To come back to our Great White Road. What a history it might not tell! For how many centuries have not Black and Brown men pursued upon it the goal of their trade and their ambitions; have not fled in frantic terror from the pursuer, ankle deep in dust. What tragedies have not been hurried along its dusty whiteness. To-day you will meet upon it objects of interest almost every hour. Now, a herd of oxen on their way to doom, to feed the Southern Nigerian markets; now, a convoy of donkeys going south, in charge, maybe, of Tuareg slaves from far-distant Sokoto, or the Asben oases. These will be loaded with potash and tobacco. And even as you pass this one going south, another convoy of donkeys, going north, loaded with salt and kolas, will be trudging along behind you. Anon, some picturesquely-clothed and turbaned horseman will be seen approaching, who, with ceremonious politeness, will either dismount and salute, or throw up his right hand—doing the “jaffi,” as it is termed. The African is credited with utter callousness to human suffering. Like most generalities concerning him, it is exaggerated. Life in primitive communities (and to get a proper mental grasp of this country, and its people, you must turn up your Old Testament and read Exodus and Leviticus) is much cheaper and of less account than in more highly civilized ones. That is a commonplace too often forgotten by people who accuse the African of ingrained callousness. As a matter of fact, I have noticed many sights on the Great White Road which show how rash such generalities can be. I have seen water handed from one party to another under circumstances which spoke of kindly appreciation of a want. I have frequently seen fathers, or elder brothers, carrying small children on their backs. The Residents have known cases of men found injured on the road who have been tended and taken home by utter strangers; the Good Samaritan over again, and in his old-world setting. CHAPTER III ON THE CARRIER “Some Africans I have met”—the words conjure up a series of powerful chiefs, or fantastic “witch doctors,” or faultlessly-attired barristers from some centre of light and learning on the Coast. I shall be content—if only by recording my gratitude for much amusement and no little instruction—with jotting down a brief line or two which shall be wholly concerned with a type of African to whom not the greatest Negrophile that ever lived would dream of applying the epithet distinguished. I refer to the carrier. To-morrow I part with my carriers. We have trekked together for exactly four weeks—one little man, indeed, with a goatee beard and a comical grin, has been with me six weeks, having rejoined from my original lot. And at the end of four weeks one gets to know something of one’s carriers. Presumably, by that time they have their own opinions of you.