When we've cooked food we'll send Rebecca to you with your share." "If you send that slut to me I will kill her!" she answered, flying into a new fury.
"Whom do you call slut ?" demanded Coutlass (and he had no compunctions of any kind--particularly none about women, and calling names.

He was simply feeling gallant after his own fashion, and alert for a chance to show off.) Lady Waldon backed away from him.
"Of course," she sneered, "if you loose your bully at me, I am no match at all!" Fred promptly kicked Coutlass until he ran limping out of range, to sit and nurse his bruises with polyglot profanity.

The Syrian Rebecca went over to comfort him, and eying the two of them with either malice or else calculation (it was impossible to judge which) Lady Waldon retreated toward the rock that Fred had pointed out.
We cooked a miserable meal, neither daring to make too great inroad into our stores before making sure we could replenish them, nor caring to make more smoke than we could help.

We hoped to escape being seen even by natives, but Lady Waldon upset that part of our plan by setting up such a scream when she saw three islanders crossing a ridge three hundred yards away, that they could not help hearing her, and came to investigate.

She was forced to dress faster than ever in her life before, and came running to demand that we flog all three "to teach them manners." She had perfectly absorbed the German attitude toward all black men.
From the natives we learned that there was no telegraph wire along that coast, and that the only German settlements were semi-permanent camps where they were cutting wood, for fuel for their own launch and for the steamers the British were building to serve the lake ports, Muanza included.
With that good news for encouragement we made the three natives a small present in the vain hope that they might be induced not to talk about us, and put to sea again.