“Surely,” said Compton, as they steamed slowly into the night off the mouth of the great river, “thy slave is not cast down because the black children of the mud-house at our last calling-place did mock us with their mouths, and the man, their father, wore the silk hat and frock-coat of civilization?”

“Perish the thought,” said Venning, throwing a banana peel at a brilliant flash of phosphorescent light in the oily waters.  “Yet the man-who-was-tired, he of the parchment face, who sat on a verandah with his feet on the rail, prophesied that within seven days we should be sighing for English bacon in the country where a white man could breathe.”

“There is no snap in the air; but I can breathe freely.  See;” and Compton took a deep breath.

“That is the teaching of the hunter,” said Venning, wisely.  “Deep breathing gives a man deep lungs.  That is his teaching.  Also this, that a man should keep his skin clean and his muscles supple by hard rubbing after the bath.  Therefore, I did ask the bo’sun to turn the hose on us in the morning when they clean down the decks.  It is good friction.”

“And he has another saying—­that it is good for the skin to apply oil with the palm of the hand till the skin reddens.  I have a smell about me like a blue gum-tree, for the ointment he gave contains eucalyptus oil.”

“And the fat of a goat.  There is much virtue in goats’ fat, and the eucalyptus is not to the taste of the trumpeter.”

“The mosquito?”

“Even so.”

“Then why don’t you say so in good English?” and Compton dropped away from his high-flown speech.  “I bet that’s a shark kicking up all that phosphorescence.”

“He swims in fire, like the—­like the——­”

“Sprat!”

“Like Apollo, you lean-minded insect.  With every sweep of his tail he sends out diadems of liquid gems, and his broad nose shovels fire before him like a——­”

“Stoker.  Exactly; and if we had a lump of fat pork and a hook we could drag him up and collect a basketful of jewels.  I dare say he is leering up at us with a green and longing eye.”

“Did you hear that cry?” asked Venning, suddenly.

“No.”  “Was it the shark whispering, do you think?”

“Shut up and listen.”

They leant over the rail and peered into the night.  The drowsy air throbbed to the measured beat of the engines, but they scarcely noticed that accustomed sound.

“There it is again.”

“Yes.  I heard something like a sheep bleating.”

“Would a sheep be swimming out here, you ass?”

“The shark’s off—­look!” and they saw a streak of fire shoot forward.

“And there goes another.  By Jove, they must have heard the cry!”

“I’m sorry for the sheep then,” muttered Compton.

They bent far forward, listening intently, and following the course taken by the sharks as defined by the gleaming wake.  The leadsman swung out the sounder as the vessel slackened down with a yell from the escape-valve that drowned all other sounds with its deafening clamour.