“Wongolo.”
“A witch-doctor?”
“Ja, Excellence.”
“He is here? Let him come in.”
The sergeant rose, saluted and departed. Gutturals sounded lazily. The sergeant reappeared and behind him shuffled a native. Clad only in a dirty loin-cloth, his brown skin was wrinkled in scaly folds upon his chest and belly; his face was like an ancient tortoise; the small lack-lustre eyes were bloodshot and furtive; the limbs were almost fleshless. He squatted upon the ground and with lowered lids appeared to be absorbed in the contemplation of a white man’s table leg. Zu Pfeiffer regarded the man as one would a stray dog and nodded to the sergeant, who sat down.
“Does he speak Kiswahili?”
“Nein, Excellence. Only his monkey speech.”
“Why do you suppose that he is trustworthy?”
“Because, Excellence, his interests are with ours. There is no competition. The Schweinhünde Engländer have no interest there—yet. They are too busy with the Uganda railroad.”
“Ja, ja. Again what is the tribal system there, King-God or——” The lieutenant permitted a slight smile—“or Dis-established Church?”