Bones grew careless in his attire, and addressed Abiboo, his sergeant, as “Comrade.” Which Sergeant Abiboo reported to Hamilton.

“It is clear that the young lord Tibbetti has fever,” he said, “for this morning he spoke to me as if he were a common man, and said that all men were equal. Even sergeants with privates. Also he said that the land did not belong to Government, but to me and to his lordship. This I report officially.”

Finding no traces of fever, Hamilton had given his subordinate three large pills, Bones protesting.

Summoned to the residency, he heard of his projected trip without enthusiasm. Ordinarily the prospect of assuming control of the Wiggle would have brought him to a high pitch of ecstasy.

“Thank you, sir an’ excellency,” he said gloomily. “I’ll go because it is my duty. I have a premonition that I may not come back. Instinct, my dear old Ham – I’ve always been like that. I’m physic.”

“‘Psychic’ is the word you want,” said Hamilton.

“We always call it ‘Physic’,” said Bones calmly, “and that’s the way it’s spelt, dear old comrade and OC Troops. If a johnny is physic, surely to good gracious heavens he knows how it’s spelt?”

“What have you a premonition of, Bones?” asked Sanders.

Bones made a grimace, lifted his angular shoulders and threw out his hands – gestures indicating his inability to give a plain answer to a plain question.

“Not wishing to cast a dark old shadow or be a jolly old killjoy, I’d rather not say,” he replied darkly, “but I’ve had this feeling, comrade–”

“A little less ‘comrade’ would be welcome,” said Hamilton.

“We’re all comrades, dear old officer,” said Bones gloomily. “We’ve got our jolly old social values mixed up. The condition of society with its naughty old artificial restrictions is positively ghastly. It is indeed, old Ham. Sweinmacher says–”

“What Sweinmacher or any other Dutch trader says is immaterial,” said Hamilton. “You go to the Isisi this afternoon. And if your premonition comes off I’ll write the nicest little obituary notice you’ve ever seen.”

Bones inclined his head gravely. “I’ve already written it,” he said. “You’ll find it in my desk, dear old com – officer. You might send it to the Times – I’ve subscribed to that jolly old Thunderer for years, an’ they’ll be glad to put it in. About 20,000 words as near as I can judge, but if you’d like to add anything to it, I’ll take it as a kindness.”

Sanders came down to see his subordinate leave.

“N’shimba you will deal with firmly. As yet he is not dangerous. These fellows hold tight to tradition, and until the arrival of the black egg – and the spies say he has been searching for it – there will be no general rising. If necessary, kill N’shimba. You’re not taking Florence?”

Florence was perched on the rail of the boat, a brooding, sleepy figure. Undisturbed, she remained when the Wiggle cast off and pushed its blunt nose to the rapid waters of the big river.

Bones passed the Isisi country according to plan, and his first call was upon Bosambo, Paramount Chief of the Ochori, and thorn in the side of all kings, chiefs and headmen of the Isisi, Akasava and N’gombi. As well he might be, for he was a Krooman by birth, adventurer by instinct, and a great collector of other men’s property by choice.

“I see you one time: I looka you longa longa times, Bonesi. You be good fellow.” Thus Bosambo in English, for he had been educated in an English mission school.

Bones struggled hard against resenting the familiarity. Tactfully, he replied in Bomongo.

“Sandi has sent me to speak with your young men, Bosambo, for Sandi’s heart is troubled because of this secret society.”

“Lord,” said Bosambo calmly, “there is no secret society in this land. When the older men join together in dances and call themselves by ghostly names, I say no word, for old men are great talkers and nothing comes of that. But when my young men meet in secrecy, then I know that they will talk scandal.