Then I passed an admirably appointed saw-mill. At this distance from the coast, where transport costs 24_l._ to 26_l._ a ton, carpenter's work must be done upon the spot. A wide, clean road, metalled with gravel, and in places bordered by pine-apples, led to store-houses of bamboo and thatch, built on either side of the way. After walking from Effuenta seven and a half geographical miles in three hours and forty-five minutes, I reached the establishment known as Crockerville. It dates from 1879, and in 1880 it forwarded its first remittance of 11_l._ 10_s._ to England. The village was laid out under the superintendence of Mr. Sam, the ablest native employe it has ever been my fortune to meet. He is the same who, when District-commissioner of Axim, laid out the town and planted the street-avenues. In conversation with me he bitterly derided the native association formed at Cape Coast Castle for obtaining concessions and for selling them to the benighted white man. He resolved not to put his money in a business where all would be at loggerheads within six months unless controlled by an European. The houses are bamboo on stone platforms. One block is occupied by the owner, and a parallel building lodges Mr. Sam and his wife, the two being connected by an open dining-hall. The kitchen and offices lie to the north and east. Further west are quarters for European miners, and others again for Mr. Turner, now acting manager, and his white clerk. Furthest removed are the black quarters, the huts forming a street. Crockerville at present is decidedly short of hands. The number on the books, all told, black and white, is only sixty-two: when the whole property comes to be worked, divided and sub-divided, it will require between a thousand and fifteen hundred. The hands are mostly country people, including a few gangs employed to sink shafts. One gang lately deserted, for the following reason. Two men were below charging the shots from a heap of loose powder, whilst their friends overhead were quietly smoking their pipes. A 'fire-'tick,' thrown across the shaft, burnt a fellow's fingers, and he at once dropped it upon his brethren underground; they were badly scorched, and none of the gang has been seen since. I mention this accident as proving how difficult it is to manage the black miner. The strictest regulations are issued to prevent the fatuous nigger killing himself, but all in vain: he is worse, if possible, than his white _confrere_. If I had the direction all the powder-work should be done by responsible Europeans. I would fire by electricity, the battery remaining in the manager's hands, and no native should be trusted with explosives.