“We must go back, then, for him at once,” he remarked. “Though the Kabomba people may treat him well, we must not desert the poor lad.”
By this time we had reached the camp. Although the rest of the party had been asleep, they had been aroused, and now appeared out of their respective huts to receive us. Kate and Bella greeted me kindly, but were too much occupied with poor Leo to exchange more than a few words. He was at once carried into their hut, where David went to attend to him. Senhor Silva, Jack, Timbo, and the other blacks, greeted me warmly.
“So glad, Massa Andrew, you come back; so glad,” exclaimed Timbo. “Me pray always for you. Neber t’ought you lost. Knew you come back some day, dough me not den know de way.”
Though I felt somewhat fatigued, my friends insisted on getting a substantial supper ready; and the relief I felt from the idea that my cares had now come to an end, contributed to give me a good appetite. I was introduced to Mr Donald Fraser, a tall, gaunt, red-haired Scotchman.
“I am very glad to welcome you, Mr Andrew Crawford,” he said, putting out his horny-palmed hand. “You come from the North, I know, by your name, and you are none the less welcome so far from the old country, out in these southern and heathenish lands. Your stout arm and rifle will be a pleasant addition, too, to our party; for they are rough fellows we are travelling amongst, and I shouldn’t be surprised if we had to fight our way out from their midst.”
“My father came from Scotland, and though I have never been in it, I love the country for his sake,” I answered. “Though I hope we shall have no fighting, I am ready to take my part if we have to defend ourselves.”
“No doubt you would, Mr Crawford,” he said. “We are men of peace, and should never wish to fight, unless in cases of urgent necessity. I hope, now you are come, we shall begin our journey southward forthwith.”
“I am afraid not, Mr Fraser,” said Stanley. “My brother, who has just arrived, will scarcely yet be able to move, and we have a young friend, I find, lying ill at a village some days’ journey to the north of us; and until we get him we cannot leave this spot.”
This information did not seem very palatable to our friend Donald; but after taking a glass of real Glenlivet, a flask of which stood in our midst, his countenance relaxed.
“Ay, to be sure. I had once a young brother of my own, a delicate boy. I had few else to love in the world. He is gone; but I know how you feel about this little fellow; we must not risk his life. And the other lad, the son of poor Captain Page—I knew him—made a voyage aboard his ship—and should like to do the boy a good turn for his sake. I don’t greatly esteem the gratitude of this world, and yet it’s pleasant to have the opportunity of repaying a debt for kindness received.”