They came to a secret place at a pool, and squatted in a circle, each man laying his hands on the soles of his feet in the prescribed fashion.

“Snakes live in holes,” said Bemebibi conventionally. “Ghosts dwell by water and all devils sit in the bodies of little birds.”

This they repeated after him, moving their heads from side to side slowly.

“This is a good night,” said the chief, when the ritual was ended, “for now I see the end of our great thoughts. Sandi is gone and M’ilitani is by the place where the three rivers meet, and he has come in fear. Also by magic I have learnt that he is terrified because he knows me to be an awful man. Now, I think, it is time for all ghosts to strike swiftly.”

He spoke with emotion, swaying his body from side to side after the manner of orators. His voice grew thick and husky as the immensity of his design grew upon him.

“There is no law in the land,” he sang. “Sandi has gone, and only a little, thin man punishes in fear. Militini has blood like water – let us sacrifice.”

One of his highmen disappeared into the dark forest and came back soon, dragging a half-witted youth, named Ko’so, grinning and mumbling and content till the curved N’gombi knife, that his captor wielded, came “snack” to his neck and then he spoke no more.

Too late Hamilton came through the forest with his twenty Houssas. Bemebibi saw the end and was content to make a fight for it, as were his partners in crime.

“Use your bayonets,” said Hamilton briefly, and flicked out his long, white sword. Bemebibi lunged at him with his stabbing spear, and Hamilton caught the poisoned spearhead on the steel guard, touched it aside, and drove forward straight and swiftly from his shoulder.

“Bury all these men,” said Hamilton, and spent a beastly night in the forest.

So passed Bemebibi, and his people gave him up to the ghosts, him and his highmen.

There were other problems less tragic, to be dealt with, a Bosambo rather grieved than sulking, a haughty N’gori to be kicked to a sense of his unimportance, chiefs, major and minor, to be brought into a condition of penitence.

Hamilton went zigzagging up the river swiftly. He earned for himself in those days the name of “Dragon-fly,” or its native equivalent, and the illustration was apt, for it seemed that the Zaire would poise, buzzing angrily, then dart off in unexpected directions, and the spirit of complacency which had settled upon the land gave place to one of apprehension, which, in the old days, followed the arrival of Sanders in a mood of reprisal.

Hamilton sent a letter by canoe to his second-in-command. It started simply:

“Bones – I will not call you ‘dear Bones,’” it went on with a hint of the rancour in the writer’s heart, “for you are not dear to me. I am striving to clear up the mess you have made so that when His Excellency arrives I shall be able to show him a law-abiding country. I have missed you, Bones, but had you been near on more occasions than one, I should not have missed you. Bones, were you ever kicked as a boy? Did any good fellow ever get you by the scruff of your neck and the seat of your trousers and chuck you into an evil-smelling pond? Try to think and send me the name of the man who did this, that I may send him a letter of thanks.

“Your absurd weakness has kept me on the move for days. Oh, Bones, Bones! I am in a sweat, lest even now you are tampering with the discipline of my Houssas – lest you are handing round tea and cake to the Alis and Ahmets and Mustaphas of my soldiers; lest you are brightening their evenings with imitations of Frank Tinney and fanning the flies from their sleeping forms,” the letter went on.

“Cad!” muttered Bones, as he read this bit.

There were six pages couched in this strain, and at the end six more of instruction. Bones was in the forest when the letter came to him, unshaven, weary, and full of trouble.

He hated work, he loathed field exercise, he regarded bridge-building over imaginary streams, and the whole infernal curriculum of military training, as being peculiarly within the province of the boy scouts and wholly beneath the dignity of an officer of the Houssas. And he felt horribly guilty as he read Hamilton’s letter, for the night before it came he had most certainly entertained his company with a banjo rendering of the Soldier’s Chorus from Faust.

He rumpled his beautiful hair, jammed down his helmet, squared his shoulders, and, with a fiendish expression on his face – an expression intended by Bones to represent a stern, unbending devotion to duty, he stepped forth from his tent determined to undo what mischief he had done, and earn, if not the love, at least the respect of his people.

III

There is in all services a subtle fear and hope. They have to do less with material consequence than with a sense of harmony which rejects the discordance of failure. Also Hamilton was a human man, who, whilst he respected Sanders and had a profound regard for his qualities, nourished a secret faith that he might so carry on the work of the heaven-born Commissioner without demanding the charity of his superiors.

He wished – not unnaturally – to spread a triumphant palm to his country and say “Behold! There are the talents that Sanders left – I have increased them, by my care, two-fold.”

He came down stream in some haste, having completed the work of pacification and stopped at the Village of Irons long enough to hand to the Houssa warder four unhappy counsellors of the Isisi king.

“Keep these men for service against our lord Sandi’s return.”

At Bosinkusu he was delayed by a storm, a mad, whirling brute of a storm that lashed the waters of the river and swept the Zaire broadside on towards the shore. At M’idibi, the villagers, whose duty it was to cut and stack wood for the Government steamers, had gone into a forest to meet a celebrated witch-doctor, gambling on the fact that there was another wooding village ten miles down stream and that Hamilton would choose that for the restocking of his boat.

So that beyond a thin skeleton pile of logs on the river’s edge–set up to deceive the casual observer as he passed and approved of their industry – there was no wood and Hamilton had to set his men to wood-cutting.

He had nearly completed the heart-breaking work when the villagers returned in a body, singing an unmusical song and decked about with ropes of flowers.

“Now,” explained the headman, “we have been to a palaver with a holy man and he has promised us that some day there will come to us a great harvest of corn which will be reaped by magic and laid at our doors whilst we sleep.”

“And I,” said the exasperated Houssa, “promise you a great harvest of whips that, so far from coming in your sleep, will keep you awake.”

“Master, we did not know that you would come so soon,” said the humble headman; “also there was a rumour that your lordship had been drowned in the storm and your puc-a-puc sunk, and my young men were happy because there would be no more wood to cut.”

The Zaire, fuel replenished, slipped down the river, Hamilton leaning over the rail promising unpleasant happenings as the boat drifted out from the faithless village. He had cut things very fine, and could do no more than hope that he would reach headquarters an hour or so before the Administrator arrived by the mail-boat. If Bones could be trusted there would be no cause for worry. Bones should have the men’s quarters whitewashed, the parade ground swept and garnished, and stores in excellent order for inspection, and all the books on hand for the Accountant-General to glance over.

But Bones!

Hamilton writhed internally at the thought of Francis Augustus and his inefficiency.

He had sent his second the most elaborate instructions, but if he knew his man, the languid Bones would do no more than pass those instructions on to a subordinate.

It was ten o’clock on the morning of the inspection that the Zaire came paddling furiously to the tiny concrete quay, and Hamilton gave a sigh of relief. For there, awaiting him, stood Lieutenant Tibbetts in the glory of his raiment – helmet sparkling white, steel hilt of sword a-glitter, khaki uniform, spotless and well-fitting.

“Mail-boat’s just in, sir,” Bones went on with unusual fierceness. “You’re in time to meet His Excellency. Stores all laid out, books in trim, parade ground and quarters whitewashed as per your jolly old orders, sir.”

He saluted again, his eyes bulging, his face a veritable mask of ferocity, and, turning on his heel, he led the way to the beach.

“Here, hold hard!” said Hamilton; “what the dickens is the matter with you?”

“Seen the error of my ways, sir,” growled Bones, again saluting punctiliously. “I’ve been an ass, sir – too lenient – given you a lot of trouble – shan’t occur again.”

There was not time to ask any further questions.

The two men had to run to reach the landing place in time, for the surf-boats were at that moment rolling to the yellow beach.

Sir Robert Sanleigh, in spotless white, was carried ashore, and his staff followed.

“Ah, Hamilton,” said the great Bob, “everything all right?”

“Yes, your Excellency,” said Hamilton, “there have been one or two serious killing palavers on which I will report.”

Sir Robert nodded.

“You were bound to have a little trouble as soon as Sanders went,” he said.

He was a methodical man and had little time for the work at hand, for the mail-boat was waiting to carry him to another station. Books, quarters, and stores were in apple-pie order, and inwardly Hamilton raised his voice in praise of the young man who strode silently and fiercely by his side, his face still distorted with a new-found fierceness.

“The Houssas are all right, I suppose?” asked Sir Robert “Discipline good – no crime?”

“The discipline is excellent, sir,” replied Hamilton, heartily, “and we haven’t had any serious crime for years.”

Sir Robert Sanleigh fixed his pince-nez upon his nose and looked round the parade ground. A dozen Houssas in two ranks stood at attention in the centre.

“Where are the rest of your men?” asked the Administrator.

“In gaol, sir.” It was Bones who answered the question.

Hamilton gasped.

“In gaol – I’m sorry – but I knew nothing of this.