Another summons of the gong brought zu Pfeiffer to his feet. As he led his guest out through the side verandah along a screened porch to the mess room, built away from the main building to keep away the plague of flies, a native girl whose close-wrapped white robes revealed a lithe figure, flitted through a doorway. The table was set in immaculate linen, aglitter with glass and decorated with a profusion of wild orchids. Behind the chairs stood two negroes in spotless white, immobile. On each plate were hors d’œuvres of anchovy and cheese upon a patterned piece of toast. Salted almonds, sweets, and olives were in green china; wine glasses of three kinds. Broiled fish followed the soup.
“So, Professor,” remarked the lieutenant, “you will go back some day to Wongolo?”
“Yes, I—unless I discover some tribe who have a more interesting system of—er—theology.”
“They are a powerful tribe, nicht wahr?”
“Oh yes, very. Their system ensures unity which provides for concerted action. Here I believe it is different.”
“Yes, yes; they are poor here. Each village was at war with the other—before we came. Their superstitions are not—how would you say it?”
“Systematised?”
“Yes. They have neither any supreme chief nor god. There you see,” he added, smiling, “that autocracy is the only form of government. Democracy—pah! … I apologise, Professor!”
“Please don’t,” replied Birnier, “although of course I cannot agree with you.”
“But the Wongolo, they have a god and king?”