arbarians, just landed from a
vessel direct from Africa. Hideously tattooed, and their heads shaved
in regular ridges of black wool, with narrow patches of black scalp
between, they are here in a small tradesman's shop in bowery England
buying shirts. They know not a word of English, but chatter among
themselves the most horrible lingo known to the Hamitic group of
tongues. They grimace in a frightful manner, and skip and dance, and
writhe their half-naked bodies into the most exaggerated contortions
known to the language of signs. The dignified English salesmen are
at their wits' end how to treat them. The instinct of the British
shopkeeper fights desperately with his disposition to be shocked. From
the Ashantee gentlemen's gestures it can only be concluded that white
shirts are wanted, but when white shirts are shown the negroes make
furious objection to the plaited bosoms. They want shirts such as are
fashionable at home. It is easy to be seen that they are Dandy Jims
in Africa. They are all young, and, in a sense, spruce. One of them
carries a little switch cane, evidently just bought: while he examines
the shirts, testing the strength of the stuff by pulling it with his
two hands, he holds his cane between his bare legs for safe-keeping.

Sitting in the billiard-room of the hotel in the evening smoking our
cigars, Bunker and I are accosted by a brisk little man, who asks us
if we play billiards. Bunker doesn't. I do sometimes at home, but not
the English game.

"Oh, we play the 'Merican game too. 'Appy to play the 'Merican game
with you, sir."

"Try him a game," says Bunker. "It won't hurt you."

Not liking to refuse an invitation from a polite Englishman, who
appears to be a stranger here, I consent. This is billiard-room
etiquette the world over.

The cue is like a whip-stock. It positively runs down to a point not
bigger than a shirt-button, and it bends like a switch. The balls are
not much larger than marbles. To make up for this, the table is big
enough for a back yard, broad, high, dull of cushion, and with six
huge pockets. I am ignominiously beaten. My ball jumps like a living
thing. It hops off the table upon the floor at almost every shot, and
when it does not go on the floor it goes into one of the six yawning
pockets. The pockets bear the same relative proportion to the balls
that a tea-cup bears to a French pea. At the end of the game my ball
has been everywhere except where I intended it to go,