"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
of purpose.' 'Who says that?' I asked. 'Lots of them,' he replied. 'Some
even write that; and so _he_ comes here, a special being, as you ought to
know.' 'Why ought I to know?' I interrupted, really surprised. He paid
no attention. 'Yes. Today he is chief of the best station, next year he
will be assistant-manager, two years more and . . . but I dare-say you
know what he will be in two years' time. You are of the new gang--the
gang of virtue. The same people who sent him specially also recommended
you. Oh, don't say no. I've my own eyes to trust.' Light dawned upon me.
My dear aunt's influential acquaintances were producing an unexpected
effect upon that young man. I nearly burst into a laugh. 'Do you read
the Company's confidential correspondence?' I asked. He hadn't a word
to say. It was great fun. 'When Mr. Kurtz,' I continued, severely, 'is
General Manager, you won't have the opportunity.'
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