It took three, days to get him down from the high copal tree to which he had retired with a G major bell in one hand and the C sharp in the other, ringing them alternately day and night, with an expression of misery that was heart-breaking to witness.

The cornet which Bones had on approval from a trader at Sierra Leone was sent back by Sanders’s orders as being demoralising to the armed forces of the Crown, for the first notes (as Bones played them) of “A Sailor’s Life” so closely resembled the “Alarm and Assembly” call that headquarters was a constant ferment of armed men running to take up their positions.

“I have spoken to the Commissioner,” said Hamilton, “and we have agreed that in future you will confine your musical exercises to a muted mouth-organ–“

“Very low, dear old officer,” murmured Bones reproachfully. “Very hoi polloi, dear old sir.”

“Or a Jew’s harp or a concertina.” Then, seeing the eyes of Lieutenant Tibbetts light up: “A very small one–preferably rubber-tyred.”

“He that hath no music in his jolly old soul,” said Bones with dignity, “is fit for the jolly old ashpit.”

“I shouldn’t like to see you there,” said Hamilton, “but I’m glad you’re sensible of your limitations.”

The tension of a very strained atmosphere was relieved by an order from Administrative Headquarters calling for the presence of the officer who carried out the execution of the old king’s man. Bones was immensely interested.

“I knew something would come out of that, dear old sir,” he said thoughtfully. “Mind you, dear old push-face–“

“Bones!” said his superior awfully.

“I mean I’m not going to accept any decoration, dear old sir,” said Bones firmly. “I shall simply say to the jolly old Excellency: ‘Sir, I appreciate the honour that the jolly old Government wishes to–er–bestow, and I deserve it. I did all the work, but whilst jolly old Ham hasn’t a C.B. to his name–’”

“I don’t wish you to talk about me at all,” said Hamilton coldly. “And if you think you’re going up to H.Q. to get bouquets, I’ll tell you that the only flowers you’re likely to get are those which will be handed to your next-of-kin. There’s a kick coming. Haven’t you seen the ‘Private and Confidential’?”

Mr. Tibbetts’s long face grew longer. He fixed his monocle in his eye and surveyed his chief sternly.

“If there is any kick coming, dear old superior–why me? Who is in charge on the Ochori? You, dear old Ham! Now don’t try to get out of it. Uriah the Hi-tiddly-hi-ti did the same thing, and look what a horrible name he’s got. As to that old order, I thought it was a joke–“

A visit to any Administrator is a solemn and unnerving business. To a new Administrator such a call is to be obeyed with trembling knees.

And Sir Macalister Campbell-Cairns was not only new but raw. They called him by various nicknames–an ominous sign. The man with one patronymic may be well loved; with two, well known; with half a dozen he is likely to be unpopular.

He had not occupied the chair of office longer than five minutes before he gave to the world his System of Responsible Control, which was roughly as follows: Every administrative unit was to be divided into as many districts as there were European officers. Each officer was to control a district and be responsible for its well-being and good conduct. The fact that he did not have his dwelling within 300 miles of the country made little or no difference. He might be a subaltern officer acting as tutor to wild Houssa men who were being moulded into military shape and learning for the first time that a rifle was not an instrument designed to frighten people to death, but an arm of precision which performed certain functions with mathematical exactness: that, in fact, the bullet and not the “bang!” was the real cause of all fatalities which followed its discharge.

Administrative Headquarters was the large name of a smallish town which was remarkable in that it boasted a municipality, a power plant, a waterworks and a reservoir in addition to a number of flat-roofed, whitewashed houses, built-in gardens where only the more exotic flowers flourished. Horse-drawn street cars rattled along its boulevards, there were steam trains that ran at odd intervals into the jungle of the hinterland, and on the horns of the crescent-shaped water-front were two concrete forts which looked like inverted pill-boxes, but each of which accommodated a quick muzzle-loader and two 4.7 quick-firers of modern character.

In the main the population was made up of native ladies and gentlemen who wore respectively skirts and trousers. There were three churches to cater for the three degrees of Christianity which come to every native commune; the narrow and cheerless, the broad and cheerful, and the official brand which demands regular attendance on Sunday mornings and permits tennis and other decorous games for the rest of the day.

All commissioners hate A.H.Q., where natives speak English and are called “Mister” and wear frock-coats, stove-pipe hats and tight enamelled shoes on the Sabbath. The officers of the Territories regard a summons to attend at this unholy place with the same enthusiasm as the mother of a family might look upon an invitation to the White House if it was quarantined for measles.

Bones, who had no fear in his soul, journeyed coastwise to headquarters, his mind entirely occupied by the new-born decision to discard all musical instruments in favour of the saxophone. Occasionally he gave a thought to the enraged Administrator.

Macalister believed in machine-guns, correspondence in triplicate, and confidence in the Man on the Spot. This latter belief originated when he found that he was the man. He hated all foreign wines and foreign dishes, had a passion for Scottish mutton and whisky, and possessed no faith whatever in the rising generation. When he was a boy, things were different. The people who went into the Diplomatic Service were gentlemen; women were modest and knew their place; children never spoke until they were spoken to.

He was a tallish, broadish man, with shoulders like an ox and a very red face that had seen a lot of hard wear. It appeared to have been originally modelled in red wax and to have been carelessly left in the sun.

“His Excellency will see you at once,” said the third secretary, and looked at his watch.