“Guess it’s the captain’s palaver,” he would say.  “If the old man likes his ship turned into a bear garden, ’tisn’t our grub they’re wasting, or our cargo they’ve started in to broach.  Anyway, what can we do?  You and I are only on board here as pilots.  I wish the ship was in somewhere hotter than Africa, before I’d ever seen her.”

“So do I,” said Kettle.  “But being here, it makes me ill to see the way she’s allowed to rot, and those poor beasts of niggers are left to die just as they please.  Four more of them have either jumped overboard, or been put there by their friends.  The dirt of the place is awful.  They’re spreading small-pox poison all over the ship.  Nothing is ever cleaned.”

“There’s dysentery started, too.”

“Very well,” said Kettle, “then that settles it.  We shall have cholera next, if we let dirt breed any more.  I’m going to start in and make things ship-shape again.”

“For why?”

“We’ll say I’m frightened of them as they are at present, if you like.  Will you chip in and bear a hand?  You’re frightened, too.”

“Oh, I’m that, and no error about it.  But you don’t catch me interfering.  I’m content to sit here and take my risks as they come, because I can’t help myself.  But I go no further.  If you start knocking about this ship’s company they’ll complain ashore, and then where’ll you be?  The Congo Free State don’t like pilots who do more than they’re paid for.”

“Very well,” said Kettle, “I’ll start in and take my risks, and you can look on and umpire.”  He walked deliberately down off the bridge, went to where the mate was dozing against a skylight on the quarter deck, and stirred him into wakefulness with his foot.

“Well?” said the man.

“Turn the hands to, and clean ship.”

“What!”

“You hear me.”

The mate inquired, with abundant verbal garnishings, by what right Kettle gave the order.

“Because I’m a better man than you.  Because I’m best man on board.  Do you want proof?”

Apparently the mate did.  He whipped out a knife, but found it suddenly knocked out of his hand, and sent skimming like a silver flying fish far over the gleaming river.  He followed up the attack with an assault from both hands and feet, but soon discovered that he had to deal with an artist.  He gathered himself up at the end of half a minute’s interview, glared from two half-shut eyes, wiped the blood from his mouth, and inquired what Kettle wanted.

“You heard my order.  Carry it out.”

The man nodded, and went away sullenly muttering that his time would come.

“If you borrow another knife,” said Kettle cheerfully, “and try any more of your games, I’ll shoot you like a crow, and thank you for the chance.  You’ll go forrard and clean the forecastle-head and the fore main deck.  Be gentle with those sick!  Second Mate?”

“Si, Senor.”

“Get a crew together and clean her up aft here.  Do you want any rousing along?”