It was midnight, judging as well as they could, when they crawled from their hiding-place, and there was nothing for it but to take the path again and go cautiously, as it was impossible in the darkness to travel through the forest. But after following the path for half an hour it lightened suddenly, and they perceived that it was only the thick foliage that had kept the moonlight from reaching them. A few rods further on they went, and a broad stream lay spread before them. On the opposite shore lights could be seen, and the sound of wailing voices and the beating of drums proclaimed the fact that some negro rite was there in progress. The black man pointed with his finger, and Gifford held up his hand as an order to halt. "King Obani, he home," said the negro boy, nodding across the river. "Three year ago English too 'm. No find gold." "I know where I am now," whispered Gifford, excitedly. "This river is the Mmymbi; that is Obani's chief town. Willoughby and the rangers took it three years ago, and were fooled in getting the loot, don't you remember. Eh? the idiots!" "Well, what are we to do?" asked Mr. McFee. "Thirty-five miles below is an English trading-station," Gifford said, eagerly. "We must get a boat of some kind." Tho black had waded knee-deep into the stream. He bent over with his face close to the water, and then struck out silently. "Come back here, you black rascal," hissed Gifford, raising his rifle. But the boy's reply caused him to lower it. "He says there's a boat tied to the branches of yonder tree," he murmured. Now by bending over all could see it plainly. The negro slid over the side, and soon came back paddling it silently along the shore; the others crawled in, and now, keeping well in the deep shadow of the trees, they drifted down the stream; the cries and lights of the Bangwali village grew fainter and fainter in the distance. When around the bend of the river Gifford picked up a paddle, and they struck out at full speed. Three hours' paddling and they were beyond King Obani's jurisdiction, and by daylight they saw the clearing of the English trader. For some reason they chose not to tell their story, and the next morning as they sat at breakfast a canoe shot down the stream. Some natives landed. "Hullo, here's news," said the trader's clerk as he approached the house after meeting the native boat. "King Obani is dead." "Then the mystery of his treasure dies with him," said the trader, for the story was well known. "Humph," observed Gifford, lighting his pipe. "Mal, my boy, we'll return for the rest of it some day," whispered Mr. McFee. But he never did. Adventure seemed to be killed within him, and he and Malcolm composed the firm McFee & Son, general merchants, at K----. And here is where the story comes from. RICK DALE. BY KIRK MUNROE, AUTHOR OF "SNOW-SHOES AND SLEDGES," "THE FUR-SEAL'S TOOTH," "THE 'MATE' SERIES," "FLAMINGO FEATHER," ETC. CHAPTER XXXV. A GANG OF FRIENDLY LOGGERS.