CHAPTER V
EVENTS AT MALLA-NULLA
Mr. Smith had been away from his creature comforts for a spell of twenty hours, and most of that time had been spent on the thwart of a dancing surf boat in the embraces of a dank sea fog. He had been divorced from food, stimulant and tobacco smoke for all that time—the surf boat had been twice upset in getting off, and drowned all the matches—and as a consequence his temper was vile, and his language was sulphurous. He was barely thankful when he came back to the beach again and found Malla-Nulla factory neither burned nor looted; he was openly ungrateful when he found that the last of the stock of limes had gone mouldy, and realized for the moment a Coast cocktail was beyond the limitations of art. As a consequence Mr. Smith romped up and down the untidy mess-room in a state bordering on frenzy, and in his own especial polyglot reviled the unknown K. O'Neill as the fons et origo mali.
In addition to the legitimate boat boys, the whole of the other factory boys had been crammed into the surf boat, and as a consequence they also were chilled, cramped, and bad-tempered. His own body servant was openly insolent when commanded to produce dry tobacco and a pipe. And when on the top of all this Mr. Smith opened Carter's bedroom door, stumbled over the sleepy White-Man's-Trouble, and was promptly floored by that nervous savage and threatened with a well-filed matchet, the remaining rags of his temper at last gave way. He sat there on the floor, a very unkempt figure, and for five minutes without stopping (or repeating himself) said exactly what he thought.
During four of these minutes his Assistant had been awake, and listening to him through the thin filter of the mosquito bar.
"Perhaps I should explain, sir," said Carter, stiffly, when the flow of words at last ended, "that I came back here because I thought you were in a hole and I might be of use. I have not been indulging in whiskey as you suggest, but I believe I have been through a stiffish bout of fever."
"Get up, man, and look at yourself in the glass."
Carter did that, inspected a moment, and then whistled. "Good Lord," he said, "I don't wonder you think I had been on the razzle. What on earth's this white stuff painted round my eyesockets? I look like a clown in a circus."
"Oh, Carter," said White-Man's-Trouble, "dem ju-ju. Last night you lib for fever plenty-too-much bad. I fit for cure you. Now you well. If you touch dem ju-ju, you lib for fever again, one-time."
Carter's meddling hand dropped to his side as though the white stuff round his eye had stung him. He turned half-apologetically to Mr. Smith. "Do you think that's likely, sir? You know West African ways better than I do."