One felt this to be his unalterable conviction. He was neither civil nor uncivil. He was quiet. He allowed his "boy" -- an overfed young negro from the coast -- to treat the white men, under his very eyes, with provoking insolence.

     He began to speak as soon as he saw me. I had been very long on the road. He could not wait. Had to start without me.

     The up-river stations had to be relieved. There had been so many delays already that he did not know who was dead and who was alive, and how they got on -- and so on, and so on. He paid no attention to my explanations, and, playing with a stick of sealing-wax, repeated several times that the situation was "very grave, very grave." There were rumours that a very important station was in jeopardy, and its chief, Mr. Kurtz, was ill. Hoped it was not true. Mr. Kurtz was . . .

     I felt weary and irritable. Hang Kurtz, I thought. I interrupted him by saying I had heard of Mr. Kurtz on the coast. "Ah! So they talk of him down there," he murmured to himself.