I said first: “Ndong Koni while in my service does not belong to his town, but to me; he is my son, and you have no palaver with me. Now suppose that one of your own young men should work for me—and I see several fine-looking young men here with strong arms to pull an oar. Suppose that a young man of your town should go with me to Alum, where you have a palaver, and that the people of Alum should attempt to seize him, what would you like to have me do? Shall I say: ‘He is only a black boy and I am a white man; I don’t care what you do with him.’ Or shall I say: ‘The colour of the skin makes no difference, so long as the blood is red. This boy while he works for me is my son; and if you should harm a white man’s son you will have a palaver with me and with the white governor at Libreville who owns the gunboat.’ Now what would you like me to say if one of these young men should go with me to Alum and the people should want to put him in stocks?” They shouted in reply: “We would want you to say he was your son. Those are good words. You are the father of us all.” “Yes,” said I, “I have many, many children; but my life is full of trouble, for they do not obey me.” The chief and a few others were as hostile as ever, but there was a marked change in the attitude of the people; and in order to force an assertion of their friendliness I attempted a grand bluff, while I was inwardly quaking. Approaching the threatening chief I laid my hand upon his arm and said: “Come and seize this boy if you dare. Come with me and before my face put your hand upon my son.” “No,” cried the people; and they crowded between the chief and Ndong Koni. The palaver was finished; but I thought it well to pass on to the next town and not wait to hold a service. Before I got away however they crowded around me, saying: “Since you are the father of the Fang surely you ought to give us some tobacco. A father gives tobacco to his sons.” It is thus frequently in Africa; the serious ends in burlesque; and, perhaps as frequently, comedy ends in tragedy. The chief himself, coming forward just before my departure, assured me of his good will by solemnly taking my hand in his and spitting in it. I know the theory of some regarding this touching demonstration of affection,—that the native means only to blow with his breath, symbolic of imparting a blessing, and that the spitting is incidental, a “by-product”—so to speak—of the blessing. But as I looked at my hand I realized that it was not a theory, but a condition, that confronted me, a condition that called loudly for soap and water—_warm_ water and plenty of soap. I have before this acknowledged the receipt of blessings in disguise; but I would cheerfully renounce any possible benefits that might accrue from a blessing coming in such a disguise as this. And if the old chief had approached me a second time with the offer of a blessing on the other hand, I would have said: “Please give me a curse instead, by way of variety.”