“Put hot irons to his feet!” advised Coutlass. (The native beer had left him villainously evil-tempered.) “Gassharamminy!  Leave me alone with that fat Baganda for half an hour, and I will make him tell me what is on the far side of the moon, as well as what his mother said and did before she bore him!”

“Shall I hand you over to this Greek gentleman?” suggested Fred.

“Oh, my God, no!” the Baganda answered, trembling.  “Hand me over to the bwana collector!  He will put me in jail.  I am not afraid of British jail!  It will not be for long!  The English do not punish as the Germans do!  You dare not assault me!  You dare not torture me!  You must hand me over to the bwana collector to be tried in court of law.  Nothing else is permissible!  I shall receive short sentence, that is all, with reprieve after two-thirds time on account of good conduct!”

“Make him prisoner in the sleeping sickness village you told us about!” advised Coutlass, lolling at ease on his elbow to watch the man’s increasing fear.

“Oh, no, no!  Oh, gentlemen!  That is not how white Englishmen behave!  You must either let me go, or—­”

He made another terrific dive for liberty, biting and kicking at his captors, and finally lying on his back to scream as if the hot irons Coutlass had recommended were being applied in earnest.

“What shall we do with the beast?” asked Fred. The hut was so full of his infernal screaming that we could talk without his hearing us.

“Tie him up,” I said.  “If we let him go he’ll run straight to Schillingschen.”

“Leave him here with Coutlass and me!” urged Brown. (He and Coutlass had grown almost friendly since getting drunk together on the native beer.)

“I recommend,” said Will, “that we take the law in our own hands—­”

The Baganda ceased screaming and listened.  For some reason he suspected Will of being the deciding factor in our councils—­perhaps because Will had said least.

“—­take the law in our own hands, and thrash him soundly.  Later on we can report what we have done to the British government, and ask for condonation under the circumstances or pay whatever piffling fine they care to impose for the sake of appearances.  The point is, there’s no court of law in these parts to hand him over to, and he needs punishing.”

“I agree,” said Fred.  “Let’s thrash him to begin with.”

“Let’s thrash him,” went on Will, “as thoroughly as we’ve seen his friends the Germans do the job!”

“Both sides!” agreed Brown.

“Oh, no, no, no!  You can not do that, gentlemen!”

“Lay him out!” ordered Fred.  “Let’s begin on him.  Who shall beat him first?”

At a nod from Fred our porters stretched him face downward on the dry dung floor, and knelt on his arms and legs.  One of them staffed a good handful of the dry dung into his mouth to stop his yelling.