mpenetrable eyes,
that never blinked or turned aside, no matter how much one stared.

Meantime, the natives from the beach, with many sighs and groans, were
rolling up the cargo of barrels, and setting them, one by one, in a
barricaded storehouse. "That's Bank of France," said M. Jacques, locking
the door securely when all the barrels were stowed. "Plenty rum all the
same good for plenty gold."

Their spell of labour finished, the natives stretched themselves in the
shadow of the enclosure wall, and slept, while we sat languidly looking
over the steaming water at the ship, now dim in the haze. The heat was
so intense that, in spite of our drenching in the surf, the sweat was
running down our faces and backs again. The repeated crash and drag of
the waves were the only sounds, except when now and again a parrot
shrieked from the forest, or some great trunk, rotted right through at
last, fell heavily into the swamp among the tangled roots and slime.
Even the mosquitoes were still, and the only movement was the hovering
of giant hornets, attracted by the smell of the wine.

"Holiday fine too much," said M. Jacques, smiling at us dreamily, and
stretching out his legs as he sank lower into his creaking chair.

"One month, one ship; holiday same time," he explained, and he went on
to tell us he worked too plenty hard the rest of the month, stowing the
palm-oil and kernels as the natives brought them in by hardly
perceptible tracks from their villages far across the swamp.

"Bit slow, isn't it, old man?" said the purser.

"Not slow," he answered quickly; "plenty black man go thief, go kill;
plenty fever, plenty live for die."

"I should think you miss the French cafes and concerts and dancing and
all that sort of thing," I remarked.

"No matter for them things," he answered. "Liberty here. Liberty live
for this one place."

"'Where there ain't no Ten Commandments,'" I quoted.

"No ten? No _one_," he cried, shaking one finger in my face excitedly,
so as to make the meaning of "one" quite clear.

Just then the steamer sounded her siren.

"The old man's getting in a stew," said the purser, slowly standing up
and mopping his face.

The crew stretched themselves, tightened their wisps of cotton, and
slowly stood up too.

As M. Jacques led us politely down to the surf-boat again, I heard him
quietly singing in an undertone, "Liberte, Liberte, cherie!"

"What part of France do you come from?" I asked.

"From Marse