“That's the sort o' man,” he said, more in resignation than in anger, “that the guv'nor is. He's quiet like and smooth-spoken, but when he does 'it he 'its 'ard, and when he shoots he shoots mortal straight. Now, what I says to you Christy Minstrels is this; we're all in the same box and we all want the same thing, although I admit there's a bit of a difference in our complexions. Some o' you jokers have got a fine richness of colour on your physiognimies that I don't pretend to emulate. But no matter. What you wants is to get out of this confounded old Platter, quick time, ain't it now?--to get down to Loango and go out on the bust, eh?” The Christy Minstrels acquiesced. “Then,” said Joseph, “obey orders and be hanged to yer.” It had been apparent to Meredith for some weeks past that the man Nattoo, whom he had just shot, was bent on making trouble. His prompt action had not, therefore, been the result of panic, but the deliberate execution of a fore-ordained sentence. The only question was how to make the necessary execution most awe-inspiring and exemplary. The moment was well chosen, and served to strengthen, for the time being, the waning authority of these two Englishmen thus thrown upon their own resources in the heart of Africa. The position was not a pleasant one. For three months the Plateau had been surrounded by hostile tribes, who made desultory raids from time to time. These, the little force on the summit was able to repulse; but a combined attack from, say, two sides at once would certainly have been successful. Meredith had no reason to suppose that his appeal for help had reached Msala, infested as the intervening forests were by cannibal tribes. Provisions were at a low ebb. There seemed to be no hope of outside aid, and disaffection was rife in his small force. Jack Meredith, who was no soldier, found himself called upon to defend a weak position, with unreliable men, for an indefinite period. Joseph had a rough knowledge of soldiering and a very rudimentary notion of fortification. But he had that which served as well--the unerring eye for covert of a marksman. He was a dead shot at any range, and knowing what he could hit he also knew how to screen himself from the rifle of an enemy. Above all, perhaps, was the quiet influence of a man who never flinched from danger nor seemed to be in the least disconcerted by its presence. “It seems, sir,” said Joseph to his master later in the day, “that you've kinder stumped them. They don't understand you.” “They must be kept in check by fear. There is no other way,” replied Meredith rather wearily. Of late he had felt less and less inclined to exert himself. “Yes, sir. Those sort o' men.” Meredith made no answer, and after a little pause Joseph repeated the words significantly, if ungrammatically. “Those sort o' men.” “What do you mean?” “Slaves,” replied Joseph sharply, touching his hat without knowing why. “Slaves! What the devil are you talking about?”