Argosy, Vol. 1 (1882) — page 199: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

190 stamp on it will, not overtake him. Nevertheless, and particularly in his letters to his local paper, he is an explorer. There is room in immense Africa for many such, and it is not a difficult mat- ter to pick them up if you look for them at any of the few important seaports. As that is just what Pan was shrewd enough to do, he had come in contact with many Englishmen and Americans, to say nothing of the fact that he had had his first lessons in the real business of exploring from the great Stanley. He would not have been able to fol- low this vocation if he had not been possessed of far more intelligence than the average African, and being thus favored in the way of ability and oppor- tunity, he had acquired a-good working knowledge of the English language, a consideration of no little value to a man like Bradshaw. Moreover, Pan had a smattering, at least, of many a tribal language and dialect, and on the rare occasions where words failed him, he could rival deat mutes in the facility with which he made his wants known by signs. Altogether Pan was about as near the ideal for guide, companion, and ser- vant as one could hope to find, and his present employer had had no reason to be other than satisfied with him. “You know, Pan,” said Bradshaw, after they had tramped a time in silence, “the most singular thing about this country is something that is a long way from it.” As he spoke he flicked the perspira- tion from his cheeks with his fingers. “Yes?” responded Pan, uncompre- hending. “T’m alluding to the sun, my es- teemed friend,’’ continued Bradshaw in an airy way that he often adopted when conversing with the black. “ The sun, "as perhaps you have observed, is quite some distance awav.”’ “T have walked many days’ journey,” said Pan gravely, “and never have caught up with it.”’ THE ARGOSY. Bradshaw chuckled. “ And yet,” he rambled on, “the same sun shines on America, but, so help me the respected memory of Sam Hill, it never bakes, boils, fries and sizzles human beings there as it does here, not even in City Hall Park, New York, which is the hottest place on a summer day, Pan, that my country knows.” “I should like to see it once,” marked Pan. “Oh, once! <A thousand times! ” cried Bradshaw, vehemently. Then he drew a long breath and shook his head as if to dismiss thoughts that might make him wish to retrace his steps before he had accomplished the task that brought him to Africa. “The odd thing is,” he continued lightly, “ that in America the grass and trees grow up just as they do here. They never grow downward. They’re mostly green, too. Of course, the ferocious beasts that drag our wagons and others that bark at our heels are somewhat different from the playful lions and dignified elephants that one meets here, but after all the really sin- gular thing about Africa is the sun. It wasn’t so bad while we were crawl- ing through the jungle, but here it’s —it’s—confound it, Pan! it has baked such a hard crust over all my ideas that I can’t get one of ’em out.” “T am sorry, Mr. Bradshaw,’ said Pan, so sincerely that the American laughed outright. “You beat Sam Hill, Pan,” he chuckled, and then, suddenly changing his manner, “ we don’t want to get much further from the caravan, do we?” he asked. By caravan, Bradshaw meant his pack train. There is no making a real journey in Africa without one. Bradshaw's train consisted of a score or more of blacks, all of whom were as much lower in in- telligence than Pan as Pan was sup- posably lower than his employer. They carried camp utensils, thev re- cleared away undergrowth when ft ob- YN CO