For the last time in his life the supercargo of the _Wonder_ perpetrated
a practical joke on a native. He was in the main cabin, checking off the
list of goods being landed in the whaleboats, when Koho limped down the
com-panionway and took a seat opposite him at the table.
“Close up me die along altogether,” was the burden of the old chief's
plaint. All the delights of the flesh had forsaken him. “Me no like
'm Mary. Me no like 'm _kai-kai_. Me too much sick fella. Me close up
finish.” A long, sad pause, in which his face expressed unutterable
concern for his stomach, which he patted gingerly and with an assumption
of pain. “Belly belong me too much sick.” Another pause, which was an
invitation to Denby to make suggestions. Then followed a long, weary,
final sigh, and a “Me like 'm rum.”
Denby laughed heartlessly. He had been cadged for drinks before by the
old cannibal, and the sternest _tambo_ Grief and McTavish had laid down
was the one forbidding alcohol to the natives of New Gibbon.
The trouble was that Koho had acquired the taste. In his younger days
he had learned the delights of drunkenness when he cut off the schooner
_Dorset_, but unfortunately he had learned it along with all his
tribesmen, and the supply had not held out long. Later, when he led his
naked warriors down to the destruction of the German plantation, he was
wiser, and he appropriated all the liquors for his sole use. The result
had been a gorgeous mixed drunk, on a dozen different sorts of drink,
ranging from beer doctored with quinine to absinthe and apricot brandy.
The drunk had lasted for months, and it had left him with a thirst that
would remain with him until he died. Predisposed toward alcohol, after
the way of savages, all the chemistry of his flesh clamoured for it.
This craving was to him expressed in terms of tingling and sensation, of
maggots crawling warmly and deliciously in his brain, of good feeling,
and well being, and high exultation. And in his barren old age, when
women and feasting were a weariness, and when old hates had smouldered
down, he desired more and more the revivifying fire that came liquid out
of bottles--out of all sorts of bottles--for he remembered them well.
He would sit in the sun for hours, occasionally drooling, in mournful
contemplation of the great orgy which had been his when the German
plantation was cleaned out.
Denby was sympathetic. He sought out the old chief's symptoms and
offered him dyspeptic tablets from the medicine chest, pills, and
a varied assortment of harmless tabloids and capsules. But Koho
steadfastly declined. Once, when he cut the _Dorset_ off, he had bitten
through a capsule of quinine; in addition, two of his warriors had
partaken of a white powder and laid down and died very violently in a
very short time. No; he did not believe in drugs. But the liquids from
bottles, the cool-flaming youth-givers and warm-glowing dream-makers. No
wonder the white men valued them so highly and refused to dispense them.
“Rum he good fella,” he repeated over and over, plaintively and with the
weary patience of age.
And then Denby made his mistake and played his joke. Stepping around
behind Koho, he unlocked the medicine closet and took out a four-ounce
bottle labelled _essence of mustard_. As he made believe to draw the
cork and drink of the contents, in the mirror on the for'ard bulkhead he
glimpsed Koho, twisted half around, intently watching him. Denby smacked
his lips and cleared his throat appreciatively as he replaced the
bottle. Neglecting to relock the medicine closet, he returned to his
chair, and, after a decent interval, went on deck. He stood beside the
companionway and listened. After several moments the silence below was
broken by a fearful, wheezing, propulsive, strangling cough. He smiled
to himself and returned leisurely down the companionway. The bottle was
back on the shelf where it belonged, and the old man sat in the same
position. Denby marvelled at his iron control. Mouth and lips and
tongue, and all sensitive membranes, were a blaze of fire. He gasped
and nearly coughed several times, while involuntary tears brimmed in
his eyes and ran down his cheeks. An ordinary man would have coughed and
strangled for half an hour. But old Koho's face was grimly composed. It
dawned on him that a trick had been played, and into his eyes came an
expression of hatred and malignancy so primitive, so abysmal, that it
sent the chills up and down Denby's spine. Koho arose proudly.
“Me go along,” he said. “You sing out one fella boat stop along me.”