viting omelet. He had quite finished his
plate, when Harriwell helped himself to the omelet. One mouthful, he
tasted, then spat out vociferously.

"That's the second time," McTavish announced ominously.

Harriwell was still hawking and spitting.

"Second time, what?" Bertie quavered.

"Poison," was the answer. "That cook will be hanged yet."

"That's the way the bookkeeper went out at Cape Marsh," Brown spoke up.
"Died horribly. They said on the _Jessie_ that they heard him
screaming three miles away."

"I'll put the cook in irons," sputtered Harriwell. "Fortunately we
discovered it in time."

Bertie sat paralysed. There was no color in his face. He attempted to
speak, but only an inarticulate gurgle resulted. All eyed him
anxiously.

"Don't say it, don't say it," McTavish cried in a tense voice.

"Yes, I ate it, plenty of it, a whole plateful!" Bertie cried
explosively, like a diver suddenly regaining breath.

The awful silence continued half a minute longer, and he read his fate
in their eyes.

"Maybe it wasn't poison after all," said Harriwell, dismally.

"Call in the cook," said Brown.

In came the cook, a grinning black boy, nose-spiked and ear-plugged.

"Here, you, Wi-wi, what name that?" Harriwell bellowed, pointing
accusingly at the omelet.

Wi-wi was very naturally frightened and embarrassed.

"Him good fella kai-kai," he murmured apologetically.

"Make him eat it," suggested McTavish. "That's a proper test."

Harriwell filled a spoon with the stuff and jumped for the cook, who
fled in panic.

"That settles it," was Brown's solemn pronouncement. "He won't eat it."

"Mr. Brown, will you please go and put the irons on him?" Harriwell
turned cheerfully to Bertie. "It's all right, old man, the
Commissioner will deal with him, and if you die, depend upon it, he
will be hanged."

"Don't think the government'll do it," objected McTavish.

"But gentlemen, gentlemen," Bertie cried. "In the meantime think of
me."

Harriwell shrugged his shoulders pityingly.

"Sorry, old man, but it's a native poison, and there are no known
antidotes for native poisons. Try and compose yourself, and if----"

Two sharp reports of a rifle from without, interrupted the discourse,
and Brown, entering, reloaded his rifle and sat down to table.

"The cook's dead," he said. "Fever. A rather sudden attack."

"I was just telling Mr. Arkwright that there are no antidotes for
native poisons----"