POSTSCRIPT IN MONROVIA 30!

that time, but a few paraffin lamps indoors cast a
pale light on the eyeballs of the crowd. Mr. King,
who had been ill, spoke a few words from a balcony,
but there was too much cheering and drinking going
on all over the town for one to hear more than a few
phrases: "national independence", "hand of friend-
ship", "foremost part among the nations". The voice
was tired and mechanical: it occurred to me that the
fiction might be a sad one to the principal, who must
go through all the right posturings without any hope
at all. No one knew better than Mr. King that a
President is never defeated by votes.

I visited Mr. King a few days later at his farmhouse
outside Monrovia. With an old blue bargee's cap on
the back of his head and a cigar in his mouth, he put
up an excellent imitation of the old simple statesman
in retirement. There was no doubt that he was a sick
man. We both drank a good deal of gin while he
went over and over the events of his downfall. From
his obscure corner of West Africa he had managed to
attract quite a lot of notice with the shipping of
forced labour to Fernando Po and the pawning of
children. He had feathered his nest nicely: he had
his own little plantation of rubber trees he was wait-
ing for Firestone to buy; he had his two and a half
houses. But he hadn't really any hope of a return;
he was quite ready, he said, if he was elected to accept
the League of Nations plan of assistance, tie Ms
finances to European advisers, put white Commis-
skmers in charge of the interior, give away Liberian
sovereignty altogether, but he knew quite well he
wasn't going to be elected. All the rumours of Fire-
stone money, all the speeches meant nothing at all.