"Master," said the old man, "that is for you to say."
Sanders scratched his chin reflectively, and the old man watched him with fear in his eyes.
"You will go to Bosambo, chief of the Ochori, telling him I have sent you, and you shall till his garden, and carry his water until you die," said Sanders.
"I am so old that that will be soon," said the old man.
"If you were younger it would be sooner," said Sanders. "As for your son, we will wait until the morning."
The Houssas in the background marched the younger man to the camp Sanders had formed down river—the boat that had passed had been intended to deceive a chief under suspicion—and in the morning, when the news came that the child was dead—whether from shock, or injury, or exposure, Sanders did not trouble to inquire—the son of the chief was hanged.
I tell these stories of Sanders of the River, that you may grasp the type of man he was and learn something of the work he had to do. If he was quick to punish, he acted in accordance with the spirit of the people he governed, for they had no memory; and yesterday, with its faults, its errors and its teachings, was a very long time ago, and a man resents an unjust punishment for a crime he has forgotten.
It is possible to make a bad mistake, but Sanders never made one, though he was near to doing so once.
Sanders was explaining his point of view in regard to natives to Professor Sir George Carsley, when that eminent scientist arrived unexpectedly at headquarters, having been sent out by the British Government to study tropical disease at first hand.
Sir George was a man of some age, with a face of exceptional pallor and a beard that was snowy white.