He was sitting when they caught their first glimpse of him, with his chin supported on his hand, but the instant he saw the faces of the white men he rose as if to escape, then the porter called out something that reassured him, and he sat down again and shivered.
He was one of the rubber collectors. He had reached this spot the day before, and had built himself a shelter of leaves and branches. He would be here for ten days or a fortnight, and his food, chiefly cassava, lay in a little pile in the shelter, covered over with leaves.
The porter continued speaking to the collector, who, now regaining the use of his limbs, stood up before the white men, hands folded in front of him, and his eyes rolling from Berselius to Adams.
“M’Bassa,” said Adams, touching the porter, pointing to the collector, and then away into the forest in the direction he fancied Fort M’Bassa to be.
The porter understood. He said a few words to the collector, who nodded his head furiously and struck himself on the breast with his open hand.
Then the porter turned again to Adams.
“M’Bassa,” said he, nodding his head, pointing to the collector, and then away into the forest.
That was all, but it meant that they were saved.
Adams gave a great whoop that echoed away through the trees, startling bats and birds in the branches and losing itself without an echo in the depths of the gloom. Then he struck himself a blow on the chest with his fist.
“My God!” said he, “the tent!”