Adventure, August 3, 1919 — page 167: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

‘ a ane ’ The Tree of Life 157 indifferently accepted presents of several his short beard. “Um. You’reright. All bales of cloth and a Snider rifle with cart- ridges. During the interview the white” man’s sharp eyes were unobtrusively noting details. The interpreter informed him that the chief had graciously permitted the strange white man to camp in the open space of the village. The white recalled the topographical sur- roundings, and after swift reflection he con- sented, knowing that, except for field clear- ings in the dense forest, there probably was no other ground suitable fora camp. These matters having been arranged, the chief intimated that he would present the cre- dentials to his august father, Basayaguru, which entailed the presentation of another Snider rifle. As the young chief rose to depart, the white man eyed the Express as the warrior handed it to his superior. - “Notice that .450, Ali?’’? he commented to the interpreter as they continued to sit in the shade while their equipment was brought from the canoes. ‘“D’you think there are any white traders round here?” “Allah is all-wise,” responded Al Mo- hammed. “Perhaps the person has traded it from the South, sir.” > “South!” exclaimed the little doctor briskly. “These people are not nomadic, are they? I’ve understood from the agent at Kavyaballa’s that no whites have yet been here; district only touched by oc- casional countrymen of yours. Isn’t that right?” “Allah is all-wise,” repeated Ali mono- tonously, blinking both eyelids. ‘But my countrymen are not disposed to carry weapons of that kind, Doctor.” “Um, Um,” muttered the little doctor. “Hil he shouted in broken Kiswahili, pointing his cane. “Make those men _ Clear up this ground before you pitch the tent. Fahamshi? Tell ’em, Ali. This ground is nothing but a bug-preserve.”’ He took out a cigar and lighted it. “What’s the particular pet superstition here, Ali? ae as below or a new pope or something, “I asked you what you think?” snapped the doctor. ° _ “I do not think, sir,” returned Ali imperturbably. “The savage think many things that they dream.” = Dream!” He glanced at Ali | like a friendly terrier through at’ i Pata abe this ju-ju business is merely the projection of a dream.” “Tn my country that is what our wise men ? “Do they, begad? Then theyre a —— sight wiser than ours! Um. Um. Ali, do you know what particular legend they have here?” “No, Doctor,’ admitted Ali. “I do not. There are many strange and mystical things in Africa.” ““Mystical tommyrot!” snorted Dr. Herd- wether. “I don’t believe you know much about it all.’’ “Only Allah knows the truth.” “T didn’t bring you here to know Allah’s opinion upon every thing from yams to folklore. As soon as you possibly can, get them to talk.” “They will not tell us,” said Ali, “for these peoples always seek to hide their cult from the infidel eyes of strangers.” “Um. Um. Well, try, confound it, try!” The energetic little man jumped to his feet, inspected the tent, sniffed disgustedly and walked with short nervous steps to the outskirts of the village with the object of seeking another site free from native garbage and the ubiquitous flea. But there seemed no hope, for the up-river side was as unpromising as he had observed the down side to be. The river swirled around the small peninsula and away on its main course, leaving a series of flat swamps and tiny creeks, crocodile invested, worming into the dense forests in all directions; from the land side of the village was a vista of regi- ments of tree-stumps in native fields hewn out of the primeval forest, fields in which women—many with babies wrapped in skins upon their arched backs—worked diligently with the small native hoe pre- paring the ground for the annual sowing. Away high over the sullen edge of the forest soared lazily a pallid halfmoon. © En BACK through the village, noting @itsg the square hut of Arab influence surrounded by a small palisade with a large wild fig in the center, the little doctor tramped, batting at the myriad flies. As, » perspiring and hot, he plunged into his green canvas chair, his personal boy emerged with whisky and a sparklet siphon. Each ges- ture of making, drinking, striking a match,