proved to be a further-sighted man than the men of the tribe
who had captured the Englishmen. His name was Yambo. He had heard of
Dr Livingstone, and had met with men of other tribes who had seen and
conversed with the great traveller. Thus, being of a thoughtful and
inquiring disposition, he had come to understand enough of the good
white man's sentiments to guard him from being imposed on by pretended
Christians.

Yambo's name signified "how are you?" and was probably bestowed on him
because of a strongly benevolent tendency to greet friend and stranger
alike with a hearty "how d'ee do?" sort of expression of face and tone
of voice.

He was a tall grave man, with a commanding firm look, and, withal, a
dash of child-like humour and simplicity. On hearing his visitors'
remarks about their captives, he at once paid them a visit and a few
leading questions put to Harold through Antonio convinced him that the
prisoners were true men. He therefore returned to his black visitors,
told them that he had perfect confidence in the good faith of the white
men, and said that he meant to take charge of them. He then entertained
his black brothers hospitably, gave them a few presents, and sent them
on their way. This done he returned to his guests and told them that
they were free, that their captors were gone, and that they might go
where they pleased, but that it would gratify him much if they would
consent to spend some time hunting with him in the neighbourhood of his
village.

"Now," said Disco, after Yambo left them, "this is wot I call the most
uncommon fix that ever wos got into by man since Adam an' Eve began
housekeepin' in the garden of Eden."

"I'm not quite sure," replied Harold, with a rueful look, "that it is
absolutely the _worst_ fix, but it is bad enough. The worst of it is
that this Yambo has let these rascals off with all our fire-arms and
camp-equipage, so that we are absolutely helpless--might as well be
prisoners, for we can't quit this village in such circumstances."

"Wot's wuss than that to my mind, sir, is, that here we are at sea, in
the heart of Afriky, without chart, quadrant, compass, or rudder, an' no
more idea of our whereabouts than one o' them spider monkeys that grins
among the trees. Hows'ever, we're in luck to fall into the hands of a
friendly chief, so, like these same monkeys, we must grin an' bear it;
only I can't help feelin' a bit cast down at the loss of our messmates.
I fe