But after all Africa is a land
of queer people, and of queer gods too."
And now the story shifts away to England. (Don't be afraid, my
adventurous reader, if ever I have one, it is coming back to Africa
again in a very few pages.)
Mr. Charles Scroope and I left Durban a day or two after my last
conversation with Brother John. At Cape Town we caught the mail, a
wretched little boat you would think it now, which after a long and
wearisome journey at length landed us safe at Plymouth. Our companions
on that voyage were very dull. I have forgotten most of them, but one
lady I do remember. I imagine that she must have commenced life as a
barmaid, for she had the orthodox tow hair and blowsy appearance. At
any rate, she was the wife of a wine-merchant who had made a fortune
at the Cape. Unhappily, however, she had contracted too great a liking
for her husband's wares, and after dinner was apt to become talkative.
For some reason or other she took a particular aversion to me. Oh! I
can see her now, seated in that saloon with the oil lamp swinging over
her head (she always chose the position under the oil lamp because it
showed off her diamonds).
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