The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar Wallace

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      X. The Man on the Spot

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      Once upon a time a man went up to the Calali River to buy rubber from the natives. He had a permit signed by the new Administrator and a licence to trade, and he had come into Sanders’ territory by a back way and did not trouble to have this permit visaed.

      Now the permit bore the signature of His Excellency the Administrator, him and none other, and the name of His Excellency “goes,” and people have been known to bow their heads most respectfully at the mention of his name.

      Sanders did not respect him, but called him “your Excellency,” because it was lawful.

      Anyway, this trader to whom I have referred went up the Calali River and bought rubber. He bought it and sometimes paid for it. He did not give its exact value, and after three weeks of bartering his business came to an end, because native folk would not bring any further rubber to his big canoe. Whereupon Tinkerton — such was his name — had recourse to other methods. He sat down in a likely village and instructed the headman to produce for him so many kilos of rubber in so many days, promising remuneration which by every standard was absurd. The headman refused, whereupon Tinkerton tied him up to a tree and whipped him with a chicotte.

      “Now you’ll change your point of view,” said Tinkerton, “and fetch me rubber — quick!”

      The chief sent twenty young men into the forest to find rubber, and four men who were his best paddlers to find Mr. Commissioner Sanders, collecting hut tax with some labour in the Akasava country.

      Rubber and Sanders arrived at the Calali River at the same time.

      Tinkerton explained his position and the chief exhibited his back.

      “My permit is quite in order, I think,” said Tinkerton.

      “Up to a point,” admitted Sanders carefully, “it is. But, as you know, a licence to trade becomes invalid when the holder is convicted of any breach of the common law.”

      Tinkerton smiled uneasily.

      “That doesn’t affect me, I think,” he said.

      He always added “I think” to everything he said, lest the hearer should labour under the impression that he spoke without thinking.

      “It affects you considerably,” said Sanders; “for I am sentencing you to six months’ hard labour for your assault on this native, and I am sending you to the coast to serve that sentence.”

      Tinkerton went crimson with rage.

      “Do you know what I think of you?” he asked loudly.

      “No,” said Sanders, “but I can guess it, and if you open your mouth uncivilly I shall take you by the scruff of the neck and kick you into the river.”

      Tinkerton went down to the coast under escort, and he never forgave the Commissioner.

      The major portion of his sentence was remitted by the Administrator, because it happened that the Administrator was a sort of cousin to Tinkerton’s father.

      So that to the patent fury of Tinkerton was added the coldly polite disapproval of an Administrator who is remembered best on the coast by his mistakes.

      Now, although it is amusing to recall the blunders of a high official after his departure, it is not so entertaining to furnish material for subsequent anecdote, and one must be possessed of a peculiarly poignant sense of humour to thoroughly appreciate the travail in which these jests were born.

      The Administrator may or may not have deliberately set himself the task of annoying Sanders.

      From a strictly service aspect, a service which has for its ideal the perfection of British administration, to the exclusion of all personal ambition, the idea is preposterous. From the standpoint of one who has some knowledge of human nature, it seems very likely that there was something in the suggestion that His Excellency had his administrative knife in the executive ribs of Mr. Commissioner Sanders.

      One spring morning Sanders received a big blue letter. It came in his mail bag with other communications but bore, in addition to the notification that it was “On His Majesty’s Service,” the legend “Department of His Excellency the Administrator,” and was moreover subscribed “Strictly confidential.”

      Now, when a high official of state writes in strictest confidence to his subordinate, he is not telling him his troubles or confessing his guilt, or even trying to borrow money.

      He is, as a rule, delivering a kick with all the force of his strong right leg.

      Sanders looked at the letter, picked it up gingerly, held it up to the light, and weighed it in his hand. It was heavy. The bulk of it was eloquent of reproof, because administrators do not expend overmuch energy in praising the works of their underlings.

      Sir Harry Coleby, K.C.M.G., had a reputation which he had acquired in Bermuda, Jamaica, and the Straits Settlements. It was not a reputation for loving kindness exactly. His nickname — he came by this when he was a secretary of Legation at Madrid — was “Calliente,” which he pronounced “Cally-enty,” and means “hot.” And hot he was of head and temper, and the men who worked for him and with him lived in a mild perspiration.

      He was extravagant of speech and quick of temper, and he wrote letters which were vitriolic without being СКАЧАТЬ