With legs as stiff as his sjambok, Sergeant Schultz obeyed the order; lifted the glass and drank.
“You may go! Good night, sergeant.”
“Excellence, good night!”
As zu Pfeiffer shifted from the chair-arm to the seat his movements were slightly erratic. He sat forward, staring at the photograph, as he drank more brandy. Outside, the pæan of the frogs pulsed steadily. From a distance came the throb of a native drum. A cricket shrilled intermittently.
“Bwana!”
The ghostly figure of Bakunjala whispered from the doorway. Zu Pfeiffer started nervously.
“Zingala,” began Bakunjala timorously.
“Gott verdamf—Emshi!” snapped zu Pfeiffer, his ring flashing in an irritable gesture.
Bakunjala melted. Came a mutter of voices and a subdued giggle.
Zu Pfeiffer sat and drank and stared. Above the insectile anthem of the night, rose a gurgling voice in a drinking song.… Later the crash of a breaking glass was accompanied by an oath. The glimmer of three pairs of eyes through the window screen vanished [pg 73] and reappeared.… Once more rose the voice singing: