"He is there! Our father is there!" said one of the men, but he did not
stir a finger to help him, nor did any of the others. They simply stood
and stared at the water.

"Out of the way, you brutes!" I shouted in English, and throwing off my
hat I took a run and sprang well out into the horrid slimy-looking pool.
A couple of strokes took me to where Billali was struggling beneath the
cloth.

Somehow, I do not quite know how, I managed to push it free of him,
and his venerable head all covered with green slime, like that of a
yellowish Bacchus with ivy leaves, emerged upon the surface of the
water. The rest was easy, for Billali was an eminently practical
individual, and had the common sense not to grasp hold of me as drowning
people often do, so I got him by the arm, and towed him to the bank,
through the mud of which we were with difficulty dragged. Such a filthy
spectacle as we presented I have never seen before or since, and it will
perhaps give some idea of the almost superhuman dignity of Billali's
appearance when I say that, coughing, half-drowned, and covered with mud
and green slime as he was, with his beautiful beard coming to a dripping
point, like a Chinaman's freshly-oiled pig-tail, he still looked
venerable and imposing.

"Ye dogs," he said, addressing the bearers, as soon as he had
sufficiently recovered to speak, "ye left me, your father, to drown.
Had it not been for this stranger, my son the Baboon, assuredly I should
have drowned. Well, I will remember it," and he fixed them with his
gleaming though slightly watery eye, in a way I saw that they did not
like, though they tried to appear sulkily indifferent.