuck in round my neck.

His touch was unmistakable.

"Aren't you a professional?"

"Yes, sir, from —— of Bond Street."

From that day on, twice a month if I was at home, this man who was worth at least twenty thousand pounds cut my hair for sixpence.

He called himself the "Cattle King."

I first met him when he made application for a cattle trading licence at my office: this was many years ago.

As, in those days, we could issue or withhold a licence at discretion, I questioned Schiller closely.

He didn't look like the ordinary Jew. By that I mean he hadn't a pronounced nose: on the contrary, it was small and snubby. He told me he was a Jew, I should not have guessed it.

He wore a long row of medal ribbons and, in support of his claim to them, produced discharge papers from every irregular force raised in Africa during the last twenty years.

I read the papers carefully and could but conclude that the little man who applied for a licence was a confirmed fire-eater and a very gallant soldier.

No camp follower he. His medals were earned and at the cost of not a few wounds. I later saw these honourable scars.

I gave him his licence and asked him to sign an undertaking designed to control certain undesirable activities in which it was just possible he might wish to indulge.

He couldn't write his name. A large X with a few unnecessary blots thrown in adorned the record of his promise. He never broke his word: in fact that man's word was his bond in the truest sense.

I have always found that an illiterate man is a much more rapid learner than one who keeps a note book. The one relies upon his memory and so strengthens it; the other discourages it by admitting its limitations.

He learnt the local dialect rapidly, and his pronunciation was quite good. This gave him advantage over his rival traders.

Natives like to hear their language spoken by a white man, and, as Schiller was a fluent talker, his company was much sought after.

He was a trading genius. Anything he had for sale soon became the rage with the large native population. He got to know most of the great ladies of the land. Knowing that great ladies, be they white or black, set the fashions, he persuaded them to patronise his store and accept long credit.

If this particular pattern of print did not generally commend itself to the community, one of the important dames would shortly appear draped in yards of it. If that coloured bead did not sell freely, a personage in the Chief's household would soon be seen wearing string after string of it.

But it was cattle he wanted, and cattle he got. So large did his herd of fine beasts become that the Chief himself grew jealous, and issued a warning to his people not to sell too freely.

Still the herd increased. The man dealt more fairly with the people than the other traders, and, moreover, did not make the mistake of getting upon too familiar terms with his customers.

During my absence on a tour of inspection a crisis arose. The Chief forbade his people to have any further dealings with the Cattle King.

Schiller counted his gains, branded his cattle, and sent them south to the rail-head for sale. Then he closed his store.

Just at this time a number of waggons arrived bearing many cases and bales of new goods for him. These were off-loaded, unpacked, and disappeared into the closed store.

Then Schiller made a hatch in the store door not unlike that of a railway booking-office. He left the shutter ajar, but piled up goods in front of all the windows. Black noses in plenty gathered against the panes, but goods—goods everywhere—blocked a view of the interior of the store.

Through the hatch Schiller could be seen mysteriously occupied. He had a chequered board in front of him with many little discs of wood upon it. He sat with eyes fixed on the board, and from time to time moved a disc.

He told all inquirers that his store had been closed by orders of the Chief, and that he himself was very busy.

News of the trader's preoccupation spread about. Was he making medicine with which to harm the people? Surely not; he was a kind little man.

Was he communicating in some strange way with the absent Commissioner? That might be; better make sure.

The Chief became uneasy. At last he sent his principal headman to inquire.

This headman had received some education at the Mission school, so he wrote a polite letter to warn the trader of his coming.

Sir,

My greetings to the honest man the merchant. I hope you have slept well I am telling you that I have not seen you for a long time and it is my intention of coming to see how you get on. I am well and my wife is well. Now I must close my letter.

Your friend,

Gonye.