"Then it's a question of speed, eh? Well, we've the lighter canoe; crew four and passengers two. He has the heavier canoe; crew eight and passenger one. We shall get through where he would stick in the mud; though the water seems to have a fair depth here, worse luck. Well, Mbutu, we're not going to be overhauled; tell the men there's kiboko after them; that'll make them hurry."
The crew paddled away swiftly, and began to sing. Tom was relieved to find that words and tune were changed at last, but after a few bars he peremptorily stopped them.
"The dago will hear them," he said, "and it will be just as well for us not to let him know our whereabouts. Tell them another story, Mbutu."
Tom sat rigidly in the stern, wondering how the Portuguese had got on their track. The course of events since he had been turned back by Tom's crew twenty-four hours before was as follows. He had paddled down-stream till he reached the place where Tom had embarked, and then sent one of his men to the village to find out what was going on there. The man returned, bringing the news that the white man had left. Furious at being so easily outwitted, the Portuguese had then gone up himself, seized the first negro he came upon, and demanded information about Tom's route. This the negro, obeying the instructions of his chief, given to the whole village, at first refused; whereupon the Portuguese tied him to a tree and thrashed him till the poor wretch, in sheer desperation, told all he knew. Without wasting another moment the Portuguese started in pursuit, enraged at having lost five hours through so simple a trick. Pressing his men, he arrived within five miles of Tom before dark, and starting again before sunrise, he had by seven o'clock crept up to within a mile of his quarry, as Tom had fortunately discovered.
Tom knew nothing of all this, except that the Portuguese was close on his heels. As his crew bent themselves to their task, he sat reviewing the situation. He had this advantage over the Portuguese, that, having seen the pursuer while himself unseen, he could ply his men with a stronger, because more actual, incentive to speed. But he had no idea how much farther they had yet to paddle before they reached Lake Mazingo, and though two of the natives had performed the journey before, their ideas of distance were vague. If many miles remained to be covered, and the chase resolved itself into a prolonged race, Tom saw clearly enough that the Portuguese was bound to win, for, having the larger crew, he could divide his men into relays. Given even chances, then, Tom recognized the impossibility of outdistancing the pursuer.
There remained two alternative courses: either to beach the canoe at once and take to the woods, or to attempt some ruse. A moment's reflection showed him that the first was unwise, for it would mean finding a way laboriously through unknown forest, necessarily at a slow pace, and the result might be that before he could overtake the expedition the mischief would be done. As to the second alternative, Tom racked his brains for a trick likely to succeed in throwing the Portuguese off the scent; but the only thing that suggested itself was to run his canoe up some deep creek, and remain in hiding there until the larger canoe had passed and might be deemed out of harm's way. On second thoughts Tom gave this up also. Failure to sight the canoe he was chasing, and the sudden cessation of disturbance among the water-fowl ahead, might arouse suspicion in the pursuer's mind, and provoke him to search the creeks; and even supposing it did not, Tom's own progress after the larger canoe had gone by would have to be regulated so cautiously that in this case also precious time would be lost. Reviewing all these points, Tom came to the conclusion that his best plan was to hold on as he was going as long as he could, and then trust to the accidents of the chase to make his way clear.
On they went, then, for mile after mile. The sun was now high, and the willing negroes were panting and perspiring freely. Mbutu in the bows kept a sharp eye on the winding river behind, but so far had not caught so much as a glimpse of the pursuing craft. About ten o'clock, when the crew were patently flagging, the head-man spoke rapidly to Mbutu, dropping his paddle for a moment, and pointing eagerly ahead.
"What does he say?" asked Tom, observing this.
"Him say ribber make bow, sah," said Mbutu, describing an arc in the air. "Ribber go round hill; way ober hill soon, much soon. Canoe stop, master walk ober."
Tom was at first somewhat perplexed at this vague statement, but by questioning the men he learnt that the canoe was approaching a great bend in the river, which wound about the base of a hill some two hundred feet high, thickly covered with scrub. The distance round the hill by the river was about a mile and a half, while overland across the hill it was little more than three-quarters of a mile. Mbutu explained this by comparing the curving stream to a bent bow, and the hill path to the bow-string. Tom at once saw that if the Portuguese were close on their heels, and chanced to know of the short cut, he might disembark half his crew, cross the hill, and possibly arrive at the farther end of the arc before Tom's canoe. In any case, if he were armed, as the natives had declared, there was little chance of escaping with a whole skin, or even of escaping at all.