st is on the confines of
civilization.

Away up country, lost in the dim, green, heat-laden wilderness, you will
find a different type of man; more alert and nervy, a man who never
smiles, a preoccupied looking man who, ten years or five years ago, lost
his berth in an office for misconduct, or his commission in the army. A
_declasse_. He is the man who really drives the Congo machine, the last
wheel in the engine, but the most important; the man whose deeds are not
to be written.

Verhaeren's living room in the frame house was furnished with steamer deck
chairs, a table and some shelves. Pinned to the wall and curling up at the
corners was a page torn from _La Gaudriole_, the picture of a girl in
tights; on one of the shelves lay a stack of old newspapers, on another a
stack of official papers, reports from subordinates, invoices, and those
eternal "official letters," with which the Congo Government deluges its
employees, and whose everlasting purport is "Get more ivory, get more
rubber, get more copal."

Verhaeren brought out some excellent cigars and a bottle of Vanderhum, and
the three men smoked and talked. He had acted as Berselius's agent for the
expedition, and had collected all the gun-bearers and porters necessary,
and a guide. It was Berselius's intention to strike a hundred miles west
up river almost parallel to the Congo, and then south into the heart of
the elephant country. They talked of the expedition, but Verhaeren showed
little knowledge of the work and no enthusiasm. The Belgians of the Congo
have no feeling for sport. They never hunt the game at their doors, except
for food.

When they had discussed matters, Verhaeren led the way out for Berselius
to inspect his arrangements.

The porters were called up. There were _forty_ of them, and Adams thought
that he had never before seen such a collection of depressed looking
individuals; they were muscular enough, but there was something in their
faces, their movements and their attitude, that told a tale of spirits
broken to servitude by terror.

The four gun-bearers and the headman were very different. The headman was
a Zappo Zap, a ferocious looking nigger, fez-tipped, who could speak
twenty words of French, and who was nicknamed Felix. The gun-bearers were
recruited from the "soldiers" of the state by special leave from
headquarters.

Adams looked with astonishment at the immense amount of luggage they were
bringing. "Chop boxes," such as are u