quite like
the Bogobo--I think they're just a tribe of Bogobos separated from the
others by those infernal woods. I soon learned that they had spared me
and cared for me because they thought that I was daft. You know that
these primitive tribes never molest lunatics--they think that they are
possessed of devils which, if disturbed, will enter the heads of
whoever harms their present host. Probably I raved a good bit on the
way up, when they were following me.

"When they realized that I was sane the tribe split into two
factions--one wanted to finish me but the other insisted that my
coming was a good augury. It was rather queer to lie here and listen
to the arguments pro and con--I pulled pretty hard for the negative
contenders! The question was finally decided by the old chief, Ohto,
who announced that my fate would be determined when next the limocons
sang. That settled the immediate question.

"The limocon is a big species of pigeon that nests in the Hills. It
seldom sings, and then only at nightfall. It is reverenced by these
people, who believe that it sings prophecies of good or evil, the
character of the omen being determined by the point of the compass in
which it lights to offer its rare evening song. Direction is gauged
from where the Tribal Agong hangs--I will show you that after supper.
It is a queer superstition, Major: they think that a song in the west
means greatest harm--death by famine or disease or intra-tribal wars,
from the north the omen is ill but to a lesser degree, south is good,
but a song from the east augurs greatest happiness to their people."

The Major was pulling on a dead pipe, absorbed in Terry's story but
building into it all of the suffering and loneliness and suspense
which the lad ignored in the telling.

"They say that the limocon has sung in the east but once since it
heralded the birth of Ohto, who is the greatest chief they ever had.
But it has sung in the west eight times--and each time it was followed
by the death of one of Ohto's family. Now the old man is the last of
his line. These things may have been mere coincidences but you can see
why they believe implicitly in their feathered oracles.

"A week ago, while I was still kept prisoned in this hut, the bird
sang in the south, an omen of sufficient favor to cause my release.
Since then I have been free to wander about--and if it had not sung,
my influence would have amounted to nothing when I pled for you. And I
might