Sutton’s ridiculous scruples stood between them and fortunes; this crank by his obstinacy prevented their reaping the reward of their industry. At the end of a week--a week unrelieved by the appearance of a danger which might have shaken them to a clarity of thought--Sutton was outcast. Worse than that, for him, he developed a malignant form of malaria, and the party came to a halt in a big clearing of the forest. Here, near a dried watercourse, they pitched their little camp, being induced to the choice by the fact that water was procurable a few feet below the surface. Lambaire and Whitey went for a walk in the forest. Neither of them spoke, they each knew the mind of the other. “Well?” said Whitey at last. Lambaire avoided his eye. “It means ruin for us--and there’s safety and a fortune if he’d be sensible.” Again a long silence. “Is he bad?” asked Lambaire suddenly, and the other shrugged his shoulders. “No worse than I’ve been half a dozen times. It’s his first attack of fever.” There was another long pause, broken by Whitey. “We can’t carry him--we’ve got two carriers, and there’s another fifty miles to go before we reach a mission station--so the carriers say.” They walked aimlessly up and down, each man intent on his own thoughts. They spoke no more, but returned to their little camp, where a semi-delirious youth moaned and fretted querulously, talking in the main to himself. Lambaire stood by him, looking down at the restless figure; then he went in search of Whitey. “This thing has got to be done regularly,” he said, and produced a note-book. “I trust you, Whitey, and you trust me--but we will have it down in black and white.” The two memorandums were drawn up in identical terms. Whitey demurred, but signed.... Before the accustomed hour, Whitey woke the coast boy who acted as interpreter and was one of the two remaining carriers. “Get up,” he said gruffly; “get them guns on your head and move quickly.” The native rose sleepily. The fire was nearly out, and he gave it a kick with his bare foot to rouse it to flame. “None of that,” fumed Whitey--he was in an unusual mood. “Get the other man, and trek.” The little party went silently along the dark forest path, the native leading the way with a lantern as protection against possible attacks from wild beasts. He stopped of a sudden and turned to Lambaire, who shuffled along in his rear. “Dem young massa, I no lookum.” “Go on,” said Whitey gruffly. “Dem massa he die one time.” The native grunted and continued his way. Death in this land, where men rise up hale in the morning and are buried in sunset, was not a great matter. They halted at daybreak to eat the meal which was usually partaken of before marching. The two white men ate in silence--neither looking at the other. Not until the forest was flooded with the rising sunlight did Whitey make any reference to the events of the night.