All at once it occurred to him that he might substitute another book for it, if, among his scant collection, he could find one at all resembling it. Turning them over, he came across a volume of Shakespeare of just about the same size. True the binding was different, but those savages knew as little of the peculiar binding of a book as they did of its contents. Besides it lay open on Stanley's knee when they saw it, and they observed only the black lines. However, the attempt to pass it off on these wild savages for the real book was worth making. So taking it in his hand, he walked back to where they stood with ferocious looks waiting for his decision, and handing it to them, told them to take it. No, they would not touch it, he must burn it. Well, Stanley said, he would do anything to please such good friends as they were. So together they went to a camp-fire near by, and solemnly consigned poor Shakespeare to the flames. The natives were delighted at this evidence of Stanley's good-will, and became faster friends than ever. What he would have done had it come to the issue--burn that note-book or fight--he does not tell us. The river had been thoroughly explored for two miles below where they were encamped to the head of Zinga Falls. It was a rough, wild stretch of water, but it was thought it might be passed safely by using great caution and keeping out of the midstream rapids. At all events, Stanley had determined to try it first himself in his own boat--a resolution that nearly cost him his life. The next day, the 3d of June, the attempt was to be made, and Frank passed the evening in Stanley's tent in great spirits, talking and singing songs of merry old England. He was always singing, and most of the time religious songs which he had learned at home. The wilds of Africa had equalized these men, and they held sweet communion together this last night on the banks of the wild river. Frank seemed unusually exhilarated, little dreaming, alas, that the next night his lifeless body would be tossing amid the rocks that lined the bed of the fierce torrent below--his merry songs all hushed--nevermore to while away the weary hours in this dreary solitude of Africa or brighten the life of his England home. CHAPTER XXVI. DEATH OF FRANK POCOKE.