They were on board the steamer Bogamayo, which good
vessel was pounding down the West Coast of Africa at her best speed.
The captain reckoned that he would be anchored at Loango by half-
past seven or eight o'clock that evening. There were only seven
passengers on board, and dinner had been ordered an hour earlier for
the convenience of all concerned. Joseph was packing his master's
clothes in the spacious cabin allotted to him. The owners of the
steamer had thought it worth their while to make the finder of the
Simiacine as comfortable as circumstances allowed. The noise of
that great drug had directed towards the West Coast of Africa that
floating scum of ne'er-do-welldom which is ever on the alert for
some new land of promise.
"Who told you that?" asked Jack, drying his hands on a towel.
"One of the stewards, sir--a man that was laid up at Sierra Leone in
the hospital."
Jack Meredith paused for a moment before going on deck. He looked
out through the open porthole towards the blue shadow on the horizon
which was Africa--a country that he had never seen three years
before, and which had all along been destined to influence his whole
life.
"It was the best thing she could do," he said. "It is to be hoped
that she will be happy."
"Yes, sir, it is. She deserves it, if that goes for anything in the
heavenly reckonin'.
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