e near, M. Jacques
turned with his pleasant smile to the purser, and said, "Surf no good!
Plenty purser live for drown this one place."

"That's all right," said the purser. Then the paddling stopped, and M.
Jacques looked over the stern to watch the swell. For a long time we
hung there, the waves rolling smoothly under us and crashing against the
steep bank of sand just in front, as a stormy sea crashes against a
south-coast esplanade at full tide under a south-west wind. Gently
moving his paddle this way and that, M. Jacques held the stern to the
swell, till suddenly he shouted "One time!" and the natives drove their
paddles Into the water like spears. On the top of a huge billow we
rushed forward. It broke, and we crashed down upon the beach. In a dome
of green and white the surge passed clean over us, and then, with a roar
like a torrent, it dragged us back. Another great wave broke over the
stern, and again we were hurled forward beneath it. This time a crowd of
natives rushed into the foam and, clinging to the gunwale, held us
steady against the backwash. Out we all sprang into two feet of rushing
water, and hauled the boat clear up the shore.

"Surf no good!" observed M. Jacques; "but purser live this time," Then
he shook himself like a dog, rolled on the fine sand, shook himself
again, and with the smile of all the angels, remarked, "Now we fit for
go get one dilly drink."

Leaving the natives to roll up the great barrels from the boat, we
climbed the beach to a long but narrow strip of fairly hard ground, on
which one solitary thorn-tree had contrived to grow. The further side of
the bank fell steeply into the vast swamp of the coast. There the
mangrove trees stood rotting in black water and slimy ooze, so thick
together that the misty sun never penetrated half-way down their
inextricable branches, and even from the edge of the forest one looked
into darkness. On the top of that thin plateau between the roaring sea
and the impenetrable swamp, M. Jacques had made his home. It was a
ramshackle little house, run together of boards and corrugated iron, and
bearing evidence of all the mistakes of which a West African native is
capable. At midday the solitary thorn afforded a transparent shade; for
the rest of daylight the dwelling sweltered and boiled unprotected.
Round house and tree ran a mud wall, about five feet high, loop-holed at
intervals. And just inside the house door was fastened a rack of three
rifles,