I spent a few, lazy, pleasant days at Agonjo, Mr. Glass doing all he could to make me comfortable, though he had a nasty touch of fever on him just then. His efforts were ably seconded by his good lady, an exceedingly comely Gaboon woman, with pretty manners, and an excellent gift in cookery. The third member of the staff was the store-keeper, a clever fellow: I fancy a Loango from his clean-cut features and spare make, but his tribe I know not for a surety. What I do know is that he can sing “Partant pour la Syrie” with intense power and a penetrating pathos in the depths of the night. But I do not chronicle this as a discovery of my own; it was common knowledge to every sentient being within a radius of half a mile of the factory.