Page:Travels in West Africa, Congo Français, Corisco and Cameroons (IA travelsinwestafr00kingrich).pdf/149

 evidently this road has got something against it somewhere, and is not popular, for the grass falls across it like unkempt hair. Road becomes damp and goes into a belt of trees, in the middle of which runs a broad stream with a log laid across it. Congratulating myself on absence of companions, ignominiously crawl across on to the road, which then and there turns round and goes back to the stream again higher up—evidently a joke, "thought-you-were-going-to-get-home-dry-did-you" sort of thing. Wade the stream, rejoin the road on the hither side. Then the precious thing makes a deliberate bolt for the interior of Africa, instead of keeping on going to Libreville. I lose confidence in it. The Wu-tu-tu says it's four o'clock. It's dark at 6.15 down here, and I am miles from home, so I begin to wish I had got an intelligent companion to guide me, as I walk on through the now shoulder-high grass. Suddenly another road branches off to the left. "Saved!" Down it I go, and then it ends in a manioc patch, with no path out the other end, and surrounded by impenetrable bush. Crestfallen, I retrace my steps and continue along my old tormentor, which now attempts to reassure me by doubling round to the left and setting off again for Libreville. I am not deceived, I have had my trust in it too seriously tampered with—Yes, it's up to mischief again, and it turns itself into a stream. Nothing for it but wading, so wade; but what will be its next manifestation, I wonder? for I begin to doubt whether it is a road at all, and suspect it of being only a local devil, one of the sort that sometimes appears as a road, sometimes as a tree or a stream, &c. I wonder what they will do if they find I don't get in to-night?—wish me—at Liverpool, at least. After a quarter of an hour's knee-deep wading, I suddenly meet a native lady who was at the Bible meeting. She has a grand knowledge of English, and she stands with her skirt tucked up round her, evidently in no hurry, and determined to definitely find out who I am. Recognising this, I attempt to take charge of the conversation, and divert its course. "Nice road this," I say, "but it's a little damp." "Washey, ma," she says, "but—" "Is this road here to go anywhere," I interposed, "or is it only a kind of joke?" "It no go nowhere 'ticular, ma," she says; "but—" "In a civilised