The sea breeze died away a little after six, and they marched in breathless heat till the cool land breeze took its place, and brought them spicy odors of the inland trees. And always on one side of them the surf roared, and crashed, and creamed along the beaches.
The sun drooped to the horizon and hurried beneath it in visible inches of fall. Daylight went out. The colors were blotted from the sky, and the stars lit up, one racing another to be first. The noises from the forest changed in correspondence. From close at hand a leopard roared a greeting to the darkness.
Night was fully dressed ten minutes after the sun had vanished. It was after nine o'clock, and in the chill of a wet gray mist, that they reached O'Neill and Craven's factory on the banks of Smooth River.
Now nine o'clock in the lonely factories of the Coast is usually bed time, and Carter was a good deal surprised to hear the hum of a great activity pulsing out into the night; and presently, when they came within eye-range, to see the buildings aglow with lights. But there was a further surprise packed and ready for him. As they came close, a black man leaned over the end of an upraised wall of palm oil puncheons, and deliberately pointed a gun squarely at Carter's chest.
A good deal of discussion took place afterward as to what would have been the proper procedure under the circumstances, but that may conveniently be omitted from this record, which deals only with immediate history; and the fact is that Carter rushed the sentry, clipped him under the ear, skinned his own knuckles, and captured the gun. White-Man's-Trouble in the meanwhile had with much presence of mind thrown himself on his face to avoid any discharge of pot-leg from the concealed marksmen, and was bawling lustily for "Slade, oh Slade," to "Stop dem dam gun-palaver." Which noisy request presently had its wished for result.
Slade himself came out to meet them, and even then his reception was sufficiently startling. "Good God!" he rapped out, "then you've escaped, too, Carter, as well as the Krooboy. What liars these niggers are! I imagined that your—that parts of you were up at Okky City by now. I supposed they've scuppered poor old Swizzle-Stick Smith all right, though? Did he have a bad time of it? Why?" he said as he came nearer, and saw his caller's spruce getup, "you don't look as if you'd been scrapping much. Or bolting very hard, either," he added as an afterthought.
"Unless," said Carter, "you're referring to an invasion by the Turks, or the French, or the Men in the Moon, I haven't a notion what you're talking about."
"Haven't you come from Malla-Nulla?"
"Left there about a quarter to four."
"And hasn't it been sacked?"