Niger

prayers over it, drank this powerful draught ;
after which, lest a single word should escape, he
licked the board until it was quite dry.’
The news spread through Koolikorro. The
headman sent his son for a charm. Mungo, com¬
pleting unarduous tasks as a literatus, ate largely,
was given a good bed, and slept the sleep of the just.
For two days, splashing through swamps and
swimming minor rivers (with his records concealed
for safety in the crown of his much-battered beaver
tile), Mungo held uncertainly westward, along the
banks of the Niger. It was a land of floods and low
hills, continuous rains and jungles of reed. The
further he went, the more uncertain he became of
the nearest way to the coast. But, on the evening
of the 23rd, coming to another great salt market,
Bammakoo, he was lodged with some hospitality
at the house of a Serawoolli negro and visited by a
number of Moors. Far from their own country,
they were reasonably polite and given to gossip.
All agreed that Mungo would find it almost
impossible to proceed westwards at this time of the
year. The rains and the Niger floods had closed
up all the routes. The best thing he could do was
to halt in Bammakoo for many weeks.
But he had not sufficient of the cowrie money
left him to last more than a few days. In the
morning he pressed his landlord for definite
information. Was there no single route still open
to the westward ? The negro scratched his head
and then shook it—a native gesture of assent. Yes,
200