With one thought only—­the longing for liquid of any kind but salt water-we sat in crazy deck-chairs under the iron verandah, where a few starved chickens pecked unhappily at the dust.  Presently there came the padding sound of naked feet upon the hard-baked earth, and a dark figure emerged from an inner kitchen.  It was a young negress.  Her short, woolly hair was cut into sections, like a melon, by lines that showed the paler skin below.  The large dark eyes were filmy as a seal’s, and the heavy black lips projected far in front of the flat nostrils, slit sideways like a bull-dog’s.  From breast to knee she was covered with a length of dark blue cotton, wound twice round her body, and fastened with two safety pins.  In her hands, which were pinkish inside and on the palm like a monkey’s, she held a tray, and coming close to us, she stood, silent and motionless, in front of M. Jacques.

Into three meat-tins that served for cups, he poured out wine from the bottle he had brought up from his subterranean bedroom.  Then he filled up his own cup from a larger meat-tin of water fresh from the marsh.  We did the same to make the wine go further, and at last we drank.  It was the vilest wine the chemists of Hamburg ever made, though German education favours chemistry; and the water tasted like the bilge of Charon’s boat.  But it was liquid, and when we had drained the tins—­I will not say to the dregs, for Hamburg wine has no dregs—­M.  Jacques lay back with a sigh and said, “Drink fine too much.”

The girl handed us sticky slabs of Africa’s maize bread, and then padded off with the tray.  Coming out again, she crouched down on her heels against the doorpost, and silently watched us with impenetrable eyes, that never blinked or turned aside, no matter how much one stared.

Meantime, the natives from the beach, with many sighs and groans, were rolling up the cargo of barrels, and setting them, one by one, in a barricaded storehouse.  “That’s Bank of France,” said M. Jacques, locking the door securely when all the barrels were stowed.  “Plenty rum all the same good for plenty gold.”

Their spell of labour finished, the natives stretched themselves in the shadow of the enclosure wall, and slept, while we sat languidly looking over the steaming water at the ship, now dim in the haze.  The heat was so intense that, in spite of our drenching in the surf, the sweat was running down our faces and backs again.  The repeated crash and drag of the waves were the only sounds, except when now and again a parrot shrieked from the forest, or some great trunk, rotted right through at last, fell heavily into the swamp among the tangled roots and slime.  Even the mosquitoes were still, and the only movement was the hovering of giant hornets, attracted by the smell of the wine.

“Holiday fine too much,” said M. Jacques, smiling at us dreamily, and stretching out his legs as he sank lower into his creaking chair.