In the beginning we were three white men and four servants--the latter
all young, all individual, all picked up by instinct, except Sam, who
was as inevitable as the tides. Our cook was too good-looking and too
athletic to last. He had the reputation of being the fastest sprinter
in Guiana, with a record, so we were solemnly told, of 9-1/5 seconds
for the hundred--a veritable Mercury, as the last world's record of
which I knew was 9-3/5. His stay with us was like the orbit of some
comets, which make a single lap around the sun never to return, and
his successor Edward, with unbelievably large and graceful hands and
feet, was a better cook, with the softest voice and gentlest manner in
the world.
But Bertie was our joy and delight. He too may be compared to a
star--one which, originally bright, becomes temporarily dim, and
finally attains to greater magnitude than before. Ultimately he became
a fixed ornament of our culinary and taxidermic cosmic system, and
whatever he did was accomplished with the most remarkable contortions
of limbs and body. To watch him rake was to learn new anatomical
possibilities; when he paddled, a surgeon would be moved to
astonishment; when he caught butterflies, a teacher of physical
culture would not have believed his eyes.
At night, when our servants had sealed themselves hermetically in
their room in the neighboring thatched quarters, and the last squeak
from our cots had passed out on its journey to the far distant goal of
all nocturnal sounds, we began to realize that our new home held many
more occupants than our three selves. Stealthy rustlings, indistinct
scrapings, and low murmurs kept us interested for as long as ten
minutes; and in the morning we would remember and wonder who our
fellow tenants could be. Some nights the bungalow seemed as full of
life as the tiny French homes labeled, "_Hommes 40: Chevaux 8_," when
the hastily estimated billeting possibilities were actually achieved,
and one wondered whether it were not better to be the _cheval
premier_, than the _homme quarantième_.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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