something--in fact, pumping me. He alluded constantly to Europe, to the
people I was supposed to know there--putting leading questions as to my
acquaintances in the sepulchral city, and so on. His little eyes
glittered like mica discs--with curiosity--though he tried to keep up a
bit of superciliousness. At first I was astonished, but very soon I
became awfully curious to see what he would find out from me. I couldn't
possibly imagine what I had in me to make it worth his while. It was
very pretty to see how he baffled himself, for in truth my body was full
only of chills, and my head had nothing in it but that wretched
steamboat business. It was evident he took me for a perfectly shameless
prevaricator. At last he got angry, and, to conceal a movement of
furious annoyance, he yawned. I rose. Then I noticed a small sketch in
oils, on a panel, representing a woman, draped and blindfolded, carrying
a lighted torch. The background was sombre--almost black. The movement
of the woman was stately, and the effect of the torchlight on the face
was sinister.

"It arrested me, and he stood by civilly, holding an empty half-pint
champagne bottle (medical comforts) with the candle stuck in it. To my
question he said Mr. Kurtz had painted this--in this very station more
than a year ago--while waiting for means to go to his trading post.
'Tell me, pray,' said I, 'who is this Mr. Kurtz?'

"'The chief of the Inner Station,' he answered in a short tone, looking
away. 'Much obliged,' I said, laughing. 'And you are the brickmaker of
the Central Station. Every one knows that.' He was silent for a while.
'He is a prodigy,' he said at last. 'He is an emissary of pity and
science and progress, and devil knows what else. We want,' he began
to declaim suddenly, 'for the guidance of the cause intrusted to us by
Europe, so to speak, higher intelligence, wide sympathies, a singleness