“Sing, in the name of God!” exclaimed Ali, tremblingly slinging the balafu from my shoulders. “He is the chief of the town, and will certainly kill us if we cross him.” I was much disposed to consign the old savage to Hades or its pagan equivalent, but I smothered my wrath as well as I could, and hammered out a flourish on the balafu, while I decided on a suitable song. After a moment’s consideration I hit upon the “Leather Bottél” as being specially appropriate to the old rascal’s condition, and began forthwith to bellow it out. The crowd rapidly increased, and gave manifest signs of approval, for the melody had in it just that swinging rhythm that is so grateful to the African ear; but the old chief evidently found it a dull performance, for in the middle of the second stanza he staggered to his feet, and roaring out, “I understand not one word of thy gibberish!” lurched off. However, I did not allow his departure to interrupt my performance, for Baku was already busy with the calabash, and I could hear the _kurdi_ rattling into it; so I worked my way through stanza after stanza until I reached the last; and I was just considering the advisability of beginning over again when I was startled by the apparition of a man’s head and shoulders standing up above the heads of the onlookers. For an instant I supposed that it was some idler who had raised himself upon a stool or case that he might get a better view, but at a second glance I recognised with a thrill of astonishment my old friend Abduláhi Dan-Daúra. The recognition was mutual, and in a moment the genial “child of the elephant,” with a cry of joy, pushed his way through the crowd, and folded me in his enormous arms. “And is it indeed thou, Yúsufu, child of my mother!” he exclaimed, almost weeping with delight. “Little I thought ever to set eyes upon thy face again. We had given thee up for dead long since, and now here thou art, all alive and singing like a cricket in a meal pot! Musa will rejoice to see thee, and so will the others.” “Are they in this town then?” I asked, rubbing the hand that he had pressed in the exuberance of his affection. “That they are,” he replied, “and here is my friend Mahámadu Dam-Bornu, who has travelled with us from Kantámpo. Mahámadu, this is that Yúsufu of whom we have told thee, who has come back to us from the land of the dead.” “They do not appear to spend much on clothing in that country,” remarked Mahámadu with a grin, “nor on food either, for that matter.” “No, indeed,” agreed Abduláhi; “thou lookest but poorly in body and in pocket. But that matters little, for Musa hath all the gold that thou didst leave behind as well as thy good clothes and the money that we owe thee.” I was sorry that he had mentioned this matter publicly, for the musicians, who had pressed forward to listen, pricked up their ears mightily at his words, and I caught a greedy glitter in the eyes of my friend Ali.