und in a wide ring with
one leg shorter than the other and his arms executing symbols of
witchcraft.

The chief was the biggest man--not an inch less than seven feet--black
as ebony, from the curly hair, into which his patient wives had plaited
fiber to hang in a greasy lump over his neck, all down his naked body
to the soles of his enormous feet. Each time he came in front of that
individual Coutlass paused and executed special finger movements, like
the trills of a super-pianist, ending invariably in a punctuation point
that made the savage shiver.

The fifth time round, to avoid the accusing fingers, the giant dodged
behind a smaller man, who dodged behind a woman, who promptly turned
and ran, swinging in the wind behind her a bustle like a horse's tail
that was her only garment. Her flight was the touch that settled the
decision in our favor. We all began to do a mumbo-jumbo dance around
Coutlass, and in five seconds more the whole armed party was in full
retreat, holding their spears behind them as some sort of protection
against magic.

"After that," said Coutlass proudly, "will you still dismiss me from
your party, gentlemen?"

"You've got to go and find Brown's cattle and return them to him!" Fred
answered firmly. But we none of us felt like sending him packing until
he was better fed and some provision could be made for his safety on
the road. It was wonderful, the number of excuses that flocked through
my mind for befriending the ruffian, and later on I found it was the
same with Fred and Will. Brown, on the other hand, affected
indignation at his being allowed to go with us another yard.

"Make a rope o' grass an' hang the swine!" he grumbled.

We decided to march on the village, retreat being obviously far too
dangerous, and the only likely safe course being to follow up the
chance success. Sleep another night in the open among the mosquitoes
and wild beasts, besides making us wretched at the mere suggestion, was
likely to bring us all down with fever. We preferred the thought of
fever to the loneliness; for man is unlike all other nomads, and that
is why the dog takes kindly to him; he must have a home of his own--a
portable one, if you will--a tub like Diogenes--a Bedouin's tent--a
cave, or a hole in the ground--something, so be he may rent it or own
it or know for a fact he may sleep there when night comes. Life in the
open is only good fun when there is cover to take to at will.

All th