The Blond Spiders

Front matter

A Complete Novelette byCHARLES BEADLE

Author of “The Lost Cure,” “The Land of Ophir,” etc.

auxTOC|title=Contents|plainlist|

Chapter 1

I

“Nine little pussyfooters sitting on a knoll! Singing songs of hate! One drank to 2 with Vol! Then there were eight!”

IN THE hot, twittering East African heat even the raucous birds and a shrilling cricket stopped politely to listen to the strange song of the white man. The vocalist, lying beneath a giant Mbuli tree, sighed contentedly and began anew:

“Eight little pussyfooters staggering down the street! Chanting psalms to Heaven! One swigged synthetic gin! Then there were seven!”

“Aw, quit it, Tony! You give a man the willies!” bawled a voice from within a green tent.

“Huh!” sneered another man, squatting under the flap cleaning a rifle. “Mr. Westlake oughta bin the big noise in the Metropolitan an’ he’d ha’ pulled down more [illegible] men than ever he will hunting elephants I’ll tell the world!”

“You’re a nice guy, Alick,” retorted Tony, leaning on his elbow, “but you lack culture. You should have taken a course with a correspondence school before you left and then you might have appreciated me. Anyway I’m going pot-hunting and try my hand at soothing the savage breast.”

He rose to his feet, shotgun in hand, a lithe figure in khaki shirt and shorts. Although he was slender of build the depth of his chest and the set of his shoulders spoke of power.

“Watch your step then! That Aussie, Plessons, might take you for a hyena with the colic!” sang out Alick with a laugh that contained a distinct trace of malice.

“I should worry!” returned Tony cheerfully; and with his Tirai hat on the back of his blond head he strolled off with a slight limp into the bush, caroling defiantly:

“Seven little pussyfooters dancing round a cask! Proud of playing tricks! One flashed a pocket flask! Then there were six!”

“We should worry!” snarled the rifle cleaner. “That bird makes me want to [illegible]ails!”

“Look here, Phil Sawyer,” snapped Alick out of a thin-lipped mouth fringed with a Charlie Chaplin mustache after the British subaltern style. “Cut out that stuff. I’ve told you before. Remember you’re a servant with this outfit—supposed to be anyway.”

“Whatcher want to get sore about?” growled the other sullenly. “That darned Auzzie guide ain’t here. Hazing a feller ain’t slugging him. ’Sides, tomorrow’s the twenty-seventh, ain’t it? He can’t slip one over by then. There’s a mint o’ ways to do the job, and then we kin beat it for the bright lights. This ain’t no sort of life for a feller.”

“Quit it, I said,” ordered Alick.

“Aw, what’s eatin’ you, Alick? Can’t I razz the bird as well as you?”

“No. Keep your trap shut, Dutchy. Get me?”

As Phil, alias “Dutchy,” dropped his [brownish?]-yellow eyes to his job he seemed [illegible]nce, and his grin was changed to a scowl as he bit back some retort.

Alick emerged fully from the tent and stood staring around the camp speculatively. To the left, within a zareba of branches erected by the porters, was a cluster of natives squatting around the cook fire, all in the dappled shade of the afternoon sun through the light timber.

Alick Bodiker was a tallish man built on the clothes-rack model. The blue eyes beneath the tow-colored hair were too wide apart and almost as expressionless as pieces of glass. As he turned toward Phil he regarded the other’s bullet head with a sly smile. Then he went over and sat beside him.

“’Sright, Phil,” said he in a conciliating tone, “but you’re too quick on the direct-action stuff. If you get him too sore maybe he’ll get a kind of a grouch and spill his troubles to Plessons; ’nough maybe to give the Aussie a hunch—afterwards. All he knows now is that he’s guiding us on an elephant hunt. Get me?”

“Sure I get you,” said Phil Sawyer, who was constructed on the motor-truck principle and who looked, and was, hard boiled. “But don’t Plessons ante up too?”

“He sure don’t.” Bodiker glanced across at the natives, smiling slyly. “He makes the hand high, boy! Good enough anyway for the pot with nobody who dare call! Listen here2” and he continued talking in a low tone for some time. “And that’s that!” he concluded. “Hello, here he is! But what in 2’s he got?”

Entering the zareba was a stocky man with a grizzled beard who resembled an old and sagacious Airedale. This was their guide, Plessons. He was trailing a rifle in one hand and on the other arm supported a curious-looking object which at first was difficult to recognize as a white man; but white he was or had been, by the dirty gray beard. Aiding him on the far side was a tall negro emaciated almost to a skeleton.

“2! Here’s Santy Claus comin’” muttered Sawyer as the group approached.

The old man was covered with clothes in tatters and a felt hat that flopped over his face. The native was nude save for a filthy loin cloth and a knife stuck in the girdle.

“What have you got there, Plessons?” demanded Bodiker.

“Dunno yet, Mr. Bodiker,” returned the Australian. “He’s abaht all in. This black fella spotted me and come a-runnin’. But he can’t tell me nothin’ neither.”

“Can’t tell you! Thought you spoke the lingo?”

“So I does, but the black boy can’t speak. He’s had his tongue slit.”

“Tongue slit!” echoed Bodiker. “Who did it?”

“He’s a-goin’ ter write the story as soon as ever he gets to the typewriter,” returned Plessons somberly. “’Ere, hold up!” For the old man had slumped to the ground as the negro let go his arm. “Hey, Wandie! Tanuka!” he called to a couple of native servants.

“2!” said Sawyer booting the prone man in the ribs. “He’s a stiff un all right!”

“He’d dance a jig if you’d kiss him,” snapped the Australian, darting an ugly look at Sawyer. “Here,” he continued to the boys, “carry him on to my bed; and, Tanuka, get some hot water. Upesi!”

“What’re you trying to give us?” began Sawyer, shooting his chin.

But Plessons, ignoring him, had knelt down by the old man and taken off his hat.

“My God!” muttered Bodiker.

Then, stooping, he stared hard at the fellow’s face. The pupils of the eyes were inverted, and the sun-tanned skin, filthy with sweat and dirt, sagged upon the bony features and prominent nose. From the build of the frame he must have been a powerful man in health.

“Gosh, he looks mighty bad, doesn’t he?” remarked Bodiker, rising with a curious smile on his lips. “I’ll bet he never comes to.” Then quickly: “He hasn’t been able to say anything yet, has he, Plessons?”

“Yus, rarver. Didn’t I tell yer, Mr. Bodiker?” Bodiker stared, apparently anxious. “Sung us ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star!’ Don’t he look it? Here, I wonder what this is naow?”

He indicated a swelling beneath the left eye which resembled a pustule.

“And here’s another 2 lumme, he’s as full of ’em as a donkey’s full of ticks!”

“Plague?” queried Bodiker, moving backward accompanied by Sawyer.

“Plague me eye!” grumbled Plessons.

He rose as two natives came and, picking up the inert body, made for the bell tent.

“Say!” exclaimed Sawyer. “None of that! I ain’t goin’ to sleep in the tent wit’ that stiff. Maybe he’s got some kind of a plague like you said. Seen them guys in the Lazar2”

“Sleep in the ruddy bush then!” snapped Plessons over his shoulder.

“’S ’nough!” whispered Bodiker as Sawyer started truculently after them. “That isn’t the plague, man. Can’t be in the middle of Africa.”

As Sawyer hesitated, grumbling, came a hail from Tony Westlake reentering the zareba.

“Out of luck, Alick!” he called. “But say, who’s Plessons got there? Saw him coming in.”

Bodiker explained briefly, and they both followed across to the bell tent, where Plessons had already stripped the old man. His body was in a pitiable state; more emaciated than his companion the negro, and literally covered as closely as the measles with angry-looking pustules, some suppurating and emitting a horrible stench.

“Poor 2!” said Tony sympathetically. “I wonder who he is and how on earth he got in this mess.”

“Maybe he had his safari cut up,” suggested Plessons, “and he’s bin wanderin’ abaht with no food but berries and such like.”

“Think he’ll come round?”

“Dunno. Got a 2 of a temperature. Maybe it’s just fever. Ain’t blackwater anyhow. And them sores ain’t veld sores. Dunno what they are. The black fella’s got a lot too. Here, ol' man, have a drop o’ this?”

With some difficulty Plessons forced some brandy through the patient’s teeth.

“Oh, he’s a goner,” said Bodiker, watching him intently.

“Oh, I’ve seen fellows looking worse than that pull through,” returned Tony. “There, look!”

At Plessons’ second attempt the eyelids fluttered and followed a faint choking cough as the raw spirit stung the throat.

“That’s the boy!” exclaimed Plessons and fell to massaging over the heart with hot water, soap and permanganate.

Without remark Tony walked out and across to his own tent and presently came back with a small bottle of iodine; after dabbing some on the skinny forearm he stuck in a hypodermic needle.

“If he’s got fever that should bring down the temperature a bit,” he remarked.

“2, wish I’d thought of the needle,” muttered Bodiker as if to himself and, bending low, intently watched the face of the sick man, who indubitably was breathing regularly but faintly.

“You’d better go and ’ave chakula, Mr. Westlaike,” said Plessons. “I’ll look arter him, and if he comes to I’ll give yer a shout.”

“That’s a good idea,” assented Tony. “But say, where’s the nigger you brought in with him?”

“Told Tanuka ter give him some grub. Rummy go,” Plessons added. “Fella’s a Swahili—coast man, y’know, Mr. Westlaike. Must ha’ bin his servnt.”

“Well, I’ll have a look at him. Coming, Alick?”

“What’s the good?” said Bodiker sourly. “He’s dumb.”

Tony glanced at his partner, whose eyes were glued to the sick man’s face with a sharply inquiring expression as he went out.

The mutilated negro he found squatting on his hunkers in the bright moonlight by the camp-fire, the kitchen boys and porters staring at him half inquisitively, half superstitiously. The pustules on his face and body did not seem so far advanced as those of his white master’s.

“Habari gani? How’s things?” said Tony in the little Kiswahili he’d already picked up.

But neither the negro’s head nor his eyes moved in the slightest.

“Shenzie (savages) cut him ear,” explained Wandie, his personal boy, who spoke a little English.

“Good God, the swine!” ejaculated Tony and, bending, looked into the negro’s face.

Immediately the latter’s eyes gleamed, and he nodded his head as if approvingly, making an inarticulate noise, horrible to hear.

TONY returned to the camp table set beneath the big Mbuli tree where, lolling in a camp chair as if he owned the expedition, was Sawyer. Tony sat down and poured out a glass of whisky from the bottle placed on the table every evening just at sundown. Sawyer tentatively moved an empty glass in front of him, made a noise in his throat and said—

“Ain’t that big bum gone yet?”

“No. I think he’ll pull round,” answered Tony, lighting a cigaret.

“Kin I have a shot, Mr. Westlake?” Sawyer asked.

“Sure,” said Tony, pushing the bottle over to him and, noting the wetness of the empty glass, smiled slightly.

“Real stuff that!” stated Sawyer, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Feller needs a shot o’ hooch here, I guess.” A pause. “Say, Mr. Westlake!”

“Well?”

“You ain’t mad at me, are yer? Didn’t think I was gettin’ kind o’ fresh nor nothin’?”

“Oh, that’s all right, Sawyer,” replied Tony, giving the man one of his good-natured smiles. “A few months of this country’s liable to get anybody’s nerves on edge.”

“It sure is!” agreed Sawyer heartily. “Didn’t mean nothin’, Mr. Westlake.”

“Forget it. Hullo!” as a hail came from the bell tent.

He rose and hurried over. Sawyer followed him and stood silently at the back of the tent. Bodiker was standing at the head of the cot with a scowl on his face. The sick man’s eyes were open and staring bewilderedly up at Plessons by the light of the hurricane lantern slung to the pole.

“That’s all right, ol’ cock!” Plessons was saying cheerily. “We found yer with a black fella. Don’t you worry. We’ll fix yer.”

The feverish eyes wandered around to Tony and seemed disappointed. They closed momentarily as if in an effort at recollection.

“Don’t—understand,” he whispered faintly. “Where are the others?”

“What others? Your Swahili?” from Plessons.

“No—the men—who found us. You’re not2”

“Yes, yes,” urged Tony. “This man here found you.”

“No—no,” insisted the other peevishly. Then with a convulsive start and fright in his eyes—

“Where is it?”

“What?”

“The sack! The sack!”

“You hadn’t any sack. Had he, Plessons?”

“No; nothin’.”

“Where did you come from?” persisted Tony as the man stared as if in blank dismay.

“Why—I told you. Oh, God, where are they?”

“Who?”

Seemingly torn with mental anguish, the man tried to raise himself, but merely succeeded in twisting a little to one side. Then he caught a glimpse of Bodiker’s face staring down at him. Instantly Bodiker stood back. “See if another shot will do him good,” said he in a low voice and strode rapidly from the tent.

“That man—that man,” mumbled the old fellow frantically and strove again to rise.

“No, no; lie quietly,” urged Tony persuasively. “You’re mistaken. He can’t be any of the men. He’s been with us all the time.”

“Yes,” the old man insisted. “But—where are they?”

His eyes wandered piteously from one to the other.

“Where are what?”

“The sack—the stones—the letters?”

“He’s wandering I think,” whispered Tony. “Better try to get him to sleep a bit.”

The old fellow lay quiet, striving hard to control his mind. Then suddenly, as if summoning all his will power for a supreme effort, he struggled half up in bed and cried out clearly:

“They’ll never get the letters—nor the stones—and without they can’t know how to find them. They 2”

The sudden entry of Bodiker startled him. He stared wildly and muttered unintelligibly. Then his supporting skeleton arm collapsed and he fell back on the pillow gasping.

They saw his lips moving and bent to listen. Tony caught an agonized, “Too late!” and the body went limp and the light out of the eyes.

“He’s gone!” whispered Plessons.

“What did he say?” demanded Bodiker, and his voice was anxious. “Get any sense out of him?”

“No,” responded Tony. “Died before we could get what he was trying to say.”

Bodiker muttered something and queried, “Sure he’s dead?” peering doubtfully into the glazing eyes. “Better give him another shot—maybe bring him round,” he hastened to add.

“Ain’t no use,” said Plessons, “unless Peter’ll give him one!”

Bodiker still stared doubtfully. Then after touching the eyeballs he seemed satisfied.

“Phew!” he sighed, wiping the gouts of sweat from his brow. “Guess he won’t need—quinin after all!”

Chapter 2

II

“OH, THAT bird’s a dumbbell—dead from the neck up!” said Sawyer.

“Lumme!” snorted Plessons. “You might just as well have bin without a tongue for all the sense you talk!”

The Australian began anew trying to get some information out of the mutilated survivor; but as the African natives, unlike the American Indians, have never developed a sign language, little progress was made. One attempt, accompanied by throat noises, was the running of the fingers over the ground, ending in a jerk which the whites took to mean some animal rushing to spring upon its prey; another and the most frequently repeated, was the drawing by means of a knife of a circle in the earth into which he placed pebbles—which were rare in that country—or twigs.

“The old man,” argued Tony, “talked about stones which might mean diamonds, and also about somebody who will never get them nor the letters and won’t ever know where they came from.”

“H-huh,” grunted Bodiker noncommittally.

“Somethin’ like it,” agreed Plessons.

“Well, maybe he was a prospector and was coming out with a bunch of diamonds. Perhaps he knew he’d never live to get out, or in case he shouldn’t, wrote to his people. That’s about as far as I can get. But as for the circle stuff that’s got me beat. What d’you think, Alick?”

“Guess you’re right, Tony,” assented Bodiker suavely. “But can’t you think up what the circle might mean?”

“Bull!” contributed Sawyer.

“Might mean the place where he got ’em,” put in Plessons. “A vlei or somethin’ like that.”

“What’s a vlei?” inquired Tony.

“Small valley where yer might find blue clay.”

“Well, he might have meant a round kind of flat between hills?”

“Sure that’s it!” agreed Bodiker. “You’ve got the brains of the outfit, Tony!”

The native, who, squatting before them, had been watching the lips and the expressions of the white men, made another noise and, touching Tony on the knee, pointed toward the southwest.

“By the 2, I believe he understands English,” exclaimed Tony, “from reading the lips!”

Right then the man nodded and made a strangled grunt.

“He does! Say—” Tony bent toward him, pronouncing the words slowly—“are they—diamonds?”

The man looked puzzled. Plessons repeated the words in Kiswahili, receiving an energetic nod of assent.

Sawyer grunted and leaned forward, his small eyes gleaming. But Bodiker frowned swiftly.

“How many days?” queried Tony.

The native held up six fingers.

“Lordy, quite close! Ask him if it’s—what you said it might be, Plessons.”

But this time the man shook his head and pointed to his circle.

“Oh, well, that doesn’t matter,” said Tony. “Ask him if he’ll take us there.”

The man, making a hideous noise, shook his head and nodded and, touching Tony, pointed toward where his master lay buried.

“What in 2’s he getting at?” snapped Bodiker.

“Beats me,” said Tony as Plessons began talking in Kiswahili. “Perhaps he means, though, that we must see to the old man’s share—his heirs I guess.”

“Oh, to 2 wit’ that bird,” mumbled Sawyer unnoticed as Tony intently watched the conversation.

“Can’t maike aht what he’s arter,” reported Plessons. “Seems to s’y, ‘Yus’ and then, ‘No.’ ”

The man gave up making his gobbling noises and stared very shrewdly at each white in turn. After a prolonged regard he deliberately touched Tony and Plessons on their knees and nodded; then, indicating the other two, shook his head. The meaning was obvious; even Sawyer got it; yet Bodiker pretended he didn’t understand, murmuring—

“What does the fellow mean?”

“What’s he mean, the bonehead!” exclaimed Sawyer. “He’s all set to take them guys and not us! I should worry! I’ll soon fix him!”

That one of the deeper passions in the man’s makeup had been stirred was revealed by the wicked glitter in the eyes. But Bodiker laughed.

“Oh, you’ve got him all wrong, Sawyer,” said he smoothly. “He couldn’t have meant that, could he, Tony? Why, he’s never seen any of us before. All white men are alike to a nigger. D’you think he meant that, Tony?”

“Seems to,” admitted Tony reluctantly. “What d’you think, Plessons?”

“Very difficult to understand him,” returned the Australian. “Maybe the pore fella was just a-askin’ for some needle and thread to mend his trawsers.”

Sawyer snorted violently.

“Don’t try to be funny,” admonished Tony. “What d’you think he really means?”

The guide regarded the native and then looked slowly at Tony.

“It’s like this, Mr. Westlaike,” said he, regarding Tony all the time. “These here black fellas are rummy beggars. They kind o’ see things we can’t, and they has all sorts o’ rummy idees. Superstitions, y’ know. Maybe”—and his eyes twinkled—“he don’t taike a fancy ter Sawyer’s faice, or maybe he don’t taike ter Mr. Bodiker’s marf—and there yer are! Yer can’t do nohtin’ with him!”

“Huh!” exploded Sawyer savagely. “That bird’s got another think coming!”

“Tell him we’re partners,” said Tony, “and that we stick together.”

For answer the man pantomimed kicking a prostrate body. Sawyer swore and threatened to strike him.

“All right,” said Bodiker suavely. “That doesn’t matter. You two fellers can go ahead and grab the stuff and we’ll wait. Comes to the same thing in the end which of us two gets it; doesn’t it, Tony, old man? Say, you go right ahead and I’ll sit out this hand.”

“No,” said Tony, frowning at some secret implication. “I don’t like the idea. Besides, Alick, it’s your outfit.”

“Forget it,” said Bodiker.

“No, no,” insisted Tony obstinately as he rose. “The fellow who puts up the dough has the say-so.”

“But you and I are partners—fifty-fifty. Besides,” added Bodiker with a boisterous laugh, “if you go under I’ll get your share or if I die of boredom sitting around you’ll get mine. So what’s the odds?”

“Oh what’s the good of arguing?” retorted Tony. “I don’t like it; but whatever you say, Alick, goes.”

“Well, if we can’t get this fellow to be reasonable,” concluded Bodiker, smiling slyly, “you two go right ahead as I said, and we’ll wait.”

As Tony went off he told Plessons to take the man away, commenting—

“Maybe he’ll come to his senses tomorrow.”

“Say, Alick,” whispered Sawyer, husky with rage, “don’t let that sucker pull that stuff on yer! Gi’ me that nigger hobo and I’ll fix him good. He’ll come a-running when I’m through.”

“Shut your trap, you bonehead—and keep it shut,” admonished Bodiker sourly. Then he smiled slyly. “And iron out that mug of yours, Phil. Sit up and look pretty, 2 you! Don’t you know it’s my friend’s birthday?”

“Holy 2, that’s right!” exclaimed Sawyer, and grinned.

ON ACCOUNT of the delay incident to burying the old man the trek had not been far that day. In the Congo, where they had picked up the Australian, a trader who had been in the old days a hunter and prospector and now acted as their guide and interpreter, they had been disgusted to find another prohibition—one against shooting elephants without an expensive license which took the gilt off the profits; then, on the advice of an American explorer, who had hinted that in a certain district which had at one time been—on the map—German territory, were elephants innumerable and no inquisitive whites, they had trekked south.

Tony, his usual sunny smile in shadow, had retired to his cot a bit peeved. The native’s apparent cantankerousness seemed to promise to force him under another obligation to his partner. The latter’s tendency—well, if not to jeer was to be generally unpleasant, a tendency which Tony noticed had been steadily increasing since they had left civilization and had begun to make the agreements he had accepted extremely irksome. But it was his own fault, he told himself, for he should have known from army experience that the most congenial of fellows in a city may turn out to be a poor buddy in the field.

After all, Tony reflected, he hadn’t known much of Bodiker, who was about ten years his senior. He had been a college friend of his elder brother Harold, who had always been a rolling stone and during the war had been reported murdered by bandits in the interior of China.

A few months after the Armistice Tony had emerged from a hospital with a game leg and saw clearly that there would be little use for him in the States with no knowledge of a job. He was an orphan. True, he had a wealthy uncle who refused to play the usual rôle, and the nephew wasn’t made of the stuff to go bumming on relatives. Anyway old Silas Gunner’s money was to go to a cousin, Jack Gunner, a city man of domestic inclinations.

As a stop-gap while his leg was mending Tony secured a billet with the Graves Commission, a job which made his soul sick. Then, just when the itching of his feet had become intolerable, Alick Bodiker blew into Paris announcing that he was sailing for East Africa on an elephant-hunting trip, swore that Tony was the very man he’d been praying for, and when Tony disclosed the state of his bankroll, offered to put up expenses on a basis of fifty-fifty. Tony demurred at such generous terms; but Bodiker, with the aid of genuine White Label, had nearly wept on the other’s shoulder, saying that Harold had done him a mighty good turn and that he was tickled to death to have a chance to repay it to Harold’s brother.

Later Bodiker had proposed that Tony insure himself; but the latter had replied, laughing, that that was merely waste of good money. Bodiker agreed and suggested that as it wasn’t likely an elephant would get them both, they’d better make their wills in each other’s favor.

“Then if I go under, boy, it won’t leave you stranded,” he had added with an affectionate pat on the shoulder.

Tony eventually had accepted, thinking that Bodiker was one of the whitest men he’d ever met. Coming out on the boat, he had been the best of sports and Sawyer—by whom Bodiker swore as a good skate and thoroughly trustworthy—had, as a servant, remained in the second class. Yet ever since leaving the railhead Bodiker had developed that nagging, jeering spirit—nothing in itself; but like a burr in the stocking day and night it began to get on his nerves. The feeling was intensified by the sense of obligation which hobbled any efficacious comebacks. More exasperating, too, was the fact that Sawyer followed his master’s lead.

Now as he lay musing Tony bitterly regretted the generous terms. The mutilated native’s arbitary choice would, he feared, despite Bodiker’s easy acceptance, aggravate the situation.

Tony was nobody’s fool; but, generous and good-natured to a fault, he was too apt, in spite of experience, to take a man as being as straight as himself until, as the law is supposed to do, he was proven otherwise. But what motive Bodiker had he could not guess; merely apparently the man’s temperament coming out at the contact with the primitive. However, a rational explanation of how a wound is caused doesn’t take much of the suffering away.

HIS dismal musings were disturbed by Wandie, his boy, calling him for the usual sundown peg, an institution carefully—even by Bodiker—limited ostensibly to one drink only. As Tony advanced to the table Bodiker called out boisterously:

“Come on, ol’ sourdough, and take a shot to waken you up!”

A second look, followed by a swift glance from the Australian, confirmed the suspicion that both Bodiker and Sawyer had taken more than the usual sundowner. Tony sat and drank his peg. Bodiker poured out for the other three, saying—

“We’ll just have another one on you, Tony!”

And he stood up with a sly smile followed by Sawyer, grinning.

“Come on, Plessons!” urged Bodiker; and to Tony’s amazement, but evidently for courtesy’s sake, Plessons obeyed. “Now, Anthony Gunner Westlake, here’s congratulations and a long life!”

“Long and as rich as a bootlegger’s!” said Sawyer, grinning widely.

“But—what—I don’t understand,” began Tony.

“Don’t you know the date?”

“Er—October, isn’t it?”

“Holy 2, he fergets his own date!” shouted Sawyer.

“The twenty-seventh!” reminded Bodiker. “Your birthday, man!”

“Oh, sure; that’s right,” agreed Tony, feeling a trifle embarrassed. “Thanks very much!”

They drank and sat down. Bodiker yelled for food. When the table was set Tanuka appeared with another bottle of whisky and two of champagne. Again Tony caught Plessons’ eye and had a hunch that if they drank something would get started. Yet what could he do? He wasn’t in command.

“Too hot to drink much, Alick,” he suggested quietly. “Let’s halve it?”

“Oh don’t give us that apple sauce!” laughed Bodiker.

“Sing yer pussyfoot song!” urged Sawyer insolently.

“Don’t feel in song tonight,” returned Tony amicably.

“Thank 2 for great mercies!” sneered Bodiker.

Now to men unaccustomed to liquor a few drinks in an equatorial climate may have a rapid effect; already Sawyer’s eyes in the light of the hurricane lamp were slightly wild and his features tougher than usual. Bodiker showed too an unnecessary loudness of voice. And champagne and whisky do not mix well.

The swollen African moon crept over the forest edge, killing the lantern light to a mere yellow leaf. Afar rose an occasional irritable yapping of jackals. From the group of porters around the smoky cooking fires the hum of chatter blended with the nocturnal chant of the mosquitoes.

The meal passed without any rupture, due to the restraint of Tony, who was resolutely determined not to quarrel. But the gaseous wine on top of the whisky was working on Sawyer; he began to address even more openly insolent remarks, and Tony’s policy of ignoring him infuriated him the more. As the coffee was brought he interrupted Plessons, who was talking about the trail, a topic introduced purposely by Tony to sidetrack the dangerous subject of the dumb Swahili.

“Huh! Guess you think ye’re a wise guy, Tony?”

Tony was aware of the slightly bloodshot eyes boring into him and the aggressive hunch of the massive shoulders; he was conscious too that his own fingers were shaking with nervous irritation; but he smiled at Bodiker, who had quieted down and was being as amiable as he knew how to be, saying apropos of Plessons’ remark:

“I think Plessons is right, Alick. Anyway he knows2”

“Bugs on the dood stuff, ain’t yer, Tony?” butted in Sawyer again.

“Quit it,” said Bodiker to him sharply.

“What’s eatin’ youse?” growled Sawyer, glaring at him.

“Now that’ll be all, Dutchy,” snapped Bodiker angrily, laying his fingers on the man’s arm.