BONES CHANGES HIS RELIGION
Captain Hamilton of the King's Houssas had two responsibilities in life,
a sister and a subaltern.
The sister's name was Patricia Agatha, the subaltern had been born
Tibbetts, christened Augustus, and named by Hamilton in his arbitrary
way, "Bones."
Whilst sister and subaltern were separated from one another by some
three thousand miles of ocean--as far, in fact, as the Coast is from
Bradlesham Thorpe in the County of Hampshire--Captain Hamilton bore his
responsibilities without displaying a sense of the burden.
When Patricia Hamilton decided on paying a visit to her brother she did
so with his heartiest approval, for he did not realize that in bringing
his two responsibilities face to face he was not only laying the
foundation of serious trouble, but was actually engaged in erecting the
fabric.
Pat Hamilton had come and had been boisterously welcomed by her brother
one white-hot morning, Houssas in undress uniform lining the beach and
gazing solemnly upon Militini's riotous joy. Mr. Commissioner Sanders,
C.M.G., had given her a more formal welcome, for he was a little scared
of women. Bones, as we know, had not been present--which was unfortunate
in more ways than one.
It made matters no easier for the wretched Bones that Miss Hamilton was
an exceedingly lovely lady. Men who live for a long time in native lands
and see little save beautiful figures displayed without art and with
very little adornment, are apt to regard any white woman with regular
features as pretty, when the vision comes to them after a long interval
spent amidst native people. But it needed neither contrast nor
comparison to induce an admiration for Captain Hamilton's sister.
She was of a certain Celtic type, above the medium height, with the
freedom of carriage and gait which is the peculiar possession of her
country-women. Her face was a true oval, and her complexion of that kind
which tans readily but does not freckle.
Eyes and mouth were firm and steadfast; she was made for ready laughter,
yet she was deep enough, and in eyes and mouth alike you read a
tenderness beyond disguise. She had a trinity of admirers: her brother's
admiration was natural and critical; Sanders admired and feared;
Lieutenant Tibbetts admired and resented.
From the moment when Bones strode off after the painful discovery, had
slammed the door of his hut and had steadfastly declined all manner of
food and sustenance, he had voluntarily cut himself off from his kind.
He met Hamilton on parade the following morning, hollow-eyed (as he
hoped) after a sleepless night, and there was nothing in his attitude
suggestive of the deepest respect and the profoundest regard for that
paragraph of King's Regulations which imposes upon the junior officer a
becoming attitude of humility in the presence of his superior officer.
"How is your head, Bones?" asked Hamilton, after the parade had been
dismissed.
"Thank you, sir," said Bones bitterly--though why he should be bitter at
the kindly inquiry only he knew--"thank you, sir, it is about the same.
My temperature is--or was--up to one hundred and four, and I have been
delirious. I wouldn't like to say, dear old--sir, that I'm not nearly
delirious now."
"Come up to tiffin," invited Hamilton.
Bones saluted--a sure preliminary to a dramatic oration.
"Sir," he said firmly, "you've always been a jolly old officer to me
before this contretemps wrecked my young life--but I shall never be
quite the same man again, sir."
"Don't be an ass," begged Hamilton.
"Revile me, sir," said Bones dismally; "give me a dangerous mission, one
of those jolly old adventures where a feller takes his life in one
hand, his revolver in the other, but don't ask me----"
"My sister wants to see you," said Hamilton, cutting short the flow of
eloquence.
"Ha, ha!" laughed Bones hollowly, and strode into his hut.
"And what I'm going to do with him, Heaven knows," groaned Hamilton at
tiffin. "The fact is, Pat, your arrival on the scene has thoroughly
demoralized him."
The girl folded her serviette and walked to the window, and stood
looking out over the yellow stretch of the deserted parade-ground.
"I'm going to call on Bones," she said suddenly.
"Poor Bones!" murmured Sanders.
"That's very rude!" She took down her solar helmet from the peg behind
the door and adjusted it carefully. Then she stepped through the open
door, whistling cheerfully.
"I hope you don't mind, sir," apologized Hamilton, "but we've never
succeeded in stopping her habit of whistling."
Sanders laughed.
"It would be strange if she didn't whistle," he said cryptically.
Bones was lying on his back, his hands behind his head. A half-emptied
tin of biscuits, no less than the remnants of a box of chocolates,
indicated that anchorite as he was determined to be, his austerity did
not run in the direction of starvation.
His mind was greatly occupied by a cinematograph procession of
melancholy pictures. Perhaps he would go away, far, far, into the
interior. Even into the territory of the great king where a man's life
is worth about five cents net. And as day by day passed and no news came
of him--as how could it when his habitation was marked by a cairn of
stones?--she would grow anxious and unhappy. And presently messengers
would come bringing her a few poor trinkets he had bequeathed to her--a
wrist-watch, a broken sword, a silver cigarette-case dented with the
arrow that slew him--and she would weep silently in the loneliness of
her room.
And perhaps he would find strength to send a few scrawled words asking
for her pardon, and the tears would well up in her beautiful grey
eyes--as they were already welling in Bones's eyes at the picture he
drew--and she would know--all.
"Phweet!"
Or else, maybe he would be stricken down with fever, and she would want
to come and nurse him, but he would refuse.
"Tell her," he would say weakly, but oh, so bravely, "tell her ... I ask
only ... her pardon."
"Phweet!"
Bones heard the second whistle. It came from the open window immediately
above his head. A song bird was a rare visitor to these parts, but he
was too lazy and too absorbed to look up.
Perhaps (he resumed) she would never see him again, never know the deep
sense of injustice....
"Phwee--et!"
It was clearer and more emphatic, and he half turned his head to
look----
He was on his feet in a second, his hand raised to his damp forehead,
for leaning on the window sill, her lips pursed for yet another whistle,
was the lady of his thoughts.
She met his eyes sternly.
"Come outside--misery!" she said, and Bones gasped and obeyed.
"What do you mean," she demanded, "by sulking in your wretched little
hut when you ought to be crawling about on your hands and knees begging
my pardon?"
Bones said nothing.
"Bones," said this outrageous girl, shaking her head reprovingly, "you
want a jolly good slapping!"
Bones extended his bony wrist.
"Slap!" he said defiantly.
He had hardly issued the challenge when a very firm young palm, driven
by an arm toughened by a long acquaintance with the royal and ancient
game, came "Smack!" and Bones winced.
"Play the game, dear old Miss Hamilton," he said, rubbing his wrist.
"Play the game yourself, dear old Bones," she mimicked him. "You ought
to be ashamed of yourself----"
"Let bygones be bygones, jolly old Miss Hamilton," begged Bones
magnanimously. "And now that I see you're a sport, put it there, if it
weighs a ton."
And he held out his nobbly hand and caught the girl's in a grip that
made her grimace.
Five minutes later he was walking her round the married quarters of his
Houssas, telling her the story of his earliest love affair. She was an
excellent listener, and seldom interrupted him save to ask if there was
any insanity in his family, or whether the girl was short-sighted; in
fact, as Bones afterwards said, it might have been Hamilton himself.
"What on earth are they finding to talk about?" wondered Sanders,
watching the confidences from the depths of a big cane chair on the
verandah.
"Bones," replied Hamilton lazily, "is telling her the story of his life
and how he saved the territories from rebellion. He's also begging her
not to breathe a word of this to me for fear of hurting my feelings."
At that precise moment Bones was winding up a most immodest recital of
his accomplishments with a less immodest footnote.
"Of course, dear old Miss Hamilton," he was saying, lowering his voice,
"I shouldn't like a word of this to come to your jolly old brother's
ears. He's an awfully good sort, but naturally in competition with an
agile mind like mine, understanding the native as I do, he hasn't an
earthly----"
"Why don't you write the story of your adventures?" she asked
innocently. "It would sell like hot cakes."
Bones choked with gratification.
"Precisely my idea--oh, what a mind you've got! What a pity it doesn't
run in the family! I'll tell you a precious secret--not a word to
anybody--honest?"
"Honest," she affirmed.
Bones looked round.
"It's practically ready for the publisher," he whispered, and stepped
back to observe the effect of his words.
She shook her head in admiration, her eyes were dancing with delight,
and Bones realized that here at last he had met a kindred soul.
"It must be awfully interesting to write books," she sighed. "I've
tried--but I can never invent anything."
"Of course, in my case----" corrected Bones.
"I suppose you just sit down with a pen in your hand and imagine all
sorts of things," she mused, directing her feet to the Residency.
"This is the story of my life," explained Bones earnestly. "Not
fiction ... but all sorts of adventures that actually happened."
"To whom?" she asked.
"To me," claimed Bones, louder than was necessary.
"Oh!" she said.
"Don't start 'Oh-ing,'" said Bones in a huff. "If you and I are going to
be good friends, dear old Miss Hamilton, don't say 'Oh!'"
"Don't be a bully, Bones." She turned on him so fiercely that he shrank
back.
"Play the game," he said feebly; "play the game, dear old sister!"
She led him captive to the stoep and deposited him in the easiest chair
she could find.
From that day he ceased to be anything but a slave, except on one point.
The question of missions came up at tiffin, and Miss Hamilton revealed
the fact that she favoured the High Church and held definite views on
the clergy.
Bones confessed that he was a Wesleyan.
"Do you mean to tell me that you're a Nonconformist?" she asked
incredulously.
"That's my dinky little religion, dear old Miss Hamilton," said Bones.
"I'd have gone into the Church only I hadn't enough--enough----"
"Brains?" suggested Hamilton.
"Call is the word," said Bones. "I wasn't called--or if I was I was
out--haw-haw! That's a rippin' little bit of persiflage, Miss Hamilton?"
"Be serious, Bones," said the girl; "you mustn't joke about things."
She put him through a cross-examination to discover the extent of his
convictions. In self-defence Bones, with only the haziest idea of the
doctrine he defended, summarily dismissed certain of Miss Hamilton's
most precious beliefs.
"But, Bones," she persisted, "if I asked you to change----"
Bones shook his head.
"Dear old friend," he said solemnly, "there are two things I'll never
do--alter the faith of my distant but happy youth, or listen to one
disparagin' word about the jolliest old sister that ever----"
"That will do, Bones," she said, with dignity. "I can see that you don't
like me as I thought you did--what do you think, Mr. Sanders?"
Sanders smiled.
"I can hardly judge--you see," he added apologetically, "I'm a Wesleyan
too."
"Oh!" said Patricia, and fled in confusion.
Bones rose in silence, crossed to his chief and held out his hand.
"Brother," he said brokenly.
"What the devil are you doing?" snarled Sanders.
"Spoken like a true Christian, dear old Excellency and sir," murmured
Bones. "We'll bring her back to the fold."
He stepped nimbly to the door, and the serviette ring that Sanders threw
with unerring aim caught his angular shoulder as he vanished.
That same night Sanders had joyful news to impart. He came into the
Residency to find Bones engaged in mastering the art of embroidery under
the girl's tuition.
Sanders interrupted what promised to be a most artistic execution.
"Who says a joy-ride to the upper waters of the Isisi?"
Hamilton jumped up.
"Joy-ride?" he said, puzzled.
Sanders nodded.
"We leave to-morrow for the Lesser Isisi to settle a religious
palaver--Bucongo of the Lesser Isisi is getting a little too
enthusiastic a Christian, and Ahmet has been sending some queer reports.
I've been putting off the palaver for weeks, but Administration says it
has no objection to my making a picnic of duty--so we'll all go."
"Tri-umph!" said Hamilton. "Bones, leave your needlework and go overhaul
the stores."
Bones, kneeling on a chair, his elbows on the table, looked up.
"As jolly old Francis Drake said when the Spanish Armada----"
"To the stores, you insubordinate beggar!" commanded Hamilton, and Bones
made a hurried exit.
The accommodation of the _Zaire_ was limited, but there was the launch,
a light-draught boat which was seldom used except for tributary work.
"I could put Bones in charge of the _Wiggle_," he said, "but he'd be
pretty sure to smash her up. Miss Hamilton will have my cabin, and you
and I could take the two smaller cabins."
Bones, to whom it was put, leapt at the suggestion, brushing aside all
objections. They were answered before they were framed.
As for the girl, she was beside herself with joy.
"Will there be any fighting?" she asked breathlessly. "Shall we be
attacked?"
Sanders shook his head smilingly.
"All you have to do," said Bones confidently, "is to stick to me. Put
your faith in old Bones. When you see the battle swayin' an' it isn't
certain which way it's goin', look for my jolly old banner wavin' above
the stricken field."
"And be sure it _is_ his banner," interrupted Hamilton, "and not his
large feet. Now the last time we had a fight...."
And he proceeded to publish and utter a scandalous libel, Bones
protesting incoherently the while.
The expedition was on the point of starting when Hamilton took his
junior aside.
"Bones," he said, not unkindly, "I know you're a whale of a navigator,
and all that sort of thing, and my sister, who has an awfully keen sense
of humour, would dearly love to see you at the helm of the _Wiggle_, but
as the Commissioner wants to make a holiday, I think it would be best if
you left the steering to one of the boys."
Bones drew himself up stiffly.
"Dear old officer," he said aggrieved, "I cannot think that you wish to
speak disparagingly of my intelligence----"
"Get that silly idea out of your head," said Hamilton. "That is just
what I'm trying to do."
"I'm under your jolly old orders, sir," Bones said with the air of an
early Christian martyr, "and according to Paragraph 156 of King's
Regulations----"
"Don't let us go into that," said Hamilton. "I'm not giving you any
commands, I'm merely making a sensible suggestion. Of course, if you
want to make an ass of yourself----"
"I have never had the slightest inclination that way, cheery old sir,"
said Bones, "and I'm not likely at my time of life to be influenced by
my surroundings."
He saluted again and made his way to the barracks. Bones had a
difficulty in packing his stores. In truth they had all been packed
before he reached the _Wiggle_, and to an unprofessional eye they were
packed very well indeed, but Bones had them turned out and packed _his_
way. When that was done, and it was obvious to the meanest intelligence
that the _Wiggle_ was in terrible danger of capsizing before she
started, the stores were unshipped and rearranged under the directions
of the fuming Hamilton.
When the third packing was completed, the general effect bore a
striking resemblance to the position of the stores as Bones had found
them when he came to the boat. When everybody was ready to start, Bones
remembered that he had forgotten his log-book, and there was another
wait.
"Have you got everything now?" asked Sanders wearily, leaning over the
rail.
"Everything, sir," said Bones, with a salute to his superior, and a
smile to the girl.
"Have you got your hot-water bottle and your hair-curlers?" demanded
Hamilton offensively.
Bones favoured him with a dignified stare, made a signal to the
engineer, and the _Wiggle_ started forward, as was her wont, with a jerk
which put upon Bones the alternative of making a most undignified sprawl
or clutching a very hot smoke-stack. He chose the latter, recovered his
balance with an easy grace, punctiliously saluted the tiny flag of the
_Zaire_ as he whizzed past her, and under the very eyes of Hamilton,
with all the calmness in the world, took the wheel from the steersman's
hand and ran the _Wiggle_ ashore.
All this he did in the brief space of three minutes.
"And," said Hamilton, exasperated to a degree, "if you'd only broken
your infernal head, the accident would have been worth it."
It took half an hour for the _Wiggle_ to get afloat again. She had run
up the beach, and it was necessary to unload the stores, carry them back
to the quay and reload her again.
"_Now_ are you ready?" said Sanders.
"Ay, ay, sir," said Bones, abased but nautical.
* * * * *
Bucongo, the chief of the Lesser Isisi folk, had a dispute with his
brother-in-law touching a certain matter which affected his honour. It
affected his life eventually, since his relative was found one morning
dead of a spear-thrust. This Sanders discovered after the big trial
which followed certain events described hereafter.
The brother-in-law in his malice had sworn that Bucongo held communion
with devils. It is a fact that Bucongo had, at an early age, been
captured by Catholic missionaries, and had spent an uncomfortable youth
mastering certain mysterious rites and ceremonies. His brother-in-law
had been in the blessed service of another missionary who taught that
God lived in the river, and that to fully benefit by his ju-ju it was
necessary to be immersed in the flowing stream.
Between the water-God men and the cross-God men there was ever a feud,
each speaking disparagingly of the other, though converts to each creed
had this in common, that neither understood completely the faith into
which they were newly admitted. The advantage lay with the Catholic
converts because they were given a pewter medal with hearts and sunlike
radiations engraved thereon (this medal was admittedly a cure for
toothache and pains in the stomach), whilst the Protestants had little
beyond a mysterious something that they referred to as A'lamo--which
means Grace.
But when taunted by their medal-flaunting rivals and challenged to
produce this "Grace," they were crestfallen and ashamed, being obliged
to admit that A'lamo was an invisible magic which (they stoutly
affirmed) was nevertheless an excellent magic, since it preserved one
from drowning and cured warts and boils.
Bucongo, the most vigorous partisan of the cross-God men, and an
innovator of ritual, found amusement in watching the Baptist
missionaries standing knee-deep in the river washing the souls of the
converts.
He had even been insolent to young Ferguson, the earnest leader of the
American Baptist Mission, and to his intense amazement had been suddenly
floored with a left-hander delivered by the sometime Harvard middle
weight.
He carried his grievance and a lump on his jaw to Mr. Commissioner
Sanders, who had arrived at the junction of the Isisi and the N'gomi
rivers and was holding his palaver, and Sanders had been unsympathetic.
"Go worship your God in peace," said Sanders, "and let all other men
worship theirs; and say no evil word to white men for these are very
quick to anger. Also it is unbecoming that a black man should speak
scornfully to his masters."
"Lord," said Bucongo, "in heaven all men are as one, black or white."
"In heaven," said Sanders, "we will settle that palaver, but here on the
river we hold our places by our merits. To-morrow I come to your village
to inquire into certain practices of which the God-men know
nothing--this palaver is finished."
Now Bucongo was something more than a convert. He was a man of singular
intelligence and of surprising originality. He had been a lay missioner
of the Church, and had made many converts to a curious religion, the
ritual of which was only half revealed to the good Jesuit fathers when
at a great palaver which Bucongo summoned to exhibit his converts, the
Church service was interspersed with the sacrifice of a goat and a weird
procession and dance which left the representative of The Order
speechless. Bucongo was called before a conference of the Mission and
reprimanded.
He offered excuses, but there was sufficient evidence to prove that this
enthusiastic Christian had gone systematically to work, to found what
amounted to a religion of his own.
The position was a little delicate, and any other Order than the Jesuits
might have hesitated to tackle a reform which meant losing a very large
membership.
The fate of Bucongo's congregation had been decided when, in his anger,
he took canoe, and travelling for half a day, came to the principal
Mission.
Father Carpentier, full-bearded, red of face and brawny of arm, listened
in the shade of his hut, pulling thoughtfully at a long pipe.
"And so, Pentini," concluded Bucongo, "even Sandi puts shame upon me
because I am a cross-God man, and he by all accounts is of the water-God
ju-ju."
The father eyed this perturbed sheep of his flock thoughtfully.
"O Bucongo," he said gently, "in the river lands are many beasts. Those
which fly and which swim; those that run swiftly and that hide in the
earth. Now who of these is right?"
"Lord, they are all right but are of different ways," said Bucongo.
Father Carpentier nodded.
"Also in the forest are two ants--one who lives in tree nests, and one
who has a home deep in the ground. They are of a kind, and have the same
business. Yet God put it into the little heads of one to climb trees,
and of the other to burrow deeply. Both are right and neither are wrong,
save when the tree ant meets the ground ant and fights him. Then both
are wrong."
The squatting Bucongo rose sullenly.
"Master," he said, "these mysteries are too much for a poor man. I think
I know a better ju-ju, and to him I go."
"You have no long journey, Chief," said the father sternly, "for they
tell me stories of ghost dances in the forest and a certain Bucongo who
is the leader of these--and of a human sacrifice. Also of converts who
are branded with a cross of hot iron."
The chief looked at his sometime tutor with face twisted and puckered
with rage, and turning without a word, walked back to his canoe.
The next morning Father Carpentier sent a messenger to Sanders bearing
an urgent letter, and Sanders read the closely written lines with a
troubled frown.
He put down the letter and came out on to the deck, to find Hamilton
fishing over the side of the steamer. Hamilton looked round.
"Anything wrong?" he asked quickly.
"Bucongo of the Lesser Isisi is wrong," said Sanders. "I have heard of
his religious meetings and have been a little worried--there will be a
big ju-ju palaver or I'm very much mistaken. Where is Bones?"
"He has taken my sister up the creek--Bones says there are any number of
egrets' nests there, and I believe he is right."
Sanders frowned again.
"Send a canoe to fetch him back," he said. "That is Bucongo's territory,
and I don't trust the devil."
"Which one--Bones or Bucongo?" asked Hamilton innocently.
But Sanders was not feeling humorous.
* * * * *
At that precise moment Bones was sitting before the most fantastic
religious assembly that ecclesiastic or layman had ever attended.
Fate and Bones had led the girl through a very pleasant forest
glade--they left the light-draught _Wiggle_ half a mile down stream
owing to the shoals which barred their progress, and had come upon
Bucongo in an exalted moment.
With the assurance that he was doing no more than intrude upon one of
those meetings which the missionizing Chief of the Lesser Isisi so
frequently held, Bones stood on the outer fringe of the circle which sat
in silence to watch an unwilling novitiate getting acquainted with
Bucongo's god.
The novice was a girl, and she lay before an altar of stones surmounted
by a misshapen _beti_ who glared with his one eye upon the devout
gathering. The novice lay rigid, for the excellent reason that she was
roped foot and hands to two pegs in the ground.
Before the altar itself was a fire of wood in which two irons were
heating.
Bones did not take this in for a moment, for he was gazing open-mouthed
at Bucongo. On his head was an indubitable mitre, but around the mitre
was bound a strip of skin from which was suspended a circle of dangling
monkey tails. For cope he wore a leopard's robe. His face was streaked
red with camwood, and around his eyes he had painted two white circles.
He was in the midst of a frenzied address when the two white visitors
came upon the scene, and his hand was outstretched to take the red
branding-iron when the girl at Bones's side, with a little gasp of
horror, broke into the circle, and wrenching the rough iron from the
attendant's hand, flung it towards the circle of spectators, which
widened in consequence.
"How dare you--how dare you!" she demanded breathlessly, "you
horrible-looking man!"
Bucongo glared at her but said nothing; then he turned to meet Bones.
In that second of time Bucongo had to make a great decision, and to
overcome the habits of a lifetime. Training and education to the
dominion of the white man half raised his hand to the salute; something
that boiled and bubbled madly and set his shallow brain afire, something
that was of his ancestry, wild, unreasoning, brutish, urged other
action. Bones had his revolver half drawn when the knobbly end of the
chief's killing-spear struck him between the eyes, and he went down on
his knees.
Thus it came about, that he found himself sitting before Bucongo, his
feet and hands tied with native grass, with the girl at his side in no
better case.
She was very frightened, but this she did not show. She had the
disadvantage of being unable to understand the light flow of offensive
badinage which passed between her captor and Bones.
"O Tibbetti," said Bucongo, "you see me as a god--I have finished with
all white men."
"Soon we shall finish with you, Bucongo," said Bones.
"I cannot die, Tibbetti," said the other with easy confidence, "that is
the wonderful thing."
"Other men have said that," said Bones in the vernacular, "and their
widows are wives again and have forgotten their widowhood."
"This is a new ju-ju, Tibbetti," said Bucongo, a strange light in his
eyes. "I am the greatest of all cross-God men, and it is revealed to me
that many shall follow me. Now you and the woman shall be the first of
all white people to bear the mark of Bucongo the Blessed. And in the
days to be you shall bare your breasts and say, 'Bucongo the Wonderful
did this with his beautiful hands.'"
Bones was in a cold sweat and his mouth was dry. He scarcely dare look
at the girl by his side.
"What does he say?" she asked in a low voice. Bones hesitated, and then
haltingly he stammered the translation of the threat.
She nodded.
"O Bucongo," said Bones, with a sudden inspiration, "though you do evil,
I will endure. But this you shall do and serve me. Brand me alone upon
the chest, and upon the back. For if we be branded separately we are
bound to one another, and you see how ugly this woman is with her thin
nose and her pale eyes; also she has long hair like the grass which the
weaver birds use for their nests."
He spoke loudly, eagerly, and it seemed convincingly, for Bucongo was in
doubt. Truly the woman by all standards was very ugly. Her face was
white and her lips thin. She was a narrow woman too, he thought, like
one underfed.
"This you shall do for me, Bucongo," urged Bones; "for gods do not do
evil things, and it would be bad to marry me to this ugly woman who has
no hips and has an evil tongue."
Bucongo was undecided.
"A god may do no evil," he said; "but I do not know the ways of white
men. If it be true, then I will mark you twice, Tibbetti, and you shall
be my man for ever; and the woman I will not touch."
"Cheer oh!" said Bones.
"What are you saying--will he let us go?" asked the girl.
"I was sayin' what a jolly row there'll be," lied Bones; "and he was
sayin' that he couldn't think of hurtin' a charmin' lady like you. Shut
your eyes, dear old Miss Hamilton."
She shut them quickly, half fainting with terror, for Bucongo was coming
towards them, a blazing iron in his hand, a smile of simple benevolence
upon his not unintelligent face.
"This shall come as a blessing to you, Tibbetti," he said almost
jovially.
Bones shut his teeth and waited.
The hot iron was scorching his silk shirt when a voice hailed the
high-priest of the newest of cults.
"O Bucongo," it said.
Bucongo turned with a grimace of fear and cringed backward before the
levelled Colt of Mr. Commissioner Sanders.
"Tell me now," said Sanders in his even tone, "can such a man as you
die? Think, Bucongo."
"Lord," said Bucongo huskily, "I think I can die."
"We shall see," said Sanders.
* * * * *
It was not until after dinner that night that the girl had recovered
sufficiently to discuss her exciting morning.
"I think you were an awful brute," she addressed her unabashed brother.
"You were standing in the wood listening to and seeing everything, and
never came till the last minute."
"It was my fault," interrupted Sanders. "I wanted to see how far the
gentle Bucongo would go."
"Dooced thoughtless," murmured Bones under his breath, but audible.
She looked at him long and earnestly then turned again to her brother.
"There is one thing I want to know," she said. "What was Bones saying
when he talked to that horrible man? Do you know that Bones was
scowling at me as though I was ... I hardly know how to express it. Was
he saying nice things?"
Hamilton looked up at the awning, and cleared his throat.
"Play the game, dear old sir and brother-officer," croaked Bones.
"He said----" began Hamilton.
"Live an' let live," pleaded Bones, all of a twitter. "_Esprit de corps_
an' discretion, jolly old captain."
Hamilton looked at his subordinate steadily.
"He asked to be branded twice in order that you might not be branded
once," he said quietly.
The girl stared at Bones, and her eyes were full of tears.
"Oh, Bones!" she said, with a little catch in her voice, "you ... you
are a sportsman."
"Carry on," said Bones incoherently, and wept a little at the
realization of that magnificent moment.