slightly in entering, instead of crawling on all fours.
It also boasted a small glazed window. Unlocking the huge padlock that
secured it, their host led the way inside.

"You haven't got much stuff on hand, Bully," said Fleetwood, looking
round upon the blankets and beads and brass buttons and other "notions"
stowed about.

"Oh well no, I do next to no blanket trade these days, and what I do is
a darn sight more paying than this truck. Oh, I've got an iron or two
in the fire, m'yes, but a lot of trade stuff comes in handy as a
firescreen, as _we_ know. Eh Joe?" with a knowing wink which made that
worthy just a little uneasy. The other had exactly stated their own
case: was it accidental, and was he merely referring to the pretty
widespread practice of gun-running, or had he, by any means whatever,
obtained some inkling as to the real object of the expedition? He
nodded carelessly.

"_Ja_. That's so," he replied.

There are three European products which you shall invariably find--even
if you find no other--on the confines of civilisation and beyond the
same: "square face" gin, a pack of cards, and a bottle of Worcester
sauce. The first of these Bully now produced, together with some
enamelled metal mugs.

"Here's luck all round," he said. "Eh? What's that? Water? Man--
Wyvern, but you're a bit of a Johnny Raw in these parts. Why we don't
water our stuff here. Eh, Joe?"

"Matter of taste. For my part I don't care either way," was the
answer--while the host put his head out and bellowed to the women to
fetch some.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Now Joe Fleetwood, though one of the shrewdest and most practical of
men, had "instincts"--and these were somehow unaccountably aroused.
There was a something which warned him that their uproariously effusive
host meant mischief, and that at no distant time. Therefore he resolved
to keep more than one eye upon him.

Soon they strolled down to the wood-cutting place, and the sombre,
surrounding forest was ringing with the sound of axe and saw. The
wretched slaves--for practically they were little or nothing else--
looked up with dull interest at the new arrivals, but their master, out
of deference to Wyvern, omitted to kick or hammer any of them, and laid
himself out to be extremely pleasant in his boisterous way, as he
explained the arrangements while they strolled around.

"Hold hard, Wyvern. A snake's bitt