THE HOME FROM HOME 6l

morrow. You know the way to the Holy Cross
Mission?"

Yes, he said, he had come from there.

It was a long while before anyone thought of ask-
ing whether he was the Liberian messenger. He
wasn't, the messenger had disappeared from
Kailahun, the stranger was a German. He wanted a
bed; he had dropped in to Kailahun as casually as
if it were a German village where he would be sure
to find an inn. He had a bland secretive innocence;
he had come from the Republic and he was going
back to the Republic; he gave no indication of why
he had come or why he was going or what he was
doing in Africa at all.

I took him for a prospector, but it turned out later
that he was concerned with nothing so material as
gold or diamonds. He was just learning. He sat back
in his chair, seeming to pay no attention to anyone;
when he was asked a question, he gave a tiny laugh
(you thought: I have asked something very foolish,
very superficial), and gave no answer until later, when
you had forgotten the question. He was young in
spite of his beard; he had an aristocratic air in spite
of his beachcomber's dress, and he was wiser than
any of us. He was the only one who knew exactly
what it was he wished to learn, who knew the exact
extent of his ignorance. He could speak Mende; he
was picking up Buzie; and he had a few words of
Pelli: it took time. He had only been two years in
West Africa.

I discovered this very gradually; it took longer
than the breakfast to which he came next day, more
aristocratic than ever in a clean shirt and a pair of