Серце темряви

           Thebusinessintrustedtothisfellowwasthemakingofbricks—soIhadbeeninformed;buttherewasn’tafragmentofabrickanywhereinthestation,andhehadbeentheremorethanayear—waiting.Itseemshecouldnotmakebrickswithoutsomething,Idon’tknowwhat—strawmaybe.Anyway,itcouldnotbefoundthereandasitwasnotlikelytobesentfromEurope,itdidnotappearcleartomewhathewaswaitingfor.Anactofspecialcreationperhaps.However,theywereallwaiting—allthesixteenortwentypilgrimsofthem—forsomething;anduponmyworditdidnotseemanuncongenialoccupation,fromthewaytheytookit,thoughtheonlythingthatevercametothemwasdisease—asfarasIcouldsee.Theybeguiledthetimebyback-bitingandintriguingagainsteachotherinafoolishkindofway.Therewasanairofplottingaboutthatstation,butnothingcameofit,ofcourse.Itwasasunrealaseverythingelse—asthephilanthropicpretenceofthewholeconcern,astheirtalk,astheirgovernment,astheirshowofwork.Theonlyrealfeelingwasadesiretogetappointedtoatrading-postwhereivorywastobehad,sothattheycouldearnpercentages.Theyintriguedandslanderedandhatedeachotheronlyonthataccount—butastoeffectuallyliftingalittlefinger—oh,no.Byheavens!thereissomethingafterallintheworldallowingonemantostealahorsewhileanothermustnotlookatahalter.Stealahorsestraightout.Verywell.Hehasdoneit.Perhapshecanride.