“I don’t know whether you happen to have read many books of African travel, Mr. Rokesmith?” said R. W.

“I have read several.”

“Well, you know, there’s usually a King George, or a King Boy, or a King Sambo, or a King Bill, or Bull, or Rum, or Junk, or whatever name the sailors may have happened to give him.”

“Where?” asked Rokesmith.

“Anywhere. Anywhere in Africa, I mean. Pretty well everywhere, I may say; for black kings are cheap⁠—and I think,”⁠—said R. W. , with an apologetic air, “nasty.”