Nevertheless the sun had been up a long time when we strolled out into the street and looked round at the scene of bustle that it presented. The market women were already streaming into the town in long files, and many had taken their places and were setting out their stalls, while the strangers roamed about in little groups, chattering, laughing, eating, and examining the wares of the market people. We had joined the throng of idlers, and were slowly making our way up the market place, when our attention was attracted by a person who was approaching from the opposite direction. This was a tall and powerful elderly man, who stalked along at the head of a small party of followers, pausing now and again to bestow on them a few words of abuse. His aspect was fierce and forbidding, and one blind eye, white and opaque, did not increase his attractions. Although he wore but a single cloth or _ntama_ after the fashion of the pagans, he was evidently a person of consequence, for he was followed by a stool-bearer, a pipe-bearer, and numerous other dependents, on two of whom he leaned heavily--for early as it was, he was considerably the worse for liquor. As he came up to us he stopped and regarded us with a drunken stare. “Who are you, my fine fellows?” he asked gruffly in very bad Hausa, “and what do you do in this town?” “We are musicians, most mighty chief,” replied Ali in his oiliest manner, and bowing to the ground before the old reprobate, “and we have come to sing to the people in the market, if it please the valiant chief to graciously permit us.” “We want no wandering vagabonds here,” exclaimed the old man fiercely. “More likely ye have come to thieve than to sing. Still, I will hear your singing, and if it please me not I will fling this bottle at your heads. Now! begin! Do you hear me?” he shouted. “Sing!” The stool-bearer planted the seat upon the ground, and the old ruffian dropped upon it heavily, and sat swaying from side to side, scowling at us, and holding a square gin bottle poised ready to throw. My companions were in such a hurry to obey that they all commenced simultaneously with different songs, but perceiving their mistake before it was noticed by the chief, Osman and Baku stopped, leaving Ali to sing alone; which he did with surprising spirit, pouring out a torrent of extemporised ribaldry of a foulness beyond belief. He had, however, hit off the taste of his audience to a nicety, for, as the performance proceeded, the old chief lowered the gin bottle and shouted with laughter and enjoyment. “Thou art a proper singer,” said he, as Ali struck out a few concluding flourishes. “Now let us hear that long-nosed Moor who is with thee. He looketh as sour as a monkey-bread; if his song is not more pleasant than his face he shall have the bottle at his head. Come, sing, thou yellow-skinned baboon, before I smash thy ugly face.”