In my hurried reading about the West Coast--carried on at odd times
since my meeting with the palm-oil people--I had learned enough about
the trade carried on there to know that slaving still was a part of
it; but so small a part that the matter had not much stuck in my mind.
But it was a fact then (as it also is a fact now) that the traders who
run along the coast--exchanging such stuff as Captain Luke carried for
ivory and coffee and hides and whatever offers--do now and then take
the chances and run a cargo of slaves from one or another of the lower
ports into Mogador: where the Arab dealers pay such prices for live
freight in good condition as to make the venture worth the risk that
it involves. This traffic is not so barbarous as the old traffic to
America used to be--when shippers regularly counted upon the loss of a
third or a half of the cargo in transit, and so charged off the
death-rate against profit and loss--for the run is a short one, and
slaves are so hard to get and so dangerous to deal in nowadays that it
is sound business policy to take enough care of them to keep them
alive. But I am safe in saying that the men engaged in the Mogador
trade are about the worst brutes afloat in our time--not excepting the
island traders of the South Pacific--and for an honest man to get
afloat in their company opens to him large possibilities of being
murdered off-hand, with side chances of sharing in their punishment if
he happens to be with them when they are caught. And so it is not to
be wondered at that when I saw the shackles come flying out from that
broken box, and so realized the sort of men I had for shipmates, that
a sweating fright seized me which made my stomach go queer. And then,
as I thought how I had tumbled myself into this scrape that the least
shred of prudence would have kept me out of, I realized for the second
time that day that I was very young and very much of a fool.