It appeared that the village was not so completely deserted as seemed to the eye, or, at any rate, that he had been watched.  On the newly turned earth was a chicken, which had been sacrificed in the orthodox fashion; and for once he beheld the sight without resentment.

He raised his hat to the dead, and “Doc,” he said, “this hen-killing is bang against my principles, but I won’t say anything now.  I guess it’s some nigger’s way of showing respect to you, and, by James! you’re a fellow that ought to be admired.  If only it hadn’t been for that tree falling down, there’d have been two men round here that would have left their mark on Africa, and you’re one of them.  Well, old man, you’re gone, and I hope you’re looking down this moment—­or up, as the case may be—­to read this bit of poetry I’m going to stick above your head.  It’s worth attention.  It’s about the best sample of rhyme I ever hoisted out.”

CHAPTER V

THE LOOTING OF THE “INDIAN SHERIFF.”

Captain Kettle dived two fingers into the bowl of odorous, orange-colored palm-oil chop, and fished out a joint suspiciously like a nigger baby’s arm.  He knew it was a monkey’s; or at least he was nearly certain it was a monkey’s; but he ate no more from that particular bowl.  The tribe he was with were not above suspicion of cannibalism, and though their hospitality was lavish, it was by no means guaranteed as to quality.

The head-man noticed his action, and put a smiling question:  “You no like dem climb-climb chop?  Tooth him plenty sore?”

“No,” said Kettle, “my teeth are all in good working order, daddy, thanks.  But now you mention it, the monkey is a bit tough.  Not been stewed long enough, perhaps.”

The head-man gave an order, and presently a woman at the cooking fire outside brought another calabash into the hut, and set it at the little sailor’s feet.  The head-man examined and explained:  “Dem’s dug chop, too-plenty-much fine.  You fit?”

“I fit,” said Kettle; “that’ll suit me down to the ground, daddy.  Stewed duck is just the thing I like, and palm-oil sauce isn’t half bad when you’re used to it.  I’ll recommend your pub to my friends, old one-eye, when I get home.”

He dipped his digits into the stew, and drew forth a doubtful limb.  He regarded it with a twitching nose and critical eye.

“Thundering heavy-boned duck this, of yours, daddy.”

“Me no savvy?” said his host questioningly.

“I say dem dug he got big bone.  He no fit for fly.  He no say quack-quack.”

“Oh, I savvy plenty,” said the one-eyed man, smiling.  “Dem not quack-quack dug, dem bow-wow dug.  You see him bow-wow dis morning.  You hit him with foot, so.”

“Ugh,” said Kettle, “dog stew, is it?  Yes, I know the animal, if you say he’s the one I kicked.  I had watched the brute eating garbage about the village for half an hour, and then when he wanted to chew my leg, I hit him.  Ugh, daddy, don’t you bring on these delicacies quite so sudden, or I shall forget my table manners.  African scavenger dog!  And I saw him make his morning meal.  Here, Missis, for Heaven’s sake take this dish away.”