Bones of the River - Edgar Wallace [84]
“You’re wrong, my boy,” said Bones. “I wrote a dinky little article on the etymological peculiarities of native tribes; in other words, the difference between one set of native johnnies and another set of native johnnies.”
“Good Lord!” gasped Hamilton. “Did you call it ‘etymological’?”
“Naturally,” said Bones calmly. “There is no other word.”
Captain Hamilton’s face was a study. “Etymology,” he said gently, “is that branch of grammar which deals with the derivation of words, you poor fish! The word you were labouring after was ‘ethnology.’ Did you call it etymology?”
“I did,” said Bones calmly, “and the dear old johnnies quite understood what I meant. After all, you don’t have to spell to discover the source of the Nile, dear old thing. You haven’t to be a jolly old whale on grammar to trace the source of the Congo. Many of us explorers–”
“Shut up about ‘us’,” said Hamilton. “And, talking of exploring, I shall want you to explore–”
“Don’t tell me that that pay sheet is wrong again, dear old officer,” said Bones sternly. “If it is, it is your doing.” He pointed an accusing finger at his superior. “I’ve been through it six times, and I made the same result every time. If it is wrong, there is foul play somewhere – jolly foul!”
That the conversation should not drift to the horrid subject of work, he produced a letter he had received that morning. It was from a Fellow of the Society, and a very learned fellow indeed.
“Dear Mr Tibbetts,” the letter ran, “I was very interested in your interesting paper on the ethnological peculiarities of the Bantu tribes, which I had the pleasure of revising for publication –”
“I knew somebody corrected the spelling,” murmured Hamilton.
“I wonder if you will ever have an opportunity of giving us more information on the subject of the lakes in your country, some of which, I believe, have never been explored. Particularly am I anxious to know more on the subject of one lake, Bura-Ladi, about which many stories are in existence.”
Sanders looked up quickly. There were in his territory many unexplored patches, and Bura-Ladi was one of these. This small, still lake lay in a depression that was popularly supposed to be bottomless. No fish were found therein. Fishermen avoided it; even the beasts in the forest never came down to drink at its margin, and the earth around it was bare for a quarter of a mile.
Sanders had seen the place twice: a lonely, sinister spot.
“There will be a chance for you, Bones, and in the very near future,” said Sanders. “You have never seen the lake?”
“I haven’t, for the matter of that,” said Hamilton, and Bones uttered an impatient tut-tut.
“Dear old Ham,” he said gently, “the jolly old Commissioner is discussing this matter with me, dear old thing. Don’t be peeved; I can quite understand it, old Ham, but this is a matter of science.”
“So was your last essay,” said Hamilton significantly, and Bones coughed.
“That, old sir, was pure fantasy, old officer. A little jeu d’esprit in the style of the late Lewis Carrots – Alice’s Wonderful Land. Perhaps you haven’t read the book, dear old soldier. If you haven’t you ought to get it straight away; it is horribly amusing.”
“I think you told the misguided and gullible editor of the Guildford Times that you had discovered a new kind of okapi with two tails,” said Hamilton remorselessly. “And – correct me if I’m wrong – you said that in the Forest of Dreams you had come upon a new monkey family that wore clothes. As the nearest Italian organ-grinder is some three thousand miles away, I take leave to describe you as an ingenious prevaricator. Now, the point is, Bones, what novelty are you going to find in Bura-Ladi?”
“It is queer,” Sanders broke in thoughtfully. “Do you know the temperature of the lake is about twelve degrees higher than the temperature of the river? In the rainy season, when one can get a cold spell, I’ve seen the lake steaming. No native will live within twenty miles of the place. They say there is neither fish nor crocodile in its waters. I’ve been making up my mind for eight years to make