‘They are enough.’ ‘Yes, added to your people, but not enough to return alone after you would leave me, through such a country as lies beyond Nyangwe.’ ‘But, my friend, think how it would be with me, with half a continent before me.’ ‘Ah, well, if you white people are fools enough to throw away your lives, that is no reason why Arabs should! We travel little by little, to get ivory and slaves, and are years about it. It is now nine years since I left Zanzibar.’ After a while, he called a man named Abed, son of Friday, who had penetrated further than any man, westward and northward. ‘Speak, Abed; tell us what you know of this river.’ ‘Yes, I know all about the river. Praise be to God!’ ‘In which direction does it flow, my friend?’ ‘It flows north.’ ‘And then?’ ‘It flows north.’ ‘And then?’ ‘Still north. I tell you, sir, it flows north, and north, and north, and there is no end to it. I think it reaches the Salt Sea; at least, my friends say that it must.’ ‘Well, point out in which direction this Salt Sea is.’ ‘God only knows.’ ‘What kind of a country is it to the north, along the river?’ ‘Monstrous bad! There are fearfully large boa-constrictors, in the forest of Uregga, suspended by their tails, waiting to gobble up travellers and stray animals. The ants in that forest are not to be despised. You cannot travel without being covered by them, and they sting like wasps. There are leopards in countless numbers. Every native wears a leopard-skin cap. Gorillas haunt the woods in legions, and woe befall the man or woman they meet; they run and fasten their fangs in the hands, and bite off the fingers one by one, and spit them out one after another. The people are man-eaters. It is nothing but constant fighting. A party of three hundred guns started for Uregga; only sixty returned. If we go by river, there are falls after falls. Ah, sir, the country is bad, and we have given up trying to trade in that direction.’ But, despite the terrible news of Abed, the son of Friday, Tippu-Tib was not averse to earning a decent fee. Pending his definite acceptance of a proffered sum of a thousand pounds, I consulted my remaining companion, Frank Pocock. While my little ebon page Mabruki poured out the evening’s coffee, I described the difficulty we were in. I said, ‘These Arabs have told such frightful tales about the lands north of here, that unless Tippu-Tib accepts my offer, the expedition will be broken up, for our men are demoralized through fear of cannibals and pythons, leopards and gorillas, and all sorts of horrible things. Canoes we cannot get; both Livingstone and Cameron failed. Now, what do you say, Frank, shall we go south to Lake Lincoln, Lake Kamalondo, Lake Bemba, and down to the Zambezi?’ ‘Ah, that’s a fine trip, sir.’ ‘Or shall we explore north-east of here until we strike the Muta Nzige, then strike across to Uganda, and back to Zanzibar?’ ‘Ah, that would be a fine job, sir, if we could do it.’