Randall was skinning a monkey. He had shot two monkeys during the
morning and had already skinned one of them. He collected monkeys and
had done so steadily for years.
Randall was District Commissioner and Magistrate of a large tract of
British Africa. One of the many men who live and die unheard of by the
British public; men who quietly but efficiently "administer" England's
African possessions.
Some day, perhaps, England may realise what a debt it owes to these
unknown men.
I was Randall's assistant. I had served for four years; that is to say,
one year beyond the probationary period. I had made good to the extent
of getting on the Establishment, and held the rank of Assistant Native
Commissioner.
Randall had been in the Service for twenty-three years. In his dealings
with the natives he was firm and just. He had a deep sympathy for the
people entrusted to his care, but he successfully concealed it from
them. He used to say to me "Play the game with your people but don't
slobber over them, they don't understand that sort of thing."
It has often been said that all men who have spent more than ten years
in the heart of Africa are mad. I have known few saner men than Randall,
but I cannot deny that he had one peculiarity: he collected monkeys.
I could never understand why he shot the wretched things, or why he
skinned them in such a peculiar way. Let me explain.
Randall only shot one kind of monkey, and only the mature male of that
kind. Having bagged his monkey, he would consult a shabby little black
pocket-book, make an entry in it, and then set to work to skin the
beast.
From watching him I gathered this much: he kept only the head and
shoulders and one arm of each monkey. Sometimes it was the right arm,
sometimes the left, never both. Some kind of calculation in the
pocket-book appeared to be necessary before he could determine which arm
he wanted.
I also observed that he carefully cleaned all particles of flesh from
the skull and arm bones and, having put some preservative on the skin,
wrapped it round the skull and bones, making a neat little parcel of the
whole. After labelling the specimen, he packed it away in a box which
was carried, wherever he travelled, by his body servant, Monga.
On reaching the Station, after a journey in the District, Monga and his
master would repack the contents of the box in a large tin-lined case.
Randall had three such cases. Two of them were quite full, the third
nearly so.
I never questioned Randall about his hobby. Once I shot a monkey and
gave it to Monga, thinking his master would skin it; but he did not; he
simply told his man to throw it away. As he said nothing to me about it,
I let the matter drop and made no more advances.
As I said before, on this particular morning Randall had shot two
monkeys. He decided to keep the left arm in each case. Monga was
squatting on the ground in front of him, holding the body of the dead
monkey whilst his master skinned it. The pair were silent; from long
practice Monga knew exactly what was required of him and needed no
instructions. Presently Randall said "This is the last one, Monga: no
more monkeys after this one."
Monga accepted the statement without comment, but it set me speculating
afresh upon the object of Randall's quaint hobby. However, as my Chief
offered no explanation, I did not ask for one.
When the skinning was all but done, Monga permitted himself to remark,
"Monkeys were men like me once, Morena."
Randall paused and looked gravely at Monga for a moment; then, bending
to his task once more, he said, "Monga, I believe you, tell me more."
Now, if Monga resembled anything, it was a monkey. His eyes were set
close together, his nose was very small, his lower jaw protruded
slightly, and his forehead was very low and much puckered. I saw the
humour of the conversation and wanted to laugh, but to have done so
would, I felt, have lowered me in the estimation of my Chief. Randall
had once said to me: "Blackmore, in spite of your ridiculous name, you
should get on in the Native Department. Had your name been Whitelaw, or
even Smith, you would not have been handicapped. You have a stupid name
to live down, for this is a black man's country. However, always
remember this: never laugh with a native, and only laugh at him if he is
deserving of punishment and you wish to punish him. Only a fool beats a
native; ridicule is a cleaner form of punishment, and not as
brutalising."