We put the _Aube_ in dry dock to-day, and it took the united efforts of us all to haul her into position: non-commissioned officers, interpreters, servants, all had to work, and even we white men lent a hand. During the operation of turning her on to her side, the poor _Aube_ might have tumbled to pieces, for all her planks were loose. But she held together yet once more, and, as you will see, we did not have to abandon her until the very end of our voyage. A new recruit joined us to-day, my journal goes on, so with Suleyman Futanké we have two extra hands now. This was how he came to join us. During the siesta hour we heard a man shouting from the other side of the river, “Agony! agony!” and looking out we saw some one waving a white cloth. We sent the _Dantec_ to fetch him, and when he arrived he kept shouting “Agony! agony!” in a joyful voice. He showed us his cap of European make, evidently expecting us to understand what he meant, but that did not explain the use of the word “agony” so often. It was Tedian Diarra, a big Bambarra, who had acted as guide to General Dodds in the Dahomey campaign, who solved the mystery at last, and told us that the man had been a porter at Say to the Decœur expedition. He had been taken ill with an attack of some discharge from the joints, and had been left under the care of the chief of the village to be handed over to the first Frenchman who should happen to pass. The poor fellow, whose name was Atchino,—at least that is what we always called him,—was trying to explain to us that he came from the village of Agony on the Wemé. He had feared he should never see his native village again, with its bananas and oil palms; but as soon as he heard of our arrival at Say, he came to take refuge with us. Later I indemnified the man who had taken care of him for the expense he had been put to. We made this Atchino our gardener, and he turned out a very useful fellow, a decided acquisition to our small staff.