Lagos with native produce, paddled or poled along by brown-skinned men in loose garbs of brilliant colours, added the requisite life and colour to the scene. Numbers of crocodiles were seen basking on the banks of the islets or the shores of the lagoon, frightening the white cranes and flamingoes as they waddled with a splash into the water on the approach of the steamer. Two would-be sportsmen on board fired several shots at these saurians with those cheap German rifles, which are manufactured by persons who seem to think that back-sights are merely an ornamental appendage. Naturally they wounded nothing more vulnerable than the water or bush.
While we were steaming along a mulatto gentleman came up and entered into conversation with me. He commenced by saying that he supposed I was a stranger, and, after cross-examining me as to my business in Lagos, expatiated upon the scenery, civilisation, and delights of that settlement. After a little he said—
"You may have heard of me; my name is Pilot."
I replied, "Oh! indeed, you're the pilot are you? What depth of water have we here?"
"No, no, my dear Sir. You are quite mistaken. I am above menial pursuits of that nature. My name is Pilate. P-i-l-a-t-e."
