and the lightest jobs.  There’s not another captain in the Congo can say as much.  Some day or other they put a steamboat on the ground, and then they’re kicked out from the pilot service, and away they’re off one-time to the upper river above the falls, to run a launch, and help at the rubber palaver, and get shot at, and collect niggers’ ears, and forget what champagne and white man’s chop taste like.”

“You’ve been luckier?”

“Some.  I’ve libbed for Lower Congo all my time; had a home in the pilotage here; and got a dash of a case of champagne, or an escribello, or at least a joint of fresh meat out of the refrigerator from every steamboat I took either up or down.”

“But then you speak languages?” said Kettle.

“Seven,” said Captain Nilssen; “and use just one, and that’s English.  Shows what a fat lot of influence this Etat du Congo has got.  Why, you have to give orders even to your boat-boys in Coast English if you want to be understood.  French has no sort of show with the niggers.”

Now white men are expensive to import to the Congo Free State, and are apt to die with suddenness soon after their arrival, and so the State (which is in a chronic condition of hard-up) does not fritter their services unnecessarily.  It sets them to work at once so as to get the utmost possible value out of them whilst they remain alive and in the country.

A steamer came in within a dozen hours of Kettle’s first stepping ashore, and signalled for a pilot to Boma.  Nilssen was next in rotation for duty, and went off in his boat to board her, and he took with him Captain Owen Kettle to impart to him the mysteries of the great river’s navigation.

The boat-boys sang a song explanatory of their notion of the new pilot’s personality as they caught at the paddles, but as the song was in Fiote, even Nilssen could only catch up a phrase here and there, just enough to gather the drift.  He did not translate, however.  He had taken his new comrade’s measure pretty accurately, and judged that he was not a man who would accept criticism from a negro.  So having an appetite for peace himself, he allowed the custom of the country to go on undisturbed.

The steamer was outside, leaking steam at an anchorage, and sending out dazzling heliograms every time she rolled her bleached awnings to the sun.  The pilot’s boat, with her crew of savages, paddled towards her, down channels between the mangrove-planted islands.  The water spurned up by the paddle blades was the color of beer, and the smell of it was puzzlingly familiar.

“Good old smell,” said Nilssen, “isn’t it?  I see you snuffling.  Trying to guess where you met it before, eh?  We all do that when we first come.  What about crushed marigolds, eh?”

“Crushed marigolds it is.”

“Guess you’ll get to know it better before you’re through with your service here.  Well, here we are alongside.”