At last I was nettled by this apparent disregard—it is always dangerous to be too meek and unassuming with African chiefs—so I asked my head-man in an audible tone which of the people present was Mandara, affecting to search for him among the crowd. There was a silence. Then Kiongwe, in the most cringing tone and manner, approached the chief with many a deprecating salaam, affected to kiss his hand, and then begged to inform him that his master, the white man from Zanzibar, the “Consul’s child,” was here, and desired an interview. Mandara’s gaze now rested on me with a benign and singularly winning smile, which effaced the preceding impression that his somewhat heedless manner had produced. I advanced a few steps and said, in rather a hesitating voice, in the middle of a profound silence, “Sultan, the Baloza (Sir John Kirk) sends you many greetings, and hopes you are well.” I had spoken in Swahili, and he replied fluently in the same language, and in a voice pleasantly modulated and different from the hoarse speech of his subjects, “Child of the Baloza, I am pleased to see you. I like your face.” Then, after a short pause, in which his dignity relaxed, he advanced towards me, took my hand, and said, almost in a coaxing manner, “Tuzumgumze! Let us chat.” At this signal all his followers and mine, who had hitherto stood “at attention,” relaxed their attitudes with one accord. No one spoke, but they all sat down, making as they did so that unanimous shuffling which you hear in church when people arise from their knees and sit down to arrange themselves for the sermon; and this analogy was further carried out by the chorus of throat-clearings and hurried coughs which rapidly went the round of my circle of listeners, who were desirous of removing all physical obstacles which should prevent them from thoroughly hearing and understanding the words of wit and wisdom about to fall from our lips. The chief began the interrogatory. “What pretty boots you have got on!” he said. To which I could think of nothing more original to reply than, “Oh, do you think so?” “Yes, they are very fine—‘vizuri sana;’ have you got a pair that would fit me?” This was a question that required rather a diplomatic answer. I had but one pair of patent leather shoes, and I judged from what I saw of Mandara’s foot that they would be quite inadequately sized, so I replied, vaguely, “I will look and see.” But the chief’s attention had already wandered to other subjects. He pressed me with the most varied questions, sometimes too impatient to wait for an answer. “What is the braid on your coat made of?” “Silver.” “Is silver the same as that white stuff on the top of Kilima-njaro?” “And have you come all this way from Ulaya (Europe) to gather the glittering thing that makes Kibô shine in the sun?” “Why is your sultan called Queeny?” “The Arabs tell me Queeny is a woman; is that true?” “Did Queeny send you here?” “No; the Waalimu (wise men) of