"No, not yet," he answered, with great composure. Then, alluding with a toss of the head to the tumult in the station-yard, "When one has got to make correct entries, one comes to hate those savages -- hate them to the death."

     He remained thoughtful for a moment. "When you see Mr. Kurtz" he went on, "tell him from me that everything here" -- he glanced at the deck -- " is very satisfactory. I don't like to write to him -- with those messengers of ours you never know who may get hold of your letter -- at that Central Station."

     He stared at me for a moment with his mild, bulging eyes. "Oh, he will go far, very far," he began again. "He will be a somebody in the Administration before long. They, above -- the Council in Europe, you know -- mean him to be."

     He turned to his work. The noise outside had ceased, and presently in going out I stopped at the door. In the steady buzz of flies the homeward-bound agent was lying flushed and insensible; the other, bent over his books, was making correct entries of perfectly correct transactions; and fifty feet below the doorstep I could see the still tree-tops of the grove of death.