This is a precaution to prevent weapons
falling into the hands of the native. For some reason a native with
a gun alarms Bula Matadi. Just on the other bank of the river the
French, who do not seem to fear the black brother, sell him
flint-lock rifles, as many as his heart desires.
On the steamer there was a mild young missionary coming out, for the
first time, to whom some unobserving friend had given a fox-terrier.
The young man did not care for the dog. He had never owned a dog,
and did not know what to do with this one. Her name was "Fanny,"
and only by the efforts of all on board did she reach the Congo
alive. There was no one, from the butcher to the captain, including
the passengers, who had not shielded Fanny from the cold, and later
from the sun, fed her, bathed her, forced medicine down her throat,
and raced her up and down the spar deck. Consequently we all knew
Fanny, and it was a great shock when from the custom-house I saw her
running around the blazing parade ground, her eyes filled with fear
and "lost dog" written all over her, from her drooping tongue to her
drooping tail. Captain Burton and I called "Fanny," and, not seeking
suicide for ourselves, sent half a dozen black boys to catch her.
But Fanny never liked her black uncles; on the steamer the Kroo boys
learned to give her the length of her chain, and so we were forced
to plunge to her rescue into the valley of heat. Perhaps she thought
we were again going to lock her up on the steamer, or perhaps that
it was a friendly game, for she ran from us as fast as from the
black boys.
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