“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