A line was flung, and out of the swift control current of the stream they drew all that was left of Mr. Wooling.
He gained enough breath to whisper a word—it was a word that set the Zaire humming with life. There was steam in the boiler—Sanders would not draw fires in a storm which might snap the moorings and leave the boat at the mercy of the elements.
"... they chased me down river ... I shot a few ... but they came on ... then the storm struck us ... they're not far away."
Wrapped in a big overcoat and shivering in spite of the closeness of the night, he sat by Sanders, as he steered away into the seething waters of the river.
"What's the trouble?"
The wind blew his words to shreds, but the huddled figure crouching at his side heard him and answered.
"What's that?" asked Sanders, bending his head.
Wooling shouted again.
Sanders shook his head.
The two words he caught were "chair" and "Bosambo."