Mr. Pottle thought it best not to climb the _mei_-tree that evening; he
returned hastily to his cave, and finished up the breakfast cocoanut.
Over a pipe he thought. He was pleased, thrilled by his sight of a
cannibal; but he was not wholly satisfied. He had thought it would be
enough for him to get one fleeting glimpse of an undoubted man-eater in
his native state, but it wasn't. Before he left the Isle of O-pip-ee he
wanted to see the whole tribe in a wild dance about a bubbling pot.
Tiki Tiu's schooner might come on the morrow. He must act.
He crept out of the cave and stood in the moonlight, breathing the
perfume of the jungle, feeling the cool night air, hearing the mellow
notes of the Polynesian nightingale. Adventure beckoned to him. He
started in the direction Mealy-mealy had run.
At first he progressed on tiptoes, then he sank to all fours, and
crawled along slowly, pig-wise. On, on he went; he must have crept more
than a mile when a sound stopped him--a sound he had heard before. It
was faint, yet it seemed near: it was the sound of some primitive
musical instrument blending with the low notes of a tribal chant. It
seemed to come from a sheltered hollow not two dozen yards ahead.
He crouched down among the ferns and listened. The chant was crooned
softly in a deep voice, and to the straining ears of Mr. Pottle it
seemed vaguely familiar, like a song heard in dreams. The words came
through the thick tangle of jungle weeds:
"Eeet slon ay a teep a ari."
Mr. Pottle, fascinated, wiggled forward to get a look at the tribe. Like
a snake, he made his tortuous approach. The singing continued; he saw a
faint glow through the foliage--the campfire. He eased himself to the
crest of a little hummock, pushed aside a great fern leaf and looked.
Sitting comfortably in a steamer-chair was Mealy-mealy. In his big brown
hands was a shiny banjo at which he plucked gently. Near his elbow food
with a familiar smell bubbled in an aluminum dish over a trim
canned-heat outfit; an empty baked-bean can with a gaudy label lay
beside it. From time to time Mealy-mealy glanced idly at a pink
periodical popular in American barber-shops. The song he sang to himself
burst intelligibly on Mr. Pottle's ears--
"It's a long way to Tipperary."
Mealy-mealy stopped; his eye had fallen on the staring eyes of Mr.
Pottle. He caught up his ax and was about to swing it when Mr. Pottle
stood up, stepped into the circle of light, pointed an accusing finger
at Mealy-mealy and said:
"Are you a cannibal?"
Mealy-mealy's ax and jaw dropped.
"What the devil are you?" he sputtered in perfect American.
"I'm a barber from Ohio," said Mr. Pottle.
Mealy-mealy emitted a sudden whooping roar of laughter.
"So am I," he said.
Mr. Pottle collapsed limply into the steamer-chair.
"What's your name?" he asked in a weak voice.
"Bert Lee, head barber at the Schmidt House, Bucyrus, Ohio," said the
big man. He slapped his fat, bare chest. "Me--Lee," he said, and laughed
till the jungle echoed.
"Did you read 'Green Isles, Brown Man-Eaters, and a White Man'?" asked
Mr. Pottle, feebly.
"Yes."
"I'd like to meet the man who wrote it," said Mr. Pottle.