Arriving upon terra firma, the District Commissioner consulted a map of the district. It was based upon a German survey, and, therefore, remarkably accurate, for the Hun, painstaking and methodical and convinced that he had come to stay, had triangulated and mapped out his largest colony with Teutonic thoroughness.
From it he discovered that the forest extended a good twenty miles in a north-easterly direction, and was about half that distance across its widest part. The furthermost limits extended to the base of a lofty ridge of mountains forming part of that mighty system that early nineteenth century cartographers vaguely indicated as the Mountains of the Moon.
Wynyard was still engaged in scanning the map when his attention was distracted by the sounds of shouting and yelling. Four hundred yards down the road came Logula and his warriors, all armed in characteristic fashion with spears, shields, and kerries, and rigged out in feathers, paint, and other native insignia.
"By Jove!" he ejaculated. "I hope those beggars aren't up to mischief," and he found himself wishing that he had a full company of armed police with him in place of the three or four men at his disposal.
But Logula's intentions were friendly, even though they appeared the opposite. By his side capered a tall fellow in the full panoply of a witch-doctor.
"Great Chief," began Logula, "you have failed, even as my snake told me you would. Therefore I bring you aid."
"We are in no need of the black man's magic, Logula," declared Wynyard sternly.
"You can but try," protested the Chief.
"And waste time," rejoined the District Commissioner. "Begone!"
Logula stuck to his guns.