permission, for every rower would be dead before they got within a
hundred yards of his rifle. He was probably the best rifle-shot but
one in that country--and the other, the very best, happened to be in
the approaching canoe.

After the space of ten minutes the boat came in sight--a long black
form on the still waters. It was too far away for him to
distinguish anything beyond the fact that it was a native boat.

"Eight hundred yards," muttered Durnovo over the sight of his rifle.

He looked upon this river as his own, and he knew the native of
equatorial Africa. Therefore he dropped a bullet into the water,
under the bow of the canoe, at eight hundred yards.

A moment later there was a sound which can only be written "P-ttt"
between his legs, and he had to wipe a shower of dust from his eyes.
A puff of blue smoke rose slowly over the boat and a sharp report
broke the silence a second time.

Then Victor Durnovo leapt to his feet and waved his hat in the air.
From the canoe there was an answering greeting, and the man on the
bank went to the water's edge, still carrying the rifle from which
he was never parted.

Durnovo was the first to speak when the boat came within hail.

"Very sorry," he shouted. "Thought you were a native boat. Must
establish a funk--get in the first shot, you know."