Then he rang the engines full ahead, steered clear of a sandbank, and regained the fairway.
He was genuinely concerned.
The stone was something exceptional in fetishes, needing delicate handling. That the stone existed, he knew. There were legends innumerable about it; and an explorer had, in the early days, seen it through his glasses. Also the "ghosts clad in brass" he had heard about—these fantastic and warlike shades who made peaceable men go out to battle—all except the Ochori, who were never warlike, and whom no number of ghosts could incite to deeds of violence.
You will have remarked that Sanders took native people seriously, and that, I remark in passing, is the secret of good government. To him, ghosts were factors, and fetishes potent possibilities. A man who knew less would have been amused, but Sanders was not amused, because he had a great responsibility. He arrived at the city of Isisi in the afternoon, and observed, even at a distance, that something unusual was occurring. The crowd of women and children that the arrival of the Commissioner usually attracted did not gather as he swung in from mid-stream and followed the water-path that leads to shoal.
Only the king and a handful of old men awaited him, and the king was nervous and in trouble.
"Lord," he blurted, "I am no king in this city because of the new god; the people are assembled on the far side of the hill, and there they sit night and day watching the god in the box."
Sanders bit his lip thoughtfully, and said nothing.
"Last night," said the king, "'The Keepers of the Stone' appeared walking through the village."
He shivered, and the sweat stood in big beads on his forehead, for a ghost is a terrible thing.
"All this talk of keepers of stones is folly," said Sanders calmly; "they have been seen by your women and your unblooded boys."