His head was throbbing then, and the stars and the grasses swam before his eyes.  The excitement of the fight had died away—­the ills of the place gripped every fibre of his body.  Had the natives ambushed him along the path, I do not think he could possibly have avoided them.  But those natives had had their lesson, and they did not care to tamper with Kettle’s ju-ju again.  And so he was allowed to go on undisturbed, and somehow or other he got down to the river-bank and the canoe.

He did not do the land journey at any astonishing pace.  Indeed, it is a wonder he ever got over it at all.  More than once he sank down half unconscious in the path, and up all the steeper slopes he had to crawl animal fashion on all-fours.  But by daybreak he got to the canoe, and pushed her off, and by a marvellous streak of luck lost his way in the inner channels, and wandered out on to the broad Congo beyond.

I say this was a streak of luck, because by this time consciousness had entirely left him, and on the inner channels he would merely have died, and been eaten by alligators, whereas, as it was, he got picked up by a State launch, and taken down to the pilotage at Banana.

It was Mrs. Nilssen who tediously nursed him back to health.  Kettle had always been courteous to Mrs. Nilssen, even though she was as black and polished as a patent leather boot; and Mrs. Nilssen appreciated Captain Owen Kettle accordingly.

With Captain Nilssen, pilot of the lower Congo, Kettle had one especially interesting talk during his convalescence.  “You may as well take that troublesome wooden god for yourself now,” said Nilssen.  “But, if I were you, I’d ship it home out of harm’s way by the next steamer.”

“Hasn’t that missionary brute sent for it yet?”

Captain Nilssen evaded the question.  “I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me, my lad.  When you were brought in here after they picked you up, you looked fit to peg out one-time, but the only sane thing you could do was to waggle out a little leopard-skin parcel, and bid me swallow the stuff that was inside.  You’d started out to get me that physic, and, by gum, you weren’t happy till I got it down my neck.”

“Well, you look fit enough now.”

“Never better.”

“But about the missionary brute?”

“Well, my lad, I suppose you’re well enough to be told now.  He’s got his trading cut short for good.  That nigger with the yaws who paddled you up brought down the news.  The beggars up there chopped him, and I’m sure I hope he didn’t give them indigestion.”

“My holy James!”

“Solid.  His missionary friends here have written home a letter to Boston which would have done you good to see.  According to them, the man’s a blessed martyr, nothing more or less.  The gin and the guns are left clean out of the tale; and will Boston please send out some more subscriptions, one-time?  You’ll see they’ll stick up a stained-glass window to that joker in Boston, and he’ll stand up there with a halo round his head as big as a frying-pan.  And, oh! won’t his friends out here be resigned to his loss when the subscriptions begin to hop in from over the water.”