that last lingering stronghold of legal slavery,* where the
only stories judged worth listening to are the very sources of the
Thousand Nights and a Night, intrigue is not perhaps the breath of
life, but it is the salt and savory. There is a woolly-headed sultan
who draws a guaranteed, fixed income and has nothing better to do than
regale himself and a harem with western alleged amusement. There are
police, and lights, and municipal regulations. In fact, Zanzibar has
come on miserable times from certain points of view. But there remains
the fun of listening to all the rumors borne by sea. "Play on the
flute in Zanzibar and Africa as far as the lakes will dance!" the Arabs
say, and the gentry who once drove slaves or traded ivory refuse to
believe that the day of lawlessness is gone forever. One rumor then is
worth ten facts. Four white men singing behind the bars of the
lazaretto, desiring to speak with Hassan, "'nephew" of Tippoo Tib, and
offering money for the introduction, were enough to send whispers
sizzling up and down all the mazy streets.

----------------
* Slavery was not absolutely and finally abolished in Zanzibar until
1906, during which year even the old slaves, hitherto unwilling to be
set free, had to be pensioned off.
----------------

Our release from quarantine took place next day, and we went to the
hotel, where we were besieged at once by tradesmen, each proclaiming
himself the only honest outfitter and "agent for all good export
firms." Monty departed to call on British officialdom (one advantage
of traveling with a nobleman being that he has to do the stilted social
stuff). Yerkes went to call on the United States Consul, the same being
presumably a part of his religion, for he always does it, and almost
always abuses his government afterward. So Fred and I were left to
repel boarders, and it came about that we two received Hassan.

He entered our room with a great shout of "Hodi!" (and Fred knew enough
to say "Karibu!")--a smart red fez set at an angle on his shaven head,
his henna-stained beard all newly-combed--a garment like a night-shirt
reaching nearly to his heels, a sort of vest of silk embroidery
restraining his stomach's tendency to wobble at will, and a fat smile
decorating the least ashamed, most obviously opportunist face I ever
saw, even on a black man.

"Jambo, jambo;"* he announced, striding in and observing our lack of
worldly goods with one sweep of the eye. (We h