“What do we do?” said the Doctor, when I had begun asking questions in
my turn. “Our business keeps us pretty busy, and in our leisure time we
talk politics.”

“Yes, by the special mercy of Providence Severall is a rank Radical and
I am a good stiff Unionist, and we talk Home Rule for two solid hours
every evening.”

“And drink quinine cocktails,” said the Doctor. “We’re both pretty well
salted now, but our normal temperature was about 103 last year. I
shouldn’t, as an impartial adviser, recommend you to stay here very long
unless you are collecting bacilli as well as butterflies. The mouth of
the Ogowai River will never develop into a health resort.”

There is nothing finer than the way in which these outlying pickets of
civilization distil a grim humour out of their desolate situation, and
turn not only a bold, but a laughing face upon the chances which their
lives may bring. Everywhere from Sierra Leone downwards I had found the
same reeking swamps, the same isolated fever-racked communities and the
same bad jokes. There is something approaching to the divine in that
power of man to rise above his conditions and to use his mind for the
purpose of mocking at the miseries of his body. “Dinner will be ready in about half an hour, Captain Meldrum,” said the
Doctor. “Walker has gone in to see about it; he’s the housekeeper this
week. Meanwhile, if you like, we’ll stroll round and I’ll show you the
sights of the island.”

The sun had already sunk beneath the line of palm trees, and the great
arch of the heaven above our head was like the inside of a huge shell,
shimmering with dainty pinks and delicate iridescence. No one who has
not lived in a land where the weight and heat of a napkin become
intolerable upon the knees can imagine the blessed relief which the
coolness of evening brings along with it. In this sweeter and purer air
the Doctor and I walked round the little island, he pointing out the
stores, and explaining the routine of his work. “There’s a certain romance about the place,” said he, in answer to some
remark of mine about the dulness of their lives. “We are living here
just upon the edge of the great unknown. Up there,” he continued,
pointing to the north-east, “Du Chaillu penetrated, and found the home
of the gorilla. That is the Gaboon country—the land of the great apes. In this direction,” pointing to the south-east, “no one has been very
far. The land which is drained by this river is practically unknown to
Europeans. Every log which is carried past us by the current has come
from an undiscovered country. I’ve often wished that I was a better
botanist when I have seen the singular orchids and curious-looking
plants which have been cast up on the eastern end of the island.”

The place which the Doctor indicated was a sloping brown beach, freely
littered with the flotsam of the stream. At each end was a curved point,
like a little natural breakwater, so that a small shallow bay was left
between. This was full of floating vegetation, with a single huge
splintered tree lying stranded in the middle of it, the current rippling
against its high black side. “These are all from up country,” said the Doctor. “They get caught in
our little bay, and then when some extra freshet comes they are washed
out again and carried out to sea.”

“What is the tree?” I asked. “Oh, some kind of teak I should imagine, but pretty rotten by the look
of it. We get all sorts of big hardwood trees floating past here, to say
nothing of the palms. Just come in here, will you?”

He led the way into a long building with an immense quantity of barrel
staves and iron hoops littered about in it. “This is our cooperage,” said he. “We have the staves sent out in
bundles, and we put them together ourselves. Now, you don’t see anything
particularly sinister about this building, do you?”

I looked round at the high corrugated iron roof, the white wooden walls,
and the earthen floor. In one corner lay a mattress and a blanket. “I see nothing very alarming,” said I. “And yet there’s something out of the common, too,” he remarked. “You
see that bed? Well, I intend to sleep there to-night. I don’t want to
buck, but I think it’s a bit of a test for nerve.”

“Why?”

“Oh, there have been some funny goings on. You were talking about the
monotony of our lives, but I assure you that they are sometimes quite as
exciting as we wish them to be. You’d better come back to the house now,
for after sundown we begin to get the fever-fog up from the marshes. There, you can see it coming across the river.”

I looked and saw long tentacles of white vapour writhing out from among
the thick green underwood and crawling at us over the broad swirling
surface of the brown river. At the same time the air turned suddenly
dank and cold. “There’s the dinner gong,” said the Doctor. “If this matter interests
you I’ll tell you about it afterwards.”

It did interest me very much, for there was something earnest and
subdued in his manner as he stood in the empty cooperage, which appealed
very forcibly to my imagination. He was a big, bluff, hearty man, this
Doctor, and yet I had detected a curious expression in his eyes as he
glanced about him—an expression which I would not describe as one of
fear, but rather that of a man who is alert and on his guard. “By the way,” said I, as we returned to the house, “you have shown me
the huts of a good many of your native assistants, but I have not seen
any of the natives themselves.”

“They sleep in the hulk over yonder,” the Doctor answered, pointing over
to one of the banks. “Indeed. I should not have thought in that case that they would need the
huts.”

“Oh, they used the huts until quite recently. We’ve put them on the hulk
until they recover their confidence a little. They were all half mad
with fright, so we let them go, and nobody sleeps on the island except
Walker and myself.”

“What frightened them?” I asked. “Well, that brings us back to the same story. I suppose Walker has no
objection to your hearing all about it. I don’t know why we should make
any secret about it, though it is certainly a pretty bad business.”

He made no further allusion to it during the excellent dinner which had
been prepared in my honour. It appeared that no sooner had the little
white topsail of the _Gamecock_ shown round Cape Lopez than these kind
fellows had begun to prepare their famous pepper-pot—which is the
pungent stew peculiar to the West Coast—and to boil their yams and sweet
potatoes. We sat down to as good a native dinner as one could wish,
served by a smart Sierra Leone waiting boy. I was just remarking to
myself that he at least had not shared in the general flight when,
having laid the dessert and wine upon the table, he raised his hand to
his turban. “Anyting else I do, Massa Walker?” he asked. “No, I think that is all right, Moussa,” my host answered.