Some bushmen had bewitched him; he knew the fellow, and would quickly make “bob come up his side:”  already two whites had visited him with a view of shooting gorillas; both had failed; it was “shame palaver!”

This might have been true, but it certainly was not the whole truth.  I can hardly accept M. du Chaillu’s explanation, that the Mpongwe, who attack the beasts with trade muskets and pebbles, will not venture into the anthropoid’s haunts unless certain of their white employer’s staunchness.  What could that matter, when our Nimrod had an excellent weapon in his hand and a strong party to back him?  Very likely Forteune was tired with walking, and five dollars per shot made the game not worth the candle.  Again, perhaps the black diplomatist feared to overstock the market with Njinas, or to offend some regular customer for the sake of an “interloper.”  In these African lands they waste over a monkey’s skin or a bottle of rum as much intrigue as is devoted to a contested election in England.

I then asked the guide if my staying longer would be of any use?  He answered with a simple negative.  Whilst the Utangani remained the Mbunji (spell) would still work, but it would at once be broken by our departure, and he would prove it by sending down the first-fruits.  This appeared to me to be mere Mpongwe “blague,” but, curious to say, the sequel completely justified both assertions.  He threw out a hint, however, about certain enemies and my “medicine,” the arsenical soap; I need hardly say that it was refused.

When the palaver ended and the tide served, a fierce tornado broke upon us, and the sky looked grisly in the critical direction, north-east.  Having no wish to recross the Gaboon River during a storm blowing a head wind, I resolved to delay my departure till the morrow, and amused myself with drawing from the nude a picture of the village and village-life in Pongo-land.

The Mpongwe settlements on the Gaboon River are neatly built, but without any attempt at fortification; for the most part each contains one family, or rather a chief and his dependants.  In the larger plantation “towns,” the abodes form a single street, ranging from 100 to 1,000 yards in length; sometimes, but rarely, there are cross streets; the direction is made to front the sea-breeze, and, if possible, to present a corner to storm-bearing Eurus.  An invariable feature, like the arcaded loggie of old Venetian towns, is the Nampolo, or palaver-house, which may be described as the club-room of the village.  An open hangar, like the Ikongolo or “cask-house” of the trading places, it is known by a fire always kept burning.  The houses are cubes, or oblong squares, varying from 10 to 100 feet in length, according to the wealth and dignity of the owner; all are one-storied, and a few are raised on switch foundations.  Most of them have a verandah facing the street, and a “compound” or cleared space in the rear for cooking and other