Free Bones of the River by Edgar Wallace Page A

waiting canoe when he heard the harsh sound of the explosion.
    The devil in the black egg had spoken as only a devil can speak when the incautious N’shimba released his grip of the Mills’ bomb which Bones had pressed into his hand.
     

A NICE GEL
    Because Terence Doughty was possessed of an immense fortune, was unmarried, and had neither sister nor brother, it was a delicate matter to chide him. At least, so thought his aunts and cousins and other likely beneficiaries of his will.
    He was thirty, a little pompous in a reserved way, exceedingly good-looking, and learned to such a terrifying degree that ordinary people cleared their throats before they so much as remarked to him that it was a fine day.
    He had written a text-book on Arabic, and he spoke most modern languages. It was a chance reference to the irregular Bomongo verbs, that he read in Notes and Queries , that decided him upon taking up the study of native dialects. It happened that there was in London at that time (on sick leave) a missionary from the great river, and from this gentleman Terence learnt, with his usual facility, enough of the language to induce in him a desire for an even further acquaintance.
    He announced his scheme to the one aunt who did not stand in awe of the bachelor-millionaire scientist.
    “Rubbish!” she snapped. “I’ve never heard such nonsense! The idea of going into Central Africa to learn verbs! You’re either a poseur or a fool, Terence. You had much better find a nice gel and settle down in England.”
    Mr Doughty shuddered. “Gel” always made him shudder.
    “My dear aunt! Nice gel!” he mimicked. “I have been looking for that nice gel these ten years! Unfortunately I am cursed with the possession of ideals. These ladies you and the rest of the family have been good enough to choose for me – my God! They are dreadful! There isn’t one that doesn’t shock all the aestheticism in me.”
    “What kind of gel do you want?” asked Lady Morestel, curiously.
    Lying back in his deep chair, his eyes half closed, his fingertips touching, Mr Terence Doughty enumerated the desirable qualities.
    “She must be pretty, of course, that kind of delicate, spiritual prettiness that gives to a woman her most precious mystery. She must be intellectual, yet womanly, in a wistful way. I must be able to love her mind. Refinement of speech and thought, impregnability of ideals – these are amongst the qualities that I seek but do not find.”
    “You’ll not find them in Africa,” said her ladyship grimly, and Terence smiled.
    “I shall be looking for verbs in Africa,” he said. Two months later, Terence Doughty poised himself on the gunwale of the surfboat, his hand upon the bare, brown shoulder of a rower, and, watching his opportunity, jumped almost dry-footed to the yellow sands. One of the crew threw a new suitcase after him.
    “Thanks,” said Terence.
    He was tall and fairly athletic, his face was thin and tanned, his appearance suggested the patronage of a good colonial tailor. Stopping only to light a cigarette, then picking up his grip, he walked toward the residency. Sanders came to meet him.
    “Mr Doughty,” he said, and Doughty lifted his helmet.
    “I’m afraid you hate my coming, sir,” he said apologetically.
    “I have a bad reputation along the coast,” smiled Mr Commissioner Sanders, “and I suppose it is justified. I do not like traders, and I am not, as a rule, enthusiastic about scientific explorers.” He walked by the side of the visitor. “What is your itinerary?” he asked.
    “I intend going up as far as the Akasava country, then, striking across the French territory to the Congo, follow the river as far as Stanley Falls. After I reach Stanley Falls I shall decide whether I go by rail to Tanganyika and on to Rhodesia, or whether I push across Uganda to the sea. There is one point on which I wanted to speak to you, Mr Sanders, and it is this: I have no timetable, I am moving at my leisure, and