A thousand thrilling adventures came to him as he steamed up and down the river, teaching and preaching, often in the face of poisoned arrows and spears.  We are now going to hear the story of one adventure.

The Steamer’s Journey

The crocodiles drowsily dosing in the slime of the Congo river bank stirred uneasily as a strange sound broke the silence of the blazing African morning.  They lifted their heavy jaws and swung their heads down stream.  Their beady eyes caught sight of a Thing mightier than a thousand crocodiles.  It was pushing its way slowly up stream.

The sound was the throb of the screw of the steamer from whose funnel a light ribbon of smoke floated across the river.  An awning shaded the whole deck from bow to stern.  On the top of the awning, under a little square canopy, stood a tall young negro; the muscles in his sturdy arms and his broad shoulders rippled under his dark skin as the wheel swung round in his swift, strong hands.

The steamer drove up stream while the crocodiles, startled by the wash of the boat, slid sullenly down the bank and dived.

A short, bearded man, dressed in white duck, stood on deck at the bows, where the steamer’s name, Peace, was painted.  He was George Grenfell.  His keen eyes gleamed through the spectacles that rested on his strong, arched nose.  By his side stood his wife, looking out up the river.  They were searching for the landing-place and the hut-roofs of some friendly river-side town.

At last as the bows swung round the next bend in the river they saw a village.  The Africans rushed to the bank and hurriedly pushed out their tree-trunk canoes.  Grenfell shouted an order.  A bell rang.  The screw stopped and the steamer lay-to while he climbed down into the ship’s canoe and was paddled ashore.  The wondering people pushed and jostled around them to see this strange man with his white face.

The Slave Girls

As they walked up among the huts, speaking with the men of the town, Grenfell came to an open space.  As his quick eyes looked about he saw two little girls standing bound with cords.  They were tethered like goats to a stake.  Their little faces and round eyes looked all forlorn.  Even the wonder of the strange bearded white man hardly kept back the tears that filled their eyes.

“What are these?” he asked, turning to the chief.

The African pointed up the river.  Grenfell’s heart burned in him, as the chief told how he and his men had swept up the river in their canoes armed with their spears and bows and arrows and had raided another tribe.

“And these,” said the chief, pointing to the girls, who began to wonder what was going to happen, “these are two girls that we captured.  They are some of our booty.  They are slaves.  They are tied there till someone will come and buy them.”

Grenfell could not resist the silent call of their woeful faces.  Quickly he gave beads and cloth to the chief, and took the little girls back with him down to the river bank.  As they jumped into the canoe to go aboard the S.S. Peace, the two girls wondered what this strange new master would do with them.  Would he be cruel?  Yet his eyes looked kind through those funny, round, shining things balanced on his nose.