navy；　to　stop　him。　　He　had　three　allies：　those　waves；　the　fever；
  and　the　sun。　　Especially　the　sun。　　The　black　man　goes　bare…headed；
  and　the　sun　lets　him　pass。　　The　white　man　covers　his　head　with　an
  inch　of　cork；　and　the　sun　strikes　through　it　and　kills　him。　　When
  Jameson　came　down　the　river　from　Yambuya；　the　natives　fired　on　his
  boat。　　He　waved　his　helmet　at　them　for　three　minutes；　to　show　them
  there　was　a　white　man　in　the　canoe。　　Three　minutes　was　all　the　sun
  wanted。　　Jameson　died　in　two　days。　　Where　you　are　going；　the　sun
  does　worse　things　to　a　man　than　kill　him：　it　drives　him　mad。　　It
  keeps　the　fear　of　death　in　his　heart；　and　THAT　takes　away　his　nerve
  and　his　sense　of　proportion。　　He　flies　into　murderous　fits；　over
  silly；　imaginary　slights；　he　grows　morbid；　suspicious；　he　becomes　a
  coward；　and　because　he　is　a　coward　with　authority；　he　becomes　a
  bully。
  〃He　is　alone；　we　will　suppose；　at　a　station　three　hundred　miles
  from　any　other　white　man。　　One　morning　his　house…boy　spills　a　cup
  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　t