guns had not been surrendered to us by
the customs people. We had paid duty on them second-hand at the rate
for new ones, and had then been told to apply for them at the
collector's office, where our names and the guns' numbers would be
entered on the register--for a fee.

We now went to claim them, and on the way down inquired at a store
about ammunition. We were told that before we could buy cartridges we
would need a permit from the collector specifying how many, and of what
bore we might buy. There was an Arab in the store ahead of us. He was
buying Martini Henry cartridges. I asked whether he had a permit, and
was told he did not need one.

"Being an Arab?" I asked.

"Being well known to the government," was the answer.

We left the store feeling neither quite so confident nor friendly. And
the collector's Goanese assistant did the rest of the disillusioning.

No, we could not have our guns. No, we could have no permit for
ammunition. No, the collector was not in the office. No, he would not
be there that afternoon. It was provided in regulations that we could
have neither guns, sporting licenses, nor permits for ammunition. The
guns were perfectly safe in the government godown--would not be
tampered with--would be returned to us when we chose to leave the
country.

"But, good God, we've paid duty on them!" Oakes protested.

"You should not have brought the guns with you unless you desired to
pay duty," said the Goanese.

"But where's the collector?" Yerkes demanded.

"I am only assistant," was the answer. "How should I know?"

The man's insolence, of demeanor and words, was unveiled, and the more
we argued with him the more sullen and evasive he grew, until at last
he ordered us out of the office. At that we took chairs and announced
our intention of staying until the collector should come or be fetched.
We were informed that the collector was the most important government
official in Mombasa--information that so delighted Fred that he grew
almost good tempered again.

"I'd rather twist a big tail than a little one!" he announced. "Shall
we sing to pass the time?"

The Goanese called for the askari,* half-soldier, half-police-man, who
drowsed in meek solitude outside the office door.

----------------
* Askari, soldier.
----------------

"Remove these people, please!" he said in English, and then repeated it
in Kiswahili.

The askari eyed us, shifted his bare feet uncomfortably,