“I shan’t want much, I fancy,” said I. “Perhaps you’ll pay me what I want to start with and take care of the rest until I claim it.” “I’ll do no such thing,” he replied. “You’d better pay in what you don’t want to take with you to Swanzy’s agent, at whatever place you start from on this lunatic jaunt, and get a receipt for it. Then if by any chance you should come back, there’ll be enough cash to take what’s left of you to Europe. I suppose it’s no use for me to try and persuade you to give up this tomfool’s idea.” “I’m afraid not,” I replied. “I’ve gone into the matter and made my decision.” “Well,” said the skipper gruffly, “you know your own mind, at any rate; and you ought to, for there ain’t many like it outside Bedlam. But I’m sorry--damned sorry,” and he relapsed into silence, from which he refused to be roused during the rest of our interview. CHAPTER VIII. I MAKE A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. A couple of days more saw me back at Quittáh with all my plans practically complete, for in the interval I had seen Annan and had settled to meet him at Cape Coast in a month, by which time (the end of September) the rainy season would be fairly over. I had also laid down a general plan of action, but this was of so audacious and extraordinary a character that I did not dare to finally adopt it until I had discussed it with my level-headed friend Pereira. My reception by that gentleman, on my return, was somewhat of a surprise to me. We had been very friendly together during my stay at his house, and had got on with one another as comfortably as two people well could, but this was all, as far as I knew; so when the old gentleman met me at the compound gate and, seizing both my hands, almost wept over me, I was not a little affected, and for the first time realised how lonely was the life that he led. For Pereira, though only a trader, was in all essentials a gentleman, not only by training and education, but in manners and feeling, and was, moreover, a man of very superior intelligence; and it was easy to understand that he found the society of Quittáh--a handful of German traders and missionaries and a couple of English officials at the fort--neither sufficient nor congenial. Still, I was a little surprised at the affectionate effusiveness of his manner, and at a certain exhilaration and excitement that he displayed as he fidgetted round while I superintended the unloading of my little caravan. “Englefield,” said he suddenly, as I was rummaging amongst the raffle in my hammock, “I’ve got something to show you upstairs.” “Curio?” I asked, still groping. “No, not a curio,” he laughed, “certainly not a curio. Something very pretty; it came out from England by the last steamer.” “Indeed? What is it?” I inquired. “Come up with me and you shall see,” said the old man, rubbing his hands and smiling mysteriously. “I am coming in a moment,” I said, “but I can’t find my flask. Here you, headman, you look dem small rum bottle?”