We Always
Had Our Eye On Things Like This, Being, I Proudly Remark, None Of
Your Gilded Floating Hotel Of A Ferry-Boat Like Those Cunard Or
White Star Liners Are, But Just A Good Trader That Was Not Ashamed
To Pay, And Not Afraid Of Work.
Well, just after we had leisurely entered a new reach of the river,
round the corner after us, propelled at a phenomenal pace, came our
fishing canoe, which we had left behind to haul in the net and then
rejoin us.
The occupants, particularly the big black A. B., were
shouting something in terror stricken accents. "What?" says Obanjo
springing to his feet. "The Fan! the Fan!" shouted the canoe men as
they shot towards us like agitated chickens making for their hen.
In another moment they were alongside and tumbling over our gunwale
into the bottom of the vessel still crying "The Fan! The Fan! The
Fan!" Obanjo then by means of energetic questioning externally
applied, and accompanied by florid language that cast a rose pink
glow smelling of sulphur, round us, elicited the information that
about 40,000 Fans, armed with knives and guns, were coming down the
Rembwe with intent to kill and slay us, and might be expected to
arrive within the next half wink. On hearing this, the whole of our
gallant crew took up masterly recumbent positions in the bottom of
our vessel and turned gray round the lips. But Obanjo rose to the
situation like ten lions.
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