wned 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."

IV

Having seen Grief and Worth start for a ride over the plantation,
Wallenstein sat down in the big living-room and with gun-oil and old
rags proceeded to take apart and clean his automatic pistol. On the
table beside him stood the inevitable bottle of Scotch and numerous soda
bottles. Another bottle, part full, chanced to stand there. It was also
labelled Scotch, but its content was liniment which Worth had mixed for
the horses and neglected to put away.

As Wallenstein worked, he glanced through the window and saw Koho coming
up the compound path. He was limping very rapidly, but when he came
along the veranda and entered the room his gait was slow and dignified.
He sat down and watched the gun-cleaning, Though mouth and lips and
tongue were afire, he gave no sign. At the end of five minutes he spoke.

"Rum he good fella. Me like 'm rum." Wallenstein smiled and shook his
head, and then it was that his perverse imp suggested what was to be his
last joke on a native. The similarity of the two bottles was the real
suggestion. He laid his pistol parts on the table and mixed himself
a long drink. Standing as he did between Koho and the table, he
interchanged the two bottles, drained his glass, made as if to search
for something, and left the room. From outside he heard the surprised
splutter and cough; but when he returned the old chief sat as before.
The liniment in the bottle, however, was lower, and it still oscillated.

Koho stood up, clapped his hands, and, when the house-boy answered,
signed that he desired his rifle. The boy fetched the weapon, and
according to custom preceded the visitor down the pathway. Not
until outside the gate did the boy turn the rifle over to its owner.
Wallenstein, chuckling to himself, watched the old chief limp along the
beach in the direction of the river.

A few minutes later, as he put his pistol together, Wallenstein heard
the distant report of a gun. For the instant he thought of Koho, then
dismissed the conjecture from his mind. Worth and Grief had taken
shotguns with them, and it was probably one of their shots at a pigeon.
Wallenstein lounged back in his chair, chuckled, twisted his yellow
mustache,