This was the bringing together of Jack Meredith and Guy Oscard—two men who loved the same woman. They knelt side by side, and Jack Meredith—the older man, the accomplished, gifted gentleman of the world, who stood second to none in that varied knowledge required nowadays of the successful societarian—Jack Meredith, be it noted, humbly dragged the skin away from the body while Guy Oscard cut the clinging integuments with a delicate touch and finished skill.
They laid the skin out on the trampled maidenhair, and contemplated it with silent satisfaction. In the course of their inspection they both arrived at the head at the same moment. The two holes in the hide, just above the eyes, came under their notice at the same moment, and they turned and smiled gravely at each other, thinking the same thought—the sort of thought that Englishmen rarely put into intelligible English.
“I’m glad we did that,” said Guy Oscard at length, suddenly. “Whatever comes of this expedition of ours—if we fight like hell, as we probably shall, before it is finished—if we hate each other ever afterwards, that skin ought to remind us that we are much of a muchness.”
It might have been put into better English; it might almost have sounded like poetry had Guy Oscard been possessed of the poetic soul. But this, fortunately, was not his; and all that might have been said was left to the imagination of Meredith. What he really felt was that there need be no rivalry, and that he for one had no thought of such; that in the quest which they were about to undertake there need be no question of first and last; that they were merely two men, good or bad, competent or incompetent, but through all equal.
Neither of them suspected that the friendship thus strangely inaugurated at the rifle’s mouth was to run through a longer period than the few months required to reach the plateau—that it was, in fact, to extend through that long expedition over a strange country that we call Life, and that it was to stand the greatest test that friendship has to meet with here on earth.
It was almost dark when at last they turned to go, Jack Meredith carrying the skin over his shoulder and leading the way. There was no opportunity for conversation, as their progress was necessarily very difficult. Only by the prattle of the stream were they able to make sure of keeping in the right direction. Each had a thousand questions to ask the other. They were total strangers; but it is not, one finds, by conversation that men get to know each other. A common danger, a common pleasure, a common pursuit—these are the touches of Nature by which men are drawn together into the kinship of mutual esteem.
Once they gained the banks of the Ogowe their progress was quicker, and by nine o’clock they reached the camp at Msala. Victor Durnovo was still at work superintending the discharge of the baggage and stores from the large trading-canoes. They heard the shouting and chattering before coming in sight of the camp, and one voice raised angrily above the others.
“Is that Durnovo’s voice?” asked Meredith.
“Yes,” answered his companion curtly.
It was a new voice which Meredith had not heard before. When they shouted to announce their arrival it was suddenly hushed, and presently Durnovo came forward to greet them.
Meredith hardly knew him, he was so much stronger and healthier in appearance. Durnovo shook hands heartily.
“No need to introduce you two,” he said, looking from one to the other.
“No; after one mistake we discovered each other’s identity in the forest,” answered Meredith.
Durnovo smiled; but there was something behind the smile. He did not seem to approve of their meeting without his intervention.
XIII
In Black and White
A little lurking secret of the blood,
A little serpent secret rankling keen.
The three men walked up towards the house together. It was a fair-sized house, with a heavy thatched roof that overhung the walls like the crown of a mushroom. The walls were only mud, and the thatching was nothing else than banana leaves; but there was evidence of European taste in the garden surrounding the structure, and in the glazed windows and wooden door.
As they approached the open doorway three little children, clad in very little more than their native modesty, ran gleefully out, and proceeded to engage seats on Jack Meredith’s boots, looking upon him as a mere public conveyance. They took hardly any notice of him, but chattered and quarrelled among themselves, sometimes in baby English, sometimes in a dialect unknown to Oscard and Meredith.
“These,” said the latter, when they were seated, and clinging with their little dusky arms round his legs, “are the very rummest little kids I ever came across.”
Durnovo gave an impatient laugh, and went on towards the house. But Guy Oscard stopped, and walked more slowly beside Meredith as he laboured along heavy footed.
“They are the jolliest little souls imaginable,” continued Jack Meredith. “There,” he said to them when they had reached the doorstep, “run away to your mother—very fine ride—no! no more tonight! I’m aweary—you understand—aweary!”
“Aweary—awe‑e‑e‑ary!” repeated the little things, standing before him in infantile nude rotundity, looking up with bright eyes.
“Aweary—that is it. Good night, Epaminondas—good night, Xantippe! Give ye good hap, most stout Nestorius!”
He stooped and gravely shook hands with each one in turn, and, after forcing a like ceremonial upon Guy Oscard, they reluctantly withdrew.
“They have not joined us, I suppose?” said Oscard, as he followed his companion into the house.
“Not yet. They live in this place. Nestorius, I understand, takes care of his mother, who, in her turn, takes care of this house. He is one and a half.”
Guy Oscard seemed to have inherited the mind inquisitive from his learned father. He asked another question later on.
“Who is that woman?” he said during dinner, with a little nod towards the doorway, through
