Jamaica vanished, and in its place we saw and heard wild, discordant Africa. We heard the echoes of the war cries of half the tribes that fight in the savage belt of country stretching from Tanganyika to Sierra Leone. The sportsman and the gambler threw off the thin veneer of a chaste and modest civilisation, and became their fathers’ fathers’ true descendants. The half-breeds shouted and then were much ashamed. The blacks tore the air with their eager hands and flung themselves prostrate, biting the grass in the frenzy of the savage African. And when the race was won, only the winning blacks admitted the fairness of the race. The losing horses had been “bridle pulled” or “kicked” or unfairly dealt with, and the loser paid his debts with great reluctance, conscious of a great grievance. The winner, on the other hand, presented the appearance of fierce, overbearing rectitude. The race was fair, the test supreme, the winner, the fastest horse in the country. The women of the dusky whites were hot and dusty in their finery, but they sometimes forgot to assume the appearance of calm indifference peculiar to their quite white sisters, and shouted with the rest. Then they sulked because they knew that they had forgotten that they were white. Your true half-breed lady knows that she is pure white, and seeks to prove it to the world by English accent, simpering manners, and the exhibition of a large contempt for black men. Sometimes, it is supposed, she succeeds in impressing dependant country folk. She talks of the England she has never seen as “home,” and thinks that heaven is built for white people only. “The sun is not too hot, but the weather is warm,” she suggests to her buggy man with fine condescension. The driver agrees and says that he has ventured to take a drink from the water-bottle. “You done perfectly right,” says the white lady graciously. Since white men are near, and she wishes to display her accent, she adds, “You ’ave my permission to refresh you’self from the bottle as frequent as you desire.”