The next day was perforce a halt, as had been expected; moreover, rains and tornadoes were a reasonable pretext for nursing the headache.  The 21st was also wet and stormy, so Nimrod hid himself and was not to be found.  Then the balivernes began.  One Asini, a Mpongwe from the Plateau, offered to show me a huge gorilla near his village; in the afternoon he was confronted with “Young Prince,” and he would have blushed scarlet if he could.  But he assured me plaintively that he must lie to live, and, after all, la prudence des souris n’est pas celle des chats.  Before dark, Forteune appeared, and swore that he had spent the day in the forest, he had shot at a gorilla, but the gun missed fire—­of course he had slept in a snug hut.

This last determined me to leave Mbata; the three Kru-men had returned; one of them was stationed in charge of the boat, and next morning we set out at 6 A.M. for Nche Mpolo, the headquarters of “Young Prince.”  The well-wooded land was devoid of fetor, even at that early hour; we passed Ndagola, a fresh clearing and newly built huts, and then we skirted a deep and forested depression, upon whose further side lay our bourne.  It promised sand-flies, the prime pest of this region; a tall amphitheatre of trees on a dune to the west excluded the sea-breeze, and northwards a swampy hollow was a fine breeding place for M. Maringouin.

Nche Mpolo lies some three miles nearly due south of Mbata; the single street contains fourteen cottages and two palaver houses.  We were received with distinction by “Young Prince’s” daughter, a huge young woman, whose still huger mamma was from Cape Lopez.  She placed mats upon the bamboo couch under the verandah, brought water to wash our feet, and put the kettle on that we might have tea.  The sun was fiery and the day sultry; my companions complained of fatigue after a two hours’ walk, and then busied themselves ostentatiously in cleaning their muskets, in collecting provisions, and in appointing certain bushmen to meet us on the morrow.  Before dark Hotaloya returned to his village, declaring that he could find no bed at his papa’s.  Probably the uxorious youth had been ordered home by his pet wife, who had once lived with a European trader, who spoke a few words of English, and who cooked with peculiar skill,—­the solid merits of a “superior person.”

At dawn on the 23rd we set out for the southern bush, Selim, Forteune, and a carrier Kru-man—­to carry nothing.  We passed through a fresh clearing, we traversed another village (three within five miles!), we crossed a bad bridge and a clear stream flowing to the south-east, and presently we found ourselves deep in the dew-dripping forest.  The leaves no longer crackled crisp under foot, and the late rains had made the swamps somewhat odorous.  After an hour of cautious walking, listening as we went, we saw evident signs of Mister Gorilla.  Boughs three inches in diameter strewed the ground; the husks of Ntondo or Ibere (wild cardamom) had been scattered