Compton looked up at the matted roof of leaves and branches.

“Well, all I hope is that a tall giraffe will not fall through on top of me.”

“There is one thing that should give you comfort,” said Venning, solemnly.

“What is that?”

“It would be the giraffe who would suffer.”

“Wait till I have got rid of these parcels, young ’un,” said Compton.  “Are you getting tired?”

“Well, I am,” said Venning—­“tired and stuffy.”

“Glad to be back on the boat again—­eh?  Well, if it’s any comfort to you, I’m tired too.  Haven’t got my land-legs yet.”

Mr. Hume cried a halt, to their great content, and though there were some hours yet to evening, he set them to work to make the camp.  The work was the same they undertook each evening they were in the forest.  First they cleared a circle about twenty feet in diameter, with an outer ring of large trees, and, using the trunks as posts, built a fence with the saplings and young trees.  A hole was dug in the soft ground for the fireplace, and another fence built round to screen the glare of the fire.  Next their waterproof sheets were arranged, the sheet of canvas stretched overhead, and, when all was shipshape, the three white members of the party went through a course of massage, which prepared them for the one good meal of the day.  Then they overhauled their clothing, repaired any tears, oiled the rifles, and entered up the log-books.  There was always something to do, and according to the man-of-war discipline observed, every man had to do his share of work—­a rule which gave the mind employment, and kept it from dwelling on the monotony and the depressing silence of the woods.  While the camp was springing into existence out of the tangled woods, the jackal kept guard, circling at a distance, like a well-trained collie herding a flock of sheep.

The first night was a repetition of many others.  When the night came down, as it did long before darkness set in on the wide river, where the afterglow was reflected from the waters, it was black beyond thought, so black that a few yards from the fire the sharpest pair of eyes could not see a hand held a foot away.  And with the darkness came a sense of mystery, a hollow murmur as of the surf heard a long way off, which intensified the brooding stillness; and at times the groaning of the trees.

“What noise is that?” asked Venning, hearing the sound.

“The trees talk,” said Muata, gravely.

“Eh?  The trees talk!  Wonderful!” muttered Compton, sarcastically; but, nevertheless, he listened with open mouth and staring eyes.

“What do they say, chief?”

“The young ones ask for room; they shove and push to reach up into the air, to feel the touch of the rain, to enjoy the warmth of the sun.”

“And the big trees?”

“They cry out against the young, who come thrusting their branches up from below, who crowd in upon the old people.”