nd then seven minutes; and MacIan bit his lip and swung his sword, and
the other did not reappear. Finally, with a Gaelic oath, Evan started
forward to the rescue, and almost at the same moment the small figure of
the missing man appeared on the ridge against the sky.

Even at that distance, however, there was something odd about his
attitude; so odd that MacIan continued to make his way in that
direction. It looked as if he were wounded; or, still more, as if he
were ill. He wavered as he came down the slope and seemed flinging
himself into peculiar postures. But it was only when he came within
three feet of MacIan's face, that that observer of mankind fully
realized that Mr. James Turnbull was roaring with laughter.

"You are quit right," sobbed that wholly demoralized journalist. "He's
black, oh, there's no doubt the black's all right--as far as it goes."
And he went off again into convulsions of his humorous ailment.

"What ever is the matter with you?" asked MacIan, with stern impatience.
"Did you see the nigger----"

"I saw the nigger," gasped Turnbull. "I saw the splendid barbarian
Chief. I saw the Emperor of Ethiopia--oh, I saw him all right. The
nigger's hands and face are a lovely colour--and the nigger----" And he
was overtaken once more.

"Well, well, well," said Evan, stamping each monosyllable on the sand,
"what about the nigger?"

"Well, the truth is," said Turnbull, suddenly and startlingly, becoming
quite grave and precise, "the truth is, the nigger is a Margate nigger,
and we are now on the edge of the Isle of Thanet, a few miles from
Margate."

Then he had a momentary return of his hysteria and said: "I say,
old boy, I should like to see a chart of our fortnight's cruise in
Wilkinson's yacht."

MacIan had no smile in answer, but his eager lips opened as if parched
for the truth. "You mean to say," he began----

"Yes, I mean to say," said Turnbull, "and I mean to say something
funnier still. I have learnt everything I wanted to know from the
partially black musician over there, who has taken a run in his
war-paint to meet a friend in a quiet pub along the coast--the noble
savage has told me all about it. The bottle containing our declaration,
doctrines, and dying sentiments was washed up on Margate beach yesterday
in the presence of one alderman, two bathing-machine men, three
policemen, seven doctors, and a hundred and thirteen London clerks on a
holiday, to all of whom, whether directly or