230 JOURNEY WITHOUT MAPS

my satiric self-criticism as the ghost of Arnold of
Rugby addressed his head prefect through my lips,

We did not get away from Sakripie till nine-thirty;
we had never before been so late in starting, for by
ten the heat was always intense. The paths were
rougher than any we had encountered since Zigita,
and the storm gave us an indication of how impossible
the route would be when the rains set in. Already
the paths were turning into swamps and the men had
sometimes to wade waist-deep in water. We were not
taking the quickest route to Tapee, which would have
involved two long and scorching days on a path
cleared of shade, and the villagers we now passed saw
white faces for the first time. They ran screaming
beside us, waving sprays of leaves, until we reached
the boundary of the village land; there they always
stopped at some invisible line across the forest pati.
Once they tried to seize my cousin's hammock and
rush it triumphantly through a village, but Amedoo
drew his sword and held them off.

After five hours we reached Baplai. We were by
this time among the Gio tribe, who live on the
extreme edge of subsistence in the great bush. The
steep pointed roofs were falling in, and the inhabit-
ants were quite naked except for loin-cloths. They
were so thin one expected to see the bones through
the veneral sores. The presence of a 'civilised man',
however, ensured their keeping a rest-house, one
musty little hut with two rooms the size of large dog
kennel, where, I suppose, Liberian Government
agents slept if ever they came up into the Gio tribe,

Mr. Nelson appeared from his own hut next door,
He wore a pair of torn white trousers, backless slippers