During the two following days we passed through a country that was more thickly covered with the indiarubber vine than any place we had before met with in our African travels. I could not help feeling regret that such a splendid region should be almost, if not altogether, unknown and useless to civilised man. There seemed to be an unlimited¹ supply of caoutchouc; but the natives practised a method of gathering² it which had the effect of destroying the vine.

 

One day, some weeks after this, we came upon the habitation of a most remarkable³ species of monkey, named the Nshiego Mbouve, which we had often heard of, but had not up to that time been so fortunate as to see. Being exceedingly anxious to observe how this remarkable creature made use of its singular house, Peterkin and I lay down near the place, and secreting⁴ ourselves in the bushes, patiently awaited the arrival of the monkey, while Jack⁵ went off in another direction to procure⁶ something for supper.

 

“I don’t believe he’ll come home to-night,” said Peterkin, after we had lain down. “People never do come in when any one chances to be waiting for them. The human race seems to be born to disappointment. Did you never notice, Ralph, how obstinately⁷ contrary and cross-grained things go when you want them to go otherwise?”

 

“I don’t quite understand you,” said I.

 

“Of course you don’t. Yours seems to be a mind that can never take anything in unless it is hammered in by repetition.”

 

“Come now, Peterkin, don’t become, yourself, an illustration of your own remark in reference to cross-grained things.”

 

“Well, I won’t. But seriously, Ralph, have you not observed, in the course of your observant life, that when you have particular business with a man, and go to his house or office, you are certain to find him out, to use the common phrase? It would be more correct, however, to say ‘you are certain not to find him in.’”

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