Thrice, beyond the boundaries of Somo, he encountered the little black bushmen who were more like ghosts than men, so noiseless and unperceivable were they, and who, guarding the wild-pig runways of the jungle, missed spearing him on the three memorable occasions.  As the wood-rats had taught him discretion, so did these two-legged lurkers in the jungle twilight.  He had not fought with them, although they tried to spear him.  He quickly came to know that these were other folk than Somo folk, that his taboo did not extend to them, and that, even of a sort, they were two-legged gods who carried flying death in their hands that reached farther than their hands and bridged distance.

As he ran the jungle, so Jerry ran the village.  No place was sacred to him.  In the devil devil houses, where, before the face of mystery men and women crawled in fear and trembling, he walked stiff-legged and bristling; for fresh heads were suspended there—­heads his eyes and keen nostrils identified as those of once living blacks he had known on board the Arangi.  In the biggest devil devil house he encountered the head of Borckman, and snarled at it, without receiving response, in recollection of the fight he had fought with the schnapps-addled mate on the deck of the Arangi.

Once, however, in Bashti’s house, he chanced upon all that remained on earth of Skipper.  Bashti had lived very long, had lived most wisely and thought much, and was thoroughly aware that, having lived far beyond the span of man his own span was very short.  And he was curious about it all—­the meaning and purpose of life.  He loved the world and life, into which he had been fortunately born, both as to constitution and to place, which latter, for him, had been the high place over hie priests and people.  He was not afraid to die, but he wondered if he might live again.  He discounted the silly views of the tricky priests, and he was very much alone in the chaos of the confusing problem.

For he had lived so long, and so luckily, that he had watched the waning to extinction of all the vigorous appetites and desires.  He had known wives and children, and the keen-edge of youthful hunger.  He had seen his children grow to manhood and womanhood and become fathers and grandfathers, mothers and grandmothers.  But having known woman, and love, and fatherhood, and the belly-delights of eating, he had passed on beyond.  Food?  Scarcely did he know its meaning, so little did he eat.  Hunger, that bit him like a spur when he was young and lusty, had long since ceased to stir and prod him.  He ate out of a sense of necessity and duty, and cared little for what he ate, save for one thing:  the eggs of the megapodes that were, in season, laid in his private, personal, strictly tabooed megapode laying-yard.  Here was left to him his last lingering flesh thrill.  As for the rest, he lived in his intellect, ruling his people, seeking out data from which to induce laws that would make his people stronger and rivet his people’s clinch upon life.