ABSTRACT
IT was raining hard when some dozen sickly men straggled away from the factory behind a flagcovered gun-case borne on the shoulders of four half-naked Krooboys. The palm-fronds above us quivered before the rush of the deluge, the miry trail was ankle - deep in running water, and the forest was rolled in steam. Presently we splashed on through a cluster of mud-walled native huts, where big river-men of the Nimbi race lounged in the doorways, jabbering as they pointed significantly to the gun-case, while the broad paw-paw leaves above the dripping thatch throbbed like drum-heads at the beating of the rain. By the time we reached the little cemetery, however, the downpour suddenly ceased, and a glare of fierce sunlight broke through, while the flash of unexpected brightness photographed, as it were, each detail indelibly upon one's memory.
