He rose and went to the door of the tent. A few yards away, securely tied to the trunk of the slender palm, was a negro boy. Monsieur Elbel looked at him critically as if measuring his strength. Last night, although threatened with the chicotte, the boy had refused to speak. Only once, when Elbel had offered him freedom and rewards if he would point out the source of the water in the camp above, did he open his lips, saying fiercely: "I will never tell you!"—betraying to the questioner that he had some knowledge of the secret. Now he had had twelve hours of hunger and thirst to help him to a more reasonable frame of mind. All night the cords had been eating into his wrists and ankles; he was weak from want of food, and consumed with an intolerable thirst. He stood there in the blazing sun, a listless, pitiable figure, held upright only by the thongs that bound his wrists; and Monsieur Elbel as he looked at him, felt not a little irritated. It was absurd that he should be inconvenienced; nay, more, that the development of the Concession should be delayed, and expense incurred—avoidable, unnecessary expense—expense without any return in rubber—all because this slip of a boy refused to tell what he knew.
Elbel beckoned to his servant and interpreter, standing close by, attentive and expectant.
"Tell him," he said, "that I will give him one more chance. If he will not speak he shall be thrashed with the chicotte until he does."
The man roughly grasped the boy by the shoulders and translated his master's words. The captive slowly shook his head.
"Fetch the chicotte," said Elbel sharply. "We'll see what that will do."
The man entered the tent, where the chicotte invariably lay ready to hand; and when he emerged the space in front of Elbel's quarters was filling with Askari and their followers flocking like vultures to the feast. Samba, the son of Mboyo, chief of Banonga, was to be whipped. Boloko had caught him last night: he was a clever man, Boloko. And Samba knew where the Inglesa got the water for his camp, the secret was to be cut from him by the chicotte. That was good; it would be a sight to see.
No time was lost. Elbel signed to the man as he approached, and stepping back left him a clear space to swing the whip. The negro prided himself upon his skill; as Elbel's servant, indeed, he had more opportunities of perfecting himself with this typical instrument of Congo government than falls to most. He could deliver a stroke with great delicacy, raising only a long red weal upon the skin, or if the case called for real severity could cut the offender's flesh from his body almost as neatly as with a knife.
In this case his master desired information; it was not a mere question of punishing a sullen defaulter. He would begin gently lest the prisoner should lose the power of speech and shame the executioner before his master and the crowd.
A slight convulsive shiver shook the boy's frame as the whip fell, but he clenched his teeth and no sound escaped him. The man waited for a moment.
"Will you tell?"