Standing quite alone, many miles from trading stations, are the riverside villages, enveloped on three sides by the forest. The architecture tells that the Hausa country has been left. These lower-river tribes build their oblong houses of bamboo, placed vertically. On the approach of the stern-wheeler numbers of the male inhabitants paddle off in frail, dug-out canoes and plunge in the water after anything pitched to them, as though there were no crocodiles on the prowl. Bottles are the articles most esteemed by the seekers of what they can get from the passing boat. If a bottle and money be thrown together, the swimmers will always ignore the coin for the bottle. Next in value are tin boxes of the kind which have held sardines or biscuits. [Illustration: A EUROPEAN TRADING STATION ON THE NIGER. (See page 342.)] [Illustration: ON A CREEK OF THE NIGER.] Apart from this crowd in the water to pick up unconsidered trifles, there is a turn out of villagers for the purpose of yelling a greeting to some neighbour who is among the crew. The exile will have made a hoard of all the discarded bottles and tins he could lay hands upon since the boat last passed, and over they go to delight his kinsmen and friends. Captain Stephenson, in order to assist my having a photograph of the scramble in the water, told his personal steward boy to bring up some old bottles. The lad appeared with two, saying they were all he could find. He was sternly sent back and eventually produced six, declaring he knew of no more on board. Later the same afternoon, as we went by another village the skipper pointed to his steward boy perched on the deck where he imagined he could not be seen, flinging bottles with both hands, as quickly as he could pick them up from a pile of not less than two dozen. They were his collection on the voyage and now he was giving them to the folks of his home. That night we stabled at a point two hours’ steaming below Aboh, having done 64 miles since the morning. There was still a chance that, in the absence of any but small mishaps—and not many of them—we should complete the balance of 127 miles to our destination on the morrow. We started at the usual hour, 5.30 a.m., but at 7 o’clock there was an ominous check. A thick, harmattan, dry fog compelled us to anchor. For what period we should remain no one could say. It must be until the air cleared. To go on would be madness, sure misfortune. That was plain enough, whatever remained obscured. Vision was very deceptive; the nearest bank appeared to be half-a-mile away, whereas it was less than 200 yards distant. An-hour-and-a-half, and the mist lifted, and again we were under way. At places the depth of the narrow channel on which we glided became so reduced, nearly on the border line of safety, that great care had to be exercised and slow speed maintained for several stretches.