Kettle’s own method of reporting his doings, too, was not calculated to endear him to the authorities.  He steamed down to headquarters at Leopoldville, went ashore, and swung into the Commandant’s house with easy contempt and assurance.  He gave an arid account of the launch’s voyage up the great river to the centre of Africa and back, and then in ten words described Balliot’s disaster, his rescue, and its cost.  “And so,” he wound up, “as the contract was outside Mr. Balliot’s size, I took it in my own hands and carried it through.  I’ve brought back your blooming army down here.  It’s quite tame now.”

The Commandant at Leopoldville nodded stiffly, and said he would confer with Captain Kettle’s senior officer, Commandant Balliot, after which Kettle would probably hear something further.

“All right,” said the little man.  “I should tell you, too, that Mr. Balliot’s not without his uses.  With a bit of teaching I got him to handle my engines quite decent for an amateur.”  He turned to go, but stopped again in the glare of the doorway.  “Oh, there’s one other thing.  I want to recommend to you Doctor Clay.  He’s a good man, Clay.  He stood by me well in the trouble we had, after he got roused up.  I’d like to recommend him for promotion.”

“I will see if Commandant Balliot—­as senior officer—­adds his recommendation to yours,” said the other drily.  “Good-morning to you for the present.”

Captain Kettle went down to the beach, and stepped along the gangway on to the stern-wheel launch.  The working negroes on the lower deck stopped their chatter for the moment as he passed, and looked up at him with a queer mixture of awe and admiration.  From above came the tinkle of a banjo and the roar of an English song.  The doctor was free, and was amusing himself according to his fashion.

Kettle got his accordion and went up on the hurricane deck and joined him, and till near on sundown the pair of them sat there giving forth music alternately.  There was a fine contrast between them.  The disreputable doctor deliberately forgot everything of the past, and lived only for the reckless present; the shipmaster had got his wife and children always filling half his memory, and was in a constant agony lest he should fail to properly provide for them.  And as a consequence Clay’s music was always of the lighter sort, and was often more than impolite; while Kettle’s was, for the most part, devotional, and all of it sober, staid, and thoughtful.  They were a strong contrast, these two, but they pulled together with one another wonderfully.  Kettle used sometimes to wonder why it was, and came to the conclusion that it was the tie of music which did it.  But Clay never worried about the matter at all.  He was not the man to fill his head with useless problems.

But on this afternoon their concert was cut short before its finish.  Commandant Balliot came back to the launch with satisfaction on his streaming face, and two armed black soldiers plodding at his heels.