CHAPTER V 



" POSHO " 



After lasting only about an hour all told, the storm 

 stopped as suddenly as it nad begun. It was now 

 drifting away to the north-east, and the thunder gradu- 

 ally dwindled to a low rumbling in the distance. The 

 heavens above soon cleared, and I sat watching the first 

 grey streaks of dawn appear in the east. Slowly, slowly, 

 it came on. Some of the boys having kept some fuel 

 dry had managed to light a fire and sat around en masse, 

 wringing pints of water from their blankets. Most of 

 them were soaked to the skin. Their spirits were not 

 damped however, and a continuous run of talk and 

 laughter was kept up. Salem Bega, the deputy head- 

 man, an elderly man, was among them chatting wildly, 

 dressed only in an old blue jersey with an older fez cap 

 on his shaven pate. With a long knife he was busy 

 cutting up some native tobacco for a chew. His long 

 puckered old face with its fringe of beard was lit up by 

 the dancing flames of the fire. He was amusing the 

 huddled up group of listeners with yet another of his 

 endless stream of anecdotes, which every now and then 

 brought forward a chorus of approval. 



Many such a night have I passed since, in the Congo. 

 Tents and everything blown down and exposed to the fury 

 of the storm. Up to the ankles in running water, devoured 

 by one of the worst of those African insect scourges — 

 the malarial mosquito — that has made many a night a 



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