“Don’t eat him, chief,” sang out Compton; for Muata had a very ugly look on his face as he eyed the stranger.

The man himself seemed to think there was cause for this plea on his behalf, for, to the amazement of all, he responded in broken English—­

“Oh yeh-es, he eatee me.  Poah black man come to white master for heiup, not to wild black man.”

“By Jove, he talks English!  Let the poor beggar come aboard, sir.”

“He’s all right where he is,” said Mr. Hume.

The man did not think so, and began hauling on the rope, when Mr. Hume drew his knife and made as if he would cut the canoe loose.  He ceased from pulling, and, after a despairing look, crouched down.

“We will talk,” said Muata, courteously, poising the paddle in his hand.  “How is your venerable mother?”

“She has a wonderful dish of fish and manioc for her son’s guests.  You will do her the favour to eat of that dish,” said the stranger, humbly.

“And is your venerable mother’s kraal up the river?”

“A sun’s march distant, by a garden of bananas.  Also there is a fat goat.”

“And what does her excellent son so far from the village?”

“There were tales of bad men,” said the stranger, plucking up spirit, “and these tales drew me away, for the price offered for their capture was great, and my fetish told me where they were hid.”

“And the little son was greedy?  He kept this word of his fetish from the honourable ears of his mother, so that he would have the price to himself, eh?”

“Truly a great chief,” murmured the boatman, with reverence.  “It was as you say.”

“And it fell out that, when you came to the place where the boatmen were hid, they were on their guard, so that you fled?”

“O great chief, it was even so.  I fled in a canoe.”

“And seeing this our canoe of shining metal, you found courage to leave the reeds wherein you hid to come to us for help?”

“Oh, wonderful!” said the canoe-man, turning up his eyes.  “When these eyes saw your shining canoe, they were gladdened, for I said, ‘Here come helpers.’”

“And you will take us to where these men are hidden, so that we may share the price that is on their heads?”

The man grinned.  “You can have all the prize—­all,” he said, “and after we will go to my venerable mother, and eat fish and goats’ meat.”

Muata smiled gently.  “All the price?”

“Did I say all?” said the man, with a swift look at the chief.  “I did wrong to my people—­a portion to them and a portion to me.”

“That is fair,” said Muata.

“Oh, good words.  See, I beat my mouth for the ill word I spoke;” and he struck his mouth.  “But see, O chief, we move on, and the bad men will see us going, and make a plan to escape.”

“Let it be so.  If they see us they will see we are passing on, and be comforted.  And who will pay the price that is set on their heads?”