They landed, laughing and joking, and found themselves on a roadway that was, as the Major had said, all sand, except for granite curbstones that ran ahead into the night and marked its course. Now and again, a board announced the site of a church or hotel; and at a cross-road in the waste, building operations had been begun for a big shop, a theatre and a restaurant. "Piccadilly Circus here," said Jardine, "all in good time!" "Which way now?" laughed Muriel. "Down towards those lights. There are makeshift stores there, and the native quarter. I expect we might find a native café and music hall going strong." "What fun," said Ursula. "Lead on, Major." Their guide jabbered in Swahili and Jardine interpreted. "He says there's a theatre," he said smiling, "if the ladies care to see it." "A theatre!" ejaculated Paul. "Heavens above! What in the world do they show here?" "There'll be a cinematograph," said the Major judicially, "and a band, and dances, and songs screeched loud enough to drown even the band. We might look in. If it's a bit too much for the ladies, we can leave." As if in ready answer, the sound of a chorus was borne on the night air to them. The party stood still and stared at each other. Then they broke into mutual laughter. There was no mistaking it: Africa was singing in what it called English: "I'm a bro-ken doll." "Come on, come on," cried Paul, recovering himself. "We shall miss half the fun." "Oh, no, we shan't," said Jardine. "Take it easy, for goodness' sake. They'll keep it up till morning, especially as there's a ship in." As they approached, the glares and shadowy buildings ahead resolved themselves into more recognisable objects. They stopped at length on the edge of a crowd that was sitting at trestle tables in a half-light that faded into the dark night around. Everyone was looking towards a big ramshackle building that held out an open-air stage. Kerosine flares and oil lamps illuminated it. A band, in tattered crimson tunics, blared and beat below, but rather out of the way to the right to permit of the artistes descending into the auditorium, and on it, at the moment, a stout dark-haired Greek woman was singing. Her voice reached them only at intervals, for, harsh and loud and discordant as it was, the band beat it most of the time. Suddenly, with a gesture, she commanded the chorus. The audience took it up. Ragged Africans--Sudanese, Fellahin, Swahilis; Indians, and half-castes; frowsy Greeks and Levantines; and a sprinkling of white-ducked, more respectable looking, but distinctly dark Europeans; they all sang, shouted, beat time. It was obviously a popular item. Ursula laughed heartily. "Oh," she cried, "how priceless! Can't we go nearer the stage and sit down, Major?" Jardine looked doubtful. "Oh, I don't know," he said. But the guide had caught some of the English words. "Seet down?" he queried. "Yas, sar. Plenty room up there. Missy, come thees way."