About 8.30, To Our Delight, The Gallant Monrovia Boy Comes Through
The Bush With A Demijohn Of Water, And
I get my tea, and give the
men the only half-pound of rice I have and a tin of
Meat, and they
eat, become merry, and chat over their absent companions in a
scornful, scandalous way. Who cares for hotels now? When one is in
a delightful place like this, one must work, so off I go to the
north into the forest, after giving the rest of the demijohn of
water into the Monrovia boy's charge with strict orders it is not to
be opened till my return. Quantities of beetles.
A little after two o'clock I return to camp, after having wandered
about in the forest and found three very deep holes, down which I
heaved rocks and in no case heard a splash. In one I did not hear
the rocks strike, owing to the great depth. I hate holes, and
especially do I hate these African ones, for I am frequently
falling, more or less, into them, and they will be my end.
The other demijohns of water have not arrived yet, and we are
getting anxious again because the men's food has not come up, and
they have been so exceedingly thirsty that they have drunk most of
the water - not, however, since it has been in Monrovia's charge; but
at 3.15 another boy comes through the bush with another demijohn of
water. We receive him gladly, and ask him about the chop. He knows
nothing about it. At 3.45 another boy comes through the bush with
another demijohn of water; we receive him kindly; HE does not know
anything about the chop. At 4.10 another boy comes through the bush
with another demijohn of water, and knowing nothing about the chop,
we are civil to him, and that's all.
A terrific tornado which has been lurking growling about then sits
down in the forest and bursts, wrapping us up in a lively kind of
fog, with its thunder, lightning, and rain. It was impossible to
hear, or make one's self heard at the distance of even a few paces,
because of the shrill squeal of the wind, the roar of the thunder,
and the rush of the rain on the trees round us. It was not like
having a storm burst over you in the least; you felt you were in the
middle of its engine-room when it had broken down badly. After half
an hour or so the thunder seemed to lift itself off the ground, and
the lightning came in sheets, instead of in great forks that flew
like flights of spears among the forest trees. The thunder,
however, had not settled things amicably with the mountain; it
roared its rage at Mungo, and Mungo answered back, quivering with a
rage as great, under our feet. One feels here as if one were
constantly dropping, unasked and unregarded, among painful and
violent discussions between the elemental powers of the Universe.
Mungo growls and swears in thunder at the sky, and sulks in white
mist all the morning, and then the sky answers back, hurling down
lightnings and rivers of water, with total disregard of Mungo's
visitors.
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