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I7: 0 q- £\ _v-| _J ::' ‘ _r_ H: ‘Q I ‘__‘_ :} ‘b. ‘r:7' I ! /I I 1‘? F \ ‘ _W_"’7"‘ ‘(Ii ‘ ‘ fii w g __ Q . "--‘— ‘ !|-‘\._?‘ 3" /2 g_.'' Q !_ '§ ‘ _ if fu-__I ‘1 2? _' ;?m‘ 3. ‘‘fi'fl ‘_ )2 _- $ I 3' ‘ if’. 747? -‘. ‘(_ ‘;‘.-: -fié; -F "43: 4"?‘ 51' ésf ,__-2- 2;, »: 5 I I» E um“ AN~ -I' __a I ’%%H‘__ gr; mfi :3 i Q g‘ a \’§£ \§~ my I rom the moment of that firs I mystifying glimpse of Asagoro their servant making magic at the deserted salt-lick, J an and Rupert began to think that there was something sinister afoot. How rapidly the course oi events was to take shape, there in their African home, and how far afield it was to lead them, they did not guess. Nor if they - had known how long and peril- ous was the journey, how ‘ fraught with dangers and dis- ' appointments, would they have been so eager to follow Lubu the pygmy in search of the vmysterious white man. ‘E! - \ ,7» ) What breathtaklng adventures. ., lb . what agonles of suspense awaited the boys as they jour- eyed into pygmy country, you ill share with them here as € ,_.;-1__‘‘_‘_ _ _.i ‘A - ‘._._ %‘_~ Donated by the Grand Rapids Pubhc Lrbrary The May G Quzgley Collectwn of Chddren s L1terature December 2001 The Umverslty of Mlchlgan Dearborn Mardlglan Llbrary ‘11 ‘ The Pygmy’s Arrow Booxs BY WALDO FLEMING THE LOST CARAVAN TALKING DRUMS A RIDDLE m rnz THE PYcMY’s mmow ' § \ § \ $ fa _7 [Q ‘‘ ‘ The hippo upset the pygmies as thou h th 8 93' were so many ants on a leaf. A Tale of Mystery and Adventure in the Belgian Congo The Pygmy’s Arrow by Waldo Fleming /L5 i_‘\ "\ £- /- / \‘ ’"‘ ‘ \~ \Q~ \~/ \ ‘\‘*\<‘\ .».\ -‘<».\ Illustrated by Frank Dobias The 'Jv1?i21>1r ‘*—"i'=‘?¥'‘a1'‘1LY \iiwiid f J 1 :¢:"'s’?"'“'~:'*‘ : : : :: =‘=1 =1"-z 2-43"‘? 223‘121: 2;: Lothiiop; ‘filili Shei1‘a13d"€bhiPai1y New York 1939 ‘ 4 BY LOTHROP, LEE AND SHEPARD COMPANY B W : O CL Copyright\ 1938 All rights reserved‘ No part of this book may be re- produced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher\ except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in magazine or newspaper‘ ‘J“r“"'¢'-"4'I‘Q ..*. I~ ~ ~¢ O ‘UL vi O O C ‘n ¢, . ' ' ' , ~ ~\ _ \- ~ Q ts‘ no ' .‘ _Q ~ ~“ 0 - ~ O» ~ ~ '00 c » uea s. 0 ‘-9e 9 0 0e O . 00.1. ~e ,, ~ ee~ __\_‘ \_~~- ~ 9' 90 9 ~~ ~0 1 »~ 0 0. no O -4\_‘ ~ 0" ‘ Q95 0-‘ ' 9 ‘Di 0 1 ‘Ibo Q -,0 . O . 5 ‘. ~ Q ; ~ Q . ~ ~ ‘I ._ \_ ‘O I "‘ -- ‘ 5 ~~ x~~ \- s " 1- ‘up b ~ ~‘ U I D Chg 555 v 5 ‘ .I U L g “~ M " ‘ '" -" ~ ‘"~ H ~»~ \-U x xxx ‘Ub 4e b PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERXCA Chapter I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII XIV XV XVI XVII XVIII XIX XX XXI CONTENTS A Secret Sign Father under a Cloud The Arrow Presenting Lubu The Pygmy Won’t Tell On the Way to the Boat “Calamities Go in Pairs” Why the Bullets? Under Cover of the Night The Prow1er’s Strange Booty Meet a White Man Death Has Been Here! Little Worm, Big Worm A Double Surprise Flight of the Bantus The Thing in the River Pattern Taking Shape The Hippo Drive Shock “I, Doorula, Speak” When Canoes Turn Home race 3 17 32 47 63 81 96 111 126 141 155 171 187 202 217 234 247 262 277 292 307 The Pygmy’s Arrow /W \ t I” I/4 _~- \-ml 7 4% A SECRET SIGN AN, clutching the handle of his butterfly net, pre- J pared to capture the big yellow insect the instant it ventured within range. The lithe, sixteen year old boy was clothed as he believed all white people should be in that part of the Congo, especially if they were to spend hours on end in pursuit of butterflies! High- topped boots protected him against the ticks and snakes which infested the underbrush, and khaki knickers helped to keep thorns out of his legs. A light shirt open at the neck, and a pith helmet, completed his costume. He tossed the helmet aside, for it obscured his view as the butterfly fluttered near. Suddenly he darted forward, thrust deftly, and had s 4 THE PYGMY’S ARROW the insect safely in the meshes of the net. Jan laughed gayly and turned to call to his brother. “My best one to-day! Come see it, Rupert!” The pith helmet was still on the ground, completely forgotten, and Rupert picked it up as he walked for- ward. He said nothing. As a matter of fact he was not particularly interested in butterflies, and had come with his brother this afternoon only because the walk had been pleasant and he needed exercise. He smiled at his brother’s enthusiasm. “Look!” exclaimed Jan, holding up the net. “It’s Pseudacraea eurytus, or I’m a Hollander’s wooden shoe. Yellow with cinnamon-brown spots. I never saw this color before, but it’s certainly the same species as the specimens I have at home. I think it’s simply a matter of color variation within the species, don’t you?” “Perhaps,” Rupert answered indiflerently. “And now that you have bagged it, Professor, would you care to go home? It’s getting late, and we’re several miles from the village.” “That’s true,” nodded Jan. He put the butterfly carefully into a small case which he carried in his pocket, and picked up his net. “A11 right, my man, lead on.” “I’m your man, certainly,” retorted Rupert, as they started on. “Except that most men servants get paid, and I work for nothing. Here’s your helmet.” “If the service keeps on improving I’ll have to begin to pay you,” chuckled Jan. Then he threw out a hand A SECRET SIGN S and pulled his brother to a halt, his face tensing. “Hold on! What is that?” Coming toward them from the direction of the village there was what seemed to be a large golden eye, so dazzling that it was visible through a wide stretch of brush and tall grass. Then, as it came closer, the “eye” resolved itself into a shining object which hung on a fiber cord around a black man’s neck. Rupert smiled dryly. “What you see,” he observed, “is our chief and most important household servant, Asagoro, we call him. He’s our cook, valet, runner, and general handy-man and, unless your memory is failing, you’ve known him since you were four years old! The bright thing about his neck is an old gold-plated watch case that Father gave him.” “It looked like something else for a split second,” said Jan sheepishly. “Come on.” “Wait,” exclaimed his brother, and there was no longer any amusement in his voice. “Get out of sight. Don’t let Asagoro see us!” The boys crouched down behind a bush, and Jan whispered in surprise. “What is the matter with you?” “Asagoro is acting queerly,” Rupert explained. “I think he is up to something. Watch.” ‘ The native had paused and was gazing intently into the distance, first in one direction, and then in another. He was a big man, tall and muscular, and very black. It was certain that he had been walking fast for his A SECRET SIGN 7 of animals. This barren spot was a salt lick, one of those areas in which saline deposits are so concentrated, and so close to the surface of the soil that wild beasts and even savage tribes search for them and eat the dirt for the salt it contains. “I see what Asagoro did,” said Jan in a puzzled tone. “He made this mark.” Rupert came to look. In the center of the salt lick, Asagoro, using the tip of his knife blade as a tool, had scratched a sign in the smooth, hard ground. The mark was long as a man’s hand, and about as broad. The base of it seemed to represent the trunk of a miniature tree, while the upper part separated into three or four branches and to that extent re- sembled its limbs. Jan studied it for a moment and then he laughed. "Our Asagoro is trying his hand at magic.” “You think so?” asked Rupert slowly. “What else could it be! This mark wasn’t made in fun.” “Of course not. He came from the village just to make it here, and he did it with care.” “Magic,” insisted Jan. “The drawing of a tree signifies growth or increase. This is a salt lick. Asa- goro’s secret sign is intended to attract game so that he can slip up and kill it.” For a moment Rupert did not answer. He was slower at forming an opinion, although, as a rule, his judgments were less flighty than Jan’s. “This is a deserted lick,” he said dubiously. 8 THE PYGMY’S ARROW “What!” exclaimed Jan. “Deserted,” Rupert said again. “It has not been used for a long long time, as anyone with half an eye can see. Asagoro would not come here to work his magic; he would go to a salt lick which still attracts game.” “This lick is the nearest to the village,” shrugged Jan. “What of that?” “A great deal. Mostly Asagoro is busy with you, and me, and Dad, and the house. He doesn’t have much time to hunt. What is more reasonable than to suppose he is trying, by using magic, to attract game back to this particular lick, because it is close by?” “Then why did he act as though he didn’t want anyone to see him?” “Pooh, native magic calls for secrecy.” “Not always.” “I know!” cried Jan, smiling broadly. “He is afraid Dad might hear of it. Now I am right! Magic is pagan, superstitious, and a waste of time; and Dad, as a missionary, naturally disapproves of such prac- tices. If Dad saw this Asagoro would never be able to live it down!” “Yes,” said Rupert, frowning in concentration. “Well, let us get on, or we’ll keep Asagoro’s game from coming here,” laughed Jan. “A white man is certainly a fly in the ointment of a native’s magic.” A SECRET SIGN 9 Leisurely they went on, Jan humming a tune, Rupert silent and thoughtful. Suddenly the elder brother spoke, “It is not magic at all!” “Ah, so you are still gnawing at your bone, are you!” “There’s meat on that bone,” declared Rupert, “I mean there is more to this secret sign of Asagoro’s than you realize.” “Good, explain it to me!” Jan urged him blithely. “I can’t,” was the answer, “but one thing I do know.” “What?” “It is this,” said Rupert, his face sober, “Asagoro hid his watch case charm in his shirt, which means he was afraid that it might tell on him.” Jan was impressed. He usually scoffed at native magic because he thought so much of it both tiresome and fruitless. He contended that even most blacks, themselves, lacked faith in their spells and charms. Yet it was different with Asagoro, or at least in the matter of the watch case. The boys remembered the day the native first saw the bright thing. Their father, Herman Metlinck, had gone to his native Bel- gium to study and consult with his board of regents. In his absence, Jan and Rupert had stayed with their mother in the Congo, and Asagoro was the family’s general servant. When news finally came that the missionary was arriving on the next steamer, Mrs. Metlinck sent the eager boys and Asagoro to meet 10 THE PYGMY’S ARROW him. The first thing that they had seen at the boat landing was the same golden gleam which had startled Jan this afternoon. Herman Metlinck was waiting for them, impatience in his face and a bright new watch in his hand. Asagoro had coveted the watch from that day forward, and when the missionary had eventually ruined it as a time-piece by trying to re- pair the works, he had given it to the black. The works Asagoro had promptly discarded as puzzling and possibly dangerous, but the case he hung about his neck. He called it his charm, his “all-see eye.” It was the native’s belief that this eye saw all that he did, and that it also had the power to tell its former owner of these things. “Asagoro got that notion into his head the Christ- mas he stole all our sugar cakes,” Rupert reminded his brother. “He could not understand how Father knew it, and so he laid it to the ‘eye.’ Ever since then, you know as well as I do, that he tucks the watch case out of sight when he does something of which he is afraid Father will not approve.” “Granted,” said Jan, “but Dad disapproves of magic.” “I shouldn’t say that,” objected Rupert. “There is very little magic left in our village, and what does remain is almost harmless. Father has grown used to it, just as any experienced missionary must do. I sus- pect Asagoro of more than magic, though I can’t put my finger on what it is.” Jan laughed carelessly. “My friend,” he exclaimed, A SECRET SIGN 11 “who says you have no imagination! You have—ex- cept that it is always tied to suspicion, like a balloon to a child’s perambulator. Rupert, you will make a perfect Govermnent official some day!” That was exactly what Rupert intended to make of himself, an oflicial in the colonial service of His Majesty, the King of the Belgians. The elder brother was altogether a different type from Jan. He was physically stockier, and in temperament distinctly less volatile. Jan never knew exactly what he wanted to be. At the moment he planned to become the greatest collector of butterflies in all Africa, but three months hence his passion might be geology, or aviation, or ma- rine engineering. Rupert was not as clever as Jan, yet neither was he so mentally restless, so blown here and there by the winds of emotion. Sober, practical, solid; these words best described Rupert. He was even tempered as well, and he did not resent Jan’s com- ment. “It is a fine day,” Rupert said, hinting that they might better find a new topic of conversation. And thereat the Great God Chance lent a hand. The path had grown a little muddy, one side of it shelving off toward a marshy stream. The boys began to walk more carefully for the ground was slippery. Just ahead the main branch of a trail fork led toward the village, while the side path crossed the stream and wavered on in the direction of the Ituri forest. As he came to the junction of these two routes Jan saw a boot print in the side path. Someone had jumped 12 THE PYGMY’S ARROW across the stream and had landed with suflicient force to leave a deep track. “H’m,” said Jan, and he stopped to show his brother. “Why is Dad going that way?” The boys assumed that it was their father who had made the track, for the natives did not wear shoes, and there was no other European close by. Mrs. Metlinck had been dead for several years, and the boys had never heard of any other whites in the vicinity. They felt certain that they would have learned such news, for in a remote missionary district in the Belgian Congo white men were too scarce not to be entertained as honored guests for as long as possible. But the boot print in the mud showed that a white man had come from the village and was heading toward the forest. It must have been their father, Jan and Rupert concluded, for a stranger would never have come and gone within the few hours that they had been away from home. “A second queer thing,” murmured Rupert, star- ing at the boot print. “W/hat is queer about Dad’s going for a walk?” de- manded Jan. “The secret sign that Asagoro made, that was a first queer thing,” said Rupert, in the methodical way which was typical of him. “And this is the second. Why is it queer that Father goes for a walk? Because he starts so late. There is no village within an hour’s walk up the side path yonder, and in an hour it will be night. Father would not have time to visit any- A SECRET SIGN 13 one and still get back before dark, and he dislikes being away from home so late.” “Pooh, he probably passed here over an hour ago. That would give him time to get back. Or would it?” Jan was noticing what his brother had already observed, the freshness of the boot print. It was only a few minutes old, he could tell, for trickles of water were running down into it. Also, the mud boundaries of the imprint were still spongy. In the jargon of an African game trailer, the track had not yet “settled.” “Why, Dad must have turned off just a second be- fore we came along!” exclaimed Jan. “It’s strange he didn’t see us.” “Or at least hear us,” said Rupert. “I am going to call to him.” The elder brother faced up the side path, cupped his hands about his mouth, and shouted. “Are you there, Father? Are you there?” No answer. They listened intently, expecting an answering call in Herman Metlinck’s deep bass voice. None came. Rupert called again, and then Jan took a turn at it. The winding, brush-bordered path re- mained silent. There was no reply to the boys’ shouts. “All that throat splitting and not even an echo for a reward,” grumbled the disgusted Jan. “Let’s go on home.” “I don’t understand it,” murmured Rupert, start- ing on. “I suppose we now have three queer things in our bag!” exclaimed the younger boy. “Asagoro’s secret 14 THE PYGMY’S ARROW sign in the ground, Dad’s track, and his failure to answer us!” “Perhaps so,” Rupert answered. “He surely wasn’t so far up the path that he couldn’t have heard our shouts.” “Dad never hears anything when he’s thinking.” “When he’s worried, you mean. Yes, but he hasn’t been bothered by anything lately. He’s been cheerful —actually gay.” The younger brother began to laugh. “You say that as though it were wrong to be gay!” he jeered. “Dad hasn’t the easiest life in the world, and I think it is fine if he can brighten up now and then.” _ ' “So do I,” Rupert agreed, “except that I see no reason for it.” “Must there be a reason for feeling cheerful!” “Certainly, and if you weren’t as light-headed as a pygmy half the time you’d know it. Nothing has happened that could explain Father’s good spirits. It would be more natural for him to be gloomy and depressed.” “How so?” Rupert was mildly irritated. “Why, because of that bad news from Brussels, for one thing. Didn’t the board of regents write him that he’d have to cut down his expenditures for the coming year? They’re having hard times in Europe, so less money must be spent on the natives here in the Congo. Father had planned to expand into the Ituri forest, and to send a medical A SECRET SIGN 15 assistant on regular trips to the pygmy villages. Now he can’t hire an assistant. He felt badly enough about that, and then on top of it we blocked his plans for us.” “How could we help it?” Jan asked, with regret in his voice. “I don’t want to be a missionary, and you don’t, either. It’s too bad to disappoint him, but if we can’t reconcile ourselves to ‘following in his foot- steps,’ as he puts it, there’s nothing to be done, that I can see.” “Keep to the point.” “What is the point?” Jan wanted to know. “That Father has lately had more reason to feel gloomy than gay. News from Belgium has disap- pointed him; you and I have disappointed him.” “He’s had a notion all along that we didn’t care to take up missionary work.” ‘ “It would cost very little to make missionaries of his sons,” continued Rupert, “but to train them for other careers means long courses of study in Belgium. Where is the money to come from? Why, that prob- lem alone is enough to make a man despondent.” “Stop talking about it,” muttered the younger boy. As they went on along the path, both were wonder- ing about the father who was gay when he had rea- sons to be gloomy. It was strange, but Herman Met- linck was often a riddle to his sons. He rarely con- fided in them. Perhaps he thought them too young, or perhaps he believed that a Government missionary had no right to reveal anything which, even remotely, I6 THE PYGMY’S ARROW might be called oflicial business. At any rate, he was close-mouthed. “Let him be happy, if he can,” Rupert voiced his conclusion. “I shan’t pry into the reason for it.” “Nor I,” declared Jan, and in a rush of returning cheerfulness he pretended to walk as though his boots were full of lead. “The last forty steps are the hard- est!” “You go too far afield on your miserable butterfly excursions.” _ “Why, there’s a light in our house!” exclaimed the younger boy. “Someone just lit the lamp.” “Asagoro, starting to get supper,” said Rupert. “Good thing. I’m famished.” A few more steps brought the brothers into a clear- ing. It was dotted here and there by wooden build- ings of the kind which natives build under the direc- tion of white men long accustomed to the tropics. The first structure was a church, and just beyond stood the comfortable bungalow which was the missionary’s home. Light shone from a window. The boys went round to the front of the house and up the steps to the verandah. Jan opened the door, and gasped in astonishment. “Why, Dad! Where did you come from?” FATHER UNDER A CLOUD HE missionary was seated at the far side of the Tlivmg room, his back toward the door. As he bent over the plain board table which served as his desk, the boys could see that he had been writing by the light of a kerosene lamp which stood on the table in front of him. Jan’s voice seemed to startle him. He abruptly left oif writing, but he did not turn to face his sons. “Is that you, boys?” he asked. “Yes,” said Rupert, following his brother into the room. “We thought you were out.” “And why did you think that?” inquired Herman Metlinck, in a dull, flat tone. 17 FATHER UNDER A CLOUD 19 did not come. Herman Metlinck seemed to be deep in thought, his sons crowded aside by the pressure of some private trouble. Then Jan spoke again, and the missionary aroused himself. “You are inquisitive,” he said sharply. “It is not a good thing, as I have told you many times.” Rupert took the hint and said no more. For some reason their father was displeased to hear they had seen a boot print in the forest path. That surprised and puzzled Rupert, yet he knew that the matter was not to be discussed. Accordingly he suppressed his curiosity, and motioned to Jan to keep still. That was asking a great deal of Jan. By nature he was spontaneous, and quick to express his feelings and opinions. Just now he was mystified. No doubt it was all a very trivial matter, but at the same time he wanted to know the truth. “It was warm to-day,” he murmured, “especially off toward the forest. There never seems to be a breeze in the vicinity of the Ituri.” The missionary turned back to the desk and took up his pen. “I’m thirsty from so much walking,” Jan con- tinued lamely. “Hunting butterflies always makes me dry.” “Then get a drink of water,” said Rupert, and he made violent gestures for silence. Jan went to the kitchen for a drink. VVhen he re- turned, the elder brother was unlacing his heavy boots, and Herman Metlinck was writing again. With a I 20 THE PYGMY’S ARROW sigh of resignation, Jan took his collecting case and sat down at the desk opposite his father with the lamp between them. The boy opened the case, took out the butterflies, and spread them on the table. The pen at the other side of the desk stopped scratching. “Perhaps Dad is looking at my butterflies,” thought Jan. “If he is, we shall get to talking yet.” No one spoke. Jan was afraid to look up, but he listened. And he heard something. It was not what he had expected, not his father’s voice, nor, for that matter, was it a voice at all. What he heard was the regular sound of heavy breathing. Could it be Her- man Metlinck? No, it was not near enough for that. Rupert, perhaps. Wrong again. Jan glanced around and saw that his brother was walking into their bed- room in his stocking feet, in search of his rattan house slippers. Stealthily Jan peeped round the lamp. “It is Dad, of course. There is no one else in the room, and the sound is certainly not coming from me!” he reassured himself. The sight of his father’s face startled Jan. The missionary had stopped writing and was staring at the paper in front of him, with his eyes wide and un- blinking. There was resolution in the set of his jaw, but the lines about the mouth indicated pain and re- gret. What was he writing, and to whom? Or per- haps it was of no consequence. Very possibly Herman Metlinck was only writing letters in an effort to put worry away from him. FATHER UNDER A CLOUD 21 Suddenly the mysterious sound of breathing again took possession of Jan’s mind. He moved his head, wondering what it could be. “The thing is near me somewhere,” murmured the boy. “It is probably a small animal which has crept into the house through a hole.” He looked at the wall. It was within an arm’s reach, an expanse of peeled saplings laid horizontally. The cracks between them were chinked up with native mortar, which was clay mixed while still wet and soft, with quantities of chopped straw. At a certain place in the wall there was a hole in it the size of a man’s thumb. Jan studied this hole. Somehow it did not appear to have been made by the falling away of a chunk of mortar. It seemed as if someone had picked or rubbed the mortar away for the purpose of seeing into the room. The hole was just above the level of the table. A spy outside could easily watch anyone seated here. A faint shadow moved on the other side of the hole. Jan saw it and swallowed hard. The silence in the living room had doubtless caused the spy to shift position, in an effort to observe more clearly. “I’ll see about that,” thought Jan. As quietly as possible, he got up from his chair and drew away from the hole. For a moment he stood ir- resolute. He could do one of two things. He could go out of the door and slip around the house to see who was peeping into the living room, or he could look out of the window. Jan decided on the second 22 TI-IE PYGMY’S ARROW course. It would take longer to slip out around the house, and, as he was frank to admit, he did not relish the prospect of tackling an unknown prowler single- handed. The boy tiptoed toward the window on the south side of the living room, halfway between the desk and the missionary’s bedroom. Herman Metlinck was again busy with his writing. “Have you seen my slippers, Jan?” Rupert’s call broke the silence with the abruptness of an explo- sion, and made Jan’s taut nerves quiver. “I always have a particular place for them, but that never bothers you. What have you done with them?” Jan did not answer. Instead, he pulled open the window, a small square one which swung inward like a door. He peered out, and saw just what he had ex- pected. To the right, not more than two and a half or three feet from the house, there was a tree stump. On this stump stood a dark figure, feet braced on what had once been a tall, growing tree, and with the upper part of the body tipped forward against the living-room wall. It was the spy, who, with a hand on either side of the hole and an eye covering it, was looking into the house. “Will you answer me?” demanded Rupert of Jan, and his voice came nearer. Also it rose sharply, “What are you doing with that window open? Don’t you know that you’ll fill the house with forty varieties of insects, none of them butterflies! Close it, please!” Again Jan ignored him. Rupert had unwittingly FATHER UNDER A CLOUD 23 startled the spy. As he jumped down from the tree trunk and started to run, Jan called out. “Never mind running, Asagoro! Stop where you are!” The native halted and turned round. He was about to speak when Herman Metlinck came hastily to the window. “What is all this?” he asked. “Asagoro,” answered Rupert, who had rushed to the window ahead of his father. “Some of Jan’s fool- ishness, I think.” ‘ “Some of my foolishness!” exclaimed the younger boy indignantly. “Asagoro’s, you mean. He was spy- ing from outside, looking through a hole in the wall right by Dad’s desk.” The missionary’s lips tightened. He leaned out of the window. When he saw that Asagoro was actually there, he said in a stern voice, “Come in here, at once. All right, boys, close the window.” Rupert drew back, a little skeptical of Jan’s claims. “You say he was spying?” he demanded, and Jan came into the house. “Your choice of words is rather ro- mantic, it strikes me.” “Eavesdropping, then, if you don’t like spying,” retorted Jan. “Where is the hole he was looking through?” asked the father. “Here,” said Jan, and pointed to it. “See, it is placed so that he could watch the table. He was spy- ing on you while you were writing letters, Dad!” -n 24 THE PYGMY’S ARROW “Nonsense,” said Herman Metlinck. Nevertheless, as though to conceal it, he put his unfinished letter into the table drawer. “Where is that rascal of an Asagoro?” Jan de- manded impatiently. “Maybe he isn’t coming in. Per- haps he has run away!” “Don’t be too romantic,” retorted Rupert. “He is taking his time. Don’t you know Asagoro?” A series of shufiling footsteps sounded on the ve- randah, and then halted. “Come in!” cried the missionary. “I am waiting for you.” Asagoro opened the door and stepped inside. He stood blinking in the lamplight. He seemed reluctant to meet the accusing gaze of Herman Metlinck. The gold watch case was tucked into his shirt. “I get-em supper,” he mumbled. “You are suddenly conscientious about our meals,” replied the missionary. “Were you spying on us just now?” “No, sir, boss, I not do that,” said Asagoro. “I saw him,” put in Jan. “He needn’t lie out of it.” “What were you doing out there, if you were not spying?” asked Herman Metlinck. “Do nothing,” was the answer. “Just standing there, eh?” “Yes, me stand there.” “On the tree trunk, with his eye to the hole in the wall,” said Jan. FATHER UNDER A CLOUD 25 “No, sir, boss.” “I tell you I saw you,” retorted Jan. “Who made the hole, Asagoro?” asked the mission- ary. “I not know-em hole. What hole you mean?” “I have an idea you know,” said Herman Metlinck. He went to the wall and bent down to feel of the hole. “Did you make it?” he asked. “No.” “Who did?” “How I know that?” demanded the black, and he hunched his shoulders as a sign that the questioning had gone far enough. He was growing sullen. “You are the only servant living in the house,” said Rupert quietly. “The others only come in from the village to do special tasks, while you are here day and night. If anyone else had made the hole, you would have seen him.” “Many times me go to spring, catch-em water,” said the native. “When I gone like that, some fella make-em hole.” “And you know nothing about it?” asked the mis- sionary. “No.” “You’ve seen the hole before this evening?” “I see-em, yes.” “Why didn’t you plug it up?” “Plug-em up? VVhat for?” “To keep out insects, for one thing. You know I am particular about such matters.” FATHER UNDER A CLOUD 27 the floor, he considered it time to abandon truth-tell- ing. “Why did you spy on us to-night?” demanded the missionary sternly. “Me hear voices in here.” “What of that?” “I think-em two young bosses they out catch-em butterflies,” Asagoro explained. “Me get surprise to hear-em talk in here, so I take look.” “You were out there a long time,” declared Jan. “I try-em find out if you hungry, so I know if I bet- ter cook-em supper quick,” was the answer. The boys laughed, but there was no trace of amuse- ment in Herman Metlinck’s face. “This is a serious affair,” he told the native. “I ad- vise you to tell me the whole truth.” “Me tell truth already,” said Asagoro. “That all I got to tell.” “He’s impudent,” frowned Rupert. “Asagoro,” said the missionary, flushing a little, “I do not like unmannerly servants. You realize that I could discharge you for this, don’t you?” “You not do that,” said the native calmly. “Why not?” “You need-em me.” Jan and Rupert glanced quickly at their father, ex- pecting him to dismiss Asagoro on the spot, but though the missionary’s face turned red, and his eyes snapped behind their spectacles, he did not speak. Asagoro had spoken sullenly and he was openly defiant. 28 THE PYGMY’S ARROW Calmly, and without fear, he met the white man’s gaze. An unspoken message passed between them. Then, abruptly, Herman Metlinck ignored the serv- ant’s insolence. “One more thing,” he said, “did anyone ask you to spy on us like this?” “No, sir, boss,” said Asagoro, and he seemed sur- prised. “You are sure no one told you to do such a thing?” “Me sure, you bet,” the native answered earnestly. “What you mean, boss?” “Nothing,” said the missionary, obviously relieved. “Get supper, Asagoro. We have wasted time in useless talk. Say no more about it.” Cl Q, Asagoro grinned. I catch-em supper, he said, in his most agreeable tone. “What you want eat, boss?” “It does not matter,” was the answer. “Go on. I want to be alone. All this chatter is enough to make a man’s head ache.” The black shambled into the kitchen. A silence fell upon the living room. Herman Metlinck crossed over and sat down in the far corner of the room, so deep in shadow that only his outline was visible. The boys did not speak. Even Jan was subdued. Their father’s references to chatter and headache meant that he would resent any further talk from his sons. Jan looked at Rupert, and murmured, “Would you like to help me mount the specimens we caught to-day?” “No, I’m tired.” FATHER UNDER A CLOUD 29 That was all the conversation until Asagoro brought in the supper. The main dish was curried chicken, but though ordinarily Herman Metlinck was fond of it, he scarcely tasted it to-night. He had no appetite. He was under a cloud, and his eyes were heavy and dull. At the end of the meal, he rose. “I am going to bed,” he said. “Good-night.” “Good-night,” said Rupert, but Jan was speechless. What? His father was going to bed without first reading a passage from the Scriptures? It was impos- sible! It had never happened before, not in all the days of Jan’s memory. “Speak up,” muttered the elder brother. “Tell him good-night.” “Good-night, Dad,” Jan managed to stammer. The missionary had closed the door between his sleeping room and the living room. Rupert and Jan stared at each other. “There is something terribly wrong,” said Jan. “Perhaps not,” declared Rupert cautiously. “It may be only that he is worried about things, his smaller budget, you and me and the careers we want.” “Don’t be stupid,” said the younger boy. “This morning he was cheerful and bright; this evening he is gloomy as a mautu bird. Something happened while we were gone to-day. Or was it Asagoro’s spying that changed him?” “Not that,” objected Rupert. “He was depressed before he knew about Asagoro. I could see that Father was in low spirits the moment I came in the door. Well, 30 TI-IE PYGMY’S ARROW I am going to bed. Your butterfly excursion has worn me out.” “Oh, let’s stay up and talk about things!” exclaimed Jan. “About Father, you mean. No, I am not going to indulge in what he calls silly chatter. I want to think things over before I venture any opinions.” “Go to bed, then,” grumbled Jan. “I’m staying up.” Rupert went off, yet Jan was dissatisfied at being all alone in the living room. Presently he joined his brother in their room. Jan crawled in between the sheets of his bed, turned on his side and peered at Rupert’s bed opposite him. “Psst!” he said. “Have you thought it over?” “Did you come to bed just to bother me with your talk?” demanded Rupert. “Yes! Between you and me, we ran into more than t/nee queer things to-day.” “Go to sleep.” “I won’t! You’ve got to tell me what you think, or I’ll talk all night. This is my idea. Asagoro is trying to bring about some injury to Dad. His spying proves it, and so does that magical sign he scratched into the old salt lick.” “Keep still,” said Rupert, “or I’ll get up and—oh, Father, I’m sorry! Did we disturb you?” The bedroom occupied by the boys adjoined the missionary’s, and, for the sake of better ventilation, the connecting door was customarily left open. Now FATHER UNDER A CLOUD 31 Herman Metlinck stood in the doorway, white and ghostly in his night clothes. “I could not help hearing something of what you were talking about,” he said, in a grave, slow voice. “You were disturbing me, and I got up to close the door. Then Jan spoke of—of a magical sign-—-some- thing that has to do with Asagoro. What did you mean by that, son?” Jan promptly sat up in bed. “We saw Asagoro go to the deserted salt lick and make a mark in the ground with his knife,” he said, and then described the mark. “Did Asagoro see you?” asked the missionary. “No.” The boys waited for their father to say something else, but he stood silently in the doorway, as if strug- gling with the solution of a diflicult problem. Then Rupert spoke. “How would you explain the mark that Asagoro made, Father?” The missionary aroused himself. “I shouldn’t dig- nify it by explaining it,” he said bluntly. “It is just some of his foolishness. Put it out of mind and get to sleep, both of you. To-morrow is Sunday and you boys will have to go off to the forest early to help gather in the pygmies.” Chapter Three THE ARROW 1' 18 time you were starting, boys,” said the mis- I sionary the next morning as they finished break- fast, and Jan and Rupert got up from the table. It was Sunday, the busiest day of the week for all the Metlincks. Between now and sunset the mission set- tlement of Nulatabo would be the scene of a church service, a native feast, and an amateur clinic for all visitors in need of medicine or surgical treatment. First the pygmies must be collected. Herman Metlinck did not like to think of it as col- lecting, nevertheless that was the word for it. In the beginning, when he was new here at Nulatabo, he had hoped that his “parishioners” would eagerly flock to sz -I: THE ARROW 3 3 Sunday services of their own free will, but it had not turned out that way. After the first two or three weekly services, the novelty had worn off. The natives had complained that it was tiresome, and even painful, to sit a long time on wooden benches listening to the white man tell of his wonderful, but faraway, God. Little by little the attendance dropped off, except for Asagoro and his tribesmen. Asagoro’s people were Bantus, big husky blacks who dwelt in their own vil- lage at the northern edge of the mission settlement. These Bantus continued to come to church because of Asagoro’s influence, and also because the meeting house was near and they liked to listen to the singing of the hymns. But the pygmies were more diflicult to lure to Sun- day services. The “little people” had their home in the damp, gloomy, immense jungle, the Ituri forest which reached to within a few kilometers of the mission set- tlement. They did not like the bright sunlight at Nulatabo, for they were timid little folk, and they were neither very intelligent nor very imaginative. As a result they had soon decided that the white man’s church was not worth bothering about. Thus it was that they no longer came of their own accord. They had to be gathered in, coaxed and jollied and re- minded that Herman Metlinck was waiting for them, and that after church was over there would be good things to eat. The gathering-in process—the collect- ing, as Jan expressed it—was the weekly task of the two brothers, assisted by Asagoro. Both boys, of 34 THE PYGMY’S ARROW course, could speak the native dialects fluently because of their many years in the Congo. “Where is Asagoro now?” said Rupert, taking up his pith helmet. “Outside, oiling his hair,” answered the missionary. “Run along, and while you’re gone I’ll put the church to rights.” “I did that yesterday morning,” said Rupert. Come on, Jan.” Jan had sidled over to the wall where he kept his butterfly net. He took it down, wishing that it was small enough to conceal in his shirt, but Herman Metlinck saw him. “Not on Sunday!” exclaimed the missionary. “Must I remind you that this is the Sabbath, Jan! Please leave your net behind.” J “All right,” Jan agreed reluctantly, and he followed his brother out of the house. There was as yet no sunshine, but already a dozen Bantus had gathered in the clearing. They were shiver- ing and chattering, as they waited for the sun to break through the morning mist and warm them. Asagoro stood in the center of the little crowd, oiling his kinky hair, and enjoying the envy of his tribesmen. “We’re ready,” Rupert called to him. Asagoro came along, silent and morose. He was putting the finishing touches to his toilet, feet moving sluggishly, nimble fingers rubbing oil into his scalp. The boys strode ahead, their eyes upon the path. A blanket of fog lay upon the world, hiding everything 36 THE PYGMY’S ARROW scatter, me go one way, you white fella other way. Boss he get mad if we not fetch-em back pygmies.” “Go on, then,” said Rupert. Asagoro went off by himself, and the boys continued along the left-hand path. “The real reason behind this,” said Jan, with a sniff of contempt, “is that Asagoro resents our catching him at eavesdropping last night. He goes off alone to show that he despises us.” “Perhaps, but to give the devil his due Asagoro has always done his best to bring the pygmies in for Sun- day services. It’s the one thing he seems to consider a duty.” Jan nodded. He was thinking about Asagoro, the secret sign at the deserted salt lick, the peep-hole in the wall of the Metlinck bungalow, the assured attitude which the black servant had finally assumed toward the boys’ father. Also there were other things to think about, things to puzzle over, and untangle, and try to blow away, as the wind even then was blowing away the morning fog. “I hate to think that Father would let Asagoro bully him,” said Rupert. “So do I,” Jan agreed heartily. “And why did Dad ask him if anyone had suggested that he spy on us?” “I wish I knew,” murmured the elder brother. “What is wrong with you, jumping like that?” “Do you see it?” exclaimed Jan, pointing to the right of the path. “Right there on the lower branch of that tree.” THE ARROW 37 QQ I see leaves, but nothing else.” “It’s a butterfly,” said Jan, triumphantly. “It’s mot- tled green and yellow, and it’s pretending to be a leaf.” “Very interesting,” scoffed Rupert. “Don’t you understand?” said the younger boy im- patiently. “It’s the Leaf Butterfly, probably a very rare one. I ought to have it.” “This is Sunday, and your net is home,” Rupert re- minded him. “With good luck I might catch it without a net,” answered Jan. “I’m going to try.” It was Rupert’s turn to be impatient, yet he only shrugged his shoulders and stood watching. Jan ad- vanced on tiptoe. The butterfly let him come within ten feet. Then it swooped into the air, fluttered lazily to a bush still farther from the path, and alighted. In- stantly Jan was off in pursuit, his frowning brother following at a slower pace. “Where is it?” demanded Jan, halting at the bush. “Maybe it didn’t come down here,” said Rupert. “Yes, it did. It’s right here in front of my nose, only it’s too much like a leaf in appearance for me to see it. I’ll frighten it into motion.” He jerked the bush violently, whereupon a “leaf” turned into a butterfly and darted off. “There it goes!” cried Jan. “What a beauty!” “Yes, there it goes, and here we go,” said Rupert, starting back toward the path. “It would be nonsense to chase it into that jungle without a net. There aren’t even any paths to follow.” 38 THE PYGMY’S ARROW Jan turned to follow his brother. They walked a few steps and halted. Silently they looked at each other, then as silently they gazed off into the forest, due south. “Did you hear what I heard?” murmured Rupert. “What did you hear?” “A thumping sound.” “So did I,” nodded Jan. “Dull and heavy. Like a drum.” “Impossible. There are only pygmies living in the forest, and pygmies have no drums that could make that sound. I imagine it is some woman pounding seeds in a wooden mortar.” “The sound was too soft for that,” objected the younger boy. “It was more as though someone were pounding on the earth. Maybe we ought to go see.” Rupert looked at him suspiciously. “Why do you say that?” he asked. “Is it because your Leaf Butter- fly went off in that same general direction, and you plan to kill two birds with one stone?” “That may be,” laughed Jan, “but also the thump- ing is in the same general direction as the pygmy vil- lage. Perhaps the little people are out hunting, as Asagoro said, and we can track them down by the pounding they’re doing off there in the jungle. Come on, it’s the sensible thing to do.” The throbbing sound began again, then stopped. But by this time the boys had discovered the direction from which the sound was coming. Probably the thumping would come again, and meanwhile they THE ARROW 3 9 were making progress. Slow progress, of course. They were in the thick forest now, where the trees were tall and close enough together to shut out the sun. The ground was moist, and in place of grass there were thickets of thorny underbrush. _ Everywhere the dominant color was green, yet green in such infinite variety that the eye found it refreshing. Now and then, a red or purple creeper lent a bit of contrasting color, but mostly the forest was a symphony of green. “I shouldn’t like to get lost in here,” observed Rupert. “We couldn’t do that,” said Jan. “There is a path off on our left and another on our right. Ah ha, there goes the thumping again! We must bear ofi to the southwest a little.” Jan was watching the trees for bits of moving color. The Leaf Butterfly was doubtless lost to him, but there might be other varieties about. You never could tell about the Congo. “Wait, Rupert,” said the younger boy, suddenly. “Don’t move.” “Now what is it?” demanded Rupert. “A snake?” “No, an arrow.” “An arrow!” “Two of them,” said Jan, and went slowly toward a gray tree with smooth bark known locally as a /earaya. “Look!” The arrows were hanging from the trunk of the tree, heads imbedded in the bark, and with the broken 40 THE PYGMY’S ARROW shafts pointing down toward the ground. The shaft of each arrow consisted of the mid-rib of a raifia palm, and was approximately the length of a man’s fore-arm. Between the head and the shaft proper, there was a notch which so nearly divided the arrow in two that the impact of striking its mark was enough to snap the wood at the notch. The purpose of this was to make certain that the arrowhead remained in the ob- ject hit, while the, then unimportant, shaft broke off. If an animal were shot, the shaft would probably fall away as the creature fled. Otherwise it might catch on the brush in the forest and perhaps pull the arrow- head free of the wound. The head of the arrow alone was enough to cause death. It was poisoned. “No doubt of that,” muttered Rupert, and dug his jackknife into the bark which surrounded one of the arrowheads. “Do you see that reddish brown stain?” “Yes,” said Jan soberly. He shivered a little. The poison was a vegetable compound, an age-old native concoction of horrifying power. It brought about death by getting into the bloodstream and causing paralysis of the nerves. The end was painless—so the natives claimed—but it was also swift and certain. Monkeys succumbed in a few minutes. Larger animals held out against the poison for a longer period, yet never for more than a day’s time. “Elephant shot with poisoned arrow sees only one sunset,” the pygmies were accustomed to say. The arrows were of pygmy origin, Jan and Rupert knew at first sight. Only the little people used poisoned THE ARROW 41 arrows in this section of the Congo, for all of the other natives were afraid of them. Jan pulled loose a broken shaft, and showed Rupert the tiny leaf fastened to the notched end by means of a fiber thread. The leaf was to help the arrow fly true, taking the place of the feather used by other types of savages. “This leaf is what I saw first,” said the younger boy. “I saw it moving in the breeze, and it didn’t look natural. I thought it might be a butterfly.” “Never mind butterflies,” said Rupert crisply. “How did these arrows come here? That is what we want to know!” "I didn’t shoot them,” Jan assured him, with a com- ical face. “You can’t arrest me for the crime, Monsieur Government Oficial!” “Will you stop clowning?” demanded Rupert. “These arrows were shot at a man.” “Oh, no!” exclaimed Jan in astonishment. “I suppose you think they were meant for a marsh deer,” jeered the elder brother. “Well, a marsh deer would scarcely reach to our knees, and both these ar- rows are on a level with our armpits.” “You are a detective!” said Jan admiringly. “No sarcasm,” laughed Rupert. “It’s true. When a native shoots game he aims at either the heart or the throat, generally the heart. Pygmies are good marks- men. Both of the arrows are at the same level. If the heart were aimed at, the height of the arrows shows that the animal was as tall, or taller, than we are. What kind of an animal would that be!” 42 THE PYGMY’S ARROW “Buffalo, maybe.” “Pooh, there aren’t any buffalo in this neighborhood, and the ones that range farther on in the forest are a dwarfed species.” “What about an elephant?” “There are no elephants around here, either. Look at the ground at the base of the tree.” Jan was annoyed. He looked at the ground, saw nothing remarkable, and burst out, “See here, are you cross-examining me, or telling me something?” “In order to be as tall as these arrows indicate,” said Rupert, “an animal would be heavy—heavy enough to leave definite tracks at the base of the tree. There are no such tracks, even though the ground is soft and moist. So the pygmies were shooting at a man!” “Where are the man’s tracks?” smiled Jan. “A man could be the necessary height and still not be heavy enough to leave a track,” countered the elder brother. “Maybe he was standing behind the tree!” exclaimed Jan, catching the spirit of his brother’s idea. “Let’s see.” They looked behind the tree, but there was no def- inite sign of footprints. To be sure, the scrub brush seemed to have been disturbed, even bruised, yet even this was not certain. Suddenly they heard the pounding again. “It’s quite close,” said Jan, jerking to his feet. “Do you suppose the pygmies are moving this way?” “No, we have been moving toward them, since we THE ARROW 43 last heard the pounding,” said Rupert. “We’d better get on. This arrow business will have to rest.” The boys trudged off to the south, going slowly be-_ cause of the thickets they had to skirt, and talking in low tones. “It would be serious if the pygmies were killing big people,” observed Rupert. _ IQ The only big people around here are Bantus,” said Jan, “and Bantus and pygmies have always been on good terms.” “As far as we know.” “That’s true,” admitted the younger boy. “There might be some private feud between them. Anyhow it would seem that pygmies did actually shoot at one of the big people—-unless it might have been a squir- rel.” Rupert made a face. “Don’t spoil my theory,” he said. “It couldn’t have been a squirrel.” “Why not?” “Oh, well, because,” said Rupert uncertainly, then he remembered something. “No, a squirrel is impos- sible, and for two reasons.” “I’d be satisfied with one!” “Listen to me,” said Rupert earnestly. “A squirrel is too trivial an animal for pygmies to waste two ar- rows on. Besides, if it had been a squirrel the pygmies would have retrieved their arrowheads. The shafts are easily made, but the heads are made of heavy tin or galvanized iron, and that’s valuable material to them. The pygmies shot at their man, missed him, 44 THE PYGMY’S ARROW and ran away, afraid to try to get the arrowheads D, back. ‘ Jan nodded. “You may be right,” he said, “but speaking of pygmies, we’d better make less noise. We’re close to the pounding, and they may hear us and run away, thinking us enemies.” “Or they may take a shot at us,” said Rupert grimly. “You’re right about making less noise.” They advanced with greater and greater caution. It was not much farther. The boys saw a smallish brown figure ahead, and then two of them. “Pygmies,” murmured Jan, and he got down on his hands and knees. “We must be careful,” whispered Rupert. “That goes without saying,” retorted the younger boy. “And while we are telling each other things we already know, look out that you don’t break a dead twig and make a noise that will frighten them off.” The boys crawled forward. The sound of the thumping, by this time distinct, was the noise made by dancing feet! The boys could even distinguish the rhythmic thuddings made by individual pygmies. “No farther now,” signalled Rupert. Jan agreed. They could see well enough. Just be- yond the thicket which concealed them, the boys saw fifteen or twenty pygmies dancing round and round in a circle. The massive forest towered above this little glade on all sides. By contrast, the crowded leafiness characteristic of the Ituri was intensified. The glade was a kind of breathing place, a tiny treeless meadow THE ARROW 4: made radiant by a shaft of sunlight filtering down from the almost ‘hidden sky. “No women, only men,” murmured Jan. “It is a ceremonial dance. Look at the wizard. That’s old Mai-Mai, all dressed up for the occasion.” The wizard was a chubby little fellow, a strip of chimpanzee hide ‘tied on top of his head as a kind of wig, and a few strings of vegetable beads dangling from his waist. Otherwise he was clad chiefly, like his companions, in a breechclout of bark and string. Each of the dancers clutched a bow in his left hand, and the wizard held a slender stick out before him. The cere- mony appeared to center upon this. Again and again Mai-Mai jabbed the point of the stick into a shallow hole in the ground, as he danced and turned and capered. When, without warning, the wizard came to a halt, the rest of the pygmies promptly following his ex- ample. Mai-Mai held the stick aloft, and a second man stepped out of the circle and advanced toward him. “The second pygmy is Doorula,” Rupert com- mented. “And the stick is an arrow,” added Jan. “Thrusting it into the hole was a symbol of bringing game to earth.” Doorula stood in front of the wizard. There was an interval of silence. Then Mai-Mai said in a loud and solemn tone, “The arrow is black, and it is red. It is poisoned, it is magical, and it is prepared for a great purpose. Black is for death, and red is for the life that 46 THE PYGMY’S ARROW blood has. Red is for us, the little people; black is for our enemy.” “Our enemy,” murmured the circle of pygmies. “Enemy, and great enemy,” said the wizard. “Great enemy,” repeated the others. “We are threatened by a wicked one,” continued Mai-Mai. “He is bad like a crazed elephant, and cruel like a leopard. He is crafty as a monkey in a tree-top. This one would bring evil upon us; he would oppress us. We begged him for peace, and when he would not give it we shot two arrows at him. But evil spirits helped him to escape.” “The two arrows we found!” whispered Jan. “Doorula, listen!” exclaimed the wizard. “It may be that you are eldest and most experienced of our tribe, therefore take this arrow and put it into your quiver. But shoot it at no game, not even though your vitals burn and ache with hunger. The arrow that I now give you, the red-and-black arrow, this one is sacred. It is to be used only against the man who is our great enemy.” Chapter Four PRESENTING LUBU HE ceremony was over, and the band of pygmies Tstarted off toward the south. “Going back to their village,” said Jan. “We’d bet- ter stop them. There’s no sense in our following them all that way, only to come back again.” As Rupert rose to his feet he shouted, and at once the little people seized their bows and whirled around, alarmed and at the same time ready to defend them- selves. The boys walked forward, making friendly gestures. Excited comment broke forth from the pygmies. “It is Sunday,” smiled Rupert, as he approached the wizard. 47 48 THE PYGMY’S ARROW “Sunday?” frowned the little man. “What is that?” “Why, it is the day on which Father expects you to visit him at Nulatabo. There will be a service in the church.” “With singing,” put in Jan. “You people like sing- ing, don’t you?” Ah, of course they did! But did they like it enough to go all the way to the mission settlement, where the singing was awaiting them? The pygmies argued the question, most of them in favor of going, Mai-Mai violently opposed. Jan and Rupert joined in the talk, Rupert reminding the little people that their wizard was merely jealous of the missionary’s skill in curing their ailments, and Jan playing his trtunp card—food. “When church is over,” he said, “you will be given free food, plantains and yams I think it is to-day.” That settled it. Singing was a good thing, food was even better. The combination was irresistible, except to Mai-Mai. “Let foolish ones go,” muttered the wizard. “I stay away.” As Mai-Mai stamped off toward the south, the rest of the party set out for the path which would eventu- ally bring them to Nulatabo. In the lead, strode Doorula; behind him straggled his tribesmen and the two white boys. Jan and Rupert walked together, pleased to have collected so many listeners for their father. Then too, they were enjoying, as always, the company of the tiny people of the forest. None of the pygmies was more than four foot in height, unless it PRESENTING LUBU 49 were by so little as an inch. Since Rupert was five foot seven, and Jan five foot six, the boys towered over their companions. The pygmies were so dwarfed, so naive and childlike, so comical in their ways, that it was difficult to think of them as evil or dangerous. “Yet they are,” murmured Rupert. “They must be!” “To fit your theory, you mean?” asked Jan slyly. “Certainly not. I’d be happy to discard my sus- picions, if I could. But we did see two arrows in a karaya tree, and we did hear the wizard charge Doorula to shoot the person he called their ‘great enemy.’ ” Jan glanced ahead. He could just see the top of Doorula’s head, as the short little warrior threaded his way in and out of the brush. “That’s true,” said the boy. “I wonder who their ‘great enemy’ can be. Maybe it is Asagoro.” “Why Asagoro? You’re guessing.” “No, I’m not,” said Jan, getting an idea. “Asagoro and Mai-Mai had a quarrel one day. It was the Sunday that it rained so hard, and Dad invited everyone into the hospital. The wizard was growling about our med- icines, and when he started to pour out a bottle of liniment Dad told Asagoro to stop him. The two of them glared at each other like a pair of fighting cocks. Our beetle-browed little Mai-Mai is not the man to forget anything he considers an injury.” “No, he isn’t,” said Rupert, looking over his shoulder to make sure the pygmies were not listening. “Mai-Mai is the only one in the tribe who is inclined to S2 THE PYGMY’S ARROW damaged toe. It’s been pulled out of line. That is a consequence of his crooked toe, of course.” “So there was at least one time in his life when he said ouch!” grinned Jan. “What else does his crooked toe prove?” “It proves that he could easily be trailed.” “Followed, you mean?” “Yes, in case he attacks Asagoro and has to be tracked down.” “Caution is your middle name,” jeered the younger boy. “You’ll have Doorula in prison before he com- mits his crime.” “Perhaps that would be better than to catch him after he has committed it!” declared Rupert. “Any- how I—” A shout interrupted him. It came from behind them, from far off by the sound of it. The pygmies stopped and turned round to listen. The shout came again. “That is Asagoro,” said someone. “He find-em our tracks.” “He has the women and children with him,” said a second pygmy. “Asagoro wants us to wait for him,” said a third. “No,” broke in Rupert. “We cannot wait. Let him come after us. We are already late. Go on, Doorula.” As Doorula shrugged and started on, Rupert was nervously satisfied, and Jan was disappointed. “Now why did you do that?” he demanded. PRESENTING LUBU S3 “To keep out of mischief, naturally,” said Rupert. “If we had waited for Asagoro there might have been serious trouble between him and Doorula.” “I know, but how are we to discover if it’s Asagoro who is the ‘great enemy,’ unless we see the two of them together! If you had let Doorula and the others wait for him, we could have perhaps seen from their faces whether they—” “Too risky. Doorula might have shot him with his poisoned arrow.” “In front of us? He wouldn’t dare.” “I wasn’t going to take a chance. Come on, walk a little faster, and perhaps w‘e can hurry these pygmies.” The boys increased their pace, gradually drawing up toward the head of the column, if the disorderly procession could be called a column. They came abreast of Doorula, Jan on one sid’e of him, Rupert on the other. “We might go a little faster,” suggested Rupert. “Faster?” grunted the pygmy, looking up at him with restless, shrewd little eyes. “Why go faster?” “To get to the settlement in time for church.” “Good if we miss church,” was the answer. “We get there in time for food. That all we want.” Jan chuckled. “At any rate you’re no hypocrite!” “Will you please walk faster?” Rupert asked firmly. “No,” said Doorula. “Only time good to go fast, is when we chase-em game in the forest. No game ahead now. Maybe behind is some game, but none ahead, that sure.” S4 THE PYGMY’S ARROW Rupert and his brother dropped back a pace. They did not like this reference to the possibility of game behind them. Did the pygmy mean Asagoro, or was he referring to animals? There was no way to tell. “This is beginning to look serious,” murmured Rupert. “How many queer things does it take to make a mystery?” asked Jan. “What do you mean?” “Yesterday we tumbled onto several queer things,” the younger boy went on, “and last night we added to the list. This morning there are still more queer things. I think we have enough to make a real mystery out of this. Asagoro, pygmies, Dad, there you have three cornerstones of the puzzle. It might help to have a fourth, but perhaps this is a triangular, not a quadri- lateral, riddle.” “Don’t try to be funny,” said Rupert. “I can’t see anything to joke about, especially if Father is con- cerned in this.” “He is concerned in it,” said Jan, sobering. “Didn’t he make a trip up this way yesterday, and then refuse to discuss it with us?” “Father doesn’t often discuss things with us,” Rupert reminded him. “Yesterday’s trip needn’t be connected with all this other.” “Maybe not,” said Jan. “It’s odd, though, where he could have gone, to have got back so soon. Let’s look for his tracks!” “Here in the path?” L‘. PRESENTING LUBU S 5 “Where else! He came this way, and if we see his tracks we’ll have an idea how far he went, and that may give us a clew.” They tried it, but there were no tracks to be seen. And there should have been, if Herman Metlinck had passed here as recently as yesterday afternoon. The path was damp, and a white man’s shoe or boot should have made a recognizable impression. Only Doorula walked ahead of the boys now, and obviously he, by himself, could not be wiping out the missionary’s trail. “You think game been here?” asked a little brown man walking just behind Jan and Rupert. “No. Why do you say that?” “You look for tracks,” answered the pygmy. Jan smiled at him. This particular pygmy was a good-natured little fellow that the boys had nick- named 'Pfui,’ because of his habit of commenting upon the wonders of the mission settlement with nothing more than an explosive and incredulous snort. “Listen, Pfui,” said Jan, dropping back to walk with him. “If somebody walks in the path, he leaves a track, yes?” “Maybe, maybe not,” replied Pfui. “Why maybe not? Name something that could travel without leaving footprints behind.” Ii 9) Dead man. “What? A dead man?” “Sure,” said Pfui. “Man die, his spirit get out of him as anybody crawl out of a house. The spirit try to catch-em people and hurt them, and so nobody know S 6 THE PYGMY’S ARROW if the spirit comes. He travel without leaving track. Very bad. That why pygmies always burn down houses after somebody die. That scorch the spirit and make him stay back, while pygmy people go find other place to live.” “I know,” said Jan. “I’ve heard of that custom, but leave dead travelers out of it. If any live person travels in a path, it’s sure to make a trail, yes?” “That so,” nodded Pfui. “Now, you pygmies are much more clever at track- ing than we white people are, suppose you tell us if Dad was along here yesterday.” “God-talker white man, you mean?” “Yes.” “He not along here,” said Pfui. “Are you sure?” asked Rupert. “How can you tell, when you haven’t studied the trail?” Pfui let out a shrill giggle. “You foolish white-man fella,” he said. “I been look at the path ever since we hit-em. Pygmies always do that. Missionary fella he not come along here.” “He started this way,” declared Jan. “When?” “Yesterday afternoon, rather late.” “Not here,” said Pfui decisively. “I see your tracks, brother-fella tracks, no more.” Doorula turned round. “You talk about missionary man?” he asked. “Yes.” “He come little time this way and turn off trail.” PRESENTING LUBU 57 “Oh. This far?” “Not so far as this. More on toward mission place. I show you where, if you want.” . “Never mind,” said Rupert slowly, and turned to his brother. “That’s strange. Then Father did leave the path and circle back home. I can’t understand it. A hunter might do that, but Father never hunts. He doesn’t even carry his pistol when he goes out.” “It’s the queerest thing I ever heard of,” answered Jan. “Look, we’re leaving the Ituri behind. This is park country, not a village or even a hut between here and Nulatabo. What could Dad have been after?” The tree was too high to climb, as they say in the Congo, and accordingly the boys stopped trying to find an immediate solution to their questions, and walked on in silence. Soon they would come to the fork in the path, and after that it was only a short walk to Nulatabo. Then Rupert suddenly exclaimed, “By the way, Doorula!” “What ou want?” said the , without turn-4 Y Pygmy mg. “You told us that Father was along here, but turned off the path? Well, how do you know that he did?” “See him.” “You were this close to the village?” “Pygmy go everywhere,” was the evasive answer. “This path for little people, same as big people. Why not I come here!” “No reason at all, Doorula! Were you—did you come this way to hunt?” S8 THE PYGMY’S ARROW “What else come for!” shrugged the little brown man. “Make you eyes sharp now, we come to stream and have to jump. Sometimes white fella he slip and fall in, make big splash.” The pygmy laughed at his own joke, and immedi- ately a wave of laughter passed along the column of little brown men. None of them save Doorula knew what was supposed to be so funny, yet they giggled and chortled and snickered, certain that something very amusing had happened. Or else Doorula would not have laughed in the first place! “Who said that pygmies were childlike!” exclaimed Rupert. “They’re worse than that.” “Or better,” said Jan. “They get more fun out of life than children ever do.” Doorula leaped across the stream when they came to it, agile as a monkey, but even before he landed on the other side he glanced back over his shoulder, as if he had glimpsed something he wished he had stopped to examine. It was something on the ground, near the water, but neither Jan .nor Rupert could imagine what. The boys got across -the stream, and the rest of the procession followed. By this time Doorula had started on, slowly, and with evident unwillingness. Then he turned, and called, “Lubu.” A pygmy boy ran forward, to walk beside Doorula and listen to his whispered instructions. The young pygmy nodded, stepped out of the path, and waited for the others to pass. “What’s up?” murmured Jan. PRESENTING LUBU 5 9 Doorula saw something back there,” said Rupert. “Whatever it is, he doesn’t want us to know about it. Otherwise he’d not have whispered to Lubu.” “Drop behind on some pretext,” suggested Jan. “We’ll find out what’s going on.” Rupert stopped and moved aside, and Jan did like- wise. “What matter?” asked Pfui. “Stone in my boot,” said Rupert, and he knelt down and began to unlace it. The pygmies did not seem to be suspicious of the ruse. One of them laughed and said that white man’s shoes were foolish anyhow, but there was no other comment. The little people trailed on, and Jan and Rupert were left behind with Lubu. “You fix shoe?” inquired the pygmy boy. “Why, yes,” said Rupert, still unlacing his boot. Lubu gestured toward his tribesmen, now vanishing around a bend in the path. “You get behind,” he said. “We know the way home,” smiled Jan. Rupert pretended to give all his attention to his boot, while Jan and Lubu gazed at each other, curious and uncertain. They were acquainted, and friendly, even though it was impossible for a European to be on really intimate terms with anyone as primitive and “differ- ent” as Lubu. And yet, superficially, the pygmy boy was very attractive. He was three feet and ten inches tall Jan knew, because he had once measured him, but despite his shortness he was not clumsy. Lubu’s body ,4r 60 THE PYGMY’S ARROW was in perfect proportion. His limbs were round and muscular, with the chest surprisingly deep, and his head was well placed on a firm straight neck. In color he was a warm brown, instead of black like the Bantus. Warm also, but a deeper brown, were his sparkling bright eyes, though now he was frowning a little. “You go on,” he suggested. “Why don’t you go on?” asked Jan. “I am waiting for my brother and he has something in his boot. But there is nothing to keep you here. Don’t feel that you have to wait for us.” QQ 7! I come soon, murmured the pygmy. “You go.” It was an impasse, but since Lubu was too guileless to try to outwit them, Jan and Rupert were de- termined to find out what Doorula had ordered him to do. “All food, he get eat up at Nulatabo,” said Lubu, with the air of playing his trump card. “Yams, he good.” “So are plantains roasted on coals,” smiled Jan. “You’d better hurry.” “I got stay here.” “What for? To get a drink of water, I suppose!” “Yes,” said Lubu. “That what I have to do.” He walked a little way toward the stream and stopped. A faint and far off babble of voices came to his ears, a chorus of chatter and gossip and laughter which Lubu knew to be coming from the women and children of his tribe. _ PRESENTING LUBU 61 QQ 9, QQ That Asagoro come, he announced. Maybe you fix-em shoe and go with him.” “Yes, that’s a good idea,” said Jan. “Hurry, Rupert.” “What for?” grumbled the elder brother. “Do you intend to leave him here?” “We’ll drift on with Asagoro’s party,” Jan ex- plained, “and while you stay on the path with them I’ll slip out into the brush and come back here to watch Lubu. Lace your boot. Here they are.” Asagoro came in sight, a crowd of women and children trailing behind him. They called out at the sight of Lubu and the white boys, and Jan and Rupert answered them. The boys, seeming to abandon Lubu, started on toward Nulatabo. The newcomers crossed the stream, yelling and screaming with laughter, as they tried to push one another into the water. Silently, and with all available dignity, Asagoro marched toward home. Rupert was behind him, but Jan, watching his chance, slipped into the brush. “A butterfly,” he explained, and since his passion for collecting the insects was a standing joke among the pygmies, no one thought it strange. The boy crept back toward the fork in the path. Lubu was drawing his knife. A brief wait to make sure that neither Jan nor Rupert was in sight, and Lubu sprang across the stream. Then he knelt to stab at something several times in succession, leaped back across the water, and ran along the path in the direc- tion of Nulatabo. E 62 TI-IE PYGMY’S ARROW “He is out of his wits,” thought Jan, and he hurried to the fork. “What could he have been stabbing!” It was soon clear. On the opposite bank Jan saw the very boot print which Rupert and he had noticed the day before. Lubu had plunged his knife into it! This act, in the opinion of the Ituri pygmies, would magically bring about the death of the person making the track. “Good Heavens!” cried Jan. “It’s Dad who is their ‘great enemy’! They’re trying to kill Dad ! ” 1- ,3.» ..;?’q, -: e‘»»'2,f“l C/mpter Five THE PYGMY WON’T TELL UPERT had paused around the first bend in the R path, to let Asagoro and the pygmies pass on, while he sat down to wait for Jan. Suddenly came the sound of hurrying feet. Up he jumped, but it was not Jan. It was Lubu. “You are in a hurry!” called Rupert, as Lubu ap- proached. “Are you thinking of yams, or of plan- tains?” The young pygmy was startled, yet he neither stopped nor answered. Muttering vaguely, he hur- ried on past him, as the white boy stared in surprise. Then Rupert heard someone else approaching, and this time it was Jan, on the run. 63 64 THE PYGMY’S ARROW “What is this, a game?” demanded Rupert. “Are you chasing Lubu, or what is up?” “Trouble,” gasped the younger boy, as he slowed down to a walk. “Did Lubu act as though he had seen me?” “No.” “Lubu stabbed Dad’s footprint,” said Jan excitedly. That means the pygmies intend to kill him. It’s Dad who is their ‘great enemy’!” “You’re out of your senses!” cried Rupert. “Tell me what you saw, and don’t let your imagination run away with you.” With this Rupert started on along the path, walking briskly but not hurriedly, while Jan fell in step and told his story. The elder brother was grave and at- tentive, but he was inclined to doubt Jan’s conclusions. “It’s incredible!” he burst out. “What’s more, I don’t believe in this silly magic, not for a minute.” “Does it make any difference whether you believe it or not?” asked Jan, slowly. “The pygmies believe 1t.” QQ Even so, stabbing Father’s footprint can’t affect him. That sort of attack might scare a native to death because he takes his magic seriously, but it’s different with white men.” “I admit that,” said Jan, “but the point is that they want to kill Dad. I suppose that’s another thing you doubt!” “Certainly. Father is the best friend the pygmies have. Why should they want to do him harm?” THE PYGMY WON’T TELL 65 Jan put on a wise air. “You know as well as I do, or you should, that African natives don’t have to have reasons for what they do. I mean, they needn’t have reasons that white people can understand. I tell you Dad is the person that Mai-Mai ordered Doorula to aim at with the black-and-red arrow! Let’s hurry. Doorula might shoot him before we get there.” “Listen to me a moment,” said Rupert, and he took his brother by the arm and made him slow down. “If I thought Father were in danger, I’d have been running long before this, but he isn’t. The very fact that Lubu stabbed his footprint proves that. If the pygmies really mean harm to Father, they will wait until this magical knifing has had time to take effect. You’re all wrong, though.” “I am, am I?” answered Jan indignantly. “Well, IJ “Father couldn’t possibly be their so-called ‘great enemy,’ ” continued the elder brother. “Mai-Mai compared this enemy to a crazed elephant, a cruel leopard, and so forth. It’s absurd to use such language in describing Father.” “Natives sometimes use flowery language,” said Jan. “Fear and hate might have made Mai-Mai talk that way.” “I’d sooner believe it was Asagoro they’re after. Father has never offended the pygmies, Asagoro might have.” A clamor of blurred voices fell upon their ears. 66 THE PYGMY’S ARROW The boys were almost home. They quickened their pace. As the trees thinned out, the roof of the church appeared through a leafy screen. The noise increased. A crowd of Bantus and pygmies lounged in the clear- ing, chattering and laughing. Herman Metlinck stood at the church door. “We must tell Dad,” said Jan. “If we don’t, and something happens, we would never forgive our- selves.” “I know that,” answered Rupert. “Even though I’m certain nothing will happen, we’ll tell him.” The missionary saw his sons and cried out, “Come along, boys! It’s late. I must begin the meeting.” “Father, we have something to tell you,” said Rupert, as he hurried toward his father. “It must wait,” said the missionary. “Go in, Ru- pert, and get ready to lead the singing.” “Oh, but this is important,” objected Jan. Herman Metlinck’s face wore a severe expression. “Nothing is as important, just now, as our regular Sunday church service. Stand at the door, please, and direct our friends into the building.” “I will,” muttered Jan, “but when I get through playing usher, I’ll play shadow to Doorula. That’s one thing sure.” The missionary did not hear. He had gone inside, Rupert with him. Jan had a poor voice, but his broth- er’s was an excellent one, and presently it echoed forth from the church to the melody of a familiar hymn. The natives stopped chattering and began to shuflle THE PYGMY WON’T TELL 67 closer. As they crowded about the door and peered in, Jan directed them inside. The Bantus walked in without hesitation, the pygmies were slower to enter. Every single one of the little people had been in the church many times, yet a stranger might have thought it their first experience. A first, risky ex- perience. To a greater extent than Bantus, or other “big people,” the pygmies were out-of-door folk, preferring the open air to houses. They were dis- tinctly uneasy at the thought of going inside a white man’s building. Herman Metlinck had discovered this early in his life at Nulatabo, and had accordingly tried to preach out under the sky. It was not a suc- cess, for the sight of a bird, the movements of insects, the swaying of tree branches, all diverted the atten- tion of the pygmies. The result was the present church building, well ventilated yet walled up and roofed over, so that the distracting out-of-doors was shut away. One by one the little people ventured inside, found a bench, and sat down. The first hymn ended, and while Rupert and his father were consulting over a second, Jan closed the doors. A kind of soft twilight filled the church, and murmurs of satisfaction rose from the pygmies. Life in the gloomy Ituri forest had trained their eyes to expect subdued light, and to flinch before anything resembling sun glare. The clearing outside was too bright for them, and they found the interior of the church pleasant. “I shall sing another hymn,” announced Rupert, ,.-‘_1 68 THE PYGMY’S ARROW “and after I have started I want all of you to join in. You know this one.” Jan moved quietly down the center aisle. He saw Doorula. At the far end of the church there was a low wooden platform with two chairs upon it. One chair was for Rupert when he was not singing, and the other was for Herman Metlinck. Tacked to the wall behind the missionary there was a large, brightly colored picture of a Biblical scene, and before him was a crudely built pulpit. The lower part of the pul- pit obscured Doorula’s view of the missionary, as the pygmy had taken a seat close to it, but as soon as Her- man Metlinck rose to begin his sermon, he would be directly in front of Doorula. Was this accident or design, on the part of the pygmy? Jan did not know, but he meant to take no chances. Silently, yet firmly, he squeezed in between the benches, found a seat be- hind Doorula, and sat down. “Sing, all of you, sing!” called Rupert, pausing be- tween verses. The Bantus joined in, and, after a little, the pygmies began to help with the hymn. Doorula, himself, was singing. It was queer about Doorula. He was nearer old age than youth, with a wrinkled face and grizzled short little beard. There were scars on his naked upper body, and his muscular arms had a certain formidable look about them. Yet he was like a child, ready to grin or laugh or sing a white man’s hymn. Jan could 4 I 70 THE PYGMY’S ARROW and the fishes, their miraculous increase, and how the multitude was fed thereby. And at this point Doorula reached back toward his quiver of arrows. Instantly Jan was ready to seize the pygmy by the wrist, but Doorula was not feeling for an arrow. He was scratching! “Oh,” muttered Jan, in relief. Doorula heard him and turned round. He grinned and jerked his head toward the platform. “I wish Mai-Mai break-em up fish and bread like that. One fish grow to many, then nobody hungry, eh?” “Sh-h-h,” said Jan. The sermon ended, and Jan went to the doors to make sure they were open when the congregation was dismissed. The pygmies were always upset if they thought themselves locked in. The doors swung wide, and the people streamed out. “Now we have yams,” said the pygmy called Pfui. “And plantains,” said another. “I make fire.” The natives had been sluggish enough in church, but now Bantus and pygmies alike ran for wood. Eager hands kindled fire and laid on fuel. Jan went to the small building known as the storehouse, to guard the door while his father and Rupert dealt out baskets of food. There were the yams, a kind of inferior sweet potato which serve the same purpose in tropical Africa, and to go with them were plan- tains, a fruit which in the Congo is as much a part of the diet as yams. The plantain resembles the banana, ‘I _ - _A TI-[E PYGMY WON'T TELL 71 but it is larger, less sweet, starchier, and it must be cooked. “Here you are, Asagoro,” said Rupert, handing him a basket. “That’s the last of them.” “You may superintend the cooking,” added the missionary, “but remember, Asagoro, you big people are not to be greedy with this food. It is for the pyg- mies as well as for Bantus.” “Sure, sure,” grinned Asagoro. “We big and need more to eat, but I do like you say, boss.” Herman Metlinck went among his guests to make certain everything was in order. The fire had been built in the center of the clearing. Since this was a sunny spot the pygmies were a little resentful, but the missionary glanced at the sky and reassured them. “The sun is going behind clouds. It will not be so bright here soon, and when your yams and plantains are roasted you can get into the shade and eat there.” “We do that,” chuckled Pfui, “but first we watch- em food cook. Maybe Bantus take-em yams and plantains if we not watch.” A roar of good-natured laughter went up, and Her- man Metlinck smiled as he turned away. “Come, boys,” he called. “We must have our own lunch. There’s more to do this afternoon.” The white man and his sons went to their bunga- low. On week days Asagoro prepared a hot mid-day meal for them, but on Sunday he was permitted to enjoy the fun in the clearing, and the Metlincks ate what they could find. Rupert explored the kitchen _.__'_'_1:5:__'_''_§:w,._‘ — --- -Y r "7 I‘—q 72 THE PYGMY’S ARROW and came out with a bit of cold curried chicken and a slab of native bread. Jan opened a jar of marma- lade and they sat down. “Father,” Rupert began, “there is something we should like to tell you.” “Eh?” said the missionary absently. “What is it?” “It is about the pygmies.” “Ah, yes, the pygmies,” smiled the father. “I thought they were a bit less fidgety to-day. Perhaps I exaggerate, because I am always hoping that they will show more interest in the service, but at any rate I thought so.” “We saw a pygmy ceremony this morning,” said Jan. “It had to do with a poisoned arrow. Mai-Mai gave the arrow to Doorula and told him to use it against their ‘great enemy.’ ” The missionary looked up from his food, his near- sighted eyes seeming to bulge behind his spectacles. “What do you say?” he murmured. “And we believe,” said Jan, “at least I believe, that you are supposed to be that enemy, Dad.” “I?” exclaimed the missionary, dropping his fork in astonishment. “On the way in from the forest,” added Rupert slowly, “Lubu seems to have stabbed your footprint. That is why Jan thinks you are the enemy the pygmies mean to kill.” Herman Metlinck laughed abruptly, and resumed his eating. “I am afraid you have imagined things,” he said. 74 THE PYGMY’S ARROW not have to be persuaded to come here. Did you have to argue with them this time?” “A little,” Rupert answered. “It is to be expected, I suppose,” said the father. “There are ages of ignorance and paganism behind them. It’s only natural that destroying their super- stitions should take time. Well, shall we go out?” As they went back to the clearing, a few pygmy children were scratching around in the coals of the fire, hoping to find a stray yam or a piece of forgotten plantain. Their elders were off under the trees, lying in the shade. Asagoro and two or three Bantus were sitting cross-legged in the sun, telling stories and shaking with laughter. Herman Metlinck lifted his voice. “Sick call!” he cried. Everyone jumped up and started for the hospital, as a small building near the church was called. Like the storehouse and the church, and the missionary’s bungalow, it was an unpainted structure with a thatched roof. However, a substantial door with a padlock on it protected the supplies when the place was not in use. Herman Metlinck unlocked the hos- pital and went in, and again Jan stayed at the door, while Rupert served as assistant to his father. “Keep them out until we are ready,” the mission- ary called back over his shoulder. Why was it that the natives were so eager to get into the hospital? It was a building seemingly lacking in in- terest. As in the case of the storehouse, and the church, THE PYGMY WON’T TELL '75 the floor was of hard packed dirt, and there were no benches to sit on. Two or three straw pallets had been spread on the ground, to serve as beds for pa- tients too ill to return to their own huts. But these “hospital cots” had never been used. The only ac- tual furniture in the room consisted of a bare table, two plain wooden chairs, and a small steel cabinet on the wall behind the table. Herman Metlinck un- locked the cabinet, and at once it was apparent that this, and this alone, was responsible for the interest the natives were showing. “Form in line,” ordered Jan, and he added, half resentfully, “I wish you people could read, and would read!” Jan was referring to a large sign he had painted and hung up in the hospital. On stout brown wrap- ping paper, its two-inch red letters announced the hospital rules: KEEP THE FLOOR CLEAN. STAND IN LINE IF WANTING TREATMENT. RETURN BOTTLES AND TIN BOXES WHEN EMPTIED. DO NOT ASK FOR MEDICINE IF NOT SICK. This sign had been in vain. It relieved the bareness of the walls, and, in its way, was even a crude decora- tion, but certainly the natives did not heed it. They littered the floor with bits of food, and they tried not to stand in line. They told barefaced lies in efforts to keep empty bottles and tin boxes (these are valuable containers in the Congo), and they 76 THE PYGMY’S ARROW asked for medicine whether they were sick or well. The steel cabinet fascinated them for it contained bright liquids, impressive smells, intriguing little pills, and an amazing glass thing with a thread of red life in it. When the missionary placed the glass thing in your mouth the red life moved! Everyone loved the thermometer! “Keep in line, keep in line,” Jan kept repeating. “And if you aren’t sick, please drop out.” Rupert and his father sat down at the table, Her- man Metlinck with thermometer and medicines, his son with a record book and a number of cardboard discs, each the size of a silver dollar and each bear- ing a number. One by one, the missionary interviewed the applicants, waving them on by if it were evident that they were not ill, but trying to diagnose the ailments of those who were really suffering. If medi- cine were prescribed, Rupert noted it in his book, and also a number corresponding to the number on a disc beside him. The cardboard disc was then given to the patient to tie about his neck on a cord. On later visits to the hospital, his number served to help Rupert know his clinical past, without inquiring his name. A woman with a burned hand, a child with colic, two men with malaria, were disposed of by Herman Metlinck, and then came Lubu. “Why, you aren’t sick!” exclaimed the missionary, looking straight into the bright, snapping eyes of the pygmy boy. “Are you?” THE PYGMY WON’T TELL 77 r,_ ______ ‘ _.-- . _. . “No, but I like have medicine,” answered Lubu. “Something that smell good.” “Get on with you,” smiled the white man. “Next.” The next in line was a Bantu in need of oil of pep- permint for acute indigestion. Then came Doorula. “And what is the matter with you?” asked the missionary. "Mbele fly,” said Doorula, and showed a raw sore on the under side of his left arm, just above the el- bow. “Fly lay eggs under skin, eggs hatch, mbele ticks they stay in there and try to eat me up.” The crowd of natives laughed. Jan watched in- tently, trying to discover some trace of hostility in Doorula’s manner. There was none. Herman Met- linck prescribed zinc ointment, squeezed a little out of a tin tube and gave it to Doorula on a piece of paper. “Don’t eat it,” he warned. “What the difference!” laughed Doorula. “Medi- cine he do me good all the same, heh?” “It’s for external use,” said the missionary patiently. “Put it on your sore arm.” “I do that,” grinned Doorula. “You good white fella. I do what you say.” Doorula went out, and presently Jan followed him. The pygmy was talking to Pfui, and, judging from his complacency, it had to do with his zinc ointment. Now Jan noticed Lubu who was napping alone in the shade of the bungalow. ;-—————— — 1. 78 THE PYGMY’S ARROW “Perhaps I can get something out of him,” the boy thought. He went to the house, got a small handful of salt from the kitchen, and came out. He called Lubu, and beckoned him to follow. As they walked behind the bungalow, Jan was planning his questions. “What you want?” asked Lubu. Then his nostrils twitched, and he grinned. “You got-em salt!” Jan gave halfof it to him, and watched incredu- lously as he gobbled it up. The pygmies of this part of the Congo were chronically salt-starved, and when they managed to get a little they ate it as white people might eat cake or ice cream. It always aifected Jan the same way. He thought it unbelievable that any human being could do such a thing. “Give me rest of salt,” said Lubu eagerly. “Not yet,” said Jan. “First you must tell me something. Does Mai-Mai dislike my father?” “Sure,” answered Lubu brightly. “Mai-Mai want to be big wizard, and white man want to be big wiz- ard. So they get mad.” “Is Mai-Mai trying to kill my father?” Jan con- tinued. The young pygmy was uneasy. He looked away, licking the last crumbs of salt from his fingers. “Is he?” demanded the white boy. “No.” “Are you sure?” “Plenty sure,” nodded Lubu. “That’s good,” said Jan, swallowing with relief. THE PYGMY WON’T TELL 79 Qt Now tell me something more. Does Mai-Mai dislike Asagoro?” I “Sure,” said Lubu, but he was a little too glib to suit Jan. “Are you positive about that?” asked the white boy. “Mai-Mai not like Asagoro, that right.” “Does he hate him?” “Maybe,” said Lubu, as though he were not quite certain of the difference between hate and dislike. “How do you know that Mai-Mai dislikes him?” “Everybody feel that way about Asagoro,” was the answer. “What! Do you mean that everyone in your tribe dislikes Asagoro?” cried Jan. Lubu seemed to retreat behind a mask. He looked at the ground, saying nothing. “I thought Asagoro was a good friend to your tribe,” said Jan. “He always seemed so to me.” Silence. “Doesn’t he come to visit you sometimes?” per- sisted Jan. “Sure. That not good, though.” “Why?” No answer. “Would you rather that Asagoro did not visit you?” “Sure.” “Yes, but why? Does he scare away the game, or something of that sort? Is that it?” Lubu looked at him strangely. “Maybe that it,” he muttered. 80 THE PYGMY’S ARROW “Are you telling me the truth?” Jan asked him. “Sure.” “Well, granted that Asagoro is not exactly your best friend, do you people dislike him enough to look upon him as a—a—a great enemy?” Lubu trembled like an antelope on the verge of flight. “How you know about that?” he demanded. “Answer my question,” said Jan. “No, I not do that,” muttered Lubu. “I not tell you. Bad for you to ask such thing.” “I’ll give you the rest of the salt if you’ll tell me.” “No, no,” whispered the pygmy boy. “Mai-Mai, he maybe kill me if I tell you. I not do it.” Jan gave up. “Then take the salt, anyhow,” he said. “I don’t mean to get you into trouble, Lubu.” ON THE WAY TO THE BOAT ATE Sunday afternoon the pygmies went back L to their forest home. On Monday, just before noon, Jan said, “I think I’ll try for butterflies off to the south. Want to go along, Rupert?” “No, thanks,” said the elder brother, looking up from a book. The missionary sat at his desk. He had been writ- ing letters all morning. Now he paused, speaking for the first time in an hour. “I wish,” he said, “that you boys would go to the steamer landing for me. The boat is due to-day, and I have letters for it. I’ll finish the last one in just a moment.” ~ 82 THE PYGMY’S ARROW “Certainly,” Rupert answered. “And we can hunt for butterflies on the way to the river and back,” nodded Jan. “There will be time for that too.” Herman Metlinck finished his writing, glanced at his watch, and reached for a piece of cord. The river was two hours’ walk from Nulatabo, but the steamer had no exact schedule. It might arrive at the landing any time after noon. If the missionary’s outgoing mail were unlucky enough to miss the boat, it would be a week before it could leave for its destination. Quickly the father tied cord about the letters and gave the packet to Rupert. “Take good care of them. They are important.” “I’ll put them right here in front, where I can watch them,” said the boy, and he tucked the packet of letters in between his belt and his trousers. “Jan, do you want to take along something for lunch?” “No, I shan’t be hungry,” said the younger brother. He took his butterfly net and went out with Rupert, but halfway across the clearing he changed his mind. “I believe I’ll go back and have Asagoro boil a couple of eggs for us. Go slowly, and I’ll catch up with you.” Jan returned to the house, but Asagoro was not in the kitchen. The boy pocketed two or three slices of bread and hurried into the living room on his way out. “What is it?” asked the missionary, still busy at his desk. ON THE WAY TO THE BOAT 83 “Lunch,” said Jan. “I took some bread. Asagoro seems to be gone.” “I let him go to his village. His father is feeling poorly. Oh, Jan!” “Yes?” “Wait one moment. I have decided to send a brief note to the Captain of the river steamer. It won’t take an instant.” Herman Metlinck scribbled a few words on a sheet of paper, folded it twice, and gave it to the boy. Jan put it into his shirt pocket. “The Captain will give you a small package in re- turn,” said the missionary slowly. “I’ll remember,” nodded Jan, and he hastened out. Rupert was sauntering across the clearing, headed north because the boat landing was in that direction. The younger boy caught up with him and they went on together. The path left the clearing, but very soon entered another and smaller one. On either side of the trail there appeared native gardens, each little plot fenced in with sticks and thorny vines, to keep out such marauders as wild hogs and an occasional ele- phant. Bantu women were digging in these gardens with pointed sticks, and while they worked they laughed and chatted and shouted explosive jokes over the partition fences. When they saw the boys they were silent. “How shy you are, all at once!” Jan said to them, ir1 an ironical tone. “It’s unbelievable!” “The moment we are past them, they’ll start guffaw- --—\QI 84 THE PYGMY’S ARROW ing at our expense,” observed Rupert, striding on. Not so. The women for some reason continued silent, their usual hilarity gone like straw in a gust of wind. Jan and Rupert went on to the village proper, a bare open space, with a dozen or twenty huts placed irregularly here and there. A bony dog got up to snarl at the boys, a woman paused in her task of pounding corn in a hollow log, a scattering of men lifted lazily up from the ground where they had been yawning and napping. “Asagoro is the only man in the tribe who works,” murmured Rupert. “Yes, and just now not even Asagoro is working,” said Jan. “There he is, over there in front of his hut.” It was a rectangular thatch-roofed house, a door in the end facing the clearing, and Asagoro was squat- ting before the opening. He blinked at the boys, a curious expression on his face. “How is your father?” asked Rupert, halting._ “Kalele he sick,” replied the native. “Maybe he die. Me dunno.” “Probably not,” said Jan. “You’ve told us that before.” “Where you go?” grunted Asagoro, looking them up and down. “To the boat.” ' The Bantu shrugged his shoulders, saying in a tone which was almost indifferent, “Be good thing you not go.” “Why?” demanded Rupert. I D . ON THE WAY TO THE BOAT 85 Lion.” “What’s that?” said Jan sharply. “Is there a lion about?” “Sure.” “Where is he?” Asagoro showed his strong white teeth in a jeering grin. “If me know that, all Bantu fella go hunt-em.” “Either that or run,” retorted Jan. “What did you hear about a lion?” “Off to north.” “I never heard of lions so close to Nulatabo,” said the skeptical Rupert. “Me never heard of missionary here till you white fella come,” answered Asagoro. “Plenty lion around here long time ago.” “Who reported it?” “Kalele,” said the Bantu, jerking his head toward the interior of the hut. “He see-em yesterday, run home fast, and get fever.” Jan turned to his brother. “Probably that was why the women were so subdued when we passed their gardens just now. They knew we were bound north.” “Better you fella go home,” said Asagoro. “We have to go to the boat,” replied Rupert. “Look here, Asagoro, you natives are always getting up tales of lions or leopards or wild elephants, and most times it’s something very ordinary, like a brush cat or a wild hog. Did Kalele actually see a lion, or did he catch a glimpse of a tawny hide in the grass, or maybe hear a sound that he took to be a lion’s roar?” 86 THE PYGMY’S ARROW “Me think he see lion.” “Call him out here and let us talk to him,” Rupert demanded. Asagoro turned his head and called into the hut. There was no answer, and for a few moments the boys suspected that Kalele would not come. The old man disliked the Metlincks. His son worked for them and was well paid, but it was Kalele’s contention that he, too, should be rewarded, not for working—because he wanted none of that—but simply because he was Asagoro’s father. “Is he coming?” Rupert asked angrily. “Me here,” grumbled a voice, and Kalele appeared. He was a shrunken old fellow, thin and hollow- cheeked, and none too pleasant in his ways. “What you want?” he muttered. “We want to know about the lion,” said Rupert. “My brother and I must go to the boat to deliver some letters. The boat landing is north, and Asa- goro tells us that you saw a lion in that direction. Well, north is a word which is wide and long. Per- haps there is a lion, but is it near the trail to the boat landing?” “How I know!” said the old man. “Lions they move, not stay in one place like tree.” “Was it between here and the river?” “Maybe little east from path,” admitted Kalele. “Quite a way east, perhaps?” “Maybe could be,” said the old man. “What do you think, Asagoro?” said Rupert. “Oh, me dunno,” said the Bantu carelessly. “Kalele ON THE WAY TO THE BOAT 87 he get old now. Head got plenty cracks in-em, so I not know if he see things right or maybe make-em up. He eyes not so good, neither.” “I think we’d better get along,” said the elder brother. “This lion is probably only a rumour, and if we don’t get the letters to the boat Father will be annoyed.” “Come on, then,” said Jan. “We’re wasting time, butterfly-collecting time at that.” “You go boat landing, you take-em somebody with spear,” advised old Kalele. “All right, you come along,” laughed Jan. “Me not go,” growled Kalele, and he turned back into the hut. “It might be a good idea to take someone along,” said Rupert thoughtfully. “Asagoro, you can come with us, can’t you?” The boys expected him to refuse, but he did not. “I do you big favor if I go ’long,” he said, “so maybe sometime you did favor for me, heh?” “All right. Come on.” “Me get-em spear,” nodded Asagoro. The Bantu went into the hut, chattered with his father long enough to make the boys impatient, and finally came out with a spear. It was a good weapon, an eight foot shaft of hard seasoned wood, iron head as _long as a man’s hand from wrist to finger tips. Certainly it gave Asagoro confidence. “You fella come,” he said. “Lion run fast when he see-em me.” “Away from us or toward us?” chuckled Jan. 88 THE PYGMY’S ARROW Don’t joke,” said Rupert in a low tone, “or he may turn back.” They took the path leading north out of the village. Asagoro stalked ahead with an important air, and the boys followed a few paces behind him. For the better part of an hour, they saw nothing out of the way, heard nothing unusual. It was quiet country, or- dinary enough to be monotonous. Africa is a word which brings to mind glamour, mystery, and high excitement, but, while it deserves much of its repu- tation, Africa has its tiresome stretches. This was one such stretch. The country was rolling savannah, with an occasional stream of water, a scattering of thorn bushes, and small, uninteresting trees capable of producing small amounts of rubber. In any event, Jan and Rupert were too accustomed to rubber trees to look at them twice. The sun beat down with op- pressive heat, and Rupert, as he wiped his face, re- marked, “I knew that the lion was a myth.” “The only lions around here are provided with wings,” laughed Jan. “What you mean?” demanded Asagoro, looking back. “Butterflies,” said Jan, shaking out his net. “I see plenty of them, but all too far off. This grass along here looks as though it might be full of ticks, and I don’t like ticks.” “Who does?” asked Rupert. “My idea of a perfect butterfly expedition,” mur- mured the younger boy, “would be to find a rare ON THE WAY TO THE BOAT 89 specimen fluttering ahead of me, and directly over the path, so that I could net it without getting into ticks and thorn brush.” “And you won’t try for a butterfly until that happens?” asked his brother. “Oh, yes, I’ll tackle one if it comes within striking distance.” Rupert gave him a tantalizing smile. “Would it be within striking distance if a butterfly were to light on your shoulder?” “What!” cried Jan, whirling round. A gorgeous red and yellow specimen darted up from his shoul- der, and winged swiftly away over the grass. “Well, of all the impudence!” The boy raced after it, net whipping in the breeze, eyes glued to the fluttering insect. He lost it finally, and when, presently, he scared up another, Asagoro called roughly, “You better quit-em that!” “Why?” inquired Jan. “Are you afraid I’ll tire myself, and you by contagion?” “Lion,” grunted the Bantu. Jan retreated hastily back to the path. “Good place for lion, those grass,” said Asagoro. “You better watch-em out.” “I think that’s sensible advice,” agreed Rupert. “Let your collecting go, for once.” Asagoro kept on. Gradually the travelers were ap- proaching the river, which meant company. On the side trails which led into the path, women with bas- kets of produce on their heads shuffled along toward .fl '“"”’v” ml: 92 THE PYGMY’S ARROW “What is that?” whispered Jan. “It can’t be a lion,” said Rupert. “It’s more like a brush cat.” “Hurt bad, that thing,” declared Asagoro. “Lion kill-em, maybe. I go see.” “Go on, then,” said Rupert. “You fella come, too.” “Do you need us?” shrugged Jan. “Are you afraid?” “No, you white fella afraid. All time tell-em me no lion; now you come see what lion pull down, and you believe-em me.” “I’ll go with you,” said Jan resolutely. “Brother fella he come, too,” said Asagoro. “Much better we stay together.” Rupert nodded and advanced. The Bantu went forward with easy caution, spear held aloft. The whimpering was heard again, but apparently farther off, as though a wounded animal were dragging itself away. The boys peered ahead. They were walking side by side, with Asagoro slightly in the lead. Tall grass rose up about them. Then, suddenly, it hap- pened. Jan had heard something behind him. As he turned to look, a heavy weight knocked him flat on his face. His first sensation was of horror and despair. It flashed into his mind that the lion had struck him down, and that this was his last hour. Then he realized that his assailant was not a beast, but a human being, a man. No—two men—pos- ON THE WAY TO THE BOAT 93 sibly three. They were holding him down. One of them thrust a hand over his mouth, so that he could not call out. Someone jammed his helmet down over his face. He heard a strangled cry from Rupert, and knew that his brother was also a victim of the strange assault. The hand was cautiously withdrawn from Jan’s mouth, but at once a bunch of twisted grass was thrust in. It was a gag, and more, for the coarse grass hurt his throat and diverted his attention while his unknown enemies bound his wrists behind him. The boy twisted his head a little to one side. He could see Asagoro, lying motionless a few feet away. Was he dead? Jan could not tell. “Where is Rupert?” he asked himself. “What has happened to my brother?” Someone seized Jan’s ankles and fastened them to- gether with thongs. All this while, a man had been crouched with his knees on the boy’s back, making sure that he did not escape. Now the unknown re- moved this pressure. There was a scamper of many feet, then silence. “What does it mean, what does it mean?” the boy kept thinking. “Are they going to use us for lion bait?” A thrill of terror passed over him. Natives often tied live goats in the jungle to attract lions or leopards, which the hunters then killed from ambush. There was a legend at Nulatabo that humans made the best decoy for this purpose, and Jan could not shake off 94 THE PYGMY’S ARROW the dread suspicion that Rupert and he were destined to prove or disprove the truth of the legend. Desperately, Jan worked to get free of the gag. With lips and tongue he pushed and twisted and pried at the wad of grass, encouraged to find that it was not quite as tight as it had been. He brought his teeth into play, and in a few minutes succeeded in dislodg- ing the thing. “Rupert!” he gasped, as soon as he could speak. There was no answer from his brother, but it seemed to Jan that Asagoro stirred. The Bantu had not been bound. Apparently he had been struck down with a club and left for dead. “Asagoro!” cried the boy. “Asagoro, answer me—- if you can!” The Bantu moaned. He had been lying with his back to Jan, but now he rolled painfully onto his side. “Get up,” urged Jan. “Your hands are loose. Cut me free. Where is my brother?” Slowly, almost groggily, the Bantu got to his knees, then to his feet. He drew his knife and cut Jan’s bonds. “They hit you with a club?” he inquired. “No,” said Jan, springing up. “Give me your knife. I’m afraid my brother is hurt.” Rupert was lying just behind Jan, his helmet over his face. He was gagged, and tied hand and foot, but he was not injured. Jan loosed him and he got up. “What happened?” cried Rupert. “Someone knocked me flat, but I didn’t see them.” ON THE WAY TO THE BOAT 95 “Neither did I,” said Jan. “They were natives, though.” “Black fella wander up and down river,” muttered Asagoro. “Plenty them fella.” “What did they want?” asked Jan, completely mys- tified. “I thought they intended to use us for lion bait, but—” “Or rob us,” said Rupert, feeling of his pocket. “No, it couldn’t have been that. I still have my purse. . . . Good heavens!” “What’s the matter?” “The letters that Father gave me to mail on the boat!” cried Rupert. “They’re gone!” m “CALAMITIES GO IN PAIRS” 97 us down and tied us!” declared Jan. “The letters were what they were after.” “Yes, but why?” said Rupert, and he turned to Asagoro. “Well, why don’t you say something!” “What I say?” retorted the Bantu. “Letters gone, so they gone.” “Haven’t you any idea who did it?” “Sure.” “Who, then?” demanded Jan eagerly. “Somebody,” was the answer. “Listen me, white fella. This path he one time just for tribes that live-em around here, all same Bantus and such fella like him. Then you white fella come. White fella he trade with natives, he bring-em boats on river, he stir-em up people same as black fella stir-em ants with stick. Nowadays all kinds fella come along-em here, just like jackal around hunter-fella camp. Me see-em this fella legs, but no more. They bad fella. Rob-em us, that what they want. Trick-em us to grass here where nobody see, and so no tracks be left.” Rupert gazed dismally toward the mimosa tree. “There’s no use in trying to track them, I suppose.” “Maybe you drop-em letters before we get this far,” suggested Asagoro. It was possible. They returned to the mimosa, searching carefully as they went. Slowly they pro- gressed back down the path, eyes upon the ground. No sign of the letters. A babble of voices broke upon them. A half dozen native women were approaching with baskets on their 98 THE PYGMY’S ARROW heads. Their white teeth flashed as they laughed and joked. Seeing Asagoro and the boys, one of the women cried out, “You miss boat? Boat gone?” “No,” said Rupert. “We are looking for a small package that I might have dropped. Did you find anything in the path?” “Find-em nothing,” answered the woman cheer- fully. The boys turned back and walked rapidly on their way. Asagoro sulked behind them. “You white fella blame me, maybe!” he growled. “No,” said Rupert. Jan nodded agreement. Why should they blame Asagoro? It was true that he was a native, and na- tives ought to be familiar with such tricks, but the cleverest of blacks could be taken in by a ruse. Doubt- less the letters had been stolen by a band of roving strangers, black men like Asagoro, but newcomers in the region. Very possibly Asagoro had seen more than their legs—it seemed impossible that he had not —yet the boys could understand his unwillingness to say so. Letters were nothing to a Bantu servant; his skin was infinitely more important to him. Ac- cordingly, he much preferred not to give any clue which might enable Jan and Rupert to catch the thieves and get into afight with them. “I hear something,” said Jan, some distance beyond the mimosa tree. “Where?” demanded his brother. “CALAMITIES GO IN PAIRS” 99 1- Z I " -3111 “Off the path, west,” said Jan, and he pointed. “Hear it, Asagoro?” “Sure, me got ears,” grumbled the Bantu. “Maybe other ambush trick, all same first time. Us fella not go there.” They listened. “That’s no ambush,” declared Rupert. “It’s a na- tive, floundering around in the brush. Probably a woman. There! She’s singing!” And snatches of an ancient Bantu lullaby came from the unseen woman. “Hola!” shouted Jan. At once the singing stopped. “I’m going over there and ask her if she heard or saw the rascals that took our letters,” said Jan. “And I’ll go with you,” declared Rupert. “They may have run this way.” “Maybe catch-em ambush again,” objected Asa- goro, but, when the boys did not answer him, the Bantu came along. The woman was waiting for them, silent and watch- ful. She had a fiber basket and a knife, and she was apparently engaged in gathering herbs. Her eyes widened. “What you fella want?” she demanded. “Plenty bad fella around here, look like to me.” “Don’t be afraid,” said Rupert. “We are from Nulatabo, on our way to the boat. What do you mean by ‘plenty bad fella around here’? Have you seen some black fella running this way?” 100 THE PYGMY’S ARROW QQ Me see-em plenty run that way,” she answered, and pointed toward the river. “Just now?” “Little time from now, yes. You go boat, you find-em. Go ’way, let-em me alone.” “What tribe were they?” asked Jan. “How I know that!” she frowned. “Just black fella, that all I know.” “Many of them?” said Rupert. “Go ’way, go ’way,” muttered the woman. “You fella all same fly, bother‘me all time.” Rupert thanked her and they cut back to the path. A whistle sounded with startling abruptness. It was hoarse and labored, and not far off. “That’s the boat!” cried Jan. “Is it coming in to the landing, or is it leaving?” “Coming down river,” said Asagoro. “Whistle up river from landing, me know that for sure.” “Some things you do know,” admitted Jan, as they went swiftly on toward the river bank. “It almost makes up for what you’ve still got to learn about such things as ambushes.” “Ambushes and the reason for them,” added Ru- pert. “I can’t understand why a gang of prowling natives should want our letters.” “You are too hard-headed about it, Monsieur Gov- ernment Oflicial,” grinned the younger boy. “They didn’t want the letters themselves, they only wanted the money in them.” “Was there money in them?” countered Rupert. ED “CALAMITIES GO IN PAIRS” 101 "'v*s<; ~_ ' . “I doubt it. Father keeps very little cash on hand, and I’ve never known him to send it through the mails.” “It doesn’t make any difference, as far as our thieves are concerned,” said Jan. “They probably thought that the letters contained money, and that was enough to make their fingg:.rs:.itch-.” 1-; :-; : :-. Rupert looked aft Asagoro} °“5I’hd ivwioiriarz ‘thought that they tame w:t=v:~ D‘t> vat: we anything" which might be theirJt‘racks?”” 5°" " 3 " '4 J 3‘ 4' l: “Very hard tell, this-em path,” replied the Bantu. “Much people around here. You see plenty crowd, by boat landing.” “I hope we see the men we want,” muttered Rupert. “There’s a chance,” declared Jan. “They may plan to take the boat here in order to get away from this part of the country. We’ll keep our eyes open, and if anybody acts suspiciously we can get Captain Beran- ger to help us. He’s a good fellow.” The whistle sounded again, this time nearer than before. It was not far to the river. As the three walked on, the trees gave way to clumps of brush, and the grass began to thin out, reeds and sedges tak- ing its place. An expanse of dull, gray water appeared, and a low thick wall of vegetation bounded the far shore. Off to the right, the boys saw the steamer, heading in toward the shore. The boat was a squat affair badly in need of paint, yet, to the hundred or so natives watching her from the river bank, she was magnificent. Many of them had never seen a 102 THE PYGMY’S ARROW large vessel, so that in their naive eyes she was not only splendid and beautiful, but huge as well. “With good luck we’ll find our thieves in that crowd,” said Rupert. “Go easy, though. Don’t ac- cuse anyone until we’re sure.” Jan accepted the plan, but Asagoro did not even hear it. mqugth-wa-s\ open, and his;wide eyes were fixed uplinzthe steamer§in'"wdnde'r"as"childlike as any bush na.ti;;g...'$mql:e;gollgd -upgfrozngtheyboat. Bells clanged. -‘The "e'1fgiries -began: taithiobi at a slower rate. The dumpy little steamer nosed in toward the bank. Rupert and his brother paused at the edge of the crowd, eyeing everyone who might possibly have stolen the missionary’s letters. Their scrutiny was disappointing. Two thirds of the people gathered on the bank were women, some of them were frankly sightseers and nothing more. The others were there to send produce down the river or to sell it to the boat’s crew. Of the men, one was the native who had ridden up on a decrepit bicycle, and the others were either alone, or in twos or threes. There was no sign of a band, and not the slightest trace of guilt in any face. Jan and Rupert each threaded his way forward separately. When they met at the edge of the water, both boys shrugged silently. “Ah, there, boys!” cried a hearty voice. “How goes it with you?” It was Captain Beranger, standing on the deck of the steamer as he directed his native crew at the fa- miliar, yet important, task of making a landing. The “CALAMITIES GO IN PAIRS” 103 engines stopped, the boat slipped on with a faint rustling murmur of water. The Captain shouted orders, and the crew ran to and fro. Gently the steamer came to her berth. The gangplank went into place, and Captain Beranger shouted, “Stand back, everybody, until the passengers disembark!” The passengers to-day consisted of one native woman and a babe in arms. She had been up the river on a visit, and now was returning to her own village, to tell many true and many imaginary stories of the wonders she had seen on her trip. The woman walked ashore with a proud swagger, and the crowd pressed forward. “White men on board first!” cried the Captain. “Make way there, you market people. We’ll have plenty of time for you. Come aboard, boys.” Jan and Rupert went up the gangplank, shook hands with the friendly little Captain and stood lis- tening to him. Most people listened to him. He was, by nature, garrulous, and the scarcity of white men’s company on the river made him all the more voluble when he did find people of his own race. “It’s good to see you again,” he babbled. “A pity that your father did not come, too. I suppose he is busy. Ah, these missionaries, so much to do, and such discouraging work into the bargain. Does your father think he will ever make Christians out of these pagan rascals? Well, perhaps. It is not for me to criticize, and Herman Metlinck is a fine fellow, no doubt of that. But where is your baggage, my friends?” 104 THE PYGMY’S ARROW “We are not going away,” said Rupert. “We only—” “I see, I see,” beamed the little Captain. “You bring me letters to take down the river, is that it?” “That was it,” said Jan, and he explained briefly what had happened. The Captain was aghast and shocked, although he was also pleased at a fresh topic of conversation. “Who could have done it?” he cried. “Renegades, of course. The country is filling with them, people who no longer stay home because they have no busi- ness there. It is a restless age, even in the backwoods of Africa. This locality especially, it is getting a bad reputation, n’est-ce pas?” “What do you mean?” asked Rupert. “Oh, nothing, but — well, there is talk, you know.” “We have heard none.” “The man in the thorn patch is always the last to hear of it!” laughed the Captain, quoting a native proverb. “Well, I don’t mean to say that there is a great deal of talk, but there is some, some. Monsieur Duvain had a tale, for instance.” “And who is Monsieur Duvain?” “I must tell you about him,” said the Captain briskly. “He is a Belgian who never saw Belgium, a kind of white wanderer in Africa, as you might say. Knows most of the Congo very well, I take it, and just now he is going in for hunting. In his time it seems that he has done a bit of everything. He was “CALAMITIES GO IN PAIRS” 105 my passenger coming up the river on this trip, and he meant to leave the boat here, but he was scared off at the last minute.” Jan and Rupert looked at the Captain in amaze- ment. “Scared off?” exclaimed Rupert. “How?” “I never quite knew,” said the Captain ruefully. “He had planned to get off here, and when I made a landing he had all his things taken ashore. While I was busy with the vendors, back he comes with a queer look on his face. Tells me he isn’t getting off here, and for me to let him ashore farther on up the river. Naturally I was mystified—” “Of course,” interrupted Jan, “but what reason did he give?” “Practically none,” the Captain admitted. “He heard some gossip from a native on shore, that is all I could gather. According to Duvain, the native said there was some sort of trouble brewing back beyond Nulatabo, and that it would on that account be poor country to hunt in. So I let Duvain off at Gulago Falls, seventy-five kilometers up the river, so that he could hunt and at the same time keep clear of the Nulatabo territory. Of course I was glad to have him with me a little longer. In fact, I profited by it in several ways for we had some good talks, and he also gave me a light-weight coat, practically as good as new. It fits me very well, Duvain being short and blocky like myself. I appreciated the coat, but ever since I set him ashore yesterday morning I’ve been 106 THE PYGMY’S ARROW trying to puzzle out what he meant by trouble brew- ing down this way.” “It is apparent,” said Rupert, “that he, himself, didn’t know.” “That’s true,” nodded the Captain, and gestured toward his cabin. “Will you have something to eat?” “Many thanks, but we must get back. Come on, Jan.” “Wait a moment,” said the younger boy. “I have a note for Captain Beranger. Dad gave it to me just before I left the house.” He handed it over. The Captain read it, made clucking little sounds in his throat, and went to his cabin. “I didn’t know Father gave you such a note,” said Rupert. “It was an afterthought on his part,” Jan replied. “I imagine he wanted to borrow something from the Captain.: Yes, here he comes with a package in his hand.” “Take it,” said Captain Beranger, giving Jan a small heavy parcel. “I am sending him as much as I can spare.” “As much of what?” asked Rupert. “Unfortunately I cannot tell you,” smiled the Cap- tain. “Your father asked that I keep it confidential. But speaking of trouble, and your apparent skepti- cism in the matter of what Duvain told me, suppose you ask your father why he needs what is in the box I send him! Ah, yes, and come see me next time “CALAMITIES GO IN PAIRS” 107 I pass here. I shall be eager to know. It is really not fair of your father to keep things so much to himself. He is a fine fellow, and all that, but—” “I’m afraid we must go,” said Rupert. “We must get home and report the loss of the letters as soon as possible. And of course you, Captain, must be going on downstream.” “True, true!” cried the Captain, and began to shout orders to his men. “My life is a round of work and toil, toil and work, nothing else. I do not even have time to visit with my friends. Well, give my kindest regards to your father.” “Thank you,” said Rupert politely. "Au re:/oir, Captain.” "Au reuoir,” the Captain answered, coming to the gangplank with them, and shaking hands. The boys went ashore, and after looking for Asa- goro for several minutes, they found him on the edge of the crowd. He was eating a papaya melon that he had wheedled from someone. “Come on,” said Rupert. “We are going.” “What say?” exclaimed the Bantu. “Go now? We got wait for boat to leave.” “No, we haven’t. We must get home. Come along. You’ve seen this boat pull out a hundred times.” “I not see-em pull out to-day,” grumbled Asagoro. Nevertheless he came. A shout halted the boys. It was the Captain again. He stood at the rail of his boat. “Be careful, boys! Look out!” 108 THE PYGMY’S ARROW ll “Look out for what?” answered Jan. “For trouble,” came the answer. “You know what they used to say in Ghent, where I was born!” “I’m afraid we don’t,” said Rupert. “They used to say that one accident leads to an- other, or trouble breeds trouble. It was something like that. I forget the exact words. Oh, yes, I remem- ber. Calamities go in pairs! That’s how they used to put it. Calamities go in pairs, so watch out, boys. Au reuoir!” As the boys waved and started off, Rupert was complaining. “A man that talks as much as that is not to be believed in anything he says!” “You’re too severe,” said Jan. “There’s many a grain of wheat in a stack of straw.” “Captain Beranger’s proverbs must be catching,” Rupert commented sarcastically. “Asagoro!” “What you want?” “Did you see anyone at the boat landing who might have been with the men who stole our letters?” “No, sir, boss.” “Did you tell anyone about it?” “Not me. No, sir! I not say nothing.” When they reached the mimosa tree, they paused for a moment and Jan offered to share the bread he had brought from home. “I’m not in the mood to eat,” answered the elder boy. “I want to find those letters. Let us look again.” “We look before and not find-em,” shrugged .4-Q “CALAMITIES GO IN PAIRS” 109 Asagoro. “What you think-em happen now—maybe bird fetch-em back, drop-em right in front of you nose!” It was not clear what Rupert did expect, but the brothers began the search again. Carefully they re- traced their route from the mimosa tree to the spot where they had been assaulted. Slowly and painstak- ingly they hunted in the grass, Asagoro prodding with his spear, Jan poking about with the handle of his butterfly net, and Rupert crawling about on his hands and knees. But all of the efforts were in vain. The packet of letters was not to be found. “There is only one last chance,” said Rupert, getting to his feet, “and that’s a mighty slim one.” “You mean that we might find the letters on the way home?” asked Jan. “Yes. It’s barely possible that I dropped them.” They started again slowly, Asagoro frankly aban- doning the search, the boys scanning the edges of the path. For a long time they did not speak but only walked on, and on and on, grim and discouraged. Then, within sight of Asagoro’s village, Rupert sighed despairingly. “It is no use,” he muttered. “I distinctly remember seeing the letters in my belt after we passed here.” Asagoro walked a little faster. “Why the hurry?” demanded Rupert irritably. “Like to get to village, that all,” said Asagoro. “You’re not stopping there,” said Rupert. “I know 110 THE PYGMY’S ARROW what’s in your mind. You want to chatter and gossip about the strangers that set upon us and robbed us. Put that out of your mind, Asagoro. You’re not to tell anyone a word about it until after we have re- ported to my father.” “You fella make-em report,” muttered the Bantu. “We shall, but Dad will want to talk to you, too,” said Jan. “And besides, there’ll soon be supper to get.” “All you fella think is for eat, eat,” grumbled Asagoro, then he leered disagreeably. “No, me know what you scared for. You think-em white boss mad you lose-em letters, so Asagoro have to come ’long, take-em blame.” “You won’t be blamed, but you’ll come along,” said Rupert shortly. The Bantu led on through his village, and soon the trio came to the mission settlement. “I wonder what Dad will say,” murmured Jan. It was natural for the boys to wonder about that, but their curiosity was not to be satisfied as easily as they thought. When they entered their bungalow, Herman Metlinck was gone. Chapter Ezght WHY THE BULLETS? HE boys thought nothing of it, for there was Tnothing unusual about their father’s absence. He was doubtless out for a walk. Or he might be visiting one of the natives. “Let’s have an early supper, Asagoro,” Rupert urged, throwing off his helmet. “Yes,” said Jan, “I’m hungry enough to eat zebra hoofs.” A Asagoro went to the kitchen, rattled pots and pans in the half-hearted preliminaries of supper, and then came to the door. As he looked into the living room, his face was sober and his eyes were wide. 111 112 THE PYGMY’S ARROW “Well,” said Jan, “what is it? Did you find a spider in the bean pot?” “Me not like-em when boss gone,” replied the Bantu. “That so?” said Jan. “Seems to me you’re awfully fond of Dad all of a sudden. Can’t you really bear it until he gets back from his walk?” Rupert laughed briefly. “Stop it, Jan.” “Bad thing have-em boss gone,” said Asagoro. “Why, no,” said Rupert. “It’s perfectly all right. He’ll be back in a little while.” “You sure?” asked the Bantu. “As sure as I am that you ought to be getting supper,” was the pointed answer. Asagoro went back into the kitchen, Jan behind him. The boy got a handful of raisins and returned to the living room to sit down and munch. There was a silence, broken only by the shuffling footsteps of the Bantu as he moved about in the adjoining room. Rupert began to unlace his high-topped boots. Then, suddenly, there was a clang of iron. “Now what?” exclaimed Jan. He craned around toward the kitchen. “Asagoro dropped a stove lid.” “Be careful of that stove,” called Rupert. “It’s only cast-iron, and there isn’t another one to be had within a week’s travel.” The Bantu re-appeared in the door. “Did you break the stove lid?” demanded Rupert. “No, boss, I not break-em. I worried.” “About Father?” “Yes, sure.” WHY THE BULLETS? 113 The boys gazed at him with wondering eyes. They had never known Asagoro to act like this. The Bantu was cool and even selfish in his relations with the Met- lincks. He worked for them, but without bothering to add loyalty to his services. It was certainly not his way to fret over the absence of a member of the mis- sionary’s family—unless that absence threatened to delay a meal, thus prolonging his daily chores. “Are you afraid you’ll have to get two suppers?” said Rupert. “One for my brother and me, and one for Father? Is that what’s worrying you?” “No, no, I not care for how many suppers,” an- swered the Bantu. “It make me feel something maybe wrong, boss not here. Maybe I go-em see.” “Go where?” “My village. Boss he maybe there.” “Why, we just came through there!” “Sure, but maybe he go-em in house. I think maybe boss he go see Kalele. Kalele sick, boss he savvee medi- cine, so I guess he go talk-em, give-em medicine.” “That’s probably it,” declared Jan. “Very well,” said Rupert. “Go see, but before you go, be sure to put water on to heat. I think we’ll have some of that dried Swiss soup to-night, the kind in the red and yellow paper. Put your water on and then go see if Father is in the village. But you must come right back.” “Me do that,” said Asagoro, and hastily returned to the kitchen. A moment later the boys heard him go out of the back door. Jan tossed a last raisin into his mouth, laughing. 114 THE PYGMY’S ARROW “What was the name of that American book we read one time? About the slaves, I mean.” "Uncle T0m’s Cabin. Why?” “Nothing, except that it told how the old black servants got so devoted to their masters that they couldn’t bear to be separated from them. Looks to me as if Asagoro were going to qualify as one of those faithful old retainers!” Rupert did not smile. He went on unlacing his boots, as he said in a matter-of-fact tone, “You don’t really believe that.” “I know I don’t,” said Jan. “But anyhow it’s queer. Asagoro isn’t pretending; he’s genuinely concerned about Dad.” “Yes.” “Maybe he is beginning to respond to all the kind- ness that Dad has heaped on him.” “I should like to think so,” answered Rupert, but there was strong doubt in his voice. He rose, took his boots in his hand, and walked into the bedroom. “How methodical you are,” murmured the younger brother. “Doesn’t it ever bore you?” “Doesn’t it ever bore you to be so slack?” Rupert flashed back at him. “It isn’t being slack to rest,” chuckled Jan. He sank back in an easy chair. He stretched and relaxed, smil- ing contentedly. Then, by slow degrees, he quickened to attention. There was something which interfered with his comfort. An object under him, in the chair. Jan WHY THE BULLETS? 115 shifted, but the thing continued to annoy him. It was not in the chair, he realized, but in his hip pocket. It was the small package that Captain Beranger had given him in response to the missionary’s note. “Always something to disturb me,” murmured the boy, and he lazily pulled the package from his pocket. “Um, that’s better.” He lifted the package to toss it onto a nearby table, then, suddenly aware of how heavy it was, he con- tinued to hold it. An oblong package only a few inches long, it was extremely heavy for its size. Curi- ously he lifted it up and down, as though to estimate its weight. “What are you doing?” asked Rupert, coming into the room with his house slippers. “I wonder what this is,” said Jan. "And I, knowing you as I do, wonder why you’ve not wondered before!” retorted the elder brother. “It’s very compact. Must be something in a box.” “Probably.” “What do you suppose it is?” “Medicine,” said Rupert. “A box of capsules, or something of that sort. Pills, maybe.” “No, it’s too heavy.” Jan rattled the box. “Why, it sounds like a box of bullets!” “Foolishness. What would Father want with bul- lets!” “He has a pistol, hasn’t he!” “Yes, but he never uses it.” - 116 THE PYGMY’S ARROW “Maybe he thinks he may, and he’s out of bullets,” said Jan. “I’m going to see.” He went to the cupboard where the pistol was kept. It was a .32, a model several years old with the original factory carton still about it. Jan looked into the carton. There were no bullets in it. The boy snapped open the gun, and it was not loaded. “Not a single bullet,” he said, replacing the pis- tol in its pasteboard box. “Dad’s note to Captain Beranger was to ask for ammunition, that’s sure.” “It isn’t sure at all,” objected Rupert. “You forget there’s supposed to be a lion around here.” “Don’t be silly,” frowned the elder brother. “Father couldn’t have known about that when he wrote the note.” “Well, perhaps he wanted bullets to—to defend himself against that other trouble.” “What other trouble?” “I don’t know, but whatever it is that has been bothering him lately. There’s something. You know that.” “Yes, but I refuse to romance about it,” said Rupert. “I’ll bet you that the package from Captain Beranger contains medicine, or, at any rate, not bullets.” Jan gave him a provoking grin. “There’s only one way to make sure.” “Father wouldn’t like it if we opened a package meant for him.” “There’s nothing personal about a package of medi- cine.” WHY THE BULLETS? 117 Rupert looked dubious, but since he made no actual protest, Jan undid the package. It was a box of bullets, size .32. The boys were dumbfounded. Rupert had doubted it, but Jan had not been half as certain as he had pre- tended. A box of bullets! Their father had actually sent for a box of bullets for his pistol! If anyone else had done that, the brothers would have taken it as a matter of course, but Herman Metlinck was different. He had a deep aversion to fire-arms. The pistol and a box of bullets had been sent him by an old friend in Belgium, a friend who knew Africa only from books, and who consequently believed that the mis- sionary was in daily danger of death from cannibals or wild beasts. Herman Metlinck had kept the gun, but he had never fired it. Years ago Jan and Rupert had shot off the bullets at a target, and the empty pistol had been put away in the cupboard, to remain there undisturbed and almost forgotten. “So you see,” murmured Jan, recovering himself, “there is trouble of some sort, else Dad would never have wanted bullets.” “Trouble, perhaps,” said Rupert slowly, “but that doesn’t mean you have hit upon the particular kind of trouble.” “Maybe it’s what Captain Beranger mentioned. You know—what he said the white hunter Duvain told him about a native being sure there was trouble brewing around here.” “That’s third-hand information,” objected Rupert, “if it can be considered information, and not mere 118 THE PYGMY’S ARROW rumour. I don’t believe it. What kind of trouble? Some sort of hostility between native groups for it couldn’t be anything else. There’s nothing like that, or we’d have heard of it. Father is inclined to keep things to himself, but he couldn’t conceal anything of that kind if he tried. We’d know it from the way the natives acted and talked.” Jan brushed all this aside. “You forget Doorula’s arrow.” “What arrow? The black-and-red one that Mai- Mai gave him?” 4 “Yes. That ‘great enemy’ of the pygmies could be Asagoro or someone else among the ‘big people,’ which in turn could mean the threat of a native war. Dad might easily have known of all these things, and, if he did, he would probably have wanted ammunition in the house in case of danger.” Rupert shrugged and turned away. He did not care to talk about it. The elder boy resembled his father in that respect. He had a shell into which he often retired. “Case dismisssed,” said Jan, with evident sarcasm. “No more arguments. The judge has made his deci- sion, and there is no appeal.” No answer from Rupert. Slowly Jan replaced the box of bullets in the cup- board. It was growing dark in the room, and the boy lighted the kerosene lamp and put it on the desk. He got out his butterflies, thinking to pass the time until supper, and spread them on the table. Rupert 120 THE PYGMY’S ARROW But his reassuring words were not uttered in a con- vincing tone. Rupert knew only too well that his father rarely took off his glasses, except when he went to bed. There were only two possible explanations for his having left them here on the table. Either he had removed them to rest his eyes, or he had been too ex- cited to remember to take them with him when he went out. The first explanation did not hold water. When the missionary rested his eyes it was only" for a brief while, and he never went out of the house with- out his spectacles. It was reasonable, therefore, to suppose that he had left the house mentally disturbed. For the first time since returning home from the river, Rupert was alarmed. There was a suggestion of the sinister in his father’s absence. Instantly he glanced at his brother, wondering if he, too, knew that something was wrong. Yes, Jan was aware of it. “It’s a good thing Dad did leave his glasses behind,” Jan broke the tense silence. “He needs them even to walk—to walk well, anyhow—so the very fact that they are here means he hasn’t gone far. Do you know what I thought for a moment?” “No,” said Rupert in a flat tone. “I was afraid that Dad had gone off on another trip to the forest.” The younger boy spoke with a show of carelessness. “He wouldn’t have done that, though. In ten minutes time, he’d be stumbling like a blind man, and wanting his glasses so badly that he’d come back for them. W0uldu’t he?” WHY THE BULLETS? 123 teresting, and often diverting, they were little more. The Metlincks had reacted to their aloneness by growing much closer together than they would have had they lived in a normal environment. Not for many years had the boys spent a night apart from their father. “That clock makes a kind of cheerful noise, when you come to think of it,” observed Jan, after a long while of saying nothing. “Yes,” his brother answered. Now Rupert tried deliberately to listen to the clock and to ignore his thoughts. Impossible. Stronger than the tinny racket of the clock was the insistent clamor of his fears. It was Rupert’s habit to scoff at the im- aginative and unsupported theories which Jan liked to speculate upon, but, when a disturbing notion did get possession of his brain, Rupert suffered more deeply than his brother. And there was enough to disturb him now. He had done his best to minimize the im- portance of such happenings as Asagoro’s mark at the salt lick, the black-and-red arrow, the missionary’s trip off toward the forest, the stabbing of the boot print, and Herman Metlinck’s secret trouble. Rupert had even tried to discount the seriousness of losing the letters on the way to the boat, as well as his father’s absence this evening. None of these things was sep- arately a cause for anxiety, but certainly they were strangely threatening when you took them together. Still worse, they seemed to belong together. And though they stood out in Rupert’s mind as unrelated i 124 THE PYGMY’S ARROW bits of a puzzle, all of the incidents had happened within a short space of time. Because of this and other reasons which the boy could not explain, he was convinced that a serious, perhaps ominous, mystery was taking shape at Nulatabo, with Herman Metlinck as the nub, and possibly the victim, of it. . “Too bad those letters were stolen,” said Jan, clear- ing his throat. “Yes, it was,” nodded Rupert. “They may have been ordinary dispatches, routine reports or some- thing like that, but somehow I have a feeling that they had to do with . . . with . . .” “So do I,” Jan finished for him. “Why, yes, of course! If there is trouble brewing among the na- tives, and Dad knew of it and was reporting it, it is possible that the letters were taken away from us in order to keep Dad’s report from getting to the au- thorities.” “Possibly,” said Rupert, but his enthusiasm was so lukewarm that Jan abandoned this new idea. Asagoro began to set the table in the middle of the living room. He was painfully quiet. Back and forth he shuffled, bringing dishes, knives and forks and spoons. Then he went to the desk and picked up the kerosene lamp. “Wait!” cried Jan. “Huh, what matter now?” demanded the Bantu. “Me always put lamp on the supper table. Big boss he say he got to see to eat like he want.” Jan got up and hurried into the corner behind the WHY THE BULLETS? 125 desk. The play of shadows caused by the moving of the lamp had called his attention to a piece of white paper on the floor. And that, in the house of the al- most fanatically neat missionary, was a thing worth investigating. The boy picked it up. “A note from Dad!” he exclaimed. “Listen: Called out to see a white man who is in trouble. Back this evening. H .M.” I § Chapter N ine UNDER COVER OF THE NIGHT HE note filled Jan and Rupert with mixed emo- Ttiom. They were relieved to know what had taken their father away from home, but they were both surprised and confused. “A white man in trouble?” murmured Rupert. “I can’t understand that.” “I can’t understand the white man,” said Jan. We’ve heard there was trouble, but the other . . . I wonder if it could be Duvain!” “The man that Captain Beranger told us about? No. He was let off the boat at Gulago Falls, and that’s seventy-five kilometers from here.” “Duvain could have come overland.” QQ 126 UNDER COVER OF THE NIGHT 127 “Not since yesterday morning,” objected the elder brother. “That’s when Captain Beranger put him ashore. And besides, Duvain didn’t want to come here. The white man that Father talks about must be someone else.” “I suppose so,” said Jan, “although we’ve never heard of anyone else around here.” The boys stared at the note. Herman Metlinck had evidently scribbled it in a hurry, had put it on the desk unweighted, and a breath of air had whisked it to the floor. Jan and Rupert scanned the floor, as though it might produce further information. There was nothing. All this while, Asagoro had been standing with the lamp in his hand, watching and listening. He was breathing hard. “What is the matter?” Rupert asked him. “Nothin’ matter me,” said the Bantu quickly. “What that piece paper say?” “You heard me read it,” answered Jan. “Dad’s gone to help a white man.” “Where go?” “That we don’t know,” said Rupert, arousing him- self. “But it makes no real difference. The important thing is that we know why he is away. Let’s eat.” “Not wait for big boss?” inquired Asagoro, in an anxious tone. “He may be late. Bring the things, please.” Asagoro put the lamp on the table and went to get the food. The boys sat down, and ate a hearty 128 THE PYGMY’S ARROW ~-iii supper of soup, melon salad, and stewed fruit. They were in good spirits, though the Bantu continued to act ill at ease. “What else that paper say?” he muttered. “Nothing,” smiled Jan, “unless there’s a message concealed by means of invisible writing, and I don’t think Dad knows how to do that.” A furrow appeared in the Bantu’s brow. “Invisible writing?” he inquired. “What you mean?” “Magic writing,” said Jan lightly. “He make-em magic, you think?” whispered Asa- goro. “Oh, stop it, Jan,” said the elder brother. “And you, too, Asagoro. You know what the note says. There isn’t any more, so let’s stick to sensible talk. What about white men in the neighborhood, do you know of any?” “No. Just big boss that live here you fellas.” “Ever hear of anyone else lately?” “Nobody else,” said Asagoro, and he picked up the empty bread bowl and went back to the kitchen. Jan glanced after him, his face thoughtful. “He’s still acting queerly,” murmured the boy. “Maybe he knows more about this than he’s told us.” “How could he?” “It’s certain that there is a white man around here,” Jan explained, “and it’s not likely that he could have been here long without the natives knowing it. So perhaps Asagoro is covering up.” “Perhaps the white man hasu’t been here long! UNDER COVER OF THE NIGHT 129 Don’t make things more tangled than they already are.” Asagoro returned with more bread, but the boys were finished eating. The Bantu stood near them, restless and aggressive. “You fella ask-em crazy questions,” he grumbled. “No other white man ’round Nulatabo.” “That so?” said Jan. “Then why did the note mention a white man?” “No white man,” declared the Bantu stubbornly. Rupert put on a severe air. “We’ve had enough of your illuminating conversation,” he told the Bantu. “Finish your work in the kitchen and you can go to bed.” “Clear-em off table now?” “No. Leave the food where it is. Father will want to eat when he comes.” “Then I go stay my village,” said Asagoro. The boys looked up in surprise. Asagoro had a small cave-like room beyond the kitchen, and he had slept there ever since he first came to work for the Metlincks. “Why do you want to go to the village?” asked Rupert. “Stay with Kalele. He sick.” “Will you have to be there all night?” “Better that way, sure. Maybe get-em bad in the night. If I not there, maybe Kalele die. Missionary boss he not like that.” Rupert shrugged. “Neither would I, Asagoro. 130 THE PYGMY’S ARROW Well, you may go. But you must be here early in the morning.” “I come first thing,” he assured them. The Bantu did his kitchen work and left, his man- ner so quick and eager that Jan could not help noticing it. Was it a coincidence that Kalele was ill at this particular time, or was it somehow connected with the missionary’s absence? That did not seem possible. It seemed more likely that Asagoro was worried over Herman Metlinck’s failure to return by supper time, and that the Bantu was using Kalele’s sickness as an excuse to talk things over with his tribesmen. “We mustn’t go out of our way to be suspicious,” said Jan. “Try to stick to that resolution,” observed Rupert dryly. “I’m sure Father is all right. A white man sent for him and he went. That’s the matter in a nutshell.” Jan went to the cupboard, and began to rummage among the various objects on the shelves. “What are you looking for?” demanded his brother. “Our pocket medicine kit. H’m, it’s here.” “Well, what of it?” “I supposed that Dad had taken it. There are only two things that could get a white man into trouble in this country. One is illness, the other is a wound. In either case Dad would have needed his medicine kit.” “Probably the white man had his own medicines.” “That’s right,” said Jan, and he laughed and sat UNDER COVER OF THE NIGHT 131 down. “It’s odd the way we keep trying to make a mystery out of this trip of Dad’s.” “Father will be here soon,” said Rupert confidently. “Listen, it’s beginning to rain.” “That will bring him on the run,” chuckled the younger boy. “He will want to get to shelter, and he’ll know that dry clothes and supper are waiting for him here. By the way. . . .” “More mystery?” asked Rupert. “I hope not, but it just occurred to me that the white man could be in trouble because of some fuss with the natives. That might keep Dad longer than if it were just a sick call.” Rupert jumped up and went to the desk. “I’m going to read,” he announced. “Don’t talk any more of your nonsense. I tell you Father will be here in a little while, and then he will explain the whole affair.” Perhaps, and yet the clock ticked and ticked, passing from one hour to another. Still the missionary did not come. Rain beat down upon the roof of the bungalow, steadily and violently and persistently. It was not a cheerful sound. Jan worked with his butter- fly collection, while Rupert read, or pretended to read. It was a dreary evening, and at last Jan spoke up. “Half past eight,” he said. “Let’s go to bed.” “And not wait for Father?” “We can wait just as well in bed.” “All right. Bed will be more comfortable than sit- ting here like this.” 132 THE PYGMY’S ARROW They fastened the kitchen door, and the door which opened onto the verandah from the living room. The lamp they left on the supper table, undressing by the light which it threw into their bedroom. As Jan got into bed, Rupert went into the living room to blow out the lamp. “How will Dad get in if the doors are locked?” asked Jan. “I’ll get up as soon as I hear him,” said Rupert as he approached his bed, walking carefully in the darkness. “Father wouldn’t like it if we failed to close the house. That’s always been a strict rule with him. Natives are likely to get in and steal food if you don’t lock up.” “Yes, I know.” The boys lay in bed, breathing quietly and gazing with thoughtful eyes into the darkness. Now and then they talked, but not at length, and soon not at all. Jan sighed and rolled onto his right side, his customary sleeping position. He told himself, drow- sily, that he was going to stay awake until his father came, yet, even as he made this resolution, the blurring hand of sleep reached out and gripped him. There was great curiosity in Jan, and, to-night, anxiety as well. But he was a healthy, growing boy, and the events of the day had wearied him. He fell asleep, and at some nameless and indefinite hour of the night "he began to dream. It seemed to Jan that he was traveling in the forest, a medicine kit in his pocket, and a packet of important letters ' " — ~ -— 1 UNDER COVER OF THE NIGHT 133 tucked in his belt. The vast jungle of the Ituri rose up about him. There was no sky to be seen, and no trail. Jan was plodding steadily onward, and yet there was no path for his feet. In his dream he simply traversed the country, without knowing how he did it. Whenever he thought to hang back, something called to him from a screen of trees and underbrush. After a while, he was tired and wanted to rest, but the call persisted, and so he struggled onward. The letters in his belt must be delivered, and the medicine kit must be taken to his father. Then weight de- scended upon him. His feet were dragging now. It was absolutely necessary for him to rest. Resentfully he stopped and lay down on the ground, and in his dream he said loudly, “I know there are people who are watching me, but I shan’t sleep. I shall only rest, and watch against enemies. They shall get nothing from me.” Very quickly it seemed to him that he was asleep in the forest. It was a strange sleep, for though his eyes were closed and he was slumbering, he was also aware of everything that went on about him. Jan dreamed that he heard something draw near. There were light footsteps, beating upon the ground with the regularity of raindrops, and drawing closer and closer. He could hear something breathe, and in his uneasiness he assured himself that it was not a stranger but Rupert, far off in Nulatabo. Yes, it was Rupert. Or was it? Faint scratching sounds fell upon his ears, and he struggled to rise and flee into the forest, but 134 THE PYGMY’S ARROW —-—~-—- -~..~ -_"‘_£“._I5|~I~n amt I could not. It was an unseen enemy, slipping up, wanting to steal the letters which Jan had in his belt. This enemy also intended to take the medicine kit so that the boy could not deliver it to his father. A cold sweat broke out upon him. He struggled to rise and escape, but he had no strength. The thing ad- vanced another step, invisible and terrifying, and Jan awakened. “A dream,” he muttered. “Thank Heaven for that.” Weak, and strangely depressed, he lay in bed think- ing about it. He remembered what he had once read in a book concerning the psychology of dreams. Many times, the book had said, a sleeping person is disturbed by an actual sound, and this sound results in a logically appropriate dream. For example, the ringing of a telephone may cause the sleeper to begin dreaming of clanging fire engines. Jan decided that to-night’s dream had illustrated the same principle. Rupert’s breathing had caused the dream breathing that Jan had heard, the regular sound of approaching footsteps had originated in the patter of rain on the bungalow roof. The slight scratching sounds in the dream had come from—what? “Nothing,” said Jan drowsily, and he shifted to a more comfortable position. Suddenly a wave of terror swept over him. He heard the scratching sounds again, and this time he was certainly not dreaming! He was wide awake! They were real sounds, not far from the boys’ bed- room. UNDER COVER OF THE NIGHT 135 Jan wet his lips. He blinked into the darkness, wondering if he had heard a tree scraping against the house. That sometimes happened, if there was a wind as there was to-night. There was a rustle of blankets from the other side of the room. Rupert was awake, no doubt disturbed by the same noise. The younger brother waited a moment, then he said, in a tense whisper, “That you, Rupert?” “Yes. I heard something. I hear it now.” “So do I. Maybe it is a tree, brushing the house.” “No, it sounds more like a rat, or some other gnaw- ing animal,” said Rupert. “Trying to get into the kitchen,” Jan agreed. “Yes, it is gnawing, or cutting. Rupert!” “What?” “It’s not in the direction of the kitchen, it’s in the living room.” “No.” “Yes, it is. I’m sure of it. I’m going to have a look.” “Look out that you don’t step on whatever it is and let it bite you. Strike a match.” “I haven’t one here. Be quiet now.” Jan got out of bed, and walked slowly and cau- tiously to the door. He peered into the living room. The gnawing sound had stopped, and the boy was about to call out to Rupert that the animal had been frightened away, when it began again. With a startled gasp, Jan came back into the bedroom. “It’s at the window!” he whispered. “At the window?” gasped Rupert. “Then it’s no l36 THE PYGMY’S ARROW -r animal. It’s a man. The sound we hear is from a knife, or some sharp tool that he’s using. He’s break- ing in.” “Who could it be?” “A thieving native,” said the elder brother. “Asa- goro probably told everyone in his village that Father is away, and some rascal thinks this is a good chance to pilfer.” “I’ll tell him to clear out,” suggested Jan. “No,” said Rupert, getting out of bed. “Let him get in and we’ll catch him. It’s better to know who he is, for then he’ll be likely to walk the straight and narrow path for a while. Don’t make any noise.” The intruder had by this time succeeded in open- ing the window, evidently by the process of cutting through the wooden frame until he could reach the catch. A current of cold air struck the boys, the beat of the rain was a bit louder. They moved noiselessly toward the door, listening intently. Faint soft noises told them that the prowler was crawling into the room. Jan wished he had his father’s gun. “Don’t move,” Rupert signaled him. There was a silence, as if the unknown were stand- ing still, listening in an effort to get his bearings. Then the boys heard him move across the floor. Bare feet, that was evident, and bare feet meant a native. Jan had been entertaining a wild notion that it might possibly be his father, who was taking this extraordi- nary method of getting into the house without dis- turbing his sons. But it was certainly a native. 140 THE PYGMY’S ARROW It was true. The figure of a native was slithering along a rafter in the dark open peak of the house, evidently with the intention of escaping through the window. Now the unknown crouched down in a heap, silent and watchful. “A pygmy!” exclaimed Rupert. “Come here, who- ever you are.” No answer. “I’ve got a gun and I’ll use it,” Jan threatened. “It’s no use. You’re caught. Are you coming?” “Me come,” grunted the pygmy, and he climbed down from the rafter with the skill and grace of a monkey. Jan gasped in amazement. It was Lubu! THE PROWLER’S STRANGE BOOTY UBU faced them with the tense watchfulness of L an animal at bay, his dark eyes gleaming in the lamplight and his lips parted. But he did not speak. “So the thief that breaks into our house is our friend Lubu!” Jan said regretfully. “You ought to be ashamed!” The young pygmy gave no sign that he had heard. He continued to stand on guard, half in shadow, yet unable to conceal the fact that he held one hand be- hind him. Rupert noticed this. “Look out, Jan! He has his bow in back of him. He might try to put an arrow into one of us. Don’t go near him.” 141 142 THE PYGMY’S ARROW It was hard to believe that Lubu would use his ar- rows to attack them, yet if they tried to hold him he might do that very thing. He was desperate, and he seemed to be armed. The pygmy’s only clothing con- sisted of the usual breechclout of bark and fiber cord, but in addition he carried several weapons. One was a knife, hanging at his right hip. Another was a quiver of arrows, slung at his left side, a little behind the hip bone. The third—and most sinister of all—was a small “cup” which was held in place by a cord at a point immediately in front of the quiver. This cup was made of stifi crudely-tanned leather, and was pro- vided with a flap-like lid. Jan and Rupert were aware of a distinctly unpleasant sensation, as they gazed upon this leathern cup. They knew that it contained the poison, the evil vegetable concoction which pyg- mies so often used on their arrows. In an instant Lubu could jerk an arrow from his quiver, dip its metal head into the cup of poison, and fit the arrow to his bow, if he had one. “What have you got behind your back?” demanded Rupert sternly. “Me go now,” Lubu answered, in a guttural voice. He moved a step nearer the window, still with his back away from the white boys. “Stop!” commanded Jan. “You’re not going.” “If he has a bow,” began Rupert, “we—” “I don’t think he has,” said the younger brother. There’s nothing threatening about him. He only wants to escape. I think that what he is hiding behind CQ 144 THE PYGMY’S ARROW WI you’ll have to give it up. Come on, now, be sen- sible.” “Me take,” said the pygmy. “You want to take it to your village, you mean?” “Take-em village. Sure.” “That’s impossible.” “Got to do,” insisted Lubu. “Why?” “Much trouble I not do it.” The white boys were mystified. What was he talk- ing about! They could not imagine that anything in the bungalow was as important as all this to a tribe of pygmies. The little people usually had no use for the things which Europeans valued. “What is it?” asked Rupert persuasively. “Not tell you,” was the stolid answer. “Come on,” said Jan, “let’s take it away from him.” Rupert was undecided, but Lubu made up his mind for him. Suspecting that the missionary’s sons were going to resort to force, the young pygmy suddenly dashed for the living room window. With a yell Jan was after him. Lubu lifting a small dark object above his head, took aim out the window. It was the thing he had stolen, and he thought to hurl it into the dark- ness and to find it later. A shrewd plan, but it was not successful. As Jan made a flying tackle and brought the pygmy to the floor, Lubu’s precious booty rolled noisily into the corner. “Get it!” Jan cried to his brother. “I’ll hold him.” THE PROWLER’S STRANGE BOOTY 145 Lubu struggled frantically to free himself, but he could not. He was muscular and well proportioned, and he was quick in his movements and accustomed to an active life, but he was not as well nourished as Jan, and he was many pounds lighter in weight. Jan held him fast, calling to Rupert, “Did you get it?” “Yes,” said the elder brother and moved closer to the lamp. “What is it?” demanded Jan. There was a pause. “Hair brushes,” Rupert said slowly. Jan got up, the pygmy’s wrist still in his grasp. Frankly incredulous, he pulled Lubu toward the light. “Let me see,” he exclaimed. It was as Rupert had said. Lubu’s booty consisted of a leather box several inches square. It was fastened by a metal clasp, and it contained two hair brushes, the property of Herman Metlinck. His wife had bought them while in Brussels, and had brought them all the way to the Congo as a birthday gift for her husband. The missionary had never used them, for his tastes were extremely simple; he was content with an older, less pretentious brush. The new set of two he had put away in the cupboard. They were to be presented to Rupert on his twenty-first birth- day. “Hair brushes,” whispered Jan. “This is the wildest thing I ever heard of!” Rupert nodded. Certainly the brushes were inap- propriate for a pygmy. The little people had ex- THE PROWLER’S STRANGE BOOTY 147 9! “Me not sent. “You were, and you know it. Was it Mai-Mai?” “Me not tell.” “Doorula, then.” “Me not tell you,” said the pygmy stubbornly. Jan was bafiled. He shook his head. “What does it mean! If a white man were to steal a pair of hair brushes, it would be understandable. Or if a native were to steal them because he thought he could trade them to a white man. . . . Wait a moment! I believe I’ve got something!” “Tell it, then,” said Rupert quickly. “Listen,” said the younger brother, with growing excitement. “There is a strange white man in the vicinity. We know that because of Dad’s note.” “Yes, of course, but—” “Leave buts out of it. The only possible explana- tion is that the strange man is at the pygmy village, or near it, and that Lubu came here to get the hair brushes to ofier in trade for something the white man had that he wanted.” “Perhaps,” said Rupert, “but it sounds far- fetched.” “I suppose you have a better solution!” “No,” said Rupert, “but I was watching Lubu when he saw the brushes in the box, and unless I’m completely feeble-minded he was just as surprised as we were! He didn’t know there were hair brushes in it. It was something else he was after.” Jan was disgusted, yet he quickly recovered. Aban- 148 THE PYGMY’S ARROW doning his theory, he approached the mystery from a new angle. “Sit down and have some food,” he said to Lubu. “We aren’t going to hurt you. All we want is to talk to you, and to have you give us straight answers. Take a chair, and eat.” “What’s in your mind?” asked Rupert. “You’ll find out,” Jan told him. “I think we’re on the verge of discovering something important. Lubu, sit down!” The pygmy came gingerly to the table. He sat on the edge of the chair, his bright quick eyes examining the food, left from dinner, his nostrils dilating gently as he smelled various dishes. He tried the stewed fruit, and seemed to like it. “Make yourself at home,” invited Jan. “There’s bread, too. You like that. Now, Lubu, tell us some- thing. Is the strange white man at your village, or has he camped in the forest near it?” Lubu’s hand trembled. He stopped eating. “How you know about white man?” he whispered. “Never mind. Where is he?” “Me not know.” “Isn’t he staying with your people?” “No.” “Where is he, then?” The pygmy rose from chair. “Me not talk-em about white fella,” he muttered. “Me go now.” “Hold on, don’t be in a hurry,” said Rupert sooth- ingly. “Take some salt.” TI-IE PROWLER’S STRANGE BOOTY 149 The offer of salt enticed Lubu into sitting down again, and when he was quiet Rupert said, “We won’t talk about the strange white man, if you’d rather not. Let us talk about Father. Did he come to your village to-day?” “Yes,” said Lubu, after a little hesitation. “Good. Then the strange white man is there, too.” “No, not there,” said the pygmy, and the salt cellar shook in his hand. “Not talk about other white fella. That bad talk.” “All right. I’m sorry.” “Perhaps Dad sent him for the hair brushes!” ex- claimed Jan. “Not for the brushes—I don’t mean that —but for the medicine kit. Lubu was told to look in the cupboard, and he mistook the brush case for the box of medicines. That fits.” It fitted beautifully, except that Lubu denied it. “Missionary boss he not send me,” he said. “He not know about it. You stop talk now. Me get-em in trouble, you not stop.” “Very well,” said Rupert, “but I want to know one thing more. Is Father coming home to-night?” Lubu got up from his chair. He shot an uneasy glance at the boys. Finally he said, “No, he not come, me think.” “He is staying at the village?” “Stay village, yes. You let-em Lubu go now.” He turned toward the window, but Jan grasped his arm. Then, at the sight of a raw line across the pyg- my’s shoulders, Jan cried out. 150 THE PYGMY’S ARROW “Why, you’re hurt! Look here, Rupert! He must have fallen on something.” Rupert shifted the lamp so that they could see bet- ter. There were four or five red welts on Lubu’s back, ‘most of them mere swollen places, but one or two with the skin broken. “He hasn’t fallen,” said the elder brother, “he’s been beaten with a stick.” “That’s the wizard’s doing,” declared Jan. “No, no, Mai-Mai not beat-em me,” protested Lubu. “Pygmy fella not do-em such thing to other pygmy fella.” “Who did it, then?” They expected him to refuse to tell, but there was too much bitterness in the pygmy boy. “Asagoro do,” he muttered. “Good Heavens!” cried Rupert. “Are you sure?” “Beat me while ago,” said Lubu, his lips trembling. “Knock me and give me kick, too.” “Oh, but why?” Jan demanded. “It wasn’t Asa- goro who sent you here to steal, was it?” “No, he not know about that. You not tell Asa- goro about beat me, or maybe he kill-em me dead. You not tell?” “Certainly not, if it would make trouble for you, but—” “Let-em go,” pleaded the pygmy boy. “I got go.” “Well, if you must,” said Rupert reluctantly. Rupert wanted to say more, and many questions were pressing forward in Jan’s mind. But before either TI-IE PROWLER’S STRANGE BOOTY 151 of them could speak again, Lubu had run to the win- dow- and had climbed out. He vanished into the dark and the rain. “Let’s go to bed,” said Rupert. “This is a mixed-up aifair, and we certainly won’t get to the bottom of it to-night. More than that, we need sleep. If Father doesn’t show up to-morrow morning, we’ll have to think about going for him.” “I’m willing,” the younger brother agreed wearily. They blew out the lamp and went back to bed, tired but unable to sleep except for a few minutes at a time. All the rest of the night they dozed by fits and starts, troubled by snatches of dreams and de- pressed by their father’s absence. The night sagged drearily to a close as gray dawn came upon the forest. The rain had stopped, but there was a heavy wall of mist around the bungalow. “Someone is at the door,” murmured Jan, as the sound of fist blows on wood came to him. “I must say Asagoro is early to work, after a night out. Or is it Asagoro?” Rupert went to unfasten the door. It was Lubu again, bow in hand, his skin dripping with moisture. “Oh, where did you come from?” exclaimed Ru- pert. " “Me sleep under tree,” was the answer. “Scared to go back to village, you savvee?” “Because you didn’t get what you were sent for?” The pygmy nodded, his eyes anxious. “Maybe you fella go with me,” he suggested. 152 THE PYGMY’S ARROW QC '!, Why not. said Jan, coming in from the bedroom. “Dad is at the pygmy village. We could find out about him, and at the same time sort of act as a guard for Lubu.” The elder brother was willing. “We’ll go with you,” he said to Lubu. As an after- thought, he added, “If you’re sure Father is at the village.” “Sure, he there. Doorula he tell-em missionary fella he have first hut they build.” “What’s that?” said Rupert sharply. “Have your people left their old village, to go somewhere else and build a new one?” Again the pygmy nodded. “I don’t like the sound of this,” muttered Jan. “A new village might be located almost anywhere. Why should they be changing locations?” “Me know where new village is,” said Lubu. “Easy to find-em.” “How far is it?” “Just little ways. Rupert shrugged. “That could be a kilometer, or it could be a hundred kilometers.” “Why should Dad go with them to make a new village?” asked Jan. “It must have something to do with the white man.” A cough made them look round. It was Asagoro, standing in the doorway. He was gazing at Lubu with surprise. “What you do here?” he demanded of the boy. 8! 1 4 THE PROWLER’S STRANGE BOOTY 15 3 “Never mind,” said Rupert. “Start breakfast, Asa- goro, and cook something for Lubu.” “What he do here?” asked the Bantu. Lubu’s eyes bore a message to the missionary’s sons. “Not tell what me tell you,” he muttered. ' “We shan’t,” whispered Jan; “but if it weren’t for getting you in trouble I’d have it out with our friend Asagoro. There’s a reckoning ahead, if he only knew 1t.” Asagoro studied the three boys, trying to piece things together in an effort to discover what they were talking about. Then he appeared to dismiss the idea. “Boss come back?” he wanted to know. “Not yet,” said Rupert. “That bad,” grunted the Bantu. “Where he go, you fella find out?” “Yes. He is with the pygmies.” “With pygmies?” said Asagoro, in a startled tone. “\Vhat he do there?” “I think we must find out,” said Rupert slowly. “Asagoro, the pygmies have left their old village and have gone off to make a new one. Father is with them, and while my brother and I are not exactly worried about it, we aren’t exactly at ease, either. Lubu knows where the new village is, and if Father is not back by noon to-day I am going to ask Lubu to take us there. It’s only sensible to wait till noon before we do any- thing.” “Me go, too,” said Asagoro quickly. 154 THE PYGMY’S ARROW “I had counted on that,” answered Rupert, and with a significant look at Lubu’s back he added, “Father will be wanting to talk to you, I imagine.” “And perhaps the pygmies will want to do more to you than talk,” murmured ]an. Chapter Eleven MEET A WHITE MAN OON came, but not the missionary. The boys N watched out of the living room window. They even walked across the clearing to the beginning of the forest path, hoping for an encouraging sign. There was none. “We’ll get ready,” said Rupert, as they returned to the house. “Asagoro, how many porters will we need?” “Me not know where we go,” replied the Bantu. “I imagine we’ll need about eight,” Jan put in. “That’s how many we had the time we went on the Bulwai trip with Dad.” “Eight will be enough, if they are good men,” 1§§ 156 THE PYGMY’S ARROW QQ nodded the elder brother. Go to your village and choose the men you want, Asagoro. But be sure they are good ones, strong and willing. Otherwise Father may object to giving them full pay. Run along, and bring them here for inspection as soon as you have them lined up. Meanwhile Jan and I will start pack- ing. Of course you Bantus will have to take care of your own food and cooking utensils.” “Take food for a week,” suggested Jan. “Too much is better than too little.” Asagoro went off, and at once the boys began to overhaul the contents of the bungalow, studying what to take on the trip. Little by little they assembled a pile of necessary articles in the middle of the living room. Now and then, Lubu came to peep in the door, curious to see what they were doing. “You might go watch for Father,” said Rupert. Come tell us if you hear or see anything.” “And don’t wander off,” added Jan, “because we’ll be packing salt bags a little later, and there may be a bit left over!” ' “Me come back,” smiled the pygmy, and he scam- pered away to watch for Herman Metlinck. Jan and Rupert secretly believed that their father would shortly put in an appearance, thus automati- cally cancelling the trip which was scheduled to be- gin. But he did not come, nor was there any comfort- ing message from him. The following morning failed to bring good news. The pile of blankets, cooking equipment, and “white-man’s food” continued to grow. By mid-afternoon the boys had finished pack- QQ MEET A WHITE MAN 157 ing some twenty pounds of salt into a number of small canvas bags which were easy to carry. “This salt will be a ‘friend maker,’ all right, with the natives,” said Rupert. “We can distribute it as presents.” When Jan went to the cupboard for their pocket medicine kit, he brought back not only the kit but several rolls of colored cellophane. It was easy to carry and capable of delighting the hearts of the African native. “I’ll put cellophane against salt, when it comes to making friends for us,” said Jan. “Salt has been it for centuries and centuries, but nowadays this new- fangled cellophane is a better bet. I’m going to take a few rolls of it along.” “Father was saving that to give the natives for Christmas,” objected Rupert. “There’s plenty left in the cupboard. Hullo, here come Asagoro and his porters.” The porters were all Bantus from Asagoro’s village, and with the exception of old Kalele, who was shrunken and trembling and scarcely able to stand on his feet, they were big strong men who were entirely satisfactory for their jobs. “Your father can’t go,” said Rupert firmly to Asa- goro. “He’s too ill.” “Kalele he like-em go so he get paid,” the Bantu explained. “No go,” declared the white boy. “Get another man to take his place.” “Kalele might act as caretaker while we’re gone,” 1S8 THE PYGMY’S ARROW Jan suggested. “To keep an eye on the buildings and make sure no one breaks in, I mean. There’d be pay for that.” It was settled. A new porter was chosen, and Asa- goro divided the baggage into eight equal parts. “Go village,” he told his men. “Come back here first thing in morning, plenty early.” Night fell. The boys ate supper and took food to Lubu, who insisted upon spending the night out un- der the trees. Then Jan and Rupert returned to the house, to talk a while and to go to bed. They slept soundly, but awakened shortly after dawn. Asagoro was already getting breakfast. “I’ll take my butterfly collecting case,” said Jan, as he dressed, “and in it—” “Oh, leave that home,” broke in the elder brother. This is not a pleasure excursion. It’s serious. There’s no telling whether Father is all right, or whether he might be in trouble.” “It’s very very rude to interrupt,” Jan told him scathingly, “especially when your betters are talking. I meant I’d take the case to carry Dad’s spectacles in. He’ll be wanting them.” “Breakfast he almost ready,” called Asagoro. They ate, fed Lubu, The Aloof, as Jan called him, and had Asagoro take the baggage outside. Then, while the Bantu collected his porters, Jan and Rupert made the rounds of the house, fastening windows and making sure that everything was in good order. In the missionary’s bedroom Jan paused, surprised to find several large books on the bed. MEET A WHITE MAN 1:9 “Dad’s been reading those Government folios!” he exclaimed. “One’s a law book, one’s a collection of colonial documents, and one is I don’t know what!” “Come along,” said Rupert. “I didn’t know Dad was interested in reading things like that,” said Jan, hurrying outside. Rupert inspected the kitchen door from the inside. Then he came out on the verandah and carefully locked the front door. “Start,” he called to Asagoro. The porters picked up their burdens, balanced them on their heads, and walked slowly off behind Asagoro. At the end of the procession came the white boys. Lubu, with his bow and arrows, preceded Jan with his stout walking stick. Rupert, with a stick and the missionary’s pistol strapped about his waist, walked last. “I feel silly with the thing,” he observed, “but perhaps it’s just as well to have it along.” “Why not?” asked Jan, nodding toward the file of porters ahead. “Asagoro has a spear, and we have a gun. Weapons are a good thing. You never can tell what is going to happen.” It was another misty morning, but the sun was promising to break through. The path led south to the fork, then left over the stream and ofi toward the Ituri. As the sun shone brighter, the porters stopped coughing and shivering. Only Asagoro wore a shirt. The rest of the Bantus were naked to the waist. As they went weaving along the path, the sun began to gleam dully upon their backs. It was already warm. 160 THE PYGMY’S ARROW “Shouldn’t you be up ahead showing Asagoro the way?” Rupert said to Lubu. “He know-em way to old village,” muttered the young pygmy. “From there me take lead. I not like-em walk with him. Plenty bad to me.” “But you won’t say why?” said Jan. “No tell,” answered Lubu briefly. He looked ahead and smiled. “Pretty soon we be in forest.” Soon trees were in front of them, on either side, and behind them. A hundred and fifty, even two hundred feet into the air towered the great trunks, so thick that the sun reached the ground only by chance. There were lianas in profusion, some of them parasitic plants no thicker than string, others as big around as a man’s body. But all of them twisted and fought their way toward the top of the jungle, seeking the life-giving air and sun. A strange stillness lay over the jungle. There were no monkeys, and only an occa- sional bird. “Look,” murmured Jan, pointing ahead and up- ward. A beam of sunlight came down from the hid- den sky, and in this glinting pathway there appeared a tiny white object, fluttering gently as it made its way up and up along the bright beam, like a thing which climbs an invisible staircase. It was exquisitely beautiful, very fragile and remote. “A butterfly,” whispered the boy. “I’d like to have that one.” “You’d have to turn into an airplane to get it,” observed Rupert. The forest was changing. Shallow pools of water 162 THE PYGMY’S ARROW Rupert could walk as rapidly as they liked, as their pace was no longer governed by the slow shuffling gait of the porters. Then too, the blacks had been frightening away the small creatures of the forest, but now the boys could enjoy the swiftly moving lit- tle squirrels, gay-plumaged birds, and a surprising number of butterflies. It was the butterflies which caused the trouble. The brothers began to watch them, forgetting that they were walking along a path in a primitive wilder- ness. Soon a butterfly alighted on a bush near the trail, a beautiful creature, cocoa brown with scarlet spots on the thorax and with its wings edged in apple green. “I wish I had my net,” said Jan, as he paused to gaze longingly at the lovely insect. The elder brother walked on, paying little atten- tion to the path before him as he watched Jan’s efforts to examine the butterfly more closely. Unaware of the catastrophe which awaited him just ahead, Ru- pert looked back as he went on his way. The path at this point was about three feet wide, and had been hollowed down by long use below the surface of the surrounding ground which was concave in shape. Suddenly Rupert felt a crackling under his feet. The apparently solid earth was giving way! Twigs and sticks were snapping under his weight. “Look out!” shouted Jan, as he dashed forward. Too late. Rupert was already falling. It was a game pit, and his weight had. been suflicient to break MEET A WHITE MAN 163 the thin layer of sticks and dirt spread over the top of it. Down he crashed! Then, half by accident and half by instinct, he jerked his walking stick into a horizon- tal position, and clutched it tightly around the mid- dle. This saved him from falling to the bottom of the hole, as the ends of the stick gouged into the dirt sides of the pit and stuck fast. When Jan reached the edge of the pit, his brother was halfway down the shaft, clinging to the stick as an unnerved circus per- former might cling to the bar of a trapeze. “Hold on!” cried Jan, dropping to his knees. “What do you think I’m doing!” grumbled Rupert. Quickly Jan put down one end of his own walking stick, but Rupert shook his head. “That won’t do.” “Yes, it will. Catch hold and I’ll pull you out.” “I tell you it won’t work. I’m heavier than you are, and I’d only pull you in. Good heavens!” “What’s the matter?” Rupert had glanced down at the bottom of the pit, and what he saw had filled him with horror. The hole, perhaps four feet wide at the top, had sides that converged as they descended, until at the bottom —some sixteen feet below the surface—it was only two and a half feet across. In this narrow bottom, imbedded in the ground and pointing upward, were dozens of small sharp stakes, each with its tip stained a reddish brown. “Poison stakes,” gasped Rupert. “This is a pygmy game pit. If I fall I’m done for!” 164 THE PYGMY’S ARROW “The porters are coming,” exclaimed Jan, and he sprang to his feet and yelled, “Asagoro, hurry!” “Game pit, huh?” cried the Bantu, running up. “He get stick-em with poison, maybe?” “No, not yet, but—” “Get busy, you people,” said Rupert. “This stick is strong enough to hold me, if I don’t move and dis- lodge it.” “Stay perfectly quiet,” Jan commanded, rapidly recovering his wits. “Listen, Asagoro. The only way to get him out without risk is for someone to be let down toward him head first, so that they can pull him out.” “Here come porter fella,” said Asagoro hastily. “You and me, we let-em down one those fella.” “You’re the tallest man here,” retorted Jan. “Lie flat at the side of the pit, and we’ll take you by the feet and lower you until you can grasp Rupert’s hands.” The porters and Lubu came up, wide-eyed and chat- tering with excitement. Asagoro stared at them as though hoping that someone would offer to take his place. But no one did. “Get down,” Jan demanded urgently. “This is no time to shilly-shally.” “You not drop me?” queried the Bantu. “Certainly not. Hurry.” Asagoro lay down. Jan took hold of his right leg, and the huskiest of the porters seized the left. Very carefully they lowered him over the edge of the pit, ‘U MEET A WHITE MAN 16$ as Rupert waited tensely. Lower and lower came Asagoro’s outstretched hands, and at last the boy dared to loosen his hold on his “trapeze.” He reached up, first with one hand and then with the other. The Bantu grabbed at him, and Rupert gripped his res- cuer’s wrists. “Ready?” asked Jan. “Yes.” “Be sure you have a firm grip before you let go of your stick.” “Don’t worry about that,” Rupert assured him. “Pull us up.” Jan and the porter began to haul slowly. Up and up, a last heave, and Rupert scrambled to his feet. He was a bit shaken, and a little skin had been knocked off his arms, but otherwise he was unharmed. He heaved a sigh of relief. “A close shave,” he admitted. “Plenty bad if you fall-em on those stakes,” said a porter. “After this you and I will stay behind,” Jan told his brother. “The Bantus must know where pits like this are to be expected.” “I think Asagoro might have warned us when we got ahead a while ago,” Rupert complained. “Where’s my helmet?” It was at the bottom of the pit. Asagoro went to cut a long slender tree limb with which to fish it out. Seeing that his enemy was gone, Lubu ventured closer. “Pit very bad,” he commented. MEET A WHITE MAN 167 out warning, the figure of a man appeared at the intersection of the two paths. ‘ “A white man,” breathed Jan. The stranger came forward slowly. He was a Eu- ropean, tall and spare of frame, bearded, armed with rifle and pistol, and clad in faded khaki clothes. The boys, watching him from their screen of brush, were astonished at the wary manner in which the stranger advanced. It seemed to Jan and Rupert that he was suspicious of a trap, for he kept peering in all direc- tions, his eyes scanning the ground with restless cau- tion. Now the pit attracted his attention. He ap- proached its edges quickly, gazed down into its depths, and then examined the tracks at its edge. It must have been immediately apparent to him that a party of natives and two whites had just taken to the brush. “Show yourselves!” he called, and he straightened up. “Come out of it, you young Metlincks!” “He seems to know us,” said Rupert, and he greeted the stranger in French as he rose to his feet. “Bon jour, Monsieur!” “Ban jour,” answered the white man. He waited until the boys, Asagoro, and the reluctant porters were on their way to the path. Then he added, “My name is Streyer.” “And ours,” said Rupert, indicating himself and his brother, “is Metlinck, though you already seem to know that.” “Not difiicult,” replied Streyer, showing his teeth in a tangle of whiskers. “Everyone in the region 168 THE PYGMY’S ARROW knows that the only whites living hereabouts are the missionaries at Nulatabo named Metlinck. Where are you going?” “We are on our way to a pygmy village,” said Jan. “My brother just fell into this game pit.” “Was he hurt?” asked Streyer. “Those things are treacherous, you know.” “I got out of it all right, except for my helmet,” Rupert told him. “Asagoro, you might fish it out for me, while we’re talking with Mr. Streyer.” “Do you know our father?” Jan inquired abruptly. “By reputation,” Streyer replied, after a moment’s hesitation. “I have never met him personally.” “Then it wasn’t you whom he went to visit,” mur- mured Rupert, disappointed. “What’s that?” exclaimed Streyer, plainly startled. “Your father is in the forest?” “Yes. We came home from the boat landing day before yesterday and he was gone. He left a note, say- ing that he had been called to see a white man who was in trouble. And it’s not you?” “No, no, of course not,” Streyer assured him hur- riedly. “A white man, eh?” “Do you know of any others around here?” asked Rupert. “We don’t. We didn’t even know of you.” “There isn’t a soul for hundreds of kilometers,” said Streyer, with emphasis. “I’m the only white man in the Ituri, in this part of it at any rate.” Asagoro had not moved since Rupert had told him to fish the helmet out of the pit. The Bantu was star- ing at Streyer, his face hostile. cfla 170 THE PYGMY’S ARROW formed of the possibility of competitors. Well, your man doesn’t seem to make much progress, does he!” He was referring to Asagoro. The Bantu had gone to the edge of the pit with his long pole, but, instead of fishing out the helmet, he was gazing at Streyer, drinking in every word the hunter uttered. “This won’t do,” Rupert reprimanded him. “Get my helmet, Asagoro.” Sullenly the Bantu went to work, as the boys and Mr. Streyer came closer to watch. The end of the pole had been split a little, and, after a brief interval of maneuvering, Asagoro caught the edge of the hel- met in the crack and hauled it up. Rupert took it and was turning away. As he did so, Jan exclaimed, “Just a minute! There’s something else at the bottom of this pit. It’s white, like paper. Did anything drop out of your pocket, Rupert, while you were falling?” “I don’t think so,” answered the elder brother. “I had nothing but a notebook, and that’s still in my pocket.” They had Asagoro fish up the white thing, where- upon the boys recoiled in amazement. “The letters!” cried Jan. “The very packet that Dad sent us to the boat with.” “The very ones that someone stole from us on the way!” added Rupert. Chapter Twelve - DEATH HAS BEEN HERE! AN and Rupert gazed at one another in amazement. J Then the hunter spoke. “These letters,” he said, “they were stolen from you earlier?” “Yes.” And Rupert told him their history. ' “A strange tale,” was Streyer’s comment. “A packet of letters starts north from Nulatabo, fails to reach the boat, and is discovered in a game pit many hours to the south! Have the letters been opened?” “No. Neither opened nor damaged, apparently.” “In that case a native stole them,” declared Streyer. “A white man would have at least read them.” “Of course it was a native, or rather a number of in DEATH HAS BEEN HERE! 173 to Government ofiicials in Belgium, and the other is intended for one of the local colonial authorities.” “What name?” asked the hunter. Rupert opened his lips, but closed them again with- out answering. He did not like Streyer’s question. The hunter was doubtless all right, and so far he had played the part of a friend. On the other hand, his query was what Herman Metlinck would have called “out of order.” Certainly the missionary would have thus concluded, had he been there. And his eldest son, so much like him in temperament, at once de- cided that the actual names and addresses on the let- ters were not to be divulged to people in general, nor to this stranger in particular. “Mr. Streyer asked you a question,” Jan reminded his brother. “I think we’d better be on our way,” Rupert an- swered, putting the letters back inside their cord. Slipping the packet through his belt, he gazed about in search of Lubu. The young pygmy was nowhere to be seen. Asagoro stood off a little way, muttering with his tribesmen and watching Streyer with un- friendly eyes. Yes, the porters were all present, but there was no pygmy. “Where did Lubu disappear to?” Rupert asked. “Me not see,” answered Asagoro. “I saw him scatter into the brush with the rest of us,” said Jan, “but I don’t remember seeing him come out.” 174 THE PYGMY’S ARROW “What pygmy is this?” said Streyer. “Lubu, a boy from Doorula’s tribe. He was with us, until-” “Until the letters were discovered?” smiled the hunter. “I’m afraid this Lubu had tied up our sus- picions, as they say over in Kenya. The boy must have known that his people stole the letters, and when the packet was discovered, he thought it wise to run away.” Jan was thunderstruck. “Why, the tricky little runt!” he cried. “If that was Lubu’s motive in slipping off,” Rupert reminded him. “Here, you porters, call out and see if the pygmy will answer.” The Bantus shouted for Lubu. Then they waited a moment and called again. But there was no reply. “Something may have happened to him,” said Jan, his suspicions suddenly deserting him. “Not likely,” smiled the white hunter. “Well, what difference does it make?” “Plenty of difference,” said Rupert slowly. “Most immediately it leaves us without a guide. We know the way to the old pygmy village, but the little people have lately gone off to a new location, and none of us knows where that is. Lubu was to have taken us there.” Streyer laughed pleasantly. “Get your porters un- der way,” he said. “I can take you to the new village.” “Good!” exclaimed Jan. “This is a piece of luck.” Disregarding Jan’s comment, Rupert gave Asagoro DEATH HAS BEEN HERE! 175 curt orders to head for the village. The Bantu hesi- tated, looking at Streyer as if about to object to his accompanying them. Then, he sulkily turned to obey. The porters strung out along the path, and Streyer and the white boys walked in the rear. “How does it happen that you know about the new village?” asked Rupert, in a matter-of-fact tone. “That, too, is an easy question,” chuckled the hunter. “I saw the tribe yesterday, just as they were stopping at the new site. I assumed that they had abandoned the old village, and, while I watched them, they began to make a clearing for the huts.” “Is it far?” asked Jan. “No, we can reach it an hour before sunset.” “We appreciate your helping us find the way,” said Rupert politely. Then he stopped short. “It was yesterday that you saw the pygmies?” The hunter nodded. “And my father was not among them?” “No—not a sign of him. Ah, it is nothing, nothing at all,” smiled the hunter. “White men must stick to- gether in the jungle, you know. Blood is thicker than water.” “Yes,” said Jan. Then his face lengthened. “I am disappointed in Lubu,” he went on. “In spite of everything, I have tried to believe he was our friend, and it seems that he isn’t.” The hunter ducked under a thorny vine which hung out over the path. “My dear fellow,” he answered emphatically, “you ‘i .r @—'* DEATH HAS BEEN HERE! 177 QQ There is danger of fighting between various native groups,” said Streyer. “What groups?” demanded Rupert. Abruptly the file of porters stopped. “Boss!” cried Asagoro. “You come look. Me not go there!” It was the old village, or, to be exact, the remains of the old village. The last time that Jan and Rupert had been here they had seen a clearing, many little huts, and a busy, laughing tribe of pygmies. Now only the clearing was left. The pygmies had fled, and, leaving, had burned the huts to the ground. Black ashes and smoking embers marked the spots where the tiny dwellings had once stood. “Somebody dead!” said Asagoro, more and more uneasy. He was undoubtedly correct. Both Jan and Rupert were aware that while it was the custom of the pyg- mies in this part of the Ituri to abandon a village on the slightest pretext, only when someone died did they burn the huts. The white boys were taken aback. They knew many of Doorula’s tribe by name, and they could not remember hearing that anyone had been seriously ill. “Who can it have been?” murmured Rupert, as his eyes roved about the clearing. “I’m afraid there is no use going on,” said the hunter. “And why not?” asked Jan. “It’s clear, isn’t it?” replied Streyer. “When pyg- DEATH HAS BEEN HERE! 179 the hunter, encouraged by pygmy tracks on the trail they were following. “It is not more than an hour until sunset,” Rupert commented finally. “And we are practically at the village,” the white hunter assured him. “Wait! You can see the clearing from here, I believe.” They paused. Off ahead there appeared to be only the usual mass of green forest; then, gradually, the boys saw something else. There were spots of tawny brown here and there, which proved to be the conical huts of the pygmies. These shelters were fashioned of reeds and were so small as to seem more suitable for elves or dolls than for people. A curl of smoke went up from the center of the clearing. “Where are the pygmies?” asked Rupert. “I don’t see anyone.” “Because this village, too, has been abandoned,” replied the white hunter. Jan and Rupert hurried forward. They walked swiftly for a few moments, and then broke into a run. It was true. The clearing was deserted. They made the rounds of the huts, calling as they peered through the tiny doors, but pygmies there were none. Streyer came up with the Bantus behind him. “The little rascals meant to stay here,” declared the hunter. “They built their flimsy huts, and they made a fire to cook on. Then, I fancy, this fellow Lubu arrived and told them you had found the letters. So they all picked up their belongings and fled again.” J- DEATH HAS BEEN HERE! 181 “I told you they were evil little wretches,” said Streyer. Helplessly, the boys stared into the jungle. The tree tops were already melting together, losing their out- lines in the approaching gloom. The Ituri seemed more silent than before, and more cavernous. Off in the direction which the pygmies—and Herman Met- linck—seemed to have taken, there were deep shadows. The trees resembled huge dim upright posts, and the gaps between them were like dark tunnels, or entrances to yawning caves. “We can’t do anything more to-day,” Rupert ad- mitted. “Let’s get back to the new village,” suggested Streyer. “Your father will come to no harm, and we must camp somewhere. We’ll discuss the matter after supper.” The party turned back to the village, and at once the Bantus made camp. Asagoro put up the square tent in which the three whites would sleep. The porters laid aside their burdens, found water, collected wood, and built fires. There were two fires, one in the middle of the clearing for the natives, the other in front of the tent. Over this second fire Asagoro cooked supper for the whites, but his face was both gloomy and unfriendly. The presence of the hunter appeared to offend him deeply. He neither looked at Streyer nor spoke to him. As soon as their food was cooked and on the tin plates, the Bantu left them. “Surly chap,” commented Streyer. 184 THE PYGMY’S ARROW as the trouble is over, they’ll let him go, and then he’ll come home. But it is foolhardy of you boys to think of pursuing a tribe of pygmies. In the first place you could never catch them; in the second place there is some sort of war brewing; and then again there is the danger of malaria. That’s a bad thing here in the Ituri, you know. I used to have a partner, a Dutch- man by the name of Boek, and he caught malaria from these pestilential mosquitoes.” “What happened to him?” asked Jan. “He died.” “Where?” “Here in the forest. I buried him about a hundred and ninety kilometers from the Kulani river. . . . Yes, it’s obvious to me that you boys ought to go back to Nulatabo.” Rupert looked at him stubbornly. “I wish,” he said, “that it was as obvious to my brother and me, as it is to you.” “Sorry if I spoke out of turn,” was the hunter’s cool rejoinder. “By the way, it might be possible to 17101/e that the packet of letters was stolen by pyg- mics.” “How?” “Finger prints. Stir up the fire, one of you, and let me see the packet. I used to be rather good at this sort of thing.” Jan poked the fire into a bright blaze, Rupert hesitated a moment, then handed over the packet of letters. The hunter held it close to the fire, studying DEATH HAS BEEN HERE! 18S the surface for finger marks. Suddenly the letters fell from his hand, directly into the fire. “Watch out!” cried Rupert. “Good Heavens!” exclaimed the hunter. Seizing Jan’s stick he scraped wildly in the flames. But the letters were already consumed. They were no longer white paper with tell-tale words upon them, but fragile ash. “I think I shall go to bed,” said Rupert, his voice like ice as he got to his feet. Streyer went through the formality of an apology, but neither boy listened. They were certain now that the letters had been important, and it was dishearten- ing to have them destroyed before their eyes. Jan thought the hunter unpardonably careless, and Rupert was so angry that he scarcely knew what to think. It was next morning that Rupert’s wits straightened out. The three ate a silent breakfast, and as the porters lifted their burdens to go onward, Rupert called sharply, “We are going back to Nulatabo! Start out!” “Nulatabo?” exclaimed Asagoro. “You heard my order,” said Rupert, and gave his brother a look which warned him to be quiet and come along. “I think you are being very wise,” observed Streyer, and he sounded well pleased. “Some people might say that it was nothing to me, but I hate to see anyone of my own race get into trouble needlessly.” The porters got under way, and the whites followed them. Rupert waited until they came to a fork in Chapter Thirteen LITTLE WORM, BIG WORM HAT suits us,” said Rupert quickly. “But where Thave you been? Why did you run away from us?” “I not run from you fella,” answered the pygmy. “Run from other white fella, man with hair on his face. Me watch, me follow, so—” “So when he left you came back to us, eh?” Jan asked. Lubu grinned and nodded his head like a delighted child. From his manner, the white boys guessed that he had neither gone on to warn his people, nor did he know anything about the packet of letters. “I’ll have the porters turn back,” said Rupert. “No,” directed Lubu, starting on after the Bantus. 187 188 THE PYGMY’S ARROW Maybe white fella with hair on-em face, he sneak up to path to see-em if we go back. Not go back same way-—go round, and fool-em!” Jan and Rupert followed at his heels, walking rapidly until they overtook the Bantus, and then cut- ting around through the brush. Asagoro grumbled at the change of plan, yet it was apparent that he was satisfied to be once more on the pygmy trail. Lubu, himself, was more than satisfied. He danced and capered to express his pleasure, as he took them, by a roundabout route, to the site of the new village, then onward along the path which the white boys had followed last evening. Presently Jan pointed out a boot print. “Is Dad with your tribe?” he asked Lubu. “He with-em, yes.” “Which of your people died at the old village?” Rupert wanted to know. The young pygmy trembled and glanced fearfully back over his shoulder. He answered in a whisper. “Not talk about that fella. Him spirit maybe chase us. Bad to talk-em.” Evidently they were not to discuss the dead pygmy. Nor were they more successful in talking to Lubu about any other phase of the mystery. Although the white boys made several attempts to extract informa- tion from him, they were without success. He ap- peared to be unwilling to say anything which would betray his own people, and somehow Jan and Rupert got the impression that Lubu actually was ignorant — -~ LITTLE WORM, BIG WORM 189 of much that was going on. Seemingly his elders had thought it unnecessary, or unwise, to tell him what was in their minds. “Here is where they turned off the trail,” said Jan, halting. “We chased them this far, and then we gave up.” “That just little trick,” smiled Lubu. “Other trail pretty soon the other side brush. Doorula and those other pygmy fella, they make you think-em all travel hard now, so you go back. Me show you.” Lubu left the trail, and the white boys signalled for the porters to follow. Then they stepped into the brush behind their diminutive guide. Both boys trusted him. The young pygmy had accepted them as a friend, and they, in turn, accepted him. “Should we trust him, though?” murmured Rupert, as they went single file through the dense underbrush. “I think we should,” said Jan. “Anyhow, it’s our only chance to find Dad.” “Perhaps it would be a good idea to give Lubu a little salt,” suggested the cautious elder brother. “That will remind him that we are what you might call ‘substantial’ friends.” “As soon as we have a chance to get at our baggage,” Jan agreed. “Hullo! Here is a path.” The pygmy boy was standing in the trail, waiting for them. As Jan and Rupert and the Bantus came up, they saw fresh tracks before them, to which Lubu was pointing triumphantly. “My people,” he announced. ‘ 190 THE PYGMY’S ARROW |_ “And also Father?” asked Rupert. “Sure,” said Lubu, and he indicated the faint im- print of a boot heel. “He make-em this.” “What your people do now?” demanded Asagoro. “Hunt.” “Far from here?” Jan wanted to know. “No, not far. Me think near. We go now?” Rupert hesitated. He was thinking of his father’s love of an orderly, quiet life, his distaste for anything in the way of sports or hunting. It was so hard to be- lieve that Herman Metlinck was traveling through the forest in the company of a tribe of pygmy hunters. The thing seemed fantastic, and for a moment Rupert was tempted to say so, and then turn back. Yet here was the boot print, and also Lubu’s assurance that the missionary was with the pygmies. “Maybe you will go off and leave us,” said Rupert. “You mean-em I run to my people and you stay behind?” asked Lubu. “Yes.” “Me not do that,” grinned the pygmy. “They send Lubu to Nulatabo to fetch-em something, and I not get it. That make-em mad. I scared to go back all by self, so I take-em you fella with me. You tell- em you catch me, and not my fault I not get what they want.” “Go on, then,” Rupert told him, restraining a smile. The party tramped forward again, Jan and Rupert far enough behind Lubu to be able to talk freely. “I’m glad he has a selfish purpose in taking us to his LITTLE WORM, BIG WORM 191 9’ QQ tribe, said the elder brother. That may last longer than his friendship.” “Nice sentiment for a missionary’s son!” scofied Jan. “Just so it isn’t a case of little worm, big worm,” said Rupert. The younger boy knew the significance of his brother’s reference. Herman Metlinck had begun his missionary career at the Congo settlement of Lusambo, and there his sons had been born. In their earlier years they were taken care of by a native nurse, a wrinkled, wise old woman who had often told them the tale of the little worm, big worm, and a certain unhappy bird. According to her, the bird saw the end of a worm sticking out of a hole and pulled at it, not know- ing whether it would prove to be a little worm that could be eaten, or a huge worm that might prove dangerous. The nurse’s story had ended with the worm eating the bird, and the moral was to use cau- tion in starting ventures which might have a doubtful finish. “Oh, I’m sure this trip of ours is going to be a little worm,” said Jan, and he brightened. “Listen, there’s a whistle!” “My fella people,” smiled Lubu, turning round. “You know those whistle. Make-em that so every- body go separate in the brush but not get-em lost. Every time one fella he wander off, he make-em peep- peep whistle and other fella he answer-em. Then they come together. They hunting now.” LITTLE WORM “Pygmy fellow hunt,” answered Lubu. “We find- em.” It grew warmer, and the air was heavy and moist. The tree tops shut out the sun, and the ground turned rough underfoot. After another hour the porters showed signs of weariness. Even the unburdened whites were lagging, their clothes wet with perspira- tion and their breaths coming heavily. Lubu con- tinued to move on, surefooted and apparently tireless. Toward noon he stopped again, this time his eyes were alight with yearning and anticipation. Eagerly he gazed about him. “What is it?” whispered Jan. “My people,” Lubu answered softly. Rupert contorted his brows. What? The pygmies were near? It seemed incredible! The forest on every side was silent and motionless, and the white boy saw no sign of human beings. He listened, and heard nothing. “Are you sure?” he asked. “Me sure,” said Lubu. “Now we go-em this way.” He headed the party toward the southeast. The porters followed as quietly as they could, and Jan and Rupert hurried along with expectant eyes. The forest continued empty and still, and, after they had gone a short distance, the white boys relaxed. They were convinced that Lubu had been mistaken. “Nothing but trees in here,” observed Jan. “And trees that we don’t see around Nulatabo,” __ ‘N .1 T'_"'T"7"_‘Z7lI‘‘"_???‘— ‘ '-2 I'-~- aag-..-._._~ -~~ '‘¢=_-_- ~__ _‘ a __ ----_-=-=--_».-.=.¢-- . .... 194 THE PYGMY’S ARROW said Rupert. “There’s ebony, and teak, and at least two varieties of resin-bearing wood.” Lubu held up his hand for silence. They halted, the little pygmy turning his head this way and that. Sud- denly they heard a sound, a kind of tapping. “There!” grinned Lubu. “Why, that’s only a woodpecker,” Rupert objected. “You think?” laughed the pygmy, and drawing his knife he rapped its handle against a tree. The sound of another “woodpecker” echoed through the forest. “I answer my people,” Lubu whispered. There was an interval of silence, which was broken by the strident call of a cicada. It was loud at first, but it died away rapidly. Lubu looked distressed. “Was that another signal?” asked Rupert. “Yes.” “What did it mean?” “Mean my people go on. I rap signal for them come here for talk, and they not do it.” The white boys were disappointed. “Why did they go on?” asked Jan. “I not know. Just go on. Cicada signal, he mean that.” “And they gave no reason?” “No.” “Well,” said Rupert, “suppose we follow them and try again.” “Sure. We do that.” Lubu started off. He did not speak again, but kept watching ahead. Sometimes he listened intently. Once LITTLE WORM, BIG WORM 195 he took a short cut. He abandoned the narrow game trail to clamber up over a fallen tree trunk and drop down on the other side. Asagoro complained, and brambles scratched the white boys. But the almost naked pygmy did not show a scratch. “It’s all in knowing how,” said Jan mournfully, as a thorn ripped his sleeve. “So I notice,” said Rupert. “What would you charge to show me how you mastered the art of woods travel?” “You’re too awkward and slow-witted,” was the retort. “You’d never learn!” Now a new sound came to their ears. It was the faint, yet musical, tinkle of a small bell. Gradually the sound reached them more and more clearly. Lubu halted his companions. “That pygmy dog,” he said. “We watch-em and see which way he go. Find out things that way.” They waited, Jan and Rupert glad of a chance to rest. A pygmy dog? The boys were used to seeing dogs in the villages of the little people, but never dogs with bells attached to them. It must be that the crea- tures were outfitted in this manner only when they were used to aid in hunting. Nearer and nearer came the tinkling bell, and then the dog appeared. It was a small brown and white beast, and it ran silently, with its nose to the ground, as though on the trail of some kind of game. The dog did not see Lubu or his companions as it sped after its quarry, the sound of the bell growing fainter and fainter in the distance. 196 THE PYGMY’S ARROW “You see?” asked Lubu. “I saw the dog, yes,” said Jan. “You not see pygmies?” “Of course not! Where were they?” “Listen me,” said Lubu, as if explaining something to very young children. “Dog chase-em animal that pygmies want to shoot. Bell on dog so little people hear that and know how to follow-em in thick woods. Some pygmies on one side, some on other side of us. Me see two, three far off.” “Did you see Father?” demanded Rupert. “No. He not travel fast enough. They leave-em some place, maybe.” “And did your people see you?” asked Jan. “No, they just look for game.” “I wish you had called to them,” said the elder brother. “Yes,” Asagoro agreed grumpily. “They not like-em that,” answered Lubu. “When pygmy he hunt, he not like to have people make-em noise. Come on, we follow-em. We come to where they camp.” i “How long will it take them to kill the game they’re after?” asked Rupert. “Catch-em pretty soon.” The pursuit went on. To the white boys it seemed endless, for like travelers upon an unbroken plain they had no way to gauge progress. It seemed that they were getting nowhere, but were only playing treadmill, as Jan expressed it. A massive jungle walled 198 THE PYGMY’S ARROW ~-3.-iii what the manner of a musical scale. An answer came back, swift and emphatic. “What do they say?” demanded Rupert. “Say keep back.” “Keep back?” “Yes, say I not bring you. They scared.” “Are they making camp?” “Yes, but somebody watch. No use try to catch.” “I wasn’t thinking of that,” said Rupert. “This is my idea. If we make camp here they will realize that we don’t intend to slip up on them. Then, at our leisure, we can talk to them by means of your whis- tling. What do you say, Lubu?” “Good,” the boy nodded. They looked about for a campsite, and soon found one close by a fern-bordered little stream under an enormous fig tree. Its light gray bark gleamed in the dusk, and the ascending buttresses of the tree seemed to offer natural windbreaks against.the approaching night. Lubu went to a thicket not far off, and, while Jan looked on in open-mouthed admiration, the boy made himself a hut to sleep in. With his knife, he slashed a bit of ground clear, and then as he stood erect in the center of the cleared space, he seized branches on either side, drew them together over his head and tied them with a length of liana. This accomplished, Lubu crawled out between the sparse sticks forming the side of his hut, cut reeds and wove them in and out of the wall with such skill and rapidity that a quarter of an hour later he had a fairly satisfactory LITTLE WORM, BIG WORM 199 house. At least it was satisfactory to Lubu, which was all that mattered. “I fix door and all ready,” he grinned. The door was simply a rectangular hole cut into the side of the hut. But there was one thing about it which puzzled the two white boys. It stopped, per- haps eight inches from the ground, at a kind of fringe of sticks composed of the stumps of small branches, interwoven with reeds. “What is that for?” asked Jan. “Snakes,” was the cheerful reply. “They try crawl in my house, find ridge, and go away. Now we cook squirrels. Asagoro make fire for Bantu fella, we make fire for you.” He gathered a few small sticks and got out his flints, but Rupert stopped him. “Take these,” he said, handing Lubu a box of matches. “And keep what you don’t use.” “A present?” Lubu inquired happily. “Yes.” The pygmy hopped up, too delighted to speak. Then laughing and shouting, he ran up and down. Suddenly he darted off into the forest. The white boys watched him disappear into the gloom, their faces sobering. “What does that mean?” murmured Rupert. “Has he run away?” “Oh, no,” said Jan. “He wouldn’t do that.” They waited for him, Asagoro and the porters and the white boys all staring into the descending night. 200 THE PYGMY’S ARROW They were anxious in spite of themselves, for none of them had more than a hazy idea of the trails in this part of the forest. If Lubu had really abandoned them, their plight could be serious. Then, without warning, a laughing face appeared behind the fig tree. And Lubu cried out, “Meme ekoo—Here I am!” “And here we are!” replied Jan, with a gasp of relief. “Yes, and here we might be for some time, if he hadn’t come back,” Rupert added. Lubu had gone in search of wood. Now he came forward, still happy over his matches, and kindled a blaze. Skillfully he spitted the squirrel on a stick, and soon the odor of roasting meat was wafted about. “Smells good,” said Jan. “Oh, lala lala,” chuckled Lubu. “Good, very good. My people eat deer, but squirrel good, too. Squirrel smaller than deer, but good.” “Will you try to talk to your people now?” asked Rupert, peering off into the darkness. “Try to make them understand that we don’t mean any harm, but are simply trying to get to my father.” The boy nodded and began his whistling talk. Un- doubtedly he could not convey all that Rupert had requested, but the general effect seemed to be getting across to his friends. As soon as his whistling stopped, there came a swift inquiring whistle from the pygmy camp. Then Lubu answered, and a reply came back. Again the boy talked in the whistle language. Jan and Rupert watched and listened, astonished at the facility LITTLE WORM, BIG WORM 201 with which the little people signalled one another. Then, abruptly, there was a harsh note from the pyg- mies. Lubu responded quickly, with a pleading in- flection, but no answering whistle came. “What is it?” asked Rupert. “Bad,” said Lubu, rubbing his nose dejectedly. “I tell them you my friends. They not like.” “Did they say anything about Dad?” asked Jan. “He there,” answered Lubu evasively, “but no dif- ference. Doorula, he say they move camp, go away now.” “What, they’re fleeing again?” “Yes. They say they go-em far off to place of the hippo hunt. Doorula tell-em me I come, too, but leave-em you fella here.” ||_|J"P Q I ~ W 3_\‘- » 6,; w , ‘.> Y T _?,’t hapter Fourtee C n A DOUBLE SURPRISE '1‘ was startling news, but Jan and Rupert were wise I enough not to argue with Lubu as long as the pygmy’s stomach was empty. “We must do something to counteract his longing for some of that deer meat,” murmured the elder brother, and he ordered Asagoro to hurry supper. Supper consisted of native meal and boiled dried peas for Lubu and the porters, boiled dried peas and hard bread and squirrel for the white boys. Rupert waited until it seemed that Lubu was through eating, and then called him over to their fire. Jan gestured for the pygmy to sit down, and Lubu squatted on the ground, staring thoughtfully into the glowing coals. Z02 A DOUBLE SURPRISE 203 __..._mm “Are you going to leave us?” asked Rupert bluntly. “My people tell-em come,” replied Lubu. “Ah, but this morning you said you were afraid to go to them without us,” Jan reminded him. “That so,” admitted the young pygmy. “You want to go on the hippo hunt?” asked Rupert. “Sure.” “Then take us there. Look, I am going to give you a present.” Rupert took a handful of salt from a bag beside him, and poured it into Lubu’s outstretched palms. Immediately the pygmy was happy again, and the white boys watched as he ate the salt with evident enjoyment. C “Will you take us to the place where the hunt is to be held?” asked Rupert. “Sure.” Jan was relieved, but his brother was not quite so quick to believe Lubu. No doubt at the moment the pygmy meant what he said. On the other hand, he was a savage, careless and erratic, and therefore likely to forget a promise, or disregard it. Rupert got up, went over to the baggage, and came back to the fire with a piece of red cellophane. “Look at this,” he said, and held it close to Lubu. The pygmy snatched it. Gazing at the fire through the transparent sheet, he laughed and exclaimed in wonder. Lubu had seen cellophane at Nulatabo, but either he had forgotten or he had the gift of turning 204 THE PYGMY’S ARROW a familiar experience into something novel and excit- ing. “It is yours,” said Rupert, “and when we get to the place of the hippo hunt we’ll give you other colors, yellow cellophane and green cellophane. So you mustn’t forget that you are to take us there.” “Me not forget,” beamed Lubu. “You watch. Me take you there.” “Where is it?” asked Jan. “River.” “What river?” “Ituri. Headwaters.” That gave the white boys a general idea. The Congo River empties into the Atlantic Ocean at a point be- low the Equator, and if from this point you travel up the river you will pass inland in a direction which is at first northeast and then east. This is the begin- ning of the famous bend of the Congo, and as you follow it upstream you find that although it has taken you considerably north of the Equator it is now curv- ing back toward that line. Just past the crest of the bend, a tributary river comes flowing into the Congo from the east. This tributary is called the Aruwimi, or, farther upstream, the Ituri. The Ituri River has its origin close to the border of the British colony of Uganda. From this point it flows west through the gloomy stretches of that vast equatorial jungle known as the Ituri or Pygmy forest. Jan and Rupert were south of the Aruwimi, between that river and the Equator. The hippo hunt would therefore take place ‘I A DOUBLE SURPRISE 205 somewhere to the east and slightly to the north of their present position. “We’ll start early to-morrow morning,” declared Rupert. “How far is it, Lubu?” asked the younger brother. “Hippo hunt?” the pygmy repeated blankly. The cellophane had absorbed him. “Yes. How many days from here?” “Oh, not far, but plenty far,” was the answer. “You come with me you get-em that place.” “When, though?” The pygmy was confused. It was his custom to travel without keeping count of days, except in the vaguest manner. Alternations of day and night, phases of the moon, seasons, all of these phenomena were recognized by the little people, but never in the pre- cise fashion of civilized races. Certainly it was asking too much of Lubu to expect him to know the number of days of travel between their present camp and the site of the hippo hunt. “When we get-em there?” he murmured. “That depend how fast we make travel, or which way we take-em to go.” “Guess how far it is,” urged Rupert. “What for!” shrugged the pygmy. “We not get-em there any sooner if we guess when! Soon as we get-em there we there, and we not there till we do get-em there.” “Yes, but it helps to have an idea of the time,” chuckled Jan. 206 THE PYGMY’S ARROW “No,” said Lubu gravely. “You get-em there same, no matter if you think long way or short way. Feet take you there, not those things you think-em in your head.” The white boys laughed and gave it up as a bad job. Lubu had his views on the subject, and in his own way he was logical. He went to his hut, and the boys rolled into their blankets under the trees instead of using the tent which the porters carried. They rested well, awakened in the misty dawn, and had breakfast. In a few moments, the party was under way again, Lubu ahead, Jan and Rupert walking between the pygmy and the Bantus. Lubu took them straight to the spot where his people had paused the evening before. There the young pygmy showed them where the slain deer had rested on the ground, and he pointed out the foot- prints of Mai-Mai, and several others, and those of the boys’ father. Then he began to laugh and jump about, his box of matches in one hand, his piece of red cellophane in the other. “You fella not have these thing!” he shouted tri- umphantly into space. “I got; you no got. Lubu big fella now. Mai-Mai and all you other fella you little fella! Oh, la la la, la, la la!” “Is he out of his wits?” demanded Rupert. “Talk-em to other pygmy fella, like they here,” said Asagoro. “We’d better go on, Lubu,” said Jan, smiling at the pygmy’s capers. 208 THE PYGMY’S ARROW Lubu dashed forward, crouching close to the ground. Then he turned and ran back to the boys. “Him get away,” he announced. “We see what he throw.” The long slender stick was a spear shaft. Some un- known enemy had thrown it at them. The head, missing its human mark, had buried itself in a tree not ten feet from Rupert. The white boys, with Lubu and the Bantus, gathered round the weapon in be- wildered surprise. “We see-em what kind of head,” said Lubu, taking hold of the shaft, “then we know what fella do-em this.” He pulled, but the spear was too high to permit him to use his strength to good advantage, as the point of the spear had penetrated the wood of the tree to a depth of at least four inches. Asagoro pushed the pygmy aside, seized the spear, and worked it free. “Who threw it?” exclaimed Jan, recovering the use of his tongue. “A Bantu?” Asagoro snorted with contempt. As he placed the spear beside his own, he demanded, “You think Bantu?” The white boys shook their heads. They could see that it was not a Bantu spear. Weapons vary greatly among African tribes, and there was no real similarity between the strange spear and Asagoro’s. The one carried by the Bantu had a relatively long shaft and a fairly long head, while the strange spear was shorter and lighter. Also its design was different. The point A DOUBLE SURPRISE 209 had been hammered and marked in a way which was distinctly not that of the Bantus. “This spear come from Mulaki people,” said Lubu, examining the weapon critically. “Big fella, like Bantu, only not so big. Live-em southwest from Ituri.” Asagoro and his porters were muttering among themselves. “What is it?” Rupert asked them. “Do you know these Mulaki people?” “Not know those fella,” said Asagoro, “and not want to known-em. Plenty bad, Mulaki people. Bantu he good fella, but Mulaki he like go on raids, all time away from home. We hear-em all about those kindo’ people. I think we go back.” “Go back? To Nulatabo, you mean?” “Sure. Plenty trouble in forest if Mulaki around here.” Jan, as he glanced at the pistol Rupert carried strapped at his hip, grinned uncertainly. “So this is the native trouble we’ve heard hints about! It’s odd that we had to come all this way into the Ituri to find it. Lubu, why didn’t you tell us there was trouble with the Mulaki people?” The young pygmy shrugged his shoulders, a bewil- dered look in his eyes. “Me not know,” he answered. “Mulaki fella he bad sometimes, sometimes good fella. What kind o’ trouble you talk about? Lubu not hear about that.” 210 THE PYGMY’S ARROW “Aren’t the Mulakis at war with anyone?” asked Rupert. “No,” Lubu answered, decisively. “Me think this spear-throw fella, he just by hisself. He maybe hunt. Then see us, and think be fun if he kill white fella.” Rupert frowned. “Yes, that would be great fun— for him. Only I’m afraid we wouldn’t enjoy it.” “Go back, then?” asked Asagoro. “No. We’ve got to find Father, and if there was just one Mulaki there’s no longer danger. He’s lost his spear, which means that he has no long-range weapon.” “Unless the Mulakis have bows and arrows,” said Jan. “No, have-em just spears,” Lubu assured them. “This fella he run plenty fast, all same antelope. We go on like before, eh?” “Yes.” They paused to examine the Mulaki’s tracks, and to make sure that he had run off in a southerly direc- tion. Then they resumed their march to the east. For an hour they kept a strict watch, half expecting another attack, but there was none. The forest was as still and empty as before. No spearmen lurked behind the great trees, and no deadly weapon hurtled toward them. “All the same,” Rupert murmured, “I’m glad I have Father’s pistol.” “I’m thinking of our mystery,” said the younger brother. “This is how it looks to me now. Dad In 1‘. A DOUBLE SURPRISE 211 knew about this threat of native trouble, and he’s traveling with the pygmies in an effort to get to the Mulakis and make peace.” “Ridiculous,” said Rupert. “Well, at any rate Streyer knew there was trouble in the making, and that was why he wanted us to turn back. I even believe that he burned the letters )5 on purpose. “So do I,” confessed the elder brother, “although I doubt that letting the letters fall into the fire had any- thing to do with our turning back. I think there was some other motive behind that.” Jan sighed. “I like mysteries,” he said, “but you make them so complicated.” “Noon time now!” called Asagoro. “We stop for eat.” “Better we go on,” replied Lubu, without pausing. Plenty time eat to-night.” “Right,” said Jan. “I enjoy my supper more if I’ve gone without dinner, even though I always feel hungry along about noon.” Asagoro went on in silence, the porters behind him. It was strange about Asagoro, or rather about Asagoro and Lubu. There had seemed to be an active enmity between them in Nulatabo, yet here in the deep forest, they were casual and impersonal with each other. As far as the Bantu was concerned, this was doubtless due to uneasiness, for the gloomy and unfamiliar Ituri depressed him, and made him humble. As for Lubu, he was cheerful and at home in the IQ HIT” A DOUBLE SURPRISE 215 the black shadows among their branches resembled the hideous mouths of dragons, while the moss, hang- ing suspended from the lower limbs, was even more disturbing to Lubu. “You see those moss swing swing in wind?” he asked. “Why, yes.” “Those things they beards,” whispered the pygmy boy. “Beards?” “Yes. All those tree that have moss, they old men. When pygmy fella get old and die he change-em to crooked tree in the forest, and he have moss for beard. Me not like it when they shake their beards like that.” Rupert smiled. “I’m afraid you’re too imaginative,” he said. “I’m surprised at you, Lubu.” Yet he need not have been. Vivid imaginations are not confined to highly civilized peoples. Savages live close to Nature, and while they are usually ignorant of the causes of scientific phenomena, in their fear and wonder they invent beliefs which are often fantastic. Thus Lubu and all his tribe were animists, for they believed that all objects—animate and inanimate~— possess a natural life or vitality, and even souls. Lubu continued to watch the forest, his eyes luminous and intent, as though he were seeing much that was hid- den from his companions. “Stop it,” said Jan good-naturedly. “You’d better go to bed. Oh, but you haven’t built yourself a hut!” “Me got to sleep-em near you white fella to-night,” 216 THE PYGMY’S ARROW muttered the pygmy. “Lubu he scared of this place.” “All right, if you like,” Rupert assented. Without a word the pygmy lay down by the fire. Almost instantly he was asleep, but Jan and Rupert sat thinking. In spite of themselves they had been affected by what Lubu had said. “It was almost as if he expected trouble to-night,” said the younger brother. “I know,” Rupert agreed, and he glanced at the Bantu camp. “Even the porters are uneasy. They aren’t jabbering as they usually do.” The moon was rising, bits of its broken light pene- trating down into the forest, emphasizing the shadows and tracing bizarre patterns among the trees. Jan grew tense. The wall of jungle seemed closer than before, the trees taller, the lianas more hideous, and the blackness more threatening. Even as he watched, a tree seemed to move. It ad- vanced slowly from out of the shadows. “Look,” gasped Jan. “Do you see that thing?” Rupert saw it, and was on his feet. He drew his pistol, and shouted, “Stay back, or I’ll fire!” Lubu and the Bantus sprang up in alarm, as a dark figure stumbled forward. The “tree” was a human being, crying hoarsely, “Don’t shoot! I am a white man!” 'FlI '_"‘ i 1 ' — ~~~»~» 218 THE PYGMY’S ARROW lating about the man’s identity and what had brought him here. The white boys likewise wondered, though they were humane enough to temporarily restrain their curiosity. They spread a blanket, put the new- comer upon it, and Rupert got out the medicine case. “Tell us where you are hurt,” said Jan. “We have bandages and some antiseptic solution.” The man jerked a little, but did not reply. His eyes were closed, and he seemed exhausted. Very possibly he had used up all of his strength in making his way through the forest. Jan and Rupert gazed at him, not knowing what to think. There was no blood on his clothes. Perhaps he was not wounded, but was only suffering from privation. Whoever he was, he had the look of a man who has been lost, for his boots were caked with mud, and his clothes were torn. Then, too, his pistol holster was empty. “Put a pot of water on the coals,” Rupert told the pygmy boy. “He needs some tea.” “Cognac, cognac,” muttered the stranger, without opening his eyes. “We have no cognac,” Jan told him. “Are you wounded?” “No, no. . . .” “That is good. Don’t worry, you’ll be all right. Lubu, that water isn’t on the coals. It will never heat that way.” “Me fix,” said Lubu. “Who’s that?” whispered the white man, trying to sit up. “Is it one of those accursed natives?” nr\,__ FLIGHT OF THE BANTUS 219 “It’s a friend of ours, a pygmy,” said Rupert. “Do you want to sit up?” “Yes.” They propped him up using chunks of wood and a bedding roll for support. His eyes were bloodshot, his face thin, and his hair unkempt. The boys noticed that he was short in stature, and they guessed that normally he would be quite stout. As his shaking hand reached toward his pistol holster, Lubu snatched an arrow from his quiver. “He try kill-em me!” exclaimed the pygmy. “Not do that! Me kill-em him first.” “What are you trying to do?” demanded Rupert. “This pygmy is our friend. He has done you no harm.” “But he could do you harm,” said Jan. “He has ar- rows, and you have no pistol.” “Where is it?” muttered the stranger tremulously, as he felt his empty holster. “I have lost it. And my rifle—where is that?” “It is where you dropped it as you fell,” said Rupert. “My brother will get it.” Jan picked up the rifle and opened the magazine with the intention of emptying it. Then he discov- ered that the rifle was not loaded. “What is your name?” Rupert was asking the sick man. “Duvain.” “What, Duvain?” exclaimed Jan. “Then you are the hunter that Captain Beranger mentioned. He 220 THE PYGMY’S ARROW told us that you came up the river with him, and got off at Gulago Falls. You are a hunter?” Duvain paid no attention. He was trembling, as though from fear. “Who is that talking?” he whispered. “Are they coming?” “It is our porters,” said Rupert. “Has someone been following you?” “For days,” said Duvain, his voice shaking. “Per- haps weeks. I don’t know. I have forgotten. A man cannot stand everything. There is a limit to what a man can endure. It is a devilish place, this Ituri for- est. I never want to see it again. And he told me it would be easy.” “Who told you what would be easy?” asked Jan. Duvain grew limp. He shivered violently, and when he spoke again it was in a mutter, so low that the boys could not understand him. “He is delirious,” said Rupert. “We’ll give him tea. That will straighten him out.” They made him a strong brew of English tea, fed it to him with a spoon until he revived, and then held the cup so that he could sip the hot stuff. “Who are you?” he said abruptly. “Our name is Metlinck. We are brothers.” “What are you doing here?” demanded Duvain, staring wildly. “Are you chasing me?” “No. We are camped here. You must have seen our fire and headed for it. Don’t be alarmed. We are white people, which means that we are friends.” .-j FLIGHT OF THE BANTUS 221 The sick man took a gulp of tea, muttering, “Are all white men friends? I wish they were. That brute with the pygmies, he was a monster. He was inhu- man, and he had no feelings.” “Where did you see the pygmies?” asked Rupert quickly. “I don’t know. In the forest.” “To-day?” “Yes. East of here, I suppose. I was exhausted. I lay shivering in the grass, alongside the trail. A party of pygmy hunters came through the brush. There was a white man with them. I was afraid the pygmies would attack me, so I crouched down, thinking to appeal to the white man. I heard them speak, then I raised my head to look and there was the white man, sitting alone. The pygmies had gone. “I was shuddering with fever, and I could not speak, but I lifted up. I showed myself and made gestures for the white man to come help me, but he continued to sit there and stare at me, like a monster who did not care if I lived or died. I made sounds in my throat, and suddenly the pygmies came back. I dropped down out of sight, but the white man told them there was a thing—a thing, do you hear?— some kind of animal in the grass, and that they had better kill it before it attacked them. That is what he said, and when I heard it I gathered all my strength together and fled. The pygmies came after me, yelling and making gestures for me to stop. They even drew their bows, but I showed them my rifle and they ran 222 TI-IE PYGMY’S ARROW away. Then I started again, and—and—well, I don’t remember any more.” Jan had turned pale. “Describe the white man with the pygmies!” he commanded, with a valiant efiort at restraint. “Short and heavy-set,” muttered Duvain, “in build a good deal like myself. Long trousers and a white shirt. Brownish-gray hair parted on the side. And a thick gold ring on one hand. Ha, I saw him plainly enough, and he saw me, too, only he was a monster and--” “Be quiet!” cried Rupert. “That was our father, and he is one of the kindest men alive. You have made a mistake. Perhaps you were delirious and you mis- understood.” “I was in my senses,” said Duvain heavily. “The fever did not come back upon me until an hour after I had run from the pygmies.” “Fever?” “Malaria,” grumbled the sick man. “And you might give me some quinine, instead of staring at me.” “I’m sorry,” Rupert apologized, opening the medi- cine kit. “We didn’t realize it was malaria. How long have you had it?” “I must have got it going up the river, but it didn’t bother me until I started across country.” “Here are ten grains,” said the elder brother, hand- ing him a capsule. “That is a good dose.” Duvain washed it down with a swallow of tea. He 224 THE PYGMY’S ARROW _..-_~~~ _;‘;_; ;—‘»____. {.1 their visitor. Duvain slept until long after sunrise. Even then he did not get up, but sprawled by the fire, nibbling at the breakfast they offered him. “Are you too weak to travel?” asked Rupert. “Yes,” he muttered. “But we must go on,” said Jan. “I’m weak,” growled Duvain. “Would you kill a man by forcing him to travel, or would you prefer to leave him to die alone?” “Neither,” said Jan, flushing. “We’ll wait a while for you.” “I’ll be better by noon,” said the sick man, and he seemed a little ashamed of himself. “I must get a bit of strength into me.” Rupert gave him ten more grains of quinine. And it seemed to the boy that Duvain was not quite as hag- gard as he had been the night before. His eyes were clearer, too. Apparently he was in his right senses, though he was still very weak. “I am going to ask him about his porters,” the elder brother told Jan. “He ought to_ be rational enough to answer.” “Yes, ask him,” said Jan. “I’ve been wondering about that, myself. He surely didn’t come all the way from Gulago Falls alone.” “By the way,” said Rupert, returning to the sick man, “where are the others of your party?” “Others!” grumbled Duvain. “I am alone.” “You went on safari alone, do you mean? Without porters or a guide?” FLIGHT OF THE BANTUS 225 Duvain gestured impatiently. “Why do you pester a man who is so horribly ill?” he demanded. “Are you mosquitoes, or what?” After that, the boys made no further efforts at con- versation. Jan went hunting with Lubu, and Rupert overhauled the packs in order to make sure that each porter was carrying his proper share. The Bantus were in good spirits because of the enforced holiday. Asa- goro alone seemed troubled by Duvain’s presence. Noticing this, Rupert commented upon it. The Bantu answered sulkily, “That white fella plenty sick. Pretty soon he want Asagoro carry-em him, all same bag- gage.” “I shouldn’t worry about that, if I were you,” said Rupert. “A few hours’ rest will help him wonder- fully.” Jan and Lubu came back about noon, empty- handed and ravenously hungry. Lunch consisted of Swiss dried soup, beans, and plenty of hot tea. The sick man ate moderately. When he had finished his meal, he lay down and closed his eyes. “Now what!” murmured Jan. “Is he going to sleep all afternoon?” “Let him have a short nap, and then we’ll wake him,” said Rupert. “He surely can’t expect to delay us much more.” After Duvain had slept heavily for more than an hour, Rupert stirred him into wakefulness. The sick man sat up with a snarl, instinctively reaching for his rifle. THE PYGMY’S ARROW qIr.|—, “What is the matter?” he growled. “I’m sorry,” said Rupert, “but we must be on our way. You’ll have to get up now—if you’re coming with us.” He stood up, unsteadily, but in silence. They got under way, Lubu ahead as guide, then the white boys and Duvain, and behind them the Bantus. Duvain clutched his rifle, using it as a kind of walking stick. The ground was damp, and every few feet there were slippery tree roots. Time after time Duvain slipped and stumbled, and at last he fell flat. The boys helped him up, surprised as they realized his lack of strength. “Did it hurt you?” asked Jan. “What do you think?” asked Duvain, sarcastically. “Call that Bantu who’s carrying nothing but a con- founded spear. He’s got to take me on his shoul- ders.” “Asagoro won’t do that,” Rupert told him quietly. “Come on. We’ll take it at a slower pace.” “Give me my rifle, then,” grumbled the sick man. “Don’t think I’m going to leave that behind, even if I haven’t any bullets for it.” Jan handed him the gun and they went on. A few paces later, Duvain shuddered and stopped. Lubu turned around and called, “What matter?” “I’m about to have a bad time,” gasped the sick man. “Let me lie down. Give me some medi- cine.” The boys halted, gave him a blanket in which to wrap himself, and offered him quinine. FLIGHT OF THE BANTUS 227 “I want arsenic and iron,” he complained. “That’s better than quinine.” “Do you think this is a drug store?” asked Jan. “Quinine is all we have.” Duvain took that, and then he lay shuddering and moaning. It was what he called a regular afternoon attack. Malaria is like that. The mosquito larvae hatch in damp or swampy places. The adult insects pierce the skin for the purpose of getting blood for food, at the same time “rewarding” their victim by injecting a parasite which feasts upon the remaining blood supply. These parasites breed endlessly, causing an intermittent fever which saps strength and vitality. Quinine causes a shrinkage of the malaria parasites in the blood, but it does not destroy them. Duvain yielded to the attack, cold sweat on his face, delirium gleaming from his eyes. “Get me out of here,” he muttered. “I don’t like it. Those rascals will be the death of us. Streyer, do you hear! Get me out of here. Streyer, for the love of heaven, you . . . uh . . . uh. . . .” As the sick man subsided into a trembling nap, Jan and Rupert watched him in astonishment. “He called for Streyer,” whispered the younger brother. “Then they were together!” “Or at least they know each other,” said Rupert. “When he wakes, we’ll question him. He’ll be rational then.” Rational, but crafty, Duvain opened his eyes half an hour later. He allowed the boys to help him to his 228 THE PYGMY’S ARROW _'Ir| \| feet. Then he leaned heavily upon his rifle, saying nothing. “Feel all right?” said Rupert. “Weak, weak,” he answered, and, with a swift glance at the boys, he added, “Did I rave a while ago? I sometimes do.” “You said a few things,” admitted the elder brother. “You spoke of Mr. Streyer, for instance.” Duvain was startled. His eyes narrowed, and he stared at the ground as if unwilling to look at Jan and Rupert. “I was out of my head,” he mumbled. “I don’t know anyone by that name.” “But—” “I tell you I never heard of a man by the name of Streyer,” snapped Duvain. “Let me alone!” And the thin, straight line of his lips showed his determination. Plainly there was nothing but to go on. And on the party went, with a new problem to face all too soon. A bit of wind ran among the trees, the leaves mur- mured restlessly, and the forest grew darker. Jan, looking about, saw that all the wild creatures were preparing to hide away. Birds flew off, squirrels hur- ried to their holes, monkeys fled howling over the tree tops, and even the tiny crickets stopped their shrill crying and crept out of sight, silent and fearful. In a few minutes the forest took on the appearance of a world deserted. It was so gloomy and empty that the white boys felt as though they were walking in a dream, themselves no more real than phantoms. The FLIGHT OF THE BANTUS 229 air turned chilly. Then, far up in the heavens, there sounded a roll of thunder, infinitely majestic and awe- inspiring. A spattering of heavy rain came down, and Lubu stopped. “We find-em shelter now!” he said. Everyone ran for cover, and Duvain stopped under the nearest tree. The Bantus separated in the mad scramble for shelter, while Lubu and the white boys ran toward a giant hardwood. They reached it just as a mighty clap of thunder seemed to tear the earth apart. Then came the rain, pelting down in a fury, so swift and hard and clamorous that it was impossible to talk. Lightning flashed crookedly, illuminating the forest for a brief instant and vanishing to leave the jungle plunged in deepest gloom. The wind rushed through the forest like an invisible giant, breaking limbs from trees, tearing ferns apart, roaring dully as it passed on. Once there was a lull, and Jan and Rupert heard the faint, strangled cries of living things, close by, yet hidden from sight. “What is that?” Jan shouted. “Birds, animals,” replied Lubu. “They afraid.” “And you?” asked Rupert. “Me, too,” the pygmy acknowledged solemnly. Faster and harder it rained, drenching the boys as they huddled against the tree, and flooding the ground with water. They closed their eyes against the blinding lightning, and waited mutely for the storm to pass. FLIGHT OF THE BANTUS 231 “In flood like this-em?” retorted the pygmy, and he pointed to the ankle-deep water which the storm had left. “No. Only place we find-em track is back where he stand.” They returned to the tree under which they had found the rifle. Lubu studied the ground. Suddenly he snatched up a small round object, and, seeing that neither Jan nor Rupert had noticed it, he stuck it into his belt, out of sight. “Never find-em that white fella for long long time,” he said. “What do you mean?” asked Jan. “Gone,” said the pygmy. “Somebody take-em away, while all that storm make-em racket and make-em dark.” “Bosh,” said Rupert. “Who could have done that?” “Hard to tell those thing,” shrugged the young pygmy, “but him gone, just the same.” The white boys could not believe him, and they sent him to make a fire, while they continued the search. It was hopeless. The ground was trackless, and the jungle was a dripping labyrinth which revealed noth- ing. Their hot wet clothes began to annoy the boys, and they finally returned to the fire to strip and dry their things. “White fella gone?” Asagoro inquired. “So it seems,” replied Rupert. “We’ll look again, as soon as our clothes are dry.” They did look, but in vain. Duvain was gone, leav- IN-rrq 232 THE PYGMY’S ARROW ing no trail behind. Just before dusk, they abandoned the search. Silent and depressed, the boys returned to the fires. Asagoro had built a second one. It was too late to go on, so they would have to camp here for the night. “Me not like camp this place,” said Asagoro, as he brought the tin dishes which the white boys used for plates. “Somebody work-em magic on that white fella.” “Not at all,” answered Rupert. “He was undoubt- edly seized by a fit of fever delirium and he wandered away.” “Too weak,” retorted Asagoro. “Even Lubu he say somebody take.” “Lubu talks too much,” the white boy said sharply. “Get supper.” The young pygmy was acting strangely. He seemed to avoid Jan and Rupert, and distress was evident on his usually bright face. After supper he came and sat with the missionary’s sons, but he did not play with either his box of matches or his cellophane. “I think Duvain has been taken away.” Jan spoke with conviction. “Lubu says so, and he should know. There’s no other way to explain it.” “Better believe-em,” murmured the pygmy. “He gone, like me tell you.” “But who could have spirited him away like that?” Rupert wanted to know. “Somebody,” answered Lubu, and shrugged his shoulders. “How I know! Me not see-em.” 1“ FLIGHT OF THE BANTUS 233 Asagoro came striding toward the group, hesitant, yet determined. His gold watch case, his “eye,” was tucked inside his shirt. “What is it?” asked Rupert. “Bad place here,” said the Bantu. “We go-em home to-morrow.” “Why?” demanded the white boy. “ ’Cause plenty bad things here,” was the answer. “Forest right near Nulatabo, he all right, but in here bad. Place here full of bad medicine. Pygmy he turn into monkey, tree he turn into snake, white fella he disappear like magic. If we stay-em here, somebody catch-em us same way.” “An African edition of Grim1n’s Fairy Tales!” ob- served Jan. “Go back to your fire, Asagoro,” Rupert ordered impatiently. “We have enough to bother us without listening to your superstitious tales.” “Mulaki fella he catch us,” declared the Bantu. “I fancy we’ll all be here in the morning,” retorted the white boy. “Don’t worry.” But Asagoro was worrying. So were the porters. And next morning there was something new for Jan and Rupert to worry about. The Bantus had fled! T HE THING IN TI-IE RIVE R 237 younger brother noticed heavy perspiration on Ru- pert’s face. “Tired?” he asked. “I think we’d better stop and have something to eat,” said Rupert heavily. “The truth is-—well, I am 9! afraid I have a touch of malaria. “Malaria!” cried Jan. “Probably. I’ve been bothered with a headache and a ringing in my ears for two or three days now, but I didn’t think much about it until Duvain joined us. Just this morning it occurred to me that both are symptoms of malaria fever. We’ll stop and eat, and I’ll take some quinine.” “And rest,” Jan ordered, in consternation. “Heav- ens, if malaria really gets you, there’ll be very little traveling. Lubu, halt! My brother thinks he has the fever. Build a fire.” Lubu took the announcement as a matter of course. He collected wood and kindled a blaze, while Rupert sat with his back against a tree, eyes closed and lips parted. Jan gave him a dose of quinine and opened the food pack. “You didn’t bring much,” he said to Lubu. “Oh, me know how get plenty food. No use car- ry-em all that,” said the pygmy brightly. “Salt, he fine thing, but other stuff plenty no good.” “And you didn’t bring any cooking pots!” cried Ian. “That plenty no good, too,” grinned Lubu. “We show you cook pot.” 238 THE PYGMY’S ARROW He drew his knife. The handle was made of crudely whittled wood, and the steel blade was certainly of European origin. Perhaps the knife had been manu- factured in Antwerp. Then, with countless other “trade goods,” it had journeyed south from Belgium to the mouth of the Congo River and inland into Africa. It had doubtless been carried along native trails and in negro villages, sold to one owner after another, bartered and used, taken on hunting trips into the heart of the forest, and finally it had come into the hands of an Ituri pygmy. In all probability Lubu had traded a hide for it. Then he had broken ofi the wooden handle and had fitted the blade with a smaller one. With his European knife, the pygmy deftly cut a gourd the size of a small squash, slashed off the top, scraped out the seeds, and handed this oldest and most primitive of cooking pots to Jan. “Boil-em food in that,” he smiled. “I show how. Not put right on coals, but up little ways. We cook-em, sick fella eat.” The sick fella did not eat. Jan boiled a combina- tion of dried apricots and rice, but Rupert could not touch it. “My appetite is gone,” he sighed. “No eat, no get-em strength to travel,” Lubu in- sisted. “You wait. Me fetch-em something good, make you eat full, till you ache inside you.” He went off with his bow and arrows. Jan chatted a while, trying to interest Rupert in such things as Streyer and Duvain and the approximate distance '5 W | 1 _—- — THE THING IN THE RIVER 239 to the place of the hippo hunt, but his brother was too restless. “Where is Lubu?” Rupert asked, fretfully. “We should be traveling, not idling like this.” “I’ll go and see what’s become of him,” said Jan. Lubu was just out of sight of camp, stalking some- thing which seemed to be retreating from one tree to another. The pygmy turned as Jan approached. He gestured to the white boy to look. “Heaven help us!” muttered Jan. At the top of a tree, sitting nervously on a branch, was a half-grown monkey. It did not see the boys, but it realized that danger was near. “You watch,” Lubu said, still using the sign lan- guage. “Me show you.” The monkey shifted on its branch, looking about for a safer spot. While it hesitated, Lubu pulled back, his tiny bow bent, and the arrow flew into the tree- top. It struck the monkey under the arm. The creature sprang from its perch, chattering wildly, and Lubu ran along the ground below to keep it in sight. “You hit it!” cried Jan, following as fast as he could. “But you don’t think that we’re going to eat monkey meat, do you!” “Watch-em,” said Lubu excitedly. “Pretty soon him down here.” Jan looked up. The monkey was no longer fleeing. It crouched on the topmost branch of the tree, sway- ing a little. At first the white boy thought that this ~m 240 THE PYGMY’S ARROW motion was caused by the wind, and then he realized that it was due to pygmy poison. The shaft of the arrow had broken off, but the head had remained to put death into the creature’s blood-stream. Back and forth the monkey teetered, hanging onto the branch with hands and feet. It was so pathetically desperate that ]an could not bear to watch. “What the matter?” asked Lubu. “Too much like a human being.” “Monkey just monkey, nothing else,” said the Pygmy- There was a sudden crash. The monkey had lost its hold. It was falling through the branches, down and down to the ground. Lubu ran toward it, shouting in triumph. He took his knife and dug out the poi- soned arrowhead. Then, expertly, he tied the tail to the forelegs and slung the animal up over his shoul- der. “Oh, la la lala!” he cried. “Now we eat-em fine meat. You like.” Jan gazed at the monkey with distaste. He tried to make himself believe that it was simply an animal, but its resemblance to a human being persisted in his mind. More definitely, it looked like a small child. As they went back to camp, Lubu shouted to Rupert. “Catch-em monkey meat for you. Now you eat big!” The elder brother had been drowsing, but he opened his eyes and sat up. “What is it?” he asked. THE THING IN THE RIVER 241 It '2) Monkey. exclaimed Lubu, and grinned from ear to ear. “For you!” “Good grief!” exclaimed Rupert. “I wouldn’t eat monkey if I were starving to death. Throw it away. I don’t even want to see it. Get rid of it, I tell you!” Lubu shrugged and cast the monkey aside. “Plenty crazy, you,” he muttered, as he went to assemble the packs. “I was afraid you wouldn’t eat it,” Jan told his brother, “but they say it’s good, if it’s made into broth with rice.” “Keep still,” said Rupert irritably. “Go cut me a walking stick, if you want to do something. Then we must get on our way. We can’t rot in this wretched jungle.” Jan found a stout walking stick, and also—when Rupert wasn’t looking—transferred half of his brother’s pack to his own. They started on their way, Lubu walking silently ahead. It was hard traveling. The rays of the sun grew more intense. At times they pierced the green canopy and fell scorchingly upon the three boys. Now and then, there was an open glade where it was possible to look up and see the distant blue sky, but always the tree tops were quick to close in again. The under- brush grew more dense, and some of it was fifteen foot high. At intervals there were narrow game trails, which Lubu followed a little way, but he always left them when they did not lead in the right direction. Many times these game trails were low tunnels, in 242 THE PYGMY’S ARROW which the white boys had to stoop to avoid the brushy ceilings. “This safari of ours seems to be getting worse,” said Jan. “How do you feel, Rupert?” “I’m all right,” declared Rupert, clutching his walk- ing stick. “No one is going to slow up on my account.” “That’s fine,” murmured the younger brother. He put confidence and hope into his voice, but fear clutched at his heart. Rupert was breathing hard now and the forest seemed determined to hold them back. It was no longer indifferent. It was definitely making war upon them, a silent ruthless war which appalled Jan. He had never seen such jungle. There were no glades through which a ray of sunlight might filter to the earth, and the trees were thicker and taller. With the help of serpentine lianas, they shut out the sun alto- gether. The odor of decay was everywhere, and the ground was soggy and damp. Mildew flecked the trees with a foul green scum. It felt as though they had entered another world, a prehistoric region as humid and gloomy and ominous as in the far off ages when beasts were just beginning to walk upon land. Birds there were none, and the few small animals they saw were silent, as though they, too, were frightened by so grisly a forest. “Is there much more of this?” said Jan. “River soon,” Lubu answered, and they went on. “What makes him so glum?” exclaimed Rupert. “He’s been sulking ever since we left our noon camp.” “Oh, I don’t think so,” said the younger brother. “Lubu is sometimes silent.” T HE THING IN THE RIVE R 243 “Not often,” grumbled Rupert. “Don’t be grouchy,” said Jan. “You don’t feel well, and this is hard going, but it’ll be better.” “When?” demanded his brother. “Right now!” laughed Jan. “We’ve struck another path.” Lubu whirled around, annoyance in his face. “Not make-em noise,” he whispered. “Go soft, soft.” ‘ “Is anything the matter?” asked Jan. “Come to river, come to bridge,” was the reply. Plenty fella maybe go this way. Sometime those fella bad.” A bend in the trail revealed the bridge. Made by the natives for foot passengers only, it swung high above the surface of the water. Lianas were the sole material which the unknown builders had used, yet the bridge seemed sturdy. The fiber cords were strong and supple, and by knotting them together and laboriously carry- ing them across the swift little river, the basis of an aerial footpath had been laid down. Then it had been fairly easy to make handrails and braces. Lubu stopped. “Bad,” he said, gazing intently at the ground. “Man cross bridge plenty lately.” “Pygmyor big native?” asked Jan, and he peered at the track. “Big fella. You want go on?” “Certainly!” said Rupert. “This is the route to the place of the hippo hunt, isn’t it?” The young pygmy started across the bridge, tread- ing lightly and without touching the handrails. Jan Qt 244 THE PYGMY’S ARROW and Rupert followed on awkward unsteady feet. The elder brother especially found the going hard, and both were glad to cling to the handrails. Far below them, the water writhed and rippled like a gigantic serpent, and gaunt gray rocks stuck up from the river bottom as a further threat to all who were clumsy enough to lose their balance and fall. “Hurry, you fella,” said Lubu, darting onto the other bank. “Get-em out of sight, and not make noise.” The white boys hastened after him, wondering what was wrong. They reached the farther bank, and in response to a gesture from Lubu, squatted behind a clump of high-growing ferns. A shout echoed to them from upstream. “Who’s that?” whispered Jan. “Mulaki fella,” said the pygmy. “Track we find-em, that from fella that throw spear at us, guess maybe. He been travel this way, and now he meet other Mulaki fella and they yell plenty.” “Did they see us?” Rupert asked. “No. They find-em something in river, that why they make noise. Float down this way, so if us fella wait we find out. Me take look.” Lubu slipped out from behind the ferns, and stared up the river. The Mulakis gave a mighty shout, and then there was silence. “Come quick,” said Lubu. “They find out what thing float i.n the river, and now they run away. We go see.” THE TI-IING IN THE RIVER 245 Rupert was reluctant to exert himself any more than was necessary, but Jan ran along the bank with Lubu. He was as curious as the pygmy. Something was float- ing slowly down the river, and a short slender stick projected from it. “Alligator?” said Jan. “That stick not stick, but arrow,” replied Lubu. “No arrow kill alligator like that. I guess maybe that some fella.” “A man?” “Sure, maybe. You watch. I find-em out.” Lubu handed his bow to the white boy and darted along the bank. He stayed on land for a short distance, then he leaped precariously from one stone to an- other where they formed irregular steps above the sur- face of the river. Rupert came up to join his brother, murmuring, “VVhy all this fuss?” “He thinks it’s a man. The Mulakis saw it and ran, so Lubu must see it, too. Look at him! He’s scared out of his wits!” The pygmy raced back to them, his eyes wide with fear. “That fella white man!” he cried. “Doorula shoot-em dead, and now white fella float down the river!” “A white man?” demanded Rupert. “Who is it?” “Me not go that close,” said Lubu, trembling violently. “When I see Mai-Mai’s arrow, I know I going to be scared, so I run.” _,,-.,._ -pJ » Chapter Seventeen PATTERN TAKING SHAPE UBU started off at a trot, leaving Jan and Rupert L to follow as best they could. “Can you make it?” Jan asked his brother. “Go ahead,” Rupert told him bluntly. “I don’t know why Lubu is running, but as long as we go in the right direction, I don’t care.” The young pygmy was leading them straight across country, east and slightly north. It was jungle with a vengeance. The floor of the Ituri was so uneven that it appeared to have been shaken up by the hand of some tremendous giant. Rocks stuck out of the earth, steep hills appeared, and gorges opened before them. In and out, Lubu picked his way easily because of his 247 248 THE PYGMY’S ARROW I 4 small size and his skill. But he had to pause frequently to wait for his companions. Now and then he slashed a way through with his knife, or simply lifted the lianas aside and passed on. “Everyone should be a pygmy in this country,” muttered Rupert. “White people and big natives are the wrong size here. Lubu is the right size.” “He’s slowing up,” said Jan. “Get your breath. This can’t last much longer.” It was to last a good deal longer, and, moreover, it was to get worse. Everywhere trees had been uprooted and thrown against one another. Some were held half erect by the maze of creepers and ropelike parasites and climbing vines, and all were massed in an inextri- cable tangle. The white boys halted, aghast at the prospect before them. “We can never get through that,” said Jan. “Me show you,” declared Lubu, but from Rupert came a tortured cry of protest. “Don’t say that again!” he shouted. “Go ahead. But don’t tell us you’ll show us, or I’ll go mad!” “Keep a grip on yourself,” Jan begged. “Go on, Lubu.” “You follow-em me,” said the pygmy, and he ad- vanced to the edge of a deep ravine. It would have to be crossed by passing from one fallen log to another, and this required care. “Take off shoes,” Lubu ordered. Silently, the white boys obeyed. They looped their shoes around their necks by means of the laces, and PATTERN TAKING SHAPE 249 started on again. A tree slanted up at an angle of thirty degrees. Lubu was quickly halfway to the top of it, Jan and Rupert attempting to follow him. Up and up they went, ascending toward the forest top, with a fern-choked gorge below them. Somewhere among the ferns, far down underneath, there was a muffled roar, the sound of a hidden stream passing through the jungle like an unseen, prowling beast. “I’m dizzy,” muttered Rupert. “Wait, Lubu,” called Jan, and he cut a long liana. One end of this he wrapped about his hand, the other end he tossed to Rupert. “Get a good grip on that. I’ll go ahead.” “It’s my touch of fever that makes me dizzy,” said the elder brother apologetically, “that, and lack of food, I suppose.” They toiled on, panting and slipping. Lubu reached the end of the tree trunk and was transferring to an- other. This second one sloped downward in the direc- tion of the farther bank of the ravine. He helped the white boys onto the second log, and then went on. Jan and Rupert began to breathe freely again. A little more and they would be back to solid earth. Down along the descending tree trunk they were making their way, with underbrush rising to the level of their feet, and the rushing jungle stream fainter in their ears, when Jan felt a wrench at the liana in his hand. “Hold fast!” he cried, and whirled around bracing himself for a pull. Rupert had lost his footing and was clinging to a “%”“fl~ PATTERN TAKING SHAPE 25 1 Lubu? There aren’t many Europeans in the Ituri, you know. Could it have been Streyer?” “No,” said the pygmy, shifting restlessly. “What about Dad?” exclaimed Jan, with a sudden rush of fear. “It couldn’t be!” “Not missionary boss,” Lubu hastened to say. “You not think-em that.” “Who was it, then?” asked Rupert. “Fever fella.” “Duvain?” “That him.” “How can you be sure? You didn’t see the body close enough to be able to tell.” “Me know because this thing,” said Lubu, and he took from his belt a round piece of cardboard, the size of a dollar. In faint ink there appeared the number 13. “You know-em this?” Rupert took it in his hand. “Why, of course! It’s Doorula’s hospital tag. I gave it to him myself. He’s No. 13 in our Sick Book. Where did you find it?” “Find-em that right under tree where fever fella he stand in storm. I scared tell you then.” “The pygmies came and seized him during the storm!” exclaimed Jan. “And Doorula’s tag was torn off him in the struggle.” “Are you sure about this?” demanded Rupert, giving the pygmy a long steady look. “What did your people have against Duvain?” “Much, much,” replied Lubu. “Me not know every- thing, because old fella like Doorula and Mai-Mai they 252 THE PYGMY’S ARROW go hide heads together and make-em me stay away, because me just young fella. But me hear some things. You know fella called Streyer?” “What about him?” “That time at pygmy game pit, I run-em off be- cause I scared of him. That fella he been to our village before then, and he have plenty talk with Doorula and other old fella. I hear-em white man make angry talk. He tell what he do to my people if Doorula not do something, and white fella say he have friend come soon, and friend help-em him. That friend this fever fella, and my people they try to catch-em him so he not get to other white fella and make double trouble. Pygmy fella they chase fever fella, that why he get separated from all those porters he start out with. Me guess fever fella he Great Enemy to my peo- ple. Doorula and other pygmy they catch-em and shoot-em with black-and-red arrow, so we be rid of ’em trouble.” Soon the three boys were on the way again, and this time, since Lubu was no longer afraid of the white man’s ghost, he chose a route which was relatively level and easy. Yet it was gloomy enough. The path seemed to lead them into a vault, with shadows so deep that the white boys could not distinguish the colors of the various orchids. Once they saw a crimson-berried creeper in front of them, and they thought its bright- ness odd and unreal. Here everything appeared un- natural unless it were dull and fetid and sinister, or at least so Rupert felt. The forest had oppressed him for PATTERN TAKING SHAPE 253 days and the fever had all but overwhelmed him. Now a third and more dreadful enemy assailed his morale and peace of mind. This was the sickening fear that the white man in the river was not Duvain at all, but Herman Metlinck. The two men were of about the same build and weight, and Lubu had not seen the body at close range. He might easily have been mis- taken. Also, the missionary had been a prisoner of the pygmy tribe. At least the footprints had seemed to be his, and Lubu had insisted that the missionary was with his people. Perhaps he, and not Duvain, was the Great Enemy, and had been taken into the heart of the forest to be slain quietly and without fear of dis- covery. “I can’t stand this,” Rupert muttered. “I’ll lose my mind if this suspense doesn’t end. Well, Lubu, why are you stopping? I want to get on. We aren’t to waste time, do you hear me?” “Man come,” whispered the pygmy. Instantly the boys took to cover. Voices sounded. Several people were approaching, evidently along a path, since their progress was not punctuated by the swish and snap of brush. Lubu beckoned to his com- panions, who peered cautiously from their hiding place. To their astonishment it was Streyer, followed by three huge natives who carried spears, small light spears. Mulakis! Suddenly a Mulaki yelled and ducked out of the path, the other two natives and Streyer crashing after 254 THE PYGMY’S ARROW him. Lubu had shot a poisoned arrow, and though he missed, the sight of the arrow was enough to put his enemies to headlong flight. The pygmy raced after them, trying for a second shot. “What next?” asked Rupert, his lips quivering with shock. “Lubu is coming back,” said Jan. “I’m certainly glad of that. Lubu! Why on earth did you shoot at them?” “Bad,” was the reply. “Streyer he plenty bad fella, and Mulaki fella he throw spear at us other time. They both bad fella, and now they go for hippo place, maybe to hurt pygmy people. So I chase-em off other way.” “Take us to that hippo place,” said Rupert irritably. “If you know where it is.” “Sure me know,” smiled the pygmy. “Not far now. We get-em there pretty soon now. Not so hard travel, either.” That last proved to be true. Now there was an occasional glade into which a beam of sunlight pene- trated, the ground was not so damp, and the miasmic odor of the deep forest was less noticeable. Lubu found a path, and after that the boys walked close together, talking. “I’m beginning to see a pattern in this mystery of ours,” Jan observed. “Streyer is evidently a rascal, in league with the Mulakis, and an enemy of the pygmies. Native trouble! Why, that was a plain unvarnished lie. Streyer and Duvain had some personal aim in what they were doing in the Ituri. The Mulaki who threw PATTERN TAKING SHAPE 255 a spear at us was only trying to make us go back home, so we wouldn’t stumble on Streyeris business. Yes, I think that’s all clear. But what has all this got to do with Dad?” Lubu answered without turning round. “Missionary boss, he good friend to pygmy. He go-em with pygmy fella to fight bad fella like Mulaki and Streyer.” “Absurd,” said Jan. “Dad wouldn’t dream of such a thing.” “He fighter fella, maybe,” Lubu declared. “Fever fella he say missionary boss stare-em at him, and not speak, then he tell-em pygmy go catch fever fella and kill-em.” “Not at all,” Rupert put in. “It occurs to me that Father’s spectacles explain what Duvain told us.” “His spectacles?” exclaimed Jan. “Yes. He’s near-sighted without them. Probably he really didn’t see Duvain, but only heard him making noises. He told the pygmies about them simply be- cause they must have sounded like those of an animal to him. Whatever the pygmies did in the way of chasing and threatening Duvain had nothing to do with Father.” The pygmy hunched his shoulders. “Anyhow we soon find-em out,” he said. “Get to big river little while now.” “To-day?” asked Jan. “Sure, maybe. You make-em feet go fast, we get- em to river before moonrise. I know. I be here plenty times for hippo hunt.” 2 5 8 THE PYGMY’S ARROW with tough tall grass forming its sides and curved ceiling. “What is this?” asked the white boy. “Hippo trail,” said Lubu. “Oh!” “Hippo they come up from river and make-em big tunnel. They do with their snout and feet, to get-em through grass and not let-em other animals see. That why we go this way. Hippo trail easy to travel.” “What if we met a hippo?” Rupert asked, un- enthusiastically. “Hard to do that,” confided the pygmy. “Easier to meet crocodile in place like this.” “On my patron saint!” gasped Jan, and he turned and seized the pistol that his brother had been carry- ing. “Lubu, get us out of here. We don’t want to lose a leg to a crocodile. Find another trail.” “Yes, or at any rate leave this one,” said Rupert. “Pretty quick, but no chance now,” shrugged the pygmy. “After while we find-em other trail, though. I show you.” “Show us, and show us soon,” muttered Rupert. The next few minutes were packed full of the most excruciating suspense that Jan and Rupert had ever known. They forgot all about hippos, and dwelt fearfully upon the chances of floundering into a crocodile, which might be crawling unseen in this damp, dark tunnel. Straining their eyes, they tried to see where they were stepping, and with their feet they tested each shadowy spot ahead of them. Yet, despite these precautions, it was blind going. Jan |C '!. PATTERN TAKING SHAPE 261 QQ Missionary boss not here,” said the pygmy. “Why not?” exclaimed Rupert sharply. “Different pygmy tribe,” Lubu explained. “Doo- rula and all those fella my tribe, they some place else. This one different tribe. That not make difference, though. Everybody come together same place when pygmies make hippo feast. O lala lala, la, that goin’ be fine time, I tell-em you!” “Go on,” said Rupert, in a flat tone. “Take us to camp. I only hope the people of this tribe are friendly.” They were. Lubu went a little closer and called out to the pygmies. At his shout, the brown little people leaped up chattering and waving their arms. It was their welcome to Lubu, and it included Jan and Rupert. A brief explanation from the pygmy boy, a moment for the people of the tribe to stare and hesitate, and then the missionary’s sons found them- selves surrounded by a noisy throng, timid and jolly and quick to offer the newcomers food. “What kind of food?” asked Jan, striding to the fire with pygmies all around him. “Swamp buffalo,” replied a pygmy. “Monkey he better meat because he just like-em goat, only sweet to taste, but we not get monkey to-day. We get buffalo.” “Thank Heaven for that,” murmured Rupert, and he sank wearily to the ground. Q ‘_P - ‘_.._, as-\- Chapter Ezghteen THE HIPPO DRIVE HEN the boys had eaten, Rupert asked the U pygmies, “Doorula’s people are near?” “Up river,” said a little withered old man. “We must get there. How soon can you take us?” “To-morrow, on hippo drive.” Jan pricked up his ears. “A hippo drive?” he asked. Then the withered old pygmy struck himself lightly on the chest. “I got Zateti for name, and me chief this tribe. You not know about hippo drive? Me tell you. Hippo fella they try stay in lower river, where they catch- em much wide water, deep water. Pygmy hunter he zez -ti-i-——— THE I-IIPPO DRIVE 263 try make-em stay up river, where plenty shallow, and not so wide. Most pygmy fella he up river now, but us fella we just come this day, so we got to go rest of way in canoes, and drive hippos if we find- em. That way everybody maybe bring-em hippos, make-em hippos stay in shallow water, then we hunt many days, kill-em many hippos, have great feast till we sick from so much eat.” A shout of approving laughter went up. “So you white fella and Lubu come with us in morning,” grinned Zateti. “We take you to Doorula, but got to drive hippo on the way.” “That will be all right,” Jan replied, adding for his brother’s benefit, “especially since there’s nothing else for us to do!” Lubu was showing his cellophane to the admiring crowd, so the white boys opened their packs to get presents for everyone. They distributed small quanti- ties of salt, gave each of the little people a square of colored cellophane, and then sat back to watch the pygmies caper and jump about and exclaim over their gifts. “It takes so little to make them happy,” Rupert commented, with a grave face. “I sometimes wish I were like that.” “You couldn’t ever become a Government oflicial if you were a pygmy,” Jan reminded him. “Cheer up. To-morrow our troubles end. Let’s go to sleep. These people will jabber most of the night, but we’re tired enough to sleep through a first-rate bombardment of 264 THE PYGMY’S ARROW artillery, so let them have their fun. I’m turning in.” They took their blankets and lay down, indifferent to the pygmies who kept running back and forth, laughing and comparing presents. Once the noise rose to a shrill climax. Someone had bent over to gaze at the fire through his cellophane, and the flimsy sheet had vanished in a burst of flame. It frightened the little people, but soon they had forgotten it, and were chattering happily again. Jan and Rupert slept like logs, hearing nothing until Lubu prodded them with his bare toes. “You fella all same crocodile,” said the young pygmy. “He sleep-em till sun make him warm, just like you!” The boys sat up, drowsy and stiff. Mist lay over the world. The little people, wide awake, were build- ing up the fires and talking in undertones. They were quieter this morning. There was hunting ahead, and on that account they must not make too much noise. “You fella eat,” said Lubu, and he brought the white boys a leg bone of the buffalo. “Some meat he still left, and close to bone it very sweet. Then when you eat-em meat all gone I break bone and get out marrow for you.” “Thanks,” said Rupert. “I’ll make a pot of tea to go with it.” “How do you feel?” asked Jan, lacing up his boots. “Fair. I’ll take a dose of quinine, and forget all about malaria. That gloomy endless forest dragged me down as much as the malaria.” THE HIPPO DRIVE 26S The pygmies watched the boys make tea, and poked good-natured fun at them. In the eyes of the little people there was no tea but herb tea, and this was only for cases of violent illness. They could not understand why two healthy white boys should dose themselves with the stuff. As Jan and Rupert sat eating and drinking, the pygmies stood round them in a ring. There was not a scowling face in the entire crowd of little people. From Zateti on down to the youngest, they were as lighthearted as birds. Some of the older men wore beards, which, with their short stature, gave them an odd resemblance to youngsters disguised as grown-ups. Yet even these oldsters were friendly and naive. The only thing about the pygmies which was at all serious was their hippo-hunting weapons. These were spears less than six feet in length, tipped with iron, and apparently meant to be treated with poison before being used. Bows and arrows were worthless against the thick-skinned beasts of the river. Suddenly there was a shout. Two or three scouts had returned to report hippos a little way off shore. “We go!” said Zateti. “Take spears, take canoes; in every canoe one man with harpoon. In my boat I am harpooner.” The mist was rising a little. The boys went to the riverbank with the pygmy hunters. At the water’s edge there was a row of long dugout canoes, tied side by side. “Aren’t you coming with us?” asked Jan, as he THE HIPPO DRIVE 267 night’s feeding ashore. The canoes were deployed across the river, moving upstream abreast of one an- other at an even pace. A huge, silvery sun bore down through the curtain of fog, driving it away in ghostly wraiths and spirals. Sky appeared, a patchy wedge between the treetops on either side of the river. Green parrots, with brilliant red tails, went flying across this bit of sky, and murmurs of satisfaction rose from the canoes. “That good sign,” Zateti told the boys. “Mean we catch-em much hippo meat.” Soon the mist lifted enough to reveal a long stretch of water. “Hippo,” murmured the pygmies. Several black dots appeared. Sure enough, they were hippos playing in the river, entirely submerged except for nostrils, eyes, and alert little ears. Jan leaned forward, watching intently. To his surprise he saw a small animal clamber up on top of a hippo and squat there as if resting, the hippo hunching up under it until the broad, dark back was visible. “Baby fella,” observed Zateti. “He ride that way.” It was a peaceful scene, but the hippos were grow- ing uneasy. They snorted and plunged out of sight, returning to the surface to gaze at the approaching canoes. Then, as if in response to a signal, the creatures vanished. Nothing but ripples and a puzzling silence was left behind. QQ D 9’ ' Q! I They ve gone, said Rupert, so we shou d get on our way.” HI‘ 268 THE PYGMY’S ARROW “They’ll soon be coming up for air,” declared Jan. “Look, there’s one of them now. He’s upstream from where he was before. This must be the way the pyg- mies drive them.” The rest of the hippos lumbered up into view. As Jan had guessed, they were retreating. One of them snorted and seemed to want to hold his ground, but the hunters shouted, and he moved on with the oth- ers. It was slow work, and Rupert was impatient. “I wish we’d get on,” he muttered. “Are you worrying about Dad?” asked Jan. “Yes, to be frank, I am.” “Stop it,” said the younger brother. “He’s only a little way from here, and I’m sure he’s all right. Wait and see!” Rupert kept silent. He was wrestling with fear. Something told him over and over again that the dead man in the river was not Duvain, but Herman Met- linck. Yet worried as he was, he could not bring himself to confide in Jan. Somehow he had to keep his misery locked within him. The pygmies were wrinkling their faces in disap- pointment. Several of the hippos had broken through the line of canoes and were escaping back to the lower river. Zateti scowled. He would be disgraced if his tribe arrived at the gathering place of the pygmies without a hippo snuflling in their lead. “If those fella hippo not drive,” he cried out, “we fight-em!” There were only two hippos left, one of them a -M THE HIPPO DRIVE 269 pugnacious bull who kept turning round and chal- lenging the row of tiny hunters. The beast snorted and stared, and presently refused to go on. Zateti’s canoe moved nearer, and the paddlers shouted, but still the hippo did not budge. “Give-em those fella harpoon,” ordered Zateti. The man in the prow of the canoe took up his weapon. Quietly the boat moved forward. The bull submerged and came up less than a dozen feet from the front of the canoe. The harpooner threw, and the spear point struck the beast just behind the shoul- der. The hippo went down, out of sight. The pyg- mies paid out the hide rope, and tossed the float over- board. The harpoon was barbed and would hold fast to the hippo, while the rope connected harpoon and float. The latter would remain on the surface of the water as an unsinkable indicator. “No matter where he go, you fella go,” laughed Lubu from a neighboring canoe. “You follow-em, catch-em hippo.” That was the plan, although it was not quite so easily put into effect as Lubu had led the white boys to believe. The hippo had been speared. Now he must be caught, slain, and hauled ashore. “Quick!” cried Zateti, pointing to the float as it moved rapidly over the water. “He go for shore.” The pygmies bent to their paddles. A wounded hippopotamus will often try to get into a mass of reeds and water lilies near the shore, knowing that this will enable him to hide, and even to elude cap- 270 THE PYGMY’S ARROW ture. This trick must be blocked, and Zateti’s boat was almost flying over the water, in an effort to head off the bull. Two other canoes came to help, for by now the last of the unwounded hippos had vanished. All the hunters were giving their attention to the beast that had been harpooned. “Head-em off, head-em off,” Zateti kept shouting. “Ever he get in reeds we never get-em out. Tough fella, those bull hippo.” One of the canoes slipped in between the shore and the hippo, the paddlers striking the water and cre- ating such a commotion that the beast turned back. He began to double to and fro, submerging, rising to the surface for air, but always finding a canoe full of yelling hunters between him and the bank. The harpoon had been treated with poison, and now, in spite of the great bulk and strength of the hippo, the stuff was beginning to do its work. The big brute, dizzy, snorted and splashed, careening in a circle but no longer trying to flee. There were now five canoes around the bull hippo. They were drawing in upon him, as he lay wallowing and blowing in the center of the ring. Jan sat rigid as a stick, drinking in the strange sight. It was like a scene from Gullii/er’s Travels, for, next to the elephant, the hippopotamus is the bulkiest animal alive, and the pygmies are the smallest of existing human races. Closer and closer the paddlers brought the canoes. The bull submerged, rose again, and this time he showed fight. Opening his huge mouth, he ~-—> THE HIPPO DRIVE 271 turned upon a canoe and lumbered forward. As he moved toward them, the pygmies cast their poisoned spears, puncturing his thick hide in at least ten places. The hippo went down again, returned to the surface and began to roll from side to side, his tiny eyes glar- ing at his tormentors. “Get-em closer him,” ordered Zateti. The canoes slipped nearer, but suddenly the bull rushed the canoe he had threatened earlier, this time more successfully. Ducking below the surface he came up under the dugout, lifted his immense bulk, and upset the pygmies as though they were so many ants on a leaf. Yelling shrilly, the little people seized their capsized canoe and righted it, while the rest of the hunters paddled toward the hippo, determined to give him his death blow. One after another they threw their spears, until thirty-five or forty of the poisoned darts were imbedded in the hippo. He was beginning to resemble a gigantic pin-cushion, but still there was fight in him. Bellowing and snorting, and lunging so violently that he sent waves of water into the canoes, he dashed around the circle, in a desperate effort to escape the noisy hunters. Then, in a last struggle to save himself, the bull rushed for the gap between two canoes. In one of these canoes sat Jan and Rupert Metlinck. “Make-em stop!” the pygmies shouted, but the hippo opened his maw and bellowed defiance. Jan glimpsed the cavernous mouth, and the blunt tusks, which the pygmies would later knock out and sell to THE HIPPO DRIVE 273 He came up spluttering. Zateti’s canoe was six or eight feet away, and Rupert was reaching over the side of it. Jan could see that the hippo was not dan- gerously close, and, in his relief, he laughed aloud. “You hurry!” called Lubu. “Hippo lose blood, blood make-em crocodiles come, crocodiles like eat you!” Jan gasped and made for his canoe. The pygmies yelled with glee as Rupert pulled him in. “White fella swim fast!” gurgled old Zateti. “Not like crocodile, heh?” “I guess not,” said Jan, wiping the water out of his eyes. “Where’s my gun?” “Here,” answered his brother. “Lucky thing you dropped it in the canoe, or it would have been lost.” “Thanks,” said Jan, as he took the pistol. “Look at our big friend. He’s finished.” The hippo had rolled over, his pinkish ventral side showing above the surface. Lubu laughed joyfully. “Maybe gun scare-em hippo to death! Me know it scare-em Lubu!” It was a good haul, and the little people were happy. They were driving no live hippos to the ren- dezvous of the pygmy hunters, but they did have a dead one. More important, it was the first of the season, and an honor for all who belonged to Zateti’s tribe. Laughing and grinning the little people began the long and difficult task of getting their prize ashore. Difficult, because they would not wait until to-mor- 274 THE PYGMY’S ARROW row, when the carcass would float easily. The little hunters would not, could not, wait that long. They were too eager for a feast. “Ropes, ropes!” Zateti was shouting. “Knives, knives!” The paddlers brought the canoes close to the hippo and kept them there, while free hands slashed into ‘the carcass for rope holds. There would be a rope for each canoe, this towline to be fastened securely to the stern of the dugout. Time passed, and Rupert fretted. But Jan was content. His clothes were steam- ing from his plunge into the river, and he was hungry, yet neither discomfort mattered. The hippo absorbed him, and kept him from thinking of anything else. “Wait. I give signal,” said Zateti, as a paddler be- gan maneuvering into position. Zateti’s line was fastened to the rim of the bull’s left nostril. He ordered his canoe in front of the hippo, motioned for a second canoe to take its place, and then ordered the other boats to take their positions. The canoes were arranged fanwise, each at its own angle, somewhat in the manner of Southern Italians in hitch- ing horses to heavy carts, or the Eskimos in one method of driving sled-dogs. “Take-em to shore,” said old Zateti. The pygmies put down their spears. Everyone must paddle, if only with his hands. Jan and Rupert leaned over the side and began to pull at the water with the cupped palms of their right hands. They wondered if the canoes were making any progress, for it did not 9- "lye \--'\:.*3‘ Chapter N ineteen SHOCK ATETI did not cut loose from the hippo, but he Z did urge his paddlers to hurry, though he could not see why the white boys should be in such a hurry. They did not tell him. Tensely they sat in the dug- out, gripping its sides to relieve their feelings, and staring at the moving figure which was certainly Streyer, the white hunter. When the canoes moved in toward the shore, Rupert was pale, and Jan was shaken by Rupert’s words. “Maybe it isn’t true,” whispered Jan, then he cried a warning. “Don’t jump! Swimming wouldn’t get you there any faster, and there are crocodiles in the river.” 277 SHOCK 279 stand,” cautioned the elder brother. “I don’t see Doorula or Mai-Mai, so we’ll go to Streyer.” “He’s a rascal,” Jan warned. “We’ll look out for him,” said Rupert grimly, and he took the pistol from Jan. He slipped it into his hip pocket, and waded resolutely ashore, with his eyes upon the white man. Streyer’s three Mulakis were watching the pygmies land the hippo, the white man, himself, standing a little behind them, alone and silent. But he held a rifle in his hand, and a pistol was strapped about his waist. “Ah,” he murmured, as the boys came up to him. “We meet again, do we! Good day!” “Where is my father?” demanded Rupert. “How should I know about him?” shrugged the hunter. “You’re concerned in this, somehow,” Rupert in- sisted stubbornly. “One of your Mulakis threw a spear at us, and—” “It was thrown at Asagoro. The Mulakis and the Bantus are traditional enemies, and your Asagoro had no business to go so close to Mulaki territory. And I suppose you think I burned that packet of letters on purpose!” “Yes.” Streyer laughed harshly. “I met Asagoro after he deserted you, and he confessed that he accidentally dropped the letters while he was pulling you out of the game pit. He had been carrying them in his shirt SHOCK 2 8 1 friction of the pointed stick against the flat piece of wood was generating sparks. One after another the sparks darted out toward the tinder, until one of them set the stuff afire. Swiftly, the wizard dropped his stick and began to blow at the smoking tinder. The smoke increased, a bit of red shone out, and a tiny flame leaped up. He gave it more fuel, and rose to his feet, calling to the women, “I make fire, you tend-em it. Build fire high, make many coals, so hippo cook.” During the fire-making ceremony no one had moved or spoken. But now the people resumed their bustle and noise. Jan went toward the wizard. “I want to talk to you,” he said. Mai-Mai scowled at him. “You want talk me?” he inquired. “I not want to talk-em you. Go ’way.” “Do you know anything about my father?” “Go ’way.” “Where is Doorula?” said Jan. “Doorula gone,” declared the wizard, but he had the shifty, hesitant manner of a man who is lying. The boy made his way toward the riverbank. It was packed with excited little people, some of them milling about in an effort to see the hippo, others struggling to get down to the shore with long saplings which they had cut and stripped of branches and leaves. The saplings would be used as poles to carry the hippo head to the cooking place, for the beast was too huge to be brought ashore in one piece. He must first yield his head. Already a dozen pygmies were hacking at it with their tiny knives, trying valiantly to 282 THE PYGMY’S ARROW i-.___ sever the tough, fatty neck. Jan wormed his way through the press of spectators, and found himself at Streyer’s heels. “Doorula!” called the white man. A moment later Jan saw Doorula, himself. The pygmy gave Streyer a strange glance, saying nothing. “Come out of this crowd,” said Streyer. The two made their way to the edge of the crowd, Jan following immediately behind them. He stopped when they stopped. He concealed himself behind a group of chattering women who were on their way to the fire with wood, but who paused here to gape at the hippopotamus. ' “You make-em white fella dead like I told you?” said Streyer. “Sure,” said Doorula. “Me shoot-em, throw-em in river like you tell-em Mulakis to tell-em me. You not see-em in river?” “My men did,” answered Streyer, and he scowled. “It was bad to put it off so long. Why didn’t you finish him at Nulatabo? What made you take him into the forest? His sons went after him, and that has made trouble for me. Just what was your reason?” Jan felt a cold hand at his heart. It seemed to him that he must faint. Until now he had refused to be- lieve that the man in the river had been his father. But this was proof, or so it seemed to the boy. Then a sharp note in Streyer’s voice brought him back to the scene before him. “Your reason?” demanded the white man. “An- swer me.” SHOCK 2 8 3 QQ We want-em get magic box before we kill-em missionary boss,” said Doorula sullenly. “Magic box! What are you talking about?” “Same thing you tell-em us about,” said the pygmy. “We want-em that, so no more bad things happen us, no more us fella die.” “I understand,” frowned Streyer. “Well, did you get it?” “We try,” said Doorula, “but take-em long time, so when you tell kill-em missionary fella quick, we do-em like you say. Now I got-em have magic box. Bad for us if we not get it.” “Rubbish,” said the white man. “Cook your hippo meat, and after we’ve eaten I’ll have some other things to say to you.” The hunter went off. Jan stood and gazed at Doorula, not knowing what to do. The little pygmy moved down toward the river bank. Automatically Jan followed him. Doorula stopped, and the white boy stopped. “Lubu!” Doorula called out. “Come to me.” “I busy!” answered Lubu. “Plenty big job this hippo fella.” Doorula managed to get a little nearer to the shore. Lubu was up to his waist in water, slashing at the hippo’s neck with his knife. There was something odd about Lubu. He was too energetic, too feverishly busy, and too evasive. It was quite evident that he did not want to talk to Doorula. “Come here,” Doorula demanded, “or else you get-em crack in your head all same gourd. I call you SHOCK 2 8 S while Jan, his heart like lead, began to search for Rupert. He found him on the other side of the camp, talking to the pygmy whose nickname was Pfui. “Pfui won’t admit a thing,” said Rupert, as his brother joined him, “but I know he’s only covering up.” “I want to tell you something,” muttered Jan. “Never mind Pfui.” The boys went off by themselves, and Jan told his brother what he had heard. “I have been afraid of it for a long time,” Rupert commented, in a dull tone. “There’s still a chance we’re mistaken,” Jan said miserably. “We’ll soon find out,” declared the elder brother. “Come with me.” They found Doorula with Mai-Mai and Streyer. The three of them were arguing heatedly. “Doorula!” Rupert called. “White fella let me alone,” grumbled Doorula. “We talk-em this other fella.” “You to blame,” Mai-Mai was telling Streyer. “You say magic picture make pygmy fella die, and he dead, all right. Then you say other fella die because picture he breed in magic box all same ants, and then we fella send Lubu to get those box from missionary house. Now you tell-em no such box.” “I didn’t say Metlinck had a magic box,” retorted Streyer. “I said pictures came from magic boxes— cameras, we call them.” SHOCK 287 “Just a moment,” broke in Streyer, and he took the boy by the arm. “Doorula, you and Mai-Mai get out of here. Go on. Run away and let me chat with my friends.” “Take your hand oif me,” said Rupert. “I’ve got a pistol, and—” “Keep it where it is,” Streyer warned him. “Come on, both of you. Let’s sit down and have a nice friendly little chat.” ' They went with him to a spot behind the fire. In the sky circled a motley crew of birds, pelicans and long-legged flamingoes, cranes and kites and white- collared eagles. All were screaming and hoping for a chance at the hippo meat, if not now, then later, when the pygmies had eaten their fill. Streyer sat down, and nodded toward the shore. “We’ll have meat pretty soon.” Jan and Rupert sat down, heartsick and silent. The hippo head had at last been severed. Slits had been cut through the hide, and poles shoved through, much as needles might be used to take stitches in a piece of cloth. Dozens of pygmy men seized the poles, and lifted the great head onto the bank. Puffing and stag- gering, they carried it to the fire, where, to the ac- companiment of laughter and gleeful yells, it was lowered into a fire-lined pit. “Well, Doorula killed your father,” said Streyer, “but nothing can be done about it.” “Why not?” demanded Rupert fiercely. “Because he is a savage, ‘a child of the forest,’ I 290 THE PYGMY’S ARROW -1§_ could attack us and claim we began it. Come on. “Where are you going?” “I’m going to get out of here. If we stay, we’ll each get a spear in our back. We’ll circle around below the camp, hide until dark, and then take one of the canoes so that we can drift down the river. As soon as we run into Captain Beranger’s boat—” “Yes, I see,” said the elder brother. “We’ll do it. It’s the only course left to us.” The boys hurried off through the brush, but pres- ently they stopped. There were voices behind them! “Pygmies!” whispered Jan. “What shall we do now!” “Maybe Streyer has sent them after us. Let’s run.” “No, we’d better be sure. It may be women after firewood.” They crouched down out of sight. The voices came nearer. Two pygmies appeared, women but they were not searching for wood. They carried bits of half- cooked hippo meat. “Going off to have a feast of their own?” whispered Jan. “No,” said Rupert. “Listen to them.” “You take bite, I take bite,” one of the women was saying. “No, you take first, then I take,” replied the other. “Why you scared?” grinned the first. “He not care. He not eat much anyhow.” “You eat first,” insisted her companion. “I, DOORULA, SPEAK” 293 Out came the spectacles. Herman Metlinck pol- ished them as best he could, placed them on his nose, and sighed. “That’s better,” he murmured. “Now I can see, and think; I’ve been in such a turmoil without my glasses. Well, you asked me a question, I believe. I will answer it. Yes, the pygmies have kept me a prisoner. But because of my nearsightedness, and my unfamiliarity with forest travel, they knew I was helpless and could not escape. They have never bound me, but have simply taken me along. Each time we stopped, they placed me where I was to stay, and instructed me not to wander off. I really had no choice but to obey, once we left their old village.” “But how did it happen in the first place?” said Rupert. “We got your note about the white man in trouble, and we waited and waited for you to come back. When you didn’t, we started out to find you.” “Lubu brought us here,” added Jan. “Are you sure you’re all right, Dad? You look thin.” “I feel thin,” replied the missionary, “and also half eaten by flies and ticks.” “I’d like to hear what’s back of it all,” Rupert re- minded them. “Then I’ll tell you what I know,” said the father. “Do you remember that I was unusually gay and cheerful a few days before I left Nulatabo?” “Yes.” “Streyer was to blame for that,” said the missionary heavily. “I came across him near our settlement one 294 THE PYGMY’S ARROW day, and we had a long talk. He claimed he had a plan whereby we could make a large sum of money by developing a lumber industry in this part of the Congo. Locating timber exploring was his business, although he pretended to be an okapi hunter. It has been understood by most people that there were no valuable hardwoods in the Ituri, but Streyer confided to me that this was an error. He said there were quan- tities of ebony, teakwood, mahogany, and other valu- able woods here, and that, together, he and I could get rich from them.” The missionary paused a moment, and then contin- ued apologetically. “I ought not to have listened to him in the first place, but I needed money, not only to expand our religious and medical work with the natives, but to send you boys to Belgium to study. So I did listen, though when he made me promise to keep the whole matter secret, I wondered if there were not some- thing shady about it. I looked up the laws on the sub- ject and decided that Streyer’s project would defi- nitely be illegal. “So when he came to see me a second time, choosing a day when you boys and Asagoro were away in order to avoid witnesses who might possibly prove embar- rassing later on, I told him he was a rascal. He replied that he needed someone in my position to help him swing his scheme. He said it would never be suspected by the Government. I ordered him out of the house. As he left, he threatened to make trouble for me with ifi “I, DOORULA, SPEAK” 295 the pygmies. That bothered me, so I followed him past the fork in the forest path, to make sure that he was really going to the little people. Then I didn’t know what to do! Finally I decided to write to the authorities about him, and those were the letters I gave to you to mail on the boat. While you were gone, a pygmy came with a message about a white man who was in trouble at the pygmy village. I went off as fast as I could, but there was no white man.” “Then it was a trick to get you in their power?” asked Jan. “Not exactly. Streyer had tried to incite the pyg- mies against me, and as nearly as I can tell they sided with me. They ended by tying him up and sending for me, but before I got there he frightened them into letting him go. It had something to do with the pygmy named Ghalo. Ghalo had died suddenly, and Streyer in some way used this fact to gain his freedom. When I got there, Streyer had gone, and the pygmies were terribly excited. They claimed that more of their people were going to die, and demanded that I give them my magic box. I told them I had no such box, but they refused to believe me. Then we aban- doned the village because of Ghalo’s so-called ghost, and went into the forest. Once after that—it was a few days ago—I thought we had run into Streyer again, but evidently it was someone else. I couldn’t see because I had no glasses.” “That was Duvain,” said Rupert, and he added, “as for Streyer, he is here, Father.” - "I, DOORULA, SPEAK” 299 frightened them with his talk of magic they tried to think of me as the ‘great enemy.’ ” “And the black-and-red arrow was used against Duvain because Duvain was a substitute for Father,” said Rupert. “They were afraid to kill Father until they got hold of the magic box, and all the while Streyer was threatening them with his Mulakis, telling them he’d start a native war against them unless Father was disposed of.” “What’s this?” said the startled missionary. “Du- Vain?” “Of course,” said Jan excitedly. “Streyer wanted to get rid of you because he feared that you might have him sent to prison, and since Duvain was about the same build as you are, the pygmies shot him instead. They hoped that Streyer would be fooled, and satis- fied.” “Duvain shot with the black-and-red arrow?” ex- claimed Herman Metlinck. “Yes, Doorula did it.” “Why, that is murder,” said the missionary, and he jumped up. The boys rose. They had not thought of Duvain’s death as murder, probably because of the stress and unreality of their trip through the Ituri forest. The little people were so pagan, so remote from the stand- ards of civilized life, that the boys had not grasped the full significance of what Doorula had done. But their father brought home to them the fact that even in the depths of the Congo jungle murder was murder, 300 THE PYGMY’S ARROW to be punished according to the law of the land. “Doorula, come here, please!” called the mission- ary. The pygmy was at the fire, laughing and talking and munching hippo meat. He turned and came for- ward, his face losing its gaiety as he saw that some- thing was wrong. “You get mad ’cause we bring-em you through the forest?” he asked timidly. “I bring-em you much hippo meat. Then you not be mad.” “No, Doorula, it isn’t that. It’s about a white man named Duvain. Did you kill him?” “Sure,” said the pygmy, as though he were sur- prised that so trivial an incident should be discussed here. “He plenty bad fella.” “That doesn’t make any diflerence.” “He come up river to Nulatabo,” explained the pygmy. “Go on past, because he scared we catch-em. White fella get off up along Gulago Falls, then try to meet-em other white fella Streyer. But we catch-em.” “You admit that you shot him?” “Why not?” said Doorula, shrugging. “Plenty bad fella, and if we not have him to shoot we maybe have to shoot-em you. Streyer fella he want us do that.” Jan shook his head in dismay. “These people don’t understand.” “They must be made to understand,” answered his father. “Doorula, I’m sorry you shot Duvain.” “Me sorry, too, if you sorry,” said the pygmy, and “I, DOORULA, SPEAK" 301 he smiled. “You want-em some meat? Plenty good now. Cooked just so-so right.” “I am sorry about Duvain,” continued Herman Metlinck, “but unfortunately that is not enough. You have killed a human being, and I must take you away to be tried in the white man’s court, and then you will be punished by the white man’s law.” Doorula looked puzzled, but interested. “Take-em me down river?” he asked. “Back to Nulatabo?” “Farther than that. Out of the forest.” The pygmy grew tense. He was beginning to real- ize that there was something threatening about all this. “Take-em me out of Ituri?” he said. “Yes.” _ _ “No, you not do that.” “I must. It is my duty. We shall start down the river tomorrow morning.” Doorula’s answer was to spring backward like a monkey, one hand clutching his bow, the other jerk- ing an arrow from his quiver. “Don’t try that!” cried Rupert sharply, and he pulled out his pistol. The pygmy’s eyes flashed from side to side. He seemed to be considering a means of escape, and yet he did not move. A silence fell upon the camp, all the jolly, feasting little people were suddenly aware that trouble had settled in their midst. Slowly the pyg- mies formed themselves into a ring. Doorula and the 302 THE PYGMY’S ARROW Metlincks were in the center, the pygmies, themselves, were the frightened spectators. While they waited, staring and wondering, the light of day began to fade. The end of the afternoon was approaching, the quick dusk just ahead, and beyond that the deep and dread- ful night. “Put down your bow,” said Rupert, still with the pistol leveled. The pygmy tossed his bow to the ground. “Now the arrow,” said Rupert. “That is not important,” interrupted the mission- ary. “He can’t do anything with just an arrow. Let me talk to him.” A strange look passed over Doorula’s face. “White man all-time right,” he murmured. “I keep arrow in my hand. Not do harm with just arrow.” The circle of pygmies shifted uneasily. Everyone gazed at Doorula, as he stood by the fire. There was something impressive about the stocky little warrior at that moment. Scarcely four feet in height, he seemed a kind of grizzled, bearded boy who had somehow never grown up. He might have seemed to lack dig- nity, yet he did not. He straightened his shoulders, and stared straight at Herman Metlinck. “White man talk-em all time,” he said. “Now Doo- rula he talk.” “As you like,” answered the missionary. “What do you wish to say?” “You hear what I tell,” said Doorula. “Bad white fella Streyer he make trouble for us. One pygmy “I, DOORULA, SPEAK” 303 Ghalo he sick and die, and Streyer he say that magic picture do that. Tell us more fella die, and that scare-em us.” “But we’ve gone over this,” objected the missionary. “You admit that you killed Duvain—-” “And somebody kill-em Ghalo,” said Doorula. “So that even. One white fella die, one pygmy fella die. That even, heh?” “In Bible times, but not now.” “You teach-em us Bible times,” insisted the pygmy. “Why you not let-em be that way now?” “I cannot. You don’t understand.” Doorula shook his head. “No,” he murmured, and he held up the arrow. “Not take me away from Ituri.” A chorus of low wailing cries broke from the pyg- mies. _ _ “I, Doorula, speak now,” said the pygmy, in a solemn tone. “We are the little people, not big fella but small, and not strong same as other tribes. In the beginning of the world we happy people, because no other people in the world, only pygmies. Then we do something that make-em angry the spirit that build the world, and the spirit he make different big people. These fella stronger than we are strong, and they abuse-em us. So we run into the brush, and they chase us and we run some more. We run plenty days, many suns and many moons, but every place we go we find-em big people, until we come to Ituri. Forest he scare-em us but we go in, all same squirrel in a hole, and there we stay and like those place. Here in Ituri 304 THE PYGMY’S ARROW 1-Q» we all be happy, and not be happy any other place. That why I not go with you.” The missionary shook his head. “I appreciate what you say,” he answered, “and I’m as sorry as I can be, but I have a duty to perform. I must turn you over to the authorities.” Doorula smiled at him, a grave and melancholy smile. “If me go away from forest me die, all same fish that not have no more water, all same bufialo that pygmy fella shoot with poisoned arrow.” Again the circle of pygmies sent up a wail, low and despairing. Jan and Rupert looked at them, wonder- ingly. Were they so attached to Doorula that his stay in the white man’s prison was going to plunge them into mourning? Or was it something else, something which the little people understood, and which was escaping the duller-witted whites? “Me not go away from forest,” repeated Doorula. If I go I all same die like buffalo I tell you about. You not understand that? I show you better. Look, you see arrow?” The missionary frowned restlessly. “Yes, but——-” “Arrow here,” said Doorula, holding it aloft, “and poison cup here on string, right by hip. Very handy, see? Suppose hunter want to kill buffalo. He take-em arrow like this, lift-em up lid to poison cup like this, dip arrow in poison stuff.” “Don’t try to pick up your bow,” warned Rupert. “Not need bow for this,” smiled the pygmy. “Me just show how buffalo get shot. I take arrow, that all." '~ “I, DOORULA, SPEAK” 305 Now you watch-em me. Suppose buffalo he stand in forest. Pygmy with arrow come closer, little bit nearer, then he shoot-em arrow and arrow stick in buffalo and buffalo run.” Here Doorula carried out his pantomime by run- ning forward a little way, halting, stumbling back toward the fire, and once more facing the puzzled Metlincks. The pygmies were wailing again, but Doorula’s voice rose strongly above their unhappy clamor. “You see how do? Now buffalo stop. Can’t run much when poison in-em. Pretty soon him stagger, like this. Go this way, that way, then fall-em down.” At this point Doorula sank to the ground, and he did not get up. The missionary was startled. “Medicine!” he cried. “Rupert, have you the kit?” “Right here.” Herman Metlinck seized it and ran to kneel beside Doorula. The pygmy smiled at him, dazed but calm. “White man plenty smart,” he murmured. “Do all kinds magic, know all kinds things. But maybe pygmy he smart, too. Medicine no good. I goin’ die. Look-em this.” He pointed to his thigh. There was a small wound, made by the tip of a poisoned arrow. In his buffalo pantomime Doorula had infected himself, as his pygmy friends had known he would. Rather than leave the forest which was his home, the grizzled little man had chosen to die. “Me fool you with those buffalo talk,” he muttered. 306 THE PYGMY’S ARROW “Not go away Ituri. Doorula stay-em here. Me like this place.” “What can we do?” cried the missionary, looking around the circle of pygmies. “Someone who under- stands this sort of thing must save him.” “Only pygmy fella know how to fix poison wound,” replied Doorula, “and pygmy fella not do that for you. Anyhow too late. I goin’ die pretty soon. But first I ask-em white fella something.” “Ask it.” “We pygmy fella we like live, let everybody else live, too,” said Doorula faintly. “Asagoro he be bad to my people now, if you not stop-em him. Make revenge, maybe, if you not help-em us.” “I’ll see that neither Asagoro nor anyone else abuses your people,” promised the missionary. “Is there any- thing else?” Doorula tried to speak, but his limbs were already jerking. He was almost gone. His lips were heavy and his eyes were glazed. With a great effort he touched the missionary’s arm with his fingers, smiled feebly, and fell back dead. There was a moment of rigid silence. Then the pygmies began to wail, mourning and telling their sorrow to the night sky, black and star-dotted above the forest. “Ai ai ai,” they wailed. “Ai ai, ai ai ai ai ai, ai ai, ai!” "F' aagigqi — / Chapter Twenty-One WHEN CANOES TURN HOME T was a strange funeral. The missionary wished to I give Doorula a Christian burial, but the pygmies insisted upon burning the body in a hut built of grass and reeds. The result was a compromise. Herman Metlinck preached a funeral sermon, and then the funeral fire was lighted about Doorula as the little people desired. At once, the pygmies, afraid of a malignant and terrifying ghost, moved across the river and made camp there. The missionary and his sons went with them. Jan was to go hippo hunting with Lubu, Rupert was to take quinine and fight malaria, their father wanted to 307 308 THE PYGMY’S ARROW rest and plan the journey home. They would go down the river, he told his eldest son, traveling in dugout canoes until it was necessary to make a portage around waterfalls. Then they would paddle on to a meeting place with Captain Beranger’s steamboat, after which it would be an easy trip to the Nulatabo landing. “I am eager to get home,” said Rupert. “When do we start?” “As soon as there are pygmies going our way,” an- swered the missionary. “That will be a long time. This hippo hunt is just beginning.” “It will not last long,” declared Herman Metlinck. He was right. Ordinarily, this would have been a time for leisurely hunting and feasting, but Doorula’s death had interfered with these plans. The pygmies were afraid his ghost might somehow get across the river, and consequently they hunted almost unwill- ingly, and ate their beloved hippo meat without pleas- ure. Early one morning when Herman Metlinck proposed that they break camp, the pygmies bright- ened. “We do it,” said Pfui, who was now the leader of Doorula’s tribe. “Go down river, let you white fella catch-em steamboat, then us pygmy fella spear-em fish up by Wurloo Falls.” “That what we do!” declared Zateti. “All fella here, we come, too. Leave-em those ghost behind.” Instantly the pygmies began to collect their meager possessions. By the time the mist had lifted, the canoes 2 _-___._._ i _ ‘__Ji‘_ ._ __ _ __._-_____~