of coffee on him； and in a rage he half kills the boy。 He broods
over that； until he discovers； or his crazy mind makes him think he
has discovered； that in revenge the boy is plotting to poison him。
So he punishes him again。 Only this time he punishes him as the
black man has taught him to punish； in the only way the black man
seems to understand； that is； he tortures him。 From that moment
the fall of that man is rapid。 The heat； the loneliness； the
fever； the fear of the black faces； keep him on edge； rob him of
sleep； rob him of his physical strength； of his moral strength。 He
loses shame； loses reason； becomes cruel； weak； degenerate。 He
invents new； bestial tortures； commits new； unspeakable
'atrocities；' until； one day； the natives turn and kill him； or he
sticks his gun in his mouth and blows the top of his head off。〃
The Coaster smiled tolerantly at the wide…eyed eager young man at
his side。
〃And you；〃 he mocked； 〃think you can reform that man； and that hell
above ground called the Congo； with an article in Lowell's Weekly？〃
Undismayed； Everett grinned cheerfully。
〃That's what I'm here for！〃 he said。
By the time Everett reached the mouth of the Congo； he had learned
that in everything he must depend upon himself； that he would be
accepted only as the kind of man that； at the moment； he showed
himself to be。 This attitude of independence was not chosen； but
forced on him by the men with whom he came in contact。
Associations and traditions； that in every part of the United
States had served as letters of introduction； and enabled strangers
to identify and label him； were to the white men on the steamer and
at the ports of call without meaning or value。 That he was an
Everett of Boston conveyed little to those who had not heard even
of Boston。 That he was the correspondent of Lowell's Weekly meant
less to those who did not know that Lowell's Weekly existed。 And
when； in confusion； he proffered his letter of credit； the very
fact that it called for a thousand pounds was； in the eyes of a
〃Palm Oil Ruffian；〃 sufficient evidence that it had been forged or
stolen。 He soon saw that solely as a white man was he accepted and
made welcome。 That he was respectable； few believed； and no one
cared。 To be taken at his face value； to be refused at the start
the benefit of the doubt； was a novel sensation； and yet not
unpleasant。 It was a relief not to be accepted only as Everett the
Muckraker； as a professional reformer； as one holier than others。
It afforded his soul the same relaxation that his body received
when； in his shirt…sleeves in the sweltering smoking…room； he drank
beer with a chef de poste who had been thrice tried for murder。
Not only to every one was he a stranger； but to him everything was
strange； so strange as to appear unreal。 This did not prevent him
from at once recognizing those things that were not strange； such
as corrupt officials； incompetence； mismanagement。 He did not need
the missionaries to point out to him that the Independent State of
the Congo was not a colony administered for the benefit of many；
but a vast rubber plantation worked by slaves to fill the pockets
of one man。 It was not in his work that Everett found himself
confused。 It was in his attitude of mind toward almost every other
question。
At first； when he could not make everything fit his rule of thumb；
he excused the country tolerantly as a 〃topsy…turvy〃 land。 He
wished to move and act quickly； to make others move quickly。 He
did not understand that men who had sentenced themselves to exile
for the official term of three years； or for life； measured time
only by the date of their release。 When he learned that even a
cablegram could not reach his home in less than eighteen days； that
the missionaries to whom he brought letters were a three months'
journey from the coast and from each other； his impatience was
chastened to wonder； and； later； to awe。
His education began at Matadi； where he waited until the river
steamer was ready to start for Leopoldville。 Of the two places he
was assured Matadi was the better； for the reason that if you still
were in favor with the steward of the ship that brought you south；
he might sell you a piece of ice。
Matadi was a great rock； blazing with heat。 Its narrow；
perpendicular paths seemed to run with burning lava。 Its top； the
main square of the settlement； was of baked clay； beaten hard by
thousands of naked feet。 Crossing it by day was an adventure。 The
air that swept it was the breath of a blast…furnace。
Everett found a room over the shop of a Portuguese trader。 It was
caked with dirt； and smelled of unnamed diseases and chloride of
lime。 In it was a canvas cot； a roll of evil…looking bedding； a
wash…basin filled with the stumps of cigarettes。 In a corner was a
tin chop…box； which Everett asked to have removed。 It belonged；
the landlord told him； to the man who； two nights before； had
occupied the cot and who had died in it。 Everett was anxious to
learn of what he had died。 Apparently surprised at the question；
the Portuguese shrugged his shoulders。
〃Who knows？〃 he exclaimed。 The next morning the English trader
across the street assured Everett there was no occasion for alarm。
〃He didn't die of any disease；〃 he explained。 〃Somebody got at him
from the balcony； while he was in his cot； and knifed him。〃
The English trader was a young man； a cockney； named Upsher。 At
home he had been a steward on the Channel steamers。 Everett made
him his most intimate friend。 He had a black wife； who spent most
of her day in a four…post bed； hung with lace curtains and blue
ribbon； in which she resembled a baby hippopotamus wallowing in a
bank of white sand。
At first the black woman was a shock to Everett； but after Upsher
dismissed her indifferently as a 〃good old sort；〃 and spent one
evening blubbering over a photograph of his wife and 〃kiddie〃 at
home； Everett accepted her。 His excuse for this was that men who
knew they might die on the morrow must not be judged by what they
do to…day。 The excuse did not ring sound； but he dismissed the
doubt by deciding that in such heat it was not possible to take
serious questions seriously。 In the fact that； to those about him；
the thought of death was ever present； he found further excuse for
much else that puzzled and shocked him。 At home； death had been a
contingency so remote that he had put it aside as something he need
not consider until he was a grandfather。 At Matadi； at every
moment of the day； in each trifling act； he found death must be
faced； conciliated； conquered。 At home he might ask himself； 〃If I
eat this will it give me indigestion？〃 At Matadi he asked； 〃If I
drink this will I die？〃
Upsher told him of a feud then existing between the chief of police
and an Italian doctor in the State service。 Interested in the
outcome only as a sporting proposition； Upsher declared the odds
were unfair； because the Belgian was using his black police to act
as his body…guard while for protection the Italian could depend
only upon his sword…cane。 Each night； with the other white exiles
of Matadi； the two adversaries met in the Cafe Franco…Belge。
There； with puzzled interest； Everett watched them sitting at
separate tables； surrounded by mutual friends； excitedly playing
dominoes。 Outside the cafe； Matadi lay smothered and sweltering in
a black； living darkness； and； save for the rush of the river； in a
silence that continued unbroken across a jungle as wide as Europe。
Inside the dominoes clicked； the glasses rang on the iron tables；
the oil lamps glared upon the pallid； sweating faces of clerks；
upon the tanned； sweating skins of officers； and the Italian doctor
and the Belgian lieutenant； each with murder in his heart； laughed；
shrugged； gesticulated； waiting for the moment to strike。
〃But why doesn't some one DO something？〃 demanded Everett。 〃Arrest
them； or reason with them。 Everybody knows about it。 It seems a
pity not to DO something。〃
Upsher nodded his head。 Dimly he recognized a language with which
he once had been familiar。 〃I know what you mean；〃 he agreed。
〃Bind 'em over to keep the peace。 And a good job； too！ But who？〃
he demanded vaguely。 〃That's what I say！ Who？〃 From the
confusion into which Everett's appeal to forgotten memories had
thrown it； his mind suddenly emerged。 〃But what's the use！〃 he
demanded。 〃Don't you see；〃 he explained triumphantly； 〃if those
two crazy men were fit to listen to SENSE； they'd have sense enough
not to kill each other！〃
Each succeeding evening Everett watched the two potential murderers
with lessening interest。 He even made a bet with Upsher； of a
bottle of fruit salt； that the chief of police would be the one to
die。
A few nights later a man； groaning beneath his balcony； disturbed
his slumbers。 He cursed the man； and turned his pillow to find the
cooler side。 But all through the night the groans； though fainter；
broke into his dreams。 At intervals some traditions of past
conduct tugged at Everett's sleeve； and bade him rise and play the
good Samaritan。 But； indignantly； he repulsed them。 Were there
not many others within hearing？ Were there not the police？ Was it
HIS place to bind the wounds of drunken stokers？ The groans were
probably a trick； to entice him； unarmed； into the night。 And so；
just before the dawn； when the mists rose； and the groans ceased；
Everett； still arguing； sank with a contented sigh into
forgetfulness。
When he woke； there was beneath his window much monkey…like
chattering； and he looked down into the white face and glazed eyes
of the Italian doctor； lying in the gutter and staring up at him。
Below his shoulder…blades a pool of blood shone evilly in the
blatant sunlight。
Across the street； on his balcony； Upsher； in pajamas and mosquito
boots； was shivering with fever and stifling a yawn。 〃You lose！〃
he called。
Later in the day； Everett analyzed his conduct of the night
previous。 〃At home；〃 he told Upsher； 〃I would have been
telephoning for an ambulance； or been out in the street giving the
man the 'first…aid' drill。 But living as we do here； so close to
dea