The path wound, as all native paths do wind, like some erratic snake amongst the grasses, reaching its point with a vast disregard for distance expended on the way.  It led, with a scramble, down the sides of ravines; it drew its followers up steep rock-faces that were baked almost to cooking heat by the sun; and finally, it broke up into fan-shape amongst decrepit banana groves, and presently ended amongst a squalid collection of grass and wattle huts which formed the village.

Dogs announced the arrival to the natives, and from out of the houses bolted men, women, and children, who dived out of sight in the surrounding patches of bush.

The man with the yaws explained:  “Dem Belgians make war-palaver often.  People plenty much frightened.  People think we lib for here on war-palaver.”

“Silly idiots!” said Captain Kettle.  “Hullo, by James! here’s a white man coming out of that chimbeque!”

“He God-man.  Lib for here on gin-palaver.”

“Trading missionary, is he?  Bad breed that.  And the worst of it is, if there’s trouble, he’ll hold up his cloth, and I can’t hit him.”  He advanced toward the white man, and touched his helmet. “Bon jour, Monsieur.”

“Howdy?” said the missionary.  “I’m as English as yourself—­or rather Amurrican.  Know you quite well by sight, Captain.  Seen you on the steamers when I was stationed at our headquarters in Boma.  What might you be up here for?”

“I’ve a bit of a job on hand for Captain Nilssen of Banana.”

“Old Cappie Nilssen?  Know him quite well.  Married him to that Bengala wife of his, the silly old fool.  Well, captain, come right into my chimbeque, and chop.”

“I’ll have some quinine with you, and a cocktail.  Chop doesn’t tempt me just now.  I’ve a dose of fever on hand.”

“Got to expect that here, anyway,” said the missionary.  “I haven’t had fever for three days now, but I’m due for another dose to-morrow afternoon.  Fever’s quite regular with me.  It’s a good thing that, because I can fit in my business accordingly.”

“I suppose the people at home think you carry the Glad Tidings only?”

“The people at home are impracticable fools, and I guess when I was ’way back in Boston I was no small piece of a fool too.  I was sent out here ’long with a lot more tenderfeet to plant beans for our own support, and to spread the gospel for the glory of America.  Well, the other tenderfeet are planted, and I’m the only one that’s got any kick left.  The beans wouldn’t grow, and there was no sort of living to be got out of spreading a gospel which nobody seemed to want.  So I had to start in and hoe a new row for myself.”

“Set up as a trader, that is?”

“You bet.  It’s mostly grist that comes to me:  palm-oil, rubber, kernels, and ivory.  Timber I haven’t got the capital to tackle, and I must say the ivory’s more to figure about than finger.  But I’ve got the best connection of any trader in gin and guns and cloth in this section, and in another year I’ll have made enough of a pile to go home, and I guess there are congregations in Boston that’ll just jump at having a returned Congo missionary as their minister.”