172 A JOURNEY UP THE RIVER CONGO. 
book with an apologetic ‘ Mbote,”’ closed it gently, and 
taking me by the hand led me out of the crowd. Fortu- 
nately my sketch of the house itself was finished, and I 
was only obliged to leave incomplete a group of natives In 
the foregr ound. I tried to make my retreat seem as little 
like one as possible, and stopped frequently to play with 
children and admire the arms and spears of the natives 
who were closing up behind me. All the same, I felt 
myself being as politely as possible ejected from. the 
village, and the smiling natives insisted on accompanying 
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HOUSE IN BOLOCO. 
me until I was well out of the precincts of their place, 
and on the road to the station. After all, I think they 
behaved very well in not assaulting me. I was alone, 
unarmed, and completely in their power. It was the first 
time a white man had ever visited that spot, and then he 
must needs signalise his visit by doing such uncanny 
things as making sketches and collecting plants, from 
either of which mal-practices any sensitive negro might 
have been justified in accusing him of witchcraft, and 
excused for wishing to break the spell by shedding his 
blood. 
