CONGO JOURNEY

'It's not my problem,' said Lady, with an enormous grin. He turned his back on me, propped himself up on his elbow, and, with his left hand, poured himself a long gugle of whisky. 'If you're going up the Motaba almost to its source, walking right across the watershed and then expecting to find a dugout in the middle of nowhere waiting just for you' - he took a big gulp from the tooth-mug - 'a dugout, I guess, with a personalized greeting card from God stuck on it - you know the kind of thing - "Dear Redso, every hair on your head is numbered and of course there's a mansion up here with your name beneath the doorbell-push-button but, in the meantime, here's a celestial canoe, old boy, just because you're such a jolly good chap, such a pukkah English pig-sticking pervert, oh yes, Redso, and I nearly forgot, I'm sending jobs with wings to drop in a few supplies and lift you out when you break a leg" - you won't get anywhere near Lake Tele inside three months.'