WESTERN LIBERIA m

been paid off and the case of whisky opened, I went
outside to find the sick C.'s partner, Van Gogh. For
the prospector's tent was just outside and a hurricane
lamp was burning. "Van Gogh," the priest had said,
"you'll like Van Gogh," and seeing a syphon standing
on the boxes by the tent, I thought that I would
invite him to bring his soda over for a drink. I raised
the flap and there Van Gogh was, lying wrapped in
blankets on his camp-bed; I thought he was asleep,
but when he turned his head I saw that he was sweat-
ing; the pale golden stubble of his chin was drenched
in sweat. Five hours before he had gone down with
fever, and all that night the German doctor attached
to the mission sat up .with him. He was bad, very
bad; he had spent a lifetime in the tropics, but nine
months in the Republic had got him down. Next day
they took him to the little mission hospital in our
hammock; the boys from his gold-camp in the Gola
forest came and packed up his tent and goods and
carried him down, sick and swaying under the
blazing sun.

Sunday in Bolahun

It was Sunday in Bolahun, unmistakably Sunday.
A herd drove out his goats among absurdly Biblical
rocks, a bell went for early service, and I saw the five
nuns going down in single file to the village through
the banana plantations in veils and white sun-helmets
carrying prayer-books. They were English; tea with
them (a large fruit cake and home-made marmalade
and chocolate biscuits wilting in the heat and de-
licious indigestible bread made with palm wine instead