Page 133 - HEART OF DARKNESS

Heart of Darkness

could, and did, with proper secrecy. He helped himself,
with a wink at me, to a handful of my tobacco. ‘Between
sailors—you know—good English tobacco.’ At the door
of the pilot-house he turned round—‘I say, haven’t you a

pair of shoes you could spare?’ He raised one leg. ‘Look.’
The soles were tied with knotted strings sandalwise under
his bare feet. I rooted out an old pair, at which he looked
with admiration before tucking it under his left arm. One
of his pockets (bright red) was bulging with cartridges,
from the other (dark blue) peeped ‘Towson’s Inquiry,’
etc., etc. He seemed to think himself excellently well
equipped for a renewed encounter with the wilderness.
‘Ah! I’ll never, never meet such a man again. You ought
to have heard him recite poetry— his own, too, it was, he
told me. Poetry!’ He rolled his eyes at the recollection of
these delights. ‘Oh, he enlarged my mind!’ ‘Good-bye,’
said I. He shook hands and vanished in the night.
Sometimes I ask myself whether I had ever really seen
him— whether it was possible to meet such a
phenomenon! …
‘When I woke up shortly after midnight his warning
came to my mind with its hint of danger that seemed, in
the starred darkness, real enough to make me get up for
the purpose of having a look round. On the hill a big fire

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