om, a thin spare chap
with black piercing eyes set rather closely together, short crisp hair
and a complexion of a slightly yellowish hue. I had been at Trigger's
about twelve months and was thirteen when he arrived. I well remember
that day. Accompanied by a tall, dark-faced man of decided negroid type
who appeared to be ill at ease in European clothes, he was shown into the
Doctor's study, where a long consultation took place. Meanwhile among the
fellows much speculation was rife as to who the stranger was, the popular
opinion being that Trigger should not open his place to "savages," and
that if he came we would at once conspire to make his life unbearable and
send him to Coventry.

An hour passed and listeners at the keyhole of the Doctor's door could
only hear mumbling, as if the negotiations were being carried on in the
strictest secrecy. Presently, however, the black man wished Trigger
good-day, and much to everyone's disgust and annoyance the yellow-faced
stranger was brought in and introduced to us as Omar Sanom, the new boy.

The mystery surrounding him was inscrutable. About my own age, he spoke
very little English and would, in conversation, often drop unconsciously
into his own language, a strange one which none of the masters understood
or even knew its name. It seemed to me composed mainly of p's and l's. To
all our inquiries as to the place of his birth or nationality he remained
dumb. Whence he had come we knew not; we were only anxious to get rid of
him.

I do not think Trigger knew very much about him. That he paid very
handsomely for his education I do not doubt, for he was allowed
privileges accorded to no one else, one of which was that on Sundays when
we were marched to church he was allowed to go for a walk instead, and
during prayers he always stood aside and looked on with superior air, as
if pitying our simplicity. His religion was not ours.

For quite a month it was a subject of much discussion as to which of the
five continents Omar came from, until one day, while giving a geography
lesson the master, who had taken the West Coast of Africa as his subject,
asked:

"Where does the Volta River empty itself?"

There was a dead silence that confessed ignorance. We had heard of the
Russian Volga, but never of the Volta. Suddenly Omar, who stood next me,
exclaimed in his broken English:

"The Volta empties itself into the Gulf of Guinea. I've been there."

"Quite correct," nodded the maste