A STRANGE MEETING.
Torres looked up in apparent surprise from his cigar, and the captain's
ruddy face flashed a shade deeper.
"Are you sure, sir?" he cried. "This is a strange place for a robbery."
Guy turned on him hotly.
"A robbery has been committed, nevertheless, and the articles stolen are
despatches for the governor of Zaila. They were intrusted to me for
delivery, and I look to you to recover them."
"Ah! Government despatches, were they?" said the captain. "Just step
below and we'll look into the matter."
They turned toward the cabin, leaving the Portuguese still gazing over
the rail.
At the foot of the steps the captain stopped.
"Why, what's this?" he said, stooping down and pulling from under the
lowest step a bunch of papers.
"The stolen despatches!" cried Guy wildly. "But look! The seals have
been broken."
Together they inspected the documents. Each envelope had been opened,
but the contents appeared to be all right. The thief had plainly been
satisfied with their perusal.
"Whoever stole them," said the captain, "was afraid to retain them lest
a search should be made, and as he had no way to destroy them he tossed
them down here where they could easily be found."
"Who else had a key to my cabin?" Guy asked sternly.
"The key to Torres' cabin will open yours," replied the captain, "and
several of the crew also have keys."
"Then Torres is the man," said Guy. "The scoundrel looks capable of
anything."
"I wouldn't advise you to accuse him," said the captain gravely. "He may
cause trouble for you on shore. You must remember that British influence
is little felt at Berbera. Your best plan is to say nothing, but relate
the whole affair to the governor at Zaila. And now, as we may lie in the
harbor here all day, you had better go on shore. You will see a strange
sight."
Guy put the recovered documents away in an inner pocket, and followed
the captain on deck, in a very angry frame of mind. Torres had
disappeared, but Guy felt that he had not seen the last of him.
He half forgot his anger in the strange sight that now met his eyes, for
the steamer was just approaching the wharf, and in a moment the
gang-plank was dropped over the side.
He waited until the eager, jostling crowd of Arabs had passed over, and
then he made his way to shore. The spectacle before him was marvelous
and entrancing.
Extending apparently for miles up and down the yellow stretch of sand
that fringed the coast was one great sea of canvas that fluttered under
the African breeze.
There were tents of every description, some old and dingy, some
spotlessly white and shining, and others brilliant in many colors,
barred with red and green and yellow, while here and there, from their
midst, rose the sun-baked walls and towers of the original Berbera, for
all this floating canvas belonged to the nomadic population who flock
hither from the interior during the fair, and add twenty thousand to the
perennial population of the town.
Dazed as though in a dream, Guy moved forward, noting with wonder the
strange people who thronged about him and regarded him with evident
mistrust. Borne on by the crowd, he found himself presently in the main
avenue of the fair, and his first amazed impression was that he had been
transported to a scene in the "Arabian Nights."
On either side of the narrow street stretched the sea of tents, and
before them, on rude stalls, were ranged everything that the imagination
could devise: sacks of coffee and grain, great heaps of glittering
ivory, packets of gold-dust, aromatic spices, and fragrant gums of all
sorts, great bunches of waving ostrich plumes, bales of cotton and
tobacco, tanned hides of domestic animals, tawny skins of lions,
leopards, and panthers, oddly-woven grass mats, quaint arms, and bits of
carving, fetish ornaments, and even live cattle and sheep tied to the
poles of the tents.
Standing guard over their wares were natives from all parts of Africa,
Arabs from the Zambesi, savage-looking Abyssinians, crafty Somalis with
greasy, dangling locks, and brawny, half-naked fellows from the
interior, the like of whom Guy had never seen or heard.
And up and down the narrow street moved in a ceaseless throng the
traders who had come to purchase: Arabs from Aden and Suakim, Egyptians
from Cairo, traders from Zanzibar, and a sprinkling of Portuguese and
Spaniards.
Some of them bore their goods on camels, others had hired native
carriers, who staggered under the heavy bales and cases, and the uproar
was deafening and incessant as they wrangled over their bartering and
dazzled the eyes of their customers with rolls of English and French
silks, pigs of iron, copper, and brass, sacks of rice and sugar,
glittering Manchester cutlery, American beads, and cans of gunpowder.
The builders of the tower of Babel itself could not have produced such a
jargon or variety of tongues, Guy thought, as he picked his way onward,
new stopping to gaze at some odd-looking group, and now attracted by the
harsh music and beating drums of a band of native musicians.
He noted with secret satisfaction the occasional presence in the crowd
of a dark-skinned soldier in British uniform, and he observed with some
surprise the vast number of Abyssinian Arabs, whom he recognized by
their peculiar dress.
Finally a stranger sight than all arrested his steps. In a small
inclosure, cordoned off by a rope, lay a dozen poor slaves shackled to
stakes driven deep in the ground and exposed to the burning sun.
Their owner, a brawny negro with a head-dress of feathers, a native of
the Galla country, was disputing over their purchase with a gigantic
Arab, whose powerful frame irresistibly fascinated Guy's attention.
He wore a loosely-flapping cotton gown, confined at the waist by a belt
that fairly bristled with knives and pistols, while a scarlet burnous
was drawn over his head, affording a brilliant set-off to the glittering
eyes, the tawny, shining skin, and the short chin-beard and mustache.
Behind the group of slaves, chained to the pole of a spacious tent, lay
a sleek and glossy leopard, sleeping in the sun as unconcernedly as
though he were in the midst of his native desert. The Arab, unaware
probably of the beast's presence, walked slowly round the circle
inspecting his prospective purchase.
The leopard perhaps was dreaming of the days when he was wont to chase
the deer through the jungle, for suddenly his spotted body quivered and
his long tail shot out like a stiffened serpent. The Arab's sandaled
foot came down on the tapering end, and with a scream of rage the beast
sprang up.
Overcome by a sudden fright, the Arab staggered backward a pace, and
like a flash the leopard shot to the end of his chain, and fastening
teeth and claws on the unfortunate man's neck, bore him to the ground.
Panic-stricken, those who stood near made no move. The big negro danced
wildly up and down, keeping well out of reach of his savage pet, and the
slaves howled with fright.
An instant's delay and the man was lost. Suddenly Guy drew his revolver
and sprang forward.
The negro uttered a howl and tried to push him back, but Guy forced his
way past him, and pressing the revolver close to the brute's head pulled
the trigger.
It was a good shot. The leopard rolled over lifeless, and the Arab, with
Guy's assistance, rose to his feet very dazed, while the blood dripped
down from his lacerated back.
Instantly the scene changed. The negro, angered at the death of his
leopard, advanced menacingly on Guy with a drawn knife, and in response
to his summons other negroes rallied to his aid.
But the Arab, too, had friends in the crowd, and they, pressing forward
in turn, made it seem as though a bloody conflict were inevitable.
Just as the issue was trembling in the balance, a shout arose from the
crowded street.
"The white man! Make room for the white man!" and through the parted
ranks Guy saw advancing a bronzed Englishman in white flannels and
helmet.
The stranger pushed right in through the sullen group of negroes until
he reached the open space before the tent, and stood face to face with
Guy.
Their eyes met in one amazed glance that startled the wondering
spectators, and then from Guy's lips burst a glad, hoarse cry:
"Melton Forbes, or I am dreaming!"
"Chutney, by Jove! My dear fellow, can it be possible?"
All else forgotten in their deep joy of meeting, the two bronzed
Englishmen fell into each other's arms, and the Arabs and negroes, dimly
comprehending what it all meant, shouted in sympathy and lowered their
arms.