“And some genius,” Clay went on, “has carved a little wooden image in trousers and coat, nicely whitewashed, and stuck up on that old ju-ju tree down there by the swamp.  I saw it when I was down there this morning.  Of course, it mayn’t be intended to be a likeness of you, skipper, but it’s got a pith helmet on, which the up-country nigger doesn’t generally add to portraits of himself; and moreover, it’s wearing a neat torpedo beard on the end of its chin, delicately colored vermilion.”

“Well?” said Kettle sourly.

“Oh, that had got a hen sacrificed in front of it, too, that’s all.  I recognize the bird; he was a game old rooster that used to crow at me every time I passed him.”

“Beastly pagans,” Kettle growled.  “There’s no holding some of them yet.  They suck up the glad tidings like mother’s milk at first, and they’re back at their old ways again before you’ve taught them the tune of a hymn.  I just want to catch one or two of these backsliders.  By James!  I’ll give them fits in a way they won’t forget.”

But if Captain Kettle was keen on the conversion of the heathen to the tenets of the Tyneside chapel, he was by no means forgetful of his commercial duties.  He had always got Mrs. Kettle, the family, and the beauties of a home life in an agricultural district at the back of his mind, and to provide the funds necessary for a permanent enjoyment of all these items close at hand, he worked both Clay and himself remorselessly.

Ivory does not grow on hedgerows even in Africa, and the necessary store could by no means be picked up even in a day, or even in a matter of weeks.  Ivory has been looked upon by the African savage, from time immemorial, not as an article of use, but as currency, and as such it is vaguely revered.  He does not often of his own free will put it into circulation; in fact, his life may well pass without his once seeing it used as a purchasing medium; but custom sits strong on him, and he likes to have it by him.  An African chief of any position always has his store of ivory, usually hidden, sometimes in the bush, sometimes buried—­for choice, under the bed of a stream.  It is foolish of him, this custom, because it is usually the one thing that attracts the white man to his neighborhood, and the white man’s visits are frequently fraught with disaster; but it is a custom, and therefore he sticks to it.  He is not a highly reasoning animal, this Central African savage.

The African, moreover, is used to oppression—­that is, he either oppresses or is oppressed—­and he is dully callous to death.  So the villages were not much surprised at Kettle’s descents upon them, and usually surrendered to him passively on the mere prestige of his name.  They were pleasantly disappointed that he omitted the usual massacre, and in gratitude were eager to accept what they were pleased to term his ju-ju, but which he described as the creed of the Tyneside chapel.