Part 8 (1/2)
He came within sight of the king's hut and stopped dead.
Before the hut, and surrounded by his admiring people, Bosambo sat in state. His throne was a bra.s.s bedstead, over the slats of which skins had been spread.
It was a bedstead of great beauty, having four glittering k.n.o.bs, one at each corner, and on the headrail were s.h.i.+ning medallions that caught the light of the setting sun and sent it back in a thousand gleaming rays.
”Oh, Bosambo, I see you,” said Sanders, and the big man scrambled to his feet.
”Lord,” he said hastily, ”these Akasava men are thieves, for they came into my land with their spears to steal my beautiful bed.”
”So I observe,” said Sanders grimly, ”but now you will tell your strong men to carry the bed to my s.h.i.+p, for did you not tell the Akasava that by magic you had taken this beautiful bedstead from the House of Ghosts?”
The agitation of Bosambo was pitiful to see. ”Lord, I told them this in jest. But this bed I bought from Halli, and, lord, I spent a great fortune, paying with real silver dollars that I had saved.”
”You may have the money back again,” said Sanders, and Bosambo's eyes lit up, ”for if you take a bedstead by magic, you may take money.”
Bosambo spread out his hands in resignation. ”It is written,” he said.
He was a good Mohammedan, and most of the silver dollars he had paid were of a dubious quality. Mr Halley discovered this later.
A LOVER OF DOGS.
The mail-boat had come into sight, had dropped its letter-bag, and was a smudge on the horizon. Sanders sorted the personal mail, putting the letters beside each plate at the breakfast-table, and Captain Hamilton of the Houssas had read three letters, a balance-sheet, and the circular of a misguided racing tipster (this was sent on from Hamilton's club), and was re-reading one of the letters for the second time when Sanders asked: ”Where on earth is Bones?”
”Bones, sir?”
Hamilton looked round resentfully at the vacant chair.
”Curious,” he said. ”He's usually waiting on the mat for the post. Just now he is learning accountancy through a correspondence course, and that makes him keener.”
Lieutenant Tibbetts, known by all and sundry, from His Excellency the Administrator to the least clerk of the district, as ”Bones,” took correspondence courses as a hypochondriac takes physic. They were mostly of American origin, and they emanated from colleges which, although they occupied only one small room on the nineteenth floor of important buildings, did not hesitate to print pictures of the whole of those important buildings on their notepaper. They also awarded diplomas and degrees that were imposing and grand. Bones, after three years of frenzied study, was a Doctor of Law (University of Tuxedo), a Graduate of Science (Ippikosh University), a Fellow of the Incorporated Society of Architects (of Elma, III.), and Master of Dramatic and Cinematographic Art (Spicy's College of Dramaturgy, Sacramento, Cal.).
”Maybe,” said Hamilton thoughtfully, ”this course will teach him to add. The last returns we rendered to HQ have been returned twice because Bones mixed the hundreds with the thousands.”
”Ham! Ham! Dear old officer!”
It was the voice of Lieutenant Tibbetts, alternately shrill with excitement and hoa.r.s.e with pride, and it came from outside. Hamilton got up and walked to the door, Sanders following.
Bones was standing before the broad steps, an angular figure in white, his big topee pushed back from his streaming forehead, one skinny arm extended stiffly.
”Jumping Moses!” gasped Hamilton. ”Where did you get that?”
Straining at a lead wound round and round the extended hand of Bones, was the largest and ugliest bulldog he had ever seen. It was white save for a smear of black that ran across its face. Its teeth were bare, its bow legs planted determinedly, and its stub of tail quivered ecstatically.
”Bought it, old boy! Had it sent out by a jolly old pal of mine. Ah, naughty, naughty Hector!”
Hector had suddenly leapt about and was confronting Bones, his lips curled back, a strange green light in his eyes.
”Hector, Hector!” reproved Bones. ”Naughty, naughty old bow-wow. Yes, you is! You'se a naughty old bow-wow!”
The naughty old bow-wow made a menacing noise.
”Now, now!” said Bones soothingly, and stooped to pat the bullet head. Hector watched the approach of the hand with suspicion and doubt, but apparently was prepared to submit to the caress.
Then: ”Snap!”
Bones leapt back with a yell. ”Naughty, naughty!” he squeaked. ”You bad, savage, naughty boy. Ugh! I'm ashamed of you!”
Hector bared his teeth and seemed crouching for a leap.
”You'd never think, dear old Ham,” beamed the proud owner, standing at a respectful distance, ”that a ferocious old johnny like Hector was as gentle as a jolly young baby?”
”I shouldn't: what the d.i.c.kens are you going to do with him?” asked Hamilton.
”Train him, dear old thing. In three months Hector will be carrying my stick and standing to attention. Up, Hector! Watch him, Ham! Most wonderful intelligence, dear old sir. Watch him stand on his hind legs taught him in five minutes! Up, Hector!”
Bones snapped frantic fingers above the bull pup's head, but Hector did no more than leer at him and make a mental calculation. Could he get those fingers if he jumped? Reluctantly he decided he couldn't, and closed his eyes wearily.
Hamilton was looking at the dog. ”I don't think I should call her Hector, Bones,” he said drily. ”Helen of Troy would be more respectful,” and Bones gaped.
”Is he a she, dear old thing? Bless my dear old life! So he is. Hi, Helen! Up, Helen!”
But not even her changed status affected the dozing Helen, and in the end Bones tied her to the verandah rail and went in to breakfast.
”I got him as a surprise for you, dear old Ham,” he said. ”Your birthday coming along how the dear old years spin round!”
”If you think you're going to pa.s.s that savage beast on to me think again!” said Hamilton firmly. ”My birthday was celebrated two months ago, as you know.”
”Christmas coming along,” said Bones pleadingly. ”You're not going to turn down dear old Santa Claus, Ham?”
Sanders, a silent and an amused observer, intervened.
”It is something of a coincidence that your lady friend should have arrived today, Bones by the way, I should keep Helen locked up whilst Fobolo is here...”
Running from the great river is a stream, so small and so covered by weed and elephant gra.s.s that only a few men knew the secret of its course. Therefore is it called ”No river-One River,” or, more intimately, N'ba, which is an abbreviation of ten words signifying ”The-River-that-the-N'gombi-found-and-the-Isisi-lost.” Which is a name of reproach, for the Isisi are riverain folk, and the N'gombi are forest people who are so unwise in the ways of water that, when they fall into the river, they make a noise that sounds like ”glub glub!” and drown.
Cala cala in those days when Lieutenant Tibbetts was a comparative newcomer to the river, there lived at the end of this river of no appearance, and at the place where it drains the big lake, a man whose name was Fobolo. He was a rich man with many huts and many wives, and two and twenty young children. Of all men of the N'gombi people he was most respected and feared, for his father, Kulaba, had been a very wise man and was skilled in the way of poisons, and many inconvenient people lay in shallow holes on the islands, troublesome no more, because of the bitter foods they had taken from their wives' hands. These they had eaten, and had died, and their wives had girded their flanks with green leaves, and had stamped and strutted ceremoniously through the village in the Death Dance. in those days when Lieutenant Tibbetts was a comparative newcomer to the river, there lived at the end of this river of no appearance, and at the place where it drains the big lake, a man whose name was Fobolo. He was a rich man with many huts and many wives, and two and twenty young children. Of all men of the N'gombi people he was most respected and feared, for his father, Kulaba, had been a very wise man and was skilled in the way of poisons, and many inconvenient people lay in shallow holes on the islands, troublesome no more, because of the bitter foods they had taken from their wives' hands. These they had eaten, and had died, and their wives had girded their flanks with green leaves, and had stamped and strutted ceremoniously through the village in the Death Dance.
Kulaba grew rich and taught his son Fobolo his mysteries, such as how a certain blue flower may be boiled and the drippings of its steam collected; and how the bulb of an ugly weed might be mashed and its juice disposed of. And such things.
Fobolo listened attentively, and one night he went out into the forest and found a little flowering weed that has a strong and unpleasant perfume. The flowers of these he collected, and stewed them until the water was all boiled away, and then he took the mess and made a small ball of it. That night his father had pains in the stomach and died, and Fobolo took all his wealth and his younger women, and went to the edge of the lake to enjoy the reward of his experiment, praising all the time the wisdom of his father, who had said ”this weed that grows flowers is death mongo mongo.”
So he became more powerful in the land than chiefs and headmen, and even the little kings came to him secretly and took away with them the messes he brewed. For kings have enemies.
About Fobolo's huts grew the huts of his kinsmen, and of stray fishermen who, having no village of their own, were drawn into communion by the magnet of Fobolo's greatness.
Fobolo was gaunt and tall and greedy. Wealth bred in him a desire for wealth. Though his deeply dug stores were filled with ivory teeth and rubber, and under the floor of his hut were many thousands of bra.s.s rods, and salt and other treasures were stacked tight in his huts, he sought new means of profit.