Later in the day, Everett analyzed his conduct of the night previous.  “At home,” he told Upsher, “I would have been telephoning for an ambulance, or been out in the street giving the man the ‘first-aid’ drill.  But living as we do here, so close to death, we see things more clearly.  Death loses its importance.  It’s a bromide,” he added.  “But travel certainly broadens one.  Every day I have been in the Congo, I have been assimilating new ideas.”  Upsher nodded vigorously in assent.  An older man could have told Everett that he was assimilating just as much of the Congo as the rabbit assimilates of the boa-constrictor, that first smothers it with saliva and then swallows it.

Everett started up the Congo in a small steamer open on all sides to the sun and rain, and with a paddle-wheel astern that kicked her forward at the rate of four miles an hour.  Once every day, the boat tied up to a tree and took on wood to feed her furnace, and Everett talked to the white man in charge of the wood post, or, if, as it generally happened, the white man was on his back with fever, dosed him with quinine.  On board, except for her captain, and a Finn who acted as engineer, Everett was the only other white man.  The black crew and “wood-boys” he soon disliked intensely.  At first, when Nansen, the Danish captain, and the Finn struck them, because they were in the way, or because they were not, Everett winced, and made a note of it.  But later he decided the blacks were insolent, sullen, ungrateful; that a blow did them no harm.

According to the unprejudiced testimony of those who, before the war, in his own country, had owned slaves, those of the “Southland” were always content, always happy.  When not singing close harmony in the cotton-fields, they danced upon the levee, they twanged the old banjo.  But these slaves of the Upper Congo were not happy.  They did not dance.  They did not sing.  At times their eyes, dull, gloomy, despairing, lighted with a sudden sombre fire, and searched the eyes of the white man.  They seemed to beg of him the answer to a terrible question.  It was always the same question.  It had been asked of Pharaoh.  They asked it of Leopold.  For hours, squatting on the iron deck-plates, humped on their naked haunches, crowding close together, they muttered apparently interminable criticisms of Everett.  Their eyes never left him.  He resented this unceasing scrutiny.  It got upon his nerves.  He was sure they were evolving some scheme to rob him of his tinned sausages, or, possibly, to kill him.  It was then he began to dislike them.  In reality, they were discussing the watch strapped to his wrist.  They believed it was a powerful juju, to ward off evil spirits.  They were afraid of it.

One day, to pay the chief wood-boy for a carved paddle, Everett was measuring a bras of cloth.  As he had been taught, he held the cloth in his teeth and stretched it to the ends of his finger-tips.  The wood-boy thought the white man was giving him short measure.  White men always had given him short measure, and, at a glance, he could not recognize that this one was an Everett of Boston.