What Meredith proposed to do was to enter into a partnership with Victor Durnovo, and when the purpose of it was accomplished, to let each man go his way. Such partnerships are entered into every day. Men have carried through a brilliant campaign—a world-affecting scheme—side by side, working with one mind and one heart; and when the result has been attained they drop out of each other’s lives forever. They are created so, for a very good purpose, no doubt. But sometimes Providence steps in and turns the little point of contact into the leaven that leaveneth the whole lump. Providence, it seems—or let us call it Fate—was hovering over that lone African river, where two men, sitting in the stern of a native canoe, took it upon themselves to prearrange their lives.
A month later Victor Durnovo was in London. He left behind him in Africa Jack Meredith, whose capacities for organisation were developing very quickly.
There was plenty of work for each to do. In Africa Meredith had undertaken to get together men and boats, while Durnovo went home to Europe for a threefold purpose. Firstly, a visit to Europe was absolutely necessary for his health, shattered as it was by too long a sojourn in the fever-ridden river beds of the West Coast. Secondly, there were rifles, ammunition, and stores to be purchased and packed in suitable cases. And, lastly, he was to find and enlist the third man, “the soldierly fellow full of fight,” who knew the natives and the country.
This, indeed, was his first care on reaching London, and before his eyes and brain were accustomed to the roar of the street life he took a cab to Russell Square, giving the number affixed to the door of a gloomy house in the least frequented corner of the stately quadrangle.
“Is Mr. Guy Oscard at home?” he inquired of the grave manservant.
“He is, sir,” replied the butler, stepping aside.
Victor Durnovo thought that a momentary hesitation on the part of the butler was caused by a very natural and proper feeling of admiration for the new clothes and hat which he had purchased out of the money advanced by Jack Meredith for the outfit of the expedition. In reality the man was waiting for the visitor to throw away his cigar before crossing the threshold. But he waited in vain, and Durnovo stood, cigar in mouth, in the dining-room until Guy Oscard came to him.
At first Oscard did not recognise him, and conveyed this fact by a distant bow and an expectant silence.
“You do not seem to recognise me,” said Durnovo with a laugh, which lasted until the servant had closed the door. “Victor Durnovo!”
“Oh—yes—how are you?”
Oscard came forward and shook hands. His manner was not exactly effusive. The truth was that their acquaintanceship in Africa had been of the slightest, dating from some trivial services which Durnovo had been able and very eager to render to the sportsman.
“I’m all right, thanks,” replied Durnovo. “I only landed at Liverpool yesterday. I’m home on business. I’m buying rifles and stores.”
Guy Oscard’s honest face lighted up at once—the curse of Ishmael was on him in its full force. He was destined to be a wanderer on God’s earth, and all things appertaining to the wild life of the forests were music in his ears.
Durnovo was no mean diplomatist. He had learnt to know man, within a white or coloured skin. The effect of his words was patent to him.
“You remember the Simiacine?” he said abruptly.
“Yes.”
“I’ve found it.”
“The devil you have! Sit down.”
Durnovo took the chair indicated.
“Yes, sir,” he said, “I’ve got it. I’ve laid my hand on it at last. I’ve always been on its track. That has been my little game all the time. I did not tell you when we met out there, because I was afraid I should never find it, and because I wanted to keep quiet about it.”
Guy Oscard was looking out of the window across to the dull houses and chimneys that formed his horizon, and in his eyes there was the longing for a vaster horizon, a larger life.
“I have got a partner,” continued Durnovo, “a good man—Jack Meredith, son of Sir John Meredith. You have, perhaps, met him.”
“No,” answered Oscard; “but I have heard his name, and I have met Sir John—the father—once or twice.”
“He is out there,” went on Durnovo, “getting things together quietly. I have come home to buy rifles, ammunition, and stores.”
He paused, watching the eager, simple face.
“We want to know,” he said quietly, “if you will organise and lead the fighting men.”
Guy Oscard drew a deep breath. There are some Englishmen left, thank Heaven! who love fighting for its own sake, and not only for the gain of it. Such men as this lived in the old days of chivalry, at which modern puny carpet-knights make bold to laugh, while inwardly thanking their stars that they live in the peaceful age of the policeman. Such men as this ran their thick simple heads against many a windmill, couched lance over many a far-fetched insult, and swung a sword in honour of many a worthless maid; but they made England, my masters. Let us remember that they made England.
“Then there is to be fighting?”
“Yes,” said Durnovo, “there will be fighting. We must fight our way there, and we must hold it when we get there. But so far as the world is concerned, we are only a private expedition exploring the source of the Ogowe.”
“The Ogowe?” and again Guy Oscard’s eyes lighted up.
“Yes, I do not mind telling you that much. To begin with, I trust you; secondly, no one could get there without me to lead the way.”
Guy Oscard looked at him with some admiration, and that sympathy which exists between the sons of Ishmael. Durnovo looked quite fit for the task he set himself. He had regained his strength on the voyage, and with returning muscular force his
