“Hold up, honey. I’ll carry you for a bit.”

That was the way I came into Livingstone, slung across his shoulder like a sack of coals. How he did it for all that way, I don’t know. The first faint light of dawn was just breaking. Harry’s friend was a young man of twenty odd who kept a store of native curios. His name was Ned⁠—perhaps he had another, but I never heard it. He didn’t seem in the least surprised to see Harry walk in, dripping wet, holding an equally dripping female by the hand. Men are very wonderful.

He gave us food to eat, and hot coffee, and got our clothes dried for us whilst we rolled ourselves in Manchester blankets of gaudy hue. In the tiny back room of the hut we were safe from observation whilst he departed to make judicious inquiries as to what had become of Sir Eustace’s party, and whether any of them were still at the hotel.