Projected against the darkness outside, a strange, bedraggled figure stood in the door. The man's hair was wet and long, the half-closed eyes beneath it glittered feverishly, and the bones of the haggard face showed through the pallid skin. Thorn-rent rags barely decently covered the bony limbs beneath them, and the mire of many a league of swamp clung about him to the knees. Behind loomed the figure of a negro leaning on a rifle.
Moving unevenly, the stranger advanced into the room, and Redmond positively recoiled before him.
"Who in the name of perdition are you, and where do you come from?" he gasped.
The newcomer, instead of answering the question, caught at the table as he asked another:
"What day of the month is this, and have they changed the homeward mailboat's time bill?"
"The tenth, and the Kabunda should pass to-night," said Gilby, staring blankly at him.
"Thank heaven!" was the response. "I am just in time! You ought to know me. I am Maxwell, and have been prospecting for Niven's gold beyond the Leopards' country."
"Good Lord!" broke from Redmond. "Stir round, Gilby, instead of gaping there! Fetch out some whisky, and kick up the steward boy! Can't you see there's a white man starving? Sit down before you fall over, Mr. Maxwell."
Maxwell gulped down a draught of the spirit forced upon him, and sank into the chair his host dragged forward, while there was a crash and a howl on the veranda where Gilby fell over the sleeping steward boy.
"He means well, but can't help having been born clumsy," said the trader apologetically. "Lie right back there, and don't talk until you've eaten. Oh, I see—brought a nigger with you. Tell the cook to stuff the black man, Gilby."