They worked cautiously back from the firing line, and came upon a mean lean-to of boughs and thatch which Mr. Smith referred to as "my headquarters." As the mess-sergeant happened to be away, Mr. Smith kindly produced from under the eaves a damp slab of translucent cassava bread, which was obviously all the place contained in the way of food, and extracting a square-faced bottle from a green box of trade gin, poured out half a calabash full, added muddy water from a chattie, and offered it to his guest. "Come to think of it, that's more healthy for you than soda, Mr. Carter. So you're not up here on O'Neill and Craven's service, you tell me?" "No; handed in my papers, sir. I'm passing through here on urgent private affairs." Mr. Smith put a hand inside his shabby pyjama coat and produced a piece of new black-watered silk ribbon, on the end of which was an eyeglass. He screwed this in place, and stared at his guest. "Ah, then in that case, Mr. Carter, I shall have to hear more of your projects before I can give you permission to pass through my territory." Carter stiffened. "Your territory? Oh, I remember. You've been buying up rubber lands, of course, for the firm." "As a point of fact, I have not been worrying about the firm very lately. When I said 'my territory,' I meant exactly that, neither more nor less. Later I may turn it over to British protection. But recently it was no man's land, and as that infernal blackguard, the King of Okky, was after it, I seized it for myself." "Hear, hear," said Carter. "As the King of Okky was once indecently keen on adding my head to his private collection, I can never be really fond of that man, somehow." "Confound your head, sir! That had nothing to do with it. I didn't quarrel with the man for following out his ordinary African methods. I'm going for him for letting in the French." Carter was clearly puzzled. "What on earth have the French to do with it?" "Exactly what they had to do with all the British West African colonies. We hold a seaboard, and when the men on the spot try to consolidate an influence in the hinterland, our Foreign Office promptly truckles to the Anti-British party at home and tells them to drop it. The Anti-British party says, 'Oh no, we mustn't make a sphere of influence there. The Germans want it, or the French have set their minds on it, or why shouldn't poor dear Portugal have a chance there? But whatever you do, don't give it to nasty, greedy Great Britain.' And unless the hand of the Foreign Office is absolutely forced, they always do as the Anti-Britishers ask. You see the Anti-British party is noisy and hysterical, and always shrieking that it can command countless votes." Mr. Smith limped across the hut and sat on a green case and emphasized his further remarks with a powder-stained forefinger.