POSTSCRIPT IN MONROVIA 285

He said, "God made pencils, but man made india-
rubber."

The old man without any teeth said, "That's a
true word."

The minister said, "They'll give us cards when we
go to the convention and we shall have to put a mark
against a name. But pencil can be rubbed out with
indiarubber. If we want God to have a chance in
this convention we must take our pencils and push
the point right through one of the names, tear it
right out, then they won't be able to do anything
with indiarubber."

By the late afternoon nearly everyone was asleep;
but they woke when the promontory that shelters
Monrovia came in sight: the German consulate and
just above the beach the long white front of the
British Legation. Everyone began to tidy themselves
for the capital, put on waistcoats and ties, and there,
after a brief panic as we heeled over the bar, was a
little jetty and a reception committee of smart
politicians cheering and waving and embracing each
other with excitement.

I never got quite away from my fellow-passengers,
For every day I spent in Monrovia some seedy
individual would pluck at my sleeve among the
wooden shacks of the waterside, and drawing me on
one side would remind me that we had travelled
together, pointing out to me, as the financier of the
Opposition party, that he had left his affairs in Cape
Palmas or Sinoe in bad order and was finding the
capital city very expensive. Most of the Opposition,
indeed, had to be sent home at the expense of the
President.