"Very odd smell in this boat," he whispered back in Dutch. "It stinks
of Kaffir man, just like the hold of the /Maria/. I think this boat is
used to carry slaves."
"Be quiet," I whispered back, "and stop nosing at those planks." But
to myself I thought, Hans is right, we are in a nest of slave-traders,
and this Hassan is their leader.
We rowed past the island, on which I observed the ruins of an old
Portuguese fort and some long grass-roofed huts, where, I reflected,
the slaves were probably kept until they could be shipped away.
Observing my glance fixed upon these, Hassan hastened to explain,
through Sammy, that they were storehouses in which he dried fish and
hides, and kept goods.
"How interesting!" I answered. "Further south we dry hides in the
sun."
Crossing a narrow channel we arrived at a rough jetty where we
disembarked, whence we were led by Hassan not to the village which I
now saw upon our left, but to a pleasant-looking, though dilapidated
house that stood a hundred yards from the shore.
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