“I’ll bet you a dollar I’m thinking of the same thing,” said Will.

“Out with it, then.”

“What’s to prevent the Germans from making their own dicker with the King of the Belgians or with the Congo government, and rifling the hoard on a fifty-fifty or some such basis?”

“Correct,” said Courtney.  “I confess myself puzzled about that.  But I know no European politics.  There may be a thousand reasons.  And then, you know, the King of the Belgians has the name of being a grasping dealer.  The management of his private zone on the Congo is unspeakable.  It’s possible the Germans may prefer not to risk putting His Majesty on the scent.”

“Well, we’ve our work cut out,” said Fred, laughing and yawning.  “That woman has started us off with a bad name.”

“That is one thing I can really do for you,” Courtney answered.  “I’ve no official standing, but the boys all listen to me.  I’ll tell them—­”

“For the love of God don’t tell them too much!” Fred exclaimed.

“I’ll tell them you’re friends of mine,” he went on.  “I believe that will solve the sporting license and ammunition problem.  As for the woman—­if I were in your shoes I would steal a march on her.  I wouldn’t be surprised if your licenses and ammunition permits were here at the hotel by ten tomorrow morning.  I see they’ve sent your guns already.  Well, there’s a train for Nairobi tomorrow noon, and not another for three days.  I’d take tomorrow’s train if I were you.  I always find in going anywhere the start’s the principal thing.  You’ll go?”

“We will,” we answered, one after the other.

“Good night, then, boys; I’ll be going.”

But we walked with him down to his hotel—­I, and I think the others, full to the teeth with the pleasure of knowing him, as well as of envy of his scars, his five or six South African campaigns, his adventures, and (by no means least) his unblemished record as a gentleman.  Merely a little bit of a man with a limp, but better than a thousand men who lacked his gentleness.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE NJO HAPA SONG

Delights—­ah, Ten are the dear delights (and the Book
        forbids them, one by one)—­
The broad old roads of a thousand loves—­back turned to the
        Law—­the lawless fun—­
Old Arts for new—­old hours reborn—­and who shall mourn
        when the sands have run?

        I was old when they told the Syren Tales
        (All ears were open then!)
        And the harps were afire with plucked desire
        For the white ash oars again—­
        For oars and sail, and the open sea,
        High prow against pure blue,
        The good sea spray on eye and lip,
        The thrumming hemp, the rise and dip,
        The plunge and the roll of a driven ship
        As the old course boils anew!