Page:Travels in West Africa, Congo Français, Corisco and Cameroons (IA travelsinwestafr00kingrich).pdf/139

 a fine stone-built verandah. We wait so long that the feeling grows on us that elaborate preparations for incarcerating us for life must be going on, but just as Mr. H. and I have made up our minds to make a dash for it and escape, we are ushered into a cool, whitewashed office, and find a French official, clean, tidy, dark-haired, and melancholy, seated before his writing-table. Courtcously bidding us be seated, he asks our names, ages, and avocations, enters them in a book for future reference, and then writes out a permit for each of us to reside in the colony, as long as we behave ourselves, and conform to the laws thereof. These documents are sent up stairs to be signed by the acting Governor, and while we are waiting for their return, he converses with M. Pichault on death, fever, &c. Presently a black man is shown in; he is clad in a blue serge coat, from underneath which float over a pair of blue canvas trousers the tails of a flannel shirt, and on his feet are a pair of ammunition boots that fairly hobble him. His name, the interpreter says, is Joseph. "Who is your father?" says the official—clerk interprets into trade English. "Fader?" says Joseph. "Yes, fader," says the interpreter. "My fader?" says Joseph. "Yes," says the interpreter; "who's your fader?" "Who my fader?" says Joseph. "Take him away and let him think about it," says the officer with a sad, sardonic smile. Joseph is alarmed and volunteers name of mother; this is no good; this sort of information any fool can give; Government is collecting information of a more recondite and interesting character. Joseph is removed by Senegal soldiers, boots and all. As he's going to Boma, in the Congo Free State, it can only be for ethnological purposes that the French Government are taking this trouble to get up his genealogy.

Our stamped papers having arrived now we feel happier and free, and then M. Pichault alarms us by saying, "Now for the Police"; and off we trail, subdued, to the Palais de Justice, where we are promptly ushered into a room containing a vivacious, gesticulatory old gentleman, kindly civil beyond words, and a powerful, calm young man, with a reassuring "He's-all-right; it's-only-his-way" manner regarding his chief. The chief is clad in a white shirt and white pantaloons cut