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Updated: May 18, 2025
There was that mysterious something in the atmosphere which would have bidden the dullest of mortals prepare for danger. Up they came on deck again, and on to the bridge. Rabeira himself was there in charge, dark, smiling, affable as ever. Nilssen looked sharply down at the main deck below. "Hullo," said he, "those two niggers gone already? You haven't shifted them down below, I suppose?"
A steamer came in within a dozen hours of Kettle's first stepping ashore, and signalled for a pilot to Boma. Nilssen was next in rotation for duty, and went off in his boat to board her, and he took with him Captain Owen Kettle to impart to him the mysteries of the great river's navigation.
He nodded to one or two of the men who stood near, and when they approached presented them. Ste. Marie observed that he used the lady's true name she had, at times, found occasion to employ others and that he politely called her "Madame Nilssen" instead of "Mademoiselle." But at that moment the lady caught sight of Ste.
That one long moment of deathly fear before he had fallen down in a fit had nearly killed him. All through this following day it had continued to recur until he thought he should go mad. And there was worse still. How much did Olga Nilssen know? And how much had she told?
An engineer and fireman were still below, and when Nilssen telegraphed down, they put her under weigh again, and the older pilot with his own hands steered her across to the quarantine berth. Then Kettle let go the anchor again, paid out and stoppered the cable, and once more came aft; and from that moment the new regime of the steamer may be said to have commenced.
I've libbed for Lower Congo all my time; had a home in the pilotage here; and got a dash of a case of champagne, or an escribello, or at least a joint of fresh meat out of the refrigerator from every steamboat I took either up or down." "But then you speak languages?" said Kettle. "Seven," said Captain Nilssen; "and use just one, and that's English.
It occurred to him that in his interview with the photographer he had forgotten one point, and he determined to go back, later on, and ask about it. He had forgotten to inquire as to Captain Stewart's attitude toward the beautiful lady. Young Arthur Benham's infatuation had filled his mind at the time, and had driven out of it what Olga Nilssen had told him about Stewart.
"Look here, you want that old sinner Nilssen cured?" "That's what I came here for." "Well, then, give me the ju-ju, and I'll fix it up for you." "The ju-ju's to be my fee," said Kettle. "I suppose you know something about it? You're not the kind of man to go in for collecting valueless curiosities." "Nop. I'm here on the make, and I guess you're about the same.
The water spurned up by the paddle blades was the color of beer, and the smell of it was puzzlingly familiar. "Good old smell," said Nilssen, "isn't it? I see you snuffling. Trying to guess where you met it before, eh? We all do that when we first come. What about crushed marigolds, eh?" "Crushed marigolds it is." "Guess you'll get to know it better before you're through with your service here.
But it is unlikely that he was able just at this time to make such a reflection, though certainly he wondered how much Olga Nilssen had known, and how much Ste. Marie had had to put together out of her knowledge and any previous suspicions which he may have had.
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