Apparently the second mate did not.  He had seen enough of Captain Kettle’s method already to quite appreciate its efficacy.  The Krooboys, with the custom of servitude strong on them, soon fell-to when once they were started.  The thump of holy-stones went up into the baking air, and grimy water began to dribble from the scuppers.

With the chief engineer Kettle had another scuffle.  But he, too, was eased of the knife at the back of his belt, thumped into submissiveness, and sent with firemen and trimmers to wash paint in the stewy engine-room below, and clean up the rusted iron work.  And then those of the passenger boys who were not sick, were turned-to also.

With Captain Rabeira, Kettle did not interfere.  The man stayed in his own room for the present, undisturbed and undisturbing.  But the rest of the ship’s complement were kept steadily to their employment.

They did not like it, but they thought it best to submit.  Away back from time unnumbered, the African peoples have known only fear as the governing power, and, from long acclimatization, the Portuguese might almost count as African.  This man of a superior race came and set himself up in authority over them, in defiance of all precedent, law, everything; and they submitted with dull indifference.  The sweets of freedom are not always appreciated by those who have known the easy luxury of being slaves.

The plague was visibly stayed from almost the very first day that Kettle took over charge.  The sick recovered or died; the sound sickened no more; it seemed as though the disease microbes on board the ship were glutted.

A mile away, at the other side of the beer-colored river, the rare houses of Boma sprawled amongst the low burnt-up hills, and every day the doctor with his bad liver came across in his boat under the blinding sunshine to within shouting distance, and put a few weary questions.  The formalities were slack enough.  Nilssen usually made the necessary replies (as he liked to keep himself in the doctor’s good books), and then the boat would row away.

Nilssen still remained gently non-interferent.  He was paid to be a pilot by the Etat Independant du Congo—­so he said—­and he was not going to risk a chance of trouble, and no possibility of profit, by meddling with matters beyond his own sphere.  Especially did he decline to be co-sharer in Kettle’s scheme for dealing out justice to Captain Rabeira.

“It is not your palaver,” he said, “or mine.  If you want to stir up trouble, tell the State authorities when you get ashore.  That won’t do much good either.  They don’t value niggers at much out here.”

“Nor do I,” said Kettle.  “There’s nothing foolish with me about niggers.  But there’s a limit to everything, and this snuff-colored Dago goes too far.  He’s got to be squared with, and I’m going to do it.”

“Guess it’s your palaver.  I’ve told you what the risks are.”