300 JOURNEY WITHOUT MAPS the little flag on the hood and a fat perspiring black pushed his head in at the window and asked furiously whether we did not know that this was a national occasion. There was a reek of cane juice and a few people looked nearly drunk enough to throw stones. Meanwhile the President had staged another de- monstration in front of his house: native dancers from the water-side slum of Kru Town rushed up anc down before the Executive Mansion waving knives They looked like Red Indians in their feathered head dresses, and their spirited performance robbed the convention of a great many spectators. Later, when the blare of brass warned Monrovia that the proces- sion was on its way, a rival procession was formed hastily outside the offices of state with large banners inscribed "Barclay the Hero of Liberia" and a rather enigmatic statement: "We want no King. We want no car. We want no money for our vote. Barclay is the Man". For some time I thought it was inevitable that the processions would meet in tiny Monrovia, but I had under-estimated the ingenuity of their leaders. Drunk as everyone was by this time, they were not drunk enough to risk a fight. The Kru dancers and their friends swarmed into the Executive Mansion and were given free drinks, to the disgust of the President's True Whig supporters, who had re- ceived nothing but the dictator's thanks from a bal- cony at his formal nomination. The Opposition procession meanwhile trampled into the front garden of Mr. King's house, his wooden house in Front Street, not the large uncompleted st