Stringer, who very seldom had any suggestion to make, joined in. The slump in captives had depressed him even more than the rest of us.
"I think the mistake," he observed, "was not to have kept the old men in Corisco. We could then have shot our gorillas, taken their glands back the same evening, and finished the whole job within twenty-four hours. This business of collecting live gorillas and keeping them for several months. . . ." Words failed him and he made no effort to conceal his disgust.
"I thought all this out before," he said. "I didn't feel that the climate here would suit men of seventy and upwards."
"It seems to have agreed with Miss Froud," grunted Stringer, rather rudely.
I am thankful to say that Sally Rebecca and Molly had tactfully left us, no doubt aware that trouble was brewing.
Gran'pa, who hated criticism, kept calm. He weighed his words carefully, and uttered them soothingly.
"You must remember," he pointed out, "that Miss Froud is an exception. Not only is she the youngest and healthiest of these old people but, in addition, she has naturally been the object of more individual care and attention than I could possibly lavish on a party of eighty-seven old men."
"I admit that," mumbled Stringer, pessimistically. "But I don't see why the others couldn't have taken their chance. _We_ have to--out there in the jungle. . . ." He waved a podgy arm eastwards, in the direction of the Dark Continent.
"No man recognizes the fact more than I do," replied Gran'pa, quickly and warmly. "I needn't have come at all. None of us need!"
I could see that both Stringer and Gran'pa were beginning to lose their tempers, and I tried to smooth matters down.
"All this," I remarked, "doesn't get us any further. The point is, would it be advisable to bring the old men to the gorillas, as Stringer suggests, or take the gorillas to the old men, as we had arranged?"
"We can't have them here," said Gran'pa. "The delay and trouble would be tremendous. Besides, I will not be a party to the wholesale slaughter of any animal. It isn't sport, but murder! You've read of modern tiger-hunting. Half-naked blacks, armed with sticks, drive the poor, frightened beasts out of the jungle as if they were rabbits. And the big game hunters shoot them down--again, like rabbits. Pah! It makes my blood boil! What chance has the tiger? . . . They'll start _shelling_ animals next--or machine-gunning them. . . . No! We must go on doing our best, and doing it cleanly and humanely. There may be a temporary slump; but things aren't hopeless. To-morrow, we'll get on the track of this new colony, or whatever it is. Come, Stringer, I'm surprised at you! . . . Don't look so miserable. . . ."