Ten or twelve days after this I was awakened in the middle of the night by some one clutching at my throat. I sprang up with a yell and struck out, fortunately hitting my assailant somewhere, and, as the ship happened to be rolling heavily, he lost his equilibrium and tumbled over. He was up again in a moment, and came at me brandishing a water bottle.
“I haven’t got your papers. Stew-a-a-rd.”
“Don’t be a fool--I don’t know anything about your papers. STEWARD.”
He threw the bottle at me, fortunately, instead of hitting me with it; and tried to do the throttling business again. Then a very pretty little struggle commenced up and down the cabin, we being thrown from side to side with every lurch, while boxes, tumblers, boots, clothes, and all kinds of loose furniture, went flying around. At last some of the other passengers appeared to have a dim consciousness that something was occurring, and appeared rubbing their eyes; and when they grasped the situation we soon had our friend tied up, biting and scratching like a wild cat. I told the captain next day I would prefer to sleep in some other cabin.
For the rest of the voyage this man appeared quite sane, and when I met him, as I have said, on the Marina, he came up to me, shook hands, and conversed like any rational being. He had brought his vessel alongside a wharf, and was tilting her over to try and get at some of the worst leaks and stop them up. Some of the guys he had out were very much worn, and I said that if he did not take care he would capsize his ship. This innocent remark set him off at once; he became purple in the face, foamed at the mouth, gesticulated violently, cursed at me, and was only prevented from proceeding to further extremities by my rapid exit. Next day his ship did capsize. He sailed from Lagos soon after, and I have been told that neither he nor his vessel have ever been heard of since. In any other part of the world but West Africa such a man as this would have been kept under restraint. His fits of mania were, I believe, the result of sun-stroke.
I was out driving round the town with a German friend one day when he pulled up at an inclosure, and said he would show me something that I would not see anywhere else on the coast. He took me in and showed me a merry-go-round, and I was sufficiently surprised to gratify him. What could have induced any one to bring such a thing out to West Africa? It was one of the old kind, worked by hand; an organ stood by, and I could almost imagine I smelt the sawdust and gingerbread, and heard the shouts and cries with which such machines were associated in my memory. I believe the speculation did not pay, the natives all wanted to ride for nothing, and the Europeans did not want to ride at all. The yard was full of Yoruba women, looking with wistful eyes at the wooden horses and triumphal cars, so we hired the whole coach of the proprietor for half-an-hour, and told all the women to get up on it. It was a most anomalous sight to see all these Mohammedan women, with their shawled heads, floating cloths, and long slim limbs, going round and round to the tune of Champagne Charlie. They seemed to enjoy it very much, and their bright eyes sparkled with fun; they were so grateful that I believe they would have done anything for us, even kiss us, if we had wanted them to. Some of them were by no means bad looking, and the custom they have of touching up the eyes with _kohl_ gives them a rather languishing appearance.