All of which was most reasonable.  Nevertheless, Van Horn shook his head.

“All the same keep your eyes sharp on everything,” he cautioned.  “And remember, the two of us mustn’t ever be below at the same time.  And no more schnapps, mind, until we’re clear of the whole kit and caboodle.”

Bashti was incredibly lean and prodigiously old.  He did not know how old he was himself, although he did know that no person in his tribe had been alive when he was a young boy in the village.  He remembered the days when some of the old men, still alive, had been born; and, unlike him, they were now decrepit, shaken with palsy, blear-eyed, toothless of mouth, deaf of ear, or paralysed.  All his own faculties remained unimpaired.  He even boasted a dozen worn fangs of teeth, gum-level, on which he could still chew.  Although he no longer had the physical endurance of youth, his thinking was as original and clear as it had always been.  It was due to his thinking that he found his tribe stronger than when he had first come to rule it.  In his small way he had been a Melanesian Napoleon.  As a warrior, the play of his mind had enabled him to beat back the bushmen’s boundaries.  The scars on his withered body attested that he had fought to the fore.  As a Law-giver, he had encouraged and achieved strength and efficiency within his tribe.  As a statesman, he had always kept one thought ahead of the thoughts of the neighbouring chiefs in the making of treaties and the granting of concessions.

And with his mind, still keenly alive, he had but just evolved a scheme whereby he might outwit Van Horn and get the better of the vast British Empire about which he guessed little and know less.

For Somo had a history.  It was that queer anomaly, a salt-water tribe that lived on the lagoon mainland where only bushmen were supposed to live.  Far back into the darkness of time, the folk-lore of Somo cast a glimmering light.  On a day, so far back that there was no way of estimating its distance, one, Somo, son of Loti, who was the chief of the island fortress of Umbo, had quarrelled with his father and fled from his wrath along with a dozen canoe-loads of young men.  For two monsoons they had engaged in an odyssey.  It was in the myth that they circumnavigated Malaita twice, and forayed as far as Ugi and San Cristobal across the wide seas.

Women they had inevitably stolen after successful combats, and, in the end, being burdened with women and progeny, Somo had descended upon the mainland shore, driven the bushmen back, and established the salt-water fortress of Somo.  Built it was, on its sea-front, like any island fortress, with walled coral-rock to oppose the sea and chance marauders from the sea, and with launching ways through the walls for the long canoes.  To the rear, where it encroached on the jungle, it was like any scattered bush village.  But Somo, the wide-seeing father of the new tribe, had established his boundaries far up in the bush on the shoulders of the lesser mountains, and on each shoulder had planted a village.  Only the greatly daring that fled to him had Somo permitted to join the new tribe.  The weaklings and cowards they had promptly eaten, and the unbelievable tale of their many heads adorning the canoe-houses was part of the myth.