A Romance!

: The Great White Queen

IT is a curious story, full of exciting adventures, extraordinary

discoveries, and mysteries amazing.



Strange, too, that I, Richard Scarsmere, who, when at school hated

geography as bitterly as I did algebraic problems, should even now, while

just out of my teens, be thus enabled to write down this record of a

perilous journey through a land known only by name to geographers, a vast

region wherein no stra ger had ever before set foot.



The face of the earth is well explored now-a-days, yet it has remained

for me to discover and traverse one of the very few unknown countries,

and to give the bald-headed old fogies of the Royal Geographical Society

a lesson in the science that I once abominated.



I have witnessed with my own eyes the mysteries of Mo. I have seen the

Great White Queen!



Three years ago I had as little expectation of emulating the intrepidity

of Stanley as I had of usurping the throne of England. An orphan, both of

whose parents had been drowned in a yachting accident in the Solent and

whose elder brother succeeded to the estate, I was left in the care of a

maternal uncle, a regular martinet, who sent me for several long and

dreary years to Dr. Tregear's well-known Grammar-school at Eastbourne,

and had given me to understand that I should eventually enter his office

in London. Briefly, I was, when old enough, to follow the prosaic and

ill-paid avocation of clerk. But for a combination of circumstances, I

should have, by this time, budded into one of those silk-hatted,

patent-booted, milk-and-bun lunchers who sit on their high perches and

drive a pen from ten till four at a salary of sixteen shillings weekly.

Such was the calling my relative thought good enough for me, although his

own sons were being trained for professional careers. In his own

estimation all his ideas were noble and his generosity unbounded; but not

in mine.



But this is not a school story, although its preparatory scenes take

place at school. Some preparatory scenes must take place at school; but

the drama generally terminates on the broader stage of the world. Who

cares for a rehearsal, save those who have taken part in it? I vow, if I

had never been at Tregear's I would skip the very mention of his name. As

it is, however, I often sigh to see the shadow of the elms clustering

around the playground, to watch the moonbeans illumine the ivied wall

opposite the dormitory window. I often dream that I am back again, a

Caesar-hating pupil.



Dr. Tregear, commonly called "Old Trigger," lived at Upperton, a suburb

of Eastbourne, and had accommodation for seventy boys, but during the

whole time I remained there we never had more than fifty. His

advertisements in local and London papers offering "Commercial training

for thirty guineas including laundress and books. Bracing air, gravel

soil, diet best and unlimited. Reduction for brothers," were glowing

enough, but they never whipped up business sufficiently to attract the

required number of boarders. Nevertheless, I must admit that old Trigger,

with all his faults and severity, was really good-hearted. He was a

little sniffing, rasping man, with small, spare, feeble, bent figure;

mean irregular features badly arranged round a formidable bent, broken

red nose; thin straggling grey hair and long grey mutton-chop whiskers;

constantly blinking little eyes and very assertive, energetic manners. He

had a constant air of objecting to everything and everybody on principle.

Knowing that I was an orphan he sometimes took me aside and gave me sound

fatherly advice which I have since remembered, and am now beginning to

appreciate. His wife, too, was a kindly motherly woman who, because being

practically homeless I was often compelled to spend my holidays at

school, seemed better disposed towards me than to the majority of the

other fellows.



Yes, I got on famously at Trigger's. Known by the abbreviated appellation

of "Scars," I enjoyed a popularity that was gratifying, and, bar one or

two sneaks, there was not one who would not do me a good turn when I

wanted it. The sneaks were outsiders, and although we did not reckon them

when we spoke of "the school," it must not be imagined that we forgot to

bring them into our calculations in each conspiracy of devilment, nor to

fasten upon them the consequences of our practical jokes.



My best friend was a mystery. His name was Omar Sanom, a thin spare chap

with black piercing eyes set rather closely together, short crisp hair

and a complexion of a slightly yellowish hue. I had been at Trigger's

about twelve months and was thirteen when he arrived. I well remember

that day. Accompanied by a tall, dark-faced man of decided negroid type

who appeared to be ill at ease in European clothes, he was shown into the

Doctor's study, where a long consultation took place. Meanwhile among the

fellows much speculation was rife as to who the stranger was, the popular

opinion being that Trigger should not open his place to "savages," and

that if he came we would at once conspire to make his life unbearable and

send him to Coventry.



An hour passed and listeners at the keyhole of the Doctor's door could

only hear mumbling, as if the negotiations were being carried on in the

strictest secrecy. Presently, however, the black man wished Trigger

good-day, and much to everyone's disgust and annoyance the yellow-faced

stranger was brought in and introduced to us as Omar Sanom, the new boy.



The mystery surrounding him was inscrutable. About my own age, he spoke

very little English and would, in conversation, often drop unconsciously

into his own language, a strange one which none of the masters understood

or even knew its name. It seemed to me composed mainly of p's and l's. To

all our inquiries as to the place of his birth or nationality he remained

dumb. Whence he had come we knew not; we were only anxious to get rid of

him.



I do not think Trigger knew very much about him. That he paid very

handsomely for his education I do not doubt, for he was allowed

privileges accorded to no one else, one of which was that on Sundays when

we were marched to church he was allowed to go for a walk instead, and

during prayers he always stood aside and looked on with superior air, as

if pitying our simplicity. His religion was not ours.



For quite a month it was a subject of much discussion as to which of the

five continents Omar came from, until one day, while giving a geography

lesson the master, who had taken the West Coast of Africa as his subject,

asked:



"Where does the Volta River empty itself?"



There was a dead silence that confessed ignorance. We had heard of the

Russian Volga, but never of the Volta. Suddenly Omar, who stood next me,

exclaimed in his broken English:



"The Volta empties itself into the Gulf of Guinea. I've been there."



"Quite correct," nodded the master approvingly, while Baynes, the fellow

on my left, whispered:--



"Yellow-Face has been there! He's a Guinea Pig--see?"



I laughed and was punished in consequence, but the suggestion of the

witty Baynes being whispered round the school was effective. From that

moment the yellow-faced mysterious foreigner was commonly known as "the

Guinea Pig."



We did our best to pump him and ascertain whether he had been born in

Guinea, but he carefully avoided the subject. The information that he

came from the West Coast of Africa had evidently been given us quite

involuntarily. He had been asked a question about a spot he knew

intimately, and the temptation to exhibit his superiority over us had

proved too great.



Not only was his nationality a secret, but many of his actions puzzled us

considerably. As an instance, whenever he drank anything, water, tea, or

coffee, he never lifted his cup to his lips before spilling a small

quantity upon the floor. If we had done this punishment would promptly

have descended upon us, but the masters looked on at his curious antics

in silence.



Around his neck beneath his clothes he wore a sort of necklet composed of

a string of tiny bags of leather, in which were sewn certain hard

substances that could be felt inside. Even in the dormitory he never

removed this, although plenty of chaff was directed towards him in

consequence of this extraordinary ornament. It was popularly supposed

that he came from some savage land, and that when at home this string of

leather bags was about the only article of dress he wore.



If rather dull at school, he very soon picked up our language with all

its slang, and quickly came to the fore in athletics. In running,

swimming and rowing no one could keep pace with him. On foot he was fleet

as a deer, and in the water could swim like a fish, while at archery he

was a dead shot. Within three months he had lived down all the prejudices

that had been engendered by reason of his colour, and I confess that I

myself, who had at first regarded him with gravest suspicion, now began

to feel a friendliness towards him. Once or twice, at considerable

inconvenience to himself he rendered me valuable services, and on one

occasion got me out of a serious scrape by taking the blame himself,

therefore within six months of his arrival we became the firmest of

chums. At work, as at play, we were always together, and notwithstanding

the popular feeling being antagonistic to my close acquaintance with the

"Guinea Pig," I nevertheless knew from my own careful observations that

although a foreigner, half-savage he might be, he was certainly true and

loyal to his friends.



Once he fought. It was soon after we became chums that he had a quarrel

with the bully Baynes over the ownership of a catapult. Baynes, who was

three years older, heavier built and much taller, threatened to thrash

him. This threat was sufficient. Omar at once challenged him, and the

fight took place down in the paddock behind a hedge, secure from

Trigger's argus eye. As the pair took off their coats one of the fellows

jokingly said--



"The Guinea Pig's a cannibal. He'll eat you, Baynes."



Everybody laughed, but to their astonishment within five minutes our

champion pugilist lay on the ground with swollen eye and sanguinary nose,

imploring for mercy. That he could fight Omar quickly showed us, and as

he released the bully after giving him a sound dressing as a cat would

shake a rat, he turned to us and with a laugh observed--



"My people are neither cowards nor cannibals. We never fight unless

threatened, but we never decline to meet our enemies."



No one spoke. I helped him on with his coat, and together we left the

ground, while the partisans of Baynes picked up their fallen champion and

proceeded to make him presentable.



Like myself, Omar seemed friendless, for when the summer holidays came

round both of us remained with the Doctor and his wife, while the more

fortunate ones always went away to their homes. At first he seemed

downcast, but we spent all our time together, and Mrs. Tregear, it must

be admitted, did her best to make us comfortable, allowing us to ramble

where we felt inclined, even surreptitiously supplying us with

pocket-money.



It was strange, however, that I never could get Omar to talk of himself.

Confidential friends that we were, in possession of each other's secrets,

he spoke freely of everything except his past. That some remarkable

romance enveloped him I felt certain, yet by no endeavour could I fathom

the mystery.



Twice or thrice each year the elderly negro who had first brought him to

the school visited him, and they were usually closeted a long time

together. Perhaps his sable-faced guardian on those occasions told him

news of his relatives; perhaps he gave him good advice. Which, I know

not. The man, known as Mr. Makhana, was always very pleasant towards me,

but never communicative. Yet he made up for that defect by once or twice

leaving half-a-sovereign within my ready palm. He appeared suddenly

without warning, and left again, even Omar himself being unaware where he

dwelt.



Truly my friend was a mystery. Who he was, or whence he had come, was a

secret.