Ofesi was not half-way home, happy in his success, when a blubbering Tolinobo, stretched ignominiously on the ground, spoke with a lamentable lack of reserve on all manner of private matters, being urged thereto by a red hot spear-head which Bosambo held much too near his face for comfort.
* * * * *
At about this time came Jim Greel, an American adventurer, and Francis E. Coulson, a citizen of the world. They came into Sanders's territory unwillingly, for they were bound, via the French river which skirted the north of the N'gombi land, for German West Africa. There was in normal times a bit of a stream which connected the great river with the Frenchi river. It was, according to a facetious government surveyor, navigable for balloons and paper boats except once in a decade when a mild spring in the one thousand-miles distant mountains coincided with heavy rains in the Isisi watershed. Given the coincidence the tiny dribble of rush-choked water achieved the dignity of riverhood. It was bad luck that Jim and Coulson hit an exceptional season.
Keeping to the left bank, and moving only by night—they had reason for this—the adventurers followed the course of the stream which ordinarily was not on the map, and they were pardonably and almost literally at sea.
Two long nights they worked their crazy little steamer through an unknown territory without realising that it was unknown. They avoided such villages as they passed, shutting off steam and dowsing all lights till they drifted beyond sight and hearing.
At last they reached a stage in their enterprise where the maintenance of secrecy was a matter of some personal danger, and they looked around in the black night for assistance.
"Looks like a village over there, Jim," said Coulson, and the steersman nodded.
"There's shoal water here," he said grimly, "and the forehold is up to water-level."
"Leakin'?"
"Not exactly leakin'," said Jim carefully; "but there's no bottom to the forepart of this tub."