"I'm hitting the trail that leads, boys,
Away from the howling noise,
Away from a host of mem'ries
And a thousand worthless joys;
I'm off at last to the land, boys,
Where there isn't a single friend,
For no white man can live, boys,
In the place where the fevers blend."
As the voice died away in a plaintive echo, Mowbray continued his story.
"I see another picture," he said slowly. "It is of a little native village. The inhabitants wear but a single strip of cloth about their waists, and strings of leopards' claws adorn their necks. They are rather odd-looking people; very black, very short and very broad. Their faces are extremely ugly, almost all nose and lips; the former spreading itself over the entire upper part of the face and the latter performing the same service for the lower part. It was among these natives that I found myself when I again regained consciousness. I was lying on a mattress of leaves in a rude mud hut near the centre of the village. But my dog was nowhere in sight, and though I sought and inquired everywhere, I never found him again. Down there in that terrible forest he had paid the price of duty."
Again Mowbray paused as though to get control of his voice. He drew his hand wearily across his eyes. Sitting there in the dim lamplight, his face looked
