“But, see then!” exclaimed the Marquis. “Could we not promise him?”
“Oh, you could promise him anything, but he wouldn’t believe you. They never keep promises themselves, and can’t understand any one else doing it. And I put it to you: Would even a white man part with something he valued quite a lot, to a couple of strangers, just on a promise?”
“No,” said the Marquis thoughtfully. “Assuredly he would say that a bird in the bush blows nobody good, and laugh in your nose at you.”
“Well, what I propose to do is just to take the diamond any way we can get it—steal it, if you like to say so—and when we get back to Port Moresby, send him a big equivalent for it—a case of valuable goods of some kind or other. That would be treating him as fairly as we can. Anyhow, there is one thing we aren’t going to do, Marky, and that is, leave a chunk of a rough diamond you could break a man’s head with knocking loose about Kata-Kata in a sorcerer’s bag.”
“I am all of accord with you—no blooming fear!” said the Marquis. “But, Flint, there is one thing that I must not forget, even on account of the diamond—my seek for the occult. Can we not get this Mo to show us more things of his magic?”
“If Mo doesn’t intend to show you more of his ‘magic’ without being asked or wanted, you may call me a yellow Chow,” I said. “Don’t you worry about that; you’ll get all you want, I reckon.”
We had left the tent now, as it was growing very hot in the village, and we were walking along the bank of the river that ran close beside the street. It was a pretty river, shallow and foamy, and full of big rocks covered with moss and fern. Here and there you could see a pink or purple orchid, and the cocoanuts cast wonderful shadows on the pools.
Just where the shadow was deepest and coolest something stirred in the brown of the water—something that was brown itself and that glittered with wet. It was Mo, bathing.
I pulled the Marquis back into the shade. “This is luck!” I whispered. “The village is quiet; we can very likely get into Mo’s own house, and have a look round. Come on as quick as you can.”
... How still the wide brown street was, under the terrible mid-day sun! Noon is the lonely hour in Papua, when the heat is at its worst; no man stirs about who is not compelled to do so. The women were in the yam fields, taking their mid-day rest from toil beneath the shelter of the bush. The men were loafing about somewhere in the depths of the forest, pretending to hunt. In the town itself there were only a few old people and children, all asleep. The main street was a river of white fire; the shadows beneath the long-legged houses were like pools of tar. Not a dog stirred out from shelter. Not a footstep rustled or a palm-sheath floor gave forth a creak. It was undoubtedly the moment.