But we are now on our way back to the _Dorothy_ and to the rescue of poor Toko. We reached the _Dorothy_ at midnight. Long before this I had relented towards Toko. Indeed, soon after the sea-breeze arose in the morning, and I knew the _Dorothy_ was rolling in the trough of the sea, I was disappointed to find that I was not really enjoying his discomfiture as much as I had anticipated. As the wind blew harder I experienced an emotional reaction, and I felt more and more sorry for him. When night came on the loneliness of his situation, far from land, on a rough sea, added another appealing element, and it would have been the easiest thing in the world to have obtained a promise from me to raise his wages if we should succeed in rescuing him from his miserable plight. Many hours before we reached him we saw the dim solitary light, indicating that the _Dorothy_ was at least afloat. Then we could see the light swaying from side to side with the rolling and plunging of the vessel. On we sped, while the light seemed far away as ever; then, all at once, it flashed with sudden nearness, and in a few minutes we were at the gangway. I called to Toko as we approached, but received no answer. Even as we came alongside there was no response to our united call. I sprang on board and rushed into the cabin only to stumble over some unwonted obstacle that nearly pitched me on my head. The obstacle was the living body of Toko, who to my question replied: “Mastah, I done pass fine day. I been sleep all time. All this day and all this night I no wake, only for eat and for make them head-light.” I muttered in reply: “You incorrigible rascal! You ought to have been sick. You know you ought.” Several times I ascended the upper Gaboon, called the _Como_; further than any launch had ever gone, to a town thirty miles above Angom, and one hundred miles from the sea. The Como on its way to the sea cuts through the Sierra del Crystal Mountains. The course of the river through the mountains is tortuous and through deep gorges. The current is exceedingly swift; and the channel, which is deep but narrow, is filled with projecting rocks and hidden snags. The water pours through these gorges in a succession of rapids, or waltzes down in whirling eddies, or, again, coils and twists like an angry serpent. In contrast to the repulsive and evil-smelling mangrove swamps of the lower river, the scenery of the upper river is magnificent and exquisitely beautiful. The hills part before us as if by magic; while with each short curve the scene is changed. The high banks, from the tops of the trees even to the water, are draped with a veil of delicate vines, covered with flowers of white and lavender, and festooned upon the banks with long, drooping ferns, all swinging in the wind. A picturesque native town, perched upon a high summit, is named _Home of the Moon_.