the first spatter all were wet to the skin. Selim and I stood
close together, trying to light a match, when a sheet of white
fire seemed to be let down from the black sky, passing between us
with a simultaneous thundering crash and rattle, and a sulphurous
smell, as if a battery had been discharged. I saw my factotum
struck down whilst in the act of staggering and falling myself;
we lay still for a few moments, when a mutual inquiry showed that
both were alive, only a little shaken and stunned; the sensation
was simply the shock of an electrical machine and the discharge
of a Woolwich infant --greatly exaggerated.

We then gave up the partie; it was useless to contend against
Jupiter Tonans as well as Pluvialis. I opened my bedding, drank a
"stiffener" of raw cognac, wrapped myself well, and at once fell
asleep in the heavy rain, whilst the crew gathered under the
sail. The gentlemen who stay at home at ease may think damp
sheets dangerous, but Malvern had long ago taught me the perfect
safety of the wettest bivouac, provided that the body remains
warm. At Fernando Po, as at Zanzibar, a drunken sailor after a
night in the gutter will catch fever, and will probably die. But
he has exposed himself to the inevitable chill after midnight, he
is unacclimatized, and both places are exceptionally deadly--to
say nothing of the liquor. The experienced African traveller
awaking with a chilly skin, swallows a tumbler of cold water, and
rolls himself in a blanket till he perspires; there is only one
alternative.

Next day I arose at 4 A.M., somewhat cramped and stiff, but with
nothing that would not yield to half a handful of quinine, a cup
of coffee well "laced," a pipe, and a roaring fire. Some country