CHAPTER XXXVIII.
CAPTAIN BECKER LOSES A WAGER.
“No, no, gentlemen. I respectfully beg leave to differ with you. Africa never gives up her white slaves.”
Captain Lucius Becker emphasized his words by bringing his fist down heavily on the frail table before him, and replacing his meerschaum between his lips, he glared defiantly at his two companions.
It was a hot and sultry afternoon in March—such a March as only tropical Africa knows—and the place was the German military station of New Potsdam, on the left bank of the river Juba, a few miles from its mouth, in eastern Africa.
On the broad bosom of the river the sun was beating fiercely, and the mangrove jungles and lofty palm trees drooped motionless in the dead calm. Upon the flat roof of the little station, however, the refining touches of civilization had done much to mitigate the severity and discomfort of the heat. An awning of snowy canvas, shaded by the projecting clusters of a group of palms, made a cool and grateful shelter, and under this the three officers had been dining.
Captain Lucius Becker continued to blow out great clouds of white smoke as though he had completely squelched all further argument on the subject under discussion.
The silence was broken at last by Dr. Moebius Goldbeck.