"Eh, what's that?"
Mainward turned almost savagely on the man.
"Puck-a-puck—you hear'um?"
But the sick man could not hear the smack of the Zaire's stern wheel, as the little boat breasted the downward rush of the river—he was surprised to see that it was dawn, and grudgingly admitted to himself that he had slept. He closed his eyes again and had a strange dream. The principal figure was a small, tanned, clean-shaven man in a white helmet, who wore a dingy yellow overcoat over his pyjamas.
"How are you feeling?" said the stranger.
"Rotten bad," growled Mainward, "especially about Ethel; don't you think it was pretty low down of her to lead me on to believe she was awfully fond of me, and then at the last minute to chuck me?"
"Shocking," said the strange, white man gravely, "but put her out of your mind just now; she isn't worth troubling about. What do you say to this?"
He held up a small, greenish pellet between his forefinger and thumb, and Mainward laughed weakly.
"Oh, rot!" he chuckled faintly. "You're one of those Forest of Happy Dreams Johnnies; what's that? A love philtre?" He was hysterically amused at the witticism.
Sanders nodded.