"I did, master," said the man.
"Why?"
"Because," the prisoner replied, "you are a devil and exercise witchcraft."
Sanders was puzzled a little.
"In what particular section of the devil department have I been busy?" he asked in the vernacular.
The prisoner was gazing at him steadily.
"Master," he replied, "it is not my business to understand these things. It is said to me, 'kill'—and I kill."
Sanders wasted no more time in vain questions. The man was put in irons, the nose of the steamer turned again down stream, and the Commissioner resumed his vigil.
Midway between B'Fani and Lakaloli he came to a tying-up place. Here there were dead trees for the chopping, and he put his men to replenish his stock of fuel.
He was annoyed, not because a man had attempted to take his life, nor even because his neat little cabin forward was a litter of splinters and broken glass where the potleg had struck, but because he nosed trouble where he thought all was peace and harmony.