Not a sound was heard in the coffin-maker’s work-shop, that is to say no human sound. Mista Courifer, a solid citizen of Sierra Leone, was not given to much speech. His apprentices, knowing this, never dared address him unless he spoke first. Then they only carried on their conversation in whispers. Not that Mista Courifer did not know how to use his tongue. It was incessantly wagging to and fro in his mouth at every blow of the hammer. But his shop in the heart of Freetown was a part of his house. And, as he had once confided to a friend, he was a silent member of his own household from necessity. His wife, given to much speaking, could outtalk him.

“It’s no use for argue wid woman,” he said cautiously. “Just like ‘e no use for teach woman carpentering; she nebba sabi for hit de nail on de head. If ‘e argue, shell hit eberyting but de nail; and so wid de carpentering.”

So, around his wife, with the exception of his tongue’s continual wagging like a pendulum, his mouth was kept more or less shut. But whatever self-control he exercised in this respect at home was completely sent to the wind in his official capacity as the local preacher at chapel, for Mista Courifer was one of the pillars of the church, being equally at home in conducting a prayer meeting, superintending the Sunday school or occupying the pulpit.

His voice was remarkable for its wonderful gradations of pitch. He would insist on starting most of his tunes himself; consequently they nearly always ended in a solo. If he happened to pitch in the bass, he descended into such a de profundis that his congregations were left to flounder in a higher key; if he started in the treble, he soared so high that the children stared at him open-mouthed and their elders were lost in wonder and amazement. As for his prayers, he roared and volleyed and thundered to such an extent that poor little mites were quickly reduced to a state of collapse and started to whimper from sheer fright.

But he was most at home in the pulpit. It is true, his labors were altogether confined to the outlying village districts of Regent, Gloucester and Leicester, an arrangement with which he was by no means satisfied. Still, a village congregation is better than none at all.

His favorite themes were Jonah and Noah and he was forever pointing out the great similarity between the two, generally finishing his discourse after this manner: “You see my beloved Brebren, den two man berry much alike. All two lived in a sinful and adulturous generation. One get inside am ark; de odder one get inside a whale. Day bof seek a refuge fom de swelling waves.

“And so it is today my beloved Brebren. No matter if we get inside a whale or get inside an ark, as long as we get inside some place of safety—as long as we can find some refuge, some hiding place from de wiles ob de debil.”

But his congregation was by no means convinced.

Mr. Courifer always wore black. He was one of the Sierra Leone gentlemen who consider everything European to be not only the right thing, but the only thing for the African, and having read somewhere that English undertakers generally appeared in somber attire, he immediately followed suit.

He even went so far as to build a European house. During his short stay in England, he had noticed how the houses were built and furnished and had forthwith erected himself one after the approved pattern—a house with stuffy little passages, narrow little staircases and poky rooms, all crammed with saddlebags and carpeted with Axminsters. No wonder his wife had to talk. It was so hopelessly uncomfortable, stuffy and unsanitary.

So Mr. Courifer wore black. It never struck him for a single moment that red would have been more appropriate, far more becoming, far less expensive and far more national. No! It must be black. He would have liked blue black, but he wore rusty black for economy.

There was one subject upon which Mr. Courifer could talk even at home, so no one ever mentioned it: his son, Tomas. Mista Courifer had great expectations for his son; indeed in the back of his mind he had hopes of seeing him reach the high-water mark of red-tape officialism, for Tomas was in the government service. Not very high up, it is true, but still he was in it. It was an honor that impressed his father deeply, but Tomas unfortunately did not seem to think quite so much of it. The youth in question, however, was altogether neutral in his opinions in his father’s presence. Although somewhat feminine as to attire, he was distinctly masculine in his speech. His neutrality was not a matter of choice, since no one was allowed to choose anything in the Courifer family but the paterfamilias himself.

From start to finish, Tomas’s career had been cut out, and in spite of the fact that nature had endowed him with a black skin and an African temperament, Tomas was to be an Englishman. He was even to be an Englishman in appearance.

Consequently, once a year mysterious bundles arrived by parcel post. When opened, they revealed marvelous checks and plaids in vivid greens and blues after the fashion of a Liverpool counter jumper, waistcoats decorative in the extreme with their bold designs and rows of brass buttons, socks vying with the rainbow in glory and pumps very patent in appearance and very fragile as to texture.

Now, Tomas was no longer a minor and he keenly resented having his clothes chosen for him like a boy going to school for the first time. Indeed on one occasion, had it not been for his sister’s timely interference, he would have chucked the whole collection into the fire.

Dear little Keren-happuch, eight years his junior and not at all attractive, with a very diminutive body and a very large heart. Such a mistake! People’s hearts ought always to be in proportion to their size, otherwise it upsets the dimensions of the whole structure and often ends in its total collapse.

Keren was that type of little individual whom nobody worshipped, consequently she understood the art of worshipping others to the full. Tomas was the object of her adoration. Upon him she lavished the whole store of her boundless wealth and whatever hurt Tomas became positive torture as far as Keren-happuch was concerned.

“Tomas!” she said clinging to him with the tenacity of a bear, as she saw the faggots piled up high, ready for the conflagration, “Do yah! No burn am oh! Ole man go flog you oh! Den clos berry fine! I like am myself too much. I wish”—she added wistfully—”me na boy; I wish I could use am.”

This was quite a new feature which had never struck Tomas before. Keren-happuch had never received a bundle of English clothes in her life, hence her great appreciation of them.

At first Tomas only laughed—the superior, daredevil, don’t-care-a-damn-about-consequences laugh of the brave before the deed. But after hearing that wistful little sentence, he forgot his own annoyance and awoke to his responsibilities as an elder brother.

A few Sundays later, Tomas Courifer, Jr., marched up the aisle of the little Wesleyan chapel in all his Liverpool magnificence accompanied by a very elated little Keren-happuch whose natural unattractiveness had been further accentuated by a vivid cerise costume—a heterogeneous mass of frill and furbelows. But the glory of her array by no means outshone the brightness of her smile. Indeed that smile seemed to illuminate the whole church and to dispel the usual melancholy preceding the recital of Jonah and his woes.

Unfortunately, Tomas had a very poor opinion of the government service and in a burst of confidence he had told Keren that he meant to chuck it at the very first opportunity. In vain his sister expostulated and pointed out the advantages connected with it—the honor, the pension—and the awful nemesis upon the head of anyone incurring the head-of-the-family’s ire.

“Why you want leave am, Tomas?” she asked desperately.

“Because I never get a proper holiday. I have been in the office four and a half years and have never had a whole week off yet. And,” he went on vehemently, “these white chaps come and go, and a fresh one upsets what the old one has done and a newcomer upsets what he does and they all only stay for a year and a half and go away for four months, drawing big fat pay all the time, not to speak of passages, whereas a poor African like me has to work year in and year out with never a chance of a decent break. But you needn’t be afraid, Keren dear,” he added consolingly, “I shan’t resign, I shall just behave so badly that they’ll chuck me and then my ole man can’t say very much.”

Accordingly when Tomas, puffing a cigarette, sauntered into the office at 9 a.m. instead of 8 a.m. for the fourth time that week, Mr. Buckmaster, who had hitherto maintained a discreet silence and kept his eyes shut, opened them wide and administered a sharp rebuke. Tomas’s conscience was profoundly stirred. Mr. Buckmaster was one of the few white men for whom he had a deep respect, aye, in the depth of his heart, he really had a sneaking regard. It was for fear of offending him that he had remained so long at his post.

But he had only lately heard that his chief was due for leave so he decided there and then to say a long good-by to a service which had treated him so shabbily. He was a vociferous reader of halfpenny newspapers and he knew that the humblest shop assistant in England was entitled to a fortnight’s holiday every year. Therefore it was ridiculous to argue that because he was an African working in Africa there was no need for a holiday. All his applications for leave were quietly pigeonholed for a more convenient season.

“Courifer!” Mr. Buckmaster said sternly. “Walk into my private office please.” And Courifer knew that this was the beginning of the end.

“I suppose you know that the office hours are from 8 a.m. till 4 p.m. daily,” commenced Mr. Buckmaster, in a freezing tone.

“Yes, er—Sir!” stammered Courifer with his heart in his mouth and his mouth twisted up into a hard sailor’s knot.

“And I suppose you also know that smoking is strictly forbidden in the office?”

“Yes, er—er—Sir!” stammered the youth.

“Now hitherto,” the even tones went on, “I have always looked upon you as an exemplary clerk, strictly obliging, punctual, accurate and honest, but for the last two or three weeks I have had nothing but complaints about you. And from what I myself have seen, I am afraid they are not altogether unmerited.”

Mr. Buckmaster rose as he spoke, took a bunch of keys out of his pocket and, unlocking his roll-top desk, drew out a sheaf of papers. “This is your work, is it not?” he said to the youth.

“Yes, er—er—Sir!” he stuttered, looking shamefacedly at the dirty, ink-stained, blotched sheets of closely typewritten matter.

“Then what in Heaven’s name is the matter with you to produce such work?”

Tomas remained silent for a moment or two. He summoned up courage to look boldly at the stern countenance of his chief. And as he looked, the sternness seemed to melt away and he could see genuine concern there.

“Please, er—Sir!” he stammered, “May—I—er—just tell you everything?”

Half an hour later, a very quiet, subdued, penitent Tomas Courifer walked out of the office by a side door. Mr. Buckmaster followed later, taking with him an increased respect for the powers of endurance exercised by the growing West African youth.

Six weeks later, Mista Courifer was busily occupied wagging his tongue when he looked up from his work to see a European man standing in his doorway.

The undertaker found speech and a chair simultaneously. “Good afternoon, Sah!” he said, dusting the chair before offering it to his visitor. “I hope you don’t want a coffin, Sah!” which was a deep-sea lie for nothing pleased him more than the opportunity of making a coffin for a European. He was always so sure of the money. Such handsome money—paid it is true with a few ejaculations, but paid on the nail and without any deductions whatsoever. Now with his own people things were different. They demurred, they haggled, they bartered, they gave him detailed accounts of all their other expenses and then, after keeping him waiting for weeks, they would end by sending him half the amount with a stern exhortation to be thankful for that.

Mr. Buckmaster took the proffered chair and answered pleasantly: “No thank you, I don’t intend dying just yet. I happened to be passing so I thought I should just like a word with you about your son.”

Mr. Courifer bristled all over with exultation and expectation. Perhaps they were going to make his son a kind of undersecretary of state. What an unexpected honor for the Courifer family. What a rise in their social status; what a rise out of their neighbors. How good God was!

“Of course you know he is in my office?”

“Oh yes, Sah. He often speaks about you.”

“Well, I am going home very soon and as I may not be returning to Sierra Leone, I just wanted to tell you how pleased I should be at any time to give him a decent testimonial.”

Mr. Courifer ‘s countenance fell. What a comedown!

“Yes, Sah,” he answered somewhat dubiously.

“I can recommend him highly as being steady, persevering, reliable and trustworthy. And you can always apply to me if ever such a thing be necessary.”

Was that all! What a disappointment! Still it was something worth having. Mr. Buckmaster was an Englishman and a testimonial from him would certainly be a very valuable possession. He rubbed his hands together as he said: “Well I am berry much obliged to you, Sah, berry much obliged. And as time is short and we nebba know what a day may bring forth, would you mind writing one down now, Sah?”

“Certainly. If you will give me a sheet of paper, I shall do so at once.”

Before Tomas returned home from his evening work, the testimonial was already framed and hanging up amidst the moth-eaten velvet of the drawing room.

On the following Monday morning, Courifer Jr. bounced into his father’s workshop, upsetting the equilibrium of the carpenter’s bench and also of the voiceless apprentices hard at work.

“Well, Sah?” ejaculated his father, surveying him in disgust. “You berry late. Why you no go office dis morning?”

“Because I’ve got a whole two months’ holiday, Sir! Just think of it—two whole months—with nothing to do but just enjoy myself!”

“Tomas,” his father said solemnly, peering at him over his glasses, “you must larn for make coffins. You get fine chance now.”

Sotto voce: “I’ll be damned if I will!” Aloud: “No thank you, Sir. I am going to learn how to make love, after which I am going to learn how to build myself a nice mud hut.”

“And who dis gal you want married?” thundered his father, ignoring the latter part of the sentence altogether.

A broad smile illuminated Tomas’s countenance. “She is a very nice girl, Sir, a very nice girl. Very quiet and gentle and sweet, and she doesn’t talk too much.”

“I see. Is dat all?”

“Oh, no. She can sew and clean and make a nice little home. And she has plenty sense; she will make a good mother.”

“Yes, netting pass dat!”

“She has been to school for a long time. She reads nice books and she writes, oh, such a nice letter,” said Tomas, patting his breast-pocket affectionately.

“I see. I suppose she sabi cook good fashion?”

“I don’t know, I don’t think so, and it doesn’t matter very much.”

“What!” roared the old man; “You mean tell me you want married woman who no sabi cook?”

“I want to marry her because I love her, Sir!”

“Dat’s all right, but for we country, de heart and de stomach always go togedder. For we country, black man no want married woman who no sabi cook! Dat de berry first requisitional. You own mudder sabi cook.”

That’s the reason why she has been nothing but your miserable drudge all these years, thought the young man. His face was very grave as he rejoined: “The style in our country is not at all nice, Sir. I don’t like to see a wife slaving away in the kitchen all times to make good chop for her husband who sits down alone and eats the best of everything himself, and she and the children only get the leavings. No thank you! And besides, Sir, you are always telling me that you want me to be an Englishman. That is why I always try to talk good English to you.”

“Yes, dat’s all right. Dat’s berry good. But I want make you look like Englishman. I don’t say you must copy all der different way!”

“Well, Sir, if I try till I die, I shall never look like an Englishman, and I don’t know that I want to. But there are some English customs that I like very much indeed. I like the way white men treat their wives; I like their home life; I like to see mother and father and the little family all sitting down eating their meals together.”

“I see,” retorted his father sarcastically. “And who go cook den meal. You tink say wid your four pound a month, you go able hire a perfessional cook?”

“Oh, I don’t say so, Sir. And I am sure if Accastasia does not know how to cook now, she will before we are married. But what I want you to understand is just this, that whether she is able to cook or not, I shall marry her just the same.”

“Berry well,” shouted his father, wrath delineated in every feature, “but instead of building one mud hut you better go one time build one madhouse.”

“Sir, thank you. But I know what I am about and a mud hut will suit us perfectly for the present.”

“A mud hut!” ejaculated his father in horror. “You done use fine England house wid staircase and balustrade and tick carpet and handsome furnitures. You want to go live in mud hut? You ungrateful boy, you shame me, oh!”

“Dear me, no, Sir. I won’t shame you. It’s going to be a nice clean spacious mud hut. And what is more, it is going to be a sweet little home, just big enough for two. I am going to distemper the walls pale green, like at the principal’s rooms at Keren’s school.”

“How you sabi den woman’s rooms?”

“Because you have sent me two or three times to pay her school fees, so I have looked at those walls and I like them too much.”

“I see. And what else you go do?” asked his father ironically.

“I am going to order some nice wicker chairs from the Islands and a few good pieces of linoleum for the floors and then—”

“And den what?”

“I shall bring home my bride.”

Mr. Courifer’s dejection grew deeper with each moment. A mud hut! This son of his—the hope of his life! A government officer! A would-be Englishman! To live in a mud hut! His disgust knew no bounds. “You ungrateful wretch!” he bellowed; “You go disgrace me. You go lower your pore father. You go lower your position for de office.”

“I am sorry, Sir,” retorted the young man. “I don’t wish to offend you. I’m grateful for all you have done for me. But I have had a raise in salary and I want a home of my own which, after all, is only natural, and”—he went on steadily, staring his father straight in the face—”I may as well tell you at once, you need not order any more Liverpool suits for me.”

“Why not?” thundered his irate parent, removing his specs lest any harm should befall them.

“Well, I am sorry to grieve you, Sir, but I have been trying to live up to your European standards all this time. Now I am going to chuck it once and for all. I am going back to the native costume of my mother’s people, and the next time I appear in chapel it will be as a Wolof.”

The very next Sunday the awful shock of seeing his son walk up the aisle of the church in pantaloons and the bright loose over jacket of a Wolof from Gambia, escorting a pretty young bride the color of chocolate, also in native dress, so unnerved Mista Courifer that his mind suddenly became a complete blank. He could not even remember Jonah and the whale, nor could his tongue possess one word to let fly, not one. The service had to be turned into a prayer meeting.

Mista Courifer is the local preacher no longer. Now he only makes coffins.