Clay's music was always of the lighter sort, and was often more than
impolite; while Kettle's was, for the most part, devotional, and all of
it sober, staid, and thoughtful. They were a strong contrast, these two,
but they pulled together with one another wonderfully. Kettle used
sometimes to wonder why it was, and came to the conclusion that it was
the tie of music which did it. But Clay never worried about the matter
at all. He was not the man to fill his head with useless problems.

But on this afternoon their concert was cut short before its finish.
Commandant Balliot came back to the launch with satisfaction on his
streaming face, and two armed black soldiers plodding at his heels.

"Well," said Kettle, "have they made you a colonel yet, or are they
only going to give you the Congo medal?"

"You sacred pig," said Balliot, "you talked to M. le Commandant here of
rebels. What are you but a rebel? I have told him all, and he has sent
me to arrest you."

"Good old Waterloo," said Kettle cheerfully. "I bet you lied, and
because you are both Belgians, I suppose he believed you."

The fat man gritted his teeth. "You talked of having a short way with
rebels yourself. You will find that we have a short way here, too. You
are under arrest."

"So you've said."

Balliot said a couple of words in the native to one of his followers,
and the man produced a pair of rusty handcuffs and held them out